“This way.” Josephine gave my hand a tug, and Julie followed beside me. We were there on a mild day in early spring, and the windows were opened to allow the soft, wet air into the musty palace halls. Josephine had invited us for tea, and though Joseph remained skeptical of his sister-in-law, even he had known that it was not an invitation to be refused.
“We’ll have our tea upstairs, in my apartments,” she said as she sailed toward the broad stairway before us. “It’s too loud down here, with all of the work they are doing.”
The sprawling palace was indeed a hive of activity. It was a labyrinthine building, added to and altered by so many ambitious and rich monarchs hoping to leave their own marks, satisfy their own whims—and now more than four hundred massive rooms comprised the complex. Servants clad in tidy uniforms of embroidered gold—a livery more fine than even that which the Bourbon servants had worn—darted about, adjusting the wall hangings, dusting the drapes, unfurling the ornate Moroccan and Aubusson carpets, arranging Napoleon’s new furniture of blue and white silk. Blue and white—the colors of the former royalty, I noted. Elsewhere throughout the palace, the servants polished silver and arranged fine porcelain vases from Sèvres and hung the artwork from Napoleon’s Italian conquests.
Though the new trappings were fine, even lavish, the building itself was in complete disrepair, and I saw that firsthand as we navigated the ground-floor halls and salons to climb the colossal stairway once ascended by the Bourbon kings and their noble ministers. Outside, the gardens were still open to the masses, swarming with urchins begging for sous, lemonade sellers peddling juice, streetwalkers peddling goods of another sort.
“You’ll have to excuse…we are still working.” Josephine waved a hand dismissively toward the near wall, where black, sooty grime darkened the tapestries that hung there, scars of the cook fires that had been lit by the miserable rabble who had set up camp in the palace after the royal family had been run out. More of the mirrors were cracked or smashed than intact. And much of the furniture was stripped or damaged, pieces of it having been used for firewood.
We walked across the grand hall toward the legendary king’s staircase, and I felt my stomach clench when I saw the stains. Dark, wine-colored smears—the spilled blood of the dead king’s Swiss Guards, the small and outnumbered force that had attempted to fight back the murderous mob as they’d entered this palace wielding pitchforks, their intention being to rape the queen and murder the king.
Josephine noticed my horrified intake of breath, and her eyes followed mine. “Yes, I know.” She sighed, beginning her ascent up the stairs. “I’ve asked Napoleon so many times to have these walls scrubbed. We have thousands of servants working on this place, but they’re all scared of this stairway. I’m so tired of living amid the blood of ghosts.”
At the top, she led us down the long hall and toward a series of fine, spacious rooms. Their private apartments. If the ground floor of this palace remained shabby and in a state of war-torn disrepair, these rooms were quite the opposite. Josephine had personally overseen the redecoration of their living quarters and, with her husband’s blessing, had set about to outdo even the grandeur of the Bourbons.
“Napoleon told me to make it better than Versailles,” she whispered mischievously, as she led us through the first doorway.
We entered a sitting room lined with ornate and colorful tapestries, the furniture upholstered in a cheerful pattern of yellow silk. Sèvres porcelain birds decorated the marble mantel, and bright sunshine filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows to reflect off the large mirrors and the burnished chandeliers. Josephine paused to let us take it all in, and I was aware of my own gape. The room was tasteful and elegant, with Josephine’s hand evident in every detail.
“Now, this way.” Josephine breezed past the guards and we did so in her wake to enter the next room, grand and filled with statues. These were Napoleon’s prized treasures, I guessed. “Caesar and Alexander and Hannibal and George Washington,” Josephine explained, sailing past the rows of tall statues without looking at them. “You know how my husband feels about his heroes.”
Without knocking, she led us into the next room, a salon draped with lilac silk upholstery. “This is my favorite room,” she said. “I insist on fresh lilacs from the greenhouses every day to match the silk.” The chairs were gilded in shiny gold to complement the large ormolu clock and elaborate marble-topped tables. “Nearly there,” she said, gliding past treasure after treasure, these rooms indeed more splendid than I’d imagined Versailles’s salons to be.
“Ah, here we are.” Josephine opened the door to a massive bedchamber, and the three of us entered. I heard Julie’s quick intake of breath behind me. I looked around, stunned, deciding that this room was even grander than the others.
“I wanted it to appear as if it were decorated by sprites and fairies,” Josephine cooed. “Our peaceful retreat in a chaotic world. What do you think?”
My eyes roved admiringly over the details of the large chamber. Pale blue satin covered the walls. Sèvres porcelain vases stuffed with fresh-cut flowers adorned the mantel and the marble-topped end tables. Oil paintings lined the walls, their rich tones flickering beneath the candlelight of an immense chandelier. But the most striking feature of the bedchamber was the massive canopied bed in the center—the bed once occupied by our murdered queen.
So when Josephine had said she lived amid the ghosts of France’s past, she had not been exaggerating; she slept alongside them. I remained transfixed for a moment, staring at the mahogany bed as I wondered: was all the splendor of the silk and the porcelain enough to make one forget that the dead queen had slept in that very spot? So distracted was I by that thought that I did not immediately notice the figure standing in the far corner.
“Oh! Darling!” It was Josephine who drew my attention to his presence. “We didn’t realize you were in here.”
Napoleon smiled at his wife, raising his arms and walking toward us. “Hello, my darling.”
She ran to him and folded herself into his arms. He really had grown incredibly round. “I’m having our dear sisters for tea,” she said, placing a kiss on his cheek. “I wanted them to see the fine rooms you gave me. And what were you doing?” she asked. She used the informal tu in addressing him, I noticed. She was the only person I’d ever seen do that. Not even Joseph or Letizia had been granted that level of familiarity.
“This balcony,” Napoleon said, turning back toward the window. “I was just thinking.”
She turned to us now. “This balcony…it’s where my husband saw Louis standing in his shame. During the Revolution.”
“Indeed.” Napoleon put a hand up, silencing her, and took over his own story. “He was marched out here, they put the red cap on his head, and he waved, like some dancing bear. Fool. Unable to see that he could not appease the rabble with gestures or promises. They wanted only his royal blood.”
Julie and I nodded, listening in silence. Napoleon then fixed his green-eyed gaze on me. “How is your husband? My old Gascon friend.”
“He does very well,” I answered. It was true, for the most part; much to my relief, Bernadotte seemed to have made his peace with our new government and its ratified constitution. He was back in the employ of the army here in Paris and, like the rest of us, waited to see what our new Consulate leadership intended for France. “He enjoys fatherhood,” I added.
“Yes, I imagine he does. Isn’t that nice,” Napoleon said. His eyes roved over my body, lingering on my breasts; they were still full from nursing my baby. I resisted the urge to fidget, to draw my shawl closer around my shoulders and over my décolletage.
“I shall leave you ladies.” He turned and put a kiss squarely on Josephine’s lips. As he did so, he raised his hand proprietarily to her throat, a gesture as remarkable for its affection as for the latent brutishness beneath it. “This…I haven’t seen it.” He fingered
the thick cluster of grape-sized emeralds that lined her neck as he pulled away from her kiss.
Her hand flew to the choker. “Oh, this? Oh, it’s ancient. I’ve had it for years.”
“Hmm. I know the emeralds you have from the Sforza estate. But I’ve not seen these.”
She shrugged, grinning, glancing from her husband toward Julie and me. “Our tea will get cold.”
“Well, we would not want that.” Napoleon flashed a look that was more sneer than smile. And then, turning toward us, he said with a nod, “Ladies, enjoy.” He kept his hand on his wife’s backside a few moments before releasing her and walking from the room, shutting the door behind him.
Josephine exhaled audibly once he was gone. “He’s so assiduous.” She still touched the emerald choker, her trembling fingers outlining each massive jewel. “His mind—he never forgets a thing. I have to fib sometimes about my new jewelry or he scolds me for overspending.”
I had had some idea of this. Joseph had told us, through gritted teeth, about how Napoleon had agreed to pay off all of Josephine’s debts shortly after his return from Egypt. And of course I’d read that Napoleon had allocated for himself the exorbitant salary of half a million francs a year—this on top of the private money he’d made from his military haul collecting treasure across Europe. And yet, with the rate at which Josephine spent, she made quick work of even that astronomical sum.
I was not made for such grandeur, she had just told us. My mind reeled.
“But alas,” Josephine said, “my apologies for the unexpected encounter. He insists we share a bedroom. He cannot stand to be away from me, even for a night.” At this, she flashed a flimsy smile. “Plus, he feels that he’s safer with me beside him. I’m such a light sleeper, should any attempt be made against him in his sleep, I would awake and call for help.”
A servant entered just then, bearing a tea service with a whimsical pastel-colored pattern. We took our seats as Josephine poured for us, and I noticed how her smooth hands still trembled as she did so. For as much as she was the lady of the house amid unspeakable splendor, there was a certain restless, even nervous, quality that I had never before noticed in her. Her eyes seemed listless as she glanced around the room. Her conversation was less focused. “Thank you for coming to visit me. I quite missed you both. Desiree, how is your darling boy?”
Now I couldn’t help but smile; Oscar was the joy of our lives, and I could happily speak about him with anyone.
“You will have to bring him out to see me at Malmaison.” Josephine waved a hand. “This is all fine and good, but that, that is our home. I tell Napoleon not to grow too accustomed to living here. When I finish decorating Malmaison…” It had been an ongoing project, one that had taken years and millions so far, and from what I heard, it was not yet near completion.
“Your little boy will love our zoo. I have arranged to have an orangutan, and a llama from Peru, and black swans from Australia. Oh, and the plants! I have so many hothouses. My garden shall be the most beautiful little thing in the world. Er, not so little, I suppose. We will have tropical plants from as far as the Nile and the Orient! Orchids from Siam, mimosas from Tasmania, hibiscus from the Caribbean. My darling Bonaparte said he’s always had a soft spot for exotic flowers from tropical climates. Like me.”
And me as well, I thought, though I did not say it.
* * *
For as much as her husband loved her and spoiled her in the private domain of their lavish homes, he put forth quite a different image in public. Our First Consul passed a series of laws shortly after taking the reins of power, titled the Napoleonic Code. One of the most striking things about it was the harsh treatment of women.
A wife must promise obedience and fidelity to her husband.
The edicts were punishing: Any wife accused of committing adultery would be imprisoned, while for husbands a similar transgression meant only a nominal fine. Any man who caught his wife in the arms of another man could murder her without fear of being charged with a crime. It became nearly impossible for a woman to divorce, but the process was simplified for a man. Women were forbidden from politics, the law, and public debate, from business and managing money. The women of France, who had played such a central role in the Revolution, were now urged to adopt a quiet and modest virtue within the confines of their husbands’ homes. A woman would do society its highest service, our First Consul declared, by marrying and birthing many babies and by molding France’s children into loyal patriots.
Meanwhile, Bernadotte told me that it was common knowledge that Napoleon was engaging in all sorts of indiscreet love affairs—sleeping with Parisian actresses, courtesans, the aristocratic wives of his generals and advisers. Josephine, for her part, was no fool. After she had nearly lost her husband with the public exposure of her own dalliances, I suspected that she was now faithful and uncomplaining, even in the face of these recent humiliations.
Elsewhere across France, life changed for us, too. Napoleon did away with the salutary titles of Citizen and Citizeness that had arisen during the Revolution, returning to the traditional forms of Madame and Monsieur. France welcomed the Catholic faith once more; long-silenced bells began to peal across Paris as Napoleon officially restored the Church to its ancient place of reverence, reopening houses of worship and granting amnesty to deported priests, encouraging the populace to embrace piety once more.
