The Barbed Crown (17 page)
My wife and I discovered each other awake and made restless, rather desperate love in the middle of the night, grateful that our royalist lodger was absent. The tension gave our congress sweet urgency, but afterward we snuggled, Astiza shivering slightly from anticipation. I’ve felt such tension only before battle, a crucial card game, shooting matches, or boyhood athletic contests.
We groggily rose before dawn, our apartment cold and our souls restless. I opened the kitchen window and held my palm outside. Snowflakes stuck.
“Be sure to dress warmly. Whether things go badly or well, we’ll likely flee Paris.”
“The streets will be choked,” Astiza said.
“All the easier to melt into the crowds, and why my proposed escape makes sense. I’ve hidden rifle, powder, food, and clothing, experienced adventurer that I am. I’m trying to think ahead for once.”
“What about Catherine?”
“What about her?”
“Will she also flee with us?”
I guiltily remembered our recent encounter. “If she’s willing. I don’t want her to lose her nerve by plotting escape, but if she succeeds, we owe her what help we can. It also means she won’t be captured and betray us under torture.”
“I’d prefer she seek shelter with royalists here in Paris. She’s been a trial.”
“Agreed. But if we do leave France together, she’ll go her own way in London.” I didn’t know if this was true, but it was my intention.
Astiza nodded curtly, the good soldier. “Then we should take a cloak for her, just in case. Boots as well.”
“We can leave a bundle stashed somewhere. Can you pick what a woman would take? I’ll finish dressing Harry.”
Ten minutes later my son was ready, but my wife was not. When Astiza emerged from Catherine’s chamber, she looked troubled.
“You have her things?”
“Most are missing.”
“She’d take some to the Tuileries if staying overnight. And maybe she has her own plan for fleeing. She’s smart in her own haughty way.”
“It would be helpful if she confided such smartness.”
“We didn’t tell her all our preparations, either.”
“We’re still not a company.” She bit her lip.
“Yet inextricable allies. Without Catherine, our scheme falls apart. And she can’t accomplish anything unless we deliver the Crown of Thorns.”
“I don’t trust her.”
“Women never trust women.”
She glanced at our grimy windows and the gray winter light, listening to thudding guns like heralding thunder. Napoleon, the new Prometheus. “A storm is coming.” She didn’t mean the weather, but something vast and far off.
It was the worst time to panic. “No, it’s getting light. We’re going to help France regain its sanity, Astiza, and be the heralds of a new dawn.”
T
he Cathedral of Notre Dame was a brisk mile from our apartment. As we hurried and daylight grew, the snow stopped and clouds began to lift. Eight months had passed since Catherine and I had first landed on the Channel coast, and the entire world seemed to have changed. All of Paris was congregating either on the Île de la Cité, where the church was located, or along the avenues on the Right Bank where the coronation coaches would roll in procession from the Tuileries. The massive, drifting crowds reminded me of migrating buffalo I’d seen in America.
The wind bit, but the mood was festive and preparations precise. Vendors were already selling sausages and mulled wine. Cartloads of river sand had been spread for traction. Regiments of soldiers rose before dawn and marched to line the procession route three ranks deep. Ten thousand cavalry would sandwich the carriages of the elite. Power was to be confirmed by both might and God, and Bonaparte and his ministers had done all they could to avoid humiliation. It remained to us to turn coronation into fiasco.
I carried the Crown of Thorns in a bag on my shoulder, clasped with the imperial seal that would allow the baggage inside Notre Dame. Harry walked between us, scuffing happily at the light snow. He had his bag of marbles in his pocket. I knew he was likely leaving his toys behind, and those would be slight consolation.
I brooded. Would Catherine succeed? French police had followed us from the beginning. Napoleon manipulated us. I’m always nervous when things are going well.
“Whatever happens, we must stay together,” I said.
Astiza squeezed my hand.
The new plazas created by demolition of the old medieval houses were already crowded—the ordinary hoping for glimpses of the famous, and the elite of Napoleonic France grumbling good-naturedly as they were forced into snaking lines to show tickets. The weather-stained cathedral was in sad disrepair. Many of its statues had been “beheaded” during the revolution because rioting peasants had mistaken saintly figures for royalty and took hammers to them in a fit of patriotic vandalism. Political fanatics had subsequently turned Notre Dame into an atheistic “Temple of Reason,” a classical temple temporarily displacing the altar. Later the church served as a food warehouse. Now it was a cathedral again, but one temporarily paneled and painted on the outside with symbols of temporal glory.
The coronation committees had erected a false Gothic facade at the front of the church, covering real stones with fake ones that framed painted scenes of French heroes and battles. The temporary gallery and tent along its north side were used to muster dignitaries and keep the mob at bay. Long pennant flags flew from poles like a medieval tournament, and atop the Gothic towers of the cathedral itself, imperial banners the size of mainsails hung like gargantuan proclamations. A wooden “Roman temple” had been erected to sell snacks and souvenirs; a carousel turned in circles to amuse children; and velvet-clothed pages threaded through the crowds to give away tens of thousands of bronze coronation medallions engraved with images of Napoleon and Josephine.
