The sole large canvas in the studio was one with portraits of Napoleon and Francis II of Austria. The painting had evidently been unfinished for some time. “The Meeting of the Two Emperors,” he explained, his eyes lighting up as they dwelt on Napoleon’s face, “not one of my more inspiring Imperial commissions, not enough action to it. I had to put it aside when they asked me to paint The Battle of Eylau. I was about to take up work on it again when I got a new commission this spring.” He took my hand and led me to a table with several sketches of the Emperor in a tent, receiving an apologetic group of men who stood hat in hand.
It was the first time I had had the opportunity to see how he developed his ideas from loose pen sketches to more careful studies, and I examined the series of drawings with great interest. “What is the subject?” I asked him. It could have represented any of a dozen cities or countries Napoleon had conquered.
“It’s the surrender of Madrid,” he replied. “I think I might need to put in a figure in native dress to make clear the location.”
“Madrid,” I repeated. I shut my eyes, trying not to let the tears fall, without success. I started to turn away so that he should not see me, when I felt his arms go around me and hold me tight. He kissed my hair several times and murmured endearments. He could be affectionate after all. I leaned against his coat, comforted. We stood like that for several minutes before I felt composed enough to draw back and wipe my eyes. I started to apologize but he shook his head.
“Denon told me about your friend who was killed there. I envy him: to have been loved so much is a precious gift indeed.” He averted his eyes as he said it and his face was pained. He knew he was not my first choice.
I felt a stab of compassion for him, a funny little twist of the heart. I reached forward to take his hand. He turned to look at me then.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t learn to care for you, Antoine,” I was surprised to hear myself say.
“I’m thirty-eight and it is high time I married. The lean years of my youth are behind me. Napoleon’s Empire will continue for many years – many more commissions will come. I can afford to support a wife and raise a family.” Was he seeking to persuade me – or himself?
I sneezed and he came out of his reverie. “You are cold – let’s go into the town for a hot drink.” To my disappointment, we did not venture into the palace or its fabled gardens. I was not to see them until Louis-Philippe, our current king, had made them a museum – and it was my artist friend Josée I came with, not Antoine.
We had been keeping company for several weeks when I received a note from Antoine inviting me to go with him the next day to Malmaison, where Empress Joséphine was to pose for a portrait. Would I like to meet her and see the fabled residence of which he had spoken so often and so warmly? I was not to worry about what to wear, as this was not a formal presentation at court but a visit to her home; any of my dresses would be suitable. He would hire a fiacre and call for me at eight. He apologized for the early hour, but the sitting needed to take place before her busy daily schedule began. When it was done, we would be free to explore her famous gardens.
Of course I wrote back that I would be delighted to come. Malmaison! Joséphine!
Maman was in ecstasies, tempered only by regrets that there was not time to purchase a new dress for the occasion. I reminded her that I had bought two in the last month to wear for Antoine; they could hardly be called old.
“Tine, let your foolish old mother have her little excitements. A new outfit for you to meet the Empress is one of them.” She spoke in a tone half-humorous, half-petulant. It struck me forcefully then, as it had not before, how much her dreams and hopes now centered on me.
“Of course, Maman.” I kissed her, startling her. “Dream of me in a court dress all you like.” I bade her good night; she was smiling as she turned to go to her room.
I wore a white dress with a high waist that Pauline, already skilled at embroidery, had decorated with floral designs in pale blue that gave the fine muslin a subtle richness. I was delighted to be able to show off Pauline’s fine work. Over it I wore my new coat with a red plaid ribbon at the waist and rows of ruffles at the sleeves, neck and hem. My carefully curled brown hair framed my face under an equally ruffled bonnet with a red flower at one side. Pale blue shoes, with ribbons that laced over the instep and around the ankle, completed the outfit.
It was a crisp spring morning, a perfect day for the drive out to the pretty town of Rueil, where the Empress’ house was located. It was only a few miles outside Paris but everything was fresh and green, the sounds and smells completely different.
Our fiacre was given immediate entry at the gate; Antoine addressed the sentry by name and inquired after his children. On the drive to the house he pointed things out with the ease of long familiarity. The cab drew up at the porte-cochere and a liveried footman handed us out and through the doorway. A woman met us there.
“Ah, you’ve arrived; she’s been waiting for you.” Although we were in good time, this was said with an air of reproof. Gros, to my surprise, seemed faintly amused by it. (“That’s Mademoiselle Bonnelle for you,” he told me later. “Joséphine is the center of her world and she regards all things only as they relate to her mistress – usually as they fall short in relation to her.” I thought, by her superior air, she must be a lady-in-waiting of noble rank, but he explained that she was merely Joséphine’s personal maid of long standing. It always amused him, he said, to hear her refer to her mistress and herself with the imperial “we.”)
Mademoiselle Bonnelle took us to the Empress’ dressing room. Through an open door I could see her bedchamber with its fabled swan bed. I had to remind myself not to gawk like a simpleton. Antoine presented me, and I gave my best curtsy, having practiced before my mirror that morning. I feared I might catch my heel or otherwise blunder at the crucial moment. Joséphine acknowledged me briefly and returned to the business at hand, dressing for her portrait. She had already put on a short-sleeved white dress trimmed with gold braid on the bodice and showed us the overskirt she would wear with it, made from a creamy white cashmere shawl with borders of large red and green leaves on each end. Its drawstring waist was threaded with long gold cords that hung down in front.
Now she needed to choose which one of the several dozen shawls she owned should go over her shoulder to form a train to the dress. Another maid had been busy for some time unfolding them in the dressing room so Gros could help her select one. The effect was of an oriental cloth merchant’s shop. I found myself drawn into the decision-making, helping the maid unfold yet more. Being able to tell Maman, Pauline and my friends that I had handled the Empress’ shawls made it well worth an hour of acting as her lady’s maid. It was a pleasure to handle such beautiful soft material, far more luxurious than anything I could afford. I was flattered when Joséphine asked my opinion and immensely gratified when she chose, in the end, the red shawl that I had suggested. I said earnestly that it would not only complement the other components of the painting but was also a favorite color of Antoine’s to paint. Afterward I blushed because of course Joséphine had known him and his work for years longer than I had. But she smiled and told him that my air of shy possessive pride was very bride-like and appealing. He arranged the red shawl over her left shoulder and agreed that its color went beautifully with the border of the skirt. He added a red sash to the dress. She did not wear any of her rubies for the portrait, although she was well known for her legendary jewels. A simple white lace veil covered her hair.
Antoine then set her pose and made his preliminary sketch. He worked quickly, as was his custom. The maid and I began to fold up the other shawls but Joséphine told us to wait. When the sketch was finished, she told me to pick one out as a gift from her, to thank me for my help.
“Oh, you don’t need to do that – it was my pleasure!”
“To congratulate you on your engagement, then. Don’t be shy – which one would you like?”
Antoine signaled
me urgently to accept. Encouraged, I reached for one in pale yellow, but Joséphine shook her head. “No, not that, it will make you look sallow.” She made me try on a dozen before she was satisfied with my choice, creamy white with smaller flowers on the embroidered border and red petals scattered throughout. Snuggling in its warm folds, I was speechless in my delight.
This was enough for Joséphine. “I wish half the ladies at court showed such genuine pleasure.” Then, to Antoine, “I congratulate you on your choice of bride – may you be together always.” To my surprise she gave a little sob on the “always.” Gros reached out and put a sympathetic hand on her arm. She took it in hers and clasped it briefly for comfort, like an old friend. She smiled apologetically at me. “You must not think I am taking liberties with your fiancé, but he is one of the few I can rely upon these days to be unchanging in his affections.”
Antoine explained as we strolled through the gardens to find the ideal background for the portrait. “The Emperor wants a son to inherit his empire and start a dynasty – rumor has it that he wants to divorce her to marry the daughter of Francis of Austria.”
“How could he?” I exclaimed, indignant. David’s painting of the Coronation, with the imperial crown being conferred upon the Empress by the Emperor, had been the sensation of the Salon the previous autumn.
“Keep your voice down!” he cautioned, nervously looking around to see if anyone had overheard. Satisfied that no one had, he continued, in a voice quieter still, “He is the Emperor; he can do as he pleases.” He was neither condoning nor excusing: it was a simple statement of fact. Then he smiled at me. “Don’t worry, my dear, we lesser mortals wed for life.”
We walked on. From time to time I stopped to smell the roses that were just beginning to blossom, agreeably surprised by the variety in their scents as well as their colors. Enough chill remained in the air to make me glad of the cashmere shawl. Made bold by it, I said, “The Empress congratulated you on your choice of wife but you haven’t actually proposed to me yet.”
“Oh – I thought Denon made clear – it has been understood since the beginning – I was only waiting until you had met my mother ––”
“He did and it has, and I am looking forward to meeting her – but we are already being congratulated on our wedding, and you still haven’t asked.” A petulant note had crept into my voice. I didn’t want it to spoil an otherwise splendid morning. “A woman still likes to be asked,” I said with a smile and an arch look, to take away any sting in my words.
He turned to face me then and removed his hat, holding it over his heart. His other hand reached for mine. “My dear, I hope you will forgive a middle-aged man if he does not go down on arthritic knees on this rather muddy garden path – but my request is heartfelt nonetheless. Mademoiselle Dufresne – Augustine – will you marry me?”
“Monsieur Gros – Antoine – I will.”
Maman and Pauline were thrilled that the engagement had been made official. Their admiration of Joséphine’s shawl, too, was all that I could have wished for. The two events combined to make me feel transformed into a woman of fashion and prospects. Men raised their hats to me. Antoine’s acquaintances complimented him on me. I could sense other women’s envy. (I have the shawl still and am wearing it as I write, to ward off the chill and keep good memories close.)
I saw Joséphine several times more but never again on such intimate terms. Her divorce from the Emperor was decreed at about the time of our wedding in July 1809. After that, she largely retired from public life and saw only a few intimates, of which Gros was one. He usually visited her alone, as he had done before our marriage.
Soon after our visit to Malmaison, Antoine took me to meet his teacher David, whom he revered as a father figure. Much as I detested his politics – as a member of Parlement in 1793 he had voted for the execution of Louis XVI – I could not but respect him as the finest painter of our age. He said a few polite words to me that I found almost unintelligible because of his injured mouth, the result of an old fencing wound. He interrupted my reply to tell Antoine about a new idea he had for a painting with a classical subject. My compliments on the Coronation died in mid-sentence; I was left feeling a fool. I stole a look at Antoine to see how he had reacted to this rudeness. His face was shining, eager, drinking in the master’s words. Both men seemed to have forgotten not only that I was there but that I, too, was an artist. I wished I could weigh in with an intelligent contribution, but the painting’s subject was not one with which I was familiar. Perhaps it was one of those lesser-known self-sacrifice subjects from Roman history that were meant to stir grand emotions but always left me cold. All I could do was stand there and try to look interested while they talked over my head.
Antoine, who had been offering me his arm, had dropped it to be able to gesture more freely with both hands. Suddenly Antoine said my name, pulling me back to their conversation, wanting me to chime in that David’s concept was superb. I had lost track of it but of course agreed with an enthusiasm that sounded false to my own ears. David, who could not be bothered with me for my own sake, was immensely gratified to lap up my words of praise. Only then did he congratulate Gros on his choice of bride.
I was seething by the time we finally left, but Antoine, still in high spirits, didn’t notice. He went on to excitedly tell me another tale of the master, expecting me to enter into his mood.
“I was humiliated. I felt like a fool when he cut me off like that. I was trying to pay him a compliment!”
