The Josephine B. Trilogy (106 page)

“And gowns of English muslin.” Hortense gave me a private wink—we’ve been wearing English muslin all along, only telling Bonaparte that the fabric is French leno.

“And English plants for an English garden,” I mused. I’ve already written letters to England, to botanists there.

March 30.

I’ve sent a parcel to Martinico, sent Mother portraits of Bonaparte, me and the children along with a gold box beautifully decorated with diamonds. Inside, I’ve tucked some gold medals and coins in honour of Bonaparte’s victories.

Now that the seas are safe to travel, I’m hoping Mother can be persuaded to move to France. I’ve also suggested that Uncle Robert send my goddaughter, fifteen now. Young Stéphanie would benefit from a year at Madame Campan’s school before marrying.

April 6
—
Paris.

Peace was signed with England less than twelve days ago and already Paris is swarming with Lord Such-and-Suches and Lady So-and-Sos, going about town with their quaint umbrellas and their noses stuck in the air. This in spite of the fact that they are incredibly
impressed
, blinking their eyes, disbelieving, taking in the glory of our new Republic—taking in our fine clothes, our glittering entertainments, our vitality, our
pride.
Expecting squalor and disarray, they are stunned to find a wellmanaged, thriving country, shocked by our fine new hospitals (especially the one just opened for children—the first of its kind), our schools, our roads. Everywhere one looks there is construction: a new quay, bridges, monuments. “I wish to make France the envy of all nations,” Bonaparte told me not long ago—and I believe he has already succeeded.

April 8.

Wonders upon wonders: now there will be peace with the Church. “We’ll celebrate Easter Sunday in the Cathedral of Notre-Dame,” Bonaparte told me.

Celebrate in regal style: all the servants to be in livery.

“Easter Sunday?” Leroy exclaimed. The distraught dress designer placed the back of his wrist to his brow and closed his eyes. Only ten days.

April 18
—
Easter Sunday in Paris.

The church bells of Paris are ringing again. What a glorious sound! Bonaparte opened the casement windows and stood at the sill in his nightshirt, as if breathing in the deep resounding peal of Emmanuel, the big bell of Notre-Dame—silent for how long? Ten years?

Our morning reverie was shattered by a salvo of guns that made the windows (and my heart) tremble. “I have everything I could wish for,” Bonaparte said solemnly. Peace with England. Peace with the Church. “If only…”

If only we could have a child.

April 26.

Very busy. Caroline has had her baby—a little girl, named after Signora Letizia. A difficult labour.

June 4
—
Paris.

To the Opéra tonight to see
Hecuba.
The applause for Bonaparte was tumultuous. When Priam said to Achilles, “You fulfill the hopes of the nation,” I thought the walls would tumble, the cheering was so great. The audience demanded that the line be repeated, and repeated yet again.

It does not seem to matter how often it happens—the fervour of the people continues to overwhelm me. Overwhelm me and frighten me, for where will it lead?

June 10
—
Malmaison, a beautiful summer day.

Thérèse lifted her veil of white muslin held in place by a crown of roses. “My divorce from Tallien is now official, so I’m dressing as a virgin,” she announced. “What’s wrong?” she demanded, looking at me closely.

I hesitated—but to whom could I speak truly? “The people are so grateful, they will give Bonaparte anything he should ask for.”

“The world! And even then, it would not be as much as he has given us.” She laughed at my expression. (Thérèse isn’t given to adulation.) “Don’t look so surprised. I can see as well as anyone that your husband has accomplished the impossible—and to think what a fool he seemed when we first met him. Remember how we laughed at his toothpick legs in those big smelly boots? Ah, now I’ve got you smiling. So tell me, what do you fear he will ask for?”

“People are saying that he should be named First Consul for Life—”

“Of course.
Everyone
is voting in favour.”

“—with the right to name a successor.”

“I didn’t know about that part.”

“What’s the difference between that and a king? Sometimes I worry that in striving to become legitimate in the eyes of the world, we are becoming what we fought so hard to change.”

“It’s not really the same. It’s being voted on, after all—it’s up to the
people to decide what they want. And even if Bonaparte were voted king, he would be a citizen-king.”

