Becoming Josephine (38 page)

My hand flew to my mouth.

“The King is a traitor,” it said. “Long live the Republic.” “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.”

Someone had sullied the King’s name in his own house. Even years after his humiliation and murder, I could not believe it. I shook my head as a cold draft enveloped me. I bristled and turned.

The nearest window remained closed.

Bumps rose on my arms.

“At what cost?” a faint voice whispered in my ear.

I spun around on my heels. “Who’s there?” My voice echoed in the hollow space, then silence.

A crescent moon winked through the streaked windowpane.

“Every reign must end.” Another whisper.

“Hello?” My heart hammered in uneven beats.

A crow cawed somewhere in the distance.

I bunched my chemise in my hands and darted toward the stairwell. I bounded nearly to the bottom of the staircase before I realized it was not the same way I had come. Or was it? My head reeled. My breath came in shallow spasms. What had I heard?

I placed a steadying hand on the wall and gasped for air. I couldn’t faint in this wretched place. So many unmarked stairwells and abandoned rooms yet to be refurbished. It could be hours before they found me.

I sucked in several deep breaths before I noticed the muddy brown stain beneath my fingertips. I jerked my hand back. What . . . ? I leaned closer to the wall and peered at the irregular splotches of brown. They were everywhere. Something had splattered the walls.

“Blood,” said the gravelly voice.

A scream tore from my lips. Terror propelled me up the stairs.

Where was the other staircase? I stumbled over the final step and struggled to regain my balance.

“Traitors,” the voice said.

I bolted across the ghostly room. Blood pounded in my ears. My foot caught the edge of something hard. I screeched as I crashed to the floor.

My palms scraped splintered wood. My lantern smashed. The room went black.

I scrambled blindly to my feet and staggered to the nearest doorway. “Guards!” I shouted in a strangled voice.

A shadow in the corridor lurched toward me.

I shrieked and ran in the opposite direction.

“Consulesse!” a gruff voice called after me. “What are you doing here? I heard you scream.”

I stopped in my tracks and doubled over, grasping my sides. “I . . . I . . .”

“Is there someone here?” The guard searched the room as others filed in behind him. “You gave us a fright.”

“I . . .” I caught my breath. “Went for a walk and got lost. This room, it’s—”

“Let me assist you. Bonaparte would be furious if he knew you were unescorted.”

“Thank you.” I collapsed against him.

The soldier shifted in surprise, then steered me through a maze of corridors. I could not believe how far I had wandered. Every room appeared like the next.

When we reached my apartments, I closed the door quickly behind me. I washed the scrapes on my hands and leapt into bed. Bonaparte did not stir as I curled beside his warm body.

I buried my face in my pillow. So many souls lived among us. I pulled the bedcovers over my nose and lay staring into the eerie darkness. How did I get here? I asked myself for the tenth time.

After another hour or more, I slipped into a light sleep, in which the ghosts of citizens hacked to death, of kings and queens past, sought me in the dark.

The Yellow Salon, 1800–1802

I
grew accustomed to the palace; or, rather, I forced myself to accept it. Bonaparte warmed my bed each evening and I fell into his arms, fatigued from the day’s rigorous schedule. A never-ending stream of dinners and state duties occupied my time, while Bonaparte attended meeting after meeting. Between appointments, if only for a moment, my husband would dash to my salon and pull me into the privacy of my boudoir.

“I need a few moments of peace with my little Creole.” He closed the door behind him. I squeezed his hind end and he groaned in satisfaction.

“How is your day going?” I asked.

“I have news.” He pulled me onto his lap. I ran my fingers through his hair. “It’s the blasted Austrians. They’ve broken the treaty. I’ll have to invade the Italian provinces again.”

“You aren’t going, are you?” I looked at him with disbelief.

“It will only be a few weeks, and I’ll leave in the middle of the night. Tomorrow. No one must know of my absence until I’m on my way. I’ve instructed the army to convene in Toulon, but they don’t know I’ll be joining them. It must be done.”

