Becoming Josephine (44 page)

I squished melting snow beneath my boot as three citizens rushed along a nearby path. I pulled my hood over my head to avoid recognition—a moment too late.

“Empress Josephine!” A man dropped to his knees. The others followed.

“You saved our ailing daughter, Your Highness. I am eternally grateful.”

“Long live Empress Bonaparte!” the other man said, bowing his head.

“God bless you, gentlemen.” I waved before turning toward my guards.

How could I abandon my people?

Bonaparte returned without a mistress. I nearly fainted with relief, though I began saving sums in secret. Within three short months, Bonaparte prepared to depart once more, to address the riots in Spain. This time, he insisted I go with him.

“To charm the diplomats, as you do,” he said. “My brother has made a mess of things and he’s threatening our alliance. The Spaniards detest Lucien.”

I went with a glad heart; my role was invaluable.

Bonaparte despised the Spanish more than the Austrians, if possible, and handled his meetings like a child fraught with tantrums. I softened his behavior as best I could and helped secure the alliance.

Our last week in Spain, I encouraged him to take a vacation.

“We need to rest. To play and make love. Enjoy the sea before we return to our duties in Paris.”

“That sounds like a fine idea,
amore mio
. We’ll stay a few days.” He ran his hand through my hair as I sat at the vanity rubbing cream on my face. “Why don’t you take a walk on the beach? Get some fresh air. I’ll join you as soon as I’m done with the meeting.”

“Don’t be too long.” I blew him a kiss.

On the way to the beach, my yearning for the sea intensified. How I had missed the ocean, the smell of waves, warm grit between my toes, my hair rippling in the wind.
Home.
An ache radiated in my chest. How I missed home.
Maman.
My eyes watered at the image of her face. Some aches never healed, no matter how much time had passed.

When the coach stopped, I leapt from it and skipped along the shoreline, parasol in hand. Slate blue waves glistened in the sun. The scent of seaweed permeated the air, and wheat-colored sand stretched until the mountains met the sea. A lone fisherman cast into the waters, bobbing his line to attract his prey.

I envied his simple sense of purpose.

I secured my straw hat under my chin and plunked down onto the sand. Lost in thought, I did not notice Bonaparte, barefoot, barreling toward me. He pounced, sending a spray of sand into the air. We laughed and rolled, a tangled pile of limbs and muslin. My pink parasol rolled from my hand and blew into the waves.

“My parasol!”

“We’ll get another.” He pushed himself on top of me and trailed his fingers over my forehead, tracing my eyebrows and then the swells of my cheeks. He searched my face as if for an answer.

I focused on the love in his eyes. There would be no distress, no fears or jealousy on this perfect day.

He burrowed his face into the soft skin of my neck. “Darling, I’ve missed you. I need you near me. Always.”

I brought his lips to mine and kissed him as if the world would end.

We spent six blissful months together. Bonaparte was attentive and tender. He slept in my arms every night, the way he used to. We were happy—until he departed for another campaign. I called upon Madame Rémusat to report every rumor, though they became more vicious.

“They say he plans a divorce and a marriage simultaneously,” she said. “He has chosen a bride with the help of Tzar Alexander and his brothers.”

The pattern of doubt, despair, and loathing became familiar and exhausting. Who I had become, where I longed to be, eluded me. I could not find myself among the hundreds of strangers at court, amid the constant competition, or even in my rooms alone at night. Adrift, I floated through bleak days. The price of being Empress Josephine, of being Bonaparte’s wife, weighed on my soul. I knew something had to change.

When Bonaparte returned from his stint abroad, he arrived with the worst disposition I had ever witnessed. It seemed as if a devil had possessed him.

He barged into my salon in a fury. “What are you doing? I told you to meet me at two o’clock. It’s a quarter past.” He stalked across the room. “You, madame, will leave at once.” He pulled the headmistress of the Society of Charitable Mothers to her feet.

She paled and straightened her hat. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I had no idea—”

“Go!” he roared. She bolted to the door.

“Bonaparte,” I began, “what in God’s name—”

“When I tell you to do something, you do it! I am your master! You obey me!” He stamped around the room, smashing my glass figurines. He swore and kicked the furniture. I stood behind the settee, waiting for the storm to pass. After several moments, he stopped and looked around the room, then at me. His enraged face crumpled and he flung himself into a chair.

“What am I doing?” He put his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

I moved behind him and placed my hands on his shoulders. “Whatever it is,
mon amour
, we will work through it. We will face it and carry on. You’re fatigued and under a lot of strain. Why don’t you rest? I’ll send up a tray of tea and brandy.”

He pulled me into his lap and kissed me hard. “I will always love you.” Guilt shone is his eyes.

His desperate tone did not escape me. “And I, you.”

For a fortnight Bonaparte mocked and belittled me, then swooned and begged my forgiveness. I weathered his tempestuous, cruel behavior and my dread grew stronger each day.

One evening at family supper, I did my best to ignore his agitated state.

“Josephine, you shouldn’t be in that seat.” He swigged claret from his goblet. “You’re not master of this table.”

His siblings regarded their brother with glee. They enjoyed seeing him take out his wrath on me.

“I always sit here.”

“Sit somewhere else. Now.” He threw down a chunk of bread.

He had to make a scene in front of his family? I wanted to wipe the smug looks from their faces.

“Very well.” I set down my fork and moved to a new chair. A servant placed a fresh plate of food in front of me. But suddenly I was no longer hungry. I took a long draught of wine.

“Why did you wear that hideous dress to dinner?” Bonaparte demanded. “Had you nothing better to wear?”

“I had this dress made for you, Your Highness. It’s blue French silk—your favorite. I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I hate it. It’s not flattering.”

My stomach twisted into knots, but I pasted a pleasant smile on my face. “I’ll give it to the poor.”

“You’ve given enough as it is. You do nothing but spend my money. At this rate you’ll bankrupt the empire.”

Caroline chuckled.

Anger rose under my skin and I flushed. I met his eye. “Every empire ends. Yours may as well be known as one that gave to its citizens.” I took another gulp of wine.

Joseph smirked and shoveled a piece of brisket in his mouth. He was enjoying the scene too much for my liking.

“Why don’t you find another man to support your spending habits?” Bonaparte asked.

The blood drained from my face. There it was—his threat, the one he had longed to voice in these weeks since his return.

I folded my napkin and tossed it on my plate. “I’m quite finished here. Enjoy your meal, everyone.”

I fled to my room to beat the tide of tears. I had scarcely closed the door when Bonaparte followed me in.

The sight of him fueled my rage. “What the devil has gotten into you? How dare you talk to me that way! You humiliate me and yet I’ve done nothing but what you ask of me!” My chest heaved and hot tears streamed down my face.

He hung his head in shame. When he looked up again, his own cheeks were streaked with tears. “I have something
I need to say.” He sat on the settee and ran a hand through his hair.

“Go on.” I sat beside him.

“I’ve given this a lot of thought.” His voice cracked. “For the country. For the empire . . . we must . . . It’s not something I want to do, but I have no choice.”

His words fell like stones in slow motion, as if in a dream.

“I’m so sorry,
amore mio
. I’ve been horrible to you these last few weeks, trying to assuage my guilt. You didn’t deserve a moment of my ill behavior.” He took my hand in his and kissed it.

My insides split apart. “Napoléon—”

“I can’t even say this. . . . How am I to say this?” He groaned and rested his head in my lap.

An eternity passed. I sat in rigid silence, too numb to speak, to move.

At last he sat up and stroked my face. “My darling . . . we must divorce. I’m so sorry.” He stroked my hair, my back. “I love you. I don’t want to do this!”

My anger resurfaced. “You don’t want to do this?” I lunged to my feet. “Then why do it?”

“You will always be my beloved Josephine.” He reached for me.

“Don’t touch me!” I held my sorrow close. It was all I had left.

“Please, can we talk about it? I love you. I will always—”

“Please leave me alone.”

“Josephine—”

“Just go!”

