The Josephine B. Trilogy (23 page)

“The ladies are all
so
kind to me,” the little man said sadly.

Alexandre took my hand. “Tonight? You’ll be in?” He disappeared into the crowd.

“I didn’t know Deputy Beauharnais was married.” Deputy Dunnkirk sneezed into an enormous linen handkerchief.

“There you are, darling!” Fanny pressed her thickly painted face between us. “I didn’t know you knew Emmery.”

“Deputy Dunnkirk, forgive me if I appear abstracted,” I said. “I have only been in Paris for a few days, and it is really all so…”

“Indeed. We are all of us in a state of confusion. I very much doubt that we will ever recover.”

Fanny laughed too loudly. “Dear, dear Emmery. Why do I never see you?”

“You were in Rome, with that wild man. On a tour of propaganda, I am told, preaching to the unenlightened masses…”

“I’m beginning my evenings again, this coming Monday,” Fanny said. “I will simply
die
of grief if I don’t see you there.”

I looked at her. “Monday!” That was only in four days.

“But you don’t even have a cook,” I exclaimed, as we waited outside for our fiacre.

“
Mon Dieu!
I’d forgotten!” Fanny said, fanning herself furiously in spite of the cold.

That evening.

I spent most of the afternoon preparing for Alexandre’s visit. I bathed, found a suitable dress, this one a loan from Princess Amalia, one of her
less
formal creations—a teal silk with ivory ribbons and lace, quite the confection. Hortense tried on all of Émilie’s big-girl dresses and finally settled on a horrid pink one. It is far too big for her but she will not be persuaded otherwise, especially after Eugène told her she looked “lovely” in it.

Alexandre arrived after supper. Proudly, Eugène performed civilités—showing his father to a seat in the front parlour, ordering refreshments. Hortense refused to leave my side, clinging to me—her eyes never leaving the face of this stranger, her father. She would not allow him near her.

“She will get over it,” I assured him, after the children had been taken to bed. I sounded more confident than I felt, for in truth I find Hortense difficult to predict. “You will be pleased to discover that she is quite bright,” I told him, “and possesses a number of remarkable abilities.”

“I wish I could say the same for our son.” Alexandre stood in front of the fire, warming his hands.

“Perhaps Eugène takes after me in the matter of school.” I stared into the flames, the heat warming my face.

“He certainly has your nature.” He cleared his throat. “Kind, generous…” He studied me for a moment. “Charming. That colour quite suits you, Rose.”

I flushed.

“Do you ever think of me?” he asked.

“I often think of you.”

“Do you think of me
kindly?
”

How honest was I willing to be? “You are an easy man to care for, Alexandre.”

“You make it sound facile.”

“Is that a fault?”

“I wish you to know that I am a changed man; I feel I have risen from some magnetic slumber. I am intent on putting the foolishness of youth behind me.”

We talked for some time of the changes in his life—of his health, the lingering effects of the fever he had suffered in Martinico, which had made a military life untenable. A political career was his only alternative. “Fortuitously,” he said, for politics had become his passion. “I should like to tell you more,” he said, pulling out a timepiece, “but I promised the Duc d’Orléans I would help prepare a petition. Oh—I almost forgot. I have something for you.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulling out an envelope.

“It’s from
Mother?
” I recognized the writing.

“Apparently it was delivered to our old hôtel on Rue Neuve-Saint-Charles.”

I broke the seal, scanned the contents. Uncle Tascher was safe. Father, Manette, were alive.

“It is bad news?” Alexandre asked, alarmed by my tears.

“No, yes.”

“Good news?”

I laughed, handing him the letter to read. “I’m to protect myself against you,” I explained.

“Me?”

“Unless, of course, I succeed in reforming you.”

September 23, this year of our Lord, 1790—Trois-Ilets

Dear Rose,

I trust that my prayers have been answered and that you and Hortense have completed your journey safely. Your father and sister continue to weaken, in spite of my prayers.

