The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

After Citoyen Hamelin had finally departed, I followed my aunt up the narrow stairs to see the dear old Marquis.

  At the first-floor landing Aunt Désirée said, “Wait here,” in her hushed, sickroom voice. The air was thick with the smell of mothballs. Through the half-closed door I heard her say, “Wake up, Marquis! Rose wants to have a word with you. She’s going away, to Italy. No, not me, Rose.” Then the door opened wide. Sunken into the feather bed was the withered Marquis, a full-bottomed court wig stuck crookedly on his head. “Be quick,” my aunt hissed, stepping aside. “He might fall asleep.”

  Holding onto a bedpost, I leaned over to kiss the dear old man on the forehead. His wig smelled of pomade. “You are looking well, Marquis,” I said, marvelling at the dry furrows of his skin.

  “Louder,” Aunt Désirée said. “He didn’t hear you.” She was going through the books on the shelves, blowing dust off the spines.

  “I am going away, Marquis,” I said, loudly this time. “To Italy.”

  He frowned. “Are the boys downstairs?”

  I glanced at Aunt Désirée: oh no. The boys—his two sons, Alexandre and François. Alexandre had been dead for almost two years, and François was as much as dead. An émigré, he would be arrested and executed were he even to set foot in the French Republic.

  “Forgive me, Rose,” the Marquis said tremulously, suddenly clear. “At my age…” I took his hand, skin and bones, bones and skin. His new betrothal ring was loose on his finger; it had to be large in order to slip over his big knuckle. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a mechanical lever. “I pray for Alexandre every day,” he said, his voice raspy. “I prayed for him when he was alive, but it didn’t help much. And as for François…” He covered his eyes, cursed.

  I stroked his hand, my throat tight. Aunt Désirée gave me a warning look.

  “So, you remarried,” he said finally, recovering himself. “Eugène told me your husband is going after the Austrians.”

  “Yes.” We’d had this conversation several times before.

  “Tell him…” The old man fought for breath. “Tell him we must get back Mayence.”*

  June 27, close to 11:00 A.M., I think—still in Fontainebleau.

  At eight this morning everyone descended on Aunt Désirée’s modest town house. I stood on the front steps holding onto a wiggling Fortuné. The small courtyard was a chaos of men, carriages and horses, preparing for departure. Everywhere there was yelling and confusion. Junot was yelling at a postillion who was trying to untangle some harness. Hamelin—“the blinker” I think of him—was yelling at a footman who was trying to cram an enormous sea-trunk into his small post chaise. And everywhere, servants were rushing to and fro, yelling at each other. Only Bonaparte’s brother Joseph was silent, standing by the gate writing something in a book.

  “I can hold the dog if you wish, Madame Bonaparte,” I heard a voice behind me say.

  It was funny Captain Charles in his red-tassled boots. He looked shining, his brass buttons gleaming. Gladly I handed Fortuné over. The captain stroked Fortuné’s ears and then even kissed the top of my dog’s head! “Could I have the honour of showing Madame Bonaparte to her carriage?” He shifted the dog under one arm and offered me the other.

  “But what about—?” I looked back over my shoulder. Was everything taken care of?

  “I insist, Madame. We must look after you.” He opened our carriage door, pulling at the step until it came clattering down. Then, with a twirl of his white gloved hand, he motioned me in.

  “We?” My travelling kit was already on the seat: my medications, my Tarot cards, the novel Clarissa by an English author, my writing journal (which I’m writing in now).

  “The saints and I.”

  I smiled. He was so sweet. “Who provided the cushions?” There hadn’t been cushions on the way down from Paris.

  “I did. I recommend that you sit on the side facing away from the horses.” Captain Charles jiggled the door to get it to shut. I touched my hand on the windowsill. “Oh, I wouldn’t put my hand there,” he said. I looked at my white glove—it was streaked with grime.

  Captain Charles slipped off his gloves. “They will fit you, Madame. I have very small hands. See?” He held up his hand—it was the size of a child’s.

