The Josephine B. Trilogy (66 page)

December 9.

Bonaparte is back, his health weakened by a plunge into a swamp. (I pray it is not mal-aria.
^*
) The quiet domestic life we are finally enjoying now
will help, I hope. How little time we have had together! He’s having his portrait painted, we’re planning a ball—and, I should add, attending nightly to what Bonaparte refers to as “our project.” Maybe now, with time together, we’ll succeed.

December 24, Christmas Eve.

“Madame?” Lisette curtsied when she realized Bonaparte was sitting in the alcove by the window. “Your sister, General, she is—”

“Maria-Paola? My sister is here?” Bonaparte jumped up. “Already?”

Lisette glanced at me. Oh la la, her eyes said.

“Uff. The boat was disgusting!” Bonaparte’s sixteen-year-old sister is a striking girl with curly black hair and sapphire blue eyes—even more beautiful than I’d expected from all I’d heard. “I threw up on the deck, over the side, in the dining hall, in my bunk.” She’d plucked her eyebrows into a thin line, like the servant girls. “You’re mussing my hair,” she protested in bad French, when Bonaparte embraced her. She has a shrill voice. “
This
is where you live? Magnifico!”

Bonaparte turned toward me, his arm around his little sister. “Paganetta,” he said proudly.

I nodded, smiling stupidly.
Pagan
etta, indeed. She is only sixteen, yet so womanly. And a spirited girl, it was easy to see, well aware of her charms—
la beauté du diable.
^*
“Welcome, Maria-Paola, to—”

“I’m not Maria-Paola any more, I’m Pauline.”

“Welcome, Pauline, to—”

She swept by me without listening. “Remember, Napoleone, you promised! I get my own suite.”

December 27.

A constant stream of maids and footmen has been running up and down the hall doing Pauline’s bidding. The bed sheets are not sufficiently soft,
the mirror not sufficiently ornate, the china sugar dish does not match the silver tea equipage and the tapestries hanging on her walls are frayed. I watch this flurry of activity with irritation. I have a reception to prepare for and nothing is getting done.

December 29.

I caught Pauline in my wardrobe, hiding in my ball gowns. “I’m playing!” she insisted. (Playing? She’s sixteen!) In the reflection of the looking glass I saw her stick her tongue out at me.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t ‘play’ in my suite, Pauline,” I said, smiling with all the sweetness I could muster.

January 7, 1797.

At the opera last night four young men arrived at our box insisting that they had been invited. Pauline, it turned out, had looked at each of them through the large end of her opera glass (which in this country means,
Come see me
).

Bonaparte only laughed when I told him. “You find that amusing?” I demanded. Frankly, I feel like killing his little sister.

30 Ventôse, Luxembourg Palace

Chère amie,

Terrible news—Thérèse sued Tallien for divorce yesterday. She and the baby and the nanny and three house servants are with me now. Apparently Tallien threatened her with a pistol. I told her I’d do what I could to keep it out of the journals.

And speaking of journals, according to the
Républican
I’m unable even to write this letter because I’ve been put in prison for making false bank notes. Ha!

I’m apprehensive regarding the upcoming election. The Royalist faction is gaining strength. Our Minister of Police claims one hundred deputies have made oaths of allegiance to the Pretender. One deputy even had the
gall to stroll in the Tuileries gardens in red-heeled boots.
^*

Director Letourneur assures us that we need not fear, that all will be under control because he will be patrolling the streets of Paris on horseback. (The dolt!) And as for Director La Réveillière, he is taken up with matters pertaining to a cult he has founded. I advised him that every good religion needed a martyr, and that to make his a success he should get himself hanged. He failed to see the humour.

Père Barras

May 9—Milan.

We’re back in Milan after a difficult three months of travel. In January Bonaparte defeated yet another Austrian army—the
fifth
—and then turned his attention south, to Rome, forcing the Papal states to succumb. Then, with the south secure, he chased the Austrians into the north, until finally, two weeks ago, they agreed to a preliminary peace.

