The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  January 21.

  Eugène called on me at my morning toilette, his hat damp from melted snow. “Papa has ordered me to leave with my regiment.”

  Leave? For where?

  “For Milan.”*

  “Now, Eugène?” The storm was severe. It was difficult to ride across town, much less over the Alps.

  “Within twenty-four hours,” Eugène said, handing me the order. “I don’t understand, unless…”

  Unless Bonaparte wanted Eugène out of Paris. “Eugène, may I ask you something?” Something I had no business knowing. “Have you done anything that might have angered Bonaparte?” His evasive look gave the answer. “Something to do with Adèle Duchâtel, perhaps?”

  And then Eugène confessed: he’d been upset, he said. He’d called Adèle a coquette (and worse, I suspect). “I told her I’d tell her husband about…you know.” He tapped the tip of his riding whip against the toe of his boot.

  About Adèle and Bonaparte. What was I to say? It was such a complex web. “And so?”

  He hunched his shoulders. “And so she said she would tell the Emperor about me.”

  He seemed so much a boy still, all fluster and freckles, hardly equal to this bedchamber duel with his Emperor stepfather. “And what might there be to tell, Eugène?”

  “Maman, she’d have to lie,” he said, blushing angrily. “I got nowhere!”

  January 22.

  This morning my obedient, loyal son headed off into the storm at the head of nine hundred chasseurs and grenadiers. I am struggling with my conscience. I promised Eugène I wouldn’t say anything to Bonaparte.

  [Undated]

  “Zut,” Bonaparte said under his breath, pacing. “So Adèle lied to me about Eugène. That was devious on her part—devious and manipulative. I’m afraid you’re going to have to let her go.”

  “You want me to dismiss your mistress, Bonaparte?”

  The thought gives me pleasure, I confess.

  February 1.

  Today Bonaparte made an announcement to the Senate, naming Eugène Prince and Vice-Arch-Chancellor.

  February 24—noisy: carnival parade starting outside.

  I should have guessed that this would happen. An enraged (and hiccupping) Elisa descended upon Bonaparte: “Eugène is a prince now, even Joachim is a prince—so why not Félix? What about my husband?”

  This is a problem. Elisa’s husband is lazy and inept and alienates everyone with his haughty rudeness. “I must get them out of Paris,” Bonaparte said, scratching his head.

  March 19, Saint Joseph’s Day.

  Bonaparte has found a solution to his sister’s complaints: he is awarding Elisa and Félix the little kingdom of Piombino in northern Italy.

  “How charming,” Caroline commented with biting sarcasm. “My sister is to rule an army of four soldiers.”

  “Better than ruling only one soldier,” Elisa said evenly—meaning Caroline’s husband Joachim.

  March 21—Saint-Cloud.

  I’ve been busy getting everything ready for the baby’s baptism on the weekend—by the Pope no less. (He has wisely decided to linger in Paris, waiting for the passage over the Alps to clear.) Bonaparte insists that Hortense and Louis’s second son be baptized exactly as a Dauphin would have been baptized during the Ancien Régime. Complex! The Holy Father has confided that he’s never performed a baptism before, much less an Imperial one.

  March 22.

  Caroline has had her baby, another girl. “Bad timing,” Bonaparte said during our evening ride. “She expects the infant to be baptized along with Hortense and Louis’s boy next week.”

  “But wouldn’t that mean two entirely different ceremonies?” Caroline’s children are not in the line of succession—the ceremony would not be the same.

  “Exactly. I’ll tell her it would take too long,” he said.

  [Undated]

  Caroline’s in a rage!

  March 24, Sunday, 4:00 P.M.—Saint-Cloud.

  And so it has been done: Hortense and Louis’s baby Petit was baptized by the Pope (with Uncle Fesch prompting): Napoleon-Louis, he has been named. The five-month-old obliged us by crying the entire time. Bonaparte, the proud godfather, held the squalling child at the font. Madame Mère, as godmother, stood beside Bonaparte, scowling in her expensive new gown. The baby finally quieted, sucking on Bonaparte’s finger.

