After exactly fourteen minutes (as usual), Bonaparte threw down his napkin. “You’ll excuse me?”
Hortense and I were left in silence. “Now,” I said with a smile, passing her some bonbons on a platter, “about running off to your room so mysteriously—is there anything my daughter might want to tell her mother?”
And then, with obvious relief, Hortense confessed that Bonaparte’s aide, Christophe Duroc, had slipped a letter into Lives of the Saints, a book she had been reading.
“Duroc wrote you a letter?” I asked, concerned. I don’t care for Christophe Duroc (phlegm), and not just because he is known as “the procurer.” He is handsome, in a fashion, and fanatically loyal to Bonaparte, but his manner is cold—I can’t imagine him loving a woman. And in any case, it is improper for a young man to write a girl a letter; many a reputation has been ruined for less.
“I did not open it, Maman,” Hortense hastened to assure me—but confessing that she had tried to read it without breaking the seal. “I only wished to see how a man proposed.”
Proposed! “Hortense, a gentleman who respects a young woman wouldn’t propose without discussing it with her parents first,” I said carefully. And a gentleman who respected a girl wouldn’t write to her unless they were already engaged.
September 2—Paris.
It has been almost one month since I returned from Plombières, and still no change. Faith.
September 3.
Bonaparte’s young brother Louis has taken to joining us in the drawing room evenings, reading aloud from Young’s Night Thoughts while Hortense sketches and I sit at my tapestry frame. (Bonaparte, of course, is usually in his cabinet immersed in work.) Now and then Louis will look up and gaze at Hortense as she applies charcoal to a self-portrait.
I wonder—
September 5, late afternoon.
Is it possible that Louis is in love with Hortense? He, Bonaparte and I were enjoying a pleasant conversation yesterday evening on the subject of German literature when Hortense came into the room. Abruptly Louis stopped talking. No persuasion on our part could induce the crimsonflushed young man to continue. “The silent one,” Hortense teased, oblivious to the powerful effect she has on him.
Shortly after 2:00 A.M.—can’t sleep.
Why haven’t I considered Louis before? He is twenty-four (a good age), serious in his demeanour, not unattractive, intelligent. Educated, literary. Since his fall from a horse in Italy, his health has been a concern—he uses his right hand with increasing difficulty—but it is not a congenital problem and will no doubt improve with treatment. He’s a bit moody, sometimes, but gentle (he dotes on his mongrel water spaniel). Generous features, a nice height. Excellent teeth.
September 8.
I’ve been to see Madame Campan for advice on staff. As a former lady-in-waiting to Queen Marie Antoinette, she is invaluable, but as Hortense’s former schoolmistress, she is even more so. I told her all I’ve been going through trying to find a suitable husband for Hortense, all the excellent young men who have been introduced to my daughter, how she has rejected them all. I told Madame Campan my concerns: that Hortense has formed an ideal in her mind that no man can live up to, that the novels she reads have given her romantic notions, that she is intent on a love marriage, a practice that is becoming more and more common, true, but so often ends in misery.
Madame Campan looked alarmed. “A love marriage is out of the question,” she said firmly, smoothing her black gown, which was modest in design, without frippery or devices. “Young people are swayed by emotion—they are unable to choose wisely. Your daughter is intelligent. I am confident she will come to the conclusion that the French system is superior to any other. Who do you have in mind?”
I told her that although I’d not yet discussed it with Bonaparte, I was coming to the conclusion that his brother Louis might be ideal.
Madame Campan sat back with a satisfied look. “I was going to suggest that you consider Louis. Even if he were a repulsive candidate, I would recommend him, for the benefits to you, your husband—indeed, the nation—are abundantly clear to all concerned.”
Abundantly clear. “Certainly, but—”
“But fortunately, he is not a repulsive candidate. Louis is a reflective individual. He is kind and has simple tastes, as does Hortense. They share a poetic sensibility. And his feelings for your daughter?”
“Frankly, I’m beginning to suspect Louis may be in love with her.”
“They would have handsome children.”
Oh yes! And what a joy it would be for Bonaparte and for me. Their children would unite us, console us if we are never able to…
September 8—Paris.
“Josephine?” Bonaparte nudged my shoulder. “Are you awake? I’ve been thinking: what about Louis? As a possible…you know, for Hortense.”
“What a good idea!” I said, wrapping my arms around him. “Why didn’t I think of it?”
September 10.
“Bonaparte, we must do something about Hortense and Louis.”
“Do what?” Bonaparte asked, closing the book he was reading, a history of the Emperor Charlemagne, holding his place with his finger.
“You know—what you talked about.”
“That’s a woman’s job,” he said, opening up the book again. (Breaking its spine.)
“But someone needs to talk to Louis, and really, it should be you.”
“What do I know of such matters?”
“More than you think,” I said with a smile.
