The Josephine B. Trilogy (33 page)

April 3.

I’ve become ill. Every day brings news of arrests, deaths. I’ve exhausted myself begging audiences, writing appeals. Deputy Tallien warns me to be more circumspect in my endeavours. “You will be arrested if you persist,” he cautioned. “You’d best think of yourself. Your children need a mother.”

“My children need a father,” I said, fighting back tears.

April 19.

Tonight, at dusk, three men came to the door. Fortuné growled. I recognized one of the men from the section office. The other two were
unknown to me. I was alarmed lest they enter and find evidence of the Easter drawings I had made the children.

They handed me a paper. “What does this mean?” I asked. It was a search warrant.

Uninvited, the men proceeded into the front parlour.

“The drawings are in the fire,” Lannoy whispered.

The men were not gentle with our possessions. They began in the basement and worked up to the attic, where they were excited to discover a locked desk, which they forced open. It was with disappointment that they discovered only patriotic letters from Alexandre (which I had intentionally placed there). They left dejected, having found nothing incriminating.

It is dark now. The flame from the candle sputters. I cannot sleep. I know they will return—for
me.

Later.

It was four in the morning when the banging on the door began. This time they had a warrant for my arrest.

“And for what reason!” Lannoy protested.

“They need no reason,” I whispered. To resist would only make it more difficult. I asked Agathe to gather together a few things.

I went to the children’s room. I intended to wake them, bid farewell. I thought of their tears. I could not disturb them, sleeping so. I kissed them each, pulled their bedclothes over them, silently said a prayer.

Agathe and Lannoy both began to weep. “Take care of them,” I said, as the men led me out the door.

In which my husband and I are reconciled

I was thankful it was night. I would not have wanted witnesses.

My captors were ordinary men, doing a job. One, Citoyen Delmer, the more outspoken of the three, had a wife sick, and was anxious to get home. I was the last call and he was glad it was done. He didn’t like taking mothers from their children. “It’s good you didn’t wake them. It’s better that way.”

They took me to the convent of the English Ursulines. The turnkey, who smelled of liquor, said there wasn’t a chair to sit on, much less a bed.

“Where are we to take her?” Citoyen Delmer saw more work ahead.

The turnkey scowled. Delmer suggested the truckle-bed in the guardroom.

“That’s
my
bed,” the turnkey said, but he agreed finally.

The next day I asked to be transferred to the Carmes.

“You
want
to go to the Carmes?” The gaoler was a small man with pockmarks on his face.

“My husband is there.”

“It’s crowded and none too pleasant.”

Nonetheless, he complied. At noon, after ham, eggs and dirty water, which made me nauseous, I was loaded into a covered cart along with three others. One was a boy of about fifteen. The other two, a man and wife, were puppeteers, arrested for making a puppet of Charlotte Corday.
^*

There was straw in the cart, some of it soiled. The cart had been used to bring in prisoners from Versailles the night before, our guard explained.
As we made our way through the streets people looked in at us and cursed. A boy threw a rotten egg. I turned my head in shame.

At the Carmes we were required to wait as the turnkey, a heavy man named Roblâtre, grumbled over the documents. “Every day they change how it goes,” he cursed. “And if I don’t get it right…!” He rolled his eyes. It was evident from his flushed visage that he was overly fond of the juice of the grape.

We were led down a narrow stone corridor. The smell from the open latrines made me choke. Roblâtre opened a door to a narrow room. The floor was lined with straw pallets, all in a row. Clothing was hung everywhere. The smell of mould was strong.

I was assigned a pallet facing one of the barred windows. To one side a young woman reclined, her golden hair fanned out over her pillow like a halo. “Citoyenne Madame Custine,” she introduced herself. “You may call me Delphine.”

“Custine? The General—”

“The great General Custine was my husband’s father.” She had a high, musical voice and spoke in a studied manner, like an actress, with exaggerated feminine flourishes.

“My husband served under General Custine. Alexandre Beauharnais. He is here.”

“Oh—Citoyen General Beauharnais! You are his
wife?
”

“You know him?”

