The Josephine B. Trilogy (61 page)

Drôle, indeed! “At least Fortuné won’t bite him. Even my dog finds him amusing.”

“You’re taking the dog? Mon Dieu, but this is short notice. Why is it I’m always rushing around doing something for Bonaparte? Ah,
here’s
what I was looking for. It’s a letter from the most beautiful man in the French Republic, our very own General Lazare Hoche. He requests permission to come to Paris.” Barras held the letter up with a gloating expression. “Pity you won’t be in town.”

“You’ll see to the passports?” I said, standing.

“You’re flushed! Forgive me?” He kissed my cheeks. “Ah, but you forgive anything, all my little sins.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I said, tying my hat strings. Remembering to smile.

June 23.

“Madame, it’s…it’s…!” My maid was actually tongue-tied. “It’s the famous General Hoche. Himself!”

“Here? That’s impossible,” I said, throwing off the down coverlet. It was almost noon, but Dr. Cucé had insisted I get constant rest in preparation for the journey. “General Hoche is in the south. He won’t be in Paris until the end of the month.”

“I’ll go tell him he’s not here.” The excitement had made Lisette giddy.

“Perhaps there has been a mistake.”
Surely
there had been a mistake. “Is this gentleman in his late twenties, tall, with a scar?”

“Broad shoulders, dark eyes,” she said, her hands clutched to her heart.

“Lisette, please!” I laughed. “Is my morning gown pressed? Can you find my lace shawl—the one with the silk fringe? Oh, mon Dieu, my hair.”

“Rose,” Lazare said, turning to face me, taking off his hat. He was bronzed from the sun, his scar white in contrast, snaking down from his forehead onto his right cheek.

“General Hoche.” I extended my hand. Lazare.
Lazarro.
He seemed taller than I remembered him. Hercules, Barras called him. “What a pleasant surprise.” Joy flooded my heart. “I congratulate you on your recent victories.”
^*
A man of peace, people are hailing him.

“There is no glory but that of the Republic for which I fight.”

“Of course.” I smiled. Lazare believed in the Revolution as if it were a religion—and with good cause. Under the Ancien Régime, he had been nothing more than a dog keeper. Under the Republic, he’d risen to become one of the greatest generals in the land—
the
greatest general, Barras claimed.

I pushed forward a chair. “Care for a cognac?” There was a pitcher of orange juice from breakfast. “Or a pétépié?”

“A pétépié would suit the hour,” he said, with a knowing smile.

I poured out a tall glass of juice and added a good measure of rum and absinthe. “You haven’t forgotten the pleasures of Martinico,” I said, handing him the glass. My hand was trembling slightly; I feared I might spill a drop, feared he might notice.

“Indeed, they haunt me.” His fingers touched mine.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour, echoed a moment later by the clock in my bedchamber. “You have come early to Paris,” I said, my voice quavering slightly.

“Just as you, I gather, are departing.” He nodded at the open shipping trunk by the door to my bedchamber.

“Yes, I’m leaving for Milan in three days.”

“
You’re
going to northern Italy?” He sat back. “Is that not risky?”

“I have confidence in my husband, General Hoche.”

“As you should,” he said, meeting my eyes.

Oh, Lazare, my precious Lazarro. Memories flooded my heart—memories of the fever heat of passion, of love. I stood, went to the window to the left of the fireplace, pushed it open. I still loved him, I realized. Loved him and respected him, for the honour he lived by, his Republican zeal, his passionate commitment to
la liberté.

“Today is the day of your birth,” I heard him say.

“And yours is tomorrow, if I remember correctly.” I remembered perfectly.

Lazare came up behind me. I felt the warmth of his hand on my bare shoulder. “My doctor will be calling shortly,” I said, turning, my heart pounding violently.

“Are you not well?” he asked with that familiar tenderness that made me weak.

“I’m getting better,” I whispered, swallowing. Could he not hear my heart?

“Do you think General Bonaparte would mind if I gave his wife a birthday kiss?” he asked, with a bold and teasing look.

“Yes, General Hoche,” I said, looking up at him. I touched the tip of my finger to the cleft of his chin. “I do believe he would mind.”

Lazare leaned toward me. I felt his tongue, his heart—my own.

