The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

  There were tears in Bonaparte’s eyes as he nodded, yes.

  May 22.

  The British are holding Stéphanie at Portsmouth and refuse to return her!

  “Bonaparte, how can they do this? She’s only a child!”

  “Maudits anglais,” Bonaparte cursed, pacing.

  May 25—back at Saint-Cloud.

  England has opened fire. Its navy captured one of our ships, killed ten men, wounded as many more.

  No word on Stéphanie. I can’t sleep.

  June 10.

  Bonaparte has received an offer from England to return Stéphanie, but along with a demand for trade concessions he felt he couldn’t responsibly accept! I wept and begged and finally he agreed. We’re both weak with emotion.

  June 14, 11:15 A.M.—Saint-Cloud.

  At last: Stéphanie will be returned. We are so relieved. “But she won’t be here for a month at least,” Bonaparte told me.

  My breathing was coming in sharp gasps. “It’s all right,” he said, holding me close. “It’s going to be all right.”

  June 19.

  “I have to tour the north coast,” Bonaparte informed me this morning. Of course, I nodded. War preparations. A fleet of flat-bottomed boats was being built, I knew—ships that could battle England’s fleet, ships that could invade. “I want you to accompany me. Spare no expense. I must make a strong impression.”

  “Very well, Bonaparte,” I told him, only too happy to oblige. “But are you prepared to pay?” Bonaparte wants me to be luxuriously attired in a new gown every evening, but he balks at paying the bills. “In advance,” I persisted, suggesting an allowance not only for myself but also for Clari, the lady-in-waiting who will accompany me.

  “Madame, how does one begin to dispense such a sum?” Clari asked me later in all seriousness, for Bonaparte has given her thirty thousand francs.

  “Don’t worry, Clari. It’s really quite easy,” I said, beginning a list of what I will need to take—but thinking, I confess, of what I will be leaving behind: a certain Mademoiselle Georges.

  June 23.

  We are ready, trunks packed, jewels in a velvet-lined strongbox. I’ve prepared for this trip as if for battle: my munitions are my gowns, my ointments, my salves.

  I am forty today—an old woman, many would say, at an age when a woman has no claim on her husband’s passions. I think with affection of Aunt Désirée, the seductive swish of her taffeta skirts. “Too old? Nonsense!”

  “Every battle should have a definite object,” Bonaparte says, and for me the object of this battle is his heart. In the north I will have Bonaparte to myself.

  June 25, I think—Amiens (overcast).

  The route to Amiens was decorated with a profusion of garlands, the streets and squares thronged with people cheering Bonaparte’s arrival. In the heart of the city our carriage was forced to a halt. We heard the coachman protesting—for the people were unhitching our horses. Bonaparte looked uneasy. Crowds make him nervous, I know. Who is to say what might happen? And then a thunderous cheer went up and our carriage began to roll forward again—slowly, for we were being pulled by the people, so great was their adulation. Even Bonaparte’s eyes were glistening.

  June 26—a Sunday.

  As I write this, I am deafened by the cheers of an enormous crowd at our window, crying out over and over, so fervently that the words become a heartbeat, a prayer: Long live Bonaparte! Long live Bonaparte! Long live Bonaparte!

  I watch my husband, standing still as a statue. The cheers are a roar one can almost feel, a wave of rapture. What is he thinking?

  “It’s frightening, isn’t it?” I have to raise my voice to be heard. “Who could ever have imagined this?”

  “I did,” he says, without turning, his tone strangely melancholy.

  [Undated]

  Bonaparte has succeeded in persuading most of the northern countries to close their ports to English goods. “Now if only I could stop the exports to England.”

  Russian hemp, for example, which gets sent to England to make rope for the British fleet. “Without rigging”—Bonaparte made a downward motion with his thumb—“even the invincible sink.”

  July 7—Lille.

  Bonaparte threw a scented letter onto my embroidery frame. I recognized Pauline’s unschooled hand. “Seems my beautiful sister has fully recovered from her devastating grief.” He sat down, frowning as he counted silently on his fingers. “But she’ll have to wait. It won’t be a year until November.”

