Tallien laughed. “Really, Rose. That’s absurd.” He popped a grape into his mouth.
“I have a favor to ask of you,” I said. “I’ve dreaded this moment because you have already been so kind, but my conscience won’t let it rest.”
“Ask away.”
“I have a few friends still at Les Carmes.” I looked down at my hands. Guilt pooled in the pit of my stomach. Here I sat with friends, enjoying fine food—freedom—while they wasted away unjustly in prison. I had to do what I could for them.
Tallien noticed my change in humor. “I will see to their release. Give me their information and I’ll look into it first thing in the morning.”
I sighed in relief. “They’re good people. It sickens me that they are incarcerated without cause. How will I ever repay you?”
He sat for a moment, lost in thought. “Perhaps you could amuse Citizen Belfour. He arrives tonight from Bern and will be in want of company.”
I grasped his meaning. It would not be the first time I had entertained men in exchange for someone’s life. It was a small price to pay and sometimes it was amusing.
I nodded. “Of course.”
I relished letters of Eugène’s progress and visited Hortense when possible. How I missed them.
Citizeness Campan assured me Hortense was an industrious student.
“She’s well liked and a prodigious pianist.” Citizeness Campan looked through a ledger scribbled with notes. “Hortense’s scores are quite high.” She ran her finger down the page. “She’s attentive during classes. I wish I had more students like her.” She closed her book.
I could not have chosen a better teacher. Citoyenne Campan knew more about etiquette than anyone. Republican or not, my daughter would possess the manners of a well-bred lady. I would not wish for my daughter to suffer as I had at a young age.
Hortense grew more like a woman each time I visited. Her figure blossomed, her round face thinned, and her smile grew confident. We laughed and talked as women, though she was only twelve.
“Darling, you’re beautiful,” I said as I kissed her.
We settled on a red canapé in the sitting room. Hortense blushed. The pink stain on her cheeks accented her violet eyes and blond hair all the more.
“You have to say such things, Maman.” She fingered one of her elaborate braids.
I laughed. “That may be, but it’s the truth. Soon, you’ll catch a young man’s eye, if you haven’t already.”
More blushing. “Please, you’re embarrassing me.”
“Then my work here is done. I’ll speak no more of it.” I winked. “I have good news, darling.” I covered her hand with mine. “Your papa has been exonerated!”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” She jumped up to embrace me.
“Our name is clear again.” I patted her back. “But there is another matter I have to contend with. His properties have been restored, but I will have to sell them to pay his debts. And ours.”
Her face fell. “We’ll have no inheritance.”
“I’m afraid not.” I gathered her hands in mine. “But we have our honor. And we have each other. What could be more important?”
Hortense kissed my cheek. “How right you are.”
I motioned to the pianoforte. “Will you play for me?”
On Sunday afternoon, I looked at my latest bill note. Three thousand livres. I chewed a fingernail to the quick. The jeweled hair clip could be returned and my dress would still be stunning. What would I do about the other bills?
Mimi set a tray on the desk. “Chocolate and bread.”
I rubbed my face in frustration.
“What is it?”
“I’m hopeless with money.” I sighed and folded the papers on my desk.
“It’s all them dresses, Yeyette. Your maman would scold you if she saw you acting so frivolous.”
I studied her face: round nose and pillowy lips, high cheekbones—all so familiar, so dear. “You’re right. I have plenty of dresses for the season. And Theresia will let me borrow hers.”
Wealthy friends ensured my financial support, but keeping pace with them drove me further into debt—a vicious cycle I could not escape. I needed a husband, but I would not marry just anyone. I sighed. And what of love? I tired of the constant search, the constant failure. Love and marriage certainly didn’t go hand in hand. Alexandre had taught me that.
One cool evening in the month of Floréal, Theresia and I rode in her violet carriage to a soiree at the Palais-Égalité. Paul Barras, current president of the National Assembly, had invited us. I could not wait to meet him. His reputation for scandalous parties intrigued me. I hoped tonight would be no exception. The theme—bal des victimes—demanded guests wear red velvet ribbons around their throats. Prison survivors assumed positions of honor at the tables and a dance mimicking a beheading would commence the ball.
Theresia and I wore matching blood-red silk gowns and had pinned our shoulder-length locks in tight curls. We had not covered our arms in gloves or our heaving breasts with fichus. Shocking the crowd was too much fun.
“I thought these beautiful.” Theresia pulled two gold tiaras from her bag. “One for each of us.”
I clapped in delight. “They’re beautiful.”
Theresia pinned hers in her hair. “What do you think?” The dim lighting glinted off the glittery band.
“Perfect.”
“No man will resist us tonight, mon amie.” She blew me a kiss.
“Is Tallien coming later?”
Her expression grew guarded. “I don’t know. I left him.”
I gasped. “When?”
“Three days ago. I am filing for divorce. That man has battered me for the last time.”
“Oh, darling!” I braved the rockiness of the carriage and slid into the seat beside her. “I didn’t realize he was violent.” I squeezed her hand. “You’re so brave for leaving.”
“It’s not brave. Everyone is divorcing.”
“Not many women.”
She sniffed. “I’m not just any woman.”
I put my arm around her shoulders. “No, you aren’t! Do you have a place to stay?”
She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “With Tallien for now. He said he would support our daughter and me until the affair is settled with the provost.”
“That was generous.”
“He felt guilty.” She straightened in her seat.
“You’re doing the right thing.”
She folded her handkerchief and stuffed it in her handbag. “Let’s forget I mentioned it. I want to have fun tonight. Meet a handsome stranger or two.” A watery smile illuminated her face.
“I have my eye set on Paul Barras.”
“Dieu, then you are the one who is brave.” She laughed.
During my last visit to the Palais-Égalité, the château had been called the Palais-Royal and housed the now executed Duc d’Orleans. Since, Barras had snapped up the empty palace and gutted the whole estate.
“Goodness, look.” I pointed to a cluster of tables covered in white lace. In the center of each, red flowers surrounded miniature replicas of la guillotine. The hair on my arms stood on end. My abhorrence of it would never fade.
“Paul loves a good show, they say.” Theresia smiled a devilish grin.
I rubbed my bare arms. “What is that look for?”
“His reputation in the bedroom is legendary.” We walked arm in arm to the main ballroom.
“I look forward to meeting the wicked Barras. I’ve only seen him from afar.”
Servants dressed as executioners circulated with gilded trays of delicacies. Musicians played harps in one room and the pianoforte in another. The salon had been converted to a stage; hired players practiced their lines for the performance scheduled later in the evening.
Theresia and
I accepted glasses of wine.
“Merveilleux,” I said as we entered the main ballroom.
Rich scarlet and purple fabrics flowed from the ceiling like a shroud encasing the dance floor. Guests wore their finest white muslin, silver brocades, or black lace decorated with red shawls and ribbons, red hats and gloves. Theresia and I wore the only two crimson gowns, making us the most conspicuous women in the room—exactly as we had planned.
The evening began with a sumptuous eight-course feast. Servants whisked gold-plated trays of cold vegetable salads, potage, and roasted meats to the tables, one after the other. But the food displays between courses inspired the most delight among the guests.
“Regarde!” Theresia pointed.
A fish jumped through hoops of fried onion from a sea of blue icing. A carved potato gentleman waltzed with a woman in her endive gown.
I clapped. “Magnifique.”
Guests applauded each exhibition—until the final dish.
Severed heads made of sponge cake.
A collective gasp echoed in the great hall.
I covered my mouth and stared at the horrific creations. So realistic the fondant eyes appeared, frightened and glazed, and the ribbons of red sugar that dangled from each chin. Revulsion swept through me. The servants promptly removed the frightening cakes. I gulped from my water glass to clear my palate and wash away the terrible image.
The final course met cheering—platters of glistening sugar-coated fruits, iced creams, sweetmeats, and jellies. I sampled a few and mingled with the crowd.
Later when the dancing began, I moved to the ballroom. With each new song, the crowd grew wild, thumping and spinning until dizzy. My head buzzed with wine and sugared fruit. I lost myself in the crush of bodies until the back of my gown grew damp with perspiration. I sought an open window in a quiet room. An abandoned pianoforte faced rows of empty chairs, and dozens of lit candles sputtered in the breeze. The cool night air whisked the sweat from my temples. I sat on a chair to rest my aching feet.
Quelle fête. I would need to seek out Paul before I danced the night away. Maybe he would help me forget Lazare. A dull ache pulsed in my chest. I couldn’t help but compare each gentleman I met to him.
A sudden movement near the door caught my eye. An imposing man dwarfed the grand doorway. Or perhaps he would find me.
Paul Barras stepped into the room.
His scarlet coat stretched over his muscled frame and a cascade of black hair waved to his chin. A sarcastic smile played on his lips. Devilish, some called him. Now I understood why.
I hid my face with my fan and met his eyes. An invitation. He did not hesitate, but crossed the room like a rushing bull, brandy in hand. I stood to greet him.
“Citoyenne de Beauharnais, we meet again.” He bowed before brushing my hand with his lips.
“I do not recall our last meeting.” I fluttered my lashes. I remembered him perfectly well, though we had not spoken. The occasion had been a tropical themed party at La Chaumière. I had worn snake bangles with a black-and-white-striped tunic modeled after a zebra. Theresia had asked me to do tarot readings, at which Barras had laughed, or so she’d told me.
“I have admired your beauty from afar. Tonight, you leave me breathless.” His black eyes danced. He did not release my hand. “If I didn’t know better, I would swear you were a witch.”
“I’ve been known to cast a spell or two on an unsuspecting soul.” I waved my fan back and forth.
His laugh was brusque, dangerous. Delicious. “Did you bring your devil cards tonight?”
“No, but I’d be happy to beat you at a game of brelan.”
He snorted with laughter. “You think you can beat me? I am a master card player. Besides, it isn’t proper to humiliate a woman at games.”
I loved a good challenge. I arched my back slightly, pushing my breasts forward. “Paul Barras is proper with women? That is news to me.”
His smile grew wider. “Shall I find a deck?”
“Your arrogance begs to be taught a lesson.”