“I know, I know,” I argued, “but already some people are telling him that the right to name his heir isn’t enough—that the office should be hereditary.” His
family
, in particular—insisting that the office should fall to one of them.

“Ah, now I understand. You and Bonaparte have no children.”

“And I’m beginning to think we never will.”

“Have you tried—?”

“Everything!” I’ve given up animal foods, liquors of a spirituous nature. I’ve endeavoured to keep my body open by ingesting tincture of senna, Epsom salts and other laxatives. (Oh, the results.) I’ve even had leeches applied to my temples. “I’m going to Plombières soon for yet another cure, but I confess, I…”

Thérèse placed her hand over mine. “Darling, you must have faith.”

July 2
—
Plombières.

The water doctor is hopeful. “The waters are making you ill. That is a good sign.”

July 7—Plombières, hot.

A miracle—I’ve had a hint of a show! “Return to Paris immediately,” the water doctor ordered, prescribing tonics and potions. “Constant relations, and no moving about after. Keep your hips propped up on a pillow for at least two hours.”

I’m packing.

July 14, Bastille Day
—
Paris.

I’ve prepared for bed like a bride. A pagan spirit is in the air: tonight twelve girls, dowered by the city, were married to soldiers at the Bastille Day banquet. Bonaparte looked splendid in his Lyons coat of crimson satin laced with gold. “Like a king,” his family told him with satisfied smiles. A king requiring an heir.

July 29.

The results of the vote have been published. Over five million citizens voted in favour, less than ten thousand against.

August 2
—
Malmaison.

Today it is official. Bonaparte is now First Consul for
Life.

“What will this mean?” I asked him as we walked along a path banked by blooming roses.

He picked a yellow blossom, held it to his nose, his eyes closed, as if lost in sensation. “Things are going to change,” he said, opening his eyes.

First: we must double our staff. “But Bonaparte—”

Second: Malmaison is too small. We must move to the palace of Saint-Cloud. “But Bonaparte—”

And third: he is to be addressed as Napoleon. “But Bonaparte—”

August 6.

This afternoon Madame Campan and I toured the palace of Saint-Cloud, making long (
long
) lists of what is needed,
who
is needed: ladiesin-waiting, torch boys, pages, footmen…My head is reeling. I’m writing this in bed.

August 8
—
Tuileries.

“It’s a supernatural materialization,” Fouché reported. “The Church has found a saint for your husband: Saint Napoleon.” From now on, August 15 will be known as Saint Napoleon’s day.

“So who is this Saint Napoleon, anyway?” Hortense demanded, looking up from copying out scripts of the one-act comedy she is directing—as well as acting in, in spite of being seven months along. (At least it gets her mind off her long-absent husband, still in treatment at the spa.)

“Some lazy reprobate, no doubt,” Eugène said with a boyish grin, ducking Bonaparte’s attempt to tug his ear.

August 11—Malmaison.

Hortense is frantic. “Maman, what am I going to do? My costume is too small for me
already
and Fauvelet
still
doesn’t know his lines.”

“Don’t worry!” In her condition, it isn’t good to get distraught. Calm is required. “We’ll get Leroy to make alterations to your costume, and Eugène can coach Fauvelet every night. It’s going to be wonderful.”

“How do you know?”

“The best actor in Europe happened to tell me.”

“
Talma
told you that?” Beaming—for there could be no greater praise.

Fort de France, Martinico

Chère Yeyette, my beloved niece,

You must understand
—
your goddaughter Stéphanie is still a girl. I appreciate the advantages of having her educated in France, and I am certainly not concerned knowing that you and your illustrious husband would make sure that she was well looked after, but her mother and I cannot bring ourselves to send her across that perilous body of water, no matter how peaceful the seas might be at this time.

I regret to tell you, as well, that there isn’t any hope of persuading your mother to sail to France, in spite of the gracious invitation the First Consul has extended. She remains firmly of the Royalist persuasion.

Your most humble etc. uncle, Robert Tascher

August 12, late afternoon
—
Paris.

