Becoming Josephine (37 page)

“Leaders of France!” Eugène exclaimed. “The only position more honorable than a soldier.”

“I’ll meet the finest musicians, the handsomest men! And help you with your duties, of course,” Hortense added hastily.

I found their enthusiasm contagious. After weeks of missing Barras and wrestling with my shame, at last I felt myself looking forward to the coming months. But I had not considered the difficult changes my title would demand.

“Eugène will be my aide-de-camp in battle, but for now, he must learn government matters,” Bonaparte said. “Hortense will continue her lessons at home. She must behave as the daughter of a leader. At least until we find someone suitable for her to marry.”

He tapped his boiled egg with a spoon until he had made many dents in the shell.

I paled at the thought of my little girl married. Yet she was sixteen, nearly the age I was for my own first wedding so many years ago.

“I’ve sent Bourrienne to settle the remainder of your debts,” he continued.

“I cannot tell you how much that relieves me.” I munched on crudités.

“The mistress of France must be a model citizen.” He looked pointedly at my décolletage. “Without debts or immodest dress. And no more gaudy friends that act like whores and speak out of turn. You know who I mean. Theresia and the other ridiculous women. Your days of mischief are at an end.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to discard my friends!” I said, incredulous. “I will not abandon them! You know I love Theresia like a sister.”

“I know it upsets you. For that I’m sorry.” He rubbed his thumb across my cheek. “But she is associated with the Directoire—the greed, the corruption. It’s a sacrifice we must make.”

I pulled away from his touch. “The sacrifices seem to be all mine! Do you intend to isolate me? I would not be who I am without my friends. I can’t turn my back on them. Bonaparte—”

“Do you wish to end my leadership when it has just begun? You think only of yourself, woman!”

My mouth fell open at his accusation. “How can you say such a thing? I wish for nothing but your happiness, for our success.”

“Everyone of our rank must make sacrifices.” His tone softened. “I’m sorry for your loss, but you are charming, and already well loved. You’ll make new friends quickly. You’ll see.”

After supper, I wrote Theresia a letter and sent it in secret. When she did not answer the following day, or the day after, I sent another and another, my fears escalating. My closest friend did not return a single note.

Did she despise me already? My head dropped into my hands. Our betrayal of Barras, of our inner circle, had destroyed our friendship. In the name of the government, for the love of my husband, I had sacrificed my dearest friends.

Bonaparte’s new position meant relocation to a home more suitable for the leader of France.

“We’ll have a celebration the day of our installation.” He flopped onto the settee next to me. “A parade. The French crave lavish displays. What do you think?”

“A parade would be lovely, but—”

“Military bands marching in unison, artillery, garrison dressed in full uniform. My most important ministers in our convoy, and family, of course.” He kissed my nose. “Purchase a new gown, my love
,
and arrange a soiree.”

A servant knocked at the door. She held a tray loaded with cured meats and a bottle of wine.

“
Merci.
” I accepted the tray. “It sounds lovely, but greet us where? You haven’t yet said where we are to live.”

“The Tuileries Palace.”

I nearly dropped the heavy tray. The wine bottle wobbled until Bonaparte rescued it and placed it on the table.

“The royal family’s former residence?” I asked. “I would prefer not to live where Queen Marie Antoinette—”

His incredulous stare silenced me.

“Do not speak of that ridiculous woman! You’ll bring a curse upon us.” He snatched a slice of ham from the tray. “And you may redecorate as much as you like.”

Redecorate? Adorning the massive windows with silk and filling the walls with tableaux would not remove its history, or the ghosts that haunted its rooms. I had not set foot in the ghastly place, and yet I could already feel the oppression of its gloom.

“Really, Bonaparte. There are so many beautiful châteaus. Must we live there?”

“The people want tradition to some degree, and every leader of France has lived there. But take heart, dear one. We’ll bring change. New life behind its walls.” He poured wine into our goblets. “You have a fortnight to make it habitable.”

