Becoming Josephine (29 page)

In the lieutenant’s arms I felt still young—despite the nine-year difference in age—alive and carefree, and the faintest hint of guilt. Bonaparte loved me. Would it crush him to see me in another’s arms? I shrugged. I had to maintain my life, my independence, outside of Bonaparte. I knew his feelings wouldn’t last. A man’s affections always waned, and this time I would not play the fool.

One evening the lieutenant arranged to meet me at the Feydeau Theater, soon after we had become acquainted.

I disrupted the flow of the crowd as I pushed in the opposite direction toward the vestibule. Hippolyte was late. The show would start in a few moments. I stood on the tips of my toes to peer over the sea of feathered hats and male shoulders.

Where could he be? Perhaps he did not care for me after all. He had not shown for our last engagement.

“Gentlemen, ladies, please take your seats,” a theater hand bellowed in the corridor. Disappointment dimmed my buoyant mood.

Just then, I spotted the lieutenant’s dark head. I waved my fan above my head to gain his attention. A grin lit his face and my heart skittered in my chest.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” We exchanged kisses on either cheek. “How sad that would make me, lieutenant.”

“I’m sure you would cry yourself to sleep if you missed my unsightly face.”

I threw my head back and laughed. “No one makes me laugh as you do.”

“And no one is as alluring as you, Madame Bonaparte.” The title of Citizen had become less and less fashionable—and good riddance. Everyone detested it.

I slipped my arm through his. “Barras and Theresia are already seated.”

A blonde in purple silk resplendent with diamonds gave Hippolyte a provocative look. I felt a stab of jealousy. Could she not see he was with me?

Hippolyte ignored her. He had grown used to the women who swarmed him, no doubt. “Shall we?”

We mounted the creaking staircase to our box. Just as I stepped through the doorway, applause erupted.

Hundreds of faces slowly turned toward our seats to stare—at me.

I blushed, then looked at Barras, puzzled. Paul shrugged. I fished my lorgnette from my mauve sequined handbag and looked toward the stage. A soldier with ragged boots presented two bloodstained standards. Flags of Milan and Venice.

“General Bonaparte has vanquished the Austrians!” the soldier shouted. “They have fled from our neighboring republic to the south. France destroys her enemies! Bonaparte liberates!”

Uproarious cheers shook the theater. “Long live Bonaparte! Long live our Lady of Victories!” the soldier chanted.

The cheering deafened.

I smiled and waved at the crowd, trying to appear at ease. My husband was a hero! Unexpected pride surged through me.

Bonaparte had been a proper choice of husband after all.

As spring passed, Bonaparte’s letters became more urgent. I fabricated excuses to stay on in Paris, to delay my joining him at the war front, but he grew crazed.

Citizeness Bonaparte,

What art did you learn to captivate all my faculties, to absorb all my character into yourself? It is a devotion, dearest, which will end only with my life. “He lived for Josephine”: There is my epitaph. I strive to be near you: I am nearly dead with desire for your presence. It is madness! I cannot realize that I am getting further and further away from you. So many regions and countries part us asunder! How long it will be before you read these characters, these imperfect utterances of a troubled heart of which you are queen! Ah! Wife that I adore. I cannot tell what lot awaits me; only that if it keeps me any longer away from you, it will be insupportable, beyond what bravery can bear. The mere thought that my Josephine may be unwell, or that she might be taken ill—above all, the cruel possibility that she may not love me as she did—wounds my heart, arrests my blood, and makes me so sad and despondent that I am robbed even of the courage of anger and despair. I cannot go on, dearest: My soul is so sad, my mind overburdened, my body tired out. Men bore me.

I could hate them all; for they separate me from my love.

My love to Eugène and Hortense. Good-bye, good-bye. I am going to bed alone. I shall sleep—without you by my side. Night after night I feel you in my arms. It is such a happy dream, but alas, it is not yourself.

Bonaparte

As the summer neared, I planned to confront the children. They must learn of my marriage sooner or later and I preferred they heard it from me. One warm weekend in the month of Floréal, they joined me at Grosbois. Barras had offered the use of his country château, though he remained in the city.

Our first afternoon together, Eugène, Hortense, and I boated on one of the ponds scattered throughout Paul’s property. The incandescent glow of early summer settled over the water in a green-gold hue. A family of ducks paddled lazily off the far shore. The harmonious swishing of water lulled us as Eugène tugged on two long paddles, disturbing the fabric of lily pads.

I relaxed in the warm rays of sunlight while Hortense complained about a new girl in her class.

“She’s so rude. She shares the cost of her gowns with everyone. Can you imagine? No one speaks of such things!” She twirled her pink and white parasol in her palm as she spoke.

“Not everyone has been raised with proper etiquette,
mon
amour
.”

A fish flopped on its belly, creating a ripple in the placid water. Eugène stopped rowing to point. “Did you see the fish?”

“Yes,” Hortense and I said in unison.

