Two Empresses Read online

  Aunt Edmée, a shapely and well-preserved woman in a butter-yellow brocade traveling suit trimmed with sable, and a matching tricorn hat sitting jauntily askew atop her pompadour of silver-veined blond hair, turned to me with her blue-violet eyes full of pity. She sighed and shook her head, though whether it was at my unworthiness or Alexandre’s rudeness I couldn’t tell.

  “Striking!” she hissed witheringly. “So is an egg thrown against the pavement, my dear!”

  She was on my side! I was so grateful to her that I burst into tears and flung myself into her arms. It felt so good to have an ally! At that moment, I had never been so grateful for anything in my life.

  CHAPTER 3

  Paris in her winter clothes was dismal, dingy, and gray, a world where ermine- and sable-swathed luxury vied with shabby, shivering naked want. Even the trees were naked; their ugly gnarled and twisted branches made me miss the swaying palms and heavily laden banana and mango trees of Martinique more than I ever imagined possible. Snow, shit, and dirt sullied the white snow and the air stank of sewage, rubbish tossed without a care into any convenient corner, alley, and courtyard, or even out into the street.

  I, who had been born to the smell of sugar in the air, had to hold a perfume-soaked handkerchief tight to my nose every time I went out to keep from gagging at the stench. In Paris, even the rich stank; they merely masked their odors with expensive perfumes as though a bath was to be avoided at all costs, something that I, who had grown up swimming in warm turquoise waters, could never understand. I loved the warm caress of water on my naked skin and could not imagine my life without it. Their cloying musk and attar of roses made me weep at the memory of the hibiscus, honeysuckle, and jasmine and giant white lilies growing wild and free on the island paradise I had left behind. Even my beloved roses, my favorite of all flowers, turned overpoweringly rank on the aristocratic Parisian bodies I encountered.

  It was nothing like I imagined it would be! Though the city seemed enormous, I felt stifled in a new and terrifying way, like the walls were closing in on me. In Paris the streets were close and cramped and all the buildings, despite their stately, elegant façades, were crowded close together like lovers, blocking out the light and air, and every single one of them was dingy and soot stained. Everything was so gray! Where was all the color and life I had imagined?

  I was accustomed to a world of color, light, and sugar-scented air. A land of warmth, birdsong, and tropical flowers, all washed in sun, sprawling white plantation houses, verandas and balconies, terraces, gardens, and open-air courtyards where rainbow-hued parrots chattered and lizards lounged sunning themselves on walls, and even the beggars, with their outstretched hands, wore colorful rags and a smile and would cheerfully proffer a song, a story, a joke, or even a dance in exchange for food or coins. The street-sellers of Martinique smiled and sang as though work were a joy, the women in their bold warring rainbow array of checks, stripes, and flowers balancing their wares in straw baskets atop their heads and the men displaying theirs in pushcarts or on trays hung around their necks, but in Paris those who hawked cheap goods were surly and unfriendly even if one deigned to buy. It was a world of gray ice and misery where everyone seemed to have forgotten how to smile, even this wretched little bride.

  * * *

  We were married a fortnight later in the small, chilly, dark church of Noisy-le-Grand, just outside of Paris. Alexandre wanted it that way; he was embarrassed to be seen with me, bitterly remarking how his elegant and sophisticated friends would laugh to see him yoked to such a crude provincial creature. The date was December 13, 1779, a Friday, and a bad omen I was certain, but Alexandre only laughed at me. He had an appointment with his banker and wasn’t inclined to change it on account of his heathen bride’s superstitions.

  Every time he spoke to me, every time he looked at me, Alexandre always found some way to remind this “little savage” that she wasn’t good enough for him. When a regimen of hearty meals rapidly restored, and enhanced, my natural tendency to plumpness and womanly curves, Alexandre added “fat” to his never-ending, ever expanding litany of my faults.

  My one consolation was that my father-in-law was as kind as his son was cruel. The morning of my wedding, Papa de Beauharnais kissed my cheek and fastened a necklace of dainty rose-colored diamonds arranged in clusters, like little flowers, around my neck and presented me with a lovely hand-painted fan trimmed with gold lace and pink ribbons, and a bouquet of blush pink roses, grown in a hothouse, defying the frigid December weather to bloom just in time for my wedding day, all to match my gown.

