The Josephine B. Trilogy (37 page)

“This seems like a dream to me,” I said. Now and again a wind carried a faint scent of honeysuckle.

Aimée laughed. That awful prison laugh, Fanny called it.

A carriage pulled by a team of old bays turned onto Rue de Tournon. Two open carriages followed. A tall, young man bedecked with red, white and blue ribbons was standing in the last one. The woman in the flag dress began yelling joyously, holding up her baby as if for a blessing.

“Isn’t that Tallien?” I asked. Tallien’s signature had been on my release form. A stunning young woman sat beside him, scantily dressed in a white toga, a sash with the words “la liberté” draped across one shoulder. Her curly black hair was cut short, like a boy’s. “And Thérèse Cabarrus!”

For days the children had been telling me the story: how a beautiful young woman had sent Deputy Tallien a note from prison, hidden along with a dagger in a cabbage, how for love of
her
he had brandished her little dagger in the Assembly, challenged the tyrant Robespierre, ended the Terror.

“Your friends—the new King and Queen,” Fanny said, joining us. “That could be useful.”

I picked a blossom from a potted rosebush and attempted to toss it into the carriage. I missed and tried again, calling out this time. Thérèse glanced up. She tried to say something to Tallien, but it was too noisy on the street, the crowd too demanding.

Shortly after there was a pounding at the gate. Jacques returned with a message. “A boy,” he said. “He said to tell you that the lady with Deputy Tallien invites you to see her.”

“Thérèse? Did he give an address?”

“Nine Rue Georges, Chaussée d’Antin. Tomorrow afternoon at three.”

“You will see about Marie?” Fanny demanded, grasping my arm.

August 12.

A thin boy, only a little older than Eugène, answered the door.
^*
I followed him into a room full of potted flowering bushes. “She will be with you,” the boy stuttered, and disappeared.

I heard a woman singing—her voice was lyrical, slightly melancholy; it had a haunting quality. Thérèse Cabarrus stepped into the room. She was dressed in a loose white tunic drapped in the Roman style. Her short, jet-black curls framed her face, her tresses shorn, short and boyish, like my own…but for the same reason? I wondered. It did not seem possible. The grey pallor that marked the victims of the Terror, the shadow that enveloped our souls seemed not to have touched her. Was it possible she had even been in prison?

“You do not bear scars,” I said, after exchanging civilités. It was bad form to refer to the horrors of the past, but I felt somehow compelled.

She slipped a foot out of a white silk slipper. “See these?” She touched three spots on her toes. “From
rats.
”

I put my hand to my throat. I had seen what rats could do.

“May I confide in you?” Her touch on my hand was light, caressing. “When I was taken to La Petite-Force, I was held in a room by eight guards. I was told to remove my clothes.” She recounted her tale without emotion. “I knew the danger I was in. The turnkey, a little man with a repulsive face, claimed authority. He ordered the men away. But then he demanded his due.”

I looked at her—her clear white skin, her young flushed cheeks. She looked a child, an infinitely vulnerable but voluptuous urchin.

“I used to believe in love,” she went on, “but no longer. Perhaps
that
is my scar.” She examined my eyes with surprise. “You weep? For
me?
”

“Yet love makes great deeds possible,” I said. “I am told you refused on
threat of death to sign a statement that would have compromised Deputy Tallien.”

“I am cast in the role of a heroine. I enjoy the part, I confess. The lines, the costume, the applause have a certain charm—don’t you think?” She smiled, fanning herself. “Forgive me for indulging in theatrics. It is a weakness of mine. But I promise I will always be honest with you. It was not love that inspired my loyalty. It was simply that death ceased to frighten.” She closed her fan with a snap. “And
that,
my friend, is
true
freedom.”

I heard the sound of a man’s voice in the entryway, footsteps. Tallien entered. Close behind him was Deputy Barras, his long sword trailing.

“Rose!” Tallien exclaimed with a boyish grin. He embraced me.

“How good to see you,” I said, unexpectedly moved.

“You recall Deputy Barras?” Tallien asked.

“Of course,” I said. “The two of you came to my salon on Rue Saint-Dominique, several years ago.”

“Citoyenne Beauharnais, what a
pleasure,
” Deputy Barras said, taking my hand and kissing it tenderly, in the old style. He smelled of spirit of ambergris. “Has it really been so very long?” he asked, his eyes mournful and tender. He’d gained weight since last I saw him—his leather hunting breeches were tight on him. Even so, he defined elegance.

