The Sibyl at the tomb of Louis XVI
Oracles and prophetic memories
The ghost of Henry IV at the palace of Orléans
All by Citoyenne Lenormand, I noticed.
A maid ushered Maman and me into another chamber, this one rather like a waiting room, with chairs set around the perimeter and journals and books stacked on low tables. A table to one side was cluttered with writing implements: an inkstand, sandbox, papers and quills. Two cats were stretched out in a patch of sun. Their smell was strong, as was that of a printing press I glimpsed in the room beyond.
A tiny man in a pompous old-fashioned wig emerged from a concealed door, startling us. “Is Citoyenne Lenormand expecting you?” His teeth were black from chewing tobacco.
“Is she in?” Maman asked.
“Jean, who is it?” Citoyenne Lenormand called out as she entered, dressed in a lacy morning gown. “Goodness.” She put her hand on her cap, from which her curly black hair escaped in wisps. “Citoyenne Bonaparte!” Her right eye looked off in a different direction from her left. I’d forgotten what a frightening creature she was.
“Good day, Citoyenne Lenormand,” Maman said. “Please forgive me for calling on you unexpectedly like this. You remember my daughter, Hortense Beauharnais?”
“I do indeed.” Lenormand had a sweet smile, which softened her frightening appearance. All her teeth were intact. “Jean, fetch the girl. She’s out back feeding the chickens. You’ll have refreshments?”
“No, no thank you.” Maman pulled off her gloves and folded them neatly. “I’d like to talk to you—”
“A card reading is one livre, but free for the wife of the First Consul,” she added with a fawning reverence. “It will be sure to reveal a glorious future.”
“I was hoping for something more like a consultation,” Maman said. “We’ve moved, as you may know.”
“Into the Tuileries Palace!” Lenormand’s knees creaked as she made a deeper reverence.
“Palace of the Government,” Maman corrected. “But I keep seeing a . . . what I think might be—” She glanced at me, unsure how to put it.
“A ghost?” I offered.
“Really.” Lenormand’s good eye glowed.
Maman dipped her head. “And I’d like to find out how to make her . . . it . . . go away.”
“This is not something I usually do,” Lenormand said, swaying on her feet.
“Perhaps if you could just try, Citoyenne?” Maman asked, pressing a small cloth purse into her hand.
Lenormand tossed it lightly, feeling its weight. “Very well,” she said, turning a knob in the wall, which opened a hidden passageway. “We shall see.”
COMMUNING WITH THE DEAD
Citoyenne Lenormand led us into a dark sitting room. It was surprisingly pleasant, comfortably furnished and smelling of wax. Pleasant, that is, until my eyes adjusted to the gloom and I made out the décor. Bats had been nailed by their wings to the ceiling. Two stuffed owls graced the top of a bookcase. A human skeleton was perched on a chair in one corner.
Maman cast an anxious look at me. She had noticed it too.
“Please, Citoyenne Bonaparte,” Lenormand said, setting down her lantern. She gestured toward a chair set in front of a round table covered with a fringed green cloth. She pulled out a second chair for me and sat down across from us.
On top of the table were several packs of large cards. One of the cards had the image of a man riding a horse on it. I recognized the Rider card from the Game of Hope.
“First, Citoyenne Bonaparte, I must ask you some questions,” Lenormand said, gathering the stacks of cards, squaring them up and slipping them into a drawer. “It’s a formality of sorts.”
“I don’t mind,” Maman said.
Lenormand shrugged apologetically and asked, in a whisper, as if there might be someone close enough to overhear, “How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
I was surprised. Maman told everyone she was thirty-four.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Yellow—Indian Yellow,” Maman added, to be specific.
I was also partial to Indian Yellow, a rich hue made from the urine of mango-fed cows or buffalo.
“Your favorite animal?”
“Dogs. Well, pug dogs.”
“The first letter of your name?”
“My last name?” Maman asked.
I wondered what all this had to do with spirits.
“Your Christian name.”
“Rose, so R. Although I now go by Josephine. So J?”
Lenormand turned down the oil lamp. “And the first letter of the place you were born?”
“T,” Maman answered, for Trois-Îlets, the town in Martinique where she grew up.
“And last, the number you are most partial to.”
“Three?”
“Thank you,” Lenormand said after a moment of silence. “One last question: Have you any idea who this spirit might be?”
Wouldn’t she know? I wondered. Wasn’t she a seer, a soothsayer, the “Sibyl of the Salons”?
“The . . .” Maman paused. “The Queen,” she said.
Citoyenne Lenormand sat back. “The Queen?”
“The late Queen,” I said, to clarify. “Queen Marie Antoinette.”
“It sounds outrageous, I know,” Maman said, “but yes. I’m fairly certain it’s Her Majesty.”
Lenormand took a deep breath. “Mon Dieu.” She closed her eyes, her hands flat on the table. “And the Queen’s full name is . . . ?”
“Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna von Habsburg-Lothringen,” I said.
Maman looked at me, surprised.
“Maîtresse Campan taught us that,” I explained.
“I brought a headscarf I’m told belonged to her,” Maman offered.
