The Last Great Dance on Earth (7 page)

After the signing, Bonaparte presented Hortense with the stunning diamond necklace set we’d had made for her. “Thank you,” she said, but without any emotion. She is
determined
that nothing please her.

January 4, just after 8:00 A.M.

I woke with the dawn and have already accomplished a great deal: reviewed the menus, arranged with Leroy to make one last alteration to Hortense’s gorgeous wedding gown (it’s a surprise for her), sent a letter asking Cardinal Caprara to officiate at the religious ceremony to be held at the little house on Rue de la Victoire after the civil ceremony.

Frankly, I’m in such fits over this wedding that I keep forgetting Bonaparte and I will be leaving for Lyons in a few days and will be away for a
month. I’ll see whether Hortense and Louis would like to stay at Malmaison, look after all the animals.

Hortense and Louis. Hortense and Louis. Hortense and Louis.

Louis and Hortense.

Madame Louis Bonaparte.

Madame Louis.

Madame.

11:45 P.M. A long day.

Shortly before nine I knocked on the door to Hortense’s room. She emerged in a plain crêpe gown, carrying a small orange-blossom bouquet. “You’re not dressed? It’s time to go upstairs. Everyone is waiting.” “I
am
dressed,” my daughter informed me.

I looked at Mimi in confusion. “What happened to the wedding gown?” The exquisite gown of white satin. “Was it not delivered?” And what about the diamonds Bonaparte had given her? Hortense was wearing a single strand of inferior pearls.

Mimi rolled her eyes as if to say: I give up. “The bride prefers to be simply attired.”

I pressed my lips together, trying as best I could to hide my frustration. It would do no good whatsoever to argue, I knew. “You look lovely,” I lied.

It was a grim affair, in truth. We stood solemnly as the mayor joined Louis and my daughter in marriage. The family and the Second and Third Consuls watched the proceedings without any indication of joy. Bonaparte was impatient to have it over with quickly. (He had work to do!) I feigned happiness, but it was difficult: Hortense looked so miserable. Louis regarded her anxiously—my heart went out to him.

After, the cheerless party proceeded to the little house on Rue de la Victoire, where Cardinal Caprara had been waiting in his canonicals for hours. (He’d misunderstood the time.) After champagne, which I hoped would make the gathering at least a little bit gay (it didn’t), Cardinal Caprara joined Hortense and Louis in the eyes of God. And so the knot is truly tied, for better or for worse.

Bonaparte wished the two well, and then he and the two Consuls immediately departed—they had much to do to prepare for the trip to Lyons, they said. While waiting for dinner to be announced, Caroline mentioned to the Cardinal that she and Joachim had only had a civil marriage and that someday soon they intended to be married by the Church.

Cardinal Caprara examined his timepiece, a heavy gold instrument dangling on a thick chain. “I could marry you now, if you like. It would only take a half hour or so,” he assured me, for the table had been set.

I glanced at Hortense and Louis, sitting glum-faced on the sofa. “You wouldn’t object?” It was, after all, their happy day. (Hardly.)

“Of course not,” Hortense said dutifully, but then added, “that is, if my
husband does
not object.”

“No, I do not object,” Louis said, his voice so quiet that it was hard to hear.

“Anyone else wish to marry?” the jolly Cardinal said after he’d rushed Caroline (six months along and already enormous) and Joachim through the ceremony.

“Pity the First Consul isn’t here, Maman,” Hortense said, and then wisely bit her tongue, for it isn’t generally known that Bonaparte and I have never been joined by the Church. At the time, it was not possible
^*
—and now it is awkward.

Then, as dinner was announced, Cardinal Caprara took his leave: “I’m afraid I am expected elsewhere.”

“Before you go, Cardinal Caprara, would you mind? If you could …” I looked around to make sure no one could hear. “If you could bless their bed.” It is an old custom, and who can say? Perhaps it will help. Certainly Hortense and Louis are in need of a blessing.

January 31, 1802
—
Paris, home again, 7:30 P.M. approximately.

