The Josephine B. Trilogy (27 page)

Aimée offered them old wine in a decanter and cold river pike. “You’ll need this for the hard night’s work ahead, citoyens,” she told them, pouring out generous glasses which flushed them finely. She is good at this. As for myself, I was afraid they would perceive my trembling.

August 29, 1792

Citoyenne Beauharnais:

Regarding the arrest and imprisonment of Citoyen Montmorin, you have been granted a hearing before the jury in one week, on the fourth day of September, at three in the afternoon.

Citoyen Botot

Director, Tribunal Jury

Thursday, August 30.

Thousands more have been arrested—clerics, priests, aristocrats. “We’re next,” Aimée said, strapping on her fencing mask.

August 28, 1792—Valenciennes

Dear Rose,

I have been promoted to maréchal de camp at Strasbourg. I depart tomorrow. I do not know how long it will take to get there as I will be inspecting the garrison towns en route. Do not worry, I have an excellent horse.

Give my love to the children.

Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais

September 2.

Austrian troops are a two-day march from Paris. Panic has taken the city. In a back room, on a small oak table, Aimée and I assemble weapons: a meat cleaver, Aimée’s fencing sabre, Commander du Braye’s pistol. I touch the cold metal, imagine the worst. Could I? Would I?

Monday, September 3, evening.

Eugène’s birthday, his eleventh. The sounds of the tocsins filled the air,

the slow passing of the hours marked by cannon.

I pulled the drapes and forbade the children to look out. Calmly I proceeded, pinning up ribbons in celebration of birth, reciting prayers to
ward off death. Daggers ever at the ready, I went about the day: children fed, linens mended, bedclothes aired. In little ways one conquers fear.

But now, the children asleep, I wait by the window and watch, listen and wait, the pistol on the table before me. In the dark, fear rules. What would I do if attacked? Would I have the courage to take a life? How are such things done?

September 4.

It was two, perhaps three in the morning, when I heard faint laughter and went to the window. The stars and the moon hovered over the city. Tranquillity, I thought, but then, in the dark I saw flickers of light moving. The city was vibrant with flambeaux.

Two boys appeared in the street below, laughing with drunken pleasure.

I looked closer.

They pulled, they pulled, they staggered and fell, they laughed and pulled again.

What was it they pulled?

It was then that I saw. It was the body of a man they were dragging, his long legs white, naked under a black habit—a priest.

I retched and turned, I gasped for air.

As soon as the sky lightened, I changed into my street clothes, pinned on my cockade. I set out for the Rue de Lille. Frédéric was a member of the National Guard. He would know.

It was Princess Amalia who received me, in spite of the early hour. She, too, had not slept. She led me into the garden where she invited me to sit under a blooming acacia. There, in a setting of peace and beauty, she told me what had transpired in the night. The men and women in the prisons had been slaughtered.

I felt faint. “The Comte de Montmorin? He is in the Abbaye—”

Princess Amalia took my hand.

Mon Dieu.
I had had an appointment to go before the jury that very afternoon. And now it was too late.

It was then that the Princess told me that she and Frédéric were planning to escape France.

“But how? The gates, the guards…”

“Frédéric has been able, at great cost, to get passes to Saint-Martin. From there we believe we can get to England.”

England. The enemy. But who was the enemy now? The enemy was everywhere.

“You’ll…you’ll lose everything.” Their estate, the Hôtel de Salm, everything they owned would be taken by the state, everything but the clothes on their backs.

“Everything but our lives.”

“Take us with you.” The words leapt from me without thinking. “Me and the children.” It was a terrible and fearful thing to do, a terrible and fearful thing to ask someone to do, but I was obsessed with one thought only: to get Hortense and Eugène out of France, to safety.

“Oh, Rose, we couldn’t. It’s impossible. You would need a passport.”

“The children, then.” Tears came to my eyes. “You could pretend they were your own.”

She reached for me, alarmed. “Rose?”

I began to tremble.

Princess Amalia looked up at the sky. She took a breath. “Yes.”

Aimée and Lucie were in the foyer when I entered. I looked away.

“Is something amiss?” Aimée put down her market basket.

“I’m not feeling well,” I said. Princess Amalia and Frédéric were leaving at dawn. I’d promised not to tell. In any case, I did not want to. I feared complications, logic—truth. I feared guilt, for thinking only of my own. I hurried up the stairs.

Eugène greeted me with a hug. Hortense ran in with a drawing she had just made. They seemed so very young. A terrible feeling began to rise up in me.

“Maman?” Eugène asked.

I gathered strength. “I have news. I’ve arranged for a holiday for you both, with Frédéric and Princess Amalia.” I had to see this through, and calmly, I knew. Otherwise I would alarm them.

Eugène appeared pleased. I was relieved.

“But I want to go to school,” Hortense said.

“There are no more schools. Remember? The schools have all been closed.”
^*

“You’re not coming?” Hortense’s voice had that high quavering pitch.

I took her in my arms. “I will join you soon,” I lied. I kissed the top of her head. Don’t cry, I told myself. Don’t cry!

It is midnight now. The light from the lamp burns low. I curl strands of the children’s hair around my fingers, press them into a locket. Eugène’s curls around my finger easily; Hortense’s is fine and straight, it defies confinement.

They are sleeping. Eugène is sprawled across his bed, all long legs and arms. He sleeps soundly, without movement. I do not fear for him.

It is Hortense who still needs me, Hortense who will suffer. She is curled in a tense ball, her face frozen into a frown even in sleep. I thank God that Eugène will be with her. He has heart enough for us all.

September 5.

It was dawn when we set out, Eugène and I taking turns carrying the canvas haversack. I tried to maintain a festive attitude. The coach and four were in the prince and princess’s courtyard, waiting. The driver was not in livery and the family crests had been painted over for fear of drawing attention.

Poor Frédéric was flustered. He couldn’t get his sword to tie properly. Eugène helped him. Then the children and I sat down, out of the way, while the princess supervised the packing. So much had been stuffed into a trunk that the valet was unable to close the lid. Princess Amalia was obliged to take a number of robes out.

At last they were ready. I helped the children into the coach. I kissed them and closed the door. The driver cracked his whip, the horses pulled
forward. Hortense waved. Eugène pressed his lips to the glass, to make a funny face.

That was the last.

Quickly I headed home. Nearing the Church of Saint Thomas Aquinas, I heard a child singing, a melancholy soprano much like Hortense’s sweet voice. I stopped.

I would light a candle, I thought, say a prayer…a prayer for safe journey, for my children, but within the dark chapel my intention was thwarted. Labourers were dismantling church ornaments. In a corner a table had been set up and a line of young men had formed: army recruits. At the pews at the front a cleric and several old women were sorting army uniforms.

I stood in the archway, confused.

Two of the labourers moved by me, carrying a heavy statue of the Madonna between them. “Pardon,” one said. They loaded the statue onto a handcart and began to pull it away. The labourer in the blue tunic waved to me, as if in a procession.

I recalled Hortense waving.
Goodbye. Goodbye, Maman.

For how long?

For ever?

A feeling of panic came over me. I fell to my knees. The cleric and one of the old women came to my aid. The cleric supported me as best he could to a pew, urging me to rest. “I must go.” I pulled away.

I do not remember making my way to Rue Saint-Dominique. I do not remember climbing the stairs. All I remember is standing at the door to the children’s room. Scattered all over the floor were Eugène’s toy soldiers. One of Hortense’s dolls was slumped in a corner.

“Oui?” Agathe was bent over Eugène’s bed, as if to straighten it. There was a hollow in the pillow, where Eugène’s head had been.

“No!”

Agathe looked at me in confusion.

“Please.” Softly this time; I had alarmed her. “Don’t.” I reached for the door handle to steady myself.

“I’m not to make up the bed?”

“Not just now.” My voice was quavering.

Agathe regarded me with suspicion. “I see.” She backed away.

I closed the door behind us, turned the key, took a breath. I would have them with me still, their familiar disorder, their rumpled bedclothes—their scent, the imprint of their bodies on the pillows…evidence, of their existence.

In which I become a good Republican

September 8, 1792.

Aimée is horrified by what I’ve done.

“I
had
to!”

“You could have at least talked it over with me.”

The truth was, I had been afraid to tell her, afraid she’d try to talk me out of it. Afraid she’d say: What about Lucie? What about
my
daughter?

“I promised not to tell!”

“Rose, don’t you see? This puts you in such peril!” she ranted, close to tears. “And what about Alexandre? I hate to think what’s going to happen to
him
when the authorities find out!”

Alexandre—
mon Dieu.

Sunday, September 16.

Rain, and more rain. I spent the morning in bed, listening to the crackling of the fire, the steady dripping of the rain on the roof, alone with my sad thoughts, a devouring ennui.

At around eleven I must have fallen asleep, for I was dreaming of home, of the salty water of the bay, the tangle of the mangroves…I awoke with a start. Outside, on the street, I heard a child’s voice, a girl’s bubbling giggle. How cruel, I thought, for a child so like Hortense to call at my window.

I heard the impatient prance of a horse’s hoofs on the cobblestones, the front door open, a boy’s voice. Was it possible? I went to the landing,
clinging to the railing for support. There, in the entryway looking up at me, were Hortense and Eugène.

“Maman!” They clattered up the stairs and into my arms. I clasped them hard, disbelieving. They were confused—and perhaps a little uneasy—by the intensity of my welcome, my tears.

“Father wrote a letter for us to come back,” Hortense explained. She seemed pleased by this.

“
Alexandre?
”

Princess Amalia came in the front hallway. Frédéric was behind her, looking harassed. He was wearing his National Guard uniform, now tight on him. I motioned to them to be cautious, for Agathe had come to the landing with a basket of linens.

“Would you like Agathe to make you a hot chocolate?” I asked the children. They followed her happily down into the kitchen. I opened the double sash doors to the parlour. Princess Amalia and Frédéric followed me in, Frédéric checking to make sure there was no one behind the curtains. I closed the doors behind me. “What
happened!”
I whispered.

“We received an estafet close to Saint-Paul,” Princess Amalia said in a hushed voice, taking off her feathered hat. Her heavily powdered hair was dressed in an elaborate pouf. “From Alexandre. He demanded that the children be returned to Paris at once.” She took a document out of her basket and handed it to me. “It arrived two days before we were to depart for England.”

“Alexandre sent you this?” I sank onto the sofa. “How did he find out?”

“
You
didn’t inform him?” Princess Amalia glanced at her brother. “We thought…”

“Is it possible the government knows?” I asked.

“They have spies everywhere,” Frédéric said bitterly.

I didn’t know what to think. I was overwhelmed with joy to see Hortense and Eugène again, yet alarmed by the perilous situation into which they had been returned. “But
you
could have gone on to England,” I told them.

“Someone had to accompany the children,” Princess Amalia explained.

“There was no one we could trust,” Frédéric said.

It wasn’t until they had left that the enormity of Alexandre’s action
struck me. The lives of our children, of dear Frédéric and Princess Amalia, have been put at risk. I’ve penned Alexandre a letter of rage and regret. I watch as it burns in the fire.

September 21, 1792—Strasbourg

Rose,

How can you say that I do not understand the situation in Paris! I understand it clearly: the Parisians were overcome with an irrational panic. The Austrians would never have attacked! But even so, to send the children to England? Can you imagine what that would have meant to my career? As a former aristocrat, daily I am required to submit proof of my loyalty.

Your much enraged and offended husband, Alexandre

Friday, September 21.

Aimée is intent on my safety. “You’re to become a good citoyenne, a model Republican.” She’s put a red cap and a worsted linen cockade by the door—not even a silk cockade will do—“for
whenever
you go out.”

I groaned.

She took the liberty of suggesting that I find a less attractive cape to wear in the streets. “Any show of wealth is dangerous,” she said. “Even clean
linens.
” She gave me a cape she’d found in a used clothing shop. It is worn and patched, an unbecoming dirty yellow. “Perfect. You look horrible.”