The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

  “Disappear? You?” I invited him to take a seat beside me on a little bench by the door. “But why?”

  “Too much snooping around, I guess.” He shrugged. “I’m going to be a pig farmer now.”

  I smiled. It was difficult to imagine him thus. “I like pigs,” I said.

  “I forget that you’re a farmgirl.”

  “But where will you be? You and your pigs.”

  “Not far.” He handed me a piece of paper. An address was written on it, in a neat hand. He stood to go. “You are aware, no doubt, of the incident at the hospital, at the Hôtel Dieu?”

  “The miracle, you mean?” A dying child had been cured overnight. Hortense had been telling me all about it.

  “There are no miracles any more, Citoyenne. You know that.”

  “You sound sad.”

  “It’s a hoax—with children for pawns! The sick child was moved from the hospital to the Temple, to pose as the Boy.”

  “But where is the Boy?” King. …

  “That’s what I want to know. Your friend, Lazare—”

  “General Hoche?”

  “General Hoche stands to be hurt by this. The peace treaty he negotiatedwith the rebels—I understand that part of the agreement was that the Boy would be restored to the throne.”

  “General Lazare Hoche would never agree to such a thing!”

  Citoyen Fouché nodded. “But Director Barras might,” he said. “Promise, and then not deliver.”

  I felt a strange tingling feeling coming over me. I could close my eyes to any number of things, but could I close my eyes to this? I only wanted peace.

  “How convenient,” Citoyen Fouché went on, “if the Boy—or rather, the child everyone thinks is the Boy—how very convenient if he were to die. …”Citoyen Fouché bowed and left, wrapping his face in scarves.

  In which a child is born & a child dies

  May 17, 1795.

  I was awoken this morning by Fortuné growling.

  “Citoyenne Tallien’s footman is at the door,” Agathe informed me.

  “Thérèse! Is it—” I stumbled into my clothes, threw on a wig, a cloak.

  The horses were snorting and pawing at the stones. Thérèse’s footman helped me into the new barouche. Immediately the horses pulled forward. They were a fast team. I closed my eyes and held on.

  When we arrived at La Chaumière the accoucher was already there. I went to Thérèse’s bedside, touched her hand. Thérèse squeezed it hard. Already her night-clothes were soaked.

  “Where’s Tallien?” I asked.

  “He went out last night. With Barras.”

  I did not ask the obvious. Deputies Tallien and Barras shared a weakness for “the gaming tables of liberty,” as they put it. “Well—you’ll have a nice surprise for him when he returns,” I said.

  I fetched cloths and a bowl of water. For hours I stroked her brow, caressed her, spoke words of calm. Shortly before noon the baby came. “I saw her in a dream,” she said. There were tears in her eyes. “Rouge me?” she asked.

  “You look beautiful as you are.” I coloured her cheeks as she requested.

  After, she fell into an exhausted sleep. I took the baby—Thermidor-Rose she has been named—and held her in my arms. My goddaughter. She cried for only a moment, a little animal squawk, and then quieted. My breasts responded with a familiar tingling sensation. I sat thus in therocking chair by the window for some time, looking into the face of this precious little soul, so pure and so new.

  If I ever remarry, would I have another? Could I?

  June 3.

  Dr. Desault, doctor to the Boy, died suddenly three days ago, of brain fever—or so it was reported. The streets have been buzzing with rumours. For once both Agathe and Lannoy agree: the doctor was poisoned.

  I tell them such stories are entirely without grounds, but now the doctor’s nephew has spoken, claiming that his uncle the doctor had been poisoned, and all because he’d discovered that this child was a fraud, not the Dauphin at all.

  “There—you see!” Lannoy and Agathe said in unison.

  June 8.

  At La Chaumière I was met by Tallien. He pulled me into the study. “The Committee of General Security has gone to an emergency meeting. The Dauphin died,” he whispered.