  I slipped on his glove. It did fit. “You are a gentle and kind man, Captain Charles.” I took several deep breaths, laid my head back against the hard, cracked leather. Be strong, I told myself. It wouldn’t do to faint. Not now, not at the start of such a long and perilous journey.

  II

  La Regina

  Ogni talento matta. (Every talented man is a madman.)

  —Italian proverb

  In which I join the Liberator of Italy

  June 29, 1796—Briare.

  Only two days travelling and already we are miserable. Citoyen Hamelin is distraught over fleas in his coach. Colonel Junot is made cross by the slow pace. My brother-in-law Joseph is not in good health (due to the effects of his mercury cure), and is disinclined to suffer silently. Thank God, Captain Charles is of our party—he alone is cheerful.

  July 5—Roanne.

  Today we followed the river road along the Loire to Roanne, a bustling town of merchants and carters. Passing through the market I heard foreign tongues. Roguish men with long black hair and rusty swords observed our entourage with hungry interest.

  It was dusk by the time we pulled into the courtyard of this humble inn, the best in the vicinity. The innkeeper ran out to meet us, waving a leg of chicken in one hand. His beard glistened with grease. He threw the bone to a dog and started gesticulating wildly to Joseph about a courier who had been murdered.

  “It happened not far from here, to the south,” Joseph explained as we climbed the stone steps to the inn. “The courier was carrying promissory notes intended for my brother.”

  “How awful!” I wondered if it was the same courier who had so often brought me Bonaparte’s letters.

  “Yes, it was a goodly sum,” Joseph said, opening the door to the inn for me.

  Inside, the air was sweet with the smell of quince roasting on cinders. I sat down on a bench by the stairs. I had a fever, I feared, and that pain again. “I’ll wait here for Lisette,” I told my brother-in-law, who wished to examine the accommodations. He put his journal and writing kit on the bench and went upstairs. The journal slipped onto the floor, and as I picked it up I couldn’t help but notice an entry that said, “10:15 A.M. J and CC play string game.”

  Citoyen Hamelin clattered in. Quickly I put Joseph’s journal back on top of his writing kit. Josephine and Captain Charles play string game, he had written. Cat’s cradle, he meant—but why note it down? It was child’s play. “Do you realize that the murderer stayed in this very inn?” Hamelin demanded, blinking rapidly. “In the very room I have been assigned?”

  Then Lisette entered, followed by Colonel Junot, his nose pink at the tip. She was wearing her travelling gown without the lace insert, I noticed. The innkeeper’s wife ran to take her basket.

  “Queen Lisette, is it now?” Captain Charles said.

  She glared at him. “If it gets any hotter, I will die,” she said, fluttering her fan.

  “It will be even hotter in Milan,” Colonel Junot said, cracking his knuckles. “But there are ways to cool off. Vigorous exercise is recommended, the type that works up a sweat.”

  “How unladylike,” Lisette said, glancing up to meet Junot’s gaze.

  “Is Colonel Junot married?” Lisette asked me later, admiring my necklace before putting it away in its case.

  “Colonel Junot has yet to find a woman with a sufficiently large dowry,” I said, and then added, “He has a mind to coquet with you, I’ve noticed.”

  “You think he fancies me?”

  I detected a hopeful tone in her voice. “Colonel Junot is the type of man who will always fancy an attractive young woman.” I turned from the looking glass to face her. “Lisette, I hope you understand that it would be un
pardonable for you to allow the attentions of an officer.”

  “I do not encourage Colonel Junot, Madame,” she said, helping me into my walking gown.

  “You don’t neglect to wear your lace insert?”

  She flushed. “It needs mending, Madame.”

  “My sweet Lisette,” I said, “you are so young and so very pretty. You must learn to be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Shortly after 4:00 P.M.

  We’ve just returned from a refreshing stroll. Feeling weak yet, I leaned on Captain Charles’s arm as we walked along the river, the other members of our party going on ahead. We talked like old friends: of fashion (the charming high-crowned leghorn hats that women are wearing now, how they look best with hair loose and flowing); of his birthday (he’s twenty-three today, so young); my children (how I miss them already); of novels (he recommended The Sorrows of Young Werther by the German writer Goethe). Then we talked of more serious, financial concerns—the shocking depreciation of our currency, the soaring inflation.

