The Second Empress (26 page)

C
HAPTER
19

MARIE-LOUISE

Fontainebleau Palace December 1810

S
HALL
I
READ IT TO YOU
?” H
ORTENSE ASKS
. S
HE PUTS
down her brush. Since Napoleon gifted me this space last month, I’ve been teaching her to paint. But although she’s a good student, she seems to tire quickly.

“There won’t be any news about Ferdinand,” I say wearily. “And certainly none of Adam.”

“You don’t know that.”

But I do. Her mother might have been free with her gossip when she was empress. My father is not. She removes the letter from the open envelope and begins:

My dearest Maria
,

You wrote about feeling confined, but I can assure you that these months will pass quickly, and sooner than you know, you will be experiencing the joys of motherhood. God blessed me with thirteen children, and though some have returned to His eternal embrace, I will always be grateful for their presence, however fleeting, on this earth. Whatever happens in February—boy or girl, stillborn or live birth—you have made the house of Hapsburg-Lorraine proud
.

I sent Prince Metternich with a gift last month and was informed that you no longer receive male visitors alone. If this is true, I am sorry it applies to the prince. I had believed the emperor had more sense than that
.

Hortense lowers the letter onto her lap, and we stare at each other in silence. My father knows that Napoleon’s ministers read every piece of correspondence that comes to me, particularly from Austria.

“It’s a reprimand,” she says aloud.

“Yes.” After announcing my pregnancy to the court in September, Napoleon forbade me to leave the palace. Even taking Sigi outside is now prohibited. As the future mother to the heir of an empire, nothing dangerous—physically or morally—is permitted. When I argued, warning him that a prison is no place for a child to be born, he asked me which amusements I’d miss the most. “Everything,” I replied indignantly. “The fresh air, the gardens …” So he had a winter garden planted inside the palace. And when that wasn’t enough to stave off boredom, he ordered an artist’s studio built as well.

It’s true, there are unexpected freedoms in being pregnant. I am enjoying the nights in my bed alone and the privilege to eat whatever I please. This morning I had coffee with thick cream and rolls, and tonight I shall have almond milk with pastries. But these are small compensations for living like a monk.

“We should stroll through the palace,” Hortense says suddenly. She puts down my father’s letter and claps. “Come here, Sigi!” My spaniel runs from his warm basket next to the fire and climbs into her lap, licking her cheek and barking. “He needs a walk.”

I wish I could bend over and pick him up, but it’s become too difficult to carry him now. I put my hand on my belly, and the small movement inside makes me smile. But what if this child is like his father? Or even worse, like her aunt Pauline? I catch Hortense watching me curiously, and I tell her, “I’ve been hoping for a little girl.”

She fastens a lead to Sigi’s collar and sighs. “I always wanted a girl. But I wouldn’t exchange my sons for the world,” she adds at once, “even if they’re in Austria.”

If only we could trade places
, I think. “How long will their father keep them there?”

“Until Napoleon orders him back to Paris,” she says softly. “And that could be tomorrow, or never.”

“You haven’t asked the emperor to send for them?”

She gives me a meaningful look. “When my eldest son died, and I was grieving, he accused me of loving my son more than him. He will order Louis back only when he’s ready.”

I think of all the orders he will give for our child, and Hortense pats my knee.

“It will all go well for you,” she promises. “Look how lucky you’ve been so far.”

But I think of Adam hearing about my pregnancy, and I don’t see how I’ve been fortunate at all.

“And think,” she adds kindly, “if it’s a boy, you’ll be finished.” She rises from her chair, and Sigi begins to bark. “Shall we?”

We leave my artist’s studio tucked in the corner in Fontainebleau, and Sigi leads us through the halls, sniffing at every passing boot, then barking when the boot’s owner stops.

“There’s Pauline’s salon,” Hortense whispers to me.

I look at the ornate double doors, and when the footmen see us, they push them open before we have a chance to wave them off. “Her Majesty, the Empress of France,” a herald announces, “and Her Royal Highness, the Princess Bonaparte.”

I stop where I’m standing and exchange a look with Hortense.

I have never seen Pauline’s salon in this palace. Now I can see that, like her rooms in Château de Neuilly, they have been made to resemble an Egyptian palace, from the polished ebony furniture to the painted murals. There are alabaster lamps in the shape of sphinxes, and pots of incense burning on the mantelpiece. But it’s not the décor that’s most shocking. It’s the sight of Pauline resting her feet on Madame de Chambaudoin’s neck. I am dumbfounded. The Princess Borghese uses women as footstools?

Pauline stands from her extraordinary Egyptian throne. She’s carrying Aubree in her arms. The dog is adorned in a gold and lapis collar. With her regal snout and wide, dark eyes, she looks like she might peer back at you from an Egyptian tomb. “Marie-Louise,” she says. “Hortense. To what do we owe this double surprise?”

I look around the room. Two dozen ladies-in-waiting are in attendance, each of them wearing Egyptian jewels.

“We thought Aubree might enjoy a visit from Sigi,” Hortense fabricates. “Isn’t that right?” She looks down at Sigi, whose tail wags excitedly, then frees him from his lead.

Pauline’s smile actually reaches her eyes. She bends down to release Aubree, and the dogs run in circles, jumping and sniffing each other.

I glance behind her at Madame de Chambaudoin. The old woman is still lying supine on the floor. “What do you think?” Pauline asks me, casting her gaze around the room. “This could be Cleopatra’s court, don’t you agree?”

“It’s very … convincing,” I say. I don’t know any other word for what’s she done. In all the courts of Europe, this has to be unique.

“We almost ruled Egypt together, you know.”

“We?” I confirm, as Hortense shifts uncomfortably on her feet next to me.

“My brother and I. Who else?”

My hand goes involuntarily to my stomach, as if to protect my child, and when Pauline sees the gesture, she narrows her eyes.

“He loves me,” she whispers, so that even Hortense has to strain to hear her over the barking of the dogs. “More than Joséphine, or you, or even this child you’re carrying. Nothing comes between us.”

It comes to me clearly:
she is sick
. Possibly in body, but definitely in mind. Doesn’t anyone else in Fontainebleau see it? How long has she been abusing old women?

“Tell me,” she says, and as soon as she steps close to me, I can smell the incense on her clothes. “Does the emperor ever mention de Canouville?”

“No.” I’ve never heard him mention the name.

She nods, as if she’s trying to convince herself of something. “He does this on purpose. Sends away the people I love.”

There’s a haunted look in Pauline’s eyes. Was it the departure of a man named de Canouville that prompted this behavior? I have never heard talk that the Princess Borghese uses women for footrests, or dresses her servants like Egyptian slaves.… She looks at me as if she is waking from a dream, then calls to Aubree, and her little greyhound comes running.

“We—we should go,” I tell her. “Sigi!” My spaniel leaps over Madame de Chambaudoin. Hortense winces, and I can no longer keep my silence. “Why is she on the floor?”

“She likes it. Don’t you, Madame?”

The old woman nods.

“And you believe that?”

Pauline shrugs. “You believe my brother is faithful to you, that your lover is pining for you somewhere in Austria.” She measures my expression. “We all have our little dreams.”

I am speechless. Hortense scoops Sigi into her arms, and the footmen hurry to open the doors.

“You’re no different than any of us!” she calls, as Hortense and I take our quick departure. “You’re a Bonaparte now, and your child will be a Bonaparte.”

My child will be a Bonaparte, Pauline, when you are a royal
.

“Y
OU WISHED TO
see me, Your Majesty?”

Paul stands at the door of my studio, and I nod from behind my wooden easel. “If you would like to come inside and take a seat—”

He glances behind him, perhaps because he’s heard that I’m not permitted audiences alone with men. But this is important. “Shall I shut the door, Your Majesty?”

“If you would.”

I watch as he crosses the room and am surprised that for someone so attractive, there isn’t more gossip about him at court. According to Hortense, there was once a pretty lady-in-waiting of Joséphine’s who caught his eye, and some talk that one of Pauline’s women might be allowing him to visit her chamber at night. But he has never married, and after eight years of serving Pauline, there has never been so much as a whisper of their ever having been together. If he is wise, he will never allow her to seduce him. The moment the chase is over, she will be finished with him forever.

He takes a seat on the chair across from me and glances around the studio. It’s a cozy chamber, with paint-spattered tables, a pair of wooden easels, and a thickly padded cushion next to the fire. He smiles at Sigi, then waits for me to begin.

“I visited the Princess Borghese this afternoon.”

Immediately he looks alarmed. “And did Your Majesty enjoy herself?”

“Not exactly.”

He nods slowly, as if he were expecting this.

“Monsieur Moreau,” I begin.

“Please, Paul.”

“Paul, there is something very wrong with her. She was using women as footstools, and her eyes—”

“Yes. She is sick, Your Majesty.”

“With
what
?”

He looks at his hands in his lap and whispers, “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to keep away from her recently,” he admits. “She has done things I’m not sure I can forgive, though she is better when I am there.”

“But was she always this way?” I press.

“It used to be only when she was under great stress. But now …” He lets the words die away.

“Is she taking medicine?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say, Your Majesty.”

“Because you won’t?”

“Because I don’t know. There are things she keeps even from me. But if I had to guess, I would say she is taking mercury.”

As sheltered as I may have been in Schönbrunn, even I have heard about mercury treatments for diseases like syphilis and the clap. For women, it’s taken by mouth, but for men, whose symptoms are often worse, it’s injected by syringe into the tip of the penis. I think of the famous saying,
A night with Venus, a lifetime with Mercury
, and wonder if she’s contracted some venereal disease.