The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte

by Chatlien, Ruth Hull

  Although it was difficult to tell because of his mustache, Betsy thought that Turreau smiled in self-satisfaction. “His name is Louis de Tousard. He fought in your Revolutionary War and later in Saint-Domingue. More recently, he was the vice-consul in Philadelphia.”

  Betsy frowned, trying to imagine how the Smiths would feel about having a French officer imposed upon them. Then she realized that she could now afford to set up her own household. “Let me find a place to live, and then I will meet this colonel.”

  TOUSARD TURNED OUT to be a dignified, sympathetic man of sixty. He had cottony white hair, pale blue eyes, a fleshy nose, and a double chin. His right arm was amputated. When Bo met him, he stared at the empty, folded-up sleeve and asked bluntly, “What happened to you?”

  Kneeling before him, Tousard asked, “Do you know about the American Revolution?”

  Bo nodded and started to chew his thumbnail, a recently acquired habit Betsy had been trying to break. Tousard gently placed his left palm over Bo’s hand. “I can see that I will have to teach you to stand at attention like a soldier.”

  “I know how, sir.” Bo stood up straight with his arms at his sides.

  “Good. Now back to my story. I was fighting in the Battle of Rhode Island, approaching a British artillery position to capture the guns, when one of the cannon fired. The shot grazed my arm and shattered the bones. The doctors wanted to treat it, but I had to return to the fighting as soon as possible, so I told them to cut the arm off.”

  Bo’s hazel eyes grew wide. He started to raise his hand to his mouth, but at a frown from Tousard, he returned to attention. “Did it hurt?” he whispered.

  “Yes, but there is more than one kind of hurt. I knew that if I had failed to fight with my friends, it would cause a hurt in my heart that would take longer to heal.”

  Seeing Bo’s puzzlement, Betsy wanted to intervene, but then the boy blurted, “Like when someone calls you a coward.” His uncles often hurled that taunt during games.

  “Right.” Tousard braced himself with his left arm and struggled to his feet. To Betsy, he said, “It will be a pleasure to tutor your boy. I have no son, only daughters.”

  Betsy smiled. “Thank you, Colonel. I want him to learn discipline, as I fear he may take after one who has never shown much self-control.”

  Raising his eyebrows, Tousard nodded. “I comprehend perfectly, Madame.”

  Betsy was gratified that he addressed her as madame rather than mademoiselle. Seeing that Bo was following their conversation, she said quietly, “In English, we have a saying, Little pitchers have big ears. Whatever you may know about my past disappointments or about the person with whom I once had an intimate connection, the subject is not to be discussed in front of your charge. The paternal reputation must be preserved.”

  Tousard bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, Madame.”

  THAT FEBRUARY BETSY turned twenty-five. She enjoyed herself more that winter than at any time since her separation from Jerome. Having money freed her from the vexing dependency on her father, and having Tousard in her household freed her from the burdensome feeling that she alone was responsible for her son. At parties, she danced and conversed with a new joie de vivre. Still, she was careful to state often that she did not wish to remarry, and everyone seemed to take her at her word—perhaps the rampant gossip about Oakeley had taught men in Washington that they would pursue her at their peril.

  Turreau finally received a letter saying that Napoleon approved of the decision to start the pension and that he still intended to grant Mademoiselle Patterson a title if she did not marry an Englishman. Betsy received this information with an appropriately sober expression. In her heart, however, she exulted that Oakeley’s attentions had roused the emperor at last.

  In late winter, Washington society learned the shocking news that Napoleon had divorced Josephine. Earlier, when he was in Austria negotiating the Treaty of Schönbrunn, a rash young German had plotted to stab him, an event that reawakened Napoleon’s fear that his empire would not survive his death. He had learned that it was Josephine, not he, who was responsible for their childless state, so he decided he must have a younger wife who could give him a son. In the spring, word came that the emperor had married nineteen-year-old Marie Louise of Austria, thus allying himself with one of France’s bitterest enemies.

