CHAPTER 22
It was a miserable and terrifying journey over high, jagged snow-capped mountains. At times the carriage wheels were so close to the edge I feared we were about to plunge down to certain death. I fainted the one and only time I dared look down. I was dizzy from the heights and sick with a headache half the time. The winds were so cold they cut through me like knives of ice and left my skin red and raw.
The inns that we stopped at were awful, the bedding infected with bugs, and one innkeeper actually dared serve us spinach doused in lamp oil and red asparagus fried in curdled milk for supper. But Hippolyte’s room was always next to mine. After we were sure everyone was asleep, he would come to me and we would make love all night. In the morning, we would stagger out and pile into the carriage still half-asleep. We slept through the day as best we could, the sway of the carriage rocking us, and the wheels going over rocks and ruts periodically jarring us awake, sending me into clinging, crying frights. But we had each other, and the night, to dream of.
* * *
When we arrived in Milan, Bonaparte was so glad to see me that he cried and covered me with kisses. He swept me up in his arms and carried me tenderly upstairs as though I were some fragile object that might break beneath too firm a touch, though I told him there was no need to exercise such caution. When I took off my veil and voluminous beige traveling coat and he saw that there was no child, he fell to his knees before me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and bathed my belly with his tears. Soon my gown was soaked through. I stroked his hair and murmured something about the mountains, the rutted roads and jarring, jagged rocks. A loud, keening wail rose as though from the very depths of his soul as he realized that our son had been sacrificed to his own selfish desire.
“You mustn’t think that! Oh, Bonaparte, please, never, never think that!” I cried, feeling suddenly guilty that I had led him to believe he was at fault just to cloak my lies. That really was not my intention. “These things happen, Bonaparte, often without reason. . . . It might not have been the roads after all . . . just . . . nature!”
Within moments his rain of tears had turned to a shower of ardent kisses as hope came surging back. He lifted me in his arms and carried me to the bed, determined to fill me with his love, and his seed. “We shall have a son yet, you shall see! A son who will rule the world!”
I smiled, nodded, and hoped those intense gray eyes would not see through me. Sometimes I thought I didn’t have an honest bone left in my body anymore. But what else could I do? The truth would have been ruinous!
Though I still bled every month, I was not certain that children were still possible for me. After I abandoned Rosette in Martinique, I had lost the benefit of her herbal brews and had of necessity switched to a rather caustic douche the midwife recommended. Though it stung and brought tears to my eyes, I had used it religiously after my abortion, for the most part, though there were a few times when I was careless and forgot or, for whatever reason, just didn’t bother. During those hellish months when I was a prisoner in Les Carmes, coupling recklessly and desperately with any man who wanted me, I did not have recourse to the douche, or any other preventatives, yet I never conceived, and that at a time when I would have welcomed the chance to plead my belly and stay the descending blade of the guillotine. Afterward, in those hedonistic days when I danced at the Victims’ Balls so grateful to be alive, I gave myself just as wantonly; I never said no or asked a man to withdraw. Some days when I tumbled out of bed with my head aching from too much champagne the night before I just couldn’t bear the thought of that stinging concoction, or only remembered that I had forgotten at an inconvenient moment when it was already likely to be too late to do any good. But I had never had cause to regret my carelessness. And since my marriage to Bonaparte I had never again bothered with the douche. I was happy to be done with it. But no man’s seed ever made my womb quicken. Whether it was the abortion, the douche, the prison fever, or something else entirely, I feared my womb was now a sterile and barren place where no seed could ever again take root. But that was something I could never tell Bonaparte; he wanted a child so badly, I couldn’t bear to disappoint him. Yet every month when he solicitously inquired about the coming and going of my “little red sea,” I felt like I was living a lie.
* * *
No sooner had I arrived than Bonaparte was bidding me farewell again, making me resent all the more having made the tedious, harrowing journey.
“I will not say good-bye,” he said as he embraced me, “for I carry you always with me”—he patted the miniature over his heart—“as my good luck charm.”
Even as he rode away he was already writing to me, scribbling madly on his lap desk, the words zigzagging wildly as the carriage bounced: I thought I loved you, but now that I have seen you again, I love you a thousand times more. Your charms burn my heart and my senses. You must promise me never to cry, for your tears carry away all reason and burn up my blood.
He left me ensconced in the red granite Serbelloni Palace, surrounded by life-sized bronze statues, servants, and hundreds of pieces of plundered art, paintings and statues that he had stripped from various palaces and the homes of noble families, a ready-made art collection just for me, tribute, Bonaparte said, that he laid at my feet, “though your love is the greatest treasure of all, Josephine!” Guests and dignitaries were always streaming in and out, eager to meet the great man’s lady, all of whom I must speak graciously to and entertain and accept invitations from in return. I presided over balls, receptions, and dinner parties, scandalizing the locals with my scanty muslin dresses; it was obvious I didn’t have a thing on underneath, and when I danced they could see every line of my form.
But it didn’t matter how appalled they were, or pretended to be; soon they all were imitating me. Soon every lady passing before me in the receiving line had rose-red rouged nipples glowing through her thin muslin bodice, even the ones old enough that they should have known better than to attempt such revealing fashions, and when they danced, bellies and buttocks jiggled and thighs rippled beneath their transparent skirts.
Everyone adored me and was so anxious to please me and curry favor with my husband. The King and Queen of Naples gave me a parure of perfect pearls, so large, lustrous, and creamy they took my breath away, and the Pope sent me several rare and precious cameos since he had heard that I collected them. But any pleasure I experienced at the moment passed fleetingly. I was superbly bored and dying of boredom. My husband doesn’t love me, he worships me. I think he will go mad. I have seen him only briefly. He is terribly busy, I dutifully reported back to Barras.
