Becoming Josephine (22 page)

“I know you must go back,
mon amour
.” I smoothed the crinkled line between his eyes. “But I’m happy you’re here now.”

We lay together, listening to the bustle in the street and Fortuné yapping at the birds. Lazare caressed my arms, my neck and face. His touch soothed my nerves.

He broke the silence. “I should let you rest.”

“No! You just arrived. Please stay.” I caressed his thigh with my thumb and forefinger, moving my hand up his leg.

Hunger lit his eyes, sparking a sensual stirring in my belly. He tilted my chin toward him and met my eager lips.

I quivered with desire. All of the horror seeped into each kiss, each touch, releasing the poison trapped in my soul. I longed to feel alive and whole again. Enraptured, we moved as one, loving one another. Afterward, we lay for an hour, not speaking of our terrifying time in prison, or of our future.

I spent five weeks with Lazare before he left for his post in Caen.

“Must you go so soon?” I asked as he escorted me through a garden near his apartment. “You have another week before you have to report to your garrison.”

“Before my garrison reports to me.” He smiled. Lazare was general-in-chief of the Army of the West, a prestigious title for a man of only twenty-six.

I swatted his arm. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes,
mon
amour
, I must leave tomorrow. My battle dress is at home.”

“With Adelaide.” Sorrow pooled in my stomach. Damn his marriage. “Eugène will be devastated. He admires you so much. I don’t know how to tell him you’re leaving.”

We sauntered through hedges of boxwoods and along a path lined with purple asters. A breeze laced with the chill of fall lifted the hair on my neck.

“He misses his father,” he said softly.

I kicked at a pebble underfoot. I couldn’t shake my unsettled feelings about Eugène. He picked arguments with Hortense and launched into diatribes about the country’s unrest. He was full of his own ideals. For him to remain at home, open to the strife in the streets and tempted by the lure of rebellion, worried me.

“I don’t know what to do with him.” I sighed. “I can’t afford tuition for military school. I’m afraid he’ll join the ruffians in the streets. If only he had his father. Or a male role model to look out for him.” I gave Lazare a beseeching look.

“I could appoint him as my aide-de-camp. He would learn a great deal about becoming a soldier.”

“He would love to go with you!” I threw my arms around his neck. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Consider it a token of my affection.” He kissed my nose.

Lazare and Eugène promised to write as they left the following week. Lazare placed a heavy envelope in my hand. It was filled with assignats, the new revolutionary currency.

“For rent and to pay for Hortense’s schooling,” he said.

“Thank you, my darling.” A lump formed in my throat. “Take good care of him.”

He kissed me and climbed into the coach. Eugène waved as they pulled away.

I wept all afternoon, though I knew their leaving was best.

Despite Lazare’s sum, I could not afford the inflated rent in Paris. I moved back to Croissy with Hortense and Mimi. Citizeness Campan, a former lady-in-waiting to the Queen, invited us to stay with her and to place Hortense in her school. I accepted her offer, flattered she would take us in, though I knew she also sought to rebuild her life.

I dedicated my time to clearing Alexandre’s name and to restoring our family property. I had no other source of possible income—the British blockade prevented funds from Martinique and Alexandre’s properties had been seized after his death—so I borrowed from friends to stay afloat. But I knew I would soon need to find another way, another man to do my bidding. I wouldn’t want for anything again.

I pushed away my ache for Lazare, bitter I should lose another. But I could not banish the emptiness, or escape my need for comfort. I slept away the pain, losing track of hours, of days. Winter came early, spraying shimmering crystals on the trees and gusting air that seared exposed skin. Yet I walked daily in the garden surrounding the château, as the doctor had prescribed.

“To lighten the heaviness in your chest,” he had said.

I grew stronger as I pushed against the elements, breathing in life around me and sharing my sorrow with the sleeping trees. My nightmares ebbed—Alexandre’s bloodied body was laid to rest. I no longer startled awake from fear of rats or the call of the warden’s voice. Still, I could not grasp a sense of meaning, of understanding of my loss. So little seemed important.

My first formal invitation in months arrived as winter neared its end. Citizen Tallien invited me to a ball at his Paris country house, La Chaumière—a fete
in honor of his pardoned lover, Theresia, our Lady of Thermidor. I longed to meet the heroine of the Republic and thank Tallien for my release, my life. I accepted at once.

A week later I rode to La Chaumière, watching Paris fly past. The dreary weather did not affect the vivacity of the people. Parisians crammed into brasseries and newly opened restaurants with windows aglow in cheerful lamplight, or crowded into the dozens of new dance halls alive with music.

I squealed in delight as we passed my favorite theater. It had opened once again. Warmth radiated from the center of my chest and spread through my limbs.

“Thank you, God,” I whispered. “I am alive.”

The coach traveled along the Champs-Élysées and to the outskirts of Paris. Finally, it stopped in front of a large red cottage. The thatched roof resembled that of a charming farmhouse, nestled in a tree-lined nook near the Seine. My heart skipped with excitement. I had not attended a fete in so long.

