Becoming Josephine (19 page)

“I’ll get us out of here. I promise!” I called after her.

“Farewell, my friend. I love you!” she shouted through her tears. “Don’t forget me.”

My bravado vanished as the jailer led her inside. This could not be real. I was no criminal. What would happen to me? To my children? My legs collapsed and I spilled onto the ground.

“On your feet!” Another guard pulled me up like a rag doll. “This way.” He ushered me through the door.

As we wound past the office and into the belly of the prison, a nefarious odor struck me. A haze of excrement and rot surrounded me in a humid cloud. I coughed in disgust. My eyes stung. Tears streamed down my cheeks to wash away the near-tangible grime. Grubby stains caked the floors and walls. A memory rushed back, from the days just after the massacre. The streets had smelled of vinegar for weeks. Yet it had not cleansed these stones, or maybe there had been too much blood? My stomach turned in revulsion.

I bunched my skirts in my hands, lifting them off the slime-covered floors as we marched through clusters of crowded cells. Many had more than ten people jammed inside, attempting sleep on straw mattresses. Dear God. They lay in their own filth like animals.

Neither bars nor locking doors trapped the prisoners inside their dens. Some moved about freely while others slept. The doors adjoining each corridor were the only locks. I supposed the guards had nothing to fear from a horde of unarmed innocents.

I had not yet reached my cell when I heard a voice calling my name.

“Rose! Is that you?
Mon Dieu.
There is no end to their lunacy!”

My heart leapt. Who could that be?

“Wife of a president. There’s no hope for us now,” another voice said.

I peered into the gloom, but could not place the voice with any of the faces. The jailer pushed me along too quickly, locking the door to the enclave of cells behind us. After three more corridors we stopped.

“Here is your suite,” he snarled.

Thirteen other women regarded me with pitying expressions. I greeted them with a limp wave. My new
camarades
, linked in this nightmare.

The jailer stalked away, slamming the door behind him. I stood dumbfounded, staring at my surroundings. Thin bedcovers, a few mattresses, and heaps of straw posed as beds; a tattered pile of clothing occupied the corner on the far wall; and a bucket of human waste sat outside the door.

My bag slid from my loose grip to the floor with a soft thump. And I wept.

I ignored the filth as best I could, though it worsened day by day. What did it matter? My heart ached for my children. The thought of their distress surpassed any amount of muck. Did Hortense cry herself to sleep at night? I pictured Eugène pacing the halls, wondering if he would ever see his
maman
or papa again. My head swam with visions of their stricken faces.

At most meals, I pushed away my saucer of chewy gruel and soured wine. My dresses hung from my feeble frame, my hair thinned, and my bones protruded until I resembled the others, a skeleton of my former self.

My sanity hinged on the few hours each day when the guards unlocked the corridors and we roamed from hall to hall, meeting people from other cells. I talked, wept, and prayed with former acquaintances, some with whom I had spent merry nights dancing or gossiping, some I had petitioned for, and strangers of all trades and titles.

One day I bent over an older woman, feverish and lying in filth. She reeked of urine and infection. She would perish, without doubt. “Let me help you.” I slung my arm about her middle and lifted her with care, then leaned her against the cleanest spot on the wall.

She smiled weakly. “Thank you for your kindness.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

A guard entered the cell carrying a canteen of fresh water. “Do you have the comb?”

“Yes.” I pulled a pearled comb from my hair and caressed it. Maman’s comb.

“You’re getting nothin’ until you pay up!” he growled. “And I want the canteen back.” I deposited the treasure in his outstretched hand and snatched the water from him. “You have one hour,” he grunted and stalked off.

I poured some of the liquid onto a corner of my dress and wiped the woman’s face. She sighed and opened her cracked lips for a drink. I assisted her, then wiped the spout and drank some myself.

If only I could buy my release.

Dukes, carpenters, maids, nobles, and clergy—all were worthless in the eyes of our government. I befriended them, prayed with them, and read their fortunes. In turn, they dried my constant tears.

“Why am I the only one who weeps?” I asked a woman in the brownish light. The sun’s rays could not penetrate the haze.

“You’re Creole,” she said. “You have lively blood. Your anguish is more acute than ours.”

“That’s absurd. As if you don’t have a heart.” We walked sluggishly through the corridors. I tried to ignore two faded handprints in dried blood on the wall.

She laughed. “Ah, we do, but Parisians do not access them as easily.”

