“Madame?” The servant looked at me expectantly. “Shall I send her in?”
I tapped my fingers on the polished mahogany desktop. What could she possibly ask of me? I could at least hear her request, then deny her if I chose. But how would I control my temper? I detested few people as much as I did her. I stared at the door for a moment longer.
The temptation was too great.
I moved to a flower-patterned settee and smoothed my skirts. The white muslin dress with blue ribbons had been a good choice. She would see me looking my best.
“You may show her in.”
Laure entered my salon, head held high. I knew at once why Alexandre had fallen for her. She carried herself like nobility and her blushing beauty suited his tastes. I noticed her dated appearance with satisfaction—her gown, a pretty indienne of pink flowers, appeared worn and her hat was no longer in fashion.
She curtsied. “Bonjour, Madame Consulesse.”
“Have a seat.” I motioned to a floral chaise across from me. “Would you care for coffee or galettes?” I plucked a silver bell from the table.
A servant appeared instantly. “Madame?”
“Coffee, s’il vous plaît.” The servant nodded and hurried from the room.
I stared at Laure coldly, relishing her discomfort.
“This is very awkward.” She fingered the lace trim of her fan. “I owe you an apology. I was a fool.” She lowered her eyes. “My mother would have disowned me had she known I treated another woman in such a way.” She began to flutter her fan wildly.
She had a heart after all.
I said nothing for a long moment. Finally, I waved my hand in dismissal. “A million years have passed.”
Silence.
I shifted in my seat.
Laure surveyed the room and fixed her gaze upon the oriental carpet, with its curling vines and bulging rosebuds.
“Is there something I can do for you, Madame de Longpré?”
“Oui, consulesse.” She stopped fanning. “My husband is dead and I’ve discovered his fortune was a lie. My parents lost their plantation in the slave revolts. I find myself destitute. My son—Alexandre’s son—has had no proper schooling. I don’t know where to turn.”
“You are in need of money?”
The crease between her brows deepened. “I have no one else to turn to. I have heard of your generosity. . . .”
I took pleasure in helping those who deserved it, not those who had wronged me in every possible way. I stared at her in silence. I would enjoy telling her to seek help from a convent, as I had, to find her way.
Her bottom lip trembled. She looked down at her hands. “I know I don’t deserve your kindness.”
I placed my coffee cup on the table. I could not stand to see a woman in desperate need. The past was as much Alexandre’s doing as hers, and I had made my peace with him long ago.
I touched her arm. “I’ll call my financier and set up a meeting with you next week. We can discuss an appropriate sum. And perhaps a military post for your son.”
She heaved a sigh and her shoulders fell. Tears filled her eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“I cannot deny a fellow woman in need. Now, if you will excuse me, my next appointment is here.”
She gazed at me gratefully for an instant, then turned and rushed through the double doors.
I smiled. Her guilt would be payment enough.
My days became a routine dictated by Bonaparte.
“You will take appointments until four, then do as you wish and dress for dinner. We’ll meet at nine in your boudoir, unless there is a state affair, of course,” he said. “You may meet with your ladies or friends after we dine. And I expect you to be at your most dazzling.”
“I will ‘dazzle’ them, as you say, but do not complain when the bills arrive,” I said.
“Monsieur LeRoy is robbing me blind,” he growled.
“He’s a brilliant dressmaker. You remark at every gown he creates for me.”
He swatted my rear end. “The gowns would not be as becoming on anyone else.”
I followed the schedule exactly as he requested without complaint, though the days grew ever more packed. Our exhaustive work in the city left us longing for the peace of Malmaison. Many Fridays we raced to our haven with the children the moment the final meeting ended. On one such blissful weekend, we awoke Saturday morning to the sound of the barnyard cock. The scent of leaves and hay floated through the open window.
I shivered from the cool air and pulled the duvet up to my chin. “I’m meeting with the botanist today. We’re to find a place for a heated orangery and greenhouse. I’m considering an aviary as well.” I would re-create Martinique just beyond the noise of Paris, with flowers and exotic birds. My own land, my home. “What do you think?”
“Whatever you like.” He lay on his back, staring out at the cheery morning sky. “I have some documents to review, but let’s be a family this afternoon.”
In the afternoon hours we rode along the forest paths and played trictrac. Bonaparte and Eugène took turns reading poetry and Hortense and I played the harp and piano. I sighed in complete happiness when we had finished a supper of stewed pheasant, parsnips, and meringue, all grown and prepared from Malmaison’s farm.
The children excused themselves and Bonaparte and I moved to a sofa in his study. I lay beside him, entangling my limbs with his under a blanket. The wind whistled as it blew against the eaves of the house.
“The weather is changing,” I mused aloud. Flurrying snowflakes swirled in violent bursts before perching on grass and windowsills.
“Winter is almost upon us.”
I braided the fringe of the wool blanket, dreaming of a baby. I dared not broach the subject, though I knew it weighed as heavily on his mind. Months had passed since my last courses.
He broke the silence at last. “Eugène is a handsome young man.”
“Yes. Women admire him.”
“As they should. He’s an able soldier. Intelligent, well mannered, graceful. The stepson of a ruler.”
I tugged on the blanket to cover my arms. “I’m proud of who he has become.”
“And Hortense nears her nineteenth birthday,” he said. “It is time, amore mio.”
I sighed. I knew this day would come. “She has many suitors. They can’t resist her blond curls and sweet voice.”
“She’s angelic. A gifted singer and she tempers my bawdy tongue.”
I laughed. “She has a way of inspiring virtue.”
“Whom would you choose for her?”
“I want her to be happy.”
“I’d like to see at least one member of our family properly married. My siblings have chosen poorly.” His voice rose an octave as his anger grew. “It’s an embarrassment. If they had obeyed my orders—”
“I know, darling.” I stroked his cheek to calm him. “We don’t wish that for Hortense.”
We discussed a dozen names, speculated about their families and their ability to integrate into our own. How would Hortense feel about this one or that one?
“And my brother Louis?” he asked. “What do you think of him?”
I didn’t like him at all, though he was the least detestable of the Bonapartes. I couldn’t imagine giving my only daughter to him.
“I need an heir,” he said quietly.
I blushed. The child I had been unable to give him thus far.
At last, I said, “They will have children.” A flicker of hope welled inside me. An heir could be named if I did not become pregnant, if the child was my daughter’s instead. It would secure my marriage.
He clutched my hands and his determined eyes met mine. “Exactly.”
I wrestled with my emotions. Hortense would despair at a marriage to Louis. I hated to disappoint her, my only daughter. When
I expressed my doubt to Bonaparte, he made his decision clear.
“It’s the perfect solution. I’ve made my decision.”
I could have argued his point, but I did not.
The following evening I told Hortense of her betrothal as we sewed by the fire.
“How can you suggest such a thing?” She threw down her pillow. “He is melancholy and anxious! You wouldn’t choose for me someone who fakes constrictions of the throat!”
I moved to a seat beside her. “He’s a bit eccentric, but not unhandsome. He would treat you well. I’m afraid, darling, that Bonaparte has decided. It’s the best thing for you and the family.”
Anger darkened her purple-blue eyes. “I don’t love him!”
“Love will come. I was reluctant to marry Bonaparte and now he’s the only man in the world for me.”
She dissolved into tears, defeated.
The wedding arrived on a bitter winter day. We held it at our former home on the rue de la Victoire. Mimi laid out the exquisite gown Monsieur LeRoy had created for Hortense. I fingered the lace detailing, the pearls expertly stitched onto the white satin bodice.
All would be well. Hortense would grow to admire Louis.
When the ceremony began, Hortense descended the stairs in a simple white sheath. Not the elaborate gown I had prepared for her—a symbol of her own sacrifice. Her eyes appeared puffy from crying.
A ripple of pain shot through me. “Oh, Hortense.” My throat ached against the dam of tears.
She ducked her head. “I am ready.”
She gave all for me, to ensure my position, to secure my marriage and our livelihood. She never spoke the words aloud, but I saw them in her eyes.
Later that evening, I wept bitterly into my pillow for her lost innocence, for my own selfishness and Bonaparte’s. My only daughter. What had I done?
Bonaparte’s support grew as he built schools and museums and, above all, created jobs. The strength of the franc grew under his new laws, and industry boomed. When speculation circulated that he might be named first consul for life, malaise stole over me and nightmares plagued my sleep. Though I enjoyed my position, I looked forward to our retirement to Malmaison, an end to the ceaseless functions and the constant threat of being overthrown, of danger. Worse still, my greatest fear resurfaced: A consul for life mirrored the duties of a king; Bonaparte would need an heir and I would be unable to oblige.
I rubbed my throbbing temples one evening at dinner.
“You haven’t touched a morsel.” Bonaparte forked a roasted potato into his mouth.
“I am uneasy.” He raised an eyebrow in question. “I feel it’s a grave mistake to accept such a position. Consul for life is no different than king. I fear your election will enrage Republicans and the Royalists alike. Please reconsider.” I took his hand and pressed it to my heart. “I am your lucky star. My intuition has never been wrong.”
He kissed my hand and then stabbed another potato. “It is out of my hands. The assembly votes tomorrow. I will give the people what they ask for. Who am I to deny them?”
My husband became first consul for life, as predicted, and I agonized over my barren womb. I didn’t eat and I grew thinner by the day. I sought the advice of Europe’s finest doctors but each one said the same.
“You suffered too much during the Revolution. Now, at your advanced age of thirty-eight . . .”
Mimi scolded me when I collapsed on the bed one afternoon, fatigued and distraught. “Have you forgotten where you come from, girl? These men in their fancy coats know nothing of a woman’s body or spirit.”
She plunked down beside me on the velvet bedcover and rubbed my back. “Famian is angry you don’t seek her help. The new moon, we’ll make an offering.”
It had not occurred to me to contact Mimi’s spirits. So far had I traveled from home, from the comfort and ritual of African magic. From Maman. A tide of longing choked me. What I wouldn’t give to retreat beneath the blanket of jungle and wildflowers, free of expectations.
“Tell me what I must do.”
The evening of the new moon, Mimi and I waited until the palace had quieted. We slipped through a door off the kitchens.
A guard stopped us as we stepped into the night.
“We’ll just be in the garden near the edge of the wood,” I said. “Please leave us undisturbed.”
“You have one hour. Bonaparte would have my head if he knew I let you out of my sight.”
I followed Mimi across the lawn, dew seeping into my brocade shoes. My candle flickered in the blackness, casting its paltry light over the landscape. I sneaked a glance back at the palace. How sinister it appeared in the dark; its facade towered over the lawn like a great hulking monster with mirrored eyes. I shivered and walked faster.
Mimi clutched a sack close to her body and ducked behind a chestnut tree. I followed, stumbling over an exposed root.
“Watch it, now.” Mimi continued to a dark corner of the garden. She bent to light a haphazard stack of logs. The wood caught fire and a spray of flames shot toward the moonless sky. The fire burned silver, then orange, throwing an eerie glow on Mimi’s cinnamon skin.
She chanted in her Ibo tongue.
A warmth spread through my limbs. Despite my unease in the dark, a sense of comfort stole over me. How at home I felt in the open air, beside ma noire and her gods.
Mimi pointed to her sack. “You take one, I’ll take the other.”
I retrieved the collection of twigs and dried herbs inside.
“Light it.”
We lit our sacred boughs and danced around the ring of fire. Mimi tossed a sachet of dried herbs into the flames. The sweet smell of dead grass filled the air.
“Take this and do as I showed you.” She handed me a burlap pouch filled with vesta powder.
I ran my thumb over the rough material and stared into the fire.
Lord, let this work.
I chanted Mimi’s prayer and sprinkled powder over the flames. When a small amount of powder remained, I pitched the rest into the middle of the pit. It ignited in a small burst. We circled the fire once more, then threw dirt on the flames.
“We’ll do this again on the full moon.”
I nodded and followed her indoors.
The ritual proved successful. My courses returned for six months. But still I did not become pregnant.
“Then it’s not meant to be,” Mimi said when I lamented my infertility.
“But it must!” I said.
In my desperation, I sought the advice of Madame Lenormand, a fortune-teller.
Once again, I stole into the night after Bonaparte went to bed. Madame Rémusat, my closest maid next to Mimi, accompanied me.
“When Bonaparte finds out you’ve left the palace without cavalry, he’ll be incensed,” she said.
“He won’t know, and we have a guard with us. Besides, no one will recognize this old carriage.” I tucked my hands into my muff to warm my freezing fingers.
“But don’t you fear the gossips?” She read my grim expression. “You know I would never tell a soul.”
I gave her a pained smile. “You are the only one, my friend.”
When we arrived at the Palais-Égalité, Madame Rémusat remained in the carriage. The market still buzzed with activity, despite the late hour. Prostitutes posed against their doorframes, adjusting their exposed chemises and calling to passersby. Raucous laughter sounded from the taverns and pale light poured from a gambling house, packed with cigar-smoking scoundrels. I pulled my hood over my head and hurried toward the dilapidated shop nestled in the far corner. The smell of hot waffles drifted from next door.
I paused and looked behind me. No one appeared to be watching.
A cloud of incense and smoke assaulted me as I entered. Black and purple silk swathed the front windows and stars and fake birds dangled from the
ceiling.
“Bonsoir.” An assistant appeared and ushered me to the back room.
Madame Lenormand sat at a small table puffing on a cigar. A halo of smoke rings floated above her head.
“Ah, there you are, madame.”
“I apologize for the late hour. It was the only time I could get away.”
She shrugged. “I am awake all night. It is when I do most of my business. Now, the fee.” She held out her plump hand, covered in tarnished rings. I placed a sack in her palm and sat gingerly on the worn stool.
Madame Lenormand perched her cigar on a tray. “Let’s see.” She spun her hands above mine. With a swift movement, she grasped them in hers and closed her eyes. I watched her chubby face for movement. At last, her piggish nose twitched and she cleared her throat.
“I see a lost child.”
I inhaled a sharp breath. Would I become pregnant only to lose it? I fought the mounting panic in my chest.
She released my hands, though her eyes remained closed. “A heavy crown. And enemies prepared to strike. Beware.”
My head began to swim. Enemies? Of France? Or . . . the Bonapartes? They would do anything to rid themselves of me.
Her throat made a horrible gurgling sound. She hacked and spat into a cup filled with murky liquid. “Ahh, yes . . . and there will be a new beginning.”
Empire
Palais des Tuileries, 1802–1807
In the fall, my spirits lifted with the birth of Hortense’s joyful baby boy, Napoléon Louis Charles Bonaparte. Little Napoléon brightened the Tuileries and dispelled my depressive humor. Hortense, too, seemed happier—her supreme love for her son distracted her from Louis’s fastidious demands.
Bonaparte couldn’t hold his grandson enough. He tickled the baby’s belly and smelled his fresh skin at every opportunity. I struggled to control my emotions when I watched him heap affection on my daughter’s child.
How I longed to give Bonaparte one of his own.
One evening after Hortense had tucked little Napoléon into bed, she joined me and my ladies for light confections and a game of cards in my private rooms. Bonaparte had long since gone to bed.
Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 30