“Invite Geneviève Payan,” Fortunée Hamelin told me later, as she was leaving.
The opera singer? “I’m in your debt,” I said, embracing her.
February 26.
At noon Lisette brought me the calling cards that had been dropped off over the course of the morning. I sorted through the names, placing them in three piles—those to whom I would send a card, those who required a call, those I would invite to return.
The last card gave me pause. Bordered in black, it was of common design. La veuve Hoche. Lazare’s widow.
After 10:00 P.M. (a guess).
It was dark, the narrow streets muddy. “Are you sure, Madame?” My coachman let down the step, gave me his hand. The house was small, without a courtyard. I nodded. “I won’t be long.”
“Citoyenne Beauharnais,” the widow Hoche said, addressing me by the name of my first husband, by the name Lazare would have called me. Her dark eyes, hidden under the fluted ruffle of a plain linen cap, had a frightened look. She dropped a dutiful curtsy, much as a schoolgirl might greet a teacher, lifting the hem of her stained white apron at each corner. She seemed a wounded bird, a foundling, her shoulders painfully thin. I could not imagine her in Lazare’s arms, could not imagine that this was the woman he’d loved, the wife he’d betrayed. I had imagined Lazare’s wife as a well-made farmgirl, blushing and buxom, with apple cheeks and a hearty laugh. Not this ethereal creature with thin fingers more suited to lace work than to pulling on a cow’s teat.
“My profound condolences,” I said.
She pushed a wisp of hair back under her cap, blinking. I followed her upstairs to a small sitting room at the end of a dark and narrow passage. A portrait of Lazare hung over a coal fireplace—it made him appear stern. I was surprised to see a crucifix on the wall next to it. I accepted the offer of a chair, clearly the best chair in the room, the place of honour. His young widow took the seat opposite, her hands clasped in her lap. I heard a child’s laugh, then little footsteps, hard leather shoes on a bare wooden floor. “Your daughter?” I asked.
The door creaked on its hinges. “This lady was a friend of your father’s.” Adélaïde Hoche’s voice quavered.
The child poked one finger in her ear, and then pointed to the portrait. She was not yet three, I estimated, but a big girl for her age. “She has her father’s eyes,” I said. And his mouth.
An old woman appeared, scooped up the child. The door closed with a slam that shook the thin walls. I wondered if she was the aunt who had raised Lazare, the peddler of vegetables who went without vegetables in order to save every sou, so determined was she that Lazare would learn to read and write.
We sat for a moment in silence, Adélaïde Hoche sitting on her hands, staring at the floor. From somewhere I could hear a cat meowing plaintively. I was about to make a comment on the indifferent weather when she blurted out, “He said you would help me if I ever needed it.”
“General Hoche?” Should anything happen to me, please, I beg you, help my wife and child.
“He said I could trust you.”
I nodded, yes!
In the other room the child began to cry; the widow tilted her head, assessing the degree of distress. The crying stopped, turned to chatter. “It has to do with Père Hoche…” The knuckles of her clasped hands were white.
“General Hoche’s father?”
“He’s gone back to Thionville to look after things, so I took the chance to talk to you. I’m glad you came. He’s coming back tomorrow.” She stared at a blue crockery urn on the mantel. “He’s in a bad way,” she said finally, her chin trembling.
I looked away. I feared she might begin to weep and then we would both be crying, I knew. “It must be terribly hard. Is there anything I can do?”
She paused before saying, “If you could just get the report. Père Hoche tried, but they won’t let him see it.”
“I don’t understand.” The autopsy report?
“Père Hoche has become—” She twisted her fingers together. “Maybe if he could just see the report on how his son died, maybe it would help.”
“But is there any doubt? Were you not with your husband?”
“He died in my arms,” she said with pride.
A sob burst from me. “Forgive me,” I said, wiping my cheeks. I’d vowed I would not let it happen.
“I do forgive you,” she said with a look of ancient wisdom.
