The Josephine B. Trilogy by Sandra Gulland
“I understand,” I said, turning away, both furious and proud.
April 15, Friday—Malmaison.
It was disconcerting to see Russian guards at the gates to Malmaison. I tried to explain who I was, but it wasn’t until my groundskeeper came hobbling that I was allowed in. “What happened?” I asked, alarmed, for he had bandages on his head and one arm was in a sling.
“Cossacks. I tried to stop them, Your Majesty, but—” He shrugged, a movement that made him wince. “They broke the leg off the table in the entryway, but that was all. It was the orangutan that scared them away.”
And so it was with a sense of disbelief that I walked back into my home of priceless treasures to find it all untouched. But for the Russians at my gate, one would not know that the nation had fallen.
[Undated]
Oh, the stories: that the theatres in Paris closed for only one day—the day Paris capitulated—that the actors carried on even as cannon boomed. That it was Joseph Bonaparte who gave the order to raise the white flag of surrender and then disappeared, not even handing over command. (Just as he had in Madrid—the coward!) That everyone in Paris is wearing a Bourbon white rosette, that Bourbon banners are everywhere. (Ingrates!) That the Pretender’s brother, the Count d’Artois, has arrived, that he wears a powdered wig topped by a silly hat. That his servants wear strange Gothic tunics with enormous crosses hanging from the buttonholes. That Cossacks sleep with their boots on. That shopkeepers are doing a brisk trade. That in the Tuileries Palace they have simply pasted Bourbon fleurde-lis over the Imperial bees. That Talma played for the Tsar and was forced by the crowd to proclaim, “Long live King Louis XVIII,” but left the stage in tears. (Poor man.) That Empress Marie-Louise’s father, the Emperor of Austria, paraded down the Champs-Élysées in full daylight, not even trying to hide the fact that he had profited from his daughter’s misfortune. That the people were falling over themselves to bow before the new regime, claiming that they’d detested “that monster” Napoleon. That even his family has deserted him.
How devastating all this is.
Almost midnight (can’t sleep).
Clari looked like a matron in her bonnet, clutching a wicker basket. “I was afraid you would not receive me,” she said, fingering the gold cross that hung from a yellow velvet ribbon around her neck.
“It is not in my nature to hold a grudge,” I said, feeling vindictive nonetheless. She had betrayed Bonaparte, the nation, me. “Speak your business.” And go.
“The Tsar Alexandre begs permission to call on you.”
“I take it you are his servant, then?”
“I help out where I can.” Her sharp nose in the air.
“I understand you helped the enemy enter Paris.” Clari and Talleyrand. “Such helpfulness is well rewarded, I expect.”
“I did not intend to hurt you.”
“I think you should go.”
“Will you consent to receive the Tsar? It would be to Napoleon’s advantage for you to do so.”
“How dare you speak his name!” A vase fell to the floor, shattered.
“He murdered the Duke d’Enghien!”
“You’re a fool. If anyone can be held responsible for the death of the Duke d’Enghien, it is your friend Talleyrand. He’s the one who persuaded Bonaparte to arrest the Duke.”
“He told me you would say that.”
I took two steps toward her, trembling.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she whispered, backing out through the door.
April 16, Saturday.
Tsar Alexandre arrived attended by only a few guards. “I am honoured,” he said, bowing before me. He is attractive, a man of middle years—thirty-five? thirty-six?—imposingly tall, with golden curls, pale blue eyes.
I was surprised (and reassured) by his show of respect. I am the ex-wife of an ex-emperor. He is the victor, ruler of one of the most powerful countries on earth. “Your Majesty,” I answered with self-loathing, “the honour is all mine.” As I spoke, he stooped close, and I recalled that he was slightly deaf. “The honour is all mine,” I repeated, raising my voice, flushing (knowing the servants could hear).
