The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.

by Sandra Gulland

  When are you coming to see us here in Fontainebleau? We miss Hortense. I know how busy you are with all your good works, but do try. We are frantic…

  Your godmother, Aunt Désirée

  June 21—Fontainebleau.

  Aunt Désirée is uncharacteristically undone. She has been walling up valuables in a corner of the cellar, late at night when the servants are asleep. Both she and the Marquis showed visible relief to see me, and great joy to see Hortense again.

  My passport permitted me to stay for one week. This gave me time to talk with Aunt Désirée, determine what should be done. She fears they are under surveillance due to François becoming a major-general in the army of the émigrés. Were it not for the fragile condition of the Marquis’s health, they would go into hiding.

  “What are we to do?” Aunt Désirée demanded, showing me the extreme unction kit she kept hidden in a crockery pot in the scullery: a hollowed crucifix which held two candles, a few cotton swabs and a vial of blessed oil—in case the Marquis were to die. “Camp in some third-storey garret?” She carefully put the crucifix back. “It would kill him!”

  So they keep quiet, pay their help well (better than they can afford), and do nothing to draw attention to themselves.

  I was anxious to get them to register loyalty to the Republic, as a protection against arrest. If they didn’t, it would certainly not count in their favour. At first the Marquis refused. He could never vow allegiance to a government he could not support. “A noble stands by his words.” It took considerable persuasion to get him to relent.

  The journey to the section house was perilous. Aunt Désirée and I had dressed the Marquis as best we could, taking care that he not look too dignified. With some effort I got him to sport a bonnet rouge. I rehearsed them both on what they were to say and reminded them to use the familiar form. (“To someone I don’t even know?” the Marquis demanded. “How rude.”) When the clerk at the section office addressed him in thefamiliar and refused to take off his cap in respect, I trembled. Fortunately the Marquis was too confused to quarrel and Aunt Désirée too nervous. They made their oaths with the appearance of sincerity, and as we came back out into the hot summer sun I congratulated them both.

  “For what?” the Marquis scowled, pulling the bonnet rouge from his head.

  Quickly, I took the hat from him; I feared he might throw it to the ground. I hung it on a branch of the liberty tree outside the section house—a common act of patriotism. “How generous of you to give up your hat for the Tree of Liberty, Citoyen,” I said loudly, for the benefit of some young men passing by.

  Slowly we made our way home; as for myself, I am giddy with relief.

  June 25—Paris.

  Deputy Tallien came to our salon tonight. It was in the early hours, after a shocking amount of money had been exchanged at faro, that he told me, in confidence: “Your husband’s star continues to rise. He is now being considered for the position of Minister of War.”

  “For all of France?”

  “You are not pleased?”

  “They will murder him. That should please me?”

  Deputy Tallien made a careless grin. “They will murder us all,” he shrugged, playing his last card.

  Thursday, June 27.

  In the Assembly today Alexandre was nominated for Minister of War. A number of deputies jumped to their feet in protest, including Robespierre. Deputy Barère went to the tribune in front of the President’s box. He read out several of Alexandre’s patriotic statements to the papers, accounts of his zeal. Then another deputy came forward. He argued that Commander-in-Chief Alexandre Beauharnais was too valuable to be made Minister of War. He should stay with the Army of the Rhine and continue on to glorious victories. Another deputy countered that if Commander-in-Chief Alexandre Beauharnais could achieve so much at the head of one army, think of what glory would be France’s were he placed at the head of eleven, as Minister of War.

  Eleven … mon Dieu.

  When several deputies protested—yelling that it was an aristocrat who was being considered for one of the most powerful positions in the Republic—Deputy Barère jumped up, cried out, “He is my friend! He is my friend!”

  The nomination was accepted.

  I am ill; I have taken to bed. All our armies were losing. To be Minister of War at this time means certain death. I have sent an estafet to Alexandre, begging him to decline.

  Tuesday, July 30.

  Our Tuesday night salon was somewhat strained. The sudden surrender of our men at Mainz to the Germans, the failure of Alexandre’s troops to rescue them, the dishonour to the Republic, threw a feeling of gravity over the evening.

  “I have something to show you,” Deputy Tallien whispered to me, guiding me into the music room. “A billet your husband sent the Committee. I think you should see it.”

  He handed me the letter—one page, only half of it filled. In brief blunt words Alexandre expressed rage at the surrender of our troops at Mainz, blaming the commanders there, calling for their execution, demanding that their decapitated heads be sent to the enemy. Indignantly, he insisted that the government accept his resignation, his offer to break his sword.

  I handed the letter back. I felt uneasy with Alexandre’s blame of the disaster on others, his call for vengeance. “Apparently he is ill,” I said.

  “How convenient.” Deputy Tallien folded the letter, slipped it into his vest pocket. “The enemy attacks, one million Frenchmen prepare for battle and your husband wishes to resign his command.” His tone was sarcastic. “This does not reflect well on him, Citoyenne. Indeed, you should be aware that the word ‘traitor’ has been spoken.”

  “Rather Commander-in-Chief Beauharnais should have led untrained troops against a professional army ten times the size? Rather he should have led his men to slaugiter? ”

  “One leads, willing or not,” Deputy Tallien answered. “It takes courage to face one’s own death, but even more so the death of others. We are learning this lesson well.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by a woman and two men, one of whom was in uniform. “Why should dancing no longer be permitted on the streets?” the woman complained, running her fingers lightly across the harp strings.

  “It’s the other outlawed pleasures* that concern me,” the man in uniform said. His companion laughed.

  “Deputy Tallien, darling—” The woman took his hand, began a little dance around him. “Why no dancing, pray?”

  “Robespierre doesn’t care for pleasure, I’ve heard,” the man in uniform said.

  “Robespierre doesn’t care for women,” the other man said.

  “Shall I tell Deputy Robespierre you said that?” Tallien’s eyes were on the woman, her revealing décolletage.

  I stared into the empty fireplace, oblivious to their gaiety. What would become of Alexandre now?

  Saturday, August 10.

  We were awoken at dawn by artillery fire announcing the Festival of Unity.

  One must attend these events lest one’s patriotism be questioned, so late in the afternoon Aimée, the children and I set out, dressed in Republican garb. We hired a fiacre to take us to the site of the Bastille. At Port-Saint-Paul we were slowed by a procession of men, women and children trudging along in the heat carrying posies of wheat. We decided to get out and follow behind. At the intersection of Rue Saint-Antoine and Rue des Tour-nelles there was a giant level (signifying equality?), under which everyonewas expected to walk. It reminded me of the type of thing one sees at Freemason meetings, and equally mysterious.

  On the rubble of the former prison a giant statue of a woman had been erected—Mother Nature. She had a curiously mocking expression, squeezing her bosom with her hands, water gushing out. It was all Aimée and I could do to maintain a suitably reverent attitude. The children, of course, began giggling. I wasn’t entirely unhappy when Aimée’s daughter Lucie became ill and we had to return home. Later Aimée confessed the reason for her daughter’s malady: the girl is with child, and no
t by JeanHenri, her fiancé, but by the stationer’s son.

  “What will you do if the engagement is called off?” I asked.

  “Kill her,” Aimée said, lunging, her sword-arm extended.

  August 13.

  Jean-Henri has at last consented to marry Lucie, despite his young bride’s dishonour. “No doubt the fear of proscription was the motivating factor,” Aimée observed wryly. “Vive la Révolution!”

  August 18.

  Lucie is married, at last. The union was blessed to the sound of the crowd in the Place de la Révolution—the mob cheering the execution of General Custine, Alexandre’s former commanding officer. He had lost a battle—so off with his head. In spite of the heat, I closed all the windows.

  Daily Alexandre sends letters to the Assembly demanding that they accept his resignation. Daily they refuse.

  August 21.

