The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  “Your Majesty,” he said, astonished as much by my unexpected call as by my disordered appearance.

  “Who is it, Constant?” I heard Bonaparte call out. I stepped into the room. By the light of a lantern on the washstand, I saw that Bonaparte was in bed, under a pile of comforters.

  “Bonaparte, I just wanted to—” I began calmly, but my voice suddenly went high, like that of a child in pain. “I don’t know if I have the strength to do this,” I gasped.

  Bonaparte sat up, his nightcap slipping off. I fell sobbing into his arms. “Courage,” he said, tender and caressing. I touched his cheek, now wet with tears. “Oh, Josephine, how am I ever going to manage without you?” he whispered, holding me close.

  Saturday, almost 2:00 P.M.

  I will be leaving soon, leaving the palace, never to return, leaving my place beside Bonaparte. Soon another empress—young, royal, fertile—will sit at this desk. I have no illusions. Bonaparte will come to love her; that is her right. She will be the mother of his children.

  And I, who will I be? I will be “the other one,” growing old alone.

  I’ve sprinkled the room with my light lavender scent. He will never, ever forget me.

  [Undated]

  “Ready, Maman?” Hortense touched my shoulder, a gentle motion that gave me strength.

  “What about the pups?” I asked, slipping a veil over my head to hide my tear-streaked cheeks. Two days ago, one of the pugs had given birth to a litter.

  “Don’t worry, they’re in Mademoiselle Avrillion’s carriage,” Hortense said, taking my hand. “Along with the canaries,” she added with a smile.

  All the servants were lined up in the entry. As soon as they saw me, saw that the moment had come, a terrible wail rose up, a heart-rending lamentation that echoed off the marble surfaces. I was blinded by tears; Hortense pulled me forward.

  “Oh dear,” I heard her say, once we were out the door. There was a crowd in the courtyard, standing in the cold winter rain. “It’s the good Empress Josephine!” I heard a woman call out. Hortense hurried me into the carriage. As the horses pulled forward at a fast pace, Hortense reached to close the leather curtains. I did not look back.

  III

  The Other One

  If he is happy, I will have no regrets.

  —Josephine

  In which a king is born

  Sunday, December 17, 1809—Malmaison.

  I woke this morning to the sound of Mimi humming a familiar créole song. “He’s here,” she said, poking her head through the bed-curtains.

  “Bonaparte?” I sat up, my heart jumping.

  “The Emperor awaits you in the garden,” an aide I didn’t recognize informed me, neither addressing me as Empress nor bowing, merely ducking his head.

  “In the rain?” I asked. It was more of a drizzle now, but damp nonetheless. I sent Mimi for boots and an umbrella—not the English one—a cape and a hat.

  The aides followed like an unwelcome shadow to the rose garden gate. Bonaparte, pacing at the far end in his familiar grey coat, turned to face me. He touched the brim of his tricorne hat, as if in salute.

  The aides lined up like sentries along the fence—close enough to watch, I realized. Bonaparte stepped back as I drew near. I understood: we were not to embrace.

  “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.” I took a shaky breath, another. Tears would upset him, I knew.

  “I needed to know how you were doing.” He looked grim—his eyes red-rimmed.

  I dared not answer, for fear of speaking truly.

  “Let’s walk, Josephine,” he said gently, offering his arm.

  December 17, 8:00 P.M.

  Mon amie, I found you weaker today than you should be. You must not surrender to such a devastating melancholy. You must find happiness, and above all, you must care for your health, which is so precious to me.

  Never doubt my constant and tender feelings. You do not understand me if you think I can be happy if you are not at peace.

  Adieu, sleep well. N.

  December 21—Malmaison.

  Thérèse burst into tears when she saw me. “I told you never to get divorced!” she said angrily. “I told you it was hell.” And then she embraced me, held me tight. “Forgive me!” she cried, enveloping me in a cloud of her familiar neroli oil scent. “You love the brute—and he loves you. That makes it even worse.”

  Sunday.

  Bonaparte removed his hat, held it over his heart. “I’d like you, Hortense and Eugène to join me for dinner tomorrow. Christmas dinner,” he added, as if I did not know.

  Monday, Christmas Day.

  “That was the most miserable meal I’ve ever experienced,” Hortense exclaimed on our return.

  I stroked one of the pugs’ ears. The dog looked up at me with sorrowful eyes, as if she knew my thoughts. It had been miserable. Bonaparte had sat silently throughout the entire meal, now and then wiping his eyes.

  One sweet note: the tender welcome of Bonaparte’s staff. “The Emperor misses you terribly, Your Majesty,” Constant whispered to me. “We all do.”

  It seems lonelier here now at Malmaison. I see him still, walking in the garden, working at his desk.

  Oh, Bonaparte…how hard this is!

  January 1, 1810—Malmaison, almost dinnertime.

  What a terrible way to begin the year.

  The ordeal began after the noonday meal. The servants of the household were instructed to enter the music room one by one. I was to give them a New Year’s gift, and they in turn were to declare themselves: tell me if they would be staying with me or seeking employment elsewhere.

  “Chastulé, perhaps you could record what everyone says,” I suggested.

  “Ha! But who will write down my declaration?”

  “You wish to declare yourself now?”

  “Why wait?”

  “Countess d’Arberg, could you? Would you mind?” My tall, elegant lady-in-waiting did her best to squeeze into Chastulé’s little chair and desk.

  “Don’t I get my gift first?” Chastulé demanded. “It’s the one on the right, with the scarlet bow.” Countess d’Arberg checked the tag and handed it to her. “My husband insists I stay with the court,” Chastulé said, pinning the diamond brooch to her bodice. “I have my family to think of, and you won’t be needing a lady of honour any more since you won’t be entertaining and holding drawing rooms or suppers.” She glanced at what Countess d’Arberg had written. “I said suppers, not dinners.”

  “You’re leaving me, Chastulé?” I felt her words as a blow.

  “I’ve already written to the Emperor, Madame,” she said, edging toward the door.

  “Just send in Carlotta, if you would, Countess de la Rochefoucauld,” Countess d’Arberg said coolly.

  The door slammed shut behind Chastulé. The silence was oppressive. Even the canaries were still. “Would you care to be my lady of honour?” I asked Countess d’Arberg weakly.

  “I’ve coveted the position ever since I joined your household, Your Majesty,” she said, efficiently blotting the ledger book and turning the page.

  I was surprised. Countess d’Arberg is a Belgian aristocrat of German extraction, allied to the ruling houses of Germany. I had assumed that she would want to stay with the court.

  The door creaked open. “Your Majesty, you summoned me?” Carlotta’s dark eyes widened seeing Countess d’Arberg seated at Chastulé’s little escritoire.

  “You were,” I said, guarded. Carlotta would leave me, too, no doubt. “Today everyone is to make a declaration, as you know.”

  Carlotta coloured as she said, “I want to serve you, Your Majesty—that is, if you will have me. Forgive me—have I said something wrong?” she asked, puzzled by my reaction.

  “I assure you, Madame Gazzani, you have not,” Countess d’Arberg said, giving my reader her gift.

  “And this, as well, Carlotta,” I said, taking a ring off my finger, pressing it into her hand.

  And so, throughout the afternoon,
there were many, many tears. A significant number of the servants will be leaving—understandable, I tell myself. A few will retire with a pension. (Agathe is one, alas. She is betrothed to the groundskeeper at Fontainebleau.) Clari would have liked to stay, she assured me, but for health reasons begged to be allowed to retire. I will miss her.

  It’s a smaller household now, but a good one. Mademoiselle Avrillion will stay, as mistress of the wardrobe. Mimi will stay, of course, and old Gontier. “I’ll see you to your grave, Your Majesty,” he declared, leaning on a cane, one hand pressed to his heart.

  February 6, almost midnight.

  Eugène pulled on a pug’s tail and growled playfully. “Sorry I’m late, Maman.”

  “And?” I put down my needlework. He had set out late this afternoon for the Austrian Embassy to deliver Bonaparte’s formal request for the hand of Archduchess Marie-Louise.* “How did the Austrian ambassador respond?” The offer had been made on condition that an answer be given within a day. The seventeen-year-old Archduchess would not even be consulted.

  “The contract will be signed tomorrow at noon.”

  “I suppose this is cause for celebration.”

  “I suppose,” he echoed, embracing me.

  February 14.

  Eugène has left to return to Milan. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised, “with Auguste.” For Bonaparte’s wedding, he did not say.

  Saturday noon.

  Le Moniteur is full of news about the preparations that are being made for “the wedding of the century,” all the fêtes and spectacles that are being planned.

  “Your Majesty, perhaps it would be best not to read the news-sheets,” Countess d’Arberg said gently, bringing me a cup of tea (and slipping the journal away).

  Monday, February 19—a bit of a drizzle.

  “Uncle doesn’t like his dance lessons,” Oui-Oui told me this afternoon.

  Bonaparte is taking dance lessons?

  “Aunt Caroline said he must learn,” Petit explained.

  “Well, of course,” I said, dissembling. How many times had I tried to persuade Bonaparte to learn to dance only to be told no, impossible, don’t even mention it! And now—now that he will have a young wife—he has decided to learn.

  “And he has a new shiny suit with a high collar.” Petit demonstrated how high with his fingers.

  “But it’s too tight,” Oui-Oui said with a giggle.

  February 20, Tuesday.

  My hairdresser was miserable this morning—and now I am, too. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but—”

  “Monsieur Duplan, you’ve been dressing my hair for over a decade.”

  “Queen Caroline is helping the Emperor set up the new household and insists that—”

  Insists that from now on, Duplan—my Duplan—is to be hairdresser to one woman and one woman only: the soon-to-be-Empress Marie-Louise. “I understand,” I said, but fuming, I confess. It is one thing to lose a husband and a crown, quite another to lose a hairdresser.

  [Undated]

  “Not you, too, Monsieur Leroy.” How was I to manage without my dress designer? I’d discovered Leroy! I’d been his patroness. Together we’d created a new fashion.

  “Your Majesty, you know I would far prefer to make gowns for you,” he said tearfully, his manicured hands pressed to his rouged cheeks. “But—”

  [Undated]

  “Dr. Corvisart, please don’t tell me that you won’t be able to attend me any more.”

  “Now, now,” Dr. Corvisart said thoughtfully, taking my pulse. He sat down across from me, his thumb on his chin—preparing to tell me I was dying, no doubt. “Your Majesty, your eyesight has become quite weak,” he observed. “Do you weep often?”

  “No,” I said, weeping.

  He smiled. “I will be honest. Your nerves have suffered quite seriously and, dare I say, your heart.”

  I pressed my hands to my chest. I was dying; I knew it! “What’s wrong with my heart?” Dr. Corvisart is a heart specialist—he has written a medical text on the subject.

  “I believe it is broken,” he said gently, handing me a cambric handkerchief. “The waters of Aix-les-Bains are excellent for nerves.” Tapping the end of his pencil against his cheek. “June would be a good time to go—not too hot and not too cold,” he said, marking it on his calendar.

  “But Dr. Corvisart, I’ve never been to that spa.” Aix-les-Bains was southeast, in the mountains bordering Italy.

  “Exactly,” he said. “No memories.”

  Friday night, March 9, quite late.

  Fire-rockets brighten the night sky. Another fête, no doubt, to celebrate the coming wedding—another fête to which I haven’t been invited.

  Fourteen years ago today, Bonaparte and I married.

  March 12

  Mon amie, I hope you will be happy with the Château de Navarre. You will see in it another proof of my wish to please. It’s not far from the village of Évreux, about thirteen posting houses from Paris—twenty-eight leagues, to be exact. Joachim, who arranged for the purchase, informs me that the château was designed by Mansart, the architect of Versailles, and that it is famed for its gardens. You could go on March 25 and spend the month of April there. Adieu, N.

