The Josephine B. Trilogy (43 page)
February 6.
I sat across from Citoyen Dunnkirk, grasping my basket. There was an uneasiness in his expression that cautioned me.
He cleared his throat and sat forward in his worn leather chair. “I’m afraid that your husband’s will is not going to be of much use to you,” he said, sneezing into a linen handkerchief.
“What do you mean?”
“Well—” He paused. “He has not left anything to you.”
I sat for a moment without responding. Surely, I had misunderstood.
“And second,” he went on, mistaking my silence for composure, “do you know of a Mademoiselle Marie-Adélaïde de la Ferté?”
“La Ferté is the name of Alexandre’s country estate.” But Citoyen Dunnkirk knew that.
“This is a child, a girl born June of 1785, near Cherbourg.”
“Perhaps you mean Adélaïde d’Antigny.” Adélaïde d’Antigny was Alexandre’s illegitimate daughter, whom Aunt Désirée and I were doing our best to support, in spite of the hardships. At nine now, she was a beautiful child, quite bright, with Alexandre’s features. “But Adélaïde d’Antigny was born in 1784, in Paris.”
“This is a different girl, born the following year. Your deceased husband has left her an annual pension of six hundred livres.”
Another illegitimate child?
Two
Adélaïdes?
“As well there is six hundred livres a year to be paid to Movin, your husband’s servant, two hundred a year to Richard, the groom, and a onetime payment of an additional two hundred to Sauvage, the second groom—”
“And
nothing
for Hortense or Eugène?” I interrupted. “No mention of
my
name?”
“No doubt he assumed that they would be well provided for by your Island holdings.”
I felt short of breath.
Citoyen Dunnkirk cleared his throat again and adjusted the lorgnon in his eye. “You understand, Madame Beauharnais, with respect to Marie-Adélaïde de la Ferté, there may be a way to get around it—”
“Honour it,” I said sharply. I was already contributing to the support of one bastard child. How many were there? I thought wearily.
February 10, 1795.
La Chaumière has become
the
place to go. Thérèse has had to hire a guard to oversee the door; crowds of hopefuls line the courtyard.
At first there were whispered comments on the absurd location, jokes about the peasant life. But there could be no doubt that everyone is charmed, for inside this modest château is a gem of a palace—the door opens onto a theatrical world of marble columns and Greek statues. The originality of the décor, the artistry that is evident, not to mention the abundant fare and inspired entertainment, certainly make an impression.
But at heart, it is Thérèse everyone seeks. We are as moths to a flame. She embraces us as if it were months since we last met—not last night or the night before that. She is, always, astonishingly beautiful, wearing a simple toga or shift that makes no attempt to hide her growing belly, her swelling breasts. She draws us into the parlour, whispering, “Monsieur Monroe is here, the American Ambassador. And Citoyen Ouvrard, the brilliant financier…Let me introduce you.”
Within, guests whisper, ever watchful for others. Contacts are made, broken, alliances formed. After the Assembly’s night sitting closes, the deputies arrive in their top hats. The heated debates go on until dawn.
This
is the government, it is said.
February 12.
“Thank God you’re here!” Thérèse grabbed my hand this evening as I came into the foyer. “Deputy Renan drank the water out of his finger bowl, Citoyen Maurois blew his nose on the tablecloth. Already there have been two fistfights—”
“In the Middle Ages, it fell to the Romans to reform the barbarians,” Deputy Barras said. He looked particularly elegant in a embroidered blue satin waistcoat. “Today it falls to Thérèse to demonstrate to the new ruling class
proper
etiquette.”
Angry voices burst forth from the parlour. Thérèse raised her eyebrows in exasperation. “But I need help taming this mob!”
And so, my role has been defined: peacemaker. It’s a job I apparently do well. I select the most heated guest, engage him in quiet conversation, lure him away—into a walk in the garden, perhaps, if the weather is fine, or through the premises to view the art objects. Soon my “victim” is calm, unmindful of his desire to commit murder only moments before.
Around four in the morning the last guest finally left. Thérèse and I collapsed on the sofa, laughing to tears over these ardent revolutionaries, trying so hard to be rich.
February 13.