  The Assembly has finally accepted Alexandre’s resignation—but he is to stay at a distance of thirty leagues from the frontiers, twenty leagues from Paris, a criminal.

  I was in the public galleries when the announcement was made. Immediately Deputy Tallien got up and left. I caught up with him in the gar-dens—with some effort, for his legs are long and he walks with impatience.

  “There are other concerns!” he said. He stopped, mercifully. I caught my breath. “Your husband’s resignation, the restrictions on his movements, are no longer the issue,” he said. “What isa concern is his head.”

  “You are cruel!” I was angry at his flippancy.

  “Far from it, Citoyenne,” he said. “Have I not kept from you the accusations that have been brought against your husband? Have I not held my tongue?”

  “Do you think I do not know!” The Army Commissars of Strasbourg had accused Alexandre of spending his time with whores when he should have been preparing for battle. I knew that. I knew more. I knew he’d played court to the daughter of an Army Commissar, Citoyen Rivage—Rivage the Rich he was commonly called. Rivage the Revenger, I would call him now.

  “There are more serious charges,” Deputy Tallien said. “Some are saying that your husband, an aristocrat in collusion with his brother François, intentionally let Mainz fall, intentionally betrayed the Republic.”

  “Who would speak such slander?”

  “Deputy Robespierre, for one.” Deputy Tallien looked behind him. I followed his gaze. Two men, deputies, stood at the fountain, watching us.

  Deputy Tallien spoke in a hushed tone. “Citoyenne Beauharnais, if I may, as a friend—it would behoove you to become invisible. The radicals are going to succeed in pushing through their Law of Suspects, giving the Committee of General Security the power to imprison without trial, without reason even!”

  “Are you not on this committee?”

  “No longer—the more radical members have taken control. I caution you not to draw attention to yourself. If you were wise, you would retire from your charitable activities, from your efforts to save all the good people of Paris. Leave this city.”

  I believe I turned pale, for he clasped my arm. “You must listen to me! I won’t be here to help you. I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “Leaving?” I confess I was dismayed. I’d become dependent on his help, his protection.

  “For Bordeaux. En mission.”

  “Congratulations.” I didn’t know how to respond. “Bordeaux is lovely.”

  “Any place other than Paris is uncivilized, in my opinion.”

  “Will you be long?”

  “Long enough to tame the population, convert the provincials, bring them to heel.” He made a comical gesture.

  I smiled. He was a boy in so many ways.

  He pulled out his timepiece. “I’m expected at a meeting in Rue Saint-Honoré. We’re having a guillotine made. The contractor, a German, assured us that it would be ready, but now, of course, he is full of excuses.”

  A guillotine. I reached for my friend’s hand. I knew him to be well meaning, a patriot, yet he was so very young, too young for the power he wielded, the intoxicating power over life and death. “Beware, my friend. Don’t—”

  He stooped to whisper in my ear: “It is you who should beware.”

  September 1, 1793—Hôtel Croisoeuil, Croissy

  Dearest Rose,

  Lucie’s pregnancy is not going well. She has been confined to bed. I have moved to Hôtel Croisoeuil in order to care for her and manage the household. I thought this would be a temporary measure, but now I begin to see that it could go on for some time. As a result, I have been forced to consider what should be done with my château here, and it occurred to me: Why don’t you move into it? Croissy is safe … and I miss you!

  Love and a thousand kisses, your dearest friend, Aimée

  Note—My fencing instructor has finally “cut me” (as we say in the Islands). I feinted but did not parry. Touché!

  September 24.

  Agathe woke me in the night. She’d heard knocking.

  “Is it a search party?” I asked, frightened.

  “It’s at the back door.”

  I drew the dagger from under my mattress. I put on my dressing gown. Agathe had disappeared. I lit a candle and went to the door. “Who goes there!”

  There was no answer. I heard a noise. “Speak, I pray you!”

  “Rose?”

  I held my breath.

  “Rose—is that you? Please, open the door!”

