The Last Great Dance on Earth (25 page)

I remember very little of what followed. I was carried down the narrow passage to my room and Dr. Corvisart was summoned. “You’ve suffered a violent attack of nerves, Your Majesty.”

Hortense appeared before me through a laudanum blur. “Eugène and I will follow you,” she told me. “Together we’ll lead a quiet life. It will be peaceful. We will know true happiness.”

I wrapped my arms around her thin shoulders. Mother and daughter, we were both alone in the world. It is perhaps best that she does not know what lies ahead, I thought. I felt like a Cassandra, calling out futile warnings of impending doom. Destiny has been crossed; the downward slide will now begin.

At eight, as is her custom, my maid of the wardrobe entered my bedchamber with a selection of gowns. “Come in, Mademoiselle Avrillion,” I said, parting the bed-curtains. “I have something to tell you, but first, make sure that the door is closed.” I fell back against the pillows. I still felt weak, but calmer.

Mademoiselle Avrillion put down her basket and smoothed her skirt, her expression apprehensive. We’d all been expecting the worst, waiting for the sky to fall—knowing that it would, but not knowing when. Not knowing how life would go on after.

But life does go on. I took a breath and began. “The Emperor informed me that he has decided to—” In telling her, I was again overcome. I struggled to finish. “He has decided to pronounce a divorce.” Mademoiselle Avrillion clapped her hands over her mouth, let out a cry. “However, everything must appear normal for the time being.”

“That’s cruel of him, Your Majesty.” Her look was defiant—loyal.

“The Emperor suffers,” I told her firmly. “He does what he must.”

And so, by the bright winter light, my new life begins. I look ravaged, yet I will play the part, assume the costume of the Empress, recall her calm and charitable heart. After the celebration of the peace, Bonaparte will make a public announcement. As for this moment, I’m suffering an indisposition, that’s all.

Brave words, but as soon as Mademoiselle Avrillion left, I gave in to
despair. How can I do this? I’ve a reception at Malmaison tomorrow, and the day after is the big celebration, a ball. And then more balls and fêtes, and fêtes and balls, all in a spirit of gaiety. How will I find the courage, the strength?

Saturday, December 2
—
Malmaison.

It is late. I’m writing this at the little mahogany writing table in Bonaparte’s bedchamber at Malmaison. I’m in my nightgown, warmed by the bearskin I’ve pulled off the bed.

The sovereigns have all departed, even Bonaparte, who decided to return to the Tuileries in preparation for the morrow—in spite of the snow and freezing rain. “This is your lucky day,” I told him, on leaving. He looked puzzled. “The second of December.” The anniversary of the coronation: how could he forget?

“Oh,” he said, shrugging, as if luck no longer mattered.

It is a relief to be alone now. The hardest part was receiving the family. Queen Caroline and King Joachim, newly arrived back from Naples, watched me closely. They suspect, I know. And what will they do, I wonder, when they learn that they have won the day, won the battle, won the war? They will proclaim a victory, no doubt. They will have the Emperor to themselves, at last—all his power and all his riches. And all his heart, they will assume—not knowing his heart, not realizing that this sacrifice will harden him.

It is now almost two, I suspect. The fire has burnt down; I begin to feel the winter chill. My portrait by the bed is in shadow—Bonaparte’s favourite, though not mine.

Five years ago today Bonaparte crowned me Empress. Oh, it was the most glorious day! I accepted that crown as if it were a betrothal ring, thinking that it would bind me to my husband. And now …
now
I see that it is the one thing that has pushed me away from him. Without issue, I have no right to that throne—no right, indeed, to the Emperor’s Imperial bed. As Empress, there was only one thing I was required to do: provide the link to the past and to the future, secure the Emperor’s place
in history. In the womb of an Empress, the future unfolds. She is the past, she is the present, she is the future. And I? I was never an Empress. Only Yeyette, Rose, Josephine—an ordinary woman from Martinico. An ordinary woman who loves her husband.

How much does it matter, in the end, my love for Bonaparte? Not much, truly, when balanced against the needs of a nation. Indeed, it
is
a sacrifice we are making, Bonaparte and I—a noble sacrifice. I only pray that it will not be made in vain, that my fears are unfounded. “Superstitious nonsense,” as Bonaparte would say, “womanish imaginings.” (Pretending not to be superstitious himself.)

