Of course, I eventually read Joséphine, the book Jane had given me, and was riveted by the emotional seesaw of her life—the horrors of La Terreur, the highs of her passionate love affairs to her despair at Napoléon’s final rejection because she was unable to conceive and provide him with an heir.
Malmaison must have been Joséphine’s earthly heaven. Until she met Napoléon, her life had been something of a hell on earth. Marie-Josephe Rose Tascher de La Pagerie had married her first husband Vicomte Alexandre de Beauharnais at the age of sixteen in December 1779. She bore him two children but it wasn’t a happy marriage, and even though they had been separated for nine years, they were reunited in Carmes Prison, where they were both imprisoned in 1794. He was guillotined during the Reign of Terror and Joséphine was also condemned. But in a fortunate twist of fate, she was released five days after Alexandre’s execution, following the demise of the ringleader of La Terreur, Robespierre, who was killed on 27 July. Joséphine, thirty-one years old, was freed the day after. An amazing salvation.
Surprisingly, there are very few people here as we walk down the gravel pathway between plantings of flowering zinnias, delphiniums, lupins and dahlias. The pretty eighteenth-century palace was the great obsession of Joséphine’s life and Napoléon gifted it to her in their divorce settlement. Ten years earlier, when Malmaison was for sale, Joséphine was desperate to buy it, but Napoléon was absent at the Egyptian campaign. However, after selling her own jewellery, her former lover, Hypolite, gave her an additional 50 000 francs to buy the château and its 150 acres of woodland on 21 April 1799. It became their principal family home. Between 1800 and 1802 Napoléon ruled France from Malmaison and the Tuileries and after the defeat of Waterloo, he returned there briefly before being imprisoned.
One glance reveals that the château is modest, a reflection of the revolutionary times after the opulence of Versailles. Its strange mix of décor swings from delicate femininity to strong military-style. Napoléon’s boardroom, where government ministers would meet, is lined in gaudy striped canvas to represent a military tent. Doors are decorated with wartime helmet designs.
In the salle à manger (dining room), black-and-white diamond-laid floor tiles define the long, elegant room. Pink wallpaper follows the line of the arched French windows and six large white wall medallions are painted with mythical Greek lovers—Daphnis and Chloé—reflecting fine feminine taste.
We walk silently from room to room, admiring portraits of Joséphine and Napoléon, which seem to decorate every wall. Joséphine’s luxurious boudoir is a blaze of red and the pièce de résistance is a circular canopy drawn up over the bed topped by a golden eagle.
Initially, Napoléon was deeply in love with her, more so than she was with him. Très amoureux, the young Bonaparte insisted they marry on 9 March 1796, almost immediately after they met. But she had a blatant affair with Lieutenant Hypolite Charles, a high society playboy, later that year. Yet Joséphine’s loving nature and sweet disposition kept Napoléon entranced. Eight years later on 2 December 1804, after crowning himself Napoléon I, the first Emperor of France, he placed the crown on Joséphine’s head to pronounce her the first Empress of France.
Is there a more riveting story? A day away from the guillotine, which indiscriminately killed thousands of people, to being crowned Empress of France?
Yesterday, I had studied the portrait of Joséphine kneeling before her emperor, hands clasped in prayer, wearing a diamond crown and clad in a clinging white silk gown, her ladies-in-waiting—her wicked sisters-in-law—holding a gorgeous, gilded red velvet train edged with ermine.
Today something draws me to stop at the Portrait de l’Impératrice Joséphine painted in 1812 by Firmin Massot. Perhaps it is that hint of a double chin, reflecting her fiftieth year, or the artist’s portrayal of Joséphine as calm and self-composed. She is dressed simply in a princess-line dress and is gazing tenderly at me. Her small mouth is tight (to cover her rotten teeth), yet slightly curled as if she is holding a smile in check. What would she say to me about her life? Would she speak to me of love? For Napoléon? Or would she admit to her many lovers? Would she divulge her rampant sexuality and attraction to men? Or would she tell me, if she could, of her unspeakable emotional agony. Is that pain behind her beautiful big brown eyes? Pain of infertility, for instance, the creep of age or her fear of abandonment? All issues suffered by contemporary women.
Jane and Véronique are deep in discussion a few metres away and when they move into the next room, I linger at the most dramatic painting in the whole château, the historical painting by Charles Abraham Chasselat, which captured how she fainted when Napoléon told her that he wanted a divorce.
She had feared that moment for the whole of her marriage, and when it happened, I believe she succumbed to deep mourning and grief. However, in public, despite the French masses knowing she had been rejected because she had not conceived, she behaved in a dignified manner. Clearly, she suffered profound loss, writing to her daughter at his abandonment of her: ‘Yet God is my witness that I love him more than my life, and much more than that throne, that crown which he has given me.’
While Joséphine kept her tears to the privacy of Malmaison, Napoléon wept openly: ‘God alone knows what this resolve has cost my heart,’ he said.
I wish I could say I was like Josephine, but I also wept openly and it leads me to believe that how we experience and express our grief are unique characteristics like the way we laugh out loud, or more contained (like Oli).
But I would have loved to see the results of her twelve-year transformation of the woodland into ‘a model of good cultivation’ with its nearly 200 introduced plants, some very rare. Exotic animals once roamed the parks including the kangaroos brought back to France from French captain Nicolas Baudin’s expedition to Terra Australis, along with zebras, sheep, gazelles, ostriches, antelopes and llamas. Joséphine was proudest of her rose garden, however, which bloomed with some 250 varieties of roses. She was walking in her garden with the Tsar of Russia when she became ill, dying soon after from what was thought to have been diphtheria.
I feel an affinity with her because I imagined she poured her grief into her garden, the way I did when working on Olivier’s memorial garden. He was the real green fingers, but his garden on which he lavished such attention was virtually destroyed in the building process. It was so cruel that he was diagnosed when the foundations of our new home were drying out. Ironically, while we were sitting in the car, so stunned, immediately after the doctor’s diagnosis on that dreadful January day, the landscape designer phoned us to make an appointment to meet us for the first time on the building site later that day. Initially, Olivier refused. Our world had crashed. But I suggested he telephone her back and arrange to meet her at 4 pm. It was a wise move because it shifted his thinking back to a new garden. Before he died, he organised the structure of the garden—pathways, cement borders, retaining walls and fencing. He was still with me as the landscape designer placed all the small plantings according to her plan. But we left bare earth for roses, irises and other cottage plantings to my liking. Two years later, I’m the custodian of our garden and its ever-changing array of flowerings is a joy.
The irony is, roses were my favourite flower before I learnt there was even a rose named after Empress Joséphine. I chose my roses by name to reflect our married life and scattered them throughout the newly planted shrubs and groundcovers. We had meant to choose the roses together, but Olivier only lived for eight months in the new home. However, we chose the ancient French rose ‘Pierre de Ronsard’ to cover our four garden arches with its luscious pink-white springtime blooms.
The day I received Olivier’s death certificate in the mail there was also a rose mail-order catalogue. A wave of sadness swept over me and I quickly opened the catalogue and chose rose after rose by name to reflect our life together. ‘Wedding Day’, a spring flowering rambler, was the first, then ‘French Lace’, a low bush rose with its fragrant small cream clusters t
o reflect the Chantilly lace of my wedding gown. ‘Comte de Chambord’ with its profusion of crumpled petals was in memory of our honeymoon and another in my list of twelve was ‘Dearest’, a dainty, pink low bush rose.
When I chose ‘Tour Eiffel’ I remembered fondly that he would never take me up there. ‘That’s for tourists,’ he would state. ‘You belong here now because you are my wife.’
However, my favourite is a splendid white rose named ‘Amazing Grace 07’, which was the theme I chose for Olivier’s funeral. When it flowers I remember the many blessings we enjoyed although our time together was too short. I planted it outside his study along with ‘French Lace’.
I make a pact to plant ‘Empress Joséphine’ because the rose has been a symbol of love since the beginning of time.
After we leave Malmaison, Paris’s gracious boulevards become an adventure as Véronique won’t tell us where we are going until she is parking the car in the unique Place des Vosges, the heart of the Jewish quarter.
What a thrill. I have never been here or visited the Marais with Oli.
We walk swiftly past the leafy 400-year-old unique urban space. The quadrangled lawned garden is contained within a grilled fence and although we don’t stop, I catch a glimpse of a little girl, bespectacled and aged about six, dancing round and round, swirling her skirt, her ponytail swishing to and fro. She is oblivious to the many people in the park, including her mother on the bench alongside. To me, she reflects the free spirit of this delightful city park—and my own emerging feeling of joy.
Today is shaping up as an important turning point for me; I’m not reliving the Paris I experienced with Oli. I’m living a new present with Jane and Véronique. It is past 1 pm and we quickly settle at an outside table at Ma Boulogne, under the attractive colonnade with its bricked coffered ceilings.
I admire Véronique’s fashion choices at my leisure. White shirt, crisp collar with silver detail and a black-beaded bowtie. Superb style. Jane also looks très Parisienne, wearing the new black waist-length leather jacket she bought on Boulevard Saint Michel and a wide, long, red woollen scarf. Moi? I wear my new khaki trench coat, which is too tight as it won’t do up!
French style icon Inès de la Fressange declares a trench coat one of the ‘Magnificent Seven’ necessities in a woman’s wardrobe to emit Parisian style. Jane’s leather jacket is also on the list, along with a little black dress and jeans. She names the other basics as a man’s blazer, a navy sweater, and a tank top. (Oh dear the saleswoman in the Barcelona bag shop wore one.)
‘If you like mussels, they serve the best in Paris here,’ says Véronique.
Mussels make me salivate in memory of one of our favourite Adelaide restaurants, the Belgian Café in Adelaide’s East End, where we would feast on bowls of mussels before a movie.
‘I’m happy with mussels,’ I say.
‘Me, too,’ says Jane. After a minute’s pause, she adds, ‘We are waiting to hear about this magic place.’
‘This is Place des Vosges and people believe it is one of the most enchanting public spaces in any European city,’ says Véronique. ‘Those red brick pavilions in the middle, which are higher, were the king and queen’s residences back in the seventeenth century and there are thirty-six adjoining identical palaces for nobles.’
She explains how Henri IV built it as a private place for courtly life, but it wasn’t inaugurated until after his assassination. ‘Initially it was called Place Royale when it was opened in 1612 and was built to honour King Louis XIII,’ she adds. ‘It’s his statue in the centre of the square.’
She asks if we would like a glass of French wine, proceeding to inspect the wine list. ‘I thought we would walk through the Marais a bit and then through to the Village of St Paul, which is ancient and very special.’
I have never heard of the Village of St Paul.
‘Afterwards, would you like to come to my apartment for apéritif. I have asked a few of the Lyceum Club members to meet you. You know Marie-France,’ she adds, looking at me.
Jane can hardly contain her delight. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
It’s rare for a French woman to invite relative strangers back to her private abode. Usually one must be on a ‘tu’ basis and we are ‘vous’, although she has not spoken French at all.
‘With pleasure,’ I state.
Jane and I exchange a ‘How lucky are we!’ look.
When three bowls of steaming mussels arrive Véronique tells us that Ma Boulogne is one of the prettiest cafés in Paris and has been on this spot since the nineteenth century. ‘Then it was known as Café des Arcades.’
As we tuck in our heavy paper bibs and begin to devour a kilogram of mussels each, soaked in a wine, herbs and cream mixture, Véronique says, ‘Oh, I have remembered a very special place here, but I will keep that as a surprise.’
After lunch she leads us to a grand mansion, its facade adorned with life-sized statues. ‘This is the ancient Hôtel de Sully on Quai la Tournelle,’ she states proudly, leading us through a courtyard garden, up stone steps and into a very old library. ‘This is dedicated to the history of France and I sometimes come in here alone—to be nourished, I suppose.’
Jane and I share the world of books, too. There are countless picture books, tourist guides, postcards and myriad history books—all of Paris. Time passes with our noses in books.
After a while Véronique beckons to me. ‘I have bought you something, Nadine.’ She hands me a small booklet entitled Les Grandes Femmes de l’histoire de France. The Great Women of the history of France.
I look at it in awe. I had told her of my studies of iconic French women when we visited Malmaison.
‘What an exquisite gift. I love it,’ I enthuse.
She looks pleased as I thumb through the booklet and check the index to find all the names of the women who have intrigued me since I first visited France with Oli nine years ago. ‘And it’s in French,’ I add. ‘I’ll have fun learning about their stories in their own language.’
I move towards her and kiss her lightly on the cheek. I realise I know so little about Véronique and am determined to find out more before the day ends, but refrain from firing questions. There is time over apéritif.
She gently orders us to move. ‘I would like to show you an underrated part of Paris.’
Soon we are fossicking in antique shops in the Village of St Paul, a maze of courtyards edged with an eclectic array of shops and alleyway stores selling fashion, homewares, millinery and specialist collector’s items. Véronique and I browse in Objets de Notre Mémoire, which sells secondhand porcelain pieces, china dinner sets, ornaments, platters and odd plates. I find a pretty fifteen-piece floral tea set of English bone china for 300 euros. I ponder for quite a while and the shop assistant hovers, but the cost of transport and danger of breakage is too great.
‘Thank goodness for that, Nadine. I was rolling my eyes that you would weaken. You have the most beautiful china, enough for the rest of your life,’ says Jane.
‘I’m thinking of collecting china cups and saucers,’ I retort. ‘I only have two that aren’t part of a dinner set.’
However, Véronique buys a dozen Victorian glass entrée plates. ‘It’s difficult to find twelve of anything that matches these days,’ she says. ‘I’ll have to hide them from my husband though. When I was busy buying art, he once said, “if you don’t stop buying we will have to buy another house in the country”. So we did and now we have two houses in the country full of beautiful art.’ And she chuckles.
It’s a startling revelation that I’m enjoying myself with women friends the way I enjoyed my time with Oli in Paris. Quite a different experience, of course, and I will always miss our intimacy. But I am feeling pleasure today.
Véronique guides us into Rue Geoffroy l’Asnier to a wall plaque outside a typical apartment block.
‘There is a very ugly history page of France, which saw the Vichy collude with the Nazis to hand over our Jewish population,’ she says.
Véronique guides us across Rue Antoine to La Favourite, the pretty corner café, where we sip an afternoon coffee. When there is a lull in conversation, I ask Véronique about her past working life.
‘My whole career has been in ressources humaines,’ she says. ‘I was employed for some years in the area, but then I went out on my own and started two consultancies. I have sold them both now and am retired.’
And she volunteers information about her husband. ‘My husband was very involved in the Suez Canal project and he is still a consultant.’
Clearly, Véronique is haute bourgeois, Paris’s ‘new wealthy’. Time slips along lazily until I notice it’s 4.30 pm. I gently ask Véronique if her apéritifs are at 5 pm.
‘Mon dieu!’ she cries. ‘Where is Jane! We must leave now.’ I rush to pay while she finds Jane around the corner.
Thus begins a harrowing race back to her apartment as she zips around the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile, weaving in and out of many lanes of countless speeding cars, before turning into the Champs-Élysées. She senses my terror and laughs. ‘It doesn’t do you any harm to feel real fear driving in Paris peak-hour traffic.’
I note that Jane is amazingly quiet and yet our trip in the Mercedes was a stroll compared with this. I suspect she is white with fear.
Soon we are seated in Véronique’s living room, a gracious space, which exudes a marriage of classic French interior design and individual creativity. The juxtaposition of furniture and rich furnishings reflect that je ne sais quoi which characterises the many French living environments I have experienced. Here, the bones are traditional French décor—beading of wall panels defined in a cheery buttercup yellow, the marble fireplace as focal point, lush use of rich fabrics and mirrors. Small lamps and candelabras placed just so on mantelpieces; art on every wall and antique bookcases filled with volumes reflecting Véronique’s taste.
Farewell My French Love Page 12
