The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte (41 page)

The charge of insanity wounded Betsy so deeply that she took to her bed with a severe headache.

Lady Brooke Falkener called the next morning and commented on how ill she looked. Not wanting to reveal the breach with her father, Betsy said, “November never agrees with me. The gloomy weather afflicts me with
tristesse.”

“Well, this novel I brought will cheer you up. You said how much you enjoyed Lady Morgan’s
Wild Irish Girl,
so I feel certain you will want to read her latest,
O’Donnel.
There is nothing like its portrayal of the Irish peasant.”

“Thank you, how kind.” As Betsy glanced through the pages of the book, she reached a decision. “But I should not borrow this. I think that it is time for me to depart for France.”

“Oh, keep it, my dear, and return it to me later.”

ARRIVING IN PARIS the last week of November, Betsy gazed out the window in rapture as the public coach took her through narrow, winding streets crowded with medieval, sometimes crooked buildings. She had dreamed of this moment for so long. After checking into a hotel recommended by Thomas Jefferson, Betsy sent a note to the American embassy asking if she could call on Ambassador Albert Gallatin, whom she knew from his days as Secretary of the Treasury in Washington.

The Swiss-born Gallatin was then in his fifties. He had a square face, heavy eyebrows, and a bald pate surrounded by a collar-length fringe of hair. At his meeting with Betsy, he gave her helpful advice about suitable neighborhoods and the best way to transmit funds between the United States and Paris. He also invited her to dine with his family. Gallatin’s wife Hannah was very kind to Betsy, who became a frequent guest at their table and through them began to make connections in Parisian society.

They introduced her to the writer David Bailie Warden, who helped Betsy find a small apartment for eighty dollars a month. The building had interior stairs that dipped in the center from decades of traffic, water-stained walls, and warped floors, but Betsy did not care because she was in Paris at last. Her suite consisted of two bedrooms, one for herself and one for a maid, and a parlor furnished with fringed, gold velvet draperies, a gold-on-blue damask sofa, and four mahogany fauteuils with blue cushions and winged goddesses carved on the arm supports. On the rare occasions that she dined at home, Betsy had meals sent up from a restaurant in the building next door.

Warden also showed her the sights, including Notre Dame, the tomb of Voltaire in the Pantheon, and Napoleon’s unfinished
Arc de Triomph.
As they drove through the city, Betsy’s delight in Paris was marred only by the sight of so many British and Russian soldiers encamped in the royal parks. The troops reminded her that, even though she was finally living in her ideal city, she would never experience the glory of the French Empire.

That disappointment faded as Warden introduced Betsy into literary circles. The United States had nothing comparable; the only acclaimed American writer was Washington Irving, whom Betsy had met at Dolley Madison’s open houses, but his two books of satiric essays could hardly constitute a national literature. In Paris, Betsy made the acquaintance of several female writers, who eventually became close friends.

One was Madame Germaine de Staël, a woman of nearly fifty with dark hair, a fleshy face, and a slightly buck-toothed smile. She dressed in turbans and shawls of rich Eastern fabrics. During his reign, Napoleon had exiled Madame de Staël from France because her controversial novel
Delphine
explored the subject of women’s freedom. Now, she and Betsy commiserated with each other over their unfair treatment by the emperor.

Another literary acquaintance was Reine Philiberte de Varicourt, the Marquise de Villette, adopted daughter of Voltaire. She told Betsy many stories of the great French author, to whom she was still so devoted that she kept his heart in an urn. She also wrote essays under the pet name that Voltaire had given her:
Belle et Bonne.

At one salon, the hostess introduced Betsy to a tiny woman, even shorter than she was, who had black hair and a charming Irish face with deep-set eyes and a rosebud mouth. “Madame Bonaparte, may I present the novelist Sydney, Lady Morgan.”

“Lady Morgan!” Betsy curtsied. “The authoress of
O’Donnel?
I admired that book more than I can tell you.”

“You are too kind, Madame Bonaparte.” Lady Morgan adjusted her stole, which had slipped off her shoulders when she returned the curtsy. “I have heard of you too, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance. They say that no one in Paris is a more charming conversationalist.”

