The Last Great Dance on Earth (6 page)

[Undated]

“So I talked to my brother.” Bonaparte sat down beside my toilette table, examined my gown (approvingly), the embroidered lawn, the décolleté. “Louis
is
in love with—”

“Bonaparte!” I hissed, rolling my eyes in the direction of my hairdresser.

Citoyen Duplan laughed, fluffing out my side curls. He’d persuaded me to try a rhubarb and white wine tint, which gave my chestnut hair a hint of gold. “Madame Josephine, you know me better than that.”

“I know you too well.”

Then Bonaparte’s secretary appeared at the door. (It’s always like this now: bustle and turmoil.) “First Consul, Minister Talleyrand wishes to have a word with you.”

I took my husband’s hand. “And?” What about
Louis?

“And he agreed,” Bonaparte said with a shrug, standing up.

“That’s all?”

“I’m not in the room!” Duplan said, digging in his case of combs. “I’m invisible.”

“He was going to anyway, he said.” Bonaparte lowered his voice.

“Now someone needs to talk to you-know-who, see if you-know-who would be … you know:
receptive.”

“Nowhere to be seen!” Duplan exclaimed, throwing up his hands, turning his back.

“I don’t think I should be the one to discuss it with her.” It would put
too much pressure on her. “Best to have someone outside the family, I think.”

“Fauvelet could do it,” Bonaparte said.

“Certainly,” Fauvelet said. “Do what, First Consul?” I heard him say as he followed Bonaparte out.

“Citoyen Duplan, I’m serious, don’t you dare say a word,” I told my hairdresser immediately after the door had closed. “Not even a whisper.”
Especially
not a whisper.

4:30 or so.

This afternoon, when Bonaparte’s secretary came to model the new jacket I’d designed for him (it’s excellent—even Bonaparte has requested one), I told Fauvelet our thoughts. “Louis is gentle and affectionate and he cares for Hortense sincerely. Were they to marry …” I outlined the benefits to all concerned. “I agree with Bonaparte that you are the ideal person to approach Hortense on this delicate matter.” Well—perhaps not ideal, but …

“I know, Madame Josephine, the First Consul discussed this with me, but I don’t think I could—”

“You and Hortense play in theatricals together. You have a companionable relationship.
Please.
Would you mind? Could you just find out what her feelings might be?”

September 13.

“She wept, Madame.”

Wept! “Why? What did she say?”

Fauvelet shrugged his thin shoulders. “She didn’t.”

“Well—what did you tell her?”

“That she owed it to her country.”

Mon Dieu.

“And that the First Consul and you had decided.”

“Didn’t you point out Louis’s good qualities?”

Fauvelet looked at me quizzically. “Louis has good qualities?”

“Didn’t you point out how gentle and sensitive and intelligent he is?
Didn’t you tell her that Louis loves her?” As I had instructed him to say!

“I started to, Madame, but I don’t know if she heard me.” He pursed his lips. “She was crying awfully hard. Don’t worry!” He held up his hands, as if surrendering to an enemy. “She
assured
me she would never do anything to displease you.”

Hortense has asked for eight days to consider. Now, alone at my escritoire, I am full of remorse. How difficult this is. Are we doing the right thing?

September 15
—
Malmaison.

I observe my daughter’s sad look and have to turn away. “She must decide herself,” Bonaparte told me, taking me in his arms.

September 16.

Madame Campan is with Hortense now. I can hear the low murmur of their voices, the muffled sound of Hortense weeping. I can’t bear it.

Later.

I walked Madame Campan to her carriage. “She will be fine,” she said. “You must be patient.”

“What is Hortense’s objection?” Why is my daughter so miserable? We are not asking her to marry a repugnant old man. Certainly
that
sort of thing happens all the time. “Does she dislike Louis? Bonaparte and I were under the impression that she cares for him.”

