The Josephine B. Trilogy

by Sandra Gulland

“A little belladonna?” Isabey suggested, lining my eyes with a hint of kohl.

  “The poison?” I asked, alarmed.

  “To give a wide-eyed sensual look.”* He opened his eyes wide, to demonstrate.

  “I prefer to see!” And live.

  Then Monsieur Duplan, my wonderful hairdresser, began, powdering my hair with gold dust before dressing it. “Oh, that’s beautiful, Your Majesty,” Clari said, watching every new development with great interest.

  “Ha, you look not a day older than twenty-five,” Chastulé said.

  Perhaps if one didn’t look too closely, I thought. “You’re magicians,” I told Isabey and Duplan, who hovered like proud parents.

  “But remember, Your Majesty, no laughing—and certainly no weeping,” Isabey cautioned. “We don’t want you to flake.”

  And then came time to put on my gown and my jewels. Chastulé stood on a stool to position the diamond diadem. She breathed heavily with the exertion as she fastened the necklace, my earrings and belt. Then she pulled me over to the big looking glass.

  I regarded the image. You will be Queen. Feeling a little faint, I sat down. It was only half-past seven. I felt I’d been up for days…for a lifetime.

  “She’s in here,” I heard a woman’s yell from the other room, followed by a hiccup. Elisa? Soon Pauline and Elisa appeared, and behind them Caroline, huffing and complaining about the weight of her train, her tight stays.

  “Is it supposed to stand up like this?” Pauline asked, fussing with her ruff.

  Following the three princesses were Joachim (in a pink-lined cape), Joseph and Julie, Louis and Hortense…and, breaking free of his nursemaid, little Napoleon. I held my arms open and he came bounding into my arms. “Careful,” the nursemaid cried out.

  I kissed the boy, and stood him up so that I could admire his uniform. “He looks so handsome,” I told Hortense (who is healthier now, but still wan, still thin), wiping a smudge of rouge from the boy’s cheek. “Sit here, near your grandmaman,” I whispered, pulling out the little upholstered armchair I had had made especially for his visits.

  He climbed up onto it and sat watching us, sucking two fingers. Bonaparte entered the room in a purple velvet tunic and plumed black velvet toque. “I feel like a stuffed monkey,” he said.

  I hid my smile behind my hand.

  Little Napoleon let out a delighted squeal. “Nonan the monkey?”

  We laughed as Bonaparte chased his nephew around the room making monkey noises, his silly cape flying. The Emperor!

  And then all my lovely ladies arrived, looking so beautiful in their white silk gowns, their long sleeves embroidered in gold. They paraded for our benefit, protesting as the pugs stepped on their trains.

  Bonaparte stood before the glass with his brothers Joseph and Louis. “If only our father could see us now,” he said. I knew what he was thinking: if only his mother could be here, too. And mine, so far away in Martinico, I thought, tears rising, checking to make sure that my earrings were secure.

  It was still raining when we were summoned to our carriages. Bonaparte and I were escorted to the Imperial coach—a glittering conveyance ornamented all over with stars and laurel leaves, Bonaparte’s bee emblems. I thought I might be transported to some magical place were I to set foot in it. I recalled the soiled trundle that had taken me to prison in the dead of night—how long ago? A decade?

  I looked up at the coach driver, so high up on the box. César tipped his green-and-white feathered hat and grinned, pleased, no doubt, to be looking so fine in gold-embroidered silk stockings, his wide green coat trimmed with gold lace. The eight rather impatient grey horses pawed at the cobblestones, tossing their white head-plumes.

  I got in first so that I might be seated on Bonaparte’s right, followed by Joseph (who was irked: he’d expected to be awarded the seat of honour next to Bonaparte, I suspect) and Louis (his cloak covering his enfeebled arm). Bonaparte drummed his fingers on his knee, examining the white velvet upholstery embroidered in gold, the golden lightning bolts on the ceiling, the golden N crowned with laurels. Trying (still) to loosen his itchy lace cravat, pulling down on his toque with its eight rows of diamonds, picking at the bees embroidered on his cape. Impatient! Finally, cannon and a salvo of artillery announced our departure. I was relieved to be moving—although moving is perhaps not the right word. Crawling would have been faster.

