“You’ve found my letter,” Josephine said, her lips spreading in a slow smile. “I’m so glad. I’ve been looking everywhere for it.”
“Everywhere?” I repeated, incredulous. “But your letters are scattered all over. You can’t have had to search too long.”
Josephine shrugged, crossing the room toward me. She was in a simple gown of cream-colored chiffon, the low neckline embroidered in gold and silver stitching, her hair en diadème, the dark braid woven around her head like a crown. I noticed that her feet were bare as she padded across the Aubusson carpet. “Napoleon let me get no rest last night, and my mind is gone today.” She reached me and put her hand on mine. Her flesh was warm, soft. “May I?” She arched an eyebrow, looking to reclaim the paper in my hand.
“Of course.” I released it, my eyes looking away.
“Thank you.” And then, her voice low, she added: “Of course, you know what it’s like to receive such notes. He’s such a romantic.”
I am not a romantic man, he’d told me.
She glanced at me a moment longer, and then to the note in her hand. “Sometimes I feel as if he will go mad with his love for me.”
I couldn’t help but see, at this close distance, the warm, honeyed richness of her bare shoulders, her arms. Her skin was smooth, without blemish, and it smelled faintly of some floral fragrance, perhaps orange blossom.
She looked up now, drawing my eyes back toward her own. “You know, Desiree, we love having you around. We think it’s so special, how close you are with Julie. And we both just wish to see you happily married.” She put her hand on mine once more. “Your gentleman is going to arrive any day now. Duphot. I can’t wait to hear what you think of him.”
Did she know him? I wondered. But I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of asking.
“Give him a chance, that’s all we ask. He’s a skilled general. He’s…seasoned.”
It was a curious statement, and I wondered what she meant by it. But so, too, did I wonder whether this meeting with Duphot had truly been arranged by Napoleon, as Joseph had said, or by Josephine.
My thoughts were interrupted just then by a terrible noise in the gardens. It sounded like animals engaged in a mortal struggle. Josephine and I both turned our attention toward the open terrace doors. “Fortuné?” Josephine gasped, and she took off at a run toward the gardens, her chiffon skirt trailing behind her like streams of water. “No! No! Get him off my dog! Away, beast!”
I followed behind Josephine and quickly saw what she was seeing: a much larger dog—I guessed the mongrel must belong to one of the household servants, as I’d seen him slinking around the grounds—had Fortuné clapped in his sizable jaws, and he was shaking the small pug like the quarry of a hunt. Fortuné was writhing in the larger dog’s mouth, squealing in a way that made me wonder how much longer he could survive such an attack. Even I, who felt no fondness for the pug, could not help but shriek in horror as I witnessed the struggle.
“No! Release him!” Josephine ran toward the melee, ready to throw herself on the ferocious beast, but Napoleon suddenly appeared with the cook, and he held Josephine as the cook stepped toward the dogs. “Make him stop!” she cried.
The cook succeeded in prying the pug from the mongrel’s jaws, but by that time, Fortuné had ceased his protests. Josephine’s cries alone filled the gardens. The cook looked down at the small dog, its body limp, its eyes vacant.
Now Napoleon released his wife and allowed her to charge toward her pet’s slack frame. “No!” she cried, reaching for her little dog. “No! Help him, help him!”
But there was nothing to be done. Josephine wept, her face mottled and incredulous as she turned to her husband. “You must do something! Now!”
Napoleon shrugged as he looked at his wife, his expression apologetic but resigned. “Such is the way in battle, my little Creole. Either kill or be killed.”
Chapter 13
Milan
Winter 1797
DUPHOT ARRIVED AT THE SERBELLONI Palace the following evening, in time to join us for dinner, and I immediately understood what Josephine had meant when she’d described him as seasoned. General Leonard Duphot was old. Very old.
He sat next to me at dinner but spent the entire meal engaged in military conversation with Napoleon. That, to me, was a relief. I had little to say to the man and guessed that he was older than my father would have been, had he still been alive.
After dinner, Duphot asked me to join him for a walk in the gardens, and as the eyes of the entire room looked upon me, I felt that I had no choice but to oblige. I accepted his help with my cloak and then the offer of his outstretched arm, and he led me through the doors out to the colonnade, where darkness had closed in. The gurgling of the fountain mixed with the sounds of the surrounding city as we strolled along the narrow pebbled paths. And then, from inside the house, a voice began to sing, and I knew that Napoleon had asked Josephine to give the group another concert. I wasn’t terribly disappointed to miss it.
We walked, Duphot and I, through a line of low-cut shrubbery. In the faint light trickling out from the palazzo, I could make out the silhouette of my companion. Duphot had been strapping in his youth, clearly, for he was still strong, even at his advanced age. His military uniform fit well, and he carried himself with an upright dignity. But the hair at his temples was thin and white, and I’d noticed how he coughed several times throughout the meal, as if he had some discomfort in his lungs or trouble with digestion. How could such a man be my husband?
“When Bonaparte told me about you, I was intrigued.” Duphot kept his arm on mine, guiding me along the path away from the palazzo. “You come from a respectable family. Clary. I knew of your father. Your dowry is not insignificant. And Napoleon assured me that you were pleasing to look at. He did not lie.”
