The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  Director Reubell has gone mad with fear. His delirium recalled to my mind an ancient Oriental proverb: that one should not confuse the sound of the beating of one’s heart with the hooves of approaching horses. It is the beating of my own heart that causes me pain. I begin to see that my life has been spent not as a conquering knight, but as a rather pathetic courtier, sitting, ever hopeful, in the antechamber to the boudoir of the Goddess of Love. In all my groping encounters, was it not simply Love I sought? (I recall a little lecture from you, my friend, to this effect.) And yet, having at last been blessed, I submitted not to the light, but to the darkness within.

  I hear the hooves of approaching horses. By the time you receive this, it will all be over. It is said that the guilty are victorious. If so, I need not fear.

  Père Barras

  July 23, Fontainebleau

  Dear Rose,

  Imagine General Hoche behaving in such a shameful way! He had nine thousand soldiers quartered at La Ferte-Alais and he as much as admitted that he was going to take over by force. And to think that our Eugène served on his staff.

  Your godmother, Aunt Désirée

  Note—I saw Marie-Adélaïde d’Antigny this morning when I stopped by with the money for her education and keep.* She has just turned eleven, a pretty little thing. I almost wept to see her—she looks just like Alexandre! Please don’t forget to send money.

  July 27, La Chaumière

  Darling,

  Lazare was forced to leave Paris under a cloud of suspicion, accused of being a traitor. I am sick with apprehension. Barras refuses to talk about it. If you can shed any light on this mystery, please let me know.

  Your loving and very dearest friend, Thérèse

  Wetzlar

  Rose,

  Forgive me for writing. I have a courier I can trust—otherwise, I would not compromise you in this fashion.

  You will have accounts of my disgrace in the journals. I beg you to believe me when I say I did not behave dishonourably. Although clear in conscience, I carry the burden of shame. It is not a mantle I wear willingly. Assure your son that I honoured my vows to the Republic.

  Should anything happen to me, please, I beg you, help my wife and child.

  I love you still.

  Burn this letter.

  Your soldier, always, Lazare

  [Undated]

  Oh, Lazare, Lazarro…

  August 4.

  Something happened in Paris—but what? Today, when Bonaparte was meeting with the Austrian delegates, I went through the journals in his office. Apparently, Lazare was named Minister of War, and then there was an outcry due to his youth and he resigned. And then his troops were discovered close to Paris, within a forbidden zone. (From what I can make out, the constitution forbids troops within twelve leagues of the building in which the Legislative Councils meet.) And then he was publicly accused of being a traitor to the Republic.

  I cannot make sense of this. There is no greater patriot than Lazare, no man more honourable. It sickens me to think of him publicly reviled, branded with the one word he most deeply loathed: traitor.

  September 8—Passariano.*

  We’ve arrived in Passariano, at last. We are staying in the palace of the last doge of Venice. The courtyard is the size of a military field and the palace itself is huge, ostentatious, ornate. I wander from golden room to golden room, watched by the servants. A fraud, they judge us, Republican imposters.

  We won’t be here long, I hope.

  September 10.

  Mail from Paris. Trouble again. I’m even more confused than before.

  18 Fructidor, Luxembourg Palace, Paris

  Chère amie,

  It is over; I am alive. So, it would seem, is the Republic.

  At dawn I ordered the alarm gun fired. Over sixty Royalist deputies have been arrested. Soon they will all be deported. So be it, the Republic has been saved.

  Again.

  Again and again.

  Directors Carnot and Barthélemy escaped—to Switzerland, it is suspected.*

  My secretary, Botot, is on his way to Italy with instructions for Bonaparte. Please keep me informed.

  You are right to suggest that we communicate in cipher. Next time.

  Père Barras, Director—still

  Note—Please disregard my last letter. I was, as they say, “in the cups.” I vaguely recall writing something about horses.