“A minor talent, if that. Nothing like your ability to spin such moving tales.”

The two women spent the next hour comparing notes on their favorite novels, and from that day on, Betsy looked for Lady Morgan at every reception she attended. They became fast friends, continuing to correspond after Lady Morgan left Paris.

Before long,
tout le monde
knew that Jerome Bonaparte’s former wife had taken up residence in Paris, and the members of high society flocked to her morning receptions, famed for their witty, intellectual discourse. Betsy was delighted to receive the writer François-René de Chateaubriand, whose novel
Atala
had so thrilled her during her the early days of her courtship. The author had dark, wild curls that reminded her of Jerome—ironically, as it turned out, because Chateaubriand was a harsh critic of the former emperor. As a result, Betsy avoided political topics in their conversations and instead questioned him about the romantic journey he had taken from Paris to Jerusalem a few years earlier. Other notable guests at her gatherings included the Prussian explorer Alexander von Humboldt and the renowned Italian sculptor Antonio Canova.

All winter Betsy kept up a public façade of gaiety and charm, but when she was alone at night, her mood darkened as swiftly as if a cold wind off the Atlantic had snuffed out all the candles in a glittering chandelier. At times like that, all she could think of was how much she missed her son. Her only consolation was that she was gradually befriending people of noble blood, contacts she hoped would prove useful when it was time for arrange a match for Bo. She even made an appointment with Albert Gallatin to ask his impression of her growing list of possible brides, and he tactfully indicated which families might not be as financially sound as they appeared. Yet, even the prospect of a noble alliance for her son did not completely ease Betsy’s sorrow over their separation.

She also suffered from apprehension that her new acquaintances would discover the precarious state of her finances. The ease with whichNapoleon briefly regained power and commanded an ardent following had revealed how little love the French had for the restored monarchy, so the British continued to occupy the capital to allow the king time to consolidate his position. The presence of troops drove up prices in the city so that it was even more expensive to live in Paris than in England.

Betsy made every effort to economize while still maintaining the social position necessary to her purpose. Everyone knew of her father’s wealth, so no one suspected the stringent measures she took to survive day to day. She kept her meals as Spartan as possible and heated her rooms only when she expected company. Even though she constantly went to balls and receptions, she bought no new clothing but used her skill as a seamstress to refresh her wardrobe—and did it so expertly that everyone remarked on how beautifully she dressed. Whenever she was invited to an occasion that required presents, Betsy gave a piece of her own needlework. Her gifts were so admired that the recipients never guessed that financial necessity lay behind them, and soon her friends were arguing good-naturedly over which one had received the most charming of her
petits cadeaux.

In December, the Duke of Wellington invited her to a ball at the English embassy, located in the former home of the Princess Borghese, Jerome’s sister Pauline. Betsy knew the exterior of the building. It was a two-story mansion built of the tawny stone so common in Paris with a double Ionic portico and two windows on either side of the entrance. At each end of the central block, a pavilion extended into the front courtyard.

For the occasion, Betsy decided on the same outfit she had worn to the Portuguese ambassador’s ball in Cheltenham, with the addition of a small gold tiara set with seed pearls and white topazes, which everyone took for diamonds.

When Betsy arrived at the embassy, she found herself in an entrance hall that featured a grey and white plaid marble floor and, to the right, a sweeping staircase with an exquisite wrought-iron railing. Betsy was presented to Wellington, a tall handsome man of forty-six with dark hair, haughty blue eyes, and an aquiline nose. He was wearing his scarlet dress uniform and, oddly for a ball, boots with spurs. “Your grace.” Betsy curtsied.

“Charmed,” he answered languidly. “Would you do me the honor of giving me the opening dance?” Without waiting for her answer, he held out his arm.

Amused, Betsy allowed him to escort her into the ball. Wellington was a notorious rake, rumored to go to any length to bed women who had been Napoleon’s mistresses, but if he hoped to add her to his list of former Bonaparte lovers, he would be disappointed. Since coming to Paris, Betsy had received confirmation of what she long suspected; the Bonapartes justified Napoleon’s treatment of her by claiming she was a trollop who had seduced their baby brother. As a lady, she could not answer such accusations, but she could defend her reputation by maintaining a puritanical chastity.