  And now, that behind us, we rush to get ready to leave for Milan in one week—one more coronation to get through. Bonaparte is to be crowned King of Italy—unless he can succeed in persuading one of his brothers to take his place, that is (to avoid alarming the Royalist nations).

  March 28.

  Monsieur Rémusat left this morning for Italy—escorted by a sizeable guard. He carried with him the Imperial insignia and Crown jewels. Clari is in tears at the thought of her husband having to endure the “wretched Savoy roads and their ignorant postillions.” And the bandits! Bandits just waiting to murder her husband in order to get their hands on his treasure. But most of all she is in a fret over the Mont Cenis pass, “with its steep descents and no wall at all on the outer edge!” In spite of my assurances that I myself have crossed two times over “that fatal” Mont Cenis, she continues to be convinced that her husband will perish. In comforting her, in assuring her that there is no danger, I begin to conquer my own fear. I try to think only of the pleasure of seeing Eugène in Milan, try not to think of the mountains that must be crossed to get to him.

  March 30—snow!

  I’m “in a state of perturbation” (as Clari puts it)—but it’s not only me. Everyone, it seems, is in a fluster, getting ready to depart in two days. The servants can’t figure out who to take orders from, whom to give orders to.

  And then excitement beyond measure: the new Imperial travelling coach was delivered and everyone went out in the snow-covered courtyard to gawk at the enormous berline. The outside is plain—intentionally, so as not to attract bandits. The only indication that it is an Imperial coach is a small coat of arms on the door.

  Inside, the coach is remarkable, for it is divided into two compartments. In the one at the front are two deep seats, separated by an armrest. Opposite is a bank of drawers, equipped with toilet articles and a table service, as well as a desk. In the back compartment is a bed that can be made into a sofa.

  I let the children of the household climb inside—they scrambled from one compartment to another. “My seat,” little Napoleon said, climbing into the leather chair opposite the desk—Bonaparte’s chair.

  “He’ll make a fine emperor someday,” I heard a maid say.

  “Our Crown Prince.”

  Our heir.

  April 1—Fontainebleau.

  The coach is remarkably comfortable: the big body swings on wide leather straps attached to heavy springs. “Time to try out that bed,” Bonaparte said meaningfully as soon as we had passed the Paris gate. He pulled the blinds and took my hand. And so our first Imperial expedition is off to an excellent start, the Emperor (and Empress) content.

  April 22—Palazzo Stupinigi, near Turin.

  We crossed the Alps without incident. In fact, the weather was glorious, the vistas stimulating to the imagination, bringing back memories of youth. A decade ago I crossed the Alps into Italy to join my new husband on his first campaign. I remember my fear then, the wonder of a journey into an unknown world. If I had known then what an amazing journey it would, in fact, turn out to be…

  Eugène, so bronzed from the sun he looks like a peasant, met us at this regal lodge not far from Turin. He and Bonaparte immediately set off on a hunt. I’ve bathed, changed into an evening toilette. The intoxicating scent of spring is in the air.

  April 24—still at Palazzo Stupinigi.

  We’ve had word that Bonaparte’s young brother Jérôme is in Turin! He’s sailed from America to Portugal and come on horseback into Italy, seeking his Emperor brother’s favour—and approval of his marriage. Eugène has just left with the unhappy message that Bonaparte refuses to receiv
e his youngest sibling, refuses to recognize “that girl” as his wife.

  “Forgive him?” Bonaparte ranted when Eugène and I pleaded for him to reconcile with Jérôme. “He’s lucky I haven’t court-martialled him for desertion!”

  1:20 A.M.

  On hearing a horse trot into the courtyard, I crept down the stairs in my dressing gown and cap, shielding the candle flame against the warm breeze that billowed the curtains. “Oh, Maman, it really is a little sad,” Eugène said, unbuckling his spurs. “He does care for her.”