  We were hours, it seemed, traversing the short distance from the Tuileries to Notre-Dame. It was so cold! (There was no foot-warmer in the coach—only a bearskin underfoot.) I smiled and nodded to the crowd along Rue Saint-Honoré as the three brothers talked: of the ceremony planned for the fifth of December on the Champ-de-Mars, Chénier’s new tragedy opening this coming weekend, the fête the city of Paris was planning, the cost of the renovations that had been made to the Hôtel Brienne in anticipation of Signora Letizia’s arrival—whenever that might be.

  Soldiers were lined three deep along the route. From somewhere I could hear kettledrums and trumpets. Hawkers were selling sausages and rolls. (Suddenly I was so hungry.) All around our carriage the Imperial Guard rode, the bravest of the brave, Bonaparte called them, his “old moustaches”—revolutionaries who had fought beside him in Italy and Egypt, following now in great state to see their “little corporal” (as they called him) crowned Emperor. Eugène was with them, proudly riding Pegasus.

  “You look beautiful, Maman,” he mouthed and then grinned, that look of bedazzlement that was becoming so familiar. I wondered if he thought of the crowds he’d seen on these streets as a boy, thronging to watch the tumbrel carrying prisoners to the guillotine. I wondered if he remembered—as he regarded his mother in her golden carriage—catching a glimpse of her through the window of her prison. I wondered if he remembered crying for bread, going to sleep hungry. I wondered if he thought of his father.

  Yes, I thought then, looking out over the cheering throng, nodding and waving, nodding and waving (just like a queen), I believe my son does think of such things. Perhaps we were all of us recalling those days. Perhaps it was the memory of that terrible time that was at the heart of the wild joy that seemed to fill our beautiful city, in spite of the cold and the damp. Long live the Emperor! Long live the man who has saved us, I thought, giving my (impatient) husband an appreciative look. Long live Napoleon!

  It was eleven by the time we arrived at the west entrance of Notre-Dame. Cannons went off, bells pealed and the crowd cheered. As we stepped out of the carriage, the sun came out. “Ah,” Bonaparte said, as if he’d been expecting it.

  It was warm, at least, inside the archbishop’s palace next to the cathedral, the fires blazing brightly. All the running to and fro made it seem like backstage at a theatre. It took four valets to help Bonaparte into his Imperial robes. “Well?” Bonaparte said, turning to face me. Emperor! (Although, in truth, he looked more like the king of diamonds on a deck of cards, dwarfed by his enormous ermine mantle.) His expression was vaguely distressed—perhaps because of the weight. My own mantle was so heavy I could hardly move, even with the reluctant princesses helping to carry it.

  Then, at last, we began the procession into the cathedral. Ahead of me were the heralds, the pages, the Master of Ceremony (looking distractedly around to make sure we were all in order), a glowering Joachim with my beautiful crown on a crimson cushion, the chamberlains and equerries, each ten paces apart. “Now?” I asked Count Etiquette. I looked back to make sure that the Princesses (Elisa, Caroline, Pauline, Hortense and Julie) were ready to bear the weight of my long train—and that their chamberlains were positioned, in turn, to carry theirs.

  On a signal from Count Etiquette, we all began to move—very, very slowly. A centipede, indeed! Just before I entered the doors of the cathedral, I glanced behind me, smiled at my daughter. Behind her I could see Bonaparte motioning to Joseph, Louis, de Cambacérès and Lebrun to hurry up, pick up his mantle. And behind him, after the marshals, I spotted the face of my cheerful son, waiting so patiently. I searched the
crowd for little Napoleon and his governess, finally spotting them near the door of the cathedral. I kissed the air and little Napoleon grinned, opening and closing his hand: bye-bye, Grandmaman. Bye-bye.

  I don’t believe I will ever forget that moment, entering Notre-Dame. The audience lost its dignity and burst into applause as the four orchestras played a triumphal march. The light streaming in the brightly coloured windows, the enormous tapestries, the painted backdrops, pigeons swooping high above the glittering crowd, the hat plumes bobbing, gems sparkling, all made it appear like a scene out of the Arabian Nights.

  I’m told it was after one o’clock when we reached the altar. I can believe it, for we proceeded at a snail’s pace. Pope Pius VII, who had been waiting in the cold for hours, was seated near the Grand Altar in his simple white robe. My daughter, his eyes said as we approached.

  As the angelic choir sang Paisiello’s Coronation Mass, Bonaparte and I climbed the steps to the thrones in front of the altar. I was relieved to have something to sit on. Bonaparte looked calm, as if he were crowned every day.

  Then the ceremony began. The Pope, intoning Mass in his high nasal voice, blessed the Imperial emblems: the ring, the sword, the mantle, the sceptre. (Twice I saw Bonaparte stifle a yawn.) Then, after Veni Creator, Bonaparte and I knelt on the big velvet cushions and the Holy Father took up the (new) flask of holy oil, anointing first Bonaparte and then me with the triple unction, intoning, Diffuse, O Lord, by my hands, the treasures of your grace and benediction on your servant. Bonaparte was listening with a pious expression, but I suspected that he didn’t like having the oil on his hands and was wondering what to do about it, whether or not he could wipe it off somehow.

  Then the Pope took Bonaparte’s crown from its cushion on the altar and Bonaparte, removing his golden wreath, took it from him and, turning to the crowd, placed it on his head himself. (Everyone gasped!) Just then a loose pebble fell from the ceiling and hit his shoulder but he did not flinch. His face shone with a radiance I’d never seen in it before. He looked…heroic—that is the only word I can think to describe it. I moved toward the altar and knelt before my husband, my hands clasped in prayer.

  I’d never experienced such silence; surely it was the silence of heaven. As I knelt there, waiting, my life welled up before me. I thought of my beloved father; how I wished he could see me. Tears spilled onto my gloves as Bonaparte approached. Trying hard not to weep, I studied the embroidered bees on his white satin slippers. I felt him fussing with my hair, felt the weight of the crown—and then felt him lift it off. I raised my eyes, a little concerned: was there a problem? Was my tiara in the way? He was looking down at me with my crown in his hands and the hint of a smile in his eyes, as if to say: Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t. As if to say: Don’t be so sure. As if to say: This is my gift to you, this is our moment. As if to say: I love you with all my heart, and I want the world to know it.

  Only Bonaparte would have the audacity to tease at such a moment. I held my breath; it wouldn’t do to laugh! And then I felt him place the crown firmly on my head and a murmur went through the crowd, a reverent hush. A calm feeling of courage filled me and I stood, my knees steady. I was there by the grace of God.

  But not, certainly, by the grace of Bonaparte’s sisters, for as I started to climb the steps up toward the altar, I was yanked back and very nearly toppled.* I heard Bonaparte hiss something sharply and I was freed.

  The rest of the ceremony went by as if in a dream. The chorus sang, “May the Emperor live forever.” The heralds proclaimed in full (and wonderfully sonorous) voice, “The most glorious and most august Napoleon, Emperor of the French people, is anointed, crowned and enthroned!”

  “Vive l’Empereur!”

  “Vive l’Empereur!”

  “Vive l’Empereur!”

  The thick stone walls of the ancient cathedral shook as hundreds of cannon were fired outside and the great bell of Notre-Dame began to ring. As we emerged into the bright winter sun, fire-rockets flared. Already the dancing had begun.

  In which Bonaparte honours my son

  The Emperor and I dined alone, infused by the glow of glory. (And with relief that it was over.) “Leave it on,” Bonaparte said, as Chastulé was about to remove my crown. “It becomes you.” Over a simple meal of roast chicken with crayfish butter, hashed apples and a vanilla soufflé (which Bonaparte ate first), we talked, chattering like children. He’d not even noticed the stone that had hit his shoulder, and yes, he’d barked at his unruly sisters. “Imagine if I had fallen over backwards!” I said, both of us laughing now that it was over.

  After, we joined everyone in the Yellow Salon: family, officials and household staff. Over the booming of cannon and the hiss and cackle of the fire-rockets outside, we shared story after story. My ladies demonstrated how, on the way to the cathedral, they’d had to pick their way through the slush in their silk slippers, shivering in the icy wind. There had been one uncomfortable moment when the crowd near the market had laughed at the Pope’s prelate in his broad-brimmed hat, riding a white mule and carrying a huge cross. Uncle “Cardinal” Fesch, flushed with fine wine, told how his nephew—the Emperor—had poked him in the backside with the Imperial sceptre.

