The Josephine B. Trilogy (135 page)
Eugène has arrived. First he called on Hortense, who lent him a carriage to take to Saint-Cloud. “So you’ve already been to see Bonaparte?” I asked.
“He was in meetings. He said to come back for dinner.” Eugène looked at the clock on the mantel. “Maybe I have time to go fishing.”
I laughed. “What you have time for is a talk with your mother. I want to hear all about the children.” Josephine, five; Eugénie, three; Augustus, one (already).
“And Auguste is due again in only three months,” Eugène said, proudly showing me the chain of miniature portraits he carried with him, one for each child. “I promised her the war would be over by then.”
The
war.
“She’s going to miss you.” And worry.
“I already miss
her
, Maman.” He started when the pendulum clock began to strike the hour. “Papa’s waiting!”
9:15
P.M.
, a balmy evening.
“Well?” I demanded, meeting Eugène at the door. I’d been anxiously waiting for him to return.
“I got to hold the baby—Little King, as the boys call him. But only for a moment. He was fussing—teething, his nurse said. Twelve teeth at thirteen months bodes well, don’t you think?”
“And your meeting with Bonaparte?”
He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “He asked me to act as Regent while he’s on campaign.”
“That’s wonderful!” I said, pretending to be surprised.
“I refused, Maman.”
I put my hand to my chest. Refused?
“It’s a great honour, I know, but how could I sit at a desk in Paris while my men were fighting?”
So much more was at stake than a battle or two! Didn’t he see that? “What did Bonaparte say?” I asked, disheartened.
“He said he’d have felt the same.”
April 30.
Every able man in the Empire, it seems, has rushed to join La Grande Armée.
*
I am guarded by sixteen disabled soldiers, who sadly must stay behind. All of my good horses have been drafted.
May 2, Saturday, late afternoon.
Bands blaring, bells pealing, Eugène and his men left for Poland this morning, their muskets decorated with flowers, people hanging out the windows cheering: our glorious Grande Armée.
Friday, May 8, storm threatening.
“I’ve come to say goodbye,” Bonaparte said, his eyes solemn.
“It has been a long time since you left on campaign.”
“I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”
Yes, certainly. The marriage to Marie-Louise, the birth of an heir—all this should have secured a lasting peace.
“At least I leave knowing that if anything should happen to me, the Empire will endure in my son.”
“You will miss him.”
We were both of us uncomfortable, both aware that this was the first time he’d be going into battle without a “good luck” embrace. He looked at me for a long moment, and then his footman opened the carriage door. I watched the carriage pull through the gates, not even daring to blow a kiss.
November 18, 1812
—
Malmaison.
We’ve been months without news, rumours only. We wait and we worry. We worry and we pray.
November 30, Monday.
A young woman, not more than twenty, accompanied by an elderly maid, came out to Malmaison today. Mademoiselle Aurélie de Beaumont, she introduced herself, turning her straw hat in her white-gloved hands. Her father, Monsieur de Beaumont, was the bosom friend of Monsieur Bataille.
Auguste Bataille? “Monsieur Bataille is one of my son’s aides.”
She nodded, withdrawing some folded papers from the crown of her hat. “He has been sending my father letters.”
“Of the campaign?” My heart jumped. News—
true
news, is rare. The official bulletins sent to Paris cannot be trusted, I know.
“My father suggested that I copy the letters out for you. He thought you might desire to have news of your son, Your Majesty.”
“Yes,” I said, almost breathless.
“This is one of the originals.” Aurélie showed me a scrap of paper. The writing was minuscule, crossed.
*
“Sometimes I have to use a glass to make it out.” She promised to return when the next letter came.
Plock. Mon ami, we’ve been in this Polish town for almost two weeks, awaiting orders from the Emperor. It feels as if we’re in the middle of nowhere. A number of us have fallen ill. The Prince Eugène’s baggage and horses have finally arrived so he will be able to tour his regiments. Salut et amitiés, Bataille.
Thorn. Mon ami, we’re expecting the Emperor any day. I’ve been busy trying to find food for the troops and hay for the horses. We were allotted some corn, three hundred bulls and thirty thousand bushels of oats, but the corn was green and the horses got colic, and many of the soldiers have dysentery from the sour black bread. Salut, Bataille.
Soldau. Mon ami, from Thorn we marched to Soldau. The villages are wretched. Prince Eugène sleeps in a tent, in spite of the cold. We have eighty thousand men to feed and only a few sacks of corn. Amitiés pour toujours, Bataille.
Late evening.
Plock, Thorn, Soldau. I’ve found a map in Bonaparte’s cabinet and am tracing the route. They are so very far away.
Mon ami, we are in Russia now, looking for an army to fight. It’s a dull landscape
—
nothing but trees (a few birches) and sand. It’s after ten
P.M.
but so bright I am writing this without a candle. The sun wakes us at two in the morning. Toujours, Bataille.
Vitebsk. Mon ami, how can we go on? By day we boil; by night we freeze. We’ve over three hundred sick soldiers
—
our men are dying of sunstroke. Thousands of horses have perished. The Emperor arrived last night. He insists on pressing on to Smolensk. Ten more days, if we survive. Adieu, Bataille.
December 3
—
Malmaison.
I’m ill with concern. Bataille’s letters both reassure and dismay. I worked all morning in the hothouse with the gardeners, but my thoughts turn always toward the northeast, toward Russia, that barren land.
Mon ami, we’ve made it to Smolensk, a heap of smoking ruins. Moscow is “only” two hundred miles more, the Emperor tells us
—
but one mile more will kill us. The farther we chase after the enemy, the farther we are from home, the farther from food and shelter. Amitiés, Bataille.
Mon ami, the Russian army has come to a stop
—
at last we will see battle. Some Cossacks were taken prisoner
—
savages with bandy legs. They gulped down tumblers of brandy as if it were water, holding their empty glasses out for more. Their horses are stumpy and have long tails. They’re much impressed by King Murat, his plumes and glitter. They have asked to have him as their “hetman.” They’re welcome to him! Salut, Bataille.
Mon ami, it was bloody. Prince Eugène was rallying his troops when thousands of Cossacks fell on his reserve. He galloped back to face them head-to-head. A victory, yes, but hard won. Adieu, excéllent ami, Bataille.
Mon ami, as we crested a hill and caught sight of the city, the soldiers broke into a run crying out, “Moscow! Moscow!” The spires and onion-shaped domes glittered in the sun like a mirage
—
and a mirage it is, for the Russians, a barbarous race devoid of all honour, have set fire to it, the most magnificent ancient city in all of Europe. As I write this, flames light up the sky. We are sheltered in a small wooden house outside the city. The landscape is dreary: cabbage fields and more cabbage fields. Amitiés, Bataille.
December 14
—
Malmaison, cold, but bright.
I was honoured this afternoon by a visit from Countess Walewska and her child: “the Polish wife” and her son by Bonaparte. (He looks
just
like Bonaparte—I was so moved.) It has taken numerous entreaties to persuade the young Countess to call on me, but now that she has, she will return, I hope. We are uniquely united by our prayers for a singular man. She turned pale and very nearly swooned after I showed her the letters from Bataille.
Mon ami, the Tsar has not responded to the Emperor’s request for peace. King Murat has persuaded the Emperor that the Russians are in disarray and that the Cossacks are ready to quit. Therefore, we press on. Amitiés, Bataille.
Mon ami, King Murat was defeated by the Cossacks so we’re on the move again, heading for home, if we can make it. We’re a sorry spectacle, soldiers pushing wheelbarrows of looted treasure, a rabble of prostitutes following after. The cannon keep getting stuck in the mud. À toi pour toujours, Bataille.
Mon ami, Prince Eugène had a glorious battle, worthy of every honour, but we’ve suffered heavy casualties, and now a frost has lamed hundreds of our horses overnight. In consequence, the Emperor ordered all the carts emptied into a lake. We watched as priceless works of art sank through the ice. The enormous cross of Ivan the Terrible was the last to disappear, like some dreadful omen of doom. Cossacks harass us. They encircle us, whooping like wild beasts. We march in a freezing fog. We are at the end of the world. Bataille.
[Undated]
“Your Majesty, would you prefer it if I did not bring you the letters?” Mademoiselle Aurélie asked, clutching her straw hat.
“No! Please, you
must
bring them,” I said, giving her two of my rings.
Mon ami, what was left of the Grande Armée was destroyed on the icy marshes. Those who escaped drowning were set upon by Cossacks. Prince Eugène managed to save what was left of his troops. Luck stays with him, such as it is. Two horses have been shot from under him. Bataille.
December 17, Thursday, chilly.
A stunned despair hangs over Paris. The extent of our losses in Russia—the death of so many of our men—has finally been revealed in
Le Moniteur.
Every heart is filled with the terrible apprehension that a loved one will likely not return. I am sick with fear for Eugène, Bonaparte.
December 19, Saturday
—
Malmaison.
The familiar sight of Bonaparte’s courier cantering up the drive stopped my heart. I pushed the window open, leaned out. “Monsieur Moustache! What’s happened?”
“The Emperor is at the palace,” he yelled up.
“Bonaparte? He’s in
Paris
?” How was that possible?
Moustache nodded, catching his breath. “He sent me to tell you. And to let you know that your son is well.”
That’s the last I remember, for I fainted.
Sunday.
Bonaparte looked like a Cossack in his bear coat and hat. His face was dark, burnt from the sun. “I can’t stay long.” He took my hand, did not let it go. “Come outside.”
We sat on the cold stone bench under the tulip tree, its branches bare, the winter garden grey and featureless. I listened to his account with tears in my heart. He’d hastened back to calm the populace, he said. He feared people would panic on learning the extent of the losses. The campaign would have been glorious if the Russian winter had not come early, and had not been so severe. All he needed was to raise another army.
I could not speak.
Another
army? Where will the soldiers come from?
Did he not see that we are a nation of women—a nation of women in mourning? The only men left are either old or crippled.
Four hundred thousand is all it would take, he said.
February 28, 1813.
Carnival season opens as the wounded return, yet even so the fêtes and the balls go on—”the balls for wooden legs,” people call them now.
Every day, it seems, we learn of some new tragedy. One of Carlotta’s brothers has died in Russia. Mademoiselle Avrillion’s aunt has lost two sons, and the third son who did return lost his hands due to frost.
March 6.
We’ve been working all week making lint bandages for the wounded. My drawing room looks like a hospital.
Wednesday, April 14
—
Malmaison.
Bonaparte and I sat for two hours this morning under our tulip tree. He told me charming stories about his son, now two and temperamental, and complained of his young wife (she wipes her mouth after he kisses her). Then he began to speak of the war, the coming campaign, his conviction that he will be victorious this time, that a peace will be signed. “But not a dishonourable peace. Not a peace at any price.”
I want to believe him—and why should I not? Has he not wrought miracles?
He touched my hand before he left, promising to give Eugène my love.
“My prayers are always with you.”
“I was happy here,” he said, looking out over the gardens.
April 26, Mansfeld