Thérèse and Tallien persuaded me to go with them to the “Bal des Victimes,” at Hôtel Thélusson. I went to Thérèse’s early to prepare.
“Your hair is already perfect,” she said, fastening a red ribbon around my neck, symbolizing the path for the knife.
“This is bizarre,” I said. She was wearing flesh-coloured tights under a revealing gauze gown. As tall as she is, and with her huge belly and breasts, she looked spectacular.
“This is the dance.” Thérèse began doing a strange wiggling movement, her head shaking back and forth as if it might come loose.
The streets in front of Hôtel Thélusson were crowded with carriages. Beggars crowded around the entry, vying for attention.
“Doesn’t it remind you of the days of the Ancien Régime?” Thérèse whispered. “Of the opera balls?”
A street urchin grabbed the hem of my skirt. Tallien threatened the beggar with his fist. The boy fell back against the dirt. I stopped to make sure he was not hurt, gave him a coin.
“Are executioners allowed in?” someone yelled as Tallien entered.
“It is as
liberator
I am greeted now,” Tallien said, attempting a jest.
February 15.
I fear Thérèse and Tallien are not getting along.
“Is something wrong?” I asked. Her left cheek was heavily made up. There were the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “I don’t understand. He loves you so much.”
“His love is killing me!” she cried.
February 15, 1795—Rennes
Rose,
My efforts to negotiate peace may meet with success. Pray for me—soon it may be even legal to do so. I long for you.
Your soldier, Lazare
February 18, 11:00
A.M.
Lazare has succeeded in negotiating peace with the Vendée rebels, succeeded where so many before him have failed. In exchange for freedom of worship, they will lay down their arms.
“But what about the rest of us,” Lannoy grumbled. “Don’t we get freedom too?”
February 21.
There is great excitement in the streets. Freedom of worship has been granted—to all of France.
“You can put out your little Madonna now,” I told Hortense.
“Are you sure?” She is a fearful child.
“The time of hiding is over.” Thanks to Lazare.
Tuesday, February 24.
Thérèse has not been well; her pregnancy is slowing her down. As a result, she has asked my help in organizing a reception in honour of the Turkish Ambassador. It’s to be held next week at Barras’s château in Chaillot. Thérèse and I have been going out there every afternoon.
Everything about Deputy Barras is old money: the hounds, the horses, the snifters of fine cognac…the degenerate morals. (Marquis de Sade is his
cousin,
he claims: “mon cher cousin.”) He even suffers now and then from a mysteriously aristocratic nervous condition that requires hot baths. (“The French pox,
*
do you think?” Thérèse whispered.) Yet he is not without conscience. He seems to take pride in identifying the coming young men. At first I suspected a prurient interest, but I have found it to be otherwise. In the same way he chooses the winning horse at the races, he enjoys predicting who will hold the political trump card in the years to come. This is not without self-interest—nothing Deputy Barras does is without self-interest—for in this way he assures himself support. He is a master of survival.
Yes, an amusing man, mannered, witty, generous—but with a side to him that is so truly shocking. A libertine, he provides Thérèse and me with daily accounts of his conquests. Were it not for his wit, his stories would surely strike one as sordid—but Thérèse and I end up laughing gustily at his portrayals of coy seduction between grown men. Really, it is all
so
bizarre.
Saturday.
What a night! The partridge arrived foul, the fruit did not arrive at all, the violinist arrived drunk and the Turkish Ambassador sent word that he would not be able to attend. Perhaps that was a blessing…
Tuesday, March 3, late evening.
Thérèse, preparing for confinement, has been urging me to become more involved in Barras’s affairs. “You are exactly the type of woman he needs—aristocratic, elegant, with infallible taste and social skills. Your contacts could prove useful to him. There is
no one
better than you. I told him so myself.”
“You told him that?”
“He rewards a woman well, Rose—of
that
I can assure you. And the only thing you have to do is listen to his stories of amorous adventure.”
I smiled.
“And keep your son away from him, I should add.”
I stopped smiling.
Friday, March 13.
