The Secret Life of Josephine: Napoleon's Bird of Paradise Read online

  We drove along the Seine, past the Pont Neuf and the Pont-au-Change. Dozens of small boats crowded the river, some heaped with coal and grain and wine, others filled with laundry baskets and red-faced women vigorously slapping wet clothes against the sides. There were raindrenched markets where old clothes and scrap-iron and flowers were for sale, and streets of fine shops where elegantly dressed men and women stepped out of their gilded carriages to browse and buy.

  Paris was a vast, sprawling place, far larger than Fort-Royal. Its streets led on and on in endless serpentine windings, past lodging-houses and taverns, all-night bath houses and workshops, churches and monasteries and gambling-halls. Often we had to stop while angry carters confronted one another, or to permit accidents to be cleared from the roadway. Soldiers of the royal guard marched past, very wet from all the rain, the feathers in their hats quite sodden. At the Place de Greve an execution was under way, and a crowd had formed to watch a man being broken on the wheel. The poor wretch hung limply from his instrument of torture, while from the pavement nearby a street singer chanted a mournful tune.

  “This is the rue Thevenot,” Edmee announced as we turned into a street lined with run-down large houses. “The marquis de Beauharnais rents an establishment here.”

  “What’s that smell?” I asked. The air reeked of animal ordure and rot, and some other overpowering stench that I had never smelled before. So strong was the odor that I could not smell the stink of the open sewer that ran down the middle of the street, or the reek of the garbage piled in adjacent alleyways.

  “It comes from the tanneries,” Alexandre said. “And from the tripe factory not far from here. Don’t worry. You can only smell it when the wind comes up from the river—which is most of the time.”

  Holding my scented handkerchief in front of my nose, I entered the house where my aunt and Alexandre lived, along with the ailing marquis. A dimly lit foyer led to a marble staircase which had once been grand but now was discolored, the marble chipped and the chandelier that hung above it choked with candlewax and in need of cleaning. A dozen dour servants stood in line to receive us, the women curtseying, the men bowing. It seemed strange to me to see white servants, I could not get used to the idea that in France, all the servants were as pale as the Grands Blancs. Back home in Martinique, of course, all the servants were African. And there was another difference. French servants did not smile, while in Martinique the African house servants were warm and pleasant, even mirthful.

  Edmee took me upstairs into the salon to meet the marquis. He sat on a pile of cushions in a deep armchair, one leg extended, resting on a footstool. His body was grotesquely stout, his round head nearly bald, with a few wisps of whitish hair around his ears. His eyes, when they rested on me, were penetrating, eyes one could not hide from. He reached for his spectacles and put them on.

  “So young, so young,” he murmured. “Come here, girl.”

  “She is sixteen, Francois. Nearly seventeen.”

  He nodded. “And what do you think of our city, Rose? Is it not a grand and imposing place?”

  “I think it goes on and on and never stops. I think it is amazing.”

  I wanted to appear positive, yet I confess that the marquis’s gloomy house dispirited me, and reminded me that my life as Alexandre’s wife was likely to be an unhappy one. My low spirits must have registered on my face, because the marquis peered at me for a long moment, and then said, “Come, sit by me.” He pointed to a low chair. “Edmee! Go and help your brother and sister settle in while I get to know my daughter-in-law.”

  The kindliness in the marquis’s voice, and his evident interest in me broke my composure entirely. I looked over at the old man, willing to open my heart to him.

  “I can see you are unhappy, child. Tell me why.”

  “It is Alexandre. He humiliates me, my lord marquis. He is always criticizing me, saying how ignorant and provincial I am.”

  “These shortcomings can be corrected, my dear, with patient tutoring and exposure to the world of higher culture. I fear my son’s arrogance and unkindness are incurable, however. They are so deeply ingrained in him. But then, you knew Alexandre as a boy. You knew what he was like.”

  I nodded, hanging my head. “But no one told me, when I agreed to marry him, about Laure de Girardin—or her child.”

  “A young man’s folly. Nothing more.”

  “He says Laure is the love of his life.”

  The marquis snorted. “Ha! The love of his life! He barely knows what love is—yet. If he is like me he will have many loves, but only one wife. One affectionate, steady presence to give him a home. To give him children. You will be that valued wife.”

  He took my hand. “Come and tell me if Alexandre is unkind to you. Tell me, not Edmee. She indulges him.”

  “I will, my lord marquis.”

  “Call me father, my dear. I want to be a second father to you.” “Thank you—father. I’m grateful.”

  He smiled. “Thank you, my dear, for joining our family. And as for your education, you must meet my sister-in-law Fanny She scribbles. Verse, novels, songs. She holds a salon every Thursday evening at her house in the rue Montmartre. I can’t stand to go there myself. Too many preening versifiers, always looking at themselves in mirrors. But you should go. You will learn a lot.” “I will.”

  Alexandre lost no time, once he was back in his father’s house, in claiming his inheritance. Now that he was married he was entitled to receive his money, which was to be paid to him in large installments every year. It made him a wealthy man—and he set about spending his newfound wealth lavishly New uniforms, a fine sword of Toledo steel, a set of duelling pistols decorated in etched silver, and breeches and waistcoats of heavy silk with ruby buttons were among his first acquisitions, along with a becoming new bag wig. He looked very handsome as he set off each night in the marquis’s carriage for balls and receptions at the mansions of his titled friends.

  He never included me in these excursions.

  “You are far too young, Rose,” he said in his most condescending manner when I asked if I could go with him. “Too unworldly. I may take you when you are older and have more understanding, more to contribute.”

  “Does Laure de Girardin come to these balls?”

  Alexandre’s lip curled. “That is nothing to you.”

  “On the contrary, it concerns me very directly, if you and Laure are seen together. It is an insult to me.”

  “As I said, you are too unworldly for Paris society.” He turned to go, then faced me again. “Not that it matters, but Laure is in Milizac. She does not like to come to Paris in the winter. Having been raised in the tropics like you and me, she finds it too cold.”

  That Laure did not accompany my husband on his nightly excursions gave me some comfort, but I was nonetheless alone each night, my only diversion endless games of cards with Aunt Rosette and Edmee. During the day, however, I found a delightful new pastime.

  One afternoon Alexandre surprised me by giving me a sum of money to buy a trousseau. I tried to pretend that I was accustomed to receiving large amounts of money but in fact I was quite thrilled and excited by the sight of so many gold coins. I had never possessed so much wealth. When I was alone I laughed aloud and amused myself throwing the coins up into the air and catching them and making them clink in my hands.

  I asked Edmee to take me to the bank and arranged to send some of the money to my mother and grandmother in Martinique. With the rest I went shopping.

  The establishments along the rue Desjardins near the marquis’s house soon became familiar to me. At the corset-makers I bought chemises, expertly fitted to my body and beautifully trimmed in lace and with tiny pink roses embroidered on the bodice. I had never owned such fine stockings as those I bought from the hosiers next door, soft, sheer things that clung to my shapely legs in the most flattering way. Abandoning any thought of economy or prudence I bought shoes with high heels—the kind the queen wore, I was assured—and fur muffs to warm my f
reezing fingers (it was very cold that winter) and woven shawls from the Far East in pale colors of green and beige and creamy yellow.

  “Madame la Vicomtesse has very good taste,” the clerks murmured as I made my selections. “It is a pleasure to serve Madame la Vicomtesse.” Some of the proprietors who served me were humble and gracious, others stole predatory glances at me, no doubt calculating how much profit they were making from my purchases. I was spending recklessly, thoughtlessly, and I knew it; carried away by the gold coins in my purse, I bought and bought, disregarding the mounting expense. When all the gold coins were gone I went on buying, asking that the bills be sent to my husband.

  I deserved all the beautiful things I was buying, I told myself. I deserved more than these, as compensation for my unhappy marriage. Alexandre spurned me and insulted me, therefore he ought to be made to pay. Was I not giving up my youth and my freedom? Was I not sacrificing my hope of a happy life for his benefit? I was! Therefore he owed me— everything.

  I can say nothing in my defense except that I was angry, and I was not yet seventeen years old. I liked to make a drama of things.

