Free True Pleasures by Lucinda Holdforth

was unmoved by her husband’s long-distance ardor: she was preoccupied by a passionate affair with a handsome young officer. Napoleon was a hero to France, but just a clumsy suitor to his wife. As we turn to depart, I marvel at Josephine’s careless power.
    Rachel and I walk in single file along rue de la Victoire, crossing the street by which we entered. Ahead of me I see the sign of a little café, Café Chantereine. It’s a reference to this street’s original name. I nod and shrug: well, at least we came to the right street, even if there was nothing here. As I turn to suggest to Rachel that we stop at Café Chantereine for a commemorative coffee, my raised umbrella frames another sign still further along the road, a dirty old wooden shingle. Hôtel de Beauharnais, it reads.
    On an impulse, I lead Rachel out of the rain and into the narrow dark hotel foyer. It’s the grimy boarding house of a thousand down-at-the-heel travel tales. At the front desk to our left, a woman is sitting with a phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Engrossed in her conversation, she takes no notice of us, assuming, I suppose, that we are some of her budget residents.
    But as our eyes adjust to the dingy surroundings, we behold a surprising sight. Opposite the landlady, framed hugely in gilt, is Josephine herself. It’s an amateur copy of her famous Imperial portrait by Gérard. Even the rough paintwork cannot diminish the luminous subject. In her gold and white gown, Josephine’s delicate face is framed by her dark curling hair. As she gazes out of the painting she is gentle and regal at the same time. The copyist’s handmay be heavy, but he or she is alert to the delicate nuances of the original painting: the set of Josephine’s mouth is tentative, even apprehensive, and her eyes are dark with dread. Josephine never wanted Napoleon to declare himself the Emperor of France because she knew what would follow. The Emperor would want to fulfil his dynastic ambitions. To do so, he would have to divorce Josephine who was by then past child-bearing age. The day Josephine became consort to an Emperor was the beginning of the end of her marriage. In this portrait, the newly crowned Empress Josephine is looking into her future, and what she sees is sadness.
    In front of Josephine’s portrait is a small table. It is covered with a lace cloth and a little cracked vase filled gently with roses, Josephine’s signature flower. The composition reflects an impulse so private, so tender, that we are quite taken aback.
    Rachel’s green eyes shine like a cat’s in the gloom; for her, this appalling wet trek around Paris has gained human interest. The Paris of the past has all at once connected with the city she lives in today.
    â€˜It’s a …’ I begin.
    â€˜I know, it’s a …’ says Rachel.
    â€˜It’s a shrine,’ we whisper with joy.
    I look closely at the tired, tough-featured woman at the front desk. She seems an unlikely devotee of the fragrant Josephine. And yet, I am sure that she is Josephine’s admirer; that she finds some rare beauty in the woman who once lived on this street.
    I would like to approach the woman, to make some connection with her and ask her about the portrait and her touching devotional gesture but she doesn’t choose to acknowledge us. She puts down the phone and instantlypicks it up again, barking weary commands in hoarse French. So we leave.
    â€˜Wow,’ sighs Rachel into the damp air.
    â€˜I know,’ I reply.
    If a vote were taken on the most popular queen in French history, Josephine might well win, for she was loving, lovable, beloved. She had a youthful spirit and a tender, wayward heart. At the age of thirty-three she captivated a hero. And through her grace as consort, she bewitched a nation. Her garden at Malmaison became an important scientific and horticultural center. She cultivated wildflowers from