The Last Great Dance on Earth (19 page)

I’m praying that Eugène will get here soon. Until the vows are spoken, I won’t be able to sleep.

January
7,
Munich—snowing again.

Auguste has “miraculously” recovered, but is now claiming a sprained ankle. The wedding will have to be postponed, we were told yet again—until after the Emperor leaves for Paris, her stepmother said.

“They’re stalling,” Chastulé said. “Once the Emperor is out of Munich, they’ll back out.”

Bonaparte gave his “assurance” that he’ll stay in Munich until the young couple is wed,
whenever
that may be.

Checkmate.

[Undated]

Now I am ill.

January 10, Friday morning.

I was woken by my husband. “I have a surprise for you,” he said, grinning mischievously. I
screeched!
In the door I saw Eugène. “Grand Dieu, at
last
you’Ve arrived.” I clasped his hands, kissed him. “You look as if you’ve been on a horse for a week.” He hadn’t shaved and his hair was uncombed. “You’ve grown a moustache?” It looks horrible on him!’

“You don’t like it?” he asked, pulling on one point.

“Sweetheart, you are the handsomest prince in all of Europe, but that moustache will have to go. Bonaparte, send someone for the barber. We’ll have to get Eugène cleaned up before we introduce him to Princess Auguste,” I said, squeezing my son’s hand, my heart in a flutter.

Eugène looked at Bonaparte and then back at me.

“What does that look mean?” Slowly it dawned on me. “Bonaparte, you didn’t!”

“It was fine, Maman, truly.”

“Bonaparte, you took Eugène to meet Princess Auguste—
already?
Without telling me?” I was furious with them both.

“You haven’t been well, Josephine. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Well, now I’m really sick.” All our plans were ruined—and all because of an ugly moustache! “How
could you?
Just look at him. He’s a
mess.”

Eugène handed me a handkerchief. “It’s all right, Maman,” he said, laughing.

“Your son arrived at ten this morning, precisely when he said he would.” Bonaparte gave Eugène an approving nod. “I took him directly to King Max—nothing formal, just a family affair, or so I had to assure him.”

“I
was
a bit nervous, I admit.”

“Actually, I had to pull him along.” Bonaparte rocked on his heels in front of the fire.

“And so …? How did it go? What happened!”

“King Max commanded his daughter to enter,” Bonaparte explained. “She did, but just stood staring at the floor. I think she was even trembling.”

“Auguste didn’t expect to be introduced like that, without any warning,” Eugène said.

“Go on, Bonaparte,” I said slowly. There was something in my son’s voice … a manly gentleness, a protective caring.
Auguste,
he said.

“That’s pretty much it. We parents left the room so that they could be alone together.”

“And?” My hands over my mouth like a child.

“She was upset, Maman. She told me she’d only agreed to marry me for the sake of her father.” Oh no! So it hadn’t gone well.

“I told her that if she really was against the marriage, I would do everything in my power to prevent it.”

“Eugène, you didn’t!” I looked at Bonaparte, alarmed. Had my son no idea how important this was?

Bonaparte grinned. “I don’t think we need to worry, Josephine. When Eugène and the Princess came out of the room, they were holding hands.”

“She’s …
pleased
with you, Eugène?” My son smiled shyly. “I think we’re in love, Maman.” Bonaparte reached over and tugged a lock of Eugene’s hair. “The charmer.”

January 12, a beautiful Sunday.

This afternoon, in a quiet ceremony, Bonaparte adopted Eugène as his son and designated him heir to the throne of Italy. He embraced Eugène with love in his eyes. The look in Caroline’s eyes was of another sort.

Monday.

“Caroline is too ill to come,” Joachim told Bonaparte, his chin buried in a ruff of artificial pink lace. “She sends her regrets.”

Bonaparte looked up from cleaning his fingernails with a coral toothpick. “Ill with bile, I venture.”

“Ill with good reason.”

I glanced from Joachim to Bonaparte, not a little concerned. Now was not the time for a brouhaha. In two hours the contract was to be signed, followed by the civil wedding ceremony.

Bonaparte frowned, methodically tucking the toothpick into its gold case. “And what might that
good
reason be?”

“These royal fops scorn us.” Joachim spat into a spittoon.

“What do I care what they think? You are jealous, face it. Eugène’s children will have the blood of Charlemagne in their veins. They are not even born and their future is writ large on the pages of history. And you say this is a bad thing? I see it as a great victory—equal to the victory at Austerlitz.”

