The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

Your humble servant,

  Mademoiselle Adèle Auguié

  Note—I’ve notified King Louis.

  And another—Unfortunately, the early arrival of this child has led to all manner of rumours, in spite of the accoucheur’s declaration that the baby was a month premature.

  [Undated]

  Bonaparte discovered me weeping over Adèle’s letter. “Your daughter has had another son. Is that not cause for celebration?”

  “I wasn’t beside her!”

  He comforted me tenderly. We walked hand in hand through the gardens.

  April 27, Wednesday, I think—Château Marrac (not far from Bayonne).

  How wonderful to be close to the sea again. I can smell it in the air.

  By the morning light I see that this room has been decorated in soft violet and yellow silks. Our bed (which we share here), of a beautiful cherrywood, is topped by a crown. The drawing room has been made to look like a tent with the sides looped up—a blue satin tent braided with violet and yellow. A sofa (not very comfortable), armchairs and a footstool are covered in a striped blue silk trimmed with yellow. There’s even a bathing chamber with a wooden tub in it—which is being filled for me now.

  A tall Basque maid in rope-soled shoes has just brought me a dish of chocolate and marzipan. “A gift from the Emperor,” she said—or rather, that’s what I think she said, for they speak a curious language here. (Euskara?) “He say to say he love you,” she added in French, enunciating the words proudly.

  May 5.

  The King of Spain has ceded to France. Bonaparte has persuaded Joseph to give up Naples and take the crown of Spain. “Not Joachim?” I asked, relieved but surprised. Caroline had made it clear that the Spanish crown was to go to her husband.

  “Bah!” Bonaparte muttered. “Joachim has bungled things here. I’ll give him Naples. That should make Caroline happy. She’ll have a crown at last.”

  But not the crown she wanted. Not a big crown.

  Friday afternoon.

  There is something in this salty, bracing breeze that enlarges our spirits. The melancholy cries of the gulls sing “home” to us both. How alike Bonaparte and I are, both born and raised on islands, the sea ever before us.

  If only we could live like this forever, far from the intrigues of Paris. We talked late last night, whispering in the dark: “When we’re old and grey, we’ll have a little château by the sea,” he said sleepily. “You’ll tend the flowers and I’ll tend the vegetables.”

  [Undated]

  Bonaparte and I arrived back at the château giddy this afternoon. My maids shook their heads in wonderment at my wind-tousled hair, my bare feet. “The Emperor took my shoes and hid them,” I explained, and then burst into laughter at their puzzled faces. A maid is preparing a bath for me now, for I’ve sand in my hair, my ears.

  The day was glorious. We set off at a fast pace in one of the new light carriages and soon were within sight of the ocean. “Ah,” said Bonaparte, inhaling, taking my hand. The sun sparkled off the water.

  As soon as we came to a deserted beach, Bonaparte ordered our driver to stop. “Too wild, do you think?” he asked, examining the rocky cove.

  “It’s perfect,” I said, tying my hat ribbons.

  At the sand’s edge I kicked off my shoes and tucked up my skirt. I heard Bonaparte call out behind me, and I bolted into a run. He caught me, the foaming wave swirling around our feet. We were laughing and out of breath. He tried to push me into the water, but I twisted away, escaping his reach.

  We were how long thus, playing like children? Hours. An eternity.

  I wonder what our guards thought, watching their Emperor and Empress running back and forth along the shore, watching as we fell laughing onto the sand, watching as we walked hand in hand—watching as we embraced.

  Perhaps they thought we were very much in love.

  In which we return to the camp of the enemy

  August 15, 1808, Bonaparte’s thirty-ninth birthday—Saint-Cloud.

  Bonaparte and I were both rumpled and weary as our carriage pulled into Saint-Cloud. We’d slept in the coach the night before, but even so, there was no time to bathe—only time for a change of clothes and a quick repast.

  I’m writing this now in the drawing room off the garden, the doors open wide, waiting for Bonaparte to emerge from his cabinet on the other side of the courtyard. In a few minutes we’re to receive the Senate, then go to Mass and a Te Deum in honour of “Saint Napoleon.”

  I’m anxious to see Hortense, Petit, the new baby, but it will have to wait. (Wretched duty!) It’s hard to believe that we’ve been away for over four months—four wonderful months.

  Late afternoon.

  “He’s a good baby,” Hortense said fondly, handing the infant to me.

  “Oh, Hortense, he’s…” In fact, I was alarmed. The baby seems small, with the exception of his head, which is big. “He’s beautiful,” I said, and with truth. He has the ancient beauty of a new soul.

  “His name is Oui-Oui,” sweet Petit said, standing beside me, his dimpled hand on my knee. I bent forward to give the boy a noisy kiss. “Tickles,” he said, but then added, “Again?”

  “Later we’ll have a rumpus,” I said. “But right now, I think you might want to have a look at”—I nodded in the direction of the door and dropped my voice to a stage whisper—“something I brought you.” His eyes widened. “Did the coachman bring it in?” I asked Adèle.

  “The coachman and the butler,” she said. “It’s heavy!”

  “Maman, what have you brought?” Hortense asked, stretching out on the chaise longue.

  “Yes, Grandmaman, what have you brought?” Petit echoed as the sound of great clattering on the parquet floors was heard in the hall. The butler appeared, pulling a model of a warship on wheels (and trying, in spite of it, to appear dignified).

  Petit turned to me, a look of wonderment on his face. “Yes, for you,” I said, rocking the infant, who had started to fuss.

  “Say, Thank you, Grandmaman,” Hortense called out as Petit ran to the wondrous object.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Grandmaman!” the child sang.

  Monday morning, August 22.

  A ball last night. “I’m the one who won Spain,” I heard Joachim boast, well in his cups. “I’m the one who should have gotten that crown, not Joseph. He can’t even ride a horse. And what do I get as thanks? Naples! But maybe at least Joseph will leave the Duchess d’Atri behind for me.” Guffaw, guffaw.

  He’s gone, at last. He left for Naples this morning. That poor kingdom.

  August 28, Sunday.

  A family gathering at Malmaison: Madame Mère, Pauline, Julie Bonaparte and her girls, Hortense and sweet Petit. The children loved the orangutan, dressed comically in a gown. Its antics had them screaming with laughter. Then Bonaparte pretended to be a bear, much to the delight of the children and the pugs.

  September 10, 1808, Milan

  Chère Maman,

  Little Josephine is walking. You should see her—she is so charming! My lovely Auguste is exceptionally well, considering her condition (three more months). Please tell Papa that I have taken his advice to spend more time at home with the family—no more working until midnight.

  A million kisses,

  Your loving son, Eugène

  Note—I am hopeful that Papa will be able to come to an understanding with Tsar Alexandre at the upcoming conference in Erfurt. If he can get Russia to agree to support a blockade against England, England will be forced to negotiate for peace.

  September 16, Friday.

  It seems that everyone—our best actors and actresses, my cooks, even Dr. Corvisart—is going to Erfurt in Saxony…for the peace talks, it is said, but what is whispered is that Bonaparte will be meeting with Tsar Alexandre to discuss marriage to the Tsar’s sister.

  “Nonsense,” Bonaparte told me tonight when I teased him about this rumour. “Talleyrand, explain to my wife that my meetings with the Tsar will be strictly political.�
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  “Your Majesty, the meetings will be strictly political.”

  “And royal marriages are not political?”

  As a result of this “innocent” banter, I could not sleep last night and have been in bed all day. Every hour or so, Bonaparte pops his head through the bed-curtains. “You worry too much,” he said, suspecting the cause of my malaise. “You shouldn’t listen to the gossips.”

  September 22—Saint-Cloud.

  Bonaparte left for Erfurt at five this morning. He embraced me farewell, kissed me with feeling. “I’ll be back in a month. Promise you won’t worry?”

  “I promise,” I lied.

  September 26, Monday—Malmaison.

  Thérèse’s hat was even more fanciful than usual: an exotic confection of birds and flowers. “What is there to worry about?” she asked, getting right to the point. “Has the Emperor ever made a woman pregnant? No! He’s not about to divorce you and marry some young thing only to make a public fool of himself.”

  “That’s the one thing that consoles me,” I confessed—and that makes me sadder still.

  October 19.

  Bonaparte arrived back from the peace talks laden with magnificent Russian furs. “Why the disguise?” I asked, for he was dressed as an advocate in a black wool cape.

  “I had need of speed. Spain is in trouble.”

  “You’re returning to Spain?”

  “Joseph has abandoned Madrid, fled without even a struggle! King Pepe Coxo, the Spaniards call him—vice-ridden incompetent. With family like mine, I have no need of enemies.”

  “Will there be no end to war?”

  “Do you think I seek it?” he asked sadly.

  Saturday, October 29—Rambouillet.

  Bonaparte refuses to allow me to accompany him to Spain. “It’s too dangerous,” he insisted. “The Spaniards are unpredictable.”

  Murderous, he meant. I pressed my cheek against his heart. If he only knew how much I worried! My attention was drawn to something under his vest. “What’s this?” It felt like a soft, small sachet, about an inch in circumference. Bonaparte pulled away. “What is it?” I persisted. His hands were cold.

  “Josephine, you wouldn’t want me to be…”

  I closed my eyes. It was poison, I realized, in case of capture.

  November 13—Paris, the awful Tuileries.

  I’ve moved back into the Tuileries: the dark, dank palace—now garishly renovated, alas. I’m too ill to care, frankly, too upset about the Spanish campaign, trembling every time I think of that terrible, impossible war. Bonaparte wouldn’t even be there had he not been advised that the Spaniards were eager for “liberation.” And now, once in, how does one withdraw? Certainly not Bonaparte. Le feu sacré. He’d be the last to admit defeat—especially to England.

  December 4, Sunday.

  The most astonishing news—the most disturbing news. Talleyrand invited Fouché to his home on Rue de Varenne. They were seen to walk arm in arm through the rooms. “But Fouché and Talleyrand detest one another,” I said.

  “When enemies unite, there is bound to be trouble,” Chastulé said.

  December 22, 1808, Milan

  Chère Maman,

  I have succeeded in intercepting a letter that Governor Junot sent to Queen Caroline in Naples. As you suspected, Talleyrand and Fouché are in league to put Joachim on the throne of the French Empire—should the Emperor be killed in battle, they will have it, but the scheme looks suspect in my view. Caroline has even set up a communication system between Paris and Naples so that her husband can quickly be summoned. Junot guaranteed her military “protection”—you know what that means.

  I’ve alerted the Emperor, who will no doubt return to Paris immediately. The enemy are not in Spain—they are at home, and in the intimacy of his family circle.

  My lovely Auguste is well. The midwife says “any day.”*

  Your ever loyal son, Eugène

  Tuesday—Malmaison.

  “So that’s what Caroline was up to,” Thérèse said. “She’s been planning this little coup for some time. I have to say, I admire the little vixen. She figured she needed Fouché on her side so she honeyed him. Junot, as Governor of Paris, controls the militia, and so she dragged him into her bed. And—of course—an intimate relationship with the Austrian Ambassador would prove to be helpful were she to become Queen of France. What a terrifying thought! You alerted the Emperor?”

  “Eugène did.”

  “Let’s pray he gets back soon.”

  January 23, 1809—Tuileries.

  Bonaparte is back from Spain, roaring at everyone. Talleyrand has been demoted,* but Fouché, alas, is still Minister of Police. The man who knows everything knows too much, it would appear. “It’s safer to keep him near,” Bonaparte said.

  And what of his sister Caroline? I dared not ask. Blood is everything.

  April 12—Saint-Cloud, 10:00 P.M.

  An hour ago, as we were dining, a message came announcing that Austria has invaded Munich—again. Between war in the southwest and war in the northeast, Bonaparte is run ragged.

  Saturday, April 15—Strasbourg.

  Nothing in Bonaparte’s manner warned me: no loud and tuneless humming of “Malbrough,” no rush of last-minute preparations. After a late dinner he returned to his cabinet to work—as usual. I played whist with my ladies until one and then retired. I think it was shortly after three that I was awoken by the sound of a horse’s whinny. I sat up, puzzled. Wagon wheels? I went to the window, drew back the drapes: there, in the courtyard below, was Bonaparte’s travelling carriage. Servants, grooms and aides were rushing about with flambeaux…and there was Bonaparte, pulling on his hat. The footman opened the carriage door and let down the step.

  He was leaving—without even a good-luck kiss? I groped through the dark rooms to the entry, knocking over a table. I flew down the steps and into the carriage.

  “Josephine?” Bonaparte was startled to see me.

  “You can’t leave without telling me, Bonaparte!”

  “I was afraid you would insist on going, and—”

  “Well, you were right.”

  “But you can’t just—”

  “Sire, we’re ready to set out.” Duroc glanced at me, puzzled. What was the Empress doing in the coach in her nightdress and cap?

  “That’s fine,” I said, with an attempt at authority.

  “But Josephine, you’re not even dressed.”

  “I’m serious,” I growled, which made Bonaparte laugh.

  “Order the Empress’s trunks sent on to Strasbourg,” he told Duroc, draping his greatcoat over my shoulders. “Ah, Josephine, whatever am I going to do with you?” he sighed as we passed through the Paris gates and onto the cobbled avenue.

  Sunday morning—Strasbourg.

  We’ve only just arrived in Strasbourg and already Bonaparte is leaving to join his army—yet another hurried departure, another tearful leavetaking, another quick good-luck kiss. I’ve set out the candles, the cards: keeping vigil yet again.

  May 6, noon

  Mon amie, the cannonball that touched me caused no wound—it barely grazed the Achilles tendon. My health is excellent. Don’t be anxious. Things are going very well here. All thine, N.

  Schönbrunn, May 12, 1809

  I am master of Vienna. Everything is going perfectly. My health is very good. N.

  May 27

  Eugène has joined me with his army. He has achieved the mission I assigned him, almost entirely destroying the enemy army in front of him. I am very well. All thine, N.

  [Undated]

  News from headquarters: the Emperor is victorious.

  Rumours from headquarters: the Emperor is often in the company of a young Polish countess.

  Go back home, Bonaparte writes. Don’t join me here.

  I am packing, returning with regret.

  September 20—Malmaison.

  “It’s the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Your Majesty, Monsieur Maret, or rather”—Clari stuck her
nose in the air in imitation of a haughty demeanour—“the Duke de Bassano.”

  “Are you sure, Clari?” I thought Hugues Maret was in Germany, with Bonaparte.

  But it was, indeed, the Minister of Foreign Affairs—Citoyen Maret, as I think of him. (After all, I’ve known him since before the Revolution.) “Forgive my surprise, Minister Maret. I thought you were with the Emperor.”

  “I was, Your Majesty,” he said, sticking his nose in the air, just as Clari had demonstrated. “I’ve a message from him.”

  “A letter?”

  “No, Your Majesty. A verbal communication.”

  “Would you care to walk in the garden, Minister Maret?”

  Two of the pugs got lazily to their feet and sniffed the Minister’s boots. He smiled down at them, showing false teeth. “That would be delightful,” he said, taking two steps back.

  The day was crisp and bright. “And how is the Emperor?” I asked, picking a decayed leaf off a potted auricula. The Emperor my husband; the Emperor in the arms of his Polish mistress. My husband whom I missed very, very much, nonetheless.

  “The Emperor is exceptionally well, Your Majesty,” Minister Maret said, jumping to open the grille-work gate for me.

  I stopped on the path to inhale the scent of a bloom. Rosa Longifolia, Rosa Pulila, Rosa Orbessanea, I recited silently in my mind. “You said you had a message for me.” I broke off a bloom long past its prime; the petals scattered on the stones. “From the Emperor.”