His laughter boomed. “What a droll little minx. Would you care to wager?”
It was almost too easy to capture his interest.
“A wager makes everything more interesting,” I said.
He placed my hand on his arm and led me to a room resembling an office. A fire roared in a pit taller than Barras. Several gentlemen sipped cognac and smoked cigars near a set of doors that opened to a grove of chestnut trees.
Barras found a deck of cards in a drawer and handed them to me. “You are my guest. And you’ll be paying me soon. Why don’t you shuffle?”
“We shall see.” We took glasses of absinthe from a servant, a new delicacy from the Swiss cantons.
He held his up for a toast and tapped the side of my glass with his. “To a beautiful woman.”
“To winning.” I took a sip.
We played two games of whist, and one of brelan. I beat him at two of three hands.
“Impossible! How can you beat me again?” he asked, tossing his cards on the table.
“It is amazing, considering you cheat,” I teased. I placed the cards in a stack and leaned forward to give him a glimpse down the front of my dress. “I believe you owe me.”
He paid me triple the small sum we had wagered. “Shall we dance?” He held out his hand.
I smiled and took it. “With pleasure.”
We made our way to the ballroom. Many of the guests had departed, but a few still whirled across the floor. Theresia sat in a far corner, shaded by a swath of fabric—I would know her silhouette anywhere. She and a gentleman leaned into one another as if alone in the room.
Barras held out his hand. “A waltz.”
The dance was popular for its sensuous moves, allowing a man to take a woman in his arms. He pulled me against his chest and guided me through the room.
We danced a set, and when the music concluded, he leaned close to my ear and whispered, “I would love to show you the new furniture in my apartments upstairs. As a woman of taste, I am certain you will find it fashionable.”
I looked into his wolfish eyes. They glittered like onyx.
“I do possess a sense of style.” I ran a finger down the side of his face and along his jaw.
He took my hand and escorted me upstairs.
It would be several trips to his mansion before I noticed the baroque armoire and vanity, the footstool and mahogany writing table. That night, I admired his black satin sheets until golden rays of sunlight spilled through the windowpane.
Creole Beauty
Palais-Égalité, 1795
Barras was as rich as a prince, living in a multitude of homes from the infamous Palais-Égalité to Grosbois, his country palace. He owned more finery, possessed more influence, and enjoyed a soiree more than any man I had ever met.
“King Barras,” the papers called him, “treacherous, dishonest, and hedonistic.”
He exhibited glimmers of all those traits, but I found him cunning and generous. I assured naysayers of his commitment to the Republic, which he loved more than anyone I had ever known, save my murdered husband.
I relished Paul’s stories of his travels, especially of India.
“An exotic land like yours,” he said, “filled with stunning women. And the spices!”
Paul delighted in my poise, soft Creole accent, and dealings with the occult, or so he said. But it was my social connections and lovemaking skills that kept his interest.
“You had the bedroom redecorated?” Paul stroked the carved mahogany head of an elephant by the fireplace.
“An Indian harem,” I said.
Sheer fabrics in gold and aquamarine dipped from the bedposts. Pillows patched with glittering fabrics lay heaped on the bed. Jasmine incense perfumed the air.
“Stunning.” He smiled, unbuttoning the
brass buttons of his coat.
“This,” I said, letting the overcoat I wore drop to the floor, “is stunning.”
I revealed a jeweled top exposing my stomach. My skirts flowed from a gold-encrusted belt and swept about my ankles. Slits in the fabric bared my naked thighs. I moved my hips in a circular motion and shook my shoulders back and forth. A delicate thread of golden bells jingled on each ankle.
Paul sat on the edge of the bed, awestruck.
I performed a sensuous dance around the room. I smiled at his rapacious expression. My sexual prowess captivated him.
Barras showered me with jewelry, opera tickets, flowery indiennes, and the most expensive undergarments money could buy. He made no secret of his lust for lacy things and I did not disappoint. But despite my status as official mistress, Barras did not curb his roguish ways.
“Be careful, darling,” Theresia warned me one afternoon as we walked in her garden. “You know Paul has other mistresses. He was not alone while you were gone.” I had just returned from a fortnight in Croissy to pay Hortense a visit.
“I have no delusions of his character. He is incapable of giving himself to one woman.” He loved me for now, but I knew he would tire of me, and I would be on my own again, scrambling for security. A memory of Lazare’s laughing eyes came to mind. My steps faltered as the pain coursed through me. I hoped my longing for him would pass.
“You should hear what is being said of you—the evil Barras and his doting mistress!”
I snorted. “Do tell!”
A flock of pigeons pecked at invisible feed on the path ahead. They did not frighten, but parted as we passed.
“Apparently we’re all involved in sexual orgies. Men with men and women with women. But you and I, they say, prefer our sexual encounters in public.”
I howled with laughter. Paul and I did not always behave appropriately, but I possessed a sense of decency.
“They enjoy slandering those who are the center of attention. We can’t help it if we captivate men,” she said. “Nor do we want to help it.”
I frowned as a disturbing thought crossed my mind. “I hope the children haven’t heard the rumors.”
Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 18