The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte

by Chatlien, Ruth Hull

  “It would be only a temporary expedient until you can convince Napoleon of the wisdom of your choice.”

  “No. I promised my father-in-law that I would never do such a thing. I cannot go back on my word.”

  Does that mean he would leave me if he had not made the promise? Betsy wondered. Then she admonished herself, I must not think such things. She took a deep breath, called out Jerome’s name, and continued down the stairs.

  Nearly three weeks passed. One morning Jerome opened a note to learn that Captain Brouard had received a dispatch from Minister of the Navy Dècres. The packet had been delayed because it was mistakenly sent to Pichon in Washington and then returned. Among the other papers was an ominous order to the French fleet:

  By an act of the 11th Ventose, all the civil officers of the empire are prohibited from receiving on their registers the transcription of the act of celebration of a pretended marriage that Jerome Bonaparte has contracted in a foreign country, during the age of minority, without the consent of his mother and without previous publication in the place of his nativity.

  Betsy gasped at the pronouncement, then covered her mouth with her hand. Were all of her dreams of becoming royalty nothing more than a castle in the air, an insubstantial structure that could be demolished by a few strokes of Napoleon’s pen? Was she still in danger of being disgraced as a woman who had never been legally married?

  As Jerome lifted his eyes from the paper, Betsy could see by his open-mouthed expression that he felt as shocked as she did.

  “Que devrions-nous faire?” she whispered, thinking that surely Jerome must have some insight into his older brother’s character that would help him form a plan.

  To her disappointment, he answered, “Je ne sais pas.” Then he passed her a small sheet of notepaper. “Captain Brouard enclosed a message with the announcement. He has withdrawn permission for you to sail on the Didon.”

  Betsy waited for Jerome to say more, but he began to read a newspaper article that Brouard had also sent. “Mon dieu,” he murmured but then said no more.

  Watching Jerome read the lengthy article strained Betsy’s already frayed nerves. To keep from losing her temper, she picked up the official pronouncement denying the validity of her marriage and read it for herself. Then she laid the paper down. Her husband was still frowning over the sheet of newspaper, so she said, “Jerome, we must talk. We have to come up with a plan to get around this prohibition. Clearly, we cannot rely upon the French navy to take us to France. Do you think it would be safe for you to sail aboard a merchant ship?”

  He pressed his hand to his temple. “Elisa, I cannot think about that now. This article contains a very distressing story, one that is detrimental to our cause.”

  “What could be worse than the emperor’s proclamation?”

  “Do you recall what I told you about the crucial role my brother Lucien played in Napoleon’s career?”

  “Of course, I remember.” In 1799 when Napoleon overthrew the Directory, he had faced an angry mob that denounced him as a dictator. Lucien had defused their hostility by flourishing his own sword and swearing to run Napoleon through if he ever violated the revolutionary principles of liberty, equality, and brotherhood. By that dramatic act, Lucien assured his brother’s election as First Consul. “What possible bearing does that have on our situation?”

  “A few years back, Lucien fell in love with the widow of a Parisian stockbroker and made her his mistress. Last year, she bore him a son, so he married her. Napoleon did not approve the match because he wanted Lucien to make a political alliance, but Lucien refused to set Alexandrine aside. So Napoleon flew into one of his rages, forcing Lucien to flee to Italy with his wife and child.”

  Betsy shivered. “And Napoleon will not forgive him?”

  Jerome shook his head. “Not according to the reports. If Napoleon can cast Lucien aside, what chance do we have to placate his displeasure?”

  “Then what should we do?”

  He tossed the letter on the table and began to pace. “I don’t know. Perhaps nothing just yet. Perhaps—” Jerome rubbed his chin. “Perhaps the reason for the estrangement with Lucien is more than just his marriage. Lucien has antagonized Napoleon before this by accusing him of straying from republican ideals. And then there was the matter of Christine.”

  “Who is Christine?”

  “Lucien’s first wife. A very common woman. The illiterate daughter of his landlord.” Jerome paused to pour a brandy and then walked back to Betsy with a surprisingly cheerful expression. “Now that I think of it, Lucien’s case is much different from mine. I married a renowned beauty, the daughter of a wealthy and respected American who is the friend of President Jefferson. There is no doubt you are well suited to life at court. If only we can contrive to have Napoleon meet you, you will easily demonstrate your worth.”

  Betsy shook her head in bewilderment at how swiftly Jerome’s mood had rebounded. “That brings me back to the same question. How do we travel to France?”

  “I will go to the Didon tomorrow afternoon and make one more appeal to Brouard to let you sail.”

  “But if you go on board, the captain may not allow you to disembark.”

  After setting down his brandy, Jerome sat beside her on the sofa and took her hands. “Elisa, that farce we acted for the British contained the seeds of truth. I am a member of the imperial family now. No one but my brother would dare lay hands on me.”

  “Are you certain?” she asked, unable to keep a tremor from her voice.

  “Entirely.” He kissed her. “I do not like the idea of your sitting home worrying. Your father plans to meet with a business associate tomorrow, so you will be alone much of the day. Du Pont tells me that his wife would be delighted to see you again. I want you to call on her.”

  “No, Jerome, I would not be good company.”

  “But it will occupy your mind. Promise to obey my wishes.”

  Wondering at Jerome’s uncharacteristic insistence, Betsy agreed to do as he asked.

  GABRIELLE DU PONT received Betsy in her personal sitting room, which was furnished with a sofa upholstered in rose-striped fabric and chairs that had matching seat cushions and rams-head armrests. As the maid laid out an elaborately gilded, blue porcelain coffee service, Betsy told the older woman of all that had occurred since their last meeting.

  After Betsy finished, Madame du Pont asked, “If the First Consul—or rather, the emperor—is so adamantly opposed to your marriage, would it not make sense to remain in the United States?”

  Filled with revulsion for the idea, Betsy offered the first excuse that came to mind. “My husband has no profession but the navy, and as a French citizen, he would never be able to enlist in the U.S. service. I do not know how we would contrive to live.”

  “Surely your father settled some money on you when you married.”

  Betsy shook her head as she reached for one of the delicate almond cakes on the serving plate. “No. He does not believe in disposing of his wealth during his lifetime.”

  Gabrielle du Pont blotted her lips with a napkin. “Such things are a matter of course in Europe. Your husband should have insisted on a marriage settlement. His failure to do so shows his youthful inexperience.”

  “Be that as it may, we have no certain source of income unless he returns to France and takes up a position there.”

  Madame du Pont refilled Betsy’s cup. “Nonsense. Look at my husband. Look at your father. Both are immigrants who became masters of their own business. Surely, Jerome Bonaparte is an enterprising enough young man to find some means to earn a living.”

  Betsy poured cream in her coffee and stirred so vigorously that the spoon rang against the china. “Madame, that is not the life that either one of us desires. We want to be at court.”

  “My dear, we all want many things, but we do not always get them. Would life as a merchant’s wife be so very terrible? It is, after all, the life in which you were raised.”

  “I can think of nothi
ng worse.”

  Madame du Pont raised one eyebrow. “Nothing?”

  Betsy sighed and conceded, “Losing my husband would be worse, of course.”

  “Then why do you wish to return him to a ruler who will assuredly send him to war?”

  Remembering the fire in Jerome’s eyes when he contemplated having to fight his way out of the harbor, Betsy answered, “Because it is what he desires. He admires Napoleon above all men, and I think he dreams of achieving military glory to match his brother’s.”

  “A foolish dream for which women usually must pay.”

  “Perhaps so, but I cannot change him, Madame.”

  The older women smiled, but her eyes contained pity. “No, I suppose you are right. The world is ordered so that men have all the power, and women must adapt.”

  WHEN BETSY RETURNED to the Washington Street house, she noticed immediately how silent it was. Not only was Jerome still out, but his companions and the servants were gone as well.

  Wearily, she climbed the stairs to the second-floor. She entered the sitting room and removed her hat and lightweight summer gloves. Flinging them onto the table, she glanced at the clock on the mantel and saw that the sword from Marengo, which was supposed to be hanging above it, was gone.

  For an instant, she thought that her recollection of the sword’s whereabouts must be mistaken. Yet she could clearly remember Jerome taking it from his trunk and hanging it back in its place of honor after they returned from the Didon.

  Despite that certainty, she went into the bedroom and flung open her husband’s trunk. The velvet in which he had wrapped the sword lay in a heap on top of his folded uniforms, the box holding a pair of pistols he had bought in Baltimore, and the leather case containing miniatures of his family.

  “No!” Betsy bent over the trunk and clawed through the items it held even though she knew that Jerome would never risk harm to the sword by placing it beneath other objects.

  After a few minutes of futile searching, she returned to the sitting room, where she looked under every piece of furniture and in every corner. Finding nothing, she ran downstairs and raced through the first floor.

  By the time Betsy climbed back up the staircase to the sitting room, she was breathing heavily. Perspiration had soaked through her chemise, causing it to cling disagreeably to her skin—just as opprobrium would cling to her name if Jerome had abandoned her. But that cannot be, she thought desperately. He loves me as I love him. She stood in the center of the room and stared at the wall above the fireplace, willing the sword to reappear. In spite of her effort to tell herself otherwise, she knew that the weapon’s absence could mean only one thing. If the sword was gone, then so was Jerome.

  That then was the explanation for the empty house—and the reason her husband had insisted she go calling. He had taken Le Camus’s advice and left without her.

  Betsy howled and sank to her knees. She cried so hard that she lost her breath, so she pressed her hands against her stomach and tried to master herself. Yet the thought that Jerome had crept away without saying good-bye smote her as sharply as a saber blow. How could he have betrayed her this way? The idea that he had deceived her just to make the departure easier for himself was unendurable, and she gave way to grief.

  Betsy had no idea how long she lay on the floor sobbing, but after what felt like hours, she heard someone say her name. Strong arms pulled her into an embrace.

  “Elisa, what has happened? Why are you so distraught?”

  Stunned, she tried to stop crying, but all she could do was wheeze.

  Jerome held her tighter and barked an order, “Fetch Dr. Garnier.” Then he began to rock her. “Please, Elisa, do not weep. Everything is all right.”

  “You were gone,” she gasped.

  “Of course, I was gone. You knew that I was going to the ship.”

  She pulled back and wiped her wet face. “The sword—”

  “Here it is.” Jerome touched the scabbard at his side, which was attached to his belt and stretched out behind him. “I wore it to give myself an air of authority when I met with Brouard.”

  Hysterical laughter boiled up inside Betsy, and while she was trying to bring herself under control, Dr. Garnier entered the room.

  “Doctor, my wife is distraught, and I cannot determine why. Is there anything you can give for her relief?”

  Jerome rose, and Garnier took his place before Betsy. “Go pour a strong measure of brandy,” the doctor ordered and then took Betsy’s hands. “Madame Bonaparte, take deep breaths and let them out slowly. Think of nothing but the necessity to breathe.”

  As Betsy complied, her turbulent emotions gradually subsided. Jerome fetched the glass and the doctor handed it to her. “Drink this, and do not speak until you have finished it.”

  Betsy was accustomed to wine but nothing stronger, and the brandy burned her throat as it went down. As she forced herself to swallow the last of it, she felt very childish. Handing the empty glass to Jerome, she found it difficult to meet his eyes.

  “What happened? Why were you so upset?”

  “Forgive me, but when I saw that you had taken Napoleon’s sword, I thought you must be leaving today. That you had decided to sail on the Didon and leave me behind.”

  “But I swore I would never do that.”

  “I know, but I overheard your conversation with Le Camus, and I feared that you decided to take his advice and not tell me good-bye to avoid a scene.”

  “You foolish little girl.” Jerome embraced her. “Do you love me so very much?”

  “You know I do.” She put her arms around his neck.

  “Then how can you doubt the strength of my love for you?”

