The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  Your daughter, Hortense

  [Undated]

  I don’t know what to make of Hortense’s letter. It dismays me to think that Émilie is unhappy, but at the same time I confess I’m charmed by the admission that Louis may fancy my daughter—my daughter who is so terrified of boys! How am I ever to marry her?

  Corsica

  Honoured sister,

  This letter is to inform you that my husband is available to take over the command of the fort in Marseille. Please inform Director Barras that General Bonaparte’s brother-in-law is the only suitable candidate for the post. We will move to Marseille in July.

  Elisa Bonaparte Bacchiocchi

  [Undated]

  After posting my letters, I took a long walk up the mountain to a little chapel perched at the top of a steep hill, a charming stone structure overlooking the valley. I had to pry open the door. It was musty and damp inside. The silence was heavy, comforting. I sat for a time thus, alone with my thoughts. On impulse, I knelt.

  So many prayers tumbled out of my heart! I prayed for the safety of the fleet, for Bonaparte and the boys. I prayed that Émilie would come to love her husband and that my daughter’s heart would calm. I prayed for the health of Aunt Désirée and the old Marquis, and for the success of my treatment here. I prayed that the Bodin Company would prosper and that I would soon be able to pay off my debts and provide for my children’s future. But above all, I prayed for patience in dealing with Bonaparte’s family.

  June 18.

  A day at the baths—huge, steaming pools dotted with heads, women in bright scarves. The cavernous chamber echoed the sounds of laughter, whispered gossip. Shoulders immersed, toes emerging, a knee, two. Floating languorously, a woman laughs, another blows bubbles. A dream world, this.

  [Undated]

  I’ve had an accident.* Hortense is with me now, thank God. Great pain, despair.

  June 23, Rue de Thrévenot, Paris

  Dear Rose,

  To think that you almost died! I am enclosing an ounce of licorice and coriander seeds your girl could make up into an excellent purge. Scrape the licorice and slice it thin, bruise the seeds and put these both in a pint of water and boil it a little. Strain this water into an ounce of senna and let it sit for six hours. Strain from the senna and drink it while fasting.

  Remember your prayers, now more than ever.

  Your godmother, Aunt Désirée

  Note—My neighbour informed me that the fleet is headed to Spain. She read it in the Messager des Relations Extérieures. But an article in the Postillon de Calais said your husband intended to seize the island of Malta. Isn’t that in the other direction?

  June 23, La Chaumière

  Darling,

  The Glories wept to hear of your terrible fall. It’s shocking to think that such a thing could happen at a health spa. Barras informs me that the doctor insists you will recover. I’m sending a parcel of remedies. I was comforted to learn that Hortense is with you.

  Your loving friend, Thérèse

  June 24, Luxembourg Palace

  Chère amie,

  Dr. Martinet assures me you are out of danger. You must be his only patient; the memos he sends would take hours to prepare, not to mention the reports he has been publishing in a medical journal in which he describes in fulsome detail each and every enema he administers. (Are you aware of this?)

  I wrote to General Brune* as you requested. I will let you know as soon as I hear. The last thing you need to worry about right now is the fate of the Bodin Company. Don’t worry, my dear, “Papa will fix it.”

  Père Barras

  July 8.

  It has been eighteen days now. My arms, although still horribly bruised and painful to move, are out of the bandages. At least I am able to feed myself again, and to write, although my script is feeble, like that of an old woman. I am both comforted and plagued by a constant stream of well-wishers.

  I can remember very little of the actual fall. The first thing I recall is lying on the street with men standing over me, everything dreamlike. And then the sharp pain of being turned—I’m told I cried out horribly—and then the sickening comfort of something warm and moist on my skin, the woollish smell of blood (for a quick-witted servant had slaughtered a lamb and wrapped me in its still-warm hide). Then the treatments began—the enemas and douches, the baths, the leeches, the bleeding and the infusions. I am determined to get better if only to end the “cure”!

  Hortense is doting and sweet (but bored, I fear). “I love you,” I told her this morning, as she wheeled me around in my invalid chair. “Whatever happens to me, I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

  She stooped down under my sunshade and kissed me on the cheek. “You will walk again, Maman.”

  This tenderness between us almost makes my suffering worthwhile.

  July 10.

  Again, terrible pain—just when I thought I was getting better. I am overcome with a feeling of hopelessness. It has been twenty days and I still can’t stand.

  9 Messidor, Luxembourg Palace

  Chère amie,

  I want you to be the first to know. Bonaparte has dodged Nelson’s ships and taken Malta—a stroke of incredible good fortune.

  Père Barras

  July 16.

  I walked for three minutes. Shooting pain.

  22 Messidor, Luxembourg Palace

  Chère amie,

  No doubt you are recovering, judging from the constant stream of petitioners you have been sending my way. Regarding your requests, please note that I have:

  1. Found employment for the nephew of the former Abbess of the Convent of Panthémont.

  2. Seen to it that Bonaparte’s doctor’s wife, Citoyenne Yvan, was sent her bonus. (She asked me to tell you that Pugdog is content and has even grown plump.)

  3. Named Citoyen Félix Bacchiocchi, the General’s esteemed (sic) brotherin-law, commander of Fort Saint-Nicolas in Marseille. I pray to God that the citizens of that town are never in need of his protection.

  4. Succeeded (finally—it wasn’t easy) in getting the names of three of the five citizens you requested erased from the List.

  5. And last, but certainly not least, regarding that spirited dancer who was run out of Milan for her so-called convictions (for coquetting with French soldiers is more to the point), I’ve succeeded in finding a placement for her with the Opéra-Comique. (She has offered to “repay” me. If only all acts of mercy were so rewarding.)

  But my question to you, my friend, is this—how do all these strange and rather pathetic characters find their way to you? Do take care, chérie. Your last letter rather alarmed me.

  Père Barras

  July 17, Paris

  Honoured sister:

  I am aware that forty thousand per annum translates into three thousand three hundred and thirty-three francs a month. One must, however, take the cost of administration into account.

  I am returning to Dr. Martinet the bills submitted for your treatment since your fall. I have informed him that all expenses incurred in the course of a cure of infertility, however unexpected and unusual, are your responsibility. The Bonaparte Family Trust cannot be held accountable.

  Familial regards, Joseph Bonaparte

  July 18, La Chaumière

  Darling,

  You would have loved to see the parade here yesterday: eighty wagons loaded with the finest art of Italy were carted with great éclat to the Louvre. Over each enormous case there was a banner proclaiming the contents—Raphael, Titian, Domenichino, Guerchino. It was enough to make even the most uncultured among us swoon. But the triumph, of course, were the four horses of Saint Mark from Venice.

  Naturally, the Directors neglected to give your husband the credit for bringing all this wonderful loot to Paris. Oh, forgive me, I forget myself—for “liberating works of genius.” In Paris, at least, the statue of Apollo may be viewed without his silly fig leaf. If that isn’t liberation, what is?

  Your loving friend, Thérèser />
  August 4, Luxembourg Palace

  Chère amie,

  Victories in Egypt! One at El-Ramanyeh, another at Chebreis and then, the coup de grâce, a decisive victory over the Mamelouks near Cairo. “The Battle of the Pyramids” we have named it.

  I know as heartening as this news is that you will be disappointed over the lack of letters from that land. Unfortunately, the English are high-jacking whatever ships Bonaparte sends in our direction. It has a certain charm, this relationship. We capture their ships, read their mail; they capture our ships, read ours. If only their letters were more interesting.

  Regarding more mundane matters, you will be amused to know that General Brune came all the way back to Paris from Milan just to complain about the chicanery of certain of our government officials there, including the “shameless plundering” of your charming sister-in-law Pauline Bonaparte and her accomplice in greed, her husband General Victor Leclerc.

  However, before General Brune returned to Milan (stomped back, I should say), I managed to have “a word” with him about the Bodin Company contract. The merest hint of a payback put him in an agreeable disposition. Ah, but these virtuous Republicans are the easiest to bribe.

  Père Barras

  Note—Forgive me, my dear, but I simply cannot and will not promote Citoyen Lahorie. As a director of this Republic, I must, from time to time, act responsibly. I understand that he was a friend of your first husband and that therefore you wish to help the man, but frankly, he’s an idiot.*

  August 9.

  I walked for ten minutes. I am determined to join Bonaparte in Egypt.

  In which victories are followed by defeat

  September 16, 1798—Paris.

  I arrived home to devastating news. Buried in a massive stack of calling cards, parcels, letters of congratulation and the usual demands from bill collectors, there was a note from Barras: Come see me as soon as you arrive. Urgent.

  I put my hat back on. “What is it, Maman?” Hortense has become sensitive to my moods.

  “Director Barras wishes to see me.” No doubt it had to do with news from the East regarding Bonaparte. Or perhaps Eugène! I didn’t like the word urgent.

  It took some time to get to the palace—the streets were congested, and everywhere there were signs of festivity, preparations for the Republican Year VII celebrations. On Rue Honoré, an enormous banner depicting Bonaparte with palm trees and pyramids in the background had been hung from the bell tower of a church.

  “Madame Bonaparte!” Barras’s elderly valet bounded to his feet. “Director Barras has been most anxious for your arrival.” Bruno pulled the big oak doors open.

  Barras was playing the violin when I entered. He stopped abruptly when he saw me, his gold-rimmed lorgnon falling, swinging on a pink cord, his eyes tender and sad. “I’m so relieved to see you. You’ve survived the journey? You look thin.” His voice sweet, bell-like.

  I embraced him, inhaling his familiar scent, spirit of ambergris. How was I? Fine, fine, I lied. In fact, the journey had been painful, but I didn’t want to list my aches and pains. “I received your note.” Gingerly, I took a seat, for my hip was inflamed after two days in a jolting carriage. “I confess I’m anxious.”

  “Of course! Of course!” Barras took the chair near mine, shifted uncomfortably. “We’ve had…news,” he said, clearing his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “Paul, please tell me—are they all right?” Nothing could be worse than what I imagined.

  “Bonaparte, you mean?” Crossing his legs at the ankle.

  “Yes—and the boys.” Eugène, Louis.

  “Of course, yes. They’re fine, I assure you, but there has been…How should I put it? There’s been a bit of a setback. But I assure you, yes, Bonaparte and the boys are safe,” he repeated, raising his left hand as if making a vow, “as are most of the men.”

  Most? I tilted my head to one side, my dangling earrings tinkling.

  “But the fleet is…sunk,” he said in a whisper.

  Sunk? I listened in a daze as Barras explained. After Admiral Brueys anchored the fleet at Aboukir, the English swooped down and destroyed all but four of our ships. The commander of the Timoléon set his ship on fire rather than surrender. He died, standing on the deck. Admiral Brueys was cut in two standing at the helm of L’Orient. The explosion of the gunpowder in the hold could be heard in Alexandria, twenty-five miles away. The battle went on for three days, the bloodiest ever fought at sea. And yet the English did not lose a single ship.

  I put my fist to my lips, overwhelmed by the enormity of the loss. The greatest fleet in history since the Crusades—gone? Over three thousand men killed or wounded. All the supplies—including the gold needed to buy provisions—lost.

  Barras refilled his glass, spilling spirits onto the carpet. “And, of course, the unfortunate thing is that now the troops are…” He cleared his throat again. “Stranded.”

  My heart began to pound. “But surely we’ll rescue them,” I said, twisting my handkerchief.

  “I can’t see how! The English are now in control of the sea. It’s doubtful that we’ll even be able to get a mail boat through.”

  A feeling of panic came over me. I had to get home, before I was overcome.

  “You understand, we’re keeping this confidential,” he went on.

  “But Paul, an entire fleet, how can you—?”

  “The exhibition opens tomorrow! We’ve planned the most spectacular New Year fête imaginable, to celebrate Bonaparte’s victories. And now this. The people laugh at us as it is. I’m already accused of every vice, of committing every crime, every petty thievery. To hear people talk, I’m a very busy man. Have you heard the latest epigram? ‘If only the Republic could be disembarrassed.’ Charming, don’t you think? And what about that poster of a lance, a lettuce leaf and a rat? It’s everywhere; you’ll see it. I finally figured it out: the seventh year will kill them.* And, you know, I’m starting to think maybe they’re—”

  “Paul, please, tell me. What does this mean?”

  Barras’s glass missed the fireplace and shattered against the wall. Toto jumped up, cowering. “What it means is that the goddamned English have downed the entire French fleet.” He sank back into his chair, his hands over his eyes. “Grand Dieu, I’m going mad.”

  September 17.

  Hortense was hopping up and down with excitement. “There are ribbons and bouquets on all the posts.”

  “And colourful silk banners fluttering in the breeze,” Émilie (Madame Lavalette now) said.

  “That’s wonderful,” I said, trying to put some enthusiasm in my voice.

  Hortense became concerned. “We are going to the exhibition, Maman—aren’t we?”

  It was easier than I thought it would be, accepting congratulations on behalf of my husband’s victories, smiling, bowing, nodding—not letting on. I watched as if from a distance the people dancing, singing, staggering in the glow of their country’s glory, in the illusion of victory. The realization of defeat would come soon enough. Perhaps it is always thus. Perhaps all victories are false, defeat the inevitable reality.

  Or perhaps, more truly, I too did not want to think about what I knew to be true, that the greatest of victories had been followed by the greatest of defeats.

  I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. Barras, looking ill—from last night’s tippling, no doubt. “How are you managing?” he asked, his soft voice very nearly drowned out by all the commotion. He was wearing the ceremonial robe of a director, an enormous crimson cashmere cape and a velvet toque with a tricolour plume.

  “Not too bad,” I said, keeping an eye on Hortense, Caroline, Émilie and Jérôme, who were over by a lemonade vendor. An enclave of Bonapartes sat in a roped-off cluster directly in front of the stage. “It’s not as hard as I thought it would be.” During the day, that is. During the night it was another matter. “Do they know?” I tilted my head in the direction of the Bonapartes—Joseph and his wife Julie, Lucien (back from C
orsica), Pauline and Victor Leclerc (recently arrived from Milan). All of them were curiously sullen in the midst of so much festivity.

  “Certainly not. That hot-headed Lucien would leak it to the Moniteur in a minute, along with accusations that it is the fault of the Directors—my fault, to be specific. Did you know that he’s been made Secretary of the Five Hundred?”

  “But he was only elected a deputy three months ago.”

  “He’s become quite popular on the strength of his rather vocal opposition to the Directors—on the strength of his opposition to me, I should say. And as for that smiling jackal of a man, that mild-mannered—” He raised one bushy eyebrow. “I wouldn’t walk a dark alley with Joseph Bonaparte, let’s put it that way.”

  “But why do they all look so glum?”

  Barras snorted. “They don’t like their seats, they should be up on the stage, the posters should have their faces on them, there should be more posters, the posters aren’t big enough.” He threw up his hands. “In short, it’s not enough. It’s never enough for a Bonaparte, apparently. Your husband excepted, of course.”

  “Of course,” I echoed—not paying attention, I confess. An attractive young woman had stooped to exchange a word with Joseph. There was something familiar about her.

  “Ready, Director Barras?” It was Director Neufchâteau, the newest member of the council of five Directors, and as Minister of the Interior the mastermind behind the exhibition. I wanted an opportunity to thank him personally for responding to my request that funding to the Vosges municipalities be increased. As well, I had a number of other requests to make. But most important, Bonaparte was going to be in need of allies—especially now.