“You say there is to be a change in the government?” Maman says, accompanying the words with her most winning smile.
“Hush, Gloriande! No one is to know! I told you in the strictest confidence.” He glances in my direction.
“Oh! Don’t worry about Madeleine. She is no one.”
“It was said that the revolution itself could not have been so successful were it not for the treachery of ladies’ maids.” He nods in my direction. The nod is appreciative, I note.
Maman catches his look. “Ah, but Madeleine is not my maid. She is less than that. She is my daughter.”
The words sting, and yet I am so accustomed to being treated this way that I shrug them off.
“Your daughter...”
The man approaches me and I shrink away. What I thought was sadness in his eyes now turns into something else. I try to meet Maman’s eyes in the mirror, but she gazes steadfastly at herself.
“I must ... excuse myself ....” I can feel my face growing hot, my pulse racing.
“Unlace me!” my mother commands.
I don’t dare refuse. My fingers tremble, and instead of accomplishing my task quickly, I take longer than usual. The man stands directly behind me and puts his hands upon my shoulders. The look in his eyes as he shifts his gaze back and forth between my mother and me sickens me. Maman’s eyes are locked with his, which have glazed over into an expression of lust.
With all my strength, I shove my shoulder against him to free myself from his hands, and I run out of the dressing room.
Behind me I hear laughter.
21
Eliza
For a moment after Joséphine’s slap, we stand frozen in the autumn chill.
“Let us go indoors, Maman. You will catch cold,” Eugène says.
From the expression on her face, I expect Joséphine to yell at him, or scream. But instead, she draws in a deep breath and stands up tall, turns, and walks gracefully back into her house.
Eugène gives me his arm again and leads me in. We stop in the vestibule and watch Joséphine glide up the stairs to her apartments.
“Forgive me, but I must go to my mother,” Eugène says with a bow.
I wander into the salon after leaving my wrap with a servant, wondering whether I should go upstairs and write a letter to my mother. But Caroline is in the salon, standing in front of one of the long windows. She must have seen Joséphine hit her son. Something about the strange events I have witnessed here makes me bold.
“What did Joséphine want with you?” I ask Caroline.
She turns, her face radiant with triumph. “She takes my side! She will speak for me with Napoléon!”
At first I am confused. Speak for her about what? When she sees my confusion, Caroline wrinkles her forehead into a scowl.
“How could you forget? It’s Murat, of course. She believes I should marry him, and soon.”
I want to shake my head to clear it and put this news of Caroline’s into its proper place, so that I can react and be suitably happy. But something is bothering me.
“That is wonderful for you, Caroline. But why is Joséphine so angry at Eugène?”
One corner of her mouth twists up in a mischievous smile. “I returned her favor to me by putting it in her power to prevent a most unwanted occurrence, which happens to concern her son.”
“You’ll have to explain yourself, Caroline. I cannot keep up with everything that goes on here.” I sink into one of the soft upholstered chairs, suddenly exhausted by the strain of the currents and subtleties that make everything around me something other than it appears on the surface.
“I informed her that I heard—quite accidentally, on an innocent stroll in the garden—that Eugène was likely to form a most disadvantageous alliance, one that would bring disgrace upon all the family.”
So it was Caroline who caused Joséphine’s anger. “I think I’ll go to my room and read,” I say, with a little curtsy to Caroline.
Now I am dressing for dinner, and I wish Ernestine were here. She would help me with my hair, which I see is very childish, just draping down my back. Why didn’t I insist she come? I need help pinning my hair up, making those curls that frame a face. Perhaps one of the maids here will help me. Or perhaps not. I feel invisible in this place, surrounded by all these illustrious people who know so much more about the world. Even Hortense, Eugène, and Caroline are more experienced. My life seems so simple compared to theirs. What is being left alone at a boarding school in Saint-Germain while my mama goes back to America without me, compared to having to intercede on behalf of a mother so that her life will not be ruined? Or finding out that the person you have fallen in love with is completely unacceptable to your mother?
Something makes me think of Armand de Valmont. I wonder for a moment what it would be like to have a young man here who is close to my age. Not only that, but one who comes from the same background as many of the guests here and my hostess herself. I find myself remembering that Armand spoke to me kindly, if not warmly. He was also a very good dancer. I could have been stuck with someone infinitely worse. And he chose me. No one told him to come and speak to me.
Hortense says that he is not fond of Americans because he blames them for the revolution. But why did he approach me, knowing I was American? In fact, how did he know I was American at all?
I find myself now very curious about that student from the Collège Irlandais. He is an artist, so Hortense says. I should like to see his paintings. But perhaps there are none at his school, where doubtless he is being encouraged to study other things, subjects that will help him gain a post in the government, perhaps.
I wonder, indeed, what Armand would think of everything that has happened today, and I begin to wish I had someone outside of this cauldron of confusion to discuss things with. Someone ordinary, like me.
Of course, as a marquis, Armand can hardly be called ordinary. It must be difficult for him, having the title and the lineage but no money. I think I prefer my circumstances.