  As she rested wearily against Jerome’s chest, she heard Dr. Garnier say, “Do not blame her, Bonaparte. The strain of the last few weeks has been too much for her nerves. Put her to bed, feed her a light supper, and try to protect her from unnecessary agitation for a while.”

  Betsy snuggled closer to Jerome and laughed feebly. “Doctor, such a treatment is not possible. Have you not heard? The emperor views us as little better than traitors.”

  “Shhh, Elisa. Put that out of your mind.” Jerome rose, pulled her to her feet, and steered her toward the bedroom. “You heard Dr. Garnier. You must rest.”

  XIII

  BETSY awoke in a dim room, forced from sleep by a heavy pain in her head. She opened her eyes and saw yesterday’s gown draped over a chair instead of sitting folded in the wardrobe where it belonged. The sight brought back the memory of Jerome tenderly undressing her, helping her into bed, and holding her hand until she fell asleep. As Betsy recalled the hysteria that had prompted his solicitude, a sense of shame as oppressive as her headache settled on her. Sitting up, she discovered that her throat was dry and her stomach queasy. She reached for the carafe of water on her nightstand and filled the nearby glass.

  As she sipped the water, Jerome entered the room. “How do you feel?”

  “A little ill and very thirsty.”

  He kissed her. “You are unaccustomed to brandy. The unsettled feeling will pass, all the more quickly if you can bring yourself to eat breakfast.”

  “I may take a bit.”

  “Good.” He crossed the room to open the draperies, and Betsy squinted uncomfortably as light flooded the room. Jerome said, “I would like to ask your father to join us at breakfast.”

  “Has he not eaten? He is usually an early riser.”

  “He breakfasted an hour ago, but he can sit with us a while. I want to talk to you both.”

  Betsy rose and pulled on her wrapper, trying not to show that she felt apprehensive about Jerome’s desire for a conference. “Let me wash my face and comb my hair before I join you.”

  The two men were at the table when Betsy entered the sitting room. Jerome was cracking the shell of a soft-boiled egg, while Patterson sat with a cup of coffee. “Good morning, Father.” She took her seat.

  “Good morning. Are you better? I understand you had an a
ttack of hysteria.”

  Betsy selected a scone, split it, and buttered it. “I am quite well. I foolishly let my feelings run away with me yesterday.”

  “Elisa, you must not blame yourself. You heard Dr. Garnier’s opinion.” Turning to his father-in-law, Jerome said, “The doctor believes that recent strains have overtaxed her nerves.”

  “It might help if you would lessen your number of social engagements. It cannot be good for your constitution to be out late night after night.”

  “Perhaps,” Betsy murmured, stung by the criticism.

  “Well, I have devised a plan that will undoubtedly restore the roses to my Elisa’s cheeks. I mean to take her on an excursion.”

  Patterson froze with his cup in mid-air. “You cannot be serious. How can you propose a pleasure trip now? You have not settled the question of whether you are sailing.”

  “Yes, I have. Yesterday, I informed Captain Brouard that I will neither subject Elisa to the danger of the British blockade nor depart without her. I left Meyronnet aboard ship.”

  Jerome’s nonchalance bewildered Betsy. “But you still have orders to return to France. And the frigates are bottled up in New York Harbor without any way of escape. An excursion will not resolve either of these issues.”

  Scooping up the last bit of egg, Jerome said, “Listen to my plan before you judge it. Last night, I decided that we should travel to see the great falls at Niagara.”

  “Niagara!” Patterson exclaimed. “This is madness. The area is a wilderness. It will take weeks of rough traveling to reach the falls. What would possess you to plan such a needless excursion now, of all times? You have more vital things to attend to.”

  “I am attending to them. The trip will accomplish two purposes. First, it will get Elisa away from all this tumult and into the wholesome air of the country. Second, it will convince the British that we have decided to settle in the United States, so they will abandon New York Harbor, allowing the frigates to depart. Elisa and I can sail after our return.”

  Betsy sipped her coffee, hoping that it would ease her headache. “But how do we get to Niagara if the falls are in unsettled wilderness?”