The Josephine B. Trilogy (114 page)

Duroc announced that we were to proceed to the table, and both Louis and Joseph claimed the honour of following Bonaparte. “I am the eldest,” I heard Joseph hiss, urging his wife to step ahead of Hortense. Caroline grabbed her husband’s arm and strutted by. I glanced back at Eugène—he was standing by the fireplace with a bored expression, quite content to be at the end of the line.

Bonaparte placed me on his right, inviting “Princess” Hortense to sit on his left. Caroline choked gulping down a glass of water, so great was her distress.

May 19
—
Saint-Cloud, beginning to clear.

Caroline and Joachim arrived early for the family dinner. Caroline, her smile fixed and bright, was dressed in a gown of ruffled green silk, her bosom adorned with a string of paste gems. Battle gear, I thought. (For once she outshone her husband.) It was a more informal occasion than the imperial dinner the night before—but consequently became somewhat raucous. Fortunately, Hortense and Julie were not present.

Caroline was conspicuously silent throughout the meal. Bonaparte—in an effort to be obliging, I am sure—did not complete in his usual fourteen minutes, but lingered, encouraging us to finish each course. After desserts (Caroline helped herself to a generous slice of the almond cheesecake, eight figs and virtually all the Gruyère), I suggested that we retire to the drawing room for coffee. Bonaparte bolted from his chair as if the doors to his prison cell had been opened. I purposely allowed Caroline to proceed ahead of me out of the room.

When everyone was settled, the butler brought in the coffee service on a tray. “I’ll have a barley water,” Caroline demanded.

“Are you not well?” Bonaparte asked his sister.

“What do you care about my health?” she said with such violence that the butler very nearly upended his tray. And then it came out: why were his own sisters to be condemned to obscurity, while strangers were loaded with honours?

“That’s right,” Elisa chimed in, setting down her coffee.

“Joseph’s wife and Louis’s wife are not strangers,” Bonaparte observed with admirable calm (his thigh muscle twitching, I noticed).

“Julie and Hortense are not Bonapartes and yet
they
are princesses, while your own flesh-and-blood sisters are nobodies!”

“I distribute honours as I deem right for the nation,” Bonaparte said, “not to fulfill
your
personal vanity.”

“You think it’s baubles I seek? I’m concerned with posterity, my
children’s
future,” Caroline said bitterly.

“Your children are not in the—”

Not in the line of succession, Bonaparte was going to say, but before he could finish, Caroline broke in. “They are your nephews and nieces—your
blood
relatives. They will be commoners! Is that what you want?”

I got up and closed the windows. It wouldn’t do for this quarrel to be reported in the journals.

“One would think I had deprived you of the crown of our father, the late king,” Bonaparte said sarcastically.

“You expect me to bow down before Hortense?” Caroline shrieked.

“Or Julie?” Elisa added, scowling.

“You dishonour your own flesh and blood!” And with that, Caroline placed the back of her hand to her brow and sank to the floor, her voluminous silks billowing out all around her.

“Caroline?” Joachim looked down at his wife, puzzled to see her stretched out at his feet.

The pugs, delighted to have someone at their level, started licking her face. When she didn’t respond, I realized that she wasn’t acting. “Juste ciel, Bonaparte!” I sent the butler for smelling salts. Bonaparte knelt beside Caroline and shook her shoulder, trying to get her to rise. “Hold some spirits under her nose,” I suggested, but there was no need, for her eyelids began to flutter.

Bonaparte sat back on his heels, shaken. “Look,” he said, addressing his family. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“And what about my husband?” Caroline demanded, sitting up.

June 2
—
Malmaison for the day.

“
Princess
Caroline? All of Paris is laughing!” Thérèse reported, fluttering
her neroli-scented fan. “She parades through the streets as if she really
were
royalty. But people love
you
—it’s said you seem born to the role.”

Born to it? Hardly!

June 12
—
Saint-Cloud.

Bonaparte has been in a meeting with the Special Council for three hours. The men come and go. Now and again I hear the word “coronation.”

[Undated]

There
is
to be a coronation: the date has been set for July 14, Bastille Day. Only one month from now!

[Undated]

I’m so relieved. The coronation date has been put forward to November 9 (18 Brumaire
^*
).

June 16.

An exhausting day reviewing the proposed staff list with Madame Campan. Here is what my household will look like, so far:

First almoner: Prince Ferdinand, often in his cups, but Bonaparte insists because he’s cousin to the Duke d’Enghien. (“Fusion,” Bonaparte decrees.)

First equerry: Monsieur d’Harville, the most powerful person in my household. Count Etiquette, I’ve named him, for that will be his task—to make sure everything is done properly. Not an easy job.

Five chamberlains: the first chamberlain will be General Nansouty, a wonderful cavalry officer, according to Eugène.

Introducer of the ambassadors: Monsieur de Beaumont, with his comical high voice.

Intendant of the household: Monsieur Hainguerlot.

Lady of honour: little Chastulé.

Ladies-in-waiting: I’m going to hold it to twelve, although Madame Campan insists I will need twice that number. Clari will be first lady-in-waiting.

Mistress of the wardrobe: Mademoiselle Avrillion.

Chambermaids (four, at present).

Dames d’annonce: Madame Campan says I’ll need at least four more.

Pages: six charming boys, very proud of their uniforms.

Valets de chambre (six).

Ushers (four).

Footmen (eight).

Coachmen (three).

Errand-runner: quick little Benoist.

No wonder I’m having trouble sleeping. It’s a terrifying list, and Bonaparte’s staff is three times as many. I think with longing of my life of eight years ago—my staff of four.

June 19.

