Becoming Josephine (21 page)

The warden paused for effect before delivering the next name. “The Prince de Salm.”

I turned to Alexandre in shock. “The Prince? It cannot be! I didn’t know he was jailed! I haven’t seen him.” I burst into tears. “No! It’s my fault! He could have escaped to safety!”

Alexandre embraced me. “It’s not your fault. The ministers find enemies where there are none.”

The warden went on. More names. Finally he came to the end.

He cleared his throat.

“And the last for today,” the warden said, “Alexandre de Beauharnais.”

My legs turned to mush.

Delphine blanched white and swayed on her feet. We tumbled together to the ground.

“No!” Spasms racked my body. “Alexandre . . . dear friend.”

Delphine threw herself into his arms. He stroked her face and hair, her lips.

“My dear ladies, do not cry for me.” He remained calm, resigned. “I would die a thousand deaths for my country. Delphine, my love, take my ring as a token. Remember me.” He slipped his gold pinkie ring on her finger while she wailed. “Rose, tell the children I love them.” He kissed my head softly.

“Where is justice?” I screeched. “Murderers!” I shouted through strangled sobs. The other prisoners looked on our wretched scene.

Alexandre crushed me against him. “God be with you.”

I gazed into his sad eyes. “And you.” I smoothed the damp locks away from his forehead.

He slipped a letter into my hand. “Give this to Eugène and Hortense. I wrote it just in case. I’m glad I did.”

“Into the carts!” a guard yelled.

“Good-bye, my dearest wife and friend. Good-bye, my love.” He kissed Delphine again and stood. He held his head high and joined the others. Death would not make him a coward.

I slumped to the ground, rocking a hysterical Delphine in my arms, my own grief pouring from me. Who would tell the children? Who would dry their tears?

“I can’t bear it!” I clutched my sides in agony. My breath came in shallow gasps.

A violent end, the old witch had cackled. And now a violent end was upon me.

After Alexandre’s death, neither Delphine nor I left the cell. All shreds of hope had vanished. My health worsened; a fever raged. I would die one way or another. Very soon.

A vision of Maman came to me time and again. Her determined eyes, her dark hair hovering around her face in wavy tendrils. Why hadn’t she visited? Did I mean so little to her? Did her grandchildren?

I had failed her, failed my father. Tears leaked from my weary eyes. I had nothing to show for myself but a broken marriage and countless debts. I had failed at love, at life.

My skin stretched thin over feeble bones. I faded to nothing, almost no one at all.

A swirl of images flowed through my head. The drum roll thumping in my chest, uneven cobblestones underfoot, the metallic stench of blood. My blood. The blood of Papa and my dead sister.

A familiar pair of dark eyes sprang into my head. “You will become more than queen”—words spoken so long ago echoed from the past for the thousandth time. I snorted in disgust. I was not even human, rotting to death in the dirt. Revolution for our freedom. I laughed bitterly, startling my comatose cellmates. I ignored their questioning eyes. How much longer could I endure?

I awoke at an unknown hour to the ringing tocsin and the sounds of a mob.

I peered at two men in an adjoining cell. One hoisted the other upon his shoulders to peek through the high window. A fattened rat scurried over the stones near my head. I struggled to stand to avoid feeling its matted fur and clawing feet. Vile creatures. I would never grow used to them.

I coughed deeply, uncontrollably, as if I might vomit my organs. I sucked in a ragged breath and leaned against the wall. I ran my hand over the naked skin on my neck. A few days before, Delphine had chopped my locks into jagged disarray with a knife, borrowed from a jailer. My enemies would not shave my head in front of a mocking crowd.

I had kicked at the gnarled heap at my feet. “I never knew I had so much hair.”

“Better for it to go now,” Delphine had said. “At least we’ll go to the scaffold with dignity.” She handed me the knife. “My turn.”

Dignity? It would not be dignified at all. I took the rusted blade from her hands and sawed through her once-lustrous locks.

Delphine wept as she watched clumps fall to the floor. “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

We would certainly die.

I focused my attention on the gentleman looking out at the street. Others had gathered.

“What is it, Gérard? Can you see?” a man asked.

“People are dancing. They’re cheering!” Gérard stuck his hand through one of the bars, motioning to someone. “What’s happened?” he shouted at citizens we could not see. “A woman is motioning something. I can’t . . . quite . . .
robe?
 . . . stone?”

“Robespierre!” a prisoner cried.

“Robespierre! Robespierre!” Gérard bellowed. He drew his finger across his neck, then looked down at everyone below him. “
Il est mort!
The tyrant is dead! The tyrant is dead!”

Cheers exploded in the room and spread through the corridors.

Robespierre was dead?