“I understand why he loved you so very much,” I said, my eyes brimming.
Immediately after I called on Barras. I was relieved to find him alone. “I’ve just been to see the widow Hoche,” I told him, attempting a casual tone.
He pulled out his lorgnon, looked at me with surprise. “You went to see her?”
“She initiated it. She is concerned about her father-in-law.”
“Hoche’s father? He broke down at the funeral, did you know? It was terrible.”
Yes, I’d heard. “The widow feels that Père Hoche has become obsessed, I guess one would say, with his son’s death, with trying to find out how he died.”
“He knows perfectly well how Lazare died—of consumption. The autopsy made it perfectly clear. It was in all the journals. I don’t understand what the problem is.”
“Perhaps if he could just see the report.”
“That’s classified information.”
“Paul, you know the rumours,” I said softly. “If the autopsy report states that Lazare died of consumption, then why not make it public? It would help—”
“I’ll tell you why!” he said, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. “Because there is nothing to hide. I’ve had it with these ignorant, suspicious…” He sputtered, seeking yet another invective.
February 27.
The door to chez Hoche was ajar. I pulled the bell rope, waited. I heard the child chattering. A tall white-haired man in a heavy wool coat and ribbed stockings came to the door. Lazare’s father, Père Hoche—it was easy to see from his bushy eyebrows, the set of his jutting jaw, his proud stance. The child peeked out from between his legs. I introduced myself, handing him my card. “Citoyenne Bonaparte.”
“The wife of General Bonaparte?” Père Hoche asked with respect in his voice.
“I knew your son, in the Carmes prison.”
“Yes, he told me.” With an appraising look.
I flushed. “My profound condolences, Citoyen Hoche.”
“Hoche is my name,” the child said from between her grandpapa’s legs.
“Yes, I believe we have been introduced.” I smiled.
Squealing, she ran back into the depths of the house.
The old man waved me into the house. “You’re here to see Adélaïde?”
“She is expecting me, I believe.”
“She told me she was expecting somebody, but she didn’t tell me it was the wife of that rascal Bonaparte,” he said, lighting a candle enclosed in oiled paper.
I followed his slow progression up the narrow stairs to the dark sitting room. “Sit. I’ll tell her you’re here.” I waited in the spare little room, feeling Lazare’s eyes staring down at me. A silk flower had been placed under the portrait, next to the blue urn. I heard a door, footsteps. Adélaïde Hoche appeared, dressed entirely in black, a widow’s veil draped around her shoulders. “Père Hoche, please join us. I believe it regards Lazare,” she said over her shoulder. She touched the urn on the mantelpiece, crossed herself and sat down.
The old man appeared in the door, filling it. “Oh?”
I glanced from one to the other uneasily. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I wasn’t able to obtain the report. I was told that the law prevents making it public and—”
“The autopsy report?” Père Hoche asked, stepping into the room.
“But Director Barras assured me himself that the results are clear—your son died of consumption.”
Père Hoche slammed his fist against the wall. “Don’t you dare speak the name Barras in this house!”
I started, my he
art pounding.
“Père Hoche, please,” the young widow hissed, but her father-in-law ignored her.
“Yes, my son had consumption, but that wasn’t what killed him. You don’t get convulsions from consumption. Lazare was poisoned.”
With the appearance of calm the widow stood, straightened Lazare’s portrait. “It is not a good likeness,” she said.
In which I am accused
February 28, 1798.
Bonaparte is in a meeting with Talleyrand again. They closet themselves in the study every afternoon. It has become a bit mysterious, for now Bonaparte has forbidden anyone from entering that room. “Even the servants, Bonaparte?” I asked, perplexed. For the study was in shambles.
“Even you,” he said, tweaking my ear.
[Undated]
Books stacked by Bonaparte’s bedside—Ossian, Plutarch, the Koran.
