Zofia nodded. “I am Lady Zofia Grońska.”
“I . . . I know.”
“You remember, then? I’m afraid I behaved rather badly at our last meeting. Your memory of me cannot be flattering.”
Lady Walewska afforded a wider smile, evidently taking Zofia’s comment as a kind of apology. “It was a long time ago,” she said. “Charlotte saw that you were reunited with your beautiful shawl, yes?”
“Yes.” Zofia’s back involuntarily stiffened and she felt a flush of discomfort come into her face. There was no trace of malice or sarcasm in Lady Walewska’s voice. She seemed completely ingenuous, and it was that innocence about her that made Zofia feel embarrassed and petty about the incident so long ago. She would have preferred sarcasm from the woman. She could deal better with that. “You’ve just come from Paris?”
“Recently, yes.”
A little shadow passed over the woman’s face, catching Zofia’s interest. “Will you be seated, Lady Walewska?”
“No, I should be going.”
“Do let me ring for some tea.” Zofia approached Lady Walewska, and led her to the sofa. She had paled a bit since coming in. “Are you well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Zofia made short work of requesting the tea, then seated herself across from Lady Walewska. “Are you comfortable?”
“Yes. This is very kind.”
“Paris! Is it like they say? The seat of culture?”
“It’s lovely, Lady Grońska, but I should not trade my Poland for twenty of all of France.”
“Really?”
Lady Walewska nodded. “Truly.”
Zofia was becoming more and more anxious to find out what was going on behind her weakening façade. She suspected the woman was a tinderbox of emotion. “I would imagine that a woman of your . . . standing in Paris can only find life there fascinating. You must be afforded every convenience, every pleasure.”
A slight lift of an eyebrow indicated that Lady Walewska understood Zofia perfectly—that as mistress to the emperor she had the city at her feet. And yet she seemed not to take offense. “Appearances are not always what is real, Lady Grońska.”
“Still, I’m certain Warsaw is very provincial by comparison.—What is it that has brought you back?” Zofia was certain she knew the answer. Napoléon’s petite Marie had followed the emperor, who was coming east again to wage war. What could be more obvious?
Lady Walewska’s huge blue eyes brimmed suddenly with her unhappiness and she looked away. As her eyelids closed, tears rolled down her cheeks.
The maid entered now with the tea tray. As soon as she set it down, Zofia dismissed her. “I’m so sorry,” Zofia said. “I spoke out of turn. It is none of my business.” She poured tea now for them both, her curiosity at fever pitch.
Lady Walewska accepted her cup, took a sip, and looked up at Zofia. Zofia put on her most compassionate expression. “You will forgive me?”
The woman’s rounded chin trembled a little, the tears started up again, and her facial veneer shattered completely. Her shoulders sagged forward, and the cup and saucer rattled.
Zofia was at her side in an instant, relieving her of her tea and comforting her, one arm around her shoulder. “There, there, Lady Walewska, cry if you wish. Cry—do let it out.”
It was all the encouragement the woman needed. She broke into sobs as if on command. Several minutes went by before Lady Walewska was able to collect herself. She lifted her head to Zofia. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what came over me. You must call me Maria.”
“And you will call me by my Christian name, as well.”
Maria sniffled and attempted a smile. “Zofia, I came by to cry on Charlotte’s shoulder, and I end up crying on yours. You’re very good to allow me.”
“Not so very.”
“During Charlotte’s stay in Paris last winter she helped me through a number of crises, big and small. She gave me advice—good advice—as a mother would give.”
“Did she? Well, I’m hardly of an age to be your mother, but anything you say to me will be kept in confidence.”
“I’m certain of it. I can’t talk to my own mother or to my brothers. They are all against me.” Zofia waited, hoping she wouldn’t have to prompt her. “You see,” Maria continued, “I’ve come back to Warsaw to obtain a divorce.” Tears threatened again.