And so, at last, the Austrians are defeated and Bonaparte is victorious. His wife, however, is not. I wage a losing battle with his spirited sister Pauline. This morning I discovered her in the pantry with a footman. “I think you should consider getting your sister married,” I told Bonaparte.
Fast.
“General Leclerc is in love with her,” I suggested. Victor Leclerc was an absolute fool for the girl. “Everyone calls him the blond Bonaparte because he imitates you.” Short, serious, with thin lips and big eyes, Victor Leclerc even looked like Bonaparte, but for his fair colouring.

“His father is a merchant.” Bonaparte stood and went to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “Wealthy, though.”

Pauline yawned. “Perhaps you would like to sit down.” Bonaparte glanced at me, suddenly unsure. Matters to do with his family flummoxed him completely.

“Perhaps I should go,” I said, standing.

“Stay!”

“What’s this all about?” Pauline demanded.

“You must have a husband,” Bonaparte said.

“I’m already betrothed.” Pauline glared. (At me!) “You
might
recall.”

“Deputy Fréron is a middle-aged drunk with three illegitimate children by an actress—a bad one.”

“He was going to leave her!”

“She claims he married her!”

“Bonaparte?” I touched his hand. He and his sister would only end up brawling at each other. And if anyone was a match for Bonaparte, it was Pauline.

Bonaparte sat down, scowling. “What about General Leclerc?”

Pauline looked from me to her brother and back again. “Little Victor?”

“Marriage would bring many benefits, Pauline,” I said. “General Leclerc comes from a wealthy family.”

“Flour merchants!”

“He was educated in Paris,” I persevered. “The family has a country seat—the château of Montgobert.” For all I knew it was a pile of stones.

“What about a trousseau?” she demanded.

“Whatever you like.”

“The gowns must be by Signora Tandello.”

Bonaparte coughed. Signora Tandello was the most expensive dress maker in Milan. Yes, I nodded, of course,
anything.

“How much of a dowry would I get?”

“Joseph and I will have to talk about that,” Bonaparte said.

“No doubt a great deal,” I added.

Pauline pursed her lips. “Bien.”

May 15, La Chaumière

Darling,

It is just as well you are in the Land of Antiquity, for the situation in Paris has become worrisome. The election was a disaster. The Royalists have taken control of the legislative councils! Even General Pichegru, who everyone knows is in the pay of the Pretender, was elected
President
of the Five
Hundred. I was at a dinner last night where the guests talked quite openly of putting the Pretender on the throne. The Royalists’ agents—of whom there are rumoured to be a number in Paris—are throwing gold around quite freely.

My home life is worrisome as well—a disaster, some might say. I was mad to have reconciled with Tallien. I love him with a passion, you know I do, but I simply can’t live with his drinking, his wenching and fits of jealous rage. And now it’s too late, alas. Every woman in Paris is in an interesting condition, it seems, myself now included.

Your loving and dearest (and yes, somewhat miserable) friend, Thérèse

Note—I heard that your friend Aimée
^*
died. My sympathy, darling.

May 22—Mombello.
^**

It’s a lovely spring evening. Fireflies dance outside the open windows. I am writing this by moonlight. How late is it? I’m not sure. Thérèse’s letter disturbed me terribly. I am filled with sorrow, grief. How many lives have been sacrificed for this Revolution of ours, our precious
liberté
? I think of Aimée, all my loved ones who have died. I think of Alexandre.
La liberté ou la mort.
Will their sacrifice be for naught? Will the Royalists be victorious, put a king back on the throne, abolish all that so many have died for?

I kept Lazare’s Saint Michael medal close to my heart today—Saint Michael with his sword, Saint Michael fighting tirelessly against the forces of evil. I think of Bonaparte facing the enemy, over and over again. I think, with admiration and pride, of his astonishing victories. But to what end, I can’t help but wonder, is he chasing the Royalists out of Italy, establishing a democracy here? What would it matter if Paris were to fall to the enemy?

May 30.

It took a moment for Lieutenant Lavalette to catch his breath. He is not a young man. He took off his hat and straightened his wig, which failed to cover his bald spot. “I arrived in Genoa in the early afternoon, General,” he began, standing at attention. “After refreshing myself at my inn, I made straight away for the Assembly and as—”

“Get to the point.” Bonaparte drummed his fingers.

