[Undated]
A blissful day at Malmaison. Rollicking games of Prisoner’s Base with the children on the lawn, Bonaparte laughing. We debated (noisily!) who would play what parts in the play we’ve decided to put on (Corneille’s Mélite). And then, chess in the evening in front of the fire, Bonaparte cheating (or trying to), the children teasing, in an uproar! “You can’t do that, Papa,” Hortense blurted out, objecting.
Papa. Bonaparte smiled, caught my eye. He looked as if he’d just been blessed.
February 25.
“Why are you laughing?” Bonaparte stood before us in a badly draped white toga, a haphazard crown of gold leaves circling his brow.
I tried to control the laughter that was welling up in me, but it kept overflowing, sending first Hortense and then Eugène into a fit. Bonaparte looked so serious.
“That’s it. I’m not going,” he said, pulling off the crown. Four golden leaves fluttered to the floor.
“Bonaparte, no!” We all jumped up in protest. “It’s perfect,” I assured him, and then Hortense and Eugène joined in. “With your Roman features, your profile, it gives you a heroic look.”
He regarded us without expression. “Then what, may I ask, do you find so amusing?”
“We know you are Bonaparte,” Hortense said, sweetly taking his arm.
“Nobody else will,” Eugène joined in.
“You’ll be in disguise,” I assured him.
Of course Bonaparte was recognized immediately. The ballroom was thronged, yet the crowd parted reverently when he approached. (Fortunately, no laughs.)
I clasped his hand—it was clammy. Crowds made him uneasy, I knew. Perhaps he was right, perhaps this had been a mistake, I thought. I looked over my shoulder. Roustam, dressed as himself, was not far behind.
“Is that Émilie?” I asked Hortense, nodding toward a young woman in a medieval gown, a veil covering her face. She was standing with her husband Lavalette (a knight) and another man I could not place at first. Her father François, I realized suddenly, dressed as a Revolutionary in long pants, short jacket and bonnet rouge.
“And isn’t that Aunt Désirée?” Eugène asked.
“I don’t believe it,” I said. Aunt Désirée, dressed incongruously as a Gypsy, was seated beside the dear old Marquis, who was wearing his old (very old) Commander-of-the-Navy hat.
“There’s Caroline, with Murat,” Hortense said.
“Ah!” The Viking and the belly dancer—staring into each other’s eyes. (Who would have thought that a rough soldier like Murat would fall so deeply in love, and with a girl like Caroline—his wife?)
A man in a black hood appeared before us: Fouché, dressed as Death. “I’ll stay close by,” he assured us.
“How comforting,” I said.
Suddenly there was a flurry of excitement by the door, raucous cheers, rude hoots. Four women had made a rather dramatic entrance dressed as wood nymphs, their brief tunics (transparent over flesh-coloured shifts, so they looked naked) ending at their knees.
“Maman!” Hortense hissed. “It’s Citoyenne Tallien—with her legs showing.” She looked away, horrified.
My Glories! Followed by Fortunée’s blinking husband Hamelin (dressed as a Venetian gondoliere) and a pretty little man dressed as a jester—Captain Charles? An old woman dressed as a harlot clung to his arm: Madame Montaniser. Rich old Madame Montaniser.
Bonaparte turned to Fouché. “Those women are half-naked. It’s unacceptable.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Fouché said.
The contredanse was about to begin. “No, wait.” I grabbed Fouché’s sleeve. “I’ll talk to them.”
Thérèse embraced me with open arms. “I have to tell you something.” I pulled her into an alcove. How was I going to put it? “There’s a bit of a problem.” I took a breath. “Bonaparte is concerned about … dress.” Undress. “So.” I swallowed. “So it might be best if you left, you and the others.”
“But we just got here.” She had to raise her voice to be heard.
I grimaced. “I’m afraid you will be asked to go—by the police—unless you leave.” A tall man appeared at the edge of the dance floor, his hand on the small of his back. He was wearing a mask—the face of Lazare Hoche. I put my hand to my heart.
“We haven’t done anything wrong,” Thérèse said.
The man in the mask turned to face me and then disappeared into the crowd.
