The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  Moustache nodded, catching his breath. “He sent me to tell you. And to let you know that your son is well.”

  That’s the last I remember, for I fainted.

  Sunday.

  Bonaparte looked like a Cossack in his bear coat and hat. His face was dark, burnt from the sun. “I can’t stay long.” He took my hand, did not let it go. “Come outside.”

  We sat on the cold stone bench under the tulip tree, its branches bare, the winter garden grey and featureless. I listened to his account with tears in my heart. He’d hastened back to calm the populace, he said. He feared people would panic on learning the extent of the losses. The campaign would have been glorious if the Russian winter had not come early, and had not been so severe. All he needed was to raise another army.

  I could not speak. Another army? Where will the soldiers come from? Did he not see that we are a nation of women—a nation of women in mourning? The only men left are either old or crippled.

  Four hundred thousand is all it would take, he said.

  February 28, 1813.

  Carnival season opens as the wounded return, yet even so the fêtes and the balls go on—”the balls for wooden legs,” people call them now.

  Every day, it seems, we learn of some new tragedy. One of Carlotta’s brothers has died in Russia. Mademoiselle Avrillion’s aunt has lost two sons, and the third son who did return lost his hands due to frost.

  March 6.

  We’ve been working all week making lint bandages for the wounded. My drawing room looks like a hospital.

  Wednesday, April 14—Malmaison.

  Bonaparte and I sat for two hours this morning under our tulip tree. He told me charming stories about his son, now two and temperamental, and complained of his young wife (she wipes her mouth after he kisses her). Then he began to speak of the war, the coming campaign, his conviction that he will be victorious this time, that a peace will be signed. “But not a dishonourable peace. Not a peace at any price.”

  I want to believe him—and why should I not? Has he not wrought miracles?

  He touched my hand before he left, promising to give Eugène my love.

  “My prayers are always with you.”

  “I was happy here,” he said, looking out over the gardens.

  April 26, Mansfeld

  Chère Maman,

  Forgive my penmanship: I’ve developed a bit of rheumatism.

  My army is on the move again, riding out to join the Emperor. I’m confident that this new campaign will be over quickly and that soon there will be peace. Both sides long for it.

  Take care, lovely Maman, and give my love to my sister and her boys. We sing her songs often—they give us courage.

  Your loving son, Eugène

  May 5.

  Bonaparte has had a victory! “Funds up to 76.90,” Mimi said.

  Friday, May 7.

  Another victory! Cannons have been booming all morning.

  May 12, 1813, Lützen

  Chère Maman,

  The big battle has been won. The Emperor is allowing me to return to Milan—to my beautiful Auguste and our children. I’m to raise and train another army.

  I bade the Emperor Godspeed about an hour ago. He looked worn. We are all weary. I’ve been at war for a year.

  Your devoted son, Eugène

  June 11, a glorious day.

  At last, an armistice has been signed. Dare we believe we shall have peace?

  August 23, Monday, early evening.

  The Emperor of Austria has denounced the armistice, declared war on France. Mon Dieu—Marie-Louise’s father. How could he turn on us—turn on his own daughter?

  October 30—Malmaison.

  Disaster at Leipzig. I wept when I read the words: The French army has lost. Reduced to only forty thousand men!

  I’ve locked myself in my room—to pace, pray, weep. Against all better judgement, I’ve written Bonaparte.*

  November 9.

  Bonaparte is back, at the head of his defeated army. He returned without fanfare, without cannon or marching bands.

  December 2.

  On this, the anniversary of the coronation, on Bonaparte’s “lucky” day, I received a distressed letter from Milan—from my lovely Auguste. Her father, jolly King Max of Bavaria, has joined the enemy! Furthermore, he tried to persuade Eugène to do so as well.

  Of course Eugène refused. “God gave me an angel as a husband,” Auguste wrote. And God gave an angel to him.

  January 3, 1814, Monday.

  Hortense’s cheeks were flushed. “Maman, terrible news! An army of over one hundred thousand Cossacks has crossed the Rhine and is headed for Paris. I’ve never seen the Empress Marie-Louise so upset. Do you know what she told me? That she takes bad luck with her wherever she goes, that everyone who comes near her is made to suffer.”

  “And what did Bonaparte say?”

  “He told her that’s superstitious nonsense.”

  “No—I mean about the Cossacks!”

  “He said not to worry—he has a plan.”

  January 14.

  A call has been sounded: soldiers needed.

  “I’m going to volunteer,” Oui-Oui told me in all seriousness.

  “Me, too,” Petit echoed.

  I explained that there were age requirements.

  “Uncle said he wanted us.”

  “Everyone,” Oui-Oui explained gravely. “Even old men.”

  Even old men, indeed: dear old Gontier just informed me that he was going to enlist. “Gontier, you mustn’t!” He is over sixty, I am sure.

  But nothing I could do or say would dissuade him. I gave him a good pony, one of the few I have left, so many have been drafted.

  Saturday, January 22.

  Bonaparte stood by his carriage as he told me that he was leaving for battle in the morning. In three months he would be either victorious or dead.

  Le feu sacré. “I didn’t come to make you weep,” he said, perplexed by my response.

  I tried to dissemble my fear. All of Europe has joined forces against him. He has only fifty thousand men. Victory is impossible!

  But “impossible” is not a French word, I reminded myself. “May I—” Kiss you, I almost said. “I would like to wish you good luck.” Dropping a curtsey.

  Bonaparte looked at me for a long moment. “Remember me, Josephine,” he said, stepping back, tipping his hat.

  February 4.

  Terrible rumours—it’s being said that Bonaparte’s troops have been repulsed, forced to retreat onto French soil. I don’t know what to believe. I sent Mimi into Paris to find out what she could. She returned with a worried look: prayers are being said at Notre-Dame and the Louvre’s collections are being packed.

  February 18, 1814, Milan

  Chère Maman,

  I fear this will distress you terribly, but you must know. Caroline and Joachim have joined the enemy and this morning Joachim made an open declaration of war against the Army of Italy—against me. I do not need to tell you the degree of my disgust—nor the depth of my sympathy for the Emperor. Such a “family” he must suffer.

  Your loyal son, Eugène

  March 28.

  People are coming into Paris in droves, fleeing in advance of the enemy.

  “Bonaparte will save us,” I assured Hortense, rolling lint bandages, stacking them up. “He calculates everything so carefully, taking into account every possible outcome. Surprise has always been his strategy. No doubt this is part of his plan.”

  [Undated]

  A cobbler from town just came to warn me that he has met wounded soldiers on the road. They’ve told him the enemy is near. What does that mean: near?

  Tuileries. Maman, we’ve learned that the enemy is approaching from the south. Empress Marie-Louise intends to flee Paris in the morning with the baby. You must go to Navarre—immediately. Take every precaution. Don’t worry about me and the boys. I’ll get word to you. Hortense.

  March 29—Mantes, 7:20 P.M.

  Ho
rtense’s note came after midnight, in the dead of night. I woke everyone, gave the order that we would be leaving Malmaison in the morning, taking as much as we could with us. We’ve decided to leave the farm animals, the orangutan and the birds in the care of the groundskeeper, but to take the pugs and the horses.

  Mimi and I stayed up stitching my gems into the lining of a wadded skirt. The remaining jewellery we put into strongboxes, along with the oak box of Bonaparte’s letters—my true treasure. It was almost three in the morning when we finished. We would be leaving early, at seven—there was not much time for sleep. I bade Mimi goodnight and got into bed. I lay there for some time, listening to the spring rain, thinking of Empress Marie-Louise all alone in that big ormolu bed in the Tuileries Palace. Was she sleeping? Or, like me, was she tormented with fear and doubt—and guilt, surely, at fleeing Paris.