Place de la Guillotine was now Place de la Concorde, and the dreaded blade was packed up and put away. All of Paris, it seemed, let forth a long-held sigh of weary relief.
* * *
Easter would be the first holiday celebrated in Paris since the formal reconciliation with the Church, and so the Bonaparte family gathered at the Tuileries Palace that spring day to celebrate after Mass. We Bernadottes were invited.
Throughout the city, we heard the bells as our carriage pulled us toward the Tuileries. The air was damp, but nevertheless it held the hint of the coming warmth. Oscar was precious in his Easter clothes, white silk and linen starched to crispness, and he delighted with fresh squeals at each clanging of the massive bells.
We sat down to luncheon attended by the Bonapartes’ liveried footmen, a lavish feast of lamb with potatoes and eggs and haricots verts. Josephine was not in her preferred muslin but a gown of rose-colored silk. Napoleon, stuffed into his officer’s uniform, spoke to us as we ate. “Ladies, there is something that Josephine and I wish to discuss with you.”
I fidgeted in my chair, taking a sip of wine. Napoleon continued: “A newly born government must dazzle and astonish. If it fails to do that, it fails.”
Julie and I exchanged curious glances.
“You are the ladies of the roy—er, first household. As such, all of the nation looks to you. You must set the example.” He eyed Josephine, who nodded her wordless accord. “All of Europe once looked to France as the leader in fashion. I wish to return to that.”
“Indeed,” Josephine agreed as her husband went on: “Josephine knows the importance of every decision she makes, how it will be scrutinized by the public and reported by the journals. For instance, she will not wear muslin anymore. Muslin is made in India—which is a British colony. Why would we enrich our enemies and deny work to our own countrymen? From now on, she will wear silk and satin made only in France. Velvet from Lyon, lace made in Chantilly or Alençon, linen made in Saint-Quentin. You know this, right, my wife?”
“Of course I know, darling,” Josephine said. “Why, you remind me each morning, sitting there, watching as I dress.” The comment was said with an unmistakable barb, and all eyes flew to Napoleon’s face, awaiting the reaction to such defiance. I noted the quick flush of his cheeks, the scarlet tinting of his neck. But he checked himself, said nothing. Merely turned back to his plate. The row would come later, this I knew.
* * *
—
My dressmaker arrived at our home a week later, a
seasonal appointment arranged months earlier. But she had fresh news: “Madame Bernadotte, I come with all sorts of new guidelines.”
“Oh?” I asked, welcoming the smartly dressed Madame Bertin into my boudoir. “Of what sort?”
“From the First Lady herself,” the dressmaker said, wielding a handful of papers in her gloved hands. Sketches, I saw. Madame Bertin unfurled them across the marble-topped table, spectacles perched across the bridge of her narrow nose. “This season, dresses will be cut in a new silhouette, the style requested by Josephine. All French fabric, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed.
“And you see this outline? A higher waist and a loose, flowing skirt.”
Interesting, I thought to myself—the perfect style to wear when one was pregnant. Had Josephine finally conceived?
* * *
As broad and sweeping as Napoleon’s vision for our nation was, he made one decision that had a much deeper impact within our household. With the return of the warm weather, Napoleon began preparing to ride back toward the Alps and Italy, and he decided to make my husband the Commander of the Army of the West. This meant that my Bernadotte would have to leave Paris. He’d be stationed in remote, sea-swept Brittany, headquartered at Rennes.
I did not wish to go, any more than I wished for my husband to go. It was far from Paris, our home, my sister. I put it off as long as I could, remaining behind in Paris with Oscar and our household staff. Spring was a busy time of soirees and dances, walks through the parks and day excursions along the Seine, and I flitted around the capital—the lone representative of the Bernadotte family—along with Julie and her husband. But by late summer, my husband’s letters had grown so lonely and miserable that I took pity and knew I had to join him, at least for a time.
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