Oh, Bonaparte—how hard it is for me to comprehend the changes that lie before us. I feel you in this room with me now—your light lemon scent lingers. Your spirit is everywhere. A half-empty crystal champagne glass engraved with your monogram is on the table beside a stack of journals, a snuffbox. A small, battered medal catches my eye: Charlemagne’s talisman, carelessly tossed in among the pocket clutter. A book you were reading—
History of the Revolutions of the Roman Empire
—is facedown on a chair beside the bed, the spine cracked, the pages dog-eared. Your vest is thrown over the arm of the black leather chair. A crumpled news-sheet litters the carpet.

The clock has just chimed two. I don’t want to leave this room, this moment so full of memory, but I’ve a difficult day tomorrow, I know. I will lock the door when I leave, forbid entry. It will always be here for me.

Sunday.

First, a Te Deum at Notre-Dame. I was not to go there in the Emperor’s coach, was not to sit beside him, Duroc explained, his manner officious, as if I were a servant he was instructing. Rather, I was to sit with Caroline and Jérôme’s wife, Catherine. “The Emperor wishes the people to begin to be prepared,” Duroc said. “He wishes it to be conjectured.”

Conjectured.
Of course. Rumours would be circulated, hints given, predictions printed in the popular journals. And perhaps it is for the best. Perhaps in this way I, too, will begin to be “prepared.”

“Does anyone in the household know?” I asked.

“Only the Imperial family, Madame.”

Madame. Not
Your Majesty
—just
Madame.
Well, so be it, I thought, swallowing hard.

“Madame Bonaparte,” Caroline said with a bright (smug) smile. “How lovely you look this afternoon.”

“How kind of you to say so,” I replied with a bright (false) smile.
“Queen
Caroline.” (How trivial it all seemed to me, in truth, catching a glimpse of the tomb of little Napoleon tucked into a corner of that vast cathedral.)

After Mass, the Imperial cortège drove to the Legislature, where Bonaparte was received with thunderous cheers. My heavy heart gladdened to the sound of “Hail to the Peacemaker! Long live the Emperor!” From habit and affection, Bonaparte glanced over his shoulder at me, sharing the moment.

At five the cortège returned to the Tuileries, where we received the foreign ambassadors before proceeding into the Gallery of Diana for the Imperial banquet. (My last, thank God—how I hate them.) King Joseph was seated on my left, Madame Mère on my right. King Louis, newly arrived from Holland, sat next to his mother (with whom he is staying). Bonaparte sat directly across from me, with the King of Saxony on his right. Hortense was on his left. I avoided my daughter’s eyes, for fear I might weep.

And then, of course, all the others: the King of Württemberg, King Jérôme and his wife Catherine, a conspicuously gay Princess Pauline, King Joachim in pink silk embroidered with gold stars—and, of course, an exultant Queen Caroline, ordering the servants about as if she were in charge, as if
she
were the hostess.

Bonaparte seemed anxious, motioning to the chamberlain for no purpose, wiping his mouth even when he wasn’t eating, creating a growing pile of soiled napkins behind him.
^*

We ate without speaking, each silently attended by three footmen, the
only voices those of the carvers, passing the trays to the footmen. I don’t believe I was ever so glad to see Bonaparte rise. Immediately everyone stood, turned, advanced one pace toward the line of butlers, who offered trays. With trembling hands I squeezed lemon into the white bowl, cleansed my mouth and swished the tips of my fingers in the blue bowl. To think I’ve finally mastered this little ritual, I thought, tossing my napkin into Caroline’s pile.

December 4, Monday—Paris.

My demise—my loss of a throne, a crown, a husband—begins to be “conjectured.” At the military review this morning, a market woman placed flowers at my feet, as if I had died.

The review was followed by a fête given by the city of Paris, with the court of the Hôtel de Ville transformed into an enormous ballroom. I’d been instructed to go alone. My ladies would be there to meet me, I was told, but when I entered, I found the foyer empty, the small drawing room beside the grand staircase where the attendants waited deserted. Where were my ladies, my entourage? The head butler came running down the marble stairs. “Your attendants have been seated,” he said, out of breath.

“I’m to enter alone?”

“It is the Emperor’s wish.”

I will it.
Bien. Drums sounded my entry into the Grand Salon. I could hear the hushed whispers as I made my way to the dais: an Empress without an Emperor. As I approached the throne, my knees began to give way. Quickly I was handed into the velvet-cushioned throne. I sat back, faced the crowd.

The drums beat again, and Bonaparte entered with Caroline on his arm, Jérôme following behind.

Caroline caught my eye, glowing with the triumph of victory.

December 5—Paris, shortly before dinner.

A message from Eugène—he’ll be here in a few days.

Thursday.