I glowered as I considered my reply; would it be foolish to accept such a compliment? Would Duphot perceive my courtesy as my tacit consent to his courtship? I didn’t know. But before I could decide, he continued: “I shall show you the courtesy of frankness, Mademoiselle Clary. We both stand to gain much from…an arrangement between us.”
I paused my steps. I could see through the dim light that he was staring directly into my face. He tilted his body toward me now. “I know that he’s had you as a lover, but I won’t hold that against you. Few people have been able to resist him, it appears, when he sets his will toward his objective. No matter what the objective.”
I swallowed, lowering my eyes, mortified by all that this man knew and spoke of. He went on: “I shall give you the protection of marriage and my good name.”
I saw a bench several feet away and walked toward it. “If…if you’ll excuse me. I think I’d like to sit.”
“Of course.” Duphot followed me to the bench and we both sat down. He continued after several moments: “I won’t require much from you. I already have a son. How old are you?”
My mind roiled, but I answered the question. “I’ve…I’ve just turned twenty.”
“Ah, well then, my boy is just about the same age as you.”
I grimaced at this. How could I become a wife to such an old man, and a stepmother to a gentleman of my own age?
“But you realize what this means for you?” he asked.
I shook my head. When Duphot spoke, his words were slow, the tone of a teacher patiently imparting wisdom to his pupil. “It means that I am not desperate for an heir. I already have one, and he is healthy and robust. Soon he shall have sons of his own, and my legacy will be secure. If you give me just one more child, I shall be immensely pleased. Grateful, even, and I would happily grant you independence.” He paused, as if awaiting my murmur of appreciation. When I offered none, he continued: “I would be generous, too, in both material and behavioral matters. I will not govern your steps nor restrict your pleasures. I dare say, most beautiful young women would jump at such an
offer.”
I shifted on the bench beside him. Was the man proposing marriage or discussing the pragmatic exchange of market goods? Napoleon had once told me that he was not a romantic man, and yet his suit now seemed tender in comparison. Then, at least, we had both felt ourselves to be in love.
“Ah, but you wonder about the girlish notion of love?” I could hear from Duphot’s tone that he was smiling, a patronizing smile, as if he knew so much better than I did. “Then let’s be frank on that topic as well. Love is in no way essential to a successful marriage. At least, not strictly between husband and wife. You see, mademoiselle, I already have a lover. She has been with me for many years. I don’t intend to give her up. So as I say—you’ll be free as well.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “So long as you take care not to get pregnant by another man, I won’t govern how you choose to live your life. But hear my warning: I will not oblige carelessness. If you do fall pregnant with another man’s child, I will not claim it as my own. I will not finance its upbringing or education. I will not protect your reputation in such an event. I am a reasonable man, a liberal man, an enlightened man, but I’m no fool, nor do I wish to be publicly cuckolded.”
I was stunned to speechlessness, even as I felt my heart thrashing against my ribs. It was all too much to hear; I wished to flee from the conversation. From this place. This old man, this stranger named Duphot—I wanted to be gone far away from him.
How terrible, the things he was saying to me. But then, to be fair, he owed me nothing. I was young and naïve, but I was sensible enough to understand that, and to understand the times in which we lived. He’d just said he was a reasonable man, and all he was doing now was attempting to engage in negotiations from the viewpoint of reason, not the heart.
But Napoleon? The man who had once claimed to love me? He had actually sought to arrange my match to such a man as this? And Joseph had been party to it as well? Did they really care so little for me? I realized it then—I was a burden to them, my constant presence with Julie. Or perhaps I was a nuisance to Josephine. She was a self-assured woman, secure in her husband’s favor, and I did not flatter myself in believing that she viewed me as a rival; but still, who enjoys having her husband’s former lover spending every day in his presence? They wanted me married off, situated, settled.
Duphot continued, pulling my dreary thoughts back to the dark gardens: “I’ll speak to your mother and your brother once we’ve returned to Rome. Do we have an understanding?”
I met his question with a query of my own: “Do I have a choice?”
He laughed, rising from the bench. “I suppose we can see what your mother says. But, really, Desiree, think about it practically. You’re young. Your father is dead. You’re not a virgin. And you’re a woman—a woman whom the most powerful man in France hopes to see married. So, really, what is it that you were expecting?”
* * *
When that week in Milan was over, Duphot announced that he would escort me back to the Roman embassy along with Joseph and Julie. He would assume his post as the military commander of Rome, a position to which he had been appointed by Napoleon, and continue his courtship of me.
Mamma Letizia would depart for Paris along with her three girls, to a rented mansion that Napoleon had acquired for them near the Tuileries Palace. He and Josephine would be continuing on to Mombello, where he would plan his next stage of fighting against the Italians and their Habsburg allies.
“I wish to return to Paris,” Josephine announced at dinner on our final night. “Life on these Italian roads does not agree with me. I had a fever coming here, and I feel sick just thinking about getting back in that coach.”
But Napoleon would hear none of it; he flatly refused, insisting that he needed his wife’s company, and so she sat in sullen silence for the remainder of the meal. We heard shouting in their bedroom later that night—shrieks, heavy groaning as if pieces of furniture were being jostled about—but I wasn’t certain whether those were the noises of their disagreement or their ensuing reconciliation. Perhaps both. Either way, when Napoleon’s cortege departed the Serbelloni palace the following morning, bound for his next Italian conquest, Josephine was seated beside her husband, and I was not sad to see either of them go.
* * *
—
Our small party arrived back in Rome shortly before Christmas. The winter there was much milder than what we had experienced in Paris, and I was grateful for that, but otherwise my spirits were low. I sought Maman out as soon as we returned to the ambassadorial residence and explained my feelings toward my seasoned suitor.
Maman, not surprisingly, saw the situation as pragmatically as Duphot did. “What is there to complain of?” she asked. Joseph agreed, taking up her side. Only Julie understood my perspective.
“How can I marry a man like him?” I lamented. “Old enough to be my father. And already in love with another woman?”
“Love has very little to do with it,” Maman said.
“But you loved Papa,” I argued.
Maman shrugged. “Little good that did me.”
“Julie loves Joseph,” I answered.
“You’ll respect him with time,” was all Maman offered in reply.
And so Duphot continued to visit our palazzo, and I was made to receive him each time.
* * *
Unlike our French countrymen, the Romans still venerated their church, and so Christmas was a festive and celebratory season in Rome. The household servants prepared a great Noel feast at our embassy lodgings, with endless servings of fish and chocolate desserts doused in liqueur. I, however, felt in no such celebratory spirit as we rode through the city to midnight Mass, the bells of St. Peter’s Basilica ringing out their clamorous summons.
Rome, unlike France, still kept the old Christian calendar. In the days leading up to the New Year, the city roiled with feasting, wine pouring forth from the public fountains and large crowds gathering in the palm-lined streets to sing and dance and make merry.
We said goodbye to Joseph, who was being sent by his brother on a diplomatic mission to Parma in the north. Maman and Nicolas went out that afternoon to Mass to offer prayers for the coming year. In a sulk, I had flatly refused to go with them. Julie, showing solidarity and feeling glum herself over Joseph’s departure, had remained at the palazzo with me.
That night, I heard the noise outside our gates growing ever louder, and I guessed that the celebrations of the New Year holiday were getting rowdier. Julie and I sat in the salon feeling sullen.
Night had fallen and the palazzo was quiet and dark, save for the few candles we had lit. It being the holidays, we had dismissed the servants, allowing them to return to their homes hours earlier to celebrate with their own families.
Julie was reading and I was playing a solitary card game, Patience, beside the fire. Outside, the shouting in the streets grew so thunderous that we both looked to each other. “Sounds as though some of them have had too much wine,” I said, attempting levity, even though the noise was beginning to put me on edge. Not only the volume, but now the proximity of the voices made it seem as though several men were shouting from just below our windows. I crossed the room and peeled back the drapes. When I saw the scene before me, I gasped.
“What is it?” Julie lowered her book.
“They…there are men climbing the palazzo gates,” I said.
“What? Why?” Julie rose from her chair and joined me at the window.
“Morte ai francesi!”
“Tiranni!”
“Addio, francesi!”
“Figli di puttana!”
Julie and I looked at each other, our faces expressing our shared horror. Even though the shouting was in Italian, the words were similar enough to French that we could deduce their meaning. These men in the streets weren’t celebrating—they were protesting. And the object of their protest was the French oc
cupation of their embassy.
“What…should we do?” Julie asked. Maman and Nicolas were still out. Joseph was gone to Parma. The servants had been sent away.
“Nicolas will be home soon,” I said, my voice faint.
But Julie shook her head, pointing at the crowds. “Maman and Nicolas will never be able to ride in through the front gates. It would be madness to try.”
“Let’s go upstairs,” I said. “Let’s lock our doors.”
I glanced once more through a sliver of drapery out the window: the men still climbed the gates, and now several of them had hopped over the wall into the forecourt. “Do they really mean to storm the palace?” I asked, my blood turning cold. It was just as the mob had done in France—making quick work of so many walled palaces and monasteries, even prisons. Had we survived the Terror in our own country only to now perish at the hands of an angry, drunken Italian mob?
Just then, a door groaned open, the sound coming from somewhere nearby in the darkened palazzo, and my entire body clenched. “Who’s there?”
“Desiree?” A man’s voice. I nearly wept—never in my life had I imagined it possible to be so elated by Duphot’s arrival. “Oh, thank God you are here!” I ran toward him, my entire body slackening in relief. “But how did you get in?”
Duphot fixed his grim gaze toward the window, clearly aware of what Julie and I had seen. “I came in the rear gate, through the servants’ alley. The mob is gathering at the front.”
“Let’s hope that Maman and Nicolas can do the same,” Julie said. But Duphot shook his head. “No. It would be foolish to try to pass. I was alone on foot, so I could slip in. A coach would never be as lucky. They are incensed. Drunk, most of them, the fools. They are screaming things that make no sense. They think France is to blame for their hunger, while Napoleon only wishes to bring them liberty; their priests and princes steal from them every week, and then they blame our forces.”
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