A butler dressed in black livery took my overcoat, while another escorted me to the salon. Warmth I had not felt since the summer months embraced me—wonderful, blissful heat. Columns wrapped in ivy, frescoed walls, and sculpted busts of the ancients decorated each room. A Roman-inspired Republican household. I would do the same when I could afford it.

I had arrived early. Only three gentlemen and a woman I did not recognize mingled in the salon. Most of the furniture had been removed, displaying polished wood floors. There would be dancing. A giddiness came over me. Lord, how I missed dancing.

I sauntered across the room to tables loaded with mangoes, pomegranates, and pineapples. My eyes bulged at the feast. Such a variety I had not seen in years. I couldn’t imagine how Tallien had had the fruit delivered; the Seine had frozen again. I supposed with enough money one could buy anything.

A servant walked by with a tray of champagne. He bowed as I accepted a flute of the lively liquid. I caught sight of my reflection in the goblet. My locks fell in waves to my chin; my eyes glittered in the candlelight. It had been almost awkward to take care with my appearance—a frivolous endeavor in the wake of imprisonment, of all that death. Nothing more than a tool to secure one’s station, like the ruse of love.

Boisterous laughter caught my attention. A former acquaintance waved me over. I had not seen him since before my time in Les Carmes.

“Citizeness de Beauharnais! What a surprise to see you here.” Gerôme LaCourte left a lingering kiss on my cheek. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”

He had expressed his interest on several occasions, poor man, but his bulldog appearance did not appeal to me.

“Citizen LaCourte,” I said. “How lovely to see you again.
Bonsoir
, Citizeness Degrange.” I had met the woman at his side one evening. I never forgot a name or face.

She pursed her lips as she regarded my dress of powder blue muslin, draped and fastened by a slender rope belt. “How the times have changed, Citoyenne de Beauharnais.”

Rude and prudish—what a combination.

“One does not want to be caught in the past,” I said, looking over her shoulder.

She glanced down at her velvet gown and lace fichu. Pretty, but no one wore a fichu these days. “Yes, one wouldn’t want to be deemed traitorous.”

My eyes narrowed. How dare she imply my guilt! She knew nothing of my sympathies, of all I had given, of all I had lost. I sipped from my glass to calm my nerves. “Well, it’s a relief neither of us fit that description.”

Her mouth fell open, but the woman said nothing.

Citizen LaCourte looked embarrassed and changed the subject. “How do you know Citizen Tallien?”

“A mutual friend introduced us,” I said. “I owe him my life.”

“We all do. Theresia Cabarrus and Paul Barras as well. Without them, La Terreur might still be happening.”

“Paul Barras? An assembly member?”

“Yes, and a member of the Committee of Public Safety. A very powerful man.”

“A scoundrel, to be sure,” Citizeness Degrange added in disdain. “He parades a collection of mistresses like a pack of whores.”

“Hardly,
citoyenne
. They are respectable women,” LaCourte said.

“I suppose it depends on your definition of respect.”

Her disdain piqued my curiosity. I would have to meet this scoundrel. I glanced around the room as guests filed in.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I’d like to say hello to some friends. Enjoy your evening.”

The woman looked relieved.

“I will find you later for a dance, if I may?” LaCourte asked.

“Of course.” I smiled.

When the dancing began, I twirled to the rhythm of the violins and stamped my feet in time with the pianoforte. My cheeks flushed and heart thundered, and tendrils of hair stuck to my glistening neck. Exhilarated, I gave myself over to the music, releasing the anguish tormenting my sleep, the grief over the loss of my husband and so many friends, and dear Lazare. Months of distress and illness melted away in the glow of La Chaumière.

After spinning for hours, I sought repose in a chair at the edge of the dance floor. I gulped down a glass of water and unfastened the fan hanging from my belt. I waved it to cool my face.

Citizen Tallien spotted me from across the room and closed the gap between us. “It’s good to see you. Thank you for coming.” He kissed my cheeks.

“How does one say thank you for their life?” I gripped his hand in mine.

“It was my duty and my honor. You look well. I trust you have recovered?”

“I’ve been in hiding, but yes, I am finally well.”

Musical laughter drifted over the merriment. A woman with black hair and creamy skin glided through the room with the ethereal grace of a goddess. Her red gown barely contained her décolletage. Eyes widened as she crossed the room.

“Have you met Theresia?” Tallien asked.

I had heard of her legendary beauty, but I was not prepared for an enchantress. She radiated perfection. Not a single gesture went unnoticed as she weaved through the crowd. I instantly wanted to befriend her.

“I would be honored to.”

“Theresia?” he called. She placed her hand on the young man’s arm with whom she spoke as if to apologize for the interruption, and floated toward us.

Tallien slid his arm around her waist. “
Chérie
, I have someone I would like you to meet. You share a past at Les Carmes.” He nodded in my direction. “
Je te présente la Veuve de Beauharnais.
”