The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  “Would you care to sit, Madame Bonaparte?” he asked, as if we were in a parlour. He’d spread a cloth over the bench.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” I said, closing my sun parasol. I balanced it against the bench. “I want to apologize.” I swallowed. I didn’t want to give the wrong impression. He looked so sadly hopeful. “I’m sorry, Captain Charles. I behaved poorly.”

  “I have an apology to make as well, a confession of sorts.” He glanced at me, his eyes the colour of sea-water shallows. “I courted you for what you could give me, for the advantages that you offered, the connections.”

  I looked away, out over the pond. Two ducks were swimming in the middle. On the far side a girl was pushing a baby in a pram. The captain’s words hurt. I had used him—I knew that—but even so they hurt.

  “And then I came to love you,” he said.

  Tears filled my eyes. It all seemed so pathetic, somehow, these little dramas of the heart. I thought of Bonaparte, of Eugène, their struggle for life on far desert sands. “Captain Charles, you are a dear man.” I did love him, but as a friend.

  We parted with tenderness. The captain agreed to take Pugdog back. I dare not have any reminders of my follies when Bonaparte returns, as I pray he will—soon.

  July 27—Malmaison, a glorious summer day.

  Émilie and Hortense are coming for the weekend. I’ve been all morning in the kitchen with Callyot, helping him with the baking—mille-feuilles, cherry comfits and a delectable apple flan. I miss Pugdog. I keep expecting to see him at my feet, eagerly waiting for a scrap. I am thankful he is in the captain’s care.

  July 28.

  Émilie swooned at the dinner table, slumping over into Hortense’s arms. A cup fell onto the floor. “I’m sorry,” she moaned, her teeth chattering.

  Mimi and I carried the shivering girl upstairs, laid her out on the bed. The chill changed abruptly to a flush of heat, and she begged me to open the windows, which I had just closed.

  I told Mimi to run for the doctor in town.

  Hortense came to the door. “Is Émilie all right?”

  “I don’t want you near this room, Hortense.” She’d been inoculated as a child, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Maman!”

  “I mean it.” I stroked a damp strand of Émilie’s hair out of her eyes. I had had a mild case of the pox as a child; it had slightly scarred me, but now I was protected.

  6:00 P.M., waiting for supper.

  The doctor clothed himself completely in a gown, gloves and mask. Émilie took fright when she saw him. I watched his face for some indication. He cleared his throat, stood back, his hands clasped behind his back. “I will return in four days, when the poison has emerged.” He paused, his hand on the door handle. “Pity,” he said.

  August 1.

  As if by magic, as if by evil, spots have appeared on Émilie’s face and neck, exactly as the doctor predicted.

  “Give me a looking glass,” Émilie demanded. I could not refuse her. “They’re little,” she said, touching them. “And pointed.” Almost with tenderness.

  The worst is yet to come.

  August 4.

  I have removed the looking glasses from Émilie’s room, but nothing can remove the nauseating smell that thickens the air, the scent of the poison that seeks to kill her.

  [Undated]

  “It’s just me, Émilie.” I put down the tray of medications. Her eyes had been sealed shut by fever blisters. Her face was unrecognizable now, a monster face.

  “Papa?” she cried out.

  Tears came to my eyes. She was dreaming of her father François de Beauharnais—her émigré father who had fled France during the Revolution, who could never return. The father she’d not seen since she was a girl of twelve. I sat down on the bed beside her. “No, Émilie, it’s me, Auntie Rose.”

  “Papa!”

  Did it matter who she thought I was? “I’m going to put a medication on your face.” I dipped a scrap of clean flannel into the glass jar. “It might sting a little,” I warned her.

  She flinched, then stilled. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she whispered.

  21 Thermidor, Luxembourg Palace

  Chère amie,

  Very well, very well. I’ll see what I can do about getting François de Beauharnais’s name erased. I wouldn’t be too hopeful, however. There is a murderous mood in the Councils these days.