This news did surprise Zofia. Divorce was easier to come by in these days of the Napoléonic Code. Zofia knew half a dozen middle-aged women who had shed their husbands to take on lovers, to marry again, or simply to become independent. But by all accounts Lord Walewski was a content enough cuckold who had done everything to smooth Maria’s path to Napoléon, except drive the carriage to the assignations.
“And your family is set against it.”
“Oh, no!” Maria cried, blinking back the tears. “They want me to divorce Anastase. They do! . . . But it’s against God and the church, Zofia! It’s against my beliefs . . . my conscience!”
“Then—why should you consider it—?”
“Because he wishes it!”
“Napoléon?—But he has divorced Josephine and married Maria Louise. Does he intend then to— ”
“Oh, no, he’ll never divorce her to marry me! He’s made that clear. Oh, for a moment I thought I had my chance at happiness when he divorced Josephine. But he quickly snuffed that thought like a candle in a strong wind, do you know? Oh no, France comes first with Napoléon; only a dynastic marriage would suit him.”
“Then why is he urging you to divorce your husband?”
“My son. It has to do with his inheritance.”
Zofia took a deep breath. “Your second son is his, isn’t he? Napoléon’s?”
“Yes, oh, I suppose it’s no secret. Here or in France. Anyway, the emperor will be very generous with Aleksandr—”
“Wait a minute,” Zofia rasped. “You’ve named your child—Napoléon’s child!—Aleksandr?”
Maria nodded. “It’s a Walewski family name.”
And it’s also the name of Napoléon’s Russian nemesis—Tsar Aleksandr, Zofia wanted to blurt out, but held her tongue. What had possessed the woman? Maria continued talking at some length about the concern Napoléon had for lands and monies that he meant to leave to Aleksandr. It seemed that Maria’s octogenarian husband was weakening in mind, but he remained as proud and prodigal as ever, spending his fortune away at an alarming rate. Anything left to little Aleksandr by his true father—the emperor—would not necessarily be secure—unless Maria obtained a divorce. Zofia placed her hand on Maria’s. “So you have little choice then?”
“I suppose not. But I just dread it. I really do. In order to get the divorce, I have to go through both civil and ecclesiastical proceedings. And I have to be nice to Abbé Pradt.” Maria grasped Zofia’s hand. “Oh, Zofia, he may be an archbishop, but he’s a lecherous one that makes my flesh crawl when he’s merely in the same room as I!”
“I’ve only seen him from a distance. He’s certainly a short and ugly little man, pompous as Nero, they say. But has he behaved inappropriately?”
“Just his gaze is inappropriate. I try to dress like a nun when I’m in his presence. Napoléon told him to watch out for me, and he has taken that to mean much more.”
“But you need his help?”
Maria nodded. “Because of his connection to the emperor, his influence will be a telling factor in not only the church court but in the civil court, as well.”
“What are the grounds?”
“My family will testify that they coerced me into marriage with a man fifty years my senior.”
“And Lord Walewski will not contest?”
“He has signed a declaration to that effect.” Maria gave a little shrug. “Truth is, Zofia, he’s a bit senile now.”
“I see. Now, if I were Charlotte, what advice would I give you?” Zofia made a show of thinking.
“Your listening has already helped, Zofia.”
Zofia ignored Maria�
��s comment. “First, I will say that you should reconcile yourself to the divorce. If your church doesn’t understand, your God will. You must think of your son’s inheritance. It is no small thing that you have given Napoléon his first son—and that he is recognizing him in this way. And you, too! Fortune may have kept the crown from you, but in your Aleksandr you have something Josephine did not have. You have power, Maria.”
“Do you think so?”
“Absolutely!”
Maria seemed to brighten. “Thank you, Zofia.”
“And as for our ugly archbishop, once the divorce is granted, you need not see him again.”
“That’s not quite true.”
“Why is that?”
“It is the emperor’s wish that he and I together shore up Polish support for this war in the east.”
“Ah, I see. You with your patriotism and he with his Catholicism.”
“Something like that.”
“Has he written to you?”
“A few letters and invitations. Mostly harmless.”
“I see. Let me give some thought to the nasty little man, Maria.” Zofia said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Really?—Oh! you must be careful not to antagonize him.”
“I know. But I’m not without some influence.”
Maria rose to leave. “Charlotte said you are clever.”
“Did she?”
“She sets great store by you. Oh my, she thinks of you as a daughter.”
“Really—she said that?”
“Yes.”
This bit of news caught Zofia by surprise. It came home to her how often she had taken Charlotte for granted, how often she had used her, how often she overlooked her huge heart. “Well,” Zofia said, trying to catch herself up to the conversation, “the divorce is the correct path to take for you, Maria.” She stood now. “And who knows, you may wish to marry again.”
“Oh no!” Maria let out a little gasp. “Maria-Louise or no, I am bound to Napoléon Bonaparte—by my son and by my Poland. I must see to the protection of both.”
Zofia was taken aback by the fervor of the countess, but she said nothing to deflate her hope. Zofia was convinced, however, that Maria Walewska, her son, and Poland were all pawns in the chess game Napoléon was playing—with all Europe as a board.
After Maria left, Zofia sat with her tea for some time. She had started her tête-à-tête with Lady Maria Walewska with a falsely solicitous attitude, determined to acquire as much information as possible about her success with the French emperor. Zofia’s plan was to supply bad advice to the little snippet who had eclipsed her own intentions for the emperor. It would amuse her to do so.
But something had happened as Maria poured out her heart to Zofia, as if to a true friend or sister. She could not recall the exact moment, but as she heard the plaintive cries of the innocent and naïve woman, her own heart had been somehow touched—so much so that by the time she sent Maria on her way—with sincere advice—she had become determined to be of help.
Maria reminded Zofia of a young Anna, Zofia realized now, wincing at the bad marriage advice she had given her cousin years before. She had lived to regret it. If there is a God, she wondered, had He sent her Maria as a test? She chuckled to herself at the notion. Standing and ringing for the maid to collect the tray, she considered the possible dividends of befriending the mistress of the Emperor of Europe.
Later, into the evening, Zofia went into Charlotte’s room. Each time she saw her, she was surprised by her thinness. She was wasting away.
“I don’t think there’s to be a comeback for me, Zofia.”
“Nonsense! You’ll survive this, and we’ll be going to the French Theatre in no time, gossiping in the balcony, laughing at the people below.”
Charlotte smiled. “I remember your saying that one goes to the theatre mainly for the intermissions.—We did have our times, didn’t we?”
“We did!” Zofia cried in a loud whisper. “We laughed at the old men in their silly powdered perukes and spindly legs and the women who think rouge and jewels can cover a multitude of sins.”
“But the time comes, Zofia, when we are all laughable. When it is God’s turn to laugh.”
“No! God’s turn be damned! You’re going to survive this, do you hear?”
“I think not. Now, do sit and tell me what Maria had to say.”
Zofia described the interview in considerable detail. The predicament of Maria Walewska had its effect. “I should like to give Monsieur de Pradt a good piece of my mind,” Charlotte whispered afterward, “preying on the innocent like that. He was an odd choice for minister to Poland. I said so at the time.”
“I suspect Napoléon thought an archbishop would make the church in Poland heed the French calling. He knows how Catholic Poland is.”
“Then he should have chosen someone truly religious.” Charlotte gave a little laugh. “But Napoléon wouldn’t recognize someone like that even if he bit him in the arse.”
Zofia laughed at full volume. “Nor would we, Charlotte. There! You can’t be dying if you can trade quips with me.”
“Zofia, bring a quill and paper. I want to dictate a letter to Pradt.”
“No, you’re not to worry about him. I’m making Pradt my business.”
“Zofia, you’re not going to complicate things for Maria?”
“No, nothing like that. I don’t hold her conquest of the little Corsican against her.”
“Ah, good. That’s good of you.”
“Dog’s blood! I’m not doing it to be good. Don’t go and spoil my reputation by putting that about. I’m doing it because it’ll be fun!”