  “What won’t be?” I asked, confused, trying to decipher Pauline’s misspellings. “She’s asking your permission to marry?” Already? Not Minister of the Marine Decrès, surely. I read on. “Prince Borghèse?”

  Clari looked up from her lacework. Oh là là, her eyes said.

  Oh là là, indeed! Prince Borghèse is the son of one of the wealthiest and most aristocratic families of Italy. I hate to think of the airs Pauline will put on if she becomes a princess.

  July 14, Bastille Day—Ghent.

  An exhausting day: audiences, visits to a public monument, two factories, a dinner followed by a reception, then the theatre. Bonaparte fell asleep during the after-piece in comic verse. “I’m not made for pleasure,” he said wearily, untying his neckcloth.

  “Yet some forms of pleasure suit you very well.” I smiled archly over my bare shoulder as I turned back the bed covers.

  August 12, 10:30 P.M.—Saint-Cloud again, at last.

  Louis, Hortense and the baby welcomed us home. Little Napoleon, big and healthy at nine months, gurgled at Bonaparte, which pleased him greatly. As we sat in the family drawing room, talking of this and that, the baby fell asleep in Bonaparte’s arms—a precious portrait. Oh, how we love this child!

  August 21.

  Stéphanie has arrived! Bonaparte and I have collapsed.

  She’s…oh, how to describe her? She is tall, for one thing, a giant of a girl with the body of a woman and the restless energy of a two-year-old. “I had the best time in England,” she exclaimed, smothering us in her embrace. “Getting kidnapped was so much fun!”

  “When does she begin boarding school?” Bonaparte asked faintly, exhausted after only an hour of the girl’s constant chatter.

  In two days, I told him. In the meantime, Mademoiselle Avrillion is charged with containing this cyclone of energy. And as for Madame Campan—she’s got a challenge ahead!

  October 24—Saint-Cloud, very late, long past midnight (can’t sleep).

  We’ve survived Pauline’s engagement dinner—nearly two hundred covers. There were fourteen of us at the head table: Bonaparte and I, Prince Camillo Borghèse and Pauline, Lucien, Elisa and Félix, Joseph and Julie, Louis and Hortense, Joachim and Caroline, Eugène.

  Prince Camillo Borghèse is well made, surprisingly ignorant, shockingly wealthy. Pauline was already flaunting the famous Borghèse diamonds. Lucien and Joseph seemed uneasy—why? Elisa hiccupped through dinner, as usual. Joachim was more fancifully dressed than Caroline, in his pink velvet toque dripping with ostrich feathers. Eugène dutifully attended to the (constant) needs of Signora Letizia—even going so far as to fill her nostrils with snuff.

  Much of the conversation was in Italian, for the benefit of Prince Borghèse, who seemed, however, not to understand what was being discussed regardless of the language. Pauline insisted on feeding him chicken morsels herself, the grease dripping onto his gold-embroidered silk vest.

  “I can see why Paris is abuzz with gossip about those two,” I told Eugène later, setting up for a game of billiards. I took the opening shot, a strong one that scattered the balls with a gratifying clatter.

  Eugène shrugged, chalking his cue. By the light of the candles, he appeared to be flushed. Was it wine? No, I didn’t think so. My son is moderate in his habits (at least around family). “Prince Borghèse is a good match for Pauline,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

  “Fortunately, they don’t seem to mind waiting to marry,” I said, studying the table.


  “Maman…”

  “Piffle,” I said, missing my shot.

  “Maman, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. But you must promise not to tell Papa.”

  “You know I can’t promise that, Eugène.”

  “Well…” He grimaced. “Pauline and Prince Borghèse are already married.”

  “They’re…?” Married?

  “The first of September, Maman, at Mortefontaine—seven weeks ago. Joseph and Lucien were in on it,” he went on nervously. “Julie told her dressmaker, who in turn told Hortense, who of course told—”

  Hortense knew! “And she didn’t tell me? And no one told Bonaparte?” Mon Dieu. I could just imagine the explosion. War with England is one thing—but to be played for a fool by his own family is another matter altogether. “Eugène, Bonaparte is going to be furious. He’s just announced Pauline’s engagement.”

