The Josephine B. Trilogy (99 page)

“I was accosted by hooligans,” Bonaparte exclaimed, sliding off his horse.

Mon Dieu, no! “Near the quarry?” His hat was askew and there was dust on his uniform—but then, Bonaparte always looks a shambles. “Did you outrace them?” I asked, brushing off his frayed jacket. Bonaparte’s horse is small, but fast.

He laughed and tweaked my ear. “Bandits wouldn’t dare lay a hand on me. Don’t you know that? Where is everyone?”

Everyone: the Bonapartes, he meant—his Corsican clan. Mother Signora Letizia, jolly Uncle Fesch and all his brothers and sisters: Joseph “the Elder” and his wife Julie, Elisa “the intellectual” and her husband Félix, Pauline “the beauty” and her husband Victor—and Caroline and Joachim, of course. Is that everyone? Oh, how could I forget young Jérôme—“the scamp”? (Bonaparte has decided to send the rambunctious fifteen-year-old to sea soon because of his extravagant debts, inclination to duel and absolute disregard for any form of study.)

Lucien “the fireball” is at his country estate and Louis “the poet” is in Brest, so that makes eleven Bonapartes. Hortense, Eugène and I bring the total to fifteen. I’ll have a word with my quarrelling cooks.

April 10
—
a balmy spring morning at Malmaison, cows lowing, lambs bleating.

My daughter is seventeen today! “Now you are a woman,” I told her. Her eyes filled with apprehension. I pulled back the bed-curtains to reveal a mountain of parcels, an entire wardrobe in the latest fashion—a wardrobe such as a woman wears.

My chatterbox girl was momentarily speechless. Then oh, what pleasure, opening one parcel after another, exclaiming over the laces and trimmings, the flounces and frills on all the gowns. There were quite a number: three for morning wear, two for afternoon (but suitable for receiving), two silk gowns for evening, a walking gown, a ball gown and even a lovely riding habit—accompanied, of course, by a parasol and numerous bonnets, gloves and slippers.

“This is like a trousseau, Maman,” Hortense said, overwhelmed. “One would think I was getting married.”

“As you will
soon
, no doubt.” At this her expression darkened.

6:20
P.M.

It was a beautiful afternoon for a birthday fête—we dined off tables set up on the lawn. We had just finished sherbet and syrup when who should canter up the driveway but Bonaparte’s young brother Louis, holding a bouquet of hyacinths aloft like a torch.

“Louis is back from Brest already?” Bonaparte asked, squinting.

Louis dismounted his lathered horse and presented the flowers to Hortense. “Love is nature’s cloth, embroidered by imagination,” he said, bowing like an old-fashioned knight.

“Have you been reading romantic novels, Louis?” Hortense gave him a mocking look.

“Voltaire,” he said, flushing. He looked comely in a bottle-green riding jacket, his wavy chestnut hair cut to shoulder length in the style now popular with the young.

“Who is Voltaire?” Jérôme “the scamp” asked, throwing a bread roll at one of the pugs, hitting it hard on the head.

“Maybe if you listened to your tutors once in a while you’d learn,” Elisa said, between hiccups.

“The flowers are lovely, Louis,” I exclaimed, to soften my daughter’s teasing—and divert the argumentative Bonapartes.

“You made excellent time,” Bonaparte said, embracing his brother.

“Louis is a good rider,” my ever-cheerful Eugène said.

“When he’s not falling off,” Caroline said, helping herself to the last of the cream.

“Magnifico!” Elisa’s husband Félix exclaimed. (Why?)

“A fearless rider,” Bonaparte said. “I owe my life to him.”

“Blood is everything,” Signora Letizia said, taking out her knitting.

“Salúte!” pink-cheeked Uncle Fesch said in Italian, emptying his wine glass before a servant refilled it.

“Louis has a fast horse,” Joachim Murat said, twirling a pink silk tassel. “He paid a lot of money for it—several thousand francs.”

“I
love
a horse with a big chest,” Pauline said, pulling down her sleeves to better display her perfect white shoulders, “and
strong
flanks.”

“I have dispatches for you, Napoleon,” Louis said, pleased to have met with his older brother’s approval. “As you thought, English warships are blockading Brest. Our ships can’t get out to sea.”

“Maudits anglais,” Bonaparte swore under his breath.

“Maudits anglais,” Pauline’s husband Victor echoed.

“You’ve arrived just in time,” I said, inviting Louis to take a seat between me and Hortense. “We’re having a ball tonight.”

“At which even Papa will dance,” Hortense said.

“Napoleon?” Louis asked with a sceptical look.

“I can dance perfectly well.” Bonaparte looked disconcerted when we all burst into laughter.

“Other than
country
dances?” Hortense teased.

“Bah! What’s wrong with country dances? They’re jolly—and at least one gets a little exercise,” Bonaparte said, and with that he pulled Hortense to her feet and spun her about the lawn, humming loudly (but tunelessly), while two pugs scurried after. I turned to see the servants hiding behind the bushes, doubled over laughing.

April 11, early evening (beautiful weather).

Proudly, we bid our soldiers adieu this morning—Eugène, Louis and Joachim, each sitting on his horse so proudly, riding off to join their regiments. (Joachim has embellished his uniform with pink gewgaws—even his horse’s saddle blanket is pink. Bizarre.)

It is sad to see so many empty chairs around the table. Bonaparte mopes. He wishes he were riding out with the men. He will be joining them soon enough, I know.

April 12
—
back in Paris (alas).

Caroline has been miserable, stomping from one room to the next. I have been trying to console her, assuming that she was melancholy because her husband was gone, but it turned out she is furious because he hasn’t been assigned an army of his own.

“Maybe she’s a little sensitive right now because she’s…
you know
,” Hortense whispered to me from the harpsichord bench.

“Is she?”

“She must be. She told me they…
you know
, all night long.” Hortense struck a chord, flushing furiously.

April 28
—
Malmaison.

I am writing this at the breakfast table to the sound of Caroline retching.

Noyon

Chère Maman,

We were days in the rain from Corbeil. Soon I expect we’ll be setting out over the Alps to Italy.
^*

The renovations at Malmaison that you described amaze me: arcades and moving mirrors? I like the idea of one big room on the ground floor instead of three little ones
—
better for a ball.

I’m surprised Hortense has rejected Citoyen Mun
—
I thought he was an excellent choice. I’ll think of some other possibilities.

A million kisses,

Your loving son, Eugène (Captain Beauharnais)

April 30.

At a salon last night, Caroline’s singing was received with audible snickers. “Someone should tell her not to perform with such zest,” a woman whispered to me. “People will think her impure.”

The comment angered me, and I rose to Caroline’s defence—Bonaparte “zest,” after all, has saved the nation—but, in truth, someone does need to have a word with the girl. She tries so hard to be noticed, but her dramatic grimaces, her quivering lips and panting sighs are only viewed as laughable.

May 1
—
Malmaison, blowing rain.

When I suggested to Caroline that her “wonderful” singing would be better appreciated if she were to perform quietly, without embellishments, she turned on me!

“I don’t need
your
help,” she said with such spite that I was left speechless.

“Sometimes I don’t know what to make of Caroline,” I told Mimi later.

“She’s dangerous, Yeyette,” Mimi said. “I saw it in her cards.”

I had to laugh. When I think of Caroline, I imagine a plump powderpuff of a girl. Jealous, yes, and temperamental, certainly—but
dangerous
?

[Undated]

Mimi slipped me a folded note with my morning cup of hot chocolate. “Just as I thought,” she said.

I workd in the Dineing Room all week. Shee say to her Husband they wood have Everything but for the Old Woman & her 2 Children. Shee say the 1st Consul must get rid of Her. Shee say Shee will find a way.

“I don’t understand,” I said, perplexed. The note was crudely written on the brown paper used to wrap fish in. “Who is this ‘shee’?”

“Madame Caroline.” Mimi looked smug. “I told you she’s not to be trusted.”

I reread the note. Was I “the old woman”? “Who wrote this?”

“One of Madame Caroline’s footmen.”

“You’ve got a
spy
in Caroline’s household?”

“Old Gontier’s nephew. He can be trusted.”

“Mimi, that’s not a good idea! Please—don’t do it again.”

“So I have to pay him myself?”

“How much?” I said with a laugh. (Fifty francs—mon Dieu.)

11:20 P.M.

I keep rereading the spy note, puzzling over it. Can I believe it? Can I afford not to?