I was at my toilette when Hortense appeared at the door, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glistening. “Eugène is here!”

I pressed my hands to my heart. I hadn’t seen my son since he and Auguste had married—almost four years ago now.

“He’s with the Emperor,” she said, touching her cheek to mine. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m . .
. fine.”
I reached for the vial of herbal essence Dr. Corvisart had prescribed, for nerves. I put a drop on my finger and held it to my nose, inhaled slowly. I had not been sleeping, and already this morning I’d had one of my “tropical storms”—a torrent of tears that seemed to come upon me unexpectedly and without warning. I inhaled again and sat back. “I’m all right,” I repeated (but with tears welling up). “I’ve been—”

I was interrupted by the thundering sound of footsteps in the private passage. “Come in,” I called out at the sound of Bonaparte’s characteristic
rap-rap.
How I’ve missed that sound!

Bonaparte stumbled into the room, blinking against the light. “Hortense
is
here,” he said over his shoulder.

And then close behind him appeared a tall, good-looking young man with broad shoulders and honest, smiling eyes: Eugène! I stood to embrace my beloved son. “Oh, mon Dieu, Eugène, you look so old!” So handsome—so manly.

He swung me playfully in his embrace, crooning, “Oh Maman, Maman, Maman …”

“And you’ve grown sideburns.” And a kingdom. And two daughters. “You look wonderful,” I said, blinking back tears. “Doesn’t he?” I said, turning to Bonaparte—
Papa.
“Doesn’t he?” Turning to Hortense.

“Oh Maman,
don’t,”
Eugène said, his eyes brimming. He pulled me against his chest, patting my back, stilling my sudden sobs.

“Hold her, Eugène.” Hortense saw my knees beginning to buckle.

Supported by them both, I regained my strength. “Forgive me. I’m sorry.” I glanced up. Bonaparte was staring at the three of us, his cheeks wet with tears.

“Oh, Papa,” Hortense whispered, pulling him into the circle of our embrace.

December 8.

As we married, so we must divorce: with ceremony.

We begin with specifics: who, what, when, where. The date has been set for a week from today, next Friday. Evening, court attire. Reception in the throne room, the ceremony itself in Bonaparte’s cabinet. In the presence of family and a few officials, Bonaparte will make a statement, I will follow, and then the legal document will be signed. Arch-Chancellor de Cambacérès will see to the legalities. His secretary will send out the invitations.

“As you wish,” I said, my mouth dry.

[Undated]

“Your Majesty, did I understand you correctly? There is to be no lace, no embroidery, no pearls—
nothing?”

“The gown must be plain, Monsieur Leroy,” I said, “like one a nun would wear.”

[Undated]

Arch-Chancellor de Cambacérès has given me a draft of a divorce statement he thinks would be appropriate. I cannot speak his words. I will write it myself.

[Undated]

I tried to write my divorce statement this morning—gave up in tears.

No longer having any hope of conceiving children, I give my beloved husband proof of my devotion by …
By divorcing him.

Oh, mon Dieu—this is not the right thing to do, Bonaparte!

December 13, Wednesday evening.

An exhausting day attending to my charities, my wardrobe.
^*
To bed. Tomorrow there is a formal reception followed by dinner in the Gallery of Diana. I’ve begged permission not to attend, but I’m told I must. It will be my last appearance as Empress.

I declare that, no longer having any hope of conceiving children, I am willing to give my husband proof of my devotion by …

December 14.

The reception and dinner were difficult. At least it is over. “It always gives me a head pain anyway,” I told Chastulé as she took my crown away.

I declare that, no longer having any hope of conceiving children, which would satisfy the interests of France, I am willing to give the greatest proof of my love and devotion by …

December 15, Friday.

Leroy has delivered my gown. “I finally understand, Your Majesty,” he said. “You wish to adorn yourself in precious gems. The simplicity of the gown will be what designers call a counterpoint.”

“No, Monsieur Leroy, I intend not to wear a single gem.” Only my wedding ring, which I will wear to my grave.

He looked at me as if I’d gone mad—and perhaps he is right.

Mademoiselle Avrillion came for me shortly before nine. “Your Majesty, are you ready? The Emperor is expecting you in his cabinet.”

“I am ready.”

She burst into tears. “You should see them all.” “They’ve arrived?” Already?

“They’re in the throne room, Your Majesty. I’ve never seen Caroline and Pauline looking so grand. Even Madame Mère is wearing a fuchsia-and-yellow brocade—and rubies! One would think it was carnival. I will be honest, now that we are leaving. I think that they’re beastly individuals and I detest them!”