“He is my husband’s bosom friend.” She lay back down on the bed and sighed, her hand over her heart. “General Beauharnais has been drawing my portrait.”

A bell was rung in the corridor. I followed Delphine and the others down a labyrinth of stairs into the rectory. There, under the vaulted ceilings, under the scratched-out images of Christ and the Virgin, crude plank tables had been set.

I sought a place on a bench. Bent cutlery was stacked in piles. I sat down facing a stained-glass window. To my left were the wood steps to the altar.

“That’s where they read out the names every night,” a woman behind me said. The voice sounded like that of Aimée.

I turned. It
was
Aimée. I burst into tears. She squeezed in beside me.
She handed me a teacup. “Here—drink this,” she hissed. It was whisky. “I bribed the turnkey.” Her cheeks were flushed. I suspected she’d had a bit.

A scrawny woman with dirty fingernails handed me a metal plate of boiled haricots and sardines.

“Ugh, this again.” Aimée made a face at the food. “One meal a day and it’s garbage.”

“What names?” I asked.

“Of the condemned—who goes, who stays, who lives, who dies. It’s the nightly entertainment—quite dramatic, I must say.”

The lard on the beans was rancid. I put down my fork. The helper woman threw a basket of coarse black bread onto the table. Aimée tore off an end and tucked it down her bodice.

I felt dazed. “When did
you
…?”

“Yesterday morning—but already it seems like a year. They took us all. Jean-Henri—he’s over in the men’s quarters. Even Lucie, poor child. She’s asleep right now, upstairs.”

Lucie?
After losing her first, the girl had quickly become pregnant again—by her husband this time, fortunately.

“She’s sick, too ill to eat—if you call this
eating.
I think it was the eggs we ate yesterday—laid under the Ancien Régime.”

“We were all arrested at the same time. Curious.”

“Do you know why?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Have you seen Alexandre?” Before Aimée could answer the helper woman was taking our plates and our tables and chairs were being moved. The sound in the chapel was deafening. The big double doors opened and a group of men entered. They were unshaven, in dirty shirts and breeches. One wore a kerchief around his head.

“And now the excitement begins,” Aimée sighed with mock reverence. “Alexandre will likely be outside. I beat him in a fencing match last night.”

“
You
beat Alexandre?” I followed her through a wide corridor that opened onto a walled garden. It was a hot, humid night. The smell of mint was strong. Next to an oak tree I saw Alexandre standing with another man. He looked up as we approached.

“And so it is that fate unites us.” Alexandre kissed my hand. “I was told you were here. I can’t say that I’m
happy
to see you.”

I was introduced to Boyce Custine, a young man with glowing pink cheeks and an eager look. “Welcome,” he said, bowing gallantly, “to what we Bucks and Bloods once termed a frolic. C’est bizarre, cela.”

“I met your wife,” I told him. “We share sleeping quarters.”

“Perhaps we could trade places,” he said mournfully.

“He’s an eager lad, but his wife is reluctant,” Alexandre explained. “I’ve been trying to persuade her to rendezvous with her beloved in the Lovers’ Suite.”

“The
Lovers’
Suite?”

“A private chamber reserved for married couples,” Aimée said, “the rights to which are much coveted, as you can imagine.” She had stripped a lilac branch of its leaves and was using it as a makeshift sabre.

“
Except
by the beautiful Delphine,” Alexandre said.

“Alas!” Boyce Custine exclaimed theatrically, and we laughed.

We were allowed to mingle in the garden until ten. It seemed strange considering the setting. I was introduced to a variety of people of different political persuasions—from the aristocratic Duchesse Jeanne-Victoire d’Aiguillon to the radical Jacobin, General Santerre.

“
The
General Santerre?” I whispered to Aimée. The tavernkeeper who had proposed killing all the dogs and cats of Paris? The monster who had led the invasion on the Tuileries, who had silenced the King on the scaffold, ordered the drums to roll when the King began to speak?

“All the ladies call him ‘Consoler,’” Aimée said. She put her arm through his. Apparently the burly tavernkeeper had become the favourite.

“General Santerre,” I said, “I am surprised, I confess, to see a man of your political persuasion
here.
”

The Consoler grinned sheepishly, adjusting his red cap. “The way I see it, this way, when they really need me, they’ll know
exactly
where to find me.”

“Frankly, if you’re
not
in here, you’re suspect,” Alexandre said.

April 23.

For two mornings now, Lannoy has brought the children and Alexandre and I have been permitted a short visit. But this morning, Roblâtre would not permit us to see them.

“Tomorrow?” I asked.

Roblâtre shook his head. “There’s a new rule.” It was morning, yet already he was drunk.

“You mean we may not see them at
all?
” Alexandre demanded.

Roblâtre shrugged. “No longer.”

Alexandre struck the chair, sending it flying.

[Undated]

I’ve become ill. Everyone has. We think it was the soup and bouilli last night. Duchesse Jeanne-Victoire d’Aiguillon said it was made from diseased horses’ flesh and would not eat it. Others say worse.
^*

Later.

I am weak, confined to my pallet. This afternoon Alexandre brought me the parcel of clean linens Lannoy had delivered. In a petticoat I discovered my fortune-telling cards and a letter written by Eugène. Overcome with joy, I began to weep. Alexandre held me to his heart.

April 25.

Now the children are not able to
write
even—our parcels are searched.

“How are we to know how they are, Alexandre?” I wept. There are rumours that the children of prisoners will be taken by the state, placed in the care of “good” Republicans. “They might be ill, they might be dying! We wouldn’t even
know!
”

April 26.

This morning, as is our custom, Alexandre and I went to the office to collect our parcel of clean linens. The turnkey checked off the items against a list of the contents. He was about to throw the list into the fire when Alexandre
asked to see it. The turnkey looked at him suspiciously, but handed it to him nevertheless. Immediately I perceived it was in Eugène’s hand.

“Thank you, Citoyen.” Alexandre handed the list back to the turnkey, his hand trembling only slightly.

April 27.

Every morning now there is a list with our parcel of linens. On one day it is in Eugène’s hand, on another in Hortense’s. I can sleep now.

April 28.

This morning, as I returned from breakfast (pickled herrings—again
^*
), I heard yelping. Suddenly, at my feet, there was a runt of a dog.

Fortuné!

I picked him up. He must have slipped past the guards.

“What is it? Is it a dog?” my companion asked uneasily.

Fortuné had a big black ribbon around his neck; it had become entangled in his collar. With some difficulty I got him to hold still so that I could straighten it. Then I felt something. There, concealed under his collar, was a folded piece of paper.

Quickly, I slipped the paper out, hid it in the folds of my skirt. “What an ugly dog. It looks like a rat—don’t you think?” I put Fortuné down, pushed him toward the gate, my heart pounding. “Go! Go home!”

It wasn’t until Alexandre and I met in the private room that I had the courage to read it. It was a letter from Eugène. They are well—they send their love. I collapsed in tears.

[Undated]

Alexandre and I have reconciled.

In which my worst fear is realized

April 30, 1794.

Citoyen Boyce Custine’s name has been called. Delphine fainted when she heard, falling onto the stone floor. We carried her to her pallet. There I cooled her brow. Then she opened her eyes and started screaming. The others became angry. A show of grief upsets everyone, and is considered selfish.

I went to the rectory in search of Alexandre. “Delphine is beside herself,” I told him. “She is upsetting the others. I thought I might take her into the private room.”

When I got back Aimée had her arms around Delphine, restraining her. “She was pounding on the wall,” Aimée said.

“Come.” Together Aimée and I were able to control her. Once in the private room Delphine began to calm. I rocked her like a baby. All the while my tears flowed.

May 3.

Today, at last, Delphine ate some “bread”—a barley concoction that makes our throats ache. She accepted it without complaint. It has been three days.

May 4.

Delphine sat up this morning. “I will require black,” she said. She composed a note to her woman-in-waiting. By afternoon she had a new
wardrobe, striking black robes, quite becoming against her fine blonde hair and light blue eyes.