  “The Boy?” I sat down. It was only a week ago that the Boy’s doctor had died … and now the Boy himself? He was only ten years old.

  I recalled Citoyen Fouché’s words: How convenient if the Boy were to die. I felt a sickening sense of helplessness. “When?” I asked.

  “At three this afternoon.” It was six now. “You’re not to tell anyone.” He looked around uneasily. “Especially Tallita.”

  June 9.

  This afternoon there was an enormous reception planned: an orchestra, a seven-course meal for three hundred (every dignitary in Paris invited), a ball after—all to celebrate the passage of a law allowing restitution to victims of the Terror. It was a significant achievement, deserving of festivity. The new law would begin to heal the wounds of the past. Now Alexandremight be declared unjustly accused, unjustly condemned, his possessions and property returned to his family.

  But even so I did not want to go; I could not shake the gloom I felt. However, I had promised; so at midday I set out.

  I was greeted by Minerva, her cream-puff cheeks pink with excitement. “Isn’t it wonderful!” Her gauzy skirt billowed up around her. “We’ll be wealthy again.”

  She was stopped by the lack of gaiety in my expression. “What’s the matter, Rose? After all the work you and Thérèse did to get this law passed, I should think you would happier than anyone.”

  It was true. Thérèse and I had worked hard. “There has been a disturbing development,” I told her. News of the Boy’s death was to be announced in the Assembly that morning, I knew. Soon everyone would know. “The Boy died yesterday.”

  “You mean the King’s son?” Minerva sat down on one of the lawn chairs, fanning herself furiously. “Oh, dear.”

  I saw Thérèse approaching, Tallien holding her arm. They were followed by a swarm of men and women, like courtiers to a king and queen. Thérèse was weak still, moving very slowly.

  “You should be in childbed.” Minerva took her other arm.

  “I refuse.” Thérèse smiled weakly.

  A gentleman rushed to get her a chair. Another held a pastel blue sun umbrella over her.

  I glanced at Tallien. “How did they take the news?” I asked.

  “The deputies? They were quiet.” Tallien looked out over the festive grounds. The manicured gardens opened onto a small lake, where colourful boats floated lazily. A string orchestra was being set up on a floating platform.

  “Likely it’s the shock of it,” I said.

  “I’m not sure.” He brushed a mosquito off his cheek.

  “What else could it be?”

  “Suspicion.”

  June 11.

  Late at night, last night, a child was buried—quietly, quickly.

  “What do you think it means?” Thérèse demanded, her baby in her arms. We were walking in her garden. The flowers were blooming, it was a glorious afternoon. “Now everyone’s saying that the child that died wasn’t really the Boy. Yet it would have been so easy to prove. Why didn’t they ask Madame Royale? If anyone would be able to give a positive identification of the Boy’s body, one would think it would be his sister.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t want to upset her.” I never told Thérèse about my conversations with Citoyen Fouché, my growing uneasiness … my suspicions.

  “Because they’re so tenderhearted? Because they care so much about the royal family?” Thérèse gave me a scornful look. “Rose—that makes no sense. Even Barras is being evasive. Why do they have to be so secretive? I don’t like it.”

  I put my arm around her. “Tallita, you shouldn’t be thinking such distressing thoughts. You should be resting.” I led her back toward the house.

  June 13.

  I??
?ve been at Deputy Barras’s all afternoon, preparing another reception. “Are you evading me?” he asked, finally. I was in the study writing out the invitations.

  I put down the quill. How could I respond? It was true—I had been evading him. Ever since the death of the Boy I have had a feeling of disquiet.

  Deputy Barras put his hand to his forehead in a theatrical pose. “And even to this, this little query, she remains silent. One hates to contemplate the magnitude of her despair.”

  “This is not a matter for comedy,” I said.

  He placed a chair beside me and sat down. “Tragedy?”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “It’s all these nasty rumours. Isn’t it.”

  “There are always nasty rumours.”

  “But these you believe?”

