Becoming Josephine (42 page)

Caroline jumped to her feet and followed. Once they had gone, Madame Mère, Joseph, and Louis turned their eyes to me. I alone was to blame. Every family issue, every fault of Napoléon’s stemmed from his marriage to me, their eyes said.

I met their looks with placid resolve. They would not bully me anymore. I could not be cast aside, forgotten and belittled. I would do my duty to my husband and my country, not to them.

I would be empress.

Summer faded to fall while we prepared for the coronation. Bonaparte pressured the Pope to attend, and he would, it seemed. I worked with a team of valets on clothing, banquet food, and musicians. Everything must be perfect for the historical day. In the evenings after a day of endless preparations, the imperial party studied a model of our procession made with paper dolls. No one could misstep or move out of position, lest they disrupt the entire ceremony.

The night before the coronation, snow dusted the gardens in a fluffy powder. Fitting, I thought, to begin anew in a blanket of white. But by morning, the dazzling carpet had turned to slop under driving rain. When the time came to set out for Notre Dame, the children and I rushed into the carriage to remain dry.

Onlookers gathered along the boulevards, throwing flowers despite the rain that beat their flimsy umbrellas. Crowds had traveled from afar to pay homage to my husband, the emperor.

A lightness settled over me, despite my nerves.

I would be Empress Josephine.

I smiled as much to myself as to the citizens in the street. My position would be secure—all I had worked to maintain for my family, for myself, would be safeguarded. Bonaparte had fended off his family, at last. They could not separate us.

When we reached Notre Dame, my hairdresser whisked me away to the priests’ chambers in the rear of the church. He had already applied chestnut coloring to the patches of gray the evening before. Now he threaded diamonds among the strands and affixed my golden diadem.

“Voilà,” Monsieur Justin said, tilting a silver-backed mirror this way and that.

My hair sparkled like a glittering halo. My cheeks blushed petal pink and my eyes sparked with excitement. Fit to be empress.

“It is time for the dress.”

My stomach somersaulted. My ladies-in-waiting moved around me in a tornado of hands and fabric, assisting me into a form-fitting gown with a high waist—Monsieur Isabey’s design—in white satin stitched with silver and gold thread and diamond studs. A stout lace collar jutted from my shoulders toward my chin, cupping my face.

Bonaparte, adorned in white satin, entered the chamber, followed by a crowd of servants and Monsieur LeRoy, who flitted about in a nervous frenzy.

“The family is ready,” Bonaparte said. “They’ve all gone to their stations.” He brushed my cheek with his lips.

I squeezed his hand as the crowd shuffled into the church and filled the pews.

“No time to waste, Your Imperial Highness.” Monsieur LeRoy clapped his hands and the servants brought forth the last pieces of our ensembles, scarlet velvet robes lined with ermine and embroidered with golden bees.

I stepped in front of the looking glass. My petite frame dripped in rubies and diamonds and beautiful fabrics.

“
Amore mio
, you are a vision,” Bonaparte said, eyes filled with joy. “We make history today.”

My heart skipped a beat. Empress of France, of all Europe.

“With the emperor of my heart.” I blew him a kiss.

Martial music blared, signaling the beginning of our march. My stomach buzzed as if the golden bees on my robe swarmed within.

We entered the frigid church in the slow procession we had practiced. The Bonaparte sisters took their places behind me, supporting the weight of my lengthy train. Onlookers shivered with awestruck faces. A full orchestra played. Light filtered through the towering stained glass windows, and candles glowed.

I fixed a smile upon my face and counted my steps as we moved. One at a time.

Once everyone took their places, the Pope and his cardinals began a lengthy mass. I studied the throng of familiar faces. Our ministers and supporters, family members and friends sat in silent reverence. Finally, when Pope Pius called Bonaparte forward, all eyes fixed upon my beloved husband.

The Pope raised his hands above Bonaparte’s head and anointed it with oil. “May the spirit of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, guide you and keep you. I hereby anoint thee, Napoléon Bonaparte, Emperor of France and of all her territories.” The Pope lifted the crown from its velvet pillow.

In one swift motion, Bonaparte stood and snatched the diadem from the Pope’s holy hands.

A gasp echoed in the stillness of the room.

“Emperor Bonaparte, I am thus crowned.” My husband placed the heavy circlet upon his own head. “Emperor of France, Emperor of Europe.” His voice thundered in the vast church.

I glanced at the startled faces in the crowd. Bonaparte did not seek anyone’s blessing. The service had been for show. I was not shocked at his behavior, but no one knew him as I did.

My husband inclined his head in my direction.

I began my ascent to the altar. Could they hear my heart pounding?