Skepticism was forbidden. The playwright Marie-Joseph Chenier had opened a play called
Cyrus
in the Opéra-Comique, but when the actors urged tyrants to be democratic, the performances were promptly shut down.
Even such attempted criticism was rare. Everyone who was anyone wanted to watch the crowning. Women in fashionably low-cut dresses shivered as they shuffled forward, pulling furs onto their shoulders but not quite ready to cover their décolletage. A lucky few dismounted from coaches near the Palais de Justice just as magistrates were marching from the Court of Cassation. The judges gave ladies shelter from the chill with their flame-colored togas, scurrying for Notre Dame like scarlet birds with chicks under one wing.
Commoners buzzed like an agitated hive. People sensed that history had turned a page and something glorious and terrible was about to be commemorated. They would tell their neighbors, in the momentous years to come, that they’d witnessed the beginning. Hawkers sold coffee and rolls. Enterprising merchants nearby charged two francs to use their privies. The most tireless prostitutes assembled, at nine in the morning under paper Chinese lanterns strung along an arcade, to advertise their wares. Farmers from the countryside gawked.
We pushed to the temporary reception tent at the rear of the church, remembering from Catherine that acting important is nearly the equivalent of being so. There was confusion as sentries denied entry to some and pulled others forward, so I took my boy on my shoulders, wife by the arm, and squirted our way to the front. Catherine was waiting, a good sign, and waved frantically from inside. When a sentry moved to block us, she intercepted and spoke sharply. He obeyed because the comtesse wore an artificial flower dyed the French tricolor to signify her authority. She was also wearing a white silk dress I’d never seen before, making her as dazzling as a marble statue. Did the imperial household provide the gown? She ushered us into the circular tent. When she grabbed to take the bag with the crown, I found myself clutching for a moment. A guard was approaching, and Catherine tugged impatiently, her eyes flashing warning. I let it go, and she swept it up to reveal the imperial seal. It warded off the curious gendarme.
“I have only moments,” she said breathlessly. “Tell me I won’t be damned.”
“Only if you fail. Can you get access to the crowns?”
“Presence is everything. I act important, and thus I am.”
“You’d make a fine marshal for Napoleon.”
“For the true monarchy, once it’s restored.” She leaned closer. “Did you pack the pistol as I asked?”
“Loaded and primed.”
“We shouldn’t need it but must brace for the worst. Now, I’ve tried to improve your seating—” She looked over my shoulder to someone behind me, eyes widening. “Oh!”
A hand gripped my shoulder, tight as a vise. I turned. It was the policeman Pasques, a black hangman in a sea of peacocks. Had we been caught?
No, he was only a messenger again. “The Grand Chamberlain Talleyrand requests your company, Monsieur Gage.”
“Talleyrand? Today?”
“It makes no sense to me, either. Come this way, to avoid the line.”
People gave my family a glance of both resentment and respect as Pasques bulled us into the church. I was apprehensive. Half the princes of Germany were here, and Talleyrand had time to see me? Pasques steered us through the throng like a barge cracking ice, and we stopped by a pillar. It was still cold enough that we could see our breath. The cathedral echoed from the theater buzz of assembling spectators and tuning instruments. The timber cribbing of temporary spectator stands broke the usual soaring sightlines of Notre Dame.
“Your wife must wait for you in the choir behind the thrones,” Pasques said. He frowned. “You brought your little boy?”
“We avoid separation. They both must stay with me.”
“Not to see the Grand Chamberlain. They can wait to take their seats with you together when we return. You’ve been moved next to great dignitaries.” He shook his head.
“I fear we’ll be separated in this throng.”
“I’ll watch them,” Catherine said, pulling Astiza from my grasp. “Don’t make a fuss that calls attention.” Her eyes signaled warning.
I nodded. “Papa will be back in a moment,” I told Harry.
“The Grand Chamberlain is waiting at a bell tower,” Pasques said. He cocked his head. “Why does everyone want to talk with you, American?”
“I suppose I’m affable.”
Catherine pulled Astiza and Horus into the shadows. We’d been in Notre Dame only moments and already were altering our plan. Astiza looked worried.
“Talleyrand is impatient,” the policeman said.
“As am I.” A quick meeting, and then reunion. “Lead on,” I told Pasques.
We passed from behind the spectator stands to the central nave. Notre Dame was almost unrecognizable. A broad green carpet covered the stone floor, overlain by a narrow blue one embroidered with Napoleon’s golden bees. To each side, in tiers between the nave’s pillars, temporary viewing stands narrowed the church’s width, giving the ceremony crowded intimacy. Each bank of benches was backlit by stained-glass windows and curtained at the base by fabric panels painted rose and gold. Banners, flags, and white tapestries hung everywhere, turning Gothic grandeur into operatic riot, the cathedral as overwrought as a bordello. And why not? Life today is performed as if onstage: desperate conspiracies, impassioned trysts, dramatic speeches, and doomed charges. Dignity has disappeared. The church pews were gone, confessionals hidden, and the regular altar and its gate obscured.
