“Yet you obtained a legal separation from your husband.” In the first year of her marriage, Aunt Désirée’s husband had tried to poison her.
“And I have paid the price. Many a time I have been excluded from gatherings. It matters not at all if a woman is innocent. She has been tarnished and is not considered fit for proper society.” Aunt Désirée put down her needlework. “And what if Alexandre proved contentious, Rose? Are you willing to expose the details of your private life for all of Paris to see? A woman is rarely the victor in such a battle. Even if you were beaten black and blue, it would be viewed as your husband’s right—and your duty to be submissive to his wish, whatever his wish might be.”
“Am I to do nothing?” I demanded, jabbing the needle into my thumb by mistake. With some effort, I refrained from cursing. “Alexandre has attacked my honour in an entirely public way.”
“But what of your son? Think how it will affect him. Eugène is old enough to understand the taunts of his playmates.”
“Think how a stain on my honour will affect him. Imagine what it will be like for him, having a mother who is forced to live in a convent until the end of her days. And what of Hortense? Her prospects for a good marriage will be seriously diminished. A legal separation is my only alternative—both for my sake and for the sake of my children.”
Aunt Désirée sighed. “I will pray for you, Rose.”
December 8, late afternoon.
This afternoon I met with Monsieur Joron, King’s Counsel and commissioner at Chastelet, to make official my record of complaint. He came with his father* and his secretary. It was trying, laying bare the failure of my marriage, but they were tactful and put me at my ease.
Monsieur Joron told me that it will take a few months for an order for a separation of person and dwelling to be issued, and that I shouldn’t expect settlement for more than a year after that. Until then, I must live according to my husband’s wishes.
“One full year?”
The secretary transcribed my testimony in his careful hand. I was asked to read it over and sign each page. “How shall I sign?” I asked. “As Beauharnais, or Tascher de la Pagerie?”
“However you prefer.”
I wrote: Tascher de la Pagerie.
And so it is—my marriage undone.
December 13—Noisy-le-Grand.
We are at Noisy-le-Grand for a few days. Four years ago Alexandre and I were married here, shared the bed I sleep in now. I remember so clearly the first time I saw him, a handsome young man reading Cicero’s Treatise on Laws in the salon of the Hôtel Graves in Brest. It seems another world, another time—another Rose.
After Eugène woke from his nap we walked to Madame Rousseau’s to see Hortense. She giggled in her brother’s clumsy embrace. I held them both in my arms. How can I regret a union that has given me two such beautiful children?
Monday, December 22.
The women here make a fuss over me. Their warmth puzzles me. Wellbred, wealthy and titled, they are much above my station.
“They perceive a natural elegance in your demeanour,” the Abbesse told me this morning. (I read to her; in return she helps me with my enunciation.) “And, too, there is nothing so rewarding as an avid student.”
An avid student I confess I have become. I long to feel at ease in this world, among these women—but there is so much to learn: how to bow, how to enter a room, how to take a seat, how to speak. Quietly I observe the way Vicomtesse de Douai orders her coach, how Duchesse de Monge bows (and for whom, and how low, depending), watch for whom her footman opens both double doors and for whom only one is opened, listen to the way the Abbesse speaks, her aristocratic inflection.
In the privacy of my room, I practise before the long looking glass, bow deeply to my image in the glass. “Don’t laugh!” I tell Mimi, who watches me with a mocking smile.
February 4, 1784.
Alexandre is suing for the return of my jewellry, including the medallion I had to sell in order to pay for Hortense’s baptism. He claims that it was part of his inheritance, that I had no right to sell it.
I am so enraged I cannot sleep. Alexandre provides nothing for my support. I am increasingly desperate for funds. Every day, it seems, there is a creditor at my door. Yesterday I was presented with a bill for jewels I had never even seen. I gave the man Alexandre’s address and directed him there, trying not to reveal my rage.
February 23.
Fanny called early this morning, her heavily powdered face streaked with tears. Her daughter Marie has suffered yet another infant death. The youngest, Amédée, died in the night, succumbing to a fever. She was not even two. It was three-year-old Émilie who’d discovered her “sleeping” sister.
“Can you come with me?” Fanny asked. “I can’t face her alone. Not again.” This is the third child Marie has lost.
It was Alexandre’s brother François who came to the door to meet us, wearing a nightcap and a blue waistcoat over a bed gown. He looked distressed. I don’t know why this surprised me, for he is a man of feeling, with a tender regard for children. He led us into Marie’s bedchamber, where she was resting on a chaise longue, a dish of tea on the side-table. She was pale, without expression, like a dead person herself. Little Émilie was sitting quietly beside her mother, looking confused.
We were told that the child was in her bed in the next room. I stayed with Marie while Fanny went to help prepare the body, the sobbing nanny assisting.
After the priest came, and then the doctor (who prescribed laudanum drops for Fanny as well as for Marie and François), I left, taking little Émilie back with me to Penthémont. Mimi, Eugène and I fuss over her gently. Even so, she refuses to speak.
March 2.
Eugène has worked his magic on Émilie. She follows him everywhere. She is a bright little thing, a little pixie with fair pink cheeks and coal black hair and eyes—but oh, so serious! Only Eugène can coax a smile from her.
“I’m afraid we will have to take Émilie back home soon.” I broke the news to him gently. “To her own mother.” Marie was in need of her now, in need of her one surviving child.
April 10—Noisy-le-Grand.
Hortense is one today. She’s walking!
April 27, 1784, Noisy-le-Grand
Dear Madame Beauharnais,
I am returning the money you sent me. Your husband came for a visit last week and paid for two months. He brought some pretty baubles from the funfair for the baby. She didn’t make strange at all. He sang her a ballad and danced about with her, which made her spit up but he didn’t mind too much. You never mentioned your husband. I hope I did the right thing.
Respectfully, Madame Rousseau
Tuesday, January 11, 1785—Noisy-le-Grand.
Aunt Désirée has received word that Alexandre would like to see Eugène. “And he would consent to see me as well,” she said, examining the letter.
The Marquis snorted. “How good of him.”
“I think you should go,” I told her.
Aunt Désirée spent the morning getting ready. She settled on her blue silk robe with a black velvet cape. I loaned her my hat with the blue ribbons, which complemented the dress nicely. She was flustered, which brought some colour to her cheeks.
I dressed Eugène in his best clothes. “Am I going to church?” he asked. He is too young to grasp the situation. To him, “father” is the Marquis—why should it be otherwise?
Aunt Désirée returned at nightfall looking relieved. Eugène was quite excited about the bounty of presents this “stranger” had heaped upon him.
“Alexandre asked if I could bring Eugène once a week.” Aunt Désirée took off her hat and tidied her hair.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“It might help.” She paused. “Although there will be no changing his mind.”
I stiffened. Even if Alexandre were to relent, could my heart open? “And you? How did you find him?”
“Oh, he was full of pretty words—”
&
nbsp; I knew Alexandre’s pretty words. “But his heart was not there?”
Aunt Désirée looked at me, her eyes filling with tears. “How can that be?”
Friday, February 4.
Today, as I returned from my clothier, Mimi rushed to me in the most terrible state, crying out in the African tongue.
“Speak!” I demanded. She had fallen to her knees. “Mimi, mon Dieu!”
“The boy! He’s gone!”
I could not comprehend. Eugène? Gone? What did that mean?
In a rush her story came out. She’d allowed Eugène to play in the courtyard, as was our custom. Every few minutes she looked out. Eugène had been beating on a drum and the din served as a means of keeping track of him. She’d gone into her room to search for a particular colour thread. When she came back out she noticed that the courtyard had become silent. She looked out the window. The courtyard was empty.
She ran down to the courtyard and out the iron gates—which were closed, she assured me—and onto the street. Eugène was nowhere to be seen. She questioned the tenants, but could get no answers. She ran for the Abbesse, but she was out.
I went to the open window, looked out at the empty courtyard. “Eugène!” I called out. I hurried through our rooms, looking into every closet, under the beds. I could not believe that Eugène was not there. It was then that I noticed a piece of paper sticking out from under the carpet. Apparently it had been pushed under the door. I picked it up, knowing even before I read it what it would reveal.
It was from Alexandre. He had taken Eugène.
It did not take long to send for a fiacre and find our way to the Rochefoucauld town house on Rue de Seine. The big doors to the courtyard were still open, the horses had not yet been unhitched. A footman in livery opened the door.
Alexandre came to the foyer with a cautious look. We hadn’t seen each other since he’d left my bed in the night, two years before. He looked the same, if pale and thin, no doubt from the lingering effects of the malignant fever he had contracted in Martinico. He was without a wig, his hair long, hanging about his shoulders.
“I’ve come for Eugène.” I tried to calm myself.
“I won’t have my son growing up in a house of women!” he said.
“Then permit me to live elsewhere with him!” I cried.
He turned his back, commanding the footman to shut the heavy door. Mimi pulled me away.
February 5.
I’ve notified the authorities. A hearing has been set one month from today, but until then I am powerless. Alexandre, as the father, may do as he pleases with Eugène.
Mimi has gone to stay at Alexandre’s in order to look after Eugène. I am unbearably alone here.
Saturday, February 7.
As I was packing to go to Noisy-le-Grand, tiny Madame de Crény called. She was in need of diversion, she said. Her coach had been tied up in traffic at Saint-Sulpice for over an hour. “An enormous wedding.” She removed her hat. She was wearing a travelling suit of grey silk with abundant lace trimming that overwhelmed her tiny figure. At her neck and elbows were huge pink-and-white-striped bows. “General Arthur Dillon and that woman with the bosom. Créole, I am told. Perhaps you know her. Apparently she met Dillon in Martinico. Her name is Longbeau, Longpreid…something like that. She chews candles, I’ve heard.”
Laure Longpré.
“You should have seen the equipages. The Queen and King signed the wedding contract.” Madame de Crény rolled her eyes. “Even Duchesse de Monge’s sister couldn’t get that honour, and she practically lives with the Queen.”
I sat down, stunned. The Queen and King? Signed their wedding contract? Alexandre’s bloodline wasn’t even noble enough to permit him to sit in a royal equipage. “Madame Longpré is a cousin of mine.” I paused. “My husband fancied her,” I said.
“Was she the one?” Madame de Crény said sweetly. “Oh…!” She took my hand. “And now she has married General Dillon?”
I recalled the deranged expression in Alexandre’s eyes. “Curious,” I said, “is it not?” Curious and cruel.
March 3.
After mass this morning the Abbesse came to my door. “Your husband wishes to speak with you.”
“Alexandre?” Tomorrow both Alexandre and I are to appear in court. Why would he come at this time? “Is Eugène with him?”
The Abbesse shook her head. “You must consider whether or not you wish to speak with him.”
“What harm might there be?”
“If you do consent to receive him, Rose, I recommend that you do so in the presence of your lawyer.”
“I’ll agree to nothing, I promise you.”
“You’ll receive him?”
“If you will stay with me.”
“That is wise.”
She was gone for what seemed a long time. When Alexandre entered, I was puzzled by the look in his eyes. It has always been difficult to interpret Alexandre’s emotions, and this time was no different.
The Abbesse settled herself into a chair by the door. Alexandre seemed uncomfortable about her presence, and for a moment I thought he was going to protest. Then, he spoke. “Rose, after a period of deliberation I have come to the conclusion—” He stopped to clear his throat. “I have come to the conclusion that I have been in error.”
