by Brandy Purdy
Soon everyone was referring to her as “Napoleon’s Cleopatra” and recounting how he had told the man manning the balloon to turn his back and pulled Bellilotte’s breeches down to her ankles and bent her over the basket’s rim. I wondered if she had closed her eyes against that dizzying view of the ground far down below where the people looked tiny as ants. Possibly my husband was the very first man to have carnal congress in a hot-air balloon, another conquest for him, well, actually two if one also counts the beautiful Bellilotte. Her inconvenient husband, Lieutenant Fourès, was sent on several fool’s errands and high-risk missions to get him out of the way, and maybe even killed, but Lady Luck didn’t desert him even when his wife did, and he survived every time.
* * *
With his Cleopatra at his side, Bonaparte began playing the Oriental potentate, wearing a turban and rich robes like a sultan, with a jeweled scimitar in his belt. He dressed Bellilotte in Oriental splendor, surrounded himself with giant Mameluke bodyguards, and, fearful of poison, had a food taster sample every dish and drink set before him. He had cause to fear; the army was suffering greatly, and his popularity was declining. Amidst sandstorms and remorseless heat, an epidemic of bubonic plague decimated the French army; those too weak to march were mercilessly left to die baked alive in the sizzling sands. When they seized Jaffa, Bonaparte ordered everyone slaughtered, including women and children. To save ammunition, he ordered his men to use their bayonets. Hundreds were herded into the sea, hacked down when they tried to flee, so they had but two choices—die by the sword or drown.
My husband was mad; he had lost all mercy. I could not help but think that my betrayal was the cruel truth at the heart of it. I changed Bonaparte, but not for the better.
* * *
Messages from France managed to sneak through the British blockade, alerting him that in his absence foreign armies were encroaching on his territories. Italy was already lost, the Austrians were reviving, and the Russians were massing troops along the Alps and Danube.
British and blockade be damned, Bonaparte was coming back to France! When news reached us, there was dancing in the streets. “He’s coming back; all will be well!” was the general belief. “Hail the name we all adore, Bonaparte, the man beloved by France; he will save us evermore!” they sang.
But I was not a part of it. I had come back from La Plombières to find myself persona non grata in Paris. Even Barras scorned me and Theresa and Fortunée were suddenly too busy to see me. Everyone turned their backs on me. No one wanted to know me. There were no invitations to dance or dine, no more gala nights at the theater or opera in my honor.
I was still ill and weak, tormented by aches and pains I feared would never go away entirely, and the idea of public scrutiny frightened me now that everyone had turned against me. I was afraid of being spit at and reviled by the people in the street; I had cuckolded the conqueror and let them all down. The portraits of me sold in shops and on the streets had changed overnight to cruel caricatures of me dancing nude before Barras or dandling an infant-sized Bonaparte on my knee or suckling him at my breast. I even became the subject of a pornographic novel, The Licentious Life of Madame B. I needed solace, a sanctuary, a place of peace and safety that was all my own. Somewhere I could lock the doors and let no one in who might hurt me and even the whispers from Paris could not reach me unless I chose to let them in.
I had never forgotten the beautiful château of Malmaison I had glimpsed from my garden in Croissy; when I closed my eyes I could still see it glowing butter gold in the summer sun. It became a beacon of hope for me. I knew I would be happy there, so, cost be damned, I bought it. The Molay family, who owned the property, needed money and the house had fallen into disrepair, so they were grateful for my offer. I was too happy to haggle and probably paid them more than it was worth. That first night, sitting by the great fire, listening to the rhythm of the rain on the slate roof, I knew I had done the right thing. I had found my home, my haven; at last, I was at peace.
CHAPTER 26
When I heard that Bonaparte’s ship had landed, I put on a flowing white gown and rushed to Lyons, hoping to reach him before his brother Joseph did, so I could fling myself weeping at his feet, and plead my innocence. I needed to persuade him that it was I, not he, who had been betrayed—Joseph hated me and had chosen to believe the lies of a disgruntled servant, a thief, whom I had dismissed with just cause; Bonaparte himself would have done the same. But I was too late. He had already departed for Paris by another route.