  “That’s why you mustn’t tell him, Maman!”

  [Undated]

  “They’re what?”

  I nodded, my mouth dry. “September first,” I said finally, swallowing.

  “They’ve been married for two months?”

  “But only a church service, not the legal one. I suppose that makes a difference?” Timidly!

  “Sacrebleu! I can’t believe it,” Bonaparte muttered. “Who do they think I am? Some puppet they can play with—pull my strings, then put me away in a box when I get in the way?” He came to an abrupt stop, staring into the fire. “I suppose they all knew.”

  “I just found out myself,” I said, rushing to assure him. “I debated whether or not to tell you. I know how much you have on your mind right now, and…” I held out my hands, palms up, a gesture of appeasement. “But in the end, I thought you would prefer to know.”

  “I’m leaving immediately for Boulogne on an urgent military matter,” he said, sitting down at the escritoire, rummaging around for a quill, then scratching something on a scrap of paper. “Inform Pauline that I’m leaving with the express intention of not being present at the farce of her so-called wedding. I’ll be away for two weeks.”

  “Bonaparte, it might be best if—”

  “And furthermore!” His quill snapped, splattering droplets of ink onto his shirt. He pulled out the drawer of the secretaire with such force that it ended up in his lap, the contents strewn, sand everywhere. Quickly I scooped up a quill from the floor and handed it to him. “And furthermore,” he went on, oblivious to the mess, “advise her that it would be in her best interest if she and her idiot husband departed for Rome before I return.”

  November 6, Sunday—Mortefontaine.

  “Bonaparte said to send his regrets.” I embraced Pauline. She was drenched in a syrupy scent that caught in my throat, made me cough. “He was called away on an urgent military matter.” I made a peaceable half-bow to Prince Borghèse (who could have used some scent).

  “You don’t have to lie, beloved sister.” The “bride” broke into a mirthful giggle. “I guess I surprised him!”

  “Yes, the First Consul was…surprised,” I said, putting off informing her of Bonaparte’s demand that she and her husband leave Paris immediately. Perhaps after the ceremony, I thought. But after the ceremony, Bonaparte’s brother Lucien made an announcement that he himself had remarried one week before!

  “I’m happy for you, Lucien,” I lied, numb with shock.

  Now, in the quiet of my room, I feel a sick head pain coming on, imagining Bonaparte’s fury—deceived not once, but twice.

  November 10—Saint-Cloud.

  Family dinner tonight. Pauline agreed that she and Prince Borghèse will leave Paris before Bonaparte returns—on condition that she is formally “presented” at Saint-Cloud. Reluctantly I consented.

  November 13, Sunday.

  I should have guessed that Princess Pauline would make a theatrical event of the occasion. She and Prince Borghèse arrived at Saint-Cloud in a carriage drawn by six white horses, outriders in livery before and after carrying torches. My dame d’annonce threw open the double doors and announced (or rather, yelled), “Prince and Princess Borghèse.”

  Pauline entered the salon in a halo of blinding light, for she had adorned herself with virtually all the Borghèse diamonds. Her head, ears, neck and arms were loaded with a gaudy display of the priceless brilliants. Shuffling her feet to give the impression of floating, she approached me with her head bent forward in that strange position she considers regal.

  “Madame,” she said, bowing (slightly) before me, holding her hands rigid in order to avoid an unsightly bend at the wrist. Her eyes swept the crowd. She is a princess, and “a real one,” she informed everyone, I’m told, coquetting with the men and loudly referring to her husband the prince as “that idiot.”

  They leave for Rome tomorrow.

  November 19—Saint-Cloud.

  “So!” Bonaparte yawned. “How did it go with Pauline?”

