Becoming Josephine (36 page)

Trees flew past as I rode home. I had to reach Bonaparte before his brothers, reassure him of my love, beg for his forgiveness. But I must reach him first, the moment he landed on French soil.

A month later, the news came. Bonaparte and Eugène had landed and would be home within the week. I excused myself from a gathering at La Chaumière and rode home. Hortense met me moments later. We packed and left in a rush to meet the convoy en route.

We raced south at high speed along the Burgundy Pass toward Lyon. Each time our coach slowed it rattled my nerves.

“His brothers must have learned of his arrival. Do you think they’re on the road?”

I stared out at an agitated sky; clouds pushed against one another, wrestling the wind as a storm moved in.

“Don’t worry. He loves you.” Hortense tried to soothe me. “He won’t believe his brothers’ lies. I’m sure of it.”

I cringed in shame. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her of my affair. That I had used love as a means to get my way, and now I didn’t know what my way was. All I knew was that suddenly I could not breathe without Bonaparte.

When the houses of Lyon came into view, I exhaled a sigh of relief. Our next stop would be the army post.

But luck was not mine.

Bonaparte had headed north earlier that morning by another route.

I collapsed against the cushion as our coach turned back toward Paris—now well behind my enemies.

“They have met him, I’m sure of it!” I wailed.

“Maman, you’ll only give yourself a headache. I’m sure there is no reason to be afraid.”

I smiled weakly. “That pushy little man has stolen my heart.”

Hortense smiled her approval. “It is about time. He’s a good man. To all of us.”

Two days later, we pulled into the drive of our Paris home at midnight. Despite the late hour, several windows were lit. I bolted up the walk with Hortense on my heels.

“Good evening, Madame Bonaparte.” The sentry stationed outside the main door greeted me. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in. The general gave his orders.”

He didn’t want to see me. My stomach plummeted to the cold stone beneath my feet. I forced myself to remain calm. “This is my house. Let me in at once.”

Hortense stood beside me, silent and shivering.

“I’m sorry, madame. I cannot.”

“I know he is angry, but we’ll work this out. Surely you won’t leave women in the cold in the dead of night?”

The guard looked from me to Hortense, who blew into her hands to warm them. He bowed his head. “No, madame,” he answered slowly. “But I warn you, he is very distressed.”

He swung the door open and we rushed inside.

Mimi embraced me in the main hall and pointed to the stairs. “Broke two chairs. He’s been throwing books at the wall. He shouted like a madman when you weren’t here to greet him.”

I started up the stairs on shaky knees.

“Maman!” Eugène sprang from his room, arms outstretched.

“My darling!” I clung to his tall frame. “I’m so glad you’re safe.” I kissed his cheeks and squeezed him in a fierce embrace. “And Bonaparte . . .”

His blue eyes filled with worry. “He’s upset. More than you can imagine. He has spoken of nothing else since he heard about your lover. He means to turn you out of the house. To buy it from your creditors. And—”

“I will mend this.” My lips quivered.

“Go to him,” he said and reached for Hortense.

I continued up the stairs and hesitated for an instant outside the bedroom door. I leaned in to listen and tapped lightly.

No answer. I tried the handle. Locked.

“Bonaparte? It’s me, my love. I’m so happy you’re home. We’ve been apart too long. Unlock the door.”

No response.

Perhaps he’d fallen asleep.

I knocked again, louder.

“Bonaparte! Let me in. I’ve missed you.”

A loud thump sounded inside the room, but he didn’t answer.

“I’ve just arrived.” My breath came faster. “I traveled the Burgundy Pass to meet you on the road. I couldn’t wait to see you. Let me in!”

His silence deafened.

“Your brothers will do anything to separate us. You know that. They’re jealous of our love. They’re jealous of your power, your strength. I don’t have a lover! I made a mistake! It’s over!” Tears slipped down my cheeks. “I love you so much. Only you. Please, you have to believe me.”

No answer.

I dissolved into a puddle at the base of the door.

More crashing sounded from the study. And then a roar. “How could you do this to me?
Tu as brisé mon cœur!
” Another smash, and glass splintering on the floor. “You broke my heart!” he wailed, his voice full of pain.

“I’m so sor
ry. I’d do anything to take it back.” I lay against the edge of the door. “I was foolish, weak. . . . I didn’t know the depth of my feelings, how much you mean to me. . . .
Mon amour
, please open the door.”

