The Josephine B. Trilogy

  “Citoyenne Beauharnais, if I may be so rude as to inquire—why is there a bed in your parlour?” Deputy Barras downed his glass.

  “It’s the only warm room.” I took a seat by the fire.

  “The other rooms are colder?”

  We all laughed, but in truth I was beginning to regret having invited them. Seen through their eyes, my small, albeit elegant rooms looked quite humble. Rose, their Rose—the former vicomtesse who sipped their expensive champagne—this woman was a fraud, was she not?

  “Do you not have fuel?” Thérèse asked, fingering a cameo Tallien had recently bought her for “only” six thousand livres.

  “It’s difficult to find in quantity now.” I did not say: and frightfully dear.

  Tallien groaned. “Why didn’t you ask? There is more than enough. You’d think there was no fuel to be had in all of Paris, the way people talk.”

  “Or bread,” Deputy Barras added. “Of which there is little, you have to concede.”

  “The people are too damned lazy to work, and then they come to us to complain,” Tallien ranted.

  I looked from one to the other. How much was in jest? I wasn’t sure.

  “My friend has become cynical, I’m afraid,” Deputy Barras said, in answer to my questioning look. “It is one of the dangers of public life. People expect their representatives to be as gods, to make the foul weather go away.”

  I sighed, relieved. We were onto safer ground: the weather. I set up a game of faro. We played, laughed, gossiped and gambled (I won seven livres). They left just before midnight, in good spirits.

  “We’ll be back next Tuesday,” Thérèse announced as they were leaving. “For your salon.”

  “I couldn’t,” I said, horrified.

  “Rose—be realistic: you can’t afford not to. Imagine…Chez Rose—the most enjoyable salon in all of Paris.”

  Chez Rose? I smiled. “It sounds like a brothel.”

  “With a bed in the parlour and everything,” Deputy Barras said.

  “The better to get the deputies to come,” Thérèse said.

  And so it is set. Next Tuesday. Every Tuesday.

  January 23.

  Oh, it is cold, but we’ve been warm. Deputy Barras arranged to have a load of wood delivered. There’s a huge pile of it outside. Gontier must stand by it to keep the neighbours from stealing it.

  I sent Deputy Barras a note: “How can I thank you?”

  He sent a note back: “Recommend me to banker Citoyen Rougemont.”

  January 31, afternoon.

  By some miracle, I have succeeded. Like a stage director I have assembled the props, moved furniture, created ambiance—that mysterious aura that disguises the stains on the sofa, the hole in the rug, the less-than-exquisite fixtures.

  My costume I created out of an outdated brocade, Lannoy and I cutting and reassembling the panels into an elegant Grecian design. It took some cajoling to entice her to take up her needle and thread, to use her refined artistry for such a “shameless” dress. Too much arm, too much leg, but worst of all, no corset!

  Later.

  Chez Rose was a success!

  Who came: Tallien and Thérèse, of course. Deputy Barras, in the company of old La Montansier (who lived up to her wild reputation). Tiny Madame de Crény and Denon, her beau. Citoyen Fouché, skulking around. Deputy Fréron, raving and drunk, and in the company of an actress. (It is rumoured they have three children.) Fanny, with both her current favourites: Michel de Cubières and Rétif de la Bretonne, who got on well with La Montansier—pas de surprise. Fortunée Hamelin, half-naked as usual, and her grumpy husband, who fancied no one. Marquis de Caulaincourt, who also got on well with La Montansier, I noticed. Voluptuous Minerva in gauzy white, with a man she introduced as her fiancé (that was a surprise). Two of my “prison family”: the elegant Grace Elliott, for a short time, and Duchesse Jeanne-Victoire d’Aiguillon—in the company of Mesdames de Broglie, Valance and Bizet, who smoked opium in the water-closet, Thérèse claims (I don’t believe her). And dear sneezing Citoyen Dunnkirk, who came with fellow-bankers Citoyens Rougemont, Hottinguer and Perré. (I introduced them all to Deputy Barras.) And last, but certainly not least, my dear Consoler, the wild, radical and wicked General Santerre.

  An entertaining, very mixed group. “A miracle, no bloodshed,” Thérèse said, on leaving.

  I would have run short of food were it not for Caulaincourt, who supplied pâté de foie gras from Strasbourg, larded pheasant and an enormous carp stuffed with truffles from Périgord. Not to mention a crate of freshly baked beautiful bread and a basket of fruit (in February!) from Citoyen Dunnkirk. Even Deputy Barras arranged for a half-barrel of excellent red wine to be delivered.

  “Celebrating, darling?” Thérèse asked, watching Barras’s footman carry in the barrel.

  “Celebrating what?” Deputy Barras asked. He looked unusually serious in a Quaker-coloured silk coat and an old-fashioned pigtail wig.

  “Being elected President of the Assembly.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “You’ve been elected President?” I recalled when Alexandre had been elected President of the Assembly, remembered our excitement, our pride. How young we were then.

  Deputy Barras shrugged. “A nuisance, if you ask me. No—if anything, I’m celebrating the profit I made on a sale of a property two days ago. Five hundred thousand. Net.” He grinned, his charming crooked smile.

  Five hundred thousand! I could not comprehend such a sum. I practically had to sell my soul to get a loan of a mere five hundred.

  “That confiscated Church property on Rue Jacques?” Tallien asked, overhearing.

  Deputy Barras smiled, crossed himself. “And the good Lord was smiling on me,” he said.

  At around midnight Barras’s secretary Botot came by, in the company of another man, Citoyen Laurent. Lisping, Botot asked if he could speak to Barras. I urged them to come in, but they were reluctant. I wondered if something was amiss.

  Deputy Barras came to the door. He stepped into the landing to talk to them. When he came back in he looked drawn.

  “Has something happened?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said quickly. Too quickly, I thought.

  “Did I not hear Laurent’s voice?” Thérèse asked, coming into the foyer on Citoyen Fouché’s arm.

  “He was just here, with Botot. They had a message for Deputy Barras,” I said.

  “It’s rather late for messages,” Thérèse said.

  “Ah—Laurent and Botot,” Citoyen Fouché said, catching my eye. “The Temple Twosome.”

  The Temple? The Boy is in the Temple…

  February 5.

  At last, thanks to Tallien and Deputy Barras, my petition has been approved, the seals removed from my belongings on Rue Saint-Dominique.

  I went there this morning—alone. That was how I wished it.

  It was strange opening the doors. The rooms were dark, the shutters nailed over the windows. I lit a lantern—and was sickened by what I saw: everything had been pulled to the floor. Vandals.

  I walked through the musty rooms, stepping through the litter of my life. My broken and soiled possessions brought forth an abundance of memories. Clothing, scarves, paintings, my guitar—things I had loved. Now ruined.

  I gathered my courage and went into the parlour. Gently, I pried away the loose stone in the chimney. I blew into the hole, lest some creatures had taken up residence. Overcoming fear, I put in my hand. Papers. They were still there. Thank God.

  Slowly, and with a great sense of relief, I drew out my treasures—my journals, letters, Manette’s tapestry, my Bible, a container of dirt from Martinico, my childhood rosary, marriage contract, a little cloth bag of gems. And, at the last, Alexandre’s will, sealed with wax.

  I lowered myself into an armchair. I was enveloped in a cloud of dust. All that remained of my life was in my lap. I sat for a time thus, as still as the mute objects that surrounded me. How little it all meant, in the end.

  My
eyes fell upon an object in the corner—my needlework frame. The tapestry I had been working on was still in it, a design of roses, half completed. Miraculously, the needle was still in place. I had the most eerie sense of a life abruptly stopped, a curtain drawn in the middle of a play.

  The ghosts began to stir. Not even a year had passed since I had been taken in the night, herded onto a wagon and into a cell. Stripped of my dignity, my health, my faith. Stripped of my youth, my life.

  February 6.

  I sat across from Citoyen Dunnkirk, grasping my basket. There was an uneasiness in his expression that cautioned me.

  He cleared his throat and sat forward in his worn leather chair. “I’m afraid that your husband’s will is not going to be of much use to you,” he said, sneezing into a linen handkerchief.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well—” He paused. “He has not left anything to you.”