  “It’s a matter of policy, Eugène.” Policy has nothing to do with love and individual happiness. Policy has to do with peace and prosperity. Policy has to do with the well-being of a people, of a nation.

  Eugène threw down his hat. “That’s what I told him. I explained that with power came responsibilities, that the Imperial family must set the example and that an illegal marriage could not be condoned.” All this in the mock voice of Bonaparte.

  “And he accepted?”

  “Not until I told him Papa would find him a buxom princess to marry.”

  “You didn’t!” Both of us laughing.

  A balmy evening, May 6—Alessandria.

  Jérôme and Bonaparte embraced. With promises of a princess and a crown someday soon, Jérôme has agreed to have his “marriage” declared null and void.

  The young man set off this morning, waving his hat from the high road. “That scamp,” Bonaparte said, shaking his head, his eyes misty.

  May 8—Milan.

  We’re in Milan, in the royal palace facing the cathedral. How noisy it is! The thick stone walls shake (I swear) every time the bells ring, which is often. We’ve a water closet, but the arrangement of the rooms is awkward, our bedchamber uncomfortably small. Bonaparte is already pacing it off, deciding how it’s to be renovated.

  May 24, close to 11:00 A.M.

  Yesterday a mounted detachment was sent to Monza to bring back the Iron Crown. It’s a simple band of gold (not iron) about three inches high, decorated with a few irregular gems. Rather crude for a crown, I thought, but Bonaparte held it as if it were made of diamonds. “Charlemagne wore this crown,” he said reverently, placing it on his head to see if it would fit (it’s a little small).

  “Is it decided?” I asked, shifting it forward on his head. “You’re to be King of Italy?” Certainly that’s what the Italians want, but England and the other Royalist nations won’t like it, that much is clear. Any indication that France is growing in power and prosperity alarms them.

  “I tried to talk one of my brothers into it, but…” He made a gesture of futility. His brothers don’t want to give up their place in the line of succession for the French crown.

  “So you will be King, but you’ll appoint someone to rule?” I asked, emboldened by the moment.

  “Curious to know who that might be?” he teased, tugging my ear. And then, his countenance suddenly serious, he added, “Joachim was the obvious choice. He speaks the language and has commanded troops here.”

  “You say he was the obvious choice.” Not any longer?

  “Prince Bully-Boy is none too popular here, it would appear. He’s made a number of enemies.”

  May 26—a superb day.

  Yet another coronation behind us. Bonaparte shocked everyone by walking in carrying Charlemagne’s crown under his arm, like a hat.

  Now everyone awaits the big announcement: whom will he name Viceroy?

  June 7.

  “You appointed Eugène?”

  “I thought this was what you wanted,” Bonaparte said, perplexed.

  “Oh yes!” I said, but overcome by the realization that my son would no longer be living in Paris, or even in France; overcome knowing, suddenly, how very, very much I was going to miss him.

  [Undated]

  “Maman, I can’t sleep for worrying,” Eugène confessed. “I’m only twenty-three.”

  “You have the best of teachers. Bonaparte has so much confidence in you.”

  “I’m going to miss you and Hortense—and what about her boys? Little Napoleon will forget me.”

  “We’ll just have to find you a wife,” I teased. Soon.

  July 6—Genoa.

  As feared, England has joined with Austria and Russia to wage war against us—yet another Royalist coalition determined to put an end to the French Republic.*

  “I must leave for Paris immediately,” Bonaparte said, ordering the travel carriage. I begged to return with him. “There will be no stops,” he warned. “I’m going to travel night and day.”

  Yes, I nodded, ringing for a maid to pack my trunks. Now I am ready; he is not.

  July 11—Fontainebleau.

  We arrived at Fontainebleau before anyone expected us. The flustered cooks managed to find some tough mutton for us to eat.