Bonaparte did not open the door.

I wept for hours. When the clock in the hall chimed four, I climbed to my feet, weary and distraught. I had sabotaged my only chance at happiness. I plodded down the staircase with a heavy heart.

Hortense and Eugène sat at the bottom of the stairs, eyes laden with despair. They had grown to love their stepfather, too; Bonaparte had given them everything.

Another pang rippled through me. My selfishness, my careless disregard, had hurt my children. Had hurt us all. What I wouldn’t give to turn back the clock.

“Is it hopeless, then?” With the sound of Eugène’s voice came the sudden creak of a door.

Bonaparte stepped into the hall.

Rue de la Victoir
e, 1799–1800

H
ortense and Eugène jumped to their feet. I whipped around to face my husband, heart pounding in my ears. Bonaparte’s face was thinner than usual, and his eyes swollen. His gray civilian jacket lay open at his chest.

He bounded down the stairs and pushed past me. “Daughter! Son!” He held out his arms. “I will not desert you. I love you as my own.” He embraced first Eugène and then Hortense, who blubbered into his shoulder. “There, there. I can’t bear to see my children cry.” He smeared the tears on her cheeks with a rough sweep of his hand. “Your mother and I will work through this.”

My legs gave way in my relief. I grasped the banister to keep from falling.
Merci au bon Dieu.

“Now, go to bed,” he ordered them. “I need to speak to your mother alone.”

They hurried from the room without a word.

He stared at me in silence for a long moment. Without warning, he gathered me in his arms and carried me to the bedroom.

We shouted our frustrations, pleaded and cried, and loved each other before falling into an exhausted sleep. When we awoke at midday, we lay in bed, not yet willing to part.

“I love you.” I held his face in my hands. “I would prefer my heart be ripped from my chest than to ever be without you.”

His fingers trailed along my bare shoulder. “There will be no more men. Ever. Do you understand? I plan to move up in this pathetic government. We can’t have domestic squabbles for the public to scrutinize.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck. “No one could fill your shoes, my love.”

“And you must stop your military trading. It has almost ruined our name.”

“I need some way to pay my debts. I—”

“I will pay them. I have made more than enough in my wars.” He stroked my hair for a moment in silence. “And that woman,” he continued. He closed his eyes, remembering his own mistake. “I wasted my time on that stupid woman who was not my soul, my heart.” He kissed me ardently. “I am sorry, too.”

“We’ll never speak of it again.”

He stroked my face, pain emanating from his eyes. “As for the lieutenant—”

“I’ll never forgive myself. There will never be another man for me.”

Bonaparte forgave me, but something inside him had shattered. His loving gaze no longer lingered; his adoration had shifted. I did everything in my power to please him, to earn his love. I even placed his needs before my own.

“We’re not to attend any salons or events in the coming weeks,” he said. “I’ll need you to help . . . to handle the men, shall we say.”

My ambitious husband aimed to overthrow the government—the five-member Directoire had caved in upon itself and lost the assembly’s support. If the coup proved successful, Bonaparte would be one of three consuls leading the country. For now, he would direct the army.

“
Bien sûr.
” Handling men was what I did best.

I hosted intimate dinners for the plotters in our home, redirected their tempers, and convinced them to take my husband’s side. Bonaparte grew tenser as the days passed and the government scrambled for order. At last, on the chosen morning in the month of Brumaire, the key players convened in our courtyard.

A filmy layer of frost coated patches of browned flower stems. Horses clip-clopped and pranced about while their riders debated in excited tones. Golden epaulettes glinted in the pale sunshine.

I could not stand still. To send my husband into the face of a possible riot unnerved me. I retreated indoors with a pack of anxious soldiers for tea and fresh brioche.

As the hours wore on, the men’s skittishness increased. Finally, a courier banged on the front door at midday.

Bonaparte read the missive hastily, then tossed it into the fire. “It’s time!”

Militiamen roared in the cramped space. In a flurry of swords and hats, the cavalry rushed to their horses.

My heart thudded in my ears as Bonaparte mounted.

I rubbed his Arabian’s nose to calm us both. “Be careful,
mon amour
.”

He looked down at me, determination etched on his face. “I’ll send word as soon as I can. Gentlemen”—he motioned to me—“my lucky star! Our Lady of Victories!” Another cheer erupted and fists waved. He punched the space above his head and led the crowd through our front gates.

My heart constricted as I watched him recede from view. “Luck,” I whispered.

He would need it to enact such a complicated plan.

After they left, I rifled through my dresses, rearranged my jewelry, and wrote a dozen letters. All the while, I chewed on my bottom lip, tapped my foot against my chair, and stared at the immobile clock. The hour for supper came and went. Still no news.

By evening, a dull ache throbbed at the base of my neck and skull. Rain pelted against the window. I lay on the sofa, willing the pounding in my temples to subside. I could not stand the suspense much longer.

Horses pounded up the drive.

I dashed into the hall as Letizia, Pauline, and Caroline burst through the front door.

“Josephine!” Letizia shrieked. Her face glistened with tears.

“Come.” I wrapped my arm about her waist and escorted her into the salon. “Sit by the fire and calm yourself, madame.”

The sisters followed without a word. Pauline’s red eyes betrayed her emotion, but Caroline looked bored.

I inhaled a calming breath, refusing to panic. “What’s happened?”

“We were at the theater”—she wiped her eyes—“and the production was interrupted. A man ran on stage and announced that Napoléon is dead!” Sobs racked her body.

“No!” I shook my head. “No! I don’t believe it,” I choked. “I would have heard. . . .”

Letizia’s wails grew louder while her daughters sat in stony silence.

I struggled to maintain my composure. “I’m sure it is a rumor. You know how dramatic players can be. I would have received word if he . . . if he . . .”

Dieu
, let Bonaparte be alive.

Someone rapped at the door. Monsieur Fouché, the minister of the police, promptly dashed into my salon. His hat and cloak dribbled puddles of rain onto the floor. “Madame Bonaparte. Excuse me for the intrusion, but I have a letter for you from the general.”

I pushed the air from my lungs. “He’s not . . . ?” My hand covered my heart.

“He’s alive and well, madame.”

I exhaled. “Thank God!”

Letizia made the sign of the cross.

“We heard a horrible rumor. Your arrival is well timed.” I took the letter from his outstretched palm. “Would you care for an aperitif?”

“I may as well. Bonaparte instructed me to wait with you.”

“Why don’t you warm yourself by the fire?” I motioned to a servant to help him with his coat, then ripped through the seal of the small note. I read its message aloud:

The Republic is saved! Do not worry, my love. All is well. I’ll be home tonight.

B

The remainder of the evening passed in a blur. In the early hours of dawn, I awoke with a start to a metallic thump.

“What in the—” I pushed up in bed in a fright.

“It’s me.” Bonaparte had dropped his loaded pistols on the table near the bed. He slipped into the silk sheets and folded me in his arms.

Bonaparte had succeeded. The Directoire was abolished and my husband became one of three consuls leading the country. Parisians went mad with excitement, overjoyed at his rise to power.

All except Barras.

Paul’s protégé had duped him; Bonaparte forced Barras’s resignation and sequestered him at his country home, excluding him from his promised position of consul. I was aghast at his betrayal—the one part of his plot about which I knew nothing. Theresia informed me of it all.

I returned from my visit with her in a rage. I stormed through the front door, an icy blast of wind at my heels.

“How could you? You kept this from me! He is our friend!” I shrugged out of my woolen cloak and threw it onto the back of a chair.

“He lied to everyone!” Bonaparte exploded, throwing down his book. He rose from his desk and stalked toward me. “He stole money and sold information to the Royalists! The French wouldn’t place their faith in the consulate if he remained in power. You heard the rumors. More riots, more war! Is that what you want? Barras cheated everyone!”

“Except you,” I said in a chilled tone. “He gave you everything. He gave me everything.” I despaired at the thought of Paul’s pain at our betrayal. My dear friend had rescued me from poverty and obscurity. He’d given Bonaparte his beginnings, his trust. I couldn’t envision Barras banished like an outlaw, or bear the thought of never seeing him again.

“I did the right thing. His greed would have led to a revolt and another king on the throne.”

I gave him my back. Who was this man who cast his friends aside so easily? I raced up the staircase and slammed the bedroom door.

Bonaparte relished his power. He awoke humming every morning, overjoyed and proud of his new position. Commanding others came naturally to him. Even I found myself wanting to obey him—I, who obeyed no one.

The “Son of the Republic” could do no wrong, and within a month, the assembly elected him the sole consul. First Consul and Consulesse Bonaparte, we became. The children were awed by our newfound status.