The Second Empress (15 page)

“No, thank you,” I say.

But she lingers at the door, even after I am dressed in my nightshift. “Perhaps you would care for some milk then? Or tea?”

“I am not going to disappear. Or run away. I know my duty.”

Her cheeks burn scarlet, and we stare at each other in the open doorway. Then she turns on her heels and goes to leave.

“Wait,” I call after her, and quickly, she turns back. “What city is it tomorrow?” I ask.

“Stuttgart.” She sighs. “There’s to be another reception at a castle,” she says, “and every nobleman in Württemberg will likely be there. More bad food and old men.”

So that’s why she looks so miserable every night. Not because the journey is long or rough, or because she misses her home, but because the French have finer food and men. “Thank you, Collette. I will see you tomorrow.”

She hesitates. “Your Majesty?”

“Yes?”

She twists the ends of her cashmere shawl in her hands. “Did you wish to marry the Emperor Bonaparte?”

Now it’s my turn to flush. I think of my family back home in Vienna, and of Adam and Sigi, whom I may never see again. “No.”

She nods, as if she understands. But she has never had to make a difficult choice, this girl. I doubt she’s even wondered where the money comes from for her gowns, or why men go to war in foreign lands. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

I blink rapidly. “Me, too.”

“How will you ever be happy?” she asks.

“I have my painting,” I say. “And someday there’ll be children.” She looks at me as if she’s never heard of such sacrifice. But a hundred queens have done this before me, and it will have to be enough.

“If there’s anything I can do—”

“Sigi,” I say at once. “My dog.”

“I would—I truly would,” she says. “It’s the queen—she doesn’t like pets.”

Callous, miserable woman. I look up so that my tears won’t start fresh, and I try to think of something—anything—to keep me from weeping. “Tell me about Metternich,” I say.

I can see Collette now wishes she’d never come. “The prince?”

I nod slowly. “They are lovers, aren’t they?”

Immediately, Collette steps toward the door. “You didn’t hear that from me,” she whispers. Then slowly, she nods her head. “But yes, it’s true.”

“Is he the one who arranged my marriage to Bonaparte?”

“I—I can’t say, Your Majesty.”

“But if you had to guess.”

Her silence is all I need to know.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
we are all up at five, dressed and ready to depart by six.

I wear my new French gown, a white silk dress embroidered with silver bluebells, but my thoughts are Austrian. I dreamed of Adam last night. I think of the look on his face as my carriage pulled away from Braunau, and my heart begins to ache. I wish I could have frozen that moment in time, like a Louise Moillon painting of fruit where nothing moves and nothing ever changes.

“How long will it take before we reach Stuttgart?” Caroline asks the driver, but frankly I don’t care. And even when we reach Ludwigsburg Palace and the grand reception being held in my honor, I feel indifferent.
Cake
? Why not?
Lebkuchen
? If I must.
Would Her Majesty prefer the waltz or the contra dance
? “Whichever is shortest,” I say irritably.

The women around me gasp. I know what these people are thinking.
Nothing impresses this haughty new empress
. But I’m too upset to
care. King Frederick of Württemberg clears his throat, and Caroline gives a high, false laugh.

“What Her Majesty
meant
to say, Your Highness, is that a shorter dance now will mean more time for others later.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Caroline glares at me. “But it’s what you
meant
.” She holds my gaze so that it’s understood I’m not to say another word.

I don’t, and for the rest our journey to Compiègne, we are silent with each other.

Then, on the twenty-seventh of March, after the carriages have crossed the borders of France, Caroline turns to me. “
Mio Dio
, this is it!”

I sit up in my seat and look out the window of our royal
calèche
. The city of Compiègne is spread before us like a colorful blanket. Markets and churches jostle for space in the city square, and everywhere there are people—in the cafés, on the streets, in the open-shuttered windows. My heart gives a small leap as I wonder if I will ever be able to capture a scene like this on paper.

“Beautiful.” Collette sighs, and I know she is looking at the handsomely dressed women in their embroidered muslin gowns. “Do they know we are coming?” Collette asks, but Caroline only points.

Somewhere in the distance a group is chanting, and as the carriages draw closer, I can make out their words. “VIVE L’IMPÉRATRICE! VIVE L’IMPÉRATRICE!” Despite the rain, the people of France have come out to greet their empress.

“Be ready for anything,” Caroline says, still unaware that Paul has prepared me. “Sit straight, put your hands in your lap, and—”

The carriage jerks to a stop. She exchanges a look with Collette, and I can guess what it means. Napoleon has spotted the royal
calèche
and intends to meet me before we reach the château.

I press my palms flat against my skirts and try to remember Maria’s instructions. When he asks whether he looks as I expected, I’m to lie and say, “
No, sire, you look much better
.” And when he inquires how the
journey from Vienna has been, I’m to smile and tell him, “
Too long for a bride desperate to meet her groom
.”

My speech will be a portrait by Gottlieb Schick. An umbrella here, a potted palm there. Everything planned, the entire set prearranged. I will take my place, and he will take his, and the picture we create for this new empire will be flawless.

The door of the royal
calèche
swings open.

The Ogre of France is standing before me.

“Marie-Louise,” he says, and it’s as if Metternich’s painting has come to life, red velvet coat and all. He has not bothered to flatter himself through art. He has the same short legs and rounded stomach from his portrait. His hair, which I’ve heard was once long in his youth, is cropped short just below his ears. Despite the rain, he is wearing a white cloak embroidered in gold, and his boots are far too nice for this weather.
Pomp and ceremony
, I think.

Caroline claps with joy to see her brother, and Collette begins fanning herself with her hand. But the emperor doesn’t look at either of them. His gray eyes are too busy appraising me.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, sire.” I offer him my hand, exactly as my father told me to do, and the look on the emperor’s face is rapturous.

“Tell me,” he says, “do I look as you expected me to?”

“No. You are more”—I lower my head in what I hope looks like modesty—“
far
more handsome in person.”

I peek up through my lashes, and his smile is so wide that I’m embarrassed for him. He is forty years old, with a reputation so dark that Genghis Khan would be ashamed to own it. Does he really believe that a nineteen-year-old girl can be enamored with him?

“And your father?” he asks suddenly. “How did he command you to behave toward me?”

It takes all of my resolve not to tell him the truth. Not to say, “
He warned me about your ambition. How you can sing love songs by night and kill a thousand men by day. How nothing will stop you from taking what you want
.” But I know my lines, and I recite them for my father. “To obey you in every way,” I tell him.

Napoleon closes his eyes, as if my words have transported him. “Marie-Louise,” he says when he opens them again, as formal as if the two of us were sitting at court, “will you accompany me to my carriage?”

Caroline exclaims, “What about—”

Napoleon shoots his sister a look, and immediately she is silent. “We will see you at the château.” He holds out his hand for me, and I take it.

There are umbrellas as far as the eye can see, and every servant rushes forward in an attempt to shelter us.

“Just one,” Napoleon snaps. “One.”

A single man steps toward us, and Napoleon nods. “Thank you, Méneval.” He clears his throat. “To our
calèche
.”

He will not keep up this facade forever. At some point, possibly even tonight, the charm will fall away, and I must be ready. Inside the coach, a handsome man in his forties is waiting. He is sitting across from a pretty young woman who pats the seat next to her, indicating where I should sit. But no one speaks, and when the door is shut and the horses take off, everyone waits for the emperor.

“My bride,” he says at last. “Marie-Louise, this is Joachim Murat, the king of Naples and Caroline’s husband.”

I incline my head. “An honor to meet you.”
How can he live with Caroline for a wife
?

“The pleasure is mine,” he says. He is dressed in a white coat with gilded epaulettes, and if I’m not mistaken, he has gone to great lengths to arrange his black hair in long, tight curls. He would be laughed out of court in Austria for this. But he seems harmless enough.

“And this is my stepdaughter, Hortense Bonaparte, the queen of Holland.”

I incline my head again. “Your Majesty.”

“I am to be your Mistress of the Robes,” she says quietly, and I
realize with a start that my husband has commanded his own stepdaughter—the child of Joséphine—
to wait on me
.

“Oh,” I say, and the three of them watch me, but nothing else comes. I am not like Metternich, who can spin his shock into pretty words. I need time to prepare my flattery and lies.

When the silence continues, Napoleon clears his throat. “All of France has been waiting for this moment,” he declares. “The day when the heir of Alexander the Great took a Hapsburg princess for a wife. Look.” He reaches out and with a swipe of his hand, he pushes aside the brocade curtains. “The Château de Compiègne.”

It is larger than any palace I have ever laid eyes on. It looms over the horizon like a marble bird, with great glass wings and a beak of stone. Even in this pouring rain, it is magnificent.

“There’s nothing like it in all of Austria, is there?”

I look up at the soaring windows. I’m tempted to lie, but I tell him the truth. “No.”

“Of course not. The greatest Hapsburg emperors would be awed by this.”

Such arrogance
. I look to Hortense, to see what she makes of this statement, but her face is frozen in a welcoming smile.

“This is one of the emperor’s three seats of power. The others are Fontainebleau and Versailles. You’ve heard of them, I’m sure,” says Caroline’s husband.

“Yes.” I turn back to Napoleon. “And where does His Majesty spend most of his time?”

Napoleon’s smile widens. He obviously takes pleasure in being addressed this way.

“Fontainebleau,” he replies. “But you will find there’s not much difference between the three.” There is no time to ask what he means. Our procession has come to a stop in the
cour d’honneur
, and Napoleon is already putting on his gloves. “Your hat,” he says irritably, pointing to my bonnet. “It’s not straight.”

I lift my hand to the fur-lined trim and can almost hear his thoughts:
Joséphine would never have stepped out into the
cour d’honneur
without checking that her attire was flawless
.

“Here, let me do it,” Hortense says kindly. She unties the bow beneath my chin and sets the bonnet right. Suddenly, my heart begins to race.

“Every person in France is waiting for you,” Napoleon warns. “The king of Holland, the Princess Borghese—are you ready?”

No. But this is not the time to panic. I swallow my fear and nod.

The coach door opens, and a sea of eager faces stare back at me, dripping with rain and oblivious to the weather. Someone shouts, “
Vive l’empereur
!” and the entire crowd takes up the chant. Then Napoleon laughs. “They never did that for your father, did they?”

I despise this little toad. But I smile at him like a wife and stand like a queen.

He raises my arm with his, and the entire courtyard erupts into cheers. The hundreds of dignitaries who have stood in the rain to wait for this moment press closely around us, and all of them are bidding me congratulations. “Your Majesty!” someone shouts. “Your Majesty!” A young man in heavy furs rushes forward, and he’s the same one who sheltered us with his umbrella.

“Not now,” Napoleon says harshly. “Where is the cardinal?”

“Doesn’t Your Majesty wish—”

“My only
wish
, Méneval, is to discover whether we are officially married.”

The young man looks stricken. “Yes. But in God’s eyes—”

“God is for the common people, monsieur. Take us to my apartment.”

Méneval glances at me as we enter the palace, and I am sure that my cheeks are the same color as his cloak. I think of Adam and the first time I invited him into my rooms. I was eighteen years old. A year before, the
comte
had divorced his wife of eleven years upon discovering her betrayal while he was at war. After this, he began walking the grounds of Schönbrunn each morning. I would find him sitting in the Gloriette, overlooking the vast baroque gardens of the palace,
and whenever Sigi saw him, my spaniel would go mad with joy. Adam would humor him by throwing a stick or scratching his long ears, and we came to know each other this way.