  September 9, Fontainebleau

  Dear Rose,

  Our government has arrested itself—and just when I was preparing for our move to Saint-Germain. I had to tell the carters to return the following week—at my expense, alas. But there was no way we could travel safely with the roads so agitated. Soldiers were everywhere, cart wheels rumbling over the cobblestones, dragging cannon. Almost two hundred of our elected—yes, elected!—representatives have been taken away in iron cages like wild beasts. Even that lovely General Pichegru, President of the Five Hundred.** Even two Directors! And just because they would not keep Décadi? The King was more just.

  Your godmother Aunt Désirée

  [Undated]

  “Excellent, the Royalists have been kicked out,” Bonaparte said, throwing down the Moniteur. “Now Austria will negotiate.”

  September 20.

  A surprising announcement from Bonaparte. Shortly after two he came into my suite of rooms, sat down across from me. “You’ve been saying you’d like to see Venice,” he said.

  I looked up from my embroidery. “We’re going to Venice?” I was astonished he would even consider it. Ever since the Venetians had risen up against French soldiers, massacring them in their hospital beds, Bonaparte had conceived a burning hatred for them. An effeminate, treacherous race! he would rant. A city of scoundrels!

  He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “No, you’re going.”

  And then he explained: the Venetian government, anxious about their fate in the negotiations, had invited him to visit Venice in order to prove their loyalty to the French Republic. He scoffed. “Stinking liars. Of course I won’t go, but refusing outright would complicate things. So I’m sending you in my stead.”

  “But Bonaparte…” I paused, trying to take in what he was saying. “This is a job for a diplomat. I can’t—”

  “I’ll tell my secretary to make all the arrangements,” he said, standing. “You’ll require a gown, something suitably impressive.” He hesitated for a moment. “Three hundred francs? Four hundred should do it. Don’t worry, the Army of Italy will pay.”

  “What has happened?” Lisette exclaimed, finding me in the wardrobe, gowns and shawls everywhere. It looked like a field of war.

  “I’ve just learned I’m to go to Venice—”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  “—on a diplomatic mission.” I groaned. She looked at me with a blank expression. “And the problem is, I’m going to have to dress the part—but in a traditional style.”

  “So, you’ll get gowns made?”

  I sighed. Five hundred francs for each gown, three hundred for a cape, one hundred and fifty for hoops, six hundred…

  Bonaparte insists that I will look sufficiently elegant in a four-hundred-franc gown. As if one gown would suffice! I’m to be fêted day and night for three days in only one ensemble? “My mother wears one gown for weeks at a time,” Bonaparte pointed out. Wisely, I held my tongue.

  Venice!

  Coming to Venice has been like falling into a deliciously sensual dream. Everything conspires to make one feel that one is not on this earth, but in some watery magical realm.

  My welcome has been overwhelming. A “parade”—in boats!—down the Grand Canal, the citizens hanging from the windows waving banners, showering me with flowers. I’m overwhelmed. And a bit ill, I confess, from so much rich food.

  September 24.

  I have returned to Passariano, to the land of Reality. At my suggestion, the President of the Venetian Republic returned with me in order to press the case for Venice. I regr
et it now, for Bonaparte was cold, unwelcoming. At dinner, I raised a glass in toast to Venice, spoke warmly of the Venetians, the Revolutionary zeal I saw in the citizens of this newly formed Republic. There was no warmth in Bonaparte’s response.

  “Murderer,” he cursed as the Venetian President’s carriage pulled away this morning.

  I feel sad and defeated. A diplomat I am not. My heart is too easily engaged.

  September 29.

  I’ve been busy with official duties. Following my “diplomatic” mission to Venice, I’ve been called upon to write to the office of the Emperor of Austria, petitioning for the release of French prisoners. (I find these new duties hard to believe myself.) Now, if only I could do something to push the negotiations along. They’re proceeding so slowly, and not at all helped, I suspect, by Bonaparte’s ill humour. He’s not an easy man to live with, and he becomes even more difficult when things are not going his way. “Je le veux!” is his favourite expression. I will it!