  Although Betsy had less reason to be surprised by the news than anyone, it depressed her. The emperor’s willingness to cast aside the woman he adored stirred up painful memories of his ruthlessness in destroying her marriage to Jerome. Telling herself that she had reason to be grateful to Napoleon now, she tried not to dwell on her past unhappiness.

  Even so, Betsy’s mood crashed to earth. Her pension enabled her to support herself and maintain a suitable position, but she wanted more than that. She wanted to save for Bo’s future. Over the years as she mingled in society, she had realized that a lifetime of independent reading was no match for the systematic education that distinguished the people she admired most. Betsy had determined that Bo must become a man of letters like Jefferson and Madison. Such an education would prepare him for a position among the ruling classes—and impart to him the discipline his father lacked.

  When she quizzed Tousard, she learned that living in France was more expensive than the United States, so she could not spend all her income now if she wanted to pay for European schooling later. This realization forced Betsy to economize by continuing to remake her wardrobe, washing her own laundry, and hiring a single maid instead of a staff. Because of her own experience of helpless dependency, she had sworn that she would never own a slave.

  Betsy soon concluded that she not only needed to cut expenses, but she also must make her money grow. She decided not to ask her father’s advice because she feared he would take control of her pension—and also because it would be more gratifying to prove that she could build a fortune without him. To learn sound investment principles, she questioned Aunt Nancy and several gentlemen acquaintances who were experienced at business. At first, the men laughed at the idea of a woman entering the commercial sphere—a reaction that infuriated Betsy—but she controlled her temper by reminding herself that Bo’s fate depended on her success. She hated pretending to be helpless, but whenever she deemed it necessary, she would bat her eyelashes as though fighting back tears and say in a tremulous voice, “But sir, I must take on this task if I am to provide for my poor, fatherless son.” Invariably, that performance drew forth helpful recommendations.

  Even so, Betsy did not act on all the advice she was offered. She had no intention of indulging in risky speculation of the sort that had bankrupted Marianne’s father. Rather, she would take a cautious approach and buy only stocks that looked safe. One company she liked was the Union Manufacturing Company, a textile factory near Baltimore. Because the embargo had choked off imports, industry was developing in the United States, and Betsy reasoned that as the population grew, companies that made necessities were sure to prosper. At first, she bought only a few shares, but when they had grown in value after six months, she bought a few more.

  These concerns absorbed her so that 1810 sped by. She and Bo spent the summer at Springfield, but family troubles marred the normally pleasant season. Seventeen-year-old Margaret had been diagnosed with consumption during the winter, and now even in the wholesome country air, her strength failed rapidly. Many afternoons, Betsy sat outside under the trees with her two sisters. Margaret had been studying drawing with Eliza’s husband, Maximilien Godefroy, and sometimes Betsy and Caroline sat sketching with her. Increasingly, however, Margaret was too weary to do even that. Their mother tempted her with chicken in aspic, fruit compote, and blancmange, but Margaret continued to waste away.

  Even as Betsy fretted over her sister’s health, she worried about the possible danger to Bo from living with a consumptive. She thanked God that Colonel Tousard kept him outdoors most of each day learning to ride a pony, an activity the child adored. Tousard also guarded Bo from misha
ps. Nine-year-old Henry and seven-year-old Octavius were reckless, and they dared Bo to take risky chances until Tousard told them, “Anyone can ride like a wild Indian. I am teaching him the skills of a soldier in the emperor’s cavalry.” After that, all three boys followed the colonel’s directions.

  Betsy returned to Washington that fall but kept in touch with her mother by letter, so she knew that Margaret grew weaker by the month. When Betsy came back to South Street for the holidays, she could see that her sister would not live long. Margaret passed away on January 5, 1811. Dorcas’s despair was so deep that she did not leave her room for days, and Betsy began to wonder if she would need to remain in Baltimore indefinitely. After two weeks of mourning, however, her mother told her to return to the capital city. “You have had enough unhappiness. I want you to enjoy yourself now that you can.”

