Becoming Josephine (24 page)

“Oh, darling!” I braved the rockiness of the carriage and slid into the seat beside her. “I didn’t realize he was violent.” I squeezed her hand. “You’re so brave for leaving.”

“It’s not brave. Everyone is divorcing.”

“Not many women.”

She sniffed. “I’m not just any wom
an.”

I put my arm around her shoulders. “No, you aren’t! Do you have a place to stay?”

She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “With Tallien for now. He said he would support our daughter and me until the affair is settled with the provost.”

“That was generous.”

“He felt guilty.” She straightened in her seat.

“You’re doing the right thing.”

She folded her handkerchief and stuffed it in her handbag. “Let’s forget I mentioned it. I want to have fun tonight. Meet a handsome stranger or two.” A watery smile illuminated her face.

“I have my eye set on Paul Barras.”

“
Dieu
, then you are the one who is brave.” She laughed.

During my last visit to the Palais-Égalité, the château had been called the Palais-Royal and housed the now executed Duc d’Orleans. Since, Barras had snapped up the empty palace and gutted the whole estate.

“Goodness, look.” I pointed to a cluster of tables covered in white lace. In the center of each, red flowers surrounded miniature replicas of
la guillotine
. The hair on my arms stood on end. My abhorrence of it would never fade.

“Paul loves a good show, they say.” Theresia smiled a devilish grin.

I rubbed my bare arms. “What is that look for?”

“His reputation in the bedroom is legendary.” We walked arm in arm to the main ballroom.

“I look forward to meeting the wicked Barras. I’ve only seen him from afar.”

Servants dressed as executioners circulated with gilded trays of delicacies. Musicians played harps in one room and the pianoforte in another. The salon had been converted to a stage; hired players practiced their lines for the performance scheduled later in the evening.

Theresia and I accepted glasses of wine.

“
Merveilleux
,” I said as we entered the main ballroom.

Rich scarlet and purple fabrics flowed from the ceiling like a shroud encasing the dance floor. Guests wore their finest white muslin, silver brocades, or black lace decorated with red shawls and ribbons, red hats and gloves. Theresia and I wore the only two crimson gowns, making us the most conspicuous women in the room—exactly as we had planned.

The evening began with a sumptuous eight-course feast. Servants whisked gold-plated trays of cold vegetable salads, potage, and roasted meats to the tables, one after the other. But the food displays between courses inspired the most delight among the guests.

“
Regarde!
” Theresia pointed.

A fish jumped through hoops of fried onion from a sea of blue icing. A carved potato gentleman waltzed with a woman in her endive gown.

I clapped. “
Magnifique.
”

Guests applauded each exhibition—until the final dish.

Severed heads made of sponge cake.

A collective gasp echoed in the great hall.

I covered my mouth and stared at the horrific creations. So realistic the fondant eyes appeared, frightened and glazed, and the ribbons of red sugar that dangled from each chin. Revulsion swept through me. The servants promptly removed the frightening cakes. I gulped from my water glass to clear my palate and wash away the terrible image.

The final course met cheering—platters of glistening sugar-coated fruits, iced creams, sweetmeats, and jellies. I sampled a few and mingled with the crowd.

Later when the dancing began, I moved to the ballroom. With each new song, the crowd grew wild, thumping and spinning until dizzy. My head buzzed with wine and sugared fruit. I lost myself in the crush of bodies until the back of my gown grew damp with perspiration. I sought an open window in a quiet room. An abandoned pianoforte faced rows of empty chairs, and dozens of lit candles sputtered in the breeze. The cool night air whisked the sweat from my temples. I sat on a chair to rest my aching feet.

Quelle fête.
I would need to seek out Paul before I danced the night away. Maybe he would help me forget Lazare. A dull ache pulsed in my chest. I couldn’t help but compare each gentleman I met to him.

A sudden movement near the door caught my eye. An imposing man dwarfed the grand doorway. Or perhaps he would find me.

Paul Barras stepped into the room.

His scarlet coat stretched over his muscled frame and a cascade of black hair waved to his chin. A sarcastic smile played on his lips. Devilish, some called him. Now I understood why.

I hid my face with my fan and met his eyes. An invitation. He did not hesitate, but crossed the room like a rushing bull, brandy in hand. I stood to greet him.

“Citoyenne de Beauharnais, we meet again.” He bowed before brushing my hand with his lips.

“I do not recall our last meeting.” I fluttered my lashes. I remembered him perfectly well, though we had not spoken. The occasion had been a tropical themed party at La Chaumière. I had worn snake bangles with a black-and-white-striped tunic modeled after a zebra. Theresia had asked me to do tarot readings, at which Barras had laughed, or so she’d told me.

“I have admired your beauty from afar. Tonight, you leave me breathless.” His black eyes danced. He did not release my hand. “If I didn’t know better, I would swear you were a witch.”

“I’ve been known to cast a spell or two on an unsuspecting soul.” I waved my fan back and forth.

His laugh was brusque, dangerous. Delicious. “Did you bring your devil cards tonight?”

“No, but I’d be happy to beat you at a game of brelan.”

He snorted with laughter. “You think you can beat me? I am a master card player. Besides, it isn’t proper to humiliate a woman at games.”

I loved a good challenge. I arched my back slightly, pushing my breasts forward. “Paul Barras is proper with women? That is news to me.”

His smile grew wider. “Shall I find a deck?”

“Your arrogance begs to be taught a lesson.”

His laughter boomed. “What a droll little minx. Would you care to wager?”

It was almost too easy to capture his interest.

“A wager makes everything more interesting,” I said.

He placed my hand on his arm and led me to a room resembling an office. A fire roared in a pit taller than Barras. Several gentlemen sipped cognac and smoked cigars near a set of doors that opened to a grove of chestnut trees.

Barras found a deck of cards in a drawer and handed them to me. “You are my guest. And you’ll be paying me soon. Why don’t you shuffle?”

“We shall see.” We took glasses of absinthe from a servant, a new delicacy from the Swiss cantons.

He held his up for a toast and tapped the side of my glass with his. “To a beautiful woman.”

“To winning.” I took a sip.

We played two games of whist, and one of brelan. I beat him at two of three hands.

“Impossible! How can you beat me again?” he asked, tossing his cards on the table.

“It is amazing, considering you cheat,” I teased. I placed the cards in a stack and leaned forward to give him a glimpse down the front of my dress. “I believe you owe me.”

He paid me triple the small sum we had wagered. “Shall we dance?” He held out his hand.

I smiled and took it. “With pleasure.”

We made our way to the ballroom. Many of the guests had departed, but a few still whirled across the floor. Theresia sat in a far corner, shaded by a swath of fabric—I would know her silhouette anywhere. She and a gentleman leaned into one another as if alone in the room.

Barras held out his hand. “A waltz.”

The dance was popular for its sensuous moves, allowing a man to take a woman in his arms. He pulled me against his chest and guided me through the room.

We danced a set, and when the music concluded, he leaned close to my ear and whispered, “I would love to show you the new furniture in my apartments upstairs. As a woman of taste, I am certain you will find it fashionable.”

I looked into his wolfish eyes. They glittered like onyx.

“I do possess a sense of style.” I ran a finger down the side of his face and along his jaw.

He took my hand and escorted me upstairs.

It would be several trips to his mansion before I noticed the baroque armoire and vanity, the footstool and mahogany writing table. That night, I admired his black satin sheets until golden rays of sunlight spilled through the windowpane.

Palais-Égalité,
1795

B
arras was as rich as a prince, living in a multitude of homes from the infamous Palais-Égalité to Grosbois, his country palace. He owned more finery, possessed more influence, and enjoyed a soiree more than any man I had ever met.

“King Barras,” the papers called him, “treacherous, dishonest, and hedonistic.”

He exhibited glimmers of all those traits, but I found him cunning and generous. I assured naysayers of his commitment to the Republic, which he loved more than anyone I had ever known, save my murdered husband.

I relished Paul’s stories of his travels, especially of India.

“An exotic land like yours,” he said, “filled with stunning women. And the spices!”

