Since settling in with my sister and Joseph in their spacious Parisian villa on the Rue des Capucines, I’d been greeted with daily morsels of gossip having to do with the infamous socialite who’d taken my place. Journalists and newspaper writers gushed about her, simultaneously enthralled and scandalized by her colorful past.
Originally a sugar heiress from the lush Caribbean island of Martinique, Marie-Josèphe-Rose Tascher de la Pagerie had come to Paris as a girl of seventeen to make an advantageous marriage to her much older cousin, the Vicomte Alexandre de Beauharnais. It had been an unhappy marriage from the start, but nevertheless one resulting in two children—a daughter, Hortense, and a son, Eugene. The vicomte had been a violent and lecherous man and had alleged that the children were not his. The Terror claimed his life, making Josephine a widowed mother of two at the age of thirty-one. She, then, was handed her own guillotine sentence.
Josephine and the children had survived by a matter of hours, spared at the last minute and freed from prison only after the shocking and sudden fall of Robespierre. During the reactionary period that followed the Terror—a time of debauchery and orgiastic revelry—the slender brunette widow had returned to Parisian society with unrivaled gusto, subsequently becoming a fixture at the most exclusive parties and events.
She was known as a quick wit and a charming coquette, and she’d soon come to preside over a small but influential clique of desirable women dubbed les Merveilleuses, “the Marvelous Ones.” Every man in Paris longed to be invited to the fêtes and dinners attended by Josephine’s circle of Merveilleuses. Rumors swirled that while food shortages persisted throughout France, the feasts at such ladies’ gatherings were rich and plentiful, the champagne glasses never dropped below half-full, and the women had usually shed their sheer Grecian gowns by the time dessert was served. Journal writers joked, perhaps a bit longingly, that while the men of the Revolution had been dubbed sans-culottes—men without breeches—these women might be labeled sans-chemises: ladies without shirts. I blushed, reading about how these champagne-soaked gatherings devolved into bacchanal orgies among these society ladies and the powerful men whose patronage and protection they traded back and forth.
Josephine, a widow with a noble title and two children but absolutely no money, had become an intimate companion to several officers in the army before beginning an affair with the powerful General Lazare Hoche—a man she’d met while they were both imprisoned during the Terror. General Lazare Hoche. I knew that name: the same powerful young general to whom Napoleon had been assigned on the mission to crush monarchist uprisings in the west. During the earliest days of our separation, when his future had seemed so uncertain, Napoleon had refused to report to duty under Hoche, insisting on staying in Paris. Well, apparently he had no qualms about sharing a woman with him, I thought, my stomach twisting in a bilious knot.
After Hoche, Josephine took the even more powerful General Paul Barras as her lover. It was Barras who installed her in a beautiful mansion on Paris’s Right Bank and assured her that she and her children would want for nothing. He was a rich man, and a generous one, and that generosity spread far enough that Barras was even willing to share his mistress—for right around the time that Barras left his post as Commander of the Army of the Interior, bestowing that role on his new protégé, the young Bonaparte, Josephine had begun appearing in public with the successor.
“Apparently she came along with the job,” Julie said with uncharacteristic cattiness, her voice sour. It was a few minutes before the midday luncheon, and we were at home on the Rue des Capucines. Julie and Joseph’s new mansion was quite comfortable, much larger than their home in Marseille, and paid for with the government position that Napoleon had secured for his older brother.
They had given me my own suite on the second floor of the house, complete with a small sitting room, a dressing room, and a spacious bedchamber, and I was grateful to my sister and brother-in-law for once again treating me as a welcomed member of the family, rather than the nuisance or tagalong I often felt like. I had moved with them to the capital just a few weeks earlier. Napoleon may have left me behind, carving me from his life without explanation or farewell, but I was not going to be cast aside by my sister, too. I’d begged, and then insisted, that she and her husband allow me to travel with them from Marseille to Paris, and they had eventually agreed. So had Maman. She trusted Julie and was fond of Joseph, and even she had agreed that it was time for me to seek a change from our shrinking Marseille sphere.
“But, won’t it be painful for you, Desi? Being there in Paris, where you will see him so frequently?” My sister had never been overly fond of her husband’s younger brother, but her opinion had plummeted since the news of Josephine had reached us. “You’ll see his name in the papers each day, and his sallow face in our home. And her, too…”
“I’ll be fine,” I had lied. In truth, I didn’t know how I would take it once I got to Paris; I hadn’t seen him in so long, hadn’t heard from him since he’d begun his relationship with another woman. But all I knew was that the thought of remaining behind in Marseille alone, without Julie, was more unimaginable than any alternative. Napoleon could deny me his invitation to Paris, he could cruelly rescind his offers of love for eternity without the decency of a proper explanation, but he would not deny me my sister. Or my life. Not when I was still so young and had only just awoken to the fact that I might have a future and dreams of my own. No, I would not be discarded or left behind.
I’d packed my trunks and ordered several fur-lined cloaks, and I’d moved with my sister to the capital as her husband answered Napoleon’s summons. But now that I was here, in spite of my defiant talk and bravado, I did not know how it would actually go—though of course I had not admitted that much to Julie or Joseph.
I had not seen Napoleon since we’d reached Paris. Joseph had—he’d gone out to meet his brother immediately after we’d arrived. Julie and I had spent our days setting up the household and hiring a staff with the generous allowance that Joseph suddenly afforded his wife. In the afternoons, we would walk through the posh Right Bank neighborhood to the nearby shops along the wide River Seine, or we’d meander through the busy marketplace of Les Halles to peruse the colorful stalls, marveling at the cashmere scarves and muffs and fur-trimmed boots.
I was never at rest during these outings, in this city enraptured by the Boy General. Each time we passed beyond the front court and gated entry of my sister’s property, I’d look about the street, wondering if I might catch sight of that familiar lithe figure. My breath stuck in my throat around every corner; perhaps he’d be rolling up the avenue in an army wagon, dispatching some message for the northern barrier. Or perhaps he’d be taking a leisurely stroll, arm in arm with her. Each row of the marketplace prompted a darting of my eyes, a fresh pang of fear that I’d meet the face I knew so well, the face I remembered with a painful mixture of anger and longing.
But today, I would be seeing Napoleon; there was no question about it. He was coming to luncheon at Julie’s.
And he was bringing Josephine with him.
“I tried to say no,” Julie said to me, her face creasing in apology. “I tried to arrange it so that it was just him, but Joseph overruled me.”
“It’s all right,” I reassured my sister, attempting to summon a tone of indifference. “I shall be perfectly at ease. Time has healed me.” I lowered my eyes, fiddling with the napkins on the table. When I looked up, Julie’s expression was still one of concern. “It has,” I insisted, a touch defensively. I swallowed. Then I added: “I now believe that he is a changed man and entirely unlike the man I had wished to marry.”
Julie studied me, uncertain as to whether to believe me, before accepting my answer with a nod. “I believe you are correct in that, Desi.”
We turned back to arranging the napkins, neither of us speaking for several minutes. I had no appetite for lunch, my stomach a thicket,
but I helped Julie prepare the table. Eventually she broke the silence: “Joseph feels it’s his brotherly duty to meet Josephine and accept her. Napoleon is devastated because Mamma Letizia and the sisters are refusing to meet her. Refusing to come to Paris, even, while Napoleon is taking up with her.”
“Why?” I asked. The city seemed to wholeheartedly approve of its new golden couple.
Julie weighed her words, surveying the place settings on the table as she continued: “She hasn’t always had the most…pristine…personal life.”
I nodded; I knew of her relationships with other high-profile men in the military. Anyone could read about it in the journals. But Josephine was hardly unique in that—most of the women in her circle had taken just as many lovers, if not more.
“Apparently, Mamma Letizia thinks that Josephine is beneath her son,” Julie said.
“Or,” I said, “that Josephine has been beneath a few too many men who are not her son.”