Your uncle Tascher was released shortly after your departure and in time the rebels were subdued. The disturbance, however, continues. I have had to take measures to ensure discipline with the slaves.

The government in France is godless. I have reason to believe that your children’s father may be of their party. It is the duty of a mother to help that which is of God overcome that which can only be the work of the Devil. For the sake of your children, Rose, pray for Alexandre’s salvation.

There is increased talk of war. It may be some time before I am able to write to you again. The English continue to blockade the port. It was only
through smugglers and the will of God that I have been able to get this letter to you, should you receive it.

Your mother, Madame Claire de Tascher de la Pagerie

Wednesday, November 24.

Everyone has been recruited to help Fanny prepare for her reception. Princess Amalia’s brother Frédéric—
Prince
de Salm-Kyrburg—and I were asked to write out the “at home” cards. He’s a charming man, quite short, with no chin at all. He was happy to do it, he confided. He and his sister have just built a mansion on Rue de Lille—Hôtel de Salm it is called.
^*
In his drôle German accent he complained that it smelled of plaster, that his sister was forever engaging him in discussions about wall-covering, and that he welcomed any excuse to get out. “Who wants to stay at home all day with servants who snicker at you behind your back?” he said.

“At least you
have
servants,” Fanny interrupted. She was covered with flour and seemed a little jolly. She’d been in the kitchen all morning with Jacques, her man-of-all-work, training him to cook, a vocation for which he showed enthusiasm if not promise. I suspected she’d been sipping the cooking wine.

“You mean
masters,”
Frédéric said, indulging his passion for paradox.

November 27.

Fanny’s evening started out well, in spite of many disasters: the goose overcooked, the cake fell in upon itself and a drape in the front parlour caught fire.

Quite a few people came, and the mix was invigorating. Royalists socialized with radicals, artists with bankers. A number of the guests were deputies from the National Assembly. As Alexandre’s wife, I am held in high esteem. One deputy even assumed I would be in a position of influence and asked if I would speak to Alexandre on a certain matter.

I was struck with how things have changed. Where before people
paraded finery, now they boast of economy. Where before our distractions were bouts-rimes and charades, now people amuse themselves with talk of politics…and, of course, what is now called “economics”: national product, inflation, public debt. (It seems that everyone is writing a plan of finance to save France.)

There were a few poets present, fortunately, several of whom were persuaded to recite from their latest creation—which of course they just happened to have with them. Fanny even got me to play her harp, which I did quite badly, I confess—I haven’t practised for some time.

Even so, Deputy Emmery Dunnkirk, the banker Alexandre introduced me to at the Assembly, was effusive in his praise (between explosive sneezes). We talked for some time. He believes he might be able to make contact with Mother, in spite of the English blockade—in any case, he will try. He has clients who have dealings with the Islands, so he is not unfamiliar with the difficulties.

It wasn’t until after supper that Alexandre arrived. He joined me in the front parlour. “I was impressed by your article in the
Moniteur
today,” I told him. It was a long dissertation on the need for better hospitals.

Alexandre was about to say something when we were joined by a man with an enormous moustache, a deputy from Poitou. “Deputy Beauharnais, you devil, you never told me you had such a lovely wife!”

“Rose—I must say, you’ve made quite an impression on all my comrades,” Alexandre said. “Everywhere I go—”

“Alexandre, I didn’t know you had arrived!” Alexandre’s cousin Marie interrupted. She was wearing red and blue cockades all over her bodice, the badges of a revolutionary.

“Deputy Beauharnais, how charming to see you!” Princess Amalia joined in. Her hair had been arranged in the old style, stacked high and heavily powdered. Silk ribbons and feathers were stuck into it everywhere.

“Are there hairdressers who still know how to dress hair like that?” the deputy from Poitou asked.

“Hélas! There’s a flour shortage and
she’s
pouring the stuff onto her hair,” Marie said.

Prince Frédéric, who overheard, was about to say something in his sister’s
defence when we were joined by Deputy Dunnkirk and another deputy, a Monsieur Lyautey, and the discussion turned to the new land tax.