  I looked away. I would have given anything not to be in this position, talking to Deputy Barras now, but I had begun and there was nothing to do but continue. “It is said you have consorted with the enemy—with the English.”

  Deputy Barras looked at me with an amused expression. “Les God-dams?”

  “Is it true?”

  He smirked. “I dare say the espionage force of an entire nation couldn’t have gleaned as much.”

  “How can you joke?” I cautioned myself to be calm. “Do you think this is a game?”

  “This isa game, Rose—a complex game. Do not presume to understand.” He was angry now.

  “You admit it?” I sat back, suddenly short of breath.

  “The facts are correct, but the intention mistaken. How better to know the enemy than to be in their league? Or, at the least, to have them think you are in their league. A dangerous pastime, true, for one risks condemnation from all sides, but risk has long been my friend, and what risk is too great for the good of the Republic?”

  “Did you murder the Boy? Did you poison the King’s son?”

  Deputy Barras made a sigh. “There are things you would prefer not to know,” he said.

  I felt short of breath. “You—”

  He put up his hand. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Then?” My mouth was dry.

  “The unpleasant truth is that that child’s dear uncle, the Comte d’Artois, paid a considerable sum to see that this was done. He rather fancied the throne for himself, should the opportunity present itself.”

  I was silent a moment. “The Comte d’Artois?”

  Deputy Barras nodded.

  “Offered to pay?” For his own nephew’s death …

  “Paid.”

  “Paid you?”

  Deputy Barras nodded again, slowly.

  “You did then,” I said, coldly, starting to rise. “You—”

  “Stay,” he said, putting his hand on my arm. “I did not. The child—a good lad, you might like to know, a boy I came to be fond of, in my fashion—died naturally of a fever some time ago. On that count I am innocent.”

  “Why not make it known? Why all this secrecy?”

  “Spain would never have signed!” He threw up his hands.

  “The peace treaty, you mean.” He nodded wearily.

  “So the child who just died was not the Boy?”

  “That child was sickly, deaf and dumb, the son of a nail-maker—a decoy you might say, kept alive for the purpose of forging a peace with Spain. He was destined to die in any case. Nature did our work.”

  There was a moment of silence. Still, I would not look at him.

  “Rose, look at me,” he said.

  I turned to face him. He did not look like a devil. He looked like an aging, ordinary man.

  “You don’t believe me,” he said, his eyes sorrowful.

  “I do believe you,” I said. But there was reserve in my heart.

  “The question is not, did I do it?” He stood abruptly, walked to the window. “The question is—” He pulled the drapes shut. “The question is, would I have done it?” He stood for a long moment, his back turned to me. “And the truth is … yes,” I heard him say.

  I waited for him to move, say something. “Paul?”

  He turned to me, his eyes brimming with tears.

  “I don’t believe you,” I said.

  June 16.

  This morning Barras came to call. It was early; I had a scarf wrapped around my head, créole style. He invited me outside. “I have something to show you.” In the courtyard were two handsome black horses harnessed to a gleaming dark green carriage.

  “What do you think?” He slapped one of the horses on the flank. “Fine specimens. Hungarian.” He opened the door to the carriage. The upholstery was a lush red, the colour of royalty.

  “Velvet?” Such luxury is rare now. But then, Deputy Barras never had anything but the best. “It’s beautiful. When did you get it?” I asked.

  “It’s yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “In compensation for the carriage and horses your husband left behind in Strasbourg.”

  He noted my shocked expression with satisfaction. “There’s a cow as well—a milk cow. I didn’t bring her along. Too slow, you know.”

  “A cow?”

  Barras leaned back against the carriage, taking care not to soil his coat on the wheels. “I got them to throw her in.”

  I began to laugh. A cow—we could have butter, milk, cheese. We could have too much, more than we needed. We could have excess—to sell or trade. “But where would I keep her?”

  “Must you be so practical?”

