The Last Great Dance on Earth (29 page)

Le feu sacré.
“I didn’t come to make you weep,” he said, perplexed by my response.

I tried to dissemble my fear. All of Europe has joined forces against him. He has only fifty thousand men. Victory is impossible!

But “impossible” is not a French word, I reminded myself. “May I—” Kiss you, I almost said. “I would like to wish you good luck.” Dropping a curtsey.

Bonaparte looked at me for a long moment. “Remember me, Josephine,” he said, stepping back, tipping his hat.

February 4.

Terrible rumours—it’s being said that Bonaparte’s troops have been repulsed, forced to retreat onto French soil. I don’t know what to believe. I sent Mimi into Paris to find out what she could. She returned with a worried look: prayers are being said at Notre-Dame and the Louvre’s collections are being packed.

February 18, 1814, Milan
Chère Maman,

I fear this will distress you terribly, but you must know. Caroline and Joachim have joined the enemy and this morning Joachim made an open declaration of war against the Army of Italy—against me. I do not need to tell you the degree of my disgust—nor the depth of my sympathy for the Emperor. Such a “family” he must suffer.

Your loyal son, Eugène

March 28.

People are coming into Paris in droves, fleeing in advance of the enemy.

“Bonaparte will save us,” I assured Hortense, rolling lint bandages, stacking them up. “He calculates everything so carefully, taking into account every possible outcome. Surprise has always been his strategy. No doubt this is part of his plan.”

[Undated]

A cobbler from town just came to warn me that he has met wounded soldiers on the road. They’ve told him the enemy is near. What does that mean:
near?

Tuileries. Maman, we’ve learned that the enemy is approaching from the south. Empress Marie-Louise intends to flee Paris in the morning with the baby. You must go to Navarre
—immediately.
Take every precaution. Don’t worry about me and the boys. I’ll get word to you. Hortense.

March 29
—
Mantes, 7:20 P.M.

Hortense’s note came after midnight, in the dead of night. I woke everyone, gave the order that we would be leaving Malmaison in the morning, taking as much as we could with us. We’ve decided to leave the farm
animals, the orangutan and the birds in the care of the groundskeeper, but to take the pugs and the horses.

Mimi and I stayed up stitching my gems into the lining of a wadded skirt. The remaining jewellery we put into strongboxes, along with the oak box of Bonaparte’s letters—my true treasure. It was almost three in the morning when we finished. We would be leaving early, at seven—there was not much time for sleep. I bade Mimi goodnight and got into bed. I lay there for some time, listening to the spring rain, thinking of Empress Marie-Louise all alone in that big ormolu bed in the Tuileries Palace. Was she sleeping? Or, like me, was she tormented with fear and doubt—and
guilt,
surely, at fleeing Paris.

I got out of bed. Taking the night candle, I slipped down the stairs and walked through the château. Would my beloved Malmaison be ravaged by Cossacks, my treasures carried off? I ran my fingers over the harp strings—the light, rippling sound brought back the memory of summer evenings. What a magical place Malmaison has been—what a magical
life
I’ve had here.

I went into the study—the room Bonaparte had worked in, built an empire in. I spun the globe. Where is he?

I returned to bed with a heavy heart. At dawn I woke sweating. It was grey and raining, a cold spring drizzle that made me shiver. No point lighting a fire, I told Mimi, slipping into my wadded gown.

We didn’t reach Mantes until nightfall. It was slow going with all the horses in the pouring rain.

This inn is full of people escaping Paris. I am Madame Mercier, I tell them. Nothing is known; everything whispered. I am dead with exhaustion, but rest eludes me. Where is Hortense as I write this? Where is Bonaparte? What is happening in Paris?

April 1, 1814
—
Navarre.

It was the sound of boys’ voices in the cavernous entry that brought me to my feet. I very nearly collided with Hortense at the door. “Mon Dieu, it is you!” I threw my arms around her, pressed her to my heart. “Forgive me, we’ve been tormented not knowing.”

The servants crowded into the room. Hortense paused before announcing, “We’ve capitulated.”

There was a moment of incomprehension, followed by cries of disbelief.

“Where is the Emperor?” I demanded.

