The Josephine B. Trilogy

  “He laughed at me! ‘You’re too young, the constitution doesn’t allow it, it wouldn’t be legal.’” Bonaparte’s voice was mocking. “Legal! The constitution is strangling this country and they refuse to do anything about it. They pray at the altar of the law, as if it were the word of God, this thing, this constitution they serve. They forget that it is the other way around—we made the laws, we created the constitution and we can change it.” Pacing, his hands behind his back. “And if they won’t, I will!”

  October 31.

  A hectic but exciting day at Malmaison, planning gardens, supervising improvements. Hortense’s new horse was delivered, a lovely bay cob mare. It raced around the paddock, whinnying to Pegasus. “Thank you for the horse, General Bonaparte,” Hortense said, addressing her stepfather as if he were a guest—an honoured guest, but a guest none the less.

  In the late afternoon the four of us—Bonaparte, Eugène, Hortense and I—surveyed the grounds on horseback, talking with the workers. Then Eugène and Bonaparte raced their horses back to the château.

  “You know, Hortense, it would please Bonaparte if you called him Papa,” I said to her, our horses walking lazily.

  “Yes, Maman,” she said, her eyes welling up with tears.

  [Undated]

  This evening I noticed Bonaparte standing in front of the pianoforte, studying a sheet of music—Partant pour la Syrie, a marching song Hortense wrote when she was sick with worry about her brother in Egypt.

  “That’s one of Hortense’s compositions,” I said.

  “It’s good,” he said thoughtfully, flicking one corner with his fingernail.

  November 1—back in Paris.

  “Do you know what Minister Fouché told me?” Fortunée Hamelin asked, stooping to tie the leather thong of her Roman-style sandal. “He suspects someone fairly high up in the government may be in league with the Royalists.” She sat up, demurely tucking a breast back into her bodice.

  “How high up?” Madame de Crény asked, playing a card.

  “A director.”

  “Can’t get any higher than that.”

  “That’s interesting. I heard that one of the directors was sending copies of all the minutes and correspondence to England.”

  “What an awful thought!”

  “And so, of course, everyone suspects Barras.”

  “Ah, poor Père Barras, everybody’s favourite bad boy.”

  “My linen maid is convinced the Royalists gave Director Barras five million.”

  “I heard two million.”

  “Rumours!”

  “But that’s not the worst of it.”

  “Oh?”

  “The worst of it, is they’re saying that General Hoche found out, and so Barras had him—”

  No! Don’t say it.

  “—poisoned.”

  And now, alone in my dressing room, I prepare for bed. I’ve bathed, powdered, done up my hair in a pretty lace nightcap. Waiting for Bonaparte, who is in meetings still. It is a peaceful picture I see in the glass, a woman writing in her journal. The candlelight throws a soft halo of light. Yet within me there is no peace, for I am disturbed by some of the things that the Glories said this afternoon. Gossip, I know, but even so, an evil seed of doubt has been planted in my heart. I think I know Barras—but do I? I thought I knew Lisette.

  November 2, late.

  Thérèse looked like a goddess of fertility, comfortably enthroned in Ouvrard’s opulent box at the Opéra-Comique. At six months, her belly prominent, her bosom abundant, she was a vision of voluptuous femininity.

  “I feel I haven’t seen you for a decade,” I said, kissing her. “Sorry I’m late.” The three hammer strokes had sounded as I’d entered the lobby, but then there had been greetings to exchange with Fortunée Hamelin and Madame de Crény.

  On stage two actors were engaged in a heated debate, two ladies under a “tree” looking on, bemused, fluttering enormous feather fans. “You haven’t missed anything.” Thérèse took my hand and didn’t let it go.

  The two men began chasing the two women around a bush. The people in the pit stood up and started yelling, waving their arms. “Is Ouvrard not here?” I asked.

  “He detests opéra bouffe.” Thérèse leaned forward into the glare of the gaslights. “Oh, there he is—with Talleyrand. Ah, and look—” She nodded to the left. “Our newly elected President of the Five Hundred.” She stuck her nose in the air, a mocking gesture.