When they entered the ballroom, a murmur of astonishment swept through the crowd and, as one, the assembly curtsied and bowed. “Extraordinary,” Wellington said.

“Do you not usually receive such homage, your grace?”

“Never. Such a reception properly belongs to royalty.”

Indeed,
Betsy thought. With a shiver of pleasure, she remembered Odette’s long-ago prophecy:
You wore a silk gown with a crown on your head. And when you entered a room full of people, they bowed like you were a princess.

Smiling, she looked around and decided that this was the perfect setting in which to receive such an honor. The ballroom was all white and gold: a square-patterned parquet floor in shades of honey and caramel, cream walls with gilt moldings and applied swags; and gold-framed mirrors that reflected the light from three large crystal chandeliers. Music began to play, and the duke and Betsy took their place at the head of the line of couples.

As they danced, Wellington’s spur caught on her hem and tore it. “Oh, me damn spur!” he exclaimed and stopped to make sure that it had not been pulled loose or damaged his boot. Assured that the leather was unharmed, he led Betsy back into the dance without a word of apology for ruining her best garment.

Furious, she danced with a frozen smile and did not even attempt to make conversation. When the music ended, Wellington looked around and gestured to a man with an unusually broad face and shrewd eyes. The gentleman approached, walking with a limp. “Monsieur Talleyrand, allow me to present you to Madame Patterson Bonaparte.” After the curt introduction, Wellington walked toward an aide who stood waiting to speak to him.

Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord bowed over Betsy’s hand. “I have heard of you from our mutual acquaintance Madame de Staël.”

“And all the world has heard of you,” Betsy answered, disguising her scorn with a smile. The wily statesman was such a master of intrigue that he had not only survived the French Revolution but also served under every regime that followed it. Ultimately, he had turned against Napoleon and helped restore the Bourbons, and for that Betsy could not forgive him. Even though she agreed whole-heartedly with Napoleon’s assessment that his former minister was a “turd in a silk stocking,” she murmured pleasantries to Talleyrand because he was much too powerful to risk offending.

Knowing that his lameness precluded him from dancing, Betsy made her way to a pair of empty gilt chairs and Talleyrand followed. Behind them, Wellington laughed loudly.

After glancing over his shoulder, Talleyrand said, “Knowing that we were almost certain to meet, his majesty King Louis XVIII asked me to convey a message to you. He wishes you to know that you are welcome at court.”

Betsy paused in astonishment and bought a few moments by sitting and arranging her skirts. She could see that her torn hem was dragging badly, but she thought she could salvage the gown by adding a ruffle. Turning back to Talleyrand, she smiled. “Please convey my respects to his majesty. I am sensible of the honor he pays me, but I cannot accept. Having received a pension from Napoleon Bonaparte, it would be an act of the deepest impropriety for me to enjoy the hospitality of his successor. I have many faults, Monsieur, but ingratitude has never been one of them.”

Although his eyebrows shot up in surprise, Talleyrand said, “Your discretion does you credit, Madame.”

Within moments, a marquis begged to be introduced to Betsy and soon she was back on the dance floor. Buoyed by having been bowed to and flattered by the king’s invitation, Betsy was happier than she had been in years. Truly, no matter what her father might think, this was the life she had been intended for all along.

During supper, Wellington approached her. “I have a frightfully amusing story, Madame Patterson Bonaparte. Do you remember how everyone bowed when we entered the ballroom?”

“Yes, of course, your grace. Have you learned the cause?”

“They mistook you for the Princess Borghese. You look awfully alike, don’t you know?”

As Betsy realized the cruel joke that fate had played on her, she smiled stiffly. “My former husband used to tell me that I resembled his sister.”

The rest of the evening was a torment. By the time she returned to her rooms, her head was bursting from the strain of remaining sociable after such a shock. Standing before her mirror, Betsy stared at herself as she pulled off her long gloves and stripped off her jewels.