The Josephine B. Trilogy (112 page)

“The Duke d’Enghien is slender, Minister Talleyrand, is he not?” I asked, turning. He is said to be a charming man, and handsome—certainly not corpulent and balding. It is rumoured he has secretly married Princess de Rohan-Rochefort—la belle Charlotte. “In his late twenties, I would guess, and—”

But the men were already on their way out the door. Their voices grew faint until I could hear no longer. “I believe, First Consul, that…a lesson to those…endless conspiracies…the shedding of royal…”

The shedding of royal blood
, I believe I heard Talleyrand say.

Now, recalling that conversation, playing it over in my mind, I am more and more uneasy. Why was Talleyrand pressing Bonaparte to suspect the Duke d’Enghien—a Bourbon prince beloved by Royalists everywhere?

I don’t trust Talleyrand, frankly. He reminds me of a snake—he sheds coats too easily. He expresses admiration for, even worship of, Bonaparte—but is he sincere? He is known to take bribes, to extort enormous sums in his international dealings. His “loyalty” is of the kind that is bought for money, I suspect.

March 18
—
Paris.

Before Mass this morning Bonaparte told me, his voice so low I could hardly hear him, “We’ve arrested the Duke d’Enghien.”

At first I didn’t understand. “But isn’t the Duke d’Enghien in Germany?”

“What does it matter? What is important is the charge: conspiring to commit murder—
my
murder.”

On the long ride out to Malmaison, I broke down, confiding to Clari that the Duke d’Enghien had been arrested.

“Arrested for what, Madame?” She burst into tears, confiding that as a girl, she had kept an etching of the Duke d’Enghien in a secret spot under her mattress.

“I believe they intend to have him tried in connection with the conspiracy.”

“But
he
can’t be guilty!”

“Then he will be found innocent and go free,” I reassured her.

Clari’s agitation was extreme. It had been a mistake to confide in her, I realized. She is young, not skilled in the art of deception. “You must not let Bonaparte know that I have told you,” I cautioned her as our carriage pulled through the Malmaison gates.

“Oh no, Madame, never!”

“So you must try to stop
weeping
,” I said with a smile, handing her my handkerchief.

“Yes, Madame,” she sobbed.

March 19, Saint Joseph’s Day.

“Women know nothing about such matters!”

“Bonaparte, I cannot be silent on this.” My attempts to seduce my husband into listening had met with failure.

“If I don’t act firmly—
now
—I will have to go on and on prosecuting conspirators, exiling this man, condemning that man, without end. Is that what you want?”

“Surely it is not so simple.”

“You forget that it is the Bourbons who are the cause of the turmoil in France.
They
are the ones seeking to murder me.”

“But what if the Duke d’Enghien is innocent? General Moreau was arrested over a month ago. If the Duke d’Enghien is part of the conspiracy, would he have remained at Ettenheim? Cadoudal’s servants reported
that the mystery prince was corpulent. The Duke d’Enghien is said to be slender.”

“There is evidence!”

“But Bonaparte, even if the Duke d’Enghien is guilty, if you were to convict him”—
execute
him, I feared—“all of Europe would rise up against you.” The stain of royal blood is indelible, it is said.

“Do you want me killed?” He clenched his hands. “I must show the Bourbons who they’re dealing with. I must give them a taste of the terror they are trying to inflict on me. I must show them I’m not to be trifled with—and I’m not!”

March 20, 8:00
A.M.

Gazing out over the gardens, I saw Bonaparte walking the paths between the flower beds, his pace and gestures agitated, as if arguing with himself. How small he seemed, pacing among the roses. “Little Bonaparte” I had once thought of him—before he’d become a giant in our eyes. (Our hearts!) I know how ardently he wishes to do the right thing, and I am beginning to comprehend how hard that can be.

9:20
P.M.

Around noon Hortense dropped little Napoleon off for me to look after—never have I more welcomed a child’s innocent prattle. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked, kissing my daughter goodbye.

She and Louis were joining Caroline and Joachim for dinner, she said. She was running late, the boulevards had been congested—was something going on?

I shook my head. She is newly again with child. If only I could protect her from the realities of the world! I was thankful she left quickly, before she could see Clari’s reddened eyes, before she looked too closely at my own.

March 21.

I was going to Bonaparte’s cabinet this morning to drop off the usual
petitions when I heard him yelling: “What do you mean? Didn’t he get my letter?”

I paused outside the door, holding my breath. I heard a man say something, then cough. Was it Savary, Bonaparte’s aide? “I saw him on the road,” the man said. It
was
Savary. “He didn’t get your letter until this morning.” Another cough. “When it was too late.”

Too late?

“What do you mean, this morning? I gave that letter to you last night with the instructions that it was to go directly to the Prefect of Police!”

“I gave it to his valet.”

“I didn’t say to give it to his valet. I ordered you to give it to the man himself! Do you realize what you’ve done?”

I heard footsteps approaching behind me: one of the guards. “Do you wish to speak with the First Consul, Madame Josephine?” Hugo asked, his deep voice announcing my presence.

Bonaparte came to the door. “Josephine.” He looked pale. “You are dismissed,” he told Savary coldly, over his shoulder. The aide hurried out the door between us. “Come in,” Bonaparte said, “I have something to tell you.” I lowered myself onto a wooden armchair. “The Duke d’Enghien has been executed.”
^*

In which a prophecy is fulfilled

I found Savary in the drawing room. “General Savary, I would appreciate it if you could tell me—” Did I really want to know? “How did it happen?”

“There was a tribunal, and then…” Savary wiped the perspiration off his forehead with his sleeve. “And then the Duke was taken to one of the trenches outside the château.”

“A moat, you mean?” I had never been to Vincennes.

He nodded. “A dry one.”

A canary burst into song. “No last words?”

“Just that he didn’t want a blindfold.” Savary felt in his jacket pocket, withdrawing a ring, a folded handkerchief and a sheet of paper. “Earlier he asked that his wife get these. Princess de Rohan-Rochefort, he said.”

La belle Charlotte.
The letter was short and tender—
love eternal
—the ring a simple gold band with an insignia on it. “And what’s this?” I asked, unfolding the handkerchief.

It is late now. I am at my escritoire. Before me is a ring, a letter, a handkerchief containing a lock of hair: the remnants of a life.

I study these artifacts, half-expecting them to speak, give me an answer. Was the Duke d’Enghien guilty of conspiring to murder my husband? Or was he innocent, and unjustly executed by him?

As I write this, Bonaparte sits in the chair by the fire, watching the flames—as if expecting to see an answer there himself.

March 23
—
Paris, windy.

“I would say that the people of Paris are
unsettled
,” Fouché responded, in answer to my question. “They’ve been flocking out to Vincennes to view the trench, tossing in bouquets. Of course, that damn dog doesn’t help.”

“What dog?”

“The Duke d’Enghien’s dog. It stands over its master’s grave, howling day and night.”

“Bring it to me.”

“I suggest you reconsider. The First Consul would not care to—”

“I know someone who would very much appreciate having that dog.”

March 24.

Princess de Rohan-Rochefort resides in Worms. I’ve sent the Duke d’Enghien’s last effects to her in the care of Moustache, along with the trembling dog—Mohilow by name—strapped into a wicker travelling basket. Against my better judgement, I included a note of sympathy.

March 25
—
Paris.

Both Bonaparte and I were uneasy setting out for the Opéra tonight. It was our first public appearance in Paris since the Duke d’Enghien’s execution. “Are you trembling?” Bonaparte asked, taking my arm. His face was pale as death.

“Just a little chilled,” I lied.

Immediately on entering our box, Bonaparte went to the front, showing himself to the audience. On hearing cheers, applause, Bonaparte turned, took my hand.
Relief.

March 27
—
almost midnight.

Fouché arrived late at the drawing room tonight. “Ironically, the support for the First Consul has, if anything, increased,” he said when I told him about our experience at the Opéra. “The Revolutionaries feel that he is finally one of them—now that he has blood on his hands.”

“Fouché, please, you know it’s not—”

“And as for the Royalists,” he droned on, “they are entirely diverted by rumours of a crown.”

A
crown.
The thought made me tremble! “I understand that there was a motion in the Senate today inviting Bonaparte to make his glory immortal.” What did that mean—
immortal
?

“This latest attempt on the First Consul’s life has made people desperate for security,” Fouché said, stroking the mottled skin on the back of his hand. “It is generally believed that some form of monarchy would bring peace—and peace, of course, would bring prosperity. If a king is required, a citizen-king crowned by the people might not be such a bad thing. That the First Consul can now be counted on not to be in league with the Bourbons makes him all the more trustworthy.”

“Fouché, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think that you yourself might be in favour of a monarchy.”

“I made the motion.”

“
You
made the motion about glory immortal?” I was momentarily speechless. “But you opposed Bonaparte being made First Consul for
Life.
”

“Do you wish me back as Minister of Police?”

Oh yes!

“I want my department back. Any fool can see what’s required.” He smiled, a ghoulish expression on him. “If there is one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that flexibility is the key to survival.”

April 5
—
a gorgeous day.

Bonaparte leaned against the fireplace mantel, his arms crossed. He cleared his throat.

I put down my cup of coffee. I knew that look. Bonaparte had something to tell me—something I was not going to like.

“Josephine, my advisors are saying that a hereditary system of succession would put an end to the threats against my life.”

Hereditary.
Glory eternal. “Is that what is being proposed?” My voice betrayed my apprehension.

“Yes, that succession be hereditary in the male line, by order of
primogeniture. A traditional arrangement. This is the model that is being suggested, in any case.”

“And so Joseph would be your successor?” How awful!

“That is Joseph’s view, unfortunately. But ideally, the heir would be my son, a child raised to the role.”

I looked away, blinking. There was no heir; there would never be an heir! All the mineral waters in all the spas of Europe could not give me what I wanted more than anything in the world: Bonaparte’s child.

Very late
—
everyone asleep.

“Bonaparte, there’s something we should discuss.”

He yawned. “Now?”

“Tomorrow, if you wish. In the morning.”

He pushed back his nightcap, turned to me. “You look beautiful in the moonlight.”

“You want to talk about it now?”

“I don’t want to talk at all,” he said, pulling me close.

“So what was it?”

“What was what?” I yawned with contentment.

“What you wanted to discuss.”

“Oh…” I never wanted to talk about it, frankly!

“Oh
that
,” he said, understanding.

I nodded against his shoulder. He was damp with perspiration, smelling sweetly of lemon.

“You should know that I’m insisting on the right to adopt,” he said softly, caressing my cheek.

I pulled away. “You’d be able to
adopt
an heir?” Of course my first thought was of Eugène.

“The child would have to be a blood Bonaparte—one of my brothers’ sons.”

“Little Napoleon?” Smiling.

“Come back here,” he said.

April 7.

I was surprised this morning to see our courtyard crowded with men in uniform, on horseback. “Bonaparte, why such a large escort?” And everyone in formal livery—even the pages. Perhaps I had misunderstood. “Aren’t we just going to see Louis and Hortense?”

“This is an official visit,” he said, pulling at the ruffle edge on his sleeve.

Hortense came down the stairs to meet us with little Napoleon in her arms. “You must not run down the stairs like that!” I admonished her (in spite of my resolve not to be overly protective). She is large for three months, already beginning to show.

“What’s this about?” Hortense gave us both a quick kiss. “Is there a military review today?”

“Nonan!” little Napoleon cried out to his uncle, squirming to be let down. Bonaparte took the boy from Hortense and tipped him upside down, making him squeal.

“Careful, Bonaparte!”

“Again,” the child demanded, giggling.

Hortense, tucking a lock of hair under her cap, looked out into the courtyard. “Look at all the soldiers.”

“Perhaps we should have sent word first. You were painting?” I asked. A week ago she’d begun a portrait of Eugène, and was finding it challenging.

Hortense ran her long red-lacquered fingernails over her smock. “Earlier, while my sweet one was having a nap.”