“Desiree!” Julie gasped, a scolding tone in her voice even as she let slip a smile. “Nevertheless, it’ll be interesting to have a chance to see for ourselves. She seems to be causing quite a rift in the family, but Napoleon is smitten, apparently. And I do sincerely hope that you won’t be too hurt by it all, Desi. But if you are, you must tell me. Now, do you like this pattern or should we put out the blue and white Limoges? Or perhaps the Nevers dishes would appear less formal? Oh, I don’t know.”
“I think the table looks lovely the way it is,” I told my sister. Julie frowned, then turned to scrutinizing the silver around the five place settings. Never in Marseille would Napoleon’s presence at a meal have made Julie the slightest bit apprehensive as a hostess; he had been the uncouth younger brother, ill-mannered, grateful simply to eat a proper meal. But here, in Paris, it was different. We were the outsiders, as unfamiliar with Parisian society as we were with the frigid, biting wind that skittered off the River Seine, and Napoleon was undoubtedly a powerful figure in this city. But even putting aside thoughts of our old Buonaparte companion, certainly the presence of Josephine, the undisputed queen of high society and leader of les Merveilleuses, was enough to put us both on edge.
* * *
Napoleon arrived as he always did, right at the appointed time.
When he entered the room, my entire body clenched, including my heart, but I forced myself to assume a casual smile, a mask of graciousness and cool hospitality. How many times had I imagined our reunion? Only every day since the moment he had left Marseille, embracing me on the dock, boarding his ship with just the one trunk and the promise that I would be his wife. And although I had spent the entire previous night tossing in my plush, oversized Parisian bed, anticipating this first moment back in his presence, nothing could have prepared me for seeing Napoleon enter the room with Josephine on his arm.
Gone was the skinny, sallow boy who had arrived in Marseille. His long hair, once greasy and uncombed, was clipped short and tight, trimmed neatly above the collar of his blue officer’s coat. His sharp face of chiseled features, indeed his whole body, had softened, filled in; where once he had been wiry, sinewy, he appeared well-fed, his cheeks colored and full, his frame even a bit plump around the midsection.
But the greatest change I detected was in the intangible but irrefutable quality of his haughtiness. Napoleon had always been self-assured, even bold—it was one of the many things I’d loved about him—but now, as he stood with his chin jutting out, his hands resting squarely on his hips, looking around the room as if it were his domain to inspect, he appeared like someone twice his age. It was true that he now enjoyed power and wealth commensurate with a man twice his age, so perhaps this sudden self-importance should not have been a total surprise. Nevertheless, it was a change.
I could not resist studying the woman on his arm, either. Josephine entered beside him, and he helped her out of her fur-lined cloak before seeing to his own overcoat and bicorn hat.
She slid gracefully from her outer garment, revealing a tall, lean figure and a flowing gown of filmy lilac chiffon. It was Grecian in appearance, secured at her shoulders by two large diamond brooches and draped low over her décolletage, revealing the warm, bronzed skin of her bare chest and arms. She looked better suited to attend a summer garden party than a luncheon in the depths of winter, but she didn’t appear to be cold.
I noticed how both Napoleon and Joseph stared, alert and motionless, as Josephine glanced around the room, greeting us all with a flicker of a coy, close-lipped smile, simpering with just the hint of a giggle. Her eyes, hazel in color and lined with dark lashes, landed on me, and I stood transfixed until I heard Napoleon’s once-familiar voice. “My darling, you’ve met my brother Joseph, but allow me to introduce you to my dear sisters, the Clary girls. Julie is Joseph’s wife, our hostess this afternoon. And her young sister, Desiree, is a cherished member of our family.”
I was to be introduced as a sister? I felt the blood thrash in the veins of my neck, and I longed to cry out: Sister? Is it common for a man to treat his sister the way you treated me? Or to speak the words you did, vows of eternity and fidelity?
But I did not give voice to these thoughts. Julie’s hand found mine, concealed by the thick brocade of our full-skirted gowns, and she gave me a steadying squeeze. I bit down against the words, hard, and I immediately tasted the metallic tang of blood in the back of my mouth, but I resisted the urge to say anything that would cause me to embarrass myself. I wouldn’t let him do that to me. Not after everything else he’d put me through.
