The Secret Life of Josephine

by Carolly Erickson

  “Don’t move, dear friend. Stay as you are. Let me come to you.” My eyes filling with tears, I went to his side and leaned down to embrace him. He winced at my touch, making me realize how much pain he was in.

  I sat beside him and held his hand. When he spoke, his voice was a shout.

  “I can’t hear much,” he boomed out. “Ever since the explosion my hearing is terrible.”

  I managed to convey to him that if he would lower his voice, I would try to raise mine, though I am naturally very soft-spoken.

  “What explosion?” I asked loudly, putting my lips close to his ear.

  “L’Orient. She exploded.”

  “The flagship of the fleet.”

  “Yes. I was third in command.” His face darkened. “We were anchored in the shoals off Cairo, taking in supplies. Half our men were on shore.

  The English cowards attacked us!” He closed his fists and gritted his teeth. “They attacked, when we were helpless, lying at anchor! Bastards! Cowards!” He was trembling.

  I waited for him to go on. “They fired at us broadside. There was nothing we could do, they were too fast and we had too few men.” His voice dropped. “It must have been near midnight when we caught fire. We tried to keep the fire from reaching the powder stores, but it spread too quickly. The whole ship went up—” He lifted his arms, and the effort made him cry out in pain. “The noise was terrible! I was thrown into the water. I couldn’t hear anything. Someone helped me up onto a spar. That’s all I remember.”

  “And the battle—” I began.

  “Was lost. Only three of our ships were still afloat by dawn. I was lucky to get home to France. Bonaparte and his army are trapped in Cairo now. The English control the harbor.”

  The news was very bad, far worse than I expected. It was bad enough to have lost a major naval battle, but for the army to be caught in an enemy country with no escape was infinitely worse.

  “Ah, but I know Bonaparte,” Scipion was saying. “He is wily. He will find a way to conquer Egypt.” Scipion did not despair.

  I did my best to smile reassuringly.

  News of the disaster at Aboukir Bay spread swiftly through the spa community at Plombieres and overnight the mood at receptions and dinners turned somber. Conversation stalled. People who were normally outgoing became indrawn, uncommunicative. Everyone felt the need for companionship, yet no one wanted to speak of the terrible news. Scipion was lionized and received much sympathy, along with many gifts of hot soup and brandy-filled chocolates. But no one wanted to bring up the loss of the French ships, or the growing fear that nothing was going well in Egypt for the French.

  Summer turned to fall, and many of the guests at the spa left for Paris. I lingered, for Bonaparte had told me to wait at Plombieres until he sent for me. I was content there; the last thing I wanted was to resume my place in Paris society at a time when my husband was losing a campaign. Everywhere I went I was overshadowed by his reputation, his good or ill fortune. At Plombieres I could at least enjoy a certain amount of solitude.

  In the evenings I played vingt-et-un with a small circle of friends, among them Scipion who, as the weeks passed, began to heal and was even able to walk along the promenade provided he used a cane and leaned on the arm of his companion. Gradually his hearing came back, and when I talked with him I no longer had to speak close to his ear in my loudest voice.

  The cold weather, shorter days and leafless trees did nothing to lighten my mood. I never received any letters from Bonaparte, and I sensed that something was wrong between us. The English blockade alone could not account for my hearing nothing from him, for others in Plombieres were receiving letters from husbands and sons in the army and I assumed Bonaparte was communicating with the government in Paris. Why was he not writing to me?

  The answer came when, toward the beginning of November, I received a letter from Eugene.

  “My dearest maman,” he wrote, “what a grand time we are having here in Cairo. General Bonaparte is welcomed by everyone here with great acclaim, and enjoys his title as ‘Sultan Kebir.’ (We had an uprising but quickly snuffed it out.) We have been to the great pyramid and I climbed nearly to the top. We plan to dig wells in the desert and channel the Nile so more land can be irrigated. Soon all Egypt will be like France, with a free and educated public and no more superstition.

  “You would laugh to see Bonaparte riding a camel. He has created an entire regiment of camels. It might also interest you to know that my half-brother Alexandre, the son of my father and Laure de Girardin, is an officer in the Consular Guard. He looks more like my father than I do (he is much slimmer than I am), and acts more like him too. Laure is in America, married to a planter. Alexandre says she has gotten very fat.”

