The Josephine B. Trilogy (129 page)

January 23, 1809
—
Tuileries.

Bonaparte is back from Spain, roaring at everyone. Talleyrand has been demoted,
^*
but Fouché, alas, is still Minister of Police. The man who knows everything knows too much, it would appear. “It’s safer to keep him near,” Bonaparte said.

And what of his sister Caroline? I dared not ask.
Blood is everything.

April 12
—
Saint-Cloud, 10:00 P.M.

An hour ago, as we were dining, a message came announcing that Austria has invaded Munich—
again.
Between war in the southwest and war in the northeast, Bonaparte is run ragged.

Saturday, April 15
—
Strasbourg.

Nothing in Bonaparte’s manner warned me: no loud and tuneless humming of “Malbrough,” no rush of last-minute preparations. After a late dinner he returned to his cabinet to work—as usual. I played whist with my ladies until one and then retired. I think it was shortly after three that I was awoken by the sound of a horse’s whinny. I sat up, puzzled. Wagon wheels? I went to the window, drew back the drapes: there, in the courtyard below, was Bonaparte’s travelling carriage. Servants, grooms and aides were rushing about with flambeaux…and there was
Bonaparte
, pulling on his hat. The footman opened the carriage door and let down the step.

He was leaving—without even a good-luck kiss? I groped through the dark rooms to the entry, knocking over a table. I flew down the steps and into the carriage.

“Josephine?” Bonaparte was startled to see me.

“You can’t leave without telling me, Bonaparte!”

“I was afraid you would insist on going, and—”

“Well, you were right.”

“But you can’t just—”

“Sire, we’re ready to set out.” Duroc glanced at me, puzzled. What was the Empress doing in the coach in her nightdress and cap?

“That’s fine,” I said, with an attempt at authority.

“But Josephine, you’re not even dressed.”

“I’m serious,” I growled, which made Bonaparte laugh.

“Order the Empress’s trunks sent on to Strasbourg,” he told Duroc, draping his greatcoat over my shoulders. “Ah, Josephine, whatever am I going to do with you?” he sighed as we passed through the Paris gates and onto the cobbled avenue.

Sunday morning
—
Strasbourg.

We’ve only just arrived in Strasbourg and already Bonaparte is leaving to join his army—yet another hurried departure, another tearful leavetaking, another quick good-luck kiss. I’ve set out the candles, the cards: keeping vigil yet again.

May 6, noon

Mon amie, the cannonball that touched me caused no wound
—
it barely grazed the Achilles tendon. My health is excellent. Don’t be anxious. Things are going very well here. All thine, N.

Schönbrunn, May 12, 1809

I am master of Vienna. Everything is going perfectly. My health is very good. N.

May 27

Eugène has joined me with his army. He has achieved the mission I assigned him, almost entirely destroying the enemy army in front of him. I am very well. All thine, N.

[Undated]

News from headquarters: the Emperor is victorious.

Rumours from headquarters: the Emperor is often in the company of a young Polish countess.

Go back home, Bonaparte writes. Don’t join me here.

I am packing, returning with regret.

September 20
—
Malmaison.

“It’s the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Your Majesty, Monsieur Maret, or rather”—Clari stuck her nose in the air in imitation of a haughty demeanour—“the
Duke
de Bassano.”

“Are you sure, Clari?” I thought Hugues Maret was in Germany, with Bonaparte.

But it was, indeed, the Minister of Foreign Affairs—Citoyen Maret, as I think of him. (After all, I’ve known him since before the Revolution.) “Forgive my surprise, Minister Maret. I thought you were with the Emperor.”

“I was, Your Majesty,” he said, sticking his nose in the air, just as Clari had demonstrated. “I’ve a message from him.”

“A letter?”

“No, Your Majesty. A verbal communication.”

“Would you care to walk in the garden, Minister Maret?”

Two of the pugs got lazily to their feet and sniffed the Minister’s boots. He smiled down at them, showing false teeth. “That would be delightful,” he said, taking two steps back.

The day was crisp and bright. “And how is the Emperor?” I asked, picking a decayed leaf off a potted auricula. The Emperor my husband; the Emperor in the arms of his Polish mistress. My husband whom I missed very, very much, nonetheless.

