The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  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 front door. “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 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 of us 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.

  “No!” I screamed.

  I sat up in the dark, my heart pounding. The night candle had burned down and the moon threw ghostly shapes against the walls. I thought I was in Martinico. I thought I could hear drums, chanting.

  I heard a noise outside my door, saw a light moving. I began to tremble.

  “Madame?” It was Lannoy, a candle in her hand, her white face framed by her ruffled nightcap. “I heard a scream.” She set the pewter candle-holder down.

  “Oh, Lannoy,” I wept. “Our Queen!”

  October 25, 2:00 P.M.

  Yet another new dictate from the “Nouveau Régime”—we do not have weeks any more, but décades of ten days.** What day is it? What month? I do not know. Is it vendémiaire, the month of vintage? Or brumaire, the month of fog?

  This change has made everyone cross. This new, more “natural” order, this romantic calendar of fog, frost, wind and snow, of meadows, flowers, heat and fruit, is nothing but more work. Where have our feast-day Sundays gone? Where our days of rest?*

  “It’s a plot to befuddle us,” Abbé Maynaud said, and perhaps he is right, for befuddled we certainly are. The measures have been changed, the names of our coins, our streets, our deities and now even our days. “They’re even revising the next life,” he complained, for he has been required to put a sign on the graveyard that reads: Death is eternal sleep.

  October 26.

  A great sadness has fallen over the village. Two weeks ago a flower vendor here went to Paris to testify on behalf of her brother and has not been seen since. Rumours were she’d been arrested for coming to his aid and now it is said that she was guillotined. There is a black mourning wreath on several doors in town, this in spite of the law threatening death to any who grieve a victim of the guillotine.

  One hears stories of this sort often now. In most instances I feel it wise to question the veracity of the account, but sometimes, one wonders…what if they are true?

  Friday, November 1, All Saints’ Day.

  As I made my way past the church this morning—on my way to Hôtel Croisoeuil to call on Aimée—Abbé Maynaud beckoned for me to enter. Inside, candles were lit. Although the hour was early five women were on their knees. “In honour of ‘Reason’,” he whispered, winking. It is All Saints’ Day, but we dare not say so.

  I lit candles for Catherine, Manette and Father—and another for the soul of our Queen. I tremble writing these words.

  November 2.

  Eugène brought me a note today, passed on to him by the postmaster. The wax seal was clumsily made, but it had not been broken. The script was studied, careful, composed—a child’s hand. It was from young Émilie, in Paris, informing me that her mother had been taken to prison.

  “What is it?” Eugène asked.

  I was hesitant to tell him.

  “Your aunt Marie has been arrested. She’s in Sainte-Pélagie…”

  “In prison?” He was horrified.

  “She is innocent,” I quickly assured him. “She has done nothing wrong.” How was I to explain? Marie’s crime: to have been married to an émigré. That, apparently, was enough to condemn her. Her divorce, her revolutionary activities, her work in support of the Republic were of no importance, apparently. “I must go to her.”

  “To Paris?” Eugène asked. I could see fear in his eyes.

  This evening I showed the note to Aimée. “Your son is right,” she said. “It’s too dangerous in Paris now. You must not draw attention to yourself.”

  “But how can I not go?”

  My valise is packed. I leave in the morning. Quietly.

  Sunday, November 3—Paris.

  It rained the entire way to Paris. At one point, where the road was badly rutted, I feared the post-coach might go into the ditch. Near Melun we passed a convoy of grain, escorted by the National Guard. Peasants followed it, on foot, wolves circling prey.

  At Fanny’s hôtel on Rue de Tournon, I was received by Citoyen Lestaing. Marie’s “friend” had apparently moved in.

  “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” he asked. He is a slight man, with haunted eyes. He was wearing a white satin dressing gown embroidered with a Roman motif.

  “Émilie sent me a note—about her mother.” I accepted the offer of a bowl of veal broth. “How is Marie?”

  “I send the chambermaid to the prison each day with clean linens. She reports Marie is well.”

  “You’ve not seen her?”

  I heard footsteps behind me. I turned. There, in the hallway, with one hand on the bannister, was twelve-year-old Émilie.

  “I got your note, Émilie,” I said.

  “You should not have bothered your aunt,” Citoyen Lestaing said.

  I went to Émilie, took her hand in mine. It was cold. “Have you seen your mother?”