Paul delighted in my poise, soft Creole accent, and dealings with the occult, or so he said. But it was my social connections and lovemaking skills that kept his interest.

“You had the bedroom redecorated?” Paul stroked the carved mahogany head of an elephant by the fireplace.

“An Indian harem,” I said.

Sheer fabrics in gold and aquamarine dipped from the bedposts. Pillows patched with glittering fabrics lay heaped on the bed. Jasmine incense perfumed the air.

“Stunning.” He smiled, unbuttoning the brass buttons of his coat.

“This,” I said, letting the overcoat I wore drop to the floor, “is stunning.”

I revealed a jeweled top exposing my stomach. My skirts flowed from a gold-encrusted belt and swept about my ankles. Slits in the fabric bared my naked thighs. I moved my hips in a circular motion and shook my shoulders back and forth. A delicate thread of golden bells jingled on each ankle.

Paul sat on the edge of the bed, awestruck.

I performed a sensuous dance around the room. I smiled at his rapacious expression. My sexual prowess captivated him.

Barras showered me with jewelry, opera tickets, flowery
indiennes
, and the most expensive undergarments money could buy. He made no secret of his lust for lacy things and I did not disappoint. But despite my status as official mistress, Barras did not curb his roguish ways.

“Be careful, darling,” Theresia warned me one afternoon as we walked in her garden. “You know Paul has other mistresses. He was not alone while you were gone.” I had just returned from a fortnight in Croissy to pay Hortense a visit.

“I have no delusions of his character. He is incapable of giving himself to one woman.” He loved me for now, but I knew he would tire of me, and I would be on my own again, scrambling for security. A memory of Lazare’s laughing eyes came to mind. My steps faltered as the pain coursed through me. I hoped my longing for him would pass.

“You should hear what is being said of you—the evil Barras and his doting mistress!”

I snorted. “Do tell!”

A flock of pigeons pecked at invisible feed on the path ahead. They did not frighten, but parted as we passed.

“Apparently we’re all involved in sexual orgies. Men with men and women with women. But you and I, they say, prefer our sexual encounters in public.”

I howled with laughter. Paul and I did not always behave appropriately, but I possessed a sense of decency.

“They enjoy slandering those who are the center of attention. We can’t help it if we captivate men,” she said. “Nor do we want to help it.”

I frowned as a disturbing thought crossed my mind. “I hope the children haven’t heard the rumors.”

“No one would tell a child such things. Besides, I’m sure they’re proud their mother consorts with the most powerful people in Paris.”

I hoped they hadn’t heard. I would hate to disappoint or, worse, embarrass my darlings.

Paul was generous to a fault, despite his insatiable appetite for women. He rented a fashionable property on the rue Chantereine—a dream location near the theaters—to surprise me. The afternoon he obtained the keys, we toured my new home.

“You’ll need to hire a gardener, a cook, and a servant or two if you plan to host a soiree with proper company.” Paul’s baritone voice echoed in the empty underground kitchen. We mounted the stairs to the first floor. I peered through the salon window at the carriage house. “And a footman for the coach.”

My own coach.
Quel luxe!

“I’m not sure how I’ll afford them all.”

“I can help, but it would be best if you found another source of income.”

“Of course. I’m so grateful for everything, darling.” I stood on the tips of my toes and kissed him. “I can’t thank you enough for Fanny’s appointment with your painter. And Marie-Françoise is quite comfortable with the money you gave her.”

“I can’t say no to you.” He smiled, his eyes shining. “Have you considered dealing in business? With your contacts and the way you manage people—”

I pulled away from him, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “The way I manage people? I am empathetic. That is all.”

“Come, Rose. Do you think I’m a fool? You say just the right thing to get your way. And I am a victim of your charm.” He kissed me harder, and on the mouth.

I had caught him in my web, but I knew he could escape whenever he chose. Unease niggled in the pit of my stomach.

I changed the subject. “What type of business?”

We continued through the house and out the front door. The late afternoon sun threw long shadows onto the drive.

“Military supplies.” He had made his fortune, in part, selling supplies to the revolutionary armies. “I know a few gentlemen looking for a middleman. You would be perfect.”

“I do enjoy negotiating.” An income was precisely what I needed to keep up with my bills, to support a larger staff in my new house.

The footman held the coach door open. I nodded my thanks and chose a seat inside.

“I’ll secure a meeting. You can go from there,” he said.

“When do I begin?”

I met with Citizen Ouvrard and several other bankers the following evening. They connected me with others and by the end of the week, I had secured my first contract. As one of the few women, I had everyone’s attention, earning more money on my first sale than most. I spent the sum in a hurry; a new home required furnishings.

I lavished the salon in sky blue silk and sheer muslin, a veneered mahogany table, and the harp I had longed to play since quitting Désirée’s home. My attention to detail created the illusion of wealth. One must always look the part.

As the last of the architects packed their supplies to depart for the day, the post arrived. Lazare’s blocky handwriting stood out on the envelope, erect and formal, like his posture.

My stomach flipped. The scent of Lazare’s skin, the softness of his touch, had not faded from memory, despite my liaison with Paul. I prayed with each of his letters he would tell me he had divorced.

I opened the missive with care.

15 Messidor III

Chère Rose,

How are you, amour? Eugène is well. He excels at horsemanship and has garnered the respect of every soldier he meets. What a gallant, intelligent young man he has become. You should be proud of how well you have raised him.

I have missed you these last months. I think of you every time I look at Eugène.

I look forward to our reunion this winter when I return.

I have heard you’ve made new friends in Paris. I hope you do not succumb to their greed and questionable morals. Paul Barras is lacking in character.

I worry your sweet nature may be compromised. Not all have your best interests at heart.

In truth, I write to you with news, dearest Rose. I wanted you to be the first to know—I am going to be a father! Adelaide is expecting our first child. I can share your joy as a parent, at last.

I hope you are well. I look forward to taking you in my arms.

Je t’embrasse.

Lazare

His words squeezed my heart like a vise. Adelaide pregnant? Of course he would have a child with his wife. He loved her. And he would never leave her for me.

I laid my head against the windowpane and wept. Sudden fatigue seeped into my bones. I was so tired of the pretenses. It seemed I would never find safety, financial freedom, love to fill the gaping hole within.

I sent for Eugène. I couldn’t accept Lazare’s aid any longer, or hold on to a dream that would never be. Within a week, I enrolled my son at McDermott Academy, a prestigious military school. I pushed Lazare from my mind and threw myself into the merriment around me, eager to forget.

One afternoon in the month of Fructidor, before the leaves began to change, Theresia and I attended a painting exhibition chez Barras for Citizen Isabey. I hoped Paul’s guests might purchase a piece to support my artist friend.

I weaved through the beautiful tableaux in my lemon yellow gown, chatting with acquaintances. I had yet to speak to Paul. He had been flirting with a pretty brunette from the moment I arrived.

Malaise roiled in my stomach. His invitations had ebbed in the past two weeks. I did not love him as more than a dear friend, but still, his easy dismissal of our relationship stung. Dread crept along my spine. I would be alone very soon, made to start again.

I watched
a cluster of gentlemen near a refreshment table. I had met each of them at some point. I sighed. One was a braggart, the other always drunk. A third, I thought, would like me to be his mother. I shuddered. No thank you.

I moved to find Theresia. She stood in a bath of sunlight streaming through a window, angelic in her beauty, her pale blue gown a piece of fallen sky. The soldier with whom she spoke appeared awestruck. He scratched his neck nervously every few seconds.

I wrinkled my nose. Who was that?

The gentleman was disheveled with greasy hair, and his soiled uniform fit him poorly.

Theresia laughed at something he said. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and he trudged to the doors in a huff.

She took a glass of champagne from a silver tray and linked her arm through mine. “There you are,” she said, as though she had been searching for me all afternoon.

“Who was that man?”

“The general?” She laughed again and tossed her head. “He asked me to accompany him to a dance later. Imagine dancing with that cretin! I couldn’t help but laugh. I told him I had far more interesting things to do. He didn’t seem happy, did he?”