“The Emperor is exceptionally well, Your Majesty,” Minister Maret said, jumping to open the grille-work gate for me.

I stopped on the path to inhale the scent of a bloom.
Rosa Longifolia, Rosa Pulila, Rosa Orbessanea
, I recited silently in my mind. “You said you had a message for me.” I broke off a bloom long past its prime; the petals scattered on the stones. “From the Emperor.”

“I do,” he said, and fell silent.

“Then perhaps you might tell me what it is?” I suggested gently.

“Your Majesty, perhaps we…That is, perhaps you…” He waved his arm over a bench.

He wanted me to sit. Wary, I sat down, gathering my shawl around my shoulders.

“Your Majesty, the Emperor has a proposal to make to you, one which he wishes you to know arises out of the deep well of his love for you.” Minister Maret licked his thin lips. “It’s respecting a woman, Your Majesty, Countess Walewska. I am given to understand that you are aware that she and the Emperor…?”

“Yes, Minister Maret, I am aware.”

“The young lady is confirmed to be with child, Your Majesty.”

Rosa Longifolia, Rosa Pulila, Rosa Orbessanea.
“The Emperor’s child?”

Minister Maret nodded, not meeting my eyes.

“And there can be no doubt?”

Minister Maret coughed into his fist. “It is early yet, Your Majesty, so it’s possible that
things
may not develop, but as to the parentage, there is no doubt whatsoever.”

A child—after so many years.
His
child. It must seem a miracle to him. “The Emperor must be very happy,” I said, a lump rising in my throat. “But surely this is not why you have come all the way back to Paris, Minister Maret.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty, I have come with a highly confidential and delicate proposition. The Emperor wishes to know if you might consider…
adopting
this child.”

Bonaparte’s child? Oh, yes! “I might.”

“And more, the Emperor wishes to know if you would be willing to feign a pregnancy—so that the child would appear to be your own.”

“You may tell the Emperor that I will do
anything.
”

[Undated]

So. A young Polish countess is with child by Bonaparte. I’m told she is shy, gentle, sincere in her love for my husband. I am told she is called his “Polish wife.” Oh, my murderous thoughts! She is my undoing—
his
undoing. Is that
gentle
? Is that
sincere
?

October 1, 1809, Schönbrunn Palace

Your Majesty,

The Emperor, who is in Raab, has charged me with letting you know that Dr. Corvisart regretfully demurred not so much on account of his considerable integrity as a physician, but because of his conviction that the undertaking would be eventually discovered with disastrous results. He has persuaded the Emperor not to pursue this course of action.

Burn this letter.

Your devoted servant, Hugues Maret,

Minister of Foreign Affairs

October 14, 1809, Schönbrunn

Your Majesty,

You mistake me. I am in full sympathy with your plea. I understand the importance of this issue, both to the Emperor and yourself, and especially to the Empire. However, as a physician, I appreciate the risks involved. When the eyes of the world are upon one, even the truest action will appear false. I warned the Emperor, and I now caution you against a folly which, however well intended, would lead to the Emperor’s disgrace.

The Emperor’s health is excellent. The delirious joy we have all felt since the signing of the peace accord has been darkened by the attempt on his life. The Emperor would like to pardon the overzealous student who attempted to pull a knife on him, but the young man foolishly insists on declaring his guilt. That the lad very nearly succeeded has us all somewhat shaken, as you can imagine. I wish to assure you that the Emperor was not hurt in any way. This is not being made public as it would no doubt inflame concerns about the future of the Empire.

Your most humble servant, Dr. Corvisart

October 26, Thursday.

Moustache came cantering through the gate. “Your Majesty,” he yelled to me in the rose garden. “The Emperor is in Fontainebleau!”

“But…” Bonaparte wasn’t expected back until late tomorrow, at the earliest.

“May I make a suggestion, Your Majesty?” Moustache pulled at one end of his massive appendage. “
Hurry.
”

It was almost six by the time I got to Fontainebleau. I found Bonaparte alone, sitting at a table in the drawing room. “It’s about time,” he said, looking up briefly, then lowering his eyes.

“Bonaparte,
please
don’t be cross.”

“Is it too much to ask my wife to be here to greet me after an absence of over six months?”

