The Last Great Dance on Earth (20 page)

Petit tugged his father’s hand. “Brother?” Louis motioned to the child to be silent.

“It doesn’t matter what the boy says,” Caroline said, gesturing to the servants to move the trunks out of her way. “She’s not listening.”

We followed Hortense into the great hall. She stood looking around at the entryway, the walls covered with tapestries. There was a chill about her; she seemed of another world.
“He
was here with me not long ago. I held him on my knees—there.” She pointed to an upholstered chair. And then she fell silent and would not speak.

Early evening, 6:20, I think—awaiting dinner.

Louis and I sat on a musty sofa in the château library, Dr. Corvisart on a cracked leather armchair opposite us. I gave Louis a look of sympathy. “You are being admirably strong.” It was true.

“At heart I weep,” Louis said with feeling. And then he recounted how it had happened: little Napoleon had recovered, but then suddenly his face turned blue and he began to have difficulty breathing. They summoned the best doctors in Holland—

“Well-respected medical practitioners, Your Majesty,” Dr. Corvisart assured me. “Your grandson had the best treatment available anywhere.”

The doctors administered leeches and a course of blistering, but they
were unable to check the disease’s progress. “At that point I sent for Dr. Corvisart,” Louis said, his voice tremulous. In desperation they even tried English Powder, a quack remedy. “It was a miracle,” Louis said. “Little Napoleon sat up in bed and asked to play Go Fish.”

I smiled through my tears. I had taught him how to play that game.

“And then he relapsed.” We waited in silence as Louis struggled to continue. “Hortense leaned over to kiss him. He said,
Bonjour, Maman,
and closed his eyes.” Louis looked at me, his cheeks glistening. “And that was it.”

I put my trembling hands to my lips in a gesture of prayer. How were we ever going to bear it?

“Hortense fell to the floor in a swoon. Her eyes were open, but she was not responding. She …” Louis stopped, overcome.

“Your Majesty, your daughter was in a state of paralysis for over six hours,” Dr. Corvisart said.

“In the morning she was able to speak, but”—Louis clasped his hands together to still the trembling—”she has yet to shed a single tear.”

“You must understand, Your Majesty, your daughter is not herself,” Dr. Corvisart said gently. “One must be patient. It’s as if she is in a walking coma.”

He recommended a voyage, a stay at a spa—to which Louis readily agreed. “Would you look after Petit?” he asked.

Oh,
yes.

[Undated]

This morning Caroline offered Petit a little cake and, without realizing what I was doing, I grabbed the sweet out of his hand. The confused child bawled.

Caroline stood looking at me steadily. “I’m … I’m sorry,” I stammered, and gave the cake back to Petit.

“Would you like one, Aunt Josephine?” Caroline asked with a baby-faced smile.

Now, on reflection, I realize that I don’t trust Caroline around Petit, don’t trust her not to try to harm the child in some way. What an evil thought! Caroline is not the monster: I am.

Sunday, May 17
—
Château de Laëken, Brussels.

This morning after Mass Hortense and I walked in silence down to the pond at the end of the park. “He threw pebbles in the water here,” she said.

I burst into sobs. “I’m sorry, it’s just that—” But I couldn’t explain, couldn’t tell her that I grieved not only for little Napoleon, but for my daughter, too.

“I am fortunate,” she said with a smile that chilled me, “for I feel nothing. Otherwise I would suffer.”

Thursday, May 21
—
Château de Laëken, Brussels.
Tears,
finally
—but oh, how painful.

Hortense and I were on our afternoon walk. I’d stopped to have a word with a neighbour. Hortense wandered off, but shortly after a cry of anguish set me running. I found her seated on a bench, writhing. “Maman, I can’t bear it!” she wept, falling into my arms. My heart was breaking for her, for the pain of her despair, yet it was with dismay that I saw that glazed look come over her once again. She pulled herself free and sat up. “Ah, that’s better,” she said. “I can’t feel anything now.”

May 14, 1807, Finckenstein

I understand your sorrow over the death of poor little Napoleon. You can imagine what I feel. I wish I were near you. You have had the good fortune never to have lost a child, but it is one of the painful realities of life. Take care of yourself and trust in my feelings for you. N.

May 22, 1807, Milan
Chère Maman,

Poor, poor Hortense, poor Louis: how they must suffer! Auguste and I clasp our little one close—our beautiful little Josephine she has been named. (At Papa’s request, Maman.) If only we could keep her from harm, forever and ever. How hard it is, becoming a parent.

Your faithful son, Eugène

June 7, 1807, Paris
Darling,

I weep for you! There is nothing more devastating than the death of a child—and such a child. If a visit would help console, please allow me the honour.

Your loyal friend, Thérèse

June 10, afternoon—Malmaison.

I broke down the moment I saw Thérèse, upsetting sweet Petit. Thérèse cheered him with a gift of a tin shovel set. “So you can play in the mud—although perhaps princes are not allowed?” she added with a worried look.

“May I, Grandmaman?” Petit asked, his big eyes filled with hope.

“Of course,” I said, stroking his fine curls. He’s been delicate since the tragic loss of his big brother, not eating well and waking often in the night. He misses his mother and father, I know. Daily we send his “letters” (scribbles) to their spa in the Pyrenees, so very far away. Far from the devastating pain of grief, I pray.

“You and Mimi,” I added, gesturing to Mimi to take the child. “Grandmaman Josephine allows mud play,” I explained to Thérèse, leading the way out the double-sash doors to the garden, “but
Maman
Hortense does not.” And then I started to weep again, remembering how little Napoleon had loved to play in the puddles. Thérèse didn’t say a word, just took my arm. We walked in the garden thus while I blubbered like a fool. “Forgive me!”

Thérèse led me to a bench by the pond where we sat for a moment in silence, watching the two black swans glide over the surface of the water. In the distance we could see the gazelles grazing in a meadow, the baby gazelle bounding about. “And how is the Emperor taking it?” Thérèse asked.

“He writes me to have courage, but I’m told he weeps.” Poor Bonaparte. He rarely broke down, especially in front of his men. “He loved that child so much.”

“Little Napoleon was his chosen heir.”

“That’s just it! But it feels wrong to think about
that
—about the political consequences, the personal consequences.”

“Yet how can you not?” Thérèse asked, giving me her handkerchief.

“It’s true. Since little Napoleon’s death, it seems that everyone is obsessed with one thought: what would happen if Bonaparte were to die? Who would be the heir? Heir! If I hear that word one more time, I will scream. I’m sorry,” I said, taking hold. “The concerns are just. If Bonaparte
were
to die without an heir, chaos would reign. There would be civil war, no doubt, over who would take his place.”

“Princess Caroline is saying her husband should be the one.”

“To rule?” A look gave away my thoughts.

“Joachim would make a good queen,” Thérèse said, letting out a throaty laugh.

“And Caroline a good king, for that matter,” I said ruefully, drying my cheeks, my eyes.

“That girl
really
wants a crown.”

“I don’t know why anyone would.”

“Oh, my poor sad Empress,” Thérèse said, squeezing my hand.

“But Empress for how long, Thérèse?” I told her about Caroline’s reader, about the boy she had given birth to—Bonaparte’s child. “Now that Bonaparte knows he can father a child, what’s to keep him from divorcing me and marrying a woman who can give him a son? Especially
now
—with everyone so desperate for an heir.”

Thérèse smiled. “I just happened to have heard something that may be a cure for the vapours.”

What she told me astonishes me yet: that Joachim had been heard to brag that Caroline’s reader had been bored by the Emperor’s attentions, but had been very pleased with
his.
“Joachim may be the child’s father?” And not Bonaparte?

“Murat would seem to have it so.”

“Does Caroline know he was ‘visiting’ her reader, do you think?”

“My guess is she not only knew about it, she set it up.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Think about it: they wanted the girl to get in a certain way.”

Of course: it made perfect diabolical sense. “So Joachim seduced the girl in order to make her pregnant?” In order to fool Bonaparte into thinking
he
could father a child. In order to induce Bonaparte to divorce
me.

“I’d make sure the Emperor learned of this, if I were you,” Thérèse said.

“Of course,” I said, overwhelmed with sensation: relief certainly, but indignation, too, for Bonaparte’s sake, at having been so ill-used.

Mon amie, by the time you read this letter, peace will have been signed and Jérôme will be King of Westphalia. I love you and hope to learn that you are happy and gay. N.

July 12, Sunday.

“Jérôme
is going to be a king?” Caroline could not conceal her rage.

“Is
a king,” I corrected her, going through the papers on my escritoire. I didn’t have time for one of Caroline’s tantrums, frankly. Bonaparte had written with instructions that the celebrations of the peace were to be lavish, “a show of Oriental splendour.” Even Chastulé had taken to her bed, overcome with all that had to be attended to: the celebrations of the peace, Jérôme and Princess Catherine of Württemberg’s wedding, to be followed by two months of festivities at Fontainebleau. Every sovereign of Europe would be attending. Where were we going to put them all?

Caroline stomped her foot. “Jérôme has a crown, Napoleon has a crown, Joseph has a crown, Louis has a crown. Even Elisa has a stupid little crown. Everyone has a crown but
me!”

Saturday, July 25, morning, very hot.

“Ah, crowns,” Fouché said, “it seems that there can never be enough.”

Oh, I am weary, so weary of conflict, of intrigue and doubt. If only Bonaparte would return. Last night I sprinkled my covering sheet with the lemon scent he uses. It has been ten months.

July 27, Monday.

At five this morning I was awoken by a commotion in the courtyard. Mimi came rushing in. “It’s the
Emperor!”

Oh, mon Dieu. I jumped out of bed. “Mimi, hurry, fetch my best nightdress,” I said, splashing water on my face. “And my new lace bonnet.” I sat down at my toilette table. I looked old. There wasn’t time (nor enough light) to apply a proper face.

“Is this the one you meant?” Mimi said, panting, for the wardrobe is in the attic and the stairs are steep. She held out a lovely nightdress and cap.

“Oh no. I mean, it’s gorgeous—but it’s English muslin. Don’t worry,” I assured her, taking the bonnet and slipping it over my dishevelled hair. “I’ll wrap myself in a shawl.” I dusted my nose with rice flour. “The one I wore last night—the rose one.” A good colour in the morning light.

“I saw it in the antechamber,” Mimi said, running out the door and
almost immediately returning with it. I dabbed on the lavender water Bonaparte favoured (lightly—not too much), threw the shawl around my shoulders, took one last anxious look in the long glass (not too bad: the effect was rumpled but slightly erotic), slipped into my slippers (a new gold-embroidered pair—perfect) and rushed out the door.

I stood at the entry, taking in the scene: five Imperial carriages thick with dust, grooms and postillions unharnessing the steaming horses, servants struggling under the weight of huge trunks. Jérôme, Joachim, Duroc … everyone—but where was Bonaparte? And then I heard a man yell, “I already told you. I do not repeat myself.”

Was it Bonaparte? It sounded like him, yet the voice was harsh.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, appearing behind the Imperial coach. I saw old Gontier hobbling toward the stable with a miserable look on his face.

“Oh, Bonaparte.” I said, embracing him. Tears welled up, in spite of myself. It had been a very difficult ten months without him, and now that it was over, I felt my courage weakening.

“Why are you crying?” he said, standing back.

“I’m so happy to see you.” I was confused, in truth. Bonaparte’s voice was different, as was his manner. This man was neither husband nor friend nor lover.
“Sire,”
I added, with an apologetic smile. It is often difficult after a long separation, I reminded myself. It takes time to get to know one another once again.

“Your Majesty?” Clari’s husband, Monsieur Rémusat, was accompanied by four pages. In spite of the hour they were all in full livery. “I am informed that you wish to speak to me.” He and the four pages bowed in unison, their plumed hats crushed against their hearts. (Clearly, they’d been rehearsing.)

“Yes, fire that old man. I don’t want to see his face again.” And with that Bonaparte marched into the château, leaving me on the steps.

Monsieur Rémusat offered me his arm. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty,” he whispered. “According to the Code, first the Emperor returns, and
then,
a few days later, the husband.”

“Of course,” I said, smiling at his gentle humour. Strangely, I felt even
lonelier than before, now that Bonaparte was back. “But don’t fire Gontier,” I told him as we followed Bonaparte into the château. “Or rather,” I added quickly, seeing the look of consternation on Monsieur Rémusat’s face, “assure Monsieur Gontier that he will be reinstated—when the
husband
returns, that is.”

