The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  My god-daughter Stéphanie was a little giddy, but otherwise restrained, thanks to Madame Campan’s stern tutelage. Hortense only pretended to eat, I noticed. Then, as the desserts were being brought out, she abruptly excused herself from the table.

  I found her in the water closet with a china bowl in her lap, Louis beside her. Her face was flushed, beaded with perspiration. “It’s all right, Maman,” she said, seeing the concern in my eyes. She looked at Louis. “Should I tell her?”

  “Hortense is with child again,” Louis said.

  Caroline flushed on hearing the news—her heated complexion visible even through a thick layer of ceruse. She gave Joachim “a look,” a very slight widening of her kohl-lined eyes. “How wonderful,” she said with a bright smile, methodically tapping a beauty patch stuck on her chin. “What a surprise.”

  At the close of the evening, Louis proposed a toast. He and Hortense would be returning to their kingdom, he said, and so consequently, they must bid everyone adieu.

  “Cin-cin! Cin-cin!” Jérôme called out, spilling wine on his new (and doting) wife.

  “Blood is everything,” Madame Mère said.

  “No, Maman: you’re supposed to say salúte.”

  “Salúte.”

  “Salúte!”

  “Santé,” I echoed faintly, weak with concern.

  [Undated]

  Alarming news: Hortense is consumptive. “Does that mean she has consumption?” I asked Dr. Corvisart. People die of that disease!

  “It’s more of a tendency in that direction,” he told me. “No doubt she will recover, but I’m concerned that the climate of Holland might be too…” He made a grimace. “A damp climate might—”

  “Harm her health?”

  “Especially in her delicate condition.” He cleared his throat. “And I’ve concern about the child, as well. He is sickly, and one doesn’t want to take any risks.”

  Dieu nous en garde!

  September 19.

  Louis has returned to Holland alone—without his wife, without his son. “But he left furious at me, Maman,” Hortense sobbed.

  “Dr. Corvisart explained it to him, didn’t he? About the dangers?”

  “I don’t know. Louis wouldn’t even speak to me!”

  Sunday morning.

  Caroline’s ball last night was shocking in its splendour: tightrope walkers and acrobats, a miniature village in the garden. As Caroline and Joachim (tipsy) escorted Jérôme’s bride to a replica of her summer chalet, a choir dressed in peasant costumes appeared, singing the traditional songs of her country.

  It was a triumph, of course. Caroline made sure Bonaparte was aware of all that she had done to further his glory. She also made sure, I later discovered, that a rumour was circulated that Hortense is with child by a man named Monsieur Decazes.

  4:45 P.M.

  “I believe I’ve discovered the reason for Louis’s temper,” I told my daughter. “Do you know Monsieur Decazes?”

  “He was at the spa, mourning the death of his wife.”

  “It seems that there is a rumour going around that he is the father of the child you are carrying.”

  “Monsieur Decazes?” Hortense wrinkled her nose. “That’s…that’s crazy, Maman.”

  “I agree! I was outraged. But it might help explain why Louis was so angry. Perhaps if you were to—”

  “It explains nothing! How could Louis believe something like that about me?”

  “Well…” I understood what it was like to be consumed by jealousy, knew how it could make a person act.

  “All a man has to do is look at me and Louis is convinced of my infidelity. I will never forgive him!”

  “But Hortense, don’t you think maybe—”

  “Never!” she cried, bolting for the door.

  I put my arm out to prevent her from running out of the room.

  “Let me out!” she demanded.

  “I want the truth, Hortense.”

  “I’ll tell you the truth!” she said, her voice tremulous. “But it won’t be what you expect. The truth is something you don’t want to hear. The truth is that Louis torments me! He hires people to spy on me. He has me followed. Every outing I make he assumes has a romantic purpose—even to visit a relative’s deathbed! He listens at my door at night, he opens my mail. I might as well live in a convent. Do you know how he begins each day? With a search of my closets. Is that how a man is supposed to regard his wife?”

  I listened in stunned silence as she sobbed out years of torment. I could not believe what she was saying, yet suddenly it all made sense—the high wall Louis had had built around their house, the sentry posted below Hortense’s bedchamber window. “I’m so sorry, Hortense,” was all I could say. If only I had known! If only she had told me! But perhaps it was true, what she said: perhaps I hadn’t wanted to hear.

  “You know what he tells me, Maman, about you? He says you’re a harlot. He says you’re not my mother, that Madame Mère is my mother now—and she detests me! He says any love I show you is a stab against him! He’s in a constant rage. I cannot even speak to a man without Louis threatening to run him through. I’ve never been untrue to him, Maman, yet he treats me like a criminal,” she sobbed. “Every time I try to please him, he finds something in me to hate, something to doubt. He loves his dog more than he loves me! I can’t bear it any longer. Please, please don’t make me go back to him. I fear it will be the death of me!”

  And then she gave way to a convulsive fit of coughing that frightened me terribly. I took her in my arms, rocking her like a baby. Slowly the coughing eased. “Forgive me, Hortense—I’ve been blind.” And worse—wilfully so. “But now I know.”

  And now, I vow, things will be different.

