The Josephine B. Trilogy (131 page)

December 4, Monday
—
Paris.

My demise—my loss of a throne, a crown, a husband—begins to be “conjectured.” At the military review this morning, a market woman placed flowers at my feet, as if I had died.

The review was followed by a fête given by the city of Paris, with the court of the Hôtel de Ville transformed into an enormous ballroom. I’d been instructed to go alone. My ladies would be there to meet me, I was told, but when I entered, I found the foyer empty, the small drawing room beside the grand staircase where the attendants waited deserted. Where were my ladies, my entourage? The head butler came running down the marble stairs. “Your attendants have been seated,” he said, out of breath.

“I’m to enter alone?”

“It is the Emperor’s wish.”

I will it.
Bien. Drums sounded my entry into the Grand Salon. I could hear the hushed whispers as I made my way to the dais: an Empress without an Emperor. As I approached the throne, my knees began to give way. Quickly I was handed into the velvet-cushioned throne. I sat back, faced the crowd.

The drums beat again, and Bonaparte entered with Caroline on his arm, Jérôme following behind.

Caroline caught my eye, glowing with the triumph of victory.

December 5
—
Paris, shortly before dinner.

A message from Eugène—he’ll be here in a few days.

Thursday.

I was at my toilette when Hortense appeared at the door, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glistening. “Eugène is here!”

I pressed my hands to my heart. I hadn’t seen my son since he and Auguste had married—almost four years ago now.

“He’s with the Emperor,” she said, touching her cheek to mine. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m…
fine.
” I reached for the vial of herbal essence Dr. Corvisart had prescribed, for nerves. I put a drop on my finger and held it to my nose, inhaled slowly. I had not been sleeping, and already this morning I’d had one of my “tropical storms”—a torrent of tears that seemed to come upon me unexpectedly and without warning. I inhaled again and sat back. “I’m all right,” I repeated (but with tears welling up). “I’ve been—”

I was interrupted by the thundering sound of footsteps in the private passage. “Come in,” I called out at the sound of Bonaparte’s characteristic
rap-rap.
How I’ve missed that sound!

Bonaparte stumbled into the room, blinking against the light. “Hortense
is
here,” he said over his shoulder.

And then close behind him appeared a tall, good-looking young man with broad shoulders and honest, smiling eyes: Eugène! I stood to embrace my beloved son. “Oh, mon Dieu, Eugène, you look so old!” So handsome—so manly.

He swung me playfully in his embrace, crooning, “Oh Maman, Maman, Maman…”

“And you’ve grown sideburns.” And a kingdom. And two daughters. “You look wonderful,” I said, blinking back tears. “Doesn’t he?” I said, turning to Bonaparte—
Papa.
“Doesn’t he?” Turning to Hortense.

“Oh Maman,
don’t
,” Eugène said, his eyes brimming. He pulled me against his chest, patting my back, stilling my sudden sobs.

“Hold her, Eugène.” Hortense saw my knees beginning to buckle.

Supported by them both, I regained my strength. “Forgive me. I’m sorry.” I glanced up. Bonaparte was staring at the three of us, his cheeks wet with tears.

“Oh, Papa,” Hortense whispered, pulling him into the circle of our embrace.

December 8.

As we married, so we must divorce: with ceremony.

We begin with specifics: who, what, when, where. The date has been set for a week from today, next Friday. Evening, court attire. Reception in the throne room, the ceremony itself in Bonaparte’s cabinet. In the presence of family and a few officials, Bonaparte will make a statement, I will follow, and then the legal document will be signed. Arch-Chancellor de Cambacérès will see to the legalities. His secretary will send out the invitations.

“As you wish,” I said, my mouth dry.

[Undated]

“Your Majesty, did I understand you correctly? There is to be no lace, no embroidery, no pearls—
nothing
?”

“The gown must be plain, Monsieur Leroy,” I said, “like one a nun would wear.”

[Undated]

Arch-Chancellor de Cambacérès has given me a draft of a divorce statement he thinks would be appropriate. I cannot speak his words. I will write it myself.

[Undated]

I tried to write my divorce statement this morning—gave up in tears.

No longer having any hope of conceiving children, I give my beloved husband proof of my devotion by…

By divorcing him.

Oh, mon Dieu—this is not the right thing to do, Bonaparte!

December 13, Wednesday evening.

An exhausting day attending to my charities, my wardrobe.
^*
To bed. Tomorrow there is a formal reception followed by dinner in the Gallery of Diana. I’ve begged permission not to attend, but I’m told I must. It will be my last appearance as Empress.

I declare that, no longer having any hope of conceiving children, I am willing to give my husband proof of my devotion by…

December 14.

The reception and dinner were difficult. At least it is over. “It always gives me a head pain anyway,” I told Chastulé as she took my crown away.

I declare that, no longer having any hope of conceiving children, which would satisfy the interests of France, I am willing to give the greatest proof of my love and devotion by…

December 15, Friday.

Leroy has delivered my gown. “I finally understand, Your Majesty,” he said. “You wish to adorn yourself in precious gems. The simplicity of the gown will be what designers call a counterpoint.”

“No, Monsieur Leroy, I intend not to wear a single gem.” Only my wedding ring, which I will wear to my grave.

He looked at me as if I’d gone mad—and perhaps he is right.

Mademoiselle Avrillion came for me shortly before nine. “Your Majesty, are you ready? The Emperor is expecting you in his cabinet.”

“I am ready.”

She burst into tears. “You should see them all.”

“They’ve arrived?” Already?

“They’re in the throne room, Your Majesty. I’ve never seen Caroline and Pauline looking so grand. Even Madame Mère is wearing a fuchsiaand-yellow brocade—and rubies! One would think it was carnival. I will be honest, now that we are leaving. I think that they’re beastly individuals and I detest them!”

At the landing, I sent Mademoiselle Avrillion away. “I’ll be all right,” I assured her, proceeding through the antechamber, the waiting room, the drawing room, nodding to the guards, the maids. Hugo, his chin puckered in misery, threw open the door to Bonaparte’s cabinet. “The Emperor is expecting you, Your Majesty.” Bowing deeply.

Bonaparte was seated on the chaise by the fireplace, his back to the door. “Josephine!” He jumped to his feet. He was wearing a blue velvet suit richly embroidered in gold. He wiped his hands on his breeches and came to me, hands extended, as if I were a guest he’d been expecting. But stopped short. “The family will be shown in soon. I thought you would sit here, by the writing table.” He pulled out the antique chair.

Slowly, I sat down. The chair needed to be reupholstered, I noticed—the silk piping was beginning to fray. The fabric was an unusual shade of green kersey. It would be difficult to match. I vaguely recalled that a length of it had been stored in the attic wardrobe. I should let Bonaparte’s chamberlain know.

“Josephine, are you all right?” Bonaparte patted my shoulder, very lightly—as if afraid to touch me.

I nodded, swallowing, my eyes stinging. A gold quill stand had been placed on the table before me in readiness, a parchment beside it. I put my own parchment down, smoothing it out so that it lay flat.
I declare that…

Bonaparte took up a matching chair and placed it in front of the fire. “And I will sit here. Everyone else can sit on the stools—but for my mother, of course. I thought perhaps she might sit on the chaise. What do you think?”

“Your mother doesn’t care to sit too close to a fire.”

“She doesn’t?”

Nor too far. “Perhaps if the chaise were placed against the wall,” I suggested.

“Good idea,” he said, shoving the chaise into place and then tugging at the corner of the carpet to straighten it.

The big pendulum clock began to sound the hour.

One.

Two.

Three.

At the fourth chime the door creaked open. “Your Majesty, it is time,” Christophe Duroc informed Bonaparte (without glancing at me). He was wearing the grandest of his Grand Marshal ensembles: an enormous cape with a batwing collar made stiff with bone.

Five.

Six.

Seven.
Bonaparte and I looked at each other for what seemed a very long moment.

Eight.
Let’s leave, I felt like crying out. Let’s escape to some island, frolic in the surf, grow flowers and vegetables. Let’s grow old together, fumbling and fond.

Nine.

“Send them in,” Bonaparte said, looking away.

I could hear Caroline’s voice, and then Pauline’s shrill giggle. I pulled out a fresh handkerchief, took a deep breath.

Duroc announced everyone in order of status. First Madame Mère (smiling), then Louis—leaning heavily on two walking sticks, his expression hooded—followed at a distance by Hortense, Jérôme and his wife, Caroline and Joachim (snickering), Julie (Joseph is in Spain), Eugène and, at the last, a giggling Pauline.

Hortense reached for the back of my chair as Eugène strode across the room to stand beside Bonaparte. My son crossed his arms on his chest and stared at the carpet, paler than I’d ever seen him.

I touched my daughter’s hand and looked up at her. Her red-rimmed
eyes glistening, her face streaked by tears—that sensitive face so full of intelligence, so full of grace. No wonder the Bonaparte sisters loathe her, I thought. Hortense is everything they are not.

Arch-Chancellor de Cambacérès came in, his cape pulled back to better display the medals and ribbons that covered his vest, followed by dignified Count Regnault, the clan lawyer. We lapsed into the uncomfortable fifteen minutes of silence required by the Code, broken only by Hortense’s sniffs, one muffled occurrence of flatulence (Joachim, I suspect), Pauline’s and Caroline’s whispers. I caught Bonaparte’s eye. He smiled wanly and looked away. My throat tightened and a wave of tears rose up within me. I took a deep breath, tracing a circle on the head of the gilt-bronze gryphon that ornamented the arm of my chair.
I declare that…

Bonaparte broke the silence. “You have been summoned here,” he began, “to witness the declaration the Empress and I are obliged to make.” He cleared his throat. “We are divorcing.”

Eugène reached out for the mantel. He was trembling, I realized with alarm. Hortense stifled a sob. I caressed her fingers, my eyes fixed on my husband.

He read quickly at first, as if racing to get the ordeal over with. Then he paused. “She has adorned fifteen years of my life. The memory of those years will be forever inscribed on my heart,” he read haltingly, finishing with difficulty.

I felt Hortense squeeze my shoulder. It was my turn.

The parchment shook in my hands. “I declare that…” I began to read, but at the words,
Everything I have comes from his kindness
, I broke down, and handed the paper to Count Regnault. Leaning one elbow on the table, I listened as he read my words, so true and so heartfelt:
The dissolution of my marriage will make no change in the feelings of my heart. The Emperor will always find in me his truest friend.

Count Regnault put the paper on the table and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his eyes.

Bonaparte sat motionless. Through a blur of tears, I saw my son’s stricken face. Cambacérès indicated to Bonaparte that the time had come to sign the official document. Bonaparte stood and scratched out his signature—that messy scrawl I knew so well.

“Josephine?” he said then, with a sweet-sad smile, handing me the quill.

4:30
A.M.

The night sky is lightening. I don’t believe I’ve slept at all.

It was close to midnight when I gave way to my heart. En déshabille, I fumbled up the connecting passage, lighting my way with a single candle. The guard woke with a start when I rapped on Bonaparte’s door. He looked at me, confused, his hand on the pommel of his sword. “It’s just me, the Empress Josephine.” Fortunately, Bonaparte’s valet opened the door.

“Your Majesty,” he said, astonished as much by my unexpected call as by my disordered appearance.

“Who is it, Constant?” I heard Bonaparte call out. I stepped into the room. By the light of a lantern on the washstand, I saw that Bonaparte was in bed, under a pile of comforters.

“Bonaparte, I just wanted to—” I began calmly, but my voice suddenly went high, like that of a child in pain. “I don’t know if I have the strength to do this,” I gasped.

Bonaparte sat up, his nightcap slipping off. I fell sobbing into his arms. “Courage,” he said, tender and caressing. I touched his cheek, now wet with tears. “Oh, Josephine, how am I ever going to manage without you?” he whispered, holding me close.

Saturday, almost 2:00 P.M.

I will be leaving soon, leaving the palace, never to return, leaving my place beside Bonaparte. Soon another empress—young, royal, fertile—will sit at this desk. I have no illusions. Bonaparte will come to love her; that is her right. She will be the mother of his children.

And I, who will I be? I will be “the other one,” growing old alone.

I’ve sprinkled the room with my light lavender scent. He will never,
ever
forget me.

[Undated]

“Ready, Maman?” Hortense touched my shoulder, a gentle motion that gave me strength.