Alexandre did in fact leave for Italy soon after this, and was gone for many months. He did not even return in time to be present at the birth of our son. I named the baby Eugene-Rose, and rejoiced in his strength and health. He was a sturdy, active baby with round red cheeks and bright eyes. He seemed to welcome the world, and to be at home in it. I loved him with all my heart, and was very relieved to see that he resembled me and not Alexandre.
My father and Aunt Rosette were delighted at baby Eugene’s arrival, and seemed to feel that, now that I had had a child, they had fulfilled their responsibility. They could go home to Martinique. I embraced them both on the day they left for the coast, to wait for the ship that would take them on their long sea journey. I felt that I was losing something very precious, and my heart ached. Though none of us said what was on our minds, we all knew that we might not meet again.
“Try to please Alexandre, Rose,” my father said to me. “Be what he wants. When he sees what a devoted mother you are, he may think more highly of you.”
Aunt Rosette wept and patted my cheek. “Send me some modes, dear,” was all she said. “I want to know what is being worn in Paris.” I assured her that I would send the latest styles. Then she climbed into the carriage beside my father and they drove off.
Alexandre had been gone so long I began to wonder whether he would ever return. The marquis rented a house in a better neighborhood, near the church of Saint-Philippe du Roule, and we all settled in there, relieved that we no longer had to live day and night with the stink of the tanneries. As it happened, the new house was not far from where Scipion lived, and he called on me from time to time. He became a favorite with the old marquis and Edmee too liked him.
Life went on comfortably enough, in Alexandre’s absence. In the mornings the nursemaid brought Eugene to me and I took him out in the garden, wrapped up warmly against the chill weather. In the afternoon I went out shopping or called on Fanny, who had become an enjoyable companion and who often had interesting people at her house, even when it was not her night to host her salon. Sometimes I went out driving. The marquis let me use his carriage. I liked to dress up and drive in the fashionable parks where people of consequence in Parisian society gathered in the afternoons. I was very bold, riding out alone with no chaperone or escort, and Edmee did not approve. I merely laughed and said that if my husband abandoned me to go off to Italy, he ought to expect me to adapt to living on my own.
Eugene was nearly a year old when Alexandre finally returned. His manner to me was frosty but he was genuinely pleased with the baby, who crowed and gurgled and was already beginning to say his first few words.
Alexandre swept Eugene up in his arms and walked him all around the house, announcing what a fine boy he was and how like himself he looked. (In this he was wrong, but I did not correct him.) Watching him with our son, I could not help but wonder about that other boy, the one Laure de Girardin had borne. Where was he now? Would he and our Eugene ever meet?
Alexandre had brought with him several wagonloads of artworks from Italy. There were marble statues of fauns and nymphs for the garden, an antique bust of Pompey that had been dug up at a place called Herculaneum, and a mosaic of leaping dolphins recovered from a Roman villa. With these were a number of old paintings, much darkened by time and in need of restoration. And there was one more thing, the prize of them all: a very old leather cuirass that, Alexandre insisted, had been worn by Julius Caesar himself.
“How do you know it was worn by Caesar?”
“Because the antiquities dealer assured me that it was, and he has an impeccable reputation. He has sold valuable artworks from ancient times to several prominent collectors, including the Due de La Rochefoucauld.”
The duke was Alexandre’s sponsor in the Sarre regiment and had often given him hospitality on his estate. In Alexandre’s eyes, the Duc de La Rochefoucauld was a sort of deity, a man to be emulated in every way.
“I assume you paid a lot for this,” I said, indicating the strips of greyish leather.
“I don’t mind telling you, it cost me nearly five thousand livres.”
My eyes widened. I had no idea such relics from Roman times were worth that much. Of course, it was the name of Caesar that was valuable, and his lingering aura of greatness, not the old leather harness itself.
“That much! For five thousand livres we could have bought a home of our own.”
“I am perfectly content living with my father and Edmee.”
