The Secret Life of Josephine: Napoleon's Bird of Paradise

by Carolly Erickson

  “If you need a wife, then by all means you must find one. I know many eligible women, not all of them rich by any means, but closer to your age and capable of aiding you socially.”

  “I do not want anyone but you.”

  “It is impossible.” I wanted to add, “It is impossible, because of Donovan,” but I did not.

  “Why? Nothing is impossible, if two people of strong will desire it. You are not pledged to anyone else.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

  “No. Not exactly.”

  “Barras tells me that you are not. Surely you can’t be waiting for Barras to propose to you?” He grinned. “We both know that your connection with him has been on the wane for some time. He has been quite candid with me about it. Besides, he never loved you, and I do.”

  He came over to me and took me in his arms, his ardor so intense that he trembled.

  “Tell me you love me a little, my beautiful, my one and only Josephine. Make the happiness of this day complete.”

  “I will have to think about it,” was all I said. I was too weary to argue with him, and in truth I did not want to spoil his day of triumph. I could not accept him, yet I could not bring myself to crush his hopes. He was so ingenuous, so boyish. I could not help liking him.

  “It is after midnight, and I am sleepy. You must let me rest.”

  I saw the disappointment that crossed his eager face, and almost regretted having caused it.

  “Until tomorrow then, my lovely one.” He kissed me again, then turned and was gone. The room felt empty without him.

  29

  THE BANK DRAFTS FROM PAUL BARRAS were coming less often, and his visits to me were infrequent. I made efforts to increase my income from army contracts, and did my best to exploit my connection with General Bonaparte whose troops were gearing up for the coming Italian campaign.

  But the truth was, that in order to maintain the large house and staff of servants that I had then, plus keep my children in costly schools, it was necessary to find another source of support. I would either have to marry, or take another rich lover, or—and I thought about this more and more often—return with Donovan to Martinique.

  The pull of my attachment to Donovan was strong, and I longed for the islands, always my home. I dreamed of returning to the old Martinique, the way it was in my girlhood, with Donovan beside me. But I was more and more convinced that like General Bonaparte, I needed to marry. I wanted permanence. I wanted a respected stepfather for my children. Eugene, in particular, needed a strong man in his life. Hortense, I knew, disliked the general, especially his way of coming up to her and pulling on her ears until she cried out in pain. He laughed when he did it, which made her dislike him even more. But Hortense, being a girl, was not my primary concern: Eugene was. Bonaparte had offered to take Eugene to Italy with him, and I thought, if he will promise to keep Eugene away from the worst of the fighting, then maybe I should let him go. He was so very eager to begin his military career, and he idolized the general.

  Besides, I was beginning to see that there was more to Bonaparte than an unpolished, precocious artillery officer and young commander of men. He had a quality that drew people to him—that drew me to him. He could be ruthless, and he had massacred many innocent Parisians at Paul Barras’s request. Yet I also saw him, in that cold winter of 1795, giving out wholesome loaves of army bread to starving, shivering Parisians in the rue Sainte-Nicole and I know for a fact that he kept a list of families in need (many of them Corsicans) and made certain they were helped with food and fuel until spring came.

  Besides, he was a rising star.

  Everyone said so, and I listened to what was being said. I listened— and in the end I decided to accept his proposal of marriage.

  I did not do so blindly, nor dishonestly, or so I believed. I summoned the general to my house and spoke frankly to him.

  “I cannot pretend that my feelings for you are as strong as yours for me,” I began, when the general had seated himself before the fire in my salon. I paced as I spoke, and was uncomfortably aware of how stilted and formal my words were, like the language in one of the cheap novels Euphemia liked to read. “However, on mature reflection, I have decided to accept your proposal of marriage.”

  Before I could say another word he jumped up from his chair and ran to embrace me, kissing my face again and again and saying “Josephine! Josephine! Oh my darling, my adorable Josephine!”

  I gently pushed him away and went on with what I needed to say, making him sit down again and hear me out.

