The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  Thursday, May 21—Château de Laëken, Brussels.

  Tears, finally—but oh, how painful.

  Hortense and I were on our afternoon walk. I’d stopped to have a word with a neighbour. Hortense wandered off, but shortly after a cry of anguish set me running. I found her seated on a bench, writhing. “Maman, I can’t bear it!” she wept, falling into my arms. My heart was breaking for her, for the pain of her despair, yet it was with dismay that I saw that glazed look come over her once again. She pulled herself free and sat up. “Ah, that’s better,” she said. “I can’t feel anything now.”

  In which we must be gay

  May 14, 1807, Finckenstein

  I understand your sorrow over the death of poor little Napoleon. You can imagine what I feel. I wish I were near you. You have had the good fortune never to have lost a child, but it is one of the painful realities of life. Take care of yourself and trust in my feelings for you. N.

  May 22, 1807, Milan

  Chère Maman,

  Poor, poor Hortense, poor Louis: how they must suffer! Auguste and I clasp our little one close—our beautiful little Josephine she has been named. (At Papa’s request, Maman.) If only we could keep her from harm, forever and ever. How hard it is, becoming a parent.

  Your faithful son, Eugène

  June 7, 1807, Paris

  Darling,

  I weep for you! There is nothing more devastating than the death of a child—and such a child. If a visit would help console, please allow me the honour.

  Your loyal friend, Thérèse

  June 10, afternoon—Malmaison.

  I broke down the moment I saw Thérèse, upsetting sweet Petit. Thérèse cheered him with a gift of a tin shovel set. “So you can play in the mud—although perhaps princes are not allowed?” she added with a worried look.

  “May I, Grandmaman?” Petit asked, his big eyes filled with hope.

  “Of course,” I said, stroking his fine curls. He’s been delicate since the tragic loss of his big brother, not eating well and waking often in the night. He misses his mother and father, I know. Daily we send his “letters” (scribbles) to their spa in the Pyrenees, so very far away. Far from the devastating pain of grief, I pray.

  “You and Mimi,” I added, gesturing to Mimi to take the child. “Grandmaman Josephine allows mud play,” I explained to Thérèse, leading the way out the double-sash doors to the garden, “but Maman Hortense does not.” And then I started to weep again, remembering how little Napoleon had loved to play in the puddles. Thérèse didn’t say a word, just took my arm. We walked in the garden thus while I blubbered like a fool. “Forgive me!”

  Thérèse led me to a bench by the pond where we sat for a moment in silence, watching the two black swans glide over the surface of the water. In the distance we could see the gazelles grazing in a meadow, the baby gazelle bounding about. “And how is the Emperor taking it?” Thérèse asked.

  “He writes me to have courage, but I’m told he weeps.” Poor Bonaparte. He rarely broke down, especially in front of his men. “He loved that child so much.”

  “Little Napoleon was his chosen heir.”

  “That’s just it! But it feels wrong to think about that—about the political consequences, the personal consequences.”

  “Yet how can you not?” Thérèse asked, giving me her handkerchief.

  “It’s true. Since little Napoleon’s death, it seems that everyone is obsessed with one thought: what would happen if Bonaparte were to die? Who would be the heir? Heir! If I hear that word one more time, I will scream. I’m sorry,” I said, taking hold. “The concerns are just. If Bonaparte were to die without an heir, chaos would reign. There would be civil war, no doubt, over who would take his place.”

  “Princess Caroline is saying her husband should be the one.”

  “To rule?” A look gave away my thoughts.

  “Joachim would make a good queen,” Thérèse said, letting out a throaty laugh.

  “And Caroline a good king, for that matter,” I said ruefully, drying my cheeks, my eyes.

  “That girl really wants a crown.”

  “I don’t know why anyone would.”

  “Oh, my poor sad Empress,” Thérèse said, squeezing my hand.

  “But Empress for how long, Thérèse?” I told her about Caroline’s reader, about the boy she had given birth to—Bonaparte’s child. “Now that Bonaparte knows he can father a child, what’s to keep him from divorcing me and marrying a woman who can give him a son? Especially now—with everyone so desperate for an heir.”

  Thérèse smiled. “I just happened to have heard something that may be a cure for the vapours.”

