“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 in scarlet 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 if there is the slightest inconsistency…!
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 thirdstorey 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 the familiar 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 sta
y 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 slaughter?”
“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 Tournelles there was a giant level (signifying equality?), under which everyone was 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 not by Jean-Henri, 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 gardens—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 is a 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.
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?”
The Josephine B. Trilogy Page 23