  One morning I took Aunt Rosette to a dressmaker and together we chose three new gowns for her, one in cream silk with a billowing skirt and a blue satin sash, one in gossamer-thin lilac muslin with a low neckline and ruching on the sleeves, and one in pale blue.

  “No green,” she said firmly. “I don’t want to wear green ever again.”

  For myself I ordered a dozen gowns, though I already had a good many new ones. Then I took Aunt Rosette to the milliner’s where we each bought a new hat. Aunt Rosette chose the style called “the dragon,” a round hat with golden acorns and peacock feathers. I had been wanting a Turkish bonnet, of the kind I was told the queen liked to wear, a fanciful thing made like a military helmet with three long reddish plumes. I bought one and wore it home, drawing many a quizzical glance on the way.

  Pleased with myself and my new bonnet, I wore it to supper. As soon as Alexandre saw me he reacted strongly.

  “Take off that hideous thing immediately. Have you no taste?” “I like it. I want to wear it.”

  “It makes you look like a gargoyle, with your goggle eyes and thick nose. Take it off!”

  I looked over at the marquis, sitting at the head of the table, hoping he would come to my defense. But he was nodding. He had fallen asleep. Aunt Edmee looked uncomfortable and shifted in her seat. Aunt Rosette stared down at the tablecloth and did not take her eyes from it.

  “Such a to-do, over a silly hat!” my father murmured.

  “The queen wears a bonnet just like this one,” I said, challenging Alexandre. “Do you think she has poor taste?”

  “Everyone knows that the queen throws money away on foolish trifles. She is bankrupting France—just as you are bankrupting me! I have your dressmakers’ bills and your drapers’ bills and all your other bills sitting on my desk, unpaid! I want no further reminders of your extravagance. Take off that ridiculous hat at once!”

  I got up from the table. “I’ll have supper in my sitting-room,” I said and walked toward the wide double doors of the dining room, my feathered plumes waving. The last thing I heard, before I left the room, was Alexandre’s angry voice saying “I hope you choke on it!”

  12

  THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY NIGHT I went to visit the marquis’s sister-in-law Fanny de Beauharnais at her home on the rue Montmartre. It was a large, imposing house, with a columned portico, three stories and a sloping roof. A footman in red livery opened the door to me, and I was shown into a spacious salon so lavishly decorated that it almost made me dizzy.

  Red velvet lined the walls and draped the windows. The sofas and footstools were upholstered in rich red brocade and the immense Turkish carpet that covered the floor was patterned in vivid reds and golds. Carved and gilded cupids adorned the doorways and ceiling, and from every table and cabinet more cupids, vases, statues and jeweled boxes shone forth. A large golden harp filled one corner of the room.

  So lavish and so colorful was the display of red and gold that I almost felt out of place in my gown of delicate shell pink, until a tall, broad, portly woman swathed in crimson gauze approached me.

  “Little Rose, is it not? How charming you look! Come in, come in, let me introduce you.”

  Fanny de Beauharnais was dressed fantastically in a sort of harem costume, with a wide tunic and long full trousers that were gathered in at her ankles. A deep burgundy-colored vest trimmed in tiny gold bells that jangled as she walked completed her toilette. She had dyed black hair, a broad, mannish face with full features and an infectious grin.

  “Rose, this is Seraphin Lamblin, who is going to read to us tonight from his epic Le Coeur Sauvage.” The tall, slight Seraphin bowed politely to me but looked distracted, his pale, wispy hair in disarray and his watery blue eyes anxious.

  “I have misplaced a quarto,” he murmured to Fanny. “I am quite distraught.”

  “Improvise, improvise!” she exclaimed heartily, taking my arm and pulling me in another direction. Two men, dressed identically in waistcoats and trousers of green cloth of silver, held their lorgnettes up to their eyes and regarded me.

  “Henri and Bernard,” Fanny said. “We call them the Inseparables. Both poets, can you imagine? Underappreciated, I’m sorry to say.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, Fanny,” said one of the two men in a tone of wounded dignity. “We have had notices in the Revue des Inconnus.”

  “Unflattering notices, as I recall,” said Fanny bluntly. “But perhaps the next ones will be kinder.”

  She continued to lead me around the room, which was growing more and more crowded, introducing me here and there, pointing out critics and academicians, novelists and an occasional musician. There were far more men than women, I noticed, most of them shabbily dressed though a few noblemen among them stood out for their costly coats, jeweled buttons and fashionably styled wigs, fresh from the wigmakers’ shops.

  I joined a circle where a discussion of the theater was under way.

  “Did anyone see Vestris the other night?” asked a woman in a dramatically plain white gown, a circle of laurel leaves in her hair. A white angora cat was draped around her neck. “He fell right through the stage! Everybody was shocked, of course. I saw a woman faint. She had to be carried out. He recovered, of course. But someone had to take his place for the rest of that performance. Never let it be said that Paris theater lacks drama!”

  “I prefer Talma to Vestris,” drawled a man whom Fanny had pointed out to me as a prominent critic. “Have any of you seen his Brutus? Quite the finest portrayal of the season.”

  They went on, discussing this performer and that, mentioning names that were unfamiliar to me. All seemed to be in agreement that the current crop of stage productions was mediocre.

  “What does any of that matter,” asked a newcomer to the circle, “when so many are freezing this winter? The hospitals can’t hold all the sick, even though they cram them in, six to a bed. And if they do survive the cold and illness, they starve. There is famine in Paris this winter.”

  “Thank heavens that the arts endure, no matter how harsh life becomes,” said the woman with the cat.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” retorted a man whose torn waistcoat and well-worn breeches made his own poverty evident. “You have enough firewood to last the winter, and a full pantry. I could probably live all winter on what you feed your cat. But there are thousands with nowhere to turn. What good are the arts to them?”

  “Beauty fortifies the spirit,” said someone else.

  “Beauty is worthless, as long as a corrupt government and a do-nothing king stifle all attempts at reform.”

  Listening to this conversation, which was growing more and more heated, I waited for a chance to join in. My opportunity came when one of the men changed the subject, saying that he was attempting to publish a novel, Souls in Torment.

  “I wish I knew if it had the least chance,” he said
wistfully.

  “The tarot cards can tell you,” I said, reaching into the pocket of my gown and bringing out the deck of cards I always carried. “Would you like me to read them for you?”

  He hesitated. The others fell silent, surprised and intrigued.

  “Yes. All right,” the novelist said.

  We sat at a card table and I began to lay out the cards. A small crowd gathered around to watch. I had been telling fortunes for years. Euphemia had taught me to read the cards when I was a child and I had often watched the fortunetellers in the marketplace in Fort-Royal.

  “This is the card of new beginnings,” I said. “You are beginning your search for a publisher. You have strong opposition, however. A rival author, perhaps. Yes. I see a jealous rival, someone who is working behind your back to destroy your chances. I see another figure, here,” I went on. “Someone with great influence. A woman, perhaps. Do you know anyone like that?”

  “I have met the king’s sister-in-law. She is a lover of novels.”

  “Could she help you?”

  “Perhaps.”

  ‘And I see money. Quite a lot of money. Flowing around you. I can’t tell whether it is coming to you or whether you are paying a lot of money.” “Could it be,” came a sardonic voice from among the onlookers, “that you see a large sum paid to you for reading the cards?” This comment provoked general laughter, in which I joined.

  “My readings are free. This one is over. Good luck, monsieur. Who else would like a reading?”

  My offer was quickly taken up. One by one the guests sat down at the table, asking me to find out answers to their questions. Will my play be produced? Will my lover return to me? Will I come into my inheritance soon? As in Martinique, the cards were expected to produce answers about love, money and success.

  I read on until Fanny announced that it was time for Seraphin Lamblin to read from his epic. Then I put my deck back in my pocket and sat down to listen. The room grew quiet as the wan Seraphin, in a voice that trembled with emotion, read his alexandrines. I was no judge of poetry then—indeed I am not a particularly acute judge now—but I feel certain, looking back, that Le Coeur Sauvage was not a very distinguished piece of work. The guests seated around me were politely stifling their yawns, and looking at one another with ill-disguised expressions of boredom. After half an hour Fanny stood, interrupting Seraphin, and began clapping. Others joined in, clapping as much from relief as approbation.