  “Émilie!” I looked up into the face of a Negro woman of enormous proportions stan
ding on the landing. The nanny. Émilie ran quickly up the stairs.

  “The child is excitable,” Citoyen Lestaing said. “It would disturb her to visit a prison.”

  I turned to him, my heart jumping in my chest. “I appreciate your concern, Citoyen, but I am going to see Marie,” I told him, “and I will be taking Émilie with me.”

  It was shortly after two when Émilie and I set out. When we reached the iron gates to Sainte-Pélagie prison, I took her hand. “You don’t have to come in with me.”

  Émilie clasped the parcel she’d brought to her chest. She had that same pixie look I remembered from when she was a baby. “I want to,” she said.

  “You are a brave girl.”

  The gaoler was a big man with a red face. He directed us to the guardhouse where we waited in the company of two men. They were kindly and smoked outside, on the steps. Émilie and I sat side by side on a truckle-bed with a rough woollen blanket pulled over it. Soon the gaoler returned, out of breath from climbing the steps. Marie was behind him.

  She looked dishevelled, her dress soiled, the tricolour cockade on her bodice frayed. She attempted to tidy her hair.

  “I am here to help,” I said, sensing her shame.

  “Citoyen Lestaing did not come?”

  “He was concerned it would distress you,” I lied.

  Émilie pressed her parcel into her mother’s hands. It contained clean linens and a silver fork, knife and spoon. There was also a porcelain cup, a small box of sewing implements, a novel by Richardson.

  The gaoler examined the contents. He saw the knife and took it from her. He opened the small box and removed the scissors. “It is time,” he said.

  Émilie embraced her mother.

  “You must not be a burden!” Marie said.

  “We’re working to get you out,” I told her. I kissed her dirty cheeks. She took off her cockade, shoved it angrily into my hand.

  Now, it is late. I am filled with concern. Deputy Tallien is in Bordeaux. Deputy Barras is in the south, I am told, Citoyen Botot with him. To whom can I turn?

  November 5.

  “You are suggesting that I make an appeal to the Committee?” Émilie flushed. I doubted momentarily the wisdom of my proposal.

  “It is more likely that the Committee will be persuaded by a petition delivered by the prisoner’s daughter,” I said.

  Émilie and I spent the morning preparing. We wrote out the petition, rehearsed. “Imagine that you are in a play,” I coached her, for as shy as Émilie is, she blossoms on stage. “Imagine that the members of the Committee are in the audience.”

  She made a dramatic, pleading gesture.

  “That’s it!”

  Shortly before three I accompanied Émilie to the Tuileries. We were told that the office of the Committee was in the southern section. My heart was pounding as we walked down the wide marble corridors. I thought of the Queen, of her footsteps on the very stones I touched. I thought of her children, orphans now, growing up in a dank prison, alone.

  We sat in the anteroom with all the other petitioners, Émilie folding and unfolding her notes. At last her name was called. I gave her a little push. She went through the double doors.

  When the doors opened a short time later, it was a sad, diminished Émilie I saw. “I’ve failed!” she wept. “What if I’ve failed!”

  November 10.

  Executed this week: Olympe de Gouges, Duc d’Orléans, Citoyenne Roland. Tomorrow, Citoyen Bailly, the astronomer.

  How can this go on? Even cows cannot be induced into Paris, the smell of blood is so strong.

  Later.

  I leave for Croissy in the morning—without Émilie. I could not persuade her to leave Paris, the city of her mother’s imprisonment.

  Monday, January 13, 1794—Croissy.

  Abbé Maynaud looked solemn this morning.

  “Is something wrong?”

  He handed me a letter. The seal was broken.

  “It was broken when I received it,” he said.

  It was from the Committee. “You read it?” I asked.

  “It’s not good news.”

  I scanned the letter. Émilie’s appeal had been turned down. No reason was given. I turned the paper over in my hand. So few words, but they meant so much—that a woman, a mother, would stay imprisoned, endanger her health, her heart, perhaps go to the guillotine, lose her head as a drunken mob cheered.

  Abbé Maynaud guided me toward a chair. “A glass of brandy?”

  “No!” I pulled away. “I must pack my valise,” I said.

  January 14.

  I applied this morning for a pass. “So you want to go to Paris again.” The postmaster used a tiny model of a guillotine to cut a length of string. He laughed.

  I glanced uneasily toward the door. Two men stood watching me.

  Friday, January 17—Paris.

  I am exhausted. It is early evening, a rooster is crowing. I’ve taken claret to calm my nerves. I will write in the morning. For now, I can’t…

  January 18.

  What happened:

  As I entered the grand hall, I encountered a most disturbing sight—a long line of men, women, children even. From the bedding and baskets of food, I gathered that some had been there for a long time. I went to the head of the line. “I wish to speak to Deputy Vadier,” I told the guard. Vadier’s signature had been on Marie’s arrest warrant. He and Alexandre had worked together in the Assembly, I recalled.

  “So do all these others,” the guard smirked.

  I handed him a letter I had written. “Would it be possible to have this delivered to Deputy Vadier then?”

  The guard opened the big double doors. He gave my envelope to a man in blue velvet sitting at a desk. The man looked up at me briefly.

  I smiled: Please?

  He looked away. No doubt he received such looks all day.

  There was nothing to do but wait. Now and then the big oak doors would open and the man in blue velvet would call out a name and one of our numbers would enter. This kept our hopes up for being summoned ourselves.

  A few members of the Committee would come and go. Robespierre was one of these. He was wearing a striped satin waistcoat. A woman threw herself to her knees in front of him. She was pulled away by the guards.

  Toward noon I began to despair. I saw a man approach—a man I recognized. Deputy Barère! I ran after him, called out his name. He turned.

  “Citoyenne Beauharnais.” There was something in his face that warned me.

  “I’ve been here all morning, hoping to speak to Deputy Vadier.”

  “We are exceedingly busy.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair, which he had combed to disguise a bald spot.

  “If I could just talk to him…”

  He shook his head, gave me a look of alarm: Don’t insist. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” The big oak doors closed behind him.

  It was nearing five in the afternoon when my name was called. I went to the head of the line. The guard handed me an envelope. I broke open the seal. Inside was a note: Green salon, north side. Signed B.

  It took some time to locate the green salon. When I gave the guard my name he opened the door: I was expected.

  Deputy Barère was seated at an elegant writing table. The room was full of ormolu clocks and vases, Gobelin tapestries, several gold and silver tea equipages, a brass statue of the Virgin Mary and three immense candle snuffers. Deputy Barère waited until the door had closed before offering me a seat. “I have put myself in jeopardy meeting with you.”

  I was feeling short of breath. I heard a cheer outside. “Long live the Republic!” Crowds at the scaffold. I rushed into my speech: “I am seeking release of my sister-in-law, Citoyenne Marie-Françoise Beauharnais, an ardent Republican. She has been imprisoned in Sainte-Pélagie, due to her ex-husband’s defection. Yet she divorced him long ago and is not of his party in any way—”

  “Citoyenne Beauharnais!” Deputy Barère silenced me with a wave of his hand. “I ca
nnot help your sister-in-law. I have family of my own in prison—I cannot help them! I have consented to meet you only out of a past regard for your husband. You must warn him—he is in danger of arrest.” This last he whispered. “And as for you and your children…”

  The children…grand Dieu!

  “Please understand that you must be exceedingly cautious. I can’t emphasize this enough—”

  “But Citoyen Beauharnais is in Blois,” I stuttered. “I can’t even write to him to warn him. I have reason to believe that the mail is under surveillance.”

  “Quite likely.” Deputy Barère stood, sighed. “These are…difficult times. I can say no more.” And he was gone.

  Lannoy was alarmed by my condition. She brought me a claret. Against persistent admonitions, I insisted on rising. I knew what I had to do. I had to appeal once more to Deputy Vadier, write a letter, for Alexandre’s sake, as well as for Marie’s. I had to rise and write this letter upon which so much depended, and I had to do so quickly before courage gave way, before fear took possession of me.

  It took one hour to compose the draft. Lannoy brought me cup after cup of broth for strength. In spite of the flaws and imperfections, I copied out the final version. As I sprinkled it with sand I silently recited a chant Mimi had once taught me so many many years ago, a prayer to the mystères. I sealed the envelope and sent Lannoy to deliver it. If I waited for a courier, I knew I would tear it to shreds.

  March 4, 1794—Croissy.

  A long walk today, along the river. As I turned back to the château I saw Eugène running toward me, his long legs pumping up and down, up and down.

  What had happened?

  He was crying when he reached me.

  Alexandre has been arrested.