An architect and Hortense accompanied me on a brief tour of the palace. We saw only the main rooms—I needed to see no more.

I groaned inwardly. What a monumental task it would be to remake its appearance. Thieves had pilfered everything of value, cookware and dishes, paintings, and furniture. Vandals had defaced the palace walls with crude drawings and profanity in colorful paint. Cannon shot scarred the plaster; stones and glass blanketed the floors in a prickly carpet.

“We will need a large team.” I fingered the dusty remains of a window covering, now shredded and strewn across the floor. “And a miracle.”

We had our miracle.

Moving day arrived on a cold, clear day in Pluviose. I admired my dress in the looking glass. White muslin
à la grecque
suited me perfectly
.
As I pulled on my gloves, the sound of hooves resounded from the drive.

“Our carriage has arrived,” I called down the corridor. I slipped a rabbit fur cloak about my shoulders and rushed down the staircase.

The children bounded after me. Eugène looked a fine young man in his elegant blue coat and Hortense glowed with her blond locks and dewy complexion. I could hardly believe they were eighteen and sixteen years of age.

I smiled and waved them on. “Quickly now. Into the carriage.” Once settled I said, “You both look beautiful. You’ve accepted your new roles with finesse and gratitude. A mother could not be prouder.” I squeezed their hands.

“And we are proud of you.” Hortense leaned to kiss my cheek, her eyes glistening.

“No tears. Today is a happy day,” Eugène scolded.

Cannons boomed, one after another, and the line of hackney cabs in front of us began to move. Our convoy rolled in a slow procession from the Palais du Luxembourg to the Tuileries along the grand boulevards. Throngs of citizens crammed together behind soldiers lining the streets. The clapping of boots on cobblestone thrummed the air.

My pride swelled until I felt as if I would burst. My husband was first consul, leader of France! How had I gotten here? I waved at the women flourishing multicolored scarves from their balconies despite the icy wind. Scarves like those I had worn as a child in the heat of the jungle. I laughed at the absurdity of my new life. I had come so far.

A shadow of doubt fell across my good humor. Could we fulfill our duties? Withstand the pressure?

Napoléon followed at the end of the procession. I wondered at his sentiments. How proud he must feel. He looked so handsome in his new uniform.

I had awakened in time to see him slide into a red velvet coat laced with gold. He had kissed me and slipped from the house like a thief in the periwinkle light of dawn. It was our last morning in our charming little apartment.

The coach stopped in front of the palace. Bugles sounded, followed by an earsplitting roar from the crowd. I waved at the masses.
Dieu
, they packed the street. How many thousands welcomed us? I waved again and we filed inside.

“This way, Madame Bonaparte.” A servant showed me to a window to watch Bonaparte arrive.

When his white Arabian horse came into view, joy surged through me. My darling husband looked so regal. How could this man love me? I didn’t deserve such fortune. I controlled the rush of emotion—I would not cry.

Hortense grasped my hand. “What a sight he is, Maman.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He sat rigid, head held high as he cantered toward the Tuileries. When he reached the steps, he dismounted. The crowd hushed.

One by one, the leaders of each battalion presented him with their revolutionary flags. Stained, scorched from bullet holes, and tattered, the flags reminded us of all we had lost, all we had fought for.

Bonaparte removed his hat and saluted our beloved colors.

My vision blurred. I dabbed at my eyes and glanced at the statesmen clustered near me. Not a dry eye among them. Such was the people’s great hope in my husband. Such was my hope in him, in our love.

Moments later, Bonaparte joined us indoors. He motioned me to his side, beaming.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a minister said to gain the guests’ attention, “introducing, the First Consul and Consulesse Bonaparte.”

Applause erupted as we crossed the room.

Monsieur Bourrienne, ever the flatterer, bowed his head. “You wear your position like a silken robe, madame. With fluidity, elegance, and beauty. Or better still, like a queen. The French are exuberant with your installation as their first lady.”

