Napoleon heard this with a tightening of his jaw, his eyes fixing squarely on his dinner plate of roasted chicken. He seemed determined to finish his meal and be gone. “I would remind you, sister, that there are thousands of people in France who have given greater service to the State than you. And yet they receive far less. You would be wise to keep these selfish grievances silent.”
“Is that any way to speak to your own flesh and blood?” Letizia leaned forward in her seat, her hawk-like features aflame. “Does he forget that we are his family? That we should come before all the others?” She posed the question to her daughters, who shook their heads with shared indignation.
Letizia was perhaps the unhappiest of all; her formal title was to be Her Imperial Majesty Madame Mère, when in fact she had wanted to be called the Imperial Mother. Though Napoleon had attempted to appease her by giving her a splendid château in Brienne, a large palais in Paris, and millions of francs, she was still dissatisfied. “I have a mind to skip it entirely,” she said, a dismissive wave of her liver-spotted hand. “Nothing more than a circus.”
“I tell you, Mamma, I would skip it with you,” Pauline said in a low, flinty voice, her eyes darting toward her brother before landing back on her mother. “The idea of bowing before a common Creole horizontale…I can’t stomach it.”
My eyes flew toward Josephine, who sat pale and quiet at her place at the table. Surely she heard these remarks, but she said nothing to oppose them. Nothing to defend herself. I guessed at Josephine’s reasoning: she knew from her own vast experience that Napoleon hated nothing more than the disrespect of others—whether the slights were in fact real or imagined. In this instance, she knew, his family’s open opposition would likely not bring him around to their own side but instead rouse him to fight back.
She would not interfere and thus deny him that chance. Not at this late hour, when her own hopes were so close to being realized. She knew that her husband was fed up with his family’s constant carping, and perhaps she thought it best to let them bring about their own undoing.
And that, it seemed, was precisely what they planned on doing, for Caroline now asked aloud to the entire table: “Do you know the last time France actually crowned a queen?”
When no one answered, she went on: “The year was 1610. Marie de Medici. Pity—her husband was butchered a day later. I know how my brother loves history…let us now hope that history does not repeat.”
“Is your gown ready, Josephine?” my sister asked, looking at each of the sisters in turn.
“It is,” Josephine said, leaning forward, her face brightening with a grateful smile. “It is ready, and it is just…even better than I had imagined. Why, the train—”
“She has lost her head if she thinks I will carry her train,” Elisa said to Pauline and Caroline. The sisters sniggered.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Pauline agreed.
Now Napoleon lowered his fork, his face reddening as he eyed each sister. “You will carry her train.”
Pauline snorted, an indignant laugh as she raised her wine to her lips. After a moment, she spoke, her tone one of open defiance: “On what grounds should we, sisters of the Emperor, be made to carry her train?”
“On the grounds that she is the wife of the Emperor,” he replied, his voice low and gravelly.
“But you are our brother,” Elisa said. “You should want better for us, for the family, than to make us grovel before anyone. Especially—”
“I did not hear you dispute my rights as Emperor, Elisa, when I made you the Princess of Lucca, giving you that principality. Nor you, Pauline, when I made you the Duchess of Guastalla. Nor you, Caroline, Duchess of Berg. And thus you shall not begrudge my wife what is her due as Empress.” He stabbed at his chicken, forking himself a huge bite that he began to chew at a furious rate. I watched as Josephine sipped her wine, barely touching her food.
“I find it rather cruel, Mamma, that he would have us bow before such an unvirtuous woman,” Pauline said, her face crumpling with the threat of tears.
Letizia heaved a heavy sigh, her voice hard as she answered: “Especially since I don’t even believe that she honors him with any of the loyalty expected of a wife.”
“Enough!” Napoleon slammed his fork down, causing me to jump in my seat as he pushed away from the table and rose to his feet. “I’ve lost my appetite entirely. Josephine?”