In fury, Joachim knocked a vase over with his sword on his way out. “You see, Josephine?” Bonaparte said, picking up the book he had been reading. “Our people don’t even know how to walk properly.”

January 14.

At seven this evening in the Royal Chapel, Eugène was married to Princess Auguste-Amélie of Bavaria. The young couple could not take their eyes off each other. We bask in the glow of this miraculous love.

As is the royal custom (we’ve learned), Bonaparte and I saw the newly-wed couple to the door of their suite. “So,” said Bonaparte, clearing his throat. “I guess this is it.” He grasped Eugène’s hand and gave it a mighty shake.

I embraced my new daughter-in-law. “I can’t tell you how happy I am.”
Truly.

Auguste looked up at Eugène and slipped her hand into his. “Well, I guess this is it,” Eugène said, repeating Bonaparte’s words.

I kissed them both (a blessing) and took Bonaparte’s arm, tugging him away. We meandered down the wide marble halls arm in arm, the portraits of centuries looking down upon us.

January
27,
1806
—
Paris, at last.

Tears sprang into my eyes when I saw Hortense. “Are you not eating?” I exclaimed, embracing her. She is so gaunt.

“I am fine, Maman,” she assured me. “Now, tell me
everything.”

With pleasure I described how wonderful Auguste is, Eugène’s happiness, how much in love they are. “If only I could have been there,” Hortense said wistfully. “Louis would not allow me to go.”

“No doubt he was concerned about the rough roads, especially in this season.” Especially considering her health.

We talked for a time of this and of that—of the boys, Louis’s latest (bizarre) treatments,
^*
a song she was composing. I described the curious fashions worn in Munich, the elaborate royal rituals we’d observed there. I told her that the new furniture Messieurs Fontaine and Percier had designed for my suite at the Tuileries was hideous, but that I was pleased with the chambermaid my hairdresser Duplan had recommended. Hortense had been using Duplan herself, she said—did I mind if he dressed her hair on Wednesday?

“Are you and Louis planning to go see Talma play Manlius that night?” I asked.

But before she could answer, we were diverted by the sound of the
children outside the open door. Little Napoleon ran into my arms. “I can count, Grandmaman.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said, covering his cheeks with kisses, counting with each one.

The baby staggered toward me and then fell onto the carpet. I held my breath, waiting for a howl. Instead he scampered at a crawl to my feet and, grasping my gown, pulled himself up. I hoisted him onto my lap, little Napoleon close beside me. “Oh, what treasures you have given us,” I told my daughter, my heart overflowing.

Wednesday, January 29.

We didn’t get to the theatre until the end of the first scene. Seeing Bonaparte, the audience cheered with such passion that the actors decided to begin the play again. We stayed to the end. Talma got a standing ovation—even the critic Geoffroy was observed to applaud.

Caroline and Joachim were there with an entourage, including a comely maid in a daring ensemble, Caroline’s new reader—whom Caroline took special pains to introduce to Bonaparte, I noticed. I’m watchful.

March
2,
Sunday.

Bonaparte made a number of announcements to the family tonight: in addition to naming Joseph King of Naples, he will add Lucca to Elisa’s domain, and will name Joachim and Caroline Duke and Duchess of Berg.

Caroline looked as if she’d eaten something sour. “Berg isn’t even a kingdom,” I heard her hiss to Joachim.

“But maybe it comes with the droit de cuissage,”
^*
he said, guffawing.

March 5.

Bonaparte has just returned from the Murats’ country estate—where he
went to hunt, he told me cheerfully, taking me into his arms. I pretended to believe his lie. He smelt of a boudoir, not a stable.

Princes Carolin builtt a litle House for her Readr. This day the Emperor was 2 hours with the Readr in it.

[Undated]

Oh, I
do
find this difficult. How do other women manage to be so accepting of a husband’s mistress? I may pretend to “be blind,” but I rage within!

April 10.

“The Kingdom of Holland has formally requested a sovereign from us,” Bonaparte informed me at dinner tonight.

This had been rumoured. Caroline expected that the crown of Holland would go to her husband.

“I’m considering Louis.” Bonaparte opened his snuff tin, but closed it without taking a pinch. “Hortense would be Queen, of course.”

“Oh?” I said, dissembling my surprise. Louis didn’t seem to have the energy to walk, much less to rule a nation. And as for Hortense … “Do you think Louis would want such a position?”

“What he
wants
has nothing to do with it. We do what we do because we must, because it is the will of destiny.”