* * *
When I could endure the boredom not a moment longer, I let Hippolyte whisk me away for a romantic holiday at a rustic, but decent, country inn with all the necessary and desirable amenities to make our stay a pleasure in every way. But we timed it rather badly. Bonaparte returned unexpectedly, bounding up the stairs, eager to see and embrace me, only to find my bedroom empty. He immediately sat down and poured all his wrath into a letter and sent it flying after me like a flaming arrow:
I get to Milan, I fling myself into your room; I have left everything to see you, to hold you in my arms, and you are not there! The unhappiness I feel is incalculable! While I give you all my desires, all my thoughts, every second of my life, Josephine, I willingly submit to the power that your charms, your character, and the whole of your person have over my poor heart, you deny me what I deserve to receive from you—respect, esteem, and compassion!
Alarmed by his hot words and temper, I raced back to Milan. We drove all night, not sparing the horses, even when it rained and the roads grew muddy and slick. I risked our necks to reach Bonaparte. Then it was my turn to race up the stairs and burst into my bedroom, hoping to find him.
Bonaparte was lying on my bed, haggard and hot with fever, his clothes soaked through with sweat, leaving a wet outline of his form on the satin coverlet. His eyes were glazed and he was holding one of my filmy rose-colored negligees, clutching it to his nose, as though inhaling my perfume could restore him.
I wept to see him in such a sorry state. I flung myself onto the bed, mud spattered and weary from driving all night, and burrowed into his arms, weeping and assuring him over and over again that I was faithful, Hippolyte was just a friend, a diverting dandy who made me laugh and liked to dance and talk of fashion; he meant nothing more to me. I had only planned to be away a few days. I had no way of knowing that my husband would be returning so soon. I needed a change of scene, fresh air, and informality. I felt so overwhelmed and isolated, yet at the same time suffocated, in that great big palace, surrounded by servants, with many acquaintances but no real friends, always having to be brave and force a smile and play the gracious hostess to hundreds of strangers, all the time terrified that I would fail.
“I fear this role is beyond me,” I confessed.
But Bonaparte was quick to reassure me that no, “you were born to play this part, my Josephine. You are graciousness personified.”
My husband decided to play doctor and prescribe a remedy to cure my loneliness and unease. He would invite his family to stay with me. He might as well have dropped me naked with no weapon to defend myself into a pit teeming with venomous vipers.
The matriarch, Letizia Bonaparte, was like a witch straight out of a storybook. She never gave me a chance; she loathed me at first glance. She refused to speak directly to me, so that any speech that passed between us was conducted via a third party, usually with servants or one or more of her dreadful brood acting as intermediary.
They called me “old woman” and “whore,” though from what I could tell none of them was a model of morality.
Joseph was always seeking evidence that would convict and condemn me. To see me banished and divorced from his brother’s arms and affections was always Joseph’s highest ambition.
Pauline at sixteen wore more paint than even the vainest woman does at fifty. She was obsessed with the carnal act and hardly thought of anything else, except her own beauty and ambitions. She gave herself freely, coupling indiscriminately with well-endowed peasants, army officers, servants, and noblemen. If she saw a man she liked she would simply lift her skirts and lie down, exposing her naked female parts, and point between her legs, so language need never pose a barrier to carnal delights. To avoid conception, she followed the advice of an old Corsican witch and inserted a yam inside her. As each yam decayed it led to embarrassing and painful infections, itching, and odors, yet Pauline still stubbornly swore by the technique and resorted to it again as soon as the doctor had scooped out the remains of the last rancid yam.
She resented my popularity; it was her goal to usurp me as “Our Lady of Victories” and the leader of fashion. She openly declared herself my sworn enemy and was always sticking her tongue out at me and calling me insulting names. She was determined to oust me from the pages of Le Journal des Dames et des Modes. La costume est une lutte—the art of dress is a contest indeed. Every time we appeared in public together she tried to best me, often failing miserably and making a fool of herself, for which she hated me all the more. Once, she appeared at a ball wearing nothing but a tiger skin, golden sandals, and with so many clusters of golden grapes covering her head one could hardly tell the color of her hair, and so much heavy gold jewelry she could hardly move—her necklaces and bracelets were more like a prisoner’s shackles that had been dipped in gold than ornaments. I appeared in a gown of delicate pink silk that flowed over my body like liquid overlaid by a layer of pink netting dusted with diamonds, with a chaplet of pink roses in my hair. The fashion magazines were in ecstasy over it, and every woman wanted one just like it. Pauline wanted to scratch my eyes out.
Louis was chronically ill with a disease of Venus, covered with oozing sores and suffering excruciating migraines and pains in his back and legs; just like Robespierre, he imagined that everyone was against him and trusted no one; he imagined enemies hiding in every shadow and behind every bush and statue. If I tried to be polite and offer him a cup of chocolate or coffee he immediately suspected it was poisoned and would call a servant over and order them to test it by taking the first sip.
Jerome, Lucien, Caroline, and Elisa all hated me I think simply because their mother and elder siblings told them to, and perhaps they also felt some personal envy and spite to varying degrees. Heaven knows I tried to charm and win them, to find some common ground that we could meet upon, but I failed dismally.
Perhaps it was more about money than me. The whole obnoxious, greedy, conniving clan saw my notorious free-spending ways as a threat, fearing that I, and my children, would gobble up all the honors and riches that should have gone to them instead.
My in-laws turned what should have been an idyllic Italian summer, divided between the ardent, overpowering attentions of my husband and the sweet, tranquil hours spent in my lover’s arms, into hell on earth. I could not wait for it to end.