The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

by Sandra Gulland

  We returned to Rue Saint-Dominique. It took less than one half-hour to prepare. Proudly, Eugène strapped on his sword. Hortense pushed adrawing into his haversack. I checked over the basket of foodstuffs. “No eggs?” Agathe went to see if there were any hard-cooked.

  Lieutenant Soufflet was growing uneasy. It was time. It was raining so we said our farewells at the door. I feared tears, but was instead startled—and, I admit, saddened—by Eugène’s enthusiasm. He was going to join his father at the front. What could be closer to a boy’s heart?

  * Anne-Julie de Béthisy was the cousin of the Abbesse de Penthémont. Rose had been introduced to the girl’s aunt, Marquise de Moulins (or Demoulins), in Fontainebleau.

  In which we grieve for our King

  November 5, 1792.

  Eugène sends brief, mournful letters. Life in Strasbourg is not as he imagined. Instead of being “on the front”—in tents and around campfires, which is how he imagined it—he is enrolled in Collège Nationale, a revolutionary boarding school which he loathes even more than the aristocratic ones.

  Hortense struggles over a sash she is making for him. She misses him greatly. We all do.

  November 16.

  I have spent most of this week interviewing applicants for a governess for Hortense. This afternoon I asked my mantua-maker if she might be interested. Her name is Marie de Lannoy, of the ancient Lannoy family of Flanders (she insists)—a homely, vain woman with claims to being an aristocrat. She chatters incessantly, but she can read and I’m desperate. As a former seamstress for the Queen, she will also be able to teach Hortense a trade, fulfilling the legal requirement. She starts next week.

  Monday, November 19.

  “Mademoiselle Lannoy, s’il vous plaît.” She is stout, with a pockmarked face, buck teeth and bad breath. She has insisted on a bedchamber on the second floor, objecting to the one on the third. Already the cook is cursing, for she sent her mutton chops back three times. No “tu” or “toi” for this lady, not even to the children, much less to Fortuné, who tried to bite her.

  Agathe, our stuttering revolutionary, is the only brave soul among us. She alone refuses to be cowed, boldly addressing her as ” Citoyenne Lannoy” and taking the liberty of bestowing upon her a vigorous fraternal embrace—much to Mademoiselle Lannoy’s obvious discomfort. I confess I was amused.

  November 22.

  Mademoiselle Lannoy will not speak to Agathe. “I will have nothing to do with a Jacobin,” she told me firmly.

  “Must I remind you,” I told her, “my husband is a Jacobin as well as a Brigadier-General in the revolutionary army. We are a Republican family.”

  I have insisted that she take Hortense to all the revolutionary festivals and allow her to play with the bookseller’s children. I sound more patriotic than I am, I confess, but Lannoy’s arrogance brings out the revolutionary spirit even in me.

  November 18, 1792—Strasbourg

  Dear Rose,

  Thank you for your “olive branch”—nor do I want to quarrel. It is important in a time such as ours that all factions be eliminated. We must stand united against the Enemy, against the oppressors of Freedom.

  Eugène seems to have adjusted and is showing more of a Republican spirit.

  Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

  Monday, November 26.

  We’ve become a house of spies. Agathe spies on Lannoy, Lannoy on Agathe. Hortense spies on them both.

  Last week Hortense informed me that Agathe sneaks out after petit déjeuner each day—and I’ve discovered that it is so. Agathe does go out,and furtively so, around ten in the morning. An hour later she is back, her cheeks flushed, her chores undone.

  Now I have discovered where it is that she goes. It’s the guillotine that draws her, across the river in the Place Louis Quinze—Place de la Révolution now—where daily crowds gather, the vendors selling lemonade, the children playing prisoner’s base, the old ladies gossiping as the heads fall.

  November 29.

  This morning I went to my dressmaker on Rue Saint-Honoré. It was with a sinking heart that I saw a cart approaching, three men and a woman on their way to the guillotine, one of the men a youth, really, quite young and weeping, another man doing his best to console him. Five boys were following behind the cart, dancing the farandole.

