Becoming Josephine (18 page)

“I don’t care about your cause!” I screamed back. “I care about my children’s safety! How can you put them in danger?”

“They won’t be at risk as long as I do my duty.”

“Your duty is to your family. Your flesh and blood!” I threw down the serviette and paced, heels clicking on the wood floor. Alexandre crossed his arms and stood like a sentinel. An idea sparked in my mind. “Why don’t you go on vacation with us? You could use a break.”

His blue eyes widened in disbelief. “I know you plan to emigrate. You’re as transparent as glass. And you expect me to go with you? I’ll never abandon France! I’d rather perish
à la guillotine
!”

We faced each other with hardened expressions. Alexandre broke the silence.

“Don’t you see?” His tone softened. “You could never set foot on French soil again. Hortense and Eugène would lose their inheritance and their honor. How could you do that to them? I’ll see to it that they’re safe. Please, you must understand.”

How had he changed his demeanor so easily? I still wanted to strangle him.

“Things will get better,” he said. “We just have to wait it out.”

His reasoning melted my defenses. “Alexandre . . .”

“You won’t regret it.” He placed his hands on my shoulders. “I promise.”

I sighed. “For now I’ll stay. But you
will
let us go if things get worse.”

“That, I’ll agree to.”

He cleared his throat. “You should know something.” He kicked at an invisible stone on the floor. “I am under suspicion as well. Since I withdrew from my military post.”

My mouth fell open in shock.

“I’ve trodden carefully these last weeks. And it is best you cease your appeals. You’re drawing attention to yourself. To us.”

I chewed the fingernail of my thumb before answering. Fanny had warned me as well.

“They’re innocent, good people. I could never live with myself if I didn’t do everything I could. Many have been released because of my petitions.”

He sighed heavily. “Please be careful.” He bent at the waist and kissed me on the lips.

I stepped backward in surprise. “What was that for?”

“A kiss of friendship. Thank you for understanding. Give my love to the children. I’ll visit soon.”

Queen Marie Antoinette met her end the same way as the others—by the blade. An innocent woman had dedicated her life to her husband, to his country, and had fallen for his follies. I could not sleep for weeks. The vision of her severed head haunted me. The Queen had not been safe, regardless of her position. It was not enough to have powerful friends, to be beautiful and charming.

One must be clever to survive. And brave.

Many mourned our dead Queen, enraging Robespierre. He sought retribution through the imprisonment of hundreds.

One afternoon, I received a distressing letter from Fanny.

10 Nivose II

Chère Citoyenne Rose,

I have returned to Paris in haste, for Marie has been accused of treason against the Republic. She is in prison! What could they possibly have to say about my patriotic daughter? Her record is impeccable, her heart bleeds the colors of our tricolor flag.

If only her father were not a Royalist buffoon.

You are so well-connected. I beg you, please petition to the Committee of Public Safety on her behalf. I am desperate.

Citoyenne Fanny

My head spun. Marie was a Beauharnais—Alexandre’s niece—and her name gave her no advantage. I swallowed hard. I had to clear her or we might all . . .

The following day, I entered Minister Azay’s office clutching a package of letters from Fanny and Marie. The minister had the reputation for being the most lenient man in the assembly. I prayed the rumors were true.

“What can I do for you?” He motioned me to a seat.

“I’m afraid there’s been a terrible mistake,
citoyen
. My niece is an ardent Republican, yet she has been imprisoned without a shred of proof.”

“And I assume you possess documents that prove her innocence?” He removed his glasses.

“Here is a packet of her letters. One can plainly see that she is an abiding citizen.”

His owlish eyes flitted from my hands to my face and back again. “I’ll consider them, but I can’t guarantee her release.”

“I’m sure you’ll do your best to ensure justice. One would hate to see an innocent adolescent girl murdered without cause.” I let the weight of my words hang in the air before continuing. “You’re so kind for agreeing to see me at all. In such times, you must be terribly busy. I’ve brought you wine for your trouble. I hope you enjoy it.” I placed the bottle on his desk.

He smiled hesitantly. “Thank you for the gift. It could not have been easy to come by.”

“Indeed not, but it hardly exceeds the value of a young girl’s life.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Citoyenne de Beauharnais, I must warn you. You share her name. Take care that it is not someone else visiting
my office on
your
behalf.”

I pasted a smile on my face. “I would worry if my actions were questionable, but they are not.”

Sadness filled his eyes. “Take care, my Citoyenne. Take care.”

My appeals for Marie de Beauharnais’s release went unanswered. I despaired at Fanny’s misery, at Marie’s suffering in prison. I lay staring at my ceiling in bed one evening when a thundering at the front door startled me. I reached for the candle on my bedside table. My fingers quivered as I set match to wick.

Mimi beat me to the door. “Yes?” She wrapped her night coat around her.

A young man with disheveled hair stood in the doorway. The white foulard around his neck had not been washed in weeks, and his trousers hung in tatters at the cuffs.

“Citoyenne de Beauharnais, I’m sorry to wake you at this hour, but it can’t wait.”

