The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

  The peasants only want to pray to their saints. Should we murder them for this? The politicians in Paris insist they go to a Temple of Reason instead. What can these halfway minds be thinking? Faith cannot be legislated.

  As a result, Royalist sentiment here is strong—a shocking number have hopes of seeing the Boy on the throne of France. This thought disgusts me! What have we fought for, suffered for—if not for Liberty? If the Boy were put on the throne, I’ll be sent back to work in a stable.

  Your soldier, Lazare

  December 12.

  I went with Thérèse to see her country house this afternoon—La Chaumière she calls it. It is a long drive, outside the city walls. Nevertheless, she is intent on living there. She loves its humble aspect. “No one can understand what I see in it.”

  It wasn’t easy. I was myself surprised. It even has a thatched roof.

  “It’s bigger than it looks,” she assured me.

  “The setting is lovely.” At the far end of Allée des Veuves, not far from the river, set in the midst of forest, fields, it has a wild, free feeling. I closed my eyes, inhaled the fresh, cold air. Yes, I thought—I could understand.

  “The first time I came here a hen laid an egg on the doorstep. A sign, no doubt. …”

  “But of what?” I asked, laughing. For Thérèse sees signs everywhere.

  December 16.

  Three Jacobin leaders were guillotined this morning, their heads displayed above a cheering crowd.

  “It’s starting again,” Lannoy said, watching out the window anxiously.

  “They say this will put an end to it,” I said. I could hear someone playing “Ça Ira” on a trumpet.

  Lannoy threw me a piercing glance. “Your friends—the ‘blood-drinkers’—are they so very different?”

  Saturday, December 20.

  I encountered Citoyen Fouché on Rue Saint-Honoré this afternoon. He asked if I’d heard anything more about the Boy.

  “Nothing.” Aside from Hortense’s constant chatter.

  “No whispers at Barras’s?” I shook my head. “Why?”

  “Yesterday, three deputies examined the child. Deputy Luzerne is convinced that he is a fraud, that the real Boy has been kidnapped … perhaps even killed.”

  Killed. The Boy—murdered? “Why do you tell me these things?” Tears came to my eyes.

  Citoyen Fouché tipped his hat. “To caution you, Citoyenne. Not everything is as it seems.”

  December 26.

  Tonight, Thérèse and Tallien were wed. A small gathering of friends.

  “To happiness,” I said, embracing Thérèse. At four months, her belly was just beginning to show.

  “To Madame Tallien.” Tallien raised his glass in toast. “To our Lady of Mercy.”

  I recalled Thérèse’s words: I am destined to help others through him, destined to soften the rule of his fist.

  The rule of his fist. Was it a bruise her heavy make-up hid?

  In which I learn the true value off friendship

  Friday, January 2, 1795.

  Daily I cross the river to the Assembly, seeking to have the sequester removed on our belongings, seeking to clear Alexandre’s name, seeking restitution, compensation … seeking.

  All along the quay they are there, the thin children, bewildered men, desperate women with babies at their breasts—excrement soiling their clothes, vermin crawling in their hair. I am moved by the defiant look in their eyes. How is it that an entire city can succumb to such misery? How many souls crying out to Heaven, how many prayers? After all that we have suffered, how can we be asked to suffer still? Take my bread, I pray, spare that child. And that. And that. The little hands reaching out, the sunken eyes: this is torture beyond measure.

  Defeated, I returned home. Agathe, Lannoy, Gontier were at their work, Hortense at her studies. On the kitchen counter was the one small loaf of bread we were all of us allowed—two ounces per day per person. I slipped it into my basket and returned to the bridge, to the sickly woman with a baby at her breast, four young grabbing at her skirt. I put the loaf in her lap. The children turned to their mother—was it permitted? She tore into the crust like an animal. I averted my eyes.

  Later, at home, I heard Agathe cry out: “The bread! It is gone!” She had waited in line for two hours to get it, endured the cold. The small loaf had been there, earlier, she knew that, on that very counter, sheinsisted. Her voice trembled with emotion.

  “It can’t have disappeared,” Lannoy said. Perhaps the bread had been eaten; perhaps Agathe herself was the guilty party, she implied.