“Yes, mon cher?” She eyed him, her voice soft.
“Bed. Now,” was all he replied. She rose from her chair as Napoleon turned his gaze on the rest of us still seated at the table. “Tomorrow, I put on the imperial purple. Those among you who do not wish to accept my gifts need not attend. But those of you who do attend will see to it that my commands are followed. I will not have this! I am Emperor!”
“Let’s hope it lasts.” Madame Mère sighed under her breath.
“Basta! That’s enough!” he roared in Italian, staring at his mother, his eyes bulging out of a darkly flushed face. “I govern the entire nation. And yet you pack of ingrates give me more sleepless nights than all the rest of France.”
Chapter 28
Paris
December 2, 1804
I AWOKE WELL BEFORE DAWN TO see snow falling over Paris, coating the cobblestone streets in a slick and inhospitable cover. It was cold in our bedchamber; both Bernadotte and I saw the fog of our breath as we dressed. It would be even colder outside, but still, we knew that they would come—by the millions, they would come. Before dawn, huddled in the dark and the freezing wind, they would stand and watch, waiting for a glimpse of Napoleon, the man they had made Emperor.
The date for the coronation had been a compromise—the Pope had wanted Christmas; Napoleon had wanted the ninth of November, the anniversary of his coup. And so they’d settled on a date between the two.
But the pageantry was all Napoleon’s. In everything, one could see his avid devotion to history, a celebration incorporating the influences of French history and its founder King Charlemagne, mixed with the dignity of ancient Greece and the majesty of Imperial Rome. He chose the eagle of Caesar as his imperial symbol. The bee would be his own personal herald, the symbol of the ancient kings of the Franks.
We ladies gathered in the predawn darkness in Josephine’s Tuileries apartments, surrounded by hairdressers and seamstresses and artists putting the final touches on our elaborate ensembles. Due to a shortage of time that morning, my hair had been done the night before, and I had barely slept for fear of ruining it. Josephine confessed to me that she had not slept much, either, for nerves and excitement, but that did nothing to diminish her energy that morning. She was exquisite, her face covered in rouge and kohl, her hair woven into buoyant chestnut curls, every bare surface of her warm skin doused in perfume and shimmering with diamonds and pearls.
“I am grateful that we do not have to go to Rome,” she said as she stood before the mirror, scrutinizing her long, lean figure. “We think it is exhausting here in our own home. Imagine doing all this in a foreign place.”
Napoleon had refused to go to Rome, insisting instead that Pope Pius come to him over ice-slicked roads. The Pope was old, and aside from the weather and other discomforts of winter travel, he remembered France’s savage treatment of the Catholic Church during the revolutionary years. The concordat between Paris and Rome was new and it was fragile. Nevertheless, Pius was made to understand, with gold and flattery and well-landed threats of military action, that it would be in the best interest for all that the Holy Father come to Paris and honor Napoleon’s wishes for the coronation. But the Emperor would not bow—he had already declared that.
Once we were dressed, we met Napoleon and the men on the ground floor of the Tuileries. I took in his appearance, studying the burst of color and cloth around his thick figure. He would wear one outfit in the procession and change at the Archbishop’s palace once we arrived at Notre D
ame, that much I knew from Josephine. For the parade, his outfit was a nod to the Middle Ages and Charlemagne, so he wore a short coat and pants, a crown of laurels on his head, and a purple velvet cape. Diamonds and colorful precious stones covered his clothing, and rings covered his manicured fingers.
He took us all in as we swept into the grand hall, his eyes studying each of us before landing with exacting attention on Josephine. I held my breath a moment as I saw him scrutinize her. Then I, and I believe all of us, exhaled aloud when he offered an appreciative nod, his green eyes alight as he said, “Beautiful.”
Next, I looked through the small crowd and found my husband’s tall figure, waving him toward me. “Well, hello, Marshaless Bernadotte.” My husband’s outfit was less elaborate than Napoleon’s, but I thought he looked far more dashing. His velvet coat, silk stockings, and culotte breeches fit well on his tall, strong physique. He wore a high cravat of white satin and a crimson sash draped across his broad shoulders, and I nodded approvingly. “Sergeant Belle-Jambe, you are every bit the strapping general of France.”
“And you, the worthy and beautiful companion of the Imperial Consort, though I was made to understand from our Emperor that no lady was to outshine his own?”
I lowered my eyes, flattered by the remark, feeling giddy in a way I had not in years. All of France felt giddy that day, I was sure of it. A veritable ripple of excitement was gliding across the cold air we breathed.
“It is time,” Napoleon announced to our group, ever devoted to punctuality, and my husband gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before returning to his place among the gentlemen attendants.
The coaches had been rolling across Paris toward the cathedral since dawn, and now it was our turn to join the procession. I took my place with Julie and the Bonaparte sisters as Napoleon and Josephine were ushered toward their private glass coach, pulled by a dozen white horses. I marveled as I watched her walk toward the conveyance: Josephine, covered in more than a thousand diamonds, glowed like a halo against the fresh white snow.
Cannon salvoes roared from Place de la Concorde as we departed with Napoleon and Josephine’s cortege. “Look at all of them,” I gasped, as our own coach rolled through the gates and toward the packed quay that would bear us along the river. Even though the air bit with snow and wind, millions of spectators lined the entire parade route, cheering and singing and waving the tricolor flag as we rode past.
It took us more than an hour to ride a distance that ordinarily would have taken minutes. When we finally entered the square, the flood of people who were gathered before the cathedral met our arrival with deafening shouts. The cannons fired a fresh round of earth-shaking volleys. I blinked, momentarily stunned by the scene. Eighty thousand armed soldiers stood at attention. The noise grew even louder as Napoleon and Josephine’s coach arrived and rolled into the square right behind us.
Just then, the snow stopped and the sun pierced the clouds. “Look!” Julie gasped, pointing toward the shafts of striated light that filtered down, crystalline, through openings in the thick cloud cover. I gasped, saying: “God himself follows Napoleon’s orders.”
We alighted from our coach just as Napoleon helped Josephine down from theirs. The people roared with euphoric cheers, screaming her name, frantic to see her dress and jewels. She greeted them with a wave, curtsying before the crowd as Napoleon looked on, his face brightened by a proud smile.
We were ushered inside the Archbishop’s palace adjoining the cathedral. It was just before noon when Napoleon changed into his second outfit, emerging into our small waiting room in a crimson cape of velvet and ermine. Bernadotte and Joseph had helped him into it, for it weighed almost one hundred pounds. Golden bees were embroidered along the trim, as were the laurel leaves of a Roman emperor. He carried a scepter in his gloved hands. “Magnificent,” Josephine said, clapping and gliding to his side.
“Yes?” Napoleon tilted his chin toward her, eager for her approval; she nodded, her amber eyes full of it. “If only my papa could see me today,” he said, his voice more wistful than I had ever heard it.
Papa, and Mamma, too. Letizia had refused to attend following the arguments of the previous evening. She had thought her son would relent in the final hour, as he often had, and grant her daughters higher status than his Caribbean bride, but Napoleon had stood firmly beside Josephine and insisted that his sisters stand behind her. If it shook Napoleon that his mother had decided to boycott the most important day of his life, he did not show it now. Instead, he gave a nod to the cluster of servants and attendants gathered by the large doors, and the next phase of this most important day began rolling into action.
With the command from her husband, Josephine strode forward, head held high, a canopy hoisted over her imperial head as was previously done for the pure-blooded queens of France. I stepped into my place behind her and Julie and the glowering Bonaparte sisters, and we made our way to the rear of the cathedral, where our long march up the aisle would begin.
