The Josephine B. Trilogy

  Your new home sounds delightful—small but charming. I am impressed that already you have had vegetables from your garden. Your mother would be proud. I read your account of getting your cow freshened to the Marquis. We both had a laugh over it. If it weren’t for the sad state of my own health and having to tend to the Marquis so religiously, I would accept your invitations to come for a visit.

  No doubt you have heard about Fanny being sued by some woman claiming to be her daughter—what a scandal! I don’t know how Fanny manages to be so cheerful, especially now with Marie marrying a mulatto. I don’t dare tell the Marquis—the news would kill him.

  I know how busy you are, dear, but even so, we long to see you. Do remember what I said about keeping good company.

  Your loving Aunt Désirée

  Wednesday, December 9.

  I’ve been going to the Luxembourg every day, presenting petitions on behalf of friends, and friends of friends—émigrés, for the most part, wishing to return to France.

  “You spend too much time on the welfare of others, Rose,” Director Barras said to me this morning. “It is time you considered your own well-being.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you should be thinking of marriage.”

  “You have someone in mind, Père Barras?”

  “Buonaparte.”

  “I am not wealthy enough for him, I’m afraid.” Rumour had it General Buonaparte had just proposed to the recently widowed Madame Permon, a woman old enough to be his mother—but quite well-off.

  “I’ve assured him he would be well rewarded.”

  I looked to the window, took a breath. Perhaps I had not heard correctly.

  “I see you are alarmed.” Barras leaned back in his red velvet chair—his “throne” he called it. “Very well, I will explain. Buonaparte has requested command of the Army of Italy. He wishes to pursue a plan to push the Austrians out of Italy.” Barras made a gesture meaning: insane! “Of course my fellow Directors do not trust him. They find him abrupt, abrasive…overly ambitious. They suspect in him a desire to rule—so they are naturally reluctant to grant him an army, even as pathetic an army as that of the Army of Italy.

  “But they are fools, I say. Buonaparte will try to take over, it is in his nature—unless, of course, he is kept busy. Unless, of course, he is controlled—”

  “Unless, of course, he is married to a very good friend of yours,” I said.

  Barras smiled slowly. “I might not have put it exactly that way, my dear.”

  “How exactly did you put it?” I felt an alarming emotion rising within me.

  “I explained to Buonaparte that the French Republic was reluctant to promote foreigners to positions of power. I suggested that if he were to marry a Frenchwoman—a certain French widow, for example—perhaps then the Directors would trust him more, and—who was to say?—perhaps then the Army of Italy might very well be his.”

  “You told him that!”

  “Think about it, Rose. Buonaparte may be a Corsican, and impoverished, I grant you, but he is a man with a future. I am in a position to guarantee it.”

  I stood to leave. I was offended by his meddling.

  “Rose, must you always be so emotional! You know it is time you married. It’s not easy at your age.”

  I headed for the door.

  “I offered him an army!” he yelled after me. “I’m giving you a dowry, for God’s sake!”

  December 10.

  I have been hours at my toilette. Tiny wrinkles have begun to line my face. My teeth, never well-formed, are turning black. I have lost two in the last year. I smile, and it’s a fishwife’s grin I see.

  I threw my brushes down in despair. The herbal remedies have not succeeded in restoring any regularity to the flowers. Now and again, too, I am weakened (and embarrassed) by frightful flooding.

  I am aging.

  Marry, my friends say. Soon.

  Friday, December 11.

  At Minerva’s last night, General Buonaparte declared his feelings for me. This rather publicly, in the midst of a game of fox and goose. I tossed it off as a jest, but left soon after.

  Tuesday, December 22.

  Minerva came to call. After a glass of wine, news (Madame Royale, the King’s unfortunate daughter, has been released from the Temple and sent to Vienne) and idle gossip (Citoyen Léon is taking a mercury treatment*), she asked why I had not been to her salon recently. I confessed my discomfort with the attentions of General Buonaparte. I was reluctant to go to her home lest I discover him there.

  “Do you not consider General Buonaparte an acceptable suitor?”

  “My heart is taken,” I said.

  “General Hoche, you mean.”

  I nodded. My feelings for Lazare were no secret.

  “Rose, if I may be so bold—there is something I must tell you. It is your lover who is taken.”

  I put down my glass.

  “When the émigrés landed in Quiberon Bay, General Hoche saved the life of a Monsieur de Pout-Bellan. I have it on good authority that he has fallen in love with this man’s wife.”

  I stood, went to the window recess. Lazare—in love with another woman?

  Minerva came up behind me, put her hand on my shoulder. “Surely you knew that Lazare would never marry you, especially not now, not with his wife expecting a child.”

  A baby?

  “Due soon, I believe,” she said.

  I bit my lip, fought back tears. Why hadn’t he written?

  “You will come to my salon, Rose?” Minerva asked. “Tonight?”

  That evening.

  I’ve just returned from Minerva’s. General Buonaparte requested the honour of my company at the opera tomorrow evening. I gave him my consent.

  In which I am courted

  Wednesday, December 23, 1795.

