The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  “He knows he wronged you.” I had been waiting for an opportunity to talk to her about Tallien.

  “You’ve seen him?”

  I nodded. “He has changed.”

  She said nothing.

  “He worships you, Thérèse,” I persisted. “And he is such a loving father.”

  She turned on me. “Don’t you know how it pains me?” she cried, her eyes full of emotion. “A marriage can survive without passion, Rose, but not without respect. Tell him I’m sorry, but I can’t—I just can’t.”

  January 30.

  “She expresses regret.” I tried to soften the news. Tallien had looked so hopeful when I arrived. “She cares for you.” This was true.

  “But—?”

  I shook my head.

  I stayed for a time. We played piquet, like in the days of our youth, days before the Terror, days that seem so far away. I talked to him of General Buonaparte, of my doubts and confusion.

  “He’s an ambitious man,” Tallien said. “He will rise. Of that there can be no doubt.”

  “So Barras says.”

  “He cares for you? And the children?”

  “Yes.” Indeed, he seemed to like Hortense and Eugène. “I believe he would be a good father to them.”

  “And, as a general, a help to your son’s military career, no doubt.”

  “True.” That was an important factor.

  “Yet you are unsure?”

  “We are not lovers.”

  “That’s not difficult to resolve.”

  “It is not always easy for a woman.”

  “Is fidelity an issue? Perhaps…”

  I shrugged. It was customary for married men and women to take lovers—but did I want to live like that?

  “I advise you to accept,” Tallien said. “It is a gamble—but then…” He groaned as I displayed my cards. “But then you have always had a talent for winning games of chance.”

  January 31, 1796—Hôtel de Croisoeuil, Croissy

  Dear Citoyenne Madame Beauharnais,

  Come quickly—Mother is not well.

  Citoyenne Madame Lucie Hosten de Croisoeuil

  February 1, 1796—Hôtel de Croisoeuil, Croissy

  Dear Citoyenne Madame Beauharnais,

  Forgive me for alarming you. Mother is stronger today.

  Citoyenne Madame Lucie Hosten de Croisoeuil

  Tuesday, February 2—Croissy.

  It was just past noon when my coachman put me down in front of Hôtel de Croisoeuil. Lucie came to the foyer with an infant in her arms. “Madame Beauharnais!” She greeted me most sincerely. “Did you get my second note?” she asked. From somewhere I heard a child laugh.

  “How is your mother?” I asked after complimenting her on the birth of her second child—another boy. “What does the doctor say?”

  We were interrupted by a scream—a child’s. Lucie looked up the stairs. “Quiet!” she yelled. She turned back to me with an angelic expression. “We’ve moved her downstairs,” she said, distracted by the now-howling infant in her arms.

  It was dark in the music room; the drapes were drawn, the windows closed. The smell was more touch than sense, a thickening of the air. Gently, I pulled the bedcurtains back. Aimée’s eyes were open.

  “Aimée.” I took her hand, sat by her side. I stroked her damp forehead, studied her face. I did not like what I saw.

  “You came.” Her voice was husky, hoarse.

  “Lucie wrote to me.”

  “She didn’t need to.”

  “Does talking hurt?”

  “I’m so tired.”

  “I’ll rub your feet. Would you like that?”

  She nodded. “Tell me news. How is everyone?”

  “I am considering an offer of marriage.”

  “Lazare?”

  I shook my head no. “General Buonaparte.”

  “The man in the journals?”

  I nodded.

  “Isn’t he Italian, Rose? Italians are so unclean.”

  “He’s Corsican.”

  “That’s even worse.”

  “I wish you could meet him.” I longed to tell her of the confusion in my heart, but already she was becoming drowsy, her eyelids fluttering, closing. I sat back down beside her, took her hand. You can’t leave me like this, Aimée, I thought. I need you.

  Lucie came into the room, a chamber-pot in her hand. I stood up. “She sleeps more and more,” Lucie said.

