June 16.
This morning Barras came to call. It was early; I had a scarf wrapped around my head, créole style. He invited me outside. “I have something to show you.” In the courtyard were two handsome black horses harnessed to a gleaming dark green carriage.
“What do you think?” He slapped one of the horses on the flank. “Fine specimens. Hungarian.” He opened the door to the carriage. The upholstery was a lush red, the colour of royalty.
“Velvet?” Such luxury is rare now. But then, Deputy Barras never had anything but the best. “It’s beautiful. When did you get it?” I asked.
“It’s yours.”
“Mine?”
“In compensation for the carriage and horses your husband left behind in Strasbourg.”
He noted my shocked expression with satisfaction. “There’s a cow as well—a milk cow. I didn’t bring her along. Too slow, you know.”
“A cow?”
Barras leaned back against the carriage, taking care not to soil his coat on the wheels. “I got them to throw her in.”
I began to laugh. A cow—we could have butter, milk, cheese. We could have too much, more than we needed. We could have excess—to sell or trade. “But where would I keep her?”
“Must you be so practical?”
“I’m serious.” A carriage, two horses, a cow…I had no groom, no driver, no hay much less a barn.
“You can stable the horses down the road. And the cow can go to Croissy.”
“Croissy? But I’m not renewing the lease.”
He looked confused. “Why not?”
I rubbed my thumb and index finger together, meaning: money. Barras had his estates, his wolfhounds, his English Thoroughbreds. It was hard for him to comprehend.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve made a small fortune as a result of the meeting you arranged with your friends Rosin and Perré.”
And so it is agreed. Barras will take over the Croissy lease.
In which intrigue is the rule of the day
June 20, 1795.
A note on my door: “The émigré fleet has left the coast of England, headed for France. They are planning to attack at Quiberon Bay.”
Unsigned.
I looked through my writing desk. Finally I found it, the scrap of paper, the one Citoyen Fouché had given me with his address on it. The handwriting was the same.
War. The émigrés are on their way.
I sent a mounted courier to Rennes with a message for Lazare. At the end I hastily penned the words: “Send Eugène home. Quickly.”
Quickly.
Wednesday, July 1.
The émigré forces have attacked. Tallien left for Quiberon Bay in the middle of the night.
Where is Eugène?
Thursday, July 16—Fontainebleau.
I have come to Fontainebleau to escape the tension in Paris, the fear in my heart, my thoughts of Lazare…my worry about Eugène.
Only to be assaulted by my aunt.
“Soon it will have been one year,” she said.
One year. I knew what she was going to say. One year since Alexandre died.
“It is time to think of remarrying, Rose.”
“I am too old to marry,” I said.
She smiled uneasily. There is truth in my jest.
July 18—Paris.
As I climbed the stairs to my suite of rooms, Agathe came running to greet me. “What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing, Madame,” she said, falling in behind.
She never called me “Madame,” so I was suspicious. I entered the parlour. There, sitting on the sofa, was Eugène, dressed smartly in a dark blue uniform with silver-and-red trim. Tears came to my eyes. He looked so like my father.
I embraced him, trying not to cry. He had grown since I last saw him over ten months ago, tall for a fourteen-year-old. “When did you get here?” I asked, sitting down beside him on the sofa.
“Two hours ago.” His voice has not yet deepened.
I took his hand. He pulled away. “Is something the matter?” I asked.
“Why did you make me come back! Just when things were starting to happen!”
It was hot in the room. I stood and went to the window, opened it wider. The air outside was heavy, too; it made little difference.
How was I going to answer? Tell him he was too young to kill, too young to die? That I would not allow him to take up arms against French émigrés? That I could not bear the risk of losing him?
“I need you here,” I said.
“You have your men friends to help you!” Abruptly he stood and stomped out. I heard the front door slam shut behind him.
July 20.
Eugène mopes about the apartment, resentful that I have “caged” him, kept him from the excitement of army life, the glory of war. He takes to the streets where he spars with a rough-looking group.
What am I going to do with him?
Thursday, July 23.
It was early, not yet nine when I summoned Eugène. “Do you know the significance of this day?”
He shrugged.
“One year ago your father died.” This startled him.
“I have something for you.” I got down Alexandre’s sword from on top of the cupboard, put it on the table in the dining-parlour. “This was your father’s sword. He would have wanted you to have it.”
Eugène touched it, picked it up, withdrew it from its sheath. On the handle was engraved the Beauharnais family motto, Serve No Further, and under that, a heart. The family crest had been scratched over with the words “la nation.”
“It pleases you?” I asked.
A blush of emotion had spread across his cheeks.
I put my hand on his arm. “Wear it with honour, Eugène.” Quickly, I left. I did not want him to see my tears.
July 23, 1795—Quiberon
Rose,
Victory! I carry your ribbon close to my heart.
Your soldier, Lazare
Note—Tell Eugène that Sébastien Antier was killed in battle. Eugène and Sébastien were close. Tell him Sébastien died honourably.
July 27.
Victory at Quiberon Bay! Immediately I set out for La Chaumière. It was ten in the morning, early, but already the courtyard was jammed with carriages.
“You’ve heard?” I exclaimed the moment I saw Thérèse. Through the open door I thought I saw Tallien’s bristly head. “Tallien is back?”
“He arrived late last night.”
“For the banquet tonight?” It was the first-year anniversary of the overthrow of Robespierre.
Thérèse nodded. She looked graven.
“Something is wrong?” I asked. “Is it Lazare—”
“No.”
“What is it?” I felt a panic rising within me.
“Over seven hundred prisoners were taken,” she whispered.
I did not understand. “Is that not good news?”
“There is talk of execution.”
“Of the prisoners?”
Thérèse nodded.
“They were taken in battle?” I asked.
“They surrendered, they put down their arms.”
“Then by law they cannot be executed.”
Thérèse snorted. “There is fear in the air! They will be slaughtered!”
“You are thinking of the past.” I put my arms around her. She’d risen from childbed too soon.
“We are the past,” she said.
July 28.
I was awoken in the middle of the night. It was Thérèse, in distress. She’d had an argument with Tallien, been forced to flee. Indeed, there was evidence she’d not escaped soon enough, for her lip was swollen and her cheek bruised.
“I don’t understand.” I pressed a cold compress to her face. “I know how much he loves you.”
She looked as if she would begin to weep again. “It’s my fault. I thought I could reform him. I allowed myself the sin of pride.”
“Tallita, please! Don’t speak in mysteries.�
� I poured us each a large glass of claret. “What started it? What was the fight about?”
“Have you not heard? About Sieyès?” She looked at me incredulously.
I shook my head. Deputy Sieyès was in Holland, I thought.
“He claims he’s discovered documents that prove that Tallien is in league with Royalists, with the leaders of the émigré fleet that attacked at Quiberon Bay.”
Tallien? “But that’s not possible, Thérèse.” That would mean that Tallien was on the side of the enemy—the very men Lazare fought against in battle.
“It’s true, Rose. I knew by the look on his face when I confronted him—but the worst of it is…the worst of it is his fear of being found out. Now he will go to any length to prove himself an anti-Royalist, to prove to the Assembly that he is against the émigrés…even if it means massacring the prisoners he vowed to save!” She broke into sobs. I held her in my arms. The sun was rising when she finally fell asleep.
It was almost midday when we awoke. Thérèse hurriedly began her toilette, covering the bruise on her cheek with rouge.
“Where are you going?” I did not trust her mood.
“To the Assembly,” she said, tying her hat strings.
The doorbell rang.
“It’s Deputy Tallien,” Agathe informed me.
“You stay here,” I told Thérèse.
I went to the front door. Tallien blocked the sun. It was hard to see his face against the bright light. “I have come for Thérèse,” he said.
“I don’t think it wise for you to see her now,” I said. He smelled of liquor.
Suddenly Thérèse appeared behind me. She attempted to push her way past, out the door. “Where are you going—” Tallien grabbed her arm.
“To the Assembly.” Thérèse shook herself free. She cursed him in the Spanish tongue.
“It’s no use!” he cried.
“What do you mean?” She stared at him, her breathing heavy.
“It’s over!” A motion had been passed that morning: the prisoners would be executed.
“Who made the motion?” Thérèse demanded.
Tallien did not deny it. “You don’t understand!”
“You don’t understand. Over seven hundred lives have been sacrificed to save one—yours. How can you live with that!”
“You would have me sacrificed?”
“Yes!” And louder: “Yes!” She ran back to my bedchamber.
“Surely something can be done?” I asked, shaken.
Tallien shook his head. He turned his back, hat in hand, a ruined man.
July 31, 1795—Rennes
Rose,
You can imagine my disgrace. I promised these men life—now all are to perish! Yet they surrendered, they put down their arms! Tallien knows this well—at my request, Sombreuil put his sabre in Tallien’s hands! My men saw it! We gave Sombreuil our word that his men would be treated as prisoners of war.
When Tallien left for Paris, he was determined to secure their safety. Now I am told it was Tallien who made the motion in the Assembly to have them executed, that it was Tallien who waved a dagger through the air, calling for their blood! I cannot comprehend!
I am too angry to write words of love. Be cautious…
Your soldier, Lazare
August 2.
I called on Tallien. I had heard rumours—that he had lost over ten thousand livres in a single game of faro, that he was drinking heavily. In spite of all that had happened, I felt an obligation toward him. He had been a friend to me when I needed a friend most. He had saved my life. Now it was my turn.
“Get out!” he yelled when he saw me. I backed away, sickened. Empty wine bottles littered the bare wood floor.
“I come as a friend!”
He threw a glass against the wall. “I do not need you!”
Quickly I left.
August 3.
I found the courage to call on Tallien again. I found him ill. He was sober, however—we talked for some time. “I know my demons,” he confessed.
“Yet you do not know your strengths.”
“I am a coward. I do not deserve to be alive.”
“Was it a coward who confronted Robespierre?”
“I was in fear of my life!”
“And Thérèse’s?”
He put his hands to his face and wept. “And now I’ve lost her!”
“This is your demon,” I told him, holding up an empty bottle of wine.
I gave him news of his baby daughter, for whom he displays a sincere devotion. We parted with a tender show of feeling.
Evening.
A victory reception at Barras’s, thirty-seven guests, many bottles of champagne consumed.
“Army champagne,” Barras said, doing the honours.
“The army is supplied with champagne?” I asked. Even water was dear.
“Only victorious armies, which of course ours are.”
Shortly after nine I was astonished to see Thérèse. She was dressed in a very revealing gown, her enormous milk-filled breasts exposed. It was a hot, sultry summer evening and looking at her raised the temperature even higher. Every man in the room regarded her with an expression of both disapproval and lust.
“Should you be here?” I whispered. She smelled of tobacco.
I looked to Barras for help, but found he was filling her glass.
“She should go home, Paul. She may do something she will regret.”
“She is not a child.”
Shortly before midnight I heard Thérèse’s musical voice in the game room: “My entire ensemble weighs no more than two six-livre pieces.”
I went to the door. The men had gathered around her. Three women were watching from chairs by the fireplace.
“Including the jewels?” Deputy Nabonide asked.
“Yes.” Thérèse’s face was flushed, her eyes glazed. “Everything.”
“I’d bet a louis on that.” Deputy Verneuil threw the coin onto a table.
“Any others?” Thérèse posed seductively. There was silence but for the sound of coins hitting coins.
Barras, grinning, ordered a servant to bring a scale.
Thérèse took off her earrings, her rings, handed them to Barras. Then she slipped a sleeve over one shoulder.
I left the room. Soon after I heard a cheer, heard Thérèse’s cry—of victory I presumed…or was it defeat?
Shortly after, Barras, a young man and Thérèse left together.
My heart sank. I do not have the heart for this life.
August 4.
This morning I set out to La Chaumière. I intended to arrive early, so that I could talk to Thérèse.
I found her in her boudoir, splashing cologne onto her silk sheath, to make the thin fabric cling to her naked breasts.
“You come with disapproval in your eyes, my friend.” Her own eyes were glazed. Laudanum, I thought.
“I come out of concern, for you.” I could hear the baby crying in the other room. “I think you should be cautious. Grief is chasing you. Let it catch you. It will hurt less, in the end.”
“You envy my hot blood. I recommend for you a diet of truffles and celery soup, to heat you up.” She laughed, a laugh without joy.
“Tallita, I love you—but I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”
Tears came to her eyes. “See what you’ve done!” She threw herself down onto her bed.
“Why is it you weep?” I sat down beside her, took her hand. It was soft, without any sense of bone.
“Will you forgive me—for Barras?” she asked.
“Do you care for him?”
“He’s an odd duck, but he amuses me.”
“In all the world, Tallita, you are likely the only woman who could seduce our friend.”
“One has to be imaginative,” she said wearily.
I smiled. “Rest.” I kissed her forehead.
“A pox on these men,” she said, closing her eyes.
In which I am introduced to a strange lit
tle man
August 6, 1795.
Everywhere there is talk of divining, cartomancers, fortunetellers, soothsayers…that mystical realm so much the passion now.
“Rose is always told she will be Queen of France,” Thérèse announced at Minerva’s this afternoon. She was stretched out on the chaise longue wearing an ivory silk robe and a green wig—the effect was bizarre, startling. (“Les merveilleuses,” they call us, the amazing ones.)
“Why—that’s horrible,” Minerva said, adjusting her white gauze petticoats.
“Only once,” I protested, “as a girl in Martinico. The other time, in the Carmes, I was simply told that I would marry a man who would astonish the world.” I shrugged. “But what does it mean? My fortunes are extraordinary, yet my life is mundane.”
At that moment Barras was introduced. With him was a curious-looking man with short legs and a big head. Minerva stood to greet them.
“Who is that man with Deputy Barras?” Fortunée Hamelin asked, watching the two approach. “Another protégé?” She made a face.
“I may have seen him at the Feydeau,” tiny Madame de Crény said.
“If you had, you would surely remember,” Thérèse said.
The man was remarkable, it was true, but for all the wrong reasons. His long, limp hair hung down around his ears in a sorry attempt at fashion. His skin was sallow and his figure so thin his threadbare breeches seemed to hang.
“Whatever can Barras have in mind?” Thérèse whispered.
We were silenced for the purpose of introductions. “Citoyen Buonaparte, la veuve Beauharnais…”
“You are a widow,” the stranger said. His accent was rough—unpleasant. Italian? I could not be sure.
“The Republican general, Vicomte Alexandre de Beauharnais, was this lady’s husband,” Barras said.
Citoyen Buonaparte clasped my hand. His eyes were large, grey in colour, striking. His teeth were good. But there was an intensity in his expression that forbade levity. I was relieved when he was introduced to the others in our group, who seemed to respond to him as silently as I. He took a seat and said no more.
The Josephine B. Trilogy Page 35