The Josephine B. Trilogy (11 page)

“What events have you taken the girl to?” she demanded.

“Events?” Aunt Désirée asked.

“You know—
out.
” Fanny has a clipped and energetic way of talking. “Lodge meetings, the fairs—”

“We’re quite content to stay in,” the Marquis said.

“You didn’t take her to the Saint-Germain Fair?” Fanny was clearly horrified.

“That’s gotten so dirty,” Aunt Désirée protested. “And the last time we went, we practically got run down by a carriage coming in through the gates at a gallop.” She turned to the Marquis to confirm this fact.

“Ermenonville is quiet—you could take her there.”

“I am perhaps the only person in France who is not enraptured with Rapture,” the Marquis said. “Forgive me, but your hero Jean-Jacques is not to my liking.”

“Young Alexandre and his dear Patricol have not made a convert of you?”

“They have not.”

“They’ve not lured you to one of their Masonic meetings?”

The Marquis made a sputtering sound.

“He could never remember the password,” Aunt Désirée said, covering a disloyal smile with her fan.

“That wasn’t the problem in the least,” the Marquis objected. “It was all that nonsense about liberty and equality and brotherly love. And the red caps they wore were itchy as well as ugly.”

“Perhaps the theatre? You have taken her to some spectacles, surely.”

Aunt Désirée shook her head. “Alexandre would not approve, I am afraid,” she said. “Something to do with theatre fostering a sense of detachment in the modern age.”

Fanny hooted, a most unladylike snort. “I suppose he would have us all out on the street, singing and dancing around Maypoles with ribbons! I’m
weary of all this longing for ‘The Olden Days.’ One can take the precepts of Rousseau too far. The question, quite simply, is how can you bring this girl to Paris and
not
take her to the theatre?”

“Perhaps we could take her to the Théâtre Français,” Aunt Désirée suggested cautiously, glancing over at the Marquis.

“Mon Dieu!” Fanny said. “The only show there worth watching is the King…and the Queen, sometimes, when he manages to drag her along to those tedious productions. ‘Ah, Virtue!’…” Fanny paraded across the room, demonstrating an actor reciting lines in the most superficial way. I turned to see Mimi giggling in the door.

“The Queen, on the other hand, who may not have sense, but who at least has
taste,
” Fanny went on, “is more likely to be seen taking in the entertainment on the Boulevard du Temple.”

“The Boulevard of
Crime
you mean?” the Marquis asked.

“Of course that’s what we’ve come to expect of her,” Aunt Désirée said.

“Have you ever seen her?” I blurted out, revealing myself to be what I truly was: a star-struck girl from the Islands.

“What’s to see?” the Marquis bristled.

“How can one
not
see her?” Fanny moaned. “The woman is everywhere—at the theatre, the gaming tables, the concerts spirituels, the salons…not
mine,
of course—but I heard from Comte Clairon that she was at Comtesse d’Autricourt’s, feigning disguise, which of course everyone sees right through. Poor woman. I feel sorry for her. Hope she’s not allergic to cats.
^*
Clearly she’s not allergic to
men.
I understand she’s moved into the little Trianon—for more
freedom
(Fanny indulged me with a wink)—where she can give full expression to her ‘bucolic’ affectations, playing shepherdess, tying pretty ribbons around the cows and sheep. It’s all so fashionable, it makes me sick, frankly. Although I admit I couldn’t stand being Queen for more than a minute. The palace is full of strangers watching the royal comings and goings as if they were on exhibit, relieving themselves in the
corners. People even watch them eat—can you imagine?
^*
Goodness knows
I’m
all in favour of giving up corsets—who can stand them?—but don’t you think our Queen carries it a bit far?” Fanny did not wait for a response. “But, of course, who wouldn’t go wild with a man like King Louis for a husband? The only thing he’s passionate about is food.”

“And carrying on like a child,” the Marquis muttered in turn, “turning the fountains on strollers, for amusement. It’s time His Majesty grew up, don’t you think?”

“Did you know that in Strasbourg they’ve actually
minted
a coin showing our dear King with cuckold’s horns?” Fanny said. “It’s true—a friend of a friend of mine has one.”

