The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  “It is difficult to understand how one could not see it.”

  We talked of our families, our hopes and aspirations. “You are—twenty-four? Twenty-five?” I asked. “Do you not seek a wife?”

  “I seek the wife of a brigadier-general,” he said sweetly.

  “You know what I mean.” I smiled.

  “I believe I am incapable of the emotion they call love.”

  I looked at him, surprised. “That must be a sad feeling.”

  “It is a secure feeling.” He stood to go. “You’ve not asked about the passes for your friends.” He pulled a paper out of his vest pocket. “I’ve arranged for two to be issued.”

  The light from a candle reflected in his eyes. “You are kind to have done this,” I said.

  “Not many call me kind.”

  “I have another request to make,” I said, made bold by wine. “Regarding a girl named Anne-Julie de Béthisy, in the Port-Libre prison. She’s only nineteen.”* A weeping Marquise de Moulins had contacted me three days earlier about about her niece, imprisoned when the girl’s family returned from Germany.

  Tallien smiled. “One gets the impression your list may be long…” He leaned toward me.

  I stooped suddenly to take up his sword, handed it to him. “I believe it time you fell in love,” I said.

  He sighed, put a hand to his heart. “Everyone seeks my downfall.”

  I laughed. He left content; I am relieved.

  Thursday, October 4.

  Frédéric and Princess Amalia departed this morning, quietly, before I could bid them farewell.

  October 9.

  This evening I received a note from Frédéric: “Alas, we’re back.”

  I hurried to the Hôtel de Salm. Frédéric came to the door. He’d been weeping. “It’s hopeless. We’ll perish!”

  Princess Amalia entered. She told me what had happened. They’d set out for Amiens, but at a post station near Clermont their papers had been questioned. No amount of persuasion—“Or gold,” Frédéric interjected—could persuade the station-master not to turn them over to the authorities. Fortunately, the precinct commander was more lenient and let them go, provided they returned immediately to Paris.

  “And so here we are, in the gayest prison in all of Europe,” Frédéric concluded, waving an embroidered handkerchief through the air. “At least here we may go to the opera.”

  Friday, October 12.

  A military coach pulled into our courtyard this morning.

  “Lieutenant Soufflet,” Agathe informed me. “He has a message from your husband.”

  “From Alexandre?”

  “Oui, oui.” Lieutenant Soufflet remembered to remove his hat. He seemed a boy—no more than fourteen or fifteen. “Oui,” yet again. He felt around in his pockets and handed me a letter.

  I recognized Alexandre’s hand. I can no longer trust you. I do not have to remind you of the law.

  “I am to take General Beauharnais’s son back to Strasbourg with me.” Lieutenant Soufflet spoke these words resolutely, as if he had been practising.

  “Eugène is to go to Strasbourg? With you?”

  “Oui.”

  “Now?”

  “Oui, oui.”

  “Surely there has been a mistake!”

  I read the note again. The law. As the father, Alexandre could command his children back to the dangers of Paris, entrust his son on a long and perilous journey in the care of a boy, expose him to the dangers of a garrison town. I put the note in my pocket. I understood: I had no choice.

  Lieutenant Soufflet and I left to fetch Eugène at the joiner’s workshop in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, where he has been serving as an apprentice, as required by the Commune. The fragrant smell of wood dust filled the room. Eugène, busy at a table at the back, did not look up.

  I explained to Citoyen Quinette the purpose of my call. He called Eugène over and told him he was dismissed. Eugène looked alarmed. He enjoyed his apprenticeship more than he had ever enjoyed school.

  “I will explain,” I said.

  The large, official coach and the handsome team of horses impressed Eugène, as did the uniform Citoyen Soufflet was wearing, his jaunty hat and long, shiny sword. Eugène brushed the sawdust off his clothes and climbed onto the leather seat.

