The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  If only we could have a child.

  April 26.

  Very busy. Caroline has had her baby—a little girl, named after Signora Letizia. A difficult labour.

  June 4—Paris.

  To the Opéra tonight to see Hecuba. The applause for Bonaparte was tumultuous. When Priam said to Achilles, “You fulfill the hopes of the nation,” I thought the walls would tumble, the cheering was so great. The audience demanded that the line be repeated, and repeated yet again.

  It does not seem to matter how often it happens—the fervour of the people continues to overwhelm me. Overwhelm me and frighten me, for where will it lead?

  June 10—Malmaison, a beautiful summer day.

  Thérèse lifted her veil of white muslin held in place by a crown of roses. “My divorce from Tallien is now official, so I’m dressing as a virgin,” she announced. “What’s wrong?” she demanded, looking at me closely.

  I hesitated—but to whom could I speak truly? “The people are so grateful, they will give Bonaparte anything he should ask for.”

  “The world! And even then, it would not be as much as he has given us.” She laughed at my expression. (Thérèse isn’t given to adulation.) “Don’t look so surprised. I can see as well as anyone that your husband has accomplished the impossible—and to think what a fool he seemed when we first met him. Remember how we laughed at his toothpick legs in those big smelly boots? Ah, now I’ve got you smiling. So tell me, what do you fear he will ask for?”

  “People are saying that he should be named First Consul for Life—”

  “Of course. Everyone is voting in favour.”

  “—with the right to name a successor.”

  “I didn’t know about that part.”

  “What’s the difference between that and a king? Sometimes I worry that in striving to become legitimate in the eyes of the world, we are becoming what we fought so hard to change.”

  “It’s not really the same. It’s being voted on, after all—it’s up to the people to decide what they want. And even if Bonaparte were voted king, he would be a citizen-king.”

  “I know, I know,” I argued, “but already some people are telling him that the right to name his heir isn’t enough—that the office should be hereditary.” His family, in particular—insisting that the office should fall to one of them.

  “Ah, now I understand. You and Bonaparte have no children.”

  “And I’m beginning to think we never will.”

  “Have you tried—?”

  “Everything!” I’ve given up animal foods, liquors of a spirituous nature. I’ve endeavoured to keep my body open by ingesting tincture of senna, Epsom salts and other laxatives. (Oh, the results.) I’ve even had leeches applied to my temples. “I’m going to Plombières soon for yet another cure, but I confess, I…”

  Thérèse placed her hand over mine. “Darling, you must have faith.”

  July 2—Plombières.

  The water doctor is hopeful. “The waters are making you ill. That is a good sign.”

  July 7—Plombières, hot.

  A miracle—I’ve had a hint of a show! “Return to Paris immediately,” the water doctor ordered, prescribing tonics and potions. “Constant relations, and no moving about after. Keep your hips propped up on a pillow for at least two hours.”

  I’m packing.

  July 14, Bastille Day—Paris.

  I’ve prepared for bed like a bride. A pagan spirit is in the air: tonight twelve girls, dowered by the city, were married to soldiers at the Bastille Day banquet. Bonaparte looked splendid in his Lyons coat of crimson satin laced with gold. “Like a king,” his family told him with satisfied smiles. A king requiring an heir.

  July 29.

  The results of the vote have been published. Over five million citizens voted in favour, less than ten thousand against.

  August 2—Malmaison.

  Today it is official. Bonaparte is now First Consul for Life.

  “What will this mean?” I asked him as we walked along a path banked by blooming roses.

  He picked a yellow blossom, held it to his nose, his eyes closed, as if lost in sensation. “Things are going to change,” he said, opening his eyes.

  First: we must double our staff. “But Bonaparte—”

  Second: Malmaison is too small. We must move to the palace of Saint-Cloud. “But Bonaparte—”

  And third: he is to be addressed as Napoleon. “But Bonaparte—”

  August 6.

