The Josephine B. Trilogy (79 page)

June 16.

This afternoon I experienced the showers—“the torture chamber” the women here call it. Now I know why.

In an outer chamber I was asked by an attendant to remove my clothes—all of them. In this state of Eve I went into a small steam-filled room occupied by another woman standing in front of a drawn curtain of white canvas.

I was alarmed to hear a man say, “Madame Bonaparte.” The voice was coming from behind the curtain. “This is Dr. Martinet speaking. Do not be alarmed; your privacy will be respected. Are you ready?”

The steam was already so thick I felt I might suffocate for want of air. The attendant, a thin woman with a massive nose, was fiddling with a hose and a series of valves. In front of her was a pit, into which she aimed a powerful flow of steaming water. “Get on the mark,” she said, holding the pulsating hose to one side. I stood on a faded green
circle in the middle of the pit. “Turn around.”

“My assistant will aim the flow of the water on the base of the neck.” Dr. Martinet’s voice seemed ghostly, detached. “She will proceed slowly down the spine. The sensation may be uncomfortable, but be assured that in spite of the stinging sensation, you are not, in fact, being burned. Support bars are provided in case you require support.”

I clasped hold of the bars.

“The nape of the neck is the centre of your being, the centre of vitality. The nurse will begin the descent.”

The stream of boiling water began to burn its way slowly down my spine.
Uncomfortable!
I would kill him, I vowed, but not quickly. Quickly would be too kind.

At the end of this torture I was so weak that the attendant had to help me into the accompanying room, where I was laid out on a bed and left to sweat in great quantities. A cure, I am told. If I survive.

2 Prairial, Luxembourg Palace

My friend,

Paris is seething yet again. Last year we were attacked from the right; this year it’s from the left. As feared, the elections resulted in a number of radical Revolutionaries taking seats in the legislature, all of them united in one cause: to bring down the Directors. The committee we set up to review the election results disqualified one in four. You can imagine the reaction.

Tallien, unfortunately, was one of those disqualified, and there is nothing I can do to reverse the decision. Thérèse has appealed to me to get him a position with Bonaparte in Egypt. Frankly, I think she just wants him out of the country.

Père Barras

June 4, Paris

Honoured sister,

As manager of the Bonaparte Family Trust,
^*
I have been instructed by my
younger brother to provide you with three thousand francs on the first of each month. I have forwarded a bank note to Citoyen Emmery, your banker. I advise you to manage it responsibly.

In answer to your query, the cost of a cure at Plombières is not the responsibility of the Bonaparte Family Trust. A wife’s lack of fecundity is a problem to be borne by the wife. The estate of the husband’s family should not be encumbered.

Familial regards, Joseph Bonaparte

Rue de Thrévenot, Paris

Dear Rose,

Émilie is now married; I dissolved in tears. You were missed
—
our little party seemed sadly lacking without you. The bride looked lovely in the dress you had made for her, although mute, which I attributed to a virginal apprehension. But later, on discovering the bride and Hortense in the powder room in tears, I learned that there is more to the story. The bride had apparently confessed to your daughter that she loved another.

I lectured the girls on duty, and spilled milk, and how fate had intended Émilie to marry Lieutenant Lavalette since that is how it turned out
—
then I left to look after my guests. Eventually the girls appeared, Émilie red-faced and mournful. The groom
—
a dear man, if a bit of a simpleton
—
was fortunately oblivious to his young wife’s sorrow.

I warned you about allowing the girls to read romantic novels. Now you see the result.

Remember your prayers, Your godmother, Aunt Désirée

Note—I read in the
Publiciste
that the fleet is headed for Spain. And I thought they were going to Africa! I’m relieved, I confess. At least in Spain Eugène can go to church.

And another—Madame Campan asked me to remind you about Hortense’s and Émilie’s tuition.
^*

Chère Maman,

I have a terrible confession to make. Émilie is unhappy and it is all my fault. It began in the early spring. Louis Bonaparte had taken to visiting our school, and I told Émilie it was because he fancied her. But the truth, the terrible truth, was that I feared he fancied me and I didn’t want anyone to guess! And so then she fell in love with him! And because of that, poor Louis had to go on the crusade and poor Émilie is miserably married. Oh, my dear Maman, I want to die for shame.

Your daughter, Hortense

[Undated]

I don’t know what to make of Hortense’s letter. It dismays me to think that Émilie is unhappy, but at the same time I confess I’m charmed by the admission that Louis may fancy my daughter—my daughter who is so terrified of boys! How am I ever to marry her?

Corsica

Honoured sister,

This letter is to inform you that my husband is available to take over the command of the fort in Marseille. Please inform Director Barras that General Bonaparte’s brother-in-law is the only suitable candidate for the post. We will move to Marseille in July.

Elisa Bonaparte Bacchiocchi

[Undated]

After posting my letters, I took a long walk up the mountain to a little chapel perched at the top of a steep hill, a charming stone structure overlooking the valley. I had to pry open the door. It was musty and damp inside. The silence was heavy, comforting. I sat for a time thus, alone with my thoughts. On impulse, I knelt.

So many prayers tumbled out of my heart! I prayed for the safety of the fleet, for Bonaparte and the boys. I prayed that Émilie would come to
love her husband and that my daughter’s heart would calm. I prayed for the health of Aunt Désirée and the old Marquis, and for the success of my treatment here. I prayed that the Bodin Company would prosper and that I would soon be able to pay off my debts and provide for my children’s future. But above all, I prayed for patience in dealing with Bonaparte’s family.

June 18.

A day at the baths—huge, steaming pools dotted with heads, women in bright scarves. The cavernous chamber echoed the sounds of laughter, whispered gossip. Shoulders immersed, toes emerging, a knee, two. Floating languorously, a woman laughs, another blows bubbles. A dream world, this.

[Undated]

I’ve had an accident.
^*
Hortense is with me now, thank God. Great pain, despair.

June 23, Rue de Thrévenot, Paris

Dear Rose,

To think that you almost died! I am enclosing an ounce of licorice and
coriander seeds your girl could make up into an excellent purge. Scrape the licorice and slice it thin, bruise the seeds and put these both in a pint of water and boil it a little. Strain this water into an ounce of senna and let it sit for six hours. Strain from the senna and drink it while fasting.

Remember your prayers, now more than ever.

Your godmother, Aunt Désirée

Note—My neighbour informed me that the fleet is headed to Spain. She read it in the
Messager des Relations Extérieures.
But an article in the
Postillon de Calais
said your husband intended to seize the island of Malta. Isn’t that in the other direction?

June 23, La Chaumière

Darling,

The Glories wept to hear of your terrible fall. It’s shocking to think that such a thing could happen at a health spa. Barras informs me that the doctor insists you will recover. I’m sending a parcel of remedies. I was comforted to learn that Hortense is with you.

Your loving friend, Thérèse

June 24, Luxembourg Palace

Chère amie,

Dr. Martinet assures me you are out of danger. You must be his only patient; the memos he sends would take hours to prepare, not to mention the reports he has been publishing in a medical journal in which he describes in fulsome detail each and every enema he administers. (Are you aware of this?)

I wrote to General Brune
^*
as you requested. I will let you know as soon as I hear. The last thing you need to worry about right now is the fate of the Bodin Company. Don’t worry, my dear, “Papa will fix it.”

Père Barras

July 8.

It has been eighteen days now. My arms, although still horribly bruised and painful to move, are out of the bandages. At least I am able to feed myself again, and to write, although my script is feeble, like that of an old woman. I am both comforted and plagued by a constant stream of well-wishers.

I can remember very little of the actual fall. The first thing I recall is lying on the street with men standing over me, everything dreamlike. And then the sharp pain of being turned—I’m told I cried out horribly—and then the sickening comfort of something warm and moist on my skin, the woollish smell of blood (for a quick-witted servant had slaughtered a lamb and wrapped me in its still-warm hide). Then the treatments began—the enemas and douches, the baths, the leeches, the bleeding and the infusions. I am determined to get better if only to end the “cure”!

Hortense is doting and sweet (but bored, I fear). “I love you,” I told her this morning, as she wheeled me around in my invalid chair. “Whatever happens to me, I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

She stooped down under my sunshade and kissed me on the cheek. “You
will
walk again, Maman.”

This tenderness between us almost makes my suffering worthwhile.

July 10.

Again, terrible pain—just when I thought I was getting better. I am overcome with a feeling of hopelessness. It has been twenty days and I still can’t stand.

9 Messidor, Luxembourg Palace

Chère amie,

I want you to be the first to know. Bonaparte has dodged Nelson’s ships and taken Malta—a stroke of incredible good fortune.

Père Barras

July 16.

I walked for three minutes. Shooting pain.

22 Messidor, Luxembourg Palace

Chère amie,

No doubt you are recovering, judging from the constant stream of petitioners you have been sending my way. Regarding your requests, please note that I have:

1. Found employment for the nephew of the former Abbess of the Convent of Panthémont.

2. Seen to it that Bonaparte’s doctor’s wife, Citoyenne Yvan, was sent her bonus. (She asked me to tell you that Pugdog is content and has even grown plump.)

3. Named Citoyen Félix Bacchiocchi, the General’s esteemed (sic) brotherin-law, commander of Fort Saint-Nicolas in Marseille. I pray to God that the citizens of that town are never in need of his protection.

4. Succeeded (finally—it wasn’t easy) in getting the names of three of the five citizens you requested erased from the List.

5. And last, but certainly not least, regarding that spirited dancer who was run out of Milan for her so-called convictions (for coquetting with French soldiers is more to the point), I’ve succeeded in finding a placement for her with the Opéra-Comique. (She has offered to “repay” me. If only all acts of mercy were so rewarding.)

But my question to you, my friend, is this
—
how do all these strange and rather pathetic characters find their way to you? Do take care, chérie. Your last letter rather alarmed me.

Père Barras

July 17, Paris

Honoured sister:

I am aware that forty thousand per annum translates into three thousand three hundred and thirty-three francs a month. One must, however, take the cost of administration into account.

I am returning to Dr. Martinet the bills submitted for your treatment
since your fall. I have informed him that all expenses incurred in the course of a cure of infertility, however unexpected and unusual, are your responsibility. The Bonaparte Family Trust cannot be held accountable.

Familial regards, Joseph Bonaparte

July 18, La Chaumière

Darling,

You would have loved to see the parade here yesterday: eighty wagons loaded with the finest art of Italy were carted with great éclat to the Louvre. Over each enormous case there was a banner proclaiming the contents—Raphael, Titian, Domenichino, Guerchino. It was enough to make even the most uncultured among us swoon. But the triumph, of course, were the four horses of Saint Mark from Venice.

Naturally, the Directors neglected to give your husband the credit for bringing all this wonderful loot to Paris. Oh, forgive me, I forget myself—for “liberating works of genius.” In Paris, at least, the statue of Apollo may be viewed without his silly fig leaf. If that isn’t liberation, what is?

Your loving friend, Thérèse

August 4, Luxembourg Palace