Lenormand put up her hand. “There is someone here,” she said slowly.
I looked around. No doubt this was a hoax, as the Fantasmagorie had been.
“But it is not the Queen,” Lenormand said. “It’s a girl. She’s wearing a green . . . a green sash? She wants you to know that—” She tilted her head to one side. “Rather, she wants your daughter to know.”
Me?
“It’s something to do with letters? Does that mean anything to you, Citoyenne Beauharnais?” she asked, looking at me with her good eye.
“No,” I said.
“She’s spelling something out. Something to do with the letter M, and the letter N?” Her wild eye stared off into a corner.
“N-Nelly?” Was it possible?
“Nelly?” Maman said. “Who is that?”
Could it be that Lenormand was in contact with my Nelly? How else would she have known about the green sash, the test for M and N?
“She’s a happy little soul.” Lenormand chuckled. “She loves flying around.”
“Dear heart, who is Nelly?” Maman asked.
“A little girl from school,” I said, sniffing. “She died of pox.”
“Goodness.”
“Ah! There she goes,” Lenormand said with a smile, waving her hand through the air.
I felt like weeping. My little Nelly!
“Citoyenne Lenormand,” Maman said, “about the Queen—”
Lenormand held up her hand: silence. “I have someone else here now. He’s tall, well-dressed.” She paused. “Fashionable,” she pronounced. “He’s wearing white gloves, and a feathered hat.” She chuckled. “A woman’s hat?”
“Is the hat mauve with long feathers?” Maman asked, sitting forward.
I glanced at her. Now I was the one who was confused.
“Long peacock feathers, yes.” Lenormand chuckled again. “He seems to be . . . dancing?”
“Citoyenne Lenormand, is it—?” Maman clasped her hands together.
“Is it possible that it might be my first husband?” She put her hand on my arm. “Your father once wore one of Nana’s feathered hats to a ball. It was meant to be amusing.”
“I believe it is he,” Lenormand said gravely.
I looked back over my shoulder, into the dark corners. “Citoyenne Lenormand,” I said, my voice quavering, “if it is my father . . .” My fingers were tingling. “I have a question I need to ask him.”
Lenormand closed her eyes, the palms of her hands on the table. “Go ahead.”
I took a deep breath. “Ask him if I was . . .” My hands began trembling like those of an old woman with palsy. “Ask him if I was the cause of his death.”
“Dear heart!” Maman exclaimed.
“Please,” I implored. “Just ask.”
Lenormand held up a finger. “He’s saying . . .” She closed her eyes, as if to hear better. “He’s saying: I . . . am . . . the victim.” She opened her eyes. “But that’s it.” She exhaled, her breath rancid. “Now he’s gone.”
VICTIM
Maman and I emerged into the dusty front parlor, blinking against the light. The cats scurried into hiding, as if we were predators.
I began to feel faint. Citoyenne Lenormand settled me on an over-stuffed chaise longue and excused herself to get me something to drink.
Maman sat down beside me and handed me a handkerchief.
“You never talked to your ghost,” I told her, still numb from it all.
“I think we’ve had enough ghosts for today,” she said, putting her arm around me. “Dear heart, you know your father, he—”
Citoyenne Lenormand reappeared. The cats rushed over to her, meowing and looking up expectantly. “Shoo!” They scattered. “My apologies, Citoyennes. We only have brandy, so perhaps—”
“Thank you, Citoyenne, but we’re leaving,” Maman said, helping me to stand. “Careful,” she whispered as I stumbled toward the door. “Can you do it?”
Yes, I nodded, although I wasn’t sure.
* * *
—
“We need to talk,” Maman said, once we were settled in the carriage and headed back to the Palace. “Why do you think—?”
“It’s hard to explain.” I felt shaken. I am the victim, he’d said.
“Is it because of your dreams?”
She knew? But of course she would. Mimi or Maîtresse would have told her. Screaming in the night was no way to keep a secret.
“No.” I pressed her handkerchief against my eyes. It smelled of jasmine.
“Then why?” Maman asked, gently stroking my back.
I didn’t want to tell her.
“I wish you could confide in me, dear heart,” she said, imploring.
“I don’t like to distress you, Maman.”
“I promise I won’t be troubled,” she said.
We were on the bridge, crossing the river, and almost to the other side. It began to rain, an angry pelting.
“I promise,” she repeated softly. “Tell me.”
I blinked back tears. She had so often been away. “It’s because of when . . . when Eugène and I saw you and Father in the window of the prison,” I began, taking a deep breath.
“I remember,” she said. There was so much sadness in her voice.
Our carriage came to a standstill, stuck in the muddy congestion around the Palace. My throat felt thick. I coughed to try to clear it. “I cried out,” I said, “and then the guards came.” I am the victim, he’d said.
“And . . . you thought—you think—that that was why he was . . . ?”
I nodded. Why Father was executed. Why he was dead.
Maman softly moaned.
I bit my tongue, an actor trick, and tried to swallow. “We can walk from here,” I suggested, my voice feeble. It was still raining, but lightly, and we were close.