  “I’m serious.” A carriage, two horses, a cow … I had no groom, no driver, no hay much less a barn.

  “You can stable the horses down the road. And the cow can go to Croissy.”

  “Croissy? But I’m not renewing the lease.”

  He looked confused. “Why not?”

  I rubbed my thumb and index finger together, meaning: money. Barras had his estates, his wolfhounds, his English Thoroughbreds. It was hard for him to comprehend.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve made a small fortune as a result of the meeting you arranged with your friends Rosin and Perré.”

  And so it is agreed. Barras will take over the Croissy lease.

  In which intrigue is the rule of the day

  June 20, 1795.

  A note on my door: “The émigré fleet has left the coast of England, headed for France. They are planning to attack at Quiberon Bay.”

  Unsigned.

  I looked through my writing desk. Finally I found it, the scrap of paper, the one Citoyen Fouché had given me with his address on it. The handwriting was the same.

  War. The émigrés are on their way.

  I sent a mounted courier to Rennes with a message for Lazare. At the end I hastily penned the words: “Send Eugène home. Quickly.”

  Quickly.

  Wednesday, July 1.

  The émigré forces have attacked. Tallien left for Quiberon Bay in the middle of the night.

  Where is Eugène?

  Thursday, July 16—Fontainebleau.

  I have come to Fontainebleau to escape the tension in Paris, the fear in my heart, my thoughts of Lazare … my worry about Eugène. Only to be assaulted by my aunt.

  “Soon it will have been one year,” she said.

  One year. I knew what she was going to say. One year since Alexandre died.

  “It is time to think of remarrying, Rose.”

  “I am too old to marry,” I said.

  She smiled uneasily. There is truth in my jest.

  July 18—Paris.

  As I climbed the stairs to my suite of rooms, Agathe came running to greet me. “What is it?” I asked.

  “Nothing, Madame,” she said, falling in behind.

  She never called me “Madame,” so I was suspicious. I entered the parlour. There, sitting on the sofa, was Eugène, dressed smartly in a dark blue uniform with silver-and-red trim. Tears came to my eyes. He looked so like my father.

  I embraced him, trying not to cry. He had grown since I last saw him over ten months ago, tall
for a fourteen-year-old. “When did you get here?” I asked, sitting down beside him on the sofa.

  “Two hours ago.” His voice has not yet deepened.

  I took his hand. He pulled away. “Is something the matter?” I asked.

  “Why did you make me come back! Just when things were starting to happen!”

  It was hot in the room. I stood and went to the window, opened it wider. The air outside was heavy, too; it made little difference.

  How was I going to answer? Tell him he was too young to kill, too young to die? That I would not allow him to take up arms against French émigrés? That I could not bear the risk of losing him?

  “I need you here,” I said.

  “You have your men friends to help you!” Abruptly he stood and stomped out. I heard the front door slam shut behind him.

  July 20.

  Eugène mopes about the apartment, resentful that I have “caged” him, kept him from the excitement of army life, the glory of war. He takes to the streets where he spars with a rough-looking group.

  What am I going to do with him?

  Thursday, July 23.

  It was early, not yet nine when I summoned Eugène. “Do you know the significance of this day?”

  He shrugged.

  “One year ago your father died.” This startled him.

  “I have something for you.” I got down Alexandre’s sword from on top of the cupboard, put it on the table in the dining-parlour. “This was your father’s sword. He would have wanted you to have it.”

  Eugène touched it, picked it up, withdrew it from its sheath. On the handle was engraved the Beauharnais family motto, Serve No Further, and under that, a heart. The family crest had been scratched over with the words “la nation.”

  “It pleases you?” I asked.

  A blush of emotion had spread across his cheeks.

  I put my hand on his arm. “Wear it with honour, Eugène.” Quickly, I left. I did not want him to see my tears.

  July 23, 1795—Quiberon

  Rose,

  Victory! I carry your ribbon close to my heart.