Pope Pius, I guessed, would not be pleased.
In the transept of the cathedral’s center, where the side arms join the main axis, a triumphal arch had been built out of wood. Steep steps led up to twin thrones canopied with scarlet. To one side was a temporary elevated altar with a throne for the pope.
If the hangings were grand, people’s costumes were grander. Ushers wore black and green; pages purple. A choir the size of a regiment was in pious white, and a full orchestra in black glittered with polished brass instruments and lacquered violins. Officers among the assembling spectators wore the distinctive uniforms of grenadiers, fusiliers, chasseurs, dragoons, voltigeurs, tirailleurs, carabiniers, hussars, cuirassiers, and the Imperial Guard. There were turbaned Mamelukes, high-ranking gendarmes, naval marines, ladies-in-waiting, jeweled duchesses, counts, abbesses, Turkish ambassadors, a Polynesian potentate, and society matrons. No doubt they’d have thrown in some vestal virgins if they could have found any in Paris. The poles of battle flags, regimental standards, and silver pikes jostled and clinked. Swords rattled. Ten thousand female throats bore diamonds that glinted like white flames. I saw foreign uniforms of yellow, pink, orange, turquoise, and ivory. I was dressed shabbily, in clothes meant for escape, and felt as conspicuous following Pasques as a fly on a wedding cake.
The policeman led me to a door giving access to the north bell tower, guarded by a quartet of grenadiers. I hesitated. Was I going to be charged with the theft of bell rope at the scene of my crime?
“Inside, American.”
No, the “limping devil” was truly waiting, his own plush coat cardinal red, his white silk sash as wide as a saddle blanket, and his silk stockings, lace cravat, and tricorne hat outdated but dignified, reflecting his affection for traditional royalist fashion. He took my cold hand with his own white-gloved one. I hesitantly half bowed, wary, curious, and calculating.
“Monsieur Gage! We’re flattered by the attendance of a representative of the United States.”
“Hardly that, Grand Chamberlain. A citizen of America, yes, a Franklin man for certain. But representative? No one from my country knows I’m here.”
His smile was shrewd. Talleyrand, like Réal and Fouché, always gave the impression of knowing all. “But consultant to the emperor! Which is what I want to discuss. These ceremonies take aeons to unfold, and Napoleon will be late getting through the narrow streets, so come up for the view. I’ve also reserved you better seats inside. The whole affair will be gaudy as a circus and longer than the opera, but well worth remembering.”
With surprising energy he stumped his way up the circular stone stairway. I followed, retracing my steps with Harry. I half expected the grand chamberlain to pause dramatically at the bells, point at a sliced rope, and accuse me of high treason. But no, we didn’t go that high; instead, we came out on the walkway and parapet between the two Gothic towers, this grand balcony putting us directly over the main doors to the church.
The view was magnificent.
Not only had the flurries stopped, the clouds had lifted like a rising curtain. Low December sun cast golden light across Paris. The Seine glinted, and rooftops sparkled from their coating of snow. There was a haze of smoke past the Louvre, where celebratory cannon batteries kept firing. Napoleon, the gunner, would have a battle just to hear their music. Church bells pealed, though not the ones directly above us yet, and the snaking admission lines twitched as people shuffled forward. What must it feel like to have hundreds of thousands standing in the cold merely to glimpse your arrival? What power! What vanity!
“Paris is extraordinary, is it not?” the grand chamberlain asked.
“I’m drawn as if by a woman.”
“The feminine beauty we see today is one of the joys of life. Do you remember my theory of the feminine and masculine cycles of history?”
“Yes. And that men and Mars are triumphant now.”
“So in autumn I seek the last leaf, and in spring the first crocus. I frequent the Louvre, Monsieur Gage, and not just to gaze upon the wonders brought back from Italy and Egypt.” The old palace, not lived in since the 1660s, had become Europe’s first public presentation of great works of art. It was usually so jammed it was tiresome. “I go for art, yes, but also for the visiting women. Sometimes I sit discreetly in a shadowy corner and watch beauty circulate around the statuary. They’re as exquisite as the pieces idealizing them. It’s a respite from negotiating the fate of nations.”
“Then we have something in common, Grand Chamberlain.”
The papal procession of coaches rolled through the square below and Pius VII emerged to walk the gallery to the waiting Cardinal Belloy. The pope looked small from this height, slightly bent, plain dressed, and yet dignified. His spiritual realm required him to deal with temporal and temperamental royals, and I suspect he saw the day’s ironies more clearly than anyone. His humility made me feel guilty about our subterfuge.
Then cheers rolled toward us like waves to a shore. In the far distance there was a glint of gold from the slowly approaching coaches of the imperial family. The hedge of infantry on each side of the parade route was a silver ribbon of bayonets, quivering as the men snapped to attention. The preceding dragoons and lancers had plumed golden helmets and bobbing spears with tricolor banners. Every home on the route seemed to have hung celebratory decoration, from tapestries to evergreen boughs. From the crowds, little flags waved like leaves in a tree.