The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

“I will be thinking of you.” Praying for him. (This I did not say.) “I put barley water in the berline—in the top right-hand cabinet.” That and a number of other remedies that helped “keep the balance,” as he put it.

  “We won’t be long,” he called out as the carriage pulled forward. “I promise you.”

  12 Vendémiaire, 11:00 P.M., Munich

  The enemy has been beaten, lost its head, and everyone is telling me that it was the happiest campaign, the shortest and the most brilliant ever made. The weather is terrible. I change clothes twice a day because of the rain. I love and embrace you. N.

  October 23—Strasbourg.

  Great Patience, Little Patience, Windmill. Every night I lay out the cards, praying for victory, fearing defeat. Tonight I won all three games: “They are victorious,” I announced to my ladies. A short time later a breathless courier was announced: Victory! I gave him my pearl ring, so great was my joy.

  27 Vendémiaire, Elchingen

  I did what I intended. I destroyed the Austrian army. Now I’m going after the Russians. They are lost. Adieu, a thousand kisses everywhere. N.

  Yesterday I made thirty-three thousand men put down their arms. I took sixty or seventy thousand prisoners, more than ninety flags and two hundred cannon. Never in the annals of military history has there been such a catastrophe. I have a bit of a cold. N.

  October 27—Strasbourg.

  The wife of Bonaparte’s chamberlain stood with her hands clasped in front of her. “I have a message from the Emperor, Your Majesty,” she told me.

  She had just come from Munich. I’d been expecting to hear something—something too delicate to entrust to a military courier. Something to do with the spoils of war. Something to do with the hand of a princess.

  “The Emperor asked me to tell you that he has discussed a certain matter with King Maximilian of Bavaria.”

  “Indeed?” I said, opening my fan. No doubt King Maximilian was grateful to Bonaparte for liberating his country from the Austrians: but how grateful? “And did he say King Maximilian was amenable?”

  “Everything has been arranged, Your Majesty,” she said with a bow.

  I’m to travel to Munich, she said, giving me Bonaparte’s detailed instructions itemizing exactly how much I’m to spend on gifts, whose carriage is to precede my own and whose is to follow. I’m to be heralded in every town by the ringing of bells, cannonading, drumming and trumpeting. I’m to accept the homage as my due. I am the wife of the victor.

  November 21, 1805, Paris

  Chère Maman,

  Paris has been dispirited without you and the Emperor. Louis is with his regiment on the north coast, in case England invades. I am alone with my angels right now, but not for long. My dear friend Mademoiselle Adèle Auguié has agreed to be my lady’s maid—she’ll be starting next week. You can imagine how happy this makes me.

  We read Le Moniteur for the names of the injured. Louis will want information pertaining to his aide-de-camp, Monsieur Flahaut. He was wounded at Lambach. Do you know anything?

  Little Napoleon sends his love. He is sweet with Petit, who has just begun to crawl. They both suffered a bit of an ague that was going around, but are recovering well. My own health is improving with each day. I’ve been taking your tonics—don’t worry.

  Your loving daughter, Princess Hortense

  Note—I enclose an account of the disaster in Spain: twenty ships captured!* Fortunately the Emperor’s victories in Germany help to console us for the loss. It is said all our luck is with him. It is also said that you are his luck, Maman.

  December 4—a posting house somewhere en route to Munich. Karlsruhe, Stuttgart, Ulm, Augsburg. Everywhere I go, I cast out gifts—ebony snuffboxes, enamel miniatures, gems of every size and hue. I feel like a fairy godmother. (And I love it.)

  December 5, Munich—snow, very cold.

  I’m in Munich finally, at the royal palace—called the Residenz. This is a gay country, although curious. The women pile flowers on top of their heads with feathers and bits of chiffon tucked in, using an enormous number of little pins with diamond heads on them. And no face paint, no Spanish Red, and many wearing stays and awkward hoops. Their carriages, much like our old mail coaches, are unusually wide just so that the ladies in their hoops can fit in. (Even then it isn’t easy.) Sad-looking nags are harnessed to the carriages with rope. Turning a corner is, of course, difficult.

  The Residenz itself is more like a city than a palace. How many courtyards—seven? There are eight galleries and even a museum, I’m told. It’s a maze, each apartment suite decorated in a different era: Renaissance, baroque. Mine is luxurious rococo. We have been greeted like royalty.

  Well, we are royalty, I remind myself. However, walking these ancient halls hung with the portraits of illustrious ancestors dating back centuries makes me feel very much what I am, in fact: a parvenue.

  Tomorrow the receptions begin. I’m anxious to meet King Maximilian, Princess Auguste’s father.

  December 6—Munich.

  “Please, call me Max,” King Maximilian said in flawless French. “Everyone else does, even my servants.” He laughed gaily.

  What a charming man! Tall, handsome, a noble face (in spite of a ruddy complexion), robust for his age, which I take to be about fifty.

  He was guarded, however, on the subject of his daughter. “She will agree, I am quite sure.”

  “She has not agreed?”

  King Max threw up his hands. “I can’t force her.”

  I’ve since made inquiries and discovered that Princess Auguste has refused to break her engagement to Prince Charles. She is encouraged in this by her stepmother. As well, the Princess’s governess and an aunt are said to be opposed to marriage with Eugène.

  All this has me terribly worried. Tomorrow I’ve been invited to dine with King Max and his family. I’ve laid out my gifts, sent for a jeweller.

  Chastulé will accompany me: the Rochefoucauld name will inspire respect. I’ve instructed her that she is to entertain our hosts with stories of what a good horseman my handsome Eugène is, how he excels at the hunt, what a fine ruler he is. (I’d prefer to tell them how much Eugène loves children, how gentle and kind-hearted he is, but I’m not sure that they would approve.) Chastulé will praise my son and I will modestly protest. My battle plan.

  December 8.

  Oh, my goodness, she is lovely. Tall (I made sure to mention how very tall Eugène is), and so beautiful, but in an entirely natural, unstudied way. Seventeen years old with a sylphlike figure—she reminds me of Hortense. A lovely complexion, big dark eyes—soft eyes. Shy, gracious—I saw my grandchildren in her lovely arms.

  But she is, as well, loyal. She is fond of her pudgy cousin and refuses to break her engagement to him. And headstrong, too, for she resists her father’s will.

  [Undated]

  “Ha. It’s the three women we must first convince, Your Majesty,” Chastulé said.

  The three women: the stepmother (“Madame Hard-face,” Chastulé calls her), the governess (“Madame Fat-face”) and the aunt (“Madame Old-face”).

  “Chastulé, you’re cruel,” I protested, laughing.

  14 Frimaire, Austerlitz

  I’ve concluded a truce. The Battle of Austerlitz is the best I have ever fought. Forty-five flags, more than one hundred and fifty cannon and thirty thousand prisoners—plus twenty thousand killed, a horrible spectacle.

  Tsar Alexandre is in despair. He showed neither talent nor bravery.*

  Finally peace has returned to the continent. One can only hope that peace will now come to the world.

  Adieu, my good friend. I very much long to embrace you. N.

  December 19—Munich.

  Caroline has arrived. We kissed and pretended to be happy to see one another. I’m in dread of her finding out about the delicate negotiations going on right now.

  [Undated]

  Auguste is holding firm. “What do you think it will take?” I asked Chastulé, discouraged.
<
br />   “To get the Princess to consent?” Chastulé made herself comfortable in one of the enormous armchairs, swinging her feet back and forth like a child. “Well, for one thing, the Three Faces object because there’s no crown,” she said. “Ha. Yes, a crown always helps.”

  The crown of Italy. “Of course,” I said, shrugging, “but—”

  “Or if your son were to be named heir to the crown. Even King Max objects that Eugène is ‘merely’ a French gentleman.”

  “I thought King Max favoured this match.”

  “He has consented to it, Your Majesty, but that does not mean he favours it.”

  “But Eugène is a prince, Chastulé. How can King Max say he’s ‘merely’ a gentleman?”

  “Prince-parvenu, and not even the Emperor’s son.”

