The Josephine B. Trilogy by Sandra Gulland Page B

and put me directly to bed, where she’s been feeding me hot chicken broth and wine ever since.
    The doctor comes every morning, to see Father. Hopefully he will release me from this prison.
    September 1.
    The doctor prescribed ten drops of tincture of iron in the morning, meat two times a day, and a pint of beer or a glass of port with supper. I can get out of bed, but for two months I’m not to ride in a carriage.
    I endure with joy. I am more than myself.
    September 14, 7:00 P.M.
    Monsieur de Beauharnais writes words of love now that he has received my news. But, oh, woe, I fear it is too late. A week ago I began to bleed—not much, but I was cautious and took to bed. The baby was held, Mimi said, kept from growing. She made a dragon’s blood mixture that I dutifully ingested two times a day with powdered dried almonds mixed with theyolks of eggs. This went on for several days. Nevertheless yesterday I was seized with the most terrible pain. Mimi asked if she should fetch Aunt Désirée, but I insisted no.
    So it was Mimi who was with me, for which I shall always be grateful. It was hard—it was all I could do not to scream—but Mimi knew how to help it pass. When it was over she prayed for me, not a Christian prayer, I confess, but a sweet crooning sort of chant about a woman’s pain and the earth bringing life anew.
    I wept the night through. I am no longer with child.

In which I am too much alone
    November 1, 1780, All Saints’ Day.
    At table the Marquis and Aunt Désirée talked of Marie’s mother “Aunt Fanny,” who has recently returned from Rome. She’s a writer and keeps a salon. She has published a booklet, Hail to All Thinkers! (which the Marquis insists “one of” her lovers must have written) and a romance novel called Triumph of Love (which Aunt Désirée forbids me to read).
    “Her salon stays open until five in the morning,” the Marquis exclaimed. “I’d like to know what people can be doing at that hour!” It was a small entertainment to see him worked up so.
    Tuesday, November 7.
    My room is full of the heavy scent of attar of roses, Aunt Fanny’s perfume. I confess to being captivated. Her face is tiny, giving the impression of a fairy. She wears a frightful amount of make-up, especially on her eyes, which are quite lively, never resting. She’s very theatrical. (It is hard to imagine that she is Marie’s mother. Marie is so timid.)
    Her dress was simple, but she wore it without a corset—I was shocked! There was a mannish quality to her hat, which was mellowed charmingly by a wreath of flowers which she wore in abundance in defiance of her age.
    “So,” she said when we met, “this is the beauty all of Paris will be talking about.”
    I blushed. Were that it were true! I don’t believe I’ll ever see Paris, in spite of living in the heart of it.
    She stayed for only one hour, drinking brandy in her tea. The Marquis seemed only too willing to listen to her wild stories, in spite of his disapproval, which he made clear. She knows artists and politicians, philosophers and poets, all manner of people. She has just finished writing a romantic novel which will be published soon, and has already begun composing yet another. But mostly she was concerned about me.
    “What events have you taken the girl to?” she demanded.
    “Events?” Aunt Désirée asked.
    “You know— out. ” Fanny has a clipped and energetic way of talking. “Lodge meetings, the fairs—”
    “We’re quite content to stay in,” the Marquis said.
    “You didn’t take her to the Saint-Germain Fair?” Fanny was clearly horrified.
    “That’s gotten so dirty,” Aunt Désirée protested. “And the last time we went, we practically got run down by a carriage coming in through the gates at a gallop.” She turned to the Marquis to confirm this fact.
    “Ermenonville is quiet—you could take her there.”
    “I am perhaps the only person in France who is not enraptured with Rapture,” the Marquis said.