The Second Empress: A Novel of Napoleon's Court

by Michelle Moran

“You’ll be an empress,” Metternich tells me.

  A second empress.

  When he sees he is not winning my enthusiasm, he tries something else. “I know how Your Highness feels about the Jews, given that your nurse was a Jewess. Perhaps you will be interested to know that the emperor has not only emancipated the Jews in France, he has also called for a Jewish state.”

  I lean forward, despite myself. “Where?”

  “In Palestine.”

  “And he can do this?”

  “He conquered Egypt,” he replies, as if this small and fleeting victory meant that now anything might happen. “Look,” he says, and he takes from his pocket a small gold locket, handing it to me. “From the emperor to you.”

  I open it and study the picture inside. If this is a real likeness—and it probably isn’t—then he looks far younger than his forty years. The artist has painted him in an embroidered coat, with his dark hair parted to one side and his gray eyes looking off into the distance. He appears cold, emotionless, a man with foreign lands on his mind, not family or love. I think of Adam, whose dark eyes always look warm, even in charcoal drawings, and suddenly I can’t stop the tears from coming.

  “Maria!” my father exclaims, but I raise a gloved hand.

  “I’m fine.”

  He passes a threatening look at Metternich, but the prince is unaffected. To him, I am a warhorse going into battle. I was born for this duty, and now I am fulfilling it. No matter that I love another man or that Napoleon is old enough to be my father. The Hapsburg Empire must be preserved.

  “The emperor sent this locket to you from Paris,” Metternich explains. “I would suggest that when Bonaparte asks about it, you tell him that his picture did not do him justice.”

  My eyes go wide. “Is that true?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why would I say it?”

  “Because his ego is delicate,” Maria puts in, and when I look from my father to Metternich, neither contradicts her.

  “What, is Napoleon a child?”

  “He is an emperor with a new throne,” my father says wearily. “Old crowns never have to be polished in this way.”

  “But that also means you will be treated to more furs and jewels than any empress in Europe,” Metternich adds. That he thinks this is appealing shows how little he has learned about me these past nineteen years.

  “Does he paint?”

  Metternich frowns. “He is an emperor, Your Highness.”

  “Does he at least have an appreciation for the arts?” I demand.

  Metternich shifts on his seat, and I can see that he is becoming frustrated. If only I could be an empty-headed girl content with new gowns. “I do not know these answers,” he replies curtly. “But the emperor has prepared extensively for this wedding, and no expense has been spared. There are new apartments ready for your stop in Compiègne—”

  “I’m to visit the same city where King Louis first greeted Marie-Antoinette?” No one has told me this, and now even Maria looks away.

  “I shall hope you are not superstitious as well as romantic,” he says dryly.

  I stare at him to see if he is joking, but he is my father’s foreign minister, a diplomat through and through. I spend the rest of the ride in silence, listening while he tells me about Napoleon’s daily regimen. He is up at six and has a cup of orange-flower water at seven. By eight, he has read through all his letters, and the valet has finished drawing his bath. By nine he is dressed and in his study, where no one is allowed to disturb him until noon.

  “And what does he do in there?” Maria asks.

  Metternich glances at my father. “The same thing your husband does, Your Majesty.”

  I laugh sharply, for I very much doubt this. My father has never locked himself in his rooms plotting the overthrow of the Western world. Nor has he journeyed to another continent to subdue its people and pillage its wonders.

  “He answers letters,” Metternich continues, ignoring my outburst, “and dictates instructions to his secretary, Méneval.”

  “What sort of instructions?” my father asks. I know he is intrigued by this man, in spite of himself; a commoner who at twenty was made lieutenant colonel and by thirty-six had crowned himself emperor of France.

  “If a new chair is needed for the Tuileries Palace, he is the one to choose its color. He wrote fifteen thousand letters from his tent in Poland—”

  “He was only there for six months!” my father exclaims.

  “Nothing escapes his notice. There are also eccentricities Your Highness may wish to note …”

  Maria meets my gaze. But Hapsburg women have faced far worse than this.

  “At his desk, the emperor keeps figurines,” he explains. “No one is to touch them. They are arranged in a very specific way. While he is working, or thinking in his study, his papers will be strewn all about the floor. They are garbage, but no one is allowed to clean them until night. And every book that is published in Italian or French is brought to him immediately.”

  “He reads them all?” my father asks.

  “Not exactly.” Metternich uncrosses his legs. “The nonfiction he keeps. The fiction he often burns.”

  “What?”

  Metternich shrugs, as if we all burned unwanted literature in our fireplaces.

  I sit back against the seat and close my eyes. I don’t want to hear any more.

  “But he likes to read,” Maria says hopefully. “His conversation—”

  “Is not about books,” Metternich warns. “He will not discuss literature with anyone but a Haitian servant named Paul.”

  My father is astounded. “He keeps a slave?”

  “The man is the Princess Borghese’s chamberlain.”

  Metternich prattles on about the emperor’s schedule—his Spartan lunch at noon, his twenty-minute dinner at eleven—but my head is throbbing and I’m only half listening. “And there is one last thing,” Metternich adds, as the carriages roll through the gates of the palace. “It is the emperor’s younger sister, Queen Caroline of Naples, who is arriving to meet Your Highness in Braunau.”

  My father’s reaction is so violent that the coachmen stop the carriage to see that he is well. “Is this an insult?” he rages, and suddenly I am fully awake. “That crown belonged to her grandmother,” he shouts, “not some Corsican commoner! Queen Caroline of Naples?”

  I have never seen him so angry, but it was my grandmother, Queen Maria-Carolina, who once sat on that throne.

  “If this is intentional—”

  “Your Majesty,” Metternich interjects, and his voice is smooth, “this was not intended as a slight. He only wished to send an equal to greet his wife. It was either Queen Caroline or Princess Pauline.”

  But my father is not convinced. He calls out the window for the carriage to continue, and we come to a stop before the Innenhof, where my uncle is waiting to stand as a proxy for Napoleon Bonaparte. I am normally glad to see the soaring white marble of my father’s favorite residence, but today the Hofburg looks imposing and cold.

  “Your Highness,” Metternich begins solemnly, “Austrians from Prague to Carinthia understand the sacrifice you are about to make. If I may give one last word of advice?” he asks.

  I nod shortly, and Metternich clears his throat.

  “When Queen Caroline meets you in Braunau, obey her in everything. She will bring with her French perfume, French clothes, French food. She will instruct you in all the ways of the French. You are French now. The Empress Marie-Louise.”

  I fix the prince with my gaze. “No, I am not. And this masquerade,” I tell him, looking down at my red velvet gown with its gold embroidery and ermine trim, “is for the emperor’s benefit. He may dress me in white silk and put a crown on my head, but I will always be the daughter of Francis I and I shall never stop being an Austrian.”

  IT IS A brief ceremony.

  My uncle stands in for Napoleon, and a French official is there to record that it is done. When the ceremony is
finished, there is no celebration. If I had married anyone else—a lowly deputy even—the streets would be filled with singing and dancing. Flowers would be tied to every wagon, and the public squares would be flowing with wine. But no one is in a celebratory mood. Austria has been beaten, her royal house humiliated, and the Hapsburg emperor has been forced to give his daughter to the son of a petty Corsican nobleman.

  Outside, a light snow has begun to fall, and I wonder if it ever snows in France. Surely, it must. But truthfully, I don’t know.

  Our carriage ride back to Schönbrunn is solemn. Even Metternich keeps his silence. But before we part company on the icy steps of the palace, the prince holds out a hand to stop me. I step back, and he leans in to my ear to whisper, “Pride is not a trait the French value in their rulers. They killed a queen for less.”

  I study him in the cold light of the afternoon. His nose is red and his cheeks are flushed, but his eyes are bright and alert. “Are you saying I’m in danger?”

  “Your great-aunt was beheaded seventeen years ago.” He pauses for a moment before adding, “The people haven’t changed.”

  I watch him disappear into the palace behind my father and stepmother. I cannot bear the thought of them ever receiving the news that I have been killed, that the French mobs have torn me apart, limb from limb, like the Princesse de Lamballe, or sentenced me to the guillotine. I will behave. I will do my duty as a daughter and a queen and be a credit to my Hapsburg ancestry. But when I pray, it will be as Maria Lucia.

  God, at least, will know my name.

  INSIDE SCHÖNBRUNN, I walk the halls of my childhood home and try to commit it all to memory: the candlelit chambers, the painted ceilings, the marble fireplaces where my sisters and I played with dolls and painted pictures of snow-capped roofs. I avoid the curious gazes of the courtiers, who all want one last word with me, and hurry instead to my studio. The door is open, and I let myself in. Immediately, I shiver. Without a fire, the chamber is cold. I hug my cloak closer to my body and cross the room. All along the walls are framed images of my family: sisters, brothers, uncles, cousins—generations of faces I will never see again. And on an easel at the far side of the room is the painting of my youngest sister, Anna. There will never be time to finish it now. I look at her sweet face and wonder what she will be like when she’s nine, twelve, fifteen even.

  “I thought I’d find you here.”

  My stepmother, Maria, is standing in the doorway, framed like an angel by the hall’s chandelier. “My father told me to make my farewells,” I say, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’ll miss you so much. And Father. And Schönbrunn.”

  “It’s not impossible to think you’ll return,” she says desperately, crossing the room. “He might let you visit.” She takes my hand. “Be kind to him,” she advises. “Let him think you’re in love. When he takes you for the first time—”

  I gasp.

  “You’re a married woman now. It’ll happen.”

  Yes, but I have tried not to think on it.

  “When he takes you, ask him to do it again.”

  I stare at her, but she nods. “They want to believe they’re irresistible. If you please him in bed, he’ll please you in other ways.” I try not to imagine her doing these things with my father, but she is my stepmother as well as my friend. It is her duty. “And never compete.”

  I frown. “Have you ever seen me at games?”

  “All the time! Chess. If he asks to play, you should refuse. Or lose.”

  “Never.” I could never do that.

  “You should not have so much pride,” she warns.

  I think of Metternich’s warning and hesitate. She rests her head on my shoulder, and I can smell the scent of lavender from her hair. “You’re the closest friend I’ve ever had,” she whispers.

  She comes with me as I make my goodbyes.

  I go first to Nurse Judith, who had the job of raising me until I was grown. She caresses my hair and tells me not to weep. “He has shown great kindness to the Jews. Perhaps God has a plan.”

  “I hope so,” I whisper. But what if He doesn’t? What if He’s forgotten the Hapsburg-Lorraines?

  Then I go to visit my ladies-in-waiting. And finally I see my youngest siblings in their nursery. There is much confusion. At eight years old, my brother Karl does not understand the concept of marriage. When my father appears to say goodnight, he is the one who explains what it is to be married.

  “Then I will leave as well?” my brother asks.

  “No, you are a boy,” my father says.

  “Then Anna will leave?” Karl asks, and now there is no consoling Anna at all. The sobs that wrack her body are pitiful to see. I take her in my arms.

  “Shhh.” I stroke her hair. We share the same golden color.

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” I promise.

  “But I don’t want you to leave.”

  “Why don’t you kiss Maria goodnight,” my father offers. “Then we can walk her to her room,” he suggests comfortingly.

  Anna nods. Then we walk the halls together one last time as a family.

  CHAPTER 8

  PAULINE BORGHESE

  Tuileries Palace, Paris March 1810

  I WANT YOU TO TEACH ME HOW TO WALTZ.”

  I stare at my brother in his military coat and black riding boots, and I’m sure I’ve heard wrong. “Since when have you wanted to waltz?” I ask. It’s ludicrous. No, it’s laughable. In forty years he has never danced, not even with me.

  “My wife will expect it,” Napoleon says, and immediately I feel my temperature rise. So that’s why I was called to his study! Not for any great purpose, but to help him impress an Austrian whore.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What do you mean?” He rises from his desk, but I’m not intimidated.

  “I can’t teach you to dance. I’m not an instructor.”

  “You’re the finest dancer in Paris.”

  “And that comes naturally.” I smile. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about teaching someone else.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Yes. But he doesn’t know that. “Ask Hortense,” I suggest. Hortense is fool enough to do whatever she’s told. After all, she’s Joséphine’s daughter.

  He studies me for a moment, hoping that I’ll blush or that my lie will come out in some other small way. But Talma always says I was destined for the stage, and my face betrays nothing. “Then I want you to see this,” he says instead. “Everything must be perfect for her arrival, Pauline. Everything.”

  I see the fifteen chests Paul told me about three months ago and I realize he is truly concerned about this. A nineteen-year-old girl intimidates him because of her name. It is as if he has forgotten that God protects the Bonaparte clan. Look how far we’ve risen! God chose us for greatness, and there’s no reason to suspect He will disappoint us now. But my brother’s eyes are full of worry, and I wish I could make him understand that even without this palace and his crown, he is a king.

  “Look closely,” he instructs. “If there’s anything I’ve missed, Méneval will get it.”

  “Is there a list?” I ask. For all his talk about equality and common blood, I know the truth. He wishes he were royal, too.

  He hands me two pages filled from top to bottom with Méneval’s writing. There are a hundred and fifty pairs of stockings, thirty-six petticoats, a hundred and forty-four embroidered chemises, eleven silk dressing gowns, eighty lace nightcaps, countless handkerchiefs, and sixty-four—sixty-four!—dresses tailored by Leroy.

  “There’s a third page as well,” he says anxiously. “On the back.”

  “You have ordered her underwear?” I imagine my imbecilic husband Camillo Borghese daring to purchase my undergarments for me, and I am horrified.

  “You don’t think she can choose these things herself,” he says. “She’s a child.”

  “She’s nineteen.”

  “Exactly. Old enough for motherhood
, young enough for obedience.” My brother slips his hand beneath his coat in a gesture that’s become so familiar that artists have begun painting his portraits this way. But I wonder suddenly if his stomach ails him, too. He has never mentioned it, but then he has never mentioned the medicines he takes for his seizures.

  I sit on the edge of his desk and ask quietly, “Are you well?”

  “What makes you think otherwise?” he asks. Then he follows the direction of my gaze, and withdraws his hand from his coat. “Of course.”

  “You would tell me if you were sick—”

  “Why?” He sits next to me. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, but I would find the best for you.”

  He takes my hand tenderly in his and squeezes softly. “You are a good sister, Paoletta.”

  I look back at the chests filled with swan’s-down cloaks and lilac chemises, and my envy is unbearable. I would look far better in these clothes than any Hapsburg ever will. What’s the point of wearing a russet silk gown when you are a waddling sausage? “I hear she’s fat,” I say, knowing he hates fat women as passionately as he does tall ones.

  “Who said that of her?” he demands. There is an edge in his voice, and I counter it with indifference.

  “No one.” I give a little shrug. “It’s evident from her picture.”

  And we have all seen that. Sitting like a shrine in the middle of the Throne Room, elevated on steps like an image of the Virgin Mother.

  “I suppose we’ll know soon enough.” I stand. “At least Caroline will. Paul says you’re sending her to Compiègne because she’s a queen?”

  “It’s a matter of rank. And when she arrives, you will not insult her.” He rises. “She’s a Hapsburg princess.”

  “Or what? You’ll banish me?”

  He grabs my arm. Suddenly he’s so close, I can feel the desire in his breeches. “You will behave yourself,” he warns through clenched teeth. “At the church, at every fête, even in the birthing room when she gives me a son. This is not a game.”

  I pull my arm away. But his eyes are dark, and I wonder if I have pushed him too far. He has ordered men killed for less. He does not do it himself. He sends them to the fronts, to the most dangerous fighting, and when they fail to return, he is all polished speeches and feigned regret. I’ve had lovers die this way. “What is that?” I ask quickly, turning his attention to the miniature city re-created with clay models on his desk.