But it was clear to me, when Alexandre had only been back a short while, that he was far from being perfectly content. He was restless, pacing the rooms of the suite we shared, waking often at night and keeping me awake with his wakefulness, sitting brooding in front of the fire until dawn and then dashing off to go riding. He wrote many letters, but when I asked him who he was writing to he refused to say. Through the Duc de La Rochefoucauld’s influence Alexandre had been promoted to the rank of major, and I supposed that this carried certain new responsibilities with it, and perhaps the need to write letters to his fellow officers. When I asked, however, he was very curt with me and would say nothing.
In one respect our marriage was different now—and, as I thought, better. Alexandre and I shared a bed, and he showed no more of the brute savagery he had demonstrated on the night Eugene was conceived. He was not a tender lover, and no endearments passed his thin lips. But at least he did not force himself on me, and I took some pleasure from our coupling.
I thought it was pleasure—though perhaps it was no more than relief. After he had been so very rough with me, the fact that he could now be less brutal seemed a boon.
And there was another, far greater benefit. I conceived another child.
I thought Alexandre would be pleased to learn that I was once again expecting, but the news seemed to have the opposite result. He was irritable, and his restlessness increased. Hardly had I begun to accustom myself to the idea of being the mother of two children than I awoke one morning to find Alexandre gone, and most of his possessions gone with him.
Fastening my dressing gown around me I sought out Edmee, who always knew what was happening in our household. When I found her she looked distracted.
“Where is Alexandre, Aunt Edmee? Why are all his things missing?”
She shook her head. “His goings and comings are a mystery to me. But I know he has not been happy here. He says he dislikes this house, that it makes him melancholy.”
“Perhaps he misses the stink of the tanneries.”
She did not smile at this, but instead handed me a letter.
“I found this under my door when I awoke. It is addressed to you.”
I ripped open Alexandre’s letter.
“Rose,” it began—not “My dear Rose,” or “My dear wife”—”I take my leave of you today. It is not possible for us to live together contentedly. I have been appointed to the staff of General Burel, who is in command of our forces on the island of Martinique. Laure and I and our son Alexandre will soon sail together aboard the frigate Venus, bound for the Windward Isles.”
15
I WILL NOT DWELL on the sordid aftermath of Alexandre’s abandonment of me, except to say that, once he got to Martinique, he attempted to defame me before the world. He called me faithless, and claimed that my beloved Hortense, our second child, was not his. He spread lies about my behavior in the years before our marriage, saying that I had had dozens of lovers and that I was a disgrace to my own family and his. He told everyone who would listen that he would never live another day under the same roof with me. And, in the end, he sent me a letter ordering me to leave the house on the rue Neuve-Saint-Charles without delay, or face his wrath.
Even before I received his poisonous letter I had made up my mind to leave. I had had more than enough of Alexandre and his moods and caprices. The venom he was now unleashing against me surpassed all his previous criticisms. Fortunately, according to the letter I received from Aunt Rosette at Les Trois-Ilets, most of what he said abou
t me was not believed.
I had long envied Fanny de Beauharnais the freedom she enjoyed being separated from her husband; now I decided to take that freedom myself.
I went to the public prosecutor and asked him for a legal separation from Alexandre. In time, it was granted.
Now I had what I wanted. I was still the Viscountess Beauharnais, but was unencumbered by a husband who mistreated and slandered me. I was much gratified to discover that Alexandre, when he returned from Martinique, was alone; Laure de Girardin had left him for another man. I had news of him from time to time. I learned that he had fathered another illegitimate child, that he was deeply in debt, having squandered his annuity, and that he had been promoted in rank once again. I was very glad to be rid of him.
Aunt Edmee and my father-in-law the marquis rented a house in Fontainebleau, where King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette and their court were in residence for the fall hunting season. As I was very short of money I moved in with them, excited at the prospect of being so near the king and queen and eager to be so close to the royal court.
I sold the last of my jewelry for enough money to be able to have two gowns made by M. Leroy, the fashionable dressmaker. One was of silver tissue with a rose-colored satin petticoat beneath it and the other was of the palest blue, with the bodice edged in gold lace.
With these gowns, and a few letters of introduction Fanny had given me, written to her acquaintances at court, I was ready to make my entrance into the realm of the royals.
Euphemia and I went each day to wait at the outermost gate of Fontainebleau Palace for the queen’s coach to pass. I was eager to see her, having heard so much about her—most of it very negative.
But when one morning her glittering gilded coach came into view, its panels painted with scenes of plump winged cupids, its doors elaborately carved, the postilions in waistcoats and breeches of lavender velvet, I caught my breath at the sight. Through the window of the coach I glimpsed Queen Marie Antoinette, her lovely face in profile, wearing no jewels but only a simple gown of red and white brocade. Her fair hair was lightly powdered and becomingly arranged, and when she turned to look through the carriage window at those of us who were waiting to see her I could tell that her brow was white and unlined and her eyes were a light porcelain blue. I thought she looked much younger than her thirty years.
“Isn’t she beautiful, Euphemia!” I exclaimed. “I think she’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”
“Beautiful or not, she’s a bad woman,” Euphemia muttered. “You know what they say—she spends all the king’s money. She’s ruining the country. And she has lots of lovers, both men and women.”
“I can’t believe that someone with such an angelic face could be wicked. The people who say such bad things about her must be jealous.”
I saw the queen again at a ball given by Countess de Rancy. I wore my silver gown and Euphemia arranged my hair simply, like the queen’s, and added a cream-colored feather. The ball opened at nine-thirty and at about ten o’clock there was a stir of anticipation in the crowded ballroom. I heard the usher tap his stave on the parquet floor and announce the queen’s name.
She billowed into the room, floating on a cloud of pale pink silk. Her skirts flowed in soft folds to the floor, her ample bosom was encased in a silken bodice entwined with white flowers. Once again I was struck by the sweetness of her expression, and by the delicate molding of her hands and arms. She moved through the room with exquisite grace. The king was not with her. He had worn himself out galloping through the forest in pursuit of game, it was said. After eating a huge meal he had gone to sleep.
I could not take my eyes off the queen—until I heard a voice at my elbow.
“Viscountess Beauharnais, may I have the honor of this dance?”
I looked down. A very short, very ugly man stood beside me, his thick black hair escaping untidily from under his ash-white wig. He had large darting black eyes, a broad nose and very full lips. His embroidered coat was of pale green, the wide ruffles of lace at his wrists fell across his small hands and he wore many costly rings. I am barely five feet tall myself and this man was a good deal shorter than I. Still, the orchestra was playing the Monaco, a dance I liked very much at that time, and I had been tapping my foot in time to the music.
I said yes and took the little man’s hand.
While we danced he introduced himself as Henri, Baron Rossignol, a Picard and an acquaintance of the queen’s chief steward.
“I lend him money,” he confided to me on tiptoe, putting his thick lips as close to my ear as possible. “He says the money is for his own use, but I know it is really for someone else. Someone very important.”
“Do you mean the queen?” I asked.
“Hush! Do you want the whole court to hear?” The baron looked at me accusingly, then winked. I knew that I had guessed the truth. “Tell me, Viscountess, are you in need of a loan?”
The boldness of the question astonished me. Money was something one gossiped about with friends, but did not discuss with strangers.
“I may be one of the few people in Paris who isn’t in need of a loan,” I said, untruthfully. “If I am in need, I simply tell fortunes. People give me generous gifts in return.”
The baron paused in midstep.
“These people whose fortunes you tell, they must trust you.” “Yes. I am good at reading the cards.”
“Perhaps we could assist one another. If you will permit me, I would like to call on you in a few days.” The Monaco ended, and the short little baron led me back to my place. “Until then,” he said, kissing my hand.
