The Josephine B. Trilogy

  “What’s the news, Citoyen Minister of Police?” Director Gohier asked.

  “There is no news,” Fouché said, feigning weariness.

  “But surely there is something,” Gohier said.

  “Only rumours,” Fouché said, catching my eye.

  “About?”

  “Just the usual about a conspiracy.”

  “Conspiracy,” I exclaimed, shocked that he would so boldly speak the truth.

  Fortunately, my shock gave the impression of ignorance, for Director Gohier, spilling his tea, echoed, “Conspiracy?”

  “Yes, conspiracy,” Fouché repeated without a trace of emotion. “But trust me, Citoyen Director, I know what’s going on. If there were truth to the rumour, heads would be rolling by now, don’t you think?” He laughed.

  “Citoyen Fouché, how can you laugh about such a thing?” I pressed my hands to my heart.

  Director Gohier put his arm about my shoulder. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he said to reassure me. “The Minister of Police knows what he is talking about.”

  All the while Bonaparte was leaning against the fireplace mantel watching—watching and smiling.

  November 6, just after 1:00 P.M.

  Bonaparte has just left for the banquet in honour of the Republic’s military victories. I could tell by his embrace, his damp hand, that he was uneasy—as well as by the basket of provisions Roustam was carrying: a bottle of Malmaison wine, three hard-boiled eggs.

  9:20 P.M.

  Bonaparte didn’t return home until almost eight. I took his wet hat. “Where have you been?” I demanded, keeping my voice low so that our guests would not overhear. I’d been in knots worrying.

  He glanced over my shoulder into the drawing room, which was crowded with savants, politicians, military men, all talking politics, tense and conspiratorial. “I went to Lucien’s after the banquet to make the final arrangements.”

  The final arrangements? “How was the banquet?”

  “A dismal affair.” I helped him off with his greatcoat. One of the boils on his neck was inflamed again. “The place was freezing,” he said.

  The playwright Arnault came up behind me. “General,” he said under his breath, “Talleyrand sent me to find out what time tomorrow we—”

  “Day after tomorrow,” Bonaparte told him.

  “But General, a day’s delay, is that not…?”

  Dangerous, he started to say.

  Our guests fell silent as Bonaparte entered the drawing room. Throughout the evening they watched to see who he invited back into his study—for whom the door was closed and for whom it was kept open. All the while I entertained gaily as if nothing was going on, as if I knew nothing.

  Which may be the case, in fact. I calm and I charm, I amuse and I placate, but increasingly I have the sense that a great deal more is at stake than I realize, that the game has changed and I do not know the rules.

  November 7, morning.

  I woke to the sound of Bonaparte’s tuneless singing. I remembered that it was Septidi, the second Septidi in Brumaire, and that the Glories would be gathering at Thérèse’s for a coffee party. I decided to send word I wouldn’t be able to come. Ill, I would be.

  Ill I am, in fact—in spirit, in soul. I can’t face Thérèse right now, can’t bring myself to lie to her, to say, No, nothing’s going on, there is no plan, no conspiracy to overthrow Père Barras.

  Bonaparte just stuck his head in the room and told me to send Hortense and Caroline back to school in Saint-Germain—today. I protested that they had been looking forward to a ball that was going to be held tomorrow. Couldn’t they stay one day longer? His answer worries me: “I don’t want them anywhere near Paris,” he said.

  There is more to this than what I’ve been told, I fear.

  Darling,

  The Glories were sad to hear that you’re not well. Perhaps you are suffering from the same ague Barras seems to be afflicted with right now—of all times, the poor dear, what with his cousin from Avignon visiting with all five of her girls. The palace is swarming with little Barrases—it’s like a girls’ school there!

  Get well. Soon it will be the turn of the century. Imagine! We are all of us already planning our gowns.

  Your loving and dearest friend, Thérèse

  Note—Good news. Barras promised to get that odious play closed down.

  November 8.

  Bonaparte returned from the palace shortly before noon. “You saw Barras? How is he?” I asked anxiously.

  “He doesn’t suspect a thing. I told him I’d like to see him tonight, at eleven, so that we might talk privately.”

  “And will you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Lie, detract, deflect. So this is what it is like to be a conspirator, I thought—to put on the face of a friend, to plan that friend’s undoing. I can only pray that it will be over soon, and that after I will become, once again, a person who speaks truly.

  I heard a curse, the sound of a horse prancing. I opened the sash windows, leaned out. The coachman, Antoine, had an enormous black horse by the reins and was trying with difficulty to control it. “Whose horse is that?” It wasn’t Pegasus, Eugène’s new mount. This horse was bigger—and fiery.

  Bonaparte joined me at the window. “Admiral Bruix has lent me his stallion for tomorrow.”

  “You’re going to ride that horse?”

  Bonaparte looked at me, amused. “You don’t believe I can?”

  [Undated]

  Bonaparte is happy, industrious, cheerful even: writing dispatches, speeches, preparing for what’s to come—preparing for a victory. “How does this sound?” he asked, reading out loud: “Nothing in history resembles the end of the eighteenth century, and nothing at the end of the eighteenth century resembles the present moment.”

  “Perfect,” I said, frightened.

  7:20 P.M.

  “This jacket suits you,” I told Eugène, picking a hair off his lapel. It is a becoming dark green, cut away in the front, tails in the back, and a high turned-over collar.

  “It’s too new, too pressed,” he complained.

  “You’re going out?”

  “I’m going to the Recamier ball at Bagatelle—I told you last week. Don’t you remember?”

  I groaned. Everything was happening so fast, it was impossible to keep track. Every evening there had been meetings late into the night.

  “Why aren’t the girls here? I thought they were all excited about it. And oh, about tomorrow,” he said, heading out the door, “I think I’ll invite that juggler I told you about—the one I met at the Palais Égalité. And maybe his friend the mime artist.”

  Mon Dieu—his breakfast party. I’d forgotten. “Eugène, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to cancel it,” I called after him.

  “Maman!” He gave an exasperated groan.

  “It’s just that we have so many coming as it is.”

  “So I gather! What’s going on?”

  November 9.

  I woke to the smell of smoke. I pushed back the bed curtain, alarmed. The fire in the fireplace illuminated Mimi’s face, her white morning gown. “Oh, it’s you,” I said, whispering so as not to waken Bonaparte. “What time is it?”

  “Just past six.” She pushed open the heavy drapes.

  “Six!” I swung my feet onto the cold floor. Thinking: day one, day two, and then it will be over. That is the plan. Thinking: today is day one. Today it begins.

  Mimi draped a cashmere shawl over my nightclothes. “There’s frost on the ground,” she said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “And men in the courtyard.”

  “Already?” I pushed my feet into a pair of fur slippers and shuffled to the alcove window.

  “I invited them in, but they said they preferred to stay outside.” She rolled her eyes. “Soldiers.”

  “What time is it? Is Fauvelet here yet?” Bonaparte asked, abruptly opening his eyes. “Where’s Roustam? Roustam!”

  Roustam, wearing a thic
k turban of wool for warmth, looked in at the door. “Master?” He bowed, putting down the tray of shaving implements on the dressing table, the crockery bowl of steaming hot water.

  “Get Gontier up here, and the groom,” Bonaparte commanded Mimi. He sat down in the hard leather chair, pulling a fur throw from the bed and draping it over his knees. He tilted back his head, exposing his throat. “And Antoine!” he ordered, causing Roustam’s brush of thick lather to catch his ear.

  I went downstairs to the kitchen to see how the cook was managing. Breakfast invitations had been sent out to over one hundred military officers. Did we even have china for that many?

  Callyot, unfortunately, was about to have an apoplectic fit. The yeast dough for the bread had not risen due to the unseasonable frost. We contrived to cover the pans with a comforter, lining them up near the ovens. Then Eugène came tumbling down the narrow stairs, groggy from not enough sleep, and starving, he said. “Why is everyone in uniform? What’s going on?”

