The Josephine B. Trilogy

  January 1, 1800!

  This is the first day of a new century. Just imagine! Everything I do, every move I make, has a careful yet excited feeling of beginning anew. This morning Bonaparte and I lingered long in our big feather bed, laughing and whispering, teasing and coquetting, working on “our project” (as he so solemnly puts it). I had a hint of the flowers two weeks ago. I am filled with hope.

  Later.

  One hundred and fifty-seven hackney cabs lined up outside the Palais Egalité to buy sugared almonds and marrons glacés. “Just like in the days of the Ancien Régime,” Eugène said, chewing a sugared almond, his chin dusted with powdered sugar. “I guess it wasn’t all bad,” he added, licking his lips.

  [Undated]

  I have been reading to Bonaparte every evening before he drops off to sleep.* This is a quiet time for us, a precious moment. He makes love to me, and then we talk, of our astonishing life, the challenges we each face, the exciting possibilities that lie ahead. And then I read to him, usually from his beloved Ossian. This evening the worn leather volume was not in its usual spot beside the bed. “I’ve burned it,” he said, more in sorrow than in anger.

  “Why?” I was shocked. Bonaparte took that book with him everywhere.

  “It was a fake,” he said. “I found out they’re looking into it in Scotland.”

  “They weren’t the words of Ossian?” I found that impossible to believe.

  “No, someone made them up, and then claimed that Ossian had written them. Fooled us all.” Embittered. “It just shows, doesn’t it, that nothing can be trusted.”

  “But Bonaparte, the beauty in the words—nothing can take that away. Certain things one can trust absolutely.” I put my hand against his cheek.

  January 2.

  It’s official now. “We’re moving to the Tuileries,” Bonaparte has informed me.

  The palace of the Bourbon kings.

  The palace of our dead King.

  And Queen.

  January 3.

  Mimi stood on the dirty cobblestones, looking up at the façade of the Tuileries Palace. Obscene messages, revolutionary emblems and slogans had been painted all over the walls. There were dark stains on the cobblestones—bloodstains, I feared. “What a mess,” Mimi said, frowning.

  The doors were stuck; it had been a long time since they’d been opened. Two men together (the architect and a journalist) were unable to loosen the seal. Then Bonaparte threw himself against it and the doors fell open. We laughed to see him fly.

  “How easy for you to enter this Palace of Kings, Consul,” the journalist said. “One would think you were expected.”

  “Palace of the Government, we’re calling it now,” Bonaparte corrected him.

  “Yes, Consul!” He took out a paper, lead pencil.

  I peered into the vast depths. The windows were high, dirty, some boarded over. It was cold, too, colder than outside. And musty. It smelled of old air.

  “The hard part will not be moving in,” Bonaparte said, brushing off his shoulders. “The hard part will be staying. Antoine, get the torches,” he ordered our coachman. “I’ve a country to run.”

  “And the shawls!” I called after him.

  “I’ll get them,” Mimi said, sprinting down the steps two at a time.

  We were like a medieval procession in that place, some ancient doomsday rite. Antoine, torch held high, bravely took the lead, hitting a stick against the walls to scare off rats.

  “Oh,” Mimi said, clasping my hand.

  “This must have been the King’s suite,” Bonaparte said, studying a plan. He looked up, around, paced off the room. “This will be my office. I’ll receive in that room there.” The room with the throne.

  We descended to a lower level, darker, mustier and colder: the Queen’s rooms.

  “This place is gloomy, Consul General,” the journalist said, his deep voice echoing in the empty rooms.

  “Gloomy like all grandeur,” Bonaparte said.

  “The Committee of General Security met in this room,” the architect said, examining the fireplace façade. “I recognize the detail on the chimney face. The Queen could not bear monotony—everything had to be ornate.”

  “Yes,” the journalist said, his voice a whisper. We were in that forbidden realm: the realm of the past.

  “Then that room over there, the reception area, must have been where Robespierre—” I put my hand to my eyes and pressed until I saw stars, but the image remained: of the tyrant, wounded, stretched out on top of a table with Blount, his faithful Great Dane, whimpering, licking his hand. Had Robespierre not died that day, I would not be…

  It was then that I saw her, the figure of a woman in white, standing by the wardrobe.

  They laid me out on the cold floor, my shawl under my head. Mimi fanned me, stirring up dust. I coughed, struggled to sit up. All of them were standing over me with worried expressions. “I’m fine,” I assured them.

  “She’ll be fine,” Bonaparte said, tugging at my hand.

  “I’ll get her, General,” Mimi said, her hand supporting my head.

  I leaned on Mimi for support. She was steady, not trembling. “Oh Mimi, wasn’t she a fright!” I whispered. The men were examining the windows. I put my hand to my chest. A shakiness had come over me, and a chill; it seemed to come from within me, from inside my very bones.

  Mimi frowned. “Who?”

  “That woman by the wardrobe.” Breathing in, out, in, out.

  She had been mannish, her jaw firmly set, her hair cropped short, illcovered by a ruffled cap. She’d been wearing a white gown with long sleeves, plain. “You must have seen her. She was standing by the wardrobe door. How could you not have seen her?” She was so clear.

  “Oh-oh,” Mimi said, screwing up her face.

  Then I remembered where I’d seen that face, the jaw clenched against adversity. At Citoyen David’s studio—his rough pen portrait of Queen Marie Antoinette, on her way to the scaffold.

  January 7.

  Too busy to write: working day and night getting the Tuileries Palace in condition to live in. It is ten o’clock in the morning and already I have selected fabric for all the drapes, met with my frantic cook about what the Tuileries kitchen will need (everything had been stolen: there’s not even a stockpot) and met with Madame Campan about protocol and staff. (Madame Campan’s experience as lady-in-waiting to the Queen makes her invaluable to me now. It’s so overwhelming: my cook alone will require three assistant chefs in the kitchen. No wonder he’s having fits.)

  Tomorrow I’ll attend to my wardrobe.

  I’m hearing Barras’s chuckle from somewhere in this palace. We are all of us going mad.

  January 17.

  Bonaparte came into my drawing room at noon. He sat down, staring into the fire. “Murat just asked for Caroline’s hand.”

  “Oh?” Relieved, I confess. A week before I’d discovered Murat and Caroline sprawled on a sofa.

  “Murat’s the thirteenth child of an innkeeper; I don’t want to mingle my blood with his. I was thinking more of General Moreau.”

  “But Bonaparte—”

  “Perhaps it would be wisest to wait. In a short time it’s possible I could marry her into royalty.” He smiled. “Now that’s a thought.”

  “Murat is brave,” I persisted. A swearing swashbuckler so much the fashion now. A swashbuckler in peacock plumes. “He served you well at the Battle of Aboukir, and at Saint-Cloud.”

  “Brave isn’t enough. He’s not intelligent, he’s uneducated and he’s of lowly birth—”

  “He suits Caroline perfectly.”

  Waiting to be called to supper.

  An amusing exchange. “Are you sure this is what you want?” Bonaparte demanded of his young sister.

  Caroline sat primly on the sofa, muslin ruffles everywhere. “I love him.”

  “That’s easy to say now, but as your brother I must warn you, when he’s naked, a big brute of a man like that, and in a state of desire, you’re not go
ing to find him so very—”

  She burst into a peal of delighted giggles.

  January 18.

  It’s done, the contract has been signed in the presence of every Bonaparte in Paris: Signora Letizia, the five brothers, two sisters, Uncle Fesch. And, as well, a tiny trio of Beauharnais: myself, Hortense and Eugène.

  The house-poor brothers were scarcely able to scrape together a dowry of thirty thousand francs, ten thousand less than Elisa and Pauline each received when they were married, so at the last moment Bonaparte added a lovely pearl necklace. I frowned when I saw it. It looked familiar. It was familiar: it was my own.

  January 20.

  The iridescent pearls, loose on a black satin cloth, reflected the candlelight. “I’ve never seen pearls so…” So pure.

  “Indeed, Madame, these are that rarest of gems, the round saltwater pink pearl.” Monsieur Lamarck spoke in a reverent hush. “It is impossible to find pearls of this size and perfection: look at these ugly baroque pearls, Madame, to compare: covered with blisters. They resemble potatoes. Or look at this set of freshwater pearls, shaped like little wine barrels. But these pearls—” He handed me a magnifying glass, pulled a lantern closer. “These pearls have lustre.” He murmured the word “lustre” confidentially, as if he were imparting dangerous information. “And iridescence. Observe: rainbows. Captured within. Indeed, Madame, it is an exceptionally thick layer of nacre that makes them so”—he rolled his eyes erotically—“hypnotic. Some claim that the nacre has healing powers—but that is strictly conjecture and as you know, Madame, we deal only in fact. Observe, Madame, a fact: they are imperfect. A perfect pearl is an imperfect pearl. Did you know, the Queen of Spain wears green pearls?” Whispering now. “Her jeweller should be hanged. But these pearls, Madame, these pearls are without question the finest in the world. Even a queen could wear them with confidence. Oh, forgive me.” Withdrawing an enormous handkerchief from his gold-embroidered waistcoat pocket. “Excuse me, Madame.” Sniffing. “I got carried away. Now, where was I—yes, the price. The price is five hundred thousand francs.”

  I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.

  “Y-y-yes?” Monsieur Lamarck slipped off his spectacles, cleaned them with a corner of his handkerchief, put them back on. “Did I hear you correctly, Madame? Was it yes that you said?”

  What has come over me, what have I done? I am made breathless by my daring, shaken by my foolishness—giddy by my gall! Such money! The price of a vast estate contained in a necklace. I look upon them entranced; it’s as if they have cast a spell over me. I am transformed, bewitched! How am I to pay? I’ll find a way, for I cannot be parted from them. I put on these gems, and I am a queen. Grand Dieu.

  In which I must sleep in Marie Antoinette’s bed

  January 21, 1800.

  This evening Bonaparte handed me a thick file.

  “What is this?” But I knew: it was the List—the names of the French aristocrats who were forbidden from returning to the Republic. For years Thérèse and I had lobbied to get names removed. Each small success had been a battle won.

  “I’d like you to determine who should be taken off,” Bonaparte said, opening his battered tin snuffbox.

  I stared at him, not comprehending. “You want me to decide?” To name who was innocent, who guilty—rule whose life would be ruined, whose life saved?

  “If you prefer, I could get Duroc to do it.”

  Duroc, the most heartless of Bonaparte’s aides. “No, I’ll do it!”

  Now, alone in my boudoir, I look through the thick file, the names of so many thousands of men and women, and I am overwhelmed. Can I do this? I pray for strength.

  February 5.

  “Don’t blame your hall porter,” I told Thérèse. “I pushed my way past him. May I come in?” I stepped boldly into the room. “I heard you had your baby, a girl.”

  Thérèse regarded me without a smile. Swaddled at her side was the infant, only a few days old. I stood for a moment in uncomfortable silence, remembering Thérèse as I’d first met her, her eyes so dark, so seeking. Eyes of wisdom, of innocence. And now, tired eyes. “I need your help going over the List. I’ve been asked to name the émigrés who should be allowed to return.”

  “Back to the Republic?”

  I nodded. “But it’s a big job, too big for me.” One of Thérèse’s canaries broke into song.

  “Come in then,” she said finally. “And take off your coat,” she added in an exasperated tone, as if it was too difficult to maintain, this chill, an unnatural thing.

  I put down the basket of comfits and toys I’d brought and leaned over the bed. “She’s beautiful. She looks just like Thermidor when she was born. What’s her name?”

  “Clémence.”

  Mercy. Forgiveness. “Yes.”

  Thérèse touched my hand. “How are you doing, Rose?” Addressing me by my former name. My old self. Not my new self.

  “Surviving.” I shrugged.

  “You and I, we’d hoped for more,” she said, gesturing to a chair beside the bed.