Wednesday.

Not long ago the Governor of Paris stormed out of Bonaparte’s cabinet, and, shortly after, Joachim was announced.

Clari leaned forward over her embroidery hoop. “Do you suppose the Emperor has found out about Governor Junot and …?”

Junot and
Caroline,
she meant.

“I wonder if the Emperor also knows about all those other men his sister has been receiving,” Chastulé whispered. “What other men?”

“You don’t know, Your Majesty?” Clari asked. “Princess Caroline lured the Austrian ambassador into her bedchamber, which she’d strewn with rose petals I’ve been told.”

Rose petals! Caroline had come out to Malmaison not long ago asking me for sacks of them—for a tincture she was making, she’d told me. (Some tincture.)

“Ha! As well as Talleyrand—”

“That’s impossible,” Clari objected, flushing. (I suspect she’s sweet on the dour Minister of Foreign Affairs.)

“—and
the Minister of Police,” Chastulé went on. Fouché? “Now
that’s
impossible,” I said.

“Everyone’s calling Prince Murat Prince Cuckold,” Mademoiselle Avrillion joined in, looking up from mending one of my petticoats.

“But it doesn’t seem to bother him. I was hoping for a duel, at least,” Chastulé said.

“That’s because Princess Caroline told him that she does it for
him,”
Clari confided.

“That’s a good one,” Chastulé said. “I’ll remember it the next time my husband catches a lover in my bed.”

“To seek advantage, she told him.”

“Caroline told Joachim that?” I could understand the advantages Fouché, Talleyrand and the Austrian ambassador might have to offer—but Junot? “I don’t understand how the Governor of Paris could—”

“He commands the troops in the city, doesn’t he?” Mademoiselle Avrillion asked.

“Ha! You never know when a cannon or two might come in handy.”

August 15
—
Saint Napoleon’s
Day.

As I write this, fire-rockets flare, lighting up the night. Paris has given itself over to revelry: tournaments, plays, concerts, illuminations and ballets. Everywhere there is some kind of festivity in celebration of Saint Napoleon’s Day—in celebration of Napoleon, Emperor and peacemaker.

Bonaparte and I watched the celebrations from the Tuileries balcony. The crowd cheered to see their hero, Napoleon the Great.

Napoleon the Unapproachable. He takes everything in with a frown. He is not a happy man—and I, certainly, am
not
a happy woman. It’s just as well I’m so desperately busy preparing for Jérôme’s wedding festivities, the arrival of a royal bride.

Sunday, August
23—
Tuileries.

This morning Jérôme and (buxom) Princess Catherine were married in the Gallery of Diana in the presence of the entire court (eight hundred now). Jérôme looked dazzling in his suit of white satin embroidered in gold. We are in a frenzy of forced gaiety.

August
27,
11:20 P.M.
—
the family drawing room, Saint-Cloud.

Mimi came to fetch me during the second act of
Cinna.
She signalled me from the door. “I’m wanted about something,” I whispered to Bonaparte, and slipped away.

“Hortense is back,” Mimi said, her hands crossed over her heart.

“Here? Now!” I followed Mimi out of the theatre and through the orangerie to the château.

Hortense laid her head on my shoulder as if weary, as if she needed a mother’s shoulder to rest on. “I’m better, Maman,” she said.

“I can see that,” I said—and it
was
true. She spoke from her heart.

“Have I interrupted something?” she asked, looking out at the courtyard, crowded with equipages.

“Cinna
is being performed. I’ll send for Bonaparte.”

“No, wait, Maman. That’s Papa’s favourite play. There will be plenty of time.”

“Shall I go get Petit?” Mimi suggested with a grin.

“He’s up?” Hortense sounded hopeful.

“I’ll wake him,” Mimi said. “He’s been talking about his maman every day.”

“His maman who is looking well,” I told my daughter.

“It was a good trip,” she said, caressing my cheek—as if I were
her
child. “I’ve been writing songs.” She paused, raising her eyes. “For
him.”

Him.
Little Napoleon. As if his spirit hovered. “Petit has been wonderful. I have so many stories to tell you. He’s the sweetest child.” But frail and fearful of late, often waking in the night. “Ah, he’s up,” I said, on hearing the child’s sleepy chatter.