We’re back, at last. The trip to Lyons was … well, surprising. The adulation! But also all the pomp, the tiring ceremonials. It helped that Eugène joined us there, so proud with his regiment.

Speaking of whom—he has just arrived. He’s anxious to go see his sister—as am I!

9:45 P.M.

Eugène lifted Hortense off her feet in a big bear hug. “Madame Louis! You haven’t changed a bit.”

“I’m the happiest woman in the world,” she said (catching my eye), chatting on about Louis’s problematic health, the art class they are taking together, a pug dog’s litter, a lame horse, old Gontier’s trouble with his back. Then Louis joined us and Hortense fell silent as he talked of this and that, clasping her hand in his, never taking his eyes off her.

I’m
so
relieved.

February 18
—
Malmaison.

Louis looked so proud. I knew right away what he was going to say! “The midwife informs us that although it is too early to know for
sure,
my wife is likely with child.”

“That’s wonderful!” I exclaimed, embracing Hortense—restraining myself from crushing her, so great was my joy.

Eugène heartily shook Louis’s hand. (His weak hand: I cringed.) “I guess this means I’m going to be an uncle.” He struck a dignified pose that made us laugh.

“How do you feel?” I asked Hortense anxiously. I feel so protective of her!

“Sick!” Hortense moaned.

“Good, then it will be a boy.” Bonaparte tweaked Hortense’s ear. “Joseph has a girl. Lucien has girls. It’s about time we had a boy Bonaparte.” My daughter is going to have a
baby
—I’m delirious!

February 23, a chilly afternoon.

Louis’s plan to go to a spa for a health cure is an excellent idea (clearly, he needs it) except for one thing: he expects Hortense to accompany him. I’m ill with concern! Barèges is so far. It would take over a week to get there, and the roads are terribly primitive. I’ve persuaded Dr. Corvisart to have a word with Hortense about the dangers of such an expedition for a young woman in her condition.

February 28, Sunday and a Décadi—Malmaison.

Hortense has dark circles under her eyes. Louis has been waking her in the middle of the night. “He weeps, Maman! He says if I loved him, I would follow him anywhere.”

“You explained to him what the doctor said?”

Hortense nodded. “And so I told him I’d go with him, but that if I miscarried, it would be
his
responsibility.”

“Hortense, you can’t risk that!” I said, my hands clasping her shoulders.

March 1
—
Tuileries Palace.

“He wept as the carriage pulled away, Maman,” Hortense said, collapsing into my arms. “He says he can’t live without me!”

Oh, the early years of marriage are so passionate, I thought—so
stormy.
“Bonaparte said things like that when we were first married,” I told her, to soothe. “Corsican men are extreme in love—or maybe just Bonaparte men,” I added with a smile. Extreme in everything, I might have said: love, hate, ambition, pride. “Louis’s health concerns him, I know. The waters will help. And once the baby comes, things will settle down. You’re lucky to be married to a man who loves you so much. And something tells me he’ll be a devoted parent.”

Hortense smiled through her tears. “He has already filled a closet with toys.”

March
27,
11:30 A.M.

It’s official now—England has actually
signed
a peace treaty. “Your island is French again,” Bonaparte told me with a kiss, as if presenting me with a gift: my beloved Martinico.

“Ah, just think of the cashmere shawls we’ll be able to buy now,” Caroline said, eating macaroons by the handful. (She’s enormous—only one more month.)

“And gowns of English muslin.” Hortense gave me a private wink—we’ve been wearing English muslin all along, only telling Bonaparte that the fabric is French leno.

“And English plants for an English garden,” I mused. I’ve already written letters to England, to botanists there.

March 30.

I’ve sent a parcel to Martinico, sent Mother portraits of Bonaparte, me and the children along with a gold box beautifully decorated with diamonds. Inside, I’ve tucked some gold medals and coins in honour of Bonaparte’s victories.

Now that the seas are safe to travel, I’m hoping Mother can be persuaded to move to France. I’ve also suggested that Uncle Robert send my goddaughter, fifteen now. Young Stéphanie would benefit from a year at Madame Campan’s school before marrying.

April 6—Paris.

Peace was signed with England less than twelve days ago and already Paris is swarming with Lord Such-and-Suches and Lady So-and-Sos, going about town with their quaint umbrellas and their noses stuck in the air. This in spite of the fact that they are incredibly
impressed,
blinking their eyes, disbelieving, taking in the glory of our new Republic—taking in our fine clothes, our glittering entertainments, our vitality, our
pride.
Expecting squalor and disarray, they are stunned to find a well-managed, thriving country, shocked by our fine new hospitals (especially the one just opened for children—the first of its kind), our schools, our roads. Everywhere one looks there is construction: a new quay, bridges, monuments. “I wish to make France the envy of all nations,” Bonaparte told me not long ago—and I believe he has already succeeded.

April 8.

Wonders upon wonders: now there will be peace with the Church. “We’ll celebrate Easter Sunday in the Cathedral of Notre-Dame,” Bonaparte told me.

Celebrate in regal style: all the servants to be in livery.

“Easter Sunday?” Leroy exclaimed. The distraught dress designer placed the back of his wrist to his brow and closed his eyes. Only ten days.

April 18
—
Easter Sunday in Paris.

The church bells of Paris are ringing again. What a glorious sound! Bonaparte opened the casement windows and stood at the sill in his nightshirt, as if breathing in the deep resounding peal of Emmanuel, the big bell of Notre-Dame—silent for how long? Ten years?

Our morning reverie was shattered by a salvo of guns that made the windows (and my heart) tremble. “I have everything I could wish for,” Bonaparte said solemnly. Peace with England. Peace with the Church. “If only …”

If only we could have a child.

April 26.

Very busy. Caroline has had her baby—a little girl, named after Signora Letizia. A difficult labour.

June 4
—
Paris.

To the Opéra tonight to see
Hecuba.
The applause for Bonaparte was tumultuous. When Priam said to Achilles, “You fulfill the hopes of the nation,” I thought the walls would tumble, the cheering was so great. The audience demanded that the line be repeated, and repeated yet again.

It does not seem to matter how often it happens—the fervour of the people continues to overwhelm me. Overwhelm me and frighten me, for where will it lead?

June 10
—
Malmaison, a beautiful summer day.

Thérèse lifted her veil of white muslin held in place by a crown of roses. “My divorce from Tallien is now official, so I’m dressing as a virgin,” she announced. “What’s wrong?” she demanded, looking at me closely.

I hesitated—but to whom could I speak truly? “The people are so grateful, they will give Bonaparte anything he should ask for.”

“The world! And even then, it would not be as much as he has given us.” She laughed at my expression. (Thérèse isn’t given to adulation.) “Don’t look so surprised. I can see as well as anyone that your husband has accomplished the impossible—and to think what a fool he seemed when we first met him. Remember how we laughed at his toothpick legs in those big smelly boots? Ah, now I’ve got you smiling. So tell me, what do you fear he will ask for?”

“People are saying that he should be named First Consul for Life—”

“Of course.
Everyone
is voting in favour.”

“—with the right to name a successor.”

“I didn’t know about that part.”

“What’s the difference between that and a king? Sometimes I worry that in striving to become legitimate in the eyes of the world, we are becoming what we fought so hard to change.”

“It’s not really the same. It’s being voted on, after all—it’s up to the
people to decide what they want. And even if Bonaparte were voted king, he would be a citizen-king.”

“I know, I know,” I argued, “but already some people are telling him that the right to name his heir isn’t enough—that the office should be hereditary.” His
family,
in particular—insisting that the office should fall to one of them.

“Ah, now I understand. You and Bonaparte have no children.” “And I’m beginning to think we never will.” “Have you tried—?”

“Everything!” I’ve given up animal foods, liquors of a spirituous nature. I’ve endeavoured to keep my body open by ingesting tincture of senna, Epsom salts and other laxatives. (Oh, the results.) I’ve even had leeches applied to my temples. “I’m going to Plombières soon for yet another cure, but I confess, I …”

Thérèse placed her hand over mine. “Darling, you must have faith.”