My pulse raced. “What is it, citizen?”

“Your husband has been arrested.”

Les Carmes, 1794

T
hey would come for me. Lord, they would come for me. A trickle of dread wound its way through my limbs. Alexandre in prison! How could they suspect him? Everyone knew his devotion to the Republic. Was it his Royalist father, his philandering? Those did not seem sufficient reasons to accuse such an ardent Patriot.

I tossed in bed. The father of my children under a death sentence and I, the wife of an accused traitor. Arrest and imprisonment meant death à Madame Guillotine. I could not wrap my mind around the absurdity. I pulled the covers over my head. How would I tell the children?

The next morning, when Hortense and Eugène had finished their breakfasts, I delivered the news.

“I have something to tell you.” I pushed aside my plate of untouched food. Eugène looked up from the book he was reading.

“What is it, Maman?” Hortense asked. “Are you all right? You look tired . . . upset.”

I traced the flower pattern on the linen tablecloth with my fingertip. “I don’t know how to begin.” Their sweet faces looked at me expectantly. “I want you to know how much your papa loves you.”

Eugène snapped his book closed. “What’s wrong?”

I took a deep breath to prevent tears. I must be strong for them.

“Maman?” Hortense prodded.

I covered each of their hands with mine. “Your father”—I inhaled a deep breath—“has been arrested. He’s in prison, awaiting trial.”

“No!” Eugène leapt to his feet, anger and despair warring on his face. “My father is no traitor! What proof do they have against him? He’s in the National Assembly! He’s a Patriot!” His bottom lip quivered. “I don’t understand.”

“I know, my love. I’ll do everything in my power to help him. There must be a way to get him released.”

Hortense burst into tears. I sprang from the table and pulled her into my arms.

My brave son dropped his head onto my shoulder and wept. “What if they send him to the guillotine?” He sobbed. “What if they kill him?”

“They can’t kill my papa,” Hortense wailed.

I smoothed her blond hair. “They won’t,
chérie
. I will find a way to get him out.”

If only I believed my own words.

I fought to have Alexandre freed, exhausting my dwindling contacts in hopes of a miracle. Yet the Committee of Public Safety refused to see me. Nightmares haunted me. The floating heads of the condemned and our murderous statesmen visited me in slumber. I wandered across cobblestones in the Place de la Révolution, the scaffold dripping in blood, and through the gardens of the Tuileries. A secret pathway appeared as if by magic, night after night, weaving through a lush grotto of trumpet vines and bougainvillea bursting with orange, fuchsia, quince—such vivid color I could not be in France anymore, but Martinique. Home, where the cane burned in the late summer sun and the jungle swallowed me whole.

Under the secret canopy a crumpled old woman perched on a stump, casting chicken bones and singing in a strange tongue. Bodiless, I floated through a veil of mist toward her.

She looked up. Black holes remained where her eyes should have been, their depths absorbing all pinpoints of light. I tried to scream, but my lungs filled with seawater.

“Child,” the priestess said in a singsong voice. “Don’t you remember?” She stroked a fistful of feathers crusted with blood. “It’s a violent end.”

“No!” I tried to shout, but bubbles emerged from my lips.

I awoke with a start from the dream—always the same—hair stuck to my head in sweaty patches, the back of my nightdress drenched.

A violent end.

It vibrated in my chest like the warning of a tocsin. Was that my fate, or was it Alexandre’s?

I sprang from bed and padded across the cool floor to the box in my vanity drawer. Nestled in the velvet lining was my white silk pouch. I snatched the tarot deck from its hiding place and lit a candle. I shuffled the cards in the twilight of my bedchamber and laid a spread.

The Tower—destruction, a violent change. The Wheel of Fortune—a change in luck. The Hierophant—a powerful and loving woman, generous and mothering.

Feverishly I laid a second spread for Alexandre. Destruction, violent changes. I laid another spread and another. All the same.

A violent end.

“No!” I shoved the cards to the floor in cluttered disarray. I dropped my head into my hands and wept.

Nature did not stop for our Revolution, but marched inevitably forward. Spring bloomed. Yet the warm weather did not expel the chill in my soul. After tossing in bed one evening I joined Marie-Françoise in the study. She played cards by firelight, our ration of candle wax already depleted for the month.

“I just received money from Maman.” I settled into the sofa across from her. “I’ll ask Citizeness de Krény if she can get us more candles.”

A rapping at the door made us jump.

Marie-Françoise dropped her cards, eyes wide. Dread uncoiled like a snake in my chest. The last time I had a late visitor . . .

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I whispered, words almost inaudible. I stood, forcing myself to remain calm.

“Rose”—Marie-Françoise took my hand in hers—“no matter who is on the other side of that door, we stand together.”

The pounding came more loudly this time and a voice shouted, “Citizeness de Beauharnais! Open the door at once!”

My heart lodged in my throat. Dear God.

Mimi stumbled from her chamber, dark hair mussed. “What the devil do they want at this hour?” She grumbled and turned the key in the lock. Its click echoed through the hall. As the door swung open, a large hand shoved it against the interior wall. It boomed in the silence.

“What did you do that for?” Mimi asked tartly.

“We need to speak with Citoyennes de Beauharnais and Hosten. We are here by orders of the Committee of Public Safety.” Three Patriot soldiers stood on the doorstep in shabby uniforms and worn boots. All of them looked underfed. Their eyes rested in hollow pockets above their protruding cheekbones.

I motioned the three men inside. “Come in, citizens. Would you care for a cup of tea? I can put on a fresh pot.”

“You are both suspected of treason against the Republic,” the leader of the trio answered. The ribbon of his cockade flapped in the rush of air from his breath.

“You have no evidence against me! I am innocent!” Marie-Françoise burst into tears. Mimi moved to console her.

“I assure you there is not a single item of dishonor in this house,” I said. “I am a Patriot and an
Ameriquaine
. Citizeness Hosten proudly wears the tricolor of our government as well. You may search all you like.” I would not let them see how they rattled my nerves.

Fortuné scampered from the kitchen and tried to bite the largest of the men.

“Better get ahold of it.” The soldier pointed the heel of his boot at my dog.

“Fortuné, stop!” I picked him up by his furry middle and locked him in the kitchen. He growled from behind the door.

The soldiers opened drawers, searched cabinets and under cushions, and pushed through the frocks in my armoire. Thankfully, they did not wake the children. Marie-Françoise wept into Mimi’s shoulder, her sobs growing more hysterical by the minute. Mimi patted her back and met my gaze. What do we do now, her eyes asked.

I perched on the edge of the sofa. Fear stilled the blood in my veins.

The brass clock on the mantel chimed. I fixed my eyes upon its whirring cogs. What would Hortense and Eugène think in the morning when they found me gone?

“How can you be so calm?” Marie-Françoise asked, wiping her nose.

Because I had known all along. I knew they would come for me. I stared back at her blankly, unable to say the words.

The soldiers returned to the salon with contrite expressions.

“Ladies,” the leader said, “you are under arrest.”

My insides turned to stone.

Marie-Françoise’s cries turned to wails. “Please! I am a mother! What am I to do with my child? You can’t take me from her! Please!” She fell to her knees, dress puddling around her.

“What evidence do you have against us?” I asked. “May I see it?”

One of the men waved a pack of letters in the air. How had he unlocked my letter box? I kept the key well hidden. I felt exposed, violated.

“Letters from Alexandre de Beauharnais, a traitor to the Republic. Citizeness Hosten is guilty for harboring a traitor’s wife. Unless evidence can be found in support of her innocence, she’ll remain in prison as well.”

“His letters demonstrate his devotion to the nation,” I said. “How—”

“I’m sorry,” one of the men said, his voice becoming soft. “The Committee demands your arrest.”

“With or without evidence?” No proof and it did not matter. The committee had already decided our fate.

The soldier nodded. Regret filled his eyes.

Marie-Françoise threw herself into my arms. “What are we to do with the children?”

“You may pack a few things,” the leader of the men cut in. “We’ll wait.”

We dragged ourselves upstairs. I tossed Maman’s hair combs, a letter from Hortense and Eugène, and my precious tarot cards in the bottom of a bag. Something to remind me of them.

I paused on the landing and drew a deep breath. Eugène and Hortense—I could not bear to see their sleeping faces. I would fall apart. I pushed away the panic, and glided down the stairs.

“Mimi,” I whispered, voice hoarse with emotion. “The children . . .”

She embraced me, pressing me to her pillow-like bosom. How did she manage to smell of sunshine and coconut so far from home? I relished the familiar scent one last time.

“Don’t worry, Yeyette,” she said. “I love them like my own. We’ll find a way to get word to you. And to get you out. I’ll ask their tutor to petition.”

I kissed her damp cheeks. We had prepared for this moment.

“Have her write to Maman for money. Please, don’t let the children forget us or forget . . .” Despair threatened to pull me under. I gripped her arms. “Don’t let them forget that I love them! More than anything! And darling, Mimi, I love you.”

She squeezed me again. “You won’t be gone long. Remember the priestess?” She kissed my forehead.

Indeed I did. Destruction, a violent end.

Marie-Françoise stumbled down the stairs and into the front hall, shoulders heaving.

“
Citoyennes
, we must go,” the leader barked.

We laced arms and followed the guards to the waiting carriage. The streets were eerily calm in the dead of night. Wispy clouds drifted like phantoms across the sky and the moon hid its pale face. Lilacs seeped their sweet scent into the air as tender leaves rustled in the breeze.

My last breath of spring air.

I clambered into the carriage as if in a dream. Marie-Françoise clung to me during the short ride to the prison. To my horror, we rode only one street away, to Les Carmes, on the rue de Vaugirard, the convent where the holy had been hacked to pieces.

The most heinous prison in Paris.

And yet, the gardens and stone facade showed no sign of misery, save the barred windows.

When the coach came to a stop, a guard ripped open the door.

“Come with me.” The jailer yanked my friend out of the coach.