  “So if Bonaparte were to formally adopt Eugène as his son and declare him heir to the crown of Italy…?”

  “That would help.”

  I paused, smiling slowly. “If that’s what it takes, Chastulé, then perhaps that’s what the Princess should demand.”

  December 21.

  “Ha. The Three Faces are very long this morning, Your Majesty.”

  My heart jumped. “The Princess has accepted?”

  “Not quite, but she has agreed to consider breaking off her engagement to Prince Charles.”

  “In order to marry Eugène?”

  “Not quite. I’m told there are conditions.” Chastulé grinned.

  December 23—Munich.

  “Is Princess Auguste betrothed?” Caroline asked as we dined tonight.

  “Yes,” I said, lying with conviction. “To Prince Charles.”

  December 31, early—not yet 9:00 A.M.

  Bonaparte arrived just before midnight last night—chilled, weary and furious that the wedding contract has not yet been signed. “But she hasn’t agreed to it, Bonaparte!”

  4:20 P.M.

  “I’m sending for Eugène,” Bonaparte announced.

  “She agreed?” Finally!

  “But on two conditions: one, that I adopt Eugène, and two, that he be made heir to the throne of Italy.”

  “And so…?”

  Bonaparte shrugged. “And so I said yes,” he replied with a sheepish smile.

  January 1, 1806, New Year’s Day—a Wednesday (not Primidi—hurrah! No more Republican calendar).*

  Caroline has had a nervous fit and taken to her bed. “I wouldn’t go to too much trouble, Your Majesty,” Chastulé said as I was preparing a basket of healing tinctures and salves to take to her. “It’s said Princess Caroline is indisposed because of Prince Eugène’s engagement, because now your son’s children will take precedence over her little monsters. It’s even said she tried to convince the Emperor that he should divorce you and marry Princess Auguste himself.”

  Mon Dieu, that girl…

  January 6, Kings’ Day—Monday.

  Now Auguste is ill. The wedding will have to be postponed, we’ve been told. Bonaparte sent Dr. Corvisart over to “help.”

  “I could find nothing amiss,” the doctor reported back.

  “The girl is dissembling,” Bonaparte said, smiling at her nerve.

  I’m praying that Eugène will get here soon. Until the vows are spoken, I won’t be able to sleep.

  January 7, Munich—snowing again.

  Auguste has “miraculously” recovered, but is now claiming a sprained ankle. The wedding will have to be postponed, we were told yet again—until after the Emperor leaves for Paris, her stepmother said.

  “They’re stalling,” Chastulé said. “Once the Emperor is out of Munich, they’ll back out.”

  Bonaparte gave his “assurance” that he’ll stay in Munich until the young couple is wed, whenever that may be.

  Checkmate.

  [Undated]

  Now I am ill.

  January 10, Friday morning.

  I was woken by my husband. “I have a surprise for you,” he said, grinning mischievously. I screeched! In the door I saw Eugène. “Grand Dieu, at last you’ve arrived.” I clasped his hands, kissed him. “You look as if you’ve been on a horse for a week.” He hadn’t shaved and his hair was uncombed. “You’ve grown a moustache?” It looks horrible on him!

  “You don’t like it?” he asked, pulling on one point.

  “Sweetheart, you are the handsomest prince in all of Europe, but that moustache will have to go. Bonaparte, send someone for the barber. We’ll have to get Eugène cleaned up before we introduce him to Princess Auguste,” I said, squeezing my son’s hand, my heart in a flutter.

  Eugène looked at Bonaparte and then back at me.

  “What does that look mean?” Slowly it dawned on me. “Bonaparte, you didn’t!”

  “It was fine, Maman, truly.”

  “Bonaparte, you took Eugène to meet Princess Auguste—already? Without telling me?” I was furious with them both.

  “You haven’t been well, Josephine. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Well, now I’m really sick.” All our plans were ruined—and all because of an ugly moustache! “How could you? Just look at him. He’s a mess.”

  Eugène handed me a handkerchief. “It’s all right, Maman,” he said, laughing.

  “Your son arrived at ten this morning, precisely when he said he would.” Bonaparte gave Eugène an approving nod. “I took him directly to King Max—nothing formal, just a family affair, or so I had to assure him.”

  “I was a bit nervous, I admit.”

  “Actually, I had to pull him along.” Bonaparte rocked on his heels in front of the fire.

  “And so…? How did it go? What happened!”

  “King Max commanded his daughter to enter,” Bonaparte explained. “She did, but just stood staring at the floor. I think she was even trembling.”

  “Auguste didn’t expect to be introduced like that, without any warning,” Eugène said.

  “Go on, Bonaparte,” I said slowly. There was something in my son’s voice…a manly gentleness, a protective caring. Auguste, he said.

  “That’s pretty much it. We parents left the room so that they could be alone together.”

  “And?” My hands over my mouth like a child.

  “She was upset, Maman. She told me she’d only agreed to marry me for the sake of her father.”

  Oh no! So it hadn’t gone well.

  “I told her that if she really was against the marriage, I would do everything in my power to prevent it.”

  “Eugène, you didn’t!” I looked at Bonaparte, alarmed. Had my son no idea how important this was?

  Bonaparte grinned. “I don’t think we need to worry, Josephine. When Eugène and the Princess came out of the room, they were holding hands.”

  “She’s…pleased with you, Eugène?”

  My son smiled shyly. “I think we’re in love, Maman.”

  Bonaparte reached over and tugged a lock of Eugène’s hair. “The charmer.”

  January 12, a beautiful Sunday.

  This afternoon, in a quiet ceremony, Bonaparte adopted Eugène as his son and designated him heir to the throne of Italy. He embraced Eugène with love in his eyes. The look in Caroline’s eyes was of another sort.

  Monday.

  “Caroline is too ill to come,” Joachim told Bonaparte, his chin buried in a ruff of artificial pink lace. “She sends her regrets.”

  Bonaparte looked up from cleaning his fingernails with a coral toothpick. “Ill with bile, I venture.”

  “Ill with good reason.”

  I glanced from Joachim to Bonaparte, not a little concerned. Now was not the time for a brouhaha. In two hours the contract was to be signed, followed by the civil wedding ceremony.

  Bonaparte frowned, methodically tucking the toothpick into its gold case. “And what might that good reason be?”

  “These royal fops scorn us.” Joachim spat into a spittoon.

  “What do I care what they think? You are jealous, face it. Eugène’s children will have the blood of Charlemagne in their v
eins. They are not even born and their future is writ large on the pages of history. And you say this is a bad thing? I see it as a great victory—equal to the victory at Austerlitz.”

  In fury, Joachim knocked a vase over with his sword on his way out. “You see, Josephine?” Bonaparte said, picking up the book he had been reading. “Our people don’t even know how to walk properly.”

  January 14.

  At seven this evening in the Royal Chapel, Eugène was married to Princess Auguste-Amélie of Bavaria. The young couple could not take their eyes off each other. We bask in the glow of this miraculous love.

  As is the royal custom (we’ve learned), Bonaparte and I saw the newlywed couple to the door of their suite. “So,” said Bonaparte, clearing his throat. “I guess this is it.” He grasped Eugène’s hand and gave it a mighty shake.

  I embraced my new daughter-in-law. “I can’t tell you how happy I am.” Truly.

  Auguste looked up at Eugène and slipped her hand into his. “Well, I guess this is it,” Eugène said, repeating Bonaparte’s words.

  I kissed them both (a blessing) and took Bonaparte’s arm, tugging him away. We meandered down the wide marble halls arm in arm, the portraits of centuries looking down upon us.

  In which we are devastated

  January 27, 1806—Paris, at last.

  Tears sprang into my eyes when I saw Hortense. “Are you not eating?” I exclaimed, embracing her. She is so gaunt.

  “I am fine, Maman,” she assured me. “Now, tell me everything.”

  With pleasure I described how wonderful Auguste is, Eugène’s happiness, how much in love they are. “If only I could have been there,” Hortense said wistfully. “Louis would not allow me to go.”