  Before long we were sharing confessions. I spilled out my heart to her, telling her how dismal it was to live in the palace, about all the boring fêtes, the tedious ceremonies, the Queen’s ghost. “Forgive me,” I said when the clock chimed three. “I promised myself I wouldn’t stay long.” It was unfair of me to unburden myself to this woman in childbed. I pulled my shawl around my shoulders and stood—but there was more, we both knew, a name not yet spoken. “How is he doing?” I asked finally.

  “You care?” Yet her tone was curiously gentle.

  Yes, I nodded. I cared. In spite of everything.

  “He’s drinking too much, gambling recklessly, his health is not good—but then all that’s to be expected, I think, under the circumstances.”

  I felt the weight of her accusation. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then enlighten me, please.” Her huge eyes swimming.

  “I had reason. That’s all I can say.”

  She stared at me for a long moment. “I know Barras was taking Royalist money, but that was no reason to betray him. He was playing all sides. That’s his way—he makes no secret of it. He was taking their money and using it against them.” The baby made a chirping noise.

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “You don’t believe it?” Thérèse asked, putting the infant to breast.

  I felt a familiar tingling in my own breasts. “It’s more complex than that, Thérèse.” More deadly.

  “He didn’t poison Lazare, if that’s what you’re thinking. He broke down one night, told me everything.”

  “Oh?” Wine talking, no doubt—wine and tears, a potent mix. Wine and tears and rage. I knew Barras so well. But not well enough, as it turned out. I sat back down on the little upholstered chair by her toilette table. “But Lazare was poisoned?”

  She nodded. “By a Royalist agent.”

  I propped my elbow on the table and rested my chin in the palm of my hand. Trying to take this in. “The Royalist agent Barras was taking money from?” My words hung in the silence.

  She paused before saying, “One of them.”

  I glanced at my friend in the looking glass. Then I turned to face her. “But why?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  I nodded, but fearful.

  “Lazare found out what Barras was doing. So then he knew too much. The agent was worried he might talk.”

  So. A Royalist agent poisoned Lazare to silence him, to protect his dirty secret that Director Barras, the most powerful man in the French Republic, was in his pay.

  “Barras went mad when he found out,” Thérèse said, switching the baby to her other breast. “He wanted to strangle the man.”

  When did this happen? I wondered, thinking back. I was stunned by the realization that Thérèse had known and had kept it from me. “You knew all along.” We had all been deceiving each other—a thought that did not comfort me in the least.

  “We??
?re all guilty,” she said with a sweet-sad smile.

  Except Lazare, I thought.

  “And so you see,” Thérèse sang to her baby, quoting a line from Candide, “the new world is no better than the old.”

  8:30 P.M.

  Adélaïde Hoche sat upright in her chair like a schoolgirl, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes look frightened. Père Hoche stood behind her.

  “I just want you both to know I found out what happened. At least, what likely happened,” I said.

  Père Hoche leaned forward, one hand on the back of Adélaïde’s wooden chair, the other hand on his cane, a thick oak cudgel. One could kill with such a stick, I thought.

  I began: “Director Barras had been taking money from the Royalists.” Père Hoche cursed. “It’s hard to know for sure what his intention was,” I persisted. He’d been taking money from the Pretender faction as well as from the Orléanists, I explained. He’d been dealing with all parties, as was his way, but holding his cards close, playing his own game. Then, when he learned that evidence had been found exposing the Pretender agents, he decided to jump ship. To cover himself, he attacked the Pretender group—but the plan failed (at least the first time) and Lazare took the blame.

  “They called my son a traitor.”

  “He had to go along with it, Père Hoche,” I told him, as gently as I could. Lazare would have preferred musketfire to such a slur, I knew. Traitors were scum in his eyes. The scar on his face was testimony to the passion of his creed: as a youth of sixteen, he’d challenged a grenadier in his barracks who was spying for bribes. They’d duelled on Mont-Martre on a cold winter’s day. The spy had scarred him, a badge Lazare had worn proudly. “If Director Barras had been accused, the Republic would have fallen. The agents knew that, so they tried to expose Barras. The agent for the Pretender must have shown your son proof that Director Barras had accepted their bribe money.”