The Second Empress (39 page)

PAULINE BORGHESE

Villa Lozère November 1814

A
T FIRST
I
DON’T BELIEVE HIM
.

“This is your money from Monsieur Dion,” Paul says, “and the letter to verify how much he paid.”

“Do you think I’d accuse you of theft?” I cry.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

I glance around the salon and realize that the trunks I thought he’d packed for Elba were really packed for his return to Haiti. But when I try to imagine life without Paul, it isn’t possible. He has always been here. He won’t abandon me. “Please, just come with me to Elba,” I beg.

“I’m sorry, but I’m finished.”

“Why?” I weep.

He lifts his two trunks and moves toward the door. “Because I’ve already waited two years longer than I promised. Because slavery is still a blight on this empire. Because I want to go home. Good luck, Your Highness—in everything.” His eyes are cold. “I had planned to leave on your return from Fréjus.” He pauses. “But I wanted to see if once your brother’s dreams of conquest were over, you could finally lay yours down.”

“
Please
 … I can change.”

“But you won’t.” He steps around me and walks through the door. Outside, a hired
berline
is waiting. I cling to his arm.

“Paul, I need you!”
For thirteen years we’ve been together
.

“Then come to Haiti.”

While my brother needs my help
? “I can’t.”

“I know. You’re a Bonaparte. Your ambition is far too great for that.”

“You have no idea about ambition!” I scream after him, and he pauses in the drive. “If not for my ambition,” I say, “you would never have made it out of Saint-Domingue alive. Your neighbor told you it was the French who killed your family, didn’t he?” Paul turns around. His look is murderous, but I don’t care. I’ve protected him long enough. “It was your own people. They killed your mother the same as they killed your father and brother!”

He shakes his head. “That isn’t true.”

“When my brother received the news, I had him keep it from you. Ask the people who witnessed it,” I challenge him. “Going back to Saint-Domingue without protection is a death sentence. I would have made you its king—”

“What?” he cries. “Over an island that lost a hundred and fifty thousand people in the name of
freedom
? And you think—even if it could have been accomplished—I would have wanted that?”

I am dumbstruck by his ingratitude.

He leaves me in the doorway and whistles to the
cocher
. “Ready?”

The man tips his hat. “At your command.”

“Wait!” I call, but he is no longer listening. “Please,” I beg as he shuts the door. Then the carriage drives away, and I sink to the floor. “Paul!” I cry, and my greyhound comes running, afraid that I am hurt. She curls into my lap and looks up at me as I weep.

O
N THE VOYAGE
to Elba, I am numb. The world is gray and colorless without Paul. I miss his wit, his perceptiveness, his laugh.… But he’ll come back. If only my brother had reconquered Saint-Domingue and made Paul its king. The island would have made the perfect home, and we would have been untouchable; safe. But when he learns what truly happened there, he will return to France on the next ship. He may have
received the news that his family died, but he has no idea how barbaric his people are.

“We are almost at Elba, Your Highness. Would you like to come see?”

I follow Madame de Montbreton, the youngest of my twenty-five ladies-in-waiting, to the railings, and catch sight of the island of Elba. In the warm autumn light, it’s pretty to behold. But it’s no place fit for the emperor of France. From the Roman Empire to this tiny isle. Six months ago, Portoferraio welcomed my brother with cannons and a parade. Today the little port is still excited, thronged with people who have come out to see the arrival of my ship. I search the faces, but no one familiar leaps out. Somewhere in those crowds is my brother. And with him is my mother, who has kept the title of Madame Mère. She arrived three months ago to comfort my brother in this terrible exile, and she has sworn never to leave his side until death.

As we draw closer to the dock, I open my
réticule
and take out my mirror. I pinch my cheeks and wipe a stray hair from my brow. And as the ship is moored, I smooth my skirts.

“There he is!” Madame de Montbreton exclaims. I follow her finger to a distant figure on the pier. It’s true. There is no mistaking him, though he has gained weight since. He is dressed in his favorite hat, with white pantaloons and a crisp military jacket. I hurry to the gangplank, and my women step back, allowing me to be the first to disembark. There are hundreds of people waiting on the shore, but he is the only one I have eyes for. Napoleon meets me midway on the pier. I run into his arms, embracing him as tightly as my black dress will allow.

“Paoletta,” he says tenderly, then draws back. “Why are you wearing this? When we arrive, you will change into something lively.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” His eyes meet mine, and nothing has changed. “Where are you living?” I ask.

“In the Palace of Mulini.” His brows raise. “You’ll see.”

Our mother steps forward and embraces me warmly. “Paoletta.” Her lower lip is trembling. “
Mio Dio
, you actually came.”

“Of course.”

“None of your siblings have.”

“Then they’re not worthy of being called Bonapartes,” I say.

My brother escorts us to the imperial carriage, and in a long procession of wagons and coaches, we make our way through the narrow streets. “So tell me the news,” Napoleon says. But this isn’t the time. How do I tell him that our new king has made Hortense the Duchess of Saint-Leu, or that her brother, Eugène, has taken his family to Munich? Has he heard that his wife has taken his son back to Austria? That Joséphine …

My mother complains, “They tell us nothing on this island!”

I look out the window of the carriage, and there, perched on a rugged cliff, is the Palace of Mulini. The carriages stop, and Napoleon offers first my mother, then me, his hand.

“Welcome to the Palazzina dei Mulini,” he announces, and I can hear the sarcasm in his voice. The
Palace
of Mulini is a two-storied villa overlooking the sea. From the courtyard, the entire harbor can be seen, and all seven of the ships that comprise his navy.

“There’s the Piazza Cavour,” Napoleon points out, “and the Piazza della Reppublica. The Medici fortified this island,” he tells us. “Those walls are almost four hundred years old. Alonso will show you to your chambers,” he tells me. “Tonight, at seven o’clock, we dance!”

I follow the young chamberlain through the ancient villa. “How old is Mulini?”

“Almost a hundred years,” he says proudly. “It was built for the Medici in 1724.”

I had ancient Egyptian tiles in Château de Neuilly in better condition. I recall my beautiful home in Paris, which now belongs to our new king, Louis XVIII. I imagine him enjoying its winter gardens, and strolling through the chambers, and I feel sick. But I have come to Elba to be a spark of light. I cannot sink into despair.

“These will be Your Highness’s rooms,” Alfonso says. “Your trunks will be delivered when—”

“I will need them now.”

He hesitates. “Your Highness?”

“The emperor has commanded me to change my dress, and I must do so at once.”

“Of—of course,” the young man stutters. Immediately, he is gone. I go to the window and look out over the placid Tyrrhenian Sea.

“What is it you were waiting to tell me?”

I gasp. “Napoleon.”

He strides into the room, silent as always, and seats himself on the leather chaise. For a crumbling villa, the furnishings are well done. I suppose that’s something. I open the window to let in the sea breeze and wonder how I should tell him.

“If it’s terrible, just tell it to me at once. I don’t like guessing.”

I sit on the other end of the couch and nod. “Then you should know. Joséphine is dead.”

He is still for what seems like an eternity, looking at the empty wall and breathing deeply. Then he covers his eyes and rises from the chaise.

“Where are you going?”

“There will be no dancing tonight or any other night!”

“Wait!”

But he puts out his arm to stop me from following him.

“It wasn’t a painful death,” I say. “Fever.”

He turns to me in the hall. “July?”

“August.”

“Three months after my exile,” he realizes, and puts a hand on his heart.

He loved her in a way he has never loved me.

F
OR THREE DAYS
, even my mother can’t reach him. Then, on the fourth day, I hear a creaking in the hall, and slowly someone opens my door. “Napoleon!”

He hasn’t bathed since we met. His hair is entangled and his face
is unshaven. But there’s a fierce determination in his eyes. “Paoletta, I have a son,” he says. “And I have the jewels in my coat. The Allies have left me with this small toy kingdom. But even toys can be dangerous.” He puts his lips to my ear, and a chill goes down my back. “I need you,” he says, and I close my eyes.

Portoferraio, February 26, 1815
.

To General Lapi
,

I am leaving the island of Elba. I have been extremely satisfied with the conduct of the inhabitants. I confide to them the safety of this country, to which I attach a great importance. I cannot give them a greater mark of confidence than in leaving my mother and my sister in their care, after the departure of the troops. The members of the Junta, and all the inhabitants of the island, may count upon my affection and upon my special protection
.

Napoleon