The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  But now, the children asleep, I wait by the window and watch, listen and wait, the pistol on the table before me. In the dark, fear rules. What would I do if attacked? Would I have the courage to take a life? How are such things done?

  September 4.

  It was two, perhaps three in the morning, when I heard faint laughter and went to the window. The stars and the moon hovered over the city. Tranquillity, I thought, but then, in the dark I saw flickers of light moving. The city was vibrant with flambeaux.

  Two boys appeared in the street below, laughing with drunken pleasure.

  I looked closer.

  They pulled, they pulled, they staggered and fell, they laughed and pulled again.

  What was it they pulled?

  It was then that I saw. It was the body of a man they were dragging, his long legs white, naked under a black habit—a priest.

  I retched and turned, I gasped for air.

  As soon as the sky lightened, I changed into my street clothes, pinned on my cockade. I set out for the Rue de Lille. Frédéric was a member of the National Guard. He would know.

  It was Princess Amalia who received me, in spite of the early hour. She, too, had not slept. She led me into the garden where she invited me to sit under a blooming acacia. There, in a setting of peace and beauty, she told me what had transpired in the night. The men and women in the prisons had been slaughtered.

  I felt faint. “The Comte de Montmorin? He is in the Abbaye—”

  Princess Amalia took my hand.

  Mon Dieu. I had had an appointment to go before the jury that very afternoon. And now it was too late.

  It was then that the Princess told me that she and Frédéric were planning to escape France.

  “But how? The gates, the guards…”

  “Frédéric has been able, at great cost, to get passes to Saint-Martin. From there we believe we can get to England.”

  England. The enemy. But who was the enemy now? The enemy was everywhere.

  “You’ll…you’ll lose everything.” Their estate, the Hôtel de Salm, everything they owned would be taken by the state, everything but the clothes on their backs.

  “Everything but our lives.”

  “Take us with you.” The words leapt from me without thinking. “Me and the children.” It was a terrible and fearful thing to do, a terrible and fearful thing to ask someone to do, but I was obsessed with one thought only: to get Hortense and Eugène out of France, to safety.

  “Oh, Rose, we couldn’t. It’s impossible. You would need a passport.”

  “The children, then.” Tears came to my eyes. “You could pretend they were your own.”

  She reached for me, alarmed. “Rose?”

  I began to tremble.

  Princess Amalia looked up at the sky. She took a breath. “Yes.”

  Aimée and Lucie were in the foyer when I entered. I looked away.

  “Is something amiss?” Aimée put down her market basket.

  “I’m not feeling well,” I said. Princess Amalia and Frédéric were leaving at dawn. I’d promised not to tell. In any case, I did not want to. I feared complications, logic—truth. I feared guilt, for thinking only of my own. I hurried up the stairs.

  Eugène greeted me with a hug. Hortense ran in with a drawing she had just made. They seemed so very young. A terrible feeling began to rise up in me.

  “Maman?” Eugène asked.

  I gathered strength. “I have news. I’ve arranged for a holiday for you both, with Frédéric and Princess Amalia.” I had to see this through, and calmly, I knew. Otherwise I would alarm them.

  Eugène appeared pleased. I was relieved.

  “But I want to go to school,” Hortense said.

  “There are no more schools. Remember? The schools have all been closed.”*

  “You’re not coming?” Hortense’s voice had that high quavering pitch.

  I took her in my arms. “I will join you soon,” I lied. I kissed the top of her head. Don’t cry, I told myself. Don’t cry!

  It is midnight now. The light from the lamp burns low. I curl strands of the children’s hair around my fingers, press them into a locket. Eugène’s curls around my finger easily; Hortense’s is fine and straight, it defies confinement.

  They are sleeping. Eugène is sprawled across his bed, all long legs and arms. He sleeps soundly, without movement. I do not fear for him.

  It is Hortense who still needs me, Hortense who will suffer. She is curled in a tense ball, her face frozen into a frown even in sleep. I thank God that Eugène will be with her. He has heart enough for us all.