  Before leaving Baltimore, Betsy asked her brother Robert to look for a small house she could buy, so she and Bo could live independently when they were in town. Her mother was not strong, and Betsy did not want to keep burdening her with two extra people.

  A few days after they returned to Washington, Tousard surprised Betsy by coming into her parlor and saying, “General Turreau wishes to be received.”

  She looked up from her sewing. “The ambassador is here? Surely, he must know I cannot receive him without a chaperon.”

  “I will remain, Madame, if you wish.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. Allow me a moment before you show the general in.” Betsy rose, folded the gown she was altering, and stored it in her workbasket. Then she sat on the sofa.

  As Turreau entered, Betsy saw that he was wearing his best clothes. After bowing to her, he told Tousard, “You may go.”

  “Please sit down, General. I asked Colonel Tousard to remain. It is not my habit to receive gentlemen callers alone.”

  Scowling, Turreau sat without argument. Tousard stood silently by the door.

  “I have come to tell you that I have been recalled to France. The emperor sent a new ambassador to replace me.”

  “I see.” Betsy’s thoughts raced furiously. While Washingtonians would be glad to be rid of the disagreeable man, she wondered if the change would affect her pension.

  Turreau crossed his legs and glanced around the room as though curious to know how Betsy lived. He picked up an English porcelain figurine from the table beside his chair—it was a fisherman’s wife holding a basket of fish. Jerome had bought it for Betsy years before to remind her of the trip to Niagara and their joking banter of what they might do to escape Napoleon’s control. It was one of the few ornaments she had saved when her father confiscated her household things. Turreau looked at the figurine, curled his upper lip in disdain, and set it down.

  Then he nodded at Betsy. “Mademoiselle Patterson, you must know the respect I have gained for you by observing your conduct these last several years.”

  “Thank you, mon général, you are very kind.”

  “Your beauty and other amiable qualities are wasted in this backward country. A brilliant woman like you belongs in Paris.”

  Blinking in surprise, Betsy wondered why he was saying such things. Had Napoleon decreed that this disagreeable man should escort Bo and her to France? “As you know, that is my dearest desire, but I must wait upon his imperial majesty to grant me permission.”

  “I am certain that such permission would be forthcoming if he knew that there was no longer any danger of your tempting King Jerome from his current alliance.”

  “Whatever can you mean? I have severed all connection with King Jerome.”

  “Yes, but the emperor would feel more certain that you could not be a distraction if you were to become the wife of one of his officers.” With a flourish, Turreau placed a hand upon his heart. “I speak of myself, of course. You cannot have failed to notice that the respect I feel for you has deepened into passionate admiration. But I do not ask you to reciprocate those feelings. I speak only of a marriage of convenience so that you may be presented at court where you belong. I have every confidence that once the emperor meets you and sees your admirable qualities, he will elevate you to the rank of duchess.”

  “Thus making you a duke?”

  The general shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  Appalled at the thought of an alliance with him, Betsy rose to her feet. “What you suggest is completely impossible!”

  Turreau stood too but before he could speak, Betsy declared, “After having been married to a man I loved, nothing would induce me to accept such a cold, calculated proposal. I have told you that I am devoted to my son and have no intention of remarrying. However, were I to consider such a step, nothing—not even an order from the emperor—could persuade me to accept you.”

  Turreau’s face grew purple, and he took a threatening step toward her, stopping only at the sound of Tousard clearing his throat. After glaring at Betsy a moment longer, Turreau turned sharply and left. As the outer door slammed, Betsy felt a sudden weakness and sank to the sofa. Colonel Tousard rushed to her side. “Madame, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I— Oh, what have I done?”

  “You defended yourself with honor and spirit. You behaved exactly as I would want my own daughters to.”

  “Thank you. But the emperor. Do you think he will be displeased?”

  “No, Madame. I have no doubt that this was a plot of Turreau’s that the emperor knows nothing about. I am sure you will find soon enough that all is well.”

  “I hope so.” Betsy shuddered as she remembered the stories Dolley Madison had told her about Turreau. She recoiled from the unspeakable thought that this ogre had imagined being married to her and perhaps forcing her to submit to his will. She kicked the workbasket that sat at her feet, upending it and spilling her sewing onto the floor. “What a horrible man. I would rather die than marry him.”

  XXVII

  A WEEK later, Betsy received a letter summoning her and Colonel Tousard to the French embassy. When she saw the signature, her stomach cramped in dread. The new ambassador was Louis Sérurier, the official who had separated her from Jerome in Lisbon.

  “Our last meeting did not go well,” she told Tousard as they rode together to the appointment. “I responded angrily when he carried out the emperor’s orders.”

  “Madame, he is an experienced diplomat. I am sure he understood your distress.”

  When they entered the ambassador’s office, Betsy saw that it no longer looked like an army headquarters as it had under Turreau. The military paraphernalia had been removed from the walls, which instead featured a portrait of Napoleon and a map of France. On the desk, a brass case holding twin inkwells had replaced Turreau’s miniature cannon.

  Sérurier looked much the same as he had six years earlier except that his hairline had receded. “Mademoiselle Patterson, we meet again. I trust your son is well?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Betsy replied, hoping that the query meant the official was not going to be as icy toward her as he had been in Lisbon.

  “How old is he now?”

  “Five, your excellency. He will be six this summer.”

  Sérurier nodded and glanced at some papers on the blotter before him. “No doubt you are wondering why I sent for you.”

  He paused, and Betsy realized that he expected a response. She sat up a little straighter. “No, your excellency. Since you will be my new channel of communication to the emperor, it seems only right that we should become acquainted.”

  A smile flitted across Sérurier’s face, and Betsy felt certain he was thinking of their last, tempestuous conversation. At length, he said, “I hope our dealings will be more pleasant than our first meeting.”

  Betsy pressed her lips tightly together and then decided to seize this opportunity to demonstrate that she had matured from the headstrong girl he had encountered so many years before. “I am certain they will be. I understand now that you were carrying out your orders, not acting from personal malice. Just as the emperor’s actions were dictated by st
ate policy.”

  He nodded and picked up the cut-crystal stopper to one of the inkwells and rotated it between his fingertips. “I thought you should know that Turreau’s recall does not change your arrangement. His imperial majesty has instructed me to continue your pension.”

  “Thank you. Has he—” Betsy hesitated and clasped her gloved hands together in her lap to keep them from trembling and betraying her eagerness.

  “Yes, Mademoiselle?”

  “The emperor has promised to grant me a title and arrange for us to live in Europe.” She looked at Sérurier inquisitively, but his face betrayed nothing. “Do you know if he has done so?”

  Sérurier shook his head. “I regret to say that was not part of my instructions. But I must discharge another matter. I am sorry to deprive you of your aide, but Minister Champagny has decided that Colonel Tousard would serve the empire better by returning to the diplomatic service. Colonel, you have been appointed to the post at New Orleans.”

  Thinking of Bo’s fondness for the colonel, Betsy shot Tousard an anguished glance. His expression remained impassive. To Sérurier, she said, “Will someone be appointed in his place?”

  “No, Mademoiselle. If you want your son to have a tutor, you must hire one.”

  “It was my understanding that General Turreau took on this responsibility less for my son’s education than for his protection.”

  Sérurier put the stopper back in the inkwell. “Minister Champagny believes that the danger is less than Turreau imagined. Please do not alarm yourself, Mademoiselle. The emperor continues to feel the deepest concern for your son.” He smiled and folded his hands together on the desk. “Do you have any other questions for me?”

  “No, Monsieur.”

  “Then I believe we have nothing else to discuss.” They all rose. Sérurier said, “Colonel Tousard, I will send you copies of your orders by the end of the week.”