Becoming Josephine (43 page)

Bonaparte secured a prompt victory. The evening before the treaty was to be signed, Talleyrand warned him not to act with haste.

“You have a chance to make them allies,” he said. “With Russia, Austria, and Prussia backing us, we may defeat the British. Without them, we may be lost.”

“With my family as heads throughout the empire, we don’t need allies.” Bonaparte looked to me for confirmation.

“Our family is no substitution for proper leaders,” I said. “I must agree with Monsieur Talleyrand.”

Bonaparte ignored his minister of war and formed the Confederation of the Rhine, carving up the territories he had freed from the Austrians. He distributed them among the Bonapartes and my children like cards.

One evening, Bonaparte and I lay in bed, discussing the next moves for the family.

“I would like to adopt Eugène and Hortense,” he said, “and make them official successors.”

I sat up in bed with a start. “It would mean so much to them! And me!” I cradled his face in my hands and kissed him in twenty places.

He laughed at my enthusiasm. “They have been the best children a man could hope for.” He looked away, realizing the implication of his words.

I turned his face toward mine. “What is it?”

“You know that Eugène cannot accept the throne?” he asked.

I nodded.

“But I will appoint him Viceroy of Italy and Louis and Hortense will be King and Queen of Holland.”

My happy bubble burst. They would be so far from Paris, and with my grandchildren. I looked down at my hands.

He tilted my chin toward him. “You will still see them.”

I stared past him. How often could I travel to Italy or Holland with all my appointments? It seemed impossible.

“I have more news. The Elector of Bavaria has agreed to Eugène’s marriage to Princess Augusta.”

My mouth fell open. Eugène to be married! “When? Have they met?”

“No,
but do not fret, my love; Augusta is beautiful and sweet. Eugène will be mad for her. He will join us tomorrow. They will marry the following day.”

The moment I saw Eugène with Princess Augusta, I knew he had fallen for the fair-haired beauty. She appeared to share his feelings. They could not be more perfectly matched.

“I’m in love,” Eugène said not three weeks after his marriage. “Augusta is the loveliest woman on earth.” A twinkle shone in his eyes, his hair was mussed, and his cheeks were rosy. Yes, my son was in love.

“I’m so happy for you.” I embraced him.

An infectious grin crossed his face. “My cheeks ache from smiling. I am beyond reason!” He laughed. “I don’t want to live a single day without her.”

“You won’t have to.” I smiled, thrilled to have made a perfect match for at least one of my children.

Bonaparte and I returned to Paris for one season before Russia marched on the borders of his Confederation of the Rhine. Just as Talleyrand had warned. My husband departed at once for Poland. I remained in Paris with the court to ensure morale in the capital remained high, though fear consumed me, for more than one reason.

I had heard Polish women were very beautiful.

The months wore on. My regimented days continued. Bonaparte did not return and his letters became clipped. Exhausted and distressed, I sought refuge at Malmaison among my plants and forests, away from the meddling of the courtiers.

One afternoon, I walked among the purple magnolias as a courier thundered up the drive. He dismounted, breathless, and pulled letters from his saddlebag.

His hurried manner sent a chill over my skin.

“What is it, monsieur?” I asked. “Is it the emperor?”

“I have letters from His Imperial Highness and also from King Louis of Holland.”

I snatched the letters and walked to the garden, dropping to a bench in the shade of a cherry tree. Louis, Hortense’s husband, had written to me. I shredded the envelope with shaking hands and scanned the curled writing. Little Napoléon, my spirited, adorable grandson, was ill with fever and a rash. Louis could not calm Hortense.

Fear seized me. I would leave immediately. She needed her mother.

I tore open Bonaparte’s letter as I rushed toward the house.

He knew of little Napoléon’s illness? How long had my little darling been unwell? Bonaparte demanded I stay in Paris despite my grandson’s condition.

I bolted inside. Was Bonaparte mad? I would not abandon my daughter in her time of need. My first duty was to my children, not his ridiculous court.

“Ready my carriage!” I shrieked. “I’m leaving within the hour!” A servant dashed off to alert the coachmen.

I stared unseeing through the coach window as the countryside sped by.