“It has to do with … changes,” I said, my heart pounding violently against my ribs. Was it who I feared it might be? “Setting new standards.” And personal sacrifice. I felt my eyes filling. I swallowed, took a careful breath. I didn’t want my make-up to smear. “Thérèse, please, don’t you see?” The musicians began to play. “The Age of Fable is over, and the Reign of—” I blinked back tears. The Reign of History, I’d started to say.
“Look,” she said, taking my hand, “I do understand. I know it can’t be easy.” She kissed my cheeks. “I’ll tell the—”
But she was interrupted by Fortunée Hamelin, her forehead glistening, her bare breasts heaving. “Isn’t this wonderful? Parbleu, what a fête. Thérèse, Ouvrard wants you. We need one more to make a set. Love your costume, Josephine.” Fortunée grabbed Thérèse’s hand, swirled her off into the sea of revellers.
I stood for a moment, my back against a pillar, watching the revelry. I felt dizzy from the press of the crowd, the unsettling costumes, the masked eyes without warmth.
“Madame Bonaparte, do not disappear on me again.”
“Oh, it’s you, Fouché.” He always approached so silently.
“There is something you should be aware of.” He was, perhaps, the only sober person in the room—except for my husband. “Paul Barras is here. I recommend caution.”
I nodded. I knew.
“He’s wearing a mask that resembles the face of General Lazare Hoche.”
Fouché led me back to the head table. “Ah, there you are.” Bonaparte was irked: young Jérôme, already drunk, had challenged one of Pauline’s lovers to a duel. He took my hand. His sad, serious expression was a welcome contrast, somehow, to the crazed gaiety all around me. “Why are you trembling?” he asked. I heard a woman laughing loudly. I looked back over my shoulder. Captain Charles was juggling balls for old Madame Montaniser. “Did you talk to Thérèse?” Bonaparte pressed my fingers to his lips.
I nodded, blinking back tears. We had only each other, I realized. But it was enough. Indeed, it was a very great deal.
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her things had changed.” Things had changed.
“Consul General,” Fouché interrupted, “I’ve just been informed that the musicians intend to play Chant au départ. I think you should—” But he’d no sooner said the words than the opening chords were struck. Suddenly, everyone was cheering: Vive Bonaparte! Peace with Bonaparte!
“I think you would be safer on the platform, Consul General.”
Bonaparte clasped my hand and tilted his head toward the platform.
“Me?”
“I want you beside me.”
Fouché pushed his way through to the steps, Bonaparte and I following in his wake. When we emerged onto the platform, a cheer went up. Vive Bonaparte!
Over the heads of the crowd, I saw a scuffle at the back by the big double doors. Four gendarmes were escorting out the man in the Hoche mask: Père Barras. My throat tightened.
The noise was getting louder and wilder. Some had started to sing the Marseillaise. The ballroom walls seemed to shake with a roar of cheers: Vive Bonaparte! Vive la République! The Revolution is over!
I saw Joseph and Lucien Bonaparte, dressed as pirates, standing by a pillar. I bowed to them. (Gloating: Yes! I confess it.) Then I felt a tugging at my hem. It was Mademoiselle Malesherbes, my sweet young petitioner, dressed as a violet. Her grandmother, Countess de Malesherbes (with a jester’s hat on), was slumped into an invalid’s chair beside her. “Consulesse Bon à Parté.” The girl had to
yell in order to be heard. “My grandmother wants me to tell you: Long live the Angel of Mercy.”
I smiled and made a little wave at the countess, who clapped, grinning toothlessly.
“The Revolution is over!” a man yelled nearby, his tears ghoulishly streaking his black and white harlequin make-up.
I saw François Beauharnais in the crowd, standing by a statue of Venus, one arm clasped around his daughter’s shoulders. Lieutenant Lavalette was standing behind them, hovering. He bent down to say something to his wife. Emilie lifted her veil and smiled.
It was then that I noticed Thérèse at the back of the ballroom, following Fortunée Hamelin, Minerva and Madame de Crény out the big double doors. My Glories! Thérèse threw me a kiss, waved goodbye. “Ahr-ree-veh-dayr-chee!” I heard Fortunées husband Hamelin yell as the doors closed behind them.
The Age of Fable is over …
Then, strangely, I could see the cheering faces, but I couldn’t hear the shouts. And it was then that I saw her again, in the shadow behind the two pillars: that face, set jaw, the ruffled white cap.
