The Josephine B. Trilogy (60 page)
He scratched his chin. “A mole, perhaps?”
A mole?
[Undated]
From Madame Campan’s book:
A Mole is a Mass generated in the Uterus, which may be mistaken for an Infant in the Womb. Physicians affirm that all Moles are real Conceptions which cannot happen unless there has been some Intercourse between the two Sexes. Nor do they believe that a Woman can become pregnant through Imagination. Hence as often as we meet Moles, we may assure that there has been Co-habitation with Man.
May 28.
I started a letter to Bonaparte, to tell him, but couldn’t.
Headquarters at Milan, 20 Prairial
Every day death leaps around me: is life worth so much fuss? Farewell, Josephine. Stay in Paris, do not write; at least respect my solitude. A thousand knives stab my heart; do not plunge them in deeper.—B.P.
23 Prairial
Josephine, where will you be when you get this letter? If in Paris, my misery is certain! I have nothing left but to die.—B.P.
Late afternoon, around 4:00.
Thérèse saw the distress in my eyes. “What is it?”
I confessed to her my fears. I told her how disturbing Bonaparte’s letters were. “I don’t know what to think. He says things that frighten me. It’s as if he’s in a fever. I’ll get a letter telling me to be careful, to take care of my health, not to come to Italy—and then a few days later I get a letter saying that he’s going to kill himself because I haven’t arrived!”
“Do you think he might be a little…?” She made a twirling motion at her temple.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. “No, of course not.” Although, in fact, that was my deepest fear. “It’s just that he becomes so upset, I fear he might…”
“Step in front of a cannon?”
I nodded, staring down at my hands. They were the hands of an older woman—not my hands, surely. “He wants me with him.”
“So go.”
“Thérèse! A battlefield is no place for a woman. And what about Hortense and Eugène?”
“Your Aunt Désirée will look after them.”
“But my health—”
“Is improving.”
I sat back. “You really think I should?” I felt as if I’d been condemned.
She took my hand. “Remember how it was during the Terror, how we were fighting for something bigger than we were?”
I nodded impatiently. What did that have to do with it?
“It’s not over yet,” she said. “I know, we like to
think
it is. We dance, we play cards, we go to the theatre. I admit it! I’m the first one at a fête and the last one to leave. And why not? We’re the survivors. Death tapped us on the shoulder and we escaped. Life is short, so why not enjoy it? But we’re fooling ourselves. The Republic is faltering. Everything our loved ones died for is at stake. Our beloved Republic is falling and yet we dance on, trying to ignore it.”
“But Thérèse, what does this have to do with whether or not I should go to Italy? Saving the Republic has nothing to do with me,” I said, a feeling of anger rising up in me.
“Would you concede that it might have something to do with your husband?”
Yes, I did believe it possible, that much depended on Bonaparte—
why,
I could not say. In my most secret heart, I believed he could save us—and worse, that we needed to be saved.
Noon, 27 Prairial
My life is a perpetual nightmare. A deathly premonition stops me from breathing. I no longer live. I have lost more than life, more than happiness, more than repose. I am almost without hope. If your illness is dangerous, I warn you, I will leave immediately for Paris.—B.P.
June 19, 1796, early, not yet noon.
Barras was resistant at first. “It’s victory nerves, that’s all,” he insisted.
“Paul, this is serious. It’s more than nerves.” I dared not tell him the full extent of my fears, that Bonaparte might be mad.
“Look, it’s simply unreasonable of him to expect you to join him.”
“Please, listen to me!” Barras looked at me, startled. I’d never raised my voice to him. “If…if I don’t go to Italy,” I said, more calmly this time, “Bonaparte will come here.” This was the one argument that was likely to persuade him, I knew.
“To Paris? He would leave his troops in the middle of a campaign?”
Yes, I nodded. He would. He
will.
“That would get him court-martialled.”
I nodded. Ruined! Shot!
“That’s strange. He didn’t mention any of this in his last letter to me.” He looked over the stacks of paper covering his desk. “Here it is,” he said, holding a letter up and squinting at it. “Just the usual business—his conditions for the armistice agreement with the Pope.”
“Bonaparte is dealing with the Pope?”
Barras smirked. “Getting a little high and mighty, one could say?”
“It’s the Republic he represents that is high and mighty.”
“That’s the problem—that’s what’s getting the Directors so upset. Bonaparte doesn’t represent the Republic, and yet he’s acting as if he does. Ah, here’s the part.” Barras cleared his throat and read out loud. “‘I hate women. I am in despair. My wife does not come—she must have a
lover who is holding her in Paris.’” Barras looked at me, amused. “So who is this lover?”
“The only man who has been admitted to my bedchamber of late is my doctor, I’m afraid. Fevers are not conducive to romance.”
“I must say, you do look frail. Are you even well enough to travel?”
Early evening—Fontainebleau.
“Oh!” Aunt Désirée cried out when she saw us. “I wasn’t expecting you. Hortense, look at you, a little lady in that bonnet. And you, Eugène, such a handsome lad. You’re growing like a cabbage.”
Hortense jabbed her brother in the ribs. Eugene grabbed her wrist and tried to pin her arm behind her back.
“Children!” I stooped to give my aunt a kiss, glaring at Eugène. “Why don’t you two go out to the stable to make sure the horses are taken care of.”
“My groom will look after your horses,” Aunt Désirée said, tightening the sash of her squirrel-lined dressing gown.
“The children need to be outside,” I whispered as they raced for the door. “It’s a long ride from Saint-Germain.” The walls shook as the front door slammed shut. “And besides, there is something I need to talk to you about, Aunt Désirée—privately.” I settled into the armchair next to the sofa.
My aunt gave me a baleful look over the top of her thick spectacles. “I warn you, Rose, I’m out of salts.”
“Still?” I paused. “I have to go to Milan.”
“To Italy? But isn’t that where the fighting is?”
“I know, Aunt Désirée, it’s just that—”
“How would you get there? The roads are so perilous. Even between Fontainebleau and Paris, one risks getting robbed. And what about your health? Just look at how pale you are.”
“I’m needed there, Aunt Désirée, my husband—”
“A woman belongs with her
children.
And what about our wedding? The Marquis and I can’t get married without you.” Sniffing.
I was dismayed. My aunt never used to cry, and now it seemed she was
crying all the time. “I have a suggestion to make. Perhaps the priest could marry you and the Marquis before I leave.”
“When will that be?”
“Possibly next week,” I said, my voice faint.
“Next week!” my aunt shrieked. “Father Renard was reluctant to marry us next month even.”
“Perhaps I could explain the problem to him.” Pay him a goodly sum. Or promise to.
“But Rose, my gown isn’t finished. It isn’t even begun.”
I heard the children’s voices in the foyer. I put my finger to my lips,
shush!
“The children don’t know?”
“What don’t we know?” Hortense asked, pulling off her hat.
Eugène grinned at his sister. “A mystery,” he hissed.
“You’re going to have to tell them sometime,” Aunt Désirée said angrily, taking up an embroidery hoop and jabbing a needle into the tautly pulled fabric.
Not now! But it seemed I had no choice. “I’m going to be making a trip,” I told them reluctantly.
“Oh?” Hortense looked apprehensive.
“To Milan,” I said, with an apologetic dip of my head.
“Where’s Milan?” Hortense asked Eugène.
“To the war?” Eugène spoke the word with reverence.
“You’re leaving us, Maman?” Hortense’s straw hat fell to the floor and rolled for several feet before falling over with a soft
poof.
She backed out the door.
“Hortense!”
I was breathless when I got to the park. “Hortense!” I stopped, catching my breath, one hand pressed against the pain in my side. It was growing dark, the shadows disappearing.
I heard a sob from behind a stone wall. Hortense looked so small sitting in the dirt. I gathered her in my arms. “Sweetheart.” I stroked her hair. She was shaking. “Oh, my big girl,” I whispered, swallowing hard.
I heard the creaking of wagon wheels, the lazy clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on the cobblestones on the other side of the wall. Hortense took a jagged breath. Then, between sobs, it all came out. I would not see her in the yearend play. All the other parents would come, but who would be there to see her? And, at year end, when all the girls went home, where would she go?
“But I’ll come back,” I promised her.
“I don’t believe you!” she sobbed.
June 20—back home (exhausted). A balmy summer day.
Aunt Désirée and the dear old Marquis are married at last. (“Kiss me,” she yelled, making the sign of the cross over him, “I’m your wife!”) Now I must attend to the passports, the financing, a wardrobe. I’ll try to see my doctor today, and the apothecary. I’ll leave instructions with my manservant to look after the beggar families that come to our gate. I should talk to my lawyer to make sure that my will is in order. I must talk to Joseph Bonaparte soon too—today, if possible. He and Junot will be travelling with us. I must find someone to take my horses; they should be exercised daily. I can’t decide what to do about my cow.
Oh—the post-woman just arrived with the mail. Please, let there not be another awful letter from Bonaparte!
May 4, 1796, La Pagerie, Martinico
Madame Bonaparte,
Your mother has asked me to write on her behalf. She can no longer hold a quill for the Rheumatism has greatly inflamed her joints.
Your mother wishes you well in your marriage. She prays that your husband is a Christian man and that he is of the King’s party.
However, she declines your offer to come live in France with you. She has used the money you sent to purchase the slave Mimi’s freedom, as you specified. We will send her to you as soon as we receive money for passage.
I regret to say that there was no income from the plantation last year.
Your mother has asked me to pray for you and your children.
In the service of the Eternal Lord, Father Droppet
I’ve read Father Droppet’s letter many times over. It has been a very long time since I’ve had news of home, and this small token only makes me miserable. I’ll send word not to send Mimi until I’ve returned from Italy. What a blessing it would be to have her with me once again! I’m so relieved she is willing to come.
June 21.
“So is it true, darling?” Madame de Crény asked, playing a card. “Are you really going to Italy?”
“Over the Alps,” Thérèse informed the Glories, rolling her eyes. (She’d been upset initially—she didn’t think I’d actually do it.)
“The Alps? Mon Dieu.”
“It’s faster than going around,” I explained.
“I didn’t think it was even possible.”
“Bonaparte opened up the route.”
“Route de Josephine they’re calling it,” Thérèse said.
“My husband said he’d move mountains for me, but your husband has actually done it.” Minerva looked pleased with her jest.
“Just the thought of those towering precipices makes me sick.”
“Not to mention the banditti.”
“Did you hear about—”
“Don’t tell her!”
“Tell me what?”
“Nothing, darling.
Nothing!
You’ll be fine.”
Evening.
“Bonaparte’s brother Joseph can’t leave for six days,” I informed Barras.
“Did he tell you why?” he smirked, rummaging around in his papers. “He’s taking a mercury cure.”
I raised my eyebrows. Mercury is used to cure syphilis.
“Having a bit too much fun in town—research for the romantic novel he claims to be writing, no doubt. But can
you
manage it in six
days? You’ll need to put together a wardrobe—hoops and the rest of it. The Italians are quite provincial.”
“Hoops? You can’t be serious.”
“Servile, tradition-bound, ignorant, superstitious. Dig out your old corsets.
And
a bustle.”
I groaned. I’d had my bustles made into pillows long ago.
“And don’t forget, Madame Bonaparte,
ma belle merveilleuse
,”
*
he lectured, pointing a letter opener at me, “always put your handkerchief in your wineglass—only juice for the ladies.” I made a face. “And no playing billiards with the men, either, no talking with them about finance and politics.” He opened a drawer, riffled through it and then sat back with a puzzled expression. “What am I looking for?”
“Something to do with Italy?”
“Ah, yes!” He took out a file. “I’m to get passports for you, Joseph Bonaparte, Colonel Junot and…who else? Oh, that aide-de-camp, the funny little fellow Thérèse calls Wide-Awake. The financial agent—you know who I mean. All the ladies are mad about him.”
“Captain Charles?” I was hoping the captain would be able to join us. “He’s a financial agent?”
“Oh dear, you didn’t know? I wonder if it’s supposed to be confidential. I can’t remember who told me. He’s affiliated with the Bodin Company, apparently. It’s hard to imagine—he’s so young…and so very, very
drôle.
”