Lord, let my grandson recover
, I prayed.
Please let him live.

Palais des Tuile
ries, 1807–1809

I
was too late.

Little Napoléon died in the early hours of the morning in Hortense’s arms. When I arrived, I found my daughter huddled in a corner of her son’s room. She rocked back and forth, cradling one of his toys. Her hair had come loose, forming a crimped halo around her head. Her dress looked as if it had been wadded into a ball.

Sorrow hit me like a blow. “Hortense!”

Her vacant eyes met mine for an instant, then flickered away.

I gathered her in my arms and caressed the pale skin of her face. “Oh, my darling.” I rocked her wilted body in my arms. “My darling.”

She said nothing. My own sobs filled the silence.

For days Hortense trembled violently or lay limp in her bed, but through it all she did not weep or even make a sound.

I sent for a doctor.

“She’s in shock,” he said, closing his bag. He lowered his voice so Hortense would not hear him. “It’s very difficult to lose a child, Your Highness. She would do well to—”

“Difficult?” Her shrill voice interrupted him. “It’s difficult?”

Hortense sprang from her bed. Her lace nightcap fluttered to the floor. Purple smudges ringed her frantic eyes. She looked as though she had been beaten.

“Hortense!” I rushed to her side.

“Napoléon!” she screamed. “My baby boy!” She ran from the room. “God let him die! He took my baby boy!” She raced into the salon, nightdress billowing behind her.

I felt as if stabbed with a knife. My tears began again as I stumbled behind her.

“It will do you no good to excite yourself,” the doctor said.

Hortense turned to snarl at him, but tripped over a corner of the burgundy rug. She hit the floor and gasped for air, then screamed, an inhumane sound. Shrieks tore from her lips over and over again as if she were being tortured.

I pulled her shaking body onto my lap and wrapped myself around her. She did not fight me. After many minutes, her screams dissolved into sobs.

“I want to die! I can’t do this. I can’t . . . Maman, make it stop. I can’t . . . the pain . . . my baby boy.”

I crushed her to my chest, rocking her for hours as she wailed.

How could God take him? How would she go on? A mother could not recover from losing a child.

Hortense was inconsolable. She refused to eat. Her skin sagged on her bony frame. Her eyes bulged and I feared for her life. I bartered, pleaded, and begged with God for her recovery.

She could get through this. She
would
get through this. She had to. She had another son who needed her.

To my surprise, Louis remained by her side. He was loving, patient, and kind. He carried her into the garden every morning, read to her, and rocked her in his arms. I wrote to Bonaparte from Holland. He claimed he was devastated by little Napoléon’s death, but he did not come. I grew wretched, aching for my lost grandson and my ailing daughter.

I grew furious with my absent husband. Bonaparte had deserted his brother and daughter, his wife in our time of grief. I no longer knew the man I had married. He, who had been given all, had abandoned those who loved him.

“I’m at a loss, Louis. What will we do?” I asked one afternoon while Hortense slept.

“Maybe a trip away will help,” he said.

“Yes. Maybe your country home near Brussels? I’ll invite Eugène for the summer. She adores him.”

Eugène left Italy at once to console his beloved sister. When he arrived, Hortense threw herself into his arms.

“He’s gone, Eugène.” Tears streamed down her hollow cheeks.

“Hortense.” He rubbed her back. “Dear sister, I’m so sorry.”

Days passed one by one.

Hortense responded well to her brother’s love.

“You must eat, sister,” he would say. “Just a bite of bread and jam.”

She nibbled at first, then consumed the entire slice.

He kissed her hand and smiled. “That’s my girl. You must regain your strength.”

Day after day, Eugène read to Hortense, strolled with her in the gardens, and sat beside her at the pianoforte. She did not smile or laugh, but the shroud of death lifted from her features. She poured her grief into exquisite melodies that floated through the palace day and night.

One note at a time, she began to heal.

By summer’s end, I had returned to Paris with a promise from Hortense to visit before the holidays. Two days after my arrival, a letter was delivered from Martinique.

Maman had passed away in her sleep.

Grief weighed on me like a heavy cloak. I had not been there to lay my mother to rest, to say good-bye. I fell into a pit of despair and introspection. My family was gone. My own mortality stretched before me. My skin would wither, my mind would weaken. What was this life that I led?