  “It will heal her.”

  “Yes.” But neither of us believed this to be so. I took up my basket, my hat. At the door, I turned, looked back. Lucie—so young, so fresh—was standing at the foot of her mother’s bed with a resigned look on her face.

  “Give her my love,” I said. Pray for her soul.

  February 3.

  “I’ve had a proposal of marriage,” I told Fanny. I was at her hôtel on Rue de Tournon, arranging for a delivery of wood.

  “You would throw away your liberty?” She looked shocked.

  “Liberty to do without.” Liberty to sleep alone. “Eugène and Hortense need a father.”

  “Is it that Corsican I met at your salon?”

  “You disapprove?”

  “He tells a good ghost story. I rather liked him.”

  “Most people don’t.”

  “Let them hang. I know the aristocratic matrons of Saint-Germain will stick their noses up over a man with a name they can’t pronounce, but who cares about them any more?”

  “What will Aunt Désirée think?”

  “You haven’t told her?”

  “I haven’t the courage.”

  “She wants you to marry.”

  “But a Corsican?”

  Fanny laughed. “She’d get used to it. Compared to Marie marrying a mulatto, it might even look good. Do you love him?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  February 4.

  General Schérer, Commander of the Army of Italy, has resigned.

  “Why?” I asked, alarmed. Any mention of the Army of Italy brought on an attack of nerves in me.

  Buonaparte and I were in his horrible coach, in the Bois de Boulogne. I had persuaded him that in order for me to enjoy the ride, it must be taken at less than full speed, and somewhat reluctantly he had ordered his driver to leave off on the whip.

  “Director Carnot sent him my plans for the campaign in Italy,” Buonaparte said. “It would appear that General Schérer didn’t care for them. He said only the idiot who thought them up would be able to make it work.”

  “So he resigned? Just like that?”

  “Moved over, let’s say.”

  “For you?”

  “We shall see…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I must have an answer. Soon.”

  February 6.

  I felt restless this morning. I decided to go for a drive. On an impulse I asked my driver to take me out to the field where Alexandre was buried.

  It looked different from before. Here and there, in patches, grass had grown in, now brown from the frost. The wind blew over the hard lumps of earth. The crazy woman was there, again, in spite of the cold.

  I headed out into the field, out to the oak tree in the middle. I leaned my head against the gnarled trunk. How old was this tree? I wondered.

  I thought of my life, of the decisions before me. I thought of Hortense, of Eugène. I would turn thirty-three this summer. How many offers of marriage would there be?

  “The children must have a father,” I said out loud. Could Alexandre hear me? “I cannot manage on my own!”

  The crazy woman turned her head toward me, grinned.

  I went to her. She was crouched in the dirt. I stooped down beside her. I was surprised to see how young she was, younger than myself. Her clothes were in rags, filthy with excrement. She was shivering.

  “You will catch your death out here. Do you have a home?” I asked. “Somewhere you can go?”

  “Caesar is coming,” she said. />
  “The Roman?”

  “He said he would meet me here.”

  “You should be inside.” Her skin was grey from the cold.

  “I am waiting.”

  I slipped my cloak over her shoulders. “He told me you were to go home,” I lied.

  “He told you that?”

  I hesitated. “He told me to give you this.” I slipped my little bag of coins into her hand.

  She fingered the bag. She looked up at me. Her eyes were deep-set, a dark blue—Alexandre’s eyes. Shaken, I turned away.

  Sunday, February 7.

  Another sleepless night. The wind blows against the shutters. I have come to my writing desk by the fire, pulling a patchwork counterpane around my knees. Tomorrow I’m to give Buonaparte my answer. I don’t know what it will be.

  I get out my cards, hidden away since the Carmes. I feel their worn surfaces, feel the sadness in them still. With fear, I lay them out. At the centre, Conflict. To the future, Union. And the controlling card: Fate.

  February 8.