  We returned to Rue Saint-Dominique. It took less than one half-hour to prepare. Proudly, Eugène strapped on his sword. Hortense pushed a drawing into his haversack. I checked over the basket of foodstuffs. “No eggs?” Agathe went to see if there were any hard-cooked.

  Lieutenant Soufflet was growing uneasy. It was time. It was raining so we said our farewells at the door. I feared tears, but was instead startled—and, I admit, saddened—by Eugène’s enthusiasm. He was going to join his father at the front. What could be closer to a boy’s heart?

  In which we grieve for our King

  November 5, 1792.

  Eugène sends brief, mournful letters. Life in Strasbourg is not as he imagined. Instead of being “on the front”—in tents and around campfires, which is how he imagined it—he is enrolled in Collège Nationale, a revolutionary boarding school which he loathes even more than the aristocratic ones.

  Hortense struggles over a sash she is making for him. She misses him greatly. We all do.

  November 16.

  I have spent most of this week interviewing applicants for a governess for Hortense. This afternoon I asked my mantua-maker if she might be interested. Her name is Marie de Lannoy, of the ancient Lannoy family of Flanders (she insists)—a homely, vain woman with claims to being an aristocrat. She chatters incessantly, but she can read and I’m desperate. As a former seamstress for the Queen, she will also be able to teach Hortense a trade, fulfilling the legal requirement. She starts next week.

  Monday, November 19.

  “Mademoiselle Lannoy, s’il vous plaît.” She is stout, with a pockmarked face, buck teeth and bad breath. She has insisted on a bedchamber on the second floor, objecting to the one on the third. Already the cook is cursing, for she sent her mutton chops back three times. No “tu” or “toi” for this lady, not even to the children, much less to Fortuné, who tried to bite her.

  Agathe, our stuttering revolutionary, is the only brave soul among us. She alone refuses to be cowed, boldly addressing her as “Citoyenne Lannoy” and taking the liberty of bestowing upon her a vigorous fraternal embrace—much to Mademoiselle Lannoy’s obvious discomfort. I confess I was amused.

  November 22.

  Mademoiselle Lannoy will not speak to Agathe. “I will have nothing to do with a Jacobin,” she told me firmly.

  “Must I remind you,” I told her, “my husband is a Jacobin as well as a Brigadier-General in the revolutionary army. We are a Republican family.”

  I have insisted that she take Hortense to all the revolutionary festivals and allow her to play with the bookseller’s children. I sound more patriotic than I am, I confess, but Lannoy’s arrogance brings out the revolutionary spirit even in me.

  November 18, 1792—Strasbourg

  Dear Rose,

  Thank you for your “olive branch”—nor do I want to quarrel. It is important in a time such as ours that all factions be eliminated. We must stand united against the Enemy, against the oppressors of Freedom.

  Eugène seems to have adjusted and is showing more of a Republican spirit.

  Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

  Monday, November 26.

  We’ve become a house of spies. Agathe spies on Lannoy, Lannoy on Agathe. Hortense spies on them both.

  Last week Hortense informed me that Agathe sneaks out after petit déjeuner each day—and I’ve discovered that it is so. Agathe does go out, and furtively so, around ten in the morning. An hour later she is back, her cheeks flushed, her chores undone.

  Now I have discovered where it is that she goes. It’s the guillotine that draws her, across the river in the Place Louis Quinze—Place de la Révolution now—where daily crowds gather, the vendors selling lemonade, th
e children playing prisoner’s base, the old ladies gossiping as the heads fall.

  November 29.

  This morning I went to my dressmaker on Rue Saint-Honoré. It was with a sinking heart that I saw a cart approaching, three men and a woman on their way to the guillotine, one of the men a youth, really, quite young and weeping, another man doing his best to console him. Five boys were following behind the cart, dancing the farandole.

  Shaken, I crossed the street and traced my way back to the palace gardens. There I sought an empty bench under a chestnut tree and sat for a moment, my heart gripped by sorrow. Not far from me, under a chestnut tree, a toy-seller was setting out a tray of tiny guillotines, the kind Hortense and Eugène had often pressed me to buy and I had unpatriotically refused.

  I could hear the sounds of the crowd gathering in the Place de la Révolution. Now and then a group would break into song and others would join in and the song would grow in strength and joy. It was a bright and shining morning, and if one could erase the image of the knife, one could not imagine a more innocent festivity.

  A cheer sounded and then the cry, “Long live the Republic!”

  A head fallen.

  What have we become?

  November 22, 1792—Strasbourg

  Dear Rose,

  Victory has crowned our arms! I was confident my commanding general, the great Custine, would conquer Mainz—but Frankfurt as well! This victory proves the virtue of our cause. Our Republic will carry the banner of Freedom to all the nations of the world, throw off the oppressive yoke of tyranny! This news has made my job of training the new recruits easier. With glory in their hearts they tackle their work with enthusiasm.

  Eugène has been ill with a fever, but is now recovering.

  Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

  December 8, 1792—Strasbourg

  Dear Rose,

  Celebration has turned to shame. General Custine’s troops were forced to fall back on Mainz, where they are trapped for the winter. Many of my men have deserted. There are rumours that Custine will be arrested, as a result. Don’t believe what you read in the journals.

  Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

  December 23.

  It was with some difficulty that Hortense and I made our way to Fontainebleau for “Christmas.” (We dare not call it that now—it is not Christmas we are celebrating, but Unity, the official designation.) Most of the horses have been requisitioned for the armies, so the wait for a seat on the post-coach was considerable. I thought to hire a hackney but the drivers were charging four times the normal rate, well beyond our means. So when Frédéric and Princess Amalia offered us the use of their coach and four, I accepted.

  And so it was that Hortense (with Fortuné), Lannoy and I set off in such fine style. Although Frédéric and Princess Amalia had long ago taken the precaution of painting over the aristocratic emblems, there was no disguising the fine wood inlay around the windows. Was this the reason the officials at Porte-Saint-Martin would not allow us to pass through? Or was it Lannoy’s haughty demeanour? Or Fortuné’s incessant growling? Whatever the cause, the guard was reluctant to believe that our papers were authentic. We had to turn back and try another gate. The detour had added two hours to our journey. By the time we arrived in Fontainebleau we were dangerously chilled.

  Aunt Désirée burst into tears upon greeting us—it has been many months since we last saw her and the time has been fraught with worry. The Marquis’s beard, which used to be grey, has turned a shocking white.

  “Don’t call him Marquis,” Aunt Désirée cautioned fretfully. “It’s citoyen now.”

  I suppressed a smile.

  Wednesday, December 26.

  The King’s trial has begun. “It’s an insult!” Lannoy exclaimed. “The King can do no wrong!” She is convinced that the compromising papers found in the iron chest were put there intentionally by Jacobins.*

  “Pray hold your tongue, Lannoy!” I whispered, urging her to use caution in her expression. It has been made a crime punishable by death to show support for royalty. “A governess needs her head.”

  “Fig,” she exclaimed. “Fig, I say.”

  She has certain endearing ways, but one has to look for them.

  Later.

  This evening I was visited by a market woman, a poissarde. The scent of attar of roses gave me pause. In the parlour, she let down her hood. It was Fanny. “Why are you in disguise?” I asked, alarmed.

  “I’ve come to warn you,” she hissed, motioning me to be silent. “François has fled. He tried to free the King.”

  “Mon Dieu.” I lowered myself onto a chair. “Free the King? From the Temple?” I mouthed these words.

  Fanny nodded, taking a pencil and paper out of her basket. He was part of a group, she wrote. A conspiracy.

  I was so stunned by this news I could hardly comprehend. Alexandre’s older brother, cautious, quiet, honourable François, had taken the ultimate gamble, the one flamboyant, desperate act of a hero. He had risked his life to free the King.

