Becoming Josephine (39 page)

The burn of smelling salts filled my nostrils. I opened my eyes and locked on Hortense’s worried expression. The footman and several guards stood behind her.

“Maman?” She slid her arm under my head.

I groaned and sat up slowly. Splintered wood and shards of glass littered the street. Our carriage, or what remained of it, lay on its side in a filthy puddle. The surrounding houses had lost their windows in the blast. Some had caught fire.

“What happened?” I rubbed the back of my neck. Hortense sat beside me, mute and trembling. Blood dribbled down her arm and pooled on her white gown. “You’re bleeding!”

“I’ve cut my wrist.” Her voice shook. “I need a bandage.” A guard produced a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped her wrist, securing it with a piece of twine.

“How is—my God! Caroline!” I looked around frantically. “The baby! Caroline!”

“She’s here, madame,” the footman reassured me. “She appears unharmed.”

The guard moved to reveal several policemen, a few dazed bystanders, and a stupefied Caroline rubbing her belly.

“The baby is kicking. The little thing didn’t enjoy being thrown to the ground.”

“Are you well? Is—”

“Fine,” she snapped.

“Madame Bonaparte, there was an explosion,” a policeman said. “We are preparing another coach for you. We believe the bomb was intended for the first consul.”

My heart stopped. “Is he—”

“He had already moved on to the opera house when the explosion occurred.”

I leaned into the guard, weak with relief.
Merci à Dieu.

“Shall I take you back to the palace?”

“Take us to the opera. My husband will be expecting us.”

Bonaparte waited in our box, pale and on edge.

“Thank God.” He crushed my hand in his. “They told me you were safe, but I wouldn’t believe it until I saw you myself. You did the right thing in coming. We must show we’re in control. Not the bastards who did this. I’ll have their heads.”

After the initial relief of seeing Bonaparte, my anger grew. His muleheaded decision could have had us killed. I put a shaky arm around Hortense. She smiled weakly and returned her gaze to the stage.

Something had to be done about the Royalists. There must be a way to neutralize them. If Bonaparte would not address their involvement, I would. I packed my lorgnette into my handbag. I could not use it anyway; my hands trembled too much to see the stage clearly.

The police confirmed the explosion was a Royalist plot. Bonaparte ignored the evidence and ordered the arrest and exile of dozens of Jacobins. Uprisings sprang up throughout the country.

“Let them have their voice.” Monsieur Talleyrand smoothed his black coat and perched on the edge of a chair. “One who cannot speak grows first apathetic, then angry. Need I remind you of La Terreur?”

Bonaparte rubbed his chin. “What do you suggest?”

I looked up from the letter I was writing. “I will invite them to my Yellow Salon. I’ll hear their requests and write to the ministry on their behalf. If the émigrés may return to their families and homes, they’ll be less likely to oppose the new government.”

They stared at me in dumbfounded silence.

I dipped my quill pen into its well. Sometimes men did not see the obvious. “To reunite their families would make them very grateful and in your debt.”

Bonaparte adopted my strategy, permitting me to request pardons for as many Royalist émigrés as I chose. Day after day I prepared my salon and served refreshments to visitors seeking my aid. I turned away no one, regardless of title or station. I could not deny those who had suffered, their fathers or daughters murdered, their heirlooms destroyed or property confiscated.

The exiled trickled back to France and within a few months, the former nobles appealed to me in droves.

“I am growing bored of the same stories,” Hortense complained one morning. She yawned and stretched her limbs. I insisted she attend to learn a sense of responsibility in her position of power—to learn to be generous and show mercy. Besides, one never knew when they might need to rely upon another’s kindness.

“Everyone has a tale of woe,” I said. “It is true. But imagine if we could not return home. If not for the generosity of others, we could have starved during the Revolution. Or worse.”

I peered out at the gardens. Saplings grew in place of the ancient trees that had been defaced or ripped from the earth during the riots. A family of robins hopped about, pecking the sodden ground in search of a meal. How I wished to be at Malmaison, digging in my own gardens. My schedule had become grueling.

Hortense lowered her head in shame. “I am grateful, Maman. And I’m happy to show others kindness.”

“When you’re in a position to give, you do so. It’s the right thing to do, to help another in need.” I smiled to myself. Perhaps I had learned a thing or two from those years of studying Alexandre’s beloved Rousseau. One man for another, regardless of station.

She joined me at the window. “Why do you risk Bonaparte’s anger?” She shuddered at the thought. “He’ll be enraged when he learns of the ten thousand francs. You could have granted the orphanage the two thousand they requested.”

“Two thousand is a meager sum that will barely keep the fires lit. Those poor children.”

“They call you our Lady of Bounty. Have you heard?”

I laughed. “Another nickname for the wife of Napoléon Bonaparte.”

“You are far more than his wife.”

I stared at Hortense. Perhaps she was wiser than I had thought. I tucked a blond curl behind her ear. “I suppose I am.”

My charity extended beyond émigrés, orphanages, and hospitals. Every member of my family applied for financial support or a favor. I solicited Bonaparte to bestow them with titles and pay their debts.
Aunt Désirée and Fanny, Alexandre’s brother, François, and every other Beauharnais relation wanted for nothing. Uncle Tascher relocated from Martinique with five cousins in tow.

I appealed to Maman to join him. When her latest packet of letters arrived, I sought the refuge of my boudoir, anxious to read her reply. Surely she would come to Paris now.

I sat at my vanity, poring over each letter. Everything seemed well at home. She missed us. And in her last missive, she once again refused my invitation to visit.

I tossed the letter on top of the pile. Why wouldn’t she come? I couldn’t understand her reluctance. She lived alone. Her grandchildren, her daughter, now Consulesse of France, and a life of luxury wouldn’t bring her to France.

I threw myself on my bed and beat my pillows in frustration.

My reputation for generosity spread. Soon, every past acquaintance appeared. One warm summer day, a single visit tested my sense of charity more than all others combined.

“Pardon me, madame.” A servant interrupted my letter writing. “A woman is here to see you.”

“Who is it?” I asked, laying down my quill.

“Madame Laure de Longpré.”

I paused in stunned silence for a full minute.

Laure de Longpré! She had stolen Alexandre’s heart, borne him a child, and spoken falsehoods about me to my own family. What bravado she possessed showing her face! Wretched woman! I could turn her away, have her thrown into the street. Bonaparte would follow my request in an instant.

“Madame?” The servant looked at me expectantly. “Shall I send her in?”

I tapped my fingers on the polished mahogany desktop. What could she possibly ask of me? I could at least hear her request, then deny her if I chose. But how would I control my temper? I detested few people as much as I did her. I stared at the door for a moment longer.

The temptation was too great.

I moved to a flower-patterned settee and smoothed my skirts. The white muslin dress with blue ribbons had been a good choice. She would see me looking my best.

“You may show her in.”

Laure entered my salon, head held high. I knew at once why Alexandre had fallen for her. She carried herself like nobility and her blushing beauty suited his tastes. I noticed her dated appearance with satisfaction—her gown, a pretty
indienne
of pink flowers, appeared worn and her hat was no longer in fashion.

She curtsied. “
Bonjour
, Madame Consulesse.”

“Have a seat.” I motioned to a floral chaise across from me. “Would you care for coffee or galettes?” I plucked a silver bell from the table.

A servant appeared instantly. “Madame?”

“Coffee,
s’il vous plaît
.” The servant nodded and hurried from the room.

I stared at Laure coldly, relishing her discomfort.

“This is very awkward.” She fingered the lace trim of her fan. “I owe you an apology. I was a fool.” She lowered her eyes. “My mother would have disowned me had she known I treated another woman in such a way.” She began to flutter her fan wildly.

She had a heart after all.

I said nothing for a long moment. Finally, I waved my hand in dismissal. “A million years have passed.”

Silence.

I shifted in my seat.

Laure surveyed the room and fixed her gaze upon the oriental carpet, with its curling vines and bulging rosebuds.

“Is there something I can do for you, Madame de Longpré?”