I danced until I was weary that night, until long after most of the guests had left, and then went home and told Euphemia that I had seen the queen and danced nearly every dance. For days afterwards I practiced imitating the queen’s graceful movements and gestures, the slow, easy way she sat and stood, even her benign facial expression. I am not like her, she was a very large woman with a long face while I am quite petite and my face is round, my cheeks full. Yet I tried, in those days in Fontainebleau, to make myself as much like her as I could, so strong was the impression she had made on me.
Baron Rossignol came calling a few days later as he had said he would and when he sat down on the sofa in the reception room of the marquis’s rented house I was once again struck by how short and how ugly he was. Aunt Edmee, who was in the room with me, did not conceal her distaste at the sight of him. I asked my aunt if I could speak with the baron alone, and she left us—with an audible sniff of disapproval.
The baron laughed at her scorn, then turned his bright darting eyes on me.
“Viscountess,” he began, after I invited him to sit down, “I sense that we are—how shall I put it?—we are two men of business, only one of us is a woman. You are avid to advance yourself, and I may be able to aid that advancement, while at the same time benefiting myself.
“Let me tell you about who I am. My lineage is exalted. I am descended from Hugh Capet, the first Capetian king of France.” At this he drew himself up to his full height, adding perhaps an inch to his stature. “My family has held estates in Picardy for many centuries. But my father was unfortunate. A cousin claimed all the lands my father held, and went to the law courts. He took everything. We were not able to save anything. We had nothing to fall back on, for my mother’s family had been impoverished for several generations. They had their rank and titles but little else. I was destined from birth for a military career, but as you can see, my physical endowments prevent this. I had no desire to enter the church. So I found another avenue of employment: I became a moneylender.”
All the moneylenders I had ever heard of were Italians or Jews. That a titled nobleman could be a moneylender seemed strange to me. I listened with increasing interest as the baron went on.
“Of course I have no money of my own to lend. My source of funds is a rich Englishman. He transfers large sums into my bank account and I draw it out to make the loans.
“But, my dear viscountess, the borrowers are becoming frightened. They fear that the government will collapse, and all the banks will close. Everything of value they possess will become forfeit.”
I shivered at his words, for I had often had these fears.
“What I need you to do, viscountess, is reassure them. When you read the cards, say, ‘You are in difficulty about money, but a stranger will soon come to your aid.’ I will be that stranger. They will think my arrival is providential. They will trust me and do business with me.”
“And if I offer this reassurance, what do I get in return?”
“One hundred livres for every thousand that they borrow.”
I thought for a moment. My father had always told me that moneylenders were dishonest scoundrels. “Nothing but thieves, every last one,” he had said. Well then, I thought, if they are thieves, I will take as much as I can from them.
“Two hundred,” I said.
“One-fifty”
“One seventy-five.”
“Done.”
The little man beamed at me. “Ah, viscountess, you are a better man of business than I am. You bargain like a fishwife haggling over a basket of eels. And I fear you are as slippery as an eel, no matter how elegant you look and how sweetly you smile. I will have to watch you.”
‘And I you. In the meanwhile, I have no doubt there is money to be made.”
16
WE PROSPERED, the baron and I. I continued to tell fortunes, and to persuade desperate men and women to be on the alert for a helpful stranger who would lend them money. The baron made the loans, and rewarded me with what seemed to me large sums in cash. I stored the coins in a chest in the marquis’s wine cellar, hidden behind dusty furniture and piles of lumber.
Month by month our enterprise grew. I sent some of my newfound wealth to my father in Martinique and some to Aunt Rosette. With the rest I invested, along with the baron, in land and buildings. So many people were building mansions in the wealthiest district of Paris—and so many found themselves unable to afford the great houses once they were completed. Baron Rossignol and I bought these abandoned mansions at low prices and resold them to new speculators who then, as often as not, found themselves in financial difficulties and abandoned the great houses once again.
The Secret Life of Josephine Page 8