I touched Bonaparte’s arm and I could hear again. The roaring in my ears mingled with the cheers. The Revolution is over! over! over!
“Long live the Angel of Mercy!” The girl tipped back her grandmother’s chair, spun it around, the old woman cackling.
“Bow,” Bonaparte whispered, squeezing my hand.
I bowed and a great cheer went up. I glanced at Bonaparte. Was that for me?
“They love you,” he said.
Us, I realized.
He held up my hand. We bowed to the cheering crowd.
The Age of Fable is over … the Reign of History has begun.
* Grisette: a lady of easy virtue.
* The marriage ended poorly and Lisette died in misery.
** The Launderesses Guild, one of the most powerful in Paris, had been lobbying for the return of the Mardi Gras because of all the laundry work the festivities generated.
Notes
This novel spans the most controversial years of Josephine’s life. If she has what one would call a bad reputation, it arises largely out of her actions during these four and a half years—or rather, her actions as described by a number of historians. When I began my work on Josephine, I assumed that these scandalous stories about her were true. Through years of research and consultation, however, I came to change my view. I am well aware of the accepted version of Josephine’s life, well aware that this novel presents a view of her that is unique in the literature. It is my hope that a study of Josephine will someday be undertaken reexamining primary sources, and that the rumours surrounding her will then be reassessed.
The following have been excerpted from authentic documents: the letters from Napoleon throughout; Director Barras’s dinner menu on page 53; the Hoche letter that Eugène quotes on page 91; Dr. Martinet’s medical report on page 216; the article from London Morning Chronicle on page 234; the letter Eugène writes Josephine on page 235; Citoyen Chanorier’s letter regarding Malmaison on page 240; the musical score written by Hortense on page 338; the various passages quoted from Jean Astruc’s A Treatise on All the Diseases Incident to Women and other medical books. Note, as well, that the prediction that Josephine would become Queen of France is referred to as early as 1797, well before she is crowned in 1804.
Some readers may have noticed that the Hoche child was a boy in the early printings of The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B., and a girl in Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe. In researching this novel I discovered my error.
Regarding currency: It is difficult to determine the value of a franc at this period in French history. Before the Revolution, estimates place the value of the franc (then called a “livre”) somewhere between $1.25 and $4.50 U.S. In the period after the Terror, the economy was unstable and inflation soared. In 1795, for example, the year before Napoleon and Josephine married, a loaf of bread could cost as much as 1,400 francs, and a barrel of potatoes, 17,000.
Selected Bibliography
In addition to several hundred reference and general texts, I largely depended on the following books in writing Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe. I’ve starred the titles I recommend to readers who wish to read more about Josephine and the Napoleonic era.
Allinson, Alfred. The Days of the Directoire. New York: John Lane, The Bodley Company, 1910.
Aulard, A. Paris pendant la Réaction Thermidorienne. Vol. 3–5. Paris: Maison Quantin, 1902.
____. Paris sous le Consulat. Vol. 1. Paris: Maison Quantin, 1903.
Barras, Paul. Memoirs of Barras, Member of the Directorate. Vol. 1–4. Edited, with a general introduction, prefaces and appendices by George Duruy. Translated by Charles E. Roche. London: Harper & Brothers, 1895.
Bernard, J. F. Talleyrand, A Biography. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1973.
Bonaparte, Napoleon. Letters and documents of Napoleon. Vol. 1, The Rise to Power. Selected and translated by John Eldred Howard. London: The Cresset Press, 1961.
Bonnechose, Emile de. Lazare Hoche. Translated by Emile Pernet. Toronto: Willing & Williamson, 1881.
Bourrienne, Louis Antoine Fauvelet de. Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte. Vol. 1–4. Edited by R.W. Phipps. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1892.
*Bruce, Evangeline. Napoleon and Josephine: The Improbable Marriage. New York: Scribner, 1995.
*Catinat, Maurice, Bernard Chevallier and Christophe Pincemaille, editors. Impératrice Joséphine: Correspondance, 1782–1814. Paris: Histoire Payot, 1996.
Cerf, Léon, ed. Letters of Napoleon to Josephine. New York: Brentanos, 1931.
*Chevallier, Bernard, and Christophe Pincemaille. L’impératrice Joséphine. Presses de la Renaissance. 37 rue du Four, Paris 75006. 1988.
