The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

  “Commander du Braye?” A friend of my uncle, Durand du Braye was the commander of the Sensible, one of the warships in the harbour. “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Five? Six?” she answered sleepily. She set her lantern on the side-table.

  Anxiously, I broke the seal. I had difficulty reading the handwriting for there were big blotches of ink on the page. They were going to set to sea, I finally made out. I must join the ship at once. Commander du Braye cautioned me not to tell anyone, especially not the servants. One of his crew would be sent to meet me at Shell Point, south of the village.

  I looked up at the chambermaid. She had such a sweet expression—how was it possible that she could be my enemy? “That’s strange. He regrets to inform me he must stay in the harbour until given permission to leave. Why would he wake me for this?” I asked, colouring.

  The girl shrugged, successfully puzzled.

  When she closed the door behind her I got out of bed. How was I to get a child to the shore without being noticed? I put on a petticoat and two dresses, one over the other, as best I could. I had some gold coins in a little cloth bag. I tucked this into my bodice. I would not be able to take much. I wrapped my rosary and a night-dress in a handkerchief along with some of Hortense’s clothes and the doll she is so attached to.

  It was time to wake Hortense. I almost had her dressed before she began to stir, slumping over onto the bed with every move. “We’re going on a boat,” I whispered to her. “We must be quick.” I pulled her to her feet. “Can you walk?” She was too heavy to carry far.

  A loud crack from a musket startled her awake. She nodded. I took her hand and opened the door. We slipped down the stairs. In the foyer a footman was snoring into his chest. I put my finger to my lips, indicating to Hortense that she must be very quiet. I heard a shout out on the street.

  I stooped down and kissed her, stroking wisps of curls away from her eyes. “We must be brave,” I told her, pulling her hood over her head.

  She trusted me completely; it broke my heart, her faith. I led her across the room and slowly opened the big oak door. I was relieved that the footman continued to slumber, our footsteps nothing compared to the turmoil outside.

  It was as I closed the door behind us that the reality of battle struck me. A smell of sulphur filled the air. Cracks of grapeshot broke the morning silence. I pulled Hortense forward. There was no time for hesitation. We had only to cross the Savane to get to the shore. It had stopped raining. The ground was soggy under our feet. I skirted the mud puddles. I was beginning to think we might make it safely when cannon fire broke out, followed by a shower of mud at our feet.

  Death, so very close.

  It is said that at such moments, time stops. I think I will never forget looking at Hortense then. I saw her as a baby, and as an old woman too. Then the spell broke and I moved, slowly, as if coming out of a dream, the dawn beautiful and clear before us. Suddenly I saw a bright green ribbon of light across the horizon. “Look!” But as quickly as that it was gone.

  At Shell Point there was a man waiting in a rowboat. I lowered Hortense into his big hands. There were shots all around as we made our way over the dark water. When we reached the ship, the man climbed the rope ladder up to the deck, Hortense under one arm.

  Cannons fired as the sails were unfurled, but by then we were out of reach and I was below deck, Hortense pressed to my fluttering heart.

  I felt the sails catch wind, the ship surge forward. The sound of cannon grew faint. From somewhere up above I could hear a man singing, drunken and off-key: Ah, ça ira, ça ira, ça ira.…

  IV

  Citoyenne

  Captain Scipion du Roure-Brison was on the crew of the Sensible, the boat that returned Rose and Hortense to France. He is thought by some historians (lack of evidencenotwithstanding) to have been Rose’s lover.

  In which I am reunited with my Son

  Friday, October 29, 1790—Toulon.

  We’ve arrived. We’re on land again. I am writing this at a table by a crackling fire. The table does not tip, the ink does not spill … for that matter, my hand does not tremble, my stomach does not turn.

  Mal de mer for seven weeks! Even now, if I close my eyes, I see a mountain of water towering darkly over me. Whosoever is an atheist has never been to sea.

  Our trials are far from over, however. Our meagre clothing—suitable for hot summer days in Martinico, not chilly fall evenings in France—is stained and torn. Nor have we a sou for bread or bed. Fortunately I was able to borrow a sum from Commander du Braye and that together with some money kindly loaned to us by Captain du Roure-Brison* will enable us to make the long journey to Paris.

