Two Empresses

by Brandy Purdy

  * * *

  In the end, Alexandre’s case against me fell down like a house of cards the moment I breathed on it. The judge took my side; he could find no fault with me. I had clearly been a true and faithful wife to Alexandre and tried at every turn to please him. The children were undoubtedly his. He was the one who had abandoned me and sailed away to Martinique with his mistress and their newborn bastard. The “evidence” against me had clearly been concocted by a man avid to be rid of one wife so that he might take another.

  But since Alexandre was hell-bent on a separation the judge agreed to give him one; however, all the terms were distinctly in my favor. The children would stay with me—Hortense until she married and Eugène until he was old enough to start military school, after which he would return to me every summer—and I was free to leave the convent and live wherever I pleased. Alexandre must pay me an allowance of 5,000 livres per annum with an additional 1,500 livres for Hortense until her wedding day.

  Alexandre went white as a ghost and fainted when he heard the judge’s decree.

  I had to keep telling myself it really was a victory. In my heart I felt a keen sense of defeat, an aching hollow filled only by sorrow. I had failed, and the crown Euphemia David had prophesied for me seemed further away than ever.

  CHAPTER 6

  I needed a change, a fresh start. I was twenty, the mother of two small children, not a wife, yet not a widow, but I no longer had a husband to try to please. By the law, I could not remarry as long as Alexandre lived; separation and divorce were not the same thing. I decided to go to Fontainebleau, to visit Aunt Edmée and Papa de Beauharnais, who swore I would always be his daughter, come what may, Alexandre be damned.

  A charming village surrounded by lush green forests, Fontainebleau was the traditional hunting seat of French kings. During hunting season, everyone who was anyone congregated there for three weeks, jockeying for royal favor and to be seen and meet the right people. It was the perfect place and time to form lucrative alliances, for business and pleasure, so I decided to join the crowd and see if I could make myself stand out.

  It was time to put the lessons the ladies of Panthémont had taught me to good use. Five thousand livres a year would not go far, and I wasn’t even certain Alexandre would pay it. I had a feeling that he would part with his money as readily as a vain coquette did her teeth. If the payments came at all, they would not be prompt.

  One of the ladies at Panthémont had given me a letter of introduction to Denis de Rougemont, a banker with an eye for the ladies. He was still handsome, vigorous, and virile, despite his advancing years, with a charming crooked smile, and his curly dark hair was still thick and barely touched by silver. I liked him, and he liked me. He was generous and kind. We made each other laugh. It was far easier than I feared it would be. “You were made for this!” he breathed rapturously as he caressed me. A part of me had to agree. I found his company, and his caresses, most agreeable. I didn’t feel like a whore when I took his money and gifts and welcomed him into my bed to thank him for his generosity.

  Soon I was living in a lovely little ivy-covered cottage with a wardrobe full of new dresses, and all the other accoutrements of an elegant and well-groomed lady. I even saw the best dentist in Paris, who did what he could for my unsightly teeth, filling yet again the deep cavity island sugar had dug into my left incisor. The children had a governess, toys, and a lovely garden to play in, and I was able to spend several bliss-filled, worry-free hours with them every day. Our bellies never rumbled with hunger; the table was always well laden. I had a beautiful rose garden with a fountain at its center; a pug dog named Fortune; a rope of pearls nearly as long as I was tall in my highest-heeled shoes; a black-lacquered carriage driven by a handsome liveried coachman; and lean, high-stepping horses to ride, and a crimson velvet riding habit to wear, when I followed the King’s hunt.

  Monsieur de Rougemont took me to supper parties, sophisticated salons, balls, concerts, the theater and opera, and for long leisurely strolls and picnics beneath the trees or a full, silver-coin moon. We had champagne and breakfast in bed every morning when he stayed the night with me. He was fond of the children, and always had a ready smile and gifts for them. They called him Uncle Denis. We were almost like a little family. And when business in Paris kept him from me, I need never be alone if I did not want to be.

  My time was valuable and men were willing to pay for it. My bed was rarely cold or empty. I had by that time made the acquaintance of other kindhearted aging gentlemen. Between Monsieur de Rougemont, the Comte de Crenay, and the Chevalier de Coigny I never lacked for comforts or company. Money flowed through my fingers like water, and I could never have enough of it. One benefactor simply wasn’t enough; I needed three or four, or even more.

  Now when I looked in the mirror I knew who I was—“la belle Creole,” a woman who depended on the kindness of men. They petted me, praised me, gave me presents, took me out and showed me off, and paid my bills. They asked little of me in return except that I be pretty, charming, and obliging, in bed and out, and wear as little as possible when we were alone together. But they paid to keep the fires roaring when I entertained them wearing only a sheer peignoir with my legs bare and my breasts spilling out. They were not jealous, exacting, possessive, controlling, or demanding as a younger lover might have been. They bought my body, not my soul.

  Though I would sometimes catch myself staring wistfully after the handsome young men I passed in parks and public ballrooms, especially those in uniform, who reminded me of the gallant, sensual playmates of my island youth and how handsome and regal my husband had been in his silver-braided white uniform, I remained steadfast in my resolve, even when they smiled and looked at me in a way that made my whole body throb. I resisted the temptation. I would not have another Alexandre in my life. I had myself and two children to support and I could not promise fidelity. I would have no jealous scenes, wrecked nerves, or guilty conscience. Such men could be of little help to me; they were as prone to living beyond their means as I was. In the world I lived in youth, beauty, and debt seemed to go hand in hand. I had to be practical. So I looked and sighed, and sometimes fantasized, but I said no to the handsome ne’er-do-wells who would demand my exclusive devotion.

  I had become accustomed to doing as I liked. My life was much calmer and easier now than it had been when I lived each day desperate to please Alexandre, agonizing over where my husband was and who he was with. It was liberating in a way to finally be able to please someone and to hear only sweet words and compliments instead of constant criticisms.

  Alexandre, as I had feared, was tightfisted and constantly late with my allowance; I had to threaten him with the lawcourts just to pry a few precious livres out of him. He was completely unreasonable—he wanted me to account, precisely down to the very last sou, exactly how the money was spent! He hated me more than ever now that Laure had left him. In Martinique, where he took her, she’d become reacquainted with her childhood sweetheart. They had fallen in love all over again and, acting on a sweet, spontaneous impulse, married; the deed was already done before Alexandre found out. I had to bite my tongue not to tell him it served him right for the way he had treated me.

  I had grown up. I was mature, sophisticated, and seasoned, no longer the crude provincial island export Alexandre had seen every time he looked at me. I was a woman of the world who haunted public ballrooms, theater boxes, salons, sidewalk cafés, and parks, like a beautiful spider smiling come hither and hoping to ensnare flies who could provide me with sustenance and luxuries in my web. I had many acquaintances but no real friends and none of my lovers truly loved me. And every time I stood before my mirror arrayed in my new jewels and gowns, practicing my close-lipped smile, I tried very hard to pretend I liked myself as much as my benefactors did. I was glad I had stopped writing to Aimee, spinning tales and making promises brittle as piecrust that I knew I would never keep; I didn’t want her to see me like this. Though it now seemed to have shrunk to the
size of a seed pearl, I still had my pride after all.

  CHAPTER 7

  When my son was five, Alexandre came to take him away, to start military school. My sweet Eugène was excited; he dreamed of growing up to be a brave soldier just like his father. After I kissed Eugène good-bye, I took to my bed and cried myself blind. I was so afraid that when summer rolled around a cold, icy-hearted little stranger, a miniature Alexandre de Beauharnais, would come back to me, prod my hips and thighs with a toy sword and call me fat, and flaunt his book learning against my ignorance. I had nightmares about the vilest and cruelest insults coming out of that sweet little mouth. Nothing could cheer me.

  Red, swollen eyes and sorrow were hardly alluring attributes, and my lovers began making excuses and I saw the easy, comfortable life I had made for myself in Fontainebleau slipping away from me, like water through my fingers, just like all the money I had frittered away on frivolities that didn’t really matter. It was time for another change; it was time to return to Paris.

  * * *

  I found the city alive with a constant thrum of nervous excitement. The King and Queen were greatly despised. Louis XVI was regarded as a great fat oaf who slept in bed like a log every night while his wife danced till dawn at the Opera Ball and lost fortunes at faro. Marie Antoinette’s lavish spending on clothes, diamonds, her mansion in miniature, the Petit Trianon, her faux rustic farm where the sheep were bathed and wore blue satin ribbons before they were permitted in the royal presence, and the manifold luxuries she lavished upon her special friends—some called them “Sapphic amours”—the Princesse de Lamballe and the Duchesse de Polignac, as well as her rumored affairs with her brother-in-law, the Comte de Artois, and the dashing Swedish Count Fersen, had made her the nation’s scapegoat for everything that went wrong. If there were shortages of bread or the cost of meat was too dear the finger of blame was pointed squarely at the Queen. When she put aside her ornate court gowns and had her portrait painted in a simple ruffled white muslin frock and straw hat like the ones I had worn in Martinique people said she was trying to ruin the French silk industry. How awful it must have been for her, poor woman; no matter what she did, it was always wrong.

  There was much talk of America’s victorious war to free itself from “the yoke of British tyranny.” I must have heard the words freedom, liberty, revolution, equality, and democracy a hundred times a day. But I didn’t pay too much attention. Politics bored me. A casual glance at a newspaper was enough to lull me to sleep. It all seemed to me a vile and potent witches’ brew that stank worse the more it was stirred. I wanted nothing to do with it. I was only interested in myself and my children’s welfare; France, its people and sovereigns alike, must fend for itself.

  Alexandre was laggardly paying my allowance again, so I sold some of my jewelry to get by. I rented a house and bought new dresses more suitable for Paris. I began to go out, to public ballrooms, salons, cafés, and theaters, showing myself off, and soon not only did Denis de Rougemont come back to me and start paying my bills again, but I had four more wealthy and distinguished lovers who adored me.

  But experience had taught me that I could not depend on them; they would be good to me as long as I was pretty, amusing, and good to them, but in times of illness or sorrow when I was not looking or feeling my best they would forsake me like rats fleeing a burning house. And who could blame them? No man wants a maudlin mistress. If they wanted melancholy, tears, coldness, and boredom they would stay at home with their wives.

  Time too was my enemy along with my free-spending ways, my inability to resist any pleasing trinket or trifle that caught my eye. My teeth were terrible, decaying and dingy, and already there were fine lines around my eyes. I was already dyeing my hair with dark coffee because I couldn’t abide the fear of seeing the first strand of silver there. I had put nothing by for the future, to support me in my old age or to help my daughter attract a husband.

  I was supposed to be saving for Hortense’s dowry, for which Alexandre, when I could pry the money out of him, was supposed to pay an additional 1,500 livres a year. But I had borrowed from that fund so many times, always with the best of intentions, promising each time to pay it back as soon as I could, with interest like any other loan, but never quite managing to do it until, I’m sorry to say, Hortense’s dowry had dwindled away to nothing. Thank heaven, my daughter was comely and had the sweetest, most docile disposition; she would surely be able to catch a husband on her own merits.

  To make matters worse, Alexandre had heard about my new mode of living and was threatening to drag me before a judge, to denounce me as a prostitute, a professional courtesan, to seek the court’s permission to withdraw his support altogether. Why did I need his money, he demanded, when I was enjoying the largesse of so many other men? And why, I could not help but wonder, did it sound so much worse when he said it? He made me sound vile, little better than one of those women who paraded the streets in the Palais Royal baring their breasts to entice custom. I was not so far gone as that!

  I was in the midst of my twenties and my looks would not last forever, and there would always be younger and prettier girls to woo my lovers away from me. I had to do better; I just had to! The future and old age were creeping closer every day. No matter how fast I danced I could not evade them forever; they were waiting to tap me on the shoulder sooner or later.

