The Josephine B. Trilogy by Sandra Gulland Page B

eighty-six livres you owe. And there will be other bills, no doubt.”
    I sighed and went to the window. A barber covered in flour crossed the street, dodging a man on horseback. “When will Monsieur de Beauharnais be returning?” I asked.
    Aunt Désirée took me by the shoulders and turned me toward the light. “None too soon, I hope. You’re wearing far too much rouge. And what are these things you’ve got stuck to your face? Patches have been out of style since King Louis XV died!”
    I glanced over at Mimi, who was standing by the door trying hard not to giggle. “Madame has been helping me with my toilette,” I confessed.
    “Madame downstairs? No wonder you look like a tart!”
    I fought back tears. Aunt Désirée sighed and pursed her lips. I detected a flicker of affection beneath her crusty exterior. “My dear child, you will find that your fiancé—should he approve of you, that is, and consent to this union—values simplicity, not artifice. He’s a strong advocate, as the young man will no doubt inform you, of the ‘Cult of Sensibility,’ God help us all.”
    She made this proclamation as if it were a badge of both honour and ridicule. I hadn’t the faintest notion what she meant.
    “What your Aunt Désirée is trying to suggest, Rose,” my father said, sinking back under the quilt, “is that you change your toilette.”
    And so it was that I received still another lesson in how to dress like a proper French lady.
    “There now, Joseph, what do you think?” Aunt Désirée pushed me to the foot of Father’s bed. She had clothed me in a simple lawn dress and a straw hat covered with silk flowers.
    “You’ve got her looking like a peasant, Désirée. Are you crazy? She will catch her death in that get-up.”
    The dress was not too different from the chemises we wore back home, around the house doing our chores. I felt disappointed changing out of the amaranth brocade gown Mother had had made for me, but Aunt Désirée insisted it was out of style and that Monsieur de Beauharnais would never consent to marry me if he saw me in a dress like that.
    “You never did have taste, Joseph.” Aunt Désirée pulled at my sidecurls, trying to get them to fall in loose locks around my face—à la négligence, she called it. “Although I must confess I rather agree with you in this instance. But whatever the Queen wears, all the young people follow, and God knows she’s leading them on a merry chase.” She pulled a timepiece out of her bosom. “Come now, child, we mustn’t linger.”
    I was more confused than nervous following Aunt Désirée down the stairs to the front parlour. The efforts of the last hours had bewildered me, and for some reason I wasn’t expecting to meet Monsieur de Beauharnais at that moment—so when I saw a young man in uniform sitting on the sofa, absorbed in a book, I didn’t think anything of it.
    “Alexandre, if you please,” Aunt Désirée called out with a theatrical flourish, “it is my pleasure to introduce you to my niece—and your fiancée.”
    Monsieur de Beauharnais looked up, startled, as if he’d been waiting for a coach and suddenly it had arrived. “Oh!” He put a bookmark in his little leather volume before carefully setting it down on the side-table. He stood up.
    “Mademoiselle Tascher de la Pagerie,” Aunt Désirée said grandly, “Monsieur le chevalier de Beauharnais.”
    I felt there had been a mistake. This young man was so very distinguished in his white uniform with silver facings. His hair (his own, not a wig—I like that) was brushed back from his forehead and nicely powdered. His nose was perhaps too long, but gracefully so. His arched eyebrows gave him an intelligent, questioning look. His eyes were dark, and quite deep set.
    I dropped a curtsy all the way down to the ground (displaying my bosom to good effect, I confess) and on rising offered my hand as Father had taught me, delicately, with my little finger slightly raised. I