“I was informed that your mother was on a vessel in the harbour, General.”

“And where is she now?”

“In Genoa, General, I—”

“You left her there? Lieutenant, Genoa is on the verge of an uprising!”

“She insisted,” Lavalette stammered. “She said, ‘My son is here, I have nothing to fear.’” (Bonaparte smiled.) “I ordered a detachment of cavalry to escort her, General. They will be arriving tomorrow.”

“They?”

“Your mother and a man—she didn’t give his name. And a boy—her son, I think she said. Your brother, General?”

“Girolamo?”

“And two daughters.”

“Mon Dieu, Bonaparte,” I said, standing abruptly. “That’s almost your entire family!”

June 1.

We set out to meet them on the road, Bonaparte and I and the two “youngsters”—Pauline and Louis. South of Milan, a carriage came into view escorted by soldiers on horseback. Bonaparte let down the glass. “It’s them.”

“Put up the glass,” Pauline protested.

“Don’t screech.” Louis covered his ears. He is two years older than Pauline and the two constantly bicker.

“Oh, I feel a fright,” I said to Bonaparte. I was fatigued from the heat and parched with thirst.

Bonaparte ran his fingers through his hair. “Maria-Anna has changed
her name to Elisa and Maria-Anunziata is now Caroline. But Girolamo’s only thirteen. I can still call him Fifi.”

“How should I address your mother?” I felt a sick headache coming on. Why had I not thought to take laudanum?

“As Signora Letizia.” Bonaparte clasped and unclasped his hands, then wiped his palms on his thighs. “She gave birth to thirteen children; eight survived.”

“Remarkable.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“She is famous for her tiny hands and feet,” Pauline said.

“She’s from Corsica’s Sartène district, well known for bandits and blood vendettas.” Bonaparte adjusted his sash. “As a child, I thought my mother was a warrior.”

One of our horses whinnied. Bonaparte pounded on the ceiling. I fell forward as the carriage came to a sudden halt. Bonaparte pushed the door open and jumped to the ground.

“Aspetta un momento,” Pauline yelled, tying her hat strings. “Napoleone, aspetta!”

The footman let down the step and helped Pauline out of the carriage. I heard shrieks: my Corsican family. I pulled my shawl modestly around my shoulders.

“Madame?” Louis held out a white-gloved hand. “May I offer my protection? The Bonapartes are known to be rowdy.”

“How is it you are so gentle, Louis? Are you sure you are a Bonaparte?” I was relieved to see him smile. No more risky remarks, I told myself.

We approached the noisy group. A boy was tumbling in the dust, laughing. Girolamo, no doubt. Bonaparte punched him on the shoulder and the boy punched him back, feigning to box.

“I wonder who that fat man is,” Louis said.

An older man with a pudding face was standing by the coach, his mouth hanging open as he watched the Liberator of Italy clasp his young brother in a headlock, the boy cursing like a sailor. “You don’t know him?”

A plump girl of about fourteen—Bonaparte’s youngest sister Caroline, I expected—was making excited hops in front of Pauline. Regarding everyone with a look of disapproval was a thin, mannish woman with
heavy features: Elisa. And at the centre of the commotion was Signora Letizia, a tiny woman clothed in a black linen gown set off rather incongruously by yellow fluted neck-ruches. “You are killing yourself, Napoleone.” At least, that is what I thought she said, for her heavy Corsican accent made her difficult to understand.

“Ah, there you are.” Bonaparte released his hold on young Girolamo, who went tumbling. He took my arm and turned to face his mother. “Maman, allow me to present my wife, Josephine.”

I made a respectful curtsy. “At last I meet my honoured mother,” I said, kissing her on both cheeks. She was smaller than I’d expected, but a great deal more frightening.

She frowned, looking me over, and said something to Bonaparte in Italian. Then she turned to her eldest daughter. “Get your husband.”

“Now?” Elisa let out a hiccup.

Bonaparte looked from Elisa to the man standing by the coach. “Elisa got married? But I didn’t give permission!”

“You are not the head of this family,” Signora Letizia informed her son.