The Josephine B. Trilogy (32 page)

A few members of the Committee would come and go. Robespierre was one of these. He was wearing a striped satin waistcoat. A woman threw herself to her knees in front of him. She was pulled away by the guards.

Toward noon I began to despair. I saw a man approach—a man I recognized. Deputy Barère! I ran after him, called out his name. He turned.

“Citoyenne Beauharnais.” There was something in his face that warned me.

“I’ve been here all morning, hoping to speak to Deputy Vadier.”

“We are exceedingly busy.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair, which he had combed to disguise a bald spot.

“If I could just talk to him…”

He shook his head, gave me a look of alarm:
Don’t insist.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” The big oak doors closed behind him.

It was nearing five in the afternoon when my name was called. I went to the head of the line. The guard handed me an envelope. I broke open the seal. Inside was a note:
Green salon, north side.
Signed
B.

It took some time to locate the green salon. When I gave the guard my name he opened the door: I was expected.

Deputy Barère was seated at an elegant writing table. The room was full of ormolu clocks and vases, Gobelin tapestries, several gold and silver tea equipages, a brass statue of the Virgin Mary and three immense candle snuffers. Deputy Barère waited until the door had closed before offering me a seat. “I have put myself in jeopardy meeting with you.”

I was feeling short of breath. I heard a cheer outside. “Long live the Republic!” Crowds at the scaffold. I rushed into my speech: “I am seeking release of my sister-in-law, Citoyenne Marie-Françoise Beauharnais, an ardent Republican. She has been imprisoned in Sainte-Pélagie, due to her ex-husband’s defection. Yet she divorced him long ago and is not of his party in any way—”

“Citoyenne Beauharnais!” Deputy Barère silenced me with a wave of his hand. “I cannot help your sister-in-law. I have family of my own in prison—I cannot help them! I have consented to meet you only out of a past regard for your husband. You must warn him—he is in danger of arrest.” This last he whispered. “And as for you and your children…”

The
children
…grand Dieu!

“Please understand that you must be
exceedingly
cautious. I can’t emphasize this enough—”

“But Citoyen Beauharnais is in Blois,” I stuttered. “I can’t even write to him to warn him. I have reason to believe that the mail is under surveillance.”

“Quite likely.” Deputy Barère stood, sighed. “These are…
difficult
times. I can say no more.” And he was gone.

Lannoy was alarmed by my condition. She brought me a claret. Against persistent admonitions, I insisted on rising. I knew what I had to do. I had to appeal once more to Deputy Vadier, write a letter, for Alexandre’s sake, as well as for Marie’s. I had to rise and write this letter upon which
so much depended, and I had to do so quickly before courage gave way, before fear took possession of me.

It took one hour to compose the draft. Lannoy brought me cup after cup of broth for strength. In spite of the flaws and imperfections, I copied out the final version. As I sprinkled it with sand I silently recited a chant Mimi had once taught me so many many years ago, a prayer to the mystères. I sealed the envelope and sent Lannoy to deliver it. If I waited for a courier, I knew I would tear it to shreds.

March 4, 1794—Croissy.

A long walk today, along the river. As I turned back to the château I saw Eugène running toward me, his long legs pumping up and down, up and down.

What had happened?

He was crying when he reached me.

Alexandre has been arrested.

In which I go to the aid of my husband

March 6, 1794—Paris.

I approached the Luxembourg Palace—a prison now—with trepidation, but was soon reassured. Inside, men and women in aristocratic dress mingled freely. Everywhere there were tête-à-têtes, gatherings, the sound of laughter and games. Some of the rooms were elaborately furnished. I saw a woman in a striped polonaise attended by a valet in livery.

I was told to wait in an elegant antechamber. I was offered tea—
real
tea, so rare now. Shortly, Alexandre arrived. I was moved to see him. He was bronzed from country life, his fair hair blonder than usual.

We embraced and exchanged news much as if we were sitting at home in the parlour, not in a prison. He confessed that he was suffering from indigestion, but not from the food, which he said was excellent. He’d met an old friend, an officer with the Esterhazy Hussars, and they’d stayed up most of the night drinking wine and playing billiards.

“All the best people of Paris are here,” Alexandre said, as if proud to be included. He gave me a list of books he would like and requested money—a considerable sum, for the privilege of being so comfortably detained cost dear. “I will be out soon, no doubt, but until that happy day, I intend to put this time to good use.”

“I wish I had your faith,” I said.

After a midday meal, which I ate halfheartedly, I decided to call on Princess Amalia and Frédéric. I was in need of the Princess’s sweet temper, Frédéric’s drôle wit.

Approaching Hôtel de Salm, I was puzzled by the National Guard standing at their gate. I was allowed to enter the courtyard, only to be turned away at the door by a footman. Princess Amalia was indisposed, he said.

“And Prince Frédéric?”

The valet looked confused. He told me to wait in the anteroom and disappeared into one of the palatial rooms. He returned shortly after. “The Princess will receive you,” he said.

He led me to a bedchamber on the second floor where I found Princess Amalia, her eyes red, her wig on the carpet: Frédéric has been arrested, she herself was under house arrest. Hence the guard at her gate.

We collapsed onto the sofa together. I felt numb. All my fears had come to pass. Were it not for me, Frédéric and Princess Amalia would be in England, safe from harm. “Where are they holding him?” I asked.

“I don’t even know!” she wept.

March 9.

The children and Lannoy will arrive by coach at three. I gathered up my meat-rationing cards, enabling Agathe to purchase a hare. We’ll have a meal and then walk over to the Luxembourg to visit their father—a prisoner.

March 14.

Alexandre has been transferred to the convent of the Carmelites. My heart sank when I heard. Slovenly, haunted—the Carmes was said to be one of the worst prisons in Paris. I thought of the massacres that had happened there, the stories Abbé Maynaud had told me.

So it was with trepidation that I went today. The gate creaked as the guard opened it. Even from the courtyard, I could smell the stench. I followed the guard through an archway and up some stone steps to a small room. There I was told to wait. Along one wall were dark stains—blood stains, I realized, from where the murderers had leaned their sabres.

Alexandre was ushered in. He looked shaken, uneasy. He wasn’t wearing a cravat. I told him I’d still not succeeded in finding out the reason
for his arrest. For the first time, he showed impatience. “But there must be a reason! They can’t just hold me!”

I left even more determined to find answers.

Saturday, March 15.

Deputy Tallien is back in Paris, thank God. I sent him a message: it was urgent that I see him. He returned a note within an hour. I was to come to his office—in disguise. I was to give my name as a Citoyenne Gossec, a perfumer, witness to a shipment of grain that had been destroyed outside the city walls.

The need for disguise puzzled me. I borrowed a dress from Lannoy. By putting a small pillow into a corset I was able to give the appearance of a woman with child. That together with a veiled hat made me sufficiently mysterious.

I arrived at Tallien’s office at precisely two. I was let into the anteroom. When Deputy Tallien came to the door, he looked at me without recognition. I smiled and then he realized who I was.

Once within the privacy of his office—which had been elaborately refurnished since I had last been there—we were able to embrace.

“No, I am
not
with child,” I smiled, in answer to his questioning look. “Why the necessity of disguise?” I asked, accepting my friend’s offer of a glass of Clos-Vougeot.

“I am watched.”

“You?”
He did not look well. “You’ve returned to Paris unexpectedly.”

“Been
recalled
is more accurate.”

“Was there a problem?” I thought of the things I’d heard, of the terrible things my friend was rumoured to have been responsible for: a
massacre
in Bordeaux, hundreds of aristocrats executed. Was it possible? I could not believe it.

“You should know that your wish has been granted.” He placed his hand over his heart.

“
My
wish?”

“I now know what it is to love.”

I could not but smile at such a solemn confession. “That grieves you?” I asked. His expression was one of profound misery.

“The possessor of my affection has an untamed heart—for which I love her all the more, I confess. But I will die as a result—if not of a broken heart, then by the loss of my head on the scaffold.” He sat solemnly with his hands before him, his long fingers clasped.

“Pray do not keep me in suspense, my friend.”

“The captor of my heart wrote a letter to Citoyen Jullien, Robespierre’s nancy-boy sent to spy on me in Bordeaux. In it she gave
him
her undying love, and complained of me, ‘the tyrant’! She even tried to persuade him to escape to America with her!”

“She sent this letter to Jullien? How did you come to know of it?”

“The saga, my friend, gets worse.” He downed his wine and poured himself another glass. “Jullien forwarded this missive to the Committee of Public Safety. Now it is a public scandal and I’m cast in the role of a fool.” He looked forlorn.

“Perhaps it is a plot by Jullien and Robespierre to discredit you. Have you considered that possibility?”

Deputy Tallien shook his head. “I examined the letter. It is in her hand. There can be no mistake. She, the angel who has claimed my heart, she alone is the author of my defeat. Jullien has accused me before the members of the Committee of being her bondslave; I cannot deny it!”

“Where is she now? This angel of yours…”

“I’ve just learned that she is back in Paris. I cannot tell you how it torments me to know that she is near.” He stood and began pacing, waving his glass of wine around wildly. “You know her, no doubt. Her name is Thérèse…Thérèse Cabarrus.”

I was stunned. Thérèse Cabarrus? I had met her at a salon years ago. Even as a girl she had been known for her extraordinary beauty—and her height: “Amazon” she’d been called. She was the daughter of the Treasurer to the King of Spain. Her family was both powerful and wealthy. Thérèse had been one of the few women admitted to Club 89, an exclusive group whose members included Mirabeau, Lafayette, Sieyès, Condorcet…Of course the gossips contended that her contribution was not
philosophical
in nature and had even published a pamphlet to that effect.

Suddenly I understood my friend’s lament. Young Deputy Tallien, the
humble son of a lowly valet, had given his heart to the wealthiest, most beautiful, most
spirited
woman in all of Europe.

“What a terrible affliction you have wished upon your friend!” he cried. “It is not the guillotine I fear, but the loss of her love!”

I sighed. There was little likelihood that my friend could be attentive to any of
my
requests for help—not in his agitated condition. “Perhaps I can be of assistance,” I offered.

And
then
I would see about Alexandre, Frédéric, Marie…

March 16.

Thérèse Cabarrus was at her toilette when I entered. It was nine in the morning. She was drinking champagne before an open window that looked out on the Seine. A young woman (I would guess her age at twenty), and strikingly tall, she was wearing a revealing dressing gown with no attempt at modesty. “May I help you?” she asked, turning to greet me. She spoke with a slight Spanish accent. Her voice was deep, soothing, without the ostentation so common to her rank.

I glanced around her bedchamber—everywhere, in and among numerous flowering plants, there were paintings, sculptures, works of art. In the corner was a harpsichord. By the window an unfinished painting on an easel. The abundant trimmings were elegant—yet the effect of the arrangement was unique, bizarre, stimulating to the imagination.

“I am here on behalf of a mutual acquaintance,” I began, accepting the offer of a chair.

The chambermaid slipped the dressing gown from Thérèse’s shoulders and began massaging her neck. “And who might that be?” Thérèse asked. Her eyes were huge, black—not without wisdom.

“A man who loves you very much.”

Thérèse looked at me with a playful expression. “Ah—but there are so many.”

I smiled. I believed her. I believed it entirely possible for all the men of Paris to lust after such a creature.

“You find me vain?”

“I find you disarmingly honest,” I said.

“Does this disturb you?”

“I appreciate honesty.”

She looked at me for a long moment. “We shall be friends,” she said.

We finished the bottle of champagne. I informed her that Deputy Jullien had forwarded her letter on to the Committee of Public Safety.

“Grand Dieu!” She put her hands to her heart. “My intention was to discredit Deputy Jullien, for I had discovered that he was spying on Tallien and reporting back to Robespierre. I had intended to tempt him into foolishness.”

“You are aware of the danger this puts Deputy Tallien in?”

“Will he ever forgive me?”

“He will forgive you
anything.
”

March 20.

Deputy Tallien leaps about. He cannot believe his good fortune, cannot believe that a woman as rich and as beautiful and as aristocratic as Thérèse could love
him.
He is beside himself with fretfulness, overcome with sentiments of tenderness, writing sonnets and sighing all day long. It is difficult to keep him focussed on my petitions, but I persist. Daily I visit Alexandre. Daily I visit Frédéric, Marie. The situation worsens.