In it Monsieur de Beauharnais called me a vile creature. He accused me of having had numerous affairs as a girl. He claimed I’d lain with a man the night before I left to be betrothed to him, and with another in Saint-Pierre on the voyage to France. He claimed to have proof.
Aunt Désirée sank into the chair beside me. “Mon Dieu,” I heard her whisper.
I felt the world become heavy around me.
In which I am banished to a convent
October 29, 1783.
“The fee is six hundred livres a year for a room, eight hundred livres for board,” the Abbesse of the abbey de Penthémont informed us. She is a small woman of middle age, pretty in spite of a pocked face. She speaks with that particular cadence that identifies a member of the highest level of the noble class.
I nodded. I had expected it to be more. The convent of Penthémont was an elegant establishment for aristocratic ladies in distress. The Princess of Condé had been a boarder there.
The apartment that is available is parlour number three, on the second floor, overlooking a stone courtyard. The rooms, four in number, are not large, but sunny and simply furnished. Through two huge oak trees I could see the glittering dome of the Invalides.
Aunt Renaudin felt along the windowsill for dust.
“Satisfied, Madame?” the Abbesse inquired with a forgiving smile.
I move in at the end of November.
November 1.
“Why should
you
move out!” the Marquis stormed. He can’t even look at me without sputtering. His son has disappointed him in the most grievous way. Since returning to Paris, Alexandre has refused to even speak to his family. As a result, the Marquis’s gout has flared.
I am touched by his loyalty, yet what can I do? By law I must do as
Alexandre commands, in spite of the fact that he hasn’t contributed an écu toward my support since he abandoned me over a year ago, in spite of his dissolute behaviour, his attack on my honour.
Eugène burst into tears when I told him. He wants to stay with “Papa,” he wept, his beloved Marquis. How can I explain?
November 27.
We’ve moved, Mimi, Eugène and I. “I want to go home!” Eugene cried when I showed him his new bed.
December 1.
Yesterday morning I received an elegantly scribed invitation to dine with the Abbesse.
Her rooms are on the ground floor, directly below my own. We were joined by three other boarders—Vicomtesse de Douai (tall, elegant), Duchesse de Monge (witty, plump) and Madame de Crény (tiny, sweet). We enjoyed an elegant meal of fresh oysters, brochette de rognons, foie gras aux truffles and, last, a fondue, which was put on the table in a casserole with a chafing-dish and a spirit lamp. After we sat by the fire drinking les régals à gloire—a hot coffee and cognac drink that is popular now.
That evening there was a gathering in the apartment of Vicomtesse de Sotin. Monsieur Beaumarchais, the playwright, attended. After readings and song there were the usual discussions concerning the weather, theatre and politics. Then we got on to the more relaxing pursuits—gossip and games. (The Abbesse is unbeatable at trictrac, I discovered.) I feared the sound of our laughter would disturb our neighbours, but the Abbesse said I need not be concerned—that over the years they have had to become accustomed to it.
Life here is not at all what I expected.
Tuesday, December 2, 11:00
P.M.
This afternoon, taking in yet another one of my dresses (I’ve become thin), I informed Aunt Désirée that I intended to seek a legal separation.
Aunt Désirée looked concerned. “A separation, Rose? Have you any idea what that would entail—the social stigma that would attach to you and your children?”
“Yet you obtained a legal separation from your husband.” In the first year of her marriage, Aunt Désirée’s husband had tried to poison her.
“And I have paid the price. Many a time I have been excluded from gatherings. It matters not at all if a woman is innocent. She has been tarnished and is not considered fit for
proper
society.” Aunt Désirée put down her needlework. “And what if Alexandre proved contentious, Rose? Are you willing to expose the details of your private life for all of Paris to see? A woman is rarely the victor in such a battle. Even if you were beaten black and blue, it would be viewed as your husband’s right—and your
duty
to be submissive to his wish,
whatever
his wish might be.”
“Am I to do nothing?” I demanded, jabbing the needle into my thumb by mistake. With some effort, I refrained from cursing. “Alexandre has attacked my honour in an entirely public way.”
“But what of your son? Think how it will affect him. Eugène is old enough to understand the taunts of his playmates.”
“Think how a stain on my honour will affect him. Imagine what it will be like for him, having a mother who is forced to live in a convent until the end of her days. And what of Hortense? Her prospects for a good marriage will be seriously diminished. A legal separation is my only alternative—both for my sake
and
for the sake of my children.”
Aunt Désirée sighed. “I will pray for you, Rose.”
December 8, late afternoon.
This afternoon I met with Monsieur Joron, King’s Counsel and commissioner at Chastelet, to make official my record of complaint. He came with his father
*
and his secretary. It was trying, laying bare the failure of my marriage, but they were tactful and put me at my ease.
Monsieur Joron told me that it will take a few months for an order for a separation of person and dwelling to be issued, and that I shouldn’t expect settlement for more than a year after that. Until then, I must live according to my husband’s wishes.
“One full year?”
The secretary transcribed my testimony in his careful hand. I was asked to read it over and sign each page. “How shall I sign?” I asked. “As Beauharnais, or Tascher de la Pagerie?”
“However you prefer.”
I wrote: Tascher de la Pagerie.
And so it is—my marriage undone.
December 13—Noisy-le-Grand.
We are at Noisy-le-Grand for a few days. Four years ago Alexandre and I were married here, shared the bed I sleep in now. I remember so clearly the first time I saw him, a handsome young man reading Cicero’s
Treatise on Laws
in the salon of the Hôtel Graves in Brest. It seems another world, another time—another Rose.
After Eugène woke from his nap we walked to Madame Rousseau’s to see Hortense. She giggled in her brother’s clumsy embrace. I held them both in my arms. How can I regret a union that has given me two such beautiful children?
Monday, December 22.
The women here make a fuss over me. Their warmth puzzles me. Wellbred, wealthy and titled, they are much above my station.
“They perceive a natural elegance in your demeanour,” the Abbesse told me this morning. (I read to her; in return she helps me with my enunciation.) “And, too, there is nothing so rewarding as an avid student.”
An avid student I confess I have become. I long to feel at ease in this world, among these women—but there is so much to learn: how to bow, how to enter a room, how to take a seat, how to speak. Quietly I observe the way Vicomtesse de Douai orders her coach, how Duchesse de Monge
bows (and for whom, and how low, depending), watch for whom her footman opens both double doors and for whom only one is opened, listen to the way the Abbesse speaks, her aristocratic inflection.
In the privacy of my room, I practise before the long looking glass, bow deeply to my image in the glass. “Don’t laugh!” I tell Mimi, who watches me with a mocking smile.
February 4, 1784.
Alexandre is suing for the return of my jewellry, including the medallion I had to sell in order to pay for Hortense’s baptism. He claims that it was part of his inheritance, that I had no right to sell it.
I am so enraged I cannot sleep. Alexandre provides nothing for my support. I am increasingly desperate for funds. Every day, it seems, there is a creditor at my door. Yesterday I was presented with a bill for jewels I had never even seen. I gave the man Alexandre’s address and directed him there, trying not to reveal my rage.
February 23.
Fanny called early this morning, her heavily powdered face streaked with tears. Her daughter Marie has suffered yet another infant death. The youngest, Amédée, died in the night, succumbing to a fever. She was not even two. It was three-year-old Émilie who’d discovered her “sleeping” sister.
“Can you come with me?” Fanny asked. “I can’t face her alone. Not again.” This is the third child Marie has lost.
It was Alexandre’s brother François who came to the door to meet us, wearing a nightcap and a blue waistcoat over a bed gown. He looked distressed. I don’t know why this surprised me, for he is a man of feeling, with a tender regard for children. He led us into Marie’s bedchamber, where she was resting on a chaise longue, a dish of tea on the side-table. She was pale, without expression, like a dead person herself. Little Émilie was sitting quietly beside her mother, looking confused.
We were told that the child was in her bed in the next room. I stayed
with Marie while Fanny went to help prepare the body, the sobbing nanny assisting.
