The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  February 5, Sunday—Paris.

  I was preparing to go calling this afternoon when Bonaparte appeared. He sat down in his customary armchair next to my toilette table, fiddling with the crystal stopper of a bottle of lavender water. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Madame de Souza is receiving this afternoon.” I smoothed another dab of ceruse* under my eyes. I had not been sleeping well.

  “Madame de Souza, the wife of the Spanish ambassador, and a writer of romances.” Bonaparte pushed out his lips, as if considering this information.

  “It’s a pre-carnival fête, she said, in lieu of a ball,” I explained, leaning into the glass to see how my make-up looked, then leaning back, squinting to get the effect. “Idle chatter, ladies mostly—the type of thing you hate. I made excuses for you.”

  But he wasn’t listening. “I’d like you to take an escort,” he said, drumming his fingers.

  “But Bonaparte, it’s only minutes away, and I’ll have the pages with me, as well as two guards.” The usual parade. (Oh, for the days when I could go out alone!) “Getting an escort together would take at least thirty minutes and I’m running behind as it is.”

  “Josephine…” He paused, sitting forward, leaning his forearms on his knees. “Fouché was right. Cadoudal is in Paris, along with a number of other assassins, as it turns out.”

  “A number?” Bonaparte rarely showed alarm, but something in his manner—the very stillness of his expression—made me wary.

  “Twenty-four, to be precise.”

  “In Paris!” I reached for a handkerchief, pressed it to my mouth, inhaled the calming scent of lavender.

  His hand felt hot on my shoulder. “We’re hiring more guards and closing the gates to the city at night.”

  But the assassins were in the city, not outside. “Bonaparte, we need Fouché.”

  “Don’t worry. Unofficially Fouché will be overseeing everything.”

  “That’s reassuring,” I said, sitting back. Maybe, with Fouché watching, we will be safe.

  Shortly after 11:00 P.M.

  The city gates are to be closed from seven each evening to six the next morning. Searches have begun of all carriages and wagons, looking for evidence of Cadoudal, his accomplices.

  “Just like those days,” Clari said, meaning the Terror. Only this time, we’re the ones closing the gates, we’re the ones searching.

  February 8—late, almost midnight.

  “What is this about?” Signora Letizia jabbed her stiff finger at a copy of Le Moniteur.

  “What it’s about, Maman, is that England has hired a Royalist thug to murder your son,” Caroline answered, lingering over the word murder for effect.

  “Ca-doo-dahl?”

  “But don’t worry,” I said, offering my mother-in-law the seat of honour. “The police have it well in hand.” Fouché, in fact—but that I could not say. I dared not even hint that the man the clan had persuaded Bonaparte to demote had been the one to uncover the plot. Had it not been for Fouché, Bonaparte might well be dead.

  “Worry? The Funds are up,” Elisa said between hiccups.

  “Nothing like a little crisis to stimulate the economy,” Joseph responded with a satisfied look. “I’ve a meeting at the Bourse tomorrow morning, Maman. Would you like me to speak with the man who handles your investments?”

  “Naturalmente,” Signora Letizia said, her knitting needles clattering.

  “Perhaps now is as good a time as any to make a family announcement.” Joseph smiled uneasily. “I’ve word from the Islands that Jérôme has married an American girl in Baltimore.”

  Mon Dieu, I thought, glancing at Bonaparte. Not another one.

  “That’s impossible,” Bonaparte said evenly. “Jérôme’s only nineteen. Legally, he can’t marry without permission.”

  “He can in America, apparently,” Joseph said.

  “Basta!”

  First Pauline, then Lucien, and now Jérôme.

  February 10—Tuileries.

  Louis and Hortense arrived from Compiègne last night. “Did you get my letter?” I asked, embracing my daughter. She has put on weight, which pleases me. “You didn’t bring the baby?”

  “He’s asleep in his basket,” Louis said, stepping aside to let the maid in with a tray. “What’s going on? We had a difficult time getting through the city gates.”

  “The police have uncovered another plot against Bonaparte.” How much could I tell them? “Remember Cadoudal?”

  Hortense looked at me, alarmed. “He’s in Paris?”

  “He is believed to be here somewhere.”

  “But I thought he was in England,” Louis said.

  “No doubt he’s in the pay of England,” I said.

  We heard tuneless singing outside the door, and then a baby’s squeal. Bonaparte appeared in the doorway with little Napoleon in his arms. “At least he likes my singing,” he said with a grin.

  February 14, Shrove Tuesday—Tuileries.

  Still no sign of Cadoudal, but a Royalist in the Abbaye Prison has admitted coming to France with him. The plan, he said, was to kidnap Bonaparte. The essential coup, they called it.

  “Kidnap? That’s a ruse. The only way to get rid of me is to kill me,” Bonaparte ranted.

  Frankly, we are all shocked. According to this Royalist’s confession, General Moreau is implicated, one of the most popular generals in the Republican armies. How can that be?

  4:35 P.M.

  Bonaparte is constantly in meetings with the Special Council. Now and again he emerges with a drawn look.

  February 15, very early.

  Bonaparte didn’t sleep at all last night, tossing this way and that until the covering sheet was in a damp knot. With the first light of dawn, he sat up. “I’ve come to a decision.”

  I knew from the slump of his shoulders what it would be.

  February 16.

  The news of Moreau’s arrest was made public this morning. Everyone is stunned. Even the market was silent, Mimi told me.

  March 8—Malmaison.

  I persuaded Bonaparte that we should move to Malmaison for a few weeks to escape the tension in Paris, but even here, in this beautiful season, fear robs us of repose. Couriers come and go, officials with leather portfolios and sombre expressions. Daily Bonaparte is in meetings, locked up with his advisors. Still no sign of Cadoudal.

  March 9—our eighth-year anniversary.

  Our anniversary dinner was interrupted by a caller: Fouché. “Show him in,” Bonaparte said, pushing back his plate of chicken bones.

  Fouché appeared in mud-splattered top boots. “Cadoudal has been found.”

  “Arrested?”

  “One of the conspirators alerted us to a plan to move him to another hiding spot. We apprehended his cabriolet on Place St-Étienne-du-Mont, but in the struggle he managed to escape.”

  “Answer my question, Fouché,” Bonaparte said. “Has Cadoudal been arrested?”

  “His carriage only got as far as Place de l’Odéon, where he was cut off by two policemen. One grabbed the horse, and Cadoudal shot him dead. The second officer was shot in the hip as he attempted to hit Cadoudal with a club. Then Cadoudal jumped from the carriage—”

  “Now I know you’re deceiving me. Cadoudal jump? He is a big man—he finds just stepping down out of a carriage difficult.”

  “First Consul, I may be devious, but I never lie. As Cadoudal began to run, the wounded officer—with the help of two brave citizens, I should add—managed to grab him and hit him over the head.”

  “So he is in custody. Has he confessed?”

  “Only that he came to Paris with the intention of overthrowing you. His attitude is…well, certainly not repentant. When informed that the policeman he’d killed was a husband and father, he suggested we send bachelors on such missions next time.”

  “The bastard.”

  “The wealthy bastard. His pockets were stuffed with English gold. They have paid him well.”

  “Give it
to the officer’s widow.”

  “We already have.”

  Immediately after Fouché left, Talleyrand appeared. “We have apprehended Cadoudal, First Consul,” he said, bowing deeply, his voice fawning.

  “I am already aware of that, Minister Talleyrand. Fouché was just here.”

  Talleyrand blinked slowly. Only a crease on each side of his mouth gave any indication of the displeasure he must have felt at his rival’s getting the rightful credit for the arrest. “I have been studying the documents found in Cadoudal’s effects.” Talleyrand presented a portfolio of papers, holding it out reverently in white-gloved hands as if offering up a sacrament.

  Bonaparte pulled the parchment papers out and quickly riffled through them. “Explain,” he said, throwing them down.

  “According to these documents, First Consul, Cadoudal and his men were waiting for someone they referred to as ‘the prince’ to join them before they made their move.”

  Bonaparte paced. “What prince?”

  “Perhaps we should discuss this in your office, First Consul.”

  “Speak!”

  “Two of Cadoudal’s servants have been questioned. They each declared that every ten or twelve days a gentleman came to call on Cadoudal—a man of middle height, corpulent and balding. Cadoudal always met him at the door, so apparently he was a person of consequence. When he was in the room, nobody sat down.”

  “And you think this man is ‘the prince.’”

  “It is a logical conclusion.”

  “A Bourbon prince?”

  “Likely.”

  “It doesn’t sound like either the Pretender or his brother.”

  “But the Duke d’Enghien resides one hundred and thirty leagues from Paris, First Consul—just across the Rhine river at Ettenheim.”

  “Enghien fought against us in Italy,” Bonaparte said, frowning.

  “The last hope of the house of Bourbon, it is said. It’s possible that the plan was for Enghien to come to Paris as soon as you were”—Talleyrand paused for effect—“dispensed with. As a Bourbon representative, so to speak, he would have held Paris until the Pretender arrived from England and mounted the throne.”

  “The Duke d’Enghien is slender, Minister Talleyrand, is he not?” I asked, turning. He is said to be a charming man, and handsome—certainly not corpulent and balding. It is rumoured he has secretly married Princess de Rohan-Rochefort—la belle Charlotte. “In his late twenties, I would guess, and—”

  But the men were already on their way out the door. Their voices grew faint until I could hear no longer. “I believe, First Consul, that…a lesson to those…endless conspiracies…the shedding of royal…”

  The shedding of royal blood, I believe I heard Talleyrand say.

  Now, recalling that conversation, playing it over in my mind, I am more and more uneasy. Why was Talleyrand pressing Bonaparte to suspect the Duke d’Enghien—a Bourbon prince beloved by Royalists everywhere?

  I don’t trust Talleyrand, frankly. He reminds me of a snake—he sheds coats too easily. He expresses admiration for, even worship of, Bonaparte—but is he sincere? He is known to take bribes, to extort enormous sums in his international dealings. His “loyalty” is of the kind that is bought for money, I suspect.

  March 18—Paris.

  Before Mass this morning Bonaparte told me, his voice so low I could hardly hear him, “We’ve arrested the Duke d’Enghien.”

  At first I didn’t understand. “But isn’t the Duke d’Enghien in Germany?”

  “What does it matter? What is important is the charge: conspiring to commit murder—my murder.”

  On the long ride out to Malmaison, I broke down, confiding to Clari that the Duke d’Enghien had been arrested.

  “Arrested for what, Madame?” She burst into tears, confiding that as a girl, she had kept an etching of the Duke d’Enghien in a secret spot under her mattress.

  “I believe they intend to have him tried in connection with the conspiracy.”

  “But he can’t be guilty!”

  “Then he will be found innocent and go free,” I reassured her.

  Clari’s agitation was extreme. It had been a mistake to confide in her, I realized. She is young, not skilled in the art of deception. “You must not let Bonaparte know that I have told you,” I cautioned her as our carriage pulled through the Malmaison gates.

  “Oh no, Madame, never!”

  “So you must try to stop weeping,” I said with a smile, handing her my handkerchief.

  “Yes, Madame,” she sobbed.

  March 19, Saint Joseph’s Day.

  “Women know nothing about such matters!”

  “Bonaparte, I cannot be silent on this.” My attempts to seduce my husband into listening had met with failure.

  “If I don’t act firmly—now—I will have to go on and on prosecuting conspirators, exiling this man, condemning that man, without end. Is that what you want?”

  “Surely it is not so simple.”

  “You forget that it is the Bourbons who are the cause of the turmoil in France. They are the ones seeking to murder me.”

  “But what if the Duke d’Enghien is innocent? General Moreau was arrested over a month ago. If the Duke d’Enghien is part of the conspiracy, would he have remained at Ettenheim? Cadoudal’s servants reported that the mystery prince was corpulent. The Duke d’Enghien is said to be slender.”

  “There is evidence!”

  “But Bonaparte, even if the Duke d’Enghien is guilty, if you were to convict him”—execute him, I feared—“all of Europe would rise up against you.” The stain of royal blood is indelible, it is said.

  “Do you want me killed?” He clenched his hands. “I must show the Bourbons who they’re dealing with. I must give them a taste of the terror they are trying to inflict on me. I must show them I’m not to be trifled with—and I’m not!”

  March 20, 8:00 A.M.

  Gazing out over the gardens, I saw Bonaparte walking the paths between the flower beds, his pace and gestures agitated, as if arguing with himself. How small he seemed, pacing among the roses. “Little Bonaparte” I had once thought of him—before he’d become a giant in our eyes. (Our hearts!) I know how ardently he wishes to do the right thing, and I am beginning to comprehend how hard that can be.

  9:20 P.M.

  Around noon Hortense dropped little Napoleon off for me to look after—never have I more welcomed a child’s innocent prattle. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked, kissing my daughter goodbye.

  She and Louis were joining Caroline and Joachim for dinner, she said. She was running late, the boulevards had been congested—was something going on?

  I shook my head. She is newly again with child. If only I could protect her from the realities of the world! I was thankful she left quickly, before she could see Clari’s reddened eyes, before she looked too closely at my own.

  March 21.

  I was going to Bonaparte’s cabinet this morning to drop off the usual petitions when I heard him yelling: “What do you mean? Didn’t he get my letter?”

  I paused outside the door, holding my breath. I heard a man say something, then cough. Was it Savary, Bonaparte’s aide? “I saw him on the road,” the man said. It was Savary. “He didn’t get your letter until this morning.” Another cough. “When it was too late.”

  Too late?

  “What do you mean, this morning? I gave that letter to you last night with the instructions that it was to go directly to the Prefect of Police!”

  “I gave it to his valet.”

  “I didn’t say to give it to his valet. I ordered you to give it to the man himself! Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  I heard footsteps approaching behind me: one of the guards. “Do you wish to speak with the First Consul, Madame Josephine?” Hugo asked, his deep voice announcing my presence.

  Bonaparte came to the door. “Josephine.” He looked pale. “You are dismissed,” he told Savary coldly, over his shoulder. The aide hurried out
the door between us. “Come in,” Bonaparte said, “I have something to tell you.” I lowered myself onto a wooden armchair. “The Duke d’Enghien has been executed.”*

  In which a prophecy is fulfilled

  I found Savary in the drawing room. “General Savary, I would appreciate it if you could tell me—” Did I really want to know? “How did it happen?”

  “There was a tribunal, and then…” Savary wiped the perspiration off his forehead with his sleeve. “And then the Duke was taken to one of the trenches outside the château.”

  “A moat, you mean?” I had never been to Vincennes.

  He nodded. “A dry one.”

  A canary burst into song. “No last words?”

  “Just that he didn’t want a blindfold.” Savary felt in his jacket pocket, withdrawing a ring, a folded handkerchief and a sheet of paper. “Earlier he asked that his wife get these. Princess de Rohan-Rochefort, he said.”

  La belle Charlotte. The letter was short and tender—love eternal—the ring a simple gold band with an insignia on it. “And what’s this?” I asked, unfolding the handkerchief.

  It is late now. I am at my escritoire. Before me is a ring, a letter, a handkerchief containing a lock of hair: the remnants of a life.

  I study these artifacts, half-expecting them to speak, give me an answer. Was the Duke d’Enghien guilty of conspiring to murder my husband? Or was he innocent, and unjustly executed by him?

  As I write this, Bonaparte sits in the chair by the fire, watching the flames—as if expecting to see an answer there himself.

  March 23—Paris, windy.

  “I would say that the people of Paris are unsettled,” Fouché responded, in answer to my question. “They’ve been flocking out to Vincennes to view the trench, tossing in bouquets. Of course, that damn dog doesn’t help.”