“Maman, I don’t know! All I know is that a treaty of surrender has been signed and that the Empress and the baby are in the southwest, at Blois.”

Saturday, April 2.

“The army wouldn’t take me,” old Gontier said sheepishly. He returned to Malmaison on my sturdy little pony only to be told that we’d fled to the north. He’s been three days travelling to reach us.

He left Paris on Wednesday, he said. In the morning he heard cannon in the direction of Saint-Chaumont. As he headed out, he saw Russian soldiers on the road. “Well-behaved lads wearing caps with green leaves stuck in them.” There had been no sign of plunder or violence, he said, which is a great relief to us all. (Though hard to believe.)

Sunday.

As Hortense slept, I took the boys to Mass at the cathedral in Évreux. The town was quiet—there was little to indicate that France had fallen. The Imperial sign over the posting house had been taken down, but nothing put up in its place.

“Are you sad, Grandmaman?” Petit asked. He is tall for a boy of nine; his name no longer suits him.

“Very.”

“I am, too,” Oui-Oui said, snuggling into me for warmth. The weather was bright, but brisk. “I had to leave my rocking horse behind,” he told me, his lip quivering.

“I will get you a new one,” I promised.

“No, Grandmaman,” Petit solemnly informed me. “Maman says we must suffer like everyone, that we are nobodies now.”

April 4, Monday—Château de Navarre.

At last, a note from my groundskeeper: Russian guards have been assigned to protect Malmaison. He included a copy of
Le Moniteur,
but all that it contained was Tsar Alexandre’s proclamation. Where is Bonaparte? What is happening?

April 7.

Shattering news. The Pretender is to take back the throne.

Later …

Worse news yet.
Talleyrand
is at the head of the new provisional government, in league with the enemy.

Chameleon! Opportunist! That he should prove a traitor does not surprise me in the least. Indeed, I am calmed by the revelation of his true colours. But what dismays me beyond measure is the story that it was
Clari
who helped him, that it was she who opened the gates of Paris to the enemy.

[Undated]

We’ve received journals from Paris. I’m filled with disgust, a bitter taste. Is there no honour? No loyalty? Bonaparte’s marshals—men he favoured and raised to glory—have rushed to publicly proclaim themselves in favour of the Pretender. These men—
soldiers
—swore fidelity and allegiance to Bonaparte, and now they attack him, portray him as an ogre.

Disillusion has weakened my heart. Defeat at the hands of the enemy is nothing compared to this corruption from within. I weep for Bonaparte, for us all.

April 8.

Mimi woke me in the night, tugging gently on my toes. “There’s someone downstairs who would like to see you, Yeyette—Monsieur de Maussion. The bookkeeper,” she reminded me, lighting a lamp. “He has news of the Emperor, he said.”

“Of Bonaparte?” I sat up, my heart pounding.

Monsieur de Maussion stood by the dying fire in the drawing room. He was wearing a short green hunting coat. A small travelling pistol hung from his broad belt. “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing stiffly from the waist. “I beg forgiveness for disturbing your repose.”

“I am told you have news of the Emperor,” I said, taking a seat, neglecting civilities in my anxiety. I gestured to him to sit down in the chair opposite, but he stood ramrod-stiff, as if at attention.

“The Emperor is at Fontainebleau,” he announced. “He has abdicated and will be sent into exile. I’ve been—”

“Exile?” I was alarmed, but relieved, as well. At least Bonaparte was not to be executed.

“To Elba, Your Majesty. I’ve been—”

“Where is Elba?”

“Elba is a small island in the Mediterranean, Your Majesty, separated from the Italian mainland by the Strait of Piombino. I’ve been—” “A very
small
island, is it not, Monsieur?”

“Between one and three-and-a-half leagues in width, Your Majesty, six leagues in length. I’ve been—”

“But that’s smaller than the park at Malmaison!”

“I do not recall the dimensions of the park at Malmaison, Your Majesty. I’ve been—”

“Have you
seen
the Emperor, Monsieur de Maussion? Have you talked to him?”

“I have seen him, Your Majesty, but no, I have not spoken with him. I’ve been—”

“Please
tell me: how did he look to you?”

Monsieur de Maussion frowned. “Like the Emperor, Your Majesty.”

I pressed my fist against my mouth. If only I could see Bonaparte! I would know in a glance how he was feeling. I would know if he was sleeping, if he was eating, if his stomach—oh, his sensitive stomach!—was upsetting him. I would know by the abruptness of his movements if a falling fit might be threatening. “Yes, of course,” I said weakly, remembering myself. “Did he look …
well,
did you think?” I asked, using the cuff of my sleeve to dry my eyes. It wasn’t fair, I knew, to ask this man to see with the eyes of a wife.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I’ve been asked by the French Ambassador to Russia, the Duke de Vicenza, to—”

“De Caulaincourt?”

Monsieur de Maussion nodded. “Yes, he asked me to—”

“De Caulaincourt is with the Emperor?” Gentle, aristocratic Armand de Caulaincourt. It would comfort me to know that he was with Bonaparte.

“Yes, Your Majesty. He sent me expressly to tell you to do what you can.” This last in a rush of words for fear I would yet again interrupt.

“What does that mean?”
Do what you can.

“It means that you try to seek favour for yourself and your children at the court of the enemy, Your Majesty.”

April 13.

A note from Armand de Caulaincourt. He urges me to return to Paris—it’s in my best interest, he said. It behooves me to show myself, press my case with the Tsar. It is the Emperor’s wish.
Je le veux.

And then, a note at the bottom, in the secretary’s tidy script:
Your Majesty, it is urgent that they he persuaded to be charitable with respect to the Emperor.

I’m packing.

4:45 P.M.

“Very well,” Hortense said, but in a tone that suggested she did not approve.

“You don’t think I should go,” I said.

“Do what you want, Maman,” she said, “but I won’t be going with you.”

“You’ll stay here?” I was relieved, frankly. She and the boys would be safer at Navarre.

“I’ve decided I must go to Blois, to see the Empress.”

“But Hortense, that’s risky!” A show of allegiance to the Empress would be held against her. “You must think of your future, and that of your boys.”

“It’s my duty, Maman,” she insisted. “Marie-Louise is young and very much alone. Imagine the torment she must feel! You have raised me to do what is honourable.”

“I understand,” I said, turning away, both furious and proud.

April 15, Friday—Malmaison.

It was disconcerting to see Russian guards at the gates to Malmaison. I tried to explain who I was, but it wasn’t until my groundskeeper came hobbling that I was allowed in. “What happened?” I asked, alarmed, for he had bandages on his head and one arm was in a sling.

“Cossacks. I tried to stop them, Your Majesty, but—” He shrugged, a movement that made him wince. “They broke the leg off the table in the entryway, but that was all. It was the orangutan that scared them away.”

And so it was with a sense of disbelief that I walked back into my home of priceless treasures to find it all untouched. But for the Russians at my gate, one would not know that the nation had fallen.

[Undated]

Oh, the stories: that the theatres in Paris closed for only one day—the day Paris capitulated—that the actors carried on even as cannon boomed. That it was Joseph Bonaparte who gave the order to raise the white flag of surrender and then disappeared, not even handing over command. (Just as he had in Madrid—the coward!) That everyone in Paris is wearing a Bourbon white rosette, that Bourbon banners are everywhere. (Ingrates!) That the Pretender’s brother, the Count d’Artois, has arrived, that he wears a powdered wig topped by a silly hat. That his servants wear strange Gothic tunics with enormous crosses hanging from the buttonholes. That Cossacks sleep with their boots on. That shopkeepers are doing a brisk trade. That in the Tuileries Palace they have simply pasted Bourbon fleur-de-lis over the Imperial bees. That Talma played for the Tsar and was forced by the crowd to proclaim, “Long live King Louis XVIII,” but left the stage in tears. (Poor man.) That Empress Marie-Louise’s father, the Emperor of Austria, paraded down the Champs-Elysées in full daylight, not even trying to hide the fact that he had profited from his daughter’s misfortune. That the people were falling over themselves to bow before the new regime, claiming that they’d detested “that monster” Napoleon. That even his family has deserted him.

How devastating all this is.

Almost midnight (can’t sleep).

Clari looked like a matron in her bonnet, clutching a wicker basket. “I was afraid you would not receive me,” she said, fingering the gold cross that hung from a yellow velvet ribbon around her neck.

“It is not in my nature to hold a grudge,” I said, feeling vindictive nonetheless. She had betrayed Bonaparte, the nation,
me.
“Speak your business.” And go.

“The Tsar Alexandre begs permission to call on you.”

“I take it you are his servant, then?”

“I help out where I can.” Her sharp nose in the air.

“I understand you helped the enemy enter Paris.” Clari and Talleyrand. “Such helpfulness is well rewarded, I expect.”

“I did not intend to hurt
you.”

“I think you should go.”

“Will you consent to receive the Tsar? It would be to Napoleon’s advantage for you to do so.”

“How dare you speak his name!” A vase fell to the floor, shattered. “He murdered the Duke d’Enghien!”

“You’re a fool. If anyone can be held responsible for the death of the Duke d’Enghien, it is your friend Talleyrand. He’s the one who persuaded Bonaparte to arrest the Duke.”

“He told me you would say that.”

I took two steps toward her, trembling.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she whispered, backing out through the door.

April 16, Saturday.

Tsar Alexandre arrived attended by only a few guards. “I am honoured,” he said, bowing before me. He is attractive, a man of middle years—thirty-five? thirty-six?—imposingly tall, with golden curls, pale blue eyes.

I was surprised (and reassured) by his show of respect. I am the ex-wife of an ex-emperor. He is the victor, ruler of one of the most powerful countries on earth. “Your Majesty,” I answered with self-loathing, “the honour is all mine.” As I spoke, he stooped close, and I recalled that he was slightly deaf. “The honour is all mine,” I repeated, raising my voice, flushing (knowing the servants could hear).

I took him on the usual tour of Malmaison—through the gallery, the music room, the theatre, the rose garden, the hothouse—and even through the dairy (my Swiss cows interested him). I found him easy to talk to, for his French is excellent and his mind of an inquiring nature. (So like Bonaparte in that respect.) He wanted to know about the grafting technique my gardeners had been using with success on evergreen shrubs, how much sun was advisable on tulip beds, what proportion of cow-dung was added to the compost used for the auriculas, how much milk my cows yielded.

We paused in front of the hothouses, talking of theatre: he’d been to see Talma in
Iphigénie en Aulide
at the Théâtre Français and had been tremendously moved. “Although,” he said, “there was an incident afterward that was painful to witness, I confess.”

“I have heard of it.” Poor Talma—I was beginning to fear his mind had turned. He’d physically attacked Geoffroy for having written a critical review.

“The actor remains attached to the Emperor. His feelings are honourable and should be respected.”

“We all remain attached to the Emperor,” I said with more heat than was wise.

“I understand,” the Tsar said with feeling.

But it is you who have destroyed him! my heart cried out.

It was then that we were—fortunately perhaps—diverted by the sound of children’s voices: Petit and Oui-Oui! They raced down the path, stopping short when they saw the tall and imposing stranger beside me. “Come, come,” I said, stooping to embrace them. Why were they at Malmaison? Hortense had taken the boys with her to Blois, to see the Empress Marie-Louise. “I’d like to introduce you to Tsar Alexandre of Russia.”

Petit looked concerned. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “Make your best bow.”

The Tsar smiled and bowed in turn. “Where is your mother?” I asked anxiously.

“She’s coming
slowly.
She has to stop to admire
everything,”
Oui-Oui said, dramatically rolling his eyes.

“We didn’t stay long at Blois,” Petit informed us, pulling at a ringlet. (Oh dear, I thought. Now the Tsar will know that Hortense went to see Empress Marie-Louise.)

“We’ve been in a carriage for
days,”
Oui-Oui said, rolling his eyes yet again.

Hortense had stopped beside one of the rose beds. I waved to catch her eye. She smiled—
There
you are!—then frowned, twirling her percale sun umbrella, taking in the figure beside me.

“We’re over here, Maman,” Petit said.

“With a Cossack,” Oui-Oui cried out, throwing up his cap.