day.
But then the door was opened by a mulatto woman wearing a bright red headcloth. She stared at him with narrowed eyes.
‘Sir?’
‘Is Madame Beauharnais at home?’
‘She is.’ The woman’s voice had a peculiar sing-song lilt to it that Napoleon could not place.‘Who may I say is calling for her?’
‘General Bonaparte.’ Napoleon tilted his head back as he announced himself.
‘General, you say?’The woman looked at him with an amused expression. ‘Please wait in here, General, and I’ll see if Madame will receive you.’
He was ushered to a low couch in the hall, just to the side of the door. There were two more seats against the opposite wall and Napoleon realised with a sinking feeling that Josephine must be in the habit of receiving many visitors. The light slap of bare feet on the staircase at the end of the hall drew his attention and he turned to see a young girl hurrying down the stairs towards him. Josephine appeared behind her and called out, ‘Hortense! Back up here right now. I must comb your hair before you go out.’
‘But Mother, I want to see the hero!’
Josephine looked past her daughter and flushed as she saw Napoleon. ‘I’m so sorry. Please bear with me a moment.’
‘Of course.’ Napoleon could not help smiling. ‘It seems you have a mutiny to suppress.’
Josephine raised her eyes. ‘If you only knew. Now then, Hortense, back to your room.’
Her daughter took a last look at the visitor and trotted back up the stairs. Josephine took her hand firmly and nodded towards the couches. ‘Please take a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
Once she had gone Napoleon waited in the hall, noting the faded curtains and worn thread of the rugs on the cracked tiles of the floor, clear signs of the declining fortunes of the Beauharnais family.At length the faint sounds of the girl’s excited chatter faded and a door closed somewhere at the back of the house. A moment later he heard footsteps descending the stairs and looked up.
Josephine was wearing a silk gown, and looked to have little on beneath it from the way it clung to the curves of her body. Her hair had been carefully pinned back. Napoleon had to swallow before he could return the greeting she called out to him.
‘So, my general has come to see me after all.’ Her lips parted in a smile. ‘I had feared we had been forgotten amid the public clamour for your attention.’
‘I promised to bring your husband’s sword, and here it is.’ He offered the sword to Josephine. Her gaze passed over the scabbard and then she tenderly lifted it and held it to her chest.
‘My thanks, General.You have no idea how much this simple blade means to me, to my family. I shall be for ever in your debt.’
There was an awkward silence before Napoleon coughed. ‘Well, I suppose I had better take my leave.’
‘Oh . . .’ Her smile faded.
‘Unless—’
‘Please take some refreshment with me,’ Josephine gushed. ‘I mean, if you can spare me the time.’
Napoleon nodded. ‘I will, thank you.’
Josephine glanced at the sword, looked round and then quickly lowered it, with a clatter, on to a marble- topped side table.Then she thrust open a door into a small, sparsely furnished parlour. ‘In here, if you please.’
Napoleon entered the room and crossed to one of the pair of softly upholstered two-seater couches and eased himself down. It was even softer than it looked and he sank into the cushions. Josephine turned to face down the hall and called out, ‘Hesther! Coffee in the small parlour.’
Then she entered the room and closed the door behind her, before crossing to the same couch as her guest and taking the spare cushion, so that their thighs were almost touching.
She looked at him with a concerned expression. ‘General, are you quite well?’
‘Yes. Fine. Why?’
‘It’s just that you look a little feverish.’
‘I’m very well, thank you. It’s warm in here.’
‘So? That must be it.’ She patted his knee. ‘No need for me to worry then.’
He shook his head and forced a smile; then, aware that his gaze was lingering on her body for longer than was seemly, he glanced away, around the room, and saw a miniature portrait in a frame on the mantelpiece. He stood up and approached it.
‘Isn’t that Paul Barras?’
‘Yes. He’s a good friend of mine.’
‘I thought I recognised the face,’ Napoleon responded. In truth the miniature flattered Barras. ‘Your friend, you say?’
‘Paul has been good to me. Since my husband was executed, he has been my gallant protector. It was Barras who returned most of the property that was confiscated after Alexandre’s death. I owe him a lot. And now he owes you far more, it seems.’
‘Nonsense. I was just doing my duty.’
‘Of course. But that does not change the fact that without your intervention it was more than likely that Paul would have lost his head.’
Napoleon shrugged.
The door opened and Hesther entered the room with a silver tray bearing two steaming cups of coffee. She set the tray down on a side table and left the room. Josephine patted the cushion next to her.
‘Come. Sit down and have your coffee. I have it made strong and sweetened with two spoons of sugar. Black as the devil and sweet as a stolen kiss, as they say in Martinique. I hope you like it.’
Easing his back into the cushions, Napoleon took the proffered cup and cautiously sipped the dark contents. It was hot, but not too hot, and the flavour was surprisingly smooth and pleasing.
‘It’s good.Very good.’
Josephine smiled. ‘I’m so pleased you like it. I think we shall discover that we have a great deal more in common in the future . . .’
As autumn gave way to winter Napoleon found as much time as he could to see the woman who had such a hold over his emotions and his desire. A few days after he had delivered the sword he was invited to dinner and arrived to discover that he was the only guest. The meal was a fascinating example of a cuisine she called Creole, far more spicy and exotic than the fare Napoleon normally allowed himself. They dined by the light of a handful of candles and a small fire in the grate and the conversation flowed as freely as the hands of the clock standing in the corner, which seemed to Napoleon to fly round the hours until it was past midnight. Napoleon called for his carriage, and as they stood on the short flight of steps outside her house Josephine suddenly raised her hands to his shoulders and gently drew his face towards hers for a kiss.
As their lips touched Napoleon felt a warm quiver of delight ripple through his breast. At first he dared not move his lips too insistently, but as she pressed hers against his mouth his lungs filled with her scent and the aroma of her hair and body. He felt her soft body against his and gave in to his passion for this bewitching woman, reaching his hands round to the small of her back and pulling her into his embrace. Then he felt her tongue, softy searching between his lips, and he closed his eyes, knowing that nothing had ever been more perfect than this moment, nor ever would be.
As their lips parted, he nuzzled her cheek, then her neck, and whispered into her ear, ‘Josephine . . . my love.’
‘No more Madame Beauharnais?’ she teased him with a whisper.
‘You are Josephine now. My Josephine.’
‘I like that.’ She kissed him again, and murmured, ‘Don’t leave now. Stay until morning . . .’
In November, the rest of Napoleon’s family arrived in Paris. He had sent word of his success to his mother, Letizia, at the house she had been renting near Marseilles. She was still bitter at having lost her home and possessions when the family had been forced to flee from Corsica two years earlier. Napoleon and his brothers, who
