The Second Empress: A Novel of Napoleon's Court

by Michelle Moran

  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.”

  CHAPTER 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

  ITRY 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 …

  “He did it on purpose,” she says, resting her head against a satin pillow. I catch her wincing and wonder if it’s real or imagined. “He wanted me to be the last to know.”

  “Do you really believe the emperor thinks this way?”

  “He doesn’t think at all!” she cries. “That’s why he’s chosen a fat-lipped Austrian for the future empress of France. And I am the last to know. I suppose you’ve already heard where he’s been these past three days?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Versailles. Caroline said he returned this morning and didn’t want to see anyone but you.”

  Pauline watches me from her chaise, and the accusation is clear. “He told you he wanted the Austrian, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you hid it from me?”

  “He asked that I keep my silence.”

  “I’m his sister!” she cries. “And your loyalty is to me.”

  “Over the emperor of France?”

  She puts her hand on her stomach, but I can see that this time, it’s her pride that’s been hurt.

  “Let me read you some Ossian,” I suggest. When she doesn’t object, I go to the bookcase and take out the works of the blind Scottish bard. The leather cover is worn, and even the pages are faded. “Cath-loda,” I begin, and when I come to her favorite line, “Fair rose the beam of the east,” Pauline begins to recite the words with me.

  “ ‘It shone on the spoils of Lochlin in the hand of the king. From her cave came forth the beautiful daughter of Torcul-torno. She gathered her hair from wind, and wildly raised her song.’ ” Then she stops, and says the king’s name again. “Torcul-torno.”

  “ ‘Of aged-locks,’ ” I reply, using the poet’s best description.

  “It’s a funny name, isn’t it?” she asks.

  I can see her thoughts straying and put down the book.

  “Almost as ridiculous as Maria Lucia.”

  I sigh.

  “What? You do realize he’ll have to change it to something French.”

  Already I feel pity for the new empress.

  “And do you know what else Caroline told me?” she whispers, though no one is in her salon but us. “He’s giving Joséphine the Élysée Palace. That’s in addition to Château de Malmaison. And she’s to keep the title of Empress! I want to see this harlot from Vienna’s face when she learns about that.” She lays back on her pillow. “Go,” she says, the most tragic figure in the empire, twisting herself as if her pain were real. “My brother called you to his study for twelve. But I want to know everything he says about her.” She sits up. “Everything!”

  I leave the princess’s apartments, and immediately I notice the change. There is no laughter in the halls, and the faces of the courtiers look worried and drawn. Although Pauline has an endless list of grievances with her brother’s former wife, the people of France have always believed that Joséphine is his talisman, his good luck charm in times of peace and war. It is widely known that she made donations to the poor and funded hospitals for the sick, and before every battle she could be seen on her knees in Notre Dame, offering prayers for the soldiers. Even Parisians, who are cheap with their praise, call her Madame Victoire.

  “It’s an ill omen,” I hear a woman say. “She left in a thunderstorm, and it hasn’t stopped raining since.”

  “Did you see how Monsieur Eugène and Madame Hortense were crying? Bonaparte’s the only father they’ve ever known.”

  “A nineteen-year-old wife and a Hapsburg!”

  Outside the emperor’s study, two soldiers are having a similar conversation. I recognize them both. Dacian, who is tall and well liked by women, was a good friend to me when I arrived in Paris, instructing me on court etiquette. It was François who taught me how to fence. As soon as they see me, they smile.

  “Paul.” Dacian claps me jovially on the back.

  “Is the emperor inside?”

  “He’s with his secretary and the Comte de Montholon.” Dacian glances around. When he’s sure the hall is empty, he whispers in my ear, “Is it true then, that he’s to marry an Austrian?”

  “Marie-Antoinette’s great-niece?” François puts in.

  I nod.

  “I heard the emperor sent his stepson, Eugène, to the Austrian ambassador to broker the deal. Can you imagine sending your ex-wife’s son to ask for a new woman’s hand in marriage?”

  No. But then that would never happen in Haiti. For all of our supposedly backward ways, we do not marry and divorce our wives for sport.

  “It isn’t right,” François continues. “She was Madame Victoire. He’s aiming too high, wedding some Hapsburg princess.”

  “Come. We should announce you,” Dacian interrupts. Or perhaps he realizes this conversation is better suited to the gardens or the stables. He swings open the double doors, and my name echoes through the emperor’s study.

  I catch my reflection in the silver mirrors as I enter, and a tall man in black riding boots and gilded epaulettes stares back, part French, part Haitian, with green eyes and dark skin that no one can place. I have no fortune to speak of, no family name to commend me to any post, but none of that matters in this court.