Alexandre and Frédéric excused themselves—they were late for a meeting of a debating society,
^*
“formed under the auspices of the virtues,” Alexandre said, putting on his hat. “I will see you and the children in Fontainebleau? Over the holidays?”

“My pleasure.”

He took my hand and kissed it with a tender show of feeling. “The
pleasure
will be mine.”

In which I suffer a great loss

Wednesday, December 1, 1790.

Fontainebleau is a ghost town. The palace gardens have grown wild, the long grass rampant. Gypsies are camped there.

Nevertheless, it was a joyful reunion; the Marquis stuttered, Aunt Désirée wept. They exclaimed how Hortense had grown, pampering her with a multitude of kisses.

The Marquis is frail, as one expects of a man of seventy-six. Indeed, it is a blessing he is with us still. I was relieved to find Aunt Désirée strong in both body and spirit. Their house showed signs of neglect—it is clear that they are getting by on very little.

It did not take Aunt Désirée long to bring up the subject of Alexandre. She has cut out all the articles about him in the news-sheets and pasted them into a big book which she proudly displayed, turning the pages reverently.

She did not say how she felt about his views. I wonder if she thinks of such things. Yet how can she not? Alexandre supported forsaking feudal rights—this alone has cost the Marquis a great deal. And now Alexandre supports the Church being made a government institution. Does Aunt Désirée not understand what this could mean?

“Look at this one,” she said. “His name is mentioned five times.”

“It’s wonderful,” I said, turning the pages.

The next day.

Aunt Désirée and I had a talk this morning—about finances. It was
impossible to put off. We had to decide what to do about Adélaïde d’Antigny, Alexandre’s six-year-old illegitimate daughter we are both of us supporting. It is hard enough to support ourselves. Nevertheless, I could not accept cutting off the girl’s care entirely. Aunt Désirée urged me to be firmer with Alexandre. I was making it too easy for him. “If you were to demand more, perhaps he would see the benefit of a reconciliation.”

“Perhaps I do not wish a reconciliation.” I turned my attention to my needlework.

“Yet you care for him.”

“As do any number of women.” Alexandre’s “successes” were legendary.

Aunt Désirée cleared her throat. There was a moment of silence. “Surely you do not prefer to remain single.”

“I believe I have no other option.”

Aunt Désirée put down her lacework. “Rose—there is something you should know,” she began, as if she were about to reveal a confidence. “A wise woman does not allow her husband’s ‘amusements’ to disturb her, a wise woman closes her eyes. In allowing her husband his freedom, she dominates him!”

I confess I did not know how to respond. I knew my Aunt Désirée to be a woman well versed in the art of getting her way, but I had never suspected that she supported her actions with
philosophy.

Aunt Désirée, sensing that she had captured my attention, went on. “Alexandre has a taste for tumultuous sensations, he is easily carried away—but surely such excessive sensibility is only proof of a good heart. A family that has suffered the stain of separation can never be repaired. The dishonour will endure for generations to come. I tell you this most painful fact out of the wisdom of my own experience. Rose, you owe it to your children to do everything in your power to bring about a reconciliation between yourself and your husband—the man to whom you were united by
God.
”

Now, past dark, I sit in the quiet of my room. The memory of Aunt Désirée’s lecture brings a smile to my heart, but the intent of her words brings dismay. I would give my life for my children—I would not hesitate to die for them—but would I live with Alexandre for them?

The lantern throws a flickering light on the walls.

In the light I see security, but in the shadows I see grief…in the shadows I see defeat.

December 13, 1790—Paris

Dear Rose,

I note that today is the eleventh anniversary of the day on which we were wed. I am writing to commemorate that union, which has brought forth two beautiful children into the world.

I intend to come to Fontainebleau for the holidays. No doubt my Royalist brother plans to come as well. It is almost impossible for us to communicate now without becoming heated, but for the sake of family harmony I will attempt to put thoughts of Truth aside.

Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais