“Where shall I put you?” he asked her. “Shall I scandalize the matrons of Turin and leave you here? Or hide you somewhere where I don’t have to see you unless I want to?” He contemplated her charms for a few moments, then patted her shoulder. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said. “I just remembered some business I must attend to.”
He found Villemarest in the outer room of his official suite. His secretary’s desk, unlike his private one upstairs, was covered with piles of paper.
“Maxime,” he said. “I need you to draw up a letter to my bankers here and in Rome.”
The secretary reached for a tablet and paused expectantly.
“From His Excellency, etc., etc., with compliments, etc., etc. As from—well, let’s backdate it a little. As from the first of July, the year of Our Lord 1808, no drafts from the Princess Pauline Borghese on the accounts designated below—just append the usual list of the family accounts—are to be honored, nor any drafts from agents acting on her behalf. All inquiries to be directed to etc., etc.—that’s you, Maxime. Given by my hand this day, etc., etc. Bring it to me when it is ready to be signed and sealed.”
“Yes, sir.” Villemarest kept his face completely devoid of expression. “This will only take a few minutes. Where will you be?”
“In the entrance hall.”
He would go tell Pauline that he had just cut off all her money and watch her smile in response.
PART III
The White Rose
Innocence, Unity, Death
Paris
17th March 1810
From Her Imperial Highness Pauline, Princess of France, Duchess of Guastalla, Princess Borghese, to His Excellency General Prince Camillo Borghese, Governor-General of the Departments-beyond-the-Alps, greetings.
My brother informs me that you will be present for his wedding to Marie-Louise of Austria next month. Please be advised that all conversation between us will be in public only and I do not wish to see you apart from those state occasions requiring our presence together. My brother also tells me you will be staying in my house; you may have the first and second floors for your household and I will use the ground, third, and fourth floors.
[written by her secretary, du Pré de Saint-Maur]
Gréoux-les-Bains
8th July 1813
Dear Camillo:
I am quite ill; the heat is dreadful, and my new doctor is very strict so that even the baths are becoming a trouble and plague to me. I think of you often. Why do you not answer my letters? I will write you regardless.
Your affectionate wife, Pauline
Casa dei Mulini, Portoferraio, Elba
22nd November 1814
Dear Camillo,
I am settled now here on Elba and hoping for word from you. Lucien tells me that you have asked for a number of paintings from your family’s villa that are now in the Hôtel de Charost in Paris; I have sold it to the Duke of Wellington, as Napoleon is in great need of funds at the moment, and if you will send my agent in Paris a list of the items, he will forward it to the duke and look into the matter. I suppose it is a good thing that you never did send my beautiful statue by Canova to Paris even though I asked you for it several times after I went back to France. Did you know that when it was shipped from Turin to Rome my brother intercepted it here on Elba briefly? But it was in a sealed crate, and he did not want to risk unpacking it, so he never saw it. In the end it went to Rome, and I came here.
My brother is bearing up well in his new little kingdom, and the British Commissioner, Sir Neil Campbell, is attentive and shows me every courtesy. I am determined to keep Napoleon occupied and am quite frantically busy arranging plays and musicals and dinners; you would not recognize me as your lazy Pauline.
I hope you are well and that you think of me sometimes even if you do not answer my letters.
Your wife, Pauline
Casa dei Mulini, Portoferraio, Elba
16th January 1815
Dear Camillo,
Still no word from you and I know you are right to be angry with me, but I hope you are reading my letters, at least. Do you remember Sophie? She is with me here on Elba, of course, and she is to be married! He is a young British officer named Speare (which means “spear,” but when I teased Sophie about it she flew at me like an offended bird and nearly scratched me; I think she is nervous about her wedding night). He is very handsome and charming and is a great favorite with everyone although he speaks hardly any French and no Italian whatsoever. I shall miss her, but they have rented part of a house just down the hill from our little palace, and Campbell has graciously promised me, in private, that he will make sure the young man stays posted here on Elba as long as possible.
Napoleon is quite well and lively and I am his hostess. None of my brothers or sisters have come to Elba, although they all promised to do so, and I suppose I must stay strong and hope that I do not fall ill, since everyone relies on me here.
If you do not wish to write to me perhaps you will at least send your greetings to Sophie. She is now Mrs. Charles Speare, at the Casa Jana, Portoferraio, Elba.
Your wife, Pauline
Compignano 8th March 1815
Camillo, you must help me. They arrested me the night after I arrived here in Italy from Elba. I am in my sister Elisa’s villa in the hills above Viareggio, and there is half of an Austrian garrison camped outside guarding me. I beg you to send someone to intercede for me with the Austrian commander; he will not listen to anything I say and seems to believe that a French army is hiding in my baggage. I have no news of Napoleon; how could anyone think I had something to do with his departure from Elba? It would be laughable if I were not prostrate with anxiety and weariness. No one is with me except a few servants who scream every time they see a soldier.
Pauline
Bagni di Lucca 6th June 1815
Dear Camillo, I thank you if it was your influence which finally prevailed upon the Austrians so that I have been allowed to come here to a place of health and safety. I think of you often and how carefully you nursed me when I was sick here in Lucca that dreadful summer that I lost Dermide. I must ask if you have any news of Sophie. Her husband left Elba with the other British troops after Napoleon returned to France, and she was making arrangements to follow after him when I left two months ago, but I have heard nothing since. I know that you sent her a generous gift for her wedding; perhaps she has sent you word of her whereabouts? If you do not wish to write me directly, please send any information you have to my secretary in Rome; he will forward it to me.
Pauline
Bagni di Lucca 28th June 1815
Dear Camillo, I have heard the terrible news of Waterloo. My poor brother! I am trying to find out where he will go; if it is to America, then I shall join him. Lucien tells me that Sophie’s husband was killed on the battlefield. Perhaps you have not had time to answer my previous letter, but as you can see, it is now very urgent that I find her.
Pauline
Rome
3rd October 1815
Camillo, everything is dreadful; the British will not let me go to St. Helena with Napoleon although I begged them and wrote every one of my London friends. So I must stay here in Rome, and now you say you wish to divorce me. Well, you should at least have the courtesy to tell me so to my face and answer my letters. I have tried to be a good wife to you and I do not understand why you refuse to meet with me and will not try to reconcile with me when I am your wife in the sight of God.
Bagni di Lucca 18th July 1816
Dearest, dearest Sophie,
I am so happy to hear from you! I have been searching for you since I left Elba and am very sorry to hear of your illness and of the way you were treated by your husband’s family. Of course you must come to me at once in Italy. Camillo tried to divorce me, but the pope has ordered him to recognize me as his wife and I am to take possession of the palace in Rome again as soon as the weather grows cooler. He is in Florence with his little blond duchess and does not c
are to have anything to do with me, but at least my rights have been restored. For the summer I am in Lucca, where I have bought a small villa. You will like it here very much, and if you are still feeling unwell, you may drink the waters with me.
I am sending you a draft on my bank so that you can come as quickly as possible; everything express, the best inns and couriers. I cannot wait to embrace you.
Your loving cousin Pauline
Bagni di Lucca 23rd July 1821
Dear Jerome:
Our brother is dead. My life is over. I will never forgive the British; they did nothing even when I begged them to let me go there and told them what terrible reports we had of Napoleon’s health and now they have finally relented and issued me a passport, but it is too late.
Pauline
Rome
12th September 1824
Dear Camillo:
I am very ill, and I wish to come and see you. I must make my peace with you before I die. Please, I beg you, grant me this last favor.
Your wife, Pauline
FOURTEEN
Florence, October 1824
Who?” Camillo looked from the note in his hand back to his servant, back again to the note. “Here in Florence? Right now?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“They’re not giving up, are they?” he said. This wasn’t addressed to his servant, or even to the other occupant of the room, but she lifted her head from her needlework anyway.
“What is it, caro?”
Not everyone could have a widowed duchess for a mistress. A duchess from one of the most eminent families in Italy. And beautiful, to boot. He smiled as he looked at her. Livia Lante della Rovere was still lovely, fair-haired and blue-eyed, grave and gentle. Her fine-boned face had worn well as she entered middle age, although in his eyes she would always be his young cousin. Of course, he himself was nearing fifty; there was some gray in his hair and his waistline was gradually expanding. Youth was a relative quality at this point.
“Another message from my wife,” he said.
She made a face. “How many letters is that this month? Three from her, one from the cardinal, one from the pope?”
“This isn’t a letter.” He held up the folded paper in his hand. “It’s a message, sent over with a footman from the Hotel d’Inghilterra. She’s in Florence.”
“Pauline is in Florence!” She looked horrified.
“No, no, one of her relatives. A young cousin. Not so young now, I suppose. A strange girl. I never knew what to make of her.” He sighed. “Vivi, I think I must see her.”
“Nonsense.”
“No, really. We went through some difficult times together. I’ve always felt that I owed her something.”
She took another stitch in her embroidery. “If she’s connected to that woman, I advise you to have nothing to do with her.”
The servant coughed. “I beg your pardon, Excellency, but I must have given you the wrong impression. The note was not delivered by a servant. A footman escorted her, but the lady herself is downstairs. Shall I tell her you are not at home?”
“Sophie?” He sprang up. “Sophie is downstairs?” Halfway to the door, he was stopped by an outraged “Camillo!” from Livia.
“Show her up,” he told the servant, retreating to the sofa. “And bring some refreshment.”
When he resumed his seat, the duchess ostentatiously put away her needlework and came over to sit next to him.
“Are you guarding me?” he said, amused.
“If need be.”
“We have nothing to fear from Sophie,” he assured her, