Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe
Tales of Passion
Tales of Woe
SANDRA GULLAND
For my father,
who loves stories,
and my mother,
who loves books.
In a dark time, the eye begins to see.
—Theodore Roethke
Contents
Prologue Marie Antoinette (spirit)
In which my new life begins
In which I break the news to my family & friends
In which the past continues to haunt me
In which I learn the Facts of Life
In which I finally depart
In which I join the Liberator of Italy
In which I learn about war
In which I am surrounded by Bonapartes
In which I receive shocking news
In which problems await me at home
In which I become involved in intrigues
In which I am accused
In which I must stay behind
In which I very nearly die
In which victories are followed by defeat
In which I have enemies everywhere
In which I retreat
In which I am forgiven (& forgive)
In which Eugène is healed
In which I must make a choice
In which we have “a day” (or two)
In which I must live in a haunted palace
In which I must sleep in Marie Antoinette’s bed
In which I am called Angel of Mercy
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Prologue Marie Antoinette (spirit)
He calls her Josephine.
I approach her with caution. I do not want to startle her, only observe her, writing at her escritoire. It is an old piece of furniture, made in the Islands—a crude design but of sentimental value. She remembers her father sitting at it, cursing over the bills, as she often does herself.
She pauses, looks up, her hand suspended over the page of her journal.
She’s not what one would call a beauty, yet he worships her with a passion that verges on madness! Big hazel eyes, I grant you, and yes, long curling lashes, a slender, graceful form, artful dress, etc., etc.—but are these qualities that bewitch? Perhaps it is the caress of her musical voice that has cast a spell. (I know about spells.) No, it’s her maddening gentleness that drives him to despair. He wants to consume her, possess her, enchain her! And she … well, I see that puzzled look in her eyes.
She glances over her shoulder. There is no one, I assure her. She listens, and hears: the steady ticking of the pendulum clock, the crackling of the fire in the bedchamber. She dips the raven’s tail quill in the ink.
I only want to help! History was cruel where I was concerned. They made me into a monster, took my husband, my children, my head.
Beware! I want to warn her. Small deceits, one upon another, destroy faith. You will not miss it until it’s gone. Betrayed, one becomes the betrayer. The Devil lights the path. Say what you will, there is no return.
She puts down the quill. A tear? Such thoughts oppress, no doubt. Loyalty defines her; she lives to please.
Such is the luxury of commoners—a conceit, if you will.
She pulls her shawl about her shoulders; I’ve chilled her, I know. It can’t be helped. She knows not the future. I do.
How many lands, how many frontiers separate us!
—Napoleon, in a letter to Josephine.
March 10, 1796—Paris, early morning, grey skies.
I am writing this in my jasmine-scented dressing room, where I might not be discovered by Bonaparte, my husband of one day.
Husband. The word feels foreign on my tongue, as foreign as the maps spread over the dining room table, the sword propped in the corner of my drawing room. As foreign as the man himself.
My face in the glass looks harsh, etched by shadow, reflecting the dark thoughts in my heart.
How unlike me to be melancholy. I’m tempted to black out the words I’ve just written, tempted to write, instead: I’ve married, I am happy, all is well. But I’ve promised myself one thing—to be honest on these pages. However much I am required to dissemble, to flatter and cajole, here I may speak my heart truly. And my heart, in truth, is troubled. I fear I’ve made a mistake.
[Undated]
Josephine Rose Beauharnais Bonaparte
Josephine Rose Bonaparte
Josephine Tascher Beauharnais Bonaparte
Josephine Beauharnais Bonaparte
Josephine Bonaparte
Citoyenne Jospehine Bonaparte
Madame Josephine Bonaparte
Josephine
Josephine
Josephine
2:30
P.M.
We’ve just returned from Saint-Germain. Bonaparte is in a meeting in the study, and I’m back in my dressing room, seeking solace. It seems that everything is going wrong. Where to begin?
This morning, as I was dusting my face with rice powder, preparing to leave, I saw Bonaparte standing in the door. “The coach is ready.” He had a riding crop in his hands and was twisting it, bending it. He was anxious, I knew, about going out to Saint-Germain to see my children at their schools. Certainly, I was uneasy myself. I wasn’t sure how Hortense and Eugène were going to take the news.
“You’re not wearing your new jacket?” I asked, putting on a pair of dangling sapphire earrings. I’d changed into a long-sleeved violet gown over a dotted gauze skirt. It was a new ensemble and I was pleased with the effect, but I couldn’t decide which shoes to wear—my lace-up boots or my silk slippers, which went so nicely. It had stopped raining but was damp out. The boots would be more practical. “The boots,” I told my scullery maid, who pushed one roughly onto my foot. I made a mental note to begin looking for a lady’s maid as soon as Bonaparte left for the south.