  March 12, Monday—Malmaison.

  “Why March 25?” Countess d’Arberg asked, examining the calendar. “Oh,” she said, and fell silent.

  March 25: two days before Archduchess Marie-Louise is expected to arrive in France.

  March 20.

  Hortense has just left in a flutter. Every king and queen in Europe is coming to the wedding. “Where are all these sovereigns going to stay?” she demanded. Jérôme and Catherine alone had arrived with a suite of over thirty servants. “And all requiring a bed, Maman—impossible!”

  I remembered the problems Chastulé and I had had in December, trying to find suitable accommodation for everyone during the peace celebrations. One can’t put kings and queens in just any establishment. “Chastulé should be able to help,” I suggested.

  “You don’t know, Maman? Papa sent her packing. He was furious that she refused to stay with you.”

  Countess d’Arberg caught my eye and smiled.

  March 24.

  Eugène and his lovely Auguste arrived (exhausted). Soon they’ll leave to join Bonaparte at Compiègne to join the party that welcomes the young bride to France.

  “Aren’t you going to the country, Maman?” Eugène asked anxiously. “Didn’t Papa buy you a château? Shouldn’t you be there now?”

  Don’t worry, I assured him. “I’m leaving in the morning.” I won’t be around when she comes to Paris.

  Don’t worry, don’t worry, don’t worry. The old Empress will be long gone.

  March 29, Thursday—Château de Navarre.

  My château—my “gift” from Bonaparte.

  My curse, I fear. The people of Évreux have named it “the saucepan.” The ugly cube structure is topped by a bizarre dome, intended at one time to support an enormous statue. One enters into a dark circular hall—the only light from slits two stories up. And all around, opening onto this hall, are strange triangular rooms.

  The chair I’m sitting on, like all the furniture here, is ancient and uncomfortable. I had a splintered oak table moved close to the (smoking) fireplace because it is so very cold. None of the windows both opens and closes. Some cannot be opened, but most, unfortunately, cannot be closed, so swollen is the wood from the damp.

  Mademoiselle Avrillion is with me now, huddled by the fire. The bedchambers are small, cold, dismal. Each day we burn fifteen cartloads of wood and seven sacks of coal, and even so, we shiver.

  “The grounds are lovely,” Mademoiselle Avrillion said quietly, as if reading my thoughts.

  Yes, I agreed: were it not for the bogs and the stagnant pools.

  [Undated]

  Four servants left today, two yesterday…and who can blame them?

  [Undated]

  Three cartloads of furniture arrived from Paris this afternoon. T
he servants descended on them like starving men attacking a banquet table. A distressing melee ensued, the servants fighting over stools and bed frames while the driver cried out for them to stop. (Futile.)

  April 1, April Fish Day—Château de Navarre.

  As I write this, Bonaparte and Marie-Louise are being joined in marriage.

  We have made some progress clearing the swamp. Very cold still, bitter. My health suffers.

  April 5, Thursday.

  In spite of my resolve, I have read the accounts of the wedding in the journals. The crowds along the Champs-Élysées were so thick the troops had difficulty restraining them. Eight thousand were in attendance at the ceremony. (Who carried the bride’s train? I wonder.) The usual concerts, fire-rockets and fountains gushing with wine. Food was distributed as prizes in a lottery.* (No banquets?) At one signal from the palace, the entire city was illuminated—I would like to have seen that.

  It’s only eight, but I’m going to bed. We’ve sealed the window cracks with wax, which helps. I wonder if Uncle Fesch remembered to bless their bed.

  April 18—Château de Navarre.

  I could not believe my eyes, for who should be announced this evening as I was playing trictrac with the Bishop of Évreux but my son! I jumped to my feet and threw my arms around him, forgetting all sense of propriety. “Why have you come?” I demanded, suddenly alarmed. Was Hortense all right? Her boys! And what about Bonaparte? Was he…?