I took him on the usual tour of Malmaison—through the gallery, the music room, the theatre, the rose garden, the hothouse—and even through the dairy (my Swiss cows interested him). I found him easy to talk to, for his French is excellent and his mind of an inquiring nature. (So like Bonaparte in that respect.) He wanted to know about the grafting technique my gardeners had been using with success on evergreen shrubs, how much sun was advisable on tulip beds, what proportion of cow-dung was added to the compost used for the auriculas, how much milk my cows yielded.
We paused in front of the hothouses, talking of theatre: he’d been to see Talma in Iphigénie en Aulide at the Théâtre Français and had been tremendously moved. “Although,” he said, “there was an incident afterward that was painful to witness, I confess.”
“I have heard of it.” Poor Talma—I was beginning to fear his mind had turned. He’d physically attacked Geoffroy for having written a critical review.
“The actor remains attached to the Emperor. His feelings are honourable and should be respected.”
“We all remain attached to the Emperor,” I said with more heat than was wise.
“I understand,” the Tsar said with feeling.
But it is you who have destroyed him! my heart cried out.
It was then that we were—fortunately perhaps—diverted by the sound of children’s voices: Petit and Oui-Oui! They raced down the path, stopping short when they saw the tall and imposing stranger beside me. “Come, come,” I said, stooping to embrace them. Why were they at Malmaison? Hortense had taken the boys with her to Blois, to see the Empress Marie-Louise. “I’d like to introduce you to Tsar Alexandre of Russia.”
Petit looked concerned. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “Make your best bow.”
The Tsar smiled and bowed in turn.
“Where is your mother?” I asked anxiously.
“She’s coming slowly. She has to stop to admire everything,” Oui-Oui said, dramatically rolling his eyes.
“We didn’t stay long at Blois,” Petit informed us, pulling at a ringlet. (Oh dear, I thought. Now the Tsar will know that Hortense went to see Empress Marie-Louise.)
“We’ve been in a carriage for days,” Oui-Oui said, rolling his eyes yet again.
Hortense had stopped beside one of the rose beds. I waved to catch her eye. She smiled—There you are!—then frowned, twirling her percale sun umbrella, taking in the figure beside me.
“We’re over here, Maman,” Petit said.
“With a Cossack,” Oui-Oui cried out, throwing up his cap.
“Shush,” Petit said, frowning at his younger brother.
Tsar Alexandre laughed. (I was relieved.)
“I’m so happy to see you,” I said, embracing my daughter.
“Malmaison looks fine. Nothing was taken?”
“Thanks to the Tsar Alexandre,” I said, introducing my daughter.
“Honoured,” she said coolly, with only a slight dip of her head.
“Can I offer you both an ice and tea?” Hortense wasn’t helping!
“Cossacks drink vodka,” Oui-Oui said.
“Pardon?” Hortense said with a reproving look.
“I’d be delighted,” the Tsar said. “And yes, if you had vodka…” Pulling the brim of the child’s cap down over his eyes.
“He impresses me,” I told Hortense after the Tsar had left. “He seems sincere in his desire to put an end to the conflicts.”
Hortense shrugged.
“You disapprove of my receiving him, don’t you?”
“We discussed this at Navarre, Maman. I understand your reasoning perfectly.”
“Then why…?”
“It was disconcerting, I admit, seeing you entertaining the enemy.”
“Hortense, Tsar Alexandre has the power to help you and your children.” As well as the power to ruin
“There is nothing we need.”
“Now is not the time for idealism! Do you want to be exiled from France, never to return? It might be wise to be civil, at least for the sake of your boys. And, need I remind you, for Eugène’s sake, my sake—Bonaparte’s sake. Who do you think must make the decision about Bonaparte’s future? The Tsar—that man you treated so rudely.”
We both burst into tears. “Oh, forgive me, Maman! I’ve had such a terrible two days.”
And then it all came out: how after Hortense’s long and arduous trip to Blois, the Empress Marie-Louise had kept her waiting, how when she’d finally received Hortense, she’d told her that it would be best, perhaps, if Hortense left, because her father, the Emperor of Austria, was coming to get her, and how the one thing that really worried her was that her father might force her to follow Bonaparte into exile.
