The Last Great Dance on Earth (21 page)

Mimi appeared with the boy in her arms. “Oh, Petit!” Hortense said, her voice tremulous. I knew what she was thinking, that he looked so very like little Napoleon. And yet so different.

The child stared at his mother and then hid his face in Mimi’s neck.

“Three months is a lifetime to a child,” I said, fearing a problem. “Remember how you felt, darling, when I got out of prison? You didn’t even recognize me.”

“I don’t remember,” Hortense said, leaning down to catch her boy’s eyes. She covered her face with her hands and surprised him with a peek-a-boo. Petit studied his mother sombrely, his thumb in his mouth, a hint of a smile in his eyes. She did another peek-a-boo for him, eliciting a tiny giggle. Then she opened her hands and he dove into her arms. She pressed him against her heart, tears streaming onto his fair curls, cooing, “Oh, my Petit, my sweet Petit.” Mimi and I stood sniffing, our hearts full of love and sorrow.

“Ah, there you are.” It was Bonaparte, standing in the door.

“Papa!
Sire.”
Hortense made a respectful dip, balancing her child in
her arms. She swiped one eye with the back of her free hand.

“Still
weeping?” he said reproachfully. “You’ve cried enough over your son. You’re not the only woman to have suffered a loss. Other women are braver than you, especially considering that you have a child who needs you. Now that you are back, smile and be gay—and not one tear!” And with that he left.

Hortense lowered herself onto the little bench by the door. “How can Papa reproach me like that?” she asked, her breath coming in sharp gasps.

“Try to understand, Hortense,” I said, motioning to Mimi to take Petit. “Bonaparte is just as upset as we are, but he believes we make it worse by weeping.” Sorrow unnerved him, made him uncomfortable.

“Doesn’t he understand how a mother feels?”

“He believes being stern will help you.” I put my arm around her thin shoulders. “He loves you.”

It is true. Bonaparte has a great,
great
heart. If only I could find it.

Sunday morning at Malmaison, lovely—not too hot yet.
I’ve just talked with the housekeeper and the head cook about the family dinner tonight: Madame Mère, Julie,
^*
Louis and Hortense, Pauline, Caroline and Joachim, Jérôme and Princess Catherine, Stéphanie and Emilie, Bonaparte and me. Is that everyone? Table for thirteen. And all the children, of course: Petit, Julie’s girls (Zenaïde and Charlotte), Caroline’s four (Achille, Letizia, Lucien and Louise). Mimi is organizing a picnic for them out under the oak trees.

10:10 P.M.

The dinner went fairly well—for a Bonaparte gathering, that is. Joachim was so transparently obsequious toward Bonaparte—offering him his snuffbox, bowing not only in greeting, but with
every
sentence—it annoyed both Louis and Jérôme, who addressed him as “Prince Bully-Boy,” much to Joachim’s annoyance. Caroline, as well,
seemed in a temper—this business of crowns, no doubt. But worst of all, Pauline—who was carried in on a tasselled silk litter by four Negroes dressed as Mamelukes—berated Hortense for wearing black: “Your son was only five when he died. You’re not supposed to wear mourning.”

My god-daughter Stéphanie was a little giddy, but otherwise restrained, thanks to Madame Campan’s stern tutelage. Hortense only pretended to eat, I noticed. Then, as the desserts were being brought out, she abruptly excused herself from the table.

I found her in the water closet with a china bowl in her lap, Louis beside her. Her face was flushed, beaded with perspiration. “It’s all right, Maman,” she said, seeing the concern in my eyes. She looked at Louis. “Should I tell her?”

“Hortense is with child again,” Louis said.

Caroline flushed on hearing the news—her heated complexion visible even through a thick layer of ceruse. She gave Joachim “a look,” a very slight widening of her kohl-lined eyes. “How wonderful,” she said with a bright smile, methodically tapping a beauty patch stuck on her chin. “What a surprise.”

At the close of the evening, Louis proposed a toast. He and Hortense would be returning to their kingdom, he said, and so consequently, they must bid everyone adieu.

“Cin-cin! Cin-cin!” Jérôme called out, spilling wine on his new (and doting) wife.

“Blood is everything,” Madame Mère said.

“No, Maman: you’re supposed to say salúte.”

“Salúte.”

“Salute!”

“Santé,” I echoed faintly, weak with concern.

[Undated]

Alarming news: Hortense is consumptive. “Does that mean she has consumption?” I asked Dr. Corvisart. People die of that disease!

“It’s more of a tendency in that direction,” he told me. “No doubt she
will recover, but I’m concerned that the climate of Holland might be too …” He made a grimace. “A damp climate might—”

“Harm her health?”

“Especially in her delicate condition.” He cleared his throat. “And I’ve concern about the child, as well. He is sickly, and one doesn’t want to take any risks.”

Dieu nous en garde!

September 19.

Louis has returned to Holland alone—without his wife, without his son. “But he left
furious
at me, Maman,” Hortense sobbed.

“Dr. Corvisart explained it to him, didn’t he? About the dangers?”

“I don’t know. Louis wouldn’t even speak to me!”

Sunday morning.

Caroline’s ball last night was shocking in its splendour: tightrope walkers and acrobats, a miniature village in the garden. As Caroline and Joachim (tipsy) escorted Jérôme’s bride to a replica of her summer chalet, a choir dressed in peasant costumes appeared, singing the traditional songs of her country.

It was a triumph, of course. Caroline made sure Bonaparte was aware of all that she had done to further his glory. She also made sure, I later discovered, that a rumour was circulated that Hortense is with child by a man named Monsieur Decazes.

4:45 P.M.

“I believe I’ve discovered the reason for Louis’s temper,” I told my daughter. “Do you know Monsieur Decazes?”

“He was at the spa, mourning the death of his wife.”

“It seems that there is a rumour going around that he is the father of the child you are carrying.”

“Monsieur Decazes?” Hortense wrinkled her nose. “That’s … that’s crazy, Maman.”

“I agree! I was outraged. But it might help explain why Louis was so angry. Perhaps if you were to—”

“It explains nothing! How could Louis believe something like that about me?”

“Well …” I understood what it was like to be consumed by jealousy, knew how it could make a person act.

“All a man has to do is look at me and Louis is convinced of my infidelity. I will never forgive him!”

“But Hortense, don’t you think maybe—”

“Never!” she cried, bolting for the door.

I put my arm out to prevent her from running out of the room. “Let me out!” she demanded. “I want the truth, Hortense.”

“I’ll tell you the truth!” she said, her voice tremulous. “But it won’t be what you expect. The truth is something you don’t want to hear. The truth is that Louis torments me! He
hires
people to spy on me. He has me followed.
Every
outing I make he assumes has a romantic purpose—even to visit a relative’s deathbed! He listens at my door at night, he opens my mail. I might as well live in a convent. Do you know how he begins each day? With a search of my closets. Is that how a man is supposed to regard his wife?”

I listened in stunned silence as she sobbed out years of torment. I could not believe what she was saying, yet suddenly it all made sense—the high wall Louis had had built around their house, the sentry posted below Hortense’s bedchamber window. “I’m so sorry, Hortense,” was all I could say. If only I had known! If only she had told me! But perhaps it was true, what she said: perhaps I hadn’t wanted to hear.

“You know what he tells me, Maman, about
you?
He says you’re a harlot. He says you’re not my mother, that Madame Mère is my mother now—and she detests me! He says any love I show you is a stab against him! He’s in a constant rage. I cannot even speak to a man without Louis threatening to run him through. I’ve
never
been untrue to him, Maman, yet he treats me like a criminal,” she sobbed. “Every time I try to please him, he finds something in me to hate, something to doubt. He loves his dog more than he loves me! I can’t bear it any longer. Please,
please
don’t make me go back to him. I fear it will be the death of me!”

And then she gave way to a convulsive fit of coughing that frightened me terribly. I took her in my arms, rocking her like a baby. Slowly the coughing eased. “Forgive me, Hortense—I’ve been blind.” And worse—wilfully so. “But now I know.”

And now, I vow, things will be different.

September 22, 1807
—
Fontainebleau.

At last we are settled at Fontainebleau for a month of hunting and festivities—
all
of us. (Moving a court is not easy.) Settled, but in chaos still, everyone rushing about trying to find trunks, getting lost in the vast corridors, frazzled from lack of sleep. Even the actors and actresses are in hysterics. They are to perform Corneille’s
Horace
in less than two hours, “and our props haven’t even arrived,” Talma exclaimed, the back of his hand to his forehead.

Thursday, September 24, 4:45 P.M.

Duroc addressed the assembled court this morning. Here are the rules:

One evening a week the Emperor will receive. On that evening there will be music followed by cards.

On another evening I’m to hold a reception at which cards will be played. (But not for money: Bonaparte insists.)

Two evenings a week there will be a tragedy performed. (No comedies: Bonaparte considers them a waste of time.)

As well, the Princes and the Ministers are required to give dinners, inviting all the members of the court. Duroc, as Grand Marshal, and Chastulé, as lady of honour, are required to do the same, laying covers for twenty-five. A table will be provided for any who have not received an invitation to dine elsewhere.

“I want to dine at
that
table,” Hortense whispered.

“And finally,” Duroc said, raising his voice, “only the Emperor and Empress will have the liberty of dining alone—
should
they choose to do so.”

There was a rustle of fine silks, a tinkling of gold pendants, a murmur—of envy, I realized, over the privilege of privacy. Fortunately the assembly was diverted by Duroc’s announcement that for the deer hunt, the gentlemen were required to wear a green coat with gold or silver lace, white cashmere breeches and riding boots without flaps. The shooting costume was to be “a simple green coat without any ornament but white buttons,” Duroc said, looking expressly at Joachim, who was known to embellish even his nightcap. “But on those buttons, some characteristic of the species being hunted is to be engraved.”

“The prick,” Joachim guffawed.

Duroc ignored him, and continued by saying that hunting costumes would be required as well for the ladies and their households, and for this purpose the designer Leroy had been engaged. At this point Monsieur Leroy, flustered but clearly enjoying the acclaim, was called upon to display his creation: a tunic, rather like a short redingote, over a gown of embroidered white satin. I applauded, which signalled to the assembly that they could do likewise.

So on this pretty note court was adjourned. The first hunt is to be held in four days at eight in the morning. Tardiness is forbidden. The Emperor has spoken.

September 27, Sunday—Fontainebleau.

“We must be a court!” Bonaparte exploded, hitting the table with the flat of his hands. “A
real
court, with dancing and gaiety. I will it!”

I will it.
If only it were as easy as that! Bonaparte has everyone terrified. It is impossible to be gay. My ladies are so fearful of being publicly reprimanded that they don’t dare speak, much less
enjoy
themselves.

“Zut. I’ve brought hundreds of people to Fontainebleau to amuse themselves. I’ve arranged
every
sort of entertainment for them and yet they just sit with long faces.”

“Pleasure cannot be summoned by the beat of the drum, Your Majesty,” Talleyrand observed in his expressionless manner.

“How long are we here for?” Hortense asked plaintively, later. Six weeks. Six
long
weeks.

Wednesday.

The first “crowns” (as Chastulé calls them) have arrived from Germany—the brothers Prince Mecklenburg and Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin, charming young men with old-fashioned manners. Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin, recently widowed (his wife was the Russian Tsar’s sister), hovered at the edge of my drawing room last night. Understandably he refrained from joining us at the whist table, but sat to one side, watching how I played my cards with apparent interest. Later, when ices were served, he confided that he has not been well. I offered him condolences but immediately regretted it, for he seemed suddenly close to tears. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. It was a mistake to come to Fontainebleau,” he said, touching a lace-edged handkerchief to the corner of each eye. “I only came because I wished to persuade the Emperor to withdraw his troops from my country.”

“Have you discussed this with the Emperor?”

“Yes, this afternoon, but …” He looked discouraged.

“Give it time,” I suggested, tendering an invitation to both him and his brother to join us in our box for the theatrical performance tomorrow evening.

[Undated]

“I see you’ve made a conquest,” Bonaparte said. “It’s a good thing I’m not a jealous husband.”

“Hardly,” I said, but with an edge of regret. There was a time when Bonaparte
had
been a jealous husband. “Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin’s wife died not long ago. He talks to me of his grief.” I paused, considering how best to proceed. “He’s very impressed by you.”

“That I doubt. He is disappointed in me. He wants me to withdraw my troops. That’s out of the question. These princes seem to think I should come in with my soldiers, liberate their country and then, job done, just leave. They live in another world.”

“So there’s
no
chance that our troops will be withdrawn … someday?” I took his hand in mine.

“I take it the Prince has recruited you to advance his cause,” he said, tweaking my ear—hard.

La Pagerie, Martinico
Madame Bonaparte,

I regret to inform you that your mother has been taken by the Lord. She changed worlds at 3:47 P.M. on the eighth of July, at La Pagerie. I was the only person in attendance, not counting the slaves. I will notify you if there is anything left of value once the estate debts have been paid.

In the service of the Eternal Lord, Father Droppet

Fort de France, Martinico
Chère Yeyette, my beloved niece,

Our profound condolences on the passing of your dear mother. You did what you could to make her last years comfortable.

Stéphanie writes that she may be wed soon—and to a prince? Is this possible? Surely she is jesting.

God bless you,

Your aging uncle, Robert Tascher

Note—Father Droppet is going to send you the accounts of the estate, such as they are. Be sure to check his numbers. He is known to be “imaginative.”

Saturday evening.

“I understand how you feel,” Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin said. “Grief sets one apart.”

“Yes,” I said, clutching my handkerchief.

“There will be a period of mourning?”

I shook my head. Bonaparte didn’t want the news of my mother’s death made public. A period of official mourning would put an end to the festivities. I understood, but a part of me rebelled. Was no one to
mourn her? I felt so alone in my grief. “The timing is …” I waved my soggy handkerchief through the air.

“Inconvenient?”

“It makes me sad, nonetheless. Hortense and I are the only mourners in all of France.”

He slipped a narrow black silk ribbon off his queue and threaded it through a buttonhole on his jacket, tying it in a tidy bow. “There,” he said. “I wager you thought I wouldn’t know how to tie a bow.”

“I admit it crossed my mind,” I said with a smile.

“A bit unusual as a mourning ensemble, but I believe the Almighty will understand.”

October 4, Sunday.

Mimi, Hortense, Chastulé, Clari and even Monsieur Etiquette are now all sporting a little black ribbon. I feel strengthened beyond measure.

October 5—Fontainebleau, 2:00 P.M.

Caroline joined the hunt this morning wearing a little black ribbon tied to a buttonhole. “It’s the fashion,” she informed everyone. “Haven’t you noticed?”

Thursday, October 8, very late, possibly 2:00 A.M.

Every evening before dinner, Bonaparte and I go for a ride through the woods. He drives and I try not to ask him to slow down. It’s a welcome hour, for me, a chance to be alone with Bonaparte (if one doesn’t count the mounted escort riding fore and aft).

Often we ride in silence—that comfortable silence of the long-married—but tonight Bonaparte was cheerful (unusual for him these days) and we talked amiably of this and that: of Jérôme’s latest mischief, the foreign princes. And then, as if it were inconsequential, he informed me that he was having an amourette with my reader. “Your spies will inform you in any case,” he said, glancing at me to gauge my reaction.

“Madame Gazzani?” How could I not have known? “I appreciate how discreet you’ve been. And Madame Gazzani, as well.” “You’re not angry?”

“Bonaparte, there are only two things I wish for. One, your happiness. And two …” I paused, feeling the calming lull of the even clip-clop of the horses’ hoofs. I’d given up even wishing for a child, I realized sadly.

“And two …?” He turned the horses in the direction of the palace.

“And two, I wish for your love.”

He pulled in the reins, bringing the horses to a halt. “Don’t you know how much I love you?”

“I do know that, Bonaparte,” I said. “That’s what makes it so hard.”

Saturday afternoon.

Carlotta put a vase of roses on my escritoire. “Thank you, Carlotta.”