* * *
—
Mimi met us in the foyer. “The General wants to see you,” she told Maman anxiously. “He’s unhappy about his costume.”
“His costume?” Maman asked, pulling off her boots.
“For the masquerade ball,” Mimi said, taking Maman’s hat, shaking it off.
I glanced at my face in the hall mirror. My eyes were red and puffy.
“Is something wrong, baby?” Mimi asked, taking my hat.
I shrugged off my cloak. “It’s nothing,” I said, but not meeting her eyes.
“Mimi, tell Bonaparte I won’t be long. Dear heart, come with me,” she said, taking my hand.
* * *
—
Maman led me to a space hidden behind her dressing room, a closet within a closet. “I have something to show you,” she said, holding up a candle. The shelves were lined with boxes, each one neatly labeled in her hand. She found the one she was looking for, pulled it out and rummaged through the papers within, withdrawing a document.
The paper was thin, cheap, with blurred text printed on it, like something to pass out to crowds.
“What is this?” Like a sleepwalker, I followed her into her bedchamber, where there was light.
The document was dated the fourth of Thermidor, in the second year of the Republic—the day before Father was executed.
I turned it over, puzzled. At the bottom, I read:
Farewell.
For the last time in this life, I press you and my children to my heart.
—Alexandre Beauharnais
I lowered myself onto the chair by the fireplace.
“It’s his final letter,” Maman said, sitting down across from me. “He asked that it be printed after his death. He wanted to clear his name.”
Father had written this? These were his words? I turned it over.
The trial I have been subjected to today reveals that I am the victim of a treacherous calumny of a few aristocrats.
I read it again, and these words leapt out at me:
I am the victim.
“I don’t understand,” I said, sniffing back tears.
“Your father and a number of other prisoners were falsely accused of planning an escape.” She leaned forward, reaching out to touch my arm. “That’s why he was executed, dear heart. It had nothing to do with you.”
I sat for a moment, holding the paper in my hands. I glanced again at the printed words, some smeared, some faint, some blotched. I turned the document over.
I press you and my children to my heart.
“Excuse me.” It was Mimi again, at the door. “Yeyette, the General, he—”
“Tell him I’ll be a moment,” Maman said, standing. She leaned over and tipped up my chin. “Are you going to be all right, dear heart?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
I nodded, smiling through my tears. “I’m sure,” I said, my voice husky. “Go.” I squeezed her hand. “Thank you,” I whispered. Maman.
She embraced me warmly and was gone.
I sat for some time in the stillness.
HOPE
I was working on a charcoal sketch of Roustam in my new art room next to my bedchamber when Maman came in. “I have marvelous news!” she exclaimed. “Captain Lavalette has arrived back, with your Uncle François.”
I gasped. “Really?”
“Really. They are with your grandparents in Montagne-du-Bon-Air. I’ve called for a carriage.”
“We’re going? Now?” We had planned to go out to Malmaison later in the day.
“Immediately! I haven’t seen François in ten years.”
I jumped up and took off my art-smock. “Does Ém know?” She should be one of the first to greet her father.
“I’m sure Antoine has seen to that,” Maman said with a smile.
* * *
—
A mud-spattered carriage was stopped in front of Nana and Grandpap
a’s house, the horses asleep in their harness. Weathered leather trunks were stacked on the front porch.
Nana threw open the door. “Oh, my heart!” she exclaimed, her hands pressed to her chest.
“Is something wrong?” Maman asked, alarmed.
“I can’t bear so much elation!” Nana said.
“Where is Ém?” I saw her cloak, thrown over the back of a chair in the foyer.
“Upstairs,” Nana gestured. “Come!”
* * *
—
Grandpapa greeted us at the door of his bedchamber, spritely in his chair on wheels. “My firstborn son has returned!” he announced. “Now I can die,” he added jubilantly.
“Don’t be doing that just quite yet,” Nana scolded him. “I’ve got your favorite roast on the spit.”
I spotted Ém sitting by a window, her husband Antoine hovering close by. She was in tears—happy tears. I assumed that the tall man standing next to her was her father—and my uncle. I’d been barely six when I last saw him.
“Rose!” he exclaimed, embracing Maman. “You look as lovely as ever.”
Maman started to say something, but she was too choked up to speak. “François, this is Hortense,” she said finally, beckoning me forward.
“Your little girl?”
I curtsied. My uncle was a dignified older man. I wondered how much he resembled my father.
“Yes, my baby,” Maman said, blinking back tears.
“All grown now,” Nana said, dabbing her eyes as well. “Just like your Émilie.”
“Indeed,” Uncle François said, reaching for Ém’s hand.
“My son Eugène would have come, too,” Maman said, “but he’s working for my husband, the First Consul.”
“Bon-A-Part-Té!” Grandpapa exclaimed.
My uncle shook his head in amazement. “Such changes we’ve seen.”
Sniffing and teary, we made ourselves comfortable as Ém’s father related an account of their harrowing journey. “My dearest Émilie, my beloved daughter,” he said, “it pleases me to see you well-married. Were it not for this gentleman, Captain Lavalette, I would not be here today.”