  Immediately I fell into bed (my feet swollen) and slept for hours, waking dazed. People can’t believe that we travelled from Genoa in eighty-five hours—a record—and this with a three-hour delay on Mont Cenis due to a storm. “This comet called Bonaparte,” Hortense once said. This comet indeed! Sometimes I feel I’m hanging on for dear life.

  Milan

  Chère Maman,

  You will be pleased to know that I’m following up on your suggestion to establish a nursery-garden in order to supply trees to all my kingdom. Fruit trees are unknown here. Any recommendations?

  I’ve also been thinking of creating a museum to display the fine works of art hidden away in the cellars of the monasteries and churches. I have so many dreams: of a library, a museum of natural history, a medical museum (don’t laugh). I think a school of design might do well here, too.

  I get daily letters from Papa. I’m learning so much from him.*

  A million kisses. I miss you and Hortense terribly. Kiss my nephews for me, remind them of their lonely uncle.

  Your Prince Eugène, Viceroy of Italy

  Note—You’ll be happy to know that my efforts to reduce the violence in the city have already had results.

  July 19—Paris.

  Caroline flashed a smile. “Joachim and I wish to convey sincere congratulations on your son’s appointment as Viceroy of Italy,” she said, her fingertips pressed together. “Don’t we, Joachim?”

  “The Emperor is flawless in his wisdom.” Joachim doffed his pink hat and bowed, straightening with difficulty.

  “What’s wrong with your leg?” Bonaparte demanded. “Better get in shape. We’ll be riding out soon.” Riding out to war again.

  “Oh, it’s nothing!” Caroline said, answering for her husband—but I’ve since discovered the cause of Joachim’s leg injury. On learning of Eugène’s promotion, he broke his sword over his knee in a rage.

  In which my son falls truly in love

  September 2, 1805, late afternoon—Malmaison.

  It has been some time since I opened these pages. Anger impels me to pick up a quill once again. Anger and fear, I confess. This afternoon Caroline called to announce in a tone of victory that Joachim has been named Bonaparte’s second-in-command in the coming campaign. “How surprising that Louis was not chosen, or even Eugène,” she said, purring like a cat with her claws out.

  “Eugène is quite busy governing Italy.” And doing so well!

  “It must be difficult without a wife,” she said, helping herself to a fistful of aromatic pastilles. “Speaking of which, I heard the most astonishing rumour. It’s being said that Eugène is going to marry Princess Auguste of Bavaria.”

  “Princess Auguste is betrothed to Prince Charles,” I said evenly.

  I was so relieved when she left! Whatever marriage negotiations are undertaken, the last person I would want to know about them is Caroline.

  September 9.

  Austria has invaded Bavaria. “They must be stopped,” Bonaparte said, closeting himself with the Minister of War. Soon, I know, he will announce that we’re leaving. I’ve already sent silver, linen and furniture on ahead to Strasbourg.

  September 23, th
e first day of the Republican New Year.

  We leave in the morning, before dawn. The carriages, fifty of them, are lined up. I’ve been reviewing the lists. Bonaparte has just told me to make sure the telescope and compass have been packed. Which reminds me: dentifrice powder (for me) and wart paste (for Bonaparte).

  I must make sure that the cooks prepare dishes we can take with us. Bonaparte doesn’t believe in stopping for something as unnecessary as eating, much less answering a call of nature.

  September 26, I think.

  We’re in Strasbourg, another flying trip. Keeping up with Bonaparte will be the death of me! We left at four in the morning and travelled without stopping for two days. At each posting house, the wheels had to be cooled with buckets of water. But no, I will not complain, lest Bonaparte command I stay behind.

  And as to staying behind—the carriage carrying all the kitchen utensils broke down en route. Of the fifty carriages (the dust was terrible), only five were able to keep up.

  Already Bonaparte is at work, organizing an attack on the Austrians. “Speed is my weapon.”*

  October 1—Strasbourg.

  Bonaparte left this morning. “A kiss—for luck,” he said, pulling on his battered hat. It has been five years since he rode to battle. He was anxious, I knew, and eager.