The Second Empress (32 page)

“And what do the people want?”

The
duc
lowers his gaze. “Their sons and husbands back.”

No one speaks. I am sickened by the heartache that will be felt by the mothers and wives whose tables will be empty come Christmas. Conscription was for men from sixteen to sixty, which means there will be women in France who have lost both their husbands and their sons in Russia. It’s a blood tax no house should ever have to pay. I think of my own son and could weep.

I should have done more. When Napoleon left, I should have begged him to make peace with the czar. But I was selfish, and all I could think about was the many ways my life would be better without him in France.

The
duc
hands me a paper. “We will release the Twenty-ninth Bulletin today.” It looks the same as the Twenty-eighth. “If Your Majesty would care to read it …”

It begins with a description of Napoleon’s losses. Then it details all the hardships of Russia: the muddy roads, the frozen rivers, but most distressingly, the weather. According to the 29th Bulletin, it is the snow that is to blame for Napoleon’s defeat. Not ambition or greed, but the bitter cold. And then it ends: “The health of His Majesty has never been better.”

I look at the solemn faces in the Regency Council and tell them plainly, “He has lost his mind.”

No one contradicts me.

S
EVEN DAYS PASS
, and there is no word of the emperor. I sit in my son’s nursery with Hortense, and we guess what might happen when he arrives. “He will rebuild his army,” she says.

“There are always boys willing to fight for land and glory.” She looks at Franz on his wooden horse, and tears well in her eyes. “My husband says Napoleon is all my sons talk about,” she admits. “They want to dress like soldiers and play mock battles.”

“They’re young,” I tell her. “They haven’t seen bloodshed. It’s
different when your gun is real and it has to take a man’s life.” This is what my father replied when I wrote to him about Franz’s love of swords. Now that I’m regent, his letters come to me once a week.

“Even your son will wish to go to war someday. It’s what little boys grow up to do.”

“Not mine.”

But she looks at me pityingly. “We warned him,” Hortense says quietly. She is dressed in a heavy blue gown, and the white fur at her collar was a gift from Napoleon. For all his greed, he has never been miserly. “Even my mother told him that building an empire was reaching too high. Why not be satisfied with France? Why did he have to try for Egypt and Russia?”

Or Austria and Poland
? “What does your mother say now?”

She searches my face, and when she’s sure that I’m not angry that Joséphine is communicating with my husband, she tells me, “She fears for him. She thinks Britain will smell blood and come to France for the kill. He has always hated Britain. Napoleon doesn’t feel that George III is worthy to rule it.”

“I’ve read the papers,” I tell her. “They said it before my marriage, and now they’re saying it again: that your mother was his talisman. That she was his lucky star, and that by casting her away, he also cast off her glow.”

“Journalists,” she protests. “They spin tales for a living.”

“But the people believe it now, don’t they?” Her silence tells me all I need to know. It wasn’t so long ago that the French were angry enough to execute a queen. They are the same people today, with the same passions and resentments, only now their losses are greater. “What if the British do declare war?” I ask quietly. “Have you thought about what would happen to us?”

If riots should start, it will be up to us to plan our escape from France. Hortense’s husband is in Austria with her sons, under my father’s protection. My husband is somewhere between Moscow and Paris.

“We would flee,” she says. “We would have to. No foreign army will deal with us leniently now.”

I look at my son, with his long golden curls and rosy cheeks. Did Napoleon ever look this way? I can’t imagine my husband playing quietly, petting a wooden horse and giving it a name like Jacques or Antoine. But there must have been a time when he was innocent; when he looked at Madame Mère, and she knew she would always do anything for him. But then I think of his rage when he pushed my face into a bowl of food, and of Franz unable to leave his lessons—and someday the battlefield as well—and I realize,
If it comes to it, we really will flee. Then I will take my son to Austria
.

B
UT ON THE
night of the eighteenth of December, a young servant comes running into the Grand Salon. Despite the war, Christmas garlands have been hung over the wooden doors, and cheerful branches of holly spring from gold vases. Madame Mère is playing cards with Caroline, while dozens of courtiers are at games of their own. There is also music, but in truth, nothing seems very merry. I am speaking with Hortense when the servant first appears. I don’t see him waiting behind me for an audience, and she is the one who interrupts our conversation.

“Your Majesty.” She indicates someone behind me. I turn to see a young boy in blue and gold livery who is waiting nervously to speak.

“There—there is someone who wishes to see you,” he says. He looks nervously at the people who are watching him, then leans forward to whisper, “He says he’s the emperor of France.”

I exchange a look with Hortense, and immediately we rise. “Where is he?”

“At the gates, Your Majesty. But the guards aren’t sure. No one can be certain.”

I cross the salon toward Madame Mère and tap her shoulder. “Can you come with me?”

She hears the nervousness in my voice and agrees immediately.

“What is it?” Caroline demands, and when I refuse to answer, she throws down her cards and follows behind us.

An old man in a gray jacket is standing outside the gates. His beard is matted, and his shoulders are hunched against the cold. “
Mio Dio
,” I hear Caroline whisper, and Hortense is struck dumb by the sight. He is unrecognizable.

“Napoleon?” Madame Mère cries and hurries forward, but the guards step in front of her before she can pass. “Are you
certain
this is the emperor, Madame?” they ask.

“I know my own son! Let him through,” she demands. “He’s standing in the cold!”

The men look to me, and the figure speaks. “Marie-Louise,” he says tenderly. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“I didn’t. But now that I hear you speak …”

He removes his hat, and I’m shocked at how gray his hair has become. “How is the king of Rome?”

“Almost two years old now.”
And happy
, I want to tell him.
Content with his life
. But instead I add dutifully, “He misses his father.”

Napoleon smiles, and now he is even less recognizable. “I will bathe and be in your apartment by seven.”

He looks to Hortense and cups her chin in his palm. “I have ordered my brother to return with your sons. I want all of the Bonapartes in France.”

“Why? Is there going to be war?”

“Only God knows, and we’re not on speaking terms right now.”

We allow the emperor of France to enter the Tuileries, and the entire palace comes alive with the news. Courtiers greet us in the halls, and there are shouts of “
Vive l’imperator
!” as we pass. Madame Mère is weeping tears of joy, and Caroline is defending her husband, Murat, who abandoned the army a month ago to protect this Kingdom of Naples. Everyone is talking at once, and after months of tense silence, it is all too much.

I climb the stairs to my apartment, and though Hortense offers to
come with me, I want to be alone. I have lost the regency of France. My father’s letters, which have been coming once, sometimes twice a week, will no longer come to me, and Franz will return to his rigorous studies without time for play. In a single night, I have gone from captain to passenger. I know it would be a crime against God to wish that the war had lasted longer, but when I think of how little I shall see Franz now, I feel sick that Napoleon is home for good.

Inside my chamber, Sigi is sleeping contentedly near the fire. He thumps his tail as soon as he sees me but doesn’t make any attempt to move. I can’t blame him. It’s cold. I sit at my armoire and take the silver pins from my hair, arranging the curls so that they fall on either side of my face. Would Ferdinand recognize me if we saw each other now? It’s been nearly four years. My hair is longer, and my face is slightly thinner, now that Franz is almost two. I overheard a courtier yesterday telling the Duchesse de Feltre that I look ten years older than my twenty-two. I turn my face to the side and wonder if it’s true.

“Marie-Louise.”

I jump, then put my hand to my chest. “I didn’t hear you come.”

Napoleon laughs. This is a favorite trick, and I see that some things haven’t changed. He crosses my chamber and holds out his hand. I take it, and he studies me for a moment before speaking. “As fresh and beautiful as I remember.” He leads me to the bed, but instead of lying down, he remains seated, and I sit next to him.

“I saw our son. He has grown significantly,” he says.

“Yes. Six months is a long time to be away.”

“Did any of the court’s men pursue you?” he asks.

I lean back. “Certainly not!”

“You can tell me,” he says quietly. “Or maybe it was you. Pretty little flowers will reach for the rain when the sun is gone.”

I gasp. “I’m a mother!”

“So is Joséphine,” he says darkly. “That’s never stopped her.”

I stand from the bed. “I am not one of your soldiers,” I say heatedly. “You may speak to them as you wish, but I am—”

“The empress of France,” he finishes. “And you are worth more than a hundred siblings. They tell me you ruled well.”

I scowl. “Was this a test?”

“Does it matter?” He pulls me down beside him. “Even my Minister of War was impressed. You saw the Twenty-ninth Bulletin?”

I stare at him. “All of France has seen it.”

He lowers his voice. “What do the people say?”

“Half a million men are gone,” I reply. “And there are Frenchmen dying in Spain. Two wars with no resolution. There is despair among the people.”

“What do they expect?” he demands. “The czar will not negotiate. Do you know how I had to get here?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “By
sled
. It’s one step between the sublime and the ridiculous!”

I don’t need to ask what would have been sublime. Victory, at any cost.

“They burned Moscow when we reached the city. There were mountains of rolling flames as wide as a sea. Can you imagine? An entire city, burning. It was the greatest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

I don’t know what to say.

“Aren’t you glad that I’m alive?”

“Yes.”
But half a million men are dead
!

He stands from the bed. He is dressed in his robe and slippers. “I went to Malmaison before coming here,” he admits. “And do you know what Joséphine said? That a million lives are worth one of me.”

Then she is as deluded as you are
, I think.

“Certainly, many men were killed,” he explains. “But they were happy to die for France.”

“In the icy rivers, screaming for their wives?” He looks stricken, but I’ve read the reports, I know the truth. “This country lost half a million to its Revolution,” I say. “And now that same number to a war in the east. There is a darkness infusing France. Total disbelief that anything will ever get better.”

“Then we shall show them that this is only a small setback.” He
moves toward the door. “Tomorrow there will be a victory ball. After that, a dance every night until the new year.”

He shuts the door, and immediately I am ill. I rush to my washbasin, and Sigi follows behind me, whimpering at the sounds I’m making as I vomit.

“Your Majesty!” I hear Hortense call from the door. Then I see her in the mirror and wince. “What happened?” she asks kindly. She holds back my hair as I heave, but nothing else comes. “Sit down.” She guides me to a chaise, but I’m shaking so badly, it’s difficult to stay still. She takes a blanket from my armoire and wraps it around me. “Something happened,” she says firmly. “What did he say?”