True Pleasures (8 page)

From their first night together Napoleon was utterly infatuated with the elegant, alluring older woman, whom he possessively renamed Josephine:

I awake all filled with you. Your image, and the intoxicating pleasures of last night, allow my senses no rest. Sweet and matchless Josephine, how strangely you work upon my heart! … a thousand kisses, mio dolce amor; but give me none back, for they set my blood on fire
.

As I gaze around this restaurant, it seems to me that feminine style still holds a special place in Paris. On the other side of the room is a table of imposing old men, lawyers or judges perhaps, chewing their food lustily. Perhaps it's their monthly lunch. They are having a wonderful time. To Australian eyes it's noteworthy: a group of powerful men choosing to dine in an atmosphere as feminine as a beauty parlor.

In Sydney, Rachel and I agree, there is no way a group of men lunching together would ever consent to eat in a room as pretty as this. They would feel emasculated by their surroundings. ‘Even gay men,' I suggest to Rachel, ‘tend to prefer leather and stainless steel.'

At another table, absorbed in their own drama, are an American man and a much younger woman. He is suited, she is casually dressed, and her long legs are curling nervously around the legs of her chair. He keeps talking, staring
at her intently. She looks distractedly away, flicking her long hair. I think: how curious, he finds this restaurant romantic and hopes its charms will seduce her (as he intends to); she merely finds it old-fashioned and is bored witless.

Rachel and I feel right at home. Glowing with champagne and fine food, caressingly administered to by our waiter, we are the last to leave, outstaying even the lawyers. The oldest is so infirm he has to be carried out by his colleagues, still waving his post-prandial cigar. Five hours after our arrival Rachel and I finally stumble out into the pale pink afternoon, blinking with woozy pleasure. ‘Now that,' she says, ‘was a lunch.'

Next morning, as I peer out the downstairs window onto a drizzly sidewalk, Rachel's voice rings out like a commandment behind me: ‘So where are we off to today?'

‘Well, I was thinking of looking for the place where Napoleon and Josephine got married, and checking to see whether Josephine's cottage is still there …'

‘Right. When do we start?'

‘ … and really I am not sure whether I have the right addresses, because that part of Paris changed so much under the redesign of Baron Haussmann, and even the street numbers could have changed and it's all a bit of guesswork but oh well if you really want to come …'

So off we go, taking the Métro from Filles du Calvaire to Opéra and winding our way down to rue d'Antin. On this cool wet day, the boulevards – once the legendary thoroughfares of carefree
boulevardiers
and
flâneurs
– are charmless, big, loud and impersonal. I can see that Rachel is already wondering what she's doing here as she struggles with her umbrella.

Rue d' Antin offers no compensation; it's as drab and grey as the day. We count our way along the street to find number 3, which was once the local town hall but is now a rather plain-looking bank branch. It doesn't matter to me. I feel childishly triumphant when I see a plaque; it's as welcome as a personal greeting. Lucinda, it trumpets, you've come to the right place.

Translated the plaque says:

1796–1996
Commemoration of the marriage of
Napoleon Bonaparte
and
Josephine de Beauharnais
9 March 1996, Napoleon Foundation

This gold print on white marble bestows posthumous dignity on what was, in fact, a very odd occasion. The bride was thirty-three years old and wasn't at all certain about this strange match she had reluctantly agreed to make. She had plenty of time to think about her decision: the groom was three hours late. When the twenty-seven-year-old hero Bonaparte bustled in, he shook the dozing registrar awake and the couple were united in a two-minute ceremony, following which they climbed into a carriage and rode to Josephine's rented cottage in rue Chantereine. There, on their wedding night, Napoleon gave Josephine a gold locket on a chain inscribed
To Destiny
and Josephine's jealous pug, Fortuné, nipped the bridegroom on the leg. Just two days later Napoleon went to command the French forces in Italy.

I'm gazing at the plaque and passing enjoyable moments wondering why it is dated 9 March and not
6 March, which is the date of the wedding according to my favorite work on this subject,
Napoleon and Josephine
by Evangeline Bruce. Why the discrepancy? I wonder. I smile at myself: I make an unlikely scholar. Then I look at Rachel's face, which is a mask of boredom. Mmm, perhaps we'll move along.

Rachel takes charge of the map and guides us on the short walk to rue de la Victoire, formerly rue Chantereine, to the site of Josephine's little cottage and the couple's first marital home. Oh dear. If rue d'Antin was disappointing, this is far worse. It's a shabby street and all we find at number 6 is a decidedly sleazy-looking sauna next to a rundown gym, neither of which appear to have any patrons. ‘Are you sure this is the right place?' asks Rachel, none too subtly, as the drizzle turns to an outright downpour.

I look around from under my drumming umbrella, hoping for a plaque or a sign, anything to suggest that this was once the site of Josephine's charming little cottage where she was said to have all the luxuries and none of the necessities. Meanwhile Rachel's foot is tapping impatiently under her black umbrella and I observe her nervy hand fumbling for a cigarette in her handbag. It's true there's nothing of interest to see here now, nothing at all.

But as I look down the street, the past easily slides over the present. Twice a day Napoleon's envoys would gallop along here to deliver messages affirming the little General's passionate devotion to his new wife. Here was possibly the greatest military genius in history conducting a major campaign, and yet, Parisians noted with wonder, Josephine received reports from the front even before Barras himself.

Napoleon wrote to his wife:
Not a day passes without my
loving you, not a night but I hold you in my arms … Whether I am buried in business, or leading my troops, or inspecting the camps, my adorable Josephine fills my mind, takes up all my thoughts, and reigns alone in my heart …

And:
What art did you learn to captivate all my faculties, to absorb all my character into yourself? It is a devotion, dearest, which will end only with my life. ‘He lived for Josephine': there is my epitaph. I strive to be near you: I am nearly dead with desire for your presence. It is madness!

And then there were the erotic letters:
A kiss on your heart, and then another a little lower, much
much lower. And:

I am going to bed with my heart full of your adorable image … I cannot wait to give proofs of my ardent love. How happy I would be if I could assist at your undressing, the little firm white breast, the adorable face, the hair tied up in a scarf à la créole. You know that I never forget the little visit, you know, the little black forest … I kiss it a thousand times and wait impatiently for the moment I will be in it. To live within Josephine is to live in the Elysian fields. Kisses on your mouth, your eyes, your breast, everywhere, everywhere
.

I was enthralled when I first read these letters – blown over by them, by their ardent and earthy passion, and blown over by
her
, this woman who could inspire such outsize emotion. But Josephine was no needy modern lover. Napoleon's burning letters would arrive – right here, where I am standing, in fact, or hereabouts – and she would absentmindedly put them to one side, to be read later:
Qu'il est drôle, Bonaparte!
she would murmur affectionately –
What a funny thing he is
. Often she forgot to read his letters at all. Her own letters to him were irregular, bland and brief, sending Napoleon into a frenzy:
I get only one letter from you every four days!
Once she forgetfully
addressed her husband in the formal
vous
eliciting further howls of distress from the front.

And perhaps it is no wonder the neglectful Josephine was unmoved by her husband's long-distance ardor: she was preoccupied by a passionate affair with a handsome young officer. Napoleon was a hero to France, but just a clumsy suitor to his wife. As we turn to depart, I marvel at Josephine's careless power.

Rachel and I walk in single file along rue de la Victoire, crossing the street by which we entered. Ahead of me I see the sign of a little café, Café Chantereine. It's a reference to this street's original name. I nod and shrug: well, at least we came to the right street, even if there was nothing here. As I turn to suggest to Rachel that we stop at Café Chantereine for a commemorative coffee, my raised umbrella frames another sign still further along the road, a dirty old wooden shingle. Hôtel de Beauharnais, it reads.

On an impulse, I lead Rachel out of the rain and into the narrow dark hotel foyer. It's the grimy boarding house of a thousand down-at-the-heel travel tales. At the front desk to our left, a woman is sitting with a phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Engrossed in her conversation, she takes no notice of us, assuming, I suppose, that we are some of her budget residents.

But as our eyes adjust to the dingy surroundings, we behold a surprising sight. Opposite the landlady, framed hugely in gilt, is Josephine herself. It's an amateur copy of her famous Imperial portrait by Gérard. Even the rough paintwork cannot diminish the luminous subject. In her gold and white gown, Josephine's delicate face is framed by her dark curling hair. As she gazes out of the painting she is gentle and regal at the same time. The copyist's hand
may be heavy, but he or she is alert to the delicate nuances of the original painting: the set of Josephine's mouth is tentative, even apprehensive, and her eyes are dark with dread. Josephine never wanted Napoleon to declare himself the Emperor of France because she knew what would follow. The Emperor would want to fulfil his dynastic ambitions. To do so, he would have to divorce Josephine who was by then past child-bearing age. The day Josephine became consort to an Emperor was the beginning of the end of her marriage. In this portrait, the newly crowned Empress Josephine is looking into her future, and what she sees is sadness.

In front of Josephine's portrait is a small table. It is covered with a lace cloth and a little cracked vase filled gently with roses, Josephine's signature flower. The composition reflects an impulse so private, so tender, that we are quite taken aback.

Rachel's green eyes shine like a cat's in the gloom; for her, this appalling wet trek around Paris has gained human interest. The Paris of the past has all at once connected with the city she lives in today.

‘It's a …' I begin.

‘I know, it's a …' says Rachel.

‘It's a shrine,' we whisper with joy.

I look closely at the tired, tough-featured woman at the front desk. She seems an unlikely devotee of the fragrant Josephine. And yet, I am sure that she is Josephine's admirer; that she finds some rare beauty in the woman who once lived on this street.

I would like to approach the woman, to make some connection with her and ask her about the portrait and her touching devotional gesture but she doesn't choose to acknowledge us. She puts down the phone and instantly
picks it up again, barking weary commands in hoarse French. So we leave.

‘Wow,' sighs Rachel into the damp air.

‘I know,' I reply.

If a vote were taken on the most popular queen in French history, Josephine might well win, for she was loving, lovable, beloved. She had a youthful spirit and a tender, wayward heart. At the age of thirty-three she captivated a hero. And through her grace as consort, she bewitched a nation. Her garden at Malmaison became an important scientific and horticultural center. She cultivated wildflowers from the newly discovered Australian continent. Black swans from Western Australia swam in her lake and emus ran through her forest. Her rose garden was recorded by Redouté in works of art as well as natural history. Napoleon is well known for his scientific and cultural interests, but his wife made her own major contribution to knowledge. Not bad for the daughter of a poor French settler in the West Indies, an indolent, dreamy girl, swinging on a hammock and rotting her teeth on sugar cane.

The rain recedes as we exit rue de la Victoire, street of the victory. Josephine's textbook femininity is outmoded these days: the modern woman is a substantive and explainable being, not an airy and elusive creature. In her day, however, though Napoleon was the warrior, Josephine's arsenal of emotional weaponry was equally powerful. Napoleon used to say, proudly, wonderingly,
I win battles … Josephine wins hearts
.

Napoleon divorced Josephine in 1809 in a formal, public ceremony. Josephine retained her famous, gentle dignity to the last. But her soon-to-be ex-husband wept openly. He sobbed,
God alone knows what this resolve has cost my heart
…