“Do you think it will eat bread?” Hortense asked.

“Perhaps,” I said.

Hortense gave Eugène a crusty slab that we had brought to feed the ducks. They shredded their portions and tossed crumbs into the water. The fish did not surface, but a mama duck heralded her ducklings in our direction.

While they tossed bread overboard, I broached the dreaded topic. “I have something to tell you.”

Eugène looked up from the honking ducks. “What is it?”

“You will not like it, but I made the decision for the good of the family.”

Hortense stiffened. Eugène’s expression became guarded.

“I have decided to . . . I have married General Bonaparte.”

“You what?” Hortense demanded. “You
married
him?”

The ducks scattered frantically.

“How could you marry him without telling us?” Eugène started to stand and rocked the boat violently.

I clutched the sides of the boat, knocking a paddle into the water.

“Sit down, Eugène!” Hortense grabbed the corner of his jacket.

He plunked onto his seat and scooped the floating paddle back into the boat. Water dripped from its edges and soaked my shoe.

“I know you don’t care for him,” I said, “but give him a chance. Bonaparte is generous and thoughtful. He asks after you both in almost every letter he writes.”

“Letter? Is he not in Paris?” Hortense asked.

“He’s in Italy,” Eugène replied, head lowered. “I heard a rumor at school that you were married, but I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe you would keep it from your own children!”

“How could you not invite us?” Hortense said, pouting.

Regret washed over me. “It was a civil exchange of vows and paperwork. It all happened so quickly. It was late at night.” Excuses tumbled from my lips as tears welled in Hortense’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, darling.”

I squeezed her hand. “I know you both disapprove, but you need to trust me. I know what is best for this family. You both need a father. Someone to look after your interests. Someone to take care of your mother.” I attempted a smile.

“But he isn’t even here, is he? He’s in Italy,” Eugène said. “How can he care for us from there?”

“He’s in Italy for now. And I will be joining him.”

A week later Barras signed my travel papers. I had to join Bonaparte. My husband’s letters had reached a fever pitch and the Directoire feared the general might thwart the Italian campaign and desert his army to be at my side. But I was not yet ready to leave my beloved home. I did not want to go at all. Aunt Désirée and the Marquis were to be married, at last, as was Fanny’s daughter, Marie. I would not miss the weddings, even if Bonaparte lost his mind.

One rainy afternoon I left Fanny and Marie with the dressmaker and stopped at th
e Palais du Luxembourg. Barras’s office sat on the third floor overlooking the circular fountain in the courtyard.

“
Bonjour
, Rose. I mean, Josephine.” Barras cocked his head to the side with a mocking smile.

“That’s Lady of Victories to you,” I scolded him with mock superiority.

“Pardon me.” He stood from behind his desk and bowed.

I laughed.

“I’m glad you stopped in for a visit. We need to talk about your lieutenant.” He walked toward me over his plush oriental rug.

“My lieutenant?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“You know very well of whom I speak.” Barras put his hands on my shoulders. “You must be more careful in public with him,
mon amie
. You’ll make your husband furious if word gets back to him. He’s temperamental as it is.”

“It is my business and mine alone.”

The gold-plated clock on the wall chimed four metallic strokes.

“Everyone knows your business. You’re the Lady of Victories, and your husband is a hero. Everyone is watching you. Joseph Bonaparte examines your every move. I’m certain he is filling his brother’s ear with nonsense as it is.”

I looked out his office windows. Manicured hedges lined the promenade and stone pots overflowed with geraniums. Despite the ominous sky, the garden was exquisite.

“Joseph dislikes me. He hardly speaks to me.”

“He’s no fool. He suspects you’re betraying his brother. And let’s face it. Corsican men aren’t exactly . . . enlightened. You would be appalled at the things the Bonapartes say about your sex.”

“I know what my husband says about women. But his opinions do not degrade my influence.”

“It’s important that he’s assured of your love. He may risk dismissal, even desert his army to be near you. It could cause a scandal and a national crisis, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you at least write?”

I threw my hands in the air. “I do write. Every week. I will not spend my days doing nothing but writing letters. That’s what he would have me do. I care for him a great deal, but he—”

“He’s impetuous. But he has brought France more victories than any general in decades. The people adore him. Don’t make him your enemy.”

I watched men weave through the garden toward the entrance of the palace, umbrellas in hand. “I should end it.”

“Yes, you should. And it’s time you headed south. When the weddings have concluded, off to Italy you go.”

“How can you send me to war?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ve hired your lieutenant and Officer Junot to escort you. And I just received word today that Joseph is going as well.”

“You’ve arranged this without my permission?” I asked, furious.

“You can’t avoid Bonaparte any longer. It’s time to be his wife.”

The evening of departure, I had scarcely laid down my fork when Barras and Theresia led me to my waiting coach.

“We will miss you,
chérie
.” Theresia kissed my cheeks. “I will visit as soon as I can.”