  September 30.

  Barras’s secretary arrived covered with dust. “I’m too old to travel,” Botot said, using his hat plume to brush himself off. “I had no idea the roads would be so rough.”

  “Did you have trouble from bandits?”

  “My valet sent them scurrying.” A smug smile.

  “Bonaparte is in Udine this afternoon at the headquarters of the Austrian delegation,” I told him. The meetings alternate. One day Bonaparte goes to Udine, the next day the Austrians come to Passariano. “He has been looking forward to your arrival.” A lie. Bonaparte is convinced that Barras’s secretary was being sent to spy on him.

  Lisette came skipping down the wide stone steps, her skirts billowing out behind her. “A visitor from Paris! Is there news? Mail?” She came to an abrupt stop in front of us, flushed.

  I smiled at her youthful exuberance. “First we must offer our guest refreshment, Lisette—and then we’ll attack him for news.”

  News: Lazare Hoche is dead.

  I excused myself and set out across the courtyard, alone. Eugène was in the riding arena, I knew, taking a lesson. Inside the stables it was dark, cool, smelling of dung. Two horses in box stalls watched me, munching. The stable boy jumped out of a pile of hay. “Signora!”

  “Mi dispiace.” I’m sorry. “Non importa.” It doesn’t matter.

  I heard someone yelling from inside the arena. I pushed open the heavy door. Eugène was riding a black horse around the circumference, his face glistening, his horse foaming with sweat. The instructor was standing in the centre, yelling, “Keep your leg on him. Thumbs up. Outside rein!”

  I took a seat in the stands. Eugène had turned his horse into the centre of the arena and was talking with his instructor. Then he looked up, saw me and grinned. The instructor turned, bowed deeply. “We are finished, Madame la Générale!”

  “I am content to watch, Citoyen.” I dreaded breaking the news to Eugène.

  Eugène flung himself down beside me. “Did you see that turn on the forehand?” His face was flushed, his hair damp with sweat.

  “Quite precise.” I stood. “Let’s walk in the garden.”

  He pulled at my arm. “Maman, what is it?”

  I scanned the arena. It was empty now. “It’s not good news,” I said, sitting back down. “Your sister is fine, Aunt Désirée, the Marquis,” I assured him, seeing the apprehension in his eyes. “It’s about General Hoche, Eugène.” I clasped my hands. “He is…He passed away.” My chin began to quiver in spite of my resolve.

  Eugène stared at me, not comprehending. “Dead, you mean? In battle?” With a hint of a stammer.

  “No, in his bed. Of an infection in his lungs.” I found a handkerchief. “Consumption.” My voice was unsteady yet. I took a careful breath. It was inappropriate for me to weep.

  Eugène leaned forward on his knees, blinking, hitting his riding crop on the bench in front of him. “He died in his bed?” He threw down his crop and stood, his face blotched.

  “Eugène, I wanted you to—”

  His footsteps down the wooden stairs echoed through the arena. I started to rise, to follow him, chase after him, but I stopped myself. He wanted to be alone.

  It is late, dark but for a single candle, which is gradually lighting up the room. I am at a marble-topped table in the sitting room, wrapped in a patchwork counterpane. I can hear the hall porter snoring outside our bedchamber door, hear someone singing drunkenly in the courtyard.

  The sound of frogs croaking is like a pulse throbbing, a night pulse. I cannot keep my thoughts from wandering, reaching for Lazare. I cannot believe what I have been told: that he is dead, that he died in his bed, robbed of a soldier’s heroic death in battle.

  My eyes well up, overflowing. When may I grieve? Where? I dare not. All this evening Bonaparte watched me, taking in my red-rimmed eyes, my sad smile.

  A woman’s truths, how secret they must be. Hidden, buried, only to emerge in the night.

  I remember the rough surface of the cold stone walls as I climbed the stairs to Lazare’s dank prison cell. I remember the taste of whisky on his tongue, the sputtering sound of a dirty taper burning, the silken texture of his skin. I remember, with wonder—and gratitude—the heat of his love…and my own, kindled from ashes.