  “I took it,” I told them, stepping into the fray.

  Lannoy turned to me with a bewildered expression. “Madame?”

  “I gave it to a woman on the Pont-Royal. She had four children. She needed it more than we.”

  Agathe burst into tears.

  That evening.

  By day I pick my way through evidence of the most appalling poverty. By night I coquette with the newly rich in exclusive salons. Deputy Dumont, a former fowl-fattener, is now fattening himself on confiscated church property. Deputy Nerval, a leather-seller, recently purchased one of the mansions of the Marquise de Neufchâteau—fully furnished, including the horses and carriages—on profits made supplying wormy pork to the Army of the East. Who would know people are starving?

  January 6.

  Lannoy returned from the milliner’s with an ashen face. She went directly to her room. “What happened?” I asked Gontier, who had accompanied her. He goes with her everywhere now, a knife concealed in his coat.

  He shuffled his feet and stared at the floor. It required patience to get Gontier to speak. I waited. “A woman jumped in the river,” he mumbled finally.

  “Mademoiselle Lannoy saw this?” Every day people threw themselves into the Seine. Tallien claimed that there were so many now, at Saint-Cloud the job of pulling the bodies out had become overwhelming.

  “She had a child strapped to her.” Gontier stopped, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “A big girl … like ours.”

  Like ours. Hortense, he meant. A girl as big as that, fighting for her life.

  Thursday, January 8, 7:00 p.m.

  At La Chaumière there is an atmosphere of creative confusion. A work crew toils under Thérèse’s direction. She maintains her energy in spite of her pregnancy. She is exacting, she knows what she wants—but invariably it is something unusual. The workmen simply cannot comprehend. Often it takes several attempts before they get it right.

  We stay late into the night, going over fabric samples, walking through the rooms. She wishes to create a theatrical, artistic, witty atmosphere: almost overdone (this is challenging). It fires my imagination. Now and again we come up with an idea that sets us both dancing.

  After, we stand at the doors to the garden, listening to the wolves howl, the wind whistling through the trees, talking of love and life. Another world, so far from the misery that is Paris now—but for the hungry wolves circling, watching and waiting.

  January 2, 1795—Rennes

  Chère Maman,

  I will be needing a new uniform soon. New gaiters, too; mine have entirely worn at the heel.

  Your son, Eugène

  January 8, 1795—Rennes

  Rose,

  Forgive me for not writing more often. I am not a man of letters, as you know. Also, it has been quite the job here; our provisions are terribly inadequate. We do what we can, what we must—and that on very little.

  I am pleased with Eugene’s progress—he is a fine boy.

  Your soldier, Lazare

  Monday, January 12.

  Under Thérèse’s guidance I’ve realized an excellent profit speculating in saltpetre. Aunt Désirée was horrified. “It is unbecoming for a womanto involve herself in commerce,” she scolded. Until I told her how much profit I had made (five thousand livres!), and then her own interest was sparked. I intend to reinvest the money in a purchase of lace from Britanny, which I can resell in Pari
s, yielding an additional twenty per cent.

  Citoyenne Rose Beauharnais—profiteer. At least now I can send Eugène money for a new uniform.

  January 15, 1795—Hôtel de Caulaincourt, Paris

  Dear Madame Beauharnais,

  I am writing to inform you that thanks to your recommendation, General Hoche has kindly awarded my eldest son, Armand, a position as lieutenant in the Army of the Coast. Also, thanks to your efforts, my second son, Auguste, is now gainfully employed as a clerk. I am indebted to you.

  At your suggestion I have made an appointment to speak to Deputy Coligny about the three years’ pay due to me as a retired general. I will keep you informed as to the outcome. Thank you for approaching him on my behalf.

  I would say more, but even in amoral times such as ours it is deemed unseemly for a man of my advanced age and marital status to write words of “appreciation” to a lovely widow. Perhaps I will see you chez Talliens?

  I remain, most gratefully and as always,

  Your dearest and most foolish friend, Marquis de Caulaincourt

  “a slave to the devil of middle-aged passion”

  Thursday, January 15.

  Marquis de Caulaincourt has insisted on awarding me ten per cent for my efforts.

