CHAPTER 31
Bonaparte came back to me colder than ever before. He brought his Polish countess with him and installed her in a house conveniently near the Tuileries. He visited her every day and often late at night. Sometimes they went out together disguised as a middle-class married couple and made small talk with shopkeepers. They had been seen several times sitting in the park eating roasted chestnuts or sausages they bought from a street vendor. When the Sultan of Turkey sent lavish gifts, Bonaparte took them to Maria Walewska first and let her take her pick of them. To her credit, she considered this inappropriate and, after selecting one cashmere shawl—the most modest one—for herself to quiet his protests, insisted that the rest be sent to me directly.
It amused Bonaparte that Turkey had a new sultan and sultana, crowned almost at the same time as ourselves, though it was the Sultan’s mother, not one of his numerous wives, who ruled alongside him as his empress. The Turkish ambassador presented me with a portrait of her. She looked to be younger than me, with masses of golden hair, hanging down in shimmering waves, scattered with diamonds, reaching almost to her knees. How curious, I thought. I had always imagined harem girls as exotic creatures with dusky skin, black hair, and dark, almond-shaped eyes, but this woman’s skin was white, it looked as though it had never known the kiss of the sun, and her eyes were blue as the finest sapphires. Her stance was proud and there was a mysterious yet almost mischievous air about her, like she alone knew a secret, and was savoring it, laughing at the rest of the world’s ignorance. Her headdress reminded me of the island women’s tignons; it was a rich blue-green satin crowned with peacock feathers held by a brooch of sapphires and emeralds, and diaphanous veils, layered in shades of blue and green, deep and pale, trailed down her back, to touch the floor. Her gown seemed to be of the same resplendent peacock color, but it was so thickly encrusted with gold embroidery I could barely see the teasing wink of blue-green beneath. The full skirt was slit open to reveal a pair of baggy satin trousers that were gathered in at the ankles, and golden slippers with toes that curled up and in upon themselves. At her waist was a jeweled dagger, its crescent-shaped blade sheathed in a golden scabbard covered with a rainbow of cabochon rubies, sapphires, and emeralds interspersed with tiny, twinkling diamond brilliants. A great yellow diamond, with rays made of smaller white stones, shone like the sun above her bodice. A long necklace of white diamonds, set in the shape of eyes, with irises of various-colored gems, hung around her neck and down past her waist, a talisman I recognized to ward off the evil eye. An immense cabochon sapphire was on the ring finger of her left hand, and her arms, folded across her breasts, were layered in jeweled bracelets all shaped like serpents swallowing their own tails, no end and no beginning. It made me think at once of Euphemia David and her snake; she was said to have had a tattoo of the same motif on the small of her back, though I never saw it. Of course when I thought of Euphemia David I also thought of Aimee and our secret midnight visit to have our fortunes told. But poor Aimee was dead now, bleached white bones at the bottom of the sea, and I, though an empress as Euphemia David foretold, wasn’t any happier. I wondered if the Sultana of the Turks beneath all her splendor was truly a happy woman. I doubted it; happiness I was certain never accompanied crowns.
For the time being, Bonaparte’s “Polish Wife” was the happy one. But he would betray her too in the end. When there were rumblings about vengeance from Austria, Bonaparte struck a bargain with the Tsar—France would not interfere if Russia invaded Finland or Turkey and the Tsar could do as he pleased with Poland; it was a matter of complete indifference to Bonaparte.
Maria Walewska’s sacrifice had been in vain. After the birth of her son, Florian, she went back to her husband. He still loved her. He absolved her of all blame and shouldered the burden himself. He had been amongst the party of patriots who had pushed her into Bonaparte’s bed in the hope of liberating Poland; she had not succumbed of her own free will. Count Walewski acknowledged my husband’s bastard as his own and gave him his name. He truly was a noble man.
