Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 12

  “Father doesn’t possess the courage to embrace the new ways. Foolish old man. France is changed! We are in the midst of a great enlightenment. Rousseau rolls in his grave.” He slung his arm around my shoulders. “You should attend a session of the assembly. Seats are difficult to obtain, but as the wife of a distinguished member, you can come when you please. It would broaden your understanding of the shift in ideals. We are making history.”

  I hesitated, remembering Désirée’s warning. I did not wish to choose sides; it was only important that the children were safe. Besides, to be the wife of the president! My stomach fluttered in excitement. I smiled. “It sounds grand. When may I attend?”

  “The tyranny of the Third Estate—”

  “Maman, do you want to see my horse?” Eugène interrupted.

  Bless him for it. Hortense had been chasing the crows, already bored with our conversation. A political oration would be too much today—I came to visit my son.

  “Of course, cheri,” I answered.

  “Show us the way to the stable, son.” Alexandre nodded.

  Tickets for the National Assembly sold for fifty livres per day and were more difficult to obtain than those for the national opera. I wore the latest fashions to the assembly, though the limited red, white, and blue palette and the endless flag ribbons bored me. The American bonnets à la Constitution resembled a nightcap, but still I fastened them on. Women wore polished stone and iron jewelry pieces—symbols of the Bastille, symbols of freedom. In all, hideous, but I would not be démodée.

  I attended one cold January afternoon with Fanny, who had used her influence to secure a seat.

  She huddled next to me in our coach for warmth. “Who knew the Beauharnais name would be such an advantage? I daresay our pompous little Alexandre has made it famous. God love him. All of that blathering is good for something after all.” She cackled.

  I could not help but laugh. “Droll, Fanny, but how right you are.”

  Our carriage stopped in front of the royal riding house of the Tuileries Palace, the home of the National Assembly. Though it had been remodeled with green felt-covered benches, large sculptures of Roman figures, and the new revolutionary flag, the converted stable retained the smell of sweaty horses and straw. The odor did not bother the attendees; passionate speeches from the pulpit and the parade of gowns in the audience garnered all the attention. The infamous pock-faced Marat, Philippe Égalité, and Madame de Staël sat in the front rows with Robespierre and Tallien. Everyone knew their names, their ideals.

  I studied the platform as the speeches began. All men sat according to their political sympathies.

  “The Jacobins are the most radical,” Fanny whispered. “They’re seated to the left of the podium in the section rising from the floor—the Mountain.” Alexandre placed himself among them.

  “And the Royalists?” I leaned to her ear.

  “It’s not that simple. Many want a constitutional monarch like England, regardless of other affiliations. Others are touting the new American system. Some fear we will end up a military regime.”

  Thunderous applause greeted Alexandre as he took the floor. His well-spoken delivery and good looks had developed a following. How elegant and powerful he appeared at the podium, an important man, an influential orator. Our disputes mattered little in the moments when he spoke—or when I received an invitation as his wife from honored guests. Unexpected pride surged through my veins.

  “He is marvelous, isn’t he?” I whispered.

  “Quite.” Fanny nodded.

  When the assembly concluded, I was not surprised at the women who rushed to meet Alexandre. But the attention I received caught me off guard.

  “Madame de Beauharnais, where did you find such a dress? I must have one!” a woman said.

  “Merci.” I smoothed my blue-striped skirt.

  “You are Madame Liberté in your cockade and gown,” another woman said.

  I laughed. “You’re very kind. Thank you.”

  Three others stopped me, inquiring about my jewelry, my dress, or my coat. It appeared I was on a stage as well as Alexandre. I would take more care with my toilette.

  Fanny bustled with excitement. “Madame de Staël has invited us to her salon.” Her Bastille stone earrings swayed as she gestured. “Everyone will be there. Robespierre and his sister, the Prince and Princesse de Salm, Talleyrand, and a load of others.”

  I squeezed Fanny’s hand. “Us among the famous! I must have a new dress.”

  Alexandre had done something right for a change.

  I balanced my loyalties as my circles expanded, taking care to learn each group’s desires for the new government, their hopes for the future. West Indian plantation owners, financiers, foreign aristocracy, extremists, or Royalists—the mélange of views enriched my company.

  Perhaps it would prove useful.

  One evening I prepared to host my own salon. Mimi polished the silver candlesticks and set the table with the few nice plates I owned. Marie-Françoise directed our valet with details for place cards and positioning the musicians.

  I emerged from the kitchen when a rap sounded at the door. I rushed to answer it.

  “Madame de Beauharnais? For you.” The courier placed a package in my arms. Maman’s scrolled handwriting covered the wrapping.

  News from home! I opened it at once. A sack of livres, trinkets for the children, and letters from the family. Now I could pay the governess and one of my creditors. Good timing, Maman.

  A pile of twined letters lay in the bottom of the box. I settled in a chair and read through each of them. The last bore a message I had not expected.

  March 23, 1791

  My Dearest Rose,

  I am sad to report the passing of your father. Your Papa’s final days were spent in a great deal of pain. Words do not express my grief. Life is but a brief moment, a dream. Cherish it.