I was shocked by his confession, but remained, nevertheless, cautious. How many times has Alexandre fooled me with his golden words, jewels given but not paid for?
Alexandre turned to the Abbesse. “I have come to comprehend the…grievousness of my actions—while I was in Martinico, and again, most recently, in taking Eugène. I have no defence,” he went on, addressing me now, “but that I was possessed by emotions I could not control. I have vowed to make amends. Eugène will be returned to you shortly. At the hearing tomorrow I will plead guilty, for it is guilty I stand before you.”
It was silent but for the steady ticking of the clock. “Madame de Beauharnais—if I may address your husband,” the Abbesse said.
I nodded.
“Vicomte de Beauharnais, I urge you to continue in this line of thinking. It will only bear fruit. The appearance of a fiat lux* in one’s life helps not only oneself, but all those around one, and puts in motion any number of blessed events. But it is not to this purpose I wish to speak. I would advise your wife to accept your apology—but only were it to be expressed in a more tangible form, such as an equitable and prompt settling of accounts overdue. But at the same time I would caution her to be aware of the benefits that might accrue to you in light of your confession of guilt, for your sins might perhaps be judged less severely, and you might stand to gain in this way. Is this not so? Tell me truthfully,” she went on, “how does your lawyer feel about this…this ‘confession’ of yours?”
“Abbesse, respectfully,” I interrupted. “I thank you for your counsel. I will hold your words close to my heart. But at this moment I would like to have a word with my husband, in private.”
The Abbesse looked at me with concern.
“I promise I will not do anything foolish,” I whispered, accompanying her to the door.
She touched my shoulder as she departed.
I closed the door behind me and turned to Alexandre, pulling my shawl around my shoulders. “Alexandre, tell me what this means—I have lived with uncertainty too long.”
“I am prepared to give you whatever you ask, Rose. I look back with regret on the things I did, the things I said. I can only conclude that I was not myself. Perhaps it was the delirium I suffered in Martinico, occasioned by the fever.”
Relief filled my soul, followed by caution. I recalled the Abbesse’s words. “What will you be demanding at the court hearing, in the way of a settlement?”
Alexandre turned his face to the embers in the fireplace. “I will agree to anything. A public apology, an admission of error, a monthly allowance, your freedom to live where you please…whatever you require.”
I went to the window. A bricklayer was working on the courty
ard wall. “And in exchange?”
“I only ask for custody of my son, when he turns five.”
Eugène!
“You will have Hortense,” he pleaded. “Can’t you grant me Eugène? A boy needs his father. He will need what I can teach him. You know that, Rose. For the boy’s sake.”
For the boy’s sake…
In which ill-fortune plagues us
March 12, 1785—Fontainebleau
Darling!
Congratulations! Who would have imagined that a woman could take her husband to court and win!* How unthinkable! All the ladies are in a fever of excitement over your victory. I’ve been told that even the Queen talks of it. You are a heroine now!
I’ve finally persuaded your aunt and the Marquis to join me here in Fontainebleau. The estate she has leased on Rue de Montmorin is well located, and big—stables for twelve horses! And all for the price of some Paris hovel, no doubt.
Is it true that you intend to join us soon? I pray that it is so. My salon here in Fontainebleau could use your lively heart.
Your loving Aunt Fanny
March 24, 1785—Fontainebleau
Dear Rose,
With the proceeds from the sale of Noisy-le-Grand, I’ve been able to secure a long-term lease on an estate here in Fontainebleau. You will love it. There is a lovely suite of rooms for you and the children overlooking the garden.
You will be pleased to know that Alexandre paid us a call to inform us personally of the results of the settlement. He and his father have come to terms. What a great joy this is to me. Already I can see an improvement in the Marquis’s health.
Do join us soon. The garden, quite large, is much in need of your special attention. The prices are reasonable and there isn’t all that disagreeable mob one encounters in Paris now.
The Josephine B. Trilogy Page 11