  “I want you to know that I am not rich, and I cannot bring you any sort of dowry.”

  “Oh, I know that. I’ve already been to see your bankers, I know exactly how much money you have. And I know that Barras will stop sending you checks once we are married.”

  “I should also tell you that I have slept with many men.”

  “Everyone in Paris knows that.”

  “And that I have had another proposal.”

  It was true in a way. Donovan did want me to live with him, presumably for a long time. Just not with a ring and a promise made before a priest. In any case, I felt powerful telling the general that he had a rival.

  My words had a strong effect. Once again Bonaparte jumped up from his chair, but now his face was set sternly in anger. “Who is he?”

  “I prefer not to say. I intend to refuse him.” “I must know who he is.” I was silent.

  “I cannot fight an invisible enemy!” he cried out, taking a step toward me. I was frightened. I kept my voice as low and controlled as I could.

  “There is no need to fight. As I said, I intend to refuse him.”

  I watched as his anger gave way to exasperation, then a look of sour contempt, then defeat, then melancholy. How changeable the man could be!

  “Don’t let us clash on the happiest day of our lives,” he said at length. “As long as you promise to be mine . . .” “Yes. I will marry you,” I said again.

  He was tender and full of endearments; I was kind. He went out and bought me masses of flowers, and brought me a ring that had belonged to his grandmother—a ring with a tiny stone in a very plain oldfashioned setting. I put it on my little finger as it was too small for my ring finger.

  “I don’t wonder it doesn’t fit your ring finger,” he said, caressing my hand between both of his and kissing it. “My Corsican grandmother was a very little woman, barely taller than a child. Her family was very poor and she told me that as a girl she never had enough to eat. But she was strong, and very brave. They say she killed a wolf with a knife when it attacked one of her lambs.”

  He smiled. “We Corsicans are savages.”

  “I know.”

  And then he fell upon me and devoured me, and I did my best to enjoy it.

  Bonaparte spoke often and at length about his destiny, how he was fated to achieve great things, on a vast scale; now I was linking my destiny to his. In my more reflective moments I thought of Orgulon, and what he had told me about my future. Was I making the choice that Orgulon would approve? I thought so.

  The day of the army’s departure for Italy was approaching, and Bonaparte spent every waking hour getting his men ready and reading messages from his informants in the Italian states. When with me he often lapsed into a preoccupied state, pacing the floor and muttering to himself in Italian.

  He wanted us to be married before he left on campaign. He wanted everything settled between us.

  I arranged for our wedding to be held in the fashionable church of St-Sermin and drew up a long guest list. I ordered a bridal gown from Madame Despaux and an immense cake from the patisserie Terlay which at that time made the best pastry in the capital. Planning was well advanced when I received a note from Bonaparte.

  Josephine, soul of my life, meet me at seven o’clock tonight at the city hall in the rue d’Antin. Bring witnesses.

  With the note was a gift, a medallion engraved with the words “To Destiny.”

  Alas! All my el
aborate arrangements had to be abandoned. There was to be no fashionable wedding, no gifts, no envy from the other women as I walked down the aisle in my Madame Despaux gown.

  I was crushed. I wept on Euphemia’s capacious bosom and she patted my head consolingly. After an hour I pulled myself together and sent hurried messages to my friend Therese Tallien and her husband, to Paul Barras (I felt it only right that he be present, to give me away) and to my financial adviser Jerome Calmelet, who had stood loyally by me throughout the ups and downs of my years in Paris. I told them to be at the city hall at seven, and thanked them for their willingness to be my witnesses.

  I did not take Hortense with me that night, at her request. Nor did I send a message to Aunt Edmee or Fanny de Beauharnais. I knew that Fanny disliked Bonaparte and was certain that Aunt Edmee would be disappointed in my choice of husband. To her, high birth and wealth were what mattered in a husband; I felt sure she would be ashamed of me, marrying a Corsican from an obscure family. And a man whose idea of grooming was to douse himself with strong cologne to obscure the odor of scabies.

  I looked at myself in the mirror as Euphemia helped me dress. There were shallow lines at the corners of my mouth and eyes, and the skin of my neck and bosom was no longer dewy but slightly dry and veined, its tone more ivory than snow white. I looked quite pleasant, however, with a perpetual smile and a benign tolerance in my glance. My eyes were bright and charmingly uptilted, giving me a gamine, girlish look that belied my thirty-two years. I would not be thirty-three until June, I reminded myself. I still had three months to be thirty-two.

  Euphemia fastened a red, white and blue sash around the waist of my white gown and handed me my husband’s gift, the engraved medallion on its gold chain. I slipped it over my head.

  “May it bring you good fortune, my sister,” she said, using the family term she never allowed herself to utter. And then, for good measure, she slipped into the pocket of my gown a protective charm. “Just to keep the evil spirits at bay,” she murmured, and we exchanged a knowing smile.

  30

  "SO" MADAME BONAPARTE, I hope you are content with your new role. I see that you are much in demand.” Paul Barras spoke in wry tones, a mocking grin on his face, looking around him at the crowd that had gathered in my boudoir. They were there that morning as usual, the petitioners, the people wanting favors, or hoping to obtain my help in gaining some political post for themselves or a relative.

  “Thanks to my husband’s importance, yes.”

  “But your husband is far away.”

  “He left two days after our wedding, as you well know.”

  Paul took out his snuffbox and extracted a pinch of the yellowish powder, expertly putting it up his nose, sniffing, and sneezing.

  “How sad for the bride,” he went on, “to have no honeymoon. You must be lonely. The grotto is not the same without you.” He gave me a significant look, and I remembered, very vividly, the dimly lit large room in which I had spent so many pleasure-filled, indolent nights.

  “I have plenty of company, when I want it.”

  “I wonder if your new husband knows about your chief companion, the intriguing gentleman from Martinique.”

  I felt my face flush, but answered as nonchalantly as I could.

  “Monsieur de Gautier is a business partner. And yes, Bonaparte knows him. They have met.”

  Donovan had delayed his return to Martinique and we had joined forces in the provisioning business, which was more lucrative than ever. I was dismayed that Barras’s spies knew of my relationship with Donovan—both business and personal.

  “Don t worry,” Barras was saying. “I won’t tell Bonaparte about you and this Monsieur de Gautier. It’s just between us. After all, I don’t want anything to distract Bonaparte from the victories he is winning.”

  My husband had been achieving astounding military success in Italy, his victories in battle much talked of that spring.

  “We are in daily communication,” I said enigmatically, making Barras laugh.

  “You mean he is in daily communication. I know what passes through the post office and the military mail pouches. He writes to you, but you never write to him.”

  He was right. Bonaparte wrote me frequently, sometimes three or four times a day. But I hate writing letters. I did not write back.

  “Besides, I know you, Yeyette. You are too lazy to put in the effort to write a letter!” He reached into his pocket and brought out a carved ivory box.

  “Look inside,” he said, handing it to me.

  I opened it. It contained assignats of high denomination, a good deal of money. Quickly I snapped it shut.

  “Now then, in return for my silence over this matter of Monsieur de Gautier. I shall expect you in the grotto tonight—and for many nights to come. In your usual place, behind the gauze curtain! I will be watching for you.”

  With a laugh he reached out to pat me on the behind. I turned away and began speaking to someone else, but my attempt at indifference could not erase the impact of his familiarity It galled me to realize that Paul Barras still owned me, as he owned Bonaparte and virtually everyone else of importance at that time.

  I caught sight of my image in a mirror. There I was, Madame Bonaparte in name, but still the Vicomtesse de Beauharnais beneath my newfound status, in a gown cut too low for respectability, flashing rings on every finger and with the gleam of avarice in my dark blue eyes—the eyes, I continued to remind myself, of a woman no longer young.

