The Josephine B. Trilogy (126 page)

On another evening I’m to hold a reception at which cards will be played. (But not for money: Bonaparte insists.)

Two evenings a week there will be a tragedy performed. (No comedies: Bonaparte considers them a waste of time.)

As well, the Princes and the Ministers are required to give dinners, inviting all the members of the court. Duroc, as Grand Marshal, and Chastulé, as lady of honour, are required to do the same, laying covers for twenty-five. A table will be provided for any who have not received an invitation to dine elsewhere.

“I want to dine at
that
table,” Hortense whispered.

“And finally,” Duroc said, raising his voice, “only the Emperor and Empress will have the liberty of dining alone—
should
they choose to do so.”

There was a rustle of fine silks, a tinkling of gold pendants, a murmur—of envy, I realized, over the privilege of privacy. Fortunately the assembly was diverted by Duroc’s announcement that for the deer hunt, the gentlemen were required to wear a green coat with gold or silver lace, white cashmere breeches and riding boots without flaps. The shooting costume was to be “a simple green coat without any ornament but white buttons,” Duroc said, looking expressly at Joachim, who was known to embellish even his nightcap. “But on those buttons, some characteristic of the species being hunted is to be engraved.”

“The prick,” Joachim guffawed.

Duroc ignored him, and continued by saying that hunting costumes would be required as well for the ladies and their households, and for this purpose the designer Leroy had been engaged. At this point Monsieur Leroy, flustered but clearly enjoying the acclaim, was called upon to display his creation: a tunic, rather like a short redingote, over a gown of embroidered white satin. I applauded, which signalled to the assembly that they could do likewise.

So on this pretty note court was adjourned. The first hunt is to be held in four days at eight in the morning. Tardiness is forbidden. The Emperor has spoken.

September 27, Sunday
—
Fontainebleau.

“We must be a court!” Bonaparte exploded, hitting the table with the flat of his hands. “A
real
court, with dancing and gaiety. I will it!”

I will it.
If only it were as easy as that! Bonaparte has everyone terrified. It is impossible to be gay. My ladies are so fearful of being publicly reprimanded that they don’t dare speak, much less
enjoy
themselves.

“Zut. I’ve brought hundreds of people to Fontainebleau to amuse themselves. I’ve arranged
every
sort of entertainment for them and yet they just sit with long faces.”

“Pleasure cannot be summoned by the beat of the drum, Your Majesty,” Talleyrand observed in his expressionless manner.

“How long are we here for?” Hortense asked plaintively, later. Six weeks. Six
long
weeks.

Wednesday.

The first “crowns” (as Chastulé calls them) have arrived from Germany—the brothers Prince Mecklenburg and Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin, charming young men with old-fashioned manners. Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin, recently widowed (his wife was the Russian Tsar’s sister), hovered at the edge of my drawing room last night. Understandably he refrained from joining us at the whist table, but sat to one side, watching how I played my cards with apparent interest. Later, when ices were served, he confided that he has not been well. I offered him condolences but immediately regretted it, for he seemed suddenly close to tears. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. It was a mistake to come to Fontainebleau,” he said, touching a lace-edged handkerchief to the corner of each eye. “I only came because I wished to persuade the Emperor to withdraw his troops from my country.”

“Have you discussed this with the Emperor?”

“Yes, this afternoon, but…” He looked discouraged.

“Give it time,” I suggested, tendering an invitation to both him and his brother to join us in our box for the theatrical performance tomorrow evening.

[Undated]

“I see you’ve made a conquest,” Bonaparte said. “It’s a good thing I’m not a jealous husband.”

“Hardly,” I said, but with an edge of regret. There was a time when Bonaparte
had
been a jealous husband. “Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin’s wife died not long ago. He talks to me of his grief.” I paused, considering how best to proceed. “He’s very impressed by you.”

“That I doubt. He is disappointed in me. He wants me to withdraw my troops. That’s out of the question. These princes seem to think I should come in with my soldiers, liberate their country and then, job done, just leave. They live in another world.”

“So there’s
no
chance that our troops will be withdrawn…someday?” I took his hand in mine.

“I take it the Prince has recruited you to advance his cause,” he said, tweaking my ear—hard.

La Pagerie, Martinico

Madame Bonaparte,

I regret to inform you that your mother has been taken by the Lord. She changed worlds at 3:47
P.M.
on the eighth of July, at La Pagerie. I was the only person in attendance, not counting the slaves. I will notify you if there is anything left of value once the estate debts have been paid.

In the service of the Eternal Lord, Father Droppet

Fort de France, Martinico

Chère Yeyette, my beloved niece,

Our profound condolences on the passing of your dear mother. You did what you could to make her last years comfortable.

Stéphanie writes that she may be wed soon
—
and to a prince? Is this possible? Surely she is jesting.

God bless you,

Your aging uncle, Robert Tascher

Note
—
Father Droppet is going to send you the accounts of the estate, such as they are. Be sure to check his numbers. He is known to be “imaginative.”

Saturday evening.

“I understand how you feel,” Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin said. “Grief sets one apart.”

“Yes,” I said, clutching my handkerchief.

“There will be a period of mourning?”

I shook my head. Bonaparte didn’t want the news of my mother’s death made public. A period of official mourning would put an end to the festivities. I understood, but a part of me rebelled. Was no one to
mourn her? I felt so alone in my grief. “The timing is…” I waved my soggy handkerchief through the air.

“Inconvenient?”

“It makes me sad, nonetheless. Hortense and I are the only mourners in all of France.”

He slipped a narrow black silk ribbon off his queue and threaded it through a buttonhole on his jacket, tying it in a tidy bow. “There,” he said. “I wager you thought I wouldn’t know how to tie a bow.”

“I admit it crossed my mind,” I said with a smile.

“A bit unusual as a mourning ensemble, but I believe the Almighty will understand.”

October 4, Sunday.

Mimi, Hortense, Chastulé, Clari and even Monsieur Etiquette are now all sporting a little black ribbon. I feel strengthened beyond measure.

October 5
—
Fontainebleau, 2:00 P.M.

Caroline joined the hunt this morning wearing a little black ribbon tied to a buttonhole. “It’s the fashion,” she informed everyone. “Haven’t you noticed?”

Thursday, October 8, very late, possibly 2:00 A.M.

Every evening before dinner, Bonaparte and I go for a ride through the woods. He drives and I try not to ask him to slow down. It’s a welcome hour, for me, a chance to be alone with Bonaparte (if one doesn’t count the mounted escort riding fore and aft).

Often we ride in silence—that comfortable silence of the long-married—but tonight Bonaparte was cheerful (unusual for him these days) and we talked amiably of this and that: of Jérôme’s latest mischief, the foreign princes. And then, as if it were inconsequential, he informed me that he was having an amourette with my reader. “Your spies will inform you in any case,” he said, glancing at me to gauge my reaction.

“Madame Gazzani?” How could I not have known? “I appreciate how discreet you’ve been. And Madame Gazzani, as well.”

“You’re not angry?”

“Bonaparte, there are only two things I wish for. One, your happiness. And two…” I paused, feeling the calming lull of the even clip-clop of the horses’ hoofs. I’d given up even wishing for a child, I realized sadly.

“And two…?” He turned the horses in the direction of the palace.

“And two, I wish for your love.”

He pulled in the reins, bringing the horses to a halt. “Don’t you know how much I love you?”

“I do know that, Bonaparte,” I said. “That’s what makes it so hard.”

Saturday afternoon.

Carlotta put a vase of roses on my escritoire. “Thank you, Carlotta.”

She curtsied. “It is my pleasure to serve you, Your Majesty.”

I believed her. “I would like you to join us tonight, Carlotta, in the drawing room.” The girl was no doubt bored to tears, relegated to her small attic room.

“But Your Majesty, I’m merely a…”

Merely a reader, she started to say. Readers are not granted drawing room privileges; my ladies would no doubt object.

“It would please the Emperor, Carlotta,” I said with a knowing smile.

And now—at long last—I believe I have finally begun to understand. Carlotta has become my gift to Bonaparte, like some succulent fruit I place before my husband. In loving her, he must love me. In loving her, he must feel beholden.

October 25, Sunday.

This morning, returning from Mass, Fouché (lurking in a window recess) pulled me aside. “I have a matter of grave importance to discuss with you, Your Majesty,” he said, clearing his throat. He glanced toward the door, where a guard was stationed.

“Oh,” I said, not a little concerned. His manner was uneasy. And when had he ever addressed me as “Your Majesty”?

He pulled a tightly rolled paper out of his inside coat pocket and handed it to me. Sunlight caught the diamond in the ring on his little finger.

Warily I slipped off the silk cord and unrolled the scroll. The script—Fouché’s—was tiny, difficult to make out. “I’m afraid I don’t have my reading spectacles with me.”

“Read it later, Your Majesty. I’d like you to…
reflect
on the contents.”

“And what is it, may I ask?” Why were we being so polite with each other?

“It’s a draft of a letter I suggest you send to the Senate.”

“You think
I
should write a letter to the Senate?”
Why?

“You are no doubt aware of the public fears that as the Emperor ages, he will follow in the traces of Sardanapalus.”

I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but I thought it sounded like something concerning Bonaparte’s health.

“Even the general public, so deserving of peace and security, is crying out. As devoted as they are to you, Your Majesty, they are even more devoted to the Emperor and the Empire he has created—an Empire which they know will crumble upon his death.”

Did Bonaparte have a life-threatening disease? Was there something I did not know? “Fouché, is the Emperor—?”

“The Emperor suffers, Your Majesty,” Fouché said, taking out an ivory snuffbox adorned with precious gems, “for he has reached the painful conclusion that a compelling political necessity, however abhorrent to him personally, must be undertaken for reasons of state. Yet, as brave as he is on the battlefield, he lacks the courage to speak to you on this matter.”

My hands became cold, and my heart began to skitter. A nervous apprehension filled my veins. This had nothing to do with Bonaparte’s health. “And what matter might this be?”

Fouché sniffed a pinch of snuff, then dusted off the tip of his nose. “Why, the matter of a divorce, Your Majesty.”

“You’re suggesting that I—?”

“I’m suggesting that you write to the Senate, informing them that
you are willing to make this sacrifice for the good of the nation. I know how devoted you are to the Emperor, and I believe your love for him is such that you would sacrifice your life, if it meant that
his
would be spared.”

I leaned against the wall. This is it, I thought. Bonaparte doesn’t have the courage to speak to me, and so he has arranged to have Fouché speak on his behalf. The coward!

“Our soldiers are willing to sacrifice their lives for their country,” Fouché said, grasping my elbow. “It is rare for a woman to have an opportunity to prove her devotion, her—”

“I must know one thing,” I said abruptly. I felt on the edge of a precipice. I feared I might lose control, but I had to know. “Minister Fouché, did the Emperor
ask
you to speak to me about this?”

“Although I know the Emperor’s thoughts on this matter, I had no order from him,” Fouché said evenly, examining a timepiece which hung from his breeches on a heavy gold chain. “I regret to say that I must bring an end to this melancholy interview, Your Majesty, for I have an urgent appointment.”

And without even so much as a bow, he left. Hortense found me shortly after, standing near the window recess clutching the drapes.

[Undated]

I went to Bonaparte’s room early this morning, just after seven. I thought it best to talk to him before his work began, so I was surprised to find him dressed in a hunting coat, with his valet helping him on with his Hessian boots. “You’re not going on the hunt, Josephine?” He pulled on his left boot and stood to embrace me. “Not feeling well?”

“No, I’m not—not going on the hunt, that is.” I’d forgotten entirely. “Bonaparte, I need to talk to you.” It was hot in the room; a fire was roaring.

“Fine,” Bonaparte said, sitting down and sticking out his right foot.

“Privately,” I said, clasping Fouché’s letter, which I’d rolled into a tight tube and secured with a yellow ribbon, the colour of betrayal.

Bonaparte stood and stomped his foot. “That’s good,” he told Constant, dismissing him. He led me to one of the chairs by the fire.
“You’re pale. You must be cold.” He kicked the burning log, sending embers flying, and then sat down, watching the flames.