  I have given Buonaparte my answer.

  In which I have cause to regret

  February 9, 1796.

  Eugène took the news philosophically. In fact, I think he was pleased. Hortense, however, was inconsolable. I have betrayed her, she said. She stayed in her room, refusing to eat.

  February 18.

  The banns will be published tomorrow morning. “Have you told anyone?” I asked Buonaparte. “Have you told your family?”

  Buonaparte’s enormous family: his widowed mother Madame Letizia (whom he worships), his older brother Giuseppe (whom he loves), Lucciano (who shows such promise), Luigi (whom he regards as his son), his sisters (“the three Marias”) Maria-Anna, Maria-Paola and Maria-Anunziata, the “baby” Girolamo—twelve now. All of them in Buonaparte’s care, all of them needy.

  “I’ve only informed Giuseppe,” he said. We were sitting by the fire eating preserved cherries in thick fresh cream. “I wrote him two weeks ago.”

  Two weeks ago? I hadn’t given Buonaparte my answer two weeks ago. “And what was his reponse?” I asked.

  “He’s furious. He said he should have been consulted, since he’s the eldest. He insists I honour my commitment to marry his wife’s sister.”

  “The girl you were engaged to last summer?”

  “And now Giuseppe has written Mother.”

  “And?”

  “And now she demands I break it off.”

  “Is this not going to be a problem, Buonaparte? Perhaps we should—”

  “No!” he said angrily. “I am my own master.”

  February 19.

  Buonaparte has been talking to Barras, Barras has been talking to Thérèse, Thérèse has been talking to me. In this way I have learned that Buonaparte’s brother Giuseppe has threatened Buonaparte with a lawsuit for not marrying his sister-in-law!*

  “Corsicans spend half their life in court,” Thérèse said when I told her. “It’s their favourite sport. Ever heard of a vendetta?”

  “What am I getting into?”

  “Don’t worry, Rose. You could charm a snake.”

  “But Corsican in-laws?”

  Thérèse made a doubtful face. “Maybe not.”

  February 20.

  I’ve been to see Citoyen Calmelet, my family advisor, regarding my baptism certificate, which is required for the marriage licence. “I think you are doing the right thing,” he told me.

  “Not many say so.” General Aubert-Dubayet, the Minister of War, had had the audacity to tell me I’d be making a fool of myself if I married Buonaparte. Even Grace Elliott had asked how I could consider marrying a man with such a terrible name.

  Citoyen Calmelet nodded. “General Buonaparte is not one to stand on ceremony. This offends some people. But he shows promise and he seems to care for you sincerely. One can see it in his eyes.”

  “Will you come to the ceremony, be one of my witnesses?”

  “I’d be honoured. When is it?”

  Seventeen days.

  Monday, February 22.

  It was almost noon when I heard the sound of a horse trotting up the laneway. I looked out to see Lazare dismounting from a splendid grey. He handed the reins and his riding crop to my coachman.

  Quickly I went to my mirror, rubbed some colour into my cheeks.

  Agathe came into my wardrobe. “General Hoche is here to see you.”

  “Yes, I saw him.” I removed my apron. I had intended to work in the garden and the simple muslin gown I was wearing was not flattering.

  “Shall I tell him that you will receive him?”

  I thought for a moment. Should I? No. “Tell him I am indisposed.”

  A few moments later I heard a commotion in the hall. I looked up. Lazare was standing in the door. “I want my letters back,” he said.

  I scoffed. “What letters! I’ve not had a single letter from you since August.” I pulled my shawl around my shoulders. “Since you rescued Madame de Pout-Bellan’s husband.”

  “Madame de Pout-Bellan? What does she have to do with this?”

  “It is said that you love her.”

  Lazare waved his hand in a gesture of impatience. “Madame de Pout-Bellan? There is nothing…! Nothing, at least, to compare with the way you and Vanakre—”

  “Vanakre? Your footman?”