  I got out of bed. Taking the night candle, I slipped down the stairs and walked through the château. Would my beloved Malmaison be ravaged by Cossacks, my treasures carried off? I ran my fingers over the harp strings—the light, rippling sound brought back the memory of summer evenings. What a magical place Malmaison has been—what a magical life I’ve had here.

  I went into the study—the room Bonaparte had worked in, built an empire in. I spun the globe. Where is he?

  I returned to bed with a heavy heart. At dawn I woke sweating. It was grey and raining, a cold spring drizzle that made me shiver. No point lighting a fire, I told Mimi, slipping into my wadded gown.

  We didn’t reach Mantes until nightfall. It was slow going with all the horses in the pouring rain.

  This inn is full of people escaping Paris. I am Madame Mercier, I tell them. Nothing is known; everything whispered. I am dead with exhaustion, but rest eludes me. Where is Hortense as I write this? Where is Bonaparte? What is happening in Paris?

  In which I entertain the enemy

  April 1, 1814—Navarre.

  It was the sound of boys’ voices in the cavernous entry that brought me to my feet. I very nearly collided with Hortense at the door. “Mon Dieu, it is you!” I threw my arms around her, pressed her to my heart. “Forgive me, we’ve been tormented not knowing.”

  The servants crowded into the room. Hortense paused before announcing, “We’ve capitulated.”

  There was a moment of incomprehension, followed by cries of disbelief.

  “Where is the Emperor?” I demanded.

  “Maman, I don’t know! All I know is that a treaty of surrender has been signed and that the Empress and the baby are in the southwest, at Blois.”

  Saturday, April 2.

  “The army wouldn’t take me,” old Gontier said sheepishly. He returned to Malmaison on my sturdy little pony only to be told that we’d fled to the north. He’s been three days travelling to reach us.

  He left Paris on Wednesday, he said. In the morning he heard cannon in the direction of Saint-Chaumont. As he headed out, he saw Russian soldiers on the road. “Well-behaved lads wearing caps with green leaves stuck in them.” There had been no sign of plunder or violence, he said, which is a great relief to us all. (Though hard to believe.)

  Sunday.

  As Hortense slept, I took the boys to Mass at the cathedral in Évreux. The town was quiet—there was little to indicate that France had fallen. The Imperial sign over the posting house had been taken down, but nothing put up in its place.

  “Are you sad, Grandmaman?” Petit asked. He is tall for a boy of nine; his name no longer suits him.

  “Very.”

  “I am, too,” Oui-Oui said, snuggling into me for warmth. The weather was bright, but brisk. “I had to leave my rocking horse behind,” he told me, his lip quivering.

  “I will get you a new one,” I promised.

  “No, Grandmaman,” Petit solemnly informed me. “Maman says we must suffer like everyone, that we are nobodies now.”

  April 4, Monday—Château de Navarre.

  At last, a note from my groundskeeper: Russian guards have been assigned to protect Malmaison. He included a copy of Le Moniteur, but all that it contained was Tsar Alexandre’s proclamation.

  Where is Bonaparte? What is happening?

  April 7.

  Shattering news. The Pretender is to take back the throne.

  Later…

  Worse news yet. Talleyrand is at the head of the new provisional government, in league with the enemy.

  Chameleon! Opportunist! That he should prove a traitor does not surprise me in the least. Indeed, I am calmed by the revelation of his true colours. But what dismays me beyond measure is the story that it was Clari who helped him, that it was she who opened the gates of Paris to the enemy.

  [Undated]

  We’ve received journals from Paris. I’m filled with disgust, a bitter taste. Is there no honour? No loyalty? Bonaparte’s marshals—men he favoured and raised to glory—have rushed to publicly proclaim themselves in favour of the Pretender. These men—soldiers—swore fidelity and allegiance to Bonaparte, and now they attack him, portray him as an ogre.

  Disillusion has weakened my heart. Defeat at the hands of the enemy is nothing compared to this corruption from within. I weep for Bonaparte, for us all.

  April 8.

  Mimi woke me in the night, tugging gently on my toes. “There’s someone downstairs who would like to see you, Yeyette—Monsieur de Maussion. The bookkeeper,” she reminded me, lighting a lamp. “He has news of the Emperor, he said.”

  “Of Bonaparte?” I sat up, my heart pounding.

  Monsieur de Maussion stood by the dying fire in the drawing room. He was wearing a short green hunting coat. A small travelling pistol hung from his broad belt. “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing stiffly from the waist. “I beg forgiveness for disturbing your repose.”

  “I am told you have news of the Emperor,” I said, taking a seat, neglecting civilities in my anxiety. I gestured to him to sit down in the chair opposite, but he stood ramrod-stiff, as if at attention.

  “The Emperor is at Fontainebleau,” he announced. “He has abdicated and will be sent into exile. I’ve been—”

  “Exile?” I was alarmed, but relieved, as well. At least Bonaparte was not to be executed.

  “To Elba, Your Majesty. I’ve been—”

  “Where is Elba?”

  “Elba is a small island in the Mediterranean, Your Majesty, separated from the Italian mainland by the Strait of Piombino. I’ve been—”

  “A very small island, is it not, Monsieur?”

  “Between one and three-and-a-half leagues in width, Your Majesty, six leagues in length. I’ve been—”

  “But that’s smaller than the park at Malmaison!”

  “I do not recall the dimensions of the park at Malmaison, Your Majesty. I’ve been—”

  “Have you seen the Emperor, Monsieur de Maussion? Have you talked to him?”

  “I have seen him, Your Majesty, but no, I have not spoken with him. I’ve been—”

  “Please tell me: how did he look to you?”

  Monsieur de Maussion frowned. “Like the Emperor, Your Majesty.”

  I pressed my fist against my mouth. If only I could see Bonaparte! I would know in a glance how he was feeling. I would know if he was sleeping, if he was eating, if his stomach—oh, his sensitive stomach!—was upsetting him. I would know by the abruptness of his movements if a falling fit might be threatening. “Yes, of course,” I said weakly, remembering myself. “Did he look…well, did you think?” I asked, using the cuff of my sleeve to dry my eyes. It wasn’t fair, I knew, to ask this man to see with the eyes of a wife.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. I’ve been asked by the French Ambassador to Russia, the Duke de Vicenza, to—”

  “De Caulaincourt?”

  Monsieur de Maussion nodded. “Yes, he asked me to—”

  “De Caulaincourt is with the Emperor?” Gentle, aristocratic Armand de Caulaincourt. It would comfort me to know that he was with Bonaparte.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. He sent me expressly to te
ll you to do what you can.” This last in a rush of words for fear I would yet again interrupt.

  “What does that mean?” Do what you can.

  “It means that you try to seek favour for yourself and your children at the court of the enemy, Your Majesty.”

  April 13.

  A note from Armand de Caulaincourt. He urges me to return to Paris—it’s in my best interest, he said. It behooves me to show myself, press my case with the Tsar. It is the Emperor’s wish. Je le veux.

  And then, a note at the bottom, in the secretary’s tidy script: Your Majesty, it is urgent that they be persuaded to be charitable with respect to the Emperor.

  I’m packing.

  4:45 P.M.

  “Very well,” Hortense said, but in a tone that suggested she did not approve.

  “You don’t think I should go,” I said.

  “Do what you want, Maman,” she said, “but I won’t be going with you.”

  “You’ll stay here?” I was relieved, frankly. She and the boys would be safer at Navarre.

  “I’ve decided I must go to Blois, to see the Empress.”

  “But Hortense, that’s risky!” A show of allegiance to the Empress would be held against her. “You must think of your future, and that of your boys.”

  “It’s my duty, Maman,” she insisted. “Marie-Louise is young and very much alone. Imagine the torment she must feel! You have raised me to do what is honourable.”