The Josephine B. Trilogy (125 page)
“I wonder if the Emperor also knows about all those other men his sister has been receiving,” Chastulé whispered.
“What other men?”
“You don’t know, Your Majesty?” Clari asked. “Princess Caroline lured the Austrian ambassador into her bedchamber, which she’d strewn with rose petals I’ve been told.”
Rose petals! Caroline had come out to Malmaison not long ago asking me for sacks of them—for a tincture she was making, she’d told me. (Some tincture.)
“Ha! As well as Talleyrand—”
“That’s impossible,” Clari objected, flushing. (I suspect she’s sweet on the dour Minister of Foreign Affairs.)
“—
and
the Minister of Police,” Chastulé went on.
Fouché? “Now
that’s
impossible,” I said.
“Everyone’s calling Prince Murat Prince Cuckold,” Mademoiselle Avrillion joined in, looking up from mending one of my petticoats.
“But it doesn’t seem to bother him. I was hoping for a duel, at least,” Chastulé said.
“That’s because Princess Caroline told him that she does it for
him
,” Clari confided.
“That’s a good one,” Chastulé said. “I’ll remember it the next time my husband catches a lover in my bed.”
“To seek advantage, she told him.”
“Caroline told Joachim that?” I could understand the advantages Fouché, Talleyrand and the Austrian ambassador might have to offer—but Junot? “I don’t understand how the Governor of Paris could—”
“He commands the troops in the city, doesn’t he?” Mademoiselle Avrillion asked.
“Ha! You never know when a cannon or two might come in handy.”
August 15
—
Saint Napoleon’s Day.
As I write this, fire-rockets flare, lighting up the night. Paris has given itself over to revelry: tournaments, plays, concerts, illuminations and ballets. Everywhere there is some kind of festivity in celebration of Saint Napoleon’s Day—in celebration of Napoleon, Emperor and peacemaker.
Bonaparte and I watched the celebrations from the Tuileries balcony. The crowd cheered to see their hero, Napoleon the Great.
Napoleon the Unapproachable. He takes everything in with a frown. He is not a happy man—and I, certainly, am
not
a happy woman. It’s just as well I’m so desperately busy preparing for Jérôme’s wedding festivities, the arrival of a royal bride.
Sunday, August 23—Tuileries.
This morning Jérôme and (buxom) Princess Catherine were married in the Gallery of Diana in the presence of the entire court (eight hundred now). Jérôme looked dazzling in his suit of white satin embroidered in gold. We are in a frenzy of forced gaiety.
August 27, 11:20 P.M.
—
the family drawing room, Saint-Cloud.
Mimi came to fetch me during the second act of
Cinna.
She signalled me from the door. “I’m wanted about something,” I whispered to Bonaparte, and slipped away.
“Hortense is back,” Mimi said, her hands crossed over her heart.
“Here? Now!” I followed Mimi out of the theatre and through the orangerie to the château.
Hortense laid her head on my shoulder as if weary, as if she needed a mother’s shoulder to rest on. “I’m better, Maman,” she said.
“I can see that,” I said—and it
was
true. She spoke from her heart.
“Have I interrupted something?” she asked, looking out at the courtyard, crowded with equipages.
“
Cinna
is being performed. I’ll send for Bonaparte.”
“No, wait, Maman. That’s Papa’s favourite play. There will be plenty of time.”
“Shall I go get Petit?” Mimi suggested with a grin.
“He’s up?” Hortense sounded hopeful.
“I’ll wake him,” Mimi said. “He’s been talking about his maman every day.”
“His maman who is looking well,” I told my daughter.
“It was a good trip,” she said, caressing my cheek—as if I were
her
child. “I’ve been writing songs.” She paused, raising her eyes. “For
him.
”
Him.
Little Napoleon. As if his spirit hovered. “Petit has been wonderful. I have so many stories to tell you. He’s the sweetest child.” But frail and fearful of late, often waking in the night. “Ah, he’s up,” I said, on hearing the child’s sleepy chatter.
Mimi appeared with the boy in her arms. “Oh, Petit!” Hortense said, her voice tremulous. I knew what she was thinking, that he looked so very like little Napoleon. And yet so different.
The child stared at his mother and then hid his face in Mimi’s neck.
“Three months is a lifetime to a child,” I said, fearing a problem. “Remember how you felt, darling, when I got out of prison? You didn’t even recognize me.”
“I don’t remember,” Hortense said, leaning down to catch her boy’s eyes. She covered her face with her hands and surprised him with a peeka-boo. Petit studied his mother sombrely, his thumb in his mouth, a hint of a smile in his eyes. She did another peek-a-boo for him, eliciting a tiny giggle. Then she opened her hands and he dove into her arms. She pressed him against her heart, tears streaming onto his fair curls, cooing, “Oh, my Petit, my sweet Petit.” Mimi and I stood sniffing, our hearts full of love and sorrow.
“Ah, there you are.” It was Bonaparte, standing in the door.
“Papa!
Sire.
” Hortense made a respectful dip, balancing her child in
her arms. She swiped one eye with the back of her free hand.
“
Still
weeping?” he said reproachfully. “You’ve cried enough over your son. You’re not the only woman to have suffered a loss. Other women are braver than you, especially considering that you have a child who needs you. Now that you are back, smile and be gay—and not one tear!” And with that he left.
Hortense lowered herself onto the little bench by the door. “How can Papa reproach me like that?” she asked, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
“Try to understand, Hortense,” I said, motioning to Mimi to take Petit. “Bonaparte is just as upset as we are, but he believes we make it worse by weeping.” Sorrow unnerved him, made him uncomfortable.
“Doesn’t he understand how a mother feels?”
“He believes being stern will help you.” I put my arm around her thin shoulders. “He loves you.”
It is true. Bonaparte has a great,
great
heart. If only I could find it.
Sunday morning at Malmaison, lovely
—
not too hot yet.
I’ve just talked with the housekeeper and the head cook about the family dinner tonight: Madame Mère, Julie,
*
Louis and Hortense, Pauline, Caroline and Joachim, Jérôme and Princess Catherine, Stéphanie and Émilie, Bonaparte and me. Is that everyone? Table for thirteen. And all the children, of course: Petit, Julie’s girls (Zenaïde and Charlotte), Caroline’s four (Achille, Letizia, Lucien and Louise). Mimi is organizing a picnic for them out under the oak trees.
10:10
P.M.
The dinner went fairly well—for a Bonaparte gathering, that is. Joachim was so transparently obsequious toward Bonaparte—offering him his snuffbox, bowing not only in greeting, but with
every
sentence—it annoyed both Louis and Jérôme, who addressed him as “Prince Bully-Boy,” much to Joachim’s annoyance. Caroline, as well,
seemed in a temper—this business of crowns, no doubt. But worst of all, Pauline—who was carried in on a tasselled silk litter by four Negroes dressed as Mamelukes—berated Hortense for wearing black: “Your son was only five when he died. You’re not supposed to wear mourning.”
My god-daughter Stéphanie was a little giddy, but otherwise restrained, thanks to Madame Campan’s stern tutelage. Hortense only pretended to eat, I noticed. Then, as the desserts were being brought out, she abruptly excused herself from the table.
I found her in the water closet with a china bowl in her lap, Louis beside her. Her face was flushed, beaded with perspiration. “It’s all right, Maman,” she said, seeing the concern in my eyes. She looked at Louis. “Should I tell her?”
“Hortense is with child again,” Louis said.
Caroline flushed on hearing the news—her heated complexion visible even through a thick layer of ceruse. She gave Joachim “a look,” a very slight widening of her kohl-lined eyes. “How wonderful,” she said with a bright smile, methodically tapping a beauty patch stuck on her chin. “What a surprise.”
At the close of the evening, Louis proposed a toast. He and Hortense would be returning to their kingdom, he said, and so consequently, they must bid everyone adieu.
“Cin-cin! Cin-cin!” Jérôme called out, spilling wine on his new (and doting) wife.
“Blood is everything,” Madame Mère said.
“No, Maman: you’re supposed to say salúte.”
“Salúte.”
“Salúte!”
“Santé,” I echoed faintly, weak with concern.
[Undated]
Alarming news: Hortense is consumptive. “Does that mean she has consumption?” I asked Dr. Corvisart. People die of that disease!
“It’s more of a tendency in that direction,” he told me. “No doubt she
will recover, but I’m concerned that the climate of Holland might be too…” He made a grimace. “A damp climate might—”
“Harm her health?”