July 2
—
Plombières.

The water doctor is hopeful. “The waters are making you ill. That is a good sign.”

July
7—
Plombières, hot.

A miracle—I’ve had a hint of a show! “Return to Paris immediately,” the water doctor ordered, prescribing tonics and potions. “Constant relations, and no moving about after. Keep your hips propped up on a pillow for at least two hours.”

I’m packing.

July 14, Bastille Day—Paris.

I’ve prepared for bed like a bride. A pagan spirit is in the air: tonight twelve girls, dowered by the city, were married to soldiers at the Bastille Day banquet. Bonaparte looked splendid in his Lyons coat of crimson satin laced with gold. “Like a king,” his family told him with satisfied smiles. A king requiring an heir.

July 29.

The results of the vote have been published. Over five million citizens voted in favour, less than ten thousand against.

August 2
—
Malmaison.

Today it is official. Bonaparte is now First Consul for
Life.

“What will this mean?” I asked him as we walked along a path banked by blooming roses.

He picked a yellow blossom, held it to his nose, his eyes closed, as if lost in sensation. “Things are going to change,” he said, opening his eyes.

First: we must double our staff. “But Bonaparte—”

Second: Malmaison is too small. We must move to the palace of Saint-Cloud. “But Bonaparte—”

And third: he is to be addressed as Napoleon. “But Bonaparte—”

August 6.

This afternoon Madame Campan and I toured the palace of Saint-Cloud, making long
(long)
lists of what is needed,
who
is needed: ladies-in-waiting, torch boys, pages, footmen … My head is reeling. I’m writing this in bed.

August 8
—
Tuileries.

“It’s a supernatural materialization,” Fouché reported. “The Church has found a saint for your husband: Saint Napoleon.” From now on, August 15 will be known as Saint Napoleon’s day.

“So who is this Saint Napoleon, anyway?” Hortense demanded, looking up from copying out scripts of the one-act comedy she is directing—as well as acting in, in spite of being seven months along. (At least it gets her mind off her long-absent husband, still in treatment at the spa.)

“Some lazy reprobate, no doubt,” Eugène said with a boyish grin, ducking Bonaparte’s attempt to tug his ear.

August 11
—
Malmaison.

Hortense is frantic. “Maman, what am I going to do? My costume is too small for me
already
and Fauvelet
still
doesn’t know his lines.”

“Don’t worry!” In her condition, it isn’t good to get distraught. Calm is required. “We’ll get Leroy to make alterations to your costume, and Eugène can coach Fauvelet every night. It’s going to be wonderful.”

“How do you know?”

“The best actor in Europe happened to tell me.”

“Talma
told you that?” Beaming—for there could be no greater praise.

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

You must understand—your goddaughter Stéphanie is still a girl. I appreciate the advantages of having her educated in France, and I am certainly not concerned knowing that you and your illustrious husband would make sure that she was well looked after, but her mother and I cannot bring ourselves to send her across that perilous body of water, no matter how peaceful the seas might be at this time.

I regret to tell you, as well, that there isn’t any hope of persuading your mother to sail to France, in spite of the gracious invitation the First Consul has extended. She remains firmly of the Royalist persuasion.

Your most humble etc. uncle, Robert Tascher

August 12, late afternoon—Paris.

Bonaparte threw an English journal into the fire and sat glaring at it as it burst into flames. “Riff-raff!” His expression alarmed me, but also provoked my curiosity. “You don’t want to know about this, Josephine,” he warned me, sensing my thoughts. “But now, of course, you must tell me.”

He jumped to his feet and began to pace, his hands behind his back. “The English journals are circulating the rumour that Hortense has already given birth.”

I shrugged. “They’re simply mistaken.”

He stopped short, his hands fists. “And that therefore Hortense was with child at the time she married.” He paused before he added, “And that I am the father of her child.”

I watched an ash fragment float up the chimney. “That’s what was in that news-sheet?”

“And they call this peace!” Bonaparte kicked the burning logs.

“We must make sure Hortense never learns of this.”