the marriage. She’s such an agreeable girl.”
Désirée’s voice dropped. I moved closer and strained to make out her next words. “Alexandre has too many lovers. He behaves like a rogue. I’ve spoken with him at length about his reputation.”
I stiffened. Her words stung, though I knew them to be true.
“And what of Laure de Longpré?” the Marquis asked. “Alexandre seems smitten with her. He supports their bastard child without question. That woman uses him for his youth and money. But he will not listen to me.”
“And now he plans to take her to Martinique,” Désirée said. “They left for port today.”
The air left my lungs. I slumped to the floor.
Abandoned
Paris, 1782–1784
“R ose! Are you all right?” Désirée rushed to assist me. She placed her arm behind my head. I had not fainted, but collapsed in shock. “I heard a thump in the corridor—”
“A child with another woman?” I gasped. “She travels with him! That philandering
con
!”
Sympathy filled Désirée’s eyes. She rubbed my shoulder. “Try not to upset yourself.”
“Upset myself?” I glared. “I am not upsetting myself!” My voice rose to a scream. “Alexandre has a child with another woman! A woman he deserted me for! Now he takes her to my home?”
A swell of heat crushed my chest. He had insulted me a thousand times! And worse, I would be left behind, unable to visit my family.
Désirée pulled back in surprise. “How dare you raise your voice to me! He has not deserted you. He is stationed in Martinique.”
Eugène’s muffled cries drifted through the corridor.
“
Merveilleux!
” I shouted. Laure de Longpré had stolen his heart, had borne his child, and would parade
my
husband in front of
my
family and friends. I ground my teeth in rage. How dare she!
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. “What happened?” Mimi asked.
“Can you watch Eugène? I need some air.”
Mimi read my expression. “Now, don’t lose your head, Yeyette.”
“It’s too late for that!” I stormed from the corridor.
My head boiled. My throat burned. I would love to torch his fancy uniforms, throw flames in his wig and watch it burn! I ripped the front door open and flew into the street, narrowly missing the sludge splashed by a racing coach.
Merde!
I stopped and peered down the narrow street. I could not go out on my own, at least not on foot. I retreated indoors, frustration choking me.
“Ready the coach! I’m going for a drive. At once!” I shouted at no one in particular.
“You cannot go out unescorted!” Désirée rushed down the staircase.
“I can and I will!”
Her mouth clapped shut as the servants scattered. Within moments, my carriage was speeding through the quartier.
The solitary flame I had held—the hope that Alexandre would forget the others as our love grew with our child—fizzled as if quelled by icy water.
I rode, unseeing, for an hour until the Seine came into view. The river soothed in its swirling currents, coursing around each bend, never still. I hated myself for every hot tear I wept for him. Alexandre loved no one but himself.
The tunnel of winter loomed dark and bleak, intensifying my malaise. Yearning throbbed under my skin. What I wouldn’t give to be home, to raise Eugène with my parents, my friends, and cousins. My son grew into his chubby arms and legs and toddled through the house. Soon he would no longer be a baby, and my family had missed it all.
“The bunny is going to catch you.” I made the animal hippity-hop near Eugène’s face. He giggled in his delicious baby way. “Here he comes.” I crouched on the chilly floor, chasing him with the caramel-colored animal until my knees protested.
When I left the house, I drowned my loneliness in new hats, shoes with shiny buckles, toys for Eugène, and sugary treats for Désirée. The merchants knew me by name.
“Bonjour, Madame de Beauharnais. Can I interest you in this gown? It mimics the latest style by Rose Bertin.
Désirée’s voice dropped. I moved closer and strained to make out her next words. “Alexandre has too many lovers. He behaves like a rogue. I’ve spoken with him at length about his reputation.”
I stiffened. Her words stung, though I knew them to be true.
“And what of Laure de Longpré?” the Marquis asked. “Alexandre seems smitten with her. He supports their bastard child without question. That woman uses him for his youth and money. But he will not listen to me.”
“And now he plans to take her to Martinique,” Désirée said. “They left for port today.”
The air left my lungs. I slumped to the floor.
Abandoned
Paris, 1782–1784
“R ose! Are you all right?” Désirée rushed to assist me. She placed her arm behind my head. I had not fainted, but collapsed in shock. “I heard a thump in the corridor—”
“A child with another woman?” I gasped. “She travels with him! That philandering
con
!”
Sympathy filled Désirée’s eyes. She rubbed my shoulder. “Try not to upset yourself.”
“Upset myself?” I glared. “I am not upsetting myself!” My voice rose to a scream. “Alexandre has a child with another woman! A woman he deserted me for! Now he takes her to my home?”
A swell of heat crushed my chest. He had insulted me a thousand times! And worse, I would be left behind, unable to visit my family.
Désirée pulled back in surprise. “How dare you raise your voice to me! He has not deserted you. He is stationed in Martinique.”
Eugène’s muffled cries drifted through the corridor.
“
Merveilleux!
” I shouted. Laure de Longpré had stolen his heart, had borne his child, and would parade
my
husband in front of
my
family and friends. I ground my teeth in rage. How dare she!
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. “What happened?” Mimi asked.
“Can you watch Eugène? I need some air.”
Mimi read my expression. “Now, don’t lose your head, Yeyette.”
“It’s too late for that!” I stormed from the corridor.
My head boiled. My throat burned. I would love to torch his fancy uniforms, throw flames in his wig and watch it burn! I ripped the front door open and flew into the street, narrowly missing the sludge splashed by a racing coach.
Merde!
I stopped and peered down the narrow street. I could not go out on my own, at least not on foot. I retreated indoors, frustration choking me.
“Ready the coach! I’m going for a drive. At once!” I shouted at no one in particular.
“You cannot go out unescorted!” Désirée rushed down the staircase.
“I can and I will!”
Her mouth clapped shut as the servants scattered. Within moments, my carriage was speeding through the quartier.
The solitary flame I had held—the hope that Alexandre would forget the others as our love grew with our child—fizzled as if quelled by icy water.
I rode, unseeing, for an hour until the Seine came into view. The river soothed in its swirling currents, coursing around each bend, never still. I hated myself for every hot tear I wept for him. Alexandre loved no one but himself.
The tunnel of winter loomed dark and bleak, intensifying my malaise. Yearning throbbed under my skin. What I wouldn’t give to be home, to raise Eugène with my parents, my friends, and cousins. My son grew into his chubby arms and legs and toddled through the house. Soon he would no longer be a baby, and my family had missed it all.
“The bunny is going to catch you.” I made the animal hippity-hop near Eugène’s face. He giggled in his delicious baby way. “Here he comes.” I crouched on the chilly floor, chasing him with the caramel-colored animal until my knees protested.
When I left the house, I drowned my loneliness in new hats, shoes with shiny buckles, toys for Eugène, and sugary treats for Désirée. The merchants knew me by name.
“Bonjour, Madame de Beauharnais. Can I interest you in this gown? It mimics the latest style by Rose Bertin.
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