  I read on, though the light in the room was failing, and as I read I realized why I had received no letters from Bonaparte.

  “You may hear some gossip about the general,” Eugene wrote, “so I am writing to tell you what is really going on. Here in Egypt it is the custom for the rich sheikhs to offer their daughters and the sons of their slaves to visiting dignitaries. A young girl named Zenab was given to General Bonaparte, after he had turned down the boys and rejected most of the girls as too rank in odor. Zenab is called ‘the General’s Egyptian.’ Actually he doesn’t see her very often, and doesn’t really like her, no matter what you may hear.

  “There is another woman, though, called ‘Cleopatra’ or ‘Bellilotte.’

  She is a cook’s bastard. The general met her at the Tivoli Egyptien, a new ballroom in Cairo. Her real name is Pauline Foures and she is the wife of a young officer, Lieutenant Foures. The only reason the general seduced her was that he heard you and Monsieur de Gautier are lovers. Always before he would not believe it but now he does.”

  I put the letter down. I would read the rest later. I felt as if a darkness had descended around me. Bonaparte, at last, had discerned the truth and was disillusioned. How would he treat me now? He was a man who always took revenge on those who injured him.

  What revenge would he take against me?

  37

  SCIPION WAS RECOVERING SO WELL that he was able to be up and around for most of the day and went for walks each evening. From time to time we went for carriage rides in the woods surrounding Plombieres, and he got out of the carriage and took his exercise along the forest paths. I walked beside him to steady him, offering him my arm when he faltered, and as we went along we chatted, to keep each other company.

  Winter was upon us, it had not snowed as yet but the only green in the forest was the dark green of pine needles and the landscape, like the sky over our heads, was mostly a dull grey. We wrapped ourselves up in thick woolen cloaks and I wore a snug woolen cap—quite becoming, Scipion said drily, meaning the opposite—that kept my ears warm. Our rides and walks in the chill air were invigorating, and very enjoyable; sometimes we stayed out for half a day.

  We shared a lot during those excursions, our memories of Martinique and of people we had both known, our experiences under the Revolution in its earliest years, when Scipion was serving under new masters in the Caribbean and I was the guest of Citizen Robespierre in the Carmelite prison, our happiness in our children, and our feelings about our marriages.

  His marriage to his ever smiling, ever charming wife Julie gave him much satisfaction, and he felt that he had chosen well. Yet he confessed that he bore a constant sorrow. He had not been able to foresee that childbearing would tax Julie’s body and permanently weaken her. She was only thirty-one but looked ten years older, he said, and with each passing year she declined in energy and strength. He feared for her, and looked forward to his own recovery so that he could rejoin her in Paris.

  “And what of you, Madame Bonaparte?” he asked teasingly. “What is it like to be the wife of the greatest of generals?”

  “I am happiest when away from him,” I confessed in my turn. “I know now that I should have gone to Martinique with Donovan instead of marrying Bonaparte. Eugene writes
that Bonaparte is angry with me and has taken a mistress in Egypt.”

  “The one they call Cleopatra, or the one they called the Harem Girl? Or is there some other one that I haven’t heard about?”

  “The men in the ranks always know everything, don’t they?”

  Scipion nodded. “Yes, and it always filters up to those of us higher up.”

  “So my humiliation is public knowledge.”

  “If you will forgive me, so are your own indiscretions, past and present.” My smile was wry. “It isn’t possible to enjoy a private life, is it?” “Not for someone as prominent as you are, Rose.” “And yet I still have old friends who are fond of me.” “Very fond. Very fond indeed.”

  One afternoon we returned from one of our longer excusions and I offered Scipion a mug of hot spiced wine at my cottage. We went inside and took off our warm outer garments. I asked the cook to prepare the drink and then went out onto the balcony overlooking the park. Scipion was making his way slowly toward the balcony from an adjacent room.

  Suddenly I felt a lurch, and a sickening jolt. The structure gave way under my feet. I reached for the metal railing—but it was no longer there. I screamed as I fell—and then was aware of nothing more.

  When I awoke I was aware only of pain. Agonizing pain in my back, my legs, my neck and head. Oh God, I remember thinking, please let me die.

  BUT i DID NOT DIE, I lived with pain. Euphemia hovered over me, anointing me with foul-smelling salves, making me drink odious but healing liquids made from herbs—the same liquids she had made me drink as a child whenever I was ill. I remembered the smells from my childhood and took an odd comfort from them, as I took comfort from Euphemia’s constant presence and soothing words. She hung a fetish around my neck and Scipion, when he came to visit me each day, hung a small gold cross there too.

  “The doctor says you are very lucky to be alive, Rose,” I heard him say one day. “You and I are survivors, that much is certain.”

  “Bonaparte always says I bring him luck,” I answered, the sound of my voice weak in my ears—and saw that Scipion was startled.

  “You’re talking! Do you know how long it has been since you talked to me?”

  “How long?”

  “Almost ten days. We all thought you were dying. The doctor called it ‘sleep death’ He told us to prepare for your funeral.”

  “I hope he was wrong.” I did my best to smile. At the sight of my smile Scipion’s eyes filled with tears.

  “My dear girl, oh my dear,” he said, taking my hand in both of his and kissing it. “I can only imagine what General Bonaparte would be feeling at this moment, if he could be here with you. We sent a message to him, describing the terrible accident, how the balcony collapsed and you fell to the pavement. But I doubt the message will reach him. The coast is blocked. Not even the messages from the government in Paris can get through to him.”

  I thought of Bonaparte, in Cairo, with his mistress, the cook’s daughter, the one all the soldiers and sailors were gossiping about. Would he be glad, if he heard of my accident? Was he so angry with me that he would welcome my death? Or was I merely indulging in morbid thoughts because I was in such pain?

  Then I thought of Donovan. If only I could see him! But there was a small black cloud of suspicion hanging over Donovan. What had happened to Clodia? What had Donovan done with her? Or to her? I did not like to think about this, and tried to put it out of my mind.

  One day I opened my eyes after a long nap and saw Hortense sitting beside my bed. With her was a tall, blond, blue-eyed boy in a guardsman’s uniform.

  “Oh, maman! My sweetest maman!” Hortense cried as she bent to embrace and kiss me. “I came as soon as I got Monsieur du Roure’s letter. I have been so worried about you!” It was many minutes before we were able to converse, we were both so overcome with emotion. I noticed that the blond young man sat quietly very self-possessed yet with a sympathetic smile on his handsome face.

  “Maman, this is Lord Falke. Lieutenant Falke, I should say. Of the Ardennes regiment. His father is English but his mother is French and he is loyal to France, having been raised here.”

  The lieutenant came to my bedside and, with a light and gentle touch, lifted my hand to his lips. The gesture was so kindly and graciously done that it moved me. “It is my very great honor to be presented to Madame Bonaparte,” he said. “I see now that all Hortense has told me about you does not do you justice.”

  “You flatter me shamelessly, lieutenant. And I thank you for it. As you see, I am not myself these days.”

  “Hortense and I hope that you will be much better once you have been treated by the physicians we brought with us from Paris, Dr. Morel and Dr. Hezancourt. With your permission we would like to bring them in to examine you.”

  I nodded. Apart from Euphemia’s constant treatments, I had had no real medical care since my accident. Plombieres was full of “spa doctors,” as they were called, men who treated wealthy aging women by submerging them in tubs of churning hot water or used “galvanic energy” to stimulate their tired overlarded limbs. There were no first-quality physicians in the town, and most of the doctors in neighboring towns had been coerced into serving in the army.

  The two bearded, middle-aged men Lord Falke ushered into the room took immediate charge of me and before long Euphemia and her medicines were banished. Dr. Morel, the senior of the two physicians, was a broad-shouldered, muscular man of about forty, well dressed and with a sober expression. His colleague Dr. Hezancourt was younger, perhaps thirty or thirty-five, blond and slight and with kind eyes.

  “Can you sit up?” Dr. Hezancourt asked me.

