The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte

by Chatlien, Ruth Hull

  Another literary acquaintance was Reine Philiberte de Varicourt, the Marquise de Villette, adopted daughter of Voltaire. She told Betsy many stories of the great French author, to whom she was still so devoted that she kept his heart in an urn. She also wrote essays under the pet name that Voltaire had given her: Belle et Bonne.

  At one salon, the hostess introduced Betsy to a tiny woman, even shorter than she was, who had black hair and a charming Irish face with deep-set eyes and a rosebud mouth. “Madame Bonaparte, may I present the novelist Sydney, Lady Morgan.”

  “Lady Morgan!” Betsy curtsied. “The authoress of O’Donnel? I admired that book more than I can tell you.”

  “You are too kind, Madame Bonaparte.” Lady Morgan adjusted her stole, which had slipped off her shoulders when she returned the curtsy. “I have heard of you too, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance. They say that no one in Paris is a more charming conversationalist.”

  “A minor talent, if that. Nothing like your ability to spin such moving tales.”

  The two women spent the next hour comparing notes on their favorite novels, and from that day on, Betsy looked for Lady Morgan at every reception she attended. They became fast friends, continuing to correspond after Lady Morgan left Paris.

  Before long, tout le monde knew that Jerome Bonaparte’s former wife had taken up residence in Paris, and the members of high society flocked to her morning receptions, famed for their witty, intellectual discourse. Betsy was delighted to receive the writer François-René de Chateaubriand, whose novel Atala had so thrilled her during her the early days of her courtship. The author had dark, wild curls that reminded her of Jerome—ironically, as it turned out, because Chateaubriand was a harsh critic of the former emperor. As a result, Betsy avoided political topics in their conversations and instead questioned him about the romantic journey he had taken from Paris to Jerusalem a few years earlier. Other notable guests at her gatherings included the Prussian explorer Alexander von Humboldt and the renowned Italian sculptor Antonio Canova.

  All winter Betsy kept up a public façade of gaiety and charm, but when she was alone at night, her mood darkened as swiftly as if a cold wind off the Atlantic had snuffed out all the candles in a glittering chandelier. At times like that, all she could think of was how much she missed her son. Her only consolation was that she was gradually befriending people of noble blood, contacts she hoped would prove useful when it was time for arrange a match for Bo. She even made an appointment with Albert Gallatin to ask his impression of her growing list of possible brides, and he tactfully indicated which families might not be as financially sound as they appeared. Yet, even the prospect of a noble alliance for her son did not completely ease Betsy’s sorrow over their separation.

  She also suffered from apprehension that her new acquaintances would discover the precarious state of her finances. The ease with whichNapoleon briefly regained power and commanded an ardent following had revealed how little love the French had for the restored monarchy, so the British continued to occupy the capital to allow the king time to consolidate his position. The presence of troops drove up prices in the city so that it was even more expensive to live in Paris than in England.

  Betsy made every effort to economize while still maintaining the social position necessary to her purpose. Everyone knew of her father’s wealth, so no one suspected the stringent measures she took to survive day to day. She kept her meals as Spartan as possible and heated her rooms only when she expected company. Even though she constantly went to balls and receptions, she bought no new clothing but used her skill as a seamstress to refresh her wardrobe—and did it so expertly that everyone remarked on how beautifully she dressed. Whenever she was invited to an occasion that required presents, Betsy gave a piece of her own needlework. Her gifts were so admired that the recipients never guessed that financial necessity lay behind them, and soon her friends were arguing good-naturedly over which one had received the most charming of her petits cadeaux.

  In December, the Duke of Wellington invited her to a ball at the English embassy, located in the former home of the Princess Borghese, Jerome’s sister Pauline. Betsy knew the exterior of the building. It was a two-story mansion built of the tawny stone so common in Paris with a double Ionic portico and two windows on either side of the entrance. At each end of the central block, a pavilion extended into the front courtyard.

  For the occasion, Betsy decided on the same outfit she had worn to the Portuguese ambassador’s ball in Cheltenham, with the addition of a small gold tiara set with seed pearls and white topazes, which everyone took for diamonds.

  When Betsy arrived at the embassy, she found herself in an entrance hall that featured a grey and white plaid marble floor and, to the right, a sweeping staircase with an exquisite wrought-iron railing. Betsy was presented to Wellington, a tall handsome man of forty-six with dark hair, haughty blue eyes, and an aquiline nose. He was wearing his scarlet dress uniform and, oddly for a ball, boots with spurs. “Your grace.” Betsy curtsied.

  “Charmed,” he answered languidly. “Would you do me the honor of giving me the opening dance?” Without waiting for her answer, he held out his arm.

  Amused, Betsy allowed him to escort her into the ball. Wellington was a notorious rake, rumored to go to any length to bed women who had been Napoleon’s mistresses, but if he hoped to add her to his list of former Bonaparte lovers, he would be disappointed. Since coming to Paris, Betsy had received confirmation of what she long suspected; the Bonapartes justified Napoleon’s treatment of her by claiming she was a trollop who had seduced their baby brother. As a lady, she could not answer such accusations, but she could defend her reputation by maintaining a puritanical chastity.

  When they entered the ballroom, a murmur of astonishment swept through the crowd and, as one, the assembly curtsied and bowed. “Extraordinary,” Wellington said.

  “Do you not usually receive such homage, your grace?”

  “Never. Such a reception properly belongs to royalty.”

  Indeed, Betsy thought. With a shiver of pleasure, she remembered Odette’s long-ago prophecy: You wore a silk gown with a crown on your head. And when you entered a room full of people, they bowed like you were a princess.

  Smiling, she looked around and decided that this was the perfect setting in which to receive such an honor. The ballroom was all white and gold: a square-patterned parquet floor in shades of honey and caramel, cream walls with gilt moldings and applied swags; and gold-framed mirrors that reflected the light from three large crystal chandeliers. Music began to play, and the duke and Betsy took their place at the head of the line of couples.

  As they danced, Wellington’s spur caught on her hem and tore it. “Oh, me damn spur!” he exclaimed and stopped to make sure that it had not been pulled loose or damaged his boot. Assured that the leather was unharmed, he led Betsy back into the dance without a word of apology for ruining her best garment.

  Furious, she danced with a frozen smile and did not even attempt to make conversation. When the music ended, Wellington looked around and gestured to a man with an unusually broad face and shrewd eyes. The gentleman approached, walking with a limp. “Monsieur Talleyrand, allow me to present you to Madame Patterson Bonaparte.” After the curt introduction, Wellington walked toward an aide who stood waiting to speak to him.

  Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord bowed over Betsy’s hand. “I have heard of you from our mutual acquaintance Madame de Staël.”

  “And all the world has heard of you,” Betsy answered, disguising her scorn with a smile. The wily statesman was such a master of intrigue that he had not only survived the French Revolution but also served under every regime that followed it. Ultimately, he had turned against Napoleon and helped restore the Bourbons, and for that Betsy could not forgive him. Even though she agreed whole-heartedly with Napoleon’s assessment that his former minister was a “turd in a silk stocking,” she murmured pleasantries to Talleyrand because he was much too powerfu
l to risk offending.

  Knowing that his lameness precluded him from dancing, Betsy made her way to a pair of empty gilt chairs and Talleyrand followed. Behind them, Wellington laughed loudly.

  After glancing over his shoulder, Talleyrand said, “Knowing that we were almost certain to meet, his majesty King Louis XVIII asked me to convey a message to you. He wishes you to know that you are welcome at court.”

  Betsy paused in astonishment and bought a few moments by sitting and arranging her skirts. She could see that her torn hem was dragging badly, but she thought she could salvage the gown by adding a ruffle. Turning back to Talleyrand, she smiled. “Please convey my respects to his majesty. I am sensible of the honor he pays me, but I cannot accept. Having received a pension from Napoleon Bonaparte, it would be an act of the deepest impropriety for me to enjoy the hospitality of his successor. I have many faults, Monsieur, but ingratitude has never been one of them.”