  It was the most beautiful dress I had ever seen—baby-blush pink and antiqued-gold brocade, with panniers so wide jutting out from the hips that I had to walk through every door sideways and despaired of making it down the aisle without hurting someone or hopelessly embarrassing myself. I imagined myself treading on toes and knocking hats off right and left, tearing my dress by snagging the wide, unwieldy skirt on the ornately carved pews, or knocking over the candles and setting myself, and maybe even the whole church, on fire. Swags of blush and champagne satin and bouquets of pink satin rosebuds framed in gold and silver lace adorned every inch of the full skirt. Billowing layers of pale pink lace ruffles flowed from the tight elbow-length sleeves, and there was a ladder of gilt-edged pink satin bows marching down the bodice, the largest at the top, the smallest just above my tightly cinched waist. It was cut lower than any gown I had ever owned; only a delicate ruffle of pink lace prevented the areolas of my breasts from showing. Aunt Edmée assured me that that was the fashion and offered to have her maid rouge them for me, but I blushingly declined. A chaplet of blush-pink satin rosebuds crowned my dark hair, flowing down my back in a torrent of curls, and I wore a veil of gold-veined pink lace embroidered with crystals and tiny gold and silver beads to form yet more roses. Even my pink silk stockings were embroidered with bouquets of gold and silver roses at the ankles. My pink satin slippers, with roses twinkling with crystal dewdrops blooming on the toes, had heels so high I teetered about like a fool on stilts, clownishly, clumsily lurching and grasping at any person or piece of furniture within reach whenever I felt myself falling.

  My mirror, Aunt Edmée, Papa de Beauharnais, and my maid, Rosette, all said I was beautiful; only Alexandre had no praise for me. He saw only a pathetic, untutored little Creole savage staggering about on unaccustomedly high heels, a free and easy island child utterly lacking the brilliant, diamond-hard, sophisticated Parisian polish he was accustomed to. He said I looked like exactly what I was—a poor little ignorant island-born fool playing at dress-up, pretending to be a great lady, but utterly lacking the talent, grace, and refinement to carry the illusion off. He urged me to resist the temptation to ever take part in amateur theatricals; my ineptness would spoil every performance. He made me feel as lowborn as a milkmaid. The fact that my father had been a page at Versailles in his childhood didn’t matter a jot to Alexandre.

  After the wedding there were no celebrations, not even a champagne toast, a cup of rum punch, or even a piece of cake. I barely had the chance to throw my bouquet as Alexandre yanked my hand and rushed me impatiently out of the church. I aimed badly and it landed in the holy water font, from which it was fastidiously fished by a frowning priest. Alexandre just rolled his eyes and sighed, “Can you do nothing right?”

  As Alexandre was shoving me into the waiting carriage, I glanced back. A tall blonde gowned in glacial green and an emerald velvet cloak edged in white fur was standing outside the church, staring at me with eyes as hard and cold as the emeralds around her neck. She looked like she wanted to stab me through the heart. But why?

  I wondered who she was. A mistress Alexandre had callously cast aside? Someone whose heart he had broken? She was so haughty and disdainful when she looked at me, it had to be some matter of the heart. Surely she had no other reason to hate me? I didn’t even know who she was.

  I wanted to ask Alexandre, but the moment I opened my mouth, before the first syllable was e
ven out, he rolled his eyes and snapped at me to “shut up!” and yanked the leather window screen down as though he was ashamed to even be seen riding in the same coach with me. I cowered back like a dog that sees a whip in its master’s hand and hated myself for it. Where was my spirit? How, in this city of cold, cold ice, had my backbone melted like butter left out in the sun?

  * * *

  Back at the house on the rue Thévenot, I was left alone to await my husband in an ice-cold room amongst towering stacks of books—Alexandre’s wedding gift to me—the complete works of Voltaire and Rousseau accompanied by assorted texts on etiquette, mathematics, history, science, and politics. There must have been at least a hundred volumes. I warily kept my distance. I feared they might all fall down and crush me. I had no desire to read any of them. I was so cold I was tempted to throw some on the fire.

  The house that was to be my new home was high ceilinged and drafty; it was the gloomiest house I had ever seen, full of heavy old furniture and musty tapestries darkened by age, dust, and soot; I doubted they had ever been properly cleaned. It was never warm or bright enough to suit any of us even with a fire in every room and all the candles lit. The chandeliers tinkled constantly, the dangling dusty crystal prisms stirred by the ceaseless draft. It was as cold as a tomb; no wonder Papa de Beauharnais and Aunt Edmée were both self-professed martyrs to rheumatism.

  When the door opened I smiled hopefully, I was so desperate to please Alexandre. His disdain only made me doubt myself. If it continued, soon I would have no confidence left. But alone, in our bedroom, with clothes and elegant manners cast aside, perhaps I could please him? As it was, there were moments now when I wondered if my admirers had only been making do with the best they could find on Martinique when they had praised and favored me so much.

  I sighed with relief, like a condemned prisoner granted a last-minute reprieve, when I saw that it was only Aunt Edmée. She had another gift for me, one she felt certain could not fail to delight even the most exacting of husbands—a sheer pink lace nightgown held up by slender pink satin straps that she tied over my shoulders in pretty, flirtatious bows that seemed to beckon a man’s fingers to reach out and untie. I was completely naked underneath. Somehow that thin layer of lace veiling my body made me feel even more naked. The cold puckered my nipples and made them poke prominently through the delicate lace. I blushed hotly, fearing what Alexandre would say when he saw me. Would he denounce me as lewd and call me a harlot? I was unbearably cold; my knees knocked and I hugged myself and huddled near the fire.

  “Rose!” Aunt Edmée sighed and threw up her hands. “Poor girl, you have so much to learn!” She grasped my shoulders firmly and pulled them back. “Stand erect! Bosom out, girl! Don’t be afraid to show off your charms! Have confidence, Rose!” she urged, forcing my arms down at my sides. “Be the proud and beautiful girl you are! You are the Vicomtesse de Beauharnais now, so act like it! Present yourself as the woman you want Alexandre to see you as. You don’t want him to see a bashful little girl ashamed to show her husband her figure; do you? Be proud of the beauty God has given you! It won’t last forever, you know!”

  “Yes, Aunt Edmée,” I answered obediently, fighting back my tears, and forcing myself to keep my arms down at my sides when all I wanted to do was hug myself and run away and hide somewhere—anywhere! I was wretchedly unhappy. I wanted to go home! I was afraid I had made a terrible mistake. So far, the Paris I had seen was not worth this, or any, sacrifice.

  After Aunt Edmée left me, I went to sit on the foot of the bed, idly resting my cold bare feet on a stack of formidably thick books. I didn’t have long to wait. A few moments later, Alexandre strode in, already dressed for bed in a burgundy velvet dressing gown and matching slippers. I leapt up, smiling hopefully, to welcome him.

  I couldn’t help but flinch as he approached me. His eyes looked so cold and angry. His arms reached out, but instead of embracing me, he shoved me down hard, flat onto the bed.

  “Well, little savage, let’s get this over with!” was all he said.

  Then he was upon me, tearing the flimsy lace and raking my bare, vulnerable flesh with his nails as he gathered the skirt up around my hips. Without a single kiss or caress as a tender preamble, he thrust inside me. The pain was unbearable. He clamped his hand over my mouth to stifle my screams.

  “Be quiet, you little fool; you’ll wake the servants!” Alexandre hissed. “Be still and let’s be done with this!”

  Not one kind word, not one tender caress. Not one.

  I think I fainted. As he finished, I dimly remember him tremulously whispering a name in my ear as he shuddered on top of me. But it wasn’t mine. It sounded like “Laura.”

  The next thing I remember Alexandre was standing beside the bed, knotting the sash of his dressing gown, commenting dryly, “Well, my fat little savage, life is not entirely without surprises, it seems—I didn’t expect to find you a virgin.”

  Then he was gone. And I was alone again, alone on my wedding night, surrounded by ominous towers of imperious books, appearing as arrogant and superior as my husband. I lay alone in our marriage bed soaking the pillows with my tears, crying because the act of love was supposed to be beautiful, but Alexandre had made it ugly. At that moment, I wished with all my heart that I had never left Martinique. All I had found in Paris was disappointment. I wanted to go home, but I was too proud to admit I had been mistaken. . . and a fool.