* * *
At thirty-eight, my husband was more impatient than ever to lay the foundation for his imperial dynasty. For that he needed a royal wife and a legitimate heir. Neither my barren self nor his fertile “Polish Wife” would do; we both lacked the necessary pedigree. Though his brother Louis had shown a rare and unexpected kindness to Hortense after they lost their firstborn and she had quickly conceived again, another son, this time Bonaparte was unwilling to consider any heir except one sired by his own loins in a royal womb. He knew that he could do it now; I was the one who had held him back from the happy state of fatherhood. It was all my fault. So I had to go; I had to clear the path to make way for the woman who could make all his dreams come true.
After Mass one Sunday Bonaparte hinted that it was time for me to make “the inevitable sacrifice.”
Stubbornly, I shook my head. I played the only card I had left—Bonaparte’s steadfast belief in destiny.
I touched the medallion engraved with the words To Destiny! that still hung between my breasts like a talisman.
“Our joint destiny has been too extraordinary not to have been decided by Providence,” I said. “Only you must decide my fate. I am too afraid of bringing bad luck to both of us if I, of my own accord, should separate my life from yours.”
But I knew the end was near. My husband had sent for reinforcements—Hortense and Eugène—to shore me up and soften the blow.
About a week later I was summoned unexpectedly to Bonaparte’s bedchamber. I found him lying on the bed, clutching his stomach and groaning, ashen faced and deathly ill. He reached out a trembling hand to me.
“My poor Josephine, I can’t possibly leave you!” he sobbed. “The pain is killing me! Please, remove this heavy burden from my heart!”
He spoke of France, of political necessity, of being cruelly treated by fate, the violence being done to his heart, calling himself the poor put-upon plaything of destiny, but I didn’t really hear him, and I certainly didn’t believe him. My ears had begun to ring, muffling his anguished cries to mere distant whispers. I felt like I was underwater, sinking fast, drowning. Darkness was encroaching upon my eyes and I couldn’t draw my breath. My heart and head hurt in equal measure. The next thing I knew I was lying on the floor and Bonaparte was crouching over me and rubbing my hands.
“Josephine! My dear Josephine! You know how I have loved you! To you alone I owe the only moments of happiness I have ever known, but, Josephine, my destiny is not to be controlled by my will. My heart must yield to the nation! I have only one passion, only one mistress—France! I sleep with her; I live for her; I fight for her. She never lets me down; she pours out her blood and her treasures for me. If I need five hundred thousand men she gives them to me without question! Everything I have ever done has been for her, and everything I will ever do will be for her! You must believe me—this isn’t for me; it is for France!”
“What a liar you are!” I whispered so softly I’m not sure Bonaparte even heard me before I lost consciousness again.
When I awakened, I was lying on my bed. My children were beside me, and Bonaparte was standing there with tears pouring from his eyes.
“Nothing will make me go back on it, neither tears nor entreaties,” he said as soon as he saw me open my eyes.
Hortense answered him with the coolest, calm dignity, with not a sign of a single tear. “You are the master here, Sire, and no one will oppose you. If your happiness requires it, that is enough. My mother will submit to your will and we will all go away, taking the memory of your kindness with us.”
Bonaparte staggered back as though she had struck him. “What! You are all going to desert me? Don’t you love me anymore? If it were my happiness, I would sacrifice it for you, but it is for the good of France, I tell you! You should pity me rather than condemn me for having to sacrifice my heart!”
“Sire, we cannot live near you anymore,” Eugène replied. “It is a sacrifice that has to be made and we will make it. We will go away quietly.”
When Bonaparte started to again protest, Eugène interrupted, “A son’s first loyalty is to his mother, Sire.” Bonaparte could not argue with that.
* * *
But I could not slink away like a thief in the night. The divorce must be formally announced to the court. It was a gala evening with everyone crowded into the throne room in their finest clothes and jewels. Many wore an air of satisfaction. Bonaparte’s siblings were like cats who had drunk their fill of sweet cream. I’m sure they felt their triumph was complete; “the old woman,” “that Creole whore,” had been ousted.
Now that I belonged to myself again, I disdained Bonaparte’s dictates about my wardrobe. I entered the throne room in a simple, flowing white muslin gown, with my hair caught up in a loose coil with a single white rose, and a beautiful pink and gold cashmere shawl draped loosely about my shoulders. I wore only one ornament, the first my husband had given me, the golden medallion inscribed To Destiny!
Hortense and Eugène were there on either side of me, their shoulders and loving arms ready to support me, as I approached the dais and took my seat, for the last time, in the more delicate, smaller golden throne beside Bonaparte’s.
The Emperor, resplendent in a gold-embroidered red suit, was the first to speak.
“God alone knows what this resolve has cost my heart,” he said. “But there is no sacrifice beyond my courage if it is for the good of France. Far from having any complaints, I have only gratitude to express for the tenderness and devotion of my well-beloved wife. She is the jewel that has adorned fifteen years of my life, the memory of which will remain forever engraved upon my heart. I would like her to continue to hold the title of Empress, and, above all, never to doubt my feelings for her; she will always be my best and dearest friend.”
I shut my eyes tight against the tears, but they still seeped out. It had all been for nothing. He had conferred upon me the vain and empty title of Empress only to render my fall more remarkable.
Then it was my turn to speak. Every gloating eye was upon me. I felt naked and alone and my knees trembled as I rose from the gilded throne in which I would never again sit. The paper on which my speech was written rattled in my hand. I could not stop shaking.
“With the permission of my dear and august husband,” I began, but even my words were trembling, “I declare that, no longer preserving any hope of having children to satisfy the political necessity for an heir, I proudly offer him the greatest proof of my affection and devotion. . . .”
My courage failed me, tears blinded me, I could no longer see to read the words, and the paper they were written on fluttered from my helpless hands like a wounded white bird.
Hortense retrieved it, and as Eugène moved to put his arm around my shoulder she began to read, speaking in my stead, her voice clear and steady.
“‘The Emperor will always be my dearest love. I know how much this act, demanded by politics and the wider interests of the nation, has crushed his heart; but both of us nonetheless glory in the sacrifice that we have made for France.’”
Hortense turned and curtsied to her stepfather and presented the paper to him as a memento of this sad occasion; he might as well have it since he was the one who had dictated it.
Quivering with tears, I forced myself to be strong, to stand upright again, alone. My hands shook so badly as I lifted the golden chain from about my neck that I knocked the rose from my hair. I looked down and through the watery haze of my tears I saw its fair, fragile petals scattered about my feet. I cradled the gold medallion in my hands and read one last time the words written there: To Destiny! Then I forced myself to just let go; it was no good holding on. Everything had already slipped through my fingers; this was all for show.
I curtsied to Bonaparte and surrendered the medallion that had hung faithfully around my neck since our wedding night. I renounced destiny, the fate that had been written in the stars at the hour of our birth, and embraced free will.
“‘The fault, dear Brutus,’” I whispered tremulously, so softly that Bonaparte alone could hear, “‘is not in our stars, but in ourselves. ’”
I had learned to quote Shakespeare—Alexandre would have been so proud of me!—but alas, too late, too late!
Bonaparte formally kissed my cheek and handed me down from the dais.
I managed to hold myself together long enough to walk out of the throne room supported by Hortense and Eugène, holding my head up high and ignoring Bonaparte’s siblings mocking me as “a feeble old woman,” but the moment the door had closed behind us I gasped, “This is the most dreadful moment of my life!” and fell to the floor in a senseless heap. At first they thought I had actually died of grief.
* * *
As I lay in my bed, my hair and gown in disarray, my eyes swollen nearly blind from so many hours spent weeping, I heard my door creak open with the last chime of midnight. Bonaparte came to me. I felt the warmth and weight of his body for the last time over mine and the hot, hungry passion of his kisses. From head to toe, he kissed me everywhere. At dawn, he left me.
“Adieu, my dear Josephine; be brave,” he whispered, pressing one last tender kiss upon my brow. “I will always be your friend.”