  At least we’re alive, I remind myself. Two times the ship took fire—two times good luck they say, luck we were in need of, for it was a stormy crossing. In the Strait of Gibraltar we ran aground. Had not everyone on board—including Hortense, who insisted on “helping”—pulled mightily on a rope to pry us loose, we would surely have perished. I have rope burns still.

  I will never set foot on a sailing ship again.

  October 30.

  “Voilà, Madame,” the clerk at the post station said with a rough southern accent, handing me the tickets for two places on the mail-coach to Beaucaire. He was wearing leather over his lace cuffs, to protect them.

  “Beaucaire? But we wish to go to Paris—”

  “That’s as far as I can get you.” He threw up his hands. “From there … who knows! Everything has changed! Everything is being ‘improved’—the measures, routes, the procedures. I don’t even know what district I’m in! But the road is good,” he added, perceiving my confusion, “if the bandits don’t get you, that is.”

  “Bandits!” Hortense gasped, grasping my hand.

  After purchasing the coach tickets I was able to locate a seamstress shop which would make capes for us quickly (and reasonably). On ship Commander du Braye had been kind enough to loan us some woollens. I can’t say that I was unhappy to return them—they were itchy and smelled of fish. He urged me to accept the loan of a pistol, however—“You travel without the protection of a man, Madame.”

  I declined, at first. Then he told me a story I wish I had not heard and I accepted his offer.

  “Make one deep inside pocket,” I instructed the seamstress. For the pistol.

  Sunday, October 31, All Saints’ Day Eve—Aix.

  After early-morning mass—prayers for surviving the voyage by sea, prayers that we will survive the long land voyage that lies ahead—Commander du Braye escorted us to the post station. I was thankful for our newly made capes, for they disguised our stained and tattered robes.

  I very nearly wept saying farewell. Commander du Braye pushed a basket into my hands: a bottle of wine, a roast chicken, some pickled plums, six hard eggs and a two-pound loaf of bread. “Baked here in Toulon,” he assured me, for the ship’s flour had long become rancid. I accepted his offer reluctantly—we owe him enough as it is.

  We were fortunate to get a seat with our backs to the horses. Even so, there were jolts. Shortly before the second post station the route became quite rough, with postillions at the foot of many a hill to help us over. Several times I feared we would tip. At one pass through the mountains, after the second station, we were asked to walk. One of the passengers—a young man who had been partaking of a flask—refused, letting off hispistol for sport, which caused the horses to bolt and almost overturned the coach with the young man still in it. Once the horses had been recovered, the young man and the driver got into a fearful row—the driver threatening the soldier with his whip. Suddenly the soldier burst into tears and threw his arms around the driver’s neck, apologized profusely for abusing a fellow citizen and offered him his flask.

  “Why are they hugging now?” Hortense whispered as we, the shaken passengers, climbed back into the coach.

  It was late afternoon when we were finally let down at the post station in Aix. We will resume our voyage at dawn. This inn is dirty,
and the meal of half-raw little thrushes was not to our liking. Hortense carefully inspected the buns for insects, as has become her custom.

  Monday, November 1, All Saints’ Day—Beaucaire.

  Between Aix and Beaucaire we overturned. Only small injuries, but I’m exhausted. Fortunately, our bedsheets here are clean and there appear to be no fleas. We share a room with a clock mender and his wife. I fear there might be improprieties.

  Friday, November 5—Montéliman.

  We have been on a river barge for three days. It is pulled by a team of placid oxen—Joseph, Jos and Jean, Hortense has named them. It is a common flat boat, a large raft-like vessel. In the centre is a shelter under which all the luggage, cargo and passengers are sheltered. Below deck is a stable of sorts for the oxen (we smell it).

  It seemed an entirely tranquil, if slow, method of travel and I was congratulating myself on my wisdom when we came to Pont-Saint-Esprit, where the river runs under the arches of a bridge with great force. We accepted the driver’s invitation to disembark and walk along the banks with the hoggee—a peasant boy of twelve—until the bridge had been safely navigated. I was apprehensive for the sake of the animals as well as our driver, but the beasts swam calmly under the arches, the driver sitting between the horns of the lead ox.