  “I suggest you get in uniform as well,” I said, handing him a roll which he consumed in one gulp. “And best saddle your horse.”

  It was still dark when Talleyrand arrived. “I didn’t think you rose before noon,” I said, serving him the beer soup I knew he favoured.

  “I haven’t been to bed yet.”

  “You won’t have a coffee?” The smell of beans roasting filled the house.

  “My brain does not require nourishment,” he said without expression.

  “You are so calm, Citoyen.” Unlike the rest of us!

  “Perhaps you forget, Madame, I am always the victor.”

  Immediately he was joined by Bonaparte and the two moved slowly toward the door, Talleyrand’s big boot making a scraping noise on the parquet floor. “Be respectful,” I overheard Bonaparte telling him, “but make sure he understands that he has no choice.”

  “Is Talleyrand going to see Director Barras?” I asked Fauvelet, my voice low so that the men in the drawing room would not overhear. “To persuade him to resign?”

  “With the help of two million francs,” Fauvelet said, biting the nail of his thumb.

  Two million? I mouthed the words, made frog eyes. “That is persuasive.”

  “Yes, if Talleyrand doesn’t pocket it for himself.”*

  I went the rounds of the drawing room, making light conversation, but it wasn’t easy: everyone was tense, sipping champagne, all the while watching the door to the study. I heard the sound of trumpets.

  Two messengers of state stooped as they came through the door, careful not to crush the plumes on their hats. “An official message for General Bonaparte,” one announced, sniffing from the cold. “From the Council of the Ancients.”** Pox scars, enflamed by the chill air, gave him a feverish look.

  Everyone in the drawing room parted as I led the two men through to the study. “Get Eugène,” Bonaparte’s secretary told me. “The General wants him.”

  Eugène leapt to his feet when I summoned him. Flustered, he disappeared into Bonaparte’s study, then reappeared shortly after smelling of cigar smoke. “I have to go,” he told me, strapping on his father’s sword.

  “You’ll be needing this,” I said, handing him his hat. “What’s going on?” Not that a mere mother had any right to know.

  “I have to make an announcement—to the Council of the Ancients! I’m to tell them the General is coming.” He made a nervous face, chewing at his nails in mock terror.

  I smiled at his charming antics. He is eighteen now, but often acts like a boy. “You’ll be fine,” I assured him. Although, in fact, when it came to theatre Eugène had always been one to forget his lines.

  The courtyard was crowded with men in uniform, all waiting—for what, they didn’t know. They watched with interest as Eugène mounted his horse. He tipped his hat—proud, I knew, to be riding such a fine creature in the uniform of an aide-de-camp—and cantered down the laneway. I went back into the house where I discovered Bonaparte in the dining room, talking to Fauvelet. He gave me a quick kiss. “It’s time.”

  The men in the courtyard cheered when Bonaparte emerged. The king of mighty deeds, I thought, recalling a line from Ossian. He addressed them from the top step as if he were on campaign. Suddenly—magically!—the sun came out and there was a clashing of swords and a jubilant tossing of hats. The sunbeam pours its bright stream before him, a thousand spears glitter around.

  Antoine, the coachman, emerged from the stable with the black stallion, the horse rearing in spite of the stud chain over its nose. Someone held the stirrup as Bonaparte mounted. The stallion shied, very nearly unhorsing Bonaparte. He yelled to his men, pulling back on the reins. The horse reared, then bolted down the narrow lane, shaking its head and bucking, the men in pursuit.

  Suddenly it seemed so quiet. I turned, surprised to discover Fauvelet behind me. “You’re not going with him?” Except for the servants, the house was empty now. Empty for the first time in what seemed like months.

  “Madame,” he said, observing the distress in my eyes, “be assured that the plan is a good one—”

  “I know, Fauvelet.” Today the Directors would resign. Tomorrow a temporary committee would be formed to craft a workable constitution. All within the law—a bloodless coup. “I guess I’m not very good at this, at being a conspirator.”

  “Madame, I beg to differ. I believe you are very good at it.”

  A day in history does not have any special weather; there is nothing unusual about the way it unfolds. The cow must be milked, linens freshened, bread baked. But for the skipping of my heart, my silent prayers, but for my anxious watching at the window, listening for the sound of horses in the laneway—a day like any other.

  It was shortly after noon when Bonaparte’s courier Moustache came trotting into the courtyard with the news that General Moreau had agreed to take command of the troops guarding the Luxembourg Palace.

  Fauvelet jumped up. “That’s the key!” He confessed that he had, in truth, been a little bit worried—more worried than he’d let on, in any case.

  “But why must the palace be kept under guard?” I asked.

  “Directors Gohier and Moulins are being kept prisoner there,” Moustache said.

  Prisoner! “What about Director Barras?”

  “He’s gone to his country estate, under escort.”

  Under guard, he meant. Mon Dieu.

  A night of betrayal, a night of prayer. Mimi helped me into bed, gave me hysteric water and laudanum, piled me high with comforters. Yet even so, warmth eluded me. I waited, clutching Lazare’s Saint Michael’s medal, startling at the slightest movement, the shadows. Full of fear, remorse. Waiting for my husband, my son. Waiting. And praying. La liberté ou la mort.

  It was very nearly midnight when I heard the sound of horses in the courtyard. I met Bonaparte and Eugène at the door. “Thank God, you’re safe!” I cried out, embracing them both. I was so relieved to see them. My son yawned, indifferent to danger, and stumbled up the stairs to bed.

  “You were worried? Why?” Bonaparte asked, unbuckling his sword. “Everything’s going smoothly, according to plan.”

  “I’m…frightened.” Terrified. “I’m worried that Barras might try something, send some of his ruffians to—* Is there enough of a guard outside, do you think?” We seemed so exposed.

  “There’s no need. Roustam will sleep outside our door,” Bonaparte said, but he nevertheless pulled out a brace of pistols, cocking them to see if they were loaded. He came around to my side of the bed and put one on the table beside me. “Just in case,” he said, tugging my ear.

  Bonaparte, accustomed to battle and battle nerves, made feverish love and then immediately fell asleep. I lay beside him for what seemed like hours, my heart’s blood pounding: la liberté ou la mort, ou la mort, ou la mort.

  November 10.

  Day two. I woke with a start, pulled the bell rope. What time was it? I could hear commotion out in the courtyard. Bonaparte wasn’t in bed—why hadn’t he wakened m
e?

  “They’re almost ready to leave,” Mimi said, rushing in with a lantern. She went to the window, pulled back the curtain. “The General is in the courtyard now.”

  By the light of the flambeau, I could see Bonaparte adjusting his saddle. “Quick, tell him I must see him.”

  “Now?”

  I grabbed her elbow. “Insist on it.”

  Bonaparte ran up the stairs, his spurs jingling. I pulled him to me, kissed him. “For luck,” I said, my eyes filling. He pressed his forehead against mine, his eyes closed as if in prayer. Everything depended on this day.

  Just after 6:00 P.M.

  Still no word. It’s so quiet I can hear the candles dripping.

  8:15 P.M.

  A crowd has gathered at the gate. I sent my manservant to inquire. He returned with a hangdog look. “They think there’s been an attempt on the General’s life, Madame.”

  “An attempt?” I repeated, imagining the words wound, injure, cripple, maim. Imagining the word killed.

  Shortly after the clocks struck ten—in unison, a rare and almost mystical occurrence—a carriage pulled into the courtyard. I recognized the white horses, the Leclercs’ ornate carriage. Pauline fell into her valet’s arms and was carried to the house, followed by a woman in black, Signora Letizia! I rushed to the door, opened it myself. Pauline was sobbing hysterically. “What happened?” I cried out, panic rising in me.

  “It’s just a mother fit,” Signora Letizia said, stomping into the house.