  “I understand you are a financial agent,” I dared to say.

  “That is not the sort of thing a soldier would wisely admit to, Madame.” The captain brushed a black curl out of his eyes—his blue, blue eyes. “Especially to the wife of his commanding general.”

  “I assure you, Captain, I will not mention it to anyone.” Bonaparte, specifically.

  “Then yes, I confess I am an agent—for the Bodin Company, an investment firm based in Lyons. The brothers Bodin—there are two—are from Romans originally. We grew up together.”

  “I once did business with a speculator in Lyons. I recall he mentioned the name Bodin.” I’d made an exceptional profit on a shipment of saltpetre, and then again on an order of lace. “That surprises you?” I asked, perceiving his astonishment.

  “Well, it’s just that—”

  “Women are perfectly capable of doing business, Captain,” I chided him.

  “Yes, Madame, but you would hardly seem to…” He flushed.

  I would hardly seem to need money, he’d started to say. “I won’t bore you with stories of how my children and I went without bread during the Terror, Captain.”

  “It wouldn’t be boring in the least.”

  “It’s really a rather familiar tale by now. Like so many, we lost everything. My husband lost his life; his property was confiscated. I had two children to support, feed and educate. One does what one must in such circumstances.” It sounded noble, but the truth was that I enjoyed making deals. Learning to do business had given me an exhilarating feeling of independence.

  “And now, Our Lady of Victories, you have everything.”

  “Everything including debts.” As wife of the Liberator of Italy, my expenses had more than doubled. As wife of the Liberator of Italy, I’d been appealed to for any number of charities—charities that it was not in my nature to turn down.

  “Perhaps, Madame, I could be of help in that respect.” He paused. “I’m sorry, have I offended you?”

  “No, not in the least,” I stammered, my cheeks blazing, for I’d suddenly realized who the captain reminded me of: William, a boy I had loved in my youth.

  Late now, almost midnight, an evening of tales and tricks.

  The talk at table this evening was much concerned with the murderer, whom the innkeeper, his wife, three daughters, two sons, the innkeeper’s sister and her two sons were only too happy to describe in great detail. With each account the villain became more and more sinister. So it didn’t help when, just after ten, we were suddenly apprehended by a man in a mask, who jumped into the room with a violent shout.

  Junot leapt to his feet, his hand on the pommel of his sword. We gasped, Lisette screamed, but Junot seemed unable to pull his sabre from its scabbard. He cursed crudely, so preoccupied with his dilemma that he failed to notice our laughter—for the man in the mask was none other than Captain Charles.

  Junot stood at his place, his blond hair sticking out like a haystack. “What did you do to my sword, Captain?” he demanded, cracking his knuckles.

  Captain Charles made what sounded like a frightened duck call and sat down beside me. “How tragic to be murdered on one’s birthday,” he whispered, cowering as the giant Junot approached. (We saved him!)

  July 10 (Sunday)—Lanslebourg.

  The ascent to the Pass was perilous. We followed a narrow road through thick fir woods, the glaciers glittering above us.

  I exchanged a concerned look with Joseph. “Are we actually going to go over?”

  “It will be my first time too.” He had been writing all morning—notes for his novel, he claimed. “How does this sound? ‘The pretty young woman cast a glance upon the handsome soldier, trembling as if she had seen the vault of heaven open.’”

  “I like that,” I lied.

  “I’m not sure about the word handsome,” Joseph said. “Virile might be better.”

  Captain Charles put down the book he was reading (Voltaire’s Lettres philosophiques). “Are we staying in Lanslebourg?”

  “That’s where our mules and porters will be,” Joseph said.

  “We are crossing the mountains on mules?” I asked, alarmed.

  “Perhaps you would prefer to be dragged over on a litter. My heroine is going to do it that way, packed in straw.”

  “Your heroine is going to cross the Alps?”

  “The poor girl.” Joseph looked up at a towering precipice. “She is exceedingly frightened.”