“Does this mean we’ll be freed?” a woman asked.

“It’s hard to say,” someone answered. “We’re still considered traitors.”

I stared in vacant disbelief. Fever warmed my face. My eyelids grew heavy as exhaustion claimed my body. I lay without moving.

Please, God. Please. Set me free or let me die.

Several days later, the heavy door at the end of the corridor swung open and the warden entered.

“Rose de Beauharnais! Are you here, Rose de Beauharnais?” his voice called in the gloom.

Me? He wanted me? Too weak, too defeated, I could not find my voice. I whimpered. It was my turn. The scaffold awaited. Death at last. I rested my head against the floor.

“She’s here!” one of my cellmates called.

Heavy boots resounded like a drumroll. Closer, until their polished black points stopped in front of my face.

“Rose de Beauharnais? On your feet!”

I didn’t move. I barely breathed and black dots filled my vision. Or was it the rats eating holes in the floor, the walls, the boots near my head?

La Chaumière, 1794

I
awoke to find two men carrying me between them, jostling my limbs as they moved. Prisoners gathered on either side to watch as I bounced by. Their dirt-streaked faces told me nothing. I struggled against the jailers’ grip but couldn’t break free.

“Where are you taking her?” a familiar voice shouted. “
Citoyenne de Beauharnais!
”

“Let me go!” My hysteria surfaced. “You can’t kill me!” I shrieked, thrashing wildly. “My babies need me! Let me go!” I kicked with all of my strength. My foot connected with something hard.

“Oww! Stupid—”

The warden gave the jailer a dirty look. “Calm yourself,
citoyenne
.”

My screams pierced the air. The men set me on the ground and one pinned me against the wall. “Stop screaming and listen, woman!”

My chest heaved as I gasped for air. Sweat poured down my back in rivulets. My dress could not absorb the moisture in its saturated state.

“You are being released!” the warden said.

I stared at him in shock, mouth open. I was free to go?

“You are to be released!” My captor shook my shoulders. “Gather your things.”

I looked at a group of prisoners. One woman flicked her hands as if to shoo me away. Go, her face said, go quickly.

“Is this real?” My voice shook.

“Move it or you’ll rot in here!” one of the jailers snarled.

I shuffled in a daze, leaning heavily on other prisoners’ arms as I moved through the corridors. My cellmates, the priest, men and women at the end of the hall cheered as I passed. They stomped their feet and clapped in happiness at my fortune.

Stunned, I did not return their sentiments.

Finally, we stopped at the central office. I hacked for a full minute before the men helped me into a chair. I flinched as the hard wood met my bony hind end. Once seated, I eyed the men with wary suspicion.

The warden pushed a pile of papers in my direction and presented me with a quill pen. I took it with an unsteady hand. The words swam and my head ached. I was so sick, I would die anyway, even released.

I smiled a vicious smile. God mocked me.

“What day is it?” I scribbled my name.

The warden gave me a hard look. “Nonidi of Thermidor, year two.”

Still the annoying revolutionary calendar. I ticked off the months on my fingers. August. It had been less than four months! Only four months, but a lifetime of suffering.

“You are free to go.” The warden stamped a few papers and said, “Joseph, show her out.”

I carried the only thing of value tucked under my arm—my tarot cards in their now-gray pouch.

The jailer tugged me forward. “We sent word to your family. They’re sending a coach to collect you. Wait outside.”

He ushered me into the street and slammed the door behind him.

I squinted in the blazing light. I hadn’t seen the sun for months. Passersby bubbled with enthusiasm and laughter. Children skipped. I ogled them in shock. The happy crowd in the street stared back as they passed.

A man and woman walking arm in arm waved to me. “Just from prison? Have you heard? The tyrant is dead! We are free!”

I touched my wet cheek. My family, my children. I had wept so much. How could there be more tears? Elation surged through me, lifted my soul, my heart, to join the sparrows soaring overhead. A foreign sound escaped my lips. A laugh? Then a horrible cough.

I reached my arms toward the cerulean sky, the most beautiful I’d ever seen. I twirled, breath whistling in my lungs, head thrown back in exultation. Giddy in the brilliant sunbath in the middle of the glorious street.

I was free.

When the carriage fetched me home, I hobbled up the front walk. The children burst through the front door. My heart exploded in happiness.

“Maman!” Eugène ran to assist me. Hortense followed.

“Oh, Maman! What have they done to you?” Horror registered on Hortense’s pretty face. “Your hair.” She fingered a greasy tuft. “Your clothes.” Her voice trailed off and her eyes filled with tears.

She and Eugène supported me, one on either side.