Cole, Hubert. Fouché: The Unprincipled Patriot. London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1971.
*____.Joséphine. London: Heinemann, 1962.
____. The Betrayers: Joachim and Caroline Murat. London: Eyre Methuen, 1972.
*Cronin, Vincent. Napoleon. London: Collins, 1971.
Dupre, Huntley. Lazare Carnot: Republican Patriot. Philadelphia: Porcupine Press, 1975.
Goodspeed, D.J. Bayonets at St Cloud; the Story of the 18th Brumaire. Toronto: Macmillan, 1965.
*Hortense, Queen. The Memoirs of Queen Hortense. Published by arrangement with Prince Napoleon. Edited by Jean Hanoteau. Translated by Arthur K. Griggs. Vol. 1 and 2. New York: Cosmopolitan Book Corporation, 1927.
Hubert, Gérard. Malmaison. Translated by C. de Chabannes. Paris: Editions de la Réunion des musées nationaux, 1989.
*Knapton, Ernest John. Empress Josephine. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1963.
Markham, Felix. Napoleon. New York: New American Library, 1963.
Mossiker, Frances. Napoleon and Josephine: The Biography of a Marriage. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1964.
*Oman, Carola. Napoleon’s Viceroy: Eugène de Beauharnais. New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1966.
Saint-Amand, Imbert de. Citizeness Bonaparte. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1899.
Sorel, Albert. Bonaparte et Hoche en 1797. Paris: Librairie Plon, 1896.
Tourtier-Bonazzi, Chantal de, ed. Napoléon Lettres d’Amour à Joséphine. Paris: Fayard, 1981.
Woronoff, Denis. The Thermidorean Regime and the Directory, 1794–1799. Translated by Julian Jackson. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984.
Acknowledgements
At times the creation of this novel resembled a team effort. Although solitary in my work, I could feel the collective goodwill of a number of people. First and foremost I’d like to credit my editor and publisher, Iris Tupholme, for the hours of creative think-sessions, her ebullient good humour, sound advice and inspired suggestions. Thanks also to Karen Hanson at HarperCollins Canada for her careful scrutiny, Valerie Applebee, who volunteered to be part of the editorial team, Becky Vogan for her sensitive final polish, and Maya Mavjee, for her editorial feedback in the early stages. Warm thanks to Carol Shields, who was clos
ely involved in the first draft, for her encouragement and wisdom. Both Peggy Bridgland and Fiona Foster were perceptive and supportive editors.
A number of readers gave invaluable feedback at various stages: Janet Calcaterra, Thea Caplan, Dorothy Goodman, Marnie MacKay, Jenifer McVaugh, Carmen Mullins, Sharon and Bob Zentner. Two book clubs took the time to read a draft of this novel and meet to discuss it. I’d like to thank the members of the Scarborough Book Club IV in Calgary, Alberta, and the Chapters 110 Bloor St. Book Club in Toronto, Ontario, for their insights.
A number of men and women helped me in my travel research. Prof. Egmont Lee provided the information I needed to locate Mombello north of Milan. Maurice Moncet was kind enough to open up Grosbois (now a museum) after closing hours and give me a private tour. As well, I’d like to credit the many individuals whose names I do not know who went out of their way to help: the caretaker who showed me around Mombello (now a school); the housekeeper who showed me Josephine’s rooms in the Serbelloni Palace (now government offices) in Milan; the men and women at Plombière-les-Bains who enthusiastically subjected me to a variety of water treatments.
I’d like also to thank Marc Sebanc for his help with Latin translations, Simone Lee and her mother, Prof. Valeria Lee, for help with Italian, and Translingua at the University of Ottawa (especially Christine Hug) for help with French.
A very special thanks to my two historical consultants, Dr. Margaret Chrishawn and Dr. Maurice Catinat, who gave generously of their time and knowledge. And thanks as well to Tony Kenny for passing on his extensive Napoleonic library to me: it is a daily blessing.
Story ideas come from far and near. In my community, specifically, I’d like to thank Christina Anderman for her ghost story and Fran Murphy for her parrot tales. Jim and Tish Smith put aside a stack of old medical books for me that inspired me to delve further. Chaz Este showed up at my door with a beautiful book on eighteenth-century interiors that he was willing to lend “indefinitely.”
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