The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  She looked older than I expected. There were frown creases between her eyes that her heavy make-up could not hide. She looked like a grisette,* I thought, with an unexpected feeling of sympathy…and guilt. I knew what happened to maids who were let go without a reference, knew what choices they had.

  “Madame,” she said, standing nervously before me as she had stood only four years before. “I have come to beg your forgiveness.” She dropped her head, a subservient gesture as superficial as her words.

  “Forgiveness is a great deal to ask.” I didn’t like the feeling that had come over me, the realization that I had power and she had none. “Tell me why you have come,” I said finally.

  “I wish to marry, Madame—but I am in need of a dowry.”

  Ah, of course: she had come for money. Once upon a time, in a more trusting time, I had promised her a dowry. “You are betrothed?” I asked, both angry and repentant. None of us was innocent, if the truth were to be told.

  “Almost, Madame. If I had a dowry, an English jockey would marry me, he said.”

  “Would you be moving to England then?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “Very well then.”*

  Evening.

  Fouché slumped into the chair by the fire. “Discouraged, Citoyen?” I asked. The Minister of Police had just had a meeting with Bonaparte.

  “I confess to defeat. It appears I’ve been unsuccessful in my attempt to dissuade the First Consul from going ahead with his plan to resurrect the odious custom of the masked ball.” He made a wry face. “The Laundresses Guild won out, I regret to say.”**

  “You will get no support from me on that score, I’m afraid.” It had been over seven years since the last masked ball. All of Paris was in a state of excited anticipation, the shops displaying costumes, fanciful creations. It was impossible to buy bright silk. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to go as an Egyptian god, a Mameluke, a Turk or a harem dancer. I myself was going as a butterfly. And Bonaparte—whom I had finally persuaded to attend—as Caesar.

  “That surprises me not in the least,” Fouché said, tapping his snuffbox. Made of black and gold enamel, it matched his jacket exactly—a fashionable detail curiously out of place in a slovenly man. “But then, the safety of the good citizens of Paris is not your responsibility.”

  He offered me a pinch of snuff. I refused. “Am I being reprimanded, Citoyen Minister of Police?”

  Fouché snapped closed his pretty little box and slipped it into his pocket. “Put masks on the good citizens of Paris and give them, for one night, the freedom to act without consequences?” He shrugged. “Nous verrons.”

  Sunday.

  “You haven’t told Émilie? She doesn’t know?” Aunt Désirée was dusting her china figurines for the third time in ten minutes.

  “Do you think I should have?” I asked, looking out the window into the courtyard. Why were they late? It was quarter-past three. Lavalette and his very special charge—Émilie’s father and my former brother-in-law, Vicomte François de Beauharnais—were supposed to have been here fifteen minutes earlier, one full hour before Émilie herself was due to arrive. The anticipation was unendurable.

  “When I told the Marquis that his son was coming, the shock almost killed him. Imagine if François had walked in without any warning? Émilie is frail, she might…” Aunt Désirée blinked, sniffed. “Oh dear, François is not even here and already I’m weeping!”

  I helped her to the sofa and rang for her maid to bring hysteric water. “And the salts,” Aunt Désirée exclaimed, fanning herself. “I sent the scullery maid to the apothecary this morning just to make sure we had them on hand. Oh!” she shrieked when the doorbell sounded. “It’s them.” With a terrified expression.

  “Sit down, sit down,” I said soothingly, but practically pushing her back onto the sofa. “You stay here.”

  “Is my hair all right?”

  “You’ve never looked lovelier,” I assured her, hurrying into the foyer where I found Lavalette helping a middle-aged man off with his jacket. It was François, looking heavier, true, and curiously old-fashioned in his powdered periwig, but distinguished, gentle François nonetheless. Without ceremony I rushed to him and took his hands in mine, blinking back tears; he looked so very much like Alexandre.

  “Rose?” He folded me in his arms. It had been…how long? Seven years since he’d fled? In those terrible seven years his brother had been guillotined; the King and Queen had been beheaded; we’d endured a Reign of Terror and established not one but three Republics (trying to get it right). And I had remarried, a man who had saved the nation, and the Palace of Kings was now my home. “You haven’t changed a bit,” he said, drying his eyes.

  “Fou-Fou?” Aunt Désirée exclaimed the moment François entered the drawing room, calling him by his baby name. François stooped to give the woman who had been a mother to him a tender kiss. “You look so old!” she exclaimed, crossing herself. And then she started to bawl. “I’m going to be fine, don’t worry, don’t worry!” she cried out, honking into an enormous kerchief.

  François helped her to her feet and took her in his arms, his chin resting on the top of her coiffured hair, blinking and blinking, shyly patting her heaving back.

  “That’s enough!” Aunt Désirée said, standing back, sniffling. “So. There. I’ve wept and now I’m finished. Let’s go see your father, lest he die before you even get up the stairs. Did you know that we’re married now? You may call me Maman.”

  “Maman,” François echoed obediently, smiling with tender affection.

  I caught Lavalette’s eye. “Émilie will be here at four,” I whispered to him, glancing at the clock. Only fifteen more minutes.

  “I’ll wait for her down here,” he said, taking off his silly round hat and running his hand across his balding head. “Does she know?”

  I rolled my eyes, shook my head and ran up the stairs.

  François was standing on the landing outside his father’s door, his hand on the crystal knob. “Désirée—Maman—told me to wait out here,” he said, his voice nervous.

  “Go, go,” I said, taking hold of his elbow, urging him in.

  The room smelled of aromatic vinegar and roses.

  “Father?” François said, with a hint of disbelief in his voice. The shrunken man in the feather bed was not the stern patriarch he’d known.

  “Let’s wait downstairs,” I whispered to my aunt.

  The Marquis held out his trembling hand. François pressed his father’s fingers to his lips. His face was glistening with tears and his lower lip was quivering uncontrollably.

  I tugged at my aunt’s sleeve. “Let’s leave them alone together,” I repeated. Frankly, I didn’t know how much more my heart could take. But just as I said that, I heard light footsteps on the stairs—Émilie?

  She appeared in the door, her veil covering her face.

  “François, there’s someone here to see you,” Aunt Désirée said.

  Émilie began backing out of the room, but her husband was behind her—she couldn’t. “Don’t be frightened, sweetheart,” I said, reaching for her hand.

  “Émilie?” Her father’s voice was thick with emotion.

  “Don’t be silly,” Aunt Désirée said. “This is your father.”

  With aristocratic gentility, François bowed. Émilie slowly raised her veil.

  “Very well, that’s enough tears for today!” Aunt Désirée said, opening the window and taking a deep breath of cold air. “Whew!” she exclaimed, fanning herself. “Whew.”

  [Undated]

  A blissful day at Malmaison. Rollicking games of Prisoner’s Base with the children on the lawn, Bonaparte laughing. We debated (noisily!) who would play what parts in the play we’ve decided to put on (Corneille’s Mélite). And then, chess in the evening in front of the fire, Bonaparte cheating (or trying to), the children teasing, in an uproar! “You can’t do that, Papa,” Hortense blurted out, objecting.

  Papa. Bonaparte smiled, caught my eye
. He looked as if he’d just been blessed.

  February 25.

  “Why are you laughing?” Bonaparte stood before us in a badly draped white toga, a haphazard crown of gold leaves circling his brow.

  I tried to control the laughter that was welling up in me, but it kept overflowing, sending first Hortense and then Eugène into a fit. Bonaparte looked so serious.

  “That’s it. I’m not going,” he said, pulling off the crown. Four golden leaves fluttered to the floor.

  “Bonaparte, no!” We all jumped up in protest. “It’s perfect,” I assured him, and then Hortense and Eugène joined in. “With your Roman features, your profile, it gives you a heroic look.”

  He regarded us without expression. “Then what, may I ask, do you find so amusing?”

  “We know you are Bonaparte,” Hortense said, sweetly taking his arm.

  “Nobody else will,” Eugène joined in.

  “You’ll be in disguise,” I assured him.

  Of course Bonaparte was recognized immediately. The ballroom was thronged, yet the crowd parted reverently when he approached. (Fortunately, no laughs.)

  I clasped his hand—it was clammy. Crowds made him uneasy, I knew. Perhaps he was right, perhaps this had been a mistake, I thought. I looked over my shoulder. Roustam, dressed as himself, was not far behind.

  “Is that Émilie?” I asked Hortense, nodding toward a young woman in a medieval gown, a veil covering her face. She was standing with her husband Lavalette (a knight) and another man I could not place at first. Her father François, I realized suddenly, dressed as a Revolutionary in long pants, short jacket and bonnet rouge.

  “And isn’t that Aunt Désirée?” Eugène asked.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said. Aunt Désirée, dressed incongruously as a Gypsy, was seated beside the dear old Marquis, who was wearing his old (very old) Commander-of-the-Navy hat.

  “There’s Caroline, with Murat,” Hortense said.

  “Ah!” The Viking and the belly dancer—staring into each other’s eyes. (Who would have thought that a rough soldier like Murat would fall so deeply in love, and with a girl like Caroline—his wife?)

  A man in a black hood appeared before us: Fouché, dressed as Death. “I’ll stay close by,” he assured us.

  “How comforting,” I said.

  Suddenly there was a flurry of excitement by the door, raucous cheers, rude hoots. Four women had made a rather dramatic entrance dressed as wood nymphs, their brief tunics (transparent over flesh-coloured shifts, so they looked naked) ending at their knees.

  “Maman!” Hortense hissed. “It’s Citoyenne Tallien—with her legs showing.” She looked away, horrified.

  My Glories! Followed by Fortunée’s blinking husband Hamelin (dressed as a Venetian gondoliere) and a pretty little man dressed as a jester—Captain Charles? An old woman dressed as a harlot clung to his arm: Madame Montaniser. Rich old Madame Montaniser.

  Bonaparte turned to Fouché. “Those women are half-naked. It’s unacceptable.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Fouché said.

  The contredanse was about to begin. “No, wait.” I grabbed Fouché’s sleeve. “I’ll talk to them.”

  Thérèse embraced me with open arms. “I have to tell you something.” I pulled her into an alcove. How was I going to put it? “There’s a bit of a problem.” I took a breath. “Bonaparte is concerned about…dress.” Undress. “So.” I swallowed. “So it might be best if you left, you and the others.”

  “But we just got here.” She had to raise her voice to be heard.

  I grimaced. “I’m afraid you will be asked to go—by the police—unless you leave.” A tall man appeared at the edge of the dance floor, his hand on the small of his back. He was wearing a mask—the face of Lazare Hoche. I put my hand to my heart.

  “We haven’t done anything wrong,” Thérèse said.

  The man in the mask turned to face me and then disappeared into the crowd.

  “It has to do with…changes,” I said, my heart pounding violently against my ribs. Was it who I feared it might be? “Setting new standards.” And personal sacrifice. I felt my eyes filling. I swallowed, took a careful breath. I didn’t want my make-up to smear. “Thérèse, please, don’t you see?” The musicians began to play. “The Age of Fable is over, and the Reign of—” I blinked back tears. The Reign of History, I’d started to say.

  “Look,” she said, taking my hand, “I do understand. I know it can’t be easy.” She kissed my cheeks. “I’ll tell the—”

  But she was interrupted by Fortunée Hamelin, her forehead glistening, her bare breasts heaving. “Isn’t this wonderful? Parbleu, what a fête. Thérèse, Ouvrard wants you. We need one more to make a set. Love your costume, Josephine.” Fortunée grabbed Thérèse’s hand, swirled her off into the sea of revellers.

  I stood for a moment, my back against a pillar, watching the revelry. I felt dizzy from the press of the crowd, the unsettling costumes, the masked eyes without warmth.

  “Madame Bonaparte, do not disappear on me again.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Fouché.” He always approached so silently.

  “There is something you should be aware of.” He was, perhaps, the only sober person in the room—except for my husband. “Paul Barras is here. I recommend caution.”

  I nodded. I knew.

  “He’s wearing a mask that resembles the face of General Lazare Hoche.”

  Fouché led me back to the head table. “Ah, there you are.” Bonaparte was irked: young Jérôme, already drunk, had challenged one of Pauline’s lovers to a duel. He took my hand. His sad, serious expression was a welcome contrast, somehow, to the crazed gaiety all around me. “Why are you trembling?” he asked. I heard a woman laughing loudly. I looked back over my shoulder. Captain Charles was juggling balls for old Madame Montaniser. “Did you talk to Thérèse?” Bonaparte pressed my fingers to his lips.

  I nodded, blinking back tears. We had only each other, I realized. But it was enough. Indeed, it was a very great deal.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her things had changed.” Things had changed.

  “Consul General,” Fouché interrupted, “I’ve just been informed that the musicians intend to play Chant au départ. I think you should—” But he’d no sooner said the words than the opening chords were struck. Suddenly, everyone was cheering: Vive Bonaparte! Peace with Bonaparte!

  “I think you would be safer on the platform, Consul General.”

  Bonaparte clasped my hand and tilted his head toward the platform.

  “Me?”

  “I want you beside me.”

  Fouché pushed his way through to the steps, Bonaparte and I following in his wake. When we emerged onto the platform, a cheer went up. Vive Bonaparte!

  Over the heads of the crowd, I saw a scuffle at the back by the big double doors. Four gendarmes were escorting out the man in the Hoche mask: Père Barras. My throat tightened.

  The noise was getting louder and wilder. Some had started to sing the Marseillaise. The ballroom walls seemed to shake with a roar of cheers: Vive Bonaparte! Vive la République! The Revolution is over!

  I saw Joseph and Lucien Bonaparte, dressed as pirates, standing by a pillar. I bowed to them. (Gloating: Yes! I confess it.) Then I felt a tugging at my hem. It was Mademoiselle Malesherbes, my sweet young petitioner, dressed as a violet. Her grandmother, Countess de Malesherbes (with a jester’s hat on), was slumped into an invalid’s chair beside her. “Consulesse Bon à Parté.” The girl had to yell in order to be heard. “My grandmother wants me to tell you: Long live the Angel of Mercy.”

  I smiled and made a little wave at the countess, who clapped, grinning toothlessly.

  “The Revolution is over!” a man yelled nearby, his tears ghoulishly streaking his black and white harlequin make-up.

  I saw François Beauharnais in the crowd, standing by a statue of Venus, one arm clasped around his daughter’s shoulders. Lieutenant Lavalette was standing behind
them, hovering. He bent down to say something to his wife. Émilie lifted her veil and smiled.

  It was then that I noticed Thérèse at the back of the ballroom, following Fortunée Hamelin, Minerva and Madame de Crény out the big double doors. My Glories! Thérèse threw me a kiss, waved goodbye. “Ahr-ree-veh-dayr-chee!” I heard Fortunée’s husband Hamelin yell as the doors closed behind them.

  The Age of Fable is over…

  Then, strangely, I could see the cheering faces, but I couldn’t hear the shouts. And it was then that I saw her again, in the shadow behind the two pillars: that face, set jaw, the ruffled white cap.

  I touched Bonaparte’s arm and I could hear again. The roaring in my ears mingled with the cheers. The Revolution is over! over! over!

  “Long live the Angel of Mercy!” The girl tipped back her grandmother’s chair, spun it around, the old woman cackling.

  “Bow,” Bonaparte whispered, squeezing my hand.

  I bowed and a great cheer went up. I glanced at Bonaparte. Was that for me?

  “They love you,” he said.

  Us, I realized.

  He held up my hand. We bowed to the cheering crowd.

  The Age of Fable is over…the Reign of History has begun.

  Chronology

  YEAR DATE

  1796 March 9 Napoleon and Josephine marry.

  March 11 Napoleon leaves Paris to take command of the Army of Italy.

  April 12-22 Napoleon opens his Italian campaign: six victories.

  May Barras buys Grosbois.

  June 20 Désirée Renaudin and Marquis de Beauharnais marry.

  June 26 Josephine leaves Paris to join Napoleon in Italy.

  July 13 Josephine joins Napoleon in Milan.

  July 31 Josephine comes under cannon fire.

  November 15-17 Napoleon is victorious at the Battle of Arcole.

  late December Napoleon’s sister Pauline arrives in Milan.