The Queen's Fortune

by Allison Pataki

  I took Julie’s cold hand in my own, weaving my fingers through hers.

  Duphot was quiet but angry, a stern and silent fury, the steely resolve of a battle-hardened veteran. “This is an insult to all of France. I will crush this before it mounts.” He put his hand on the musket slung over his shoulder. “Stay inside.”

  With that, Duphot turned from the room and marched back toward the doorway through which he’d just entered. Julie and I charged back to the window to look out over the street below. The crowd was growing in size. After a moment, a figure strode out to meet them and I recognized Duphot. We could not hear his words, but it was clear he was shouting.

  The Italian men began to shout back, hands raised, enraged faces illuminated by the torches they carried. Duphot’s right hand hovered over the musket at his shoulder. Still, I could not hear his words, but I could see him growing more animated in his gestures.

  Julie, beside me, breathed heavily. “What is he saying?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered.

  “He should come back inside now.”

  Several of the men began to shove Duphot, and he raised his arms to fight back. He was shouting. Then, one of the men reached for Duphot’s weapon, and the old man tried to push him back. There were too many of them. Duphot struggled, but the crowd was closing in around him. We could no longer see his individual movements. Julie took my hand, and I felt in the clench of her icy grip that she shared my horror.

  And then we heard it—the pop of noise ripping across the Roman night. We might have thought it was a firework, going off to celebrate the New Year, but then the crowd began to shout even louder, jostling and shoving like a swarm of mad beasts. And then another shot. And a third. And though the night was dark and the crowd was thick, both Julie and I knew immediately that Leonard Duphot was dead.

  Chapter 14

  Paris

  Winter 1798

  WINTER STILL STRUCK ME AS an insufferably cruel season, with its bitter, ice-slicked wind and the oppressiveness of a low-hanging pewter sky. And yet walking remained the best way for me to find some small measure of solace from the whirling chaos of troubled thoughts that had followed me from Rome back to Paris. Julie and Joseph’s home was lovely and comfortable, to be sure, and they had woven me into the daily fabric of their family life with warmth and hospitality, and yet I often found myself wrapped in fits of incredible loneliness. Bouts of restlessness and melancholy. Even in the grand rooms of their spacious villa, misery lurked all around me.

  I had not wished to marry Duphot and I had certainly not been in love with the old man. Far from it. He had been a wizened general with a grown son, an established lover, and a second family by her. But that did not erase the horror I felt after having witnessed the man’s violent murder. That did not mean that I did not see his death in my haunted thoughts, both sleeping and awake.

  I’d left Italy immediately after that uprising, returning to Paris with my sister and her husband, but Paris did not feel like home, either. The nightmares that had begun in Italy trailed me back to the icy French capital. As had been the case during past seasons of trouble, walking became a sort of temporary refuge—a momentary distraction, at least. And so that January afternoon, I donned my thickest cloak and heavy fur cap and muff before taking off from Julie’s home, hoping that the sights of the chaotic city might lure my thoughts into some much-needed diversion.

  My walking routes were seldom planned, and I often found myself tracing a meandering route toward the Seine, where the silvery waters of the wide river carried all sorts of humanity and bounty from the farthest corners of our Republic and beyond. I’d stroll along the quays of the Right Bank, watching the boats dock, losing my thoughts as I saw the sailors and merchants unloading salmon and cheese from Normandy, lavender from the warm, sunbaked fields of Provence, barrels of plum-red wine from Burgundy. Here, with the wind gliding off the river, the air smelled cleaner than in the rest of the city center, where the narrow streets reeked of waste—human and animal—and the thick scents of cooking fires, damp wool, and so many unwashed bodies.

  My restlessness on that particular January day was due to the evening’s activity: a ball. A feast to celebrate France’s recent victory over and peace with Austria. A grand ball to honor Napoleon and, therefore, his beloved Josephine at his side.

  Of course with Joseph now firmly ensconced as Napoleon’s constant companion and most trusted adviser, there was no way Julie and I, the other members of Joseph’s household, could risk the offense of declining our own invitations, and so I would be forced to attend.

  But I dreaded it. While our government, the Directory, was wildly unpopular, Napoleon’s star continued to shine ever brighter. He was credited with restoring both glory and peace to the ravaged nation. The pair of them, Napoleon and Josephine, had returned from the Italian front at the head of one massive and never-ending victory parade—with entire towns coming out to cheer them, allowing Napoleon to plunder ancient churches and palaces so that his cavalcade grew ever more loaded down with priceless treasure and art.

  And yet, as ebullient as the crowds had been along the way, nothing could match the frenzy with which the city of Paris welcomed its favorite adopted son home. Now that he was back in Paris, the city had decided to change Napoleon’s street from the Rue Chantereine to the Rue de la Victoire. Victory Street. The Boy General was also being called the “Son of the Revolution,” with the beautiful “Lady of Victory” beside him. And now, even though half of Paris was starving, without bread or firewood in the dark winter months, and even though Josephine had spent nearly half a million francs renovating and redecorating their mansion, the Bonapartes were throwing themselves a lavish, government-funded ball.

  I dressed for the evening in a rich gown of sapphire blue, rubies sparkling in my hair and around my neck. Joseph escorted both Julie and me to his brother’s grand home, where five hundred other guests were set to arrive in coaches and fiacres.

  Joseph gasped as we entered the courtyard. “Brilliant, he’s done it,” he exclaimed, explaining the scene before us. The courtyard had been arranged to resemble an army camp, replete with uniformed soldiers and campfires in tableaux, along with cannons and warhorses. “To give all of us an idea of what our boys faced on the front,” Joseph said, as he ushered us through the snowy scene and toward the wide front doors.

  We entered the mansion, its high-ceilinged hall warm compared to the cold night. The grand rooms were ablaze with candlelight, the walls covered in fine art—just a small portion of Napoleon’s spoils from Italy. Thousands of fresh flowers filled the large, crowded rooms with their fragrance, mingling with the scents of the ladies’ perfume and the platters of aromatic food heaped along the banquet tables. Napoleon had once complained to me of being spurned by Parisian society, and yet all of the capital’s most important citizens had turned out this evening in his honor. Recently returned nobles and high-ranking military officers mingled with society hostesses and members of the government, all chatting amid a forest of live trees, hundreds of which had been arranged in potted soil just for the occasion.

  Joseph pointed out our nation’s Foreign Minister, Charles de Talleyrand, who held court on a broad, winding staircase at the center of the hall, its banister wrapped in vines of fresh-clipped myrtle. “But no sign of him, just yet. I’m sure they wish to make their grand entrance once all the guests have arrived.”

  I knew that Napoleon was never late—at least, never intentionally so, and neither Julie nor I needed to question to whom Joseph referred when he mentioned “their grand entrance.”

  And they did appear shortly thereafter, entering through the wide front doors and into the bright, crowded hall. Josephine stood at his side in a simple gown of diaphanous white chiffon, her chestnut hair framed by a diamond tiara that looked unmistakably similar to a crown. Her face was, uncharacteristically, blank of its usual smile, her mouth
with a pinched quality. I knew that she spent more on makeup alone than what most workingmen in France earned in an entire year, and so I found it curious that tonight, on such a grand occasion, she had not made her face up to its usual resplendence. She fixed her pale gaze straight ahead into the crowd, but not toward the husband beside her.

  The packed room fell silent upon their entrance, all giddy and ebullient energy turning to eager attentiveness as the instruments ceased their playing. Even the crystal of the champagne flutes seemed to stop tinkling. Hundreds of guests turned to the military man, draped in his medals and tricolor sash, the famous bicorn hat atop his head.

  Napoleon’s eyes swept the room like a general appraising the positions of a battlefield, and I got the impression he was cataloging the face and name of each individual present, determining, even among these throngs of hundreds, who had dared decline his invitation.

  A young woman had entered shortly after them, her own narrow frame draped in a simple gown in the same style as Josephine’s. “Hortense. Josephine’s daughter from the dead viscount. Napoleon’s stepdaughter,” Julie explained, whispering in my ear. Hortense appeared not much younger than me—I put her at about fifteen or sixteen—and I was struck once again by the difference in age between myself and the woman Napoleon had chosen over me.

  Talleyrand went toward the pair first, appearing to savor every moment of this political theater. He welcomed Napoleon and told him that the orchestra had prepared a special song—to honor him but, in fact, to honor Josephine as well. With a nod, the nearby conductor lifted his violin bow, and the musicians took up their instruments.

  It was a jaunty melody, militaristic in tone, and the singers soon joined in, delivering the lyrics that had been prepared especially for the occasion. Josephine’s taut features softened, and soon she was donning an appreciative smile at the lyrics written in her honor: “By tending to his happiness, you honor the obligation of France.”

  Dinner was not served until late in the evening, shortly before midnight. By that time, the guests had enjoyed plenty of wine and champagne, and the mood was a festive one.

  Napoleon took up his place at the head of the central table, with Josephine at his side. She fidgeted with her fork, eating little, while Napoleon tucked into the feast with gusto.

  Talleyrand made the first toast, lifting his glass as he said: “Tonight, especially, we honor the citizeness who bears the name most dear to the man who brings our glory. The dear companion to France’s conquering hero. To Josephine!”

  The room erupted in approving cheers and Napoleon nodded slowly, glancing to Josephine, who offered a demure nod toward the Foreign Minister. But her characteristic radiance seemed somehow diminished this evening. I wondered if anyone else noticed.

  The buffet was as decadent as the rest of the evening, but I had little appetite for the rich food. There was an endless spread: salmon in cucumbers and dill, sole in white wine, small tender hens heaped with rosemary and onion, potatoes baked in Gruyère, and soft, warm varieties of fresh-baked bread, clusters of grapes, and platters of olives.

  After the feast, Talleyrand announced that our honored General Bonaparte had given us yet another gift—one of which even we Parisians were not yet aware. A new diversion, a risqué dance brought straight to us from Austria known as the waltz.

  Napoleon and Josephine began it, their bodies entwined in unabashed proximity, and she began to smile more easily as he swept her across the parquet floor to the triple-time melody.

  Outside, fireworks burst across the wintry sky, brightening the night as they spelled out Vive la république. It was past one o’clock in the morning by the time Napoleon found us. Joseph, Julie, and I stood drinking coffee and enjoying a small plate of desserts. “Ah, brother, I see you’ve found yourself the most beautiful ladies in the room.” Napoleon smiled at me, his eyes roving freely over my figure before resting on the cinch of my waist. I felt my spine go rigid. It was odd, I thought, that Napoleon stood here, flirting with me; he hadn’t flirted with me since Marseille. Why was he not pinned to Josephine’s side, as he usually was?

  “And I see you’ve thrown yourself a lavish party. One fit for a king, dare I say?” Joseph made the statement like a well-intentioned joke, not one with dangerous insinuation, and his brother appeared to take it as such. Napoleon gestured toward the walls covered in artwork, the banquet tables heaped with platters that servants kept refilling. “Everything for the glory of France. Winning is all for nothing if one does not take advantage of success.”

  “I toast to that,” Joseph said, accepting another glass of champagne from a servant. I accepted a flute for myself, as Julie declined. She was still hopelessly eager to become pregnant and thus limiting all food and drink that was too rich.

  “There’s the man of the hour. What did they call you—the Son of the Revolution?”

  We all turned upon hearing the deep voice, the accent thick and languid, reminding me of my home in the south.

  “Ah, Bernadotte!” Napoleon offered a bright smile to the tall, dark-haired man who had so suddenly appeared. “And what do they call you? Sergeant Belle-Jambe? Sergeant Beautiful Legs?”

  The man, Bernadotte, shrugged off the moniker with a half smile. “I put it down as desperation—there were too many men longing for a view of a nice pair of legs if they had to remark on my own.”

  “But we do have to admire them,” Napoleon said, gesturing to the man’s long, strong figure, his legs clothed in the tight-fitting breeches of the French officer.

  “I’d rather offer my admiration elsewhere, to one more worthy.” The man, who stood more than a head taller than Napoleon, turned his dark gaze directly on me. “Would you mind introducing me to your companions?”

  “Of course”—Napoleon shifted—“where are my manners?”

  “You’re a Corsican; I just presumed you never had any,” quipped the newcomer.

  “That’s something, coming from a hot-headed southerner like yourself.” Napoleon laughed, then turned to us. “Ladies, please allow me to introduce one of my best sergeants, an incorrigible Gascon but a fine soldier nonetheless, Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte.”

  “One of your sergeants, eh? I don’t know whether to refute your introduction based on that, or to accept it due to the other generous compliments mingled therein.”

  “You did serve under me in Italy,” Napoleon said.

  “I did a great deal more against those Germans than simply serve under you, young man.” This Bernadotte smiled broadly, flashing a mouth full of straight, white teeth—they were startlingly nice, in fact, a rare sight. “When our Bonaparte here needed assistance against the Habsburgs in Italy, I marched my men through blizzards and over the Alps to help him out of a bind.”

  “You are a valiant soldier and a hero to France, there’s no denying that, now mind your mouth for once and meet these ladies, Bernadotte,” Napoleon said, turning to us. “This is Julie Bonaparte, wife to my brother Joseph. And this is Julie’s sister and my dear old friend, Desiree Clary.”

  Both men looked at me now, but I met the eyes of Bernadotte, who said: “Hardly old, Bonaparte. Mademoiselle Clary, a pleasure to meet you.” He took my hand in his and placed a quick kiss on top of it, keeping his gaze locked intently with mine as he did so. “Even if you do happen to be a friend of Bonaparte’s.”

  “It’s interesting,” Napoleon said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, leaning toward me as he did so. “Here we are, a pair of warm-climate men, freezing our asses off in godforsaken Paris, and yet we find ourselves in the company of two southern women.”

  “Indeed?” Bernadotte raised an eyebrow, studying me just a bit closer.

  “We come from Marseille, sir,” I answered.

  “That’s where I met her…them,” Napoleon said. “Years ago.”

  Bernadotte ignored Napoleon’s remark, his eyes remaining on me. �
�A city I know well.”

  “Oh?” I cocked my head to the side. Napoleon was standing close, leaning in my direction, but I found my body angling toward Bernadotte’s.

  “On one of my first assignments,” Bernadotte said, “I was sent to Marseille. The royal governor requested troops to keep the order, and so I was in charge of a squadron of men with the marines.”

  “Yes, he’s an ocean man, you’ll have to forgive him for it.” Napoleon waved a footman over for refills of champagne.

  “Clary, you say?” Bernadotte asked.

  “Yes.” I nodded.

  “I knew of a Monsieur Francois Clary when I was stationed there. We all did.”

  “My father,” I said eagerly.

  Bernadotte offered half a smile, his face suddenly bearing a look of remembrance. “A well-respected merchant in the area.”

  I offered a small nod. “You are kind to say so.”

  “The truth.” He fixed his eyes more intently on me, taking in the shape of my sapphire gown. I felt a slight tremble in my frame when he asked: “What do you say to a dance, Mademoiselle Clary? We’ve bested these Habsburgs on the battlefield, now how about we best them on the dance floor? What did you call this new Austrian thing, Bonaparte—a waltz?” I did not look toward my sister or Joseph, nor did I look toward Napoleon. I simply smiled, nodding my agreement and allowing Bernadotte to take my hand in his and lead me toward the dancing.

  Bernadotte was tall, much taller than I was, and his strong hold guided me easily through the triple time of the strings, even though the steps of the waltz were foreign to me. Servants flitted around the space, refilling glasses and whisking away discarded plates. I caught sight of Josephine, who stood near the dancing, chatting between Talleyrand and her daughter, Hortense. Napoleon was nearby but not beside her, speaking to an attractive society hostess in rich aubergine silk and an elaborate headdress of peacock plumes. I thought again how odd it was that he was spending the evening heaping his attention on women other than his adored wife.