She curtsied. “It is my pleasure to serve you, Your Majesty.”

I believed her. “I would like you to join us tonight, Carlotta, in the drawing room.” The girl was no doubt bored to tears, relegated to her small attic room.

“But Your Majesty, I’m merely a …”

Merely a reader, she started to say. Readers are not granted drawing room privileges; my ladies would no doubt object.

“It would please the Emperor, Carlotta,” I said with a knowing smile.

And now—at long last—I believe I have finally begun to understand. Carlotta has become my gift to Bonaparte, like some succulent fruit I place before my husband. In loving her, he must love me. In loving her, he must feel beholden.

October 25, Sunday.

This morning, returning from Mass, Fouché (lurking in a window recess) pulled me aside. “I have a matter of grave importance to discuss with you, Your Majesty,” he said, clearing his throat. He glanced toward the door, where a guard was stationed.

“Oh,” I said, not a little concerned. His manner was uneasy. And when had he ever addressed me as “Your Majesty”?

He pulled a tightly rolled paper out of his inside coat pocket and handed it to me. Sunlight caught the diamond in the ring on his little finger.

Warily I slipped off the silk cord and unrolled the scroll. The script—Fouché’s—was tiny, difficult to make out. “I’m afraid I don’t have my reading spectacles with me.”

“Read it later, Your Majesty. I’d like you to …
reflect on
the contents.”

“And what is it, may I ask?” Why were we being so polite with each other?

“It’s a draft of a letter I suggest you send to the Senate.”

“You think I should write a letter to the Senate?”
Why?

“You are no doubt aware of the public fears that as the Emperor ages, he will follow in the traces of Sardanapalus.”

I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but I thought it sounded like something concerning Bonaparte’s health.

“Even the general public, so deserving of peace and security, is crying out. As devoted as they are to you, Your Majesty, they are even more devoted to the Emperor and the Empire he has created—an Empire which they know will crumble upon his death.”

Did Bonaparte have a life-threatening disease? Was there something I did not know? “Fouché, is the Emperor—?”

“The Emperor suffers, Your Majesty,” Fouché said, taking out an ivory snuffbox adorned with precious gems, “for he has reached the painful conclusion that a compelling political necessity, however abhorrent to him personally, must be undertaken for reasons of state. Yet, as brave as he is on the battlefield, he lacks the courage to speak to you on this matter.”

My hands became cold, and my heart began to skitter. A nervous apprehension filled my veins. This had nothing to do with Bonaparte’s health. “And what matter might this be?”

Fouché sniffed a pinch of snuff, then dusted off the tip of his nose. “Why, the matter of a divorce, Your Majesty.”

“You’re suggesting that I—?”

“I’m suggesting that you write to the Senate, informing them that
you are willing to make this sacrifice for the good of the nation. I know how devoted you are to the Emperor, and I believe your love for him is such that you would sacrifice your life, if it meant that
his
would be spared.”

I leaned against the wall. This is it, I thought. Bonaparte doesn’t have the courage to speak to me, and so he has arranged to have Fouché speak on his behalf. The coward!

“Our soldiers are willing to sacrifice their lives for their country,” Fouché said, grasping my elbow. “It is rare for a woman to have an opportunity to prove her devotion, her—”

“I must know one thing,” I said abruptly. I felt on the edge of a precipice. I feared I might lose control, but I had to know. “Minister Fouché, did the Emperor
ask
you to speak to me about this?”

“Although I know the Emperor’s thoughts on this matter, I had no order from him,” Fouché said evenly, examining a timepiece which hung from his breeches on a heavy gold chain. “I regret to say that I must bring an end to this melancholy interview, Your Majesty, for I have an urgent appointment.”

And without even so much as a bow, he left. Hortense found me shortly after, standing near the window recess clutching the drapes.

[Undated]

I went to Bonaparte’s room early this morning, just after seven. I thought it best to talk to him before his work began, so I was surprised to find him dressed in a hunting coat, with his valet helping him on with his Hessian boots. “You’re not going on the hunt, Josephine?” He pulled on his left boot and stood to embrace me. “Not feeling well?”