  In which I am betrayed

  September 22, 1807—Fontainebleau.

  At last we are settled at Fontainebleau for a month of hunting and festivities—all of us. (Moving a court is not easy.) Settled, but in chaos still, everyone rushing about trying to find trunks, getting lost in the vast corridors, frazzled from lack of sleep. Even the actors and actresses are in hysterics. They are to perform Corneille’s Horace in less than two hours, “and our props haven’t even arrived,” Talma exclaimed, the back of his hand to his forehead.

  Thursday, September 24, 4:45 P.M.

  Duroc addressed the assembled court this morning. Here are the rules:

  One evening a week the Emperor will receive. On that evening there will be music followed by cards.

  On another evening I’m to hold a reception at which cards will be played. (But not for money: Bonaparte insists.)

  Two evenings a week there will be a tragedy performed. (No comedies: Bonaparte considers them a waste of time.)

  As well, the Princes and the Ministers are required to give dinners, inviting all the members of the court. Duroc, as Grand Marshal, and Chastulé, as lady of honour, are required to do the same, laying covers for twenty-five. A table will be provided for any who have not received an invitation to dine elsewhere.

  “I want to dine at that table,” Hortense whispered.

  “And finally,” Duroc said, raising his voice, “only the Emperor and Empress will have the liberty of dining alone—should they choose to do so.”

  There was a rustle of fine silks, a tinkling of gold pendants, a murmur—of envy, I realized, over the privilege of privacy. Fortunately the assembly was diverted by Duroc’s announcement that for the deer hunt, the gentlemen were required to wear a green coat with gold or silver lace, white cashmere breeches and riding boots without flaps. The shooting costume was to be “a simple green coat without any ornament but white buttons,” Duroc said, looking expressly at Joachim, who was known to embellish even his nightcap. “But on those buttons, some characteristic of the species being hunted is to be engraved.”

  “The prick,” Joachim guffawed.

  Duroc ignored him, and continued by saying that hunting costumes would be required as well for the ladies and their households, and for this
purpose the designer Leroy had been engaged. At this point Monsieur Leroy, flustered but clearly enjoying the acclaim, was called upon to display his creation: a tunic, rather like a short redingote, over a gown of embroidered white satin. I applauded, which signalled to the assembly that they could do likewise.

  So on this pretty note court was adjourned. The first hunt is to be held in four days at eight in the morning. Tardiness is forbidden. The Emperor has spoken.

  September 27, Sunday—Fontainebleau.

  “We must be a court!” Bonaparte exploded, hitting the table with the flat of his hands. “A real court, with dancing and gaiety. I will it!”

  I will it. If only it were as easy as that! Bonaparte has everyone terrified. It is impossible to be gay. My ladies are so fearful of being publicly reprimanded that they don’t dare speak, much less enjoy themselves.

  “Zut. I’ve brought hundreds of people to Fontainebleau to amuse themselves. I’ve arranged every sort of entertainment for them and yet they just sit with long faces.”

  “Pleasure cannot be summoned by the beat of the drum, Your Majesty,” Talleyrand observed in his expressionless manner.

  “How long are we here for?” Hortense asked plaintively, later. Six weeks. Six long weeks.

  Wednesday.

  The first “crowns” (as Chastulé calls them) have arrived from Germany—the brothers Prince Mecklenburg and Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin, charming young men with old-fashioned manners. Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin, recently widowed (his wife was the Russian Tsar’s sister), hovered at the edge of my drawing room last night. Understandably he refrained from joining us at the whist table, but sat to one side, watching how I played my cards with apparent interest. Later, when ices were served, he confided that he has not been well. I offered him condolences but immediately regretted it, for he seemed suddenly close to tears. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. It was a mistake to come to Fontainebleau,” he said, touching a lace-edged handkerchief to the corner of each eye. “I only came because I wished to persuade the Emperor to withdraw his troops from my country.”

  “Have you discussed this with the Emperor?”

  “Yes, this afternoon, but…” He looked discouraged.

  “Give it time,” I suggested, tendering an invitation to both him and his brother to join us in our box for the theatrical performance tomorrow evening.

  [Undated]

  “I see you’ve made a conquest,” Bonaparte said. “It’s a good thing I’m not a jealous husband.”

  “Hardly,” I said, but with an edge of regret. There was a time when Bonaparte had been a jealous husband. “Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin’s wife died not long ago. He talks to me of his grief.” I paused, considering how best to proceed. “He’s very impressed by you.”

  “That I doubt. He is disappointed in me. He wants me to withdraw my troops. That’s out of the question. These princes seem to think I should come in with my soldiers, liberate their country and then, job done, just leave. They live in another world.”

  “So there’s no chance that our troops will be withdrawn…someday?” I took his hand in mine.

  “I take it the Prince has recruited you to advance his cause,” he said, tweaking my ear—hard.

  La Pagerie, Martinico

  Madame Bonaparte,

  I regret to inform you that your mother has been taken by the Lord. She changed worlds at 3:47 P.M. on the eighth of July, at La Pagerie. I was the only person in attendance, not counting the slaves. I will notify you if there is anything left of value once the estate debts have been paid.

