The Josephine B. Trilogy by Sandra Gulland Page B

is?
    Later.
    “Rose, there is someone here to see you,” Aunt Désirée said. Something in her voice warned me.
    Behind her I saw Monsieur de Beauharnais. I caught my breath. I hadn’t seen him for—how many months? Eight? I’d lost count. He looked exceedingly well, dressed in an elegant black coat, a red-striped waistcoat and flesh-coloured breeches. The toes of his glistening black boots were pointed.
    He smiled and tipped his top hat. “My apologies. I intended to be here for the event, but—”
    “No need to apologize, Alexandre. I wasn’t expecting you,” I said.
    “I recall that when you address me by my Christian name, it means that you are angry.”
    “I am too tired to be angry.” I felt pressure in my breasts. Soon it would be time to nurse.
    “I have a gift for you.” He pulled a jeweller’s case out of his vest pocket. Inside was a gold pin with a tiny image of himself painted on it.
    Mimi came into the room, my baby bundled in her arms. She startled when she saw Monsieur de Beauharnais.
    “Alexandre, you remember—”
    “Rose, of course I…” He faltered.
    “Mimi,” I said, reminding him.
    But his eyes were on the baby. “And this is—?”
    Mimi gently put the baby into Monsieur de Beauharnais’s outstretched arms. He lifted the corner of the coverlet, looked upon the face of his son. Then he looked over at me, his eyes filled with tears. “Have you named him?” he asked, his voice full of emotion.
    “The honour is yours.”
    “I would like him to be Eugène,” he said.
    “I like that name,” I said. The baby began to fuss. “He’s hungry.”
    Monsieur de Beauharnais put our son into my arms.
    “Welcome home, Alexandre.” I touched his hand.
    Friday, September 7, 3:00 P.M.
    Monsieur de Beauharnais is attentive. He goes on in a rapture about new life. He has studied the newest theories and is intent on doing everything properly. He talks of Rousseau, of nursing, of a child’s “development”—he talks of all the wrong a mother might do. He’s in a fit of worry.
    I want to take his head and place it on my heart. I want to say, do not be afraid. I want to stroke his fine, long hair and mother him—Monsieur de Beauharnais, my husband, the motherless one.
    Monday, October 22.
    The tocsins are ringing, there is celebrating in the streets. The Queen has had her baby—a boy! One hundred and one guns were fired. Everywhere people call out, “Long live the Dauphin!”
    I clasp my baby to my heart and pray for the Queen. I do not envy her, for her baby is not her own. Her boy will be King. He belongs to God, to France—he belongs to us all.
    October 23.
    Last night I had a dream in which Monsieur de Beauharnais told me: “You are not my only wife.”
    I woke in a feverish sweat.
    This morning I told Mimi about the dream. Her face is like water, it shows the slightest disturbance. So I watched her.
    “What a crazy dream,” she said. But she had that look of caution.
    “If there were some truth in it, would you tell me?”
    “Ask Charlotte.” Charlotte is Aunt Désirée’s cook. Charlotte is a gossip and wields considerable power, and not just with a knife.
    “Mimi—don’t make me suffer the humiliation of learning this from Charlotte.”
    Mimi’s dark eyes filled with doubt.
    “Please!” For the truth was more and more evident.
    Mimi collected herself before continuing, in that proud and silent way she has. “Monsieur le vicomte keeps a mistress,” she said.
    A mistress. It did not surprise me. Monsieur de Beauharnais was rarely home. “Who?” I asked.
    Mimi bowed her head. The light glittered off her black hair. “Madame Longpré.”
    “Madame Laure Longpré?” I stuttered. “My cousin Laure Longpré?” I recalled the buxom woman who had called on Father and me when we had just arrived in France. I remembered her bosom adorned with glittering gems, her frothy pink gown.
    Mimi nodded.
    “But she’s so much older than Alexandre,” I objected. I was more