  “No. My back hurts too much.”

  “Can you lift your arms?” asked Dr. Morel.

  The two men exchanged glances.

  “Have you been bled?”

  “No.”

  A basin was brought in and my wrist, suspended over the basin, was cut with a razor. Drop by bright red drop my life blood flowed into the bowl. Dr. Morel drew a glass jar out of his bag. I knew what it contained: leeches, hideous black bloodsucking creatures that made me shudder. I looked away as the ugly wriggling things were lifted out and placed on my wrists. I felt no pain, only revulsion. We had had leeches in abundance in Martinique. It was impossible to walk through the rain forest and not be attacked by them. They burrowed under the wet fallen leaves, they attached themselves to horses’ legs and, unless one was careful, to human legs as well. I remembered the many visits doctors had made to Les TroisIlets to treat my very ill sister Catherine. Each time they came they brought their jars of leeches. Poor Catherine, who had always been pale, turned a ghastly white after the horrid things drank her blood.

  The leeches did their work on me, again and again, yet I remained as painfully immobile as ever. Dr. Morel then instructed my cook to boil a large quantity of potatoes in a pot and when the mixture had turned to mush, he wrapped it in toweling and made bandages for my poor arms and back. The heat felt good, but though the experiment was performed a number of times, the potato therapy did not improve me.

  Nor did I improve when a sheep was slaughtered and gutted and its fleece wrapped around my painful back. Scipion, Euphemia, Hortense and Lieutenant Falke dined on mutton for days, and I had more than my fill of mutton stew.

  Finally in January, after achieving no cure, the two physicians returned to Paris, amid an effusion of bows and excuses, and I was left once again to Euphemia’s care. Though it caused me much discomfort I was able to sit for short periods of time, and Hortense helped me to recover a skill I had long lost—embroidery. The sisters at my convent school in Martinique had taught me the chain stitch and the stitch called “a la reine” but I had long since lost any skill with the needle I once had. Together we created a fire screen with intertwined bees (for Bonaparte) and roses, my favorite flower.

  Hortense and Andrew (the Christian name of her admirer Lord Falke) played cards with me, vingt-et-un and a new game that everyone in Paris was playing. T
hey enlivened the long winter evenings with talk of the goings-on in the capital: the triumphs of Mademoiselle Chameroi, the finest dancer at the Opera, the great success of Monsieur Biennois’s new shop in the rue Saint-Honore, at the sign of the Violet Monkey, where the elite went to buy their ivory traveling-cases fitted with silver shaving-pots and moustache combs inlaid with mother of pearl. They brought news of Paul Barras, who still held on to power though he was increasingly disliked, of the social prominence of the Buonapartes and of a disturbing increase in crime.

  “Right before we left to come here,” Andrew said, “everyone was talking about the Gardel Gang. There are forty gang members, it is said, all former soldiers I’m sorry to say. They carry sabers and roam the streets looking for victims, then cut off their heads.”

  “They stab people too, and cut off fingers and noses and leave them as trophies,” Hortense added in a breathless tone.

  “How gruesome!”

  “And then there are the ‘Hot Foot’ bandits who steal and run away so fast no one can catch them.”

  “It sounds as though Paris is overrun with crime,” I remarked. “Thank goodness Plombieres is a quiet, law-abiding place.”

  Hortense and Andrew looked at one another, but said nothing.

  “What is it?” I could not help but note the significant silence, and the quick exchange of glances.

  “Nothing for you to be concerned about, Madame Bonaparte.”

  “I want to know. What are you two keeping from me?”

  “Truly, there is no need for you to upset yourself, maman.”

  “You are upsetting me now. I demand that you tell me this thing, whatever it is.”

  Both young people looked uncomfortable. At length Andrew spoke. “We did not want to tell you this for fear of worsening your condition. A shock can bring on a relapse.” He looked at me, and seeing how resolute I was, went on.

  “One of the gardeners in the park saw something on the day your balcony collapsed. Two men came to work on it. He assumed you had hired them, or your friend Monsieur du Roure had. But later on he saw a stranger paying them, and it looked as though he was paying them awfully well for making a simple repair.”