Becoming Josephine (16 page)

“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.

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.

My hand hovered over the handle.

The farmer was bigger than the nun and me together. It would risk the children’s safety and Marie-Françoise’s. The broom slid from my hands. I couldn’t put my babies at risk. I wouldn’t. Defeated, I turned back to the window.

The corpulent farmer caught the nun’s habit and threw her into a crimson puddle in the street.

“No!” I gripped the windowsill. A sob escaped my throat. She screamed and thrashed as the man twisted her garment over her head and ripped at her underclothes.

“Kick him! Hit him!” I said, my voice hoarse.

He pushed himself on top of her and bludgeoned her with his hammer when she resisted. Blood oozed from her skull.

My stomach lurched. I bent to vomit.

Marie-Françoise dashed across the room to my side. “Rose! Are you all right?” She dabbed at my face with a napkin and used it to cover the pile on the floor. “I came to see what was taking so long.”

I pointed at the window. “The nun . . .”

She glanced through the window, then winced and pulled back, aghast. “A nun!” I nodded, too stunned to speak. She swept me into her arms.

Another terrorized scream split the silence. Our eyes locked.

“It’s at Les Carmes. The mob is murdering them,” I said in a strangled voice. “We’re probably safe, but I’m not sure we should risk a light in our windows tonight. A few more hours in the cellar. We can come upstairs in the dark for food. No lanterns. For now, we wait.”

The next two days, we ventured from the cellar only out of necessity. By the third day, the streets had stilled. I prepared a letter for Alexandre, but he appeared on the doorstep before I finished it.

“Alexandre!” I leapt from my desk as he entered.

He kissed my cheeks and embraced me tightly. “I’m glad you are safe! How are my children? I came as soon as I could.”

“We are well, but frightened. We couldn’t leave the house. The nuns . . . I saw a mob. . . .” The words tumbled from my lips.

“I’m glad you had the sense to stay put.” He gave me a newspaper, damp with sweat.

According to its date, the
Moniteur
had printed the leaflet the day before the violence began. The headlines blasted in bold print:
PRISONERS PLOT AGAINST PATRIOTS, COLLAPSE OF REPUBLICAN GOVERNMENT, CLERGY UNITES WITH FOREIGN ARMIES
.

“Rumors sparked that madness? Innocent people died!” I threw down the newspaper in disgust. “The King is arrested. Criminals rule the streets.” I waved my hand at his trousers. “We dress like commoners and hide our views.”

Beads of sweat pearled on Alexandre’s upper lip and temples from the swampy heat. “Titles have been abolished.
Citoyen
or
citoyenne
is how we will all be addressed.”

“Citizens?” I asked, incredulous. “There is no distinction among us? My friends of noble blood will not agree. More strife will follow.”

“Titles divide us. They create boundaries to our freedom. And whether you like the new laws or not, you will follow them or be deemed a traitor.” He ran a hand nervously through his damp hair.

“And what of the madness? I saw a nun murdered.” I covered my eyes to block the hideous image.

“It’s over now.” Alexandre embraced me again. “The religious lorded their power over us. It’s just as well they were reminded of their new place in our government.”

I stared at him, flabbergasted. He would have them die to champion his cause? I pushed his hands away. I no longer cared for his beloved Revolution.

“They didn’t need to die!”

His eyes flashed. “There are always casualties in war.” He noted my grimace. “Do you think I haven’t suffered? My father and brother mock me! My friends speak out against me, yet I continue in the name of what is right. I don’t wish to see French blood spilled, but some must die. Without death to mark its value, our Revolution has no meaning. Examples must be made.”

“Would you say the same if your children’s lives were at stake? Or your own?”

He paused. “Yes, if it were my own.”

An exasperated sound escaped my lips. “You would leave your children fatherless!”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Rose.”

“I am dramatic? You’re a fine one to talk.”

We stared at each other in silence.

At last he said, “I have important news. I’ve been promoted to lieutenant general of the Army of the Rhine. It’s an honor I’ve wished for my entire life. I will have the chance to lead against our enemies.”

“Congratulations. I hope you can discern who your enemies are.”

His eyes narrowed.

Eugène and Hortense walked quietly into the room. I knew they had been listening, by the expression on Hortense’s face.

“Papa, you will lead an army?” Eugène’s voice belied his excitement.

“Children! I have missed you. Give your father a hug.”

“Is it safe to leave the house, Papa?” Hortense asked, stepping from the circle of Alexandre’s arms.

“We’ve felt like animals in a cage,” I said.

Alexandre pressed his lips together. “Wait another two days before you leave. The turmoil seems to be settling, but there’s carnage in the street. They’re loading the dead into carts to be buried. There’s no reason to witness it,
doucette
.” He stroked Hortense’s hair. “Now, shall we have coffee and play a game?”

“Only a little wine and cheese are left,” I said.

“Wine it is.” Alexandre slung one arm around each of our children and escorted them to the table.

The fall and winter passed in a whirlwind of upheaval. I avoided traveling near the river, where citizens ransacked barges carrying grain and coal and insurrections raged. The poor froze or starved to death under city bridges. Endless lines spiraled from bakery doorways as citizens awaited their rations.

“It’s the laundresses.” Mimi returned from a long day of gathering items. Her eyes watered from the cold. “Can’t afford soap anymore.” She set her shopping bags on the floor and rubbed her gloved hands together. “Going to have to make do with vinegar.”

I folded the newspaper in my hands. “We can’t go without soap. I’ll ask a few friends for favors. How much wood did they give you?”

Mimi pulled two small logs from her bag. “Not enough for one night in this cold.”

I pulled my wool cloak closer to my body. The most frigid winter in one hundred years, the farmers had said, and it felt like it. Cold seized moving water, snapped branches, and blasted against our windows and doors.

“Tonight we’ll burn one of the chairs in the attic.”

I bartered and borrowed to fill the pantry. Thank God for my many friends who shared their bread. We detested the national loaf, made with gritty chestnut flour. Eugène and Hortense fed their shares to Fortuné, who sniffed it with disdain and buried it in the yard.

Soldiers detained the horses. Foreign guards patrolled the boulevards. No one could leave. A sinister hush enveloped the city without the clopping of horses’ hooves and the whizzing of carriage wheels. Street lamps ran dry from lack of oil, plunging the streets into darkness. Thieves multiplied. I left the house as little as possible, though I despaired at our seclusion.

In late winter, the National Assembly executed our King.

I did not attend his slaying in the Place de la Révolution.

“Such a waste,” Claire said, peering into a tiny mirror in her gilded patch box. She prepared to return home before curfew. “Those buffoons in the assembly don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Alexandre is among them.”

“Like I said, buffoons.” Claire detested Alexandre, her loyalty to me fierce as ever.

“How despicable to watch anyone march to their death,” I said, “in front of a jeering crowd, no less. Such a frightful end. And a king! The Queen and her children must be terrified.”

Claire snapped her patch box closed. “Truly horrid. People shouted obscenities and threw garbage. One man dropped his trousers! My dear
grand-père
is stirring in his grave.” She whirled her cloak around her shoulders. “But the same traitors that booed him slithered under feet to dip their handkerchiefs in the King’s blood.”