I sat for a moment in stunned silence. “But I thought Marie-Louise was sincerely attached to Bonaparte. I thought you said she couldn’t stand to be separated from him even for one day.”
“I thought so, too, Maman.”
Poor Bonaparte! Everyone is deserting him, even his wife. “And the boy?” The son he loves so much.
Hortense smiled sadly. “He was so happy to see Petit and Oui-Oui. You know what he told them? That he knows he’s not a king any more because he doesn’t have any pages. Madame de Montesquiou told me he cries for his papa.”
I stood and went to the fireplace, holding my hands out over the embers. “I’d go to Bonaparte in a minute if I could.”
Hortense came up behind me, held me in her arms. “I know you would, Maman.”
Early evening.
The sight of the horse cantering up the laneway puzzled me. The rider looked familiar, yet I could not place him. I went to the garden gate, my basket full of cut roses. “Moustache?” But I wasn’t sure. “What’s happened to your…?” I pointed to my upper lip.
“I cut it off and gave it to the Emperor,” he said, handing a letter to me. “I told him he already has my heart; he might as well have my namesake.”
How touching, I wanted to say, but could not speak. The letter was from Bonaparte.
Fontainebleau
I wrote you on the eighth of this month (it was Friday), but perhaps you never received my letter. The fighting was still going on so it may have been intercepted.
I won’t repeat what I said—I complained then about my situation. Today I am better. I’ve had an enormous weight lifted from me.
So many things have not been told. So many have a false opinion! I loaded benefits on thousands of poor wretches. What did they do for me? They betrayed me—yes, all of them. With the exception of good Eugène, so worthy of you and me.
Adieu, my dear Josephine. Resign yourself as I have. I will never forget you. N.
“Thank you,” I told Moustache, slipping a diamond ring off my hand. He’d aged during his years as Bonaparte’s courier; his face was lined with furrows. “How is he?”
“The Emperor?”
I leaned toward him. “Yes.” Tell me.
“He’s…not well, Your Majesty.” His voice had a pleading quality.
I nodded. And?
He looked away. “I’m told he tried to poison himself.”
There was a century of silence, heavy and ponderous and dangerous. “Tried?”
“Apparently it was not strong enough.”
“Thank you, Moustache,” I said weakly, turning away.
Grand Dieu. I must get to him.
Very late, past 2:00 A.M., I think.
Perhaps I’m going mad. My emotions rage within me. Oh, Bonaparte! I feel so helpless—
Monday.
Shortly after dinner I called for my carriage. “Fontainebleau,” I told the driver.
“But Your Majesty…” It would take hours and the roads were not safe, Antoine said. “And what about an escort?” The men were just sitting down to eat.
“I won’t be needing them,” I informed him. “I’ll be travelling incognito.” Alone.
The leather mask was curiously reassuring. I was of the world, but not part of it. Lulled by the sway of the coach, I watched the sun set, the moon rise, the outline of the hills become liquid and dark. I sat as if in a trance, without thinking.
Nearing Fontainebleau, we stopped at a posting house to refresh the horses. “Where in Fontainebleau?” Antoine asked.
“The château.”
“But…” The Emperor was inside the château. It would be heavily under guard.
“I am expected,” I said, and even believed it to be true.
As we neared the sentry hut by the main gate, I perceived my foolishness. There were Russian guards everywhere.
I thumped the ceiling of the carriage roof with my fist: stop, please! I had to reconsider. “Your Majesty?” my driver called down.
“Wait a moment, Antoine.” A few lights were visible in the château: Bonaparte’s suite. A light went out, then flickered.
Out, on, out, on—as if someone were pacing back and forth, back and forth. “Pull over to the side of the roadway,” I said, my eyes on that light. On. Out. On. Out. And then on.
I waited, listening to the frogs croaking—so very like Martinico, I thought, but for the wind, which carried no scent of the sea. “Home now,” I said, tears streaming.