I’m exhausted, but pleased. The reception at Barras’s went well. Most of the evening was spent around the game tables with a separate area set up for conversation and canapés. At midnight I had a meal served, prepared from Barras’s estates: rabbit from his hutches, vegetables from his gardens, wine from his vineyards in Provence. After, I persuaded everyone to play l’hombre. “A child’s game!” the guests (including bankers Rosin and Perré) complained before reluctantly consenting—then becoming boisterous participants.
Overall, a success. Deputy Barras seemed pleased. “We will leave pretension to the nouveau riche.”
It is late now, time to sleep—ideas swirl: I am filled with fantasies of theatricals, concerts, balls, of elegant meals until dawn. Entertaining on an unlimited budget—
this
is a task I enjoy.
Saturday, March 28, 3:00
A.M.
It’s late. I’m still at Barras’s in Chaillot. The roads are too muddy to risk the return into Paris. Deputy Barras just came in to say goodnight. He was wearing the high-crowned beaver felt hat he reserves for serious gambling. Tonight he’d adorned it with pink and lavender ribbons.
“Your confessions?” he asked, noting my journal. “Put in something scandalous about me. For posterity.”
“I’ve put in what an angel of virtue you are.” He smelled of spirit of ambergris, a scent he favours.
“Ah—that
v
word,” he groaned, sinking into one of the plush velvet chairs and tossing his hat onto the floor. “Let’s not be on about
virtue
again. We had quite enough of that from our dear Robespierre, don’t you think?” He took a long sip of whatever it was in the glass in his hand. Spirits likely.
“What did you make of Deputy Valen’s comment tonight?” I asked.
“About the Boy?” He bent down to pet Toto, his minature greyhound.
I nodded. At supper, an elegant affair for twelve, Deputy Valen had expressed the view that it would not take much to install the Boy as King back on the throne of France—a shocking statement, under the circumstances.
Deputy Barras dangled the silk tassel of his robe in front of Toto’s nose, to tease him. “I think we’ve had quite enough of kings,” he said, smiling at Toto’s antics.
“It is rumoured you favour a return of the monarchy,” I persisted, my heart pounding.
“Only a fool would admit it.” He looked over at me. “Even to a friend.” His big eyes were impossible to interpret. “In any case,” he yawned, “I prefer to talk of men, not kings.” Toto jumped up on his lap.
“Did Citoyen Lumière not stay?”
Deputy Barras sighed, scratching Toto behind the ears. “Alas, no—his wife was expecting him. His
wife!
”
“And now you only have me.”
“And lectures on virtue…” He made a comical face.
“How tiresome,” I laughed.
April 1.
Agathe returned from the market in tears. Riots in the marketplace—she’d seen a child trampled. Then, as I was preparing to leave to go out to La Chaumière, I thought I heard musket shots. Nevertheless, I sent Gontier
for a hackney coach. The driver, dressed in mismatched livery, insisted on a fee three times the normal rate, and that in coin.
“Only fools are out tonight,” he said when I objected to the fare.
“What has happened?”
“The Assembly has been attacked.” He was a young man, but with no teeth.
The Assembly!
At the end of Pont-Royal there were a number of National Guardsmen on horseback. The coachman cracked his whip; our horses galloped down the quay.
At La Chaumière, coaches and horses filled the courtyard. I saw Tallien, still in his deputy robes. “You’re safe!” I embraced him.
He told me what had happened: a mob had invaded the Assembly, demanding food. The Gilded Youths were summoned, who proved cowardly (for all their talk). Then the National Guard had been mobilized. Finally, the instigators had been arrested and peace restored.
“Who was behind it?” I asked.
“Four men.” Tallien puffed on his pipe. “‘The Four’ they are called now—the alumni of the Terror.” He listed off the names: Billaud-Varenne, Collot d’Herbois, Barère, Vadier.
“Deputy Barère? Your old
friend?”
Barère and Tallien used to come to our gatherings on Rue Saint-Dominique. I remembered Deputy Barère’s support of Alexandre in the Assembly, his fear of helping me when Marie had been arrested. And Vadier, certainly…Deputy Vadier had signed my arrest warrant. And yet, years back, they’d all been colleagues of Alexandre’s, idealists working together for a better world. Now Alexandre was dead and they were on their way to prison…or worse, Guiana.