He walked to the door and paused. “I need an heir. An emperor has no choice.”

Tears blurred his image. “A man always has a choice—and an emperor more than any other!”

He hung his head and closed the door behind him.

The anger came.

I tore sheets from the bed, ripped drawers from the vanity and dumped their contents onto the floor. I kicked the pillows across the room and threw my writing tablets into the fire, watching them burn and fade to ash, to nothingness.

How could he abandon me? I had done his bidding, given him everything! Dismissed my friends, sold my daughter to his horrid brother! Sent my son to his wars!

I had saved him from himself.

I soaked my pillow with sorrow. I wept for our time together and our time apart, for his failings and for my own, for the loss of my crown, my people.

For the first time ever, I wept for the loss of myself.

Pala
is des Tuileries, 1809

T
he divorce took place four weeks later—a public affair in the Throne Room of the Tuileries. The entire court attended in silver and gold lamé gowns, diamonds, and fine coats. Hundreds of candles blazed. Musicians poised to play as if at a fete, and it was—a celebration of my end.

Despite the crush of bodies, silence emanated through the hall.

The Bonapartes made the only sound. They gloated and clapped one another on the back. They had won. Soon they would be rid of la Beauharnais at last. Only Louis remained cordial. We had shared Hortense’s darkest hour and he had not forgotten. Nor had I. We made eye contact and he quickly looked away.

I held my head high despite their triumphant looks, though my insides churned. I refused to cry in front of the gawking court, in front of my hateful in-laws. Eugène stood rigid at my left and Hortense held fast to my right hand.

How I longed for this to be over.

The provost called us to order. “Let us begin.”

He read through the terms of the divorce. Bonaparte would pay my debts and grant me a generous yearly sum. I would keep my title and more important, Malmaison. But I could not live in Paris, lest my admirers refuse to accept the new empress. The thought cheered me. Perhaps my people would not like his new choice of wife.

“Hortense and Eugène Bonaparte shall retain their titles and properties,” the provost concluded. “And now for the divorce decrees.”

Bonaparte read his aloud first. “She has been a dutiful wife and loving mother, a patriot beyond compare. I have nothing but thanks to offer my well-beloved wife, with whom I shared thirteen years. You will not be forgotten, dear friend.”

This could not be real. We were divorcing despite our love.

The provost nodded in my direction. “Empress.”

I unfolded the damp note in my hand. “With my dear husband’s permission, I offer the greatest proof of love, of my devotion. . . .” I paused. “I . . .” My voice quivered.

Eugène slipped his arm around my waist and Hortense squeezed my hand.

Caroline snickered.

The wolves would not have the pleasure of seeing me cry. Not today. I focused on my breathing and gave my speech to an aide, who read it promptly and without emotion.

Bonaparte stood. “I declare our divorce official and concluded.” His voice shook and he wiped his eyes, his anguish plain.

My limbs went numb. It was done. I was divorced, dethroned, and cast off—but I was also free to go.

As my children and I turned to depart, my son, a war hero who had witnessed the last breath leave another man’s body, had seen blood spurt from an enemy’s wounds, fainted in his tracks.

A murmuring rippled through the crowd.

“Eugène!” I slipped my arm under his head.

“What a buffoon,” Caroline piped. “They must always make a scene.”

All the anger, sorrow, and disgust I had kept at bay for too many years rose to the surface. I released it into a single hateful glare. Caroline snapped her mouth shut and looked away.

“Shut up!” Bonaparte commanded. “All of you!” He ran to Eugène and knelt beside him.

No one dared speak, or even breathe.

A servant rushed over with salts.

Bonaparte waved them beneath Eugène’s nose and tapped his cheek. “Dear boy.”

Eugène’s eyes opened slowly, filling with instant sorrow and then embarrassment as he realized what had happened.

“Let’s take a walk,” Bonaparte said, helping Eugène to his feet.

Eugène rubbed his head. “I cannot, Your Imperial Highness. I must go.” His voice was hoarse. “Maman?” Eugène met my eyes. “I will return in the morning to escort you home.”