[Undated]
I felt like a thief in my own house. I lit a candle, looked about. Bonaparte’s study was in that familiar state of disarray, that look of volcanic activity. Every surface was covered with papers, journals, scrolls. I picked up a plate with chicken bones on it, to clear it, then put it back exactly where I found it. I held the candle down over the map that was spread out over the carpet—Egypt.
March 1.
Minister Schérer has yet to even read the Bodin Company proposal. “Why is he taking so long?” I asked Barras. We were standing in an alcove of his palatial salon, ostensibly to admire a painting that had recently been hung there.
“Because he spends every minute of every day dealing with your husband’s proposals, that’s why.”
I glanced toward the people gathered at the far end of the salon. Joseph was hunched over talking to Bonaparte—lecturing him, I gathered, from the expression on Bonaparte’s face. In spite of his retiring nature Joseph took his position as head of the Bonaparte clan seriously. According to Corsican custom his younger siblings were all under his care. Indeed, whatever glory accrued to Bonaparte, Joseph took credit for it; whatever profit, he managed. We’re Corsican, Bonaparte would tell me, as if that explained everything.
“Does your husband never sleep?” Barras went on. “We receive at least one memo from him a day, and this in addition to all the meetings he keeps calling.”
“Regarding Egypt?” I asked, my eyes on his, watching to see what his reaction would be.
Barras made a sputtering sound. “It’s insane, this plan of his,” he hissed, grasping my elbow.
“People said the Italian campaign was insane,” I said, rising to my husband’s defence. But noting—Barras did not deny an Egyptian plan.
He waved his arms through the air in the Provençal manner. “Maybe he’s right, who knows? Maybe this is the only way to get at England, to cut her off from Asia, her source of wealth.”
England: the enemy. For as long as I could remember, it had been thus. We would have peace, were it not for England. We would have prosperity, were it not for England. Almost every man I had ever loved—my hapless father, my dissipated first husband, my honourable Lazare and now even my brilliant and driven second husband—had been consumed by one thought and one thought only: defeating England. “I take it you’re not in support,” I said.
Barras ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Officially, yes, of course I’m in support. But privately—and I’ve told Bonaparte this myself—I have serious reservations. His proposal is based on three assumptions, three false assumptions, in my view. First, that it is possible to conquer Egypt, which is doubtful. Second, that he would then be able to establish a connection with India, which is unlikely. And third, that India would then join forces with us to conquer England, which is ludicrous.
“But you know what’s really mad? My fellow Directors might just go along with it. Personally, I think they’d agree to anything if it meant getting your husband out of the country. His popularity is making them uneasy. Have you seen the Bonaparte dolls the vendors are selling down on the quays?”
“India?” I asked, confused. What did India have to do with it?
Barras regarded me for a long moment. “You didn’t know anything about this, did you? You were just guessing.”
[Undated]
“You might as well tell me about Egypt,” I told Bonaparte, putting down my glass of watered wine.
He turned to me with an enigmatic smile.
March 2.
Captain Charles did three handsprings in the Bodin Company courtyard. “It’s been approved!” he whooped.
At last—the Bodin Company is now the official supplier of horses to the Army of Italy.
“We did it,” Hugo Bodin called out from the top step. He clasped his pudgy fists together and raised them in victory.
Captain Charles twirled me. I felt light in his hands. He danced me off my feet, singing, “We’re going to be rich, we’re going to be rich, we’re going to be stinking rich!”
March 5.
Bonaparte slammed the door behind him. “The Directors gave their consent.” He threw his hat at an armchair; it missed and sent a lantern toppling.
“To what?” I asked, righting the lantern, checking to see whether any oil had spilled.
“The invasion of Portugal.” Portugal? He grinned like a schoolboy. “At least, that’s the official story.”
March 10.
It was our anniversary yesterday—our second. We’d planned a quiet evening, but at four in the afternoon, Bonaparte informed me that Admiral Bruyes and two aides would be joining us for dinner. “I thought we were dining alone, Bonaparte. It’s our anniversary.”