  September 5.

  It was dawn when we set out, Eugène and I taking turns carrying the canvas haversack. I tried to maintain a festive attitude. The coach and four were in the prince and princess’s courtyard, waiting. The driver was not in livery and the family crests had been painted over for fear of drawing attention.

  Poor Frédéric was flustered. He couldn’t get his sword to tie properly. Eugène helped him. Then the children and I sat down, out of the way, while the princess supervised the packing. So much had been stuffed into a trunk that the valet was unable to close the lid. Princess Amalia was obliged to take a number of robes out.

  At last they were ready. I helped the children into the coach. I kissed them and closed the door. The driver cracked his whip, the horses pulled forward. Hortense waved. Eugène pressed his lips to the glass, to make a funny face.

  That was the last.

  Quickly I headed home. Nearing the Church of Saint Thomas Aquinas, I heard a child singing, a melancholy soprano much like Hortense’s sweet voice. I stopped.

  I would light a candle, I thought, say a prayer…a prayer for safe journey, for my children, but within the dark chapel my intention was thwarted. Labourers were dismantling church ornaments. In a corner a table had been set up and a line of young men had formed: army recruits. At the pews at the front a cleric and several old women were sorting army uniforms.

  I stood in the archway, confused.

  Two of the labourers moved by me, carrying a heavy statue of the Madonna between them. “Pardon,” one said. They loaded the statue onto a handcart and began to pull it away. The labourer in the blue tunic waved to me, as if in a procession.

  I recalled Hortense waving. Goodbye. Goodbye, Maman.

  For how long?

  For ever?

  A feeling of panic came over me. I fell to my knees. The cleric and one of the old women came to my aid. The cleric supported me as best he could to a pew, urging me to rest. “I must go.” I pulled away.

  I do not remember making my way to Rue Saint-Dominique. I do not remember climbing the stairs. All I remember is standing at the door to the children’s room. Scattered all over the floor were Eugène’s toy soldiers. One of Hortense’s dolls was slumped in a corner.

  “Oui?” Agathe was bent over Eugène’s bed, as if to straighten it. There was a hollow in the pillow, where Eugène’s head had been.

  “No!”

  Agathe looked at me in confusion.

  “Please.” Softly this time; I had alarmed her. “Don’t.” I reached for the door handle to steady myself.

  “I’m not to make up the bed?”

  “Not just now.” My voice was quavering.

  Agathe regarded me with suspicion. “I see.” She backed away.

  I closed the door behind us, turned the key, took a breath. I would have them with me still, their familiar disorder, their rumpled bedclothes—their scent, the imprint of their bodies on the pillows…evidence, of their existence.

  In which I become a good Republican

  September 8, 1792.

  Aimée is horrified by what I’ve done.

  “I had to!”

  “You could have at least talked it over with me.”

  The truth was, I had been afraid to tell her, afraid she’d try to talk me out of it. Afraid she’d say: What about Lucie? What about my daughter?

  “I promised not to tell!”
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  “Rose, don’t you see? This puts you in such peril!” she ranted, close to tears. “And what about Alexandre? I hate to think what’s going to happen to him when the authorities find out!”

  Alexandre—mon Dieu.

  Sunday, September 16.

  Rain, and more rain. I spent the morning in bed, listening to the crackling of the fire, the steady dripping of the rain on the roof, alone with my sad thoughts, a devouring ennui.

  At around eleven I must have fallen asleep, for I was dreaming of home, of the salty water of the bay, the tangle of the mangroves…I awoke with a start. Outside, on the street, I heard a child’s voice, a girl’s bubbling giggle. How cruel, I thought, for a child so like Hortense to call at my window.

  I heard the impatient prance of a horse’s hoofs on the cobblestones, the front door open, a boy’s voice. Was it possible? I went to the landing, clinging to the railing for support. There, in the entryway looking up at me, were Hortense and Eugène.