Bonaparte’s face crumpled in pain.

I was no longer home—I never had been. Malmaison. A sob stuck in my throat as I moved numbly toward the door.

I paused to look back at Bonaparte, to memorize his features. My greatest love, my greatest source of pain. Tears stained his cheeks. I turned to go, leaving him alone in the middle of his opulent court, surrounded by everyone and no one all at once.

My final evening in the Tuileries, servants whirled in and out of my rooms, preparing my things, leaving trays of food, and inquiring after my needs. I wept, then paced in agitation until I could take it no more. I threw my cloak over my shoulders and wandered through the haunted corridors and out into the garden one last time.

I turned my face to the moon. At last I was the maker of my own fate, sole mistress of Malmaison, my own beloved land upon which I could depend. The land I had salvaged from ruin and made my own. I had done my best by Bonaparte, but I would not sacrifice myself another moment. I had depended on others to fill my void for too long.

The cold night air bit my bared fingers and arms, but I did not shiver. I felt strangely alive. I took a cleansing breath and gazed at the eternal stars winking in the vast darkness.

The old sorceress’s words echoed in my memory. “More than queen.”

And I was—a daughter and mother, the mistress of France. A woman toiling for what was right, striving to do her part. The summation of all of my lifetimes: joy and pain, deeds and failings, and the lives I had touched.

Now I would create my own destiny, a livelihood and a happiness, without expectation or fear.

I wrapped my arms about my middle and strode toward the palace. When I returned to my room, I found a note that had been pushed under the door. I inhaled a sharp breath and opened it. A familiar script filled the small sheet.

I will not be here when you depart in the morning.

Adieu, sweet Josephine.

Bonaparte

He would not even say a proper good-bye. I tossed the note onto the floor and fell into bed for my final hours in the house of kings, the house of sorrows.

When the silver rays of dawn poured through the windows, I arose and splashed my face with water. I dressed slowly, without my ladies-in-waiting, without the help of anyone. I moved to the window. Rain came down in torrents and flooded the lawn. Servants loaded my belongings into a convoy of carriages, oblivious to the deluge. I sighed and opened the door of my boudoir for the final time.

As I walked toward the main hall, a guard stopped me. “Empress, forgive my impertinence, but he is a fool. He sends away his talisman, the only one who loves him. Forgive me for saying so, but it is true.” I looked into his kind eyes. “Good luck, madame.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” I said, voice soft.

I joined Hortense, Eugène, and Mimi in the main hall. My family.

“Are you ready, Maman?” Eugène asked.

I nodded as a frantic servant approached. “Your Highness, we still have ten armoires of dresses to pack. Shall I send them later this afternoon?”

“Donate them to Penthémont and the other convents. I’m sure the ladies will be pleased to have them.”

“But, Your Highness, they’re priceless—”

“I have more than enough.”

Her eyes widened in shock “As you wish.” She curtsied and scurried away.

We dashed through the downpour and packed into our coach.

I held my breath as we pulled away from the imposing gray palace—my home and prison for more than a decade. I had always hated its drafty rooms and stuffy ambience, the rivalry of the court, the exhaustive days. It had suffocated my love and nearly suffocated me.

Hortense laid her head upon my shoulder. Eugène grasped my hand in his. As we pulled through the palace gates, Parisians greeted us, sullen-faced, in the rain.

“Long live Empress Josephine!” they called.

“We love you, our Lady of Bounty!”

I waved as we rode through the boulevards; tears coursed down my cheeks. Eventually, they dried of their own accord. Hope budded in my chest. For the first time ever, I had no boundaries, no one to live up to or to persuade of my validity. My life and worth were my own. Bonaparte had provided the financial stability and I could provide the rest for myself. I could live in peace.

When we reached the drive of Malmaison—my solace, the land I loved—I looked out at my gardens, which lay fallow in the bleak weather. They would bloom anew with the spring sun.

I regarded my favorite maid and my children through misty eyes. Gratitude flooded my heart. I had everything I could ever need.