Two Empresses Read online

  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.

  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.

  CHAPTER 24

  La Plombières was a little village in Lorraine surrounded by pine forests and I thought I might rest quietly there. I was weary of being “Our Lady of Victories,” “Madame Bonaparte,” and constantly on display, like an actress always onstage. I needed peace and privacy, I needed a rest, to put away Josephine and be Rose again, just for a little while so I didn’t forget her too.

  But apparently that was too much to ask. Bonaparte had sent heralds riding ahead to announce my arrival, and I was welcomed like a queen, with a band playing, flowers flying, and cheers resounding the moment my carriage rolled into town, passing beneath the triumphal arch that had been erected. Children sang and the Mayor came out to meet me and make a speech and his wife and daughters practically drooled over my dress. It was so hard to keep smiling when all I wanted to do was cry.

  I found my stay there anything but peaceful. One day when I went out onto the balcony of the house where I was staying it suddenly collapsed, plunging me twenty feet down onto the cobblestone street below. When those who rushed to my aid lifted me I felt like every bone in my body was broken. Every little movement hurt and I screamed and screamed. I was in so much pain I was incapable of a single coherent word.

  In truth, I was very fortunate; my spine was not broken as was originally suspected, merely bruised so badly I could not bear to move. But my pelvis had also suffered injuries, a series of delicate fractures, which did not bode well for any future hope of motherhood. There was for a time grave concern about whether I would ever walk again.

  An incompetent quack, the so-called “Dr.” Martinet was summoned and he promptly ordered a sheep slaughtered and my naked body wrapped in the bloody skin while it was still warm. While I lay there in excruciating pain, swaddled in that horrible sheepskin, reeking of blood, Dr. Martinet bled me from the bottoms of my feet and administered an enema of brandy and camphor followed by a douche of the same mixture for good measure. Afterward, I was plunged into a bath so hot it nearly scalded what life remained out of me, and then I was tucked into bed, lying on my stomach, with a poultice of boiled potatoes on my back. When the potatoes had completely cooled, leeches were put on the blisters they left behind, followed by mustard plasters. This was my life for the next two months.

  While I was enduring this barbaric treatment, day after terrible day, in so much pain I wanted to die, and all I could do was cry and worry whether I would be a cripple, Dr. Martinet sat by my bedside and wrote a book, exposing every intimate detail of my injuries and the treatment he prescribed, and arranged to give a series of lectures about how he had saved the life of Bonaparte’s wife. The only thing he withheld was the possible repercussions of my pelvic injuries upon my future fertility. With many tears and anguished, heartfelt words, I persuaded him to tell no one of this. I did not want to deprive my husband of all hope of offspring, I said, and it really was for Mother Nature, not medicine, to decide. And, I added craftily, if I did have a child, I would give the credit to his treatment, the diligent care he had taken over my shattered pelvis; I would see that he was hailed as a miracle worker. Because he admired Bonaparte so much, Dr. Martinet agreed to honor my request.

  Because of me, Dr. Martinet became rich and famous, even people who cared nothing about medicine flocked to buy his book and attend his lectures, and society ladies rushed to La Plombières to be treated by him just so they could say they had the same doctor as Josephine. Privacy, it seemed, had fallen by the wayside. Everyone thought they had the right to know everything about me, even my private, natural functions. Nothing was secret or sacred anymore.

  I hated La Plombières and could not wait to leave. I think the happiest steps I ever took were when I walked out of the house that had become like a prison to me with Dr. Martinet as my jailer and climbed into my carriage. I never looked back. I sincerely hoped I would never see that wretched village, or Dr. Martinet, again.

  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 kne
w—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.