The Josephine B. Trilogy (109 page)

Troubling news from the Islands. Things are not going well in Saint-Domingue—apparently there has been a revolt. “Damn Victor Leclerc!” Bonaparte ranted. “I gave him my best men, our most seasoned soldiers, and even then he can’t manage so much as a skirmish.”

December 22
—
still at Saint-Cloud.

I confess I’m growing weary of Mademoiselle Georges—weary of the cult of enthusiasm that attends her every move. Or is it simply that I am growing old, and am jealous of her youth?

Bonaparte and I arrived late at the theatre. Mademoiselle Georges was centre stage, drawling a monologue. (There I go again!) The audience applauded our appearance, demanding that the actors start over—which they did.

All in all, it was a passable performance, I thought—at least on the part of the young actress. There was one curious moment when Mademoiselle
Georges said the line, “If I have charmed Cinna, I shall charm other men as well,” and the audience craned to look at Bonaparte.

“It appears they think you’ve been charmed,” I said, touching my husband’s hand (watching his eyes).

December 23.

Terrible news—Victor Leclerc is
dead.
He died in Saint-Domingue of yellow fever. We are stunned to hear it. Bonaparte’s beautiful sister Pauline is now a widow.

Bonaparte’s new secretary brought the bulletin just after Bonaparte and I had finished our midday meal. “It regards your sister’s husband, First Consul,” Méneval said.

Bonaparte scanned the bulletin, then folded it, creasing it methodically. “My poor sister,” he said, standing.

Victor Leclerc, dead at thirty-six. (He was older than I thought.) “The blond Bonaparte” we called him because of his habit of adopting Bonaparte’s movements, even Bonaparte’s expressions—which was why he irritated Bonaparte so much, I think.

We aren’t sure how to proceed, frankly. Victor’s family must be notified, of course. Who is to do it? My heart goes out to his mother and father, flour merchants, so very proud of their son.

[Undated]

The news is even worse than we originally thought. A vast percentage of the men sent to Saint-Domingue have died of yellow fever. The numbers are stupefying: of the twenty-eight thousand who sailed, fewer than ten thousand remain.
Mon Dieu.
How is that possible?

Bonaparte is overcome. This evening I placed his coffee at his elbow, touched his hand so that he knew it was there, returned to my frame. All the while he sat motionless, his hand over his mouth.

February 12, 1803.

Pauline is back, her husband in a lead coffin, her beautiful black hair
shorn, entombed with Victor’s body. She is enfeebled, both physically and emotionally. “They all died,” she said weakly, kissing Bonaparte’s hands. “Every last one of them.”

February 19, early
—
not yet 9:00
A.M.
(and cold).

England is refusing to honour the terms of the peace treaty. Bonaparte is not sleeping well, if at all.

“Stay, Bonaparte,” I said, reaching for him in the middle of the night.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he said, pulling away.

I feel old in his presence—unappealing, without grace. I feel like a beggar, scrambling.

February 28
—
Paris.

“Mimi?” I found her in the wardrobe. I’d debated all morning about taking this step, was debating even as I spoke.

“I wish I could find that new lace veil, the silk one,” she said, going through an open trunk. “I know I saw it here not long ago.”

“Maybe it’s at Malmaison. Or at Saint-Cloud.” I never know where anything is anymore. I sat down on the little velvet stool in front of the chimney. “I was wondering, have you heard any rumours?”

Mimi closed the lid of the trunk. “About?”

I shrugged. “Oh, about Bonaparte and a woman.”

“There are always rumours.”

“For example?”

She blew out her cheeks. “Flowers are being sent upstairs of late.”

“To the room above Bonaparte’s cabinet?”

She screwed up her face.

“You could find out for me. You could ask Roustam, or Bonaparte’s valet—or even Hugo, the cabinet guard.” Even the new secretary would know, I realized with chagrin. “
Please
, Mimi.”

I may be played false, but I’ll be damned if I am going to be played for a fool.

March 2, 2:30
P.M.

“There’s a young woman who comes most every afternoon around four, and…” Mimi put up her hands. “And that’s
all
I know.”

March 3.

“It’s that actress everyone is talking about.”

Mademoiselle Georges. I knew it! “The girl,” I said.

“She’s not a girl anymore.”

March 12
—
gloomy Tuileries.

“Your powder was smudged tonight,” Bonaparte said as I slipped under the covering sheet.

Of course it was—I’d been crying! Our weekly dinner for over one hundred in the Gallery of Diana had been unusually trying. Conversation kept coming around to theatre, to the “brilliance” of Mademoiselle Georges. Glances in my direction made it clear that everyone knows. “I’m miserable, Bonaparte.”

Bonaparte took a candle and disappeared into the wardrobe. He looked ghostly re-emerging, the light from the candle throwing shadows over his face. “I couldn’t find a handkerchief,” he said, handing me a madras head scarf. “Now—what’s this all about?”

I could tell from his tone that he knew the answer. “It concerns your amourette…with Mademoiselle Georges.”

He sat down on the end of the bed, his nightcap askew.

“There’s no use in denying it!” At the last theatrical we’d attended, Mademoiselle Georges had the audacity to wear
my
lace veil on stage.

Bonaparte crossed his arms. “Why should my amusements matter to you? I’m not going to fall in love.”

“But Bonaparte, it’s not right—”

“It is
my
right!”

[Undated]

Clari discovered me in my dressing room in tears. The gentle touch of
her hand on mine unleashed my torrent of woes. She, so sweetly comforting and wise beyond her years, advised me to be patient. “This is but a temporary affair, Madame. It will pass, time will cure.”

I know, I know, I nodded—but I was raging within. Plump, aging La Grassini was one thing—this beautiful young actress is another matter altogether.

“Just ignore it, that’s my advice. It’s your gentle acceptance that the First Consul loves. He will return to you, in time.”

Gentle acceptance? I imagine Bonaparte in the arms of that girl and I weep tears of despair! I imagine her young, supple body—so responsive and fertile—and I feel withered within. I am not a young woman, and in truth, I fear I am older than my years, for my passion is no longer of the flesh. Passion of heart I have—oh yes—and spirit in abundance. But no amount of salves, lotions and face paint can disguise the dryness of my skin, my thinning hair—my waning lust.

Oh, I know this emotion all too well, this humiliating jealousy, this
fear.
My first husband was a coxcomb, true—and he never did love me. Bonaparte does: I know that! And it is
this
that frightens me—the possible loss of his love.

In which Bonaparte is deceived

March 14, 1803
—
Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

In spite of the wind and driving rain, I set out for Saint-Germain early this morning. The hastily penned note from Aunt Désirée’s new husband
^*
—sent by courier, no less—worried me: “Come quickly, your aunt is gravely ill.”

Therefore I was relieved (but also, I confess, not a little surprised) to find Aunt Désirée, her husband Monsieur Pierre
and
Aunt Fanny enjoying brandy and crumpets.

“What are
you
doing here?” Aunt Désirée demanded, trying to rise from the chaise longue.

“Gentle b-b-beloved,” Monsieur Pierre stuttered (for this is what he calls her!), “you have been ailing, and I thought—”

“You thought I was dying?” Aunt Désirée said in accusation.

The poor man turned crimson.

“Stop stuttering and pour my niece a brandy, Monsieur Pierre,” Aunt Fanny said. “She’s been out in all that fresh air. Grand Dieu, if anyone’s apt to die today, it’s going to be her, and then we’ll all be the worse for it. She brings the First Consul good luck—everyone says so. God knows where we’d be without
her.
”

“So all the more reason for the First Consul to stay
home
,” Aunt Désirée said with an all-too-knowing look.

“And not to be going out all the time to the
theatricals
,” Aunt Fanny said, emptying her glass of brandy and holding it out for more.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I told Monsieur Pierre, declining a glass. “You have not been well?” I asked Aunt Désirée—intentionally changing the subject. It was humiliating to discover that Bonaparte’s amourette with Mademoiselle Georges was talked about even in Saint-Germain.

“Your Aunt Désirée has endocarditis,” Monsieur Pierre said.

“Which rhymes with nothing,” Aunt Fanny said, frowning.

