The Josephine B. Trilogy Page 8

  Monsieur de Beauharnais said the Queen is graceful—although she doesn’t dance too much now, now that she is a mother, allowing herself only a few quadrilles or a colonne anglaise or two in an evening. When the King joins her he has to dance without turning his back to her, which gets him hopelessly mixed up and behind the music.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais said the Queen is an accomplished hostess, keeping the young men from staying in the corners all night talking of horses and duelling.

  Oh, there was so much that he told us, it is hard to remember it all: the Swiss Guards in starched ruffs, their spaniels on leashes; a door of glass so clear people almost walked through it; a room of maids to attend to dresses in need of repair; the firemen standing ready with buckets of water and large sponges…

  All this evening I have been in a reverie. I imagine myself strolling, cooling myself with a fan of mother-of-pearl. Men in black velvet dance around me, their long plumes bobbing. I imagine the music, the women in court hoops twirling, the swish of silk on silk…

  It is dawn. I have danced all night. Around the walls of the gilded room are the slumped bodies of the sleeping pages, the maids, the exhausted dancers. But still, I dance…

  Tuesday, February 29.

  Oh, sorrow beyond measure. One week ago Alexandre’s sister-in-law, Marie, gave birth to a girl. Aunt Désirée and I have been going to mass every morning, praying for the health of this infant, but in spite of our efforts, she died this morning, at seven days. This is the second infant Marie has lost.

  Friday, June 23, Saint John’s Day.

  I am seventeen today. Monsieur de Beauharnais presented me with a ruby. Then he informed me that he must return to his regiment. “How long will you be gone?” I asked.

  “Six months.”

  Six months!

  July 18, 3:00 P.M.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais is gone. He left a list of readings for me to complete: Agesilaus, Brutus, Aristides. I fall asleep reading.

  July 25, 1780—Brest

  Dear Rose,

  I am glad you have been attending to your studies but disheartened that your efforts are not better reflected in your written expression. Are you sitting at the writing desk properly, as I showed you? Are you holding your quill correctly, bending your arm at the right angle?

  As for content, I suggest you ask Aunt Désirée if she has a book of letters you might copy. In this way you might learn correct expression.

  My heart is filled with longing for the one whom I hold most dear. In rapture, I fall asleep each night, pressing your image to my lips. Oh, that it were you! How cruel Time, who keeps us apart.

  Write, Rose. Do not neglect your studies.

  Your husband, Alexandre de Beauharnais, vicomte

  August 2.

  I stood in front of the looking glass this morning, examining my belly, turning to the right and the left, trying to see if there has been any change. I should have started the flowers two weeks ago…

  Thursday, August 31.

  This morning when I woke, feeling sick in the way I do so often now, I decided it was time to talk to Aunt Désirée. After the midday meal I asked her if we could talk. She invited me into her apartment. I sat down on the settee with some sense of formality. I told her I’d come to ask her advice.

  She looked at me with a cautious but satisfied look. “Yes?”

  “How would I know if I were with child?”

  I thought for a moment Aunt Désirée had stopped breathing, for the rise and fall of her chest is usually remarkable. She squared her shoulders and said, “Very well,” and proceeded to ask me questions. When I told her I hadn’t had flowers for over two months, she stood up and put me directly to bed, where she’s been feeding me hot chicken broth and wine ever since.

  The doctor comes every morning, to see Father. Hopefully he will release me from this prison.

  September 1.

  The doctor prescribed ten drops of tincture of iron in the morning, meat two times a day, and a pint of beer or a glass of port with supper. I can get out of bed, but for two months I’m not to ride in a carriage.

  I endure with joy. I am more than myself.

  September 14, 7:00 P.M.

  Monsieur de Beauharnais writes words of love now that he has received my news. But, oh, woe, I fear it is too late. A week ago I began to bleed—not much, but I was cautious and took to bed. The baby was held, Mimi said, kept from growing. She made a dragon’s blood mixture that I dutifully ingested two times a day with powdered dried almonds mixed with the yolks of eggs. This went on for several days. Nevertheless yesterday I was seized with the most terrible pain. Mimi asked if she should fetch Aunt Désirée, but I insisted no.

  So it was Mimi who was with me, for which I shall always be grateful. It was hard—it was all I could do not to scream—but Mimi knew how to help it pass. When it was over she prayed for me, not a Christian prayer, I confess, but a sweet crooning sort of chant about a woman’s pain and the earth bringing life anew.

  I wept the night through. I am no longer with child.

  In which I am too much alone

  November 1, 1780, All Saints’ Day.

  At table the Marquis and Aunt Désirée talked of Marie’s mother “Aunt Fanny,” who has recently returned from Rome. She’s a writer and keeps a salon. She has published a booklet, Hail to All Thinkers! (which the Marquis insists “one of” her lovers must have written) and a romance novel called Triumph of Love (which Aunt Désirée forbids me to read).

  “Her salon stays open until five in the morning,” the Marquis exclaimed. “I’d like to know what people can be doing at that hour!” It was a small entertainment to see him worked up so.

  Tuesday, November 7.

  My room is full of the heavy scent of attar of roses, Aunt Fanny’s perfume. I confess to being captivated. Her face is tiny, giving the impression of a fairy. She wears a frightful amount of make-up, especially on her eyes, which are quite lively, never resting. She’s very theatrical. (It is hard to imagine that she is Marie’s mother. Marie is so timid.)

  Her dress was simple, but she wore it without a corset—I was shocked! There was a mannish quality to her hat, which was mellowed charmingly by a wreath of flowers which she wore in abundance in defiance of her age.

  “So,” she said when we met, “this is the beauty all of Paris will be talking about.”

  I blushed. Were that it were true! I don’t believe I’ll ever see Paris, in spite of living in the heart of it.

  She stayed for only one hour, drinking brandy in her tea. The Marquis seemed only too willing to listen to her wild stories, in spite of his disapproval, which he made clear. She knows artists and politicians, philosophers and poets, all manner of people. She has just finished writing a romantic novel which will be published soon, and has already begun composing yet another. But mostly she was concerned about me.

  “What events have you taken the girl to?” she demanded.

  “Events?” Aunt Désirée asked.

  “You know—out.” Fanny has a clipped and energetic way of talking. “Lodge meetings, the fairs—”

  “We’re quite content to stay in,” the Marquis said.

  “You didn’t take her to the Saint-Germain Fair?” Fanny was clearly horrified.

  “That’s gotten so dirty,” Aunt Désirée protested. “And the last time we went, we practically got run down by a carriage coming in through the gates at a gallop.” She turned to the Marquis to confirm this fact.

  “Ermenonville is quiet—you could take her there.”

  “I am perhaps the only person in France who is not enraptured with Rapture,” the Marquis said. “Forgive me, but your hero Jean-Jacques is not to my liking.”

  “Young Alexandre and his dear Patricol have not made a convert of you?”

  “They have not.”

  “They’ve not lured you to one of their Masonic meetings?”

  The Marquis made a sputtering sound.

  “He could never remember the pa
ssword,” Aunt Désirée said, covering a disloyal smile with her fan.

  “That wasn’t the problem in the least,” the Marquis objected. “It was all that nonsense about liberty and equality and brotherly love. And the red caps they wore were itchy as well as ugly.”

  “Perhaps the theatre? You have taken her to some spectacles, surely.”

  Aunt Désirée shook her head. “Alexandre would not approve, I am afraid,” she said. “Something to do with theatre fostering a sense of detachment in the modern age.”

  Fanny hooted, a most unladylike snort. “I suppose he would have us all out on the street, singing and dancing around Maypoles with ribbons! I’m weary of all this longing for ‘The Olden Days.’ One can take the precepts of Rousseau too far. The question, quite simply, is how can you bring this girl to Paris and not take her to the theatre?”