  Shaken, I crossed the street and traced my way back to the palace gardens. There I sought an empty bench under a chestnut tree and sat for a moment, my heart gripped by sorrow. Not far from me, under a chestnut tree, a toy-seller was setting out a tray of tiny guillotines, the kind Hortense and Eugène had often pressed me to buy and I had unpatriotically refused.

  I could hear the sounds of the crowd gathering in the Place de la Révolution. Now and then a group would break into song and others would join in and the song would grow in strength and joy. It was a bright and shining morning, and if one could erase the image of the knife, one could not imagine a more innocent festivity.

  A cheer sounded and then the cry, “Long live the Republic!”

  A head fallen.

  What have we become?

  November 22, 1792—Strasbourg

  Dear Rose,

  Victory has crowned our arms! I was confident my commanding general, the great Custine, would conquer Mainz—but Frankfurt as well! This victory proves the virtue of our cause. Our Republic will carry the banner of Freedom to all the nations of the world, throw off the oppressive yoke of tyranny! This news has made my job of training the new recruits easier. With glory in their hearts they tackle their work with enthusiasm.

  Eugène has been ill with a fever, but is now recovering.

  Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

  December 8, 1792—Strasbourg

  Dear Rose,

  Celebration has turned to shame. General Custine’s troops were forced to fall back on Mainz, where they are trapped for the winter. Many of my men have deserted. There are rumours that Custine will be arrested, as a result. Don’t believe what you read in the journals.

  Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

  December 23.

  It was with some difficulty that Hortense and I made our way to Fontainebleau for “Christmas.” (We dare not call it that now—it is not Christmas we are celebrating, but Unity, the official designation.) Most of the horses have been requisitioned for the armies, so the wait for a seat on the post-coach was considerable. I thought to hire a hackney but the drivers were charging four times the normal rate, well beyond our means. So when Frédéric and Princess Amalia offered us the use of their coach and four, I accepted.

  And so it was that Hortense (with Fortuné), Lannoy and I set off in such fine style. Although Frédéric and Princess Amalia had long ago taken the precaution of painting over the aristocratic emblems, there was no disguising the fine wood inlay around the windows. Was this the reason the officials at Porte-Saint-Martin would not allow us to pass through? Or was it Lannoy’s haughty demeanour? Or Fortuné’s incessant growling? Whatever the cause, the guard was reluctant to believe that ourpapers were authentic. We had to turn back and try another gate. The detour had added two hours to our journey. By the time we arrived in Fontainebleau we were dangerously chilled.

  Aunt Désirée burst into tears upon greeting us—it has been many months since we last saw her and the time has been fraught with worry. The Marquis’s beard, which used to be grey, has turned a shocking white.

  “Don’t call him Marquis,” Aunt Désirée cautioned fretfully. “It’s citoyen now.”

  I suppressed a smile.

  Wednesday, December 26.

  The King’s trial has begun. “It’s an insult!” Lannoy exclaimed. “The King can do no wrong!” She is convinced that the compromising papers found in the iron chest were put there intentionally by Jacobins.*

  “Pray hold your tongue, Lannoy!” I whispered, urging her to use caution in her expression. It has been made a crime punishable by death to show support for royalty. “A governess needs her head.”

&nb
sp; “Fig,” she exclaimed. “Fig, I say.”

  She has certain endearing ways, but one has to look for them.

  Later.

  This evening I was visited by a market woman, a poissarde. The scent of attar of roses gave me pause. In the parlour, she let down her hood. It was Fanny. “Why are you in disguise?” I asked, alarmed.

  “I’ve come to warn you,” she hissed, motioning me to be silent. “François has fled. He tried to free the King.”

  “Mon Dieu.” I lowered myself onto a chair. “Free the King? From the Temple?” I mouthed these words.

  Fanny nodded, taking a pencil and paper out of her basket. He was part of a group, she wrote. A conspiracy.

  I was so stunned by this news I could hardly comprehend. Alexandre’s older brother, cautious, quiet, honourable François, had taken theultimate gamble, the one flamboyant, desperate act of a hero. He had risked his life to free the King.

