The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte

by Chatlien, Ruth Hull

  She smiled as winsomely as her anxiety would allow, and the painter picked up his brush.

  They were not allowed to see either portrait until Stuart had captured their likenesses to his own satisfaction. Finally, one Friday afternoon, he let them view the works in progress. The faces on Betsy’s portrait were subtly executed and looked finished, but the throats and shoulders remained rough. Surrounding the three busts was a background of swirling masses painted in shades of burnt umber. Next to the faces, Stuart had begun to add a top layer of pale blue highlighted with lavender to give the appearance of sky. Betsy was delighted, judging that not only was the portrait an excellent likeness, but it also captured her lively personality. Jerome, however, frowned. “Her shoulders are bare. You should put clothes on each of the figures.”

  “You can find a picture like that in any shop in town!”

  “But the three heads are rising from a bank of clouds.”

  Stuart’s eyes glinted dangerously. “They serve to emphasize her angelic beauty.”

  “Then why use such dark turbulent forms?”

  “To add depth to the painting, sir. When I finish the top layer, those dark values will show through as shadows in the cloudy mass.”

  Again Betsy spoke to avoid a conflict. “What a fascinating process. I had no idea that was how it is done. May we see my husband’s portrait?”

  “If you insist.” Stuart took her arm and led her to the other easel.

  In contrast to Betsy’s portrait, Jerome’s was a conventional three-quarter view from the waist up, with the face gazing right. Betsy saw that Stuart had perfectly captured the haughty look Jerome wore whenever he was insisting upon his honor. As with her portrait, the face appeared finished, but the background and clothing—a frill-fronted shirt and a black uniform coat with gold epaulets—were still rough.

  Jerome made no comment on his likeness but instead asked, “Shall we come back Monday? I should like to have these finished as soon as possible.”

  “No, I have other appointments next week.”

  “But, sir, you have a prior commitment to us.”

  “And I have awarded you ample time. The paintings are far enough developed that I should be able to finish them at my leisure.”

  Jerome stiffened, and his expression so matched the arrogant face on the portrait that Betsy would have laughed if the situation were not so tense. “At your leisure, sir? I require you to finish these portraits before taking other commissions.”

  “You require?” Stuart put his hands on his hips. “You impudent little puppy. Who are you to place requirements on me? You have nothing to recommend you but your name, and that is a dubious enough calling card.”

  “Do you dare to insult my family, sir?”

  “Gentleman, please!” Betsy cried. “I find this needless argument most upsetting.”

  Stuart made a stiff bow to Betsy. “Forgive me, Madame. I do not want to distress so charming a lady, but I must ask you both to leave.” He glared over her shoulder at Jerome. “Your husband and I have nothing more to say to one another.”

  “Mr. Stuart, I beg you.” Betsy boldly laid her hand upon his arm. “Let us resolve our differences, so you may complete the work you started so brilliantly.”

  Stuart glanced at Betsy’s portrait, and regret flashed upon his face. Then his expression hardened. “No. I never finish a painting once the subject has insulted me.”

  “Say something,” Betsy implored Jerome, thinking that if only he would apologize, they could salvage the situation.

  “Let us depart,” Jerome said and, taking her arm, led her from the studio. Once they were out on the street, he shrugged off his bad mood. “From all I hear, the man has trouble earning enough to support his family. I will give it a day or two and then send a friend with the message that I will pay extra if he finishes the commission quickly.”

  DURING THEIR STAY in Washington, Jerome visited the office of Minister Pichon several times to ask for additional funds and to see if he had received a dispatch from Napoleon. There he often encountered Admiral Jean-Baptiste Willaumez, who had been in charge of the French bases at Saint-Domingue while Jerome was serving in the Caribbean.

  Since October, Willaumez’s ship, the 42-gun frigate Poursuivante, had been docked in Baltimore, where it was being repaired from damage it had sustained in battle. All winter, both Willaumez and Pichon tried to convince Jerome that his duty required him to sail on the Poursuivante once its repairs were completed and it returned to France.