Later, almost ten in the evening.

Tonight, after a bowl of broth, I went out to the garden and sat on the bench under the lime tree, my arms wrapped around my knees like a child. The moon bathed the landscape in an eerie light. Lazare’s visit had filled me with melancholy. I thought of my mother, so very far away. Was she looking up at the same moon? Did she even think of me? I wondered what had become of them all, my family, the slaves I’d grown up with—my nanny, Da Gertrude and my maid, Mimi. Dear old Sylvester was probably dead. I thought of the graves of my father, my two sisters. I thought of the mound of dirt by the river—the grave of the voodoo priestess. I remembered her terrible words: You will be widowed. You will be Queen.

Overwhelmed by memory, by feelings of longing and loss, I took the Saint Michael medal that Lazare had given me on parting out of my pocket. Saint Michael the Archangel, sword in hand. Saint Michael the warrior saint, standing victorious over the forces of evil.

“I want you to have it,” he told me. It had been his mother’s, he said. His mother who had died giving birth to him. His peasant mother who could neither read nor write. He told me it would give me courage.

“Truly?” Yes, he said, the courage to do the right thing. I puzzled over some words on the back:
la liberté ou la mort.
“I had it etched on,” he explained, somewhat shyly. I told him I would treasure the medal always.

Later, turning from the door, he said, “We never really said goodbye.”

“Is this goodbye then?” I asked him.

He never answered, I realize now.

June 26.

Lisette woke me gently, touching my shoulder. “There are two big coaches out in the courtyard, Madame.”

I went to the window, pulled back the curtain. One of the men on horseback was Bonaparte’s courier, Moustache—so named for his enormous appendage. He dismounted and said something to Captain Charles and Junot. Bonaparte’s brother Joseph was standing to one side, writing something down in a little book.

A horse whinnied. At the gate a number of mounted guards appeared—nine? ten? “We have an escort?”

“It’s a parade!” Lisette said.

Evening (9:00?)—at Aunt Désirée’s in Fontainebleau.

“Finally!” Aunt Désirée exclaimed when I arrived. She peered out the window. “Where are all the others?”

“They’re staying at the inn in town.” I felt gritty from the dusty trip down from Paris.

“A man has been waiting over an hour for you to get here. I’ve been trying to entertain him, but between the lace man coming and then the water carriers…” Aunt Désirée led the way into her dark drawing room, the heavy brocade drapes pulled against the afternoon sun. “He doesn’t even play trictrac, only piquet, and he says ‘tyrant’ when he should say ‘king.’ A gentleman, by his dress, but with plain manners.” She made a face. “He blinks.”

“Is his name Hamelin?” I asked, pulling off my gloves.

“You
do
know him.”

“I’m afraid so.” I had hoped Fortunée Hamelin’s husband would journey to Italy on his own.

“He’s been most impatient for your arrival. I think he might be a Freemason from the way he stands with his feet stuck out at an angle.”

“Citoyen Hamelin is the husband of a friend of mine, and yes, a member of Loge Olympique. He’s begged leave to come to Italy with us on business.” The making-money business. The recovering-from-the-devastation-of-the-Revolution business. The recovering-from-a-weakness-for-horse-racing
business, I had reason to suspect.

“I see,” Aunt Désirée said with unconcealed contempt, as if the very word business were beneath her. “He has consumed five small beers,” she hissed in a créole patois, opening the door to the music room.

“Madame Bonaparte!” Citoyen Hamelin jumped to his feet, blinking rapidly. He was wearing a cutaway tailcoat that stuck out at the back like the wings of a beetle. He took my gloved hand and kissed it, leaving a faint smear of pink rouge. “I was, I confess, beginning to give way to doubt and deliberation. The road is heavy, and one knows the dangers one can encounter, the brigands, the
chauffe-pieds
!”
^*

“Citoyen Hamelin, you understand, there is no room in our carriages—”

“I will lease a post chaise.”

I lowered myself into a chair. “What a good idea,” I said weakly.

After Citoyen Hamelin had
finally
departed, I followed my aunt up the narrow stairs to see the dear old Marquis.