  Speaking of which, opposition against your husband is growing. I’d advise you to give up the life of retirement. I can’t fight this battle alone.

  Père Barras

  August 29.

  Émilie emerged from sickbed this morning. She lifted her veil and one by one we embraced her, trying our best to conceal the distress in our eyes. Her face is a mass of scars. Thank God she is married already.

  In which I am forgiven (& forgive)

  September 4, 1799.

  Émilie’s trials have awakened me from self-pity. If that frail girl can win against Death, surely I can find the strength to take on the Bonaparte clan. I’m moving back to Paris, preparing for battle.

  September 10.

  Today, calls on the Minister of War, Director Gohier (who is now President of the Council of Directors), Barras—trying to revive interest in an Egyptian rescue. It’s shocking how indifferent everyone has become to Bonaparte’s fate, to the fate of our stranded men.

  September 11.

  I am overcome with frustration. I’ve been all this week making calls, trying in vain, I fear. Opposition has strengthened against Bonaparte. They, the smug men in power, busy themselves with details, oblivious to the obvious fact that the Republic is falling.

  Bonaparte will return (I tell myself, I tell myself), that I cannot doubt. I am resolved not to give up. As a woman, my voice is weak. As a woman, my strength lies in persuading men to act. I will sleep, and then tomorrow I will rise, begin again, make my way back to the offices and homes of the deputies and Ministers and Directors, and with my woman’s heart—persistent and nagging, persuasive and flattering, cajoling and flirtatious—I will harry the men who would do my husband ill. Using all the weapons in my arsenal, I will win them to his side.

  September 22, the first day of the Republican Year VIII.

  I’ve been exhausting myself on Bonaparte’s behalf, but today was the hardest. Today I swallowed my pride and called on Joseph Bonaparte. “Madame,” he greeted me, bowing neatly from the waist. A smile flickered at the corners of his thin lips. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I was with my dancing master,” he said, pushing a door open to a tiny room that was more of an antechamber than a drawing room. “My porter informs me that you wish to speak to me about Napoleon,” he said, pronouncing his brother’s name in the French manner. He checked his timepiece and sat, his hands perched on the knees of his white leather breeches, smiling his unctuous little grin. “I can’t be long, I regret to say.”

  “I won’t incommode you, Joseph. As you are aware, the Ministry of War has become indifferent to Bonaparte’s plight. Another rescue must be attempted.” I laced my fingers together. “If we united, we might have an impact. For your brother’s sake…”

  Joseph shrugged. “It’s useless. I’ve done all that I can.”

  October 5.

  Glorious news. Bonaparte has had a victory over the Turks at Aboukir. Maybe now men will listen, maybe now they will work for his return.

  October 13—dusk.

  The windows of the palace glimmered with the light of a thousand candles, illuminating the faces of the beggars camped by the Palace gate. “Citoyenne Bonaparte,” they called out to me in chorus, and then began singing “Chant du départ,” which they knew I would reward with a shower of coins.

  Director Gohier’s valet announced me with dignity. I stood only for a moment, aware of the heads turning, the stares. There were about twenty or thirty present, a select group. Barras, his scarlet cloak draped dramatically over one shoulder, was on the window seat, conversing with a woman (an
opera singer) who regarded him with a bored, voluptuous look. Talleyrand, distinct in black, was standing by the fireplace, leaning on his ebony cane. He looked up, grimaced, his broad forehead glistening. Seated nearby, the assistant to the Minister of War was talking with the Minister of the Interior. Good, I thought, assessing the crowd. Many of the key people I needed to talk to were here.

  Director Gohier’s wife greeted me with arms outstretched. “I love your hat,” she whispered. “A Lola creation? I knew it. I adore those gigantic silk flowers.” I enjoyed the Director’s wife, but in befriending her I was not blind to the importance of her husband in my cause. The powerful Director Gohier had been vehement in his opposition to Bonaparte. By degrees, I had succeeded in softening him.

  After civilities, I joined the group at the hazard table. The dice felt loose and smooth in my hands. I’d won over two hundred francs when I heard Barras say, “Well, look who’s here.”

  I looked toward the big double doors. There, standing without introduction, was the Minister of Police, my friend and spy, Citoyen Fouché. He came straight up to me.

  “Citoyen Fouché, how good to see you.” But there was something alarming in his expression.

  “May I speak to you in private, Citoyenne?” But even before we’d reached the antechamber, he handed me a scrap of paper.

  I turned it over in my hand. “What is this? I don’t understand.”

  “Your son sent it. It came by semaphore.”*

  “Eugène?”

  Director Gohier was sitting at the silent whist table, oblivious to all but his cards. “President Director.” I leaned to whisper into his ear. “There’s something you should know. Bonaparte is back; he’s in the south.”

  Gohier put his cards face down. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, Citoyens, Citoyenne,” he said, addressing his guests. He signalled to Barras as he hurried me out of the room.

  “With respect, Director Barras, from a legal perspective General Bonaparte has deserted his army.” Director Gohier crossed his arms, as if bracing himself against some invisible force. “I ask you, in all honesty, how can we not arrest him?”

  “Arrest Bonaparte and the nation will rise up against us, I guarantee it,” Barras said.

  I stood. “Directors Gohier, Barras—please, if you will excuse me. I must go.” Both men looked at me as if they’d forgotten I was present. “I’m going to try to meet Bonaparte on the road, before he gets to Paris.” Before his brothers get to him.

  “Now?” Director Gohier asked, astonished.

  “But the roads aren’t safe,” Gohier’s wife exclaimed. “And it’s so frightfully cold.”

  “And the fog,” Barras objected.

  I felt dazed, a strange combination of both joy and fear. It was true, the fog was thick—too thick to travel, especially at night. “I’ll leave at dawn.”

  “In that little coach of yours?” Director Gohier pulled the bell rope. His valet appeared, scratching his ear. “Tell Philip to ready the government travelling coach.” He put up his hand. “I insist. It can be made into a sleeping compartment.” He grinned at Barras. “Handy that way.”

  My manservant met me at the door holding up a lantern, which threw a ghostly light. “General Bonaparte is back,” the coachman called out to him before I could say anything.

  Gontier looked at me, not comprehending. A gust of chill wind blew dead leaves into the foyer. “The General’s back from Egypt?” he asked, pulling the door shut against the cold.

  I nodded, shivering. “He’s in the south. Eugène sent a message, by semaphore.”

  Hortense appeared in her nightclothes, a red woollen shawl draped over her shoulders. “What’s going on?” Yawning and then sneezing.

  “General Bonaparte is back,” Gontier exclaimed.

  “And Eugène is with him,” I cried out, my self-control giving way.

  Hortense put down her candle. “Eugène is back?”

  “They landed in the south, two days ago. They’re on their way to Paris. I’m going to meet them.” I would need linens, provisions, blankets, I thought.

  “I’m coming too,” Hortense said, her teeth chattering. It was freezing, even in the foyer.

  I paused, considered. “But you have a cold, sweetheart.”

  “I’m better now!”

  “I won’t be stopping,” I cautioned her. “I’ll even be sleeping in the coach.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Her golden curls framed her big blue eyes—her irresistible blue eyes. Bonaparte was fond of Hortense; it might help to have her with me. And I was in need of help. “You’ll wear your fur bonnet?”

  “Anything!” Even that.

  It was still dark when the enormous government travelling coach came rumbling down the narrow little laneway, harnessed to four strong carriage horses. It did not take long to ready it: a charcoal heater, down pillows, fur coverlets, bedpans, medications (laudanum for my nerves and back pain, spirits of hartshorn and Gascoigne’s powder for Hortense’s cold). We took an enormous basket of provisions: bread, eggs cooked hard, comfits and bonbons for Hortense, wine and brandy for us both.

  The sun was just rising when finally we started out, the big coach scraping twice against the garden wall. I waved to the porter, yawning in the door of his shack. The morning felt hopeful.