  “I did it for friendship,” I protested.

  “I will pay you in coin,” he said.

  Gold. “If you must.”

  January 16.

  Tallien has been advising me on how best to draw up a petition requesting that the seals be removed from my belongings on Rue Saint-Dominique. This afternoon I made my presentation to the Committee of Public Safety. Tallien spoke in support: “Certainly it is certain,” he began, repeating his words, as was his custom, “my fellow deputies-in-arms are beginning to comprehend that together we must cleanse the wounds of the past, right the wrongs in order for the Tree of Liberty to have fertile ground in which to root.”

  I repressed a disloyal smile. “Lukewarm-water Tap” is what my friend has been nicknamed in the Assembly, he does go on so.

  Wednesday, January 21.

  Festivities throughout the city, in celebration of the day the King died, two years ago. This in spite of the cold.

  I would have stayed in, with Lannoy, who not so secretly mourns the King, but for a ceremony at the Palais-Égalité where Tallien was to be honoured. So I went with Thérèse, who was bundled in an enormous fox cape.

  The speeches droned on, followed by singing. The Gilded Youths, resplendent in their crazy finery, dragging heavy clubs, demanded that the band play “Death to the Jacobins.”

  “There may be trouble,” Deputy Barras said.

  I suggested we go back to my apartment, which was not far. I was shivering from the cold. Also, I was concerned for Thérèse—at five months she continues to be delicate.

  It was cold in my parlour; the fire had died down. We could see our breath. I was about to pull the bell for Gontier to stoke it, when Tallien insisted. “After all, this used to be my father’s job,” he said.

  “Well,” Deputy Barras said, lowering himself onto a stool by the fire. He rubbed his hands together. “Two years ago today.”

  Both Deputy Barras and Tallien had voted for the death of the King. I didn’t like to think of that.

  The fire caught. “This last year has been blazes.” Tallien glanced in my direction. “Pardon my language, Citoyenne Beauharnais—I forget you are a lady.” He stood, brushed his hands.

  “And what about me?” Thérèse asked, stretching out on my daybed, which I had recently moved into the parlour due to the cold.

  Tallien leaned over her, whispered something in her ear. She laughed.

  “Perhaps we should request a demonstration.” Deputy Barras accepted my offer of a brandy. I filled his glass from a bottle Marquis de Caulain-court had given me.

  “Really, Deputy Barras—you are so perverted,” Thérèse said.

  “Imagine, and in Thérèse’s condition …” I feigned to be shocked.

  “I’m trying to imagine, that’s my problem.” Deputy Barras made a funny face.

  Smiling, I threw a fur coverlet over Thérèse.

  “Our good, innocent Rose,” she said. “Are we embarrassing you?”

  “How innocent can she be, I ask you, with a bed in her parlour?” Deputy Barras asked.

  “My mother keeps a bed in her parlour,” Tallien said. “All the peasants do.”

  “And sleep there?” Deputy Barras asked. His green-and-black-striped coat had big square buttons with hunting scenes painted on them.

  “No, it’s only for love-making,” Tallien said. (In fact, he used a cruder term.) “When company comes for tea.”

  “Citoyenne Beauharnais, if I may be so rude as to inquire—why is there a bed in your parlour?” Deputy Barras downed his glass.

  “It’s the only warm room.” I took a seat by the fire.

  “The other rooms are colder?”

  We all laughed, but in truth I was beginning to regret having invited them. Seen through their eyes, my small, albeit elegant rooms looked quite humble. Rose, their Rose—the former vicomtesse who sipped their expensive champagne—this woman was a fraud, was she not?

  “Do you not have fuel?” Thérèse asked, fingering a cameo Tallien had recently bought her for “only” six thousand livres.

  “It’s difficult to find in quantity now.” I did not say: and frightfully dear.

  Tallien groaned. “Why didn’t you ask? There is more than enough. You’d think there was no fuel to be had in all of Paris, the way people talk.”

  “Or bread,” Deputy Barras added. “Of which there is little, you have to concede.""The people are too damned lazy to work, and then they come to us to complain,” Tallien ranted.