I nodded, but thinking, I confess, that we do what we do because it is Bonaparte’s will.

June 1, Sunday—Saint-Cloud, a glorious day.

At the Bonaparte family dinner tonight, Bonaparte made the announcement that at the request of Holland, Louis will be their King, Hortense their Queen.

Now both Hortense and Caroline are miserable. Caroline wants a crown; Hortense does not.

June 12, Thursday.

Bonaparte and I bade farewell to Louis and Hortense this morning (King and Queen!), farewell to little Napoleon and Petit. “Bye-bye, Grandmaman,” little Napoleon said solemnly. “Bye-bye, Nonan the Soldier.” Giving his beloved uncle a salute.

“Take care of your brother,” Bonaparte said, tugging little Napoleon’s ear. (Little Napoleon, his heir—Bonaparte is uneasy about letting the child out of France, I know.)

“Andy our
mother,” I said, eyes stinging. God knows when we will see them again.

June 15.

“I wish I didn’t have to give this to you,” Mimi whispered, slipping a scrap of paper into my hand.

Princes Carolins Readr is
3
Months With Child—by the Emperor, Shee says.

July 14, Bastille Day—Saint-Cloud.

I’ve been ill for over a month, in bed with a fever.

Tuesday, August 19—Rambouillet.

We’re at Rambouillet, a dank and cheerless hunting abode. Caroline arrived with a full suite to attend her, including her reader, clearly with child. Bonaparte has been gay.

As I write this, the court makes merry dancing to fiddlers. Fifteen wolves were bagged today.

August 26, 1806, Milan
Chère Maman,

I have the most wonderful news: my lovely Auguste is with child. Don’t worry—we are taking the utmost care.

The news of the Prussian advance is disturbing. I’m putting the Army of Italy on a war footing in case we are needed. Auguste sends her love.

Your loving and happy son, Eugène

Note—I’m not in the least bit surprised to learn that Pauline and her prince have separated.

[Undated]

“Auguste will have a girl,” Bonaparte predicted.

“Why do you say that?”

“Charlemagne’s son Pépin—the one he sent to rule Italy—had daughters. Five daughters and one son. Eugène will have the same.”

“Excuse me for being confused, Bonaparte,” I said with a smile, “but I thought you were the embodiment of Alexandre the Great.” He’d once told me as much!

“Charlemagne’s reign is, in fact, closer to mine,” he said in all seriousness.

This curious comment sent me into the library for information on the ancient Emperor of the West. The similarities are striking: Charlemagne was not tall, but he was strong, with a thick neck. He dressed simply. He was temperate in his eating and drinking and, like Bonaparte, remedied illness by fasting. Also like Bonaparte, he was in the habit of rising several times during the night to work. Charlemagne crossed the Alps into Italy and he was crowned Emperor by the Pope.

I was amused by the parallels until I read that Charlemagne repudiated his first wife, by whom he had no children, and married a woman of high birth, by whom he did have children.

September 6, Saturday, 7:10 P.M.
—
Paris.

It was a hot afternoon for a military review: Bonaparte sweltered in his black beaver hat and greatcoat. In spite of the marching bands, the stirring spectacle of bayonets glittering, flags waving, the heart-stopping cavalry charge—in spite of all this, the crowds seemed curiously silent. They watched sombrely as the soldiers marched by.

“Funds down,” Mimi said.

There is a sense of departure in the air, a sense of something ending. Our men will soon be marching out to war.

September 24.

Bonaparte is humming “Malbrough.” Tomorrow he leaves on campaign.

Gera, October 13, 2:00 A.M.

I am at Gera today, ma bonne amie. Things are going very well. The Queen of Prussia is at Erfurt. If she wishes to see a battle, she will have that cruel pleasure. I am well. I’ve gained weight since I saw you. All thine, N.

October 16, Weimar

Everything has gone as I calculated. Never has an army been so beaten and so completely lost. The fatigue, the bivouacs and the watches have fattened me. Adieu, ma bonne amie. All thine, N.

November 2, Berlin

We have taken Stettin. Everything is going as well as possible and I’m very satisfied. I miss the pleasure of seeing you, but I hope that it will not be long. Adieu, mon amie. All thine, N.

December 3, Posen, 6:00 in the evening

You must calm yourself. I wrote you you could come when winter had passed; thus you must wait. The greater one is, the less one can do as one pleases. One depends on events and circumstances. As for myself, I am a slave, and my master is the nature of things. N.

New Year’s Day, 1807.

Caroline’s reader has given birth to a boy.