  General Buonaparte called for me at nine. He was nearly an hour late, and a bit dishevelled, his sash ill-fitting. “I was in a meeting.” He did not apologize. He stood in the parlour before the fire cracking his knuckles. He took out his timepiece. “The curtain rises in a few minutes.” He leapt for the door. I followed after, bewildered and somewhat offended.

  His coach is new, a garish yellow with gold trim, very showy, in bad taste. Inside was no different—the seats were covered in gold brocade, the shades tasselled with pink silk.

  We took off at a terrific pace, the coach careening over the bumps and around the corners at a frightful speed. I was momentarily overcome by paralysis. Terror had rendered me speechless. I gripped the sides to steady myself. Finally I summoned the strength to cry out, “Stop!”

  General Buonaparte signalled his driver and the coach came to a sudden halt. I fell forward onto the facing seat. I began to laugh.

  “We are late.” He pulled out his timepiece again. “What is it you want?”

  I could not speak for the laughter that had gripped me. Tears ran down my cheeks. Buonaparte regarded me with a puzzled expression. “Too fast?”

  I burst into laughter again, nodded through my tears.

  Hesitantly, he smiled, a bit unsure. He signalled the driver to go forward again, this time at a more civilized pace. By degrees my laughter came under control. I took several deep breaths. An evening with General Buonaparte—it was not as I had imagined.

  It was an enjoyable performance, I thought, yet on the way home General Buonaparte expressed discontent. “The French can’t sing, their music has no melody. It grates on the ear. You sing for me.”

  “Here?” We were at the intersection of Rue de Richelieu and Rue Neuve des Petits Champs.

  “This is the trouble with the French. They think they cannot sing anywhere, at any time.” He launched into an aria I was unfamiliar with. A chimney-sweep turned to stare. “Now you,” he commanded.

  “I am not a singer.”

  “Yet you have a lovely speaking voice.”

  He would not be refused. Quietly, I sang a short refrain from Mozart.

  He regarded me seriously.
“Not bad. What’s your name?”

  “You know my name.”

  “Your full name.”

  “Marie-Josephe-Rose.”

  “Joseph is your father’s name?”

  “Was.”

  “Was he a good man?”

  I smiled. Hardly. “A very good man.”

  “Very well, I shall call you Josephine, after the heroine in Le Sourd. Have you seen it?”

  “My name is Rose.”

  “You are mistaken.”

  December 26.

  “Why do you insist on calling me Josephine?” Buonaparte and I had just come from Barras’s salon and were on our way to the theatre, to a performance of a work by Molière.

  “Do you not find it an attractive name?”

  “I am told this is your way with a woman. First you ask her to sing, then you give her a new name.”

  “You have been talking to your friend Thérèse,” he said, disgruntled.

  “You can keep no secrets from me, Buonaparte.”

  December 29.

  “What is it you do all the time?” Thérèse demanded. “You were almost an hour yesterday in the garden.”

  “We just talk.” It was true—driving in the Bois de Boulogne, walking along the quay, sitting in my garden, or in his.

  “Just talk? Whatever about?”

  Music, science, religion…there was little that did not interest him, little that escaped his notice.

  “You know what people are saying, that he is mad for you.”

  “We are friends.”

  “No doubt,” Thérèse said, smiling capriciously.

  December 30.

  It was approaching noon when Thérèse’s red coach pulled into my courtyard. “Maybe you shouldn’t come to La Chaumière tonight,” she said, letting down the glass.

  “But I must—it’s arranged. Buonaparte is coming for me at nine.”

  “Lazare is back. He will be there tonight.”

  Lazare?

  “I thought you should be warned.”

  Buonaparte and I arrived at La Chaumière shortly before ten. I was relieved that Lazare was not yet there. Even so, I could not be at my ease.

  It wasn’t until midnight that Lazare arrived, in uniform, in the company of several aides. He saw me and turned away. I took Buonaparte’s arm and asked if we might go into the garden for a moment.

  “But it’s freezing.”

  “Only for a little air.”

  After a few moments I was able to compose myself. I had to address Lazare, I knew, had to find the courage to address him. Upon returning to the drawing room, Buonaparte was accosted by Madame de Crény and Fortunée Hamelin, demanding that he read their palms, a magical art for which he claimed to have some talent.

  Lazare was standing nearby, by the fire, watching. “How good to see you in Paris,” I said, congratulating him on his recent promotion. He regarded me with cold dignity—an expression so chilling I was relieved when Buonaparte joined us.

  “And you, General Hoche?” Buonaparte demanded. Lazare put forth his hand. Buonaparte examined it and grinned. “General, you will die young—and in your bed,” he said.*

  “Alexandre the Great died in his bed, did he not?” I took Buonaparte’s arm. “I believe Thérèse wants us in the game room,” I said, pulling him away. “That was unnecessary,” I hissed.

  Buonaparte looked at me. “Do you think me blind?”

  I pulled my shawl around my shoulders. “Take me home, Buonaparte,” I told him. “I feel quite ill.”

  It seemed a very long ride back to Chantereine. Buonaparte and I sat silently. “How are you feeling?” he asked as we turned onto Rue Mont-Martre.