I drew my shoulders back and stood to my full height, which put me at eye level with Napoleon (though I did notice that he stood a few inches taller than I remembered, and I guessed that he had probably put something in the heels of his shoes), and I curtsied. I forced my features to remain calm as I said: “Good to see you, Napoleon. It’s been ages.” Perhaps he had grown accustomed to being called General Bonaparte at gatherings such as these, but I was not in the mood to humor his vanity.
I looked him squarely in the eyes; if there was any residual emotion or affection left in him—or even some remaining sense of obligation—I could not detect it in his features but for, perhaps, a fleeting flicker in his green-eyed expression. But then he cleared his throat, quickly patting down the hem of his officer’s jacket, and any glimpse of sentiment was wiped clean. “Indeed,” he said, putting his arm to Josephine’s lower back. “And you as well, Desiree. You were a mere girl the last time I saw you. And now, you are a woman. You look as if you’ve been well.”
I continued to stare directly at him, feeling certain that the fury I felt had stoked my cheeks to a deep scarlet. Before I could answer, he added: “Allow me to introduce you to the Vicomtesse Marie-Josèphe de Beauharnais.”
“You are welcome here,” Joseph said, offering a small bow.
Josephine brushed her bare hand along Napoleon’s arm before turning her almond-shaped eyes first on Joseph, and then fixing them on me, offering a bright smile. “Please call me Josephine, especially since you are family. Everyone calls me Josephine now that Bonaparte has given me the nickname.” She angled her face toward his, caressing him with her sideways, hazel-eyed gaze. “You do have a tendency to rename people, don’t you, my darling? Or is it rather to remake them—in the image of your own mind?”
He wrapped his arm around her narrow waist, drawing her to him as if there were no others in the room. Though she swatted at his hand, she willingly yielded to his pull, allowing him to fold her willowy frame into his eager embrace. Making herself somehow smaller than him, pliant, even though I noticed that she was taller than he was.
“Now, now, my darling.” She turned back toward me as she playfully slapped his roving hand from her waist. “We are guests, and I suspect our hosts are hungry.”
“I’m starving,” he whispered into her ear, though we all heard. “For you.”
Josephine threw her head back in a
quick laugh before leaning close to him. “So soon?” she cooed. Her soft voice had a languid, lilting quality—tinged by the accent of her island upbringing. “Aren’t you ever satisfied?”
Now he looked as if he would devour her in our presence. “Never.”
“Patience, my dear,” she said, her tone indulgent as she gently shrugged him off of her. “Patience and you shall taste whatever you want.” With that, Josephine turned a conspiratorial smile to Julie as if to commiserate over the insatiable appetites of their Bonaparte men. Julie merely looked on with the same speechless shock that I myself felt.
Josephine stepped forward then, leaving Napoleon behind as she took Julie’s two hands in her own. “Aren’t you both so lovely?” She glanced from Julie to me. “It is wonderful to finally meet you.”
“And you,” Julie said. I could tell that she felt shy in this new woman’s presence. Back in Marseille, we had been considered among the most fashionable young ladies in the city, what with our family’s endless supplies of new and expensive silk. Today, my sister, like me, had dressed for luncheon in the old style, in a manner that still paid homage to our dead queen—heavy brocade skirt, cinched and corseted waist, a column of bows up the front of the gown—whereas Josephine appeared like a figure plucked straight out of antiquity, a lady of republican Rome. I suspected that she did not even wear a corset, that there was only her bare skin beneath that one filmy layer of lilac.
“Shall we go in to luncheon?” Julie proposed, and we all nodded our agreement.
Josephine now took Napoleon’s arm and I watched him escort her into the room. Was it her posture, I wondered, that distinguished Josephine from Julie or me? She carried herself with an effortless confidence; she appeared older than him by several years, in her mid-thirties I guessed. Nearly twice my age, I figured in my head. And with far more than twice the amount of life experience, from the sound of it.
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