I took the letter from him. “Thank you, citizen. You may tell Bonaparte that my heart leapt with joy, that I cherish his loving words.” No need to be unkind to my husband, even if this had become a daily ritual.
Theresia snorted.
“Citizen, would you like something to eat? Or a bath, perhaps?” I asked.
Theresia rolled her eyes. She lectured me on being too kind to those beneath me. I argued that no one was, that our stations could change in a flash.
“Merci, citoyenne, but I must go. The general awaits my return. Have you letters I might deliver to him?”
“Not today.”
The man cringed visibly.
Bonaparte probably berated him when he returned empty-handed. Poor fellow. He was but a messenger.
“Wait a moment.” I dashed up the staircase to my bedchamber, found a handkerchief, and sprayed it with lilac perfume. I returned to the salon and wrapped the cloth in a piece of parchment and ribbon.
“Here. Tell him there will be two letters with the next courier.”
Relief crossed his features. “Merci. Have a good day, Citoyenne Bonaparte.” He put on his hat and left as quickly as he had come.
“Well? Let’s see what he has to say,” Arnault said.
I smiled and opened the letter to read aloud.
Citizeness Bonaparte,
Not a day passes without my loving you, not a night but I hold you in my arms. I cannot drink a cup of tea without cursing the martial ambition that separates me from the soul of my life. Whether I am buried in business, or leading my troops, or inspecting my camps, my adorable Josephine fills my mind, takes up all my thoughts, and reigns alone in my heart. If I am torn from you with the swiftness of the rushing RhÔne, it is that I may see you again the sooner. If I rise to work at midnight, it is to put forward by a few days my darling’s arrival.
One day you will love me no more; tell me so, then I shall at least know how to deserve the misfortune. . . . Good-bye, my wife, my tormentor, my happiness, the hope and soul of my life, whom I love, whom I fear, the source of feelings which make me as gentle as Nature herself, and of impulses under which I am as catastrophic as a thunderbolt.
Forgive me, soul of my life. My mind is intent upon vast plans. My heart, utterly engrossed with you, has fears that make me miserable. . . . I am waiting for you to write.
Bonaparte
“He is a poet,” Arnault said from his position by the fireplace. “A rather intense fellow, isn’t he?”
“Perhaps too intense,” I said. “He didn’t mind that his sentiments weren’t returned when we married.”
“Well, ‘soul of my life,’” Theresia said with a smirk, “shall we continue with our script or do you need time to write a response? Please, let the passion flow from your heart.”
I tossed a pillow at her. “How could I possibly respond to such a letter?”
Despite my marriage, I remained a part of Barras’s privileged circle of friends and deputies. As the unrest in the streets rose anew, they conspired for a change in leadership, a Directoire of five men, for the next year’s elections—for any way to preserve the Republic. I thought it wise to elect a single man to lead the country, to silence those in favor of a returning king. The deputies did not agree.
One evening, I moved the lace curtain aside and watched a throng of picketers outside Barras’s palais. “There are so many! At the Tuileries, too, darling. A change must come swiftly or they may revolt.”
Paul struck a match and lit his cigar. He puffed on its end until it glowed orange like an angry eye in the dim light. “Bloody émigrés. Their return is upsetting the order we’ve established.”
“They’re grateful to be on French soil. I don’t believe they threaten the Republic. Not now. To welcome them, to integrate them will only strengthen it. Make the divide less gaping.” I adjusted my colorful scarf à la Creole, which wrapped my hair, and settled into a chair.
He tapped ashes into a dish and studied me in the brooding silence. “We elect our new leaders tomorrow. I’ve alerted the police. Keep your ears open. Inform me at the first hint of an uprising.”
I leaned to kiss him on the cheek. “Not to worry. I am always listening, dear friend.”
He winked and took another drag on his cigar. “That husband of yours has had luck in Italy. Parisians are elated by his victories.”
“It seems so. Has he lost a battle yet?”
“Not that I am aware of. But he appears to be losing his battle for your attention.”
I laughed. “I care for him as a friend, as my protector. Nothing more. He’s a bit, well, dramatic. He sends me three letters per day! I wonder if he’s been to battle at all.”
Barras’s laughter boomed.
“No matter how often I reply, he scolds me.” I sighed in exasperation. “I assumed he would take a lover like every other soldier.”
“Give him time. He’ll take someone to his bed. Quell that desperate affection.”
“The man who guts the Austrian army writes me poetry. A rather odd juxtaposition, don’t you think? Sometimes I question his sanity.”
I did not take on a new lover—until I met Lieutenant Hippolyte Charles at La Chaumière.
“Who is that?” I hid behind my fan and watched the soldier in a sky blue uniform mock the dancers. He twirled, then stumbled and fell to the floor. Everyone around him laughed.
“The hussar?” Theresia asked. “That’s Lieutenant Charles. Have you not heard of him? He’s . . . quite popular, shall we say.” She motioned to a group of ladies watching him from the edge of the dance floor. “And comical, for certain.”
The lieutenant jumped to his feet, dusted off his rear, and made his way around the room, slapping the backs of friends and winking at ladies. Every pair of eyes followed him. At last he stopped near Theresia and me and filled his glass with punch.
“Good evening, ladies.” His dark eyes twinkled with mirth. “You’re dazzling tonight. I, on the other hand, am hideous.” He shielded his monkeylike face with his hand. “Please, look away. I wouldn’t want to offend you.”
A giggle bubbled in my throat.
He noted my amusement and smiled, his mustache turning up at the corners. “Would you care to dance?”
“Not unless you toss me to the floor.” I tried to hide my smile.
His grin broadened.
“Suddenly I’m dying for fresh air.” Theresia gave me a knowing look and left the lieutenant and me alone.
“Shall we dance, then?” The lieutenant offered his arm.
I slid my hand over his strong forearm. Suddenly I wished I weren’t married.
In the lieutenant’s arms I felt still young—despite the nine-year difference in age—alive and carefree, and the faintest hint of guilt. Bonaparte loved me. Would it crush him to see me in another’s arms? I shrugged. I had to maintain my life, my independence, outside of Bonaparte. I knew his feelings wouldn’t last. A man’s affections always waned, and this time I would not play the fool.
One evening the lieutenant arranged to meet me at the Feydeau Theater, soon after we had become acquainted.
I disrupted the flow of the crowd as I pushed in the opposite direction toward the vestibule. Hippolyte was late. The show would start in a few moments. I stood on the tips of my toes to peer over the sea of feathered hats and male shoulders.
Where could he be? Perhaps he did not care for me after all. He had not shown for our last engagement.
“Gentlemen, ladies, please take your seats,” a theater hand bellowed in the corridor. Disappointment dimmed my buoyant mood.
Just then, I spotted the lieutenant’s dark head. I waved my fan above my head to gain his attention. A grin lit his face and my heart skittered in my chest.
“I thought you weren’t coming.” We exchanged kisses on either cheek. “How sad that w
ould make me, lieutenant.”
“I’m sure you would cry yourself to sleep if you missed my unsightly face.”
I threw my head back and laughed. “No one makes me laugh as you do.”
“And no one is as alluring as you, Madame Bonaparte.” The title of Citizen had become less and less fashionable—and good riddance. Everyone detested it.
I slipped my arm through his. “Barras and Theresia are already seated.”
A blonde in purple silk resplendent with diamonds gave Hippolyte a provocative look. I felt a stab of jealousy. Could she not see he was with me?
Hippolyte ignored her. He had grown used to the women who swarmed him, no doubt. “Shall we?”
We mounted the creaking staircase to our box. Just as I stepped through the doorway, applause erupted.
Hundreds of faces slowly turned toward our seats to stare—at me.
I blushed, then looked at Barras, puzzled. Paul shrugged. I fished my lorgnette from my mauve sequined handbag and looked toward the stage. A soldier with ragged boots presented two bloodstained standards. Flags of Milan and Venice.
“General Bonaparte has vanquished the Austrians!” the soldier shouted. “They have fled from our neighboring republic to the south. France destroys her enemies! Bonaparte liberates!”
Uproarious cheers shook the theater. “Long live Bonaparte! Long live our Lady of Victories!” the soldier chanted.
The cheering deafened.
I smiled and waved at the crowd, trying to appear at ease. My husband was a hero! Unexpected pride surged through me.
Bonaparte had been a proper choice of husband after all.
As spring passed, Bonaparte’s letters became more urgent. I fabricated excuses to stay on in Paris, to delay my joining him at the war front, but he grew crazed.
Citizeness Bonaparte,
What art did you learn to captivate all my faculties, to absorb all my character into yourself? It is a devotion, dearest, which will end only with my life. “He lived for Josephine”: There is my epitaph. I strive to be near you: I am nearly dead with desire for your presence. It is madness! I cannot realize that I am getting further and further away from you. So many regions and countries part us asunder! How long it will be before you read these characters, these imperfect utterances of a troubled heart of which you are queen! Ah! Wife that I adore. I cannot tell what lot awaits me; only that if it keeps me any longer away from you, it will be insupportable, beyond what bravery can bear. The mere thought that my Josephine may be unwell, or that she might be taken ill—above all, the cruel possibility that she may not love me as she did—wounds my heart, arrests my blood, and makes me so sad and despondent that I am robbed even of the courage of anger and despair. I cannot go on, dearest: My soul is so sad, my mind overburdened, my body tired out. Men bore me.
I could hate them all; for they separate me from my love.
My love to Eugène and Hortense. Good-bye, good-bye. I am going to bed alone. I shall sleep—without you by my side. Night after night I feel you in my arms. It is such a happy dream, but alas, it is not yourself.
Bonaparte
As the summer neared, I planned to confront the children. They must learn of my marriage sooner or later and I preferred they heard it from me. One warm weekend in the month of Floréal, they joined me at Grosbois. Barras had offered the use of his country château, though he remained in the city.
Our first afternoon together, Eugène, Hortense, and I boated on one of the ponds scattered throughout Paul’s property. The incandescent glow of early summer settled over the water in a green-gold hue. A family of ducks paddled lazily off the far shore. The harmonious swishing of water lulled us as Eugène tugged on two long paddles, disturbing the fabric of lily pads.
I relaxed in the warm rays of sunlight while Hortense complained about a new girl in her class.
“She’s so rude. She shares the cost of her gowns with everyone. Can you imagine? No one speaks of such things!” She twirled her pink and white parasol in her palm as she spoke.
“Not everyone has been raised with proper etiquette, mon amour.”
A fish flopped on its belly, creating a ripple in the placid water. Eugène stopped rowing to point. “Did you see the fish?”
“Yes,” Hortense and I said in unison.
“Do you think it will eat bread?” Hortense asked.
“Perhaps,” I said.
Hortense gave Eugène a crusty slab that we had brought to feed the ducks. They shredded their portions and tossed crumbs into the water. The fish did not surface, but a mama duck heralded her ducklings in our direction.
While they tossed bread overboard, I broached the dreaded topic. “I have something to tell you.”
Eugène looked up from the honking ducks. “What is it?”
“You will not like it, but I made the decision for the good of the family.”
Hortense stiffened. Eugène’s expression became guarded.
“I have decided to . . . I have married General Bonaparte.”
“You what?” Hortense demanded. “You married him?”
The ducks scattered frantically.
“How could you marry him without telling us?” Eugène started to stand and rocked the boat violently.
I clutched the sides of the boat, knocking a paddle into the water.
“Sit down, Eugène!” Hortense grabbed the corner of his jacket.
He plunked onto his seat and scooped the floating paddle back into the boat. Water dripped from its edges and soaked my shoe.
“I know you don’t care for him,” I said, “but give him a chance. Bonaparte is generous and thoughtful. He asks after you both in almost every letter he writes.”
“Letter? Is he not in Paris?” Hortense asked.
“He’s in Italy,” Eugène replied, head lowered. “I heard a rumor at school that you were married, but I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe you would keep it from your own children!”
“How could you not invite us?” Hortense said, pouting.
Regret washed over me. “It was a civil exchange of vows and paperwork. It all happened so quickly. It was late at night.” Excuses tumbled from my lips as tears welled in Hortense’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, darling.”
I squeezed her hand. “I know you both disapprove, but you need to trust me. I know what is best for this family. You both need a father. Someone to look after your interests. Someone to take care of your mother.” I attempted a smile.
“But he isn’t even here, is he? He’s in Italy,” Eugène said. “How can he care for us from there?”
“He’s in Italy for now. And I will be joining him.”
A week later Barras signed my travel papers. I had to join Bonaparte. My husband’s letters had reached a fever pitch and the Directoire feared the general might thwart the Italian campaign and desert his army to be at my side. But I was not yet ready to leave my beloved home. I did not want to go at all. Aunt Désirée and the Marquis were to be married, at last, as was Fanny’s daughter, Marie. I would not miss the weddings, even if Bonaparte lost his mind.
One rainy afternoon I left Fanny and Marie with the dressmaker and stopped at the Palais du Luxembourg. Barras’s office sat on the third floor overlooking the circular fountain in the courtyard.
“Bonjour, Rose. I mean, Josephine.” Barras cocked his head to the side with a mocking smile.
“That’s Lady of Victories to you,” I scolded him with mock superiority.
“Pardon me.” He stood from behind his desk and bowed.
I laughed.
“I’m glad you stopped in for a visit. We need to talk about your lieutenant.” He walked toward me over his plush oriental rug.
“My lieutenant?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“You know very well of whom I speak.” Barras put his hands on my shoulders. “You mus
t be more careful in public with him, mon amie. You’ll make your husband furious if word gets back to him. He’s temperamental as it is.”
“It is my business and mine alone.”
The gold-plated clock on the wall chimed four metallic strokes.
“Everyone knows your business. You’re the Lady of Victories, and your husband is a hero. Everyone is watching you. Joseph Bonaparte examines your every move. I’m certain he is filling his brother’s ear with nonsense as it is.”
I looked out his office windows. Manicured hedges lined the promenade and stone pots overflowed with geraniums. Despite the ominous sky, the garden was exquisite.
“Joseph dislikes me. He hardly speaks to me.”
“He’s no fool. He suspects you’re betraying his brother. And let’s face it. Corsican men aren’t exactly . . . enlightened. You would be appalled at the things the Bonapartes say about your sex.”
“I know what my husband says about women. But his opinions do not degrade my influence.”
“It’s important that he’s assured of your love. He may risk dismissal, even desert his army to be near you. It could cause a scandal and a national crisis, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you at least write?”
I threw my hands in the air. “I do write. Every week. I will not spend my days doing nothing but writing letters. That’s what he would have me do. I care for him a great deal, but he—”
“He’s impetuous. But he has brought France more victories than any general in decades. The people adore him. Don’t make him your enemy.”
I watched men weave through the garden toward the entrance of the palace, umbrellas in hand. “I should end it.”
“Yes, you should. And it’s time you headed south. When the weddings have concluded, off to Italy you go.”
“How can you send me to war?”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ve hired your lieutenant and Officer Junot to escort you. And I just received word today that Joseph is going as well.”
“You’ve arranged this without my permission?” I asked, furious.
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