  Although his eyebrows shot up in surprise, Talleyrand said, “Your discretion does you credit, Madame.”

  Within moments, a marquis begged to be introduced to Betsy and soon she was back on the dance floor. Buoyed by having been bowed to and flattered by the king’s invitation, Betsy was happier than she had been in years. Truly, no matter what her father might think, this was the life she had been intended for all along.

  During supper, Wellington approached her. “I have a frightfully amusing story, Madame Patterson Bonaparte. Do you remember how everyone bowed when we entered the ballroom?”

  “Yes, of course, your grace. Have you learned the cause?”

  “They mistook you for the Princess Borghese. You look awfully alike, don’t you know?”

  As Betsy realized the cruel joke that fate had played on her, she smiled stiffly. “My former husband used to tell me that I resembled his sister.”

  The rest of the evening was a torment. By the time she returned to her rooms, her head was bursting from the strain of remaining sociable after such a shock. Standing before her mirror, Betsy stared at herself as she pulled off her long gloves and stripped off her jewels.

  “It was all a delusion, my girl,” she said. “All the time the prophecy was leading to this moment when you would be forced to admit that your dreams were vanity.”

  As if she were ten years old again, she recalled the other statement Odette had made, the one she had so long forgotten: Do not seek how to be high and mighty, seek how to have wisdom.

  “And how do I do that now that I have based my entire life upon a misapprehension?”

  Moving to her dressing table, she picked up the miniature of Bo she kept there, and a sweetly intense love for him flooded her. No matter what else went wrong in her life, she could never regret having given birth to her son. He was her purpose for living.

  I may not have high rank, but my son was born for something better. I must fight to secure his future. If only I can succeed at that, nothing else will matter.

  XXXII

  ON a grey afternoon in October 1817, Betsy walked the deck of the Maria Theresa, a ship bound for New York. Even though she wore a woolen cloak with a fur-lined hood, the wind cut through her garments and made her shiver. The sky was filled with dark clouds and a light mist was falling, but the weather was balmy compared to the storms that had dogged the ship since its departure from Le Havre. Uncertain when she would have another chance to escape her cabin, Betsy had gone up for fresh air as soon as the most recent storm abated.

  Her traveling companion, who remained below, was Anna Maria Tousard, the widow of Bo’s former tutor. During her stay in Paris, Betsy had been delighted to renew her friendship with Tousard and was grieved when the sixty-eight-year-old colonel died. Afterward, Betsy called often upon his widow. Now they were sailing together because Madame Tousard planned to settle in Philadelphia, where her stepdaughter lived.

  Gazing at the white-capped, greenish-grey waves rolling to the horizon, Betsy found herself wondering what to say to Bo when she saw him again. In spite of her promises, she had remained in Europe more than two years. Eighteen months earlier, depressed after a long winter of being barely able to afford food, Betsy traveled to Le Havre with the intention of sailing home as soon as possible, even though she had not accomplished her goal of visiting schools. During a meeting with Mr. Callaghan, her agent in France, Betsy had just told him, “If any letters arrive for me after my departure, please forward them to my father,” when she experienced shortness of breath. Within seconds, her heart was racing, and her body had broken out in a sweat. She had so much difficulty breathing that she feared she would die. Pressing her hand against her chest, she stared at Mr. Callaghan in distress, praying that he would read the appeal for help in her eyes.

  He stammered, “M-Madame Bonaparte? What can I do? Do you have smelling salts?” He reached for her reticule, but Betsy shook her head vehemently. A moment later, she sighed as the surge of panic began to subside. As her heartbeat slowed to normal, she felt terribly weak. Mr. Callaghan asked one of his clerks to bring her a cup of strong, very sweet tea, and while she sipped it, he urged her to delay traveling until she could seek medical advice. Once they were certain that the worst of her symptoms had passed, Mr. Callaghan escorted Betsy to her hotel.

  Frightened, Betsy returned to Paris where she consulted with the physician husband of her friend Lady Morgan. Sir Charles believed she was again suffering an excess of black bile and prescribed a regimen of hot baths and dietary changes.