  The voice was familiar. I opened the door a crack, the knife at my side. There, by the light of the moon, was my husband.

  “Alexandre!” I opened the door. He was drenched from the rain. “It is forbidden for you to be in Paris! Why are you here? You are in danger of arrest. Is Eugène with you?”

  Alexandre paced. “I had no idea it was like this in Paris now! There are guards everywhere! How am I going to get out?” He’d lost weight. His face looked gaunt and there was a feverish look in his eyes.

  “Alexandre—where is Eugène?” I grabbed his arm.

  He looked at me. “Eugène?”

  Had he been drinking? I could not smell alcohol.

  “At school,” he said. He strode into the drawing room. He pulled the drapes to one side, peered out.

  “You … you left him, in Strasbourg?” I demanded, following him. “But Alexandre, he’s only twelve! He can’t—”

  There were shouts outside on the street. Then a knocking at the frontdoor. “I must get out of here!” Alexandre exclaimed. He leapt toward the kitchen.

  “Alexandre …!” But before I could stop him, he was gone. “Take care!” I cried as the kitchen door slammed shut.

  * In fact, Tallien uses the term “Convention.” During the Revolution, the name of the elected body was changed several times: on June 17, 1789, the Estates General became the National Assembly, which in turn became the Constituent Assembly in the fall ofthat same year. With the adoption of the new constitution, on October 1, 1791, the elected body became the National Legislative Assembly, which on September 22, 1792, became the National Convention. In the interests of making the text less confusing for the reader, the word “Assembly” has been used throughout.

  * The revolutionary government frowned on prostitution as a remnant of the corrupt Ancien Régime.

  * The Queen was publicly accused, among other things, of taking her eight-year-old son into bed with her and teaching him how to masturbate, to which she responded, with tearful dignity, “I appeal to all mothers here—is such a crime possible?” She was convicted of aiding and abetting foreign powers and conspiring to provoke civil war within France.

  ** To further separate France from the Church, the Gregorian calendar was replaced by a “Republican” calendar, dating from September 22 of the previous year (1792), the date upon which the Republic had been proclaimed.

  * Previous to the Revolution the French had over thirty feast-days a year in addition to Sundays and Mondays. Under the new revolutionary calendar, there was one day off every ten days plus five or six “jours complément
aires” tacked on at the end of the year—a considerably heavier workload.

  In which I try to escape Paris

  September 26, 1793.

  We are in Croissy, at last, in this lovely château on the banks of the Seine. The sky is streaked the most amazing shade of pink. We will be safe here.

  October 4.

  He is here, at last. We sit together, Hortense and I, and look upon him in amazement. He is taller than I remember, all legs—and so beautiful to look at, this boy of mine, my son.

  He made his way from Strasbourg, in the company of an aide. He carries a sword and knows how to use it. He sits a horse boldly and knows how to tame it.

  He regards me shyly—his mother, a woman. He becomes fretful when I weep.

  October 10.

  Every morning at eleven Aimée comes for a bowl of tea. Often, Abbé Maynaud de Pancemont from the “church” across the road joins us. He is a tall man, lanky, his thin ankles sticking out from under a patched white cape draped in the Roman style.

  “It’s an Italian riding habit,” he assured me. For priests are not permitted to wear robes. He enjoys a bit of rum and is fond of romantic poetry. He has an engaging smile, a big toothy grin. This morning the three ofus played whist and made chit-chat on a matter of great importance in our village: my gardener’s courtship of my neighbour’s valet’s daughter.

  There is an air of unrestrained joy about Abbé Maynaud de Pancemont, so it was with disbelief that I learned he’d been in Carmes prison during the September massacres. He was one of the few to survive, his long legs enabling him to leap the wall to safety, to escape the carnage, the murdered bodies of his colleagues stacked ten deep.

  We are all of us in hiding here.

  October 17.

  The Queen has been guillotined, accused of crimes beyond imagining.* Last night she appeared to me in a dream, handing me her head.