“It is?”
“We discussed this yesterday.”
“Do you have any idea what I do in a week?” he exploded, storming out of our bedchamber.
Later, much later, he returned, repentant. He’d been drinking, which was unusual. “I want to make a baby,” he said, fumbling with the bed spring. Our beds flew together with a crash—a sound that could be heard throughout the house, I knew. A sound that set the servants tittering, no doubt.
“I am beginning to despair of ever having another child,” I confessed. It had been some time since I’d had the monthly sickness.
“Sterility in a woman is decided in the first three years of married life.” He sat down, pulling at his boots. “For a woman over the age of twenty-five, the interval is lengthened.”
“You’ve been studying?” Bonaparte believed anything could be achieved by knowledge—and by will, his will.
He planted his hand purposely on my breast. “The womb and the breasts are in sympathy. To excite the womb, one need merely excite the breast.”
“Then I should have been with child long ago,” I said with a smile.
He tugged at my nightdress, pulling it up over my head. “Queen Anne of Austria brought Louis XIV into the world after twenty-two years of sterility.”
Twenty-one years of fidelity was how I understood it. But did not say.
[Undated]
From Madame Campan’s book, chapter twenty-six, “Of Sterility”: Sterility is a Want of Conception in a Woman of requisite Age who duly suffers the Approaches of Man.
I don’t know what to think. I’m of “requisite age” and I certainly “duly suffer” (!) the approach of a man. I don’t understand why I’m not pregnant. For that matter, I don’t understand why I no longer have the flowers, in spite of the bitter rue tea Mimi has persuaded me to try.*
March 13.
I am…yes, shattered is the word—betrayed. Bitterness fills my heart. Disbelief. Lisette is gone. Her tears failed to move me.
What happened:
After my morning toilette I took a quick repast in the upstairs drawing room. Lisette, claiming vapours, had gone to her room in the basement. Bonaparte was in the study with Fauvelet, Junot and several other of his aides. Or so I thought.
It was as I was finishing a cup of coffee that Bonaparte came upstairs, asking after Junot. “I thought he was with you,” I said.
&n
bsp; “I haven’t seen him all morning.” Perplexed. “Perhaps he went riding.”
“Perhaps,” I said, standing, suddenly uneasy.
The steep stairs that led down to the servants’ quarters in the basement were dark. At the landing I paused. I thought I heard a man’s voice. Perhaps it was the cook, or my manservant. But I didn’t think so.
At the bottom I stopped, suddenly unsure. The air was colder than above, but stale and smelling of flat-irons. I could simply open the door to Lisette’s room—was that not how it was done in plays? Instead, I knocked.
“Tell her I’ll be up in a moment,” I heard Lisette call out with an irritated tone. The door was thin; I could hear quite clearly.
I knocked again, harder this time, more insistent.
“Tell her to hold her horses!” A man’s voice: Junot!
“I’ll hold your horses,” I heard Lisette say, giggling, and then, “That woman’s going to drive me mad.”
That woman. I turned the metal latch. The door swung open with a complaining creak. There, nude on a narrow trundle bed under the high dirty window, were Lisette and Junot, Lisette straddling. Both of them turned their faces toward me in a curiously co-ordinated motion.
“Bonaparte is looking for you, Colonel Junot,” I said, backing out of the room and closing the door behind me. I went back up the stairs, pushing against both walls for support, my legs unsteady beneath me.
Mimi was in my bedchamber, gathering soiled linen. “I’m fine,” I reassured her. “But I’d like to be alone.” Her look of tender concern would make me weep, I feared. I heard heavy footsteps downstairs, heard a door open, slam shut, the low rumble of men’s voices. I sat down on one of the hard stools by the bed. I’d never seen a man with a woman before, not like that, en flagrante. A man with a girl.
The Josephine B. Trilogy Page 58
