The Josephine B. Trilogy (24 page)
Note—Make sure Eugène perseveres daily in his studies. Do not allow any exceptions, for in this way his natural inclination toward laziness takes root.
Christmas Day.
Alexandre arrived laden with gifts, including a jewellery case for Hortense and enamelled boot buckles for me. Hortense ended in a frenzy of emotion, weeping her heart out in her room. It was just too much, this sudden regard from this stranger, her father.
I understand her confusion.
Sunday, December 26.
What a terrible evening. Aunt Désirée is in the parlour with the Marquis, giving him ether, trying to calm him.
It began after supper, over coffee. The Marquis asked François how things were going in the Assembly. I believe it affronted Alexandre that his father had not asked
him.
In any case, Alexandre interrupted to point out the causes
he
has furthered. It was at this point that François
suggested that Alexandre inform their father of his views on the clergy.
“Well, Alexandre,” the Marquis asked, “
do
you believe priests should forsake the Church?”
“It is possible to read on his countenance all his projects, Father,” François said. “Alexandre not only supported that motion, he was one of the deputies who advocated it.”
“Why
should
the clergy be exempt?” Alexandre countered. “It is equality we believe in, yet it is inequality we further—”
“Pretty words,” François interrupted, “but they dangerously evade the issue. Honour is not unknown to men of religion. What will you do when the priests refuse? Put them to the lantern?”
Aunt Désirée excused herself from the table. I found her in the parlour, arranging and rearranging the religious relics on the mantelpiece. From the dining parlour I heard Alexandre exclaim, “And that reality is starvation!”
“Is it true?” Aunt Désirée looked paler than I had ever seen her. “Does Alexandre believe that the priests should
renounce
the Pope?” She sank into the chair by the grate. She shivered; the embers did not heat the room. I heard voices from the dining parlour again: François and Alexandre. And then, the Marquis: “I will not have it, Alexandre
de
Beauharnais!” pronouncing the “de” with great spite.
*
There was the sound of china breaking. Alexandre strode forcefully down the hall. He banged the front door shut behind him, shaking the walls. As the sound of his horse’s hoofs grew faint, Aunt Désirée gave way to tears.
Friday, December 31.
Alexandre returned on the last day of the year. He’d ridden a bay gelding all the way from Paris.
“I didn’t want to start the New Year unluckily,” he told me, taking first Hortense and then Eugène into his arms.
“Did you bring me something?” Hortense asked.
“Of course,” Alexandre said. “For the New Year.”
Eagerly the children tore open their gifts: a riding whip for Eugène and a blue velvet bag for Hortense.
“And for your mother.” He handed me a parcel. Inside was an embroidered muff.
“It’s lovely.” I kissed his cheek. Eugène and Hortense ran out of the room, giggling.
Alexandre poured himself a brandy. “Has my father forgiven me yet?”
“He’s so forgetful now. He likely can’t remember what happened.”
“I brought him a copy of Hume’s
History of England.
”
“You’re giving him a book written by a
Protestant?
”
Alexandre slapped his forehead. “I didn’t think.”
“How long can you stay?”
He made a face. “I’ve a meeting in the morning, in Paris.”
“On a Sunday? On New Year’s Day?”
He sighed. “Making history is so time-consuming.” He confessed he was uneasy about a speech he planned to give at the Jacobin Club the following week, on the subject of public education. He feared no one would attend. When Robespierre spoke, tickets had to be purchased in advance, but for an unknown such as himself—
There was a commotion in the foyer. Suddenly Aunt Désirée rushed into the room, her hat still on. “Alexandre!” She looked pale. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“You don’t know?” She rummaged around in her handbasket, her hand pressed to her chest.
“Aunt Désirée?” Was she all right?
She pulled a news-sheet out of her basket. “Two thousand créoles have been
murdered
in Saint-Domingue! By slaves!”
“Murdered?”
Two thousand?
I put my hand to my mouth. Mon Dieu.
Alexandre took the journal from her. Cap-François had been
destroyed, the road to the city lined with the bodies of slaves—ten thousand killed, he read.
Ten
thousand? Had I heard correctly?
“We’re ruined!” Aunt Désirée rummaged through the writing desk. “I thought there were some salts in here.”
“Behind the quills,” I said.
“Our properties are at some distance from Cap-François,” Alexandre called out as she headed up the stairs to the Marquis’s rooms.
I stood by the fireplace, staring into the flames.
“This is unfortunate,” Alexandre said. He was standing at the window, clasping and unclasping the pommel of his sword.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you should be sitting down,” he said.
“I will be all right.”
“I insist.” He cleared his throat. “I bring…other news.”
I felt apprehensive. I sat down.
“You understand that it is difficult to get mail in or out of Martinico. The British have set up a blockade.”
Martinico? I nodded. “Deputy Dunnkirk has been trying to contact my family.”
“That’s why I came.” Alexandre took the chair beside mine. “Emmery asked me to tell you that in spite of the civil war there, he has been able to get through.”
“There’s a
war
in Martinico?”
“You didn’t know?”
My heart began to flutter. “You’ve had news, Alexandre?”
“Yes.”
I felt a tingling sensation in my fingers. “Is it my sister?”
“No.”
“Tell me!”
“Your father…He—”
I pressed my hands together.
“I’m sorry, Rose. Your father exchanged worlds last November.” He put his hand on my shoulder.
I could not catch my breath.
Father.
Tears came to my eyes.
Alexandre took a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and handed it to me. “No doubt you were expecting this. Your father has been ill for a very long time.”
“No!”
January 1, 1791.
The New Year. It is quiet. No fêtes, no grand balls, no receptions. Instead of perfumed water, stagnant pools fill the fountains.
I wake with a sense of loss. I think of Father, a man so given to dreams.
What did his life mean, in the end?
My mother hated him.
Harsh words, but reality must be respected. And the reality of my father’s life was: he suffered, he achieved nothing.
June 21, 1791—Fontainebleau.
On my way to the perfumer this morning a placard on a tavern wall caught my attention. In bold letters was the name Beauharnais. Alexandre has been elected President of the National Assembly.
*
Immediately I returned to the house. Coming in the door I called out to Aunt Désirée. I summoned the children, who were in the garden. “I have news of your father!”
Aunt Désirée came to the landing. “Is the Marquis in his room?” I asked.
“It’s about Father!” Eugène called out. He had tracked mud onto the carpet.
“Is Alexandre all right?” Aunt Désirée asked.
“It’s good news.”
Aunt Désirée ushered us all into the Marquis’s apartment. There, I told them the news. I had to repeat it three times.
“My son? Alexandre?
President
of the National Assembly?” the Marquis exclaimed in disbelief. “But that’s not possible!”
I assured him it was so. Other than the King, there was no one more powerful, more important in all the land.
Wednesday, June 22.
I’ve been anxious, sleepless without news.
Something
has happened, for the gates to Paris have been closed; no mail, no journals, no couriers have been allowed in or out. It was whispered the King and Queen had fled the country—an unthinkable thought.
It was only this morning, at the procession in town for the feast of the Holy Sacrament, that Aunt Désirée and I were able to obtain a copy of the
Moniteur.
There our fears were confirmed: on the night of the twentieth, in disguise, the King and Queen and their two children escaped by means of the subterranean passages of the palace kitchens. It is thought that the royal berline headed for Varennes.
Quickly we returned to the house, for there was danger of the mob becoming heated. In the Marquis’s bedchamber, Aunt Désirée read the journal reports out loud. It was with considerable pride that we learned that Alexandre was being credited with holding the country together—“with a firm and steady hand.”
Aunt Désirée read, “President Deputy Alexandre Beauharnais has organized the effort to capture the King—”
“
Capture
the King!” The Marquis was taken with a nervous seizure.
“Not to capture, but to
free
him!” Aunt Désirée rushed for the ether.
The King has not
fled,
he’s been “abducted”; he’s not to be
captured,
he’s to be “freed.” If only reality could be changed so easily.
June 23.
This afternoon after supper—a lovely repast in honour of my twentyeighth birthday—we were alarmed by sounds outside on the street. Aunt Désirée’s chambermaid went to the window. “There’s a crowd in front of the house.”
“In front of
this
house?” the Marquis asked.
The children ran to the window. I jumped to my feet, nearly knocking a vase onto the floor. “Get back!” I commanded.
“They’re crying out ‘Dauphin’!” Eugène said, confused.
“
Mon Dieu,
” Aunt Désirée whispered. “They mean Eugène.”
“Because of Alexandre?”
“But the Dauphin is not
here,
” Hortense protested. “Is he not in Paris?”
I could not answer, my terror was so acute. The mob was calling my son Dauphin—the future
King.
June 27, 1791—Paris
Dear Rose,
Thank you for writing such a very kind congratulation. And please, forgive me for neglecting your birthday. I am in a delirium. I’ve not had any sleep for four days. The events of this last week have been overwhelming, for both myself, as well as for the Nation.
In moments of despair I recall Rousseau’s words—that the best part of Virtue is to accept the yoke of necessity. And so it is with those of us who were born to the nobility, born to bear arms. How enlivening to be relieved of this slavery, to choose, instead, to risk life in honour of that which is True and Just. The sacrifices that we make for the Revolution will be a great benefit to mankind. With the love of Virtue spurring us on, how can we be defeated?
Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais
June 30.
François has taken on the role of the King’s defender in the Assembly. “He’s going to get us all hanged!” the Marquis sputtered.
Yesterday it was Alexandre’s
condemnation
of the King that enraged him.
The brothers fight it out over the King’s head on a national stage. Beauharnais
for,
Beauharnais
against
…If it isn’t one son, it’s the other.
July 6, 1791—Paris
Dear Rose,
I have been ill, having exhausted my system during the crisis. Thank you for enrolling Eugène in the Collège d’Harcourt for the fall. I had entirely
forgotten. I agree that Hortense would benefit from more formal instruction at this time, as well. You will see to this? Not too costly, however.
Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais
July 18, 1791—Rue de Tournon, Paris
Darling!
It’s late, almost midnight, but I feel compelled to write. Alexandre gave a wonderful speech at the Jacobin Club tonight—so uplifting! We were all of us there to applaud him: Marie, Michel de Cubières, Frédéric. Even Princess Amalia came to hear him, in spite of her Royalist leanings. After we all went to the Café Covazza in the Palais-Royal. There Alexandre informed me that you intend to move to Paris, in order that your children might be educated.
Although transported with joy at the thought of seeing you and your wee darlings more often, I thought it would only be fair to warn you what Paris is like right now. It seems we are forever swinging from one extreme to the other, beginning with the sublime and ending in the tragic. Observe:
The week began with the grand fête and procession moving Voltaire’s remains to the Pantheon—another of the brilliantly theatrical events orches-trated by the painter David. (Have you met him? He came to my salon once.) Of course I had to go—you know how I feel about our Apostle of Tolerance. The service began in the Masonic Lodge of the Nine Sisters, then wended its way through a number of triumphal arches to the site of the old Bastille. There the coffin rested overnight.
By the time Michel Cubières and I got back Monday morning the roses, myrtles and laurels had been stripped. Representatives of the sections and clubs had turned out in togas and red wool caps (like those awful itchy ones we have to wear at Masonic meetings). The coffin was loaded onto a chariot and pulled to the Pantheon by a team of white horses. I melted with tears.
Thursday, another fête at the Bastille, this time for the Fête de la Fédération. We didn’t go (how unpatriotic) but that night the sky was fairly blooming with fire-rockets.