“Young Guéry showed you in?” Thérèse asked.

Deputy Barras embraced her fondly. “He looks too thin,” he told her. “Send him over to my place; I’ll fatten him up.”

“I’m not letting him anywhere near
you.
”

“Unfair!” Deputy Barras lowered himself into a plush pink armchair.

Tallien stood in front of the fireplace. “My condolences, Rose. I was grieved to learn about your husband…”

I nodded yes.

“How unfortunate. Only a few more days and…If only…”

If only…

“We are all of us in mourning,” I said. All of us in shock. “Everyone lost someone dear.” I accepted the glass of cherry brandy the maid offered. I raised my glass to propose a toast. “I would like to express my gratitude. First, to you, Tallien, my dear friend. It was
your
name on my release form.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out sooner,” he said.

“And, second, to the three of you. I am under the impression that together you saved us from Robespierre, le tyran.”

“We ‘blood-drinkers’—as he was so fond of calling us—finally got a bit of his.” Deputy Barras downed his glass of brandy.

“Tallien and Barras deserve the credit,” Thérèse said.

“Didn’t you send Tallien a note and a dagger hidden inside a cabbage?” I smiled. “That’s what my children tell me.”

“I love that story,” Thérèse said.

“In truth, we’d been plotting for some time,” Tallien said.

“The tip-off was when Robespierre began taking riding lessons,” Deputy Barras said, tapping tobacco into his pipe. “When a
politician
begins to ride, prepare for battle—an elementary lesson taught to all students at any military college.”

“So Thérèse didn’t send a note to Tallien?” I asked.

“You mean the one that refers to our friend’s ‘notorious cowardice’?” Deputy Barras laughed. Tallien gave him a menacing look.

“I did send a note,” Thérèse said. “The gaoler’s wife smuggled it out for me. I fabricated the story of the cabbage in order to protect her. It makes a good fable, don’t you think?”

“I especially like the part about the little dagger,” Deputy Barras said, his big, sorrowful eyes drôle.

“I’m amazed people believe it,” Tallien said. “How could one possibly keep a dagger in prison?”

“Ah, but the French love a good story,” Deputy Barras said.

“Not that there aren’t good stories to be told,” Thérèse said.

I put my hands to my ears: I’m listening!

Then all stories began: how they had plotted; how Tallien had brandished a dagger (his own) in the Assembly, confronted Robespierre (“I still can’t believe you did that,” I told him. “I can’t believe it either,” he said); how Deputy Barras had boldly taken charge of the military, been the one to arrest Robespierre; how in the middle of the night Deputy Barras had stormed the Temple, seen the Boy—the King’s son—alone in his cell.

“You
saw
him?” I asked, interrupting.

The
Boy.
I almost said:
King.
“How old is he now? Ten?” He was only a little younger than Hortense, I recalled, who was eleven now. I remembered seeing him at the theatre, sitting on his mother’s lap. I remembered his sweet distress over his mother’s tears. How horrible it must be for him, so small a child, an orphan now, alone in a prison cell.

“The Little Capet is small,” Deputy Barras said, “too small to be King.
Fortunately.
But ill. He’d been badly tended.”

Thérèse tapped my hand with her fan. “I should caution you, Rose: every time the subject of the Boy comes up Deputy Barras begins to weep.”

Deputy Barras laughed. “It’s so unbearably sad! When I saw him he was dressed in grey rags, lying in this tiny cradle—he refused to sleep in his own big bed for some reason. His face was all puffed up, his hands swollen. Frankly, I’ve been terrified he might die, so I’ve ordered him examined, put under care. No sign of rickets, the doctor assures me.” He shrugged. “But I’m not sure how old he is, frankly. As for Madame Royale, his sister, she’s”—he cupped his hands, indicating breasts—“healthier, although not in the head. She has difficulty speaking. I’ve been told our dear-departed Robespierre paid her a visit. No doubt she owes her life to his…
interest,
you might say. If we’re not careful, we’ll be having a litter of would-be kings and queens to worry about. Can you imagine a Capet-Robespierre combination?
Terrifying.
But the boy…? Yes, well, nine, eight perhaps? A sweet child. I wish…” He sighed.