“Especially in her delicate condition.” He cleared his throat. “And I’ve concern about the child, as well. He is sickly, and one doesn’t want to take any risks.”
Dieu nous en garde!
September 19.
Louis has returned to Holland alone—without his wife, without his son. “But he left
furious
at me, Maman,” Hortense sobbed.
“Dr. Corvisart explained it to him, didn’t he? About the dangers?”
“I don’t know. Louis wouldn’t even speak to me!”
Sunday morning.
Caroline’s ball last night was shocking in its splendour: tightrope walkers and acrobats, a miniature village in the garden. As Caroline and Joachim (tipsy) escorted Jérôme’s bride to a replica of her summer chalet, a choir dressed in peasant costumes appeared, singing the traditional songs of her country.
It was a triumph, of course. Caroline made sure Bonaparte was aware of all that she had done to further his glory. She also made sure, I later discovered, that a rumour was circulated that Hortense is with child by a man named Monsieur Decazes.
4:45
P.M.
“I believe I’ve discovered the reason for Louis’s temper,” I told my daughter. “Do you know Monsieur Decazes?”
“He was at the spa, mourning the death of his wife.”
“It seems that there is a rumour going around that he is the father of the child you are carrying.”
“Monsieur Decazes?” Hortense wrinkled her nose. “That’s…that’s crazy, Maman.”
“I agree! I was outraged. But it might help explain why Louis was so angry. Perhaps if you were to—”
“It explains nothing! How could Louis believe something like that about me?”
“Well…” I understood what it was like to be consumed by jealousy, knew how it could make a person act.
“All a man has to do is look at me and Louis is convinced of my infidelity. I will never forgive him!”
“But Hortense, don’t you think maybe—”
“Never!” she cried, bolting for the door.
I put my arm out to prevent her from running out of the room.
“Let me out!” she demanded.
“I want the truth, Hortense.”
“I’ll tell you the truth!” she said, her voice tremulous. “But it won’t be what you expect. The truth is something you don’t want to hear. The truth is that Louis torments me! He
hires
people to spy on me. He has me followed.
Every
outing I make he assumes has a romantic purpose—even to visit a relative’s deathbed! He listens at my door at night, he opens my mail. I might as well live in a convent. Do you know how he begins each day? With a search of my closets. Is that how a man is supposed to regard his wife?”
I listened in stunned silence as she sobbed out years of torment. I could not believe what she was saying, yet suddenly it all made sense—the high wall Louis had had built around their house, the sentry posted below Hortense’s bedchamber window. “I’m so sorry, Hortense,” was all I could say. If only I had known! If only she had told me! But perhaps it was true, what she said: perhaps I hadn’t wanted to hear.
“You know what he tells me, Maman, about
you
? He says you’re a harlot. He says you’re not my mother, that Madame Mère is my mother now—and she detests me! He says any love I show you is a stab against him! He’s in a constant rage. I cannot even speak to a man without Louis threatening to run him through. I’ve
never
been untrue to him, Maman, yet he treats me like a criminal,” she sobbed. “Every time I try to please him, he finds something in me to hate, something to doubt. He loves his dog more than he loves me! I can’t bear it any longer. Please,
please
don’t make me go back to him. I fear it will be the death of me!”
And then she gave way to a convulsive fit of coughing that frightened me terribly. I took her in my arms, rocking her like a baby. Slowly the coughing eased. “Forgive me, Hortense—I’ve been blind.” And worse—wilfully so. “But now I know.”
And now, I vow, things will be different.
September 22, 1807
—
Fontainebleau.
At last we are settled at Fontainebleau for a month of hunting and festivities—
all
of us. (Moving a court is not easy.) Settled, but in chaos still, everyone rushing about trying to find trunks, getting lost in the vast corridors, frazzled from lack of sleep. Even the actors and actresses are in hysterics. They are to perform Corneille’s
Horace
in less than two hours, “and our props haven’t even arrived,” Talma exclaimed, the back of his hand to his forehead.
Thursday, September 24, 4:45 P.M.
Duroc addressed the assembled court this morning. Here are the rules:
One evening a week the Emperor will receive. On that evening there will be music followed by cards.