  Entering the tiny village of Lanslebourg, I felt we had come upon a new species of human. Everyone seemed deformed in appearance, enormous wens protruding from their necks. The growths are called goiters, I am told, caused by the water.

  July 11, dawn.

  We depart in a half hour. We’ve been given bear-fur blankets to wrap ourselves in, beaver-skin masks to go over our heads, taffeta eye-shades to protect our eyes from the blinding glare.

  The mountains tower above us like giants. A trembling has come over me that has little to do with fever. I’ve put my miniatures of Hortense and Eugène in the little velvet jewel bag sewn to my petticoat, for heart. Lazare’s Saint Michael medal I’ve tucked into my bodice, for courage.

  Benedictine Abbazia di Novalesa.

  We’re over. We were carried in chairs across perilous cliffs by ancient little men. It was even more terrifying than I thought it would be.

  July 12—Turin.

  We were late departing this morning due to a problem with the way our carriage had been reassembled. (It had been carried over the Pass in pieces, on the backs of mules shod with spiked shoes.) Consequently Junot forbade any stops, so by the time we rolled into the tiny but stately city of Turin, I was rather desperate for relief. My heart sank when I saw a regiment of French cavaliers led by a young man in the uniform of an aide-de-camp.

  “August!” Junot jumped out of our carriage while it was yet in motion. “What’s all this about?”

  “The General sent me to escort Madame Bonaparte to Milan.” The aide glanced at me, tipped his hat. “But first the King of Sardinia has requested an audience.”

  Junot cracked his knuckles, grinning. “The King of the Dormice is learning to bow, is he? To us Republicans? That’s a good one. Well, I wonder if I should be kind enough to grant his Highness the honour?”

  “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” the young aide stuttered. “His Highness has requested an audience with the General’s wife.” Lisette has mended the train on my ivory silk gown and unstitched my pearls, which we’d sewn into the hem of a petticoat for security. I’ve bathed, my hair has been dressed, I’ve been rouged and powdered. “There,” Lisette said, adjusting a pearl-studded ornament in my hair. “You look beautiful.” I studied my face in the looking glass, pulling at a curl so that it fell forward. Lisette had plucked my brows into a graceful arc. Yes, by candlelight the King of Sardinia might find me pleasing.

  If I didn’t melt first, I thought, wiping the perspiration from my brow. Already my gown was
damp. I opened the double-sash doors onto the balcony overlooking the piazza. I could see the treetops of the ramparts beyond, and beyond that, in the blue horizon, the icy peaks of Mont Cenis, glittering like an enormous diamond in the sun.

  Church bells rang for afternoon vespers. I’d forgotten how lovely bells sound. I watched as a veiled woman in black made her way to church, her eyes fixed on the ground. What will they think of me, these women? Me, the Parisian merveilleuse in her revealing Parisian gown, enjoying her Parisian pleasures…her Parisian freedom, I was beginning to understand.

  Fortuné yelped at a rapping on the door. “Oh, it’s you,” Lisette said.

  “Please, Mademoiselle,” Captain Charles said, “refrain from such an unseemly expression of unrestrained joy.” He scooped up Fortuné and rubbed his face in the dog’s fur. Then, releasing the delighted dog, he informed me that we would not be going to the palace for another hour.

  “An hour!” I’d been waiting forever, it seemed. Waiting to be taken to the palace, waiting to be presented to the king of this realm. Waiting for the laudanum I took for pain to take effect. “Forgive me, Captain Charles. I’m nervous, I confess.” I’d never met a king before.

  “Why should you be nervous?” The captain brushed off a footstool, flipped up his tails and sat down. “I should think it would be the King who has reason to be uneasy. After all, your husband rather badly trounced him.”

  What was it I feared? That I might do something foolish. That I might become faint, with pain and with fever. That I might embarrass Bonaparte, the Republic. “It’s just that I never expected…”

  “La Gloire?”

  La Gloire, indeed! Fame was the last thing I’d expected from marriage to Bonaparte. Strange, intense little Napoleon, the ill-mannered Corsican—a hero now, the Liberator of Italy. The man to whom kings bowed.