Fanny could have gone on and on, much to my delight, but Aunt Désirée changed the subject, informing Fanny that I was learning to play the harp, that I sang quite nicely and that I was interested in drawing as well. I was embarrassed to be paraded in this way, but eager, nevertheless, to be the object of Fanny’s notice.

She insisted on seeing a drawing I’ve been working on, an island scene. Quite by accident she came upon one I’d done of the stone wall of the neighbour’s house—the view out my window—and she laughed. She thought it showed originality and a sense of humour. “Or a serious case of vapours.” She looked at me closely.

She noticed an open volume of Helvétius on a table. She asked if I was reading it. “I’m trying to,” I confessed.

“Why?” she asked. “Not that it isn’t an admirable pursuit.”

“Monsieur de Beauharnais wishes me to,” I explained. “He aims to educate me.”

“How good of him,” she said with a sarcastic tone.

“My spelling is terrible,” I said, defending my husband’s intent.

“Voltaire’s letters were
full
of spelling errors,” she said, noticing my guitar propped in a corner. “Do you play?”

I somewhat reluctantly confessed that I did, for Monsieur de Beauharnais
had given me to believe that only members of the lower social orders played such a primitive instrument.

“A lovely instrument—so expressive. What pieces do you know?”

I told her I was trying to learn the cantatas of Clérambault, but finding them challenging. “I should think so,” she said, which was heartening.

She turned to me at the door. “Tell me, my dear—what
do
you think of our fair city?”

I flushed.

“Don’t be shy. Do you not think your misery is written on your face? As is every thought and emotion that comes to you? Really, you are the most transparent creature. But come now, admit it—one cannot be French and not love it.”

I felt she could see into my most private thoughts, penetrate my spirit, my very dreams. For all my life, had I not dreamed of France? Had not the word meant romance and all good things to me? “I am, I confess, familiar only with these four walls,” I said.

“
That
we will have to remedy, my dear. You will begin by coming to my salon—tomorrow evening.” She raised a finger to still my objection. “I
insist.
I will send my footman for you, at nine.”

And so, it is set. A
salon?
I don’t even know what a salon is.

Thursday, November 9.

There were a number of men and women gathered in Fanny’s parlour when I arrived—twelve, I counted. Fanny introduced me as a student of painting and music, which flattered my modest pursuits greatly. After supper, music was played and poetry read. There was lots of laughter and argument. All the while Fanny was stretched out on a silver and blue settee with a garland of flowers on her head, looking like a goddess. A poet named Michel de Cubières (short, with a booming voice and big lips) read some of Fanny’s poems, which I didn’t understand, but everyone seemed to appreciate. I felt nervous, but of course quite proud once the reading was over and everyone praised her.

I can’t begin to describe the interesting people I met and the vitality of the conversation. I felt tongue-tied, but nevertheless was kindly received.
An older gentleman in a tight old-fashioned wig guessed immediately I was créole.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Your accent gives you away. And the intoxicating way you move.”

The intoxicating way I move, indeed!

Monday, November 13.

I have been to a meeting of a Masonic lodge—the lodge of the Triple Lumière. I went with Alexandre’s brother François and Mademoiselle de la Chevalerie, whom I had met shortly before Alexandre and I were married. The banquet was elegant, the company delightful and but for the length of some of the speeches, it was a pleasant evening. A number of men and women from the Islands are members, so I felt very much at home. (There was even cassava bread served!) The songs were pretty, all about brotherhood and love.

Mademoiselle de la Chevalerie has promised to put my name forward. Already she showed me a secret hand-signal. “I tried this at the Saint-Germain Fair and
hundreds
signalled back,” she said.

“That many?” It was hard to imagine.

“If you are ever in distress, all you need to do is make a sign, and help will come,” she said with fervour.

Saturday, November 18.

Fanny took me to see a play tonight. She arrived early in order to help supervise my toilette. We were sipping brandy and being perhaps a bit silly, for Aunt Désirée stuck her head in and frowned at us. After the door closed Fanny made a funny face. Really, I’ve never met anyone quite like her.

