The Second Empress (7 page)

W
HEN THE CLOCK
strikes eight, Paul offers me his arm, and we cross the palace toward my brother’s Throne Room. The halls are filled with dignitaries, all hurrying to get the best spot in the chamber, like a rushing stream of white diamonds and feathers. Nearly a thousand courtiers have arrived, including Eugène de Beauharnais and his sister, Hortense, looking sorry for themselves. It was my brother who insisted that Joséphine’s children be here tonight. Many years ago he made
Eugène the prince of Naples, and Hortense the queen of Holland. I doubt he will take their titles away, so they could at least try and look grateful.

“Y
OUR
H
IGHNESS
.” The ambassador of Russia bows deeply to me, and next to him, I acknowledge the governor of Paris.

As we ascend the marble staircase, Paul whispers in my ear, “Look at your sister, Queen Caroline.”

I follow his gaze to my younger sister. She is talking eagerly to a man I don’t recognize, and the pair of them are ascending the stairs together. “Who is he?”

“The ambassador from Austria,” Paul says.

“What’s she doing with him?”

But he can no longer answer. We have entered the Throne Room, with its red velvet hangings and elaborate gold paneling. This was once the bedroom of King Louis XVI, but my brother has turned it into his Salle du Trône. After the barbarism of the Revolution, there wasn’t a single item of value left in the Tuileries. Since everything had either been stolen or sold, one room was the same as any other. I wonder how many of these courtiers realize how empty these halls were when my family first arrived. It was my brother who turned this ruin back into a palace; my brother who restored this country’s greatest treasures to their former glory. I step forward, and when I am the only figure in the door, I nod.

“Her Royal Highness the Princess Borghese,” the usher announces grandly.

The entire chamber turns, and the women gasp as I pass through the chamber, snapping open their fans to gossip behind them.
Yes, keep up your nattering
, mes chéries.
I know what I’m wearing, and that you’re all dressed in black, as if we’re here for a funeral and not an act of separation
. A second usher appears to guide me toward the dais, and Paul follows behind. I can feel his presence like a steady shadow, and when we’ve
taken our places before my brother’s throne, I lean over and whisper, “Did you see their faces? Those women nearly expired!”

“You never tire of creating a scandal, Your Highness.”

I look toward the dais, where a single gilded throne remains: Joséphine’s has been removed. I remember the night the carpenter, Jacob-Desmalter, was summoned to the palace and told he must create something entirely unique. “Blue silk and blue velvet,” Napoleon said. “And it should be embroidered with a single ‘N.’ ”

“You must also include your three insignias,” I urged him. So the giant eagle, the Legion of Honor star, and golden bees were all embroidered into the fabric.

The chamber grows silent as liveried trumpeters herald my brother and Joséphine’s approach. I clutch my
réticule
so tightly that I can feel my knuckles turning white on the clasp. “Remember to breathe,” Paul advises.

It’s true. I don’t want my brother to see me red-faced when he looks down from the dais. I have prepared fourteen years for this moment, and my complexion is not going to ruin it for me. And then: there they are.
My God, look at Joséphine’s pallor
. It couldn’t be more unattractive. As she takes her place next to my brother, she looks as if she might faint. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for her, standing in front of a thousand people to surrender her crown. It must be mortifying. And then I study her more closely: she has actually purchased a new gown for the event! And those diamonds in her hair did not come cheap. No doubt he will let her keep them.

“To my devoted stepchildren,” my brother is saying, “I am immensely grateful. Eugène and Hortense are like my own …”

Please. If that were the case, there would be no divorce.

“God alone knows what this resolve has cost my heart,” my brother continues.

He can really lay it on thick when he wants to. “I have found courage for this act only through the knowledge that it serves the very best interests of France.” There is some murmuring among the assembled.
“I have only gratitude to express for the devotion and tenderness of my well-beloved wife. She has adorned fourteen years of my life, and the memory of those years will remain forever in my heart.”

I think to clap, but everyone else is still, so I refrain.

Then my brother steps back, and Joséphine takes his place in the center of the dais. Now the room has gone utterly silent. You can hear the rustling of women’s gowns, and the heavy, labored breathing of the old men behind me.

“With the permission of my dear and august husband,” she begins, “I offer him the greatest proof of devotion ever given to a husband on this earth …”

The room waits for her to continue, to say the lines she must have rehearsed a dozen times for this performance, but she begins trembling violently. The silence is excruciating until she reaches into her
réticule
and pulls out a folded paper.