  But that, I am content to say, has been our only excitement. Hortense is in good spirits—a better traveller than her mother, I confess, who is overcome by mal de mer at the slightest movement. She loves the barge, for she may run about and yell to the hoggee, who endures her attentions with patience. Now and again I try to induce her to sit, for the sake of my fellow passengers, holding her on my lap and entertaining her with stories of her big brother Eugène, whom we both grow increasingly anxious to see.

  “And Father,” Hortense demands, wiggling impatiently again. “Tell me stories of my father!”

  Alexandre… I sigh. Where do I begin?

  Thursday, November 11—Lyons.

  We’ve been able to secure a seat (only one—Hortense will have to sit on my lap) on a mail-coach headed toward Paris—a fairly smooth road, I am told. We should be in Fontainebleau in five days, weather permitting. And then Paris! And then Eugène.

  Friday, November 12—Mâcon.

  I’m writing this in bed, by the light of a dirty tallow candle. Hortense is limp at my side, wheezing sweetly. The floor of this inn is covered with fleas, the bed-linens dank with the sweat of others. Lice keep me awake, scratching like a monkey. Endure, endure, I tell myself, shivering with the cold, reluctant to part with five sous for coal.

  November 15—Pont-sur-Yonne.

  At supper tonight there was talk of highwaymen just south of Fontainebleau. In the woods there, four coaches have been taken. A few of us have decided to take another route, through Provins. From there, we are told, we can take a post-coach to Paris. I have posted a letter to Aunt Désirée informing her of the change in our plans.

  One Station Past Provins.

  Two men on our coach, one a farmer, the other a surgeon, talk between them of politics. They pass a news-sheet back and forth. Now and then a woman, a dealer in candles and cotton bonnets, joins in their conversation and an animated discussion ensues. They talk of the National Assembly.

  I listen and remain silent, but I cannot control Hortense. She blurted out that her father was a delegate, a representative of the nobles.

  “Does the child speak truly?” the woman asked. For we do not look the part.

  I nodded in Hortense’s defence.

  “There are no more nobles,” the surgeon said. He is a young man with no teeth and a hairy wart on his chin. Later, as we passed what appeared to be the burnt-out ruins of a fine old estate, he pointed to it. “The home of a noble. Perhaps it was your home?” He laughed nastily.

  At the pewter basin in the post station, I whispered to Hortense that she was not to speak to that man, when his companion, the farmer, came up to us. “Tu t’appelles Madame Beauharnais, n’est-ce pas?” He asked if my husband’s name was François. I was reluctant to answer.

  “Alexandre then?” he persisted.

  I must have revealed the answer in my eyes, for the burly man threw himself upon me. He turned to the others, crying out: “Madame Beauharnais! La femme de député Alexandre Beauharnais!”

  His friends the surgeon and the dealer in bonnets came over and the three of them displayed considerable pleasure at this news. The surgeon apologized for his rude conduct and offered me his cider. I accepted, but with confusion. It is apparently a good thing to be the wife of Deputy Alexandre Beauharnais, but I am too embarrassed to ask why.

  November 17—Mormant.

  Tomorrow—Paris! I can’t sleep.

  Thursday, November 18—Paris.

  Fanny’s hôtel on Rue de Tournon was badly in need of repair. A window on the second floor had been boarded over. I looked for some sign of life. The once-elegant neighbourhood was deathly quiet. A dilapidated carriage passed pulled by a mismatched pair of nags. The carriage emblems had been painted over. Tattered ribbons hung from the leather traces.

  Hortense tugged on my hand, pulled me to the big wood doors, yanked on the bell rope. Soon we heard someone fumbling with the latch and one of the big doors swung open. Before us was a woman, dressed exquisitely in a green silk ball gown festooned with mauve and blue ribbons. Even her hair was done up in the old style, elaborately piled and powdered, decorated with flowers. But the set of her coiffure was slightly off: a wig out of kilter, I thought. Behind her, in the courtyard, was a broken-down carriage with one wheel off.

  “May I help you?” she asked. She spoke with an accent—a German accent, I thought.