  “As well as could be expected,” I said cautiously, pulling the covers up over us. “They left five days ago for Rome.” I didn’t want to tell him about Lucien, but I knew I had to. “I have bad news, however.” Quick, I thought, get it over with! “Lucien has married as well.” I braced for an explosion, but there was only silence. “Madame Jouberthou, the widow of a broker.” I winced before adding, “They married after the birth of their son.” (But before they were sure that her husband was, in fact, dead. This I refrained from saying.)

  “Lucien has a son?”

  “Six months old now.”

  “I don’t understand. He told me he’d consider marrying the Queen of Etruria,”* Bonaparte said, trying to comprehend. “And he was already married when he told me that?” He was silent for what seemed a long time. “Sometimes I wonder if my family even cares about me,” he said finally.

  “Your family loves you.”

  He took me in his arms. “I only have you.”

  We talked until dawn—of his mother, his brothers and sisters, Hortense and Eugène. We shared our enchantment with little Napoleon. Bonaparte said that although we would miss seeing the baby every day, he thought it would be good for Hortense and Louis to live in Compiègne for a time, Louis to take command of the troops stationed there. We talked of the challenges ahead, of preparing to battle England—and then, very late, Bonaparte began to talk of what was truly on his mind.

  “What will happen if I die? What will become of France?” It was an outpouring of emotion, as if he had needed to unburden himself. “Who can I talk to? Who can I trust?”

  I put his hand to my heart.

  “I’m tired of going out to the theatre every night,” Bonaparte said last night. “Let’s stay in—just the two of us.” This with an amorous look.

  Mimi grinned at me as she closed the door behind her. No flowers are being sent up to the little room.

  In which once again we have reason to fear

  January 28, 1804—Tuileries.

  I didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed to hear Fouché announced late this evening. I knew he would not have called at such an hour without a reason.

  “Ah, Senator Fouché, it’s good to see you,” Bonaparte said, inviting him to join us in our private suite. “A Corsican will always invite a caller to his hearth,” he added, attempting to be convivial.

  It was chilly in the drawing room. Bonaparte fanned the embers. “And so?” he said, turning to face his former Minister of Police, his arms crossed. “You must have something to report.”

  “Bonaparte!” I said, pouring our guest a glass of verjuice. “Do we not inquire, first, as to Madame Fouché, all the charming Fouché children?” I smiled at my friend as I handed him the grape drink I knew he preferred. “Everyone is well?”

  “As well as can be expected,” Fouché said, downing the glass. “Yes, First Consul, I thought you might be interested to know that the Royalist agent Cadoudal is back in Paris—plotting your death yet again.”

  Cadoudal! The Royalist agent responsible for the Christmas Eve bomb—the “inferna
l machine”? I looked at Bonaparte, alarmed. “But I thought Cadoudal was in England.”

  “It appears he has been in town for several months,” Fouché said evenly, “working on behalf of the Pretender. Financed by England, no doubt.”

  “That’s impossible!” Bonaparte exploded.

  “As you so often point out, First Consul, ‘impossible’ is not a French word.”

  “Cadoudal is as big as an ox. I ask you, how could he be in this city without the police being aware of it?”

  “I asked myself the same question. How could they have missed him? According to my informants, Georges Cadoudal was hoisted by ship cable up a 250-foot cliff close to Dieppe on the fourth of Fructidor—August twenty-first. No doubt your police know the spot: certainly it is well-known to smugglers.”

  “End of August? Mon Dieu, Bonaparte—that’s almost five months ago.”

  Bonaparte faced Fouché, his hands fists. “If this is a ruse on your part to discredit the police so that you will be reinstated as minister, it won’t do any good.”

  “I didn’t expect that you would believe me, First Consul,” Fouché said, handing Bonaparte a scrap of paper. “I suggest you ask your police to have a word with this man at the abode indicated. His hours are regular. He’s there until 9:50 every morning. He’ll tell you what you need to know. In any case, it would be prudent to double or triple the number of guards you have protecting you.” In the doorway, he tipped his hat. “At your service, First Consul, as always.”

  “Sacrebleu! This again,” Bonaparte cursed.