The Josephine B. Trilogy (19 page)

Captain Browder took his hat. “I was mistaken,” he said, turning at the door. “I still love you. Good day, Madame.”

Later.

Monsieur de Couvray was shown into Uncle’s study shortly after four. When he recovered from the discomfort of having to discuss matters of business with a woman, we set to work going over the La Pagerie accounts, reviewing the assets, the land. The low sugar yield indicates exhaustion of the soil, as I suspected; certain fields must be allowed to go to flower and to be replanted from seed.

His other suggestions were less palatable, and I suspect will be so to Mother and Father as well. He observed that there were a number of children in our slave population, our “thinking property” was the term he used. “It is more economical to buy slaves than to breed them,” he said.

“It is not intentionally done.”

“Perhaps measures should be taken to…to inhibit production.” He wiped his palms on his buckskin breeches. “Overall, looking at these figures, it is clear that the cost of keep is high in proportion to the work accomplished.”

I knew this to be true. Several of the slaves were now either infirm or elderly, I explained.

“If a slave has ceased to be productive,” he said, “it is wise to encourage him…to
go on.
” He puffed on his pipe; the fire had gone out.

“Go?” I was confused. “Go
where?
”

He circled his fingers impatiently. “You know…”

“You don’t mean…killed?” Surely I’d misunderstood.

“No! Goodness. I wouldn’t use
that
word. After all, the methods are humane, and if they are suffering—”

“Monsieur, I do believe my mother and father would be loath to
employ such a practice, and I, for one, loathe to suggest it.” We talked a short time longer, for the sake of form. I showed him to the door.

Saturday, March 21.

I was packing to return to Trois-Islets when Mimi brought me a letter. “Did this come to the house?” I asked, alarmed. I took a seat by the window.

Mimi shook her head no, her dangling earrings making a tinkling sound. “In the market. He asked me to give it to you.”

I broke the wax seal.

Madame Beauharnais:

I have discovered information regarding your family’s use of the common. It is urgent that you be apprised of it.

At your convenience.

Your servant, Captain Browder

I put the letter on the side-table.

“He asked if it would be possible to arrange a meeting,” Mimi whispered.

I looked down at my lap. My hands looked like the hands of an old woman.

“Something about a green flash.” She looked at me with a puzzled expression.

I held my breath. “Tell him no,” I said.

April 2—Trois-Ilets.

We’ve been back in Trois-Ilets for over a week. A feeling of disquiet continues to haunt me. As a youth one dreams of love; by the time one wakes, it is too late.

I’ve been going for walks in the morning, after chores, in search of solace. In the cool of the forest, my spirit is soothed but not healed. Often I head down the river, toward the sea, but this morning I followed the trace toward Morne Croc-Souris. Before long I had come upon it—the
clearing by the side of the river, the wattle-and-daub shack collapsed, a frangipani bush flowering where the door had been.

You will be unhappily married.

Not far from the rubble I saw a crude wooden cross stuck in a mound of dirt covered over with stones. A grave.

You will be widowed.

A wind through the forest shook the leaves, a bird called out warning. I approached the pile of stones. The ground was littered with crumpled pieces of paper, feathers, a chunk of bone.

You will be Queen.

I felt a cool wind come through me. I was possessed by a light sensation, a feeling of floating on water.

You will make a beautiful queen,
a boy had once told me.

In which two worlds claim my heart

January 4, 1789—Paris

Chère Maman,

It has been cold for three weeks. I saw a dead man, frozen. We go walking on the river. When are you coming home?

A thousand kisses, your son Eugène

April 3, 1789—Paris

Dear Rose,

A quick note—I have been elected to the Estates General, a representative for the Blois nobility. A spirit of optimism has permeated our land. It’s electrifying!

Your husband, Deputy Alexandre Beauharnais

Note—The drawing of Hortense was well executed. Your technique is improving, although the shading would have been more effective in a charcoal, I thought.

And another—I enclose a pamphlet by Sieyès,
What Is the Third Estate?
I recommend you study it.

April 15, 1789—Paris

Darling!

I’ve moved back to Paris—it’s so thrilling here now! It’s the “Roman Republic” all over again—the Goddess of Love rules. Everywhere one goes
there is great celebrating, dancing around bonfires. To walk down the street is to become intoxicated by profound sentiment, embraced by everyone one meets, rich and poor, young and old alike.

My salon will never be the same. Where before we talked of Beauty, we now talk of Equal Representation.

Your loving Aunt Fanny

Note—How can you stand being away from the opera for so long?

August 11.

I’ve been reading the journals that came over on the last boat. I was saddened to learn that the Dauphin died—yet no one seemed to even notice, much less care. I grieve for the Queen. A boy so like Eugène.

Eugène.
I grow ill with a longing to hold him again…I have been in Martinico for one year.

July 20, 1789—Fontainebleau

Dear Rose,

Both Alexandre and François have been elected to the Estates General. Now whenever the two brother-deputies visit on feast-days, they have a frightful row. The Marquis refuses to even discuss political concerns any more, claiming to find “all that” distasteful. “All that” will go away soon, he says, and everything will be back the way it should. He burned all the books by Rousseau in the house, even the signed copy of
Discourse on Inequality.
I hate to think what is going to happen when Alexandre discovers it missing.

At least we aren’t in Paris—there are twenty thousand troops there now. The strumpets are getting rich, no doubt. As well, every beggar and thief in France has come to the city, swarming at the slightest opportunity. Each district—all sixty of them—has drawn up its own army to keep order. I’ve taken to carrying a pistol in my bag, even here in Fontainebleau.

Don’t forget your prayers.

Your loving Aunt Désirée

Note—You’ve heard about the riot at the Bastille? Fanny promised she would retrieve some of the stones for me. I’ll save one for you, if you like.

August 10, 1789—Versailles

Dear Rose,

What were before disconnected jottings have now become a fluid system of philosophy, an ether that connects the present to the past. I have long understood how the Roman Empire gave way to the feudal system, which in turn gave way to the modern monarchies. Such a study reveals the oppressive nature of our laws. But it is only now that I begin to understand that it is the Roman Republic in all its glory that we seek to rebuild.

Would that my family could understand the profound nature of the task before us. Unfortunately, they are blinded by history and by the traditional greed of our class. In joining with other enlightened nobles (La Rochefoucauld! Lafayette! The Duc d’Orléans!) to renounce our feudal privileges, I was forced to choose between my family, on the one hand, and my country, on the other. Oh, what a night of profound heroism! What sublime sacrifice! May the night of August 4 burn in my heart for ever.

The sacrifice of my father’s regard, of my brother’s fraternal embrace is a loss I must bear. The Revolution demands that each citizen make a personal offering for the good of the Nation. I submit with tears of virtue in my eyes, knowing that my pain will be rewarded.

With a noble heart, your husband, Deputy Alexandre Beauharnais “an honorable and virtuous Republican”

Note—I urge you to study the pamphlets I have forwarded, open your heart to the truths you will find therein. One
—A Few Thoughts on the Nature of Reason & Revolution—
I wrote myself. I have worded it simply so that a woman might understand, for I am not of that group that believes women incapable of abstract reasoning.

Sunday

Chère Maman,

I have my own sword now. My tutor says I might need it. When are you coming home?

A thousand kisses, Eugène

December 9.

A créole man was found dead in a clearing in the woods near Fort-Royal, together with the head of a butchered pig. Blood had been spilled over his hands. Three days before a slave had died on his plantation, imprisoned in a sweltering hut in the sun without food and water.

I hear drumming in the slave village. The moon casts a ghostly light. I see a fire up on the hill, hear shouting and singing. I know the song:

Never, never, I’ll not forget the ranks of Africa.

Never, never, I’ll not forget their children.

I despair.

October 10, 1789—Fontainebleau

Dear Rose,

The Marquis and I have not been well. Our nerves suffer from the distressing reports in the journals.

I am ashamed of my sex. Women—thousands of them, it has been reported—forced our King and Queen to move into that horrid palace in Paris, and now everyone of quality is talking of leaving France. Even the King’s brothers have fled, even Madame de Polignac, the royal governess, abandoning her charges. (How could she do that?)

But that isn’t all of it. Monsieur Ogé, that mulatto from Saint-Domingue, went before the Assembly to demand equal rights for mulattoes—and
succeeded!
One delegate even suggested that the slaves be freed!
^*
Everyone, it seems, has lost their reason. If the slaves were allowed to go free, we’d be penniless!

Pray for us…

Your loving Aunt Désirée

Note—Fanny’s son Claude and his wife have had a baby girl.
^**
Send your condolences.

January 23, 1790.

Morin, Mimi’s lover and the father of the child she is carrying, was killed in a riot in Fort-Royal. There is nothing I can say to comfort her, for it was men of my race who murdered him.

I stood at the door to her whitewashed hut watching her crumple into the arms of the slave women, listened to their collective moans—and I, who am like a sister to her, was forced to turn away, tears running down my cheeks.

Drums in the mountains. As a child, the steady beat lulled me into sleep. But tonight I do not feel comfort in such sounds. Tonight I hear anger, and a terrible, terrible grief.

November 5, 1789—Lake Maggiore

Darling!

Michel de Cubières and I are in a delightful alpine spa. (Remember Michel? The poet with the big lips?) Every evening we play faro in a casino in the village, where a shocking amount of money changes hands. But what is life if one is not prepared to cast all to the winds? One must be brave to be so foolish.

The Austrians have been threatening to set up a “cordon sanitaire” across the mountains to keep “dangerous ideas” from coming over from France. Were it not for my mindless chatter and Michel staying quiet—for once!—I doubt very much that they would have let us into their backward little paradise. Fortunately, they neglected to look in the basket that contained the political pamphlets Michel intends to distribute on the streets of Rome.

Take care of yourself, darling. I hear your husband has become a Hero of the Revolution. How dashing!

Your devoted Aunt Fanny

Note—Claude’s wife had a girl. He’s not taking it well, which disappoints me. I thought we were beyond all that.

February 1.

Mimi lost her child. I went to see her in the infirmary, but she was in a fever and did not comprehend that it was me. I sat beside her for a time,
cooling her with strips of linen soaked in rum. She was talking in a dream:
Never, never, I’ll not forget…Never, never
…

Oh, my dear Mimi, how my heart goes out to her. I pray, I pray.

November 11, 1789—Paris

Dear Rose,

I have been elected one of three secretaries to the Assembly. I am both honoured and challenged. Fate, surely, is the author of a scheme of such heroic dimensions.

I am enclosing a copy of the
Declaration of the Rights of Man,
suitable for framing. I consider involvement in its creation one of the achievements of my life.
^*

Your husband, Deputy Alexandre Beauharnais

Sunday—Fontainebleau

Chère Maman,

Papa’s name is in the news-sheets. I’ve not seen him for two weeks. Are you ever coming back?

A thousand kisses, your son Eugène

February 3.

Mimi has emerged from her fever, wrapped in sorrow like a ghost. The slave women hover around her protectively whenever I approach. “Go away! You curse her!” I do not persist.