  Fanny pushed another scrap of paper into my hand. He’s gone over to Germany—to join the émigré army at Coblentz!

  I threw the notes into the fire. Would François and Alexandre bear arms against one another then? Would they carry their quarrel unto death?

  I heard a door close in the hall. Agathe. I motioned to Fanny to be cautious.

  Fanny held out her hand. In it was a gem, a diamond. The lights danced against her skin. “I will take only metal coin, Citoyenne,” she said loudly, feigning a knowledge of a market accent I did not know she possessed. (Were I not in such a state of alarm, I might have found it amusing.)

  “Is it genuine?” I asked, loud enough to be heard. “What are you asking for it?”

  “Not half its value.”

  “You talked to François?” I whispered when I could be sure that we were alone again.

  Fanny nodded. “He came to say goodbye to Émilie. He gave me a letter to give to his father. I am going to try to get out to Fontainebleau tonight. The Marquis must be warned.”

  Of course. We would all be under suspicion now. “But how?” The barriers had been closed all week.

  Fanny glanced toward the hall. “I know a sewing-woman who lives by a break in the wall,” she whispered, “once used by smugglers.”

  I heard soft footsteps in the hall again. “And so, my good woman, how much do you want for this?”

  Fanny scribbled something on a piece of paper: I’m going into hiding.

  The harsh reality of our lives came true to me then. It was possible—I could not admit to the fact that it was even likely—that I might never see Fanny again. The tears I’d been fighting overwhelmed me.

  Fanny put the diamond in my hand, pinched my cheek and was gone.

  January 15, 1793—Strasbourg

  Dear Rose,

  I am shocked and appalled to learn of my brother’s defection. The enemies of the Revolution are too cowardly to face the problems of our day; they look, instead, to the past, to the Age of Chivalry, the Crusades, fancying emigration a modern Crusade. They claim the King is in danger of being guillotined. Absurd! The rage of Europe would be heaped upon us! How foolish do they imagine us to be? They insist that in taking up arms against their own countrymen, they act honourably. They delude themselves!

  François has put the entire family in danger, cast the stain of the traitor over us all. I fear he might try to contact my father. If a letter is received, it must be turned over unopened to the officials at the section office. Make sure he and Désirée understand the importance of this.

  My brother’s inheritance, all his property and possessions, will be confiscated now, of course, leaving Marie and their daughter Émilie penniless. It goes without saying that Émilie’s prospects for a good marriage have been for ever dashed.

  I can’t believe it has come to this. … I close in despair,

  Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

  Tuesday, January 15, 1793.

  The King has been found guilty—of treason. Lannoy is profoundly indisposed. We’ve been giving her hysteric water to revive her.

  “Will they kill him?” Hortense asks. “Will they take his head?”

  I assure her no. However much the French love liberty, we hold our good King Louis dear.

  January 17.

  I was at my perfumer’s shop on the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs when I heard some commotion on the street. A caller on horseback cried out: “The King must die! The King must die!”

  I turned to the shopkeeper. She burst into tears and ran from the shop. I walked out the door into the brilliant winter sun. Others, too, lined the street. We looked to one another in shocked silence. Our King must die? January 21.

  The drums began at dawn. I closed the drapes, but I could not keep out the sound.

  Lannoy stayed in her room, praying. Agathe took her a dish of tea.

  We heard the drums roll three times. Even Hortense grew silent. I held her in my arms.

  The King is dead. We have killed our King.

  * On November 2, secret correspondence between the King and the Austrians was discovered in a locked iron chest hidden behind a wooden wall panel in the Tuileries Palace.

  In which my husband’s star rises and falls

  May 28, 1793.

  Deputy Tallien called this evening, his bristly hair uncovered in spite of a gentle spring rain.

  “What is it?” The wife of a soldier always fears news.

  “Your husband is going to be promoted,” he said.

  “Promoted?” It was only two months ago Alexandre had been made General.

  “Commander-in-Chief of the Army of the Rhine.”

  “Commander-in-Chief?”

  “It’s to be announced in the Assembly tomorrow.”* Tallien leaned his sword against the wall.