May 3.

I am writing this in the downstairs drawing room at Malmaison, at my lovely new escritoire—mahogany, with Egyptian touches in gold,
very
elegant. It is after three o’clock. Soon I’ll go down to the kitchen to see
how the dinner preparations are coming along. Quite well, I suspect, from the fragrant scent of roast chicken (Bonaparte’s favourite) that fills the air. I just sent two of the domestics to ride out to meet Bonaparte on the road. I worry about his safety, frankly. “But whatever you do, don’t let on that I sent you to meet him,” I warned them.

May 4
—
still at Malmaison (we return to Paris in the morning).

Old Gontier, my man-of-all-work, informed me around one this afternoon that the stonemasons had left, that the mantel was finally finished.

At last, I thought. The stone dust has been driving us mad.

“But Agathe says to come see,” Gontier said. “There’s something she wants to show you.”

The mantel looked excellent, although the scullery maid had quite a job to do cleaning up the dust. “You wanted me to see something, Agathe?”

She got up off her knees, wiping her hands on her stained apron. “This.” She pointed to a snuffbox on the desk.

I recognized the intricate mother-of-pearl inlay in a Roman motif. “It’s Bonaparte’s.”

“But the First Consul’s is chipped on one corner.”

She was right. All Bonaparte’s possessions are scarred in some way. “Perhaps someone left it here,” I suggested, feeling its weight. But why an exact replica? “Agathe, could you ask the groom to send for Fouché?” I said, carefully putting the box back down.

“The Minister of Police?”

Yes, I nodded. My old friend—the man who knows everything.

“Poison,” Fouché said, prying the snuffbox open with his long yellow thumbnail. “When inhaled, it will cause the victim to expire within one revolution of the minute hand.”

Poison! I sat down, opened my fan. If it hadn’t been for Agathe’s apprehension, her sharp eye…! “Are you sure, Fouché?” Had murderers been
in our midst—in our
home
? The masons, perhaps? I’d offered them refreshment, inquired after their well-being.

“Someone went to some trouble making a replica.” Fouché traced the inlay with his finger. “The First Consul must be notified immediately.”

“He’s here now,” I said, hearing a horse. Only Bonaparte comes through the gate at a gallop—he knows no other pace.

“
Poison
in my snuffbox?” Bonaparte scoffed.

“It’s not really yours, Bonaparte,” I told him. “It just looks like yours.”

“It’s an excellent reproduction. Who made it?”

“One of the stonemasons, likely,” Fouché said.

“But
why
?”

“Certainly, there are any number of possibilities, First Consul. Revolutionaries long for a return to anarchy and the Royalists for a return to monarchy. Extremists of every persuasion want you dead. It is, one might say, the price of your popularity.”

“It looks like snuff.” Bonaparte started to take a pinch. I grabbed his hand. “I’m not
that
easy to kill off,” he said, laughing.

“Bonaparte, at the very least you shouldn’t ride alone,” I told him. “You should have someone with you.” And guards at all times, and…

“Bah!” Bonaparte said, glowering.

“First Consul, with respect, I suggest you consider it,” Fouché said. “A minimum of precaution would put your wife at ease. For some reason, she prefers you alive.”

“I refuse to be coddled like some feckless ninny!”

“Don’t worry,” Fouché told me later, on leaving. “We’ll protect him. We’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t know it.”

In which I try (but fail) to accept

May 5, 1800, 11:45
P.M.
—
Tuileries Palace.

Bonaparte and I had just returned from the Opéra when his sister and brother were announced.

“Joseph has something urgent to discuss with you before you go,” Caroline said. Bonaparte’s older brother Joseph stood behind her, dressed entirely in pale yellow brocade.

“Before I go where?” Bonaparte demanded.

“To Italy,” Caroline answered, offering her snuffbox to her brothers before taking a pinch herself. (She claims it calms her sickness of the stomach, which has been violent throughout her first month.)

“How did you find out I’m leaving? No one is supposed to know.”

“What we want to know is what happens if you get killed,” Caroline said, refusing my offer of a chair. Joseph sat down instead, his hands pressed between his knees.

“If I die—or rather,
when
I die—I’ll be put in a coffin,” Bonaparte said evenly, reaching for a paper knife and slicing open an envelope.