  “Paul!” the emperor shouts from across the room, and I can see the disappointment on the Comte de Montholon’s face, since this is Napoleon’s favorite trick. “My sincerest apologies,” Napoleon tells the comte. “My favorite chamberlain has arrived. We shall have to continue this discussion some other time.”

  The comte stands from his cha
ir and passes me a withering look. But this is Napoleon’s joke, not mine. He enjoys dismissing members of the ancien régime for an audience with a commoner.

  “Your Majesty.” I bow before the emperor, and he stops pacing only long enough to smile at me. He does not look like a man who has divorced his wife and sent an empire into a panic. His dark hair has been neatly combed, and he is wearing his favorite red velvet coat embroidered with gold.

  “Have you heard?”

  I am certain he is speaking about the archduchess Maria Lucia, but I am cautious. “Your Majesty?”

  His gray eyes fix on mine. “No one is talking about it?”

  I glance at his harassed young secretary, Méneval, who has been at Napoleon’s side for years. He is a handsome man, tall and lean, with thick dark hair and brown eyes. Every major decision the emperor has made, he has dictated first to Méneval. Somewhere in the palace, there are thousands of pages filled with his lists—detailed instructions the emperor needs written at two, sometimes three in the morning. Méneval has put down his quill and is closing his eyes behind his desk. It’s likely the first break he has had since the emperor arrived at six this morning.

  “Is Your Majesty referring to the possibility of an Austrian marriage?” I ask cautiously.

  Napoleon laughs triumphantly. “So they are talking!” This is what he wants. More than wealth or women or even power, the Bonapartes crave fame. “Tell me.” He steps closer. “What are they saying?”

  I watch him carefully, but there is no telling what his intentions are with these questions. “The talk is that a wedding will happen in the new year,” I say honestly. “Possibly as early as March.”

  For several seconds he is silent, purposefully leaving me in suspense. Then he reaches out and clasps my arm. “You’re the first person to tell me this. I knew there must be whispers. But do you think my chamberlains tell me about it?” he asks angrily. “My own soldiers keep the truth hidden from me!”

  I keep my face neutral. There was a time when none of his soldiers wanted to be the one to tell him that Joséphine had been fornicating with one of his underlings. He still thinks about this betrayal.

  “Even Méneval,” he shouts, and his secretary’s eyes are suddenly open, “played the ignorant ass. But I knew the court was talking. What are they saying about her?”

  That she is a bad-luck wife, just like her great-aunt. That she is a Hapsburg, who knows nothing about the French. And that she is nineteen this month, and what do you know at nineteen about running an empire? But I say none of these things. Not a lie—an omission. “There is talk that she is musically inclined. She plays the piano—”

  “And the harp,” he adds. “What else?”

  I think back on my conversation with the Austrian ambassador, Prince Metternich. “She is talented at languages. Aside from her native German, she has French, Italian, English, Latin, and Spanish. Plus, she can paint.”

  “In watercolor and oil.” He nods. He has done his research, planning this marriage like a new campaign. “But,” he adds forcefully, “there is something more important than all of this.”

  I can’t think of anything I’ve missed. Her beauty? She is said to be tall and plump.

  “Her great-grandmother had twenty-six children,” he says crassly, “and her mother thirteen.”

  “So she is fertile.”

  “Like a walking womb! I’ll have a child on her by the end of the year. And for that, I’ll make her the most pampered wife in Europe.” He takes me to the far side of his study where fifteen chests have been arranged, each half-packed with its lid thrown open. “Méneval, come!” the emperor shouts. “Give me the list!”

  Méneval produces a long paper, and the emperor scrutinizes it for a moment. A deep frown appears between his brows. “I asked you to write larger. The last time we looked at this, I told you it should be bigger.”

  “It is, Your Majesty. I’m not sure—”

  “Whenever you’re not sure,” the emperor roars, “you should ask me! Leave.”

  Méneval is standing in stunned silence. Then in a single movement—and it happens so fast that even I’m unprepared for it—the emperor removes his hat and cuffs his secretary across the face. “Leave! You can sleep just as well in your apartments as on my desk. I will see you tonight.”

  Méneval bows quickly, and his voice is shaking when he replies, “As you wish.”

  I watch him go and wonder what I would do if the emperor dared to strike me.

  “All that man can think about,” the emperor says as soon as the doors swing shut, “is that slut of a wife he’s just married.”