I decide, as I struggle to make my hair look more sophisticated, that perhaps being ordinary is not a bad thing. Being young and unimportant leaves me free to observe. I may learn much this way.
And now that Joséphine is against Eugène’s connection with this actress, perhaps I will have a chance to make him notice me as someone more interesting than just his sister’s young school friend. He would not have been so kind to me, surely, if he did not find me likable at least. I shall do my best to shine this evening. Perhaps I can comfort him.
I stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are very pretty, and my nose is straight and fine. My cheeks are perhaps a little plump, but they are touched with a rosy color that is real, not painted on with rouge. I stretch my arms out. They are white, and not scrawny. And in this gown, my small bosom looks a little larger than it really is.
There is a soft knock upon the door. “Come,” I call.
A maid enters with a tray bearing combs and some false curls the color of my hair. I smile.
“Mademoiselle Hortense sent me to help you,” she says.
Hortense is so good and kind. I put myself in the maid’s hands and know I shall look my best this evening.
22
Hortense
I do not want you to end up like me, always afraid that the world will come crashing down around you. My mother’s words send a chill through me. She has told me this before, but somehow today it means more than it once did. She said it to me after I came back to her, when I was able to tell her that Bonaparte would remain with her, would not seek a divorce or parade her infidelities for the public to see.
He has been unfaithful to me, too, she said. For a moment, the look in her eyes made me think perhaps she knew something of my confusing feelings about my stepfather. But then she explained that she had heard reports of his adventures in Egypt—that he had philandered with the women who follow the army wherever it goes.
I lie on my bed, a damp cloth on my forehead. My templ
es pound from trying to understand all that has happened here, how it is that my mother knows I will do anything to keep our family with Napoléon intact, but does not know exactly why. And Eugène ... Maman will stop at nothing to prevent him from being with his true love.
His true love. Can a humble actress be worthy of him? I am afraid that perhaps he simply pities her, and mistakes the feeling for love. From what little he told me, I understand her situation to be very hard. He says he plans to take her away from the theater, from the oppression of her mother, within the next few days.
But our own mother will stop him, I feel certain.
You, my children, will make great matches. I see it all. I know her desires for us come from love. She wants us to succeed where she has failed, to achieve the stature she has only been able to dream of. She has suffered so much in her life. I have witnessed nearly all of it, whereas Eugène was with our papa for many years, no doubt privy to other things, which have made him less forgiving of Maman than I am. I can only wonder what our father told him, what lies and distortions, about my mother’s profligate ways.
But what if my life, my love, does not fall with some great man, as my mother wishes? I cannot help but think of Michel. He is humble, but talented and sensitive. I can so easily imagine a quiet future, making music together, our children brought up in a wholesome country cottage. It is a pretty picture. Would that not produce more happiness, more contentment than the glittering, perilous life my mother leads?
But how can I dream so! I do not know for certain that Michel truly wants me for his own. We have had too few moments together, and those either stolen from hours when we should not be together or carved out of times when we are surrounded by others. Perhaps he only sees a way to better himself through a connection to the family of France’s greatest general. How can I know?
I must keep my dreams to myself. If Maman were even to guess at them, she would no doubt respond as she did to the intelligence about Eugène’s petite Madeleine.
I met Maman at my door when she came back inside after confronting Eugène. “Did you know about this?” she asked me before I had a chance to say anything.
I am not accustomed to lying to her, just shielding her from painful truths. “Perhaps you will tell me what this is?” I said, knowing already.
“This ...actress!”
I wanted to ask her how she found out. I cannot believe Eugène would have told her, after our conversation this morning. “I believe Eugène is in love,” I said. “He only told me just today. You know I have not seen him for months.”
“Why did you not tell me immediately? Why did I have to hear it from one of them?” She jerked her head contemptuously in the direction of the wing where Madame Bonaparte and Caroline are staying.
So it was Caroline. How could she have known? Someone must have heard us. Eliza? I think not—she has hardly spoken to Maman. I didn’t know what to say.
“You must find out everything you can about her, and we will make her go away. She probably only wants money or jewels.”
“Hush, Maman,” I said.
She stopped and lifted her chin. The excitement brought roses into her pale cheeks, and she actually looked younger. When she turned to me, she put her finger to her upper lip in a coquettish gesture, which I know hides her rotting teeth—teeth that give her much pain. She was herself again. I felt my shoulders relax. “Let us go down and join the others for luncheon,” I said.
“No,” she answered. “I shall ask for a tray to be brought upstairs. My head is aching, and I wish to be well for this evening.”
“What is to happen this evening?” I asked.
“Why, Napoléon’s brothers Lucien and Louis come to dinner tonight. Louis is but five years older than you are. Napoléon believes he will have a brilliant career, and there are plans afoot even as we speak.”
Although I was relieved to see her back to her usual canny plotting, there was something in her voice and expression I did not like. I turned and put my hand upon the doorknob of my chamber, deciding I was not hungry and needed to rest.