  “Maman!” They clattered up the stairs and into my arms. I clasped them hard, disbelieving. They were confused—and perhaps a little uneasy—by the intensity of my welcome, my tears.

  “Father wrote a letter for us to come back,” Hortense explained. She seemed pleased by this.

  “Alexandre?”

  Princess Amalia came in the front hallway. Frédéric was behind her, looking harassed. He was wearing his National Guard uniform, now tight on him. I motioned to them to be cautious, for Agathe had come to the landing with a basket of linens.

  “Would you like Agathe to make you a hot chocolate?” I asked the children. They followed her happily down into the kitchen. I opened the double sash doors to the parlour. Princess Amalia and Frédéric followed me in, Frédéric checking to make sure there was no one behind the curtains. I closed the doors behind me. “What happened!” I whispered.

  “We received an estafet close to Saint-Paul,” Princess Amalia said in a hushed voice, taking off her feathered hat. Her heavily powdered hair was dressed in an elaborate pouf. “From Alexandre. He demanded that the children be returned to Paris at once.” She took a document out of her basket and handed it to me. “It arrived two days before we were to depart for England.”

  “Alexandre sent you this?” I sank onto the sofa. “How did he find out?”

  “You didn’t inform him?” Princess Amalia glanced at her brother. “We thought…”

  “Is it possible the government knows?” I asked.

  “They have spies everywhere,” Frédéric said bitterly.

  I didn’t know what to think. I was overwhelmed with joy to see Hortense and Eugène again, yet alarmed by the perilous situation into which they had been returned. “But you could have gone on to England,” I told them.

  “Someone had to accompany the children,” Princess Amalia explained.

  “There was no one we could trust,” Frédéric said.

  It wasn’t until they had left that the enormity of Alexandre’s action struck me. The lives of our children, of dear Frédéric and Princess Amalia, have been put at risk. I’ve penned Alexandre a letter of rage and regret. I watch as it burns in the fire.

  September 21, 1792—Strasbourg

  Rose,

  How can you say that I do not understand the situation in Paris! I understand it clearly: the Parisians were overcome with an irrational panic. The Austrians would never have attacked! But even so, to send the children to England? Can you imagine what that would have meant to my career? As a former aristocrat, daily I am required to submit proof of my loyalty.

  Your much enraged and offended husband, Alexandre

  Friday, September 21.

  Aimée is intent on my safety. “You’re to become a good citoyenne, a model Republican.” She’s put a red cap and a worsted linen cockade by the door—not even a silk cockade will do—“for whenever you go out.”

  I groaned.

  She took the liberty of suggesting that I find a less attractive cape to wear in the streets. “Any show of wealth is dangerous,” she said. “Even clean linens.” She gave me a cape she’d found in a used clothing shop. It is worn and patched, an unbecoming dirty yellow. “Perfect. You look horrible.”

  Saturday, September 22.

  The new Republic dawned wet and dreary. The streets are crowded with people milling about in the rain, sharing wine, singing, celebrating the new Era of Liberty. Dressed in Roman tunics, ragged old army uniforms, mouldy court gowns, they link arms and roam from one neighbourhood to the next.

  Aimée has cluttered the front parlour with revolutionary newspapers and magazines. “For our salon,” she explained.

  “Our salon?”

  “Every Tuesday evening, revolutionaries welcome,” she said, scratching out a guest list. “They’re a rowdy bunch—it might even be amusing.”

  September 26.

  Our “salon” was a success. There were seventeen guests. Fanny arrived first (looking fashionably rustic). She came with Michel de Cubières (looking fat), her daughter Marie (looking thin) and a Citoyen Lestaing (looking wealthy), a mulatto widower from Saint-Domingue who appeared to be on more than friendly terms with Marie. (Everyone pretended not to be shocked.)

  Marie informed me that she has filed for a divorce from François under the new law. “It’s easy!” She was wearing a worker-woman cap with an enormous tricolour cockade stuck to the front. “When are you going to divorce Alexandre?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it,” I said. In spite of everything, I still felt Alexandre was my husband—the father of my children.