  I sat for a moment without responding. Surely, I had misunderstood.

  “And second,” he went on, mistaking my silence for composure, “do you know of a Mademoiselle Marie-Adélaïde de la Ferté?”

  “La Ferté is the name of Alexandre’s country estate.” But Citoyen Dunnkirk knew that.

  “This is a child, a girl born June of 1785, near Cherbourg.”

  “Perhaps you mean Adélaïde d’Antigny.” Adélaïde d’Antigny was Alexandre’s illegitimate daughter, whom Aunt Désirée and I were doing our best to support, in spite of the hardships. At nine now, she was a beautiful child, quite bright, with Alexandre’s features. “But Adélaïde d’Antigny was born in 1784, in Paris.”

  “This is a different girl, born the following year. Your deceased husband has left her an annual pension of six hundred livres.”

  Another illegitimate child? Two Adélaïdes?

  “As well there is six hundred livres a year to be paid to Movin, your husband’s servant, two hundred a year to Richard, the groom, and a onetime payment of an additional two hundred to Sauvage, the second groom—”

  “And nothing for Hortense or Eugène?” I interrupted. “No mention of my name?”

  “No doubt he assumed that they would be well provided for by your Island holdings.”

  I felt short of breath.

  Citoyen Dunnkirk cleared his throat again and adjusted the lorgnon in his eye. “You understand, Madame Beauharnais, with respect to Marie-Adélaïde de la Ferté, there may be a way to get around it—”

  “Honour it,” I said sharply. I was already contributing to the support of one bastard child. How many were there? I thought wearily.

  In which I am warned

  February 10, 1795.

  La Chaumière has become the place to go. Thérèse has had to hire a guard to oversee the door; crowds of hopefuls line the courtyard.

  At first there were whispered comments on the absurd location, jokes about the peasant life. But there could be no doubt that everyone is charmed, for inside this modest château is a gem of a palace—the door opens onto a theatrical world of marble columns and Greek statues. The originality of the décor, the artistry that is evident, not to mention the abundant fare and inspired entertainment, certainly make an impression.

  But at heart, it is Thérèse everyone seeks. We are as moths to a flame. She embraces us as if it were months since we last met—not last night or the night before that. She is, always, astonishingly beautiful, wearing a simple toga or shift that makes no attempt to hide her growing belly, her swelling breasts. She draws us into the parlour, whispering, “Monsieur Monroe is here, the American Ambassador. And Citoyen Ouvrard, the brilliant financier…Let me introduce you.”

  Within, guests whisper, ever watchful for others. Contacts are made, broken, alliances formed. After the Assembly’s night sitting closes, the deputies arrive in their top hats. The heated debates go on until dawn. This is the government, it is said.

  February 12.

  “Thank God you’re here!” Thérèse grabbed my hand this evening as I came into the foyer. “Deputy Renan drank the water out of his finger bowl, Citoyen Maurois blew his nose on the tablecloth. Already there have been two fistfights—”

  “In the Middle Ages, it fell to the Romans to reform the barbarians,” Deputy Barras said. He looked particularly elegant in a embroidered blue satin waistcoat. “Today it falls to Thérèse to demonstrate to the new ruling class proper etiquette.”

  Angry voices burst forth from the parlour. Thérèse raised her eyebrows in exasperation. “But I need help taming this mob!”

  And so, my role has been defined: peacemaker. It’s a job I apparently do well. I select the most heated guest, engage him in quiet conversation, lure him away—into a walk in the garden, perhaps, if the weather is fine, or through the premises to view the art objects. Soon my “victim” is calm, unmindful of his desire to commit murder only moments before.

  Around four in the morning the last guest finally left. Thérèse and I collapsed on the sofa, laughing to tears over these ardent revolutionaries, trying so hard to be rich.

  February 13.

  Thérèse and Tallien persuaded me to go with them to the “Bal des Victimes,” at Hôtel Thélusson. I went to Thérèse’s early to prepare.

  “Your hair is already perfect,” she said, fastening a red ribbon around my neck, symbolizing the path for the knife.

  “This is bizarre,” I said. She was wearing flesh-coloured tights under a revealing gauze gown. As tall as she is, and with her huge belly and breasts, she looked spectacular.

  “This is the dance.” Thérèse began doing a strange wiggling movement, her head shaking back and forth as if it might come loose.

  The streets in front of Hôtel Thélusson were crowded with carriages. Beggars crowded around the entry, vying for attention.

  “Doesn’t it remind you of the days of the Ancien Régime?” Thérèse whispered. “Of the opera balls?”

  A street urchin grabbed the hem of my skirt. Tallien threatened the beggar with his fist. The boy fell back against the dirt. I stopped to make sure he was not hurt, gave him a coin.

  “Are executioners allowed in?” someone yelled as Tallien entered.

  “It is as liberator I am greeted now,” Tallien said, attempting a jest.

  February 15.

  I fear Thérèse and Tallien are not getting along.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked. Her left cheek was heavily made up. There were the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “I don’t understand. He loves you so much.”

  “His love is killing me!” she cried.

  February 15, 1795—Rennes

  Rose,

  My efforts to negotiate peace may meet with success. Pray for me—soon it may be even legal to do so. I long for you.

  Your soldier, Lazare

  February 18, 11:00 A.M.

  Lazare has succeeded in negotiating peace with the Vendée rebels, succeeded where so many before him have failed. In exchange for freedom of worship, they will lay down their arms.

  “But what about the rest of us,” Lannoy grumbled. “Don’t we get freedom too?”

  February 21.

  There is great excitement in the streets. Freedom of worship has been granted—to all of France.

  “You can put out your little Madonna now,” I told Hortense.

  “Are you sure?” She is a fearful child.

  “The time of hiding is over.” Thanks to Lazare.

  Tuesday, February 24.

  Thérèse has not been well; her pregnancy is slowing her down. As a result, she has asked my help in organizing a reception in honour of the Turkish Ambassador. It’s to be held next week at Barras’s château in Chaillot. Thérèse and I have been going out there every afternoon.

  Everything about Deputy Barras is old money: the hounds, the horses, the snifters of fine cognac…the degenerate morals. (Marquis de Sade is his cousin, he claims: “mon cher cousin.”) He even suffers now and then from a mysteriously aristocratic nervous condition that requires hot baths. (“The French
pox,* do you think?” Thérèse whispered.) Yet he is not without conscience. He seems to take pride in identifying the coming young men. At first I suspected a prurient interest, but I have found it to be otherwise. In the same way he chooses the winning horse at the races, he enjoys predicting who will hold the political trump card in the years to come. This is not without self-interest—nothing Deputy Barras does is without self-interest—for in this way he assures himself support. He is a master of survival.

  Yes, an amusing man, mannered, witty, generous—but with a side to him that is so truly shocking. A libertine, he provides Thérèse and me with daily accounts of his conquests. Were it not for his wit, his stories would surely strike one as sordid—but Thérèse and I end up laughing gustily at his portrayals of coy seduction between grown men. Really, it is all so bizarre.

  Saturday.

  What a night! The partridge arrived foul, the fruit did not arrive at all, the violinist arrived drunk and the Turkish Ambassador sent word that he would not be able to attend. Perhaps that was a blessing…

  Tuesday, March 3, late evening.

  Thérèse, preparing for confinement, has been urging me to become more involved in Barras’s affairs. “You are exactly the type of woman he needs—aristocratic, elegant, with infallible taste and social skills. Your contacts could prove useful to him. There is no one better than you. I told him so myself.”

  “You told him that?”

  “He rewards a woman well, Rose—of that I can assure you. And the only thing you have to do is listen to his stories of amorous adventure.”

  I smiled.

  “And keep your son away from him, I should add.”

  I stopped smiling.

  Friday, March 13.

  I’m exhausted, but pleased. The reception at Barras’s went well. Most of the evening was spent around the game tables with a separate area set up for conversation and canapés. At midnight I had a meal served, prepared from Barras’s estates: rabbit from his hutches, vegetables from his gardens, wine from his vineyards in Provence. After, I persuaded everyone to play l’hombre. “A child’s game!” the guests (including bankers Rosin and Perré) complained before reluctantly consenting—then becoming boisterous participants.