I endure with joy. I am more than myself.
September 14, 7:00 P.M.
Monsieur de Beauharnais writes words of love now that he has received my news. But, oh, woe, I fear it is too late. A week ago I began to bleed—not much, but I was cautious and took to bed. The baby was held, Mimi said, kept from growing. She made a dragon’s blood mixture that I dutifully ingested two times a day with powdered dried almonds mixed with theyolks of eggs. This went on for several days. Nevertheless yesterday I was seized with the most terrible pain. Mimi asked if she should fetch Aunt Désirée, but I insisted no.
So it was Mimi who was with me, for which I shall always be grateful. It was hard—it was all I could do not to scream—but Mimi knew how to help it pass. When it was over she prayed for me, not a Christian prayer, I confess, but a sweet crooning sort of chant about a woman’s pain and the earth bringing life anew.
I wept the night through. I am no longer with child.
* To be presented at Court, one had to prove noble blood back to 1400. Alexandre ‘s nobility was relatively new and made less impressive by the fact that the government was selling titles by the thousands in order to raise money.
In which l am too much alone
November 1, 1780, All Saints’ Day.
At table the Marquis and Aunt Désirée talked of Marie’s mother “Aunt Fanny,” who has recently returned from Rome. She’s a writer and keeps a salon. She has published a booklet, Hail to All Thinkers! (which the Marquis insists “one of” her lovers must have written) and a romance novel called Triumph of Love (which Aunt Désirée forbids me to read).
“Her salon stays open until five in the morning,” the Marquis exclaimed. “I’d like to know what people can be doing at that hour!” It was a small entertainment to see him worked up so.
Tuesday, November 7.
My room is full of the heavy scent of attar of roses, Aunt Fanny’s perfume. I confess to being captivated. Her face is tiny, giving the impression of a fairy. She wears a frightful amount of make-up, especially on her eyes, which are quite lively, never resting. She’s very theatrical. (It is hard to imagine that she is Marie’s mother. Marie is so timid.)
Her dress was simple, but she wore it without a corset—I was shocked! There was a mannish quality to her hat, which was mellowed charmingly by a wreath of flowers which she wore in abundance in defiance of her age.
“So,” she said when we met, “this is the beauty all of Paris will be talking about.”
I blushed. Were that it were true! I don’t believe I’ll ever see Paris, in spite of living in the heart of it.
She stayed for only one hour, drinking brandy in her tea. The Marquis seemed only too willing to listen to her wild stories, in spite of his disapproval, which he made clear. She knows artists and politicians, philosophers and poets, all manner of people. She has just finished writing a romantic novel which will be published soon, and has already begun composing yet another. But mostly she was concerned about me.
“What events have you taken the girl to?” she demanded.
“Events?” Aunt Désirée asked.
“You know—out.” Fanny has a clipped and energetic way of talking. “Lodge meetings, the fairs—”
“We’re quite content to stay in,” the Marquis said.
“You didn’t take her to the Saint-Germain Fair?” Fanny was clearly horrified.
“That’s gotten so dirty,” Aunt Désirée protested. “And the last time we went, we practically got run down by a carriage coming in through the gates at a gallop.” She turned to the Marquis to confirm this fact.
“Ermenonville is quiet—you could take her there.”
“I am perhaps the only person in France who is not enraptured with Rapture,” the Marquis said. “Forgive me, but your hero Jean-Jacques is not to my liking.”
“Young Alexandre and his dear Patricol have not made a convert of you?”
“They have not.”
“They’ve not lured you to one of their Masonic meetings?”
The Marquis made a sputtering sound.
“He could never remember the password,” Aunt Désirée said, covering a disloyal smile with her fan.
“That wasn’t the problem in the least,” the Marquis objected. “It was all that nonsense about liberty and equality and brotherly love. And the red caps they wore were itchy as well as ugly.”
“Perhaps the theatre? You have taken her to some spectacles, surely.”
Aunt Désirée shook her head. “Alexandre would not approve, I am afraid,” she said. “Something to do with theatre fostering a sense of detachment in the modern age.”