  A number of deputies had been invited, including Deputy Barras, who arrived in the company of Citoyen Botot and Deputy Tallien, all of them in spirits.

  Deputy Barras kissed my hand. “Citoyenne Beauharnais,” he said, his big eyes mournful. “I regretted learning of your friend’s—”

  Citoyen Botot looked equally stricken. “The timing—” he lisped. He shrugged.

  “I have been meaning to write to you both,” I said, “to thank you for your help.”

  “Should aging libertines be trusted in the company of a lady?” a young man in a red frock coat interrupted. Inordinately tall with a bristly head, he moved like a cat.

  “Did your mother give you permission to go out tonight, Tallien?” Deputy Barras asked, setting up a table for cards. Citoyen Botot laughed.

  “Deputy Tallien is Secretary of the Commune?” I asked Aimée later, when I had a chance. “But he’s so young.” Although gentle in appearance, his manner is one of a gay blade: sarcastic, irreverent, a bit of a wit.

  “Hardly five and twenty, the son of a valet. But comely, is he not? And educated, apparently. His father’s master made the mistake of educating him. I’m told he quotes Plutarch as well as any noble. In fact, it’s said the master is his father. Do you not see something aristocratic in his profile? In his nose? A gentle, good-hearted man, by the looks of him, but ruthless, they say—one of the Commissaires. Did you hear about that nineteen-year-old woman from Saint-Denis? Disguised as a delegate, she was apprehended in the Assembly carrying sulphuric acid—intended for his face.”

  “He’s a Septembrist?” I thought of Luce de Montmorin, his violent death. How could we have invited a Septembrist to our home?

  “But influential—he’d be the one to ask about passes out of the city for Princess Amalia and Frédéric.” Aimée squeezed my arm. “It’s said he fancies aristocratic women.”

  After innumerable toasts to the Republic, I invited Citoyen Tallien to join me in a game of écarté. He has a weakness for gambling, I perceived. I pleased him greatly by losing. After two games (at a cost of seventeen livres) I summoned the courage to put forward my request on behalf of my friends.

  “And allow your friend Frédéric to join the army of the enemy?” Tallien responded.

  I had to smile.

  “Forgive me if I fail to see the humour,” Tallien said.

  I explained: “This is perhaps the first time my friend has been regarded as
an asset on the battlefield.” Dear Frédéric had a reputation for being a coward. He had even had the dishonour to be dismissed from the volunteer National Guard.

  Levity or no, Tallien said he doubted that passports could be obtained.

  “But there must be a way.” Were it not for me, Frédéric and Princess Amalia would be in England now, they would be safe.

  September 30, 1792—Strasbourg

  Rose,

  How can you accuse me of valuing my own safety over that of my children! I would die for them! And as for Amalia and Frédéric, they are better off in Paris.

  Alexandre

  October 2.

  This afternoon I went to Deputy Tallien’s office, to ask him once again about passports for Frédéric and Princess Amalia. I was kept waiting for some time. He was working on the layout of L’Ami des citoyens, the revolutionary news-sheet he publishes, he explained, when finally he consented to speak to me. He had a deadline to meet, he said.

  “Some other time?” I inquired, making the bold step of inviting him to supper.

  “Perfect,” Aimée said when I told her, offering to keep Eugène and Hortense in her apartment for the night.

  That evening.

  Deputy Tallien is gone; my virtue intact. Tarnished, perhaps, but unsullied.

  We spent the evening together, sharing two bottles of wine, which Deputy Tallien clearly enjoys. We played piquet and talked—of the Republic, the constitution, the future. Under a gentle demeanour is a young man who longs to make a difference. He is fervent in his belief in the Revolution, dedicated to a vision of a better world.

  “The moderate deputies maintain that the radicals aren’t heeding the past,” he said, “yet the moderates ignore the present. They refuse to see the poverty that surrounds us.”