“Poor Paul,” Tallien said, handing him a handkerchief. “Who would have thought that becoming a public parent of the state meant becoming a
parent.
”

Deputy Barras wiped his eyes, sighed wryly. “It’s a job. The crown jewels, the crown prince and princess”—he rolled his eyes—“the
crown.
”

“Don’t say that!” Thérèse said.

A footman came to the door with a note on a silver tray.

“Speaking of jobs—” Deputy Barras shoved in his lorgnon and squinted at the note, holding it at arm’s length. He handed it to Tallien. “You read it,” he said. “You have young eyes.”

“They’ve changed the meeting to this afternoon,” Tallien said. “At four.”

“The Committee?”

Tallien nodded.

Deputy Barras groaned, pulled out his timepiece. “We’d better get over there.” He stood, stretched, his hand on the small of his back. “I’m getting too old for this.” He put on his velvet toque hat, adjusting the tricolour plume. “If we leave that group alone for even a minute, there will be another take-over—only our heads will be the ones to roll this time.”

“Hold on a moment.” Thérèse was rummaging through stacks of loose papers on a writing desk.

“I’ll get the horses ready,” Deputy Barras said, standing. “Au revoir, Citoyenne.” He bowed and kissed my hand.

“My pleasure,” I said.

“Here it is.” Thérèse handed Tallien a scrap of paper.

“
Another
list?” He groaned.

“The ones with the stars are the most urgent.”

He slipped the note into the pocket of his striped redingote. “I’ll see.”

I stood, withdrawing a list of my own from my velvet bag. Tallien smiled ruefully when he saw it. “I’m surrounded by angels of mercy.”

“It’s about my cousin,” I said. I pointed out Marie’s name. “Citoyenne Marie Beauharnais—remember? We’d been working to get her out, before I was imprisoned. But she’s still—”

Tallien put up his hands: stop!

“And Jean-Henri Croisoeuil, my friend Aimée’s son-in-law,” I went on, regardless. “He’s in the Carmes, and—”

“I will do what I can,” he said, taking my list. “I
promise.
But it’s difficult. Robespierre may be dead, but his followers live. They’re a tenacious lot.”

“If anyone can do it,
you
can,” Thérèse said.

Tallien put his hands to his chest, mocking the pose of a hero.

“You jest,” I said, “but were it not for your courageous act, we would not be alive today.” Tallien smiled uneasily. He was more comfortable in the role of a rogue. “I owe you my life,” I said, kissing his cheek. “I will
never
forget it.”

7:00
P.M.

Thanks to Tallien I was finally able to obtain seats on a post-coach to Fontainebleau. We leave in the morning.

Thursday, August 14.

The children and I have been to Fontainebleau and back. I’m exhausted.

It was unsettling to see Aunt Désirée and the Marquis. Aunt Désirée is over fifty now, true, but she looks even older. And the Marquis, at eighty, is an invalid. His mind has begun to wander, his memory weak. Mercifully. Several times he called Eugène by Alexandre’s name.

They are back in their own house now. The place had been ransacked, their belongings ruined—but this is trivial in Aunt Désirée’s eyes. Her grief for Alexandre is without bounds. I fear for the effect the violence of her feelings will have on her heart. The loss of all of their worldly goods would be enough in itself, but none of it means anything to her. Her one consuming grief, and it is incessant, is the fact of Alexandre’s death.

Aunt Désirée was not Alexandre’s mother, but she loved him far more than his own mother did, more than I ever did. It is for her I weep.

That evening.

So many are being released, one would think the prisons were empty now. Yet even so, Marie remains. “You must be patient,” Tallien told me.

“Patient!” Fanny cried out when I told her.

I understood. I was in prison for four months and it very nearly killed me. Marie has been in for over nine months. How much longer can she hold on?

Friday, August 15.

Lucie’s husband Jean-Henri has finally been released. He, Aimée and Lucie will be returning to Croissy in a few days. I’m hosting a small gathering on their behalf—a reunion of sorts, in spite of Aimée’s ill health. General Santerre and my former cellmate Jeanne-Victoire d’Aiguillon will be coming, as well as a number of others recently released from the Carmes.

Lannoy has threatened to quit if “that beast Santerre” sets foot in her house. I reminded her, gently, that this is not her house, that we are guests of my aunt.