  I tried to forget my fears in the merry whirl of the ballroom, champagne, and my lovers’ arms. Shopping alternately eased my nerves, then shattered them when I was confronted with the bills and my own guilt and worries about whether I could persuade my lovers to pay them. Tomorrow, always tomorrow, I promised myself I would start to save, but every day some new temptation beckoned. I could not resist the balm of beautiful things. I had to keep up with the fashions; I had to keep up with the other women who relied on the generosity of men. If I was dowdy and passé my lovers would desert me.

  * * *

  The scalding witches’ brew of politics soon boiled over and flowed through the streets of Paris. A furious mob marched upon the ancient prison known as the Bastille, determined to tear it down brick by brick and liberate the prisoners inside from regal tyranny. The mob killed the guards and beheaded the prison governor, mounted his head upon a pike, and marched it through the streets. People cheered and sang like it was a victory parade. Soon the King and Queen were prisoners of their own people and everyone was talking endlessly of “liberty, equality, and fraternity” and sporting tricolor ribbons and rosettes of red, white, and blue.

  Almost overnight everyone was leaving their hair unpowdered and wearing clothes with smart, simple lines borrowing heavily from dapper, tailored British riding habiliments—redingotes, greatcoats often with double or even triple shoulder capes, double-breasted frock coats, neat square-cut waistcoats, and black leather riding boots with tan tops. Tall beaver hats took the place of tricorns, steel buckles replaced silver and gold, and linen neck cloths, often tied in front with a simple knot or bow, ousted the frothy lace frills of yesteryear. Tricolor sashes and steel buttons embossed with patriotic sentiments or symbols were all the rage, and polished pieces of charred stones from the ruins of the Bastille were preferred over precious gems. And no one dared be seen in public without the red, white, and blue revolutionary rosette blooming on their lapel or hat.

  Gentlemen renounced their aristocratic pastel satin knee breeches and replaced them with thigh- and calf-hugging pantaloons of soft, skin-tight cashmere, doeskin, or nankeen, often in buff or sulfur colors. Panniers and the sweet simplicity of shepherdess frocks in pastel colors fell by the wayside as women rushed to adopt the new patriotic fashions, donning tailored, mannish jackets and waistcoats worn with naturally flowing skirts, sometimes with a slight bustle at the back, and tall black beaver hats over long curls as towering tresses fell down all over Paris. Ladies who were accustomed to waiting upon the Queen donned white muslin “mobcaps” like their housemaids wore and wrapped muslin fichus about their shoulders, crossing them in
front over their breasts.

  The poor proudly hailed themselves as sans coulottes (without breeches, the emblem of the aristocracy) and covered their limbs in loose striped trousers with ragged hems reminiscent of those that sailors wore and put on red carmagnole jackets, tricolor sashes, and red felt Phrygian “liberty caps,” always with a tricolor cockade pinned to the side, and thrust their feet into clunky clogs or striped stockings and English-style riding boots.

  All Paris was awash in red, white, and blue to the point of drowning, and I was right there in the thick of it, swimming along as best I could. I was a follower, not a leader, going along, as I always did, with every new fad and fancy, singing and dancing to the song of freedom in the streets and trying to ignore how ugly and dangerous my world had suddenly become with all the ominous rumblings about hanging all aristocrats from lampposts, lifting up and exalting the lowborn, punishing all those born to wealth and privilege, and killing the worst offenders of all—the King and Queen.

  * * *

  I soon had more cause for sorrow. My little cousin Aimee—funny how I always thought of her as the little girl of eight she had been when I left Martinique, though she was by now a woman of eighteen—had been summoned home by her anxious parents. They were frightened by the revolutionary fervor sweeping Paris, and when it only grew stronger, rather than passing away like many another fad, they booked her passage on the very next ship.

  She never reached Martinique. Months passed with no word of her, and then reports came suggesting the worst possible fate, worse even than a watery grave; the ship she had been traveling on, Lazarus, had been attacked by pirates. No ransom demands were ever made as was customary with wealthy captives; Aimee’s parents would have beggared themselves to buy her freedom and bring her back home. Murder, most likely preceded by violent rape, had surely been poor Aimee’s fate.