Music greeted our entry into Notre Dame. I trembled at the deafening sound, feeling the power of the song as it reverberated throughout my entire body. Nearly five hundred musicians packed the cathedral—every instrument imaginable, plus the choristers singing at their loudest volume to give words to the melody.
Hundreds of ministers, priests, governors, generals, and nobles had been filing into the cathedral since the early morning—even the vanquished Mameluke warriors whom Napoleon had brought back from Egypt were there, clad in feathers and turbans of emerald and sapphire. Now they all stood and turned, craning their necks, vying to gain a glimpse of us as we began our procession, their number making even the massive vaulted space of Notre Dame feel cramped.
The Archbishop splashed us with holy water as we made our way toward the front of the cathedral. I followed in my place in the procession, carrying Josephine’s veil and handkerchief on a pillow of plush red velvet. Josephine’s progress was slow, each step a struggle because the sisters were not holding the heavy train in the way they were supposed to. They were allowing it to drag, its weight impeding Josephine’s steps up the interminable aisle, like an ox laboring under an unbearable yoke. I gritted my teeth, frustrated as I saw this, wishing that I myself could step in front of Pauline and take up the heavy train that she was allowing to fall.
I spotted a man toward the front, sketching frantically as he observed us. His black hair was disheveled, his eyes ravenous to observe every detail of the resplendent cathedral and the pageantry of our approach. Jacques-Louis David was the artist, the favorite painter of Napoleon’s. I wondered how he could possibly capture it all—the crowd, the colors, the clamor of the choir and the murmurs of awe that pulsed around the packed sacred space.
Finally, we arrived at the front of the massive cathedral, and Josephine assumed her position before the Archbishop and the Pope. Now it was the moment for which all of France waited. Napoleon appeared at the top of the aisle to the roar of trumpets. His Marshals stood behind him, carrying his sword, necklace, crown, globe, and other accessories. Bernadotte was named Bearer of the Imperial Collar for the event, and I spotted his tall figure in the procession.
Napoleon had an easier time making his way to the front of the cathedral, and he joined Josephine in kneeling before the altar, where the Pope anointed them both with oil on their hands and foreheads. Previously, French kings had lain prostrate before God for this blessing, but Napoleon had refused this humbling piece of tradition.
Next, Pope Pius blessed the pair of imperial crowns and set them before the altar. Napoleon’s crown was a replica of Charlemagne’s, since the Austrians possessed the original and would not loan it to their enemy. Josephine’s was a brilliant diadem encrusted with massive diamonds, grander and more expensive than any treasure her deceased predecessors had ever worn.
Napoleon rose, took the larger crown in his hands, and, while the Pope looked on, he placed it on his ow
n head. The trumpets roared, as outside the cannon blasts ripped across Paris, their triumphant sound met with the jubilant voices of so many million cheering Frenchmen and women.
Napoleon turned to Josephine and, with a flick of his wrist, summoned her forward. She rose, made to walk toward him, but just then, the sisters dropped the heavy train of her gown from their hands. She wobbled, her slender frame pulled backward by the falling weight of the mantle. Napoleon saw it happen and flashed his sisters a severe look, but Josephine remained the picture of calm and composure, even as the sisters sniggered behind her. She regained her balance within a moment, and she glided gracefully toward him, her beautifully painted face unruffled. She bowed her head and knelt in front of her husband. Taking her crown in his hands, Napoleon leaned over her and tucked it into her dark hair. Then he patted her head approvingly, a proud father blessing a child. When she lifted her chin to meet his eyes, I saw that she was weeping.
The Pope approached them and pronounced a blessing in Latin, embracing our new Emperor. Then Napoleon turned and addressed the rest of us, loudly reciting his coronation oath to uphold the integrity of the Republic and respect the laws.
Jacques-Louis David still stood before the altar, sketching it all, his long hair flying away from his intensely focused face. I wondered: Would he paint the sisters with beneficent smiles, or would he capture the scowls I saw on their faces beside me?
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