  In the service of the Eternal Lord, Father Droppet

  Fort de France, Martinico

  Chère Yeyette, my beloved niece,

  Our profound condolences on the passing of your dear mother. You did what you could to make her last years comfortable.

  Stéphanie writes that she may be wed soon—and to a prince? Is this possible? Surely she is jesting.

  God bless you,

  Your aging uncle, Robert Tascher

  Note—Father Droppet is going to send you the accounts of the estate, such as they are. Be sure to check his numbers. He is known to be “imaginative.”

  Saturday evening.

  “I understand how you feel,” Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin said. “Grief sets one apart.”

  “Yes,” I said, clutching my handkerchief.

  “There will be a period of mourning?”

  I shook my head. Bonaparte didn’t want the news of my mother’s death made public. A period of official mourning would put an end to the festivities. I understood, but a part of me rebelled. Was no one to mourn her? I felt so alone in my grief. “The timing is…” I waved my soggy handkerchief through the air.

  “Inconvenient?”

  “It makes me sad, nonetheless. Hortense and I are the only mourners in all of France.”

  He slipped a narrow black silk ribbon off his queue and threaded it through a buttonhole on his jacket, tying it in a tidy bow. “There,” he said. “I wager you thought I wouldn’t know how to tie a bow.”

  “I admit it crossed my mind,” I said with a smile.

  “A bit unusual as a mourning ensemble, but I believe the Almighty will understand.”

  October 4, Sunday.

  Mimi, Hortense, Chastulé, Clari and even Monsieur Etiquette are now all sporting a little black ribbon. I feel strengthened beyond measure.

  October 5—Fontainebleau, 2:00 P.M.

  Caroline joined the hunt this morning wearing a little black ribbon tied to a buttonhole. “It’s the fashion,” she informed everyone. “Haven’t you noticed?”

  Thursday, October 8, very late, possibly 2:00 A.M.

  Every evening before dinner, Bonaparte and I go for a ride through the woods. He drives and I try not to ask him to slow down. It’s a welcome hour, for me, a chance to be alone with Bonaparte (if one doesn’t count the mounted escort riding fore and aft).

  Often we ride in silence—that comfortable silence of the long-married—but tonight Bonaparte was cheerful (unusual for him these days) and we talked amiably of this and that: of Jérôme’s latest mischief, the foreign princes. And then, as if it were inconsequential, he informed me that he was having an amourette with my reader. “Your spies will inform you in any case,” he said, glancing at me to gauge my reaction.

  “Madame Gazzani?” How could I not have known? “I appreciate how discreet you’ve been. And Madame Gazzani, as well.”

  “You’re not angry?”

  “Bonaparte, there are only two things I wish for. One, your happiness. And two…” I paused, feeling the calming lull of the even clip-clop of the horses’ hoofs. I’d given up even wishing for a child, I realized sadly.

  “And two…?” He turned the horses in the direction of the palace.

  “And two, I wish for your love.”

  He pulled in the reins, bringing the horses to a halt. “Don’t you know how much I love you?”

  “I do know that, Bonaparte,” I said. “That’s what makes it so hard.”

  Saturday afternoon.

  Carlotta put a vase of roses on my escritoire. “Thank you, Carlotta.”

  She curtsied. “It is my pleasure to serve you, Your Majesty.”

  I believed her. “I would like you to join us tonight, Carlotta, in the drawing room.” The girl was no doubt bored to tears, relegated to her small attic room.

  “But Your Majesty, I’m merely a…”

  Merely a reader, she started to say. Readers are not granted drawing room privileges; my ladies would no doubt object.

  “It would please the Emperor, Carlotta,” I said with a knowing smile.

  And now—at long last—I believe I have finally begun to understand. Carlotta has become my gift to Bonaparte, like some succulent fruit I place before my husband. In loving her, he must love me. In loving her, he must feel beholden.

  October 25, Sunday.

  This morning, returning from Mass, Fouché (lurking in a window recess) pulled me aside. �
��I have a matter of grave importance to discuss with you, Your Majesty,” he said, clearing his throat. He glanced toward the door, where a guard was stationed.

  “Oh,” I said, not a little concerned. His manner was uneasy. And when had he ever addressed me as “Your Majesty”?

  He pulled a tightly rolled paper out of his inside coat pocket and handed it to me. Sunlight caught the diamond in the ring on his little finger.

  Warily I slipped off the silk cord and unrolled the scroll. The script—Fouché’s—was tiny, difficult to make out. “I’m afraid I don’t have my reading spectacles with me.”

  “Read it later, Your Majesty. I’d like you to…reflect on the contents.”

  “And what is it, may I ask?” Why were we being so polite with each other?

  “It’s a draft of a letter I suggest you send to the Senate.”

  “You think I should write a letter to the Senate?” Why?

  “You are no doubt aware of the public fears that as the Emperor ages, he will follow in the traces of Sardanapalus.”

  I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but I thought it sounded like something concerning Bonaparte’s health.

  “Even the general public, so deserving of peace and security, is crying out. As devoted as they are to you, Your Majesty, they are even more devoted to the Emperor and the Empire he has created—an Empire which they know will crumble upon his death.”