Fanny hooted, a most unladylike snort. “I suppose he would have us all out on the street, singing and dancing around Maypoles with ribbons! I’mweary of all this longing for ‘The Olden Days.’ One can take the precepts of Rousseau too far. The question, quite simply, is how can you bring this girl to Paris and not take her to the theatre?”
“Perhaps we could take her to the Théâtre Français,” Aunt Désirée suggested cautiously, glancing over at the Marquis.
“Mon Dieu!” Fanny said.
“The only show there worth watching is the King … and the Queen, sometimes, when he manages to drag her along to those tedious productions. ‘Ah, Virtue!’…” Fanny paraded across the room, demonstrating an actor reciting lines in the most superficial way. I turned to see Mimi giggling in the door.
“The Queen, on the other hand, who may not have sense, but who at least has taste,” Fanny went on, “is more likely to be seen taking in the entertainment on the Boulevard du Temple.”
“The Boulevard of Crime you mean?” the Marquis asked.
“Of course that’s what we’ve come to expect of her,” Aunt Désirée said.
“Have you ever seen her?” I blurted out, revealing myself to be what I truly was: a star-struck girl from the Islands.
“What’s to see?” the Marquis bristled.
“How can one not see her?” Fanny moaned. “The woman is every-where—at the theatre, the gaming tables, the concerts spirituels, the salons … not mine, of course—but I heard from Comte Clairon that she was at Comtesse d’Autricourt’s, feigning disguise, which of course everyone sees right through. Poor woman. I feel sorry for her. Hope she’s not allergic to cats.* Clearly she’s not allergic to men. I understand she’s moved into the little Trianon—for more freedom (Fanny indulged me with a wink)—where she can give full expression to her ‘bucolic’ affectations, playing shepherdess, tying pretty ribbons around the cows and sheep. It’s all so fashionable, it makes me sick, frankly. Although I admit I couldn’t stand being Queen for more than a minute. The palace is full of strangers watching the royal comings and goings as if they were on exhibit, relieving themselves in thecorners. People even watch them eat—can you imagine?* Goodness knows I’m all in favour of giving up corsets—who can stand them?—but don’t you think our Queen carries it a bit far?” Fanny did not wait for a response. “But, of course, who wouldn’t go wild with a man like King Louis for a husband? The only thing he’s passionate about is food.”
“And carrying on like a child,” the Marquis muttered in turn, “turning the fountains on strollers, for amusement. It’s time His Majesty grew up, don’t you think?”
“Did you know that in Strasbourg they’ve actually minted a coin showing our dear King with cuckold’s horns?” Fanny said. “It’s true—a friend of a friend of mine has one.”
Fanny could have gone on and on, much to my delight, but Aunt Désirée changed the subject, informing Fanny that I was learning to play the harp, that I sang quite nicely and that I was interested in drawing as well. I was embarrassed to be paraded in this way, but eager, nevertheless, to be the object of Fanny’s notice.
She insisted on seeing a drawing I’ve been working on, an island scene. Quite by accident she came upon one I’d done of the stone wall of the neighbour’s house—the view out my window—and she laughed. She thought it showed originality an
d a sense of humour. “Or a serious case of vapours.” She looked at me closely.
She noticed an open volume of Helvétius on a table. She asked if I was reading it. “I’m trying to,” I confessed.
“Why?” she asked. “Not that it isn’t an admirable pursuit.”
“Monsieur de Beauharnais wishes me to,” I explained. “He aims to educate me.”
“How good of him,” she said with a sarcastic tone.
“My spelling is terrible,” I said, defending my husband’s intent.
“Voltaire’s letters were full of spelling errors,” she said, noticing my guitar propped in a corner. “Do you play?”
I somewhat reluctantly confessed that I did, for Monsieur de Beauharnaishad given me to believe that only members of the lower social orders played such a primitive instrument.
“A lovely instrument—so expressive. What pieces do you know?”