January 16, 1807

My dear, your unhappiness pains me. Why the tears? Have you no courage? I will see you soon. Show character and strength of spirit. Adieu, I love you. N.

January 18, 1807, Warsaw

I’m told that you always cry. Fie! That’s terrible! Be worthy of me and have more character. I love you very much, but if you cry all the time, I will think you are without courage. I do not like cowards. An empress must have heart, even down to the small cousins. Speaking of which, I kiss them. They must be low, because you are always sad. Adieu, mon amie, I kiss you. N.

Tuesday, February 10
—
Paris.

The carnival season is gay; I am not. I’m trying to be the empress that Bonaparte wishes me to be, one with spirit and character. As it is, I’m an empress with a head pain. They’ve been coming frequently again.

Mon amie, your letter grieved me—it was too sad. Your heart is excellent, but your powers of reasoning are weak. You experience things wonderfully, but you think poorly. There, enough quarrelling. I want you to be happy with your lot—not grumbling and crying, but cheerful and gay. The nights are long. N.

February 9, 3.00 in the morning

Mon amie, we had a big battle yesterday. Victory was with me, but I lost many men. The enemy’s loss, which was considerably greater, does not console me. I love you. All thine, N.

February 14, 1807

Mon amie, I’m still at Eylau. This country is strewn with the dead and the wounded. It is not the prettiest part of war. One suffers and the soul is oppressed to see so many victims. However, I did what I wanted and repulsed the enemy. Calm yourself, and be gay. All thine, N.

[Undated]

Publicly we celebrate victory; privately we mourn. Daily couriers arrive with lists of the dead, the wounded, the missing. I’m mortified how close Bonaparte himself came to death, how he exposes himself to danger.

March 15, 1807, Milan Chère Maman,

Wonderful news! At 6:47 last night, Auguste gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. I hope you and Papa aren’t disappointed. I’m going to write to him now, to tell him we’d be delighted if he chose a name for her.

My Auguste was as brave as any soldier, Maman. She is remarkably well, and the baby is sucking strongly. How is it possible for one’s heart to be so full?

Thank you for the bulletins you sent on the Eylau victory. It’s excellent news, but oh, the losses! I understand that you are upset the Emperor exposed himself to danger. You must have faith, Mama—Papa is blessed by Lady Luck. Did you know that the soldiers are convinced that
you
are his Lady Luck?

A million kisses,

Your son, a father! Eugène

April 28, La Hague
Chère Maman,

Little Napoleon is very sick with measles. I have been up for two nights. Pray for our dear little prince, Maman.

Your devoted (and worried) daughter, Hortense

Chère Maman,

This is just a quickly scribbled note to let you know that our prayers have been answered: little Napoleon has recovered.

Your devoted (and very much relieved) daughter, Hortense

May 5, Tuesday.

I was awoken before dawn by Mimi. “There’s a courier downstairs. He rode all the way from La Hague without stopping.” She handed me a cap. “He insists on speaking to you.”

The mud-splattered courier had a message from King Louis of Holland, he said. Prince Napoleon’s condition had worsened. The child had developed a congestion in the chest and was having difficulty breathing. King Louis wished me to send Dr. Corvisart.

“Order the Master of the Horse to have our travelling carriage harnessed to our fastest horses,” I commanded a sleepy chamberlain. “Have the cook put together a basket of provisions. Have the controller provide a purse of coins, both French francs and Dutch florins. Dr. Corvisart will be leaving immediately for Holland.”

“Immediately?”

“Immediately!”

[Undated]

I feel like a sleepwalker, not of this earth. A light drizzle, the dank smell of the gardens, a pale early morning light envelop me. I know that when I wake from this dream, life will never again be the same. The fabric of our happiness has been forever rent. Little Napoleon is dead.

May 6, 1807
Aunt Josephine:

I’m leaving tonight for Holland. My brother King Louis will need me. I’ve
instructed Arch-Chancellor de Cambacérès to organize everything for your journey. I suggest you meet your daughter at the Château de Laëken near Brussels.

Princess Caroline

May 15
—
Château de Laëken, Brussels.

Hortense endured my embrace with patience. “Good afternoon, Maman,” she said—but without any emotion.

“Oh, darling!” Her manner confused me.

“Hortense,” Louis said, “your hat.”

“Thank you,” she said, slowly reaching out her hand, dreamlike. “He liked the flowers on it. He wouldn’t want me to lose it.” And then, to Clari, “He is dead, you know.”