  This afternoon Madame Campan and I toured the palace of Saint-Cloud, making long (long) lists of what is needed, who is needed: ladiesin-waiting, torch boys, pages, footmen…My head is reeling. I’m writing this in bed.

  August 8—Tuileries.

  “It’s a supernatural materialization,” Fouché reported. “The Church has found a saint for your husband: Saint Napoleon.” From now on, August 15 will be known as Saint Napoleon’s day.

  “So who is this Saint Napoleon, anyway?” Hortense demanded, looking up from copying out scripts of the one-act comedy she is directing—as well as acting in, in spite of being seven months along. (At least it gets her mind off her long-absent husband, still in treatment at the spa.)

  “Some lazy reprobate, no doubt,” Eugène said with a boyish grin, ducking Bonaparte’s attempt to tug his ear.

  August 11—Malmaison.

  Hortense is frantic. “Maman, what am I going to do? My costume is too small for me already and Fauvelet still doesn’t know his lines.”

  “Don’t worry!” In her condition, it isn’t good to get distraught. Calm is required. “We’ll get Leroy to make alterations to your costume, and Eugène can coach Fauvelet every night. It’s going to be wonderful.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The best actor in Europe happened to tell me.”

  “Talma told you that?” Beaming—for there could be no greater praise.

  Fort de France, Martinico

  Chère Yeyette, my beloved niece,

  You must understand—your goddaughter Stéphanie is still a girl. I appreciate the advantages of having her educated in France, and I am certainly not concerned knowing that you and your illustrious husband would make sure that she was well looked after, but her mother and I cannot bring ourselves to send her across that perilous body of water, no matter how peaceful the seas might be at this time.

  I regret to tell you, as well, that there isn’t any hope of persuading your mother to sail to France, in spite of the gracious invitation the First Consul has extended. She remains firmly of the Royalist persuasion.

  Your most humble etc. uncle, Robert Tascher

  August 12, late afternoon—Paris.

  Bonaparte threw an English journal into the fire and sat glaring at it as it burst into flames. “Riff-raff!” His expression alarmed me, but also provoked my curiosity. “You don’t want to know about this, Josephine,” he warned me, sensing my thoughts.

  “But now, of course, you must tell me.”

  He jumped to his feet and began to pace, his hands behind his back. “The English journals are circulating the rumour that Hortense has already given birth.”

  I shrugged. “They’re simply mistaken.”

  He stopped short, his hands fists. “And that therefore Hortense was with child at the time she married.” He paused before he added, “And that I am the father of her child.”

  I watched an ash fragment float up the chimney. “That’s what was in that news-sheet?”

  “And they call this peace!” Bonaparte kicked the burning logs.

  “We must make sure Hortense never learns of this.”

  “Nor Louis,” Bonaparte said quietly, under his breath.

  August 15, Saint Napoleon’s day (!)—Malmaison.

  What a birthday fête! Has there ever been one like it? Saint Napoleon, indeed. (Saint Napoleon, who is only thirty-three today—so young!)

  The reception at the palace this morning went smoothly. It was followed by a glorious concert (three hundr
ed musicians playing Cherubini, Méhul, Rameau—heavenly). Then, after a Te Deum at Notre-Dame, we caravanned in flower-festooned carriages out the long road to Malmaison for a garden fête. The weather, for all my fretting, turned out to be perfect: a clear blue sky, not a cloud.

  “Our prayers have been answered.” Uncle Fesch, who was made a bishop today, raised yet another toast.

  “The sun always shines on Papa,” Hortense said, ebullient in her gaiety, for her one-act comedy had gone off splendidly, well-clapped. (“Fantastique! Formidable!” Talma was heard to exclaim over the cheers.)

  Even Bonaparte enjoyed himself. He insisted Hortense lead a dance with Eugène, in spite of her condition. “Do it for Saint Napoleon,” he said with his irresistibly charming smile.

  August 16.

  Hortense is so upset! There’s an article in today’s Journal de Paris about her dancing at Bonaparte’s birthday fête last night. “Why did they have to say I was seven months with child?” she demanded.

  “May I see it?” Bonaparte’s secretary handed me the news-sheet.

  “And look, Maman, someone even wrote a stupid poem about me. ‘On seeing Madame Louis Bonaparte, seven months pregnant, dance on August 15.’”

  “Do you know who wrote this, Fauvelet?” No author was credited, but I had a suspicion.

  “Certainly not, Madame Josephine,” Fauvelet Bourrienne exclaimed, moving his hand in the epic style of delivery, as if the upper arm—the “oratorical weapon,” Talma called it—were completely detached from the body.

  “Someone with no literary talent whatsoever,” Hortense ranted.

  “None whatsoever,” Fauvelet echoed, but colouring.

  I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling. So.

  Hortense burst into tears. “Why did they have to say anything at all? I didn’t even want to dance. I wouldn’t have if Papa hadn’t insisted.”

  Fauvelet looked stricken.

  Don’t worry, it’s all right, I mouthed, putting my arm around Hortense and leading her out the sash doors into the rose garden. Clearly Bonaparte had wanted Hortense to dance for a reason. No doubt he had asked Fauvelet to write the poem about her and publish it in the paper—thus proving to the English scandalmongers that Hortense had not yet given birth, quelling the evil rumours. “You’re such a lovely dancer, Hortense. That’s why people write about you. Don’t fret, please don’t fret.”

  September 14—Malmaison.

  “I’ve come to bid you farewell,” Fouché said, standing in the foyer at Malmaison.

  “You’re going away?” I asked, distracted, for I’d just come from Saint-Cloud, where workmen are trying to finish the renovations before Bonaparte and I move in four days from now. I’ve been trying to figure out what type of bed-curtains would suit our bed there. Its unique boatshape makes it a challenge. A velvet in a terre d’Égypte hue would be perfect, I’ve decided, but it requires something more: perhaps a gold fringe to make the embroidery stand out.

  “It appears I’ve been let go.”

  Slowly Fouché’s words penetrated my harried thoughts. I leaned against a crate. Let go, did he say?

  “Well—demoted.”

  “You’re no longer Minister of Police?”

  “Senator Fouché.” He spoke the title with contempt. “A perfectly useless position.”

  “I can’t believe that!” Fouché is the best Minister of Police imaginable. How can Bonaparte manage without him? If there is trouble, Fouché knows of it. If there are assassins plotting, Fouché finds them. “Bonaparte did this?” Fouché is the only one of Bonaparte’s ministers who has the courage to speak truthfully to him. He has often angered Bonaparte—true!—but Bonaparte owes his life to him.

  “Apparently my services are no longer needed.”

  “I don’t understand.” But I suspected the reason. Fouché argued against Bonaparte’s being made First Consul for Life, and this enraged Bonaparte’s family. Too, Fouché is my ally.

  “Another clan victory,” Fouché said with a smirk.

  Early morning.

  Last night I tried to talk to Bonaparte about Fouché, but it proved difficult. “I was advised,” was all he would say. I dared not broach the subject of his family’s influence, their greedy nature—their hatred of me. Bonaparte is master of Europe—but when it comes to his family, he weakens dangerously. Blood is everything, his mother often says. Blood is our only strength. Blood is your only weakness, I want to tell him—but do not dare.

  September 18—Saint-Cloud.

  Exhausted! We moved in the rain. The rooms at Saint-Cloud are spacious, but cold. As soon as it clears, Bonaparte and I are going for a ride in the park.

  Sunday, September 19.

  The midwife estimates that Hortense’s baby could come as early as the first of October, several weeks before previously thought. She told Hortense that it is easy to miscalculate with a boy.

  “She thinks it’s a boy? That’s wonderful!” A girl grandchild I would love—with all my heart—but a boy would solve so much.

  “But Maman, that would be three days short of nine months since we married,” she said, looking up from a drawing she was working on, a copy of an infant by Greuze. “What would Louis think?” Louis, who was expected home from the spa any day soon.

