My last breath of spring air.
I clambered into the carriage as if in a dream. Marie-Françoise clung to me during the short ride to the prison. To my horror, we rode only one street away, to Les Carmes, on the rue de Vaugirard, the convent where the holy had been hacked to pieces.
The most heinous prison in Paris.
And yet, the gardens and stone facade showed no sign of misery, save the barred windows.
When the coach came to a stop, a guard ripped open the door.
“Come with me.” The jailer yanked my friend out of the coach.
“I’ll get us out of here. I promise!” I called after her.
“Farewell, my friend. I love you!” she shouted through her tears. “Don’t forget me.”
My bravado vanished as the jailer led her inside. This could not be real. I was no criminal. What would happen to me? To my children? My legs collapsed and I spilled onto the ground.
“On your feet!” Another guard pulled me up like a rag doll. “This way.” He ushered me through the door.
As we wound past the office and into the belly of the prison, a nefarious odor struck me. A haze of excrement and rot surrounded me in a humid cloud. I coughed in disgust. My eyes stung. Tears streamed down my cheeks to wash away the near-tangible grime. Grubby stains caked the floors and walls. A memory rushed back, from the days just after the massacre. The streets had smelled of vinegar for weeks. Yet it had not cleansed these stones, or maybe there had been too much blood? My stomach turned in revulsion.
I bunched my skirts in my hands, lifting them off the slime-covered floors as we marched through clusters of crowded cells. Many had more than ten people jammed inside, attempting sleep on straw mattresses. Dear God. They lay in their own filth like animals.
Neither bars nor locking doors trapped the prisoners inside their dens. Some moved about freely while others slept. The doors adjoining each corridor were the only locks. I supposed the guards had nothing to fear from a horde of unarmed innocents.
I had not yet reached my cell when I heard a voice calling my name.
“Rose! Is that you? Mon Dieu. There is no end to their lunacy!”
My heart leapt. Who could that be?
“Wife of a president. There’s no hope for us now,” another voice said.
I peered into the gloom, but could not place the voice with any of the faces. The jailer pushed me along too quickly, locking the door to the enclave of cells behind us. After three more corridors we stopped.
“Here is your suite,” he snarled.
Thirteen other women regarded me with pitying expressions. I greeted them with a limp wave. My new camarades, linked in this nightmare.
The jailer stalked away, slamming the door behind him. I stood dumbfounded, staring at my surroundings. Thin bedcovers, a few mattresses, and heaps of straw posed as beds; a tattered pile of clothing occupied the corner on the far wall; and a bucket of human waste sat outside the door.
My bag slid from my loose grip to the floor with a soft thump. And I wept.
I ignored the filth as best I could, though it worsened day by day. What did it matter? My heart ached for my children. The thought of their distress surpassed any amount of muck. Did Hortense cry herself to sleep at night? I pictured Eugène pacing the halls, wondering if he would ever see his maman or papa again. My head swam with visions of their stricken faces.
At most meals, I pushed away my saucer of chewy gruel and soured wine. My dresses hung from my feeble frame, my hair thinned, and my bones protruded until I resembled the others, a skeleton of my former self.
My sanity hinged on the few hours each day when the guards unlocked the corridors and we roamed from hall to hall, meeting people from other cells. I talked, wept, and prayed with former acquaintances, some with whom I had spent merry nights dancing or gossiping, some I had petitioned for, and strangers of all trades and titles.
One day I bent over an older woman, feverish and lying in filth. She reeked of urine and infection. She would perish, without doubt. “Let me help you.” I slung my arm about her middle and lifted her with care, then leaned her against the cleanest spot on the wall.
She smiled weakly. “Thank you for your kindness.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
A guard entered the cell carrying a canteen of fresh water. “Do you have the comb?”
“Yes.” I pulled a pearled comb from my hair and caressed it. Maman’s comb.
“You’re getting nothin’ until you pay up!” he growled. “And I want the canteen back.” I deposited the treasure in his outstretched hand and snatched the water from him. “You have one hour,” he grunted and stalked off.
I poured some of the liquid onto a corner of my dress and wiped the woman’s face. She sighed and opened her cracked lips for a drink. I assisted her, then wiped the spout and drank some myself.
If only I could buy my release.
Dukes, carpenters, maids, nobles, and clergy—all were worthless in the eyes of our government. I befriended them, prayed with them, and read their fortunes. In turn, they dried my constant tears.
“Why am I the only one who weeps?” I asked a woman in the brownish light. The sun’s rays could not penetrate the haze.
“You’re Creole,” she said. “You have lively blood. Your anguish is more acute than ours.”
“That’s absurd. As if you don’t have a heart.” We walked sluggishly through the corridors. I tried to ignore two faded handprints in dried blood on the wall.
She laughed. “Ah, we do, but Parisians do not access them as easily.”
It seemed true. I wept most days. The others remained silent, morose, with occasional flares of anger. Such dispassionate emotion I could not grasp. I swept the hem of my dress into my arms to avoid a spilled bucket of feces. What is this foul hell, I wanted to shout. But my rage dissipated in a fresh torrent of tears.
My second week at Les Carmes, I saw Alexandre. Delphine, a once-beautiful woman who shared my cell, urged me to meet with him.
“He wishes to see you. He has asked me several times to persuade you.” A fearful look filled her eyes, followed by jealousy. The poor girl had fallen in love with him. She feared we still loved one another. If she only knew. I wondered if Alexandre felt the same for her. It did not seem possible.
Yet something about her innocence made me want to assuage her fears.
“I assure you there is nothing between us, Delphine. We are married in name and share children. That is all. We’ve hardly been civil with one another.” In truth, I wanted to strike him. He had brought so much heartache and misery to my life, and now this.
Delphine led me through several corridors until Alexandre’s familiar form came into view.
One look at his hollow face and I could not withhold my emotion.
“Alexandre!” The past melted away. My anger dissipated. So absurd, our situation—how could I blame him? We were both innocent, and I had put myself at risk with my letters. Everyone had said so.
“Rose!” He took me in his arms, eyes glistening. “It’s my fault! Oh, Rose. It’s all my fault!” He searched my face. “And the children are alone!” He clutched me to his chest. “God, what have I done?”
“My darlings.” A salty gush ran down my cheeks. “What will become of them?”
Delphine waited quietly during our reunion, desperate longing on her countenance.
Alexandre tilted my chin and met my eyes. “We will survive this, and when we do, you’ll take the children to Italy and stay with Fanny. Until this madness blows over. For now, we need a strategy to secure our release.”
I marveled at his calm. He sounded so resolute, so certain we would be freed. I wiped my nose with the rough sleeve of my dress.
“There’s something I need to say. It’s important.” He paused to scratch at the grungy beard covering his face.
I regarded him warily. Alexandre seldom delivered good news.
“I owe you so many apologies. In these last weeks of my imprisonment, I’ve had time to think. It’s all I’ve been able to do . . . dear Rose . . .” He gathered my hands to his chest. “I regret that I didn’t treat you as you deserved. You’re a lovely, graceful woman. The prisoners speak of you affectionately, of your sweetness. I am proud to know you. That you are the mother of my children.” He wiped his eyes. “I never deserved you.”
Had we been outside the prison walls, I might have scoffed at his sudden change of heart. But not here—not in the clutches of death. My anger drained away despite my despair. He had truly changed, at last.
I stretched on the tips of my toes and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Thank you. It means more to me than you know. You have been a good father and an example to your countrymen.”
Alexandre placed my hand on the crook of his arm and glanced at Delphine. “I understand you share a cell with the woman who stole my heart.”
Once, those words would have cut me to the core. That life was long gone—and none of it mattered in the face of death.
Delphine appeared relieved. I smiled to reassure her. Alexandre deserved love as much as anyone.
“I’m happy Alexandre has fallen for such a lovely person.”
Dimples carved adorable divots in her cheeks. “Thank you, Rose.”
The sound of a bell halted our pleasant exchange.
Fear gnawed in the pit of my stomach. It was ten o’clock. The hour of death. A grave hush fell over the crowd of prisoners. I held my breath as the warden unrolled a scroll.
“On this day, the Committee of Safety calls forth these names for trial at the Conciergerie.” He paused for effect, then listed six names.
No one spoke. One by one, the victims climbed into the death carts in quiet surrender.
How did they contain their terror? Scream out! I wailed inwardly. Beg for mercy! I looked at Alexandre’s grim expression.
“Rejoice, Rose,” Delphine said. “It’s not your name or ours they have called.”
“I cannot rejoice when the innocent march to their deaths.”
The weeks wore on. Spring evolved into summer. Heat pressed on our lungs. Moisture writhed in the air and clawed over soiled bodies and stone. Mold grew on every surface. Even Martinique had not been so humid. Prisoners choked on filth, perishing on their vermin-infested beds before they had the chance to meet Madame Guillotine.
One insufferable afternoon, whistling and laughter echoed from another corridor. I peered through the perpetual twilight. A familiar fur ball skipped merrily toward me, barking loudly.
Fortuné? A surge of joy raced through my limbs.
“Fortuné! My silly, sweet puppy. Come here, boy.” I laughed and cried at once. He bounded into my lap and licked my hands and face in a flurry of excitement. I scrubbed his little body with my fingertips. “How did you get here?” He licked my face. “Sweet boy,” I cooed while massaging his back.
And then I saw it—a tiny strip of paper tucked under the clasp of his collar. My heart pounded as I unfolded it.
The governess takes care of everything but our hearts.
Eugène’s handwriting! He had not said much in case a jailer found the note, but I knew what it meant. My clever boy. They were well, they missed us, and they had petitioned for Alexandre and me. I tucked the note inside my dress as prisoners came to pet the renegade dog. Fortuné yapped happily.
“How did the little rascal get past the guards?” a toothless man asked as he rubbed Fortuné’s silky ears.
“I don’t know, but how happy I am to see him!” I smiled for the first time in weeks.
My joy was short-lived.
Two jailers ran to my cell and plucked Fortuné from my arms. “How did this bugger get in here?”
“The children brought him,” one of the guards replied. “The ones who keep visiting. They must be hers.” He flicked his head in my direction. The jailers carried Fortuné away growling and snapping.
Hortense and Eugène came to Les Carmes? A knot of pain throbbed in my chest and radiated through my body. I couldn’t see them or hold them. My children were alone. They needed me. I collapsed on the floor. I needed them.
A month passed as if in slow motion. One afternoon I lay drowsy on a heap of straw when a commotion stirred elsewhere in the prison. People shouted and wailed. In protest? I could not make out their words. What in the world was going on?
The rowdiness drew closer. The lock to our hallway opened. I joined the crowd gathered near the door. As it swung open, a guard shoved another prisoner into the room—the striking General Lazare Hoche.
He held his head high, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips.
“Good general!” a man bellowed and extended his hand.
“Sir, how can it be? A war hero has been arrested!” a shocked young woman cried.
The exclamations continued as the guard led General Hoche through our corridor to another. The General had been the very face of the Revolution, revered, loved by all. I had heard endless tales of his bravery and kindness. If General Hoche was jailed, the assembly had lost reason.
The second day after the general’s arrival, he approached Alexandre and me as we huddled, plotting our next move.
“Citizen de Beauharnais, citizeness.” He bowed.
“Hello, General,” we replied in unison.
“Please, call me Lazare.”
General Hoche and Alexandre recounted details of their shared army experiences, the swift political changes, and conspiracy. As they spoke, I absorbed the full details of the general’s appearance. Dark hair curled around a proud forehead, a slightly crooked nose protruded, and his heart-shaped lips pouted seductively. Tassels and embellishments decorated his navy uniform. He exuded energy and addictive optimism. A breath of fresh air—a handsome, good-humored breath of air.
I did not see the general again for several days. When at last I caught sight of him, a clump of admirers surrounded him.
“What ingrates our leaders are!” a gentleman said. “They imprison one of their greatest generals! Fools.”
“Thank you, kind citizen,” the general said. “I love my country, despite the current state of affairs. Mistakes are made when fear lurks in the hearts of men, and it is fear that leads us now. That will change. Someone will do the right thing.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Tyranny does not last forever,” Hoche said.
“Neither do we!” another man exclaimed.
General Hoche’s warm laugh melted like honey on warm brioche.
My knees weakened at the delicious sound. I approached him and touched his arm.
“Bonjour, general.”
“Citoyenne de Beauharnais. If you’ll excuse me.” He nodded at the crowd and offered me his arm. “Would you care to walk?”
“That would be a welcome distraction.”
“Your accent is, forgive me for saying so, seductive. Are you Creole?”
I peeked at him through lowered lashes. “I am from Martinique.”
“Of course. Your dark hair, the way you move, the way you speak.” He sighed with satisfaction.
Lord, I could be content in the darkest depths of hell with this man. I smiled, the faintest trace of happiness budding in my chest.
“Alexandre tells me you have been separated for some time?” he asked.
He did not waste time. Giddiness spread through me like intoxication. “Almost ten years. He is in love with one of my cellmates, Delphine. I am glad for them. Are you married, general?”
“Yes, just. Adelaide and I married last month. She’s beautiful, but naive in the ways of the world.” He looked at me expectantly.
Unfortunate circumstance. If only he had been sent a month prior, he woul
d not be married. I shocked myself with such a horrible thought.
“Do you love her?” I asked.
“Yes. But will I see her again?”
“That appears to be everyone’s predicament,” I said. “When does responsibility end and celebrating life begin? I’d say the moment the gate is locked behind you.”
“Madame.” A soldier bowed his head slightly as we passed.
General Hoche saluted him. “I’ve heard you are well loved,” he said to me.
I blushed. “I enjoy making friends.”
“You’ve endangered your life to help at least a dozen others here.” The general’s expression became intense. “That’s honorable. No different from being a soldier.”
I laughed. “I assure you I am nothing like a soldier. I am far from brave. I can’t even hold my tears when they call the names of the condemned.”
“You do not know yourself, citoyenne. Or the lives you touch.”
“You are too kind.”
The prison bells rang. Prisoners shuffled to their assigned corridors.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” he inquired.
“I thought you would never ask.” I smiled and made my way through the dank hallways.
My relationship with the general blossomed at a rapid pace. Our desperate yearning for connection, for a sense of meaning, fueled our desires. Lazare loved his wife. He made it plain that being wrenched from her bosom to face certain death was the only reason he strayed. Yet we shared a special sentiment.
He put his hand on my dirt-streaked face. “Why did I meet you in Dante’s inferno?” He caressed the apple of my cheek with his thumb.
“Lazare.” Speaking his name sent a rush of warmth through my limbs. “It’s hard to believe, but here we are.” I brushed his hand with my lips.
“I miss Adelaide. I long for her, but your friendship, your douceur. You are so sweet.” He leaned closer. “I love your confidence. Your heart.”
Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 15