  Lucien Bonaparte? I ducked back out of view. “I told Bonaparte I was at the riding school. He doesn’t approve of the Opéra-Comique. He thinks I should only go to the Théâtre de la République.” But the truth was, I didn’t want him to know I was meeting Thérèse.

  “He’s getting to be such a snob.” But smiling. “How is our darling boy?”

  Thérèse considered Bonaparte a friend, but a history of favours and affection did not hold much credit in his eyes, I’d discovered—especially now, with her illicit pregnancy so visible. “Busy.”

  “I hear you’ve started your evenings again. From what I gather, all of Paris comes to your salon.” She poured a glass of champagne, handed it to me. “Don’t worry, darling, I won’t embarrass you. I’ve been a social outcast for so long it doesn’t even bother me.”

  A big man in the pit stood up and shook his fist at the stage. Others were pulling at him, trying to get him to sit down.

  “Well! I knew the loveliest ladies would be in Ouvrard’s box.” Barras, his legendary hat askew, appeared with Toto tucked under one arm, wrapped in a red cashmere scarf. “So the General let you out tonight, Madame Bonaparte?”

  “You brought Toto to the theatre?” I put out my hands.

  “He’s not feeling well. The two of us actually.”

  “He’s cold,” I said, tightening the scarf around the quivering creature. The miniature greyhound resembled a rat more than a dog.

  “You’ll join us, darling?” Thérèse asked.

  “Is the General among us?” Barras looked behind the curtain. A stone on his little finger caught the light—an enormous ruby. “Or is he still in hiding?”

  Barras had been drinking, I suspected. There was something dangerous in his manner. “I couldn’t induce Bonaparte to venture out,” I said. The public’s enthusiasm for my husband made appearances difficult. But I couldn’t say that to Barras.

  “A wise move. We’ve had reports that his army want to kill him—for deserting them in that godforsaken land.” He smirked. “For leaving them to die.”

  Thérèse threw me a look of caution.

  “Forgive me, ladies! We are enjoying an evening of light opera, are we not? Certainly not tragedy, of which the much-applauded General does not approve.” In fact, Bonaparte enjoyed tragedy, loved classical theatre, but I didn’t think it wise to correct him. “Of course not,” he ranted on. “The General understands Parisians. They want only victory, glory, a glittery show. But caution, Citoyennes—for they weary quickly. Indeed, one must ask, does such a fickle people even deserve democracy? Perhaps there is something to be said for the stability of a monarchy. The French are a feminine people—they long to be dominated.” He smiled. “What a shocking thing to say! How fortunate to be among friends.”

  November 3.

  Shortly after eleven I heard the sound of a horse galloping down the lane. Only Bonaparte galloped into the courtyard—he knew no other pace. Then I heard the front door slam.

  “How did it go?” I’d been waiting for him to return.

  “How did what go?” Tossing his hat onto a table.

  “Your meeting with Barras,” I said, taking up his hat, wiping the rain from the brim.

  Bonaparte threw himself into a chair by the fire. “Well, you were right about one thing—Barras agrees that a change is in order.” He jumped back to his feet. “Indeed, he even told me the Republic is in need of someone to take the helm, a man with vision, a military man who enjoys the confidence of the people.”

  Yes, I nodded, almost fearfully
. It was obvious to everyone who that man was.

  “He even informed me that he has the man picked out.” Bonaparte paused for effect. “General Hedouville.”

  Hedouville? Who was Hedouville?

  Bonaparte hit the wall with this fist. “Exactly! Hedouville is a nobody. Barras insults me by making such a suggestion. Wasting—my—time.” He enunciated each word with spite.

  I took a breath, not moving. “No doubt there has been a misunderstanding.”

  Bonaparte stomped out of the room, knocking an ancient Egyptian vase to the floor as he went by.

  November 4.

  “I’ve decided to go with Director Sieyès,” Bonaparte informed me at breakfast.

  “But—” Sieyès and Bonaparte detested each other!

  “The romance of the Revolution is finished; it’s time to begin its history.” He downed his scalding coffee in one gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can I count on you?”

  “I don’t understand.” Count on me for what?

  “To help out, talk to people, be persuasive. You’re good at that. But you’ll have to keep quiet about the plan. No talking to your Glories.”

  “There’s a plan?”

  “Director Sieyès has had one worked out for some time, as it turns out.”

  Ah, I thought, so the rumours are true—Director Sieyès has been plotting something.

  “First, the five Directors resign. Second, Directors Sieyès and Ducos and I form a new executive council. Third, we craft a workable constitution. Sieyès assumes it will be the one he has been working on, of course.” He scoffed. “But everything within the law.”

  It sounded so logical—so easy. “And Barras will agree to resign?”

  Bonaparte poured himself a second cup of coffee, scooped in four heaping spoons of sugar. “He’ll have no choice.”

  I paused before asking, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’ll be powerless, we’ll be stronger.”

  Suddenly I understood what Bonaparte was saying. He was going to overthrow Barras—by force, if need be. “But Bonaparte, Barras has helped you so much. If it weren’t for him…” I started to say, If it weren’t for Barras, we wouldn’t be married. If it weren’t for Barras, Bonaparte would be nobody. But these were not words one could say to a man like Bonaparte. “Why can’t Barras be included? You said yourself he believes something needs to be done.”

  “He’d want to be in charge. The people are not going to support a new effort if they see him at the helm. They’ll think it’s just another money grab on his part, just another way to milk the Treasury for his personal gain.”

  “There’s no evidence to support those rumours! All we really know for certain is that Barras has been your most loyal supporter.”

  “That’s not a factor any longer. There are more important issues.”

  “This is heartless.” I threw down my embroidery.

  “You’d likely not say that if you knew that your so-called friend is conspiring with the Royalists.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say!”

  “Correction—it’s a terrible thing to do.”

  I stared out the window, unseeing. War times are not moral times, Barras had once told me. But there were things I preferred not to know.

  “The Royalists have long been seeking someone inside the French Republic to help put a king back on the throne—someone high up, someone powerful and someone who could be swayed by their gold. Your friend—”

  “Our friend, your friend, Bonaparte. This is just conjecture. You don’t have proof.”

  “Look at Grosbois, look at the way Barras throws money around. Do you think one can live like that on a director’s salary, on gambling wins?”

  I swallowed with difficulty. “Just because Barras is wealthy doesn’t mean he’s in league with the Royalists. Barras voted for the death of the King. He believes in the Republic.”

  “Barras believes in himself! Open your eyes, Josephine—he has been bought. This is no longer a personal matter. Too much is at stake. Do you think I make these decisions lightly?” He paused before saying, almost sadly, “There is evidence. Fouché has being going through General Hoche’s papers.”

  I felt a strange sense of detachment, as if this were a story I had already heard. Barras was in league with the Royalists. If this were true, as I feared it must be, then what of the rest? What of all the other rumours—that Lazare had found out, that Barras had had him poisoned?

  I felt weakened, sick at heart. I thought of the man I knew—big-hearted, generous Père Barras, a dedicated Republican, an ardent anti-Royalist. I thought of the tears I’d seen in his eyes when he spoke of Lazare. This was the Barras I knew in my heart. The other Barras seemed a fiction, a character in a play. “Are you sure, Bonaparte?”

  Bonaparte put his arm around me. He saw that I was shaken, heard the dismay in my voice. “Josephine, my angel, we must be brave. We can’t afford to fool ourselves. The Republic—and all that it stands for—will either survive, or it will perish.”

  “I know, Bonaparte, but—”

  “Please, listen to me.” He held my face in his hands. His skin felt soft and cool, soothing against my hot cheeks. “If you’re with me, you can’t be with Barras. It’s as simple as that.”

  “You would ask me to betray a friend?”

  “I am asking you to help save the Republic,” Bonaparte told me gently, wiping my cheek with his thumb.

  I laid my head on his shoulder. “What do you want me to do?” If I could not trust my heart, what could I trust?

  “Just be your charming self. Don’t let on. Barras must suspect nothing.”

  I nodded slowly. Very well then. “Can you promise me one thing?”

  He kissed me lightly.

  “Barras must be spared.”

  “I told you, this will be bloodless.”

  “There are other ways to ruin a man.”

  In which we have "a day" (or two)

  November 4, 1799, evening, around 9:00 P.M.

  Barras greeted us with open arms. “I’ve opened a bottle of excellent Clos-Vougeot. Did I tell you about the string quartet I’ve hired for later? I’m determined to conquer that German dance—what is it called? Valse? Un. Deux. Trois. Un. Deux. Trois. You see, it is not in the least bit complex, just a triangle, but somehow, by this means, one must move about the room. There’s a trick to it. Un. Deux. Trois. Un. Deux. Trois. Ta la! You see, I’ve got it.” He danced ahead of us into a salon where a small table had been laid with three covers, the fine crystal and golden flatware glittering in the candlelight. Gold-plated serving dishes had been placed on a side table. The air was sweet with the smell of juniper. “General? You will have a glass?” Barras pulled hard on the cork, sniffed it.

  “I have my own, thank you,” Bonaparte said, signalling to Roustam to step forward.

  Barras looked with astonishment at the bottle of wine Roustam was uncorking. “A health measure,” I rushed to explain.

  “You have not been well, General? You must talk to my doctor. He’ll be joining us later. He is oh-so-very wicked with the enemas.” A peal of laughter. “Pardi! But I am full of animal spirits tonight. I must be getting sick. It is always the first sign.”

  The footman pulled out a seat for me. He started to pull one out for Bonaparte, but Roustam stepped in. A maid removed three golden lids: thrushes in a juniper dressing, rice with saffron, fat white asparagus with purple tips.

  Two maids rolled in a trolley. Barras lifted a silver cover. “Ah, a most excellent tunny, esteemed for its beneficial effects on a troubled digestion, you’ll be happy to know, General. You’ll not be offended if I do the honours?” He scooped asparagus onto my plate. “We are, after all, like family here. I’ve been in the kitchen all morning, coaching my new chef on how a court bouillon is to be properly rendered—how it must be coaxed into being,” he said, dipping and licking his index finger. “Grand Dieu, I believe he has a knack for it. General? May I have the hon
our of…No?”

  Roustam had placed a hard-boiled egg on Bonaparte’s plate. It rolled around the brim. Bonaparte cracked it against the edge of the table.

  My hand jerked, nearly toppling my glass. What could I say? “Barras, have you seen that play that just opened at that little theatre on Rue du Bac? Les Femmes Politiques, I think it is.”

  “The play Thérèse is so upset about?* No, I’ve been too damn busy with Grosbois renovations. This new roof—what a mess. I haven’t been out at all. Fortunately, watching Director Sieyès taking horseback riding lessons from my window here is entertainment enough. Every morning he manages to fall off. It’s getting so a crowd turns out just to watch. I’m starting to think we could charge for admission. The last time I was so amused was watching Robespierre learn to ride.”

  “Sieyès is a little old to be taking up horseback riding, isn’t he?” I could feel the heat in my cheeks. I knew that Director Sieyès was intent on riding beside Bonaparte—when the time came.

  “What is it they teach in military school, General: when a politician begins to ride, prepare for battle?”

  Bonaparte wiped the egg from his lips with his lap cloth and handed his plate and glass to Roustam. “No. When a politician betrays the people”—Bonaparte pushed back his chair—“that’s when the battle begins.”

  [Undated]

  “Just so you know, we’re saying Director Barras is aware of the plan, that he’s with us.” Bonaparte tapped a stack of correspondence with his silvertipped riding whip.

  I nodded yes. Yet another deceit.

  I have become a person I do not care for.

  November 5.

  President Director Gohier arrived punctually at four, as is his custom, carrying a bouquet of roses. “For the loveliest lady in Paris,” he said, giving me a rather wet kiss.

  Shortly after, Minister of Police Fouché arrived, skulking into the room in a dishevelled state, smelling of garlic and fish. I was on the settee by the fire, sitting with Director Gohier, enjoying a conversation about theatre. I moved over to make room for Fouché.