“Try to look your prettiest this evening. The blue gown suits you, and your pearl cross.” She touched her hand to her lips and waved it toward me in a kiss. Such a familiar gesture. Her eyes melted for a moment in an expression of pure love.
At times like those I could forgive her for anything. I fear that this evening I shall be forced to do just that.
23
Eliza
It is the hour before dinner. At this time of year, night comes early and everywhere candles shed their warm, inviting light over Joséphine’s beautiful house.
We are assembled in the drawing room, waiting for all the guests to come down. I see that already there are several more people here than there were last night. Madame Tallien has arrived, perhaps to ensure that Joséphine knows her position in relation to Barras. If anyone could outshine Joséphine, it is Teresa Tallien. Her Spanish looks are not as refined, but she has a way about her that commands attention. She arrived in a pure white cloak of shimmering silk, draped in jewels of every color. Joséphine looks demure by contrast, with the simple gold-embroidered borders on the neckline and hem of her white gown. They greet each other like old friends.
“I thought Joséphine and Madame Tallien were enemies,” I whisper to Caroline as we sip our champagne.
“They are. But they are also dearest friends. They were in prison together during the Terreur.”
I cannot imagine a world where two such women would be imprisoned just because of their aristocratic lineage.
No one is paying attention to Caroline and me, so I continue to question her. “If Madame Tallien and her husband do not get along and she has such an obvious liaison with the Vicomte de Barras, why do they not divorce?”
“Because it was Tallien who saved her from the guillotine. She owes him her life.”
To watch everyone in this beautiful drawing room, chatting and flirting and drinking champagne, I would never know any of them had ever been in danger. But there is an undercurrent of something, beyond all the events of the day. General Bonaparte has not yet joined the company, and I see Joséphine casting anxious glances toward the door.
“Where’s Hortense?” I ask Caroline, suddenly realizing that she has not yet come down, either.
“Perhaps she has returned to school. Her mother got what she wanted out of her.” Caroline lowers her voice still more.
“What do you mean?”
“You saw as I did that she sent Hortense to talk to my brother. She has always been able to wind him around her little finger. Sometimes I wonder if she isn’t a little besotted with him.” She makes it sound like an insult. I ignore the comment, but I wonder if Caroline suspects something about Hortense’s deep affection for her stepfather. Worse, is she implying that Joséphine is aware as well and knowingly sent Hortense in to achieve her own goals?
My thoughts are interrupted by a commotion at the drawing room doors. The footman flings them open and in marches Napoléon and two other young men. Both are equally small of stature but lack the commanding presence of Napoléon. One is positively unattractive. His nose dominates his face, which is sadly marked by pocks and pits.
Caroline turns to me with an unexpectedly gleeful smile. “My brothers! Louis and Lucien! I did not know they would be here!” She rushes over to them and flings her arms around her two brothers’ necks like a child. The other Bonaparte family members come forward and cluster around the three of them. In all there are four brothers, with Joseph, who came with us yesterday, and Napoléon. To see them together like this creates an astonishing impression. They are like a country unto themselves, and yet dressed in French uniforms are so clearly of France. Individually they are distinct. Together they form a mass of people with the same eyes, the same expression, all smiling in the same way. And at the center is Napoléon.
Joséphine stands to one side of this family group, proud but meek. I have caught so many glimpses of her in these two
days, but I cannot put her together into a single person. I have seen her the loving mother, the angry mother; the devoted wife, the distressed wife; the hostess who dazzles everyone, and the outsider uncertain of her place in the world. Who is she?
As I watch, Napoléon takes hold of the ugly brother’s arm and leads him out of the knot of their family toward Joséphine. She curls into herself, tucking her chin down and raising her fan to cover her mouth. I am dimly aware of an introduction—could this be the first time Joséphine has met this young man? She extends her hand, her delicate fingers and white skin making a beautiful shape. The brother bends stiffly over her hand and presses a smacking kiss on her fingers. Napoléon speaks. “Allow me to present my youngest brother, Louis Bonaparte.”
The greeting is over. The members of the Bonaparte family disperse to speak with the others. Still Hortense has not come down. Napoléon whispers something into Joséphine’s ear and a cross look darkens her features. Both of them glance toward the doors. The footman stands placidly by. Joséphine glides over to him and murmurs something quickly. He bows, slips out, and the door closes behind him. I wonder if I am the only person who has noticed this scene, and turn away, pretending to admire one of the paintings on the drawing room wall. It is of Joséphine herself, seated on a soft, cushioned bench, rich carpets beneath her feet. The artist is not very skillful. He has made the carpets more interesting than Joséphine, who is much more beautiful than she appears in the painting.
I hear the drawing room doors opening again, but I don’t turn around. By the hush that descends on the company, I think someone important must have just arrived. Who could it be, though? Already the four Bonaparte brothers, Caroline, and Madame Bonaparte are here. Sieyès and Barras were standing stiffly by the fireplace the last time I looked. Captain Charles is nowhere to be seen. Madame Tallien is monopolizing Eugène. I cannot imagine who it would be, and so I turn at last.
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