I was still on the road, screaming at the coachman to go faster, when Bonaparte reached the house on the rue de la Victoire. Faithless creature, she is off somewhere with her lover, he assumed. He began emptying drawers and seizing up armfuls of my dresses, hats, gloves, stockings, shawls, shoes, nightgowns, and negligees and hurling them from the windows out into the street. He wanted the house stripped of every sign of me. He wanted me erased from his life.
I arrived in the darkest hours before dawn to find every garment I owned strewn about the streets, but I didn’t care. I slipped and tripped my way over them and forced my way through the front door, fighting the servants who attempted to bar it against me and hold me back.
I ran up the stairs, oblivious to the throbbing pain in my spine and hips, and hurled myself against the locked bedroom door, hammering it with my fists, begging Bonaparte to open it, to let me in. He had been misled; Joseph hated me; and Louise, his informant, was a lying thief who had a grudge against me; Hippolyte Charles was just a friend, nothing more; nothing improper had ever passed between us. “I am yours body and soul!” I sobbed, pounding on the door. “Bonaparte, please believe me and let me in!”
Hours passed in which he said not a word. When I could no longer bear to stand, I knelt and continued pleading and pounding. Finally, I lay upon the floor, stretched out before the door, weak as a kitten, still pounding and pleading with my bleeding fists leaving behind red trails and smears. Even when my voice grew hoarse and faded to just above a whisper, I never stopped. I had to get him to open that door! My whole life depended on it.
The sun rose and when Hortense awoke she found me lying there, in a piteous heap, still pounding feebly on the blood-streaked door, begging Bonaparte to let me in. Hortense—kind, loyal, and understanding Hortense!—ran to me. She worried over my hands and tried to coax me to her room, to rest. When I refused, she stayed and joined her voice with mine, begging the stepfather she both feared and revered to open the door, to not shut me out of his life.
When Eugène arrived he also joined us. My son remained loyal and steadfast, always ready to leap to my defense with good words to say about me, even when I did not deserve it. Even in Egypt with Bonaparte, Eugène had still defended me and urged his stepfather to temper his fury with caution. It might all be malicious rumors designed to discredit me; he himself had never seen me behave with any impropriety in the company of Lieutenant Charles.
Together, united, we became a chorus of three, begging Bonaparte to open the door. And at last he did. He could never resist my children; Eugène was the kind of son every man hoped for, and Hortense was the perfect daughter, demure and sweet. I rushed in before he could think twice and bar the door again. I flung myself into his arms, burrowed against his chest, and tried very hard not to look into his eyes because what I had glimpsed there in that first brief glance frightened me to the core.
There was a new, unfamiliar cruelty there that told me that I, and I alone, had killed every ounce of kindness this man possessed. My husband no longer loved me, and I had no one to blame but myself. He was looking at me with new eyes, eyes that would never again trust me and would always be inclined to doubt me.
The words came out in a frantic rush. I clung and wept. I cried and lied until, at last, my tears—woman’s only weapon—conquered the hero.
But it was already too late for us; we were doomed. The damage had been done. I had tarnished his ideal of Josephine; I was no longer a goddess in my husband’s eyes
. He would never again worship at my shrine. I had fallen from the pedestal he had put me upon and the façade had cracked revealing all my many flaws.
Bonaparte swept me up in his arms and carried me to the bed. He still desired me! And oh, how I clung to him, like never before! I wanted to turn back time, to have again what I had so carelessly, so callously and foolishly, thrown away. In those moments I realized what a precious gift he had given me—no one else would ever love me so much. I suddenly needed that love very badly. I didn’t want it to die. It had suffered a mighty blow, but I had to find some way to bring it back to life.
Over and over again I told him that I loved him, hoping against hope that would make a difference. But that was a mistake. The cold silver steel glint in Bonaparte’s eyes told me that I, like many a foe he had met before in battle, had just walked into a trap. He had me now, Josephine conquered, captured, and subdued, subject entirely to his will. Your love is the greatest treasure of all, he had once written me. Now he had it. I had forgotten in my anguish that the prize always ceased to glitter as brightly once it was won and that which lay unconquered over the horizon beckoned more enticingly.
There were tears in both our eyes as we made love. But what were they for? Relief? Gratitude? Grief for the lovely illusion that had died, that I had in fact killed? Or the years of pretense that lay before us?
* * *
The Bonaparte who returned to me was sun browned and bitter. He had grown stouter and cropped his hair. He looked older and harder. Inside, he was tough as leather, not so malleable anymore. He was wary and distrustful, never without his food taster and tall, terrifying Mamelukes.
He had taken me back, but, as proof of my undying gratitude, he expected more from me than ever before.
Rose was faded, dead, dry petals trampled into dust beneath Bonaparte’s boots, and in her place he expected his ideal, his immortal Josephine, to flourish and bloom, more radiant than any Rose, and outshine every other woman alive, to be an adoring beacon illuminating his glory and pointing the way to him. I was the one who was to worship at his altar now, the high priestess of the cult of Bonaparte.
He would show the world that our love was still alive; I was still his incomparable Josephine. The scandal had been a noxious stew stirred up by the British, to tarnish his glory, and my reputation, to deprive the French people of hope and inspiration and muddy the pure white hems of “Our Lady of Victories.” But my wholehearted devotion was the price for the starring role in this play. Every ounce of grace and charm and beauty I possessed, every moment, waking and sleeping, was to be dedicated entirely to him. I was to live for him alone, for no other purpose, and to put none above him, not even God and my children. “I win battles; Josephine wins hearts,” he was fond of saying, but it was always left unsaid that the hearts I won were all for him.
So I made another bargain with another devil and tried my earnest best to keep it. But it cost me even more. I felt the pedestal teeter perilously beneath my feet. The wolves were already at my door. Henceforth, fear would be my constant companion. I would never rest easily. The goddess had sacrificed her immortality; she was mortal now and could be torn to shreds and die. Adieu, security, my greatest desire! The worst part was knowing that I had no one to blame but myself.
CHAPTER 27
Now that he was back in Paris, Bonaparte’s thoughts turned once more to the corrupt Directory.
“There are too many cooks in the kitchen,” he said. “France needs one man!” He meant, of course, himself.
He was thinking again of that crown, and I was thinking of Euphemia David’s long-ago prophecy. It seemed I hadn’t thought of it in a very long time; I had outgrown the dream.
“Please, Bonaparte,” I pleaded, “don’t go thinking of making yourself a king!”
“King, no, the memory of Louis XVI is still too fresh,” he answered. “I was thinking instead of emperor. I shall revive the splendor of the Holy Roman Emperors. But not right away; the people must be eased into it. . . .”
Emperor. Empress. My blood chilled. I didn’t want it now. I had grown up; I was no longer a silly young girl dreaming of becoming a fairy-tale princess. I had had my taste of fame, sweet at first, then sour as vinegar. I had endured the loss of privacy that came hand in hand with popularity and the fickleness of crowds, revering one moment, reviling the next. The false smiles and honeyed words, the whispers behind, and verbal daggers in, my back, and I had had enough of it. I wanted no part of it! I already knew how little it mattered and my happiness was already lost. So what mattered a crown? It would be a heavy yet empty honor.
I sat and watched and smiled and socialized as my husband overthrew The Directory in a thankfully bloodless coup instead of another revolution. Barras and the other Directors were sent into exile. The people were glad to see them go. Before he left, Barras wrote to me; it was only a single line, but a true and pertinent one: I created both of you! It was true. We should have been more grateful. Instead, we swept him away, like dust under a rug, out of sight, out of mind. Neither of us wished to remember, but I could never forget.
So as not to alarm the people with the sudden return of royalty, after they had so recently fought a revolution to be rid of it, Bonaparte took the title of First Consul. It was only the first stepping stone on the path to ultimate power. He now ruled France and would conquer the world if he could. What a way to start a new century!
* * *
Soon we were living in the Tuileries, the decaying palace that had become Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette’s prison. The walls were still stained with the blood of the Swiss Guards who had died valiantly trying to defend the royal family, and the gardens were overrun with prostitutes, vagrants, and lemonade sellers. Upon the front façade was still painted in bloodred letters: ON AUGUST 10, 1792, ROYALTY WAS ABOLISHED IN FRANCE NEVER TO RETURN! Bonaparte ordered it whitewashed and called the decorators and carpenters in to restore all four hundred rooms to their former splendor, the house in the rue de Victoire was no longer good enough for him.
I was given Marie Antoinette’s former suite on the ground floor. The bedchamber was all sky-blue satin and gold with Sèvres vases everywhere painted and filled with bouquets of roses, the antechamber was regal purple with mirrors and bronze statues and paintings plundered from Italy, and the reception room, my salon, was done all in yellow and gold. Gold Bs for Bonaparte were everywhere, even on the doorknobs and painted at the bottom of chamber pots, along with regal eagles and swarms of embroidered golden bees, the symbol of resurrection, which my husband had taken as his personal emblem. His portraits, larger than life, adorned the walls now, with bronze and marble statues of Caesar, Hannibal, and Alexander the Great standing sentry as though they looked up to him.
We were waited on hand and foot by servants in liveries embroidered with gold Bs and bees. Gold, everywhere gold! I had ladies-in-waiting, ladies of the bedchamber, ladies of the wardrobe, all overseen by a dame d’honneur, footmen, and pages, an almoner, and I was not allowed to set foot outside without an armed escort of cavalry. Bonaparte banished all my former friends and associates, including Theresa and Fortunée, and personally selected all my attendants. No one was allowed to get close to me, to be my friend. We would have no more informality; we had risen above such things. In desperation to have even one familiar face about me, someone I could speak openly and candidly to, I wrote to my mother and begged her to leave Martinique and come to court to be with me, but she wanted no part of my destiny; she had a feeling, she said, that it would all end badly.
Formality, Bonaparte decreed, was the new order of the day, Paris had been lax long enough. It was time for obedience to come marching back; people (women especially) must do as they were told, not as they pleased. He ordered me to do all that I could to charm and coax the old aristocracy back, the émigrés who had fled in terror of their lives and been declared enemies of the Revolution and therefore enemies of France. Bonaparte said we needed the glamour of the ancien regime, people like the Ség
urs, the Rochefoucaulds, and the Caulaincourts, who were steeped in elegance and tradition. They had been drilled in court etiquette from the moment they were old enough to walk and would make sure our court ran properly.
I was constantly watched; from every window faces peered in at me. I was always on show, surrounded from rising to retiring. I could not even walk in the garden alone. I never had a moment to myself except in bed on the rare nights when Bonaparte, increasingly desperate for an heir, did not come to me. But even then I wasn’t really alone; fear lay right next to me. I would lie awake for hours, exhausted yet sleepless, in the former queen’s vast mahogany bed, expecting at any moment to see Marie Antoinette’s ghost appear and demand to know what I was doing in her bed.
Just as he changed every facet of my life, Bonaparte also changed my clothes. No more simple white muslin gowns flowing gracefully over my limbs with a colorful shawl thrown with artful carelessness over my shoulders. Limbs and bosoms must be covered, no more rouged nipples or peeping areolas. And no more cropped hair à la Victime upon the ladies. A woman’s hair was her crowning glory, so it must be grown long again, long enough to coil up and crown with bands of jewels and diadems and then let down for her husband’s delight when they retired at night. Heavy satins and stultifying velvets stiff with gold and silver embroidery and high stand-up lace collars evocative of the Renaissance were now de rigueur. He was even contemplating the restoration of hoops and panniered skirts; fortunately, I was able to dissuade him. After much argument, he agreed that the silhouette might stay the same, with high waists and skirts falling down in straight lines, but, on all formal occasions the ladies must wear heavy trains and no one was to be seen at court in the same gown twice.
I was a living ornament now, designed to decorate my husband’s court. I changed my dress three times a day and was expected to look always as perfect as though I were posing for my portrait, never a wrinkle or a loose thread, a tear or a stain, or a hair out of place. Bonaparte demanded perfection, always, in all things. It was exhausting! Every morning when I rose, put on my lace peignoir, and went to sit at my dressing table, I felt as though I hadn’t slept at all.