It seemed true. I wept most days. The others remained silent, morose, with occasional flares of anger. Such dispassionate emotion I could not grasp. I swept the hem of my dress into my arms to avoid a spilled bucket of feces. What is this foul hell, I wanted to shout. But my rage dissipated in a fresh torrent of tears.

My second week at Les Carmes, I saw Alexandre. Delphine, a once-beautiful woman who shared my cell, urged me to meet with him.

“He wishes to see you. He has asked me several times to persuade you.” A fearful look filled her eyes, followed by jealousy. The poor girl had fallen in love with him. She feared we still loved one another. If she only knew. I wondered if Alexandre felt the same for her. It did not seem possible.

Yet something about her innocence made me want to assuage her fears.

“I assure you there is nothing between us, Delphine. We are married in name and share children. That is all. We’ve hardly been civil with one another.” In truth, I wanted to strike him. He had brought so much heartache and misery to my life, and now this.

Delphine led me through several corridors until Alexandre’s familiar form came into view.

One look at his hollow face and I could not withhold my emotion.

“Alexandre!” The past melted away. My anger dissipated. So absurd, our situation—how could I blame him? We were both innocent, and I had put myself at risk with my letters. Everyone had said so.

“Rose!” He took me in his arms, eyes glistening. “It’s my fault! Oh, Rose. It’s all my fault!” He searched my face. “And the children are alone!” He clutched me to his chest. “God, what have I done?”

“My darlings.” A salty gush ran down my cheeks. “What will become of them?”

Delphine waited quietly during our reunion, desperate longing on her countenance.

Alexandre tilted my chin and met my eyes. “We will survive this, and when we do, you’ll take the children to Italy and stay with Fanny. Until this madness blows over. For now, we need a strategy to secure our release.”

I marveled at his calm. He sounded so resolute, so certain we would be freed. I wiped my nose with the rough sleeve of my dress.

“There’s something I need to say. It’s important.” He paused to scratch at the grungy beard covering his face.

I regarded him warily. Alexandre seldom delivered good news.

“I owe you so many apologies. In these last weeks of my imprisonment, I’ve had time to think. It’s all I’ve been able to do . . . dear Rose . . .” He gathered my hands to his chest. “I regret that I didn’t treat you as you deserved. You’re a lovely, graceful woman. The prisoners speak of you affectionately, of your sweetness. I am proud to know you. That you are the mother of my children.” He wiped his eyes. “I never deserved you.”

Had we been outside the prison walls, I might have scoffed at his sudden change of heart. But not here—not in the clutches of death. My anger drained away despite my despair. He had truly changed, at last.

I stretched on the tips of my toes and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Thank you. It means more to me than you know. You have been a good father and an example to your countrymen.”

Alexandre placed my hand on the crook of his arm and glanced at Delphine. “I understand you share a cell with the woman who stole my heart.”

Once, those words would have cut me to the core. That life was long gone—and none of it mattered in the face of death.

Delphine appeared relieved. I smiled to reassure her. Alexandre deserved love as much as anyone.

“I’m happy Alexandre has fallen for such a lovely person.”

Dimples carved adorable divots in her cheeks. “Thank you, Rose.”

The sound of a bell halted our pleasant exchange.

Fear gnawed in the pit of my stomach. It was ten o’clock. The hour of death. A grave hush fell over the crowd of prisoners. I held my breath as the warden unrolled a scroll.

“On this day, the Committee of Safety calls forth these names for trial at the Conciergerie.” He paused for effect, then listed six names.

No one spoke. One by one, the victims climbed into the death carts in quiet surrender.

How did they contain their terror? Scream out! I wailed inwardly. Beg for mercy! I looked at Alexandre’s grim expression.

“Rejoice, Rose,” Delphine said. “It’s not your name or ours they have called.”

“I cannot rejoice when the innocent march to their deaths.”

The weeks wore on. Spring evolved into summer. Heat pressed on our lungs. Moisture writhed in the air and clawed over soiled bodies and stone. Mold grew on every surface. Even Martinique had not been so humid. Prisoners choked on filth, perishing on their vermin-infested beds before they had the chance to meet Madame Guillotine.

One insufferable afternoon, whistling and laughter echoed from another corridor. I peered through the perpetual twilight. A familiar fur ball skipped merrily toward me, barking loudly.

Fortuné? A surge of joy raced through my limbs.

“Fortuné! My silly, sweet puppy. Come here, boy.” I laughed and cried at once. He bounded into my lap and licked my hands and face in a flurry of excitement. I scrubbed his little body with my fingertips. “How did you get here?” He licked my face. “Sweet boy,” I cooed while massaging his back.