The Josephine B. Trilogy (128 page)

The baby was born nearly lifeless and terribly, terribly small. You can imagine our fear! Bathed in wine and wrapped in cotton, he revived, but then we began to have concerns for Queen Hortense, for her pulse had become irregular.

She is delicate yet, Your Majesty, but three days have gone by and the doctor assures us that your daughter is out of danger. Queen Hortense specifically asked me to tell you that you are not to return to Paris. The Emperor has need of you, and believe me, your daughter is well looked after. Petit, especially, is tender in his care of both his mother and new brother.

As you suggested, Dr. Jean-Louis Baudelocque was awarded a gift of ten thousand francs in a gold box adorned with diamonds, and Madame Frangeau a handsome ring.

Please forgive the mess this quill has made.

Your humble servant,

Mademoiselle Adèle Auguié

Note
—
I’ve notified King Louis.

And another
—
Unfortunately, the early arrival of this child has led to all manner of rumours, in spite of the accoucheur’s declaration that the baby was a month premature.

[Undated]

Bonaparte discovered me weeping over Adèle’s letter. “Your daughter has had another son. Is that not cause for celebration?”

“I wasn’t beside her!”

He comforted me tenderly. We walked hand in hand through the gardens.

April 27, Wednesday, I think
—
Château Marrac (not far from Bayonne).

How wonderful to be close to the sea again. I can smell it in the air.

By the morning light I see that this room has been decorated in soft violet and yellow silks. Our bed (which we share here), of a beautiful cherrywood, is topped by a crown. The drawing room has been made to look like a tent with the sides looped up—a blue satin tent braided with violet and yellow. A sofa (not very comfortable), armchairs and a footstool are covered in a striped blue silk trimmed with yellow. There’s even a bathing chamber with a wooden tub in it—which is being filled for me now.

A tall Basque maid in rope-soled shoes has just brought me a dish of chocolate and marzipan. “A gift from the Emperor,” she said—or rather, that’s what I
think
she said, for they speak a curious language here. (Euskara?) “He say to say he
love
you,” she added in French, enunciating the words proudly.

May 5.

The King of Spain has ceded to France. Bonaparte has persuaded Joseph to give up Naples and take the crown of Spain. “Not Joachim?” I asked, relieved but surprised. Caroline had made it clear that the Spanish crown was to go to her husband.

“Bah!” Bonaparte muttered. “Joachim has bungled things here. I’ll give him Naples. That should make Caroline happy. She’ll have a crown at last.”

But not the crown she wanted. Not a
big
crown.

Friday afternoon.

There is something in this salty, bracing breeze that enlarges our spirits. The melancholy cries of the gulls sing “home” to us both. How alike Bonaparte and I are, both born and raised on islands, the sea ever before us.

If only we could live like this forever, far from the intrigues of Paris. We talked late last night, whispering in the dark: “When we’re old and grey, we’ll have a little château by the sea,” he said sleepily. “You’ll tend the flowers and I’ll tend the vegetables.”

[Undated]

Bonaparte and I arrived back at the château giddy this afternoon. My maids shook their heads in wonderment at my wind-tousled hair, my bare feet. “The Emperor took my shoes and hid them,” I explained, and then burst into laughter at their puzzled faces. A maid is preparing a bath for me now, for I’ve sand in my hair, my ears.

The day was glorious. We set off at a fast pace in one of the new light carriages and soon were within sight of the ocean. “Ah,” said Bonaparte, inhaling, taking my hand. The sun sparkled off the water.

As soon as we came to a deserted beach, Bonaparte ordered our driver to stop. “Too wild, do you think?” he asked, examining the rocky cove.

“It’s perfect,” I said, tying my hat ribbons.

At the sand’s edge I kicked off my shoes and tucked up my skirt. I heard Bonaparte call out behind me, and I bolted into a run. He caught me, the foaming wave swirling around our feet. We were laughing and out of breath. He tried to push me into the water, but I twisted away, escaping his reach.

We were how long thus, playing like children? Hours. An eternity.

I wonder what our guards thought, watching their Emperor and Empress running back and forth along the shore, watching as we fell laughing onto the sand, watching as we walked hand in hand—watching as we embraced.

Perhaps they thought we were very much in love.

In which we return to the camp of the enemy

August 15, 1808, Bonaparte’s thirty-ninth birthday
—
Saint-Cloud.

Bonaparte and I were both rumpled and weary as our carriage pulled into Saint-Cloud. We’d slept in the coach the night before, but even so, there was no time to bathe—only time for a change of clothes and a quick repast.

I’m writing this now in the drawing room off the garden, the doors open wide, waiting for Bonaparte to emerge from his cabinet on the other side of the courtyard. In a few minutes we’re to receive the Senate, then go to Mass and a Te Deum in honour of “Saint Napoleon.”

I’m anxious to see Hortense, Petit, the new baby, but it will have to wait. (Wretched duty!) It’s hard to believe that we’ve been away for over four months—four
wonderful
months.

Late afternoon.

“He’s a good baby,” Hortense said fondly, handing the infant to me.

“Oh, Hortense, he’s…” In fact, I was alarmed. The baby seems small, with the exception of his head, which is big. “He’s beautiful,” I said, and with truth. He has the ancient beauty of a new soul.

“His name is Oui-Oui,” sweet Petit said, standing beside me, his dimpled hand on my knee. I bent forward to give the boy a noisy kiss. “Tickles,” he said, but then added, “Again?”

“
Later
we’ll have a rumpus,” I said. “But right now, I think you might want to have a look at”—I nodded in the direction of the door and
dropped my voice to a stage whisper—“something I brought you.” His eyes widened. “Did the coachman bring it in?” I asked Adèle.

“The coachman
and
the butler,” she said. “It’s heavy!”

“Maman,
what
have you brought?” Hortense asked, stretching out on the chaise longue.

“Yes, Grandmaman,
what
have you brought?” Petit echoed as the sound of great clattering on the parquet floors was heard in the hall. The butler appeared, pulling a model of a warship on wheels (and trying, in spite of it, to appear dignified).

Petit turned to me, a look of wonderment on his face. “Yes, for
you
,” I said, rocking the infant, who had started to fuss.

“Say, Thank you, Grandmaman,” Hortense called out as Petit ran to the wondrous object.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Grandmaman!” the child sang.

Monday morning, August 22.

A ball last night. “I’m the one who won Spain,” I heard Joachim boast, well in his cups. “I’m the one who should have gotten that crown, not Joseph. He can’t even ride a horse. And what do I get as thanks? Naples! But maybe at least Joseph will leave the Duchess d’Atri behind for me.” Guffaw, guffaw.

He’s gone, at last. He left for Naples this morning. That poor kingdom.

August 28, Sunday.

A family gathering at Malmaison: Madame Mère, Pauline, Julie Bonaparte and her girls, Hortense and sweet Petit. The children loved the orangutan, dressed comically in a gown. Its antics had them screaming with laughter. Then Bonaparte pretended to be a bear, much to the delight of the children
and
the pugs.

September 10, 1808, Milan

Chère Maman,

Little Josephine is walking. You should see her
—
she is so charming! My
lovely Auguste is exceptionally well, considering her condition (three more months). Please tell Papa that I have taken his advice to spend more time at home with the family
—
no more working until midnight.

A million kisses,

Your loving son, Eugène

Note
—
I am hopeful that Papa will be able to come to an understanding with Tsar Alexandre at the upcoming conference in Erfurt. If he can get Russia to agree to support a blockade against England, England will be forced to negotiate for peace.

September 16, Friday.

It seems that everyone—our best actors and actresses, my cooks, even Dr. Corvisart—is going to Erfurt in Saxony…for the peace talks, it is said, but what is whispered is that Bonaparte will be meeting with Tsar Alexandre to discuss marriage to the Tsar’s sister.

“Nonsense,” Bonaparte told me tonight when I teased him about this rumour. “Talleyrand, explain to my wife that my meetings with the Tsar will be strictly political.”