  We careened toward the south. I had thought that we would sleep, but we could not. Hortense was effervescent with excitement. Her beloved brother was alive, he was safe, he was coming home. And myself? I was going to meet my husband.

  October 15 (I think)—Auxerre.

  We have stopped briefly in a posting-station in Auxerre. We have requested a private room while a wheel is being repaired. The response of the people to the news of Bonaparte’s return has been overwhelming. All along the route arches of triumph are being built in his honour. Men, women and children line the road in hopes of seeing him pass. Last night the lights from all the torches made a magical effect. “The road to heaven,” Hortense said, awed.

  Such outpouring of enthusiasm is akin to madness, surely. Whenever we stop, we are mobbed, people crying out, “Is it true? Is the Saviour coming?”

  Savage,* I thought I heard the first time. Is the savage coming. “Pardon?”

  “The Saviour!” a cobbler exclaimed. “Our saviour.”

  October 16—Châlon-sur-Saône, dawn.

  We’ve missed him. At Lyons, he took the Bourbon route, west through Nevers, his brothers in close pursuit.

  “Ah, they’ll get there first,” Hortense said, as if this were a game.

  “Back to Paris,” I told the coachman, my anxiety rising. “Fast.”

  October 19—Paris, late morning.

  It was after midnight when our coach pulled up at my gate, the horses steaming. There was a light in the porter’s shack, illuminating the sleeping forms of the beggars. The coachman jumped down and pounded on the door. “Chandler, wake up, open the gate.”

  I nudged Hortense. We were exhausted from five days of travel, eating and sleeping in the coach. Violently jolting over the rough roads had inflamed my back, my hip. The night before I’d been unable to sleep at all. A dreamlike daze possessed me, a curious tingling in my skin. Approaching the dark streets of Paris—the smell of garbage, even in the cold fall air; the mud hardened into ruts; the taste of smoke; the shadows of beggars and ruffians huddled around fires in the alleyways—I felt a sense of doom come over me.

  “Are we here?” Hortense asked, sneezing and blowing her nose. “It’s so cold. What time is it?”

  “We’re here.” I gathered up my basket, sorting through the travel clutter. I put my hand to my hair; I’d braided it, fastened it with a tortoiseshell comb, but some strands had worked loose. Why didn’t the porter open the gate? I took off my gloves so that I could do up the laces of my boots.

  The coachman came to the carriage door, holding a torch. “There’s a problem,” he said, his breath making mist. A freezing blast of air came in the open door.

 
I pulled the musty fur coverlet around my shoulders. “Is the General not here?” And Eugène!

  The coachman nodded. “But the porter—” He stopped.

  “What is it, Antoine?” One of our horses whinnied. The porter was standing in the door of his shack, looking out. The shadows from a lantern gave his face a diabolic look.

  “He can’t open the gate,” the coachman said finally.

  “Can’t open it?” Hortense giggled, tying her hat ribbons.

  “What do you mean, he can’t?”

  “General’s orders, Citoyenne.”

  “Bonaparte’s ordered the gate locked?” Perhaps it was a security measure.

  “The porter said to tell you that your belongings are in his shack, all trunked up.”

  Hortense looked at me, puzzled.

  “I—I don’t understand,” I said. Trunked up?

  “The General, he…” The coachman looked up at the night sky, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “He moved your belongings out.”

  And then I understood—Bonaparte had dared to move me out of my own house, dared to lock my own gate against me, dared to instruct my porter to forbid me entrance!

  I was furious. I started to get out.

  “So we’re walking?” Hortense asked, fastening the top button of her cape. “From here?”

  It was dark in the verandah antechamber. Hortense pulled the bell rope. I leaned against one of the posts, panting from the effort to keep up with my daughter. “Here comes somebody.” Hortense jumped up and down so that she could see in through the little window in the door. “Oh, it’s Mimi.” Then she shrieked and burst into giggles. “Maman, I see Eugène! I see Eugène!”