Becoming Josephine (15 page)

On the morning we arrived, I gripped Eugène in a ferocious hug.

“Darling, I’ve missed you more than words.” How much he had grown in two years! His once-chubby cheeks had thinned and he looked taller, leaner.

“I missed you, too,” he said, voice muffled in the crook of my neck.

“You’re growing up,
mon amour
.” He wore a cap, gray coat, and
culottes
, and stood at attention like a soldier.

“Yes, Maman.” He grinned.

His smile was still boyish, angelic. “How can you be nine years old already?” I took his hands and kissed them.

Eugène looked behind me, then quickly pulled his hands from mine. I followed his gaze. A pack of his classmates walked along the opposite end of the courtyard.

I embarrassed him—my boy did not want to show affection for his mother in front of his friends. A pang of regret hit me. It had to happen sooner or later. I forced a smile.

Hortense took advantage of my pause and leapt at Eugène.

“Hortense!” Eugène hugged his sister. “You grew.”

“Almost as big as you!” she said.

“You are not! I’m almost a man. I’m going to be a soldier and fight the traitors of the Revolution like Papa.”

Even Eugène had been affected. By his father, no doubt.

We turned toward the clacking of boots on stone. Alexandre strode across the courtyard, chest out, head high, more handsome than I remembered. His smile sparkled. His stance exuded regality.

“Hello, my boy.” He tousled Eugène’s hair. “Hortense, give your father a hug.” He spread his arms in welcome.

Hortense advanced slowly toward the father she had not seen in two years. “Hello, Papa.”

“You are a beauty like your mother.” Alexandre kissed her forehead. “I have a surprise for you.” He produced a charm bracelet and a doll.

“Thank you, Papa!” She hugged him, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Rose, how are you?” He brushed my cheeks with his lips, then bent to help Hortense with her bracelet.

“Well, thank you. I’m relieved you are unaffected by the revolts.”

“Unaffected?” He roared with laughter. “I’m quite affected! You mean I am unharmed. Unharmed, but on fire with ideals of freedom, constitutions, representation! Times have changed for the better, Rose. Have you heard? I am the president of the National Assembly. You are married to a celebrity, a mastermind of the times.”

I smirked at his conceit. No one wore arrogance as well as my husband. “I have heard.” Still, I was truly happy for him. I squeezed his hand. “Congratulations. I’m pleased you are so happy.” A group of boys passed through the courtyard, their laughter echoing from the walled-in space. “I’m sure you’re aware that your father and Aunt Désirée do not share your views.”

“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. Grie
f 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 the 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.