I stiffened at his compliment. Why must he compare me to a queen? The priestess’s eyes flashed in my mind and I nearly stumbled. A queen, indeed.

The evening passed in a blur of congratulatory gestures and fine food. When the last of our guests departed, the cheery luminescence in the main ballroom faded. The candles had burned to nubs and shadows stretched from their corners, plunging much of the room into darkness. My new silk drapes floated like apparitions and floorboards moaned underfoot as if alive.

My heart skittered in my chest. Our first night in the palace and where was Bonaparte? I did not wish to sleep alone, regardless of convention. I walked quickly through the corridors to his apartments.

“Will you sleep in your own bedchamber?” I asked.

He studied my face. “There are dozens of guards. You will be safe.”

“I would prefer we slept together.” I burrowed into his chest. What frightened me could not be remedied with swords or guns. Mimi had only solidified my fears earlier in the evening.

“Something lurks,” she said just after supper.

I shivered at the memory of her black expression.

“Very well,
amore mio
.” He rubbed my back with his rough hands.

We walked to my new rooms on the ground floor, in the former apartments of our dead queen. Foreboding seeped into my bones as we undressed and climbed into bed. Within minutes, the lanterns were extinguished and Bonaparte’s uneven snoring filled the air. He did not fear the walking dead after so many nights on a battlefield, but I lay paralyzed under the bedcovers, straining to catch the slightest sound.

Was that the swish of fabric over stone? A moan of the murdered?

I sat up and lit a lantern. I threw on a cloak and tucked a deck of cards in the deep pocket of my overcoat. Perhaps one of my attendants would be interested in a game, or Hortense if she were still awake. A guard if I were desperate.

I snatched a lantern and swung open the bedchamber door.

A towering wall of solid muscle filled the doorway. Dark eyes glittered in the dim light.

I gasped, nearly jumping from my skin. “Roustam, you scared me!”

Bonaparte’s favorite Egyptian guard never left his master’s side. How imposing he appeared in the dark corridor, immense curved knives dangling from his belt. A quick slash of the throat would end an intruder’s life in seconds.

“Madame Bonaparte, are you well?”

I closed the door behind me. “I am in want of entertainment. I can’t sleep in this haunted place.”

“Many have died under this roof.” He did not deny the spirits’ presence.

My voice dropped to a whisper, as if they could hear me. “And they are unquiet.”

A toothy grin crossed his features. “Don’t worry, madame. I’m wearing my evil eye pendant and it is I who protect you. As for entertainment, the family has gone to bed.”

“Perhaps a walk, then?” The glass sheath of my lantern tinked against its metal frame.

He eyed my trembling hand. “Are you comfortable enough to walk alone? I can’t leave General Bonaparte.”

“I’m not afraid in the lit corridors.” My voice betrayed my uncertainty.

“There are twenty guards on this floor alone. If you need anything, you may call out and they will assist you in an instant.”

“Thank you, Roustam.” I gathered my nerve. I could not spend another minute tossing in bed. “Just a short walk.”

Roustam grinned again. “I will be here when you return.”

My footsteps resonated in the empty corridor. I pulled my cloak close. Strange that I felt blasts of cold air when the closest window was across the room. I shivered. I would not consider their source.

I paused to admire Egyptian vases, tableaux, and sculptures from Italy; gilded handiwork and detailed tapestries; points of beauty in the gloom. Guards greeted me with a curt nod as I meandered from room to room. Their presence soothed my anxiety and my unease waned.

In a moment of bravado, I climbed a set of stairs to a room not yet renovated. The odor of dust and mold filled my nostrils and coated my to
ngue. No one had been there for years. I held up my lantern to assess the damage. Broken furniture littered the floor. The walls were grimy and defiled with handwriting. I moved closer to cast the lantern’s glow on the lettering.