  What she told me astonishes me yet: that Joachim had been heard to brag that Caroline’s reader had been bored by the Emperor’s attentions, but had been very pleased with his. “Joachim may be the child’s father?” And not Bonaparte?

  “Murat would seem to have it so.”

  “Does Caroline know he was ‘visiting’ her reader, do you think?”

  “My guess is she not only knew about it, she set it up.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Think about it: they wanted the girl to get in a certain way.”

  Of course: it made perfect diabolical sense. “So Joachim seduced the girl in order to make her pregnant?” In order to fool Bonaparte into thinking he could father a child. In order to induce Bonaparte to divorce me.

  “I’d make sure the Emperor learned of this, if I were you,” Thérèse said.

  “Of course,” I said, overwhelmed with sensation: relief certainly, but indignation, too, for Bonaparte’s sake, at having been so ill-used.

  Mon amie, by the time you read this letter, peace will have been signed and Jérôme will be King of Westphalia. I love you and hope to learn that you are happy and gay. N.

  July 12, Sunday.

  “Jérôme is going to be a king?” Caroline could not conceal her rage.

  “Is a king,” I corrected her, going through the papers on my escritoire. I didn’t have time for one of Caroline’s tantrums, frankly. Bonaparte had written with instructions that the celebrations of the peace were to be lavish, “a show of Oriental splendour.” Even Chastulé had taken to her bed, overcome with all that had to be attended to: the celebrations of the peace, Jérôme and Princess Catherine of Württemberg’s wedding, to be followed by two months of festivities at Fontainebleau. Every sovereign of Europe would be attending. Where were we going to put them all?

  Caroline stomped her foot. “Jérôme has a crown, Napoleon has a crown, Joseph has a crown, Louis has a crown. Even Elisa has a stupid little crown. Everyone has a crown but me!”

  Saturday, July 25, morning, very hot.

  “Ah, crowns,” Fouché said, “it seems that there can never be enough.”

  Oh, I am weary, so weary of conflict, of intrigue and doubt. If only Bonaparte would return. Last night I sprinkled my covering sheet with the lemon scent he uses. It has been ten months.

  July 27, Monday.

  At five this morning I was awoken by a commotion in the courtyard. Mimi came rushing in. “It’s the Emperor!”

  Oh, mon Dieu. I jumped out of bed. “Mimi, hurry, fetch my best nightdress,” I said, splashing water on my face. “And my new lace bonnet.” I sat down at my toilette table. I looked old. There wasn’t time (nor enough light) to apply a proper face.

  “Is this the one you meant?” Mimi said, panting, for the wardrobe is in the attic and the stairs are steep. She held out a lovely nightdress and cap.

  “Oh no. I mean, it’s gorgeous—but it’s English muslin. Don’t worry,” I assured her, taking the bonnet and slipping it over my dishevelled hair. “I’ll wrap myself in a shawl.” I dusted my nose with rice flour. “The one I wore last night—the rose one.” A good colour in the morning light.

  “I saw it in the antechamber,” Mimi said, running out the door and almost immediately returning with it. I dabbed on the lavender water Bonaparte favoured (lightly—
not too much), threw the shawl around my shoulders, took one last anxious look in the long glass (not too bad: the effect was rumpled but slightly erotic), slipped into my slippers (a new gold-embroidered pair—perfect) and rushed out the door.

  I stood at the entry, taking in the scene: five Imperial carriages thick with dust, grooms and postillions unharnessing the steaming horses, servants struggling under the weight of huge trunks. Jérôme, Joachim, Duroc…everyone—but where was Bonaparte? And then I heard a man yell, “I already told you. I do not repeat myself.”

  Was it Bonaparte? It sounded like him, yet the voice was harsh.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said, appearing behind the Imperial coach. I saw old Gontier hobbling toward the stable with a miserable look on his face.

  “Oh, Bonaparte.” I said, embracing him. Tears welled up, in spite of myself. It had been a very difficult ten months without him, and now that it was over, I felt my courage weakening.

  “Why are you crying?” he said, standing back.

  “I’m so happy to see you.” I was confused, in truth. Bonaparte’s voice was different, as was his manner. This man was neither husband nor friend nor lover. “Sire,” I added, with an apologetic smile. It is often difficult after a long separation, I reminded myself. It takes time to get to know one another once again.

  “Your Majesty?” Clari’s husband, Monsieur Rémusat, was accompanied by four pages. In spite of the hour they were all in full livery. “I am informed that you wish to speak to me.” He and the four pages bowed in unison, their plumed hats crushed against their hearts. (Clearly, they’d been rehearsing.)

  “Yes, fire that old man. I don’t want to see his face again.” And with that Bonaparte marched into the château, leaving me on the steps.

  Monsieur Rémusat offered me his arm. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty,” he whispered. “According to the Code, first the Emperor returns, and then, a few days later, the husband.”

  “Of course,” I said, smiling at his gentle humour. Strangely, I felt even lonelier than before, now that Bonaparte was back. “But don’t fire Gontier,” I told him as we followed Bonaparte into the château. “Or rather,” I added quickly, seeing the look of consternation on Monsieur Rémusat’s face, “assure Monsieur Gontier that he will be reinstated—when the husband returns, that is.”

  Wednesday.

  Not long ago the Governor of Paris stormed out of Bonaparte’s cabinet, and, shortly after, Joachim was announced.

  Clari leaned forward over her embroidery hoop. “Do you suppose the Emperor has found out about Governor Junot and…?”

  Junot and Caroline, she meant.

  “I wonder if the Emperor also knows about all those other men his sister has been receiving,” Chastulé whispered.

  “What other men?”

  “You don’t know, Your Majesty?” Clari asked. “Princess Caroline lured the Austrian ambassador into her bedchamber, which she’d strewn with rose petals I’ve been told.”

  Rose petals! Caroline had come out to Malmaison not long ago asking me for sacks of them—for a tincture she was making, she’d told me. (Some tincture.)

  “Ha! As well as Talleyrand—”

  “That’s impossible,” Clari objected, flushing. (I suspect she’s sweet on the dour Minister of Foreign Affairs.)

  “—and the Minister of Police,” Chastulé went on.

  Fouché? “Now that’s impossible,” I said.

  “Everyone’s calling Prince Murat Prince Cuckold,” Mademoiselle Avrillion joined in, looking up from mending one of my petticoats.

  “But it doesn’t seem to bother him. I was hoping for a duel, at least,” Chastulé said.

  “That’s because Princess Caroline told him that she does it for him,” Clari confided.

  “That’s a good one,” Chastulé said. “I’ll remember it the next time my husband catches a lover in my bed.”

  “To seek advantage, she told him.”

  “Caroline told Joachim that?” I could understand the advantages Fouché, Talleyrand and the Austrian ambassador might have to offer—but Junot? “I don’t understand how the Governor of Paris could—”

  “He commands the troops in the city, doesn’t he?” Mademoiselle Avrillion asked.

  “Ha! You never know when a cannon or two might come in handy.”

  August 15—Saint Napoleon’s Day.

  As I write this, fire-rockets flare, lighting up the night. Paris has given itself over to revelry: tournaments, plays, concerts, illuminations and ballets. Everywhere there is some kind of festivity in celebration of Saint Napoleon’s Day—in celebration of Napoleon, Emperor and peacemaker.

  Bonaparte and I watched the celebrations from the Tuileries balcony. The crowd cheered to see their hero, Napoleon the Great.

  Napoleon the Unapproachable. He takes everything in with a frown. He is not a happy man—and I, certainly, am not a happy woman. It’s just as well I’m so desperately busy preparing for Jérôme’s wedding festivities, the arrival of a royal bride.

  Sunday, August 23—Tuileries.

  This morning Jérôme and (buxom) Princess Catherine were married in the Gallery of Diana in the presence of the entire court (eight hundred now). Jérôme looked dazzling in his suit of white satin embroidered in gold. We are in a frenzy of forced gaiety.

  August 27, 11:20 P.M.—the family drawing room, Saint-Cloud.

  Mimi came to fetch me during the second act of Cinna. She signalled me from the door. “I’m wanted about something,” I whispered to Bonaparte, and slipped away.

  “Hortense is back,” Mimi said, her hands crossed over her heart.

  “Here? Now!” I followed Mimi out of the theatre and through the orangerie to the château.

  Hortense laid her head on my shoulder as if weary, as if she needed a mother’s shoulder to rest on. “I’m better, Maman,” she said.

  “I can see that,” I said—and it was true. She spoke from her heart.

  “Have I interrupted something?” she asked, looking out at the courtyard, crowded with equipages.

  “Cinna is being performed. I’ll send for Bonaparte.”

  “No, wait, Maman. That’s Papa’s favourite play. There will be plenty of time.”

  “Shall I go get Petit?” Mimi suggested with a grin.

  “He’s up?” Hortense sounded hopeful.

  “I’ll wake him,” Mimi said. “He’s been talking about his maman every day.”

  “His maman who is looking well,” I told my daughter.

  “It was a good trip,” she said, caressing my cheek—as if I were her child. “I’ve been writing songs.” She paused, raising her eyes. “For him.”

  Him. Little Napoleon. As if his spirit hovered. “Petit has been wonderful. I have so many stories to tell you. He’s the sweetest child.” But frail and fearful of late, often waking in the night. “Ah, he’s up,” I said, on hearing the child’s sleepy chatter.

  Mimi appeared with the boy in her arms. “Oh, Petit!” Hortense said, her voice tremulous. I knew what she was thinking, that he looked so very like little Napoleon. And yet so different.

  The child stared at his mother and then hid his face in Mimi’s neck.

  “Three months is a lifetime to a child,” I said, fearing a problem. “Remember how you felt, darling, when I got out of prison? You didn’t even recognize me.”

  “I don’t remember,” Hortense said, leaning down to catch her boy’s eyes. She covered her face with her hands and surprised him with a peeka-boo. Petit studied his mother sombrely, his thumb in his mouth, a hint of a smile in his eyes. She did another peek-a-boo for him, eliciting a tiny giggle. Then she opened her hands and he dove into her arms. She pressed him against her heart, tears streaming onto his fair curls, cooing, “Oh, my Petit, my sweet Petit.” Mimi and I stood sniffing, our hearts full of love and sorrow.

  “Ah, there you are.” It was Bonaparte, standing in the door.

  “Papa! Sire.” Hortense made a respectful dip, balancing her child in her arms.
She swiped one eye with the back of her free hand.

  “Still weeping?” he said reproachfully. “You’ve cried enough over your son. You’re not the only woman to have suffered a loss. Other women are braver than you, especially considering that you have a child who needs you. Now that you are back, smile and be gay—and not one tear!” And with that he left.

  Hortense lowered herself onto the little bench by the door. “How can Papa reproach me like that?” she asked, her breath coming in sharp gasps.

  “Try to understand, Hortense,” I said, motioning to Mimi to take Petit. “Bonaparte is just as upset as we are, but he believes we make it worse by weeping.” Sorrow unnerved him, made him uncomfortable.

  “Doesn’t he understand how a mother feels?”

  “He believes being stern will help you.” I put my arm around her thin shoulders. “He loves you.”

  It is true. Bonaparte has a great, great heart. If only I could find it.

  Sunday morning at Malmaison, lovely—not too hot yet.

  I’ve just talked with the housekeeper and the head cook about the family dinner tonight: Madame Mère, Julie,* Louis and Hortense, Pauline, Caroline and Joachim, Jérôme and Princess Catherine, Stéphanie and Émilie, Bonaparte and me. Is that everyone? Table for thirteen. And all the children, of course: Petit, Julie’s girls (Zenaïde and Charlotte), Caroline’s four (Achille, Letizia, Lucien and Louise). Mimi is organizing a picnic for them out under the oak trees.

  10:10 P.M.

  The dinner went fairly well—for a Bonaparte gathering, that is. Joachim was so transparently obsequious toward Bonaparte—offering him his snuffbox, bowing not only in greeting, but with every sentence—it annoyed both Louis and Jérôme, who addressed him as “Prince Bully-Boy,” much to Joachim’s annoyance. Caroline, as well, seemed in a temper—this business of crowns, no doubt. But worst of all, Pauline—who was carried in on a tasselled silk litter by four Negroes dressed as Mamelukes—berated Hortense for wearing black: “Your son was only five when he died. You’re not supposed to wear mourning.”