“Monsieur Moreau.” Incredibly, Napoleon crooks a finger at my chamberlain. He wants Paul to read the rest of Joséphine’s speech!

I know my brother has great esteem for Paul, but this is unprecedented. I glance at the men standing in my immediate vicinity and spy the actor, Talma, dressed in a red velvet coat with white cashmere breeches. For Christ’s sake, why not ask him to perform for her?

I will Joséphine to get ahold of herself, but Paul begins speaking in her stead. “I respond to all the sentiments of the emperor in consenting to the dissolution of a marriage which henceforth is an obstacle to the happiness of France by depriving it of the blessing of being one day governed by the descendants of that great man, evidently raised up by Providence, to efface the evils of a terrible revolution and restore the altar, the throne, and social order.”

I stare directly at Joséphine. This is her moment to deliver a performance the court will never forget, and what does she do? Hand her part to someone else.

“But his marriage will in no respect change the sentiments of my heart; the emperor will ever find me his best friend. I know what this
act, commanded by policy and exalted interests, has cost his heart, but we both glory in the sacrifices that we make to the good of our country. I feel elevated by giving the greatest proof of attachment and devotion that was ever given upon earth.”

She is an imbecile.

As the divorce papers are being signed, no one knows what to do. Should they talk? Remain in dignified silence? In the middle of writing his name, my brother breaks his quill, and a nervous murmur spreads until a new one is brought. From somewhere behind me, I hear a woman click her tongue and whisper, “Obviously a sign.” But when my brother dips the new nib into the ink and finishes his signature, no one dares to speak. A sharp crack of thunder echoes from outside, and the courtiers look to my brother for their next cue.

“For the good of France,” Napoleon announces loudly, and everyone repeats his sentiment.

As people begin to move toward the doors, Talma shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

“Isn’t it?” I can’t keep myself from smiling. My God, anything might happen now. And from this day forward, Napoleon will look to his real family for support. He already knows what an ideal queen I would make.… But when I see Napoleon take Joséphine’s hand, my heart stops beating. “He’s not really going to walk her to her apartments?” I exclaim.

Talma stares at me. “Why not?”

“Because it’s a divorce, not a waltz!”

He makes a noise in his throat. “Hard to tell the difference.”

“I hope you’re not implying that this is somehow inappropriate,” I say, searching for Paul in this insane melee.

“Of course not. If I ever divorce, I want it to be a grand affair, with dancing and feasting and at least a thousand guests.”

“I’m not finding you humorous.”
Where the hell is Paul
?

“No?” He smiles, and it’s impossible to resist him when he does
this. “If you’re looking for your chamberlain, he’s over there—with the Austrian ambassador.”

“And why is
he
so popular today?”

Talma looks incredulous. “It’s the loudest secret in Paris,” he says. “Your brother is to marry an Austrian princess. It was finalized this morning.”

C
HAPTER
6

PAUL MOREAU

Tuileries Palace, Paris

“
A thousand idle stories have been related concerning the emperor’s motives for breaking the bonds which he had contracted upward of fifteen years.… It was ascribed to his ambition to connect himself with royal blood; and malevolence has delighted in spreading the report, that to this consideration he had sacrificed every other
.”

—DUKE OF ROVIGO

I
TRY HUMMING A TUNE TO LIGHTEN THE MOOD, BUT EVEN
the weather feels like a conspirator. Sheets of rain have been bearing down against the windows all day, and the thunder has sent Aubree whimpering beneath the bed, so that even if Pauline had been cheerful to start with, she would have flown into a temper anyway.

“I will never recover from this, Paul.
Never
.” The princess is lying on her favorite chaise in a gown more suitable for a gala than a day of lying-in.

“Would you like me to order up some more granadilla?” This was her favorite drink in Haiti, and the emperor has it shipped here each month for her pleasure.

“Of course not. Does it look like I can drink?”

“Your Highness had tea this morning.”

She ignores my response. “Have you sent for Dr. Corvisart?”

“An hour ago.”

“So where the hell is he?”

I stare at her from behind my book. I won’t answer if she yells. This is the mistake her lovers make, trying to reason with her when she is being unreasonable. But the Princess Borghese is a woman of great passions. When she loves, it’s with her entire heart. And when she hates …