“Maria deserves a good turn.”
“She needs someone to take her by the hand, it seems.”
“Why do you say so?”
“She’s so terribly naïve. To have faith in a man who shuttles her back and forth across Europe in a carriage as fits his needs, while he is concocting a divorce and marriage to another for political reasons. I think I would have smothered the dwarf in his sleep.”
“Ah, you seem to have missed something in your chat with Maria—you see, she’s in love with Napoléon.”
“She could not possibly—”
“Oh, she is. Hopelessly, as they say.” Charlotte lifted herself a bit higher on her pillow. “Zofia, love has eluded you thus far. Perhaps you cannot recognize it.”
The surprise that Maria could still love Napoléon fell away, dispelled by the sting of her friend’s words. Why did they hurt as they did?
Charlotte’s hand reached for Zofia’s. “That’s another thing we laughed at from the balcony, isn’t it?”
“Love?”
“Yes, dear, love. There you have it.”
Zofia made no reply.
30
Alone, Jan sat on the steps of the portico, staring down at the tributary of the Vistula that flowed by Anna’s family home. Anna had gone to Warsaw to help make room at the hospitals and prepare for the expected flow of the wounded that would be sent back from the east. She would be staying with Zofia for some time. Jan regretted seeing her go and deeply missed her. She was the single star in what had become a dark constellation. A word from him would have kept her home, but he knew she wanted to help with the war effort. Doing so gave her purpose, making her feel she was somehow aiding her sons. He could not help but wonder what had become of his purpose.
“Excuse me, milord.” The deep voice was all politeness.
Jan looked up to see Walek’s son. “Tomasz!” Jan stood. Tomasz was tall and lanky, a man of few words, and he seemed tongue-tied now. A bit older than the Stelnicki boys, he had often watched out for them before their days at the academy. “What is it?”
“It is,” he began, drawing in a long breath before starting again. “It is this, milord. I want to join the little emperor.”
“How old are you, Tomasz?”
“Twenty-eight, milord.”
“You’re married, yes? With two children?�
�
“Three, milord.”
“Why do you want to go?”
“Papa fought with Kościuszko, milord, as you know. He did his duty. You too, milord. And your sons. Now—well, it’s come to me.”
“That’s a brave and decent thought, Tomasz. You’re a good man and a good worker. We can’t easily spare you on the estate. So many others have gone. Why have you waited till now to ask?”
“My woman was against it—and big with child she was.”
“And now?”
“I have to be a man, milord. I have to be a Pole.”
“You are both, Tomasz.—You know that you may not come back.”
“I know, milord.”
“Who’s to look after your wife then—if you don’t come back?”
Tomasz stood silent, and a shadow crossed his face, as if he had not considered this.
“Tomasz, Napoléon has six hundred and fifty thousand men. Do you know how many that is? I’ll tell you—it is more men than the blades of grass in that meadow yonder. More!”
The peasant’s eyes widened.
“The little emperor has enough men. Everything depends now on how he uses them. Do you understand? How smart he is.”
He nodded.
“You have a duty here, Tomasz. Poland is going to need you to raise wheat here, and she is going to need you to raise your fine family to carry on our traditions. We pray that every Pole will come back from Russia, but we know there will be losses, terrible losses.”
Tomasz’ long face looked especially so at Jan’s words.
“I must ask you to stay, Tomasz. I must say no.”
He nodded, his face reddening to the roots of his blond hair. “Thank you, milord.” He walked slowly away, shoulders sagging.
Jan sat staring at the river long after Tomasz had returned to his little cottage in the village. Dusk was falling and the frogs in the marsh began to stir and croak. He looked down now, a little surprised to see that he still had in his hand a copy of Warsaw’s Monitor. Once again—despite the failing light—he read Napoléon’s address. The emperor called the war against Russia the “Second Polish War.”
What did that mean? Jan knew what it was meant to imply—that Poles were fighting for the resurrection of their country. But there was no use of the word “independence.” Nor would there be, he feared.
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