I see him so clearly! He sits motionless (for once), watching but unseeing. What are his thoughts?
He will travel incognito, no doubt, but even so people will line the road to watch him pass—their “little corporal,” this man they once worshipped as if he were God. Oh, such glory! Will the world ever see the like of it again? It’s like a dream now.
And, as in a dream, I see the people standing in silent witness, watching his carriage as it trundles by. They lower their heads, as if for a funeral procession. The veterans with their wooden legs—are they there? Yes, I see them with tears in their eyes.
He did not want it so.
Adieu, Bonaparte. My spirit-friend.
[Undated]
I have given away almost half of my wardrobe to the servants. They are overjoyed. Tomorrow I will go through my papers. I’ve a ringing in my ears that prevents me from sleeping. I’ve so little strength. Where is he now?
April 22, Friday.
Tsar Alexandre came to dinner tonight. He played with the boys—Hortense was gracious and even charming. I watched as if from a distance, thinking of Bonaparte.
May 3.
A gloomy day. The Pretender—King Louis XVIII now—has entered Paris. I’m told that the crowd was large, but unenthusiastic. “He’s boring,” Carlotta reported, as if this were an evil thing. I listen with indifference, my thoughts elsewhere.
May 8.
Eugène has arrived from Milan. He held me in his arms, telling me not to worry so, telling me that he’d been to the palace to see the King.
“Already?”
“It went better than I thought it would.”
If my children are taken care of, then I can rest, I thought. “I’ve been sorting through my things. I have something I’d like to give Auguste.” Eugène looked at my diamonds in astonishment. “Don’t worry, I’m giving quite a few to Hortense, as well. And I’ve a crate of things I’m putting aside for you.”
He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes filling. “Aren’t you going to need them, Maman?”
[Undated]
Hortense, Eugène, the Tsar Alexandre: young, ardent, idealistic. How ironic that they have formed a friendship. I sit by the fire and make polite conversation, but my heart is far, far away, on a small Mediterranean island. Elba. He should be there by now. The sea.
May 12, Thursday.
“But Maman, you must come,” Hortense begged. She’s invited Tsar Alexandre to her country château at Saint-Leu and now she is anxious. “After all, aren’t you the one who insisted I entertain him? It won’t be the same without you.”
“I know,” I protested, “but—” The ringing in my ears has become constant, making sleep impossible. I’ve been having spells of dizziness and malaise. And melancholy—oh, melancholy.
“But you’ll come?”
“Of course, darling.” I smiled.
May 14—Saint-Leu.
I managed the journey to Saint-Leu well enough, but shortly after I arrived yet another of my spells came on. How they frighten me! I’m in the guestroom, recovering. Mademoiselle Avrillion has brought me an infusion of lemon water and orange flowers. The weather is cold and damp—it was foolish of me to have gone for a ride in Hortense’s open calèche. I can hear Tsar Alexandre’s and Eugène’s voices downstairs, Hortense’s musical laugh.
I must gather strength for the dinner hour. “Restore the balance,” Bonaparte used to say. Oh, Bonaparte!
May 15—Saint-Leu still.
The carriage is being prepared for my return to Malmaison. I’m still not well. While I have the energy, I want to record my conversation with the Tsar last night.
Before dinner, I sent word that I wished to see him. He came immediately to my room. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I fear we have tired you. Don’t stand,” he insisted, asking leave to take the chair closest to me.
“Tsar Alexandre, I am—”
“Your Majesty, I implore you—please call me Alex. I command it,” he said with a smile.
“Very well, then, Alex.”
“I have a confession to make.” He placed his right hand over his heart. “I love your family.” I searched for a dry handkerchief, weakening again. “Oh, you see, I have wearied you.”
“Tsar—Alex, I mean, I must speak frankly. I am anxious about what is to become of Hortense and Eugène. I won’t be able to sleep until their futures are settled.”
“I will see to it immediately,” he said, kissing my hand.
If only I could believe him. Bonaparte trusted him, and was betrayed.
