The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

by Sandra Gulland

  It was not yet three in the afternoon. There was time.

  The Collège d’Harcourt is a large institution. Aristocratic, militaristic: there was a sentry at the gate. Everyone was in uniform.

  I wandered into the centre court, looking into each boy’s face. I feared I would not recognize Eugène, feared he would not know me. He was nine now. He’d been only six when I last saw him.

  I knocked on the door to the office. I was introduced to the headmaster, Monsieur de Saint-Hilaire, a portly man in a vivid red frock suit. I explained who I was and my business there. Monsieur de Saint-Hilaire bowed and offered a chair, but I refused. “I haven’t seen my son for two and a half years, Monsieur.”

  After mentioning the tuition, long overdue apparently, Monsieur de Saint-Hilaire ordered a thin boy with boils on his face to escort me to the study hall. I followed the boy through several corridors to a room occupied by only three students. In the far corner was Eugène, glumly hunched over a chalkboard. He seemed older than I had pictured him.

  I gave my guide a sou and he ran off. It was then that Eugène looked up, his curly hair falling onto his forehead. He glanced at me and went back to his work with a resigned expression. I was filled with confusion, for no maternal feeling came to aid me.

  I stepped back out into the corridor, out of view, and leaned againstthe wall. I felt short of breath and suddenly unsure. Nothing had prepared me for this—this indifference on my part, this lack of love. I felt tears again, but this time they were tears of dismay.

  I resolved to trust whatever Providence offered. I went to the door again. I called out to Eugène this time, softly. He looked up, stood and came to the door with a questioning look. I detected a moment of recognition in his face—but he was insecure, unsure of his young memories. I extended my hand to him. “It is me,” I whispered, leading him into the hall, out of view of the other students who were watching us. “Maman.”

  He did not know what to say. I stooped so that I could better see his face. “Did you get the cricket cage I sent you—for your birthday?”

  Eugène looked down at the stone floor and pushed the toe of his boot into a crack. I put one hand on his shoulder. The memory of him came to me forcefully then, through the fragile feel of one bony shoulder. “Oh, my boy,” I whispered. I took him in my arms and he clung to me, as if he would never let me go.

  Little by little the pieces fall into place, the parts make up the whole. Myself, my boy, my girl.

  Arriving back at Fanny’s, we three sat in the big empty salon on the big empty sofa, a tiny touching cluster down at one end, telling little stories. Shyly. Getting to know one another again.

  At nightfall I shook the big featherbed out over them and sang to them, one childhood song after another. I kissed them once and then again—and then again and again. How can there ever be enough?

  It is late now as I write. The night is clear; the street lanterns sparkle like diamonds in the dark. From somewhere I hear the sweet sound of a Provençal flute mingled with a violin and a cello. The light from the fire touches the faces of my sleeping children.

  A church bell rings, Paris sleeps. But before I blow out the candle, I vow to remember this, this night, to remember that whatever life holds, it is really only this that matters, this fullness of heart.

  * Now the Palace of the Legion of Honour.

  In which I discover my husband a changed man

  Monday, November 22, 1790.

  Fanny had tickets to the National Assembly and insisted that I go. “Watching the Assembly has replaced theatre,” she said. She was wearing a bold ensemble entirely of red, white and blue. “My revolutionary toilette.” Apparently the Revolution is the style now in fashionable circles. “Charming, is it not?” She made a clumsy pirouette. Even her gloves matched. “And beside, my dear Rose, it is time you saw your husband.”

  It was a beautiful morning, cold but bright. We hired a fiacre to take us to the river and across to the Tuileries. The Assembly meets in the former Palace riding school next to the terrace of the Feuillants’s convent. Everywhere there were deputies in black. The gardens were crowded with vendors selling pamphlets and news-sheets, lemonade sellers shouting, “Freshly made!” People of all classes pressed to gain entrance.

  Inside there were public galleries elevated above the Assembly chamber. Fanny chose a bench that was cleaner than others and spread out a cloth for us to sit on. I noticed a number of elegant women dressed as for an afternoon stroll in the Bois de Boulogne. Intermixed were men and women—mostly women—of the serving class, even market women in one section.

  I scanned the faces of the deputies below.

  “He isn’t here yet,” Fanny said, in answer to my thoughts.

  A deputy stood and with an air of authority went to the front of the chamber. A woman in back of us cursed. I must have flinched, for Fanny leaned over and whispered, “You should have been here lastyear—she’d have been armed with a pike.” She pointed to a man on the far side of the hall. “See Robespierre? He’s the one in the powdered wig.”

  “The tiny aristocrat?” The man I saw was wearing a pale green frock coat and a white lace cravat. He was sitting very quietly with his hands folded in his lap, watching everyone.

  Fanny scoffed, snapping her fan shut. “He should have been a priest.”

  Suddenly there was a tumultuous cheer. I leaned forward to discern what had occasioned the commotion. Fanny pointed to a man who had just entered.

  “The peasant?” I asked. He was a thin man dressed in a coarse linen tunic and wearing wood clogs.

  “That’s Deputy Luzerne. They’re cheering because he came dressed as a peasant. There’s François! In the fourth row. He’s wearing one of those dreadful pigtail wigs and a king’s hat. Can you see him?”

  I placed François by the white plume of his round beaver hat.

  But where was Alexandre?

  Fanny nudged me in the ribs, nodded toward the far entrance. A man was standing in one of the doors, his long hair curled about his shoulders. He was dressed in a black coat and nankeen pantaloons. It was Alexandre.

  “Stop watching me,” I protested.

  “You still fancy him. Confess.”

  “You’re making up romances.” If Fanny wanted to see love in my expression, nothing would prevent her from doing so.

  Fortunately, Fanny’s attention was distracted by a flurry of shouting from the floor. Two men had stood and were yelling with considerable vigour at another deputy. Finally, order was restored—but with difficulty.

  Fanny explained: “Some deputies, your husband among them, are proposing that the clergy be elected officials, government employees. The subject gets them wonderfully heated, don’t you think?”

  “The clergy—elected? But the Pope would never consent to such a proposal,” I said, shocked at the notion.

  “Who’s asking the Pope?” Fanny hissed.

  Speakers for and against alternated. Alexandre was the sixth to go to the podium. He expressed himself most persuasively. France was facing financial ruin, he began. The poor were starving, yet the clergy continued to enjoy an exorbitant lifestyle at the people’s expense, free from taxation, free from any allegiance to the state. The nobles had given up their special privileges. So in turn must the clergy.…

  Then Alexandre’s brother François spoke, in opposition. He was notas eloquent as Alexandre; his voice did not carry and he was hard to understand. Nevertheless, I found, to my confusion, that I could see his point as well. He argued that in principle such concepts made sense, but in practice the solution proposed was unthinkable. One could not expect men of God to forsake allegiance to the Church.

  From there the discussion became extreme, with both sides becoming vociferous. The woman sitting in back of us began cursing again. At last the debate was brought to a close, but without resolution.

  “It’s that tithe system that gets the Church into so much trouble,” Fanny ranted as we were exiting. “If the clergy would only e
xert a little self-control—but no, they have to live like kings. And at whose expense, I ask you? And all those gloomy parades! Why do they have to clog up the streets every Sunday? Aren’t feast-days enough?”

  “I’d hate to be at the family gathering when this comes up,” I said, thinking of Aunt Désirée, who was so devout, and the Marquis, who demanded loyalty, whatever the cause.

  We followed the crowd into a large central hall. Alexandre was standing with a group of deputies. He looked up and returned to his discussion.

  “He doesn’t recognize you.” Before I could stop her, Fanny was pushing her way into his group.

  Alexandre turned to me with a quizzical look. He broke away and in two steps was in front of me. “Madame Beauharnais,” he said, “what a surprise. I learned just this morning you were back.” He pushed his fair hair out of his eyes. “I was beginning to fear you would never return. Hortense is with you?”

  “She is anxious to see you,” I said. I adjusted my gauze fichu; Marie’s dress was too small for me. “I thought you gave an excellent speech.”

  Alexandre glanced toward the hallway where two men, deputies, were trying to get his attention. He looked at me with an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry, but I must go. You’re at Fanny’s?”

  “For one more week. I’ve had difficulty obtaining seats on the post coach to Fontainebleau. I’d like to take Eugène with me, for the holidays, if, that is—”

  We were interrupted by a plump little man in a white dimity waistcoat.

  “Deputy Dunnkirk—you’re just the man I need to see,” Alexandre said.

  “I’d like you to meet my wife, Madame Beauharnais.”

  “Your wife!” The man gripped me in the comradely embrace that seemed to have become customary in France.

  “Deputy Dunnkirk is a banker—be kind to him,” Alexandre winked.

  “The ladies are all so kind to me,” the little man said sadly.

  Alexandre took my hand. “Tonight? You’ll be in?” He disappeared into the crowd.

  “I didn’t know Deputy Beauharnais was married.” Deputy Dunnkirk sneezed into an enormous linen handkerchief.

  “There you are, darling!” Fanny pressed her thickly painted face between us. “I didn’t know you knew Emmery.”

  “Deputy Dunnkirk, forgive me if I appear abstracted,” I said.

  “I have only been in Paris for a few days, and it is really all so …”

  “Indeed. We are all of us in a state of confusion. I very much doubt that we will ever recover.”

  Fanny laughed too loudly. “Dear, dear Emmery. Why do I never see you?”

  “You were in Rome, with that wild man. On a tour of propaganda, I am told, preaching to the unenlightened masses.…”

  “I’m beginning my evenings again, this coming Monday,” Fanny said.

  “I will simply die of grief if I don’t see you there.”

  I looked at her. “Monday!” That was only in four days.

  “But you don’t even have a cook,” I exclaimed, as we waited outside for our fiacre.

  “Mon Dieu! I’d forgotten!” Fanny said, fanning herself furiously in spite of the cold.

  That evening.

  I spent most of the afternoon preparing for Alexandre’s visit. I bathed, found a suitable dress, this one a loan from Princess Amalia, one of her less formal creations—a teal silk with ivory ribbons and lace, quite the confection. Hortense tried on all of Émilie’s big-girl dresses and finally settled on a horrid pink one. It is far too big for her but she will not be persuaded otherwise, especially after Eugène told her she looked “lovely”in it.

  Alexandre arrived after supper. Proudly, Eugène performed civilités—showing his father to a seat in the front parlour, ordering refreshments. Hortense refused to leave my side, clinging to me—her eyes never leaving the face of this stranger, her father. She would not allow him near her.

  “She will get over it,” I assured him, after the children had been taken to bed. I sounded more confident than I felt, for in truth I find Hortense difficult to predict. “You will be pleased to discover that she is quite bright,” I told him, “and possesses a number of remarkable abilities.”

  “I wish I could say the same for our son.” Alexandre stood in front of the fire, warming his hands.

  “Perhaps Eugène takes after me in the matter of school.” I stared into the flames, the heat warming my face.

  “He certainly has your nature.” He cleared his throat. “Kind, generous …” He studied me for a moment. “Charming. That colour quite suits you, Rose.”

  I flushed.

  “Do you ever think of me?” he asked.

  “I often think of you.”

  “Do you think of me kindly?”

  How honest was I willing to be? “You are an easy man to care for, Alexandre.”

  “You make it sound facile.”

  “Is that a fault?”

  “I wish you to know that I am a changed man; I feel I have risen from some magnetic slumber. I am intent on putting the foolishness of youth behind me.”

  We talked for some time of the changes in his life—of his health, the lingering effects of the fever he had suffered in Martinico, which had made a military life untenable. A political career was his only alternative. “Fortuitously,” he said, for politics had become his passion. “I should like to tell you more,” he said, pulling out a timepiece, “but I promised the

  Duc d’Orléans I would help prepare a petition. Oh—I almost forgot. I have something for you.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulling out an envelope.

  “It’s from Mother?” I recognized the writing.

  “Apparently it was delivered to our old hôtel on Rue Neuve-Saint-Charles.”

  I broke the seal, scanned the contents. Uncle Tascher was safe. Father, Manette, were alive.

  “It is bad news?” Alexandre asked, alarmed by my tears.

  “No, yes.”

  “Good news?”

  I laughed, handing him the letter to read. “I’m to protect myself against you,” I explained.

  “Me?”

  “Unless, of course, I succeed in reforming you.”

  September 23, this year of our Lord, 1790—Trois-Ilets Dear Rose,

  I trust that my prayers have been answered and that you and Hortense have completed your journey safely. Your father and sister continue to weaken, in spite of my prayers.

  Your uncle Tascher was released shortly after your departure and in time the rebels were subdued. The disturbance, however, continues. I have had to take measures to ensure discipline with the slaves.

  The government in France is godless. I have reason to believe that your children’s father may be of their party. It is the duty of a mother to help that which is of God overcome that which can only be the work of the Devil. For the sake of your children, Rose, pray for Alexandre’s salvation.

  There is increased talk of war. It may be some time before I am able to write to you again. The English continue to blockade the port. It was only through smugglers and the will of God that I have been able to get this letter to you, should you receive it.

  Your mother, Madame Claire de Tascher de la Pagerie

  Wednesday, November 24.

  Everyone has been recruited to help Fanny prepare for her reception. Princess Amalia’s brother Frédéric—Prince de Salm-Kyrburg—and I were asked to write out the “at home” cards. He’s a charming man, quite short, with no chin at all. He was happy to do it, he confided. He and his sister have just built a mansion on Rue de Lille—Hôtel de Salm it is called.* In his drôle German accent he complained that it smelled of plaster, that his sister was forever engaging him in discussions about wall-covering, and that he welcomed any excuse to get out. “Who wants to stay at home all day with servants who snicker at you behind your back?” he said.

  “At least you have servants,” Fanny interrupted. She was covered with flour and seemed a little jolly. She’d been in the kitchen all morning with Jacques,
her man-of-all-work, training him to cook, a vocation for which he showed enthusiasm if not promise. I suspected she’d been sipping the cooking wine.

  “You mean masters,” Frédéric said, indulging his passion for paradox.

  November 27.

  Fanny’s evening started out well, in spite of many disasters: the goose overcooked, the cake fell in upon itself and a drape in the front parlour caught fire.

  Quite a few people came, and the mix was invigorating. Royalists socialized with radicals, artists with bankers. A number of the guests were deputies from the National Assembly. As Alexandre’s wife, I am held in high esteem. One deputy even assumed I would be in a position of influence and asked if I would speak to Alexandre on a certain matter.

  I was struck with how things have changed. Where before people paraded finery, now they boast of economy. Where before our distractions were bouts-rimes and charades, now people amuse themselves with talk of politics … and, of course, what is now called “economics”: national product, inflation, public debt. (It seems that everyone is writing a plan offinance to save France.)

  There were a few poets present, fortunately, several of whom were persuaded to recite from their latest creation—which of course they just happened to have with them. Fanny even got me to play her harp, which I did quite badly, I confess—I haven’t practised for some time.

  Even so, Deputy Emmery Dunnkirk, the banker Alexandre introduced me to at the Assembly, was effusive in his praise (between explosive sneezes). We talked for some time. He believes he might be able to make contact with Mother, in spite of the English blockade—in any case, he will try. He has clients who have dealings with the Islands, so he is not unfamiliar with the difficulties.

  It wasn’t until after supper that Alexandre arrived. He joined me in the front parlour. “I was impressed by your article in the Moniteur today,” I told him. It was a long dissertation on the need for better hospitals.