“Shh. I’m here now, darlings. I’ve missed you so.” I hacked and wheezed in uncontrolled spasms.

“You’re sick.” Hortense wiped my face with her handkerchief.

“I will be fine,
mon amour
. We’ll send for a—” A cough strangled my words. “A physician.”

“Don’t try to speak,” Eugène said. “Let’s get you inside.”

Mimi appeared at the door. “Yeyette.” Tears sprang to her eyes. She folded me in a gentle embrace. She rubbed my back as if I might break. Had I grown so fragile? “Let’s get you a bath and clean clothes, and I’ll put on some tea.”

I sighed and melted in Mimi’s embrace. A delicious warm bath, a cup of tea.

Home.

I thanked God for the chance to begin again. But the purity of my freedom would be forever marred by the cost I endured—that we all endured. I couldn’t make sense of the masses of rotting bodies, the price France paid in souls and flesh. Their images assaulted me when I closed my eyes and haunted me in sleep.

I detested those who tore our country apart. Battles in Lyon and Toulon, on our frontiers, between families, brothers. I detested those who belittled our lives. They did not fight for freedom—they fought for pride, for nothing at all.

My hair fell out, my courses failed, and headaches crushed my skull, but the doctor assured me I would recover. Fortuné did not leave my side for weeks.

I clutched Hortense in my arms as if she might slip away.

“I’m here.” My daughter smoothed my hair. “And take your laudanum. It should ease your headache.”

“Precious girl.” My voice grew thick with emotion. “I almost lost—”

“Do not speak of it.” Hortense stood and closed the drapes in my bedroom. “We’re together now, by the grace of God.”

The grace of God, or a twist of fate? I wasn’t sure I believed in either.

Fanny visited the moment she heard of my release. She sat on the edge of my bed, dressed in indigo from head to toe, her cheeks as red as ever. The times had changed if one could wear such vivid colors again.

“I managed to find a little sugar.” She added a cube to each of our cups.

“Dear Fanny.” I caught her hand in mine and she kissed it.

“I wrote to the assembly on your behalf . . . for both of you. Citizen Tallien secured your release, but it was too late for Alexandre.” She looked down at her steaming cup.

Pain squeezed my heart. “If you had seen how brave he was, how kind.” My vision blurred with tears. “We became good friends.” Fanny squeezed my knee but said nothing. I blew on the hot liquid in my cup, sending tendrils of vapor into the air. “How is your daughter?”

“Home and recovering.” Her eyes glistened.

“Did you send my petitions for Marie-Françoise and Delphine’s releases?”

“Yes. Delphine is already home as well, and Marie-Françoise is to be released in two days’ time. I received word this morning.”

“Oh, Fanny!
Merci au bon Dieu.
As soon as I’m well, I’ll write to Citizen Tallien to thank him.” A pitiful thanks for saving my life, the lives of my friends.

“He’s one of the men responsible for Robespierre’s death. They say his lover prompted it. Theresia Cabarrus. She was imprisoned at Les Carmes, too, you know. Of course it takes a woman to get things moving.”

I smiled. “I’m grateful for my freedom, regardless of the impetus.”

“I’m grateful you are alive.”

By the end of my third week home, my cough had subsided and a glow had returned to my cheeks. Friends visited, though I was too weak to entertain for long. One afternoon, I had just settled in for a
sieste
when a caller arrived.

“Yeyette, you awake?” Mimi rapped at the door. “General Hoche is here.”

My heart swelled. Darling Lazare.

“Send him in!” I pinched my cheeks. Thank goodness I had dressed today.

The door creaked. A slender Lazare entered, handsome in a fresh uniform and gold sash. Though he smiled, death haunted his eyes. He had aged a lifetime in only a few short months.

“Lazare!” I threw off my blanket and leaped from my chair.

“Don’t get up. You’re ill.” Concern filled his dark eyes.

“I’m nearly well.” I threw myself into his arms.

He set his hat on my bureau and showered my cheeks with tender kisses.

“I’ve been so anxious to hear of your release,” I said.

He carried me to the bed and sat next to me. Strong, warm Lazare. Why must he be married? Passionate love, the kind that lasted and consumed, the kind for which I ached, would be easy with him. He caressed my cheek and smoothed my shaggy hair. I burrowed into his chest, ignoring the cool buttons and scratchy medals.

“How is Adelaide?” I asked. “Have you been to see her?”

He loved her and would return to her, I knew. A wave of sadness gripped me. What did it matter? There was no room for love—not for me, not ever.

Lazare watched a sparrow dipping in a wind current near the window. “I needed to see you first.” He kissed the tips of my fingers. “I want to be with you, Rose. I love her. I can’t leave her, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you. What we have been through . . .”