  As for the plantation, we are getting along fine. The turmoil in which you left has abated. I miss you and Hortense so very much. Give my love to Eugène.

  Je t’embrasse,

  Maman

  I dropped my head into my hands. Grief flooded my heart.

  Mimi appeared from the kitchen with a soup tureen. “What’s happened?”

  “Papa has passed.” I stared at her in stunned silence.

  She rubbed her hands over my back. “You need rest. I’ll take care of everything.” She led me to my room and tucked the bedcovers around me.

  I wept into my pillow until my eyes swelled. Oh, Papa. I wish I had made you proud.

  When the time came to dress for the evening, I forced myself from bed and chose a gown and linen fichu. I caked my cheeks with powder to hide my distress and slipped down the stairs. Butter-yellow roses filled the vases throughout the house. Their fragrance mingled with the scent of roasting beef and vegetables. I had spared no expense for the meal—wine from Bordeaux, strawberries and île flottante with its English cream and meringue, cheeses from Bretagne, and bread that had cost a pretty sum with the scarcity of grain—but my company would expect no less. I would have to give every livre from Maman to my lenders to pay back the borrowed sum.

  Once the guests arrived I pasted a smile on my face.

  Claire cheered me, as always.

  “What about him? He’s handsome,” she said. The violinist finished his piece and everyone milled about to search out a glass of spirits until the next set.

  “He’s haughty and never wipes the spittle from the corners of his mouth. The thought of kissing him repulses me,” I said.

  We giggled.

  “And him?” Claire adjusted a pin in her thick blond locks.

  I shrugged. “I’m looking for something . . . for someone.” I regarded the packed space, a melancholy settling in my bones. A group of gentlemen gestured with enthusiasm, cheeks pink from exertion and th
e heat of warm bodies.

  “I know. The sweet torture of love. We all wish for it.”

  “You have it every month,” I teased, though my mirth had shriveled.

  Despite the joyful ambience, the swirl of laughter felt hollow and the cheerful clink of glasses resonated like a coin in an empty drum.

  “You’ll meet the right man and you won’t have to marry him!” Claire laughed wickedly.

  Angry male voices sounded above the others.

  I craned my neck to find the source of the commotion. Two men from the ministries. I set my wineglass on the table with too much force. The ruby liquid sloshed and dribbled onto the linen tablecloth.

  “It appears I need to break up an argument.” I hurried toward them.

  “What is his authority? He has no right to his position. His brother and father are loyal to the King. They’re traitors against the Republic,” said the tall gentleman, Julien Lacroix.

  “Don’t be absurd,” said André Mercier, a striking older gentleman. “Alexandre is a Patriot to the core. He champions our cause.”

  My steps faltered. Alexandre’s commitment was in question? A man could not be more devoted to the Republican cause.

  I slid my arm through Monsieur Mercier’s. “Gentlemen, I see my cook has warmed your blood. I am in want of entertainment. Anyone up for a game of piquet?”

  “Only if I may sit next to you,” Monsieur Lacroix said.

  I lowered my lashes. Always a man first, a politician second. “I would have it no other way.” I smiled.

  “I’ll sit this round out.” Monsieur Mercier ordered another brandy and stalked to the opposite side of the room, fists clenched.

  I would see to him later.

  After several rounds of cards, I sought out Fanny. Still, I could not shake my unease.

  She read my troubled expression. “What’s wrong?” Her breath smelled of wine.

  “Two men from the ministries are disputing Alexandre’s loyalties. Is there reason to worry?”

  “Alexandre is an intelligent man, but you’re right to be cautious. The men leading the government are fickle. Don’t trust anyone. Not even your women friends.”

  “My friends would turn against me?” I asked, taken aback.

  “Under the right circumstances, yes. Women have led many of the riots and they talk to their husbands. Don’t underestimate their influence.”

  “Women have a lot of power,” I noted aloud. I liked the idea. I relished my own influence, what little of it I possessed.

  “At times.” Fanny eyed me curiously. “Just be cautious. This is a war of philosophies. Everyone has a chance to gain.”

  “Or lose.”

  “Or lose.”

  “But surely we have too many connections to worry about such things?” I asked.

  “One never—”

  A shrill voice drifted through the open windows from the street.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “A newsboy,” Fanny said.

  We moved to the window and strained to listen.

  “Should we step outside?” I motioned to the door.

  The warm summer night enveloped us and the moon winked from behind a plump cloud. We made our way to the end of the drive. The shadowed figure of a boy not more than twelve sprinted down the street.

  “You there! Boy! Come here. What is your news?” Fanny called.

  “Bonsoir, mesdames.” Sweat trickled down the boy’s dirt-smudged face and he panted from running. “King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette have been arrested. They were caught in Varennes in servants’ clothing trying to leave France. They’re being held by the Committee of Public Safety.”

  We gasped.

  “The King abandoned his people,” I said, taken aback.

  Fanny placed a sou in the boy’s filthy palm. “Be on your way.”

  He raced across the street and into the night.

  The news of the King’s desertion exploded like a shot across Paris. Darkness descended upon the city.

  “He must go on trial like every other traitor!” Alexandre commanded the assembly. His voice boomed in the cavernous space. “He deserted his people like a coward! He threatens our Revolution!”

  “Down with the traitor!” men cheered in the assembly, in the streets, and at the theaters.

  Furious mobs destroyed symbols of the royaume, attacked nobility in the streets, and massacred guards at the Tuileries Palace. The tocsin heralded a warning of war. Clanging echoed in our chests, day after day. High alert. Prussian and Austrian armies attacked our frontiers to rescue the captured King and Queen.

  Terrified of what might follow, I brought Eugène and Hortense home from school. They would not be separated from me, unprotected in the chaos. Grace à Dieu, Eugène was too young to fight.

  Months passed. My beloved Paris remained in the same chaotic state.

  One hazy September afternoon the children lounged indoors and I walked Fortuné in the garden. He stopped to dig furiously at a small patch of grass.

  A low rumbling echoed from afar.

  I turned my face to the blue skies overhead. Not thunder.

  The distant rumbling grew louder. The tocsin rang.

  I dropped the leash. A call to arms. I must take cover inside. I bent to retrieve Fortuné, but he slipped from my hands and bounded down the drive.

  “Fortuné! Come!” He ran into the street and howled at the noise.

  The clamor grew louder. Were those . . . voices?

  My blood ran cold. A memory of shredded flesh, of the streets of a burning Fort-Royal, flashed before me.

  “Fortuné!” I screeched, running after him. “Fortuné!”

  Angry voices drew nearer, drowning out his barking. I stepped on the end of the leash just as he lunged.

  A heathen shriek ripped through the air. In the next instant, a pack of citizens rounded the corner onto my street, farm tools in hand.

  The air left my lungs.

  I dragged Fortuné toward the house. He tugged on the leash, anxious to attack the strangers.

  “Fortuné, stop it!” A shrill voice I did not recognize tumbled from my lips. I seized his squirming body and bolted for the door. My heart thundered in my ears.

  Two more steps.

  A bloodcurdling scream and a cheering sounded behind me.

  Mon Dieu! I dared a quick look back as I reached for the door handle.

  A man ran straight for me.

  “Le tiers état!” he shouted. His jacket was smeared with blood; his eyes looked crazed. In his hands, he held a pike.

  Atop it perched a woman’s severed head.

  La Terreur

  Paris, 1792–1794

  I slammed and locked the door behind me.

  “Bar the windows!” I screeched. “Move the bureau in front of the door.”

  Everyone in the house sprinted to the front hall. One look at my face and they set to work. Mimi, Marie-Françoise, and I barred the entry and began on the windows.

  “What’s happening?” Hortense asked, her face panic-stricken.

  A crash outside. A banging at the door.

  “Vive la République!” voices chanted from the yard.

  “Get in the cellar now!” I screamed.

  “Go!” Marie-Françoise pushed her daughter after Hortense.

  A stone hurtled through the front window, spraying shards of glass in the air. Marie-Fançoise screamed.

  “Go!” I pushed her.

  Mimi ran ahead of us, Fortuné yapping at her heels as if it were a game.

  We dashed through the house and clambered down the stairs into the inky coolness of the cellar. I barred the door with the thick wooden arm while Mimi and Marie-Françoise lit torches. The children and staff stood frozen. My breath wheezed as I struggled to regain my composure.


  Another crash sounded, this time closer, perhaps from inside the house.

  “Who’s chasing us?” Eugène asked quietly.

  I raised a trembling finger to my lips to silence him. Thank the Lord I had taken the children out of school.

  We perched uncertainly in the darkness for several hours. At last we grew hungry and irritable. No one had attempted to open the cellar door. The house seemed quiet. I dared a run to the kitchen. Screaming could still be heard, but it sounded distant. I tiptoed through the halls to the pantry and filled my arms with grapes and dried sausages.

  I sneaked to the front hall.

  The mob had not broken down the door, nor even entered the house. Only two windows had shattered. Merci à Dieu. I peeped through a hole in the front window. My potted plants lay smashed on the walk and newspapers littered the lawn.

  I gasped at the carnage in the street, on the lawns of my neighbors.

  Blood streamed from desecrated bodies twisted in ways only death permitted. I pulled back in horror. God in heaven. What had happened?

  A scream pierced the air.

  I searched for the source of the terrible sound. Blood splattered the windows of the neighboring convent. And more shrieking.

  Mother of God. They murdered the holy.

  A wave of nausea rolled through me. I had heard rumors of a conspiracy; some feared the clergy would side with the nobles against us. Absurd nonsense. I had never met a nun who cared enough about affairs of state to risk her life.

  A black figure streaked past near the end the boulevard.

  I leaned closer to the hole in the window. A nun! She dashed down the street like a spooked horse, her robe a mane billowing behind her. She pounded at the door of a neighboring house. No answer. She moved to another.

  A man rounded the corner, hammer in hand.

  My heart thumped in my ears. “Go, go!” I whispered.

  She raced to a third house and threw her body at the door. It didn’t budge.

  The man drew nearer.

  What could I use to fend him off? I scanned the room. A chair? I lunged for the broom and ran to the door.