  “Can nothing be done to stop it?”

  “This is quite an honour, Citoyenne.”

  I held my tongue. Now, almost three in the morning, I cannot sleep. Alexandre—Commander-in-Chief? I should rejoice, yet fear is the emotion that fills me. A quill is Alexandre’s weapon—not a sword. I see myself in a widow’s habit, I see my children in black.

  May 29.

  I saw Tallien in an archway, his bright tricolour plume setting him off from all the deputies in tall black hats. He told a clerk to show me to a private loge, which, to judge by the luxury of its fittings, must have once belonged to the royal family. It was more like an apartment, with a water-closet and even a fireplace. There were three women there, one inscarlet satin with a daring décolletage. They introduced themselves as guests of Deputy Barras, “en mission to the south, alas,” the woman in scarlet said.

  We fell to watching the proceedings. When Alexandre was proclaimed Commander, Tallien jumped to his feet and applauded. The approval was far from unanimous, however. “Let us be perfectly clear, citoyens,” yelled a deputy from the back of the hall. “It is the Vicomte Alexandre de Beauharnais who has been proclaimed … an aristocrat.” Menacing hisses followed this declaration.

  “Congratulations, Vicomtesse,” the woman with silver paint on her eyelids said.

  “Citoyenne, s’il te plaît,” I said, and quickly rose to go.

  June 3, 1793—Strasbourg

  Dear Rose,

  I have been acclaimed, but feel far from secure. The war waged on the battlefield is simple in comparison to that waged in the Assembly. It would be helpful if you made contact with the members of the Committee of Public Safety—Deputy Barère I know is one. We were colleagues together in the Estates General. He could prove useful, but be cautious: In the early years, he had suggested a throne of diamonds for the King, yet at the King’s trial he insisted the Tree of Liberty be refreshed by royal blood. No one can be trusted.

  Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

  Tuesday, June 11.

  I’m exhausted. Every morning I write letters—letters of appeal, letters of guarantee. Every afternoon I sit in on the Assembly sessions, meet with members of the various committees. In the evening I go to the salons the men of influence frequent. I
smile, I nod, I inquire.

  In this way the wife of Commander-in-Chief Beauharnais has succeeded in getting the sequester lifted on the home of Citoyenne Montlosier and her three children, a stay of execution for Citoyen Dolivier, the release of Deputy Hervilly and the award of a position in the postal service to Citoyen Basire, whose daughter begs coins on the Pont-Neuf. In this way the wife of Commander-in-Chief Beauharnais fights a war of her own.

  June 10.

  The Austrians are gathering strength. Alexandre’s letters are disturbing. He is concerned about what might happen if he must lead his men into battle. “My troops are ill-equipped, ill-clothed and ill-fed. I am doing everything I can to train them, increase their morale, but I fear for them. We stand thirty thousand against three hundred thousand, and prayer is no longer the fashion.”

  Sunday, June 16, 3:15 p.m.

  Aimée is jubilant. She has succeeded in negotiating a marriage contract for Lucie, now fourteen, to Jean-Henri de Croisoeuil, thirty-four.

  “Monsieur de Croisoeuil? Isn’t he a Royalist, a counter-revolutionary?”

  “But disgustingly wealthy. ”

  June 15, 1793—Fontainebleau

  Dear Rose,

  As you insisted, I have hung a copy of the Declaration of the Rights of Man in a prominent place in our parlour—fortunately, the Marquis cannot see well enough to notice—and just this morning I made a donation to the municipality in exchange for an affidavit declaring my patriotism. But I draw the line at attending the Temple of Reason!

  I have been trying to persuade the Marquis to send a donation to the Jacobin Club here, along with the patriotic speech which you so thoughtfully provided, but he refuses. On this matter you will have to speak to him yourself

  I am having great difficulty getting our certificates and papers in order. (Perhaps you have my baptismal records? They would be in the bottom drawer of your escritoire.) Already I have suffered some harassment on this account. At every turn one is required to present papers and passports and ifthere is the slightest inconsistency …!