The Second Empress: A Novel of Napoleon's Court

by Michelle Moran

  Hortense’s cheeks burn scarlet. “Yes. But I love him, so what else is there?” She glances away. “And he is so kind to me. He loves my children.” Her eyes light up. “They’re like sons to him.”

  How will Adam treat the children I have with Napoleon? Will he be tender to them? Resentful? Or perhaps he’ll never wish to see me again. It would be the sensible thing to command his heart to do …

  “He’s tall, even taller than you,” she explains. “He has the most wonderfully dark eyes. He writes poetry and plays the pianoforte. He rarely comes to court, but he was at Château de Neuilly for Pauline’s fête.”

  I think back to that night. I cannot recall a man fitting this description. I do not think he was presented to me. There are so many things I want to ask her: how she met him, where they spend all their time together. But just as I lean forward to whisper, a shadow appears.

  I shade my eyes with my hands and look up to see Pauline’s chamberlain. He’s dressed entirely in white, from his billowing silk shirt to his riding breeches. In the heat of July, he looks refreshingly cool.

  “Your Highness.” He smiles warmly at Hortense, then turns to me. “Your Majesty. The emperor has requested you both in his study. The entire family has been called for an important announcement.”

  I look to Hortense. “And he said nothing else?” she presses.

  “Just that his mother and siblings should be there.”

  My heart begins to beat rapidly in my chest. Hortense rises at once and offers me her hand. Then the three of us cross the gardens toward the palace.

  “It must have something to do with me,” Hortense worries as we open our parasols. “He is still angry that I did not convince Louis to raise an army in Holland. Perhaps he’s taking away my title as well.”

  But when we reach Napoleon’s study, the emperor is laughing with Pauline and Madame Mère. “Marie-Louise!” he exclaims as soon as he sees me, and there is no doubting that this is a joyous occasion. “Paul, if you would please shut the door.”

  I look around the study, with its red and gold paneling and matching chairs. How many kings have seen these walls? My uncle, Louis XVI, certainly. I suppose a long line of French rulers once used this room as a place of refuge from the tediousness of court.

  “Please, sit,” Napoleon instructs, and the women in the room are given seats while the men cluster around my husband’s desk. Present are Méneval and Paul, several foreign ministers, and finally Napoleon’s most important counselors.

  “In preparation for the pregnancy to come,” he begins, “I have made a decision about the heir to my throne.”

  Pauline and Caroline exchange a look, and Madame Mère stares directly at me. I have had little interaction with Napoleon’s mother. She is dressed almost entirely in black, and only the thick strand of pearls at her slender neck adds any color to her face. She is a hard woman. Even without the sharp cheekbones and strong jaw, it would be impossible to mistake her for anything else. But she keeps to herself, and Hortense says she is no one to be afraid of. Her only interest is Napoleon—his health, his happiness, his continual success.

  “As soon as the empress conceives,” Napoleon says, “our child shall be known as the king of Rome or the princess of Venice.”

  Napoleon’s counselors turn toward me, and I am trying to find my voice when Pauline shouts, “The king of Rome? Rome should belong to me!”

  “And who believes that?” Caroline demands.

  “It’s my right!” she insists. “I’m the Princess Borghese.”

  “And he’s the emperor of France.”

  “You can’t do this!” Pauline rises from her seat, and then suddenly everyone is arguing.

  “Silence!” Napoleon shouts, but the women’s voices are louder than his. “Be silent!” he thunders, and the study goes quiet. “I have made my decision, and that is final.”

  I glance at Pauline. Like her chamberlain, she is dressed entirely in white, from her thin muslin gown to the small pearls in her hair. She opens her white sachet, takes out a handkerchief, and weeps theatrically into the linen. “He loves his children more than me,” she accuses. “I knew it would happen.”

  “It’s only a title,” I hear Madame Mère say.

  The look Pauline gives her own mother is chilling.

  “What children?” Caroline demands. “The only fat on our empress’s belly came with her from Austria!”

  The ministers look away as Napoleon advances toward his sisters, and I’m reminded of a lion tamer driving back creatures that could destroy him with a swipe. “Leave,” he commands.

  Pauline clutches the handkerchief to her chest as Paul ushers the female relatives from the room. When the doors swing shut and the circus is over, Napoleon walks toward me and cups my chin.

  “There will be a child,” he says with unusual tenderness. “He might be growing in there even now.”

  But I know that nothing has changed since our marriage in April. “Yes.”

  “And when he comes, he will be known to the world as the king of Rome!” There is clapping from the ministers. “There is a surprise for you waiting in the Council Chamber,” he says. “Your father has sent the general Neipperg with something you left behind.”

  Although I already know, I’m still compelled to ask. “Sigi?”

  Napoleon smiles mysteriously. “Let’s go and see.”

  He offers me his hand, and everyone rises. A pair of guards open the double doors. “The general’s come a long way to make this delivery,” Napoleon remarks. “Caroline tells me you have some acquaintance with him.”

  I can feel the blood rush from my face. “Yes. He is a very good friend to my father.”

  “And to you.” I wonder how much she’s told him.

  “The court of Austria is small,” I say carefully. “We are all very close. Also, we knew each other as children.”

  He studies me for a moment, and I hope the lie isn’t written on my face. Then he reaches out and pinches my behind. “My little dumpling.” He pinches me again. “As sweet and innocent as a dove. If my ministers knew what was good for them,” he says loudly, “they would all go to Austria for wives.”

  I wonder if he humiliated his first wife this way.

  “Are you ready?” he asks triumphantly.

  We have reached the Council Chamber. It’s real. Count Adam von Neipperg has come. Not with a great army that will defeat Napoleon, but he is here, just as he promised. I stand before the door and look skyward to keep my tears from falling, then nod my approval. He opens the door, and a flash of fur speeds toward me. “Sigi!” I cry. My spaniel is beside himself, dancing at my feet, flopping on his back to show me his belly, and barking to be picked up. I scoop him into my arms and press him tightly against my chest. “Sigi.” I inhale his scent. Lavender, just like the quilts at home.

  “Your Majesty,” a familiar voice says. I look across the blue and red Council Chamber. He is standing beside the fireplace, dressed in black, from his polished riding boots to his gold-trimmed jacket. Even his silk eye patch.

  “Count Neipperg.” My first urge is to run to him, to press my cheek against his coat and weep with gratitude. But I control my breathing and force myself to walk slowly to where he’s standing. “Thank you for coming to France,” I say, “and for bringing Sigi.” Napoleon clears his throat, and I realize he’s standing next to me. “This—this is the emperor.”

  Adam executes the perfect courtier’s bow, and Napoleon nods regally. “Welcome to Fontainebleau. And thank you for delivering this gift to my wife.”

  I know exactly what Adam is thinking. Sigi is no gift. He was mine long before I met Napoleon, and his arrival in Fontainebleau is not an unexpected surprise; it is four months late. “The journey was my pleasure,” Adam replies. “Her Majesty is greatly beloved in Austria, and this ride was a small thing to ensure her happiness.”

  Napoleon smiles thinly, and as he reaches out to ruffle Sigi’s fur, my spaniel emits a low, threatening growl. “Si
gi!” I exclaim, and he begins to bark. “Sigi, be silent!” I glance at Napoleon. “He’s never done this before.”

  He turns up his palms. “Austrians,” he says in jest. “There’s no silencing them.”

  The ministers all laugh, and even Adam smiles wanly.

  “Thirty years ago our unfortunate aunt Marie-Antoinette was standing in this very spot. Now here we are.” Napoleon indicates the Council Chamber with its ornate fireplace of griotte marble and low-hanging chandeliers. “The great-niece of our ill-fated Hapsburg queen and the emperor of France. And soon the dynasty will continue.”

  Adam looks at me. “Her Majesty is pregnant?” he asks.

  Napoleon puts his arm around my waist. “You may tell her father that an heir is most definitely on its way.” He rubs my stomach, and I turn my head so I won’t have to see the look on Adam’s face.

  “I’ve seen these things before.” Napoleon is staring at Sigi. “Is it common?”

  “Veronese painted toy spaniels two hundred and fifty years ago,” says Adam. “Perhaps you’ve seen one depicted in his work. The dog isn’t overly common.”

  Napoleon frowns, and I realize he’s never even heard of Veronese. “Well, I’m sure Aubree will be delighted to have a friend,” he says dryly. He turns to me. “Exchange your news. We have dinner in an hour.” He retreats to the side of the chamber with his ministers, and I am left alone with Adam.

  “It was very kind of you to come,” I repeat.

  “As promised, Your Majesty.”

  Not exactly as promised. He will return to Vienna while I will remain in Fontainebleau, like the birds in a Nicolas Lancret painting, trapped in a gilded cage. “How are Vater and Maria?” I ask.

  “Well. They send you nothing but their deepest love.”

  “And Ferdinand?”

  “The crown prince has been better,” he says quietly. “He misses you. As does everyone in Schönbrunn.” He holds my gaze. Napoleon and a dozen different ministers are watching our exchange.

  “Perhaps I can come and visit,” I say.

  “Your family would like that very much.”

  But even as I nod, I know it will never be. “Would you like to say goodbye to Sigi?” I ask lightly.

  He steps closer to me, so close that his hands nearly brush against mine. Then he scratches Sigi’s ear and promises, “I won’t forget you. We’ll meet again soon, mein Schatzi.”

  “You shouldn’t promise such things. He’ll end up missing you.”

  Adam meets my gaze. “I hope so.”

  I STAND ON the steps of Fontainebleau and watch the carriages disappear in a cloud of dust. “There they go,” I say softly to Sigi, and only the eager wag of his tail keeps me from crying.

  “Are they destined for Schönbrunn?”

  I turn. Pauline is dressed in a light summer gown, with pearls in her hair and around her wrists. She is carrying Aubree, who seems wary of my new addition to Fontainebleau. “Yes. I’m sad to see them go,” I admit, “but I’m very thankful you interceded on my behalf.”

  Pauline steps forward, and Aubree buries her nose in her arm. She’s a timid little dog, but perhaps someday she and Sigi will be friends. “If my attitude was ever less than welcoming in the past,” she says, “I apologize. The most important thing now is Napoleon’s happiness. I know we both want what’s best for my brother.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you?” she asks suddenly. “Because there’s no one like him in this world. The things he plans to do … the things he’s already done …”

  I watch her carefully, but she seems to be genuinely concerned for him.

  “Everyone wants something from Napoleon,” she clarifies. “Money, titles, opportunities. He needs the women around him to be utterly loyal.” She looks at me, and her dark eyes seem to know exactly what I’m thinking.

  “I will be loyal,” I promise.

  “I hope so. Because it would crush him to have brought home a second Joséphine.”

  THAT EVENING, as Hortense shares a small gelato with me before bed, I tell her about Pauline’s question. “She wanted to know if I would be loyal.”

  Hortense puts down her spoon. “She’s heard about Count Neipperg then,” she guesses. “From Queen Caroline. Or maybe one of the queen’s women.”

  My heart is racing. “What will he do?”

  “Nothing,” Hortense says easily. “It’s only a rumor.”

  “He won’t punish my father?”

  “How?”

  In any number of ways. “He might remove him from the throne of Austria.”

  But Hortense looks doubtful. “The count was here for a few minutes, and you were not alone with him,” she reassures me. “He gave you Sigi, and that was it.”

  We both look toward the fire, where my spaniel is curled up in his new basket, sleeping.

  “Besides”—she smiles—“do you really think he’ll punish you after this news?”

  We’re both looking down at my little belly when the door of my chamber creaks open and Napoleon steps inside.

  “Your Majesty!” Hortense hides her surprise and rises. This is normally his time with Méneval.

  “Leave,” he says.

  Hortense glances at me.

  “Go,” I tell her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She leaves her gelato, and Napoleon watches me from the door. “An old friend of yours?” he asks.

  I put down my spoon. “Who?”

  “Who?” he repeats, then crosses the chamber so quickly that I can’t prepare myself for what he does next. He reaches for the gelato and shoves the bowl into my face. “Do you think I’m a fool?” he rages. “Do you think I didn’t see what was happening?” He pushes the bowl harder, then lets it drop to the floor. “Come on, little piggy. Keep eating. Isn’t that what you do best?”

  I can barely breathe. I reach for a serviette, but my hands are trembling too hard to wipe the food away. I have never been so humiliated, and by my own husband. I rise from the chair to clean myself, but his hand on my shoulder holds me down.

  “You want to know why I’m eating?” I cry.

  He doesn’t say anything, so I tell him.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  He withdraws his hand as if he’s been burned, and I watch him with open hatred. “How—how do you know?”

  “Because tonight was the second month that I’ve missed … because I’m certain.”

  “Marie—”

  “Stay away from me!” I scream. I rush from my chair, but he follows me into my boudoir.

  “Ma bonne amie. I’m sorry.”

  I wash my face in the bowl of lemon water the servants leave out for me each night, and I can sense Napoleon behind me as I cry. What if this child turns out like its father? What if he’s just as twisted and cruel?

  “Mio dolce amore,” he says tenderly. “If I had known …”

  The words make me cringe. I put down my towel and hope he can see the disgust in my eyes. “Now you do.”

  “I will make it up to you. Whatever you want. I promise.”

  But it’s too late for that. What I want has returned to Austria.

  CHAPTER 17

  PAULINE BORGHESE

  Fontainebleau Palace August 1810

  WHY IS IT THAT GOD PUNISHES ME LIKE THIS? PREGNANT! And now my brother is handling his wife like she’s made of Sèvres china, plying her with silks, and lace, and sweets. Paul told me that last night, when he was visiting the emperor in his study, she arrived, and he let her write an official letter to Russia. And when she was done, he praised her for its tact!

  I look across the room to his most recent gift to me and want to tear it apart. How dare he think he can buy my forgiveness with a fur pelisse. De Canouville sees the direction of my gaze and frowns.

  “Napoleon’s gesture of goodwill,” I snap. “From his visit with the Russian emperor. He was gifted with three. There is nothing unique about it. If you want it, have it. Use it to trim y
our uniform. Or your jacket. Or your undergarments.” Despite the pains in my stomach, I walk to the chaise and pick up the pelisse. “Take it,” I say firmly. “I never want to see it again.” Besides, he’ll look fetching in black fur.

  I sit on the chaise and put my head in my hands. I am the one who brought this about. I convinced my brother to divorce Beauharnais. And now it is all Marie-Louise. What does Marie-Louise want? What does Marie-Louise think? Would Marie-Louise care to answer letters in my study? After all, she has such wonderful political acumen and competence! When I think of how Paul convinced me to apologize to her, I want to kill him.

  De Canouville tenderly rubs my back. “He will never stop being your brother,” he says.

  “He wants me to meet him in his study tomorrow,” I reply. “He wants my help decorating the child’s apartments.” Tears of rage cloud my eyes, and I wish I had never heard the name Marie-Louise.

  “Then it will be your style that influences the king of Rome.”

  But I’m in no mood to be placated.

  WHEN I REACH my brother’s study the next morning, every courtier in France is rushing about like a headless chicken.

  “Which design do you prefer?” he asks me. “The first one, with the silver armoire?”

  I lean over his desk. “The third one.”

  “With the library?”

  “You want the child to be literate, don’t you?”

  He takes his quill and circles the third design.

  “You know,” I say, “there was a time when you believed all great reputations came from the east, and that Egypt would fix your name in the records of posterity.”

  “Not now,” he warns. “Egypt is finished. Do you understand? It was an exercise, Pauline. A three-year training for real wars. Be happy with the treasures you have. Don’t live in the past.”

  “You didn’t always believe that.”

  “And we didn’t always believe the earth revolved around the sun.”

  There’s no winning with him. There will always be an answer, or a quip, or some jibe. “You want this christening to look like Marie-Antoinette’s christening of her Dauphin?” I ask. “You want your son—or daughter,” I add provocatively, “to be dressed in the same clothes as Louis XVII?” I step back. “Then go ahead. Build nurseries in the Tuileries and Fontainebleau, but when your people revolt, don’t come asking me why.” I turn around, but he grabs my arm.