  “Perhaps we could take her to the Théâtre Français,” Aunt Désirée suggested cautiously, glancing over at the Marquis.

  “Mon Dieu!” Fanny said. “The only show there worth watching is the King…and the Queen, sometimes, when he manages to drag her along to those tedious productions. ‘Ah, Virtue!’…” Fanny paraded across the room, demonstrating an actor reciting lines in the most superficial way. I turned to see Mimi giggling in the door.

  “The Queen, on the other hand, who may not have sense, but who at least has taste,” Fanny went on, “is more likely to be seen taking in the entertainment on the Boulevard du Temple.”

  “The Boulevard of Crime you mean?” the Marquis asked.

  “Of course that’s what we’ve come to expect of her,” Aunt Désirée said.

  “Have you ever seen her?” I blurted out, revealing myself to be what I truly was: a star-struck girl from the Islands.

  “What’s to see?” the Marquis bristled.

  “How can one not see her?” Fanny moaned. “The woman is everywhere—at the theatre, the gaming tables, the concerts spirituels, the salons…not mine, of course—but I heard from Comte Clairon that she was at Comtesse d’Autricourt’s, feigning disguise, which of course everyone sees right through. Poor woman. I feel sorry for her. Hope she’s not allergic to cats.* Clearly she’s not allergic to men. I understand she’s moved into the little Trianon—for more freedom (Fanny indulged me with a wink)—where she can give full expression to her ‘bucolic’ affectations, playing shepherdess, tying pretty ribbons around the cows and sheep. It’s all so fashionable, it makes me sick, frankly. Although I admit I couldn’t stand being Queen for more than a minute. The palace is full of strangers watching the royal comings and goings as if they were on exhibit, relieving themselves in the corners. People even watch them eat—can you imagine?* Goodness knows I’m all in favour of giving up corsets—who can stand them?—but don’t you think our Queen carries it a bit far?” Fanny did not wait for a response. “But, of course, who wouldn’t go wild with a man like King Louis for a husband? The only thing he’s passionate about is food.”

  “And carrying on like a child,” the Marquis muttered in turn, “turning the fountains on strollers, for amusement. It’s time His Majesty grew up, don’t you think?”

  “Did you know that in Strasbourg they’ve actually minted a coin showing our dear King with cuckold’s horns?” Fanny said. “It’s true—a friend of a friend of mine has one.”

  Fanny could have gone on and on, much to my delight, but Aunt Désirée changed the subject, informing Fanny that I was learning to play the harp, that I sang quite nicely and that I was interested in drawing as well. I was embarrassed to be paraded in this way, but eager, nevertheless, to be the object of Fanny’s notice.

  She insisted on seeing a drawing I’ve been working on, an island scene. Quite by accident she came upon one I’d done of the stone wall of the neighbour’s house—the view out my window—and she laughed. She thought it showed originality and a sense of humour. “Or a serious case of vapours.” She looked at me closely.

  She noticed an open volume of Helvétius on a table. She asked if I was reading it. “I’m trying to,” I confessed.

  “Why?” she asked. “Not that it isn’t an admirable pursuit.”

  “Monsieur de Beauharnais wishes me to,” I explained. “He aims to educate me.”

  “How good of him,” she said with a sarcastic tone.

  “My spelling is terrible,” I said, defending my husband’s intent.

  “Voltaire’s letters were full of spelling errors,” she said, noticing my guitar propped in a corner. “Do you play?”

  I somewhat reluctantly confessed that I did, for Monsieur de Beauharnais had given me to believe that only members of the lower social orders played such a primitive instrument.

  “A lovely instrument—so expressive. What pieces do you know?”

  I told her I was trying to learn the cantatas of Clérambault, but finding them challenging. “I should think so,” she said, which was heartening.

  She turned to me at the door. “Tell me, my dear—what do you think of our fair city?”

  I flushed.

  “Don’t be shy. Do you not think your misery is written on your face? As is every thought and emotion that comes to you? Really, you are the most transparent creature. But come now, admit it—one cannot be French and not love it.”

  I felt she could see into my most private thoughts, penetrate my spirit, my very dreams. For all my life, had I not dreamed of France? Had not the word meant romance and all good things to me? “I am, I confess, familiar only with these four walls,” I said.

  “That we will have to remedy, my dear. You will begin by coming to my salon—tomorrow evening.” She raised a finger to still my objection. “I insist. I will send my footman for you, at nine.”

  And so, it is set. A salon? I don’t even know what a salon is.

  Thursday, November 9.

  There were a number of men and women gathered in Fanny’s parlour when I arrived—twelve, I counted. Fanny introduced me as a student of painting and music, which flattered my modest pursuits greatly. After supper, music was played and poetry read. There was lots of laughter and argument. All the while Fanny was stretched out on a silver and blue settee with a garland of flowers on her head, looking like a goddess. A poet named Michel de Cubières (short, with a booming voice and big lips) read some of Fanny’s poems, which I didn’t understand, but everyone seemed to appreciate. I felt nervous, but of course quite proud once the reading was over and everyone praised her.

  I can’t begin to describe the interesting people I met and the vitality of the conversation. I felt tongue-tied, but nevertheless was kindly received. An older gentleman in a tight old-fashioned wig guessed immediately I was créole.

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “Your accent gives you away. And the intoxicating way you move.”

  The intoxicating way I move, indeed!

  Monday, November 13.

  I have been to a meeting of a Masonic lodge—the lodge of the Triple Lumière. I went with Alexandre’s brother François and Mademoiselle de la Chevalerie, whom I had met shortly before Alexandre and I were married. The banquet was elegant, the company delightful and but for the length of some of the speeches, it was a pleasant evening. A number of men and women from the Islands are members, so I felt very much at home. (There was even cassava bread served!) The songs were pretty, all about brotherhood and love.

  Mademoiselle de la Chevalerie has promised to put my name forward. Already she showed me a secret hand-signal. “I tried this at the Saint-Germain Fair and hundreds signalled back,” she said.

  “That many?” It was hard to imagine.

  “If you are ever in distress, all you need to do is make a sign, and help will come,” she said with fervour.

  Saturday, November 18.

  Fanny took me to see a play tonight. She arrived early in order to help supervise my toilette. We were sipping brandy and being perhaps a bit silly, for Aunt Désirée stuck her head in and frowned at us. After the door closed Fanny made a funny face.
Really, I’ve never met anyone quite like her.

  Fanny gave her coachman orders to drive to the Boulevard du Temple. After what the Marquis had said—about it being called the Boulevard of Crime—I was looking out everywhere for ruffians, but it didn’t take long for me to be overtaken by the gay spirit of the place. We were inundated all around with tightrope acrobats, puppeteers, mime artists, performing animals—it was as if a circus had been let loose in the streets! Every balladeer and vendor had a song to sing—about liberty in America, about the Queen’s naughtiness, and lots of songs about love, of course. There were even actors performing a sentimental sort of romance, a woman on one side of the street, a man on the other, yelling words to each other. It was impossible not to be swept up into the excitement of it all.

  It was with some reluctance, therefore, that I entered the theatre, only to be drawn into still another world. After Fanny and I had seated ourselves in her loge—I was trying very hard not to look this way and that like a child at a fair—I noticed a commotion in the audience. Everyone was looking toward a loge at the front. It was the Queen!

  I had a very clear view of her face. She is younger than I expected, not much older than myself, and pretty, with a kindly expression, almost shy. Of course I took in all the details of what she was wearing, especially her headdress, which was a most fanciful construction of mauve feathers that fluttered with every move she made. With her was a blonde woman and a tall, handsome man.

  “That’s Yolande de Polignac and the Comte de Vaudreuil,” Fanny whispered. “She’s the Comte’s mistress. They have what is called ‘a secret marriage’—complicated, one would think, by his relationship with the Queen.” She looked at me over her fan.