Becoming Josephine by Heather Webb

by command. My heart pounded as he scanned the room, looking for someone.
    “Which one?” Marie-Josèphe asked. “The black coat or the blue?”
    “The blue.” I gulped. What would I say to him?
    His eyes locked on my face. Recognition lit his features, followed by embarrassment and finally guilt. Like a naughty schoolboy.
    I turned to a male acquaintance on my right and gave him my hand. The gentleman kissed it lightly and smiled, encouraged by the brief contact. Let Alexandre see how I had changed. No longer did I appear unkempt or unsure of myself, thanks to my lady friends. I had observed and adopted their every mannerism.
    Alexandre’s stare burned into the side of my face.
    I turned again.
    Melancholy reflected in his eyes. He wasn’t happy. Good. He had estranged himself from his family with his wretched behavior. I yearned to yell at him, to scold him for shattering my heart and destroying my trust. How he had belittled me! My fury mounted and I turned a final time.
    He had gone.

    Seeing Alexandre had rattled my nerves. Against my will, I searched for his face at every outing. He owed me an apology and his children a visit. Still, I detested myself for thinking of him at all.
    One cold spring day, I sipped a cup of warmed chocolate while Eugène played with his soldier figurines and Hortense slept. A rapping at the door interrupted our peaceful afternoon.
    The door flew open before Mimi reached it.
    I spilled my chocolate in surprise. “What in the world?” I set down my cup and jumped to my feet.
    My crazed husband rushed toward Eugène. The acrid smell of brandy surrounded him.
    “What is the meaning of this?” I demanded, shocked at his intrusion. “You aren’t welcome here. Please leave!”
    “I’m taking my son home where he belongs.” Alexandre scooped Eugène into his arms and bolted for the door.
    “You’re drunk, Alexandre! Put him down at once!”
    “Maman, Maman!” Eugène wailed, extending his arms to me.
    Alexandre pounded down the stairs. “He needs his father!”
    “You’re scaring him! He doesn’t know you!” I stumbled after him, across the courtyard and into the street. “Stop this! You can’t take a boy from his mother!”
    When he reached the hired coach at the edge of the drive, he chucked Eugène inside.
    Panic constricted my chest.
    “What are you doing?” I yanked his arm with all my strength. “He’s only three. Alexandre, please!”
    “I am his father. I have every right to take him to a stable home, better than this”—he waved his free hand—“pathetic place. Let go of me!” He pushed me, sending me backward into a slushy puddle.
    I landed on my rear, soaking my skirts. “I hate you!” Hot tears stung my eyes.
    “Maman!” Eugène’s little voice cried.
    Alexandre slammed the door. The carriage pulled away into the unwieldy flow of traffic.
    I ran after them, thin shoes slipping on patches of ice, until they disappeared from view. “He took my son! I hate you!” I choked through the rushing tears. “He took my son!”
    I stood shivering in the street while pedestrians passed. What in the name of God had made him do such a thing? How would I get Eugène back?
    A nun had witnessed the horrible scene and rushed to my side. I fell into her arms.
    “My dear,” Sister Lucille said, “you will catch your death. Let’s find some dry clothes.” She patted my face with her handkerchief and led me to my apartment.
    When I saw Mimi’s saddened expression, my rage exploded. “That stupid, selfish b—”
    “Clear your head, Yeyette. We have to get our Eugène back.”
    “That man had better bring him back by nightfall or else—” I launched an Italian vase he had gifted me at the floor. It smashed into pieces. Startled, Hortense began to cry.

    Alexandre did not return Eugène. My son’s absence tore at my heart. Where had Alexandre taken him? He loved Eugène; my son would be safe, I assured myself. He must be safe.
    I visited Désirée at once to