After the priest came, and then the doctor (who prescribed laudanum drops for Fanny as well as for Marie and François), I left, taking little Émilie back with me to Penthémont. Mimi, Eugène and I fuss over her gently. Even so, she refuses to speak.
March 2.
Eugène has worked his magic on Émilie. She follows him everywhere. She is a bright little thing, a little pixie with fair pink cheeks and coal black hair and eyes—but oh, so serious! Only Eugène can coax a smile from her.
“I’m afraid we will have to take Émilie back home soon.” I broke the news to him gently. “To her own mother.” Marie was in need of her now, in need of her one surviving child.
April 10—Noisy-le-Grand.
Hortense is one today. She’s walking!
April 27, 1784, Noisy-le-Grand
Dear Madame Beauharnais,
I am returning the money you sent me. Your husband came for a visit last week and paid for two months. He brought some pretty baubles from the funfair for the baby. She didn’t make strange at all. He sang her a ballad and danced about with her, which made her spit up but he didn’t mind too much. You never mentioned your husband. I hope I did the right thing.
Respectfully, Madame Rousseau
Tuesday, January 11, 1785—Noisy-le-Grand.
Aunt Désirée has received word that Alexandre would like to see Eugène. “And he would consent to see me as well,” she said, examining the letter.
The Marquis snorted. “How good of him.”
“I think you should go,” I told her.
Aunt Désirée spent the morning getting ready. She settled on her blue silk robe with a black velvet cape. I loaned her my hat with the blue ribbons, which complemented the dress nicely. She was flustered, which brought some colour to her cheeks.
I dressed Eugène in his best clothes. “Am I going to church?” he asked. He is too young to grasp the situation. To him, “father” is the Marquis—why should it be otherwise?
Aunt Désirée returned at nightfall looking relieved. Eugène was quite excited about the bounty of presents this “stranger” had heaped upon him.
“Alexandre asked if I could bring Eugène once a week.” Aunt Désirée took off her hat and tidied her hair.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“It might help.” She paused. “Although there will be no changing his mind.”
I stiffened. Even if Alexandre were to relent, could my heart open? “And you? How did you find him?”
“Oh, he was full of pretty words—”
I knew Alexandre’s pretty words. “But his heart was not there?”
Aunt Désirée looked at me, her eyes filling with tears. “How can that be?”
Friday, February 4.
Today, as I returned from my clothier, Mimi rushed to me in the most terrible state, crying out in the African tongue.
“Speak!” I demanded. She had fallen to her knees. “Mimi, mon Dieu!”
“The boy! He’s gone!”
I could not comprehend. Eugène?
Gone?
What did that mean?
In a rush her story came out. She’d allowed Eugène to play in the courtyard, as was our custom. Every few minutes she looked out. Eugène had been beating on a drum and the din served as a means of keeping track of him. She’d gone into her room to search for a particular colour thread. When she came back out she noticed that the courtyard had become silent. She looked out the window. The courtyard was empty.
She ran down to the courtyard and out the iron gates—which were closed, she assured me—and onto the street. Eugène was nowhere to be seen. She questioned the tenants, but could get no answers. She ran for the Abbesse, but she was out.
I went to the open window, looked out at the empty courtyard. “Eugène!” I called out. I hurried through our rooms, looking into every closet, under the beds. I could not believe that Eugène was not there. It was then that I noticed a piece of paper sticking out from under the carpet. Apparently it had been pushed under the door. I picked it up, knowing even before I read it what it would reveal.
It was from Alexandre. He had taken Eugène.
It did not take long to send for a fiacre and find our way to the Rochefoucauld town house on Rue de Seine. The big doors to the courtyard were still open, the horses had not yet been unhitched. A footman in livery opened the door.
Alexandre came to the foyer with a cautious look. We hadn’t seen each other since he’d left my bed in the night, two years before. He looked the same, if pale and thin, no doubt from the lingering effects of the malignant fever he had contracted in Martinico. He was without a wig, his hair long, hanging about his shoulders.