I told her I was trying to learn the cantatas of Clérambault, but finding them challenging. “I should think so,” she said, which was heartening.
She turned to me at the door. “Tell me, my dear—what do you think of our fair city?”
I flushed.
“Don’t be shy. Do you not think your misery is written on your face? As is every thought and emotion that comes to you? Really, you are the most transparent creature. But come now, admit it—one cannot be French and not love it.”
I felt she could see into my most private thoughts, penetrate my spirit, my very dreams. For all my life, had I not dreamed of France? Had not the word meant romance and all good things to me? “I am, I confess, familiar only with these four walls,” I said.
“That we will have to remedy, my dear. You will begin by coming to my salon—tomorrow evening.” She raised a finger to still my objection. “I insist. I will send my footman for you, at nine.”
And so, it is set. A salon? I don’t even know what a salon is.
Thursday, November 9.
There were a number of men and women gathered in Fanny’s parlour when I arrived—twelve, I counted. Fanny introduced me as a student of painting and music, which flattered my modest pursuits greatly. After supper, music was played and poetry read. There was lots of laughter and argument. All the while Fanny was stretched out on a silver and blue settee with a garland of flowers on her head, looking like a goddess. A poet named Michel de Cubières (short, with a booming voice and big lips) read some of Fanny’s poems, which I didn’t understand, but everyone seemed to appreciate. I felt nervous, but of course quite proud once the reading was over and everyone praised her.
I can’t begin to describe the interesting people I met and the vitality of the conversation. I felt tongue-tied, but nevertheless was kindly received. An older gentleman in a tight old-fashioned wig guessed immediately I was créole.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Your accent gives you away. And the intoxicating way you move.” The intoxicating way I move, indeed!
Monday, November 13.
I have been to a meeting of a Masonic lodge—the lodge of the Triple Lumière. I went with Alexandre’s brother François and Mademoiselle de la Chevalerie, whom I had met shortly before Alexandre and I were married. The banquet was elegant, the company delightful and but for the length of some of the speeches, it was a pleasant evening. A number of men and women from the Islands are members, so I felt very much at home. (There was even cassava bread served!) The songs were pretty, all about brotherhood and love.
Mademoiselle de la Chevalerie has promised to put my name forward. Already she showed me a secret hand-signal. “I tried this at the Saint-Germain Fair and hundreds signalled back,” she said.
“That many?” It was hard to imagine.
“If you are ever in distress, all you need to do is make a sign, and help will come,” she said with fervour.
Saturday, November 18.
Fanny took me to see a play tonight. She arrived early in order to help supervise my toilette. We were sipping brandy and being perhaps a bit silly, for Aunt Désirée stuck her head in and frowned at us. After the door closed Fanny made a funny face. Really, I’ve never met anyone quite like her.
Fanny gave her coachman orders to drive to the Boulevard du Temple. After what the Marquis had said—about it being called the Boulevard of Crime—I was looking out everywhere for ruffians, but it didn’t take long for me to be overtaken by the gay spirit of the place. We were inundated all around with tightrope acrobats, puppeteers, mime artists, performing animals—it was as if a circus had been let loose in the streets! Every balladeerand vendor had a song to sing—about liberty in America, about the Queen’s naughtiness, and lots of songs about love, of course. There were even actors performing a sentimental sort of romance, a woman on one side of the street, a man on the other, yelling words to each other. It was impossible not to be swept up into the excitement of it all.
It was with some reluctance, therefore, that I entered the theatre, only to be drawn into still another world. After Fanny and I had seated ourselves in her loge—I was trying very hard not to look this way and that like a child at a fair—I noticed a commotion in the audience. Everyone was looking toward a loge at the front. It was the Queen!
I had a very clear view of her face. She is younger than I expected, not much older than myself, and pretty, with a kindly expression, almost shy. Of course I took in all the details of what she was wearing, especially her headdress, which was a most fanciful construction of mauve feathers that fluttered with every move she made. With her was a blonde woman and a tall, handsome man.