[Undated]
“So I talked to my brother.” Bonaparte sat down beside my toilette table, examined my gown (approvingly), the embroidered lawn, the décolleté. “Louis is in love with—”
“Bonaparte!” I hissed, rolling my eyes in the direction of my hairdresser.
Citoyen Duplan laughed, fluffing out my side curls. He’d persuaded me to try a rhubarb and white wine tint, which gave my chestnut hair a hint of gold. “Madame Josephine, you know me better than that.”
“I know you too well.”
Then Bonaparte’s secretary appeared at the door. (It’s always like this now: bustle and turmoil.) “First Consul, Minister Talleyrand wishes to have a word with you.”
I took my husband’s hand. “And?” What about Louis?
“And he agreed,” Bonaparte said with a shrug, standing up.
“That’s all?”
“I’m not in the room!” Duplan said, digging in his case of combs. “I’m invisible.”
“He was going to anyway, he said.” Bonaparte lowered his voice. “Now someone needs to talk to you-know-who, see if you-know-who would be…you know: receptive.”
“Nowhere to be seen!” Duplan exclaimed, throwing up his hands, turning his back.
“I don’t think I should be the one to discuss it with her.” It would put too much pressure on her. “Best to have someone outside the family, I think.”
“Fauvelet could do it,” Bonaparte said.
“Certainly,” Fauvelet said. “Do what, First Consul?” I heard him say as he followed Bonaparte out.
“Citoyen Duplan, I’m serious, don’t you dare say a word,” I told my hairdresser immediately after the door had closed. “Not even a whisper.” Especially not a whisper.
4:30 or so.
This afternoon, when Bonaparte’s secretary came to model the new jacket I’d designed for him (it’s excellent—even Bonaparte has requested one), I told Fauvelet our thoughts. “Louis is gentle and affectionate and he cares for Hortense sincerely. Were they to marry…” I outlined the benefits to all concerned. “I agree with Bonaparte that you are the ideal person to approach Hortense on this delicate matter.” Well—perhaps not ideal, but…
“I know, Madame Josephine, the First Consul discussed this with me, but I don’t think I could—”
“You and Hortense play in theatricals together. You have a companionable relationship. Please. Would you mind? Could you just find out what her feelings might be?”
&
nbsp; September 13.
“She wept, Madame.”
Wept! “Why? What did she say?”
Fauvelet shrugged his thin shoulders. “She didn’t.”
“Well—what did you tell her?”
“That she owed it to her country.”
Mon Dieu.
“And that the First Consul and you had decided.”
“Didn’t you point out Louis’s good qualities?”
Fauvelet looked at me quizzically. “Louis has good qualities?”
“Didn’t you point out how gentle and sensitive and intelligent he is? Didn’t you tell her that Louis loves her?” As I had instructed him to say!
“I started to, Madame, but I don’t know if she heard me.” He pursed his lips. “She was crying awfully hard. Don’t worry!” He held up his hands, as if surrendering to an enemy. “She assured me she would never do anything to displease you.”
Hortense has asked for eight days to consider. Now, alone at my escritoire, I am full of remorse. How difficult this is. Are we doing the right thing?
September 15—Malmaison.
I observe my daughter’s sad look and have to turn away. “She must decide herself,” Bonaparte told me, taking me in his arms.
September 16.
Madame Campan is with Hortense now. I can hear the low murmur of their voices, the muffled sound of Hortense weeping. I can’t bear it.
Later.
I walked Madame Campan to her carriage. “She will be fine,” she said. “You must be patient.”
“What is Hortense’s objection?” Why is my daughter so miserable? We are not asking her to marry a repugnant old man. Certainly that sort of thing happens all the time. “Does she dislike Louis? Bonaparte and I were under the impression that she cares for him.”
Madame Campan leaned toward me. “I think she expects to feel rapture,” she said. I frowned. “Exactly!” she exclaimed. “Of course she cares for Louis. He’s just not her ideal. Hortense has always been very…theatrical, one could say, but in the best sense! Sensitive, certainly. Romantic, I’m afraid. She’ll come round—you’ll see.”
September 17.
Bonaparte has issued an ultimatum to England: unless a peace treaty is concluded, negotiations will be broken off. “And as for your daughter…” he said, pressing for resolution.
Four more days.
September 21, early afternoon—Tuileries Palace.
Fauvelet poked his head in the door. “Madame Josephine?”
I looked up from my fancy-work.
“She has agreed. She said she would not stand in the way of your happiness.”
I scrambled for my handkerchief, my chin quivering.
In which my daughter finally marries
September 22, 1801, almost 10:00 P.M.—a rainy day in Paris. Louis looked terrified. “You wish to speak to me, Napoleon?”
“Yes, sit,” Bonaparte said, throwing a crumpled paper into the roaring fire. “Hortense has agreed to consider an offer of marriage, were one submitted to her.” I cringed. Bonaparte can be so blunt! “I recommend her. She is a sweet and virtuous girl.”