  CHAPTER 4

  In the four years that followed I saw little of Alexandre: he was often away with his regiment or enjoying the company of people of greater interest and importance than me, like the mysterious “Laura” no doubt, leaving me alone in that cold and gloomy house with a pair of sickly elders and nothing much to do since I wasn’t inclined to sew or read. I wrote him letters, which he returned to me covered in red ink corrections, more schoolmaster than spouse, crowding his comments—all criticism, no compliments—into the margins. When he was at home, in Paris, Alexandre refused to take me out. He was afraid that I would embarrass him. “Ignorant little Creole, let us be frank,” he said. “You have nothing to contribute to a conversation.”

  I gorged myself on sweets—candied violets were my favorite—and sat at the front window and watched the world pass by, such as it was, the rue Thévenot being neither a particularly busy nor a fashionable street. Mostly I saw servants and tradespeople hurrying about their business, and the occasional elder out for an afternoon stroll, often accompanied by a man- or maidservant or a pet dog.

  Since marrying me secured Alexandre’s inheritance for him, one might be tempted to think that he would have shown me a modicum of gratitude, but he didn’t. The only time he showed a trace of pride in me was when he trotted me out before the bank president, beaming as though I were a prize thoroughbred, pointed to the gold ring on my finger, and introduced me as his wife.

  When he was at home, we coupled but rarely, yet these loveless encounters still bore fruit. I gave him a child—Eugène—the son every man wants. But even my fertility was not enough to make Alexandre proud of me. Alexandre said it was unseemly how swiftly and seemingly easily I gave birth, like a peasant woman squatting in a field, then hurrying back to her work. I didn’t think the birthing was swift or easy—it hurt! I felt like I was being torn apart. I thought I was going to die!—but Alexandre didn’t care what I thought.

  I loved my golden-haired little boy; I called him “my sweet-faced cherub” and spent as much time as I could cuddling and playing with him. I did not want him to grow up to be a cold and mean man like his father. I wanted Eugène to imbibe love, warmth, and kindness and, when he was a man grown, to never raise his voice, or his hand, to a woman. On his wedding night, I wanted his bride to know only tenderness, not the pain and horror I had experienced. I lived in perpetual dread of the day when Eugène would be old enough for Alexandre to take an interest in him. I feared that the day my husband took my son under his wing, the next time I saw Eugène I would be looking at a little stranger with ey
es as cold as ice who had learned to parrot his father and call me “worthless,” “common,” “ignorant,” “provincial,” “savage,” and “fat.” Candied violets had conspired with pregnancy to make my curves more generous than ever and Alexandre found this intolerable as well as unforgivable. He suggested I subsist solely on soup, but I just couldn’t bear it; my life was sad and dreary enough.

  I had no friends, apart from my father-in-law and Aunt Edmée, and, truth be told, I didn’t exert myself to make any; I rarely went out. By then my little cousin Aimee was enrolled at a fashionable convent school on the outskirts of Paris, but I couldn’t bring myself to face her.

  I kept postponing visiting her, making excuses and filling my letters with lies about how busy and happy and in love with my husband and my adorable baby I was and how our life together was a constant merry whirl of parties and balls and friends. I even invented a story about being presented to the King and Queen at Versailles with my hair piled as high as it could be stretched, powdered like a pastry, and crowned with white ostrich plumes three feet tall, in a gold-spangled white satin gown with panniers wider than I was tall and a train ten feet long. I lied to her because I knew that all it would take was just one look and Aimee would know the truth—my life was a lie, my marriage a sham; I was a failure in every way that mattered. I was too proud; I didn’t want her to see me like that.

  I lolled late in bed or lay all day prostrated upon a couch, eating candied violets until I felt sick and suffering excruciating migraines and nausea because we were one street away from an avenue of butchers and a thriving tannery. Even with every window locked the piteous screams of animals dying to be rendered into fine leather goods pierced my ears and made me weep, my sorrow for their suffering cloaking my self-pity, like rain hiding tears. The stench was unbearable! The butchers threw the waste meat right out into the middle of the street and left it there to rot amidst swarms of blackflies and stray dogs. Papa de Beauharnais would pat my hand sympathetically even as Aunt Edmée admonished me for being too softhearted for my own good.