Happiness seemed illusory. I drifted through my duties, the political nonsense. I waited, though for what I was not sure. For Bonaparte to return?

For the darkness to lift. For understanding.

Bonaparte scolded me for showing my despair. “Your letters are stained with tears. You indulge your sorrow. Be strong. The empire requires your guidance.”

I bristled at his harshness and ceased to write to him.

A visit from Hortense pulled me from my emotional malaise. She planned to stay in Paris for several months; Louis no longer demanded she remain in their palace, isolated from family and friends.

After supper the first evening, we retired to my apartments alone.

Hortense settled into a chair. “I have news.” A smile spread across her face—the first I had seen in months. She rubbed her belly. “I am pregnant!”

“Oh, Hortense!” I threw my arms around her. “I’m so happy.”

A sparkle had returned to her eyes. “We needed good news, you and I.” She kissed my hands. “And how are you, Maman?”

I frowned. “Do not worry about me. I am well enough.”

“I’ve heard the rumors,” she said softly. “The Bonapartes send mistresses to His Highness.”

“So my friends tell me.” I struggled to maintain my composure. “They wish to prove his fertility.”

Hortense sat speechless for a moment. She knew my husband’s family sought to undermine my position.

“He returns tomorrow.”

A loud rapping sounded at the door.

“
Entrez.
”

A servant entered and curtsied. “Empress Josephine, the chief of police wishes to speak with you in private.”

“Oh! I forgot. We’re to discuss the security details of Bonaparte’s return. Hortense, would you mind, dear?”

“Of course.” She rose to go as Officer Fouché strode into my salon in his usual crisp black uniform, lapels embossed with gold thread. His face resembled a fox’s with his almond eyes, high cheekbones, and pointy nose.

“Your Highness.” He bowed, then adjusted his red sash. “I have a delicate matter to discuss.” He clasped his hands behind his back in a nervous gesture.

“Are we to follow the usual protocol with the armory?” I asked, plucking a sugared cherry from a dish.

“Yes.” He looked at the floor.

“What is it, Fouché?” I stopped chewing.

“This is very awkward, so I’ll come straight to the point.” He cleared his throat. “The emperor has a bastard child.”

I choked into a napkin. I discarded the fruit and stared at him in disbelief.

“Your Highness?” he prompted.

“What is your point, monsieur?” I fixed him with an icy glare.

“The emperor’s love for you is well known, but he needs an heir.”

“Are you telling me this to be cruel?”

“Empress . . . Your Highness . . . How do I proceed?” He paused. “It’s your duty, as a loving wife, as the mother of France, to file for divorce. You are loved, but your country needs an heir. Spare Bonaparte from making a scene. Step down and divorce him yourself. If you love him, you will do what is right, what is expected.”

“How dare you!” My throat burned. “This is none of your business. Leave at once!”

My tone alerted the guards. In an instant they burst through my double doors. “Empress Bonaparte?” a soldier demanded, pistol drawn.

“Monsieur Fouché was just leaving.” I pointed to the door.

“I hope you may convince the emperor otherwise. There are many Bonapartes as successors.” He bowed and turned to go. “Good luck, Your Highness.”

A guard closed the door behind him.

I cried for hours, until the walls grew too confining. A child! The barrenness was my fault and they had proven it at last.

Despite the late hour and snowy weather, I called for a coach. I stared into the bleak night as the carriage whizzed through slush. An occasional citizen bustled along, carrying parcels of meat and bread or bundles of wood in the dead of night. Bakery and tavern windows glowed, throwing light into the street. All other storefronts sat dark and silent.

Near the Luxembourg garden I ordered my driver to stop. A walk would clear my head.

“I don’t advise it in the snow, Your Highness,” my guard warned.

“I did not ask for your opinion. You may follow behind me. At a distance.” Sodden clumps of snow dripped from branches of dormant pear and chestnut trees. I tramped through puddles, soaking my boots and dragging my skirts behind me.

Bonaparte would have a child with another woman. Would he marry her? I would not step down. My anger mounted. How dare he ask Fouché to say such a thing! Could he not face me himself?