  And what would the English scandalmongers write, I thought—but did not say.

  September 21—Saint-Cloud, sunny and bright.

  Louis returned from the spa yesterday, but alas, all is not well. His health, unfortunately, is not improved, to judge by his extreme disability. (His right hand is so crippled he can’t use it.) His spirits are tormented, as well, for he threatens to drown himself if the baby is born early!

  “But Louis knows that you are virtuous,” I told my daughter, looking for a way to make peace between them.

  “Of course he knows, Maman, but all he cares about is how it would look, what people would think.”

  “He loves you—you know that.” If Louis heard the rumours circulating in England, it would inflame him, no doubt. That he had not said anything to Hortense was to his credit. “Periods of separation are difficult.”

  We talked as we walked along the rutted cart paths edging the fields. I eased my daughter’s fiery spirit—or tried to—by urging her to be gentle with herself, as well as with her husband. “Louis has been away for seven months—a very long time. There’s often a period of turmoil on the return.” I know this all too well. “It’s best not to allow yourself to become heated, especially in your condition.” I put my arm around my poor lumbering daughter. It will certainly not help matters if this child does come early.

  October 7—Saint-Cloud.

  It is now nine months plus three days since Hortense and Louis married. “I’m saved,” Hortense said, her hands clasped as if in prayer.

  Hortense has always been given to drama, to melodrama—but in truth, we are all relieved.

  October 10.

  Late this morning a horse cantered up the drive and into the courtyard. I headed out to the terrace to see who it might be, but even as I opened the door, Eugène came bounding up the steps, yelling at me to hurry.

  “Is it Hortense?” I cried out, made fearful by his state of alarm.

  “It’s happening, Maman—I was with her when it started! Louis says to come quickly.”

  I didn’t think the drive from Saint-Cloud into the heart of Paris could be made in under two hours: now I know that it can. We left Saint-Cloud at 10:05, and at exactly 11:48 Eugène and I were at the door of Hortense and Louis’s town house, pulling impatiently on the bell rope.

  “Yoo-hoo!” We turned to see a woman dressed in an old-fashioned red gown covered by an apron festooned with ribbons. She was balancing what looked to be a birthing stool on top of her head with one hand and holding a leather portmanteau with the other. “I can’t unlatch the gate.”

  “Madame Frangeau!”

  “The midwife?” Eugène hurried to let her in.

  I greeted the good woma
n, but just then the front door opened. “Madame Frangeau?” Louis said, his afflicted right hand clawed over his heart. (Awful.) “At last.”

  “Louis, how is Hortense?” And then, from within the house, I heard a cry. Oh no!

  Louis held up the index finger of his good hand to silence me, examining a pocket watch that he clutched with the other, counting off the seconds. “Good,” he said, dropping the watch into his pocket.

  “Dr. Jean-Louis Baudelocque will be here after he finishes his meal, Citoyen,” the midwife informed Louis, untying a kerchief.

  “After?” Louis asked anxiously.

  “Truth is, he just gets in the way,” she hissed in my direction, stepping aside as the hall porter carried the stool and portmanteau up the stairs.

  Louis hurried after the porter, talking over his shoulder to Madame Frangeau. “My wife’s pains are coming often now. I think she’s near.”

  “Someone should let Bonaparte know what’s happening,” I suggested to Eugène, who was standing in the courtyard looking bewildered.

  “I will!” he said, relieved to have a task.

  “He’s working at the palace today,” I called out, but my son was already on his way out the gate.

  The lying-in room smelled strongly of cloves. Madame Frangeau was closing the windows, barking instructions to the two maids.

  “Maman!” Hortense gasped when she saw me. Louis was seated beside her, stroking her hand.

  “How are you, darling?” My sweet, my treasure, my heart! She looked like a girl in the big bed, a girl with golden locks, her big blue eyes peeking out from under the lace frill of her nightcap. A frail slip of a girl with an enormous belly.