  Betsy was not present for any of those conversations. Whenever Jerome came home, he recounted the arguments in detail and reassured her that he had reminded the officials that he was waiting for direct orders from the First Consul. Jerome grew more exasperated each time Pichon and Willaumez taxed him about the subject, and Betsy feared that his temper might cause him to cross the line of mutiny toward his superior. In her anxiety that he could be arrested, she forgot that French officials were too terrified to discipline any of Napoleon’s relatives. At the end of March, Willaumez commanded Jerome to board the Poursuivante, to which Jerome retorted that he took orders from no one. Instead of being clapped in the brig for insubordination, he was allowed to leave Pichon’s office with only a verbal reprimand. The admiral sailed without him.

  AFTER NEARLY TWO months of social engagements and many unsuccessful appeals to Gilbert Stuart, Jerome and Betsy returned to Baltimore. They arrived at Jerome’s rented town house late at night and went straight to bed. The next morning, as soon as she finished her breakfast, Betsy walked from their house down the street to her childhood home. She and her mother had never been separated for more than three weeks, and Betsy wanted desperately to see her.

  Finding Dorcas in her banister-back chair in the drawing room, Betsy longed to kneel before her mother and embrace her, but she admonished herself that she was a married woman now who must act with decorum. She bent to kiss her mother’s cheek and then sat on the sofa. “Aunt Margaret and Aunt Nancy send their love.”

  Dorcas smiled. “I miss them. I know that Samuel’s service to the country is important, but it is hard that families must be separated for such a large part of the year.”

  Gazing at her mother’s face, Betsy saw that she was pale with dark circles beneath her eyes. Perhaps she was overworked now that Betsy was no longer at home to assist her. “Mother, are you ill? You look very tired.”

  “I am not sick.” Dorcas turned red. “I believe I am with child again.”

  “I see,” Betsy whispered and gripped her hands tightly in her lap to keep from betraying the resentment she felt at the news. She could not help but think that as a three-month’s bride, she should be the one to make such a blushing announcement, even if it was better for her not to conceive while her marriage was in doubt. “What did Father say?”

  “Oh, he grumbled as he always does about how crowded the house is, but I pointed out that with you married, the number of people living here will remain the same.”

  Betsy longed to respond tartly that if her father was concerned about having too large a family, he should learn to control his carnal appetites. Then a distasteful idea occurred to her. If her brothers had not forced their father to give up his mistress, he might have taken his satisfaction with her and spared his wife this pregnancy.

  Shocked by her thoughts, Betsy cleared her throat. “Is there anything I can do to help prepare for the child?”

  ONE AFTERNOON AT the beginning of April, as Betsy sat sewing with her mother in the Patterson drawing room, Jerome came looking for her. “I have had a letter from France.”

  Betsy dropped her work in her lap. “From your family?”

  “No, from Minister of the Navy Decrès. He says that Napoleon orders me to return to France on the first available frigate.” Jerome sat beside her and handed her the letter.

  Betsy scanned the page but could not find what she was looking for. “It says nothing about our marriage?”

  “No, Elisa. Lieutenant Meyronn
et, who delivered this, said that when he left France in January, my family still knew nothing of our nuptials.”

  “I see.” She forced herself to read the letter from beginning to end. It suggested that Jerome return on the Poursuivante, which he could no longer do. “Do you think your brother is angry with you for staying in the United States so long?”

  “No. Meyronnet said that Napoleon thinks I acted wisely in not traveling on a merchant vessel that could easily be boarded. But with war heating up, he wants me to return as soon as possible and resume my duty to France.”

  Handing back the letter, she asked, “What are we to do? You cannot ignore this directive.”

  “I swore a sacred oath to your father not to take you to France as long as our marriage is in question. We cannot go there until we receive my mother’s consent.”

  “Then you will be guilty of desertion, and when you do return to France, you will be liable to imprisonment. Or even hanging.”

  Jerome laughed. “The admiralty would not dare to hang me. No, Napoleon will rage at me as he has done many times, but I will win him over in the end.”

  Dorcas said, “Jerome, my daughter is right. This is a more serious offense than any boyish prank you may have committed before. To defy the First Consul will not induce him to look with favor upon your wife, whom he will certainly blame for your defection.”

  Betsy looked up in surprise at her mother’s astute observation, but then she realized that Dorcas was speaking from long experience as the wife of an authoritarian man. Telling herself not to give way to fear, Betsy raised her chin. Jerome was her husband now, and it was her duty to help his career. In the long run, winning Napoleon’s favor would benefit them both. “Perhaps we should go to France no matter what you promised my father.”

  Jerome scanned the letter again. “Since they did not know of our marriage, there is nothing in these orders to prevent you from traveling with me.”

  “Will the captain allow me aboard a warship?”

  His eyes flashed. “I will order him to do so as the First Consul’s brother.”

  Glancing toward her mother, Betsy saw that Dorcas was worried, yet Betsy had made up her mind. “How long do you think it will be before another frigate docks in Baltimore Harbor?”

  “There is no way to know. I think we would do better to travel to New York and see if any French ships have landed there.” Jerome smiled impishly. “While we wait, I will show you the sights of that great city.”

  Betsy laughed, her anxiety eased. The news she found so troublesome had not dampened Jerome’s irrepressible pursuit of amusement in the slightest. “All right, let us go to New York.”

  XI

  BEFORE leaving Baltimore, Jerome wrote to Victor du Pont, an émigré businessman he had met on his previous trip to New York. Jerome announced their upcoming visit and asked du Pont to recommend a house that he and Betsy might rent during their stay.

  Because they were in no special hurry, on their third day out Jerome and Betsy stopped in Philadelphia to visit some friends of the Pattersons. Then they set out across New Jersey. They were traveling in the new coach-and-six Jerome had purchased because he felt it was the only vehicle impressive enough to suit the Bonaparte dignity. Jerome’s physician and secretary followed in a rented curricle—an open, two-wheeled chaise—while Lieutenant Meyronnet accompanied them on horseback, and the servants traveled by public coach. The Bonapartes arrived at the du Ponts’ three-story town house the second week of April. Their companions took rooms in an inn.

  The du Ponts lived in Greenwich Village, just north of New York. The city was growing increasingly crowded, causing epidemics of diseases like cholera to occur more frequently, so in recent years, wealthy families had begun moving to communities just beyond the city limits. Greenwich Village still had a rural character, but because of the exodus, more mansions and town houses were going up all the time.

  The du Ponts, both of whom were in their mid-thirties, greeted Jerome and Betsy in their front hall. Victor du Pont had a cleft chin, kindly eyes, and heavy eyebrows. He took both of Jerome’s hands and welcomed him enthusiastically in French. Then du Pont and his wife greeted Betsy in English. “Je suis enchantée de faire votre connaisance,” she replied, earning a warm smile from her hostess. Madame du Pont had coppery ringlets piled on top of her head and blue eyes in a plump face.

  After they exchanged a few more remarks, Madame du Pont turned to Jerome. “Your wife is charming, Monsieur Bonaparte. I can see why you were so distressed by your separation when last we met.”

  “Was he very upset?” Betsy asked.

  Madame du Pont laughed. “Oh, Madame Bonaparte, I have never seen a young man so stricken. I thought that I was watching a tragedy by Racine.”

  “Ma chérie, I told you not to doubt me,” Jerome said. To Madame du Pont, he added, “I am afraid that my wife was made a skeptic at a very tender age. When she was a girl, she memorized all of La Rochefoucauld’s Maxims.”

  “Heavens, such a cynical man!” Placing one hand upon her bosom, Madame du Pont turned to Betsy. “What possessed your mama to allow you to undertake such an unsuitable project?”

  “My mother had so many children to supervise that she was happy to allow anything that would occupy me.”

  “Come, why are we standing in the hall?” Du Pont ushered his guests into the parlor, which was furnished with pieces that Betsy was certain had been imported from France. The chairs and tables were carved in classical forms and embellished with gilt, and hieroglyphics inspired by Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign decorated one chest.

  “Bonaparte, tomorrow I will take you to view a house that I think will suit your purpose. It is quite nearby. When I told the owner, Monsieur Magnitot, that you were uncertain how long you would need it, he agreed to flexible terms.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur, for taking so much trouble on our behalf. When I return to Paris, I will make sure that my brother knows how much assistance you have provided.”

  Du Pont flushed, but Betsy could not tell if it were with pleasure or embarrassment. “At week’s end, we are hosting a formal ball to honor you and your bride.”

  “That sounds delightful,” Betsy said.

  THE NEXT DAY Victor du Pont took them to see a narrow, three-story town house on Washington Street a block east of the river. The raised first floor had two mullioned windows and an off-center blue door flanked by ornamental columns. At street level, a plain wooden door allowed horses to be led directly to the back yard where the carriage house stood.

  Jerome liked it, particularly because of the ease with which he could go riding. After he signed the lease, they moved in with their servants and Jerome’s three companions. Betsy disliked the idea of living with such a large retinue when they were so newly married, but she made no protest. She told herself she would have to grow accustomed to having an entourage of royal proportions if they were to live at Napoleon’s court.

  Because the house was let completely furnished and their residence would be temporary, they made only one change to the décor. Jerome took down the gloomy portrait hanging over the fireplace in their private sitting room and hung a sword in its place. When he was fifteen, he had begged to take part in the Italy campaign, but Napoleon declined his request. When a victorious Napoleon returned to Paris, Jerome refused to speak to him until he agreed to give up the sword he had carried during his victory over the Austrians at Marengo. The narrow gold-encrusted saber, curved like the scimitars Napoleon had seen in Egypt, was Jerome’s most cherished possession.

  After they moved in, Jerome inquired whether any French frigates were in the harbor. Nothing was there at the moment, but he learned that members of the fleet often docked in New York for supplies or repairs. “We might as well enjoy ourselves while we wait,” he told Betsy on his return to the house.

  Their first week in New York, Jerome took her to see a musical drama at the New Theatre, a three-story building with a disappointingly plain exterior. The interior, however
, was as splendid as Betsy could wish, with a crystal chandelier hanging from the center of a domed ceiling and three tiers of boxes decorated in blue and gold. Jerome obtained a box for them in the lowest tier.

  The play, The Wife of Two Husbands, portrayed a countess who received word that her first husband—a rogue who had charmed her into eloping and then destroyed her love through abuse and criminality—was not dead as she had been told. He had recently escaped from prison and threatened to ruin her happy second marriage to the count.

  At the first intermission, Betsy opened her fan and waved it languidly. “Are all dramas as contrived as this? Upon my word, I never heard so convoluted a story.”

  “Do not feign indifference, Elisa. I saw you wiping away tears.”

  She laughed that he had seen through her façade of jaded sophistication. “It was because of Eugenia’s song about pining for her love. The lyrics reminded me of when I was exiled to Virginia and had no way of knowing if I would ever see you again. It was such a cruel time.”

  Jerome raised her hand and kissed it. “Ma chère petite femme, je ne te quitterai jamais.”

  She leaned close and whispered, “I know you would not leave me willingly. But it seems an odd circumstance that you would bring me to see a play about a woman who learns that her marriage is invalid.”

  “Elisa!” Jerome’s tone was aggrieved. “This performance—” He gestured broadly to the stage. “Is meant to amuse you. If it causes you distress, then by all means let us go.”

  Betsy shut her fan and laid it across his chest. “No, I do not wish to leave. Forgive me for being out of temper.” To change the subject, she leaned forward and surveyed the audience below. Pointing with her folded-up fan, she whispered, “Look at that woman in the pale blue gown with the pleated hem. I thought that style had gone out of fashion. I must say, I don’t see a woman here whose clothes rival the wardrobe you gave me.”