At the first-floor landing Aunt Désirée said, “Wait here,” in her hushed, sickroom voice. The air was thick with the smell of mothballs. Through the half-closed door I heard her say, “Wake up, Marquis! Rose wants to have a word with you. She’s going away, to Italy. No, not me,
Rose.
” Then the door opened wide. Sunken into the feather bed was the withered Marquis, a full-bottomed court wig stuck crookedly on his head. “Be quick,” my aunt hissed, stepping aside. “He might fall asleep.”

Holding onto a bedpost, I leaned over to kiss the dear old man on the forehead. His wig smelled of pomade. “You are looking well, Marquis,” I said, marvelling at the dry furrows of his skin.

“Louder,” Aunt Désirée said. “He didn’t hear you.” She was going through the books on the shelves, blowing dust off the spines.

“I am going away, Marquis,” I said, loudly this time. “To Italy.”

He frowned. “Are the boys downstairs?”

I glanced at Aunt Désirée: oh no.
The boys
—his two sons, Alexandre and François. Alexandre had been dead for almost two years, and François was as much as dead. An émigré, he would be arrested and executed were he even to set foot in the French Republic.

“Forgive me, Rose,” the Marquis said tremulously, suddenly clear. “At my age…” I took his hand, skin and bones, bones and skin. His new betrothal ring was loose on his finger; it had to be large in order to slip over his big knuckle. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a mechanical lever. “I pray for Alexandre every day,” he said, his voice raspy. “I prayed for him when he was alive, but it didn’t help much. And as for François…” He covered his eyes, cursed.

I stroked his hand, my throat tight. Aunt Désirée gave me a warning look.

“So, you remarried,” he said finally, recovering himself. “Eugène told me your husband is going after the Austrians.”

“Yes.” We’d had this conversation several times before.

“Tell him…” The old man fought for breath. “Tell him we must get back Mayence.”
^*

June 27, close to 11:00
A.M.
, I think—still in Fontainebleau.

At eight this morning everyone descended on Aunt Désirée’s modest town house. I stood on the front steps holding onto a wiggling Fortuné. The small courtyard was a chaos of men, carriages and horses, preparing for departure. Everywhere there was yelling and confusion. Junot was yelling at a postillion who was trying to untangle some harness. Hamelin—“the blinker” I think of him—was yelling at a footman who was trying to cram an enormous sea-trunk into his small post chaise. And everywhere, servants were rushing to and fro, yelling at each other. Only Bonaparte’s brother Joseph was silent, standing by the gate writing something in a book.

“I can hold the dog if you wish, Madame Bonaparte,” I heard a voice behind me say.

It was funny Captain Charles in his red-tassled boots. He looked shining, his brass buttons gleaming. Gladly I handed Fortuné over. The captain stroked Fortuné’s ears and then even kissed the top of my dog’s head! “Could I have the honour of showing Madame Bonaparte to her carriage?” He shifted the dog under one arm and offered me the other.

“But what about—?” I looked back over my shoulder. Was everything taken care of?

“I insist, Madame. We must look after you.” He opened our carriage door, pulling at the step until it came clattering down. Then, with a twirl of his white gloved hand, he motioned me in.

“We?” My travelling kit was already on the seat: my medications, my Tarot cards, the novel
Clarissa
by an English author, my writing journal (which I’m writing in now).

“The saints and I.”

I smiled. He was so sweet. “Who provided the cushions?” There hadn’t been cushions on the way down from Paris.

“I did. I recommend that you sit on the side facing away from the horses.” Captain Charles jiggled the door to get it to shut. I touched my hand on the windowsill. “Oh, I wouldn’t put my hand
there,
” he said. I looked at my white glove—it was streaked with grime.

Captain Charles slipped off his gloves. “They will fit you, Madame. I have very small hands. See?” He held up his hand—it was the size of a child’s.

I slipped on his glove. It did fit. “You are a gentle and kind man, Captain Charles.” I took several deep breaths, laid my head back against the hard, cracked leather. Be strong, I told myself. It wouldn’t do to faint. Not now, not at the start of such a long and perilous journey.

II
La Regina

Ogni talento matta. (Every talented man is a madman.)

—
Italian proverb

In which I join the Liberator of Italy

June 29, 1796—Briare.