Fanny gave her coachman orders to drive to the Boulevard du Temple. After what the Marquis had said—about it being called the Boulevard of Crime—I was looking out everywhere for ruffians, but it didn’t take long for me to be overtaken by the gay spirit of the place. We were inundated all around with tightrope acrobats, puppeteers, mime artists, performing animals—it was as if a circus had been let loose in the streets! Every balladeer
and vendor had a song to sing—about liberty in America, about the Queen’s naughtiness, and lots of songs about love, of course. There were even actors performing a sentimental sort of romance, a woman on one side of the street, a man on the other, yelling words to each other. It was impossible not to be swept up into the excitement of it all.

It was with some reluctance, therefore, that I entered the theatre, only to be drawn into still another world. After Fanny and I had seated ourselves in her loge—I was trying very hard not to look this way and that like a child at a fair—I noticed a commotion in the audience. Everyone was looking toward a loge at the front. It was the Queen!

I had a very clear view of her face. She is younger than I expected, not much older than myself, and pretty, with a kindly expression, almost shy. Of course I took in all the details of what she was wearing, especially her headdress, which was a most fanciful construction of mauve feathers that fluttered with every move she made. With her was a blonde woman and a tall, handsome man.

“That’s Yolande de Polignac and the Comte de Vaudreuil,” Fanny whispered. “She’s the Comte’s mistress. They have what is called ‘a secret marriage’—complicated, one would think, by
his
relationship with the Queen.” She looked at me over her fan.

“The
Queen?
” I whispered.

“And furthermore,” Fanny raised her eyebrows, “it is my understanding that the Queen and Yolande are—” Fanny held up two fingers entwined. “If you can believe what people say,” she went on. “Which of course I don’t.”

Just then the lights went out and the audience fell into a hush. I could hear a woman giggling in the loge next to ours.

“Is there someone in there?” I asked. For the curtains were drawn tight.

“In one’s loge at the theatre, one may receive
anyone.
” Fanny rolled her eyes.

I heard another peal of laughter, followed by a man’s low voice. “You mean—”

“I can see I am going to have to give you one of my novels to read, darling,” Fanny whispered as the curtain went up. “Disguised as a text on aesthetics, of course.”

The play we saw was
The Beaten
and I laughed so hard I feared my corset ties would break. In it, Janot, a servant, has a chamber-pot emptied on his head. He tries to take legal action, but ends up in jail. It was terribly silly, but well done. Between acts there were speeches, singing and announcements.

Oh, I’m in love with the theatre! Fanny has promised to take me to another performance soon.

November 22.

Monsieur de Beauharnais wrote to me:
Labour omnia vincit improbus.
I had to ask Father to translate it. “Persistent effort overcomes all difficulties,” he told me. I should have known it would have to do with studies, and nothing whatsoever to do with
love.

Saturday, November 25.

Fanny has had her newest novel published, titled
Abailard the Pretender.
We all went to a ballet tonight to celebrate—Fanny, my brother-in-law François (Marie is confined to bed), Aunt Désirée and even the Marquis. When the dancers leaped into the air one could see their garters and drawers. Fanny thought nothing of it, but I could see that the Marquis and Aunt Désirée were discomfited.

November 27.

Aunt Désirée is reading Fanny’s new novel to determine if I should be permitted to read it. I doubt that I shall—she makes the sign of the cross before picking it up.

December 7.

Monsieur de Beauharnais sent word that he is coming home. I haven’t seen him for five months.

Wednesday, December 13, 11:30 A.M.

Today is our first anniversary. But already Monsieur de Beauharnais is gone, on his way to join his regiment in Verdun. He was here for only four days.

In which I become a mother & discover a terrible truth

Sunday, January 28, 1781.

Aunt Désirée and I were summoned in the night. Marie’s labour had commenced. We hurried to her bedside, the horses slipping on the icy cobblestones. When we arrived, we were immediately taken to Marie’s bedchamber where Fanny informed us that Marie had fallen into unconsciousness. Aunt Désirée was overcome with uneasiness and took leave of the room, Fanny following. Soon after, the child was born. The accoucher asked me to hold the infant while she tied the cord. The baby did not cry; her eyes opened, her blue skin slowly turning pink, the miracle of life in my hands. My tears fell on her cheeks.