  Bonaparte grinned. “It got you moving, didn’t it, Uncle?” (Little Napoleon giggled, half-asleep in my arms.)

  “And were those stones that fell from the vault?” Hortense asked, taking the baby Petit from his nursemaid.

  “It was the birds I worried about.”

  “With reason,” Eugène said with a laugh.

  “And what happened at the altar, Your Majesty?” Chastulé asked. “It looked as if you were going to fall over. That mantle must be heavy.”

  “It was heavy,” I said, glancing at the Bonaparte sisters. “Ask the princesses,” I suggested with an innocent air.

  “And were you weeping, Your Majesty, when the Emperor put the crown on your head?” Clari asked.

  “I couldn’t help it,” I told Isabey, who looked mortified at the damage to his handiwork. “I tried not to.”

  And then everyone began to chatter at once:

  “Sire, did His Holiness know that you were going to put the crown on yourself?”

  “Ah, so it was planned that way.”*

  “It was glorious, just glorious.”

  “A day I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever forget.”

  I sat and listened, taking it all in, caressing my sweet little Napoleon, now asleep in my arms. I caught Bonaparte’s eye and smiled. Our day. Over at last.

  December 18, late afternoon—Paris.

  Madame Mère (as she is to be called now) has finally arrived back in Paris—none too happy, and certainly not the least bit apologetic about having missed the most important event of her amazing son’s life. She regards the magnificence Bonaparte has bestowed upon the family and the nation with something akin to contempt. “So long as it lasts,” she said sceptically, ferreting coins away.

  She was too ill to come to the last family gathering—sick with chagrin, her daughters reported, over having to buy a length of expensive silk for a gown. She has rationed her cooks to one dishcloth, one apron, one towel a day, and refuses to buy more than three half-pound loaves of bread at a time. “We have to bring bread when we dine there,” Caroline complained to Bonaparte.

  “You must spend the money I give you,” Bonaparte later instructed his mother. “You must entertain, keep an open house, be generous with your staff. It is the aristocratic way.”

  January 6, 1805, morning—Sunday and Kings’ Day (cold).

  Fouché, looking uncharacteristically dapper in a fur-lined cloak, sidled up to me at last night’s ball in my honour. “Why are you smiling?” I asked. “It makes me uneasy.”

  “I thought you might be interested in two items in the latest police report.” He blinked his eyes slowly. “Concerning members of your family.”

  “Perhaps.” Of course I wanted to know!

  “One concerns the Emperor’s youn
gest brother.”

  “Jérôme?” The scamp.

  “He and his bride are apparently on the frigate La Didon, returning to France—to the welcoming arms of his brother the Emperor.”

  “Welcoming?” I rolled my eyes. It was doubtful that Bonaparte would agree even to see Jérôme. “And the second item in the report?”

  “Concerns your son.”

  Eugène? In a police report! “It doesn’t have anything to do with Adèle Duchâtel, does it?”

  “Ah, the devious Madame Duchâtel—that’s another matter altogether. No, the report divulged rumours of a possible marriage between your son and Princess Auguste-Amélie of Bavaria—the most beautiful princess in Europe, it is said.” Fouché studied my reaction. “The Princess’s family is one of the most ancient and distinguished in all of Europe.”

  Indeed. Princess Auguste’s family has ruled Bavaria for eight centuries—the blood of Charlemagne flows in her veins. “The rumours are unfounded. Princess Auguste is betrothed to Prince Charles of the House of Baden.” Unfortunately!

  January 18.

  Tired, a troubled sleep. Eugène’s ball in his newly renovated town house last night was a success, especially with the young. The revelry went on until dawn—or so I’m told, for Bonaparte and I left early, shortly after Caroline and Hortense’s duet. (Caroline braying, trying to compete with Hortense, the crowd crying out for an encore from my daughter—painful.)

  “Your fête is a big success,” I told Eugène, on taking my leave.

  “I suppose,” he said, uncharacteristically morose.

  I’ve since learned the reason for my son’s dejection. Caroline had cruelly informed him that the woman he courted had been “taken” by his stepfather.

  January 19, Décadi—close to midnight.

  A blizzard howls both outside and in—Bonaparte is in a foul temper.