The Empire unfolds in lists: the staff announcements will be made tomorrow, the swearing-in ceremony in two weeks, everyone to begin shortly after. Et voilà:
court.

July 1
—
Paris.

“Court” officially opened this morning—it was not a perfect debut.

My newly sworn-in aristocratic ladies-in-waiting regarded the comings and goings in a daze. They are happy to be back in the familiar milieu of a palace—except for the pace we keep here, which is so…well,
wrong.
Bonaparte insists that every step of every royal ritual be performed—but everyone must hurry it up, he hasn’t got all day, he has work to do! So we go through the ancient genuflections in double time, as if to the beat of a drum.

Fouché, who joined us for dinner, observed the commotion with a hint of a smile. “I suppose I have this to look forward to,” he said, as the cook’s maid crashed into the footman coming through the door, a china dish of quails spilling onto the carpet.

“Oh?” I inquired, ordering three bottles of our best champagne brought up from the cellar. Bonaparte had just made the announcement that Fouché was going to be reinstated as Minister of Police—a celebration was called for.

“Fouché is the new owner of Grosbois,” Bonaparte explained, tearing off the end of a loaf of bread.

“General Moreau’s château?” I was astonished. I know the château of Grosbois well (too well)—”the house of traitors” I’ve come to think of it as.
^*

“General Moreau was happy to sell it to me for half a million,” Fouché said, dragging his lace cuffs through the soup. Even in extravagant finery he looked slovenly, his smell sour, his buttons mismatched.

“Next I suppose you’ll be wanting a title,
Citoyen
,” Bonaparte teased, reaching over to tweak Fouché’s ear.

July 2, 4:45
P.M.

After dictation this morning, Madame Campan and I walked through the rooms of the Apartment of Honour, reviewing the staff, their roles, the procedures. The porter at the door of the antechamber stood disdainfully, halberd in hand. “You must strike it on the floor at Her Majesty’s approach,” Madame Campan told him. “And the lackeys?” She looked over the crowd of pages and footmen to the men in green coats with red waistcoats and black breeches. They jumped to attention, clattering their swords against the furniture. “As soon as Her Majesty is announced, you must unroll a carpet.” Patiently, I waited.

In this manner we made our way through the antechamber to the first drawing room (nodding to the pages, the citizens awaiting an audience,
the officers not on duty), the second drawing room (everyone jumping up and bowing: the aides-de-camp, officers and their wives, the usher, chamberlain, equerry), until we reached my drawing room—or rather, the room in which I receive the most honoured of my guests.

“
Both
doors are opened for the Emperor and Empress,” Madame Campan instructed the ushers, who positioned the chairs and stools appropriately: armchairs for Bonaparte, his mother and me, chairs for the princesses, stools for everyone else. “Your Majesty,” Madame Campan hissed, when she saw me about to wearily lower myself onto a stool close at hand. “An
empress
must never…”

Must never, must never, must never…

July 4
—
very hot.

Who would have imagined that the life of an empress could be so complex? Walking, for instance: simply strolling from one room to another must be done in concert with two pages (becurled and beribboned): one six steps in front, one behind, carrying my train. “Ready?” I whisper to them, for I must catch their attention before I make a step, lest I move too quickly, lest we end up in a jumble.

July 5.

Monsieur Despréaux, the dance master, is beside himself with frustration. Bonaparte expects him to transform us into true-blood aristocrats in a matter of weeks. “Easier said than done,” Monsieur Despréaux laments.

Everyone complains. They ache from the drills, the constant exercises—all just to learn how to walk, how to enter a room, doff a hat,
bow.

“And is the Emperor not to…?” Monsieur Despréaux mentioned hesitantly.

Bonaparte scoffed at the notion that
he
should take lessons from the dance master. “I create myself,” he said, not untruthfully. However, I’ve noticed that he is frequently closeted with Talma, of late, and is moving with a bit more grace (not much). Now and again I catch him observing himself in my looking glass, checking his position.

July 9.

Dress rehearsal in three days. Everyone at court is to be presented, execute a proper bow. “We are not ready,” Monsieur Despréaux gasped, pressing his neatly folded handkerchief to the corner of each eye.

July 12, late afternoon.

Oh, mon Dieu, what an entertainment. Bonaparte sat on his throne, I sat on mine. (They are cushioned, fortunately.) The Princesses—Hortense, Julie, Elisa, Caroline, Pauline—sat on tabourets. Prince Joseph, Prince Louis and the officers stood at attention on either side. Then the procession began: my ladies-in-waiting, the marshals and generals with their wives (some trembling), the officials and ministers—all in court dress. First the ladies came to the throne and curtsied, and then the gentlemen, who bowed. All the while Monsieur Despréaux stood to one side hissing:
Shoulders back, elbow up, chin forward! Relax!

It was all I could do not to laugh—and all Bonaparte could do to sit still, for it took a
very
long time. After an hour, he signalled to Monsieur Despréaux to hurry things up—he didn’t have all day!—and the pace increased so much that the men were racing to the throne, jackknifing into a deep court bow, and then racing backwards, very nearly tripping up the next in line.

July 17.

Princess Dolgorouki, who attended the drawing room at the Tuileries two nights ago, is going around Paris saying that “it” undoubtedly is a great power, but certainly
not
a court.

“Not a court? What does it take!” Bonaparte fumed. “Your attendants must all be countesses,” he said, and at a stroke of his pen, countesses they all become. They smile disdainfully behind their fans:
parvenu.
(But accept the titles, nonetheless.)

[Undated]

“Your Majesty, the Emperor has asked me to”—Dr. Corvisart shuffled
uneasily through the stack of papers in his hand—“address the problem of your…”

My infertility, he meant. I looked away, downcast in my spirits.