  I looked from one to the other. How much was in jest? I wasn’t sure.

  “My friend has become cynical, I’m afraid,” Deputy Barras said, in answer to my questioning look. “It is one of the dangers of public life. People expect their representatives to be as gods, to make the foul weather go away.”

  I sighed, relieved. We were onto safer ground: the weather. I set up a game of faro. We played, laughed, gossiped and gambled (I won seven livres). They left just before midnight, in good spirits.

  “We’ll be back next Tuesday,” Thérèse announced as they were leaving. “For your salon.”

  “I couldn’t,” I said, horrified.

  “Rose—be realistic: you can’t afford not to. Imagine … Chez Rose—the most enjoyable salon in all of Paris.”

  Chez Rose? I smiled. “It sounds like a brothel.”

  “With a bed in the parlour and everything,” Deputy Barras said.

  “The better to get the deputies to come,” Thérèse said.

  And so it is set. Next Tuesday. Every Tuesday.

  January 23.

  Oh, it is cold, but we’ve been warm. Deputy Barras arranged to have a load of wood delivered. There’s a huge pile of it outside. Gontier must stand by it to keep the neighbours from stealing it. I sent Deputy Barras a note: “How can I thank you?” He sent a note back: “Recommend me to banker Citoyen Rougemont.”

  January 31, afternoon.

  By some miracle, I have succeeded. Like a stage director I have assembled the props, moved furniture, created ambiance—that mysterious aura that disguises the stains on the sofa, the hole in the rug, the less-than-exquisite fixtures.

  My costume I created out of an outdated brocade, Lannoy and I cutting and reassembling the panels into an elegant Grecian design. It tooksome cajoling to entice her to take up her needle and thread, to use her refined artistry for such a “shameless” dress. Too much arm, too much leg, but worst of all, no corset!

  Later.

  Chez Rose was a success!

  Who came: Tallien and Thérèse, of course. Deputy Barras, in the company of old La Montansier (who lived up to her wild reputation). Tiny Madame de Crény and Denon, her beau. Citoyen Fouché, skulking around. Deputy Fréron, raving and drunk, and in the comp
any of an actress. (It is rumoured they have three children.) Fanny, with both her current favourites: Michel de Cubières and Rétif de la Bretonne, who got on well with La Montansier—pas de surprise. Fortunée Hamelin, half-naked as usual, and her grumpy husband, who fancied no one. Marquis de Caulaincourt, who also got on well with La Montansier, I noticed. Voluptuous Minerva in gauzy white, with a man she introduced as her fiancé (that was a surprise). Two of my “prison family”: the elegant Grace Elliott, for a short time, and Duchesse Jeanne-Victoire d’Aiguillon—in the company of Mesdames de Broglie, Valance and Bizet, who smoked opium in the water-closet, Thérèse claims (I don’t believe her). And dear sneezing Citoyen Dunnkirk, who came with fellow-bankers Citoyens Rougemont, Hottinguer and Perré. (I introduced them all to Deputy Barras.) And last, but certainly not least, my dear Consoler, the wild, radical and wicked General Santerre.

  An entertaining, very mixed group. “A miracle, no bloodshed,” Thérèse said, on leaving.

  I would have run short of food were it not for Caulaincourt, who supplied pâté de foie gras from Strasbourg, larded pheasant and an enormous carp stuffed with truffles from Périgord. Not to mention a crate of freshly baked beautiful bread and a basket of fruit (in February!) from Citoyen Dunnkirk. Even Deputy Barras arranged for a half-barrel of excellent red wine to be delivered.

  “Celebrating, darling?” Thérèse asked, watching Barras’s footman carry in the barrel.

  “Celebrating what?” Deputy Barras asked. He looked unusually serious in a Quaker-coloured silk coat and an old-fashioned pigtail wig.

  “Being elected President of the Assembly.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “You’ve been elected President?” I recalled when Alexandre had been elected President of the Assembly, remembered our excitement, our pride. How young we were then.

  Deputy Barras shrugged. “A nuisance, if you ask me. No—if anything, I’m celebrating the profit I made on a sale of a property two days ago. Five hundred thousand. Net.” He grinned, his charming crooked smile.