  He means the woman who wouldn’t bed him even after he plied her with a ruby pin and diamond earrings. It’s well known at court that the emperor likes married women. They are more of a challenge, in his opinion, and rarely a liability. “With a married woman there are never awkward scenes,” he once told me. “There’s no having to convince her to leave in the morning or disappear once you’re finished with her at night.” And this is how Napoleon likes his conquests: expedient, convenient, but most of all, humiliating for the men who lose.

  “So what do you think?” he asks, indicating the chests filled with muslin and silks. “Shall I read you the contents?”

  He begins with the clothing he’s ordered. Gowns trimmed in mink, shoes lined with ermine, swan’s-down fans whose handles have been inlaid with diamonds, and court dresses so lavish that—had she still been able to—Queen Marie-Antoinette would have blushed to see them. There are innumerable riding habits and cashmere shawls. Even the princess’s bed slippers and underwear have been chosen. And then there is the wedding dress, a satin and ermine creation so elaborate, it must have taken his seamstresses an entire month.

  “But that isn’t it,” he crows, saving the best for last. “Look at this.” He walks me to the heaviest wooden chest, filled nearly to bursting with small wooden boxes. “Jewels fit for an empress,” he says, opening each box so I may marvel at their beauty.

  There is a ring with more than ten carats of diamonds set in gold, and earrings so heavy with rubies that they will tear at her ears. Then he comes to the parure, a set of matching earrings, necklace, and tiara that our future empress will wear for every portrait and national occasion. He holds the tiara up to the window so that the diamonds and emeralds catch the low winter’s light.

  “Three million francs,” he says proudly.

  I am breathless at the extravagance. It is a sum grand enough to rebuild Haiti into the country it was before the emperor destroyed it. Enough to pay reparations to every family that suffered the death of a son or daughter in the emperor’s war to keep Haiti enslaved to France. I swallow my bitterness. “There has never been a bridal trousseau like it,” I say.

  “Do you think she’ll be impressed? They are Hapsburgs,” he reminds me, and it’s the first time I’ve seen Napoleon uncertain. This man, who has conquered a dozen nations, is made nervous at the idea of a girl with royal blood. “She comes from eight hundred years of tradition.”

  “Then she will be proud to link her fortune to the emperor of France.”

  “Yes.” Napoleon stands a little taller. “Yes. And Pauline? How is she taking the news?”

  So this is why he has called me here today. Not for an opinion on Maria Lucia’s new clothing, but to gauge his younger sister’s reaction to his second wife. “She isn’t happy.”

  “She wants to marry me,” he remarks, as if he’s talking about one of his half-dozen mistresses. “She thinks to become queen of Egypt while I crown myself pharaoh. Can you imagine?” His gray eyes meet mine, and instead of anger, there’s amusement in them. “You’re a clever man, Paul. Would you care to guess what the courts of Europe would say?”

  “No.”

  He laughs. “Neither would I. Yet …”

  I wait for him to finish his statement, but his words trail off, and I watch him closely to see if his “yet” could really mean that he would marry his own sister if no
t for the furor it would create.

  “I don’t want her to be jealous,” he says at last. But I suspect this is a lie. Why else would he show me the emerald parure, the gowns dripping with diamonds, the fans encrusted with gems, when he knows it will all be reported back to her? “She values your opinion greatly,” he continues. “So I need you to explain to her the necessity of appearing in this wedding.”

  I am confused. “Your Majesty?”

  “She is to carry the bride’s train,” he explains, “along with Caroline and Elisa.”

  For a moment, I am entirely without words. He made this same request when he and Joséphine were crowned at Notre Dame, and the fiasco that ensued was the stuff of legend—people still laugh about it behind closed doors. The Bonaparte sisters swore they did nothing untoward, but there wasn’t a person in that cathedral who couldn’t see plainly that as Joséphine advanced toward the altar, all three sisters pulled back on her train, immobilizing the empress. They pinned her so tightly and for so long that Napoleon was forced to turn around and see what was causing Joséphine’s delay.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he says darkly. “But there will not be an encore performance. The world will see the Bonapartes as one. Not just the Bonapartes—the Beauharnais.”

  “Your stepchildren will attend?”

  The emperor nods curtly. “Eugène is coming from Italy, and I have told Hortense she is to be my new wife’s Mistress of the Robes.”

  I hope my eyes don’t reveal what I think about a man who would command his twenty-six-year-old stepdaughter to serve his teenage wife immediately after she has been forced to see her own mother tossed aside. I picture Hortense with her mousy brown hair and pale, innocent eyes. Yes, Your Majesty. No, Your Majesty. Of course, Your Majesty. An entire life of subservience, first to her dramatic mother, then to her husband, Louis Bonaparte—the ill-tempered king of Holland—and now to the second empress of France.