“Why can’t you send another general? There must be a trustworthy man among them. The country depends on you. The instant you leave—”

“Every faction will conspire to overthrow me.” He set me on the cushion beside him and jumped to his feet. “That is why I need you here. Talleyrand, Bourrienne, and Fouché will be working with you, but they don’t know it yet. You can tell them in two days’ time.” He paced like a stalking tiger.

I grimaced. Confronting his political enemies alone would be difficult; facing his siblings would be hell.

“Let me go with you.” I crossed the room and wrapped my arms about his middle.

“A battlefield is no place for a woman. Especially not Madame la Consulesse.” He cupped my breast and kissed me tenderly. “I won’t be gone long. If things don’t go well in Paris, I’ll appoint my replacement and return at once.”

I remained behind to do his political bidding and in a few short months Bonaparte secured another victory. We celebrated his homecoming with a small but elegant meal in the garden at Malmaison.

“Congratulations on your victory, first consul.” Monsieur Bourrienne raised his glass.

“To the Republic!” Bonaparte swallowed a large gulp.

“To the Republic!” Everyone followed his lead.

We feasted on lobster and fresh strawberry tarts. After our celebratory meal, the men retreated indoors to Bonaparte’s study. The few ladies in attendance remained on the patio in the twilight, sipping champagne.

“I have a delicate matter to discuss with you, Josephine. Ladies, please excuse us,” Madame de Krény said to the others. She escorted me to a bench under a willow tree.

“Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“No.” She set her glass on the bench. “I’m afraid the news involves Bonaparte.” Pity filled her eyes.

My stomach clenched. “Go on.”

“Giuseppina Grassini traveled with your husband’s convoy. She’s moving to Paris.”

I remembered the famed opera singer from my time in Venice. I pushed down my rising panic. There must be a good explanation.

“Bonaparte enjoys the theater and music a great deal. I’m not surprised he invited such a talent to grace our own opera.”

“Madame . . . I don’t know how to say this. . . .” She looked down. “He has taken her as his mistress.”

“Are you . . . are you certain?” I whispered. Suddenly, my gown was too tight and I could not breathe.

“Oh, darling.” Madame de Krény threw her arm about my shoulders. “I didn’t want you to overhear it by accident. I’m so sorry. I know how much you love him.”

How had I failed him? Had his love for me waned? After all we had been through. His poetry, his words of love meant nothing. “I think . . . I think I’ll lie down. Please excuse me.”

I said good night to the others and staggered to my bedroom.

My pale expression had not escaped Bonaparte’s notice. He joined me the moment our guests were settled. “Are you ill?”

I ignored his question and removed the pins from my hair, placing them one by one on the vanity.

“I’ve missed you,” he said. “Come sit on my lap, my darling.”

I spun on my stool. “Hire your mistress to sit on your lap. I’m sure we can fetch her from town.”

He ducked his head. “That woman means nothing to me.”

“You rented her an apartment in Paris! I’d say you care a great deal!” I pushed the array of brushes and cylinders to the floor. They clattered and rolled in every direction.

“Damn it, woman! Am I to be alone when you’re absent? She’s a physical distraction. Nothing more.”

“Maybe I’ll take a lover when you’re gone!” I shouted, fury choking me.

He gripped my shoulders, his fingers digging into my flesh. “Has another man been in my bed?”

“What do you care?”

His face twisted into a furious scowl. I had gone too far.

“You’re the mistress of France! Not a whore! My wife will not make me look a fool!” He shook me. “If you want to be free of me, free of your position, then go!”

I shoved him with all my might. “You would cast me off so easily? Like everyone else in your life?”

He caught my arms and pulled me to him. His mouth fell on mine. My lips pushed angrily against his.

When at last we pulled apart, I dropped into a chair. My anger dissolved into sobs. “I thought we were beyond this. How could you bring her here?”

“I don’t love her.” His face softened and he knelt beside me. “I swear it. Another woman will never possess my heart.” He cradled my face in his hands. “Or my soul. Ever.”

Tears streamed down my cheeks. I had set it all into motion with my folly. Now I could not escape it. Our love wasn’t enough. All I was, all I gave, would never be enough. A fresh wave of pain rippled through me.

