The Secret Life of Josephine Page 7

  By this time it was late in the evening and the guests began to leave, thanking Fanny for the evening and promising to return the following Thursday night. I decided that I ought to leave as well. But as I put on my cape and gloves and prepared to go, many of those whose fortunes I had told came up to me and, thanking me, slipped coins into my hands.

  “Not payment—just a token of thanks,” one whispered. “Please accept this small gratuity,” said another. Each had a polite phrase ready when the money was exchanged. At first I wanted to give the gifts back, for I had never before dreamed of charging anyone for my readings. But then I thought, why not accept it? I can send this money to my family in Martinique, or give it to my father to pay his debts. So I thanked the givers with a gracious smile, and slipped the coins into the pocket of my gown, along with my deck of cards.

  “You were a great success this evening,” Fanny told me as she said goodbye to me at the door. “When Francois told me about you, he didn’t mention that you had hidden talents.”

  “He doesn’t know. I have not read the tarot for anyone in Alexandre’s family. I know Alexandre would scoff and criticize me if he saw me telling fortunes.”

  “We wives have a lot to put up with,” Fanny said. Her tone was light, but her eyes hinted at pain. “I for one decided years ago not to put up with it any more. I separated from my husband. I’ve been much happier since.”

  I didn’t know what to say to this, so I was quiet. I had heard about so many separated couples since coming to Paris. The marquis was separated from his wife, Aunt Edmee was separated from her husband, many of Edmee’s friends were either separated or obtaining separations. The list was long.

  “I hope we will see you next Thursday evening,” Fanny was saying. “Will you come?”

  “With pleasure,” I told her. “I will look forward to it.”

  The following week I was at the house on the rue Montmartre at the appointed time. I wore my most colorful gown, an elaborate design in rose-colored brocade with gold embroidery, the bodice cut very low, and with it a pair of earrings Aunt Edmee lent me, with large yellow diamonds that flashed and sparkled when I moved.

  Many heads turned to look at me when I entered Fanny’s salon, and I was gratified by the attention. Acquaintances from the previous week came forward to greet me, and to ask, somewhat shyly, whether I had brought my deck of tarot cards. I produced the deck from my pocket and heard sighs of relief. After spending some time in conversation, I went to the card table where I had sat the week before and asked, “Now, who would like a reading?”

  Once again I was in demand. For an hour and more I laid out the cards and answered questions, made suggestions and commented on what I saw in the future for one person after another. The circle of onlookers widened. Here and there a skeptical voice was heard, but on the whole I was treated as an oracle, a favored being with special powers. When I let it be known that I had learned my skills in Martinique the respect I was accorded grew.

  “Martinique!” someone said. “Where everyone is rich!” “Why, they’re all Africans there, aren’t they? Don’t they have the second sight? Isn’t that where the demons walk at night?”

  A mystique certainly surrounded my childhood home, I discovered; I had only to speak the name of Martinique and an awed look came over people’s faces. The French colonials who lived there were assumed to be fabulously wealthy, and the island itself was supposed to be a place of magic and marvels.

  I had just completed a reading when I heard a familiar voice. “Can it be my little Bird of Paradise?” I looked up—into Scipion’s grey eyes!

  I jumped up from the table and embraced him. It seemed like an age since we had last seen each other, on the day of my wedding, though in fact only a few months had passed. Abandoning my tarot readings I found a quiet corner where Scipion and I could talk undisturbed.

  I had so much to tell him, about Alexandre and Laure de Girardin, my dull life in the house on the rue Thevenot and my regret at having married Alexandre. He in turn told me of his forthcoming marriage and of his recent promotion—and about a place he knew, by the Pont Neuf where, he said, one could meet real Parisians and observe the genuine life of the capital at first hand.

  “Come on, Yeyette, let me take you there. How long has it been since you had a good time?”

  It had been far too long. I agreed to go with Scipion. Grinning like wayward children, we got into Scipion’s waiting carriage and told the driver to take us to the river.

  13

  “NIGHT, O CHARMING NIGHT, be kind to lovers all,” Scipion sang as we drove along, through the old dark streets and torchlit alleyways of the capital, toward the low-lying banks of the Seine. The song was a popular one that year, I heard it sung by the ballad-singers on the street and even the marquis’s grooms hummed it. When we came to the Old Bridge we got out of the carriage and Scipion led me down an ancient stair to a small cafe at the water’s edge.

  Inside all was noise and revelry. Men in fishermen’s smocks and laborers from the docks sat at long tables drinking. Musicians played a lively country tune and a few men and women were dancing. The room was dimly lit, and the air was full of smoke, so that I could not see clearly. I stumbled against something as we made our way to a bench and sat down. Turning to look behind me, I realized that my foot had struck the oustretched leg of a drunken man, lying face-down under a table.

  There was a commotion at a nearby table, where a man stood, holding a flagon. He shouted something in a language I didn’t understand, and others at his table greeted his shouting with a loud cheer and a waving of their own flagons.

  I looked over at Scipion. “What are they saying?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand Flemish. They are bargemen from Flanders, who go back and forth between Paris and the lowlands to the north. Their boats are tied up right below us. As soon as the river rises, they’ll be gone.”

  “Calvados!” Scipion called out to the waiter who approached us. “You’ll like it,” he said to me. “It’s apple brandy Very sweet. Very potent.”

  All around us, tables and chairs were being pushed back to make room for more dancing. A bottle of golden-brown liquid was brought to us and we drank a toast “to night, to charming night.”

  “The Cossacks are coming!” someone exclaimed, and in a moment half a dozen blond, burly men in gleaming white shirts, wide red sashes and black top boots entered the cafe. There were whoops and yells of recognition. “Sing for us! Dance for us!” the patrons called out and the Russians, after helping themselves to liquor, stood in the center of the cleared space and began to sing and clap.

  The musicians in the cafe fell silent as the Russians began a slow, dirgelike melody. Their voices were strong and plaintive, with an edge of yearning. Gradually the tempo of the song quickened, the clapping grew louder. Soon everyone in the room was clapping along with the men, who linked arms and began to dance, their black boots rising and falling in unison. I had never before seen such feats of whirling and kicking, bending and leaping. They contorted their bodies in impossible ways, keeping their balance while crouching on their heels, flinging out their legs wildly in time to the music. Finally, after one last frenzied burst of acrobatic dancing, they gave a loud shout and the dance ended.

  The clapping was so thunderous that I thought I could feel the room swaying, though it might have been the effect of the strong apple brandy. I looked over at Scipion, who was grinning.

  “It’s like this every night,” he said, struggling to make himself heard over the din of voices and applause. “Always something exciting. Actors come here, and even singers from the opera. They perform if the crowd demands it. Vestris was in here one night, and danced for the bargemen and carriage drivers.”

  “What is this place called?”

  “Cafe Lestrigal. The name is painted in big blue letters outside, only you can’t see it very well in the dark.”

  We lingered at the Cafe Lestrigal, Scipion and I, far into the night. It w
as exciting, this world of high spirits and noisy camaraderie. A fight broke out and one of the men had to be taken outside, his head and hand bleeding. Streetwalkers in gaudy cheap gowns paraded in front of the entrance, though they did not come inside. The proprietor forbade it, Scipion said. Amid the drunken singing and laughter and exchanges of insults there was much conversation. I heard several men debating the state of the world.

  “Everything’s coming to grief,” one of them said. “The end is near.”

  “Don’t be foolish. There is no end. That’s just some nonsense in the Bible.”

  “When Mercury trines Jupiter, and Saturn turns direct in Leo, that is a sure sign of the end of things. Just look around you! Are things getting better, or worse?”

  “For me, better. I have a new lover, as ripe as a juicy pear.”

  Scipion and I both laughed at this talk, and drank some more of the delicious Calvados.

  “I can’t imagine Alexandre enjoying a place like this,” I said at length. “He would be far too fastidious. These rough men would repel him.”

  “Alexandre is much more comfortable in the company of women than men, as I think I once told you.”

  “You were right.” I had a sudden thought. “Scipion, could you smuggle me aboard one of your ships and take me back to Martinique? Alexandre often says he doesn’t care what I do or where I go. He says I can go to the devil. Surely I can go to Martinique.”

  “And what would you do once you got there? I can’t imagine Alexandre would send you an allowance every month. You’d be married, but you would have nothing to live on from your husband. And he would surely demand that your father return all the money he lent him. He would probably seize your father’s plantation. Then where would you live?”

  I shook my head. “If only I could live in a shack on the beach, and eat fish and crabs and jungle fruits.” “And tell fortunes.” “Yes.”

  “No, dear, you are far too pretty a girl to go back to Martinique and waste away on the beach. Think of the hurricanes!” I knew he was teasing me. But then a more serious look came into his eyes. “I wonder, Yeyette, if you realize how very alluring you looked tonight, there in Fanny de Beauharnais’s salon. You were a breath of fresh air among all those jaded poseurs and faded poets. You have something of value to offer, here in Paris. Something rare. You are genuine. You carry the bracing winds of the islands with you. Trust me, you will be a great success.”

  “That’s what Fanny said to me.” It was also, I recalled, what Orgulon had told me. That my future lay across the water. That I would be an important person one day.

  “Listen to Fanny. She is very observant. Nothing escapes her.”

  It was nearly dawn when Scipion delivered me to the marquis’s house in the rue Thevenot. No birds were yet astir, but the earliest of the carts full of timber and coal were trundling along the streets.

  “Good night, dear Yeyette. Think about what I have said.”

  “Good night, Scipion.”

  He kissed me briefly on the lips, then escorted me to the door which was opened by a sleepy groom.

  I had not considered that there might be consequences to my staying out most of the night. The marquis and Aunt Edmee knew that I had gone to Fanny’s salon, and approved of my going. Alexandre never asked where I was or what I did, and as he himself was usually out all night it did not occur to me that he might be home, waiting for me, when I arrived at five o’clock in the morning.

  But I had no sooner stepped inside the foyer than there he was, my wrathful husband, still in his evening clothes, leaning against the jamb of the door that led into the reception room.

  “Are you aware of the time, madame?”

  “As it happens, I am not.” I heard myself speak, and was aware that I was slurring my words.

  “I can tell you’ve drunk too much wine.”

  “It was Calvados, actually. It was delicious.” I began to go up the stairs, intending to go to my bedroom, but Alexandre stopped me.

  “Come in here,” he said, indicating the reception room. “I have not finished speaking to you.”

  “I am tired. You can speak to me in the morning.”

  He strode up to me and seized my arm. “You will listen now.” He spoke through clenched teeth. With a sigh I followed him into the large room where the remains of a fire glowed.

  “Sit down.”

  I sat, suddenly very weary. “Where have you been?”

  “At the Cafe Lestrigal, near the New Bridge.” “A bargeman’s cafe?”

  “You could call it that. There were a lot of bargemen there.” Alexandre narrowed his eyes. “And were you alone?” “I had an escort. Someone you have met. Scipion du Roure.” “Your lover.”

  “Scipion and I have never been lovers.”

  “You are never to see him again. And you are never again to disgrace this family by going to places of low amusement.” “As you do.”

  “Where I go is none of your concern.”

  “I’m going to bed.” I rose to leave, but once again Alexandre caught me by my arm. I could smell the wine he had evidently been drinking. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was breathing with effort.

  “We’ll go to bed together. It’s time I made you my wife. If your lover du Roure is enjoying you, then why not take my turn?” He spoke of love, but his tone was savage.

  Still holding my arm, he took me up the stairs to his bedroom. I had never been in that room before. High bookcases framed the hearth, full of leatherbound books whose spines gleamed with gilt-embossed patterns. An old-fashioned panoply hung on another wall—a sword, breastplate, gauntlets and helmet, inlaid with silver and bronze. On a third wall was a portrait of a young blond woman, whom I assumed to be Laure de Girardin, holding a baby

  Alexandre pulled me into the room, slammed the heavy door shut and locked it. Then, quickly throwing off his jacket, waistcoat and shirt, and pulling off his boots, grunting and straining as they were very tight, he began tugging at my clothing. In a moment my lovely red gown lay in shreds at my feet, the torn petticoat hanging loose around my waist, my chemise agape. He pushed me down onto the bed and restrained my arms—for I was fighting to get free of him—while he finished undressing me.

  This was nothing like my beautiful, natural coupling with the dark boy in Martinique. This was conquest—angry conquest. Alexandre parted my legs and thrust himself into me until I cried out in pain. Closing his eyes, intent only on his own pleasure, he quickly consummated his barbarity. With an animal grunt he heaved himself off me and collapsed onto the bed, exhausted by his effort.

  Weeping and in pain, so furious I wanted to rip the ancient sword off the wall and run Alexandre through, I got down from the high bed and ran to the door. But it was locked. Alexandre had locked me in. But he had been careless with his keys. I found them where they lay on the carpet near his discarded boots, their metal gleaming in the firelight. I snatched them up, then tugged at the coverlet on the bed until it came free. Wrapping the coverlet around me, I unlocked the door as swiftly as I could and ran down the corridor, passing a startled maid who was brushing the stairs on her hands and knees.

  I found my room and gratefully took refuge inside. Panting, frightened and hurting badly, I went to the washbasin and filled it with clear cold water from the pitcher. I wanted a bath. I wanted to rid myself of every reminder of Alexandre, even the wine smell that clung to me. But I dared not wake Euphemia to bring out the iron tub and fetch the steaming hot water from the kitchens. I did not want to have to tell uphemia what had happened. Not yet. I needed time to recover, and to plan my revenge.

  Revenge was all I could think of just then. How to punish Alexandre for his cruel ravishing of me, and for his contempt, and for crushing my dream of love. For he had shown me, in a few horrible moments, how the precious union of two bodies could be an ugly thing, and how the sweetness of lovemaking could be turned, through force and terror, into a fearsome hell.

  14

  I COULD NOT IMAGINE facing Ale
xandre after what he had done. I lingered in my room all morning, napping and soaking in a tub of soapy water. Then I read until the middle of the afternoon, and finally, when I could postpone it no longer, I went downstairs, hoping I would not see my husband. When Aunt Edmee told me that Alexandre had left to rejoin his regiment in Brest I was greatly relieved, especially when she added that he would not be back for at least a month, perhaps longer.

  By the time a month had passed I felt certain that I was carrying Alexandre’s child. Euphemia had no doubt of it. She suspended a thimble from a string and held it over my belly.

  “If it turns to the left it will be a boy, to the right it will be a girl,” she told me. Fascinated, I watched the silver thimble twist and turn in the air, as if uncertain which sign to give. At last it began to turn in a wide arc—to the left.

  “A boy then,” Euphemia said. “Good. If you give Alexandre a son, he will probably leave you alone.”

  I told Euphemia about the brutal way Alexandre had treated me. She shook her head.

  “It’s the way men are, especially when they’ve had too much to drink. They think we are their playthings. They can use us any way they like. They don’t care about us, really.”

  But I knew that what she said was not true of all men. It had not been true of the dark boy—or had it? He had toyed with me, made me long for him. And then he had taken my virginity.

  “I don’t want to see him ever again, Euphemia.”

  “Do you want him dead? I know a charm for that.”

  “I don’t want to murder him, I just don’t want to ever see him again.”

  “Well, you won’t be seeing him for awhile anyway. I heard your aunt say he might go far away, to a place called Italy.”