“Sire,” I said, using the formal salutation, “if I may be allowed the impertinence of reminding you, you wrote that you would not be arriving until tomorrow night, at the earliest. My ladies and I were planning to arrive tomorrow morning, in order to be in readiness.”

“I suppose it would have
inconvenienced
you to have come a few days early?”

“In all our years together, Bonaparte, this is the first time I’ve been late to meet you. Just once! We’ve been apart for half a year, and this is how you welcome me?”

He pressed his hands against his chest, as if he’d been wounded.

Saturday, October 28
—
Fontainebleau.

Once again, we are required to be gay. Three nights a week for theatre, the rest of the week for receptions, one evening at the Emperor’s salon, perhaps a ball. When nothing is planned, Chastulé sets up game tables in her drawing room.

Daily Bonaparte hunts, and with a frightening energy, galloping as far as twenty leagues. When not hunting, he is shooting with falcons.

In the evening, at dinner, theatre, receptions and balls, we are careful around each other, our speech and movements studied. Now and again
I see him watching me with a melancholy expression. I know what he is thinking: should he divorce me, or should he not?

October 29, Sunday
—
raining.

Bonaparte’s sister Pauline arrived three days ago with a blue-eyed, lascivious lady-in-waiting. Smiling mysteriously, Mademoiselle Christine follows Bonaparte’s every move, all the while swinging a huge gold cross on a velvet ribbon, as if trying to entrance him.

[Undated]

The light from Pauline’s windows is bright: it illuminates the courtyard, the guards standing by the fountain. A door onto the balcony opens and suddenly I hear the sound of violins, merriment. I hear Bonaparte’s voice, Mademoiselle Christine’s shrill giggle.

[Undated]

“I think you should just smile and pretend not to notice, Your Majesty,” Clari said.

“I would take a lover,” Chastulé said. “The Prince of Mecklenburg-Schwerin will be arriving soon, will he not?”

“That’s what
they
would like me to do,” I said. What the Bonaparte clan wanted me to do, certainly—in the hope that I would make a fatal error. “I think Bonaparte is intentionally trying to make himself unlovable—”

“Ha! And succeeding.”

“—for a reason.” My reader adjusted the shawl around my shoulders. I gave Carlotta a sympathetic look. We had both of us been rejected. “I know Bonaparte. He is acting a part. He wants me to look upon…” I stopped. I could not speak the word “divorce.” “He wants me to look upon a separation as a desirable thing.”

“Maman,” Hortense interjected, her voice wistful and sad, “perhaps he is right. Perhaps it would be a desirable thing.”

I looked down at my needlework, tears blurring the stitches.

Wednesday, November 8.

I’m writing this in a golden room. I’m adorned with diamonds, my finest gown, a hat. Damn him!

Oh forgive me, for I am frightened. For my own weak soul, yes, but also for Bonaparte, my exasperating husband, the
Emperor.
This man who is capable of being so heroic—so saintly—but who is also capable of being base and destructive.

Yes, I am frightened, for myself, for Bonaparte, for my children, but also for all the people of this nation who have honoured me with such devotion. I concede: I have lost the battle, and the battle was over Bonaparte’s heart.

You will be Queen,
a voodoo fortune-teller once told me. How clearly I remember those terrible words.
But not for very long.

I don’t care! I don’t want to be Queen, Monarch, Empress. I don’t want to sit on a throne. The crown has only made me miserable. But I have the misfortune to want very much to sit beside the man on the throne. It is not the Emperor I love, but the
man.
And who else loves
him?
Nobody.

November 13.

A fearful slaughter. I’m ill.

For days Bonaparte has been talking about a boar hunt. Today the Emperor got his way:
Je le veux.

We drove out to where a huge pen had been built in a clearing: the ladies in their hunting finery, their plumes and velvet jackets over gowns of white satin. We climbed up onto a high stand, trembling with nervousness. The men were all standing on a huge platform that had been built in the centre of a pen, loading their guns. Soon we heard fearful sounds, a savage grunting and snorting as over eighty wild boars, stampeded into the pen. Then Bonaparte and the men proceeded to kill them all. The squeals of fear filled the air with a sound I cannot forget. The ladies tittered at first, and then paled.