  Despite this realization, I had to acknowledge that in outward ways, my life had changed. Everywhere I went I was greeted with loud acclaim as the wife of the man of the hour, Bonaparte. When I drove out in my phaeton I was applauded. At the theater, everyone stood when I entered my box—just as once, before the Revolution, they had stood to honor the king and queen. Shouts of “Madame Bonaparte!” reached my ears when I went into the street and even the dressmakers’ assistants who fitted my gowns managed to murmur their approval of my husband though their mouths were full of pins.

  I confess that I liked being the wife of a Someone, even though I was uncomfortable knowing that my every move was scrutinized, my every word repeated and evaluated. And I realized, for I am not a fool, that all the extra compliments that came my way were nothing more than flattery, they were not sincerely meant.

  When I cut my hair and wore it in soft curls around my face, and all the fashionable women cut theirs in imitation of me, and when all the shopkeepers fawned on me and offered to extend me credit, or when everyone crowded around me the moment I entered a ballroom, I felt a rush of pleasure. I took much satisfaction from moving into Bonaparte’s large, solid, stone-fronted house in the rue des Capucines and calling for his handsome carriage (my phaeton being used less now) whenever I wanted to go out. It gave me great satisfaction to be able to send more money to my mother and Aunt Rosette in Martinique. I bought Aunt Edmee a beautiful rope of pearls when, having become a widow, she married the aged marquis in a small ceremony at Fontainebleau. I even went to the dentist and had the look of my remaining teeth improved, though I still kept my mouth shut when I smiled.

  By the time Bonaparte had been away in Italy two months his letters to me had become frantic.

  “You are the soul of my life,” he wrote. “I cannot live without you. I cannot eat or sleep for worry. I fear I will end my life if you do not come and be with me.”

  I sent word to him through one of his officers that I was ill and could not come. But that message only made him more upset and desperate. In the end, with great reluctance, I agreed to join him, on condition that I be allowed to bring along my business partner and my maid. Bonaparte was so eager to have me with him that he raised no objection.

  “Only come quickly, soul of my life!” he wrote to me. “Make haste, make haste, on wings of love!”

  When I said that I wanted to bring along my business partner of course I meant Donovan, and I intended to bring Euphemia as well, though she absolutely refused to go with me.
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  “If you think I’m going to let those nasty Austrians shoot me, Yeyette, you’re moonstruck,” she announced when I told her about the trip. “I’m staying right here.”

  By chance a girl came to me just then, hoping to be employed in my household. She had a letter from one of Bonaparte’s friends, Laure Permon, recommending her. I agreed to take her on as my maid, and told her we would soon be leaving for Milan.

  She seemed to be a quiet, efficient young woman, reserved and well-mannered, nondescript in appearance. Her name was Clodia. I did not inquire very deeply into her background because I was involved in getting ready to leave and also because I am a trusting person—too trusting. I was to find out later that she was not what she seemed. In a few days Donovan, Clodia and I got into the heavy, lumbering traveling coach Bonaparte sent us and started off for the south.

  I was unprepared for the rigors of the long journey. I had no idea how far away Italy was, or how very steep and dangerous the mountains were that separated Italy from France.

  We had mountains in Martinique of course, high volcanic peaks that rose above the beaches and forest and towered over the land. I knew at first hand how high and rugged one of those peaks was, Morne Gantheaume, where the Sacred Crossroads were. But those peaks were nothing like the Alps, which rose up in an impenetrable snow-covered barrier before us, a chilly wasteland of ice and cruel cold winds.

  As soon as I saw the first jagged peaks I wanted to turn back. I had had more than my fill of traveling already, riding in the rattling, bouncing coach along dusty roads, my bones aching from being constantly shaken and jounced, my throat dry and my head pounding with pain.

  “I’m not going any further,” I announced to Donovan and the sullen Clodia, who, I could tell, hated coach traveling as much as I did.

  “We’ll stop for the night,” Donovan said, shouting up to the coachman to halt at the next large and prosperous-looking inn. “You’ll feel stronger in the morning.”