  By summer 1816, Betsy felt healthy enough to investigate schools for Bo. During her time in Paris, she often met with Albert Gallatin seeking financial advice, and the ambassador strongly recommended the Swiss boarding school he had attended as a boy.

  Betsy traveled to Geneva to visit it. Located in a French-speaking part of Switzerland near the border with France, the city stood where the Rhone River exited the stunningly blue Lake Geneva. Mountains surrounded the city on several sides. The climate was cooler than that of Paris, but Betsy found it preferable to sweltering, fever-ridden Baltimore.

  The Academy of Geneva, founded in 1559 by John Calvin, was a prestigious school that prepared students for university. Although it originally focused on Protestant theology, the school now taught philosophy, humanities, and science—exactly the rigorous curriculum Betsy wanted for her son. The only problem was that she could not afford the tuition.

  Betsy returned to Paris and once again prepared to go home, intending to overhaul her finances based on Gallatin’s recommendations. Then, in August, an excruciating toothache confined her to bed for two weeks. After it subsided, her attacks of rapid pulse and panicked breathing returned, with several occurring during the month of September. By then, the Morgans had left for Dublin, and Betsy did not know where to seek medical advice. She went back on the regimen Dr. Morgan had previously advised, and her condition slowly improved.

  It had grown so late in the year that any Atlantic crossing would be risky. Worried, Betsy consulted a French physician one of her friends had referred her to, and he advised her not to sail until spring because her tendency to have mal de mer in rough seas would undo all the progress she had made toward restoring her health. Betsy wrote Bo to explain her trouble and beg him to forgive her for the delay.

  Once winter passed, Betsy decided that it would not make much difference if she postponed her departure a few weeks more. Paris was so beautiful in the springtime, and the lavish blossoming of the city symbolized to her the cultural exuberance she found in Europe. She pursued her social life with a new desperation, born of the desire to stockpile memories of the advantages Baltimore lacked. Betsy went to concerts and the opera, where she heard works by Beethoven and Rossini, and she visited the galleries in the Louvre to gaze on masterpieces only to be found in Europe. In her journal, she kept long lists of the cultural attractions that Bo must see when he finally came to France. When her health permitted, Betsy attended weekly balls, not only to dance but also to engage in the clever repartee Parisians considered de rigueur.


  In addition, she redoubled her efforts to lay the groundwork for her son’s future. Her long-ago conversations with Oakeley had given her the idea of preparing Bo for a diplomatic career, so she used every opportunity to make contacts that he could draw upon as a grown man. Wherever she went, she spoke of her desire for him to be a European, not an American.

  Such conversations gave her a sense of purpose, but they also kept her longing for her son uppermost in her mind. By late spring, Betsy missed Bo so much that she spent hours crying over his letters. Her appetite failed and her stomach pains returned, and she wondered if the separation itself was causing her illness. As she wrote to her son at the end of May, she realized that she had dawdled so long she was going to miss his twelfth birthday. Spasms of guilt prostrated her for the rest of the afternoon.

  Still she lingered, knowing that once she returned to America it might be years before she came back to Paris—and until she did, boredom and an unslaked thirst for culture would torment her. For Betsy, the dilemma was agonizing: She could stay in Paris and lock away her maternal heart in an iron box or return to Baltimore and similarly lock away her mind. After shilly-shallying for weeks, she realized that if she put off the trip much longer, she would have to stay in Paris a third winter. The next day, she began to put her affairs in order so she could leave.

  The goad that finally forced her to book passage was a letter from home, reawakening Betsy’s distrust of her father. When Betsy first left for Europe, Marianne had agreed to look after Bo, but her asthma had deteriorated so much that her doctors advised a change of climate. For the past year, Robert, Marianne, and two of her sisters had been in Europe, leaving William Patterson in charge of Bo during his school holidays. Then, in the summer of 1817, Aunt Nancy wrote that Providence Summers had borne Patterson a daughter named Matilda, conceived while the housekeeper’s husband was away on a long voyage. According to Aunt Nancy, the only reason Patterson managed to hush up the scandal was that Captain Summers had been lost at sea before he learned of the betrayal.