“Considering him for one of your models?” he asked, studying me. I shifted my weight. So he did remember my interest in drawing. “Perhaps that would be a more suitable subject for your study.” Napoleon smiled, pointing toward a benign oil painting of a pastoral scene, sheep grazing as a shepherd snoozed nearby.
“Yes,” I said, nodding in agreement. For a moment he had looked at me like the young soldier in Marseille. But he was no longer that man, I reminded myself with a silent rebuke. He didn’t even have the same name as that young man. And so I cleared my throat, throwing my shoulders back as I asked: “Was all of this art already here in the palazzo?”
“No, I have collected it.” Napoleon sauntered toward me, glancing from side to side at his trove. “Every city I sacked. Those Italian principalities—it’s an embarrassment of riches. And now it shall all go back to France, for the glory of our nation. I plan to install it all in the palace of the Louvre.”
I was surprised by his brazen seizure of this property, but even more stunned by how openly he admitted to it. “But…it appears to be priceless treasure.”
“It is.”
I narrowed my eyes, studying him. “Didn’t they mind you taking it?”
“They had little say in the matter. They were vanquished, and I was the victor. Besides, we are the homeland of liberty, not those corrupt Italian doges and fat priests. They make a joke of such spoils. It is in France that we celebrate the ideals of antiquity, the ceaseless striving of man for self-improvement. It is in France where the great works of mankind belong. And I am the leader who shall bring it there. I shall create in the Louvre a great palace filled with the world’s best art.”
Another voice interrupted us. “Napoleon?” Joseph appeared at the threshold of the room. “She has arrived.”
We all knew to whom Joseph referred. Napoleon nodded, looking from me to his brother. “Good. I was going to be truly cross with her if she delayed my dinner.”
* * *
We gathered outside as Josephine’s cavalcade rattled through the front gates into the palazzo’s massive forecourt. Six coaches, loaded with trunks and furniture, servants and gowns. Napoleon stood between his mother and Joseph, scowling, arms crossed: a general inspecting an approaching force.
I studied him as we stood there. Napoleon had grown downright plump—where the features of his narrow face had once been craggy and angular, they were now padded in soft flesh. The paunch of his once-narrow midsection hung over his belt, and his breeches were stuffed tight.
I did not know which coach carried Josephine, but a wigged footman hopped down from the rear one and opened the door. I felt my body go taut as Josephine emerged.
If Napoleon had grown thick around the waist, she, by contrast, had gained no weight; she was most certainly not carrying his baby within that slender figure. Napoleon’s scowl deepened as he saw this. She stepped out, the feathers of her headdress grazing the top of the gilded carriage door as she emerged, her small pug, Fortuné, clutched in her bare arms. “Oh! Bonaparte, at last! You won’t believe how taxing this journey has been!”
The servants descended on her cavalcade, beginning to unload her dozens of trunks, boxes of jewelry, gowns, silk pillows for her dog, and other personal items. She glided forward toward her husband, but Napoleon made no move to meet her, allowing her to reach him on her own. She collapsed into his arms, her voice soft: “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you.”
“Curious,” he said, pulling back, unsmiling, from her embrace. “You’ve missed me, and yet you couldn’t be bothered to write, let alone join me, until now? Barras told me he had to practically force you into the coach.”
Josephine straightened, throwing a quick glance toward Mamma Letizia, then toward me, before she remembered herself. She fixed a calm smile onto her face, her hazel eyes sliding back toward her husband. “My darling Bonaparte,” she said, pressing an ungloved hand to his chest. “Please don’t tell me that after all we’ve been through to get to each other, you wish to quarrel? I could think of dozens of far more pleasurable ways to spend our reunion.”
Whether this appeal softened his irritation I could not tell, for Napoleon’s expression remained an implacable mask. He simply nodded to the attendants, gesturing for them to transfer Josephine’s items into the palazzo. Then he took his wife by the arm and whisked her inside, not looking back toward any of us.
* * *
Dinner was not served until late, and Napoleon arrived at the table with Josephine, both of their faces strained. He seated her at the opposite end of the table and told us all to begin our meals.
“May I make a toast?” Josephine spoke, her eyes fixed on her husband. “To General Napoleon Bonaparte, the First Man of France.”
“Hear! Hear!” Joseph agreed, raising his glass. Mamma and the sisters begrudgingly lifted theirs as well, and I took a sip of my red wine. It was full-bodied and smooth, the rich flavor a pleasant blend of fruit and spices. It seemed that artwork was not the only sort of treasure that Napoleon had plundered from the Italians.
“I think you’ve been drinking and eating quite well across Paris on my victories,” Napoleon said, serving himself a thick slice of the roasted boar.
If the barb stung, Josephine did not show it, but instead she smiled sweetly and took a sip of her wine. Napoleon turned to his sister Pauline, who was seated to his right. “What do you think of the meal, Paulette?”
“Delicious,” she said, preening at the use of the family pet name, nodding toward her brother as she accepted a slice of meat from him.
“I am glad that some of you appreciate the efforts to which I have gone to arrange a reunion for our family, a comfortable home for us.”
Pauline turned and threw a sideways glance at her sister-in-law. Then, to my shock, she slid her tongue out, making a face at Josephine. I kicked Julie’s foot under the table, and Julie’s subtle nod told me that she, too, had noticed the insult. I couldn’t help but turn to Josephine, eager to catch her response. Josephine returned Pauline’s gaze, but her face remained expressionless, unfazed.
Just then a servant pushed the door to the dining room open, appearing with a massive platter of lobster, shrimp, and clams. As the man entered, the small pug Fortuné raced in after him. Upon spotting his mistress, from whom he’d apparently been separated, the dog let loose a frantic series of yelps and charged toward Josephine.
“Fortuné!” Josephine clapped, delighting in the sudden appearance of her pet. The dog ran across the room toward her. In doing so, he clipped the nearby servant’s legs, causing the man to momentarily lose his balance. The platter of seafood in his hands tilted before careening to the floor, the porcelain smashing as clams and stewed tomatoes splattered the carpet. The dog, suddenly more interested in this available feast, turned from Josephine and pounced on the food.
“Fortuné, no!” Josephine rose from the table, running toward her small dog. The servants around the room gasped, hurrying toward the melee. Pauline shrieked. Mamma Letizia threw her hands in the air, screaming: “The lobster! Dio mio, what a mess!”
Josephine scooped up her barking dog. Napoleon rose from his chair, cheeks aflame, as he walked toward Josephine and the squirming animal. Fortuné yipped like one possessed, eager for release so that he might pounce once more upon the fragrant feast. “God help me, Josephine, I will lance that creature and toss him into the kitchen fires if you do not throw him out this instant!”
The dog growled at Napoleon, and Josephine tightened her embrace around his fat, writhing frame. “It was an accident,” she said, her voice pleading even as her dog barked more defiantly.
“A far better accident would be if he were left outdoors tonight and the wolves made off with him,” Napoleon roared. With that, Josephine burst into tears, fleeing the dining room as her dog continued to yip in her arms.
Napoleon stood alone where she’d l
eft him. He glanced from his brother to his mother, who was muttering under her breath in inaudible Italian. He hovered, deliberating.
After a moment, Napoleon threw down his napkin, cursing in his native tongue as he turned on his heels and followed in Josephine’s direction.
Those of us who remained at the table finished our meals in silence as the servants continued to clean the mess from the floor. There would be no seafood with the meal, that was clear.
It was Pauline who broke the quiet, and I could not believe that she, a few years younger than me, always spoke with such a brash assertiveness. “You heard what he said?” she glanced at Mamma. “She only agreed to come because Barras pushed her into the carriage.”
Mamma nodded. “And now he sees that it’s not because she’s pregnant.”
“Of course she’s not pregnant—La Vieille, the Old Lady,” Caroline said, looking to Pauline, who quickly showed her approval with a derisive snigger.
“I don’t understand what they think is so wonderful about her, why the dressmakers in Paris fall over themselves to make gowns for her,” Pauline said, sipping her wine. “She can’t even afford to pay for them.”
Elisa joined in: “She takes bribes, promises men back in Paris she’ll introduce them to Napoleon in exchange for their money or credit.”
Pauline crossed her arms, a pout turning her features childish. “I’m just as beautiful as she is. She’s just more experienced than I am.”
“You wouldn’t want the sort of experience she has,” Joseph said, his jaw tight. “Now that’s enough. We’ve all traveled far to be here. We will finish what’s left of this supper and then it’s off to sleep.”
After dinner, I climbed the stairs beside Julie, the servants snuffing out the candles behind us. As we neared the landing at the top of the stairs, we heard a muffled din, shouts coming through the thick walls from Josephine’s bedroom.
“Come along,” Julie said, taking my hand in hers and picking up our pace. I hurried beside her, but that’s when I realized my mistake; it was not shouting that I heard coming from behind the door, but rather the sound of their lovemaking.
* * *
Neither Napoleon nor Josephine came down to breakfast the following morning, finally emerging only when it was time for luncheon. Josephine appeared at the table with a relaxed smile, her cheeks flushed, a red bandana tied à la Creole around her hair as her dark curls framed her face.
The meal was a quiet, uncomfortable affair. Joseph spoke about the gardens a bit, and Julie agreed that a walk through the palace grounds would be nice. We were in the less formal dining salon, and Josephine sat beside her husband, clearly ensconced in his good graces once more. They exchanged meaningful looks and whispers throughout the meal, their bodies angling toward each other, touching often, giggling about gestures that were transpiring between them beneath the table.
We finished our meal of poached salmon and salad, and Napoleon pushed himself back from the table, landing his hand on it. “Join me in the music hall?” He raised an eyebrow toward his brother. “Josephine wishes to play the harp for us.”
We followed them into the large music room, where a harp gilded in gold leaf stood at the front of the room, a chair beside it. Other seating had been arranged in rows before the instrument, and I took my seat beside my sister and her husband. Josephine positioned herself beside the harp and smiled to her husband, collecting herself a moment before she began to pluck the strings.
The music began slowly, and Josephine shut her eyes as she played. She built toward a series of rapid scales, the ethereal, lilting melody prompting Napoleon to nod approvingly. Of course I remembered the words he’d once written to me: A woman’s skills in music ought to be a priority; one must always be disciplined and aspire to greatness. For then, if mastered, music can have the happiest effect on the soul.
I’d never played an instrument for him. And he had never asked me to do so.
“Bravo,” Napoleon said now from his seat, as Josephine’s fingers moved quickly and skillfully, her lean arms working back and forth across the instrument’s strings.
Elisa sat on my other side, and she leaned toward me to whisper: “They say she has some boudoir tricks from her skills as a harpist. Zigzags—some magic she works with her hands.”
Pauline heard the comment and began to chortle, prompting Napoleon to throw a daggered look in our direction. When the performance was over, Napoleon rose, applauding. “Magnifique!” He turned toward us to make sure we all expressed sufficient appreciation. “Have you ever seen such skills?” We clapped politely, but Josephine looked only toward her husband.
He crossed the room toward his wife and placed a kiss on her lips in front of everyone. And then, hoisting her from her chair, he swept her into his arms and announced: “Now, my little Creole, how about a private performance?” With that, he carried her, giggling, from the room, and we did not see either of them for the remainder of the afternoon.
* * *
It was an unseasonably warm day, and the household was quiet as everyone retired to their siestas. Not tired, I had decided to explore the palazzo a bit, to examine the confiscated artworks and study more of the paintings Napoleon had gathered.
I walked alone throughout the ground floor, without even a servant in sight. Only the sound of the outdoor fountain traveled across the air through the open terrace doors. As I entered each room, I noticed that Josephine had left papers scattered throughout.
Letters, more precisely—letters Napoleon had written to her, going back months, to the earliest days of his Italian campaigns.
I knew his handwriting and I knew what it was like to receive letters such as these. At first I resisted the urge to look at them, noting how awkward it would be should someone find me doing so. But as I continued to cross the rooms, the letters kept appearing, left opened on tables and chairs and mantels, for all eyes to see. Josephine had been careless, but I suspected that it was intentionally so; after the public quarrels of the previous day, she wished to show all of us the extent of her husband’s love, the depth of his affection, lest anyone believe her standing to be vulnerable.
Finally, I lost my resolve and I glanced at one of the notes where it had been placed on a marble side table. My heart clenched as I lost myself in the familiar slanted handwriting. I couldn’t help but feel that my own letters had been part of a different lifetime, penned by the same hand but a different man—a boy, really. For though the penmanship appeared unchanged, Napoleon had never written to me with the depth of feeling that I now saw in his letter to Josephine.
The note began as somewhat familiar, with statements not much more effusive than those he had once directed toward me:
You are the constant object of my thoughts. My mind does nothing but imagine what you are doing.
But then Napoleon’s sentiments mounted in their intensity:
My incomparable Josephine! Away from you there is no joy. In the middle of business, at the head of my troops, you remain the single focus of my heart. You have robbed me of more than my soul, you have robbed me of my very liberty, for you are the only thought in my life.
By what art have you entranced all my faculties? It is witchcraft, my dear love. To live for Josephine—that is the sole story of my life now.
Then, surprisingly, the confident and self-assured Napoleon became suddenly insecure. Jealous, even:
If you loved me as I love you, you would write me twice a day. But instead you chat with your gentlemen callers and fill your precious mind with idle gossip. If you had any morals at all, you’d be at home thinking of your husband, living for him. A thousand daggers are ripping my heart to bits. The illness I feel when I imagine other men touching you…
To die without being loved by you ever again, to die with my uncertainty, it is the torment of hell. My life is a perpetual nightmare, I have lost all happin
ess if I have lost you.
But then, just as quickly as he had turned fretful and jealous, he was once more conciliatory and loving, even apologetic. Fearful of upsetting her:
A thousand kisses to you, my soul. My life. A kiss to the heart, then lower, then much, much lower.
He was tender, hopeful:
I imagine you constantly, I see you with a round little tummy. I would take care of you, see to it that you want for nothing. Your comfort is all that matters to me in this life.
His efforts to try to make her jealous struck me as plainly apparent, even juvenile:
Five or six hundred beautiful ladies tried to charm me; none had the sweet face which I have engraved on my heart. I saw only you.
And then, he turned toward language that made me blush, even though I was not the intended recipient. My mind raced; I could not imagine the man I knew speaking in such a way, and, yet, here he was:
You know how I remember—and long for—my visits to your little black forest. I kiss it a thousand times and wait impatiently for the moment I will again be in it. To live within Josephine is to live in fields of paradise. I would be so happy right now if I could undress you. Kisses on your mouth, your eyelids, your shoulder, your breasts. Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere!
I looked up from the paper, my mind awhirl at this glimpse into Napoleon as such a devoted and impassioned lover. The letter quivered in my trembling hands and I knew I had seen enough—far too much, in fact. I lowered it slowly back toward the marble table. As I did so, I looked up into the mirror before me. It was then that I noticed her, standing behind me, reflected in the looking glass.
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