“It’s something to do with the heart,” Aunt Désirée explained, fluttering her hands over her bosom, “with the irritation of blood passing through it. At least that’s what the doctor said, but what does
he
know? I’m the picture of health, as you can see.”

However, not long after Aunt Fanny departed and Monsieur Pierre excused himself to go to his club, Aunt Désirée did, in fact, become quite ill—an attack coming on suddenly and severely. I helped her to her chamber where she collapsed into her musty feather bed.

“I’m sending for a doctor,” I insisted.

“No, wait,” she said, gesturing me back to her bedside.

“Aunt Désirée—rest. You must not talk!”

“This is important! I speak from your mother’s grave.”

Mother’s
grave? But Mother isn’t dead!

“Just listen! To keep a husband, a wife must be cheerful and understanding, but above all,
blind.
”

I promised to heed her advice on the condition that she rest and allow me to send for the doctor. He’s with her now.

5:20
P.M.

Mon Dieu, we’ve lost her. The doctor left with assurances that Aunt Désirée was not in danger. I was preparing the tincture he’d prescribed when she began to turn blue, struggling for breath.

“Aunt Désirée!” I cried out, overcome with alarm. She was slipping away, and there was no one to help, no one I could turn to. I ran to the door and yelled for the servants. Someone!

“Above all, be blind!” she gasped.

I was trying to calm her when she suddenly stopped breathing and died in my arms.

I persuaded a very distraught Monsieur Pierre to retire as I helped the maids lay Aunt Désirée out. I moved without tears, my heart curiously still. Gently, I closed her eyes, arranged her limbs, helped wash and dress her. We debated: should she wear stays? “She wouldn’t want to be without them,” I finally decided. Even in death. Even in the hereafter.

After all was done, I dismissed the servants, and sat by her side as the candles melted down. Oh, Aunt Désirée, how can
you
leave me?

March 19, Saint Joseph’s Day
—
Tuileries.

I returned from Aunt Désirée’s funeral in a melancholic state of mind, so it seemed only fitting to find Bonaparte sitting in a darkened room, the drapes closed against the bright spring sun. He got up, but did not pace. “I’ve been in meetings with the Minister of the Marine,” he said, leaning against the fireplace mantel.

Decrès? “And…?”

“You know how he has become so much slimmer of late? I suspected that there was a petticoat in the picture, but never in a thousand years would I have guessed whom the old dog was courting.” He snorted. “My sister Pauline, the bereft widow.”

I was not surprised to hear that Pauline is receiving callers. Mourning is boring, she had said when last we saw her. But
Decrès
? “I guess it’s time to look for a husband for her, Bonaparte,” I told him, picking a long black hair off his collar.
Above all, be blind
, I heard a familiar voice say.

Fort de France, Martinico

Chère Yeyette, my beloved niece,

This morning Stéphanie sailed on
Le Dard
for Brest, France. She is only fifteen, so you can understand a father’s concern. Have you arranged a chaperone for her? Were it not for the prospect of a proper education and a good marriage, my wife and I would have kept her near.

Your mother objected that the chicken coop attached to the magnificent house you bought for her in Fort de France was not sufficiently large. I ordered a larger one built, but chicken coop or no chicken coop, your mother refuses to be moved from her ramshackle country abode.

God bless you.

Your fond but aging uncle, Robert Tascher

April 8, Good Friday.

I’ve just hired Mademoiselle Avrillion, an impoverished aristocrat of impeccable credentials: quiet, serious, virtuous. She’ll help with the wardrobe for now, and when my goddaughter Stéphanie arrives from Martinico, she’ll be the girl’s chaperone.

When
young Stéphanie arrives!

April 28.

Bonaparte is in a temper of frustration. England is flagrantly breaking the terms of the peace treaty. “Peace hasn’t proved profitable for them,” he said. “The perfidious British are doing everything they can to provoke war again.”

May 17.

I’ve never been so upset. I don’t know what to do, where to begin.

England has seized French ships near Brest. Bonaparte made sure I was sitting down before he told me, very gently and with assurances that all would eventually be well, that the ship
Le Dard
was one of those captured, and that my goddaughter had been taken captive.