CHAPTER 25

I arrived in Paris only to discover that my luck had at last run out. Hippolyte was dallying openly with other women. Since my spine and pelvis were injured, dancing and lovemaking were out of the question, and rumor had it I would never walk again, so he had moved on; invalids were not to his taste apparently. My former maid Louise had turned vengeful. I had dismissed her after I caught her stealing, in the act of pilfering my desk with several pieces of my jewelry and a goodly sum of money in her apron pockets, along with some of Bonaparte’s letters she hoped to sell to the newspapers. As soon as she left me, she had run straight to Joseph Bonaparte and revealed everything she knew about my affair with Hippolyte.

I can only imagine with what voracious glee Joseph had written to inform his brother of my betrayal. The truth almost destroyed my husband; he wept and declared that his life was over and at only twenty-nine he had nothing left to live for. He vowed to divorce me in the most public and sensational way possible, to show the world what manner of woman I really was. Letters between the two brothers had fallen into British hands when a French mail ship was captured. Our English enemies took great delight in publishing them in the newspapers for the whole world to read. Now everyone knew—Bonaparte was a cuckold, a laughingstock, and “Our Lady of Victories” was a perfidious harlot.

* * *

Things were not going well for Bonaparte in Egypt, even before he received news of my infidelity. Though he aimed to conquer, and conquer he did—Cairo, the Nile, and the pyramids were all his—while he was about it the British fleet, led by their own hero, Admiral Nelson, attacked. They destroyed the French ships, effectively stranding Bonaparte and his men in Egypt and forming a blockade to trap them there and prevent fresh supplies and reinforcements from coming in.

Though he managed to send word back to Paris, writing undauntedly everything is fine here, Bonaparte sat and stewed, unable to return to Paris to savor his triumph; all he could do was brood about my betrayal. Then he began paying me back in kind by bedding Egyptian dancing girls. Zenab, the sixteen-year-old daughter of a sheik, fascinated him for a while. After he forgot her, her own people punished her for bedding the infidel foreigner and struck off her head. Next Bonaparte became besotted with one of his officers’ wives, the nineteen-year-old Bellilotte Fourès.

A sprightly, fresh-faced blonde with a natural pink rose petal complexion that required no rouge to enhance it, Bellilotte liked to walk around displaying her slim, trim figure in the uniform of her husband’s regiment, those tight white breeches I’m told were very eye-catching when encasing her girlish figure. Her long blond braid swayed down her back, the ends tickling her rump, and every man who saw her was wild to possess her.

Bonaparte made her intimate acquaintance at a launching of one of the Montgolfier hot-air balloons he had brought with him from Paris. They went up high in the air together, above the Ezbekiya Gardens, and he attempted to ravish her there amongst the clouds. He was apparently successful and when they came down from the skies she was all his.

Soon everyone was referring to her as “Napoleon’s Cleopatra” and recounting how he had told the man manning the balloon to turn his back and pulled Bellilotte’s breeches down to her ankles and bent her over the basket’s rim. I wondered if she had closed her eyes against that dizzying view of the ground far down below where the people looked tiny as ants. Possibly my husband was the very first man to have carnal congress in a hot-air balloon, another conquest for him, well, actually two if one also counts the beautiful Bellilotte. Her inconvenient husband, Lieutenant Fourès, was sent on several fool’s errands and high-risk missions to get him out of the way, and maybe even killed, but Lady Luck didn’t desert him even when his wife did, and he survived every time.

* * *

With his Cleopatra at his side, Bonaparte began playing the Oriental potentate, wearing a turban and rich robes like a sultan, with a jeweled scimitar in his belt. He dressed Bellilotte in Oriental splendor, surrounded himself with giant Mameluke bodyguards, and, fearful of poison, had a food taster sample every dish and drink set before him. He had cause to fear; the army was suffering greatly, and his popularity was declining. Amidst sandstorms and remorseless heat, an epidemic of bubonic plague decimated the French army; those too weak to march were mercilessly left to die baked alive in the sizzling sands. When they seized Jaffa, Bonaparte ordered everyone slaughtered, including women and children. To save ammunition, he ordered his men to use their bayonets. Hundreds were herded into the sea, hacked down when they tried to flee, so they had but two choices—die by the sword or drown.

My husband was mad; he had lost all mercy. I could not help but think that my betrayal was the cruel truth at the heart of it. I changed Bonaparte, but not for the better.

* * *

Messages from France managed to sneak through the British blockade, alerting him that in his absence foreign armies were encroaching on his territories. Italy was already lost, the Austrians were reviving, and the Russians were massing troops along the Alps and Danube.

British and blockade be damned, Bonaparte was coming back to France! When news reached us, there was dancing in the streets. “He’s coming back; all will be well!” was the general belief. “Hail the name we all adore, Bonaparte, the man beloved by France; he will save us evermore!” they sang.

But I was not a part of it. I had come back from La Plombières to find myself persona non grata in Paris. Even Barras scorned me and Theresa and Fortunée were suddenly too busy to see me. Everyone turned their backs on me. No one wanted to know me. There were no invitations to dance or dine, no more gala nights at the theater or opera in my honor.

I was still ill and weak, tormented by aches and pains I feared would never go away entirely, and the idea of public scrutiny frightened me now that everyone had turned against me. I was afraid of being spit at and reviled by the people in the street; I had cuckolded the conqueror and let them all down. The portraits of me sold in shops and on the streets had changed overnight to cruel caricatures of me dancing nude before Barras or dandling an infant-sized Bonaparte on my knee or suckling him at my breast. I even became the subject of a pornographic novel, The Licentious Life of Madame B. I needed solace, a sanctuary, a place of peace and safety that was all my own. Somewhere I could lock the doors and let no one in who might hurt me and even the whispers from Paris could not reach me unless I chose to let them in.

I had never forgotten the beautiful château of Malmaison I had glimpsed from my garden in Croissy; when I closed my eyes I could still see it glowing butter gold in the summer sun. It became a beacon of hope for me. I knew I would be happy there, so, cost be damned, I bought it. The Molay family, who owned the property, needed money and the house had fallen into disrepair, so they were grateful for my offer. I was too happy to haggle and probably paid them more than it was worth. That first night, sitting by the great fire, listening to the rhythm of the rain on the slate roof, I knew I had done the right thing. I had found my home, my haven; at last, I was at peace.