As soon as Bonaparte left for the south, and life returned to normal.
Today, tonight and then tomorrow, I thought—twenty-eight hours. Twenty-eight hours of frenetic activity, soldiers coming and going, couriers cantering into the courtyard. Twenty-eight hours of chaos. Every surface of my little house is covered with maps, journals, reports, scraps of paper with lists on them of provisions, names, numbers, schedules. Books are stacked on the dining room table, on the escritoire, by my bed. Twenty-eight more hours of his fumbling caresses and embraces. Bonaparte works and reads with intense concentration—oblivious to me, to the servants—and then falls upon me with a ravenous need. Twenty-eight more hours of dazed bewilderment. Who is this man I have married? Will life ever be “normal” again?
“What’s wrong with this jacket?” he demanded.
“It needs mending,” I said, smoothing the shoulder. The worn grey wool was pulling at the seams and the edges of the cuffs were frayed. I would have it mended, if I could ever get him out of it. If I could ever get him out of it, I might burn it, I thought, kissing his smooth cheek. “And you look so handsome in the new one.” The knee-length tails helped detract from his thin legs and gave the impression of height.
He kissed me and grinned. “I’m not changing,” he said, tweaking my ear.
It was a slow journey to Saint-Germain—the rain had made the roads muddy—so it was early afternoon by the time our carriage pulled into the courtyard of Hortense’s school. I spotted her on the playing field and waved. As soon as she saw us, she dropped the ball and spun on her heels, covering her face with her hands. Was she crying? I touched Bonaparte’s arm to distract him, but it was too late—he’d already seen my daughter’s reaction. He gazed across the playing field with a sad expression in his grey eyes.
“Something’s wrong,” I said. I feared what the problem might be.
“I’ll wait for you inside.” Bonaparte pulled down on the rim of his new general’s hat. The felt was rigid yet and it sat high on his big head.
I squeezed his hand, as lovers do. “I won’t be long,” I promised.
The ground was soft under my feet. I could feel the damp soaking into my thin-soled boots. A spring breeze carried the scent of ploughed fields. I picked my way around the wet spots, reminding myself that Hortense was young. Reminding myself that it was normal for a girl of twelve (almost thirteen) to have a delicate sensibility, especially considering …
Especially considering what she’s had to endure. It has been almost two years since the Terror, yet even now my daughter sometimes wakes screaming in the night. Even now she cannot pass the place where her father died without bursting into tears.
*
My niece Emilie ran to embrace me. “Is Hortense hurt?” I asked. “What’s wrong?” My daughter looked so alone, hunched over by the goal post, her back to us.
“She’s crying, Auntie,” Emilie said, shivering, her hands pushed into the pockets of her plain woollen smock. “It’s the hysterics!”
Hysterics? I’d been warned that girls of fourteen were subject to frightful convulsions, but Hortense was not yet of that age. I lifted the hem of my gown and headed toward my weeping daughter.
“Hortense?” I called out, approaching. I could see her shoulders shaking. “Darling—” I reached out and touched her shoulder. Even through my gloves I could feel her bones—the bones of a girl still, not yet the bones of a woman. I considered turning her, but I knew her stubborn strength. Instead, I walked around to face her.
I was startled by the haunted look in her eyes. Pink blotches covered her freckled cheeks, making her eyes seem abnormally blue—her father’s eyes. Her father’s critical eyes, following me still. I took her cold, bare hand and pressed it to my heart. “What is it, darling?” Thinking how she’d grown in the last year, thinking that she was tall for her age, and that soon she would be as tall as I am, taller perhaps.
“I’m afraid, Maman.” A sob welled up in her.
A gust of wind rustled the leaves. My straw hat flew off my head and dangled down my back by a ribbon. It was not the answer I’d expected. “Of what?”
“That you’ll marry him!”
Him: Bonaparte. I tried to speak, but could not. The words stuck in my throat. How could I tell her that the deed had been done, the vows spoken, the contract signed: Bonaparte and I were man and wife. How could I tell her that this man was now her father—for better or for worse, for ever and ever. “Hortense, General Bonaparte is a kind man,” I said, reprimanding her gently. “He cares for you sincerely.”
“I don’t care! I don’t care for
him.”
Then she hung her head, seeing the stricken look in my eyes. “I’m sorry, Maman!” She took a big breath and exhaled, blowing her cheeks out like a balloon.