“Your Majesty, the meetings will be strictly political.”

“And royal marriages are not political?”

As a result of this “innocent” banter, I could not sleep last night and have been in bed all day. Every hour or so, Bonaparte pops his head through the bed-curtains. “You worry too much,” he said, suspecting the cause of my malaise. “You shouldn’t listen to the gossips.”

September 22
—
Saint-Cloud.

Bonaparte left for Erfurt at five this morning. He embraced me farewell, kissed me with feeling. “I’ll be back in a month. Promise you won’t worry?”

“I promise,” I lied.

September 26, Monday
—
Malmaison.

Thérèse’s hat was even more fanciful than usual: an exotic confection of
birds and flowers. “What is there to worry about?” she asked, getting right to the point. “Has the Emperor ever made a woman pregnant? No! He’s not about to divorce you and marry some young thing only to make a public fool of himself.”

“That’s the one thing that consoles me,” I confessed—and that makes me sadder still.

October 19.

Bonaparte arrived back from the peace talks laden with magnificent Russian furs. “Why the disguise?” I asked, for he was dressed as an advocate in a black wool cape.

“I had need of speed. Spain is in trouble.”

“You’re
returning
to Spain?”

“Joseph has abandoned Madrid, fled without even a struggle! King Pepe Coxo, the Spaniards call him—vice-ridden incompetent. With family like mine, I have no need of enemies.”

“Will there be no end to war?”

“Do you think I seek it?” he asked sadly.

Saturday, October 29
—
Rambouillet.

Bonaparte refuses to allow me to accompany him to Spain. “It’s too dangerous,” he insisted. “The Spaniards are unpredictable.”

Murderous, he meant. I pressed my cheek against his heart. If he only knew how much I worried! My attention was drawn to something under his vest. “What’s this?” It felt like a soft, small sachet, about an inch in circumference. Bonaparte pulled away. “What is it?” I persisted. His hands were cold.

“Josephine, you wouldn’t want me to be…”

I closed my eyes. It was poison, I realized, in case of capture.

November 13
—
Paris, the awful Tuileries.

I’ve moved back into the Tuileries: the dark, dank palace—now garishly renovated, alas. I’m too ill to care, frankly, too upset about the Spanish
campaign, trembling every time I think of that terrible, impossible war. Bonaparte wouldn’t even be there had he not been advised that the Spaniards were eager for “liberation.” And now, once in, how does one withdraw? Certainly not Bonaparte.
Le feu sacré.
He’d be the last to admit defeat—especially to England.

December 4, Sunday.

The most astonishing news—the most
disturbing
news. Talleyrand invited Fouché to his home on Rue de Varenne. They were seen to walk arm in arm through the rooms. “But Fouché and Talleyrand detest one another,” I said.

“When enemies unite, there is bound to be trouble,” Chastulé said.

December 22, 1808, Milan

Chère Maman,

I have succeeded in intercepting a letter that Governor Junot sent to Queen Caroline in Naples. As you suspected, Talleyrand and Fouché are in league to put Joachim on the throne of the French Empire
—
should the Emperor be killed in battle, they will have it, but the scheme looks suspect in my view. Caroline has even set up a communication system between Paris and Naples so that her husband can quickly be summoned. Junot guaranteed her military “protection”
—
you know what that means.

I’ve alerted the Emperor, who will no doubt return to Paris immediately. The enemy are not in Spain
—
they are at home, and in the intimacy of his family circle.

My lovely Auguste is well. The midwife says “any day.”
^*

Your ever loyal son, Eugène

Tuesday
—
Malmaison.

“So
that’s
what Caroline was up to,” Thérèse said. “She’s been planning this little coup for some time. I have to say, I admire the little vixen. She
figured she needed Fouché on her side so she honeyed him. Junot, as Governor of Paris, controls the militia, and so she dragged him into her bed. And—of course—an intimate relationship with the Austrian Ambassador
would
prove to be helpful were she to become Queen of France. What a terrifying thought! You alerted the Emperor?”

“Eugène did.”

“Let’s pray he gets back soon.”