CHAPTER 23
While my husband went on to more and greater victories, taking on Austria after Italy, I returned to Paris. Hippolyte and I took our time, making a leisurely tour of the countryside, enjoying nights filled with romance, sleeping late, and stopping spontaneously for picnics.
But, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much Rose wanted to dally in a world of daydreams, I could not escape Bonaparte’s creation—Josephine. At every stop along the way Madame Bonaparte, “Our Lady of Victories,” was feted and celebrated. My carriage passed through triumphal arches and I was showered with flowers and gifts. Choirs of little children and poets sang my praises and mayor after mayor made the same bombastic and overlong speech while his wife and daughters, if he had any, swooned over my dress. And there was always a dinner, ball, reception, or play in my honor, where I must put myself on display, looking my best and smiling graciously, when all I wanted was the touch of my lover’s hand behind a locked door.
My entry into Paris was like a victory parade; one would have thought that I was the conquering hero returned. I was carried through the streets, on a litter like a Roman empress, to smile and wave and accept bouquets from little girls in red, white, and blue dresses. And there were yet more speeches, songs, and sonnets. I thought the day would never end. Then at last, as the sun was setting, they deposited me, so weak and weary I could barely stand on my own two feet, upon our doorstep. In Bonaparte’s honor, the name of the street where we lived had been changed from the rue Chantereine to the rue de la Victoire and every window was decked with red, white, and blue bunting and pictures of us—profiles of the savior of Paris, the conqueror of Italy, and his beloved consort, his good-luck charm, “Our Lady of Victories,” smiling into each other’s faces.
To them ours was a great and inspiring love story, a passion for the ages, for everyone with a beating heart to aspire to; they could not imagine us apart or anyone ever coming between us. With a sinking feeling I realized that I would always have to be with him, forever and ever. I could never leave Bonaparte; I could never spoil this great love story everyone embraced and cherished. Fairy-tale romances never end unhappily; the prince and princess always live happily ever after. I would have to spend the rest of my life playing a part, living a lie.
The moment the door closed behind my back, the smile fell from my face. I ran upstairs and fell on my bed, too exhausted to even undress or bathe. I felt like I could sleep for an entire week.
* * *
When Bonaparte returned in his own victory parade, I was there, smiling serenely in one of the flowing, graceful white dresses he loved, with Bonaparte’s likeness at my breast, a golden arrow in my hair, and a white veil—like a bridal veil—falling modestly over my bare shoulders, perfectly playing the part of loving wife to welcome him home. How the crowd cheered and threw their hats in the air when he took me in his arms and kissed me with great gusto, almost suffocating me with his passion. He wanted everyone to see how much he loved me. He was so proud of his Josephine, his destiny.
“I win battles, but Josephine wins hearts!” he declared.
And when he swept me up in his arms and carried me inside, kicking our front door shut with his boot heel, they cheered all the more.
* * *
He loved what I had done with the house; he smiled and praised me and covered me with kisses when I took him by the hand and led him on a tour through every room. But he was livid when he saw the bills. I had spent 300,000 livres decorating a house only worth 40,000. But it wasn’t my fault; I had been thinking of the end effect, not expenses. We fought hotly, our first great quarrel, and I wept bitterly, deploying what Bonaparte scornfully called “tears—woman’s only weapon!” until finally he forgave me. One way or another, the bills were paid, and the storm quickly passed. By then he had other, more important things on his mind.
Being hailed by all Paris as the conquering hero and savior had gone straight to Bonaparte’s head, but it was not enough for him. His triumphs, no matter how great or many, always paled after a time and left him hungry for more and greater glories. He was never satisfied. He truly saw himself as following in the footsteps of Caesar, Hannibal, and Alexander the Great, only Napoleon Bonaparte would be greater than them all. He was consumed by an ambition so great his body could not contain it. He had long taken note of how much the public despised and distrusted The Directory, seeing them all as greedy profiteers with no regard for the common people. “I should overthrow them and be crowned king,” Bonaparte often said, “but not yet; now is not the time.” He felt no gratitude to his benefactor Barras.
When Bonaparte said such words I trembled. Where would it all end? What glory would be great enough? Truly, I did not think that even a crown could satisfy my husband.
But then he stopped talking of crowns and started planning his next campaign, to conquer Egypt.
“This little Europe is but a pinprick,” he said. “I must go to the Orient; all great reputations are won there.” And after Egypt he had his eye on India and Turkey; there was seemingly no end to his ambition.
As he had in his childhood, he immersed himself in accounts of Alexander the Great and pored over Constantin de Volney’s Voyage en Egypte, which chronicled the three years he had spent in his youth roaming that exotic land clad in native dress, getting to know the people and their customs.
“I must take Egypt!” Bonaparte insisted. “It has never belonged to a European nation, but I shall take it for France!”
At first The Directory was resistant, but Bonaparte would not take no for an answer. He demanded ships and men, and more than arms and soldiers, he must have scholars, historians, linguists, artists, architects, philosophers, and scientists of all kinds, including botanists and zoologists. It was to be a campaign not only to conquer and plunder that ancient and mysterious land but also to enrich our culture and knowledge.
He had me dress up like Cleopatra and preside over balls to promote his cause where I whispered charming and persuasive words in the right ears. Soon the public was fascinated with Egypt, throwing their support full force behind the proposed campaign. Bonaparte had won. He could do no wrong in their eyes. The Directory knew they had been beaten by one man’s lust for conquest and a woman’s charm.
After much haggling over numbers, away he went with twenty-five thousand men and 180 ships. I cried and clung to him. I wanted to go too! It seemed a grand adventure. The sand and heat and snakes would not bother me after my childhood in Martinique, I assured him. Three hundred women were making the journey as washerwomen, seamstresses, camp followers, cooks, and officers’ wives, so why should I alone be left behind? But Bonaparte refused me. “Our Lady of Victories” must stay home and be for the French people a constant and ever present reminder of him, the symbol of his good fortune. “Through you, my Josephine, they shall celebrate and worship me!”
I watched and wept as his flagship, L’Orient, sailed away. When not even a speck of it could be seen upon the horizon, I climbed back in my coach and drove to the spa town of La Plombières, where the waters were renowned for restoring fertility. Bonaparte was convinced that it would be good for me. He had studied the statistics; his brother’s wife, Julie, was one of them. I must nourish and strengthen my womb in his absence and prepare the fertile ground to receive his seed when he returned. I did not think that even the miraculous waters of La Plombières could help me, but I couldn’t tell Bonaparte that. All I could do was agree and pretend I harbored the same hopes as he did.