The Josephine B. Trilogy (133 page)
The chair I’m sitting on, like all the furniture here, is ancient and uncomfortable. I had a splintered oak table moved close to the (smoking) fireplace because it is so very cold. None of the windows both opens and closes. Some cannot be opened, but most, unfortunately, cannot be closed, so swollen is the wood from the damp.
Mademoiselle Avrillion is with me now, huddled by the fire. The bedchambers are small, cold,
dismal.
Each day we burn fifteen cartloads of wood and seven sacks of coal, and even so, we shiver.
“The grounds are lovely,” Mademoiselle Avrillion said quietly, as if reading my thoughts.
Yes, I agreed: were it not for the bogs and the stagnant pools.
[Undated]
Four servants left today, two yesterday…and who can blame them?
[Undated]
Three cartloads of furniture arrived from Paris this afternoon. The servants descended on them like starving men attacking a banquet table. A distressing melee ensued, the servants fighting over stools and bed frames while the driver cried out for them to stop. (Futile.)
April 1, April Fish Day
—
Château de Navarre.
As I write this, Bonaparte and Marie-Louise are being joined in marriage.
We have made some progress clearing the swamp. Very cold still, bitter. My health suffers.
April 5, Thursday.
In spite of my resolve, I have read the accounts of the wedding in the journals. The crowds along the Champs-Élysées were so thick the troops had difficulty restraining them. Eight thousand were in attendance at the ceremony. (Who carried the bride’s train? I wonder.) The usual concerts, fire-rockets and fountains gushing with wine. Food was distributed as prizes in a lottery.
*
(No banquets?) At one signal from the palace, the entire city was illuminated—I would like to have seen
that.
It’s only eight, but I’m going to bed. We’ve sealed the window cracks with wax, which helps. I wonder if Uncle Fesch remembered to bless their bed.
April 18
—
Château de Navarre.
I could not believe my eyes, for who should be announced this evening as I was playing trictrac with the Bishop of Évreux but my son! I jumped to my feet and threw my arms around him, forgetting all sense of propriety. “Why have you come?” I demanded, suddenly alarmed. Was Hortense all right? Her boys! And what about Bonaparte? Was he…?
Eugène held up his hands. “Everyone’s fine. Papa got your letter. He
sent me to tell you that he’ll give you the money you need for repairs.”
“But no letter from him?”
“He said to tell you he would write soon. He wanted me to have a look, see how you’re doing.” Eugène frowned at the rotting windowsill. “Well,” he said, his hands on his hips. “I see the problem.”
“It’s really much improved.” In my joy to see my son, my complaints had vanished. “And the fishing here is excellent, I’m told. Isn’t it, Bishop? Oh, forgive me, I’ve neglected civilities. Prince Eugène, Viceroy of Italy, may I have the honour of introducing you to the Bishop of Évreux. The king of trictrac, we call him.”
“A defeated king, alas,” the old man said, struggling to rise.
“Please, stay seated,” my son insisted, lowering himself onto the (hard) sofa.
“No, no, I only care to get trounced once in an evening,” the Bishop said, taking his leave. “Tomorrow evening, Your Majesty, as usual?”
“A charming man,” Eugène said, after he’d left.
“He has saved my life here,” I said, sitting beside my son and taking his hand. “And how
is
Bonaparte?” How is the
Empress
? I wanted to ask, but dared not. Not yet.
“Papa is well,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Although—” He grinned. “Although he has had to make a few
adjustments.
”
I frowned. Bonaparte did not care for “adjustments.”
“She calls him Popo, for one thing.”
Emperor Popo?
“She likes her bedroom icy cold.”
Bonaparte could not tolerate the cold!
“She becomes
vexed
if rushed.”
“Oh-oh.”
“And she
refuses
to watch tragedies.” Eugène sighed. “Consequently the court is required to sit through a burlesque every single night, while the—”
“Bonaparte as well?” I couldn’t imagine him sitting through a comedy.
“—while the Emperor sleeps in his chair.”
“And does he…?” I tilted my head, smiled, my finger on my chin—as
if posing a light, almost fanciful question. “Does he
love
her, do you think?”
Eugène looked down at the worn carpet. “It’s different, Maman.”
Thursday, early afternoon
—
Château de Navarre.
A lovely morning with my son. I showed him the new herb bed, my roses and lilacs, the pretty cascades and pools, the charming vistas. “Already you’ve created a paradise here,” he said.
“It’s peaceful.” Isolated, in truth: but I didn’t want him to worry. “And just think: no intrigues.”
“No
clan
, you mean,” he said, for even the new Empress has been made to suffer. “Even Auguste,” he confided.
*
June 10, Sunday
—
Malmaison.
I’m back at Malmaison again, at last. It is quiet except for the distant crack and fizz of the fire-rockets. Most of my staff are in Paris at the fêtes in honour of the Emperor and Empress. The servants will return drunken and gay. I plan to be asleep.
Mon amie, I’d like very much to see you. I need to know that you are happy and well. Never doubt the sincerity of my feelings for you. They shall last until I die. N.
June 13.
Bonaparte arrived this morning precisely at ten. A startled maid directed him to the garden, where I was tending roses. I hurried toward him, then stopped short. (We were being watched.) I
would
not weep!
We sat side by side on a curved stone bench for over an hour—talking
and talking, as if nothing has changed between us. “I understand Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin made you a proposal,” he said.
“Who told you that?” I’d been touched (and surprised) by the offer, but had not given it more than a moment’s thought.
“So it’s true? I think you should accept.”
“He’s young. It wouldn’t be fair to him.” And in my heart I was still married, still very much in love with my husband.
At my urging, Bonaparte talked to me about Marie-Louise, his difficulties and concerns. (She’s not pregnant yet, which worries me.) “And unfortunately she’s exceedingly jealous of you,” he said. “She was upset to learn that you are back at Malmaison. I had to use the utmost secrecy to come see you today.”
“Perhaps if I met her.” I want Marie-Louise to regard me as an older sister, as someone she can confide in, learn from. I could help her. I could tell her what pleased the Emperor—and what did not. I could tell her how to tend to his delicate health, how to calm his easily ruffled temper.
“Impossible! She’s a child in many ways.” Bonaparte stood, paced. “And perhaps she is right, perhaps she has good reason to be jealous. It’s likely for the best that you will be going to Aix-les-Bains to take the waters soon.”
For the best that I go away—and stay away.
June 18
—
Aix-les-Bains.
I’ve arrived at the spa, exhausted from days and nights of travel. Already I long for home.
July 6, 1810
Chère Maman,
I’ve just received shocking news: I don’t know what to make of it. In what Papa calls an “act of madness,” Louis has abdicated the throne of Holland, disappearing with his beloved dog.
*
So I am no longer a queen, Maman. I am not unhappy, I confess. I have no ambition but to lead a quiet life with my boys.
I hope the spa treatment at Aix-les-Bains is proving beneficial for your nerves. Is it true that Madame de Souza and her son Charles are both there? Perhaps I will visit.
Your loving and dutiful daughter, Hortense
Note
—
I spoke with Madame Clari Rémusat at Talleyrand’s salon. She looks remarkably well.
And another
—
Empress Marie-Louise is suspected to be with child.
September 14, Saint-Cloud
Mon amie, the Empress has been with child for four months. She is well. Do not doubt the interest I take in you, the feelings I have for you. N.
November 11
—
Malmaison.
I am back at Malmaison, but for only a few weeks. I’ve had a fever, but
I’m better today. Dr. Corvisart has ordered rest. The Château de Navarre won’t be ready until the end of next week, in any case.
6:15
P.M.
Countess d’Arberg has just informed me that an Imperial baptism was held yesterday. Bonaparte and Marie-Louise baptized a number of infants—sons and daughters of the grandees of the Empire. Every baby girl brought to the font was named Josephine, unfortunately. This will only inflame Marie-Louise’s jealousy of me. I had hoped it would be different. I don’t want to go to damp, cold Navarre right now, but I know I must.
December 9, 1810, Milan
Chère Maman,
I’m now the father of a big, healthy son. The labour was difficult, but my lovely Auguste seems to be out of danger. Don’t worry
—
we’ll do exactly as the midwife says.
My girls are thrilled to have a brother. Augustus Karl Eugen Napoleon he will be named
—
Augustus, for short. Do you like it? Little Josephine asked me to send you this drawing she made of him. You can see that he has a healthy crop of black hair. Eugénie has decided that Augustus is her doll
—
she will be two on Christmas Eve. It’s hard to believe. Where does the time go?
I think your decision to go to Navarre until after the birth is wise, Maman.
I must be off
—
I hear the baby crying!
Your very proud and happy son, Eugène
March 19, 1811
—
Château de Navarre, Évreux.
The villagers of Évreux came in carts harnessed to field nags, reciting verses that they’d written in my honour. They presented me with a bust they’d had made of me, decorated with a crown of wilting spring flowers.
March 20
—
Château de Navarre.
I was resting, nursing a head pain, when I heard the bells begin to ring in town. “The child is born!” I heard someone call out. A gun salute was followed by another a minute later, and then another, and then another. The silence after the twenty-first salute seemed an eternity. And then…one more.
Twenty-two
guns: a boy!
*
Thank God! My sacrifice has not been in vain. The Empire has an heir.
March 21, 1811
—
Château de Navarre.
Eugène embraced me at the door, sweeping me off my feet. “Our prayers have been answered.”
“Bonaparte must be overjoyed!”
“He commanded me to come to you immediately,” he said, leaning against the wall so that a servant could pull off his muddy boots. “He’s going to write to you tonight, he said. He can’t take his eyes off the baby.”
“Coffee and breakfast cakes,” I told a maid. “And a bottle of champagne,” I called out to her. “Come,” I said, taking my son’s hand, pulling him into the drawing room. “I want to hear
all
about it.”
And I did. Grands Dieux—the young Empress had very nearly died. “Oh, the poor girl.”
“It was awful, Maman. They had to pull the baby out by the feet. Marie-Louise fainted dead away, mercifully. The accoucheur was in a frightful state.
Imagine.
At one point he told Papa that he was going to have to choose between the life of the child and the life of the Empress. Papa never hesitated—he told the doctor to save Marie-Louise.”
“But she’s all right?”
“It’s early yet, of course. She seems well—fatigued, of course.”
“And the baby?” King of Rome.
“A big boy.”
Mon Dieu—and feet first.
“They thought he was dead, but he revived. A lusty crier,” he said, grinning broadly.
“Bonaparte loves children so much.” A child, at last—and a
son.
“And so, no doubt, there is much celebrating in Paris?”
“Except on the part of the
sisters
,” Eugène said, imitating their long faces. “All they could think of was that their influence would be lessened, that
their
children would lose rank.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” I said as the maid came in with a collation. “A toast,” I said, handing my son a glass of champagne. “To the King of Rome. To
peace.
”
“To the Emperor!”
“
And
to his wife,” I said, raising my glass. I sacrificed my marriage for this baby, but young Marie-Louise had very nearly sacrificed her life.
March 22, Paris
Mon amie, I received your letter. Thank you. My son is big and very well. He has my chest, my mouth and my eyes. I hope that he will accomplish his destiny. N.
April 2
—
Malmaison, at last.
How beautiful Malmaison is, the air sweet, the flowers blooming. I’ve been all morning with my gardeners. Yet even so my thoughts pull ever toward Paris, toward
them.
May 18, Saturday.
My daughter appeared like a fairy angel, her cheeks pink under a lime green velvet hat with a high feathered crown. She has gained weight, which is encouraging. I suspect she’s in love (at last), for she blushed when I inquired about aide-de-camp Charles Flahaut.