  “I lied about being unwell,” I said.

  “I was curious to see how far you would take the charade.”

  “That’s not kind.”

  “I never said I was a kind man.” He paused. “You have an attachment for General Hoche.”

  I arranged the fur coverlet about my knees. I was thankful for the dark. “I knew him in prison.”

  “And now?”

  “And now General Hoche has a family of his own. Would you care to come in?” I asked as we pulled into my courtyard.

  “Would you care to have me?”

  I thought for a moment. “Yes,” I said. I did not speak untruly. I felt overwhelmed by a feeling of sadness, a feeling that I was too much alone in this life. The cold look in Lazare’s eyes had disturbed me in a way no words ever could.

  Buonaparte stayed for over an hour. I drank several glasses of Chambertin. Before he left he said, “I would like permission to kiss you.” It seemed a harmless request.

  His touch was tentative, unsure, and then urgent. I pulled away. He walked around the room at a vigorous pace.

  “Buonaparte?” His manner alarmed me.

  Apparently he did not hear, for he did not answer. Then he smiled, a curious smile, I thought, as if he held a great secret. He kissed my hand and was gone.

  January 7, 1796.

  “Are you lovers?” Thérèse demanded, pulling a robe on over her head. She was trying on a variety of ensembles. In two weeks there is going to be a feast at the Luxembourg Palace in honour of the third anniversary of the death of the King and Thérèse was planning her toilette. Robes, petticoats and shawls were strewn all about the room.

  “Not in the sense you mean.” I held up a shawl for her to consider, a luxurious white lace Barras had given her.

  “What other sense is there?” She laughed.

  “He intrigues me.” General Napoleone Buonaparte was like a tropical day—at one moment exuberant, at the next quiet and moody. He did not inspire respect; rather, he commanded it. I never knew what to expect of him.

  “Barras is intent on you marrying him,” Thérèse said.

  “I don’t belong to Barras.”

  “We all belong to Director Barras, my dear.” She fastened the pearl buttons on her sleeve. “So what would you answer if Buonaparte proposed?”

  I sighed, sat down. “Marry Buonaparte?”

  “I think our friend the Director is right. I think you should consider. How old is Buonaparte—twenty-six? Remember what Lenormand predicted—that you would marry a brilliant military man, someone younger than you?”

  “Hortense weeps at even the thought of me getting married again,” I said.

  “Has she even met Buonaparte? Why not bring her to the fête at the Palace? She is almost thirteen—it’s time she started coming out into society.”

  Saturday, January 9.

  At first Hortense was thrilled at the news that we were going to a formal dinner, especially when I showed her the dress Lannoy was making for her.

  “It’s at the Palace,” I said, thinking she would be impressed.

  “The Luxembourg?”

  I nodded. “Director Barras is hosting it.”

  “We’re going to a reception given by Director Barras?” She had a scornful expression on her face. “But, Maman, it was men like him who murdered father!”

  “Where did you hear such a thing!” Ever since Hortense had started school, she’d begun to have “notions.” I’d intended to talk to Madame Campan about it, but withheld, sensing that it was possibly Madame Campan who was the cause. “Were it not for the help of Director Barras, we would never have succeeded in getting back your father’s properties,” I lectured her. “You owe it to be kind to a man who has done so much to help us.”

  Finally, she relented; she would go. “But I refuse to speak to criminals and rogues. After all, I’m a Royalist.”

  I slapped her. We both burst into tears.

  January 21, midnight.

  I’m exhausted. The gala dinner celebration at the Luxembourg Palace was a tremendous success, but it was hardly enjoyable for me. Buonaparte was particularly intense, following my every move. He ate quickly, often with his hands. Hortense sat between us, sullenly refusing to speak.

  All the way home Hortense was silent. At last, in bedclothes, she
cried out, sobbing, “If you marry that horrid little man, I will never speak to you again!”

  I took her in my arms. “I won’t,” I told her. “I promise.”

  I promise.

  In which I must decide

  Friday, January 22, 1796.

  Buonaparte has made a proposal of marriage. I told him I would consider.

  “For how long?” He began pacing the room.

  “I will give you an answer in two weeks.”

  “One week.”

  “Then the answer will be no.”

  He smiled. “You are stronger than you look, Josephine. I like that in a woman.”

  “My name is Rose.”

  Saturday, January 23.

  Eugène stood at attention when General Buonaparte came to call. As for Hortense, she turned a cold shoulder. Buonaparte tried his best to charm her, but with little success. For most of the evening Hortense stayed in her room, refusing to come down.

  “Try not to be hurtful,” I suggested to him.

  “I was only teasing.” He had accused Hortense of being a bigot because she was preparing to be confirmed.

  “She’s not a child one can tease. She takes everything seriously.”

  “Then we shall get along.”

  January 29, 6:00 P.M.

  “But Thérèse, I am not enamored.” Thérèse and I were walking along the quay. It was cold but invigorating, the water grey.

  “You care for him as a friend,” she said. “He cares for you. Is that not more important?”

  “You do not credit love?”

  Thérèse scoffed. “Tallien loved me—and all I got were bruises.”