  Fanny pushed another scrap of paper into my hand. He’s gone over to Germany—to join the émigré army at Coblentz!

  I threw the notes into the fire. Would François and Alexandre bear arms against one another then? Would they carry their quarrel unto death?

  I heard a door close in the hall. Agathe. I motioned to Fanny to be cautious.

  Fanny held out her hand. In it was a gem, a diamond. The lights danced against her skin. “I will take only metal coin, Citoyenne,” she said loudly, feigning a knowledge of a market accent I did not know she possessed. (Were I not in such a state of alarm, I might have found it amusing.)

  “Is it genuine?” I asked, loud enough to be heard. “What are you asking for it?”

  “Not half its value.”

  “You talked to François?” I whispered when I could be sure that we were alone again.

  Fanny nodded. “He came to say goodbye to Émilie. He gave me a letter to give to his father. I am going to try to get out to Fontainebleau tonight. The Marquis must be warned.”

  Of course. We would all be under suspicion now. “But how?” The barriers had been closed all week.

  Fanny glanced toward the hall. “I know a sewing-woman who lives by a break in the wall,” she whispered, “once used by smugglers.”

  I heard soft footsteps in the hall again. “And so, my good woman, how much do you want for this?”

  Fanny scribbled something on a piece of paper: I’m going into hiding.

  The harsh reality of our lives came true to me then. It was possible—I could not admit to the fact that it was even likely—that I might never see Fanny again. The tears I’d been fighting overwhelmed me.

  Fanny put the diamond in my hand, pinched my cheek and was gone.

  January 15, 1793—Strasbourg

  Dear Rose,

  I am shocked and appalled to learn of my brother’s defection. The enemies of the Revolution are too cowardly to face the problems of our day; they look, instead, to the past, to the Age of Chivalry, the Crusades, fancying emigration a modern Crusade. They claim the King is in danger of being guillotined. Absurd! The rage of Europe would be heaped upon us! How foolish do they imagine us to be? They insist that in taking up arms against their own countrymen, they act honourably. They delude themselves!

  François has put the entire family in danger, cast the stain of the traitor over us all. I fear he might try to contact my father. If a letter is received, it must be turned over unopened to the officials at the section office. Make sure he and Désirée understand the importance of this.

  My brother’s inheritance, all his property and possessions, will be confiscated now, of course, leaving Marie and their daughter Émilie penniless. It goes without saying that Émilie’s prospects for a good marriage have been for ever dashed.

  I can’t believe it has come to this…I close in despair,

  Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

  Tuesday, January 15, 1793.


  The King has been found guilty—of treason. Lannoy is profoundly indisposed. We’ve been giving her hysteric water to revive her.

  “Will they kill him?” Hortense asks. “Will they take his head?”

  I assure her no. However much the French love liberty, we hold our good King Louis dear.

  January 17.

  I was at my perfumer’s shop on the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs when I heard some commotion on the street. A caller on horseback cried out: “The King must die! The King must die!”

  I turned to the shopkeeper. She burst into tears and ran from the shop. I walked out the door into the brilliant winter sun. Others, too, lined the street. We looked to one another in shocked silence. Our King must die?

  January 21.

  The drums began at dawn. I closed the drapes, but I could not keep out the sound.

  Lannoy stayed in her room, praying. Agathe took her a dish of tea.

  We heard the drums roll three times. Even Hortense grew silent. I held her in my arms.

  The King is dead. We have killed our King.

  In which my husband’s star rises and falls

  May 28, 1793.

  Deputy Tallien called this evening, his bristly hair uncovered in spite of a gentle spring rain.

  “What is it?” The wife of a soldier always fears news.

  “Your husband is going to be promoted,” he said.

  “Promoted?” It was only two months ago Alexandre had been made General.

  “Commander-in-Chief of the Army of the Rhine.”

  “Commander-in-Chief?”

  “It’s to be announced in the Assembly tomorrow.”* Tallien leaned his sword against the wall.