  “You need not take that aristocratic tone. Vanakre is my aide-de-camp now.”

  “That’s not the point. You thought I’d had an amourette with Vanakre?”

  “I have proof!”

  “It would amuse me to see such proof, General Hoche.”

  Lazare began to pace. “And now you with this”—he cursed, banged his fist on the side-table—“this little police general! How could you!”

  “Do not speak of General Buonaparte in that way.”

  “Did you know that only last year he was transferred to an infantry brigade under my orders, but he refused, pretending to be sick. Did you know the Committee had him demoted for insubordination? And that he offered his services to the Turks! He’s an opportunist! He can’t be trusted. He only wants the promotion Barras has offered him.”

  “It has nothing to do with Barras!” I put my hands to my ears.

  Lazare grabbed my hands, pulled them away. “Buonaparte’s reward for marrying you is the Army of Italy. It is that he wants—not you.”

  “Whosoever is appointed to command the Army of Italy will be appointed on the basis of merit.” I was trembling. “All the directors must approve it—as you well know. In point of fact, it would appear to be Director Carnot who is promoting General Buonaparte.”

  “Tell me you love him,” Lazare demanded.

  “I have given him my word.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. “That’s it?”

  I turned to the window, took a breath. “I understand congratulations are in order. You are a father, I am told.”

  “I am. A girl.” There was pride in his voice.

  I turned to him. “I was never unfaithful to you,” I said.

  He took my hand. “You’re trembling. Do I frighten you?”

  “Don’t make me cry, Lazare.” I pulled my hand away. His touch was gentle. He had always been so very gentle. “Please go.”

  At the door he turned. “It is true that I have fallen in love with another woman,” he said. “My wife.”

  “You always did love her.”

  He bowed and was gone. Shortly after I heard the sound of his horse’s hoofs cantering up the drive.

  I sat for a time by the window, looking out at the grey winter day. Agathe asked if there was anything I wanted.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Later.

  I was digging in the garden when a message was delivered. It was a note from Citoyen Dunnkirk: “Come see me.”

  Was it Mother? Immediately I called for my coach, arriving at Emmery’s office shortly before five.

  “I am glad you could come so promptly. There is something
I think you should know. Your fiancé has been to see me.” It was cold. He was sniffling, as usual.

  “General Buonaparte?”

  “Yes. This morning.”

  “But why?”

  “He was inquiring into your financial affairs.”

  “I have no secrets! He didn’t need to ask you.”

  Citoyen Dunnkirk shrugged.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth.” He blew his nose on a dirty blue kerchief.

  “And…?” I didn’t know who I was angrier with: Buonaparte or Citoyen Dunnkirk.

  “He thought you were wealthier than you are.”

  I sat for a moment in silence.

  “I know it is not my place, Citoyenne, but…are you sure this is the man you should marry?”

  “I must go.” I stood, in fear of my emotions.

  That evening.

  “It’s off!” I yelled the moment Buonaparte entered. I had not intended to explode in this way, but the words escaped before I could control myself.

  Buonaparte looked behind him. Was I addressing someone other than himself? “Josephine…?”

  “And I will not be Josephine! I am Rose.” I paced the room.

  Buonaparte threw his hat onto a chair. “Perhaps you could tell me what this is all about,” he said, “Josephine.”

  I struck out at him. He caught my wrist, hard. “I warn you never to strike me,” he said.

  Lannoy came running to the door. Gontier was behind her. “Madame?”

  “Leave us alone,” Buonaparte commanded. He was not as calm as he pretended.

  I nodded to them both. “It’s all right.”

  After they left there was a moment of silence. Outside, a horse whinnied.

  “Now, if you would be so kind as to explain?” Buonaparte jabbed at the embers with an iron.

  I sat down, clasped my hands in my lap. “I have decided to call off our engagement.”

  “That much I have gathered. Would it inconvenience you to provide a reason?”

  “You have been to see my banker.”