The Josephine B. Trilogy (108 page)

It was as Caroline was trying to get little Achille to show everyone how he can wave that Aunt Désirée—dressed in a youthful Grecian style!—made a dramatic entrance with dear old fusty Aunt Fanny, who appeared shrunken but vigorous as ever, her thick face paint smudged. With the bravado of an author who has just received a literary award, she read aloud a rather drawn-out verse she’d written in honour of her goddaughter’s son, “the new Apollo.” I was becoming concerned about the length of Aunt Fanny’s recitation (Bonaparte was starting to twitch), when Eugène arrived in his new uniform as Colonel of the Consul Guards, and all the girls made a fuss, causing him to blush.

Once all the guests had arrived, and everyone was comfortably settled, and the children were quieted with bribes of comfits, we talked of the excitement in Paris over the coming debut at the Théâtre-Français of Talma’s protégée, an actress of only fifteen. Then we exchanged news of Jérôme and Pauline, both in the Islands. Of young Jérôme, not much could be said—only that he had written for more money (as usual)—but Pauline is reported to like Saint-Domingue after all, “in spite of the snakes and savages.”

After a collation Louis solemnly presented Hortense with a stunning set of rubies. She was overwhelmed, I believe, for there were tears in her eyes as she thanked him quite sweetly. Then the true jewel of my daughter’s crown, her beautiful baby, was brought in by the nursemaid for everyone to admire. He belched quite splendidly, which made us all cheer. The children squealed and jumped up and down to see his pink little face, as Louis and Hortense and the doting godparents—Bonaparte and I—looked on proudly.

I can’t remember a gathering when my family and the Bonaparte clan have been so united—if one can call it that. I suspect Aunt Fanny with her careless ways (she sat on the arm of a chair) and Aunt Désirée with her girlish pretensions (flowers in her hair at sixty!) horrified Signora Letizia. Oh, that evil eye! Yet all in all, and in spite of the jealousies, it was a lovely family fête, thanks largely to the children. I induced them to sit quietly near me so that they could stay with the adults. Little Napoleon lay in my arms the entire time.

“Ah, portrait of a mother,” Caroline said, holding out her thumb and squinting at me as an artist might. “Pity—”

Fort de France, Martinico

Chère Yeyette, my beloved niece,

We promise, we’ll consider your offer and talk it over with Stéphanie. She’s a spirited girl. You’ll be pleased with your goddaughter, should you ever have an opportunity to meet her.

The house you purchased for your mother in town is magnificent. Now all we have to do is prise her out of her ramshackle abode in Trois-Ilets.

Your well-meaning uncle, Robert Tascher

November 17
—
Saint-Cloud.

A meeting with Madame Campan this afternoon, regarding the staff required for Saint-Cloud, their duties and functions. “One lady-in-waiting isn’t enough,” she said, looking over my notes.

I confessed I didn’t know what exactly a lady-in-waiting
did.

“Ladies-in-waiting do just that: wait.”

“But for what?”

“For whatever you fancy. To join you for a game of chance, or a walk in the garden. To hold your fan should you care to dance. To call for a servant to bring refreshment, should you suffer a sudden and unexpected thirst. To read to you as you work at your frame. To amuse your guests with intelligent and pleasing conversation. To reflect well upon you, by virtue of their reputation and breeding. In short, to make your life pleasing. I suggest you begin with four.”

“Won’t that be too many?”

“At the speed at which your husband’s destiny is unfolding, Madame Bonaparte, I predict that you will soon require five times that number.”

Just then my dame d’annonce opened one of the double doors and exclaimed, “Citoyen Talma!” so loudly that I let out a little shriek. “Madame Campan, perhaps you could help with the training of the staff,” I suggested under my breath as the great actor entered with an air of regal authority—made somewhat difficult by the sheepskin cap he was wearing and a silly little muff he had hanging from a cord around his neck.

Slipping off his hat and tucking it under his right arm, Talma looked slowly about the room, his eyes lingering on the bronze chandeliers, the yellow velvet chairs,
us.
With a fluid motion, he placed his right gloved hand behind his back (without letting the hat slip), the other extended, palm up, and bowed deeply. “Ladies,” he said, his voice resonant. “My pleasure.” Then, with a nervous, almost tragic intensity, he slipped off his gloves and ran his fingers through his unpowdered hair. “How was that?”

“Excellent!” I said, clapping. “Madame Campan, what do you think? Was that not a perfect entry?”

“Commanding,” Madame Campan agreed. “But the gloves stay on.”

I persuaded Talma to join us for a glass of Chablis. We shared the news we’d each gleaned in various salons, reviews of the various spectacles we’d
attended, the excitement about his young protégée, Mademoiselle Georges. The volatile actor confessed that he was fraught with concern that she would fail him. “She’s a child, and yet she is to play Clytemnestra! What does she know about maternal feelings? Grand Dieu! I will never survive this debut.”

Shortly after Talma was summoned by Bonaparte, Madame Campan took her leave as well. I saw her out through the labyrinth of corridors to her carriage. On return, passing Bonaparte’s cabinet, I heard sounds of violence: a terrifying shriek. The guards came running, their hands on the pommels of their swords, and threw open the cabinet door to reveal two startled men: Bonaparte standing about three feet from Talma, who was holding a plumed quill aloft like a dagger.

“What is it?” Bonaparte demanded, turning.

I looked at Talma and then back at my husband. “It sounded as if someone was being murdered!”

Talma burst into laughter. “I told you that you should consider a career on the stage, First Consul.”

Sheepishly, Bonaparte showed me the papers in his hand: a play script. “I was helping Talma rehearse a murder scene,” he said.

November 20
—
Saint-Cloud.

I’ve been interviewing applicants for the various staff positions all week. It’s exhausting—and I’ve several more to interview tomorrow.

A wonderful respite today when Hortense came with the baby. Bonaparte and I turned into silly beings, cooing and talking nonsense, making faces and peering into the face of this perplexed little one—notre petit chou.

“You see?” Bonaparte said when the baby made a face. “He knows me.”

I
love
being a grandmother.

November 21, still raining.

“Madame Rémusat?” I hadn’t seen Claire Rémusat for over a decade—she’d been a girl then. Clari, we’d called her. Although she was a young woman now, I recognized her sharp little nose and lively eyes.

“Madame Bonaparte,” she said, dropping her head. Her graceful move showed respect, but displayed good breeding, as well.

Short and a little plump, there was something childlike about her; she seemed younger than her twenty-two years, perhaps due to her archaic pleated cap.

I led her to the chair by the fire. “Do you mind if I call you Claire?” During the Terror, she and Hortense had played with dolls together, but that wasn’t the only thing they had in common. Tragically, both girls had lost a father to the guillotine. (Oh, those terrible days…)

“I would be honoured, Madame Bonaparte,” she said, straightening the neck ruffle of her old-fashioned gown, “but most people still call me Clari.” She placed her hands in her lap, one hand over another (to cover a stain on her glove).

“Hortense tells me that you are married and have two children.”

“Two boys,” she said, her melancholy eyes brightening. “One five years and quick, the other two years, but an infant in his growth and mind.” She swallowed before adding, with heartfelt emotion, “Madame Bonaparte, you are well-known for your generous heart, for your willingness to help the unfortunate. The Angel of Mercy, people call you, because you further the cause of every petition that is made to you—you never turn anyone away. We lost everything during the Revolution. We have not a sou. I beseech you, please help us.”

“I am the one in need of help,” I assured her. The daughter of an impoverished aristocratic family, Clari no doubt found it humbling to beg employment. “I am in need of someone to accompany me—a ladyin-waiting. The salary is only twelve thousand francs, but you would share the position with several others, so you would still have time for your family.”

“You are so kind!”

“And your husband?” I asked. “The First Consul might be able to employ him, as well.”

“I will be forever indebted,” she said, clasping my hands, her composure giving way.

November 23, late morning.

Bonaparte has approved my selection of ladies-in-waiting (except for the Duchess d’Aiguillon,
^*
alas). Madame Lucay, Madame de Copons del Llor, and Madame Lauriston will report in shifts, beginning in a few weeks. Clari Rémusat will begin immediately. Her husband will be one of Bonaparte’s chamberlains, as well—which solves their monetary embarrassment.

November 27.

Clari Rémusat, her husband and children moved into a suite at Saint-Cloud yesterday. She is quick-witted and cultured, and seems eager to be of assistance—certainly, I can use help.

November 29
—
Saint-Cloud, chilly.

“I picked up your parcel in town, Madame,” Clari announced from the door, pushing back the hood of her cloak.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I said, making smiling wide-eyes at Clari’s two boys, their cheeks red from the wind. “I’d like your advice.” I’d been studying a book of Greek statues that my architects had loaned me, and I was trying to get my shawl to fall in the manner of one statue in particular.

“We got held up on the Rue Saint-Honoré,” Clari said, handing her youngest child into her nursemaid’s arms. “You should see the lineup at the Théâtre-Français! Even at noon there was a long queue.”

“A lady got hurt and the police were there,” her eldest boy Charles said, one hand clutching the skirt of his mother’s gown.

“Oh dear!” I told the boy, putting my hands to my cheeks—or pretending to. I was
not
to touch my face. Citoyen Isabey, Hortense’s art instructor, had attended to my make-up and regarded my face as a work of art.

“It’s true.” The child nodded. He is an exceptionally sombre five-year-old, mature for his years.

“Apparently, there was a bit of a press when Mademoiselle Georges
arrived,” Clari said. “The Venus of Paris, people are calling the girl. Is it true she’s only fifteen?”

It was after six by the time Bonaparte and I arrived at the theatre. “Not a seat empty,” the theatre manager told us, escorting us to our box. “And now, may the performance begin,” he announced, bowing deeply as the audience cheered.

Over the balustrade I looked to see what faces I recognized, nodding to acknowledge Minister Talleyrand, and the Second and Third Consuls, Cambacérès and Lebrun. In the third tier, way at the back, I thought I recognized Fouché, sitting alone. “
Everyone
is here,” I whispered to Bonaparte. Caroline and Joachim (in pink), Elisa and Félix. “
And
Joseph,” I said—but not with Julie. “Ah, it’s your mother.” I made a little wave to them all, but they didn’t wave back.

By the end of the first act, the audience was becoming restless, in spite of Talma’s riveting performance as Achilles. Everyone had come to see Mademoiselle Georges play Clytemnestra, and she was not to appear until the second act. So when the curtain opened, the claque cheered loudly.

At last the moment arrived: Clytemnestra stepped onto the stage. She
is
beautiful—tall!—but from our close vantage point, I could see that the poor girl was trembling. “Mon Dieu, Bonaparte, she can’t speak,” I whispered. Fortunately, the appreciative murmur of the crowd seemed to give the young actress courage and she began to recite her lines—somewhat mechanically, however, and without that fire that one senses in the great artists of the theatre.

It was during the third act that the trouble began. My heart jumped at the first hiss. It seemed to come from the benches toward the front. Then increasingly the critics became more and more vocal until, during the fourth and final act, there was a very long hiss during one of Mademoiselle Georges’s speeches. Then the pit erupted: shouting, raising canes and umbrellas. Blows were exchanged!

Poor Mademoiselle Georges stuttered out a few lines. She looked as if she might faint. “Courage, Georges!” I heard someone yell out, and at this the young actress’s voice became strong—angry even—and the audience fell silent. At the final curtain, the audience burst into cheers.

December 1, early evening
—
Saint-Cloud.

Talma struck a pose, his eyes raised in prayer, his shoulders thrown back, signifying pride. “Even Geoffroy, that idiot of a critic, was impressed with my protégée’s masterful performance,” he said, crossing both hands on his chest, casting his eyes down slowly and bowing his noble head.

“Bravo!” Clari clapped with delight. The famous theatre critic had recently lashed out against Talma, calling him a “Quaker of dramatic art.” Talma’s new school of acting, in Geoffroy’s view, should be banished for tampering with the incantatory alexandrine.

“That’s wonderful,” I exclaimed, feeling that perhaps it was Talma who should be commended for a masterful performance. Although certainly beautiful, Mademoiselle Georges tends to speak her lines in a monotonous drawl, and that, to my mind, hinders perfect elocution. Still, she is only fifteen. “We should send her a note of congratulation, Bonaparte.”

“I’ve already seen to it,” Bonaparte said, staring out onto the terrace, lost in thought.

December 16
—
cold!