Madame Campan leaned toward me. “I think she expects to feel
rapture,”
she said. I frowned. “Exactly!” she exclaimed. “Of course she cares for Louis. He’s just not her
ideal.
Hortense has always been very … theatrical, one could say, but in the best sense! Sensitive, certainly. Romantic, I’m afraid. She’ll come round—you’ll see.”

September 17.

Bonaparte has issued an ultimatum to England: unless a peace treaty is
concluded, negotiations will be broken off. “And as for your daughter he said, pressing for resolution.

Four more days.

September 21, early afternoon—Tuileries Palace.

Fauvelet poked his head in the door. “Madame Josephine?”

I looked up from my fancy-work.

“She has agreed. She said she would not stand in the way of your happiness.”

I scrambled for my handkerchief, my chin quivering.

September 22, 1801, almost 10:00 P.M.
—
a rainy day in Paris.
Louis looked terrified. “You wish to speak to me, Napoleon?”

“Yes, sit,” Bonaparte said, throwing a crumpled paper into the roaring fire. “Hortense has agreed to consider an offer of marriage, were one submitted to her.” I cringed. Bonaparte can be so blunt! “I recommend her. She is a sweet and virtuous girl.”

Just then Hortense came into the room with a bound music book in her hand. Seeing Louis, she turned and fled.

“A bit timid, perhaps,” Bonaparte said, bemused.

[Undated]

Now all that remains is for Louis to make his declaration to Hortense. The two are painful to watch, always at opposite ends of a room, always silent. Bonaparte and I wait … and wait and
wait.
How long can this go on?

October 3, 1801, Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne

Chère Maman,

A quick note (the courier is leaving soon). The news that England has finally agreed to sign a peace treaty is glorious!

Victor wrote that he has been put in charge of the fleet sailing to Saint-Domingue.
^*
What a splendid command! This is his opportunity to prove his worth. Pauline must be pleased.

Hortense hasn’t written for some time. Too busy entertaining suitors?

A thousand kisses, I am well,

Your loving son, Eugène

October 14.

“Perhaps you should have a word with Louis,” I suggested to Bonaparte. “Encourage him to …
you know.”
Propose! Simply getting the young man to
speak
to my daughter was going to be a problem. “What do I know of these things?”

“Would you prefer that I take care of it?” Our big ball was coming up: the perfect setting.

October 21, 6:00 A.M.
—
Malmaison.

Oh, it’s early in the morning, but I’m too fraught to linger in bed. My heart is aswirl with feelings of joy, doubt—but most of all, relief.

Bonaparte and I opened the ball last night with a minuet. (He only missed two steps.) “What are you going to say to Louis?” he hissed, for we had decided that the time had come.

Presentation of the right hand: “What do you think I should say?”

Presentation of the left hand: “Tell him to get on with it!”

I induced the shy suitor to sit beside me. “Louis, do you think it would be improper for a woman to request a dance with a man?” A cotillion had been announced and couples were proceeding onto the floor.

“I believe it is the man who must always ask,” he said solemnly.

“Pity,” I said, with what I hoped would be a giveaway smile. Unfortunately, he didn’t understand. “Would you find it shocking, then, were I
to inform you that if you were to ask the honour of my hand in the dance, I would be happy to accept?”

He looked at me in all seriousness, a small frown between his eyes.
(Nice
eyes. Madame Campan is right: their children would be handsome.) “You’d like to dance, Aunt Josephine?”

“I’d be delighted.” He led me out onto the dance floor. Hortense was sitting with Caroline near the musicians; I wiggled my fingers at them.

“Your daughter is usually one of the first on the floor.”

“She is passionate about dance.”

“She dances well,” he said as the music began.

“As do you, Louis.” Although, in truth, his movements lacked confidence. Perhaps with time Hortense could …

“I aim only not to make a fool of myself,” he said as we proceeded down.

“You underestimate your abilities.” This was true. Louis has exceptional qualities. Turning my head (the old women sitting at the edges of the dance floor knew how to read lips), I said, “Louis, Bonaparte and I have been thinking about you and Hortense. Have you given any thought to
when
you might make a proposal? Tonight might—”

“No! I mean, yes.” Louis missed a step, and try as he might, could not correct it.

“I’m breathless,” I lied. “I believe I should sit down.” It was a faux pas to leave the floor in the middle of a piece, but at least we were at the bottom of the dance.

He escorted me to my chair. “Won’t you join me for a moment?” I asked with authority, offering the empty seat next to mine. Dutifully he sat down beside me, his eyes darting about with the look of a captured animal. Men! I thought, so valiant on the battlefield, so timid in the parlour. “As I was saying—” I would have to be firm. “Bonaparte is anxious to settle the matter. He feels you should declare yourself to Hortense—
tonight.
There she is now,” I said, pointing with my fan.

Louis looked stricken. “But now she’s with Caroline
and
Émilie.”

A dance would be too challenging for Louis under the circumstances, I realized. “You could invite her for a stroll in the garden.” I touched his elbow, urging him to stand. One step, and he would be committed. But that step! “Go,” I hissed.

[Undated]

The clan received the news in chilly silence. Slowly, Signora Letizia got to her feet and held up her glass of verjuice, her stiff index finger pointing at Hortense as if in accusation. “Now you will be one of us,” she said, and sat down.

After, in the drawing room, as Hortense sang one of her new compositions and I accompanied her on the harp, I sensed an undercurrent of hisses, sharp glances, covert hand movements—a flurry, it seemed, of secretive murmurs.

October 29, 1801, Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne
Chère Maman,

What a surprise! I’m delighted. Louis is perfect for Hortense; they suit each other in so many ways. Has a date been set? Just think—I may be an uncle next year!

Your loving son, Eugène

Note—I’m thinking of growing a goatee.

November 17, 1801, Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne
Chère Maman,

Very well, no goatee!

I’ve finally decided on my wedding gift: two horses, one a roan mare and the other a bay stallion, both sired by Pegasus. What do you think? Would you mind keeping them at Malmaison until Hortense and Louis have their own establishment?

Your loving son, Eugène

December 18, 1801, Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne
Chère Maman,

You should know that the details of the wedding gown you are having made for Hortense are lost on your son. What do I know of silk and fine lace? But would it be possible to have Hortense’s portrait painted wearing the gown? That, at the least, might console me for not being at the ceremony in person.

I’ve been getting my regiment ready to join you and Papa in Lyons next month. I regret that I can’t be in Paris for the big event—too much to do!

Your loving son, Eugène

Note—Hortense wrote that Pauline is unhappy about having to go to Saint-Domingue with Victor. I’ve heard it said that Papa wanted to get Pauline out of Paris, away from a number of admirers. (You can see how bored I am: I’ve stooped to gossip. Forgive me!)

December
25—
Christmas Day.

Christmas dinner with the clan. “I’m so happy that Hortense and Louis are getting married, Aunt Josephine,” Caroline told me, piling her plate high with pudding and tarts. “Just think, Hortense and I will be sisters, as well as bosom friends—and Napoleon will be Hortense’s brother,” Caroline said, catching Louis’s eye. “That must please him; Napoleon is so
very
fond of Hortense. Everyone is talking about what a
close
family we are.”

December 26, early morning.

Something in Caroline’s expression last night made me uneasy. Against my better judgement, I’ve asked Mimi to contact her spy. “I was going to anyway,” she told me with a grin.

[Undated]

Mimi slipped me a note this morning. “From Gontier’s nephew?” I recognized the crude script.

“It isn’t very nice,” she warned me.

I tucked the note into my sleeve.

I’m enraged! My hand is trembling as I write this.

December 29.

And so, in spite of opposition, rumours and suspicion, plans proceed for the marriage of a Beauharnais, the daughter of “the Old Woman,” to a Bonaparte. The contract will be signed on January first—in only three days; the ceremony to be held the day after. The wedding gown is almost finished. Leroy has outdone himself.

December 30.

Hortense was ill all night. Overcome with hysterics, she raged and wept. She could not possibly marry Louis, she finally confessed. “I have given my heart to another!” she said, falling against the pillows.

I folded and unfolded my hands, folded them again. What was my daughter telling me?

“I love Christophe Duroc,” she wailed.

11:20 A.M.

“She’s very upset. I don’t think she can go through with it.”

Bonaparte threw down his book in exasperation. “What do you mean? She has to! Everything is set.”

“She’s in love with one of your aides—with Duroc.”

“Christophe?” Bonaparte snorted with amusement.

Very late—past midnight (can’t sleep).

This evening before retiring, Bonaparte informed me that he’d offered Hortense to Christophe Duroc. “You did
what?”
It took me a moment to even respond.

“As we discussed,” he said, pacing in his nightshirt. “I told Fauvelet to tell Christophe that I’d give him half a million and the command of the Eighth Military Division at Toulon on condition that the wedding take place in two days and they leave for Toulon immediately.”

Toulon?
“Fauvelet spoke to him this evening?” I gasped.

“Yes, he informed Christophe of the offer before Christophe left for the Opéra. He gave Fauvelet his refusal on his return.”

“Christophe Duroc
refused her?”

“He wants to live in Paris, he said. He doesn’t want to live in Toulon.”

My poor daughter! Christophe Duroc entertains no affection for her whatsoever, for he responded to the offer quite crudely, telling Fauvelet that he couldn’t be bothered, that he was on his way to a whorehouse.

The air in Hortense’s bedchamber was close. “Hortense?” I parted the embroidered bed-curtains. Hortense was sitting against the pillows, the counterpane pulled up to her chin. “How are you feeling?”

“I am fine, Maman,” she said, her voice measured. “Thank you for inquiring.”

She is young, I reminded myself, subject to moods. I sat down beside her. “There’s something I have to tell you.” There was no other way, or time. “I know you entertain a hope of marrying Christophe Duroc. I discussed the matter with Bonaparte, and he offered, but … Duroc refused,” I said, as gently as I could.

“You’re just saying that! You don’t want me to marry him,” she sobbed, throwing pillows. “Where are you going?” she demanded when she saw that I was leaving.

“I’m going to summon Fauvelet,” I said, trying to remain calm. “He will tell you himself what Christophe Duroc said.”

“Don’t go!” she wept, her shoulders heaving.

I took her in my arms. She was so hot! “I’m sending for a doctor.”

December 31, New Year’s Eve.

With considerable difficulty I managed to get Bonaparte to postpone the wedding. “Two days,” I said. “Dr. Corvisart feels she will be well enough by then.” Dr. Corvisart is the only doctor Bonaparte trusts.

“You don’t understand!” Bonaparte exploded. (Everyone is being so temperamental! There is too much going on at once.) “Several hundred Italian delegates are expecting me in Lyons to inaugurate their new republic. All the arrangements are going to have to be changed. Do you have any idea what this entails?”

“She just can’t do it, Bonaparte!”

Almost 10:00 P.M.

“A two-day delay?” Louis looked suspicious. “It will make a poor impression,” he said, drawing his head into his shoulders. “May I inquire why?” He didn’t feel that a wedding date should be changed under any circumstances, he said.

“She’s really quite ill. Believe me, Louis, it will make an even poorer impression if you go ahead with it. She can barely sit up, she’s so weak.”

January 2, 1802, early morning.

Hortense has recovered—well enough, in any case. And so we will proceed with the signing of the contract, the civil ceremony, the religious ceremony—dragging my reluctant daughter into the holy state of matrimony.

“All girls feel that way,” Madame Campan assured me. “Hortense is more expressive than most.”

More stubborn than most!

Sunday, January 3.

The contract has been signed, so at least
that
ordeal is behind us—and an ordeal it was. Bonaparte’s mother scowled the entire time; Caroline and Joseph smiled falsely. In spite of my resolve, I wept, which distressed the groom. Only Hortense seemed unperturbed (aloof).