He lifted me to the bed. “Sweet Josephine.” He smoothed the hair away from my face. “
Je t’aime, mon amour. Je t’aime.
”

Bonaparte’s appetite for me did not change, and to my relief, the vivacious opera singer didn’t last. She enjoyed her male admirers, it was said, and by month’s end Bonaparte had disposed of her. Despite her leaving, I remained uneasy. Another mistress would follow unless I became pregnant. Of this I was certain. Bonaparte waited each month for happy news, but it did not come. I consulted Paris’s finest doctors, took potions from midwives, and prayed each night, willing my womb to conceive.

As Christmas approached, I filled our calendar with holiday fetes, a welcome distraction from the obsession over my barrenness. Bonaparte had dismissed the revolutionary law banning religious holidays and moved toward readopting Catholicism.

“To appease the farmers and fishwives. Let them have their religion. They need it,” he said.

On Christmas Eve I poked my head into Bonaparte’s study to remind him of the time. In less than an hour we would leave for the opera. I did not wish to be late to Haydn’s much-anticipated
The Creation
.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. It’s eight o’clock.”

To my dismay, my husband, who had been in a happy mood, appeared ruffled. Officer Fouché, the minister of police, stood erect in the center of the room, a stern expression on his countenance. Bonaparte motioned me inside with an impatient wave.

“Good evening, madame.” Fouché tipped his hat and placed his hand on the shiny pommel of his sword. “I have troubling news. My men discovered large quantities of gunpowder in a warehouse outside the city. We believe it was meant for an assassination attempt. A plot most likely devised by the Royalists.”

“It was those damned Jacobins!” Bonaparte paced along an invisible line in the floor. “I want the bastards arrested! Tonight! Do whatever it takes. I’ll hire more policemen if necessary.”

The blood drained from my face. “Assassination attempt? Are we safe in the palace?”

“You’re perfectly safe
here
, madame. First Consul Bonaparte insists you continue to the opera this evening. I have advised him against it—it would be prudent to remain out of sight until we’ve arrested a few suspects—but he insists.”

“Bonaparte—”

He stormed to the door. “I’ll not be made a prisoner by those bastards! Rumors of the arrest are spreading as we speak. Our citizens must see I’m not afraid. That all is well. We’re going and that’s final.” Bonaparte pulled on my hand. “You look lovely. Are the others ready?”

“Nearly.”

“Let’s go.” He nodded to Fouché. “I’ll see you after the show.”

Fouché nodded, his thin face pinched. “As you wish.”

Bonaparte freshened his appearance and chose a cashmere shawl to complement my velvet gown. “The black. It matches your gloves.”

Hortense knocked and spoke through the closed door. “Are you ready, Maman?”

“Come in, darling.”

“You’ll charm every man in the house in that gown.” Bonaparte tugged her ear.

“Thank you.” She blushed and smoothed her glittering waistband. My angel in white silk.

“I need to speak with someone before the show.” Bonaparte adjusted his belt. “I’ll meet you there. My coach is waiting.”

“We’ll be right behind you. Your sister should be ready any moment.” I had not been thrilled when Caroline ordered rather than asked for me to purchase her a ticket, but I had suppressed my annoyance and welcomed her as a sister should. “I’ll check on her now.”

The moment Caroline finished dressing, we rushed to our coach and sped toward the opera house. During the ride I could not shake my malaise. I peered at the crowds, searching for a sinister face in the shadows. How could Bonaparte dismiss an attempt on his life? He endangered us all with this pretense.

“How are you feeling, Caroline?” Hortense interrupted my thoughts.

“Like an elephant.” Her pregnant belly stretched the fabric of her sapphire gown. “I’m uncomfortable and swollen. My stomach gurgles and I don’t sleep. I can’t wait for this child to be born!”

I patted her hand. “It will be over soon and you’ll have a newborn to adore.”

Caroline jerked her hand away. “So far this child has been nothing but a burden.”

Hortense gave me a knowing glance. We had spoken of Caroline often in confidence. I pitied the poor child who would have Bonaparte’s sister as its mother.

The next instant, our carriage jerked to a stop.

“What in the—”

The horses reared on their hind legs and I slammed into Caroline. She shoved me off of her. “Pay attention! You’re going to—”

A blast erupted in an earsplitting boom.

I was catapulted from the coach and all went black.