“Oh, but that’s just David being David. You mustn’t take it personally.” This was the first but not the last time I had heard that explanation for someone’s unpardonable behavior. It has always seemed to me no excuse at all. Gros said it fondly, even proudly, as though it set David apart from the ordinary race of mortals.
“And what of you, my fiancé? Was that just Antoine being Antoine?” I had come to the real subject of my dissatisfaction.
He stopped and turned to face me. “Augustine.” His voice was low and unhappy. “You know it isn’t.” I said nothing. I looked down, not meeting his eyes. What he said was true, and I blamed Monsieur David rather than him for the incident, but I did not want to forgo my advantage. I was taking my revenge by testing my power.
In April, Antoine’s mother at last returned from the countryside, and Maman and I were invited for a Sunday afternoon visit. For the first time I would see the home that would become mine. (It would not have been proper for me to be there alone with him in his mother’s absence.) I decided to wear the dress in which I had met the Empress, with the shawl she had given me. Afterward I realized how appropriate this had been: his mother was a far more forbidding imperial presence.
Madame Gros was seated at the far end of the salon. Its furnishings were of good quality, but worn and shabby, the carpet threadbare in places. The paneling was in the Rococo style of sixty years before with a green and white color scheme that must have been sprightly when new but was now dingy and peeling in places. I was surprised – I had thought him prosperous enough to afford a better home than this, with newer things.
Madame Gros remained seated as Antoine introduced us. She smiled at Maman and shook her hand, then patted the sofa for me to sit beside her. “When I left at Easter, my son was a contented bachelor. I return to find him engaged to someone I have never even heard about, much less met. Come, let me see the charmer who has captured his heart.” The words were said in a flat, humorless tone.
I sat, unsure how else to reply.
“How did you meet?” she asked me.
“Through Denon. He was an old friend of my father’s.”
“Taking time out from his many duties to play matchmaker. I suppose I should be thankful that it was a woman he saw fit to introduce to Antoine.” She turned to her son. “What did he do, send a letter of commission promising the usual fee of twelve thousand francs?”
“Maman! He introduced us, that is all. As we grew to know each other––”
�
��You found each other irresistible. So much so that you would not think of telling me about her, trusting that when I met her, I would understand. So here I am. I have met her. Enlighten me.”
Even Maman’s determined smile faltered at such rudeness. Antoine said nothing, like a little boy scolded by Mama. I drew the folds of my shawl closer, comforted by their warmth and the thought of Joséphine’s approval. I fought back tears.
Having made her point, Madame Gros relented. “Forgive an old woman’s teasing.” Teasing? “He should have been married long since. I am happy for him that he has found someone he likes.” The words were warm and Maman and Antoine both relaxed, but there was an undercurrent to them that I could hear even if they could not: don’t ever delude yourself that you will replace me in his affections.
It was a daunting prospect that gave me serious doubts about the match. It might not have been so bad had she lived with Gros’s sister and her family, but Antoine expected us to live at home as he had always done. Fortunately, I did not then realize that we were to live with his mother for the next twenty-two years.
I tried to discuss my fears with Maman, but she was no help. Having made up her mind for the match, she would hear no doubts, no second thoughts. Nothing would stand in the way of concluding my marriage to a wealthy, successful man at the peak of his career. It was the one thing that had cheered her since Papa’s death, bringing congratulations from her friends instead of pity. To tell them that I had broken it off because I had taken fright at my future mother-in-law was unthinkable. Worse, it would call forth ridicule. “You’ll work it out,” she said firmly. “She seemed perfectly nice to me. You’re imagining things.”
Not for the first time, I missed Papa. Denon was away on campaign again. None of my friends faced the same situation. I felt very alone.
My mind went round and round the problem. Perhaps she won’t live very long, I thought hopefully. Hastily I crossed myself and said a prayer of penance. I did not want to wish for her death – just her acceptance and perhaps one day her love.
An Artist in her Own Right Page 6