  I found the Saint Michael medal Lazare gave me, stashed away at the bottom of my box of gems. La liberté ou la mort, he’d had etched on the back. Ou la mort.

  Should anything happen to me, he had written.

  He died of galloping consumption, Botot explained again at dinner, his eyes fixed on his crystal glass of wine. At Wetzlar. He was buried there.

  Should anything happen…

  Something catches in my throat. It is bitter, foul, it makes me gag. It is a sudden thought: was Lazare murdered?

  October 1.

  A long talk with Botot this evening. This is what I understand:

  The Royalists had changed tactics. Rather than attacking the Republic by force, they decided to try to topple it from within, and to that end succeeded in getting a number of Royalists elected to the Legislative Councils. The goal, of course, was to overthrow the Republic and reinstate a monarchy.

  Barras, together with Directors Reubell and La Réveillière, decided to take action. Forming a majority in the Council of the five Directors, they decided to replace Royalist ministers with loyal Republicans (Lazare as Minister of War was one). Fearing that these changes would provoke a Royalist uprising, Barras persuaded Lazare to bring his troops close to Paris.

  But here the story fades. Somehow the plan failed, the troops were discovered and Lazare ended up having to leave Paris under a cloud of suspicion, branded a traitor, an enemy of the Republic.

  And then, a few weeks later, Barras made a second attempt to oust the Royalists and this time he succeeded. And then Lazare died.

  There is more to this, I fear.

  October 3.

  Lisette set a tray down beside my bed. I could hear Eugène’s voice in the stairwell, calling for his valet to bring down his riding jacket. I was glad he was going riding; he’d been morose, quiet. “Madame, remember when General Hoche called on you in Paris?” she asked, handing me a mug of frothy hot chocolate. “Just before we left for Italy. It was on your birthday, he brought you roses.”

  “I don’t remember roses,” I said, blowing on the steaming chocolate before taking a cautious sip. “Why?” Knowing even as I asked that I was going to regret the question.

  “It’s awful, Madame. It makes me want to cry. Everyone’s saying he was murdered!”

  October 1, La Chaumière

  Darling,

  I have just returned from the funeral for Lazare and am overcome with sorrow. The entire nation grieves, stunned by the loss of the Republic’s golden boy. He died accused by his enemies, but the people have judged him a saint—a saint of the Revolution. It was a lovely procession of shepherds wearing cypress crowns, their staffs wrapped in black ribbon.

  Lazare’s young wife was there. She loo
ked quite faint, tragic. I suspect she’s with child. Lazare’s father supported her as best he could, but then he himself was overcome by heart-wrenching sobs, a dreadful keening wail. I weep now even to think of it.

  I am haunted by the memory of an evening at my salon. Bonaparte was reading everyone’s palm, and he looked at Lazare’s and predicted that he would die at a young age in his bed. Do you remember that night?

  The rumours are vicious, of course. Everyone is convinced Lazare was poisoned—and by Barras, of course. (They blame him of every crime!) It’s terrible, especially considering how Barras himself is so overcome with grief. He spends entire days in a darkened room, refusing to speak.

  Tender caresses from Thermidor. And love from the Glories, of course. Will you ever return? Things are so sad here.

  Your loving and very dearest friend, Thérèse

  Note—I heard you’ve hired Vautier to renovate your house. A brilliant choice!

  October 13.

  The Austrian delegates dined here tonight. Bonaparte in a surly temper.

  [Undated]

  Damp today. I’ve ordered the fires lit. I’m in a melancholy mood. How does one set the stage for peace? I arrange cut flowers, ask the housekeeper to have the silver tea service polished and set out on the buffet, check the liqueur decanters, review the day’s menu with the head chef. But despite my best efforts, the fires, the flowers, the succulent food, a gloomy chill pervades. There will be no peace today, I know.