In which my heart is with my husband
April 19, 1814, Tuesday—Malmaison.
“The French ambassador to Russia wishes to speak to you, Your Majesty.”
Armand de Caulaincourt! At last. “Thank you for coming so promptly,” I told him, once civilities had been exchanged, once we’d made what has become a ritual acknowledgment that the world has changed, and that we are all rather deceitfully playing new roles.
“I’ve been intending to call in any case, Your Majesty.” His blue eyes looked sad, resigned.
“About the Emperor?”
There was a moment of embarrassed hesitation. Which emperor? “About the Tsar Alexandre,” he said apologetically.
“But you’ve seen Bonaparte? You’ve been to Fontainebleau?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I’ve been with him throughout his…this terrible ordeal.”
Ah! I thought, as if I had come upon a treasure. “I’ve been so anxious for news of him, Armand,” I said, dropping all formality. “I’ve been told terrible things.” I toyed with my handkerchief, already damp. “I’ve heard—” How did one ask such a thing? “Is it true, did the Emperor try to…?”
“I’m afraid so, Your Majesty.” Armand sat forward. “I don’t know if you are aware, but before the last Spanish campaign, the Emperor had taken to wearing a small sachet suspended from a ribbon around his neck.”
The sachet!
“It contained a deadly mix of belladonna and white hellebore, in case of capture in battle. He did consume it, but it was old, no longer potent.” He smiled ruefully. “You can imagine the Emperor’s frustration.”
“But it must have made him terribly sick.” I felt ill at the thought. Bonaparte is so sensitive. The least thing causes him terrible pain.
“Very.” Constant stuck his finger down Bonaparte’s throat, to make him retch, he told me. “Then I forced him to drink milk. We thought he was dying,” Armand said, his voice thick. “And he thought so, too. At the time he asked me to tell you that you’d been very much on his mind.”
The sound of a canary singing broke the poignant silence. Oh, Bonaparte! “When will he be leaving for Elba, Armand?”
“Tomorrow.”
Oh, mon Dieu, so soon! “I must see him.” One last time. Please.
Armand shook his head, not meeting my eyes. “I’m sorry, but it just isn’t possible. The Emperor hopes to be reunited with his wife and child. Anything that might jeopardize that reunion must not—” He stopped. It pained him to have to explain.
“I understand,” I lied, thinking with bitterness of Marie-Louise’s reluctance. “I would never do anything that might cause the E
A maid entered with a tray of refreshments. I took the opportunity to recover my composure. “You said you wished to speak to me about the Tsar Alexandre,” I said, lifting my cup of tea, testing the steadiness of my hand. I took a careful sip. “He paid me a call several days ago. I found him to be respectful and courteous.”
“As ambassador to Russia, I’ve come to know Tsar Alexandre well. Certainly he honours me with his confidence. The last time I saw him, he appeared dejected. He confided to me that your daughter had received him coldly.”
“Hortense and I had a talk after he left,” I told Armand, chagrined. “These are difficult times. Hortense is fierce in her loyalty. However, I believe she now understands the importance of diplomacy.”
“He would very much like to call again, Your Majesty, and has asked if this coming Friday might suit you, for supper.”
“Of course.” One did not refuse such a request.
“You are wise. The Emperor likely would have been executed had it not been for the Tsar’s intervention.”
Before he left, I gave Armand a small parcel of things to give to Bonaparte, things he would be able to take with him into exile: a miniature of myself (from the first year of our marriage), Hortense’s book of songs, some bulbs—including an asphodel lily, so helpful for his sensitive digestion. “And this,” I said, enclosing the talisman Charlemagne had worn, heading into battle. “Tell him…” I turned away. Tell him I’ll be waiting.
April 20, Wednesday.
In bed all day. I hardly have the strength to walk. I can’t bear the thought of Bonaparte’s isolation.
I imagine him saying farewell to his men, riding captive in a carriage, surrounded by Russian guards. They will likely take the road to Lyons, but this time there will be no triumphal arches, no cheering crowds. This time it will be different.