  “Is Comtesse Fanny de Beauharnais in?” I asked, embarrassed by our clothing, fallen to rags.

  “Whom may I tell her is calling?” She had a musical voice.

  “Her niece, Madame Rose de Beauharnais.”

  “And Hortense!” my girl said boldly.

  Suddenly, from across the courtyard, there appeared a plump woman with wild white hair, her face covered over with rouge. Fanny!

  “Ortensia!My baby!” Fanny stooped down to look into Hortense’s face. Hortense offered her godmother her hand. Fanny gave it a loud kiss, leaving a bright smear of rouge on Hortense’s skin.

  Fanny embraced me in the Italian manner, with great vigour. She smelled strongly of attar of roses. “It can’t be you,” she said, leading the way into the house. I detected a hint of wine on her breath. “Forgive me, darling, but I’ve just returned from my Italian tour with Michel.” Her voice reverberated through the half-empty rooms.

  From the stairway I heard a hiss. I looked up. A girl of about eight or nine stood at the landing, dressed in a white cotton gown. “Émilie?” I recognized the pixie face, the big black eyes: Fanny’s granddaughter, Marie’s only surviving child. She’d grown tall in the two and a half years since I’d seen her, her limbs long. She gestured to Hortense.

  “Remember your cousin Émilie?” I said. Hortense hesitated only a moment and then ran up the stairs.

  I followed Fanny through a swinging door into the kitchen. There, seated at a painted table, were a man and a woman. The man’s hair was short and unpowdered and he was wearing a peasant’s smock.

  “Rose!” A woman in man’s clothing stood to greet me, her loose curls caught back informally in a linen bonnet. I was astonished to see that it was Marie, Émilies mother—timid, proper, shy Marie. But something had changed, for the woman I saw before me was quite bold, and certainly not proper.

  “Why—it’s Alexandre’s wife!” the man exclaimed. He had big lips and his voice was booming—surprising in a man of his short height. Michel de Cubières, the poet. I had met him at one of Fanny’s receptions years ago. He poured a glass of red wine from the bottle in the middle of the table. There were three empty wine bottles lined up on the counter.

  Fanny handed me the glass. “Oh, Rose, you have missed the most glorious fêtes.”

  “The most glorious Rev
olution!” Michel exclaimed, hitting the bare tabletop with his fist.

  “Am I not going to be introduced?” the aristocratic woman asked from the door.

  “Princess Amalia, Madame Beauharnais; Rose, Princess Amalia.” Marie broke off a piece of a breadstick on a platter. “Come, Rose, eat. We’re enjoying the servants’ day off.”

  They all laughed, as if this were a joke.

  “But Princess Amalia is my servant now,” Fanny protested.

  Princess Amalia? The woman in the wig made a full court bow. I felt I had walked onto a stage in the middle of a comedy and did not know the lines.

  “I’ve come up in the world,” Fanny said in a stage whisper. “Princess Amalia de Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen is now my kitchen help.”

  “And we’re helping clean out the wine cellar,” Marie said, her eyes shining.

  Michel de Cubières raised his glass. “To housecleaning!”

  Fanny pulled out a chair for me to sit on. I backed away. “I must go,” I said, stuttering, “to the Collège d’Harcourt. I am anxious to see Eugène.”

  “Collège d’Harcourt?” Princess Amalia asked.

  “But Rose, darling,” Fanny stuttered, “you …”

  “Is … is there a problem?” Suddenly I was fearful.

  Michel burst into laughter. “I suggest one of you ladies give Madame Beauharnais a looking glass.”

  How delirious to be clean. How shocking to be full. I’ve become too accustomed to hunger. After a meal of slipcoat cheese and skerret, and a change into clean linens (provided by Marie) and a walking dress (provided by Fanny), I felt renewed.

  Renewed, but far from rested, I might add, for every move I made (even into the water-closet) I was followed by Marie, who felt called upon to provide a minute-by-minute account of every political event of the last six hundred days, as well as Fanny, who kept interrupting her daughter to give me a minute-by-minute account of her recent Italian tour. Finally, I was forced to interrupt. “I must go,” I said.