The Second Empress: A Novel of Napoleon's Court

by Michelle Moran

  “Everything will be perfect this time,” he tells me. “I’m sending Caroline to collect the princess from Austria, and you will be there to report what happens.”

  “Your Majesty?” This is the first I’ve heard of it.

  “Is there anyone else who will tell me the truth in this court?”

  I stop to think. “No.”

  “Which is why I need you. I will surprise your entourage in Compiègne. I’m traveling there tomorrow to see that her apartments have been suitably redecorated.”

  “Your Majesty is going to great expense.” It is a neutral statement, something that can be taken either way. But Napoleon smiles.

  “This is the marriage I was destined to have. A Hapsburg princess as fertile as a sow. And I have hired the same Master of Ceremonies used by King Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette.”

  “Won’t the people say that’s bad luck?”

  “If they are fools!” he thunders, and his gray eyes are wide, like those of a man possessed. “Why? Is that what they’re saying?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “But when they hear about King Louis’s—”

  “Then they will know that this is a wedding of immense significance. I have planned it all,” he confesses. “There will be fireworks and fêtes, and two thousand prison sentences will be commuted. I am renovating the entire Château de Compiègne in under two months. They are working on it night and day.”

  “And she expects this?”

  “I expect it. I am the emperor of France.”

  Yes, despite a revolution fought to bring an end to such titles. He notices my hesitation and his neck grows red.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, sire.”

  “The thoughts that are going through your head,” he commands. “Word for word.”

  “ ‘It is not titles that honor men,’ ” I reply, “ ‘but men that honor titles.’ ” A quote from Machiavelli.

  He stops to think how this applies to him and realizes what I’m saying. There is nothing inherently great about his title of emperor. But because the people believe in it, they will break their backs building, and decorating, and renovating. Parisians will live in thrall to their new empress until the shining title becomes tarnished in their eyes. It happened twenty years ago, and there’s no reason to think it won’t happen again. “ ‘The governments of the people are better than those of princes,’ ” he quotes back at me. “Is that what you believe?”

  “I am too young and inexperienced to say, Your Majesty. But I believe in freedom.”

  He smirks. “Of course. For the people of Haiti and all of our colonies.”

  “Yes,” I say boldly. “And it’s an accident of birth that your mother wasn’t born a slave in Martinique.”

  There is a moment of silence between us, and as he watches me intently, my stomach tightens. “I once believed that General L’Ouverture was the most dangerous threat in Haiti,” he says. “But perhaps I was wrong.” He continues to watch me, and I think of what the French did to L’Ouverture when they captured him. Then suddenly Napoleon laughs. “Martinique?” he repeats, slapping me on the back. “You never give up, Paul, do you?”

  “Your Majesty.”

  “You truly think that someday I’ll change my mind. But believe me”—he sobers—“as long as there are men on this earth, there will be other men who enslave them.”

  “That it exists doesn’t make it right.” I am pushing him, but he has a marriage before him and his mood is good. If he can’t listen to debate now, then when?

  He considers this argument briefly and shrugs. “It’s the way of the world, Paul. Be thankful your island is free—for now.” He turns my attention to the last wooden chest, and our conversation is over. “For Joséphine,” he says. Inside is an expensive china set, Sèvres porcelain. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

  Not as much as her wedding ring, I want to reply, but the amount of honesty a king is willing to tolerate is not as great as a commoner. “Yes. She will entertain well with it.”

  He glances down at a letter on Méneval’s desk. I can’t read who it’s addressed to, but I can see the date. July 17, 1796. “She kept them all, you know.”

  “Who, Your Majesty?”

  “Joséphine. She gave this one back to me last night. I was wildly passionate about her once.” He picks up the letter, and even after thirteen years, the ink is still crisp. The emperor hands it to me and says quietly, “See for yourself.”

  It’s not addressed to Joséphine, but the intended recipient is clear.

  I have received your letter, my adorable friend. It has filled my heart with joy. I am grateful to you for the trouble you have taken to send me the news. I hope that you are better today. I am sure that you have recovered. I earnestly desire that you should ride on horseback: it cannot fail to benefit you.

  Since I left you, I have been constantly depressed. My happiness is to be near you. Incessantly I live over in my memory your caresses, your tears, your affectionate solicitude. The charms of the incomparable Joséphine kindle continually a burning and a glowing flame in my heart. When, free from all solicitude, all harassing care, shall I be able to pass all my time with you, having only to love you, and to think only of the happiness of so saying, and of proving it to you? I will send you your horse, but I hope you will soon join me. I thought that I loved you months ago, but since my separation from you I feel that I love you a thousandfold more. Each day since I knew you, have I adored you yet more and more. This proved the maxim of Bruyère, that “love comes all of a sudden,” to be false. Everything in nature has its own course, and different degrees of growth.

  Ah! I entreat you to permit me to see some of your faults. Be less beautiful, less gracious, less affectionate, less good, especially be not overanxious, and never weep. Your tears rob me of reason and inflame my blood. Believe me, it is not in my power to have a single thought that is not of thee, or a wish I could not reveal to thee.

  Seek repose. Quickly reestablish your health. Come and join me, that at least, before death, we may be able to say, “We were many days happy.” A thousand kisses, and one even to Fortuna, notwithstanding his spitefulness.

  —Bonaparte

  For a moment, I don’t know what to say. The letter is incredibly intimate, and not something he should be showing his sister’s chamberlain. “Who—who is Fortuna?” I finally ask.

  “Her dog. She was insanely fond of him. The children used to bring him to visit her in prison during the Revolution,” he remembers. “So much history …” He shakes his head. “I’ve instructed the entire court to visit her at Malmaison. She’ll never be lonely,” he swears. For a moment, I am moved by this compassion. Then he slips his hand beneath his jacket and adds, “She adores me, Paul. I could marry seven more times, to any woman I wanted, and she will still need me. That’s what’s important.”

  To the empress at Malmaison.

  December 1809; 8 o’clock in the evening.

  My love—I found you more feeble today than you ought to be. You have exhibited much fortitude, and it is necessary that you should still continue to sustain yourself. You must not yield to funereal melancholy. Strive to be tranquil and above all to preserve your health, which is so precious to me. If you are attached to me, if you love me, you must maintain your energy, and strive to be cheerful. You cannot doubt my constancy, and my tender affection. You know too well all the sentiments with which I regard you, to suppose that I can be happy if you are unhappy, that I can be serene if you are agitated. Adieu, my love. May you have peaceful sleep. Believe that I wish it.

  Napoleon

  To the empress at Malmaison.

  Tuesday, six o’clock.

  The queen of Naples, whom I have just seen at the chase in the woods of Boulogne, where I ran down a stag, informed me that she saw you yesterday at one o’clock in the afternoon, and that you were very well. I pray you to tell me what you are doing today. As for me, I am very well. Yesterday, when I saw you, I was sick. I
think that you have been out to walk. Adieu, my love.

  Napoleon

  To the empress at Malmaison.

  Tuesday, seven o’clock in the evening.

  I have received your letter, my love. Savary tells me that you weep continually. That is not right. I hope that you will be able to go out to walk today. I sent you a line from the chase. I shall go to see you, as soon as you inform me that you are reasonable and that your fortitude resumes its ascendancy. Tomorrow, all the day, I shall be occupied with the ministers.

  Adieu, my love. I am as sad as the weather is gloomy. I have need to know that you are tranquil, and to learn that you have regained your self-control. May you have peaceful sleep.

  Napoleon

  To the empress at Malmaison.

  Thursday, at noon, December 1809.

  I have wished to go to see you today, my love, but I am very much occupied and a little unwell. Nevertheless, I am going to the cabinet council. I beg you to inform me how you are. The weather is very damp and not at all healthy.

  Napoleon

  CHAPTER 7

  MARIE-LOUISE, EMPRESS OF FRANCE

  March 11, 1810

  I HAVE A NEW NAME. FROM NOW UNTIL THE END OF MY days, I am to be the Empress Marie-Louise. I say it a few times in front of the mirror, trying to match this new title to the same plain face that has always stared back at me. But each time I say it, the reality seems further and further away. In a few minutes, my father will send a courtier to fetch me from my rooms, and my family will ride to Hofburg Palace, where I’ll be married by proxy to the Emperor Napoleon. I want to reconcile myself to this—to be impressed with my new fortune and rank—but I am sick with dread.

  I try not to meet Maria’s eyes in the mirror. She has been sitting on my bed since dawn, cradling Sigi. She has not stopped crying since she arrived. Tomorrow morning, when I set out for Compiègne, I suspect the scene will be the same. It will take all my reserve not to become hysterical when I leave. This palace, these rooms, these people with their familiar hatreds and desires, have all been mine since birth. And now, when my brother Ferdinand is made emperor of Austria, I will not be his regent. Someone else will have to guide his hand, and who knows if they’re prepared for his outbursts and seizures. At least Maria-Carolina will have it easier. She will be kept from the public eye and quietly married. I look up at the family portraits on my wall. Ferdinand, Maria-Carolina, Maria, my father …

  In twenty-four hours, I will never see any of them again.

  There is a knock at my door, and Sigi whines. Maria rushes from the bed and wraps her arms around my shoulders. “Change your mind,” she says. “You don’t have to go.”

  For the first time, my resolve begins to crumble. “And lose my father his crown? What would happen to Austria? What would happen to you?”

  “I don’t know.” Maria weeps.

  I bite my lower lip. I will not cry. There is nothing anyone can do, and I will not destroy my father by letting him see me in such misery. None of us wanted this marriage, but Napoleon has made his choice, and only an act of God will see it undone.

  There is a second knock, and this time I answer. A man in my father’s red and gold livery makes a deep bow. “Your Majesty,” he addresses Maria. “Your Highness.” He looks sadly at me. Even the pages are loath to see this happen. “The carriages are ready,” he says quietly.

  “I would like to see my brother first.”

  “He is waiting in the courtyard—”

  “Please bring him here. I would like to see him before I leave. In private.”

  The page bows at the waist and is gone.

  “He won’t know what to do without you,” Maria worries. “How will they control him?”

  I don’t know. I sit on the bed and take Maria’s hand. “Be patient with him,” I beg her. “Don’t let him have his own way. He can’t eat sweets for breakfast and then again for dinner.”

  “Your father and I will both see to that.”

  The door opens slowly and I rise from the bed. “Ferdinand.”

  His eyes are red. He’s clearly been told that I’ll be going away and not returning. It breaks my heart to see him weep. He takes my hands in his. “I don’t understand. I—I don’t understand.”

  “I’m getting married, Ferdinand. My husband is the emperor of France. Do you know what that means?”

  “That you want to love him and not me.”

  I inhale deeply. I will not cry. But Maria stifles a sob, and now it’s impossible not to weep. “Ferdinand, I will always love you—if I’m in Austria or France.”

  “But when will you return?”

  I look into his eyes. He is such a handsome boy. If only God had blessed him with good sense. As it is, someone will always have to be there to guide him. If I had married Adam and lived my life in Schönbrunn, it would have been me. But now someone else will fill this role. I reach out to caress his hair, and his tears wet the palm of my hand. “I don’t know when I will be back,” I admit. “But you can write to me anytime you wish.”

  “Can I visit?”

  I swallow the pain in my throat. “If you behave.” But this is a terrible lie. Although there may be talk of his dull-wittedness and ill health, no one knows just how devastating the seizures are. Our family has been diligent in hiding them. It was cruel enough for my father to see one child suffer, but when Maria-Carolina’s fits started, too … It isn’t fair. But then, Christ never preached about fairness. Only forgiveness and faith.

  I exchange a look with Maria, who is too upset to speak. “I want you to keep studying while I’m gone, Ferdinand. Father is depending on you. I want you to memorize your letters, and every new thing you learn, you must write to me about it. Will you do that?”

  “I will,” he swears.

  “And be kind to the cooks. They can’t bring you apricot dumplings every morning.”

  He makes his sad face, and even through my tears, I laugh. Then there’s a sharp knock, and the three of us freeze. My father’s page has returned. And this time Adam is with him.

  “They are all assembled and waiting, Your Highness.”

  Adam crosses the room and takes my hands. “I’ll look after him,” he swears.

  “He needs so much help, and Father isn’t patient—”

  “I am.” Of all the soldiers in Schönbrunn, only Adam took the time to teach Ferdinand how to ride. And it was Adam who bought him his first set of brushes so that he could be like me and paint.

  I look into Adam’s face and wonder how I will ever manage to live without him. “I will miss you so much,” I whisper.

  At the door, my father’s page is waiting with his eyes averted. Adam’s love for me is no secret, and when I greet Napoleon, it will not be as a blushing bride. The man clears his throat, and I cling to Adam tightly.

  “It’s time,” Adam replies, and his voice is thick.

  Maria takes my arm, and suddenly it is real. We pass through Schönbrunn, and the courtiers step back as if we were part of a funeral, not a bridal procession. A few bow deeply as I go by. They know the sacrifice I am about to make, and how a commandment from Napoleon is second only to a commandment from God. He rules the Western world, from Rome to the Netherlands, and not even the church has power over him. I am marrying a man who has been excommunicated, an emperor who has divorced his first wife without the pope’s consent. Since the church has not granted him a divorce, what am I to be? My father says he has allowed Joséphine to keep her title. So we are both to be called Empress.

  When we reach the courtyard, a small, silent group is waiting for me. In addition to my father and Prince Metternich, there is my sister Maria-Carolina, who never speaks, and my youngest sister, Anna, who is holding her stuffed bear and weeping into its fur. Even my youngest brothers are here. Every face is solemn except Metternich’s. If he is to come with me to France, I will never put my faith in him. Never. Perhaps he did not arrange this marriage himself, but someday, when I have gained Napoleon’s trust, I will
mention Metternich’s name, and he will tell me that my father’s adviser was the one who first suggested me to him. I am confident in this.

  “Metternich is to ride with us,” my father says. He looks old, his face marked by the heaviness of loss. “The prince has advice he would like to give you.”

  I follow Maria into the royal carriage, and Metternich begins by complimenting us both. “On such difficult days, the Hapsburg women are examples of resilience.”

  I do not return his smile. As the carriage lurches forward, I say flatly, “I hear you have advice. Please give it.”

  My father doesn’t chastise me for my rudeness.

  “I know you are unhappy,” Metternich begins. “There is no one in this carriage, possibly in all of Austria, who would have wished to see this marriage come to pass. But for all of the pain he has inflicted on this kingdom, the Emperor Bonaparte has also done some good.”

  I raise my brows, and when I don’t say anything, he continues.

  “The Code Napoleon, for instance. The emperor has created a set of civil laws for his empire to follow. Under the ancien régime, what was legal in one town might be illegal in the next. Now, a strict set of laws governs all of France. It is based on the Corpus Juris Civilis, written in the sixth century by the Emperor Justinian.”

  My father grunts and looks out the window.

  “But you haven’t told her the best part,” Maria says, her voice icy and out of character. “Come, you know. How ‘women these days require restraint. They go where they like, do what they like.’ How ‘it is not French to give women the upper hand.’ That’s part of the Code Napoleon, too, isn’t it?”

  “That has nothing to do with Her Highness—”

  “No?” Maria looks at my father. The muscles in his jaw are working fast.