Just then Hortense came into the room with a bound music book in her hand. Seeing Louis, she turned and fled.
“A bit timid, perhaps,” Bonaparte said, bemused.
[Undated]
Now all that remains is for Louis to make his declaration to Hortense. The two are painful to watch, always at opposite ends of a room, always silent. Bonaparte and I wait…and wait and wait. How long can this go on?
October 3, 1801, Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne
Chère Maman,
A quick note (the courier is leaving soon). The news that England has finally agreed to sign a peace treaty is glorious!
Victor wrote that he has been put in charge of the fleet sailing to Saint-Domingue.* What a splendid command! This is his opportunity to prove his worth. Pauline must be pleased.
Hortense hasn’t written for some time. Too busy entertaining suitors?
A thousand kisses, I am well,
Your loving son, Eugène
October 14.
“Perhaps you should have a word with Louis,” I suggested to Bonaparte. “Encourage him to…you know.” Propose! Simply getting the young man to speak to my daughter was going to be a problem.
“What do I know of these things?”
“Would you prefer that I take care of it?” Our big ball was coming up: the perfect setting.
October 21, 6:00 A.M.—Malmaison.
Oh, it’s early in the morning, but I’m too fraught to linger in bed. My heart is aswirl with feelings of joy, doubt—but most of all, relief. Bonaparte and I opened the ball last night with a minuet. (He only missed two steps.) “What are you going to say to Louis?” he hissed, for we had decided that the time had come.
Presentation of the right hand: “What do you think I should say?”
Presentation of the left hand: “Tell him to get on with it!”
I induced the shy suitor to sit beside me. “Louis, do you think it would be improper for a woman to request a dance with a man?” A cotillion had been announced and couples were proceeding onto the floor.
“I believe it is the man who must always ask,” he said solemnly.
“Pity,” I said, with what I hoped would be a giveaway smile. Unfortunately, he didn’t understand. “Would you find it shocking, then, were I
to inform you that if you were to ask the honour of my hand in the dance, I would be happy to accept?”
He looked at me in all seriousness, a small frown between his eyes. (Nice eyes. Madame Campan is right: their children would be handsome.) “You’d like to dance, Aunt Josephine?”
“I’d be delighted.” He led me out onto the dance floor. Hortense was sitting with Caroline near the musicians; I wiggled my fingers at them.
“Your daughter is usually one of the first on the floor.”
“She is passionate about dance.”
“She dances well,” he said as the music began.
“As do you, Louis.” Although, in truth, his movements lacked confidence. Perhaps with time Hortense could…
“I aim only not to make a fool of myself,” he said as we proceeded down.
“You underestimate your abilities.” This was true. Louis has exceptional qualities. Turning my head (the old women sitting at the edges of the dance floor knew how to read lips), I said, “Louis, Bonaparte and I have been thinking about you and Hortense. Have you given any thought to when you might make a proposal? Tonight might—”
“No! I mean, yes.” Louis missed a step, and try as he might, could not correct it.
“I’m breathless,” I lied. “I believe I should sit down.” It was a faux pas to leave the floor in the middle of a piece, but at least we were at the bottom of the dance.
He escorted me to my chair. “Won’t you join me for a moment?” I asked with authority, offering the empty seat next to mine. Dutifully he sat down beside me, his eyes darting about with the look of a captured animal. Men! I thought, so valiant on the battlefield, so timid in the parlour. “As I was saying—” I would have to be firm. “Bonaparte is anxious to settle the matter. He feels you should declare yourself to Hortense—tonight. There she is now,” I said, pointing with my fan.
Louis looked stricken. “But now she’s with Caroline and Émilie.”
A dance would be too challenging for Louis under the circumstances, I realized. “You could invite her for a stroll in the garden.” I touched his elbow, urging him to stand. One step, and he would be committed. But that step! “Go,” I hissed.
[Undated]
The clan received the news in chilly silence. Slowly, Signora Letizia got to her feet and held up her glass of verjuice, her stiff index finger pointing at Hortense as if in accusation. “Now you will be one of us,” she said, and sat down.
After, in the drawing room, as Hortense sang one of her new compositions and I accompanied her on the harp, I sensed an undercurrent of hisses, sharp glances
, covert hand movements—a flurry, it seemed, of secretive murmurs.
October 29, 1801, Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne
Chère Maman,
What a surprise! I’m delighted. Louis is perfect for Hortense; they suit each other in so many ways. Has a date been set? Just think—I may be an uncle next year!
Your loving son, Eugène
Note—I’m thinking of growing a goatee.
November 17, 1801, Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne
Chère Maman,
Very well, no goatee!
I’ve finally decided on my wedding gift: two horses, one a roan mare and the other a bay stallion, both sired by Pegasus. What do you think? Would you mind keeping them at Malmaison until Hortense and Louis have their own establishment?
Your loving son, Eugène
December 18, 1801, Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne