“I need a few moments of peace with my little Creole.” He closed the door behind him. I squeezed his hind end and he groaned in satisfaction.
“How is your day going?” I asked.
“I have news.” He pulled me onto his lap. I ran my fingers through his hair. “It’s the blasted Austrians. They’ve broken the treaty. I’ll have to invade the Italian provinces again.”
“You aren’t going, are you?” I looked at him with disbelief.
“It will only be a few weeks, and I’ll leave in the middle of the night. Tomorrow. No one must know of my absence until I’m on my way. I’ve instructed the army to convene in Toulon, but they don’t know I’ll be joining them. It must be done.”
“Why can’t you send another general? There must be a trustworthy man among them. The country depends on you. The instant you leave—”
“Every faction will conspire to overthrow me.” He set me on the cushion beside him and jumped to his feet. “That is why I need you here. Talleyrand, Bourrienne, and Fouché will be working with you, but they don’t know it yet. You can tell them in two days’ time.” He paced like a stalking tiger.
I grimaced. Confronting his political enemies alone would be difficult; facing his siblings would be hell.
“Let me go with you.” I crossed the room and wrapped my arms about his middle.
“A battlefield is no place for a woman. Especially not Madame la Consulesse.” He cupped my breast and kissed me tenderly. “I won’t be gone long. If things don’t go well in Paris, I’ll appoint my replacement and return at once.”
I remained behind to do his political bidding and in a few short months Bonaparte secured another victory. We celebrated his homecoming with a small but elegant meal in the garden at Malmaison.
“Congratulations on your victory, first consul.” Monsieur Bourrienne raised his glass.
“To the Republic!” Bonaparte swallowed a large gulp.
“To the Republic!” Everyone followed his lead.
We feasted on lobster and fresh strawberry tarts. After our celebratory meal, the men retreated indoors to Bonaparte’s study. The few ladies in attendance remained on the patio in the twilight, sipping champagne.
“I have a delicate matter to discuss with you, Josephine. Ladies, please excuse us,” Madame de Krény said to the others. She escorted me to a bench under a willow tree.
“Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“No.” She set her glass on the bench. “I’m afraid the news involves Bonaparte.” Pity filled her eyes.
My stomach clenched. “Go on.”
“Giuseppina Grassini traveled with your husband’s convoy. She’s moving to Paris.”
I remembered the famed opera singer from my time in Venice. I pushed down my rising panic. There must be a good explanation.
“Bonaparte enjoys the theater and music a great deal. I’m not surprised he invited such a talent to grace our own opera.”
“Madame . . . I don’t know how to say this. . . .” She looked down. “He has taken her as his mistress.”
“Are you . . . are you certain?” I whispered. Suddenly, my gown was too tight and I could not breathe.
“Oh, darling.” Madame de Krény threw her arm about my shoulders. “I didn’t want you to overhear it by accident. I’m so sorry. I know how much you love him.”
How had I failed him? Had his love for me waned? After all we had been through. His poetry, his words of love meant nothing. “I think . . . I think I’ll lie down. Please excuse me.”
I said good night to the others and staggered to my bedroom.
My pale expression had not escaped Bonaparte’s notice. He joined me the moment our guests were settled. “Are you ill?”
I ignored his question and removed the pins from my hair, placing them one by one on the vanity.
“I’ve missed you,” he said. “Come sit on my lap, my darling.”
I spun on my stool. “Hire your mistress to sit on your lap. I’m sure we can fetch her from town.”
He ducked his head. “That woman means nothing to me.”
“You rented her an apartment in Paris! I’d say you care a great deal!” I pushed the array of brushes and cylinders to the floor. They clattered and rolled in every direction.
“Damn it, woman! Am I to be alone when you’re absent? She’s a physical distraction. Nothing more.”
“Maybe I’ll take a lover when you’re gone!” I shouted, fury choking me.
He gripped my shoulders, his fingers digging into my flesh. “Has another man been in my bed?”
“What do you care?”
His face twisted into a furious scowl. I had gone too far.
“You’re the mistress of France! Not a whore! My wife will not make me look a fool!” He shook me. “If you want to be free of me, free of your position, then go!”
I shoved him with all my might. “You would cast me off so easily? Like everyone else in your life?”
He caught my arms and pulled me to him. His mouth fell on mine. My lips pushed angrily against his.
When at last we pulled apart, I dropped into a chair. My anger dissolved into sobs. “I thought we were beyond this. How could you bring her here?”
“I don’t love her.” His face softened and he knelt beside me. “I swear it. Another woman will never possess my heart.” He cradled my face in his hands. “Or my soul. Ever.”
Tears streamed down my cheeks. I had set it all into motion with my folly. Now I could not escape it. Our love wasn’t enough. All I was, all I gave, would never be enough. A fresh wave of pain rippled through me.
He lifted me to the bed. “Sweet Josephine.” He smoothed the hair away from my face. “Je t’aime, mon amour. Je t’aime.”
Bonaparte’s appetite for me did not change, and to my relief, the vivacious opera singer didn’t last. She enjoyed her male admirers, it was said, and by month’s end Bonaparte had disposed of her. Despite her leaving, I remained uneasy. Another mistress would follow unless I became pregnant. Of this I was certain. Bonaparte waited each month for happy news, but it did not come. I consulted Paris’s finest doctors, took potions from midwives, and prayed each night, willing my womb to conceive.
As Christmas approached, I filled our calendar with holiday fetes, a welcome distraction from the obsession over my barrenness. Bonaparte had dismissed the revolutionary law banning religious holidays and moved toward readopting Catholicism.
“To appease the farmers and fishwives. Let them have their religion. They need it,” he said.
On Christmas Eve I poked my head into Bonaparte’s study to remind him of the time. In less than an hour we would leave for the opera. I did not wish to be late to Haydn’s much-anticipated The Creation.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. It’s eight o’clock.”
To my dismay, my husband, who had been in a happy mood, appeared ruffled. Officer Fouché, the minister of police, stood erect in the center of the room, a stern expression on his countenance. Bonaparte motioned me inside with an impatient wave.
“Good evening, madame.” Fouché tipped his hat and placed his hand on the shiny pommel of his sword. “I have troubling news. My men discovered large quantities of gunpowder in a warehouse outside the city. We believe it was meant for an assassination attempt. A plot most likely devised by the Royalists.”
“It was those damned Jacobins!” Bonaparte paced along an invisible line in the floor. “I want the bastards arrested! Tonight! Do whatever it takes. I’ll hire more policemen if necessary.”
The blood drained from my face. “Assassination attempt? Are we safe in the palace?”
“You’re perfectly safe here, madame. First Consul Bonaparte insists you continue to the opera this evening. I have advised him against it—it would be prudent to remain out of sight until we’ve arrested a few suspects—but he insists.�
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“Bonaparte—”
He stormed to the door. “I’ll not be made a prisoner by those bastards! Rumors of the arrest are spreading as we speak. Our citizens must see I’m not afraid. That all is well. We’re going and that’s final.” Bonaparte pulled on my hand. “You look lovely. Are the others ready?”
“Nearly.”
“Let’s go.” He nodded to Fouché. “I’ll see you after the show.”
Fouché nodded, his thin face pinched. “As you wish.”
Bonaparte freshened his appearance and chose a cashmere shawl to complement my velvet gown. “The black. It matches your gloves.”
Hortense knocked and spoke through the closed door. “Are you ready, Maman?”
“Come in, darling.”
“You’ll charm every man in the house in that gown.” Bonaparte tugged her ear.
“Thank you.” She blushed and smoothed her glittering waistband. My angel in white silk.
“I need to speak with someone before the show.” Bonaparte adjusted his belt. “I’ll meet you there. My coach is waiting.”
“We’ll be right behind you. Your sister should be ready any moment.” I had not been thrilled when Caroline ordered rather than asked for me to purchase her a ticket, but I had suppressed my annoyance and welcomed her as a sister should. “I’ll check on her now.”
The moment Caroline finished dressing, we rushed to our coach and sped toward the opera house. During the ride I could not shake my malaise. I peered at the crowds, searching for a sinister face in the shadows. How could Bonaparte dismiss an attempt on his life? He endangered us all with this pretense.
“How are you feeling, Caroline?” Hortense interrupted my thoughts.
“Like an elephant.” Her pregnant belly stretched the fabric of her sapphire gown. “I’m uncomfortable and swollen. My stomach gurgles and I don’t sleep. I can’t wait for this child to be born!”
I patted her hand. “It will be over soon and you’ll have a newborn to adore.”
Caroline jerked her hand away. “So far this child has been nothing but a burden.”
Hortense gave me a knowing glance. We had spoken of Caroline often in confidence. I pitied the poor child who would have Bonaparte’s sister as its mother.
The next instant, our carriage jerked to a stop.
“What in the—”
The horses reared on their hind legs and I slammed into Caroline. She shoved me off of her. “Pay attention! You’re going to—”
A blast erupted in an earsplitting boom.
I was catapulted from the coach and all went black.
The burn of smelling salts filled my nostrils. I opened my eyes and locked on Hortense’s worried expression. The footman and several guards stood behind her.
“Maman?” She slid her arm under my head.
I groaned and sat up slowly. Splintered wood and shards of glass littered the street. Our carriage, or what remained of it, lay on its side in a filthy puddle. The surrounding houses had lost their windows in the blast. Some had caught fire.
“What happened?” I rubbed the back of my neck. Hortense sat beside me, mute and trembling. Blood dribbled down her arm and pooled on her white gown. “You’re bleeding!”
“I’ve cut my wrist.” Her voice shook. “I need a bandage.” A guard produced a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped her wrist, securing it with a piece of twine.
“How is—my God! Caroline!” I looked around frantically. “The baby! Caroline!”
“She’s here, madame,” the footman reassured me. “She appears unharmed.”
The guard moved to reveal several policemen, a few dazed bystanders, and a stupefied Caroline rubbing her belly.
“The baby is kicking. The little thing didn’t enjoy being thrown to the ground.”
“Are you well? Is—”
“Fine,” she snapped.
“Madame Bonaparte, there was an explosion,” a policeman said. “We are preparing another coach for you. We believe the bomb was intended for the first consul.”
My heart stopped. “Is he—”
“He had already moved on to the opera house when the explosion occurred.”
I leaned into the guard, weak with relief. Merci à Dieu.
“Shall I take you back to the palace?”
“Take us to the opera. My husband will be expecting us.”
Bonaparte waited in our box, pale and on edge.
“Thank God.” He crushed my hand in his. “They told me you were safe, but I wouldn’t believe it until I saw you myself. You did the right thing in coming. We must show we’re in control. Not the bastards who did this. I’ll have their heads.”
After the initial relief of seeing Bonaparte, my anger grew. His muleheaded decision could have had us killed. I put a shaky arm around Hortense. She smiled weakly and returned her gaze to the stage.
Something had to be done about the Royalists. There must be a way to neutralize them. If Bonaparte would not address their involvement, I would. I packed my lorgnette into my handbag. I could not use it anyway; my hands trembled too much to see the stage clearly.
The police confirmed the explosion was a Royalist plot. Bonaparte ignored the evidence and ordered the arrest and exile of dozens of Jacobins. Uprisings sprang up throughout the country.
“Let them have their voice.” Monsieur Talleyrand smoothed his black coat and perched on the edge of a chair. “One who cannot speak grows first apathetic, then angry. Need I remind you of La Terreur?”
Bonaparte rubbed his chin. “What do you suggest?”
I looked up from the letter I was writing. “I will invite them to my Yellow Salon. I’ll hear their requests and write to the ministry on their behalf. If the émigrés may return to their families and homes, they’ll be less likely to oppose the new government.”
They stared at me in dumbfounded silence.
I dipped my quill pen into its well. Sometimes men did not see the obvious. “To reunite their families would make them very grateful and in your debt.”
Bonaparte adopted my strategy, permitting me to request pardons for as many Royalist émigrés as I chose. Day after day I prepared my salon and served refreshments to visitors seeking my aid. I turned away no one, regardless of title or station. I could not deny those who had suffered, their fathers or daughters murdered, their heirlooms destroyed or property confiscated.
The exiled trickled back to France and within a few months, the former nobles appealed to me in droves.
“I am growing bored of the same stories,” Hortense complained one morning. She yawned and stretched her limbs. I insisted she attend to learn a sense of responsibility in her position of power—to learn to be generous and show mercy. Besides, one never knew when they might need to rely upon another’s kindness.
“Everyone has a tale of woe,” I said. “It is true. But imagine if we could not return home. If not for the generosity of others, we could have starved during the Revolution. Or worse.”
I peered out at the gardens. Saplings grew in place of the ancient trees that had been defaced or ripped from the earth during the riots. A family of robins hopped about, pecking the sodden ground in search of a meal. How I wished to be at Malmaison, digging in my own gardens. My schedule had become grueling.
Hortense lowered her head in shame. “I am grateful, Maman. And I’m happy to show others kindness.”
“When you’re in a position to give, you do so. It’s the right thing to do, to help another in need.” I smiled to myself. Perhaps I had learned a thing or two from those years of studying Alexandre’s beloved Rousseau. One man for another, regardless of station.
She joined me at the window. “Why do you risk Bonaparte’s anger?” She shuddered at the thought. “He’ll be enraged when he learns of the ten thousand francs. You could have granted the orphanage the two tho
usand they requested.”
“Two thousand is a meager sum that will barely keep the fires lit. Those poor children.”
“They call you our Lady of Bounty. Have you heard?”
I laughed. “Another nickname for the wife of Napoléon Bonaparte.”
“You are far more than his wife.”
I stared at Hortense. Perhaps she was wiser than I had thought. I tucked a blond curl behind her ear. “I suppose I am.”
My charity extended beyond émigrés, orphanages, and hospitals. Every member of my family applied for financial support or a favor. I solicited Bonaparte to bestow them with titles and pay their debts. Aunt Désirée and Fanny, Alexandre’s brother, François, and every other Beauharnais relation wanted for nothing. Uncle Tascher relocated from Martinique with five cousins in tow.
I appealed to Maman to join him. When her latest packet of letters arrived, I sought the refuge of my boudoir, anxious to read her reply. Surely she would come to Paris now.
I sat at my vanity, poring over each letter. Everything seemed well at home. She missed us. And in her last missive, she once again refused my invitation to visit.
I tossed the letter on top of the pile. Why wouldn’t she come? I couldn’t understand her reluctance. She lived alone. Her grandchildren, her daughter, now Consulesse of France, and a life of luxury wouldn’t bring her to France.
I threw myself on my bed and beat my pillows in frustration.
My reputation for generosity spread. Soon, every past acquaintance appeared. One warm summer day, a single visit tested my sense of charity more than all others combined.
“Pardon me, madame.” A servant interrupted my letter writing. “A woman is here to see you.”
“Who is it?” I asked, laying down my quill.
“Madame Laure de Longpré.”
I paused in stunned silence for a full minute.
Laure de Longpré! She had stolen Alexandre’s heart, borne him a child, and spoken falsehoods about me to my own family. What bravado she possessed showing her face! Wretched woman! I could turn her away, have her thrown into the street. Bonaparte would follow my request in an instant.
Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 29