I moved slowly, steadily. When I took my final step, a great weight yanked me from behind. My sisters-in-law had dropped my mantle. The wretches wanted me to fall.

I struggled to regain my footing.

Bonaparte glared at his siblings with such ferocity they gathered my train at once.

I inhaled an even breath. I would not waste another thought on them on this most important day.

I knelt before God, the congregation, the Pope, and my husband.

Bonaparte lifted my own diadem and said, “I crown thee, Imperial Highness Josephine Bonaparte, Empress of France, Empress of Europe.” He lowered it to my head.

My heart leapt in exultation.

I bent over my folded hands and serenity filled me. Empress of the French, Empress of Bonaparte’s heart.

My duties did not change, though the expansion of our royal court burdened everyone, even my husband, who had demanded it.

“The finery and lavish displays demonstrate my power,” he insisted.

We sat through lengthy introductions and state affairs, Bonaparte fidgeting on his throne all the while. I thought three sets of curtsies and a kissing of his ring a bit extreme, but enforced his wishes among my ladies-in-waiting. He enjoyed their attentions.

“You’re exquisite, Mademoiselle Larouche.” He held her hand an instant too long and gazed into her eyes.

I pretended not to notice, though I would love to expel her from court. Or give him a swift kick.

My bustling salon and Bonaparte’s constant meetings consumed our days. Our evenings alone waned as Bonaparte’s time on the road increased.

I lamented of it to Hortense one afternoon while playing whist. “I feel as if he’s never here and when he is, his mind is consumed.”

“An emperor’s responsibilities must be infinite. And wearing on an empress.” Hortense sorted through her cards and placed them in her preferred order. “I worry about you, Maman
.
You will make yourself ill with your schedule. You suffer such strain and for what? The admiration of courtiers who care for nothing but rank? You should take some time away. Come with me to the springs. Your grandchildren will be thrilled to have you along. A visit to the spa will do you some good.”

The door flew open.

A round-faced cherub galloped into the room with a young nursemaid in his wake.

“Napoléon,
mon petit chou
, I thought you were napping.” Hortense frowned at her son.

He ignored her and jumped onto the settee beside me. “Grand-mère, can I play?” His chubby hands grabbed at my cards.

I laughed. “Of course,
mon amour
.” I kissed his plump cheek and sifted my fingers through his fine blond hair. “I will show you how.”

He plopped into my lap without a care and wriggled until comfortable. “I love to play.”

“Napoléon, this game is for adults.” Hortense turned to the nursemaid. “He should be napping.”

“
Oui
, madame. I beg your pardon, but he would not lie still and jumped from bed. I chased him through the halls.” She curtsied. “I apologize for interrupting your game.”

“My three-year-old angel is welcome anytime.” I planted a kiss on the crown of his head. I could not kiss him enough.

He jumbled my pile of cards, pink tongue wagging.

I laughed. “Such concentration for a little man.”

“One game and then back to bed,” Hortense said.

Little Napoléon looked at her with sorrowful blue eyes. “Only one game, Maman?”

“One.”

“How can you resist such a face?” I squeezed him again. “And a vacation would be heaven.”

Hortense and I had been absent for only a month when Monsieur Talleyrand, Bonaparte’s foreign minister, heard troubling news from the Austrian front. I returned to Paris at once.

Austria had joined the Russian forces to declare war on the empire. Bonaparte and Eugène prepared to march. I despaired at the thought of sending my son and husband into harm’s way once again.

“Surely you won’t go yourselves?” I asked.

“It will give the people hope to see their leader defeat the enemy,” Bonaparte said. “We’ll leave for Prussia in two days. Speed in battle, the element of surprise is more important than supplies or men. I’ll form an alliance with the Prussians and divide the Russian forces. This time, my little Creole, you are coming, too.”

We departed Paris straightaway. The Prussian King agreed to Bonaparte’s scheme and our armies advanced at once. I remained in Bavaria as a correspondent, receiving foreign ministers and accepting honors on my husband’s behalf. As often as possible, I left my antiquated lodging and visited the wounded in the hospitals.

I stood over a French captain who lay unmoving on his cot. His face was ashen, lips bruised, and his skull wrapped in dirty bandages. He could have been Eugène. Bile rose in my throat at the horrific thought. I accepted a cloth from a nurse and dipped it in a basin of water, then wiped the exposed skin of the soldier’s cheeks and neck.

His single uncovered eye fluttered open. “Empress Josephine? God bless you.” His voice came out as a forced whisper. “Have we defeated them?”

“Do not strain yourself, captain. You must heal. But yes, victory is imminent.” God willing.

His head rolled to the side. “
Grâce à Dieu.
Long live the emperor.”