about?” Caroline asks, also restraining her glee, I see.
“It seems some billets doux were discovered by one of Napoléon’s servants, just last night. He felt he must give them to his master, of course.”
The two of them laugh like schoolgirls, although Madame Bonaparte is older than my own mother. I wonder if the letters are real, and if so, what they could say. Although behavior like Joséphine’s would be cause for gossip in Virginia, I have always thought such things were quite accepted here. At least, that is what Mama has told me.
Even if she does flirt with Captain Charles, Joséphine is noble, charming, and beautiful, and both of her children have kindness and spirit. What could Caroline and her mother find to object to in that? Of course, they must be envious. Caroline is beautiful, too, but her mother, Madame Bonaparte, has a sharp edge to her. It’s in the way she speaks and moves. She seems more Spanish than French in her looks, and her French is not very good. I think mine is better.
A terrible commotion coming from upstairs interrupts Caroline and Madame Bonaparte’s conversation.
“Bonaparte! Bonaparte!”
I hear the screams of a woman. It does not sound like Joséphine, but I cannot imagine who else it might be. Thethree of us sitting at the table look at each other and we all jump up at once. I cast one longing glance at my plate of breakfast, but it’s not enough to keep me there when clearly something important is happening up above us.
Madame Bonaparte goes first, followed by Caroline. I keep a slight distance behind them.
We sweep up the curved staircase and follow the corridor to its end, where Napoléon has his suite of rooms, just opposite my guest chamber. I can’t believe what I see before me. Joséphine is on her knees, a handkerchief clutched in one fist and a crumpled letter in the other. On either side of her stand Hortense and Eugène, looking down at their mother, who is now rocking on her heels like a lunatic.
“Mother, please come away!” Hortense speaks soothingly to her. So far they haven’t looked up at us. How embarrassing it must be! I could never imagine my mother displaying such volatile emotions.
“Bonaparte! There is only you! Chéri! Think of my children,” Joséphine continues, heedless of anyone around her.
Eugène sees us first and his face hardens. I shrink back. I don’t want him to think I’m enjoying this spectacle.
“This is a family matter,” he says to Madame Bonaparte.
“Yes, I believe it is,” she replies, standing her ground.
“Maman, come with me.” Hortense is trying to pull her mother to her feet, but Joséphine will not rise.
“You speak to him, Hortense, ma petite ! He will listen to you. He loves you like his own daughter.”
Her words are so choked with sobs it’s hard to understand what she is saying. I cannot help but look at Hortense, who sees me. Her eyes are sad—resigned almost. I remember what I saw last night, and I don’t know what to think.
“Maman, if I talk to my step-papa, will you go to your room and wait for me?”
Joséphine looks up into Hortense’s eyes. I see her tears dry up like a puddle in the summer sun. She takes a deep breath. “Oh, my darling, ma petite Eugénia ! Would you?”
I am surprised by the nickname. So Hortense is the female version of Eugène, to her mother.
Eugène takes Joséphine’s hand and finally gets her to rise up off her knees.
The three of us—Madame Bonaparte, Caroline, and I—are stuck to our places watching this family drama. Once Eugène has taken Joséphine away, Hortense turns, her back to Napoléon’s door, and stares at us. I have never seen her look so angry. I didn’t think she was capable of it, and I realize it must look to her as if I am on the side of Caroline and Madame Bonaparte.
“Please go somewhere else to gloat. Or better still, don’t gloat at all. You cannot imagine the life we have led, but at least we have each other.”
At that, she
“It seems some billets doux were discovered by one of Napoléon’s servants, just last night. He felt he must give them to his master, of course.”
The two of them laugh like schoolgirls, although Madame Bonaparte is older than my own mother. I wonder if the letters are real, and if so, what they could say. Although behavior like Joséphine’s would be cause for gossip in Virginia, I have always thought such things were quite accepted here. At least, that is what Mama has told me.
Even if she does flirt with Captain Charles, Joséphine is noble, charming, and beautiful, and both of her children have kindness and spirit. What could Caroline and her mother find to object to in that? Of course, they must be envious. Caroline is beautiful, too, but her mother, Madame Bonaparte, has a sharp edge to her. It’s in the way she speaks and moves. She seems more Spanish than French in her looks, and her French is not very good. I think mine is better.
A terrible commotion coming from upstairs interrupts Caroline and Madame Bonaparte’s conversation.
“Bonaparte! Bonaparte!”
I hear the screams of a woman. It does not sound like Joséphine, but I cannot imagine who else it might be. Thethree of us sitting at the table look at each other and we all jump up at once. I cast one longing glance at my plate of breakfast, but it’s not enough to keep me there when clearly something important is happening up above us.
Madame Bonaparte goes first, followed by Caroline. I keep a slight distance behind them.
We sweep up the curved staircase and follow the corridor to its end, where Napoléon has his suite of rooms, just opposite my guest chamber. I can’t believe what I see before me. Joséphine is on her knees, a handkerchief clutched in one fist and a crumpled letter in the other. On either side of her stand Hortense and Eugène, looking down at their mother, who is now rocking on her heels like a lunatic.
“Mother, please come away!” Hortense speaks soothingly to her. So far they haven’t looked up at us. How embarrassing it must be! I could never imagine my mother displaying such volatile emotions.
“Bonaparte! There is only you! Chéri! Think of my children,” Joséphine continues, heedless of anyone around her.
Eugène sees us first and his face hardens. I shrink back. I don’t want him to think I’m enjoying this spectacle.
“This is a family matter,” he says to Madame Bonaparte.
“Yes, I believe it is,” she replies, standing her ground.
“Maman, come with me.” Hortense is trying to pull her mother to her feet, but Joséphine will not rise.
“You speak to him, Hortense, ma petite ! He will listen to you. He loves you like his own daughter.”
Her words are so choked with sobs it’s hard to understand what she is saying. I cannot help but look at Hortense, who sees me. Her eyes are sad—resigned almost. I remember what I saw last night, and I don’t know what to think.
“Maman, if I talk to my step-papa, will you go to your room and wait for me?”
Joséphine looks up into Hortense’s eyes. I see her tears dry up like a puddle in the summer sun. She takes a deep breath. “Oh, my darling, ma petite Eugénia ! Would you?”
I am surprised by the nickname. So Hortense is the female version of Eugène, to her mother.
Eugène takes Joséphine’s hand and finally gets her to rise up off her knees.
The three of us—Madame Bonaparte, Caroline, and I—are stuck to our places watching this family drama. Once Eugène has taken Joséphine away, Hortense turns, her back to Napoléon’s door, and stares at us. I have never seen her look so angry. I didn’t think she was capable of it, and I realize it must look to her as if I am on the side of Caroline and Madame Bonaparte.
“Please go somewhere else to gloat. Or better still, don’t gloat at all. You cannot imagine the life we have led, but at least we have each other.”
At that, she
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