May 16, Monday—Malmaison.
Home again, but still so ill. A devastating weakness has come over me, an unbearable sorrow. Dr. Horeau prescribed an emetic, which has not helped.
May 23.
Eugène escorted me to my bedchamber after dinner tonight with guests.
“I’m fine,” I insisted.
He put his hand on my forehead. “You must rest, Maman.”
“I will rest, Eugène—once it’s determined how you and Hortense are to be looked after.”
“Maman, Maman, Maman.”
Hortense came to my room shortly after. “Eugène said you aren’t well.”
“I’m just a little tired.”
“I’m calling the doctor.”
Tuesday.
“Dr. Horeau is right, you should not receive guests,” Mimi said. “You should be in bed.”
“Did Dr. Horeau tell you to say that?”
Mimi reached her hand out to feel my forehead but I ducked away. I had a fever, I knew, but it was slight. “Send the cook up,” I insisted. The Tsar and the Russian Grand Dukes would be coming for dinner. The menu had to be carefully considered. Any day now, they—“the Powers,” Mimi calls them—will make a decision about Hortense and Eugène.
May 26.
Slight fever, light-headed. I’m writing this in bed, covered with a terrible rash. Hortense wants to summon her doctor, but that would upset Dr. Horeau, I know. “I will do whatever you tell me,” I told him. Now I’ve a disgusting plaster on my throat. Still no word from “the Powers.”
[Undated]
Hortense looked puzzled when I told her I needed her to fetch a box hidden behind my hats. “Please—get it down for me,” I told her.
“Why don’t I get a manservant to help?”
“No,” I said, falling back against the damp pillows.
The oak strongbox was heavy, to judge by Hortense’s pink cheeks, the beads of perspiration along her hairline. She plunked it down on the bedside table. “No, on the bed,” I said, struggling to sit. “The key is in the upper left drawer of my escritoire—under the box of calling cards.”
The metal felt cold in my hands. I fiddled with the lock and eventually got it to open. And there it all was: my old journals, the Church marriage certificate, Bonaparte’s letters tied up in a scarlet ribbon. These I took out, carefully. Mere scraps of paper—yet such passion, such burning love. “I’d like you to put these in a safe spot,” I told Hortense. She leaned forward to reach for them. “But not yet,” I said, pulling back. I wasn’t ready to let them go. “And these,” I said, indicating the old journals. “I’d like you to burn them…when the time comes.” Hortense looked confused. “Can I trust you?” She made a tiny nod, her expression wary. “And one other thing: you must not read them.”
“Maman, why are you doing this?”
“Just promise.”
She exhaled with exasperation. “Yes, Maman,” she said, like a dutiful schoolgirl.
I smiled. “Do you know how much I love you?”
Her eyes filled. “Yes, Maman.” A sniff. Two. She pulled a handkerchief out of her bodice. “And I love you!”
I opened my arms and she fell into bed beside me, as if she were a girl again, not the woman she’d become. I held her close until her breathing steadied. The pendulum clock rang four gongs. And then, in the heavy silence that followed, I asked, very quietly, “Hortense, is there anything you want to tell me?”
>
“No, Maman, why do you ask?” she said, sitting up and wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands.
“It doesn’t matter.” Remember that.
[Undated]
I can’t talk, but I can write. My throat! The children are so very dear. I see the distress in their eyes—the fear. I love them so much! At least they have each other.
Oh, Bonaparte, if only…
Postscript
Sire, Emperor (Papa),
I am writing to you now with tears in my heart. Your beloved Josephine passed away suddenly. We still cannot comprehend that she is no longer with us. Our distress is made more bearable knowing that she lived a full life, a life full of love. She loved us. She loved you—profoundly.
She got chilled riding in the Montmorency woods and developed a fatal infection in her throat. However, it would seem to have begun earlier, for after your exile, her constitution steadily weakened. Mademoiselle Avrillion tells us that she was subject to episodes of a devouring melancholy—so very unlike her, as you know.
It didn’t help that she insisted on rising, insisted on entertaining. She was anxious about me and Hortense, how our futures would be decided. We have just now learned that we will not be exiled, that we may keep our properties and the titles that go with them. So perhaps she rests in peace.
But at what a cost! On the return from Saint-Leu, her doctor-in-ordinary advised a small dose of ipecacuanha as a corrective. Although suffering, she seemed better, well enough even to breakfast with guests. That night she tried to join us in a game of prison-bars on the lawn, but had to sit down. After the guests left, she attempted to take her customary stroll through the rose gardens, but became so weak she could not walk and had to be helped back to the château. It was at this point that we began to be alarmed. A few days in retirement revived her once again, but on reading in the news-sheets that little Napoleon’s body was to be exhumed, she relapsed.* Even so, she persevered in her efforts to persuade the Austrian and Russian rulers on our behalf.
Had I known how ill she was, I would have stopped her, Sire. (Not that she would have listened. Her doctor tells us he begged her to stay in bed.) When I left that afternoon, she seemed to have worsened. Although her doctor assured us that she had no fever and was not in danger, she was having difficulty speaking. I think this was on the Monday, which would make it the twenty-third of May. The next morning she woke with pain in her throat. Dr. Horeau administered a purgative and tried to persuade her to stay in bed. She refused: the Tsar and the Russian Grand Dukes were expected for dinner. She rallied, but partway into the meal was forced to excuse herself. I saw her to her room.
Wednesday she woke covered with a rash. She’d had a terrible night, Mimi told me: pains in her chest, fluxions of the stomach, a shivering fever. The rash did go away in the evening. Even so Hortense insisted that a plaster be applied to her throat.
On Friday the Tsar sent his own doctor, Sir James Wylie—a Scot, not an Englishman. All three doctors were concerned: the back of Maman’s throat was dark crimson. That night her fever raged. A blister was applied between her shoulders, and mustard plasters to her feet.
But it was too late, Sire. We were losing the battle. Saturday morning her fever was high and it was hard to feel her pulse. She breathed with difficulty and was in pain, slipping in and out of delirium. In a futile effort to save her, the doctors applied a plaster to her chest. Hortense brought her boys, but Maman became agitated for fear the air in the room would harm them.
Whitsunday, May 29, the doctors told us there was no hope.† We sent for the curate to administer the last rites. He wasn’t home, so Hortense’s tutor, Abbé Bertrand, was summoned. At eleven Maman received the last rites. When Hortense and I appeared in the door, she held out her arms to us, but was unable to speak. Oh, the love in her eyes! Hortense swooned and had to be carried to her chamber.
At that moment Mimi cried out to me in alarm. I rushed to the bed. Maman slumped against me and I knew she was gone. I held her thus for a time, feeling her spirit like a brilliant light all around me.
Mimi told me to go to Hortense—she would put Yeyette to rest, she said, weeping. Hortense was in her room, still insensible. She roused herself, took one look at my eyes and began to weep. “At least you’ll have each other,” Maman had told me several weeks ago. I hadn’t been listening, Sire. She was saying farewell, and I hadn’t been listening.
Soon after, Hortense and I left for Saint-Leu. We are here now. Hortense is still overcome. It will take time.
As you can imagine, the citizens of this nation are overwhelmed with grief at the news that their “Good Empress Josephine” is no longer with them. I was told by old Gontier that the gate could not be opened for the mountain of bouquets piled high there, that the long road from Paris to Malmaison has been thronged with people with tears in their eyes—peasants and aristocrats alike.
She was placed in a double casket. Over twenty thousand people came all the way out to Malmaison to pay their last respects. Astonishing. Even the gate here at Saint-Leu is covered with bouquets and letters of sympathy. Really, Papa, it touches us deeply to see such an outpouring of love.
“Tell him I am waiting,” Maman told Hortense a few days before her death. Fever talk, we thought at the time, but now it all seems so clear. Mimi, who was with her through that last feverish night, says her last words were of you.
Did she know how much we loved her? If Maman’s death has taught me anything, Sire, it is that one must speak one’s heart when one can. I love and honour you as my Emperor and commanding general, but above all as my father. Bon courage, as Corsicans say. May God be with you. I know her spirit will be.
Your faithful and devoted son, Eugène
Epilogue
Napoleon escaped from the island of Elba one year later and returned to France, chasing out the Bourbon King Louis XVIII and the Royalists, including Talleyrand and all the others who had betrayed him. (Fouché, who stayed, betrayed Napoleon as well by sending his war plans to England.) This was the period known as the Hundred Days, which ended with Napoleon’s defeat by the British and their allies at the Battle of Waterloo. This time Napoleon was banished to St. Helena, a remote island off the southern tip of Africa. He died six years later at the age of fifty-one—of stomach cancer, some say; of poisoning, others claim. His pleas to his mother and Uncle Fesch to send medical help were dismissed by them as a British ploy. They had been convinced by a mystic that Napoleon was perfectly well. On his deathbed Napoleon is reported to have said, with emotion: “I have just seen my good Josephine. She told me we were going to see each other again and that we would never again be separated. She promised me.”
All the members of the Bonaparte clan were banished from France.
Madame Mère, who retired to Rome with her half-brother Fesch and daughter Pauline, refused to speak to Caroline after Caroline’s betrayal of Napoleon. She died after a fall at the age of eighty-six.
Joseph emigrated to the United States as “Count de Survilliers,” making a considerable amount of money on speculative ventures. He died in Florence at the age of seventy-six.
Lucien returned to France to help Napoleon during the Hundred Days. He was refused permission to join Napoleon on St. Helena, and lived out his life in Italy with his wife and eleven children.
Elisa fled to Italy as “Countess de Campignano.” She died of a fever near Trieste at forty-three.
Pauline also fled to Italy, where she lived from time to time with her mother in Rome, and even, at the end of her life, with her estranged husband Prince Borghèse. Of all the Bonaparte siblings, Pauline was the most loyal to Napoleon in exile, even managing to visit him on Elba in spite of her delicate health. She died in Florence at the age of forty-five, dressed in a ballgown, with a mirror in her hand.
After abdicating the throne of Holland, Louis settled in Italy, leading a quiet life as a gentleman of letters. He wrote a melancholy novel (Marie, about a man who is forced to marry a woman he does not
love), poetry and various works relating to Holland and the Empire. He died of apoplexy at the age of sixty-six.
Caroline, deposed Queen of Naples, was considered too dangerous to be allowed to live near any members of her family, and died in isolation in Florence as the “Duchess de Lipona,” an anagram for Naples (Napoli). Her husband, Joachim Murat, was executed by a firing squad at the age of forty-eight, clutching portraits of his children. Foolhardy as ever, he had attempted to recover his kingdom of Naples with only thirty men.
Jérôme settled first in Switzerland and then in Italy. He returned to France eventually and lived to see the reign of Napoleon III (Oui-Oui). It is through Jérôme that the Bonaparte name exists today.
The Empress Marie-Louise, object of a deliberate plot on the part of the Austrians to keep her from joining Napoleon, succumbed enthusiastically to the sexual prowess of Count Neipperg, the chamberlain assigned to her for just that purpose. She became indifferent to the fate of her son by Napoleon. The boy—Napoleon II—died of tuberculosis at the age of twenty-two, without issue. (“My life would have been different,” he reportedly said, “had Josephine been my mother.”) Marie-Louise died in Vienna at the age of fifty-six.
Hortense came to Napoleon’s assistance during the Hundred Days, and consequently was exiled after Waterloo. She settled in Switzerland, where she died at the age of fifty-four. Her eldest surviving son, Napoleon-Louis (Petit), died in battle at the age of twenty-seven. Louis-Napoleon (Oui-Oui) was elected to the presidency of France after the Revolution of 1848, becoming Emperor of the French under the name Napoleon III.
The Josephine B. Trilogy Page 108