“That’s Yolande de Polignac and the Comte de Vaudreuil,” Fanny whispered. “She’s the Comte’s mistress. They have what is called ‘a secret marriage’—complicated, one would think, by his relationship with the Queen.” She looked at me over her fan.
“The Queen?” I whispered.
“And furthermore,” Fanny raised her eyebrows, “it is my understanding that the Queen and Yolande are—” Fanny held up two fingers entwined. “If you can believe what people say,” she went on. “Which of course I don’t.”
Just then the lights went out and the audience fell into a hush. I could hear a woman giggling in the loge next to ours.
“Is there someone in there?” I asked. For the curtains were drawn tight.
“In one’s loge at the theatre, one may receive anyone.” Fanny rolled her eyes.
I heard another peal of laughter, followed by a man’s low voice. “You mean—”
“I can see I am going to have to give you one of my novels to read, darling,” Fanny whispered as the curtain went up. “Disguised as a text on aesthetics, of course.”
The play we saw was The Beaten and I laughed so hard I feared my corset ties would break. In it, Janot, a servant, has a chamber-pot emptied on his head. He tries to take legal action, but ends up in jail. It was terribly silly, but well done. Between acts there were speeches, singing and announcements.
Oh, I’m in love with the theatre! Fanny has promised to take me to another performance soon.
November 22.
Monsieur de Beauharnais wrote to me: Labour omnia vincit improbus. I had to ask Father to translate it. “Persistent effort overcomes all difficulties,” he told me. I should have known it would have to do with studies, and nothing whatsoever to do with love.
Saturday, November 25.
Fanny has had her newest novel published, titled Abailard the Pretender. We all went to a ballet tonight to celebrate—Fanny, my brother-in-law François (Marie is confined to bed), Aunt Désirée and even the Marquis. When the dancers leaped into the air one could see their garters and drawers. Fanny thought nothing of it, but I could see that the Marquis and Aunt Désirée were discomfited.
November 27.
Aunt Désirée is reading Fanny’s new novel to determine if I should be permitted to read it. I doubt that I shall—she makes the sign of the cross before picking it up.
December 7.
Monsieur de Beauharnai
s sent word that he is coming home. I haven’t seen him for five months.
Wednesday, December 13, 11:30 A.M.
Today is our first anniversary. But already Monsieur de Beauharnais is gone, on his way to join his regiment in Verdun. He was here for only four days.
* The Comtesse de Lingiville d’Autricourt ran what some considered the most brilliant salon in Paris, surrounding herself with Angora cats, each with a bright silk ribbon.
* At Versailles, the public was allowed to watch members of the royal family eat. Crowds would race from one part of the palace to another in order to observe various courses being consumed by the different members of the royal family.
In which I become a mother & discover a terrible truth
Sunday, January 28, 1781.
Aunt Désirée and I were summoned in the night. Marie’s labour had commenced. We hurried to her bedside, the horses slipping on the icy cobblestones. When we arrived, we were immediately taken to Marie’s bedchamber where Fanny informed us that Marie had fallen into unconsciousness. Aunt Désirée was overcome with uneasiness and took leave of the room, Fanny following. Soon after, the child was born. The accoucher asked me to hold the infant while she tied the cord. The baby did not cry; her eyes opened, her blue skin slowly turning pink, the miracle of life in my hands. My tears fell on her cheeks.
The priest was delayed and Fanny was anxious that the infant quickly be baptized. I held the crying baby as Aunt Désirée poured water over her head, uttering the words, “I baptize thee.” Her name is Émilie. We pray for her. I pray for her.
February 19.
I’m with child again. I move with great caution.
February 28—Brest
Darling,
Joy filled my spirit on receipt of your wonderful news. Be sure to do all as the doctor instructs. I have asked Patricol to outline a program of reading for you, for it is currently understood that a mother’s thoughts will produce a result on the infant she carries, both for good and for ill. I do not need to remind you that any reading of novels is forbidden—especially romantic novels. Refrain from situations that occasion strong emotions, and above all, do not go to the theatre!
The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B. Page 8