Bonaparte threw an English journal into the fire and sat glaring at it as it burst into flames. “Riff-raff!” His expression alarmed me, but also provoked my curiosity. “You don’t want to know about this, Josephine,” he warned me, sensing my thoughts.

“But now, of course, you must tell me.”

He jumped to his feet and began to pace, his hands behind his back. “The English journals are circulating the rumour that Hortense has already given birth.”

I shrugged. “They’re simply mistaken.”

He stopped short, his hands fists. “And that therefore Hortense was with child at the time she married.” He paused before he added, “And that I am the father of her child.”

I watched an ash fragment float up the chimney. “That’s what was in that news-sheet?”

“And they call this peace!” Bonaparte kicked the burning logs.

“We must make sure Hortense never learns of this.”

“Nor Louis,” Bonaparte said quietly, under his breath.

August 15, Saint Napoleon’s day (!)
—
Malmaison.

What a birthday fête! Has there ever been one like it? Saint Napoleon, indeed. (Saint Napoleon, who is only thirty-three today—so young!)

The reception at the palace this morning went smoothly. It was followed by a glorious concert (three hundred musicians playing Cherubini, Méhul, Rameau—heavenly). Then, after a Te Deum at Notre-Dame, we caravanned in flower-festooned carriages out the long road to Malmaison for a garden fête. The weather, for all my fretting, turned out to be perfect: a clear blue sky, not a cloud.

“Our prayers have been answered.” Uncle Fesch, who was made a bishop today, raised yet another toast.

“The sun always shines on Papa,” Hortense said, ebullient in her gaiety, for her one-act comedy had gone off splendidly, well-clapped. (“Fantastique! Formidable!” Talma was heard to exclaim over the cheers.)

Even Bonaparte enjoyed himself. He insisted Hortense lead a dance with Eugène, in spite of her condition. “Do it for Saint Napoleon,” he said with his irresistibly charming smile.

August 16.

Hortense is so upset! There’s an article in today’s
Journal de Paris
about her dancing at Bonaparte’s birthday fête last night. “Why did they have to say I was seven months with child?” she demanded.

“May I see it?” Bonaparte’s secretary handed me the news-sheet.

“And look, Maman, someone even wrote a stupid poem about me.
‘On seeing Madame Louis Bonaparte, seven months pregnant, dance on August 15.’”

“Do you know who wrote this, Fauvelet?” No author was credited, but I had a suspicion.

“Certainly not, Madame Josephine,” Fauvelet Bourrienne exclaimed, moving his hand in the epic style of delivery, as if the upper arm—the “oratorical weapon,” Talma called it—were completely detached from the body.

“Someone with no literary talent whatsoever,” Hortense ranted.

“None whatsoever,” Fauvelet echoed, but colouring.

I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling.
So.

Hortense burst into tears. “Why did they have to say anything at all? I didn’t even want to dance. I wouldn’t have if Papa hadn’t
insisted.
”

Fauvelet looked stricken.

Don’t worry, it’s all right,
I mouthed, putting my arm around Hortense and leading her out the sash doors into the rose garden. Clearly Bonaparte had wanted Hortense to dance for a reason. No doubt he had asked Fauvelet to write the poem about her and publish it in the paper—thus proving to the English scandalmongers that Hortense had not yet given birth, quelling the evil rumours. “You’re such a lovely dancer, Hortense. That’s why people write about you. Don’t fret,
please
don’t fret.”

September 14
—
Malmaison.

“I’ve come to bid you farewell,” Fouché said, standing in the foyer at Malmaison.

“You’re going away?” I asked, distracted, for I’d just come from Saint-Cloud, where workmen are trying to finish the renovations before Bonaparte and I move in four days from now. I’ve been trying to figure out what type of bed-curtains would suit our bed there. Its unique boatshape makes it a challenge. A velvet in a terre d’Égypte hue would be perfect, I’ve decided, but it requires something more: perhaps a gold fringe to make the embroidery stand out.

“It appears I’ve been let go.”

Slowly Fouché’s words penetrated my harried thoughts. I leaned against a crate.
Let go,
did he say?

“Well—demoted.”

“You’re no longer Minister of Police?”