In this chap­ter titled Mal­mai­son, the scene opens with the estate shim­mer­ing under the French sun, its roof catch­ing the light as the Seine glides near­by. With­in this idyl­lic set­ting, Citoyenne Beauhar­nais paus­es by the gates, weary from her walk and filled with a qui­et cyn­i­cism. She ques­tions whether the famed ros­es inside can match their rep­u­ta­tion or if, in a time so steeped in blood and upheaval, the guil­lo­tine would greet her instead. As the iron gates creak open, her thoughts are inter­rupt­ed by the sud­den arrival of Gen­er­al Bona­parte, recent­ly returned from Egypt. His car­riage jolts to a halt, com­mands are issued, and heads turn—among them, a qui­et observ­er with dark skin and for­eign eyes. The moment, though brief, reflects the col­li­sion of per­son­al his­to­ries and polit­i­cal tides, with Mal­mai­son as the stage for both inti­ma­cy and impe­r­i­al ambi­tion.

Inside, the house swells with life. Bona­parte greets his wife with a blend of affec­tion and com­mand, their embrace tinged with past long­ing and future dis­tance. The ros­es she once doubt­ed now bloom abun­dant­ly in the gar­dens, sym­bol­ic of the beau­ty they’ve cul­ti­vat­ed and the fragili­ty they must guard. In their qui­et exchange, words hang heavy—she speaks with a soft­ness that hints at fad­ing close­ness, while he lis­tens, already half-absorbed by thoughts of con­quest. Their mar­riage, like the estate, appears per­fect to the eye yet veils deep frac­tures. The scent of ros­es is rich, yet it can­not mask the cold­ness begin­ning to take root. As twi­light set­tles over Mal­mai­son, the estate dark­ens not just in light but in tone, sig­nal­ing the slow unrav­el­ing of affec­tion beneath ambition’s rise.

Time advances, and Mal­mai­son becomes a bea­con of ele­gance and social flour­ish. The draw­ing rooms echo with laugh­ter and con­ver­sa­tions, diplo­mats and artists brush­ing shoul­ders under can­dlelit ceil­ings. Josephine, now Empress, floats through her gath­er­ings, grace­ful and admired, yet increas­ing­ly haunt­ed by soli­tude. She smiles, yet her heart stands elsewhere—on a foot­bridge in the gar­den, where the sound of foun­tains and foot­steps offer no com­pan­ion­ship. Her role is cer­e­mo­ni­al, her pres­ence revered, yet the whis­pers of younger rivals and qui­et betray­als grow loud­er. Sur­round­ed by splen­dor, she walks alone, paus­ing often to gaze into the ros­es that bloom end­less­ly, each petal as tem­po­rary as the promis­es once whis­pered in her name. The grandeur no longer hides the dis­tance grow­ing between her­self and the man who once sought her gaze more than the crown.

Fol­low­ing her divorce, the estate trans­forms again—still fra­grant with blooms, yet veiled in melan­choly. The rooms, once alive with music and guests, fall qui­et as Josephine returns not in tri­umph, but in reflec­tion. Rain taps soft­ly on the glass, mir­ror­ing the calm despair she car­ries in her bones. She no longer hosts with grandeur but walks the grounds alone, her foot­steps hushed by the sod­den earth. The ros­es remain, tend­ed by gar­den­ers unaware that their beau­ty now serves not court­ly admi­ra­tion but silent mourn­ing. Her world, once gild­ed, is now held togeth­er by mem­o­ries and rou­tine. The house­keep­ers whis­per about debts and dis­re­pair, yet she stays, teth­ered to the home that had once sym­bol­ized her rise.

In her final days, Mal­mai­son becomes a place of retreat—no longer a stage but a sanc­tu­ary. She walks its cor­ri­dors slow­ly, clutch­ing a shawl, her face pale beneath the morn­ing sun. The per­fume she once wore lingers faint­ly in the air, mix­ing with the scent of damp leaves and fad­ing blooms. She watch­es clouds drift above the gar­den, their move­ment steady and untrou­bled, a qui­et con­trast to her own rest­less thoughts. She thinks of youth, of love, of Napoleon’s eyes when they first met, now gone as sure­ly as the sum­mer air. Though draped in lux­u­ry, she feels only the cold of time slip­ping by. Mal­mai­son, dressed in ros­es and echoes, offers no answers, only qui­et.

The chap­ter ends as the day does, with shad­ows length­en­ing across the grounds and clouds sail­ing over­head. These clouds, indif­fer­ent to titles and sor­row, drift with the calm assur­ance of nature’s rhythm—eternal, patient, untouched by power’s decay. Though her heart grew heavy and her days were num­bered, Josephine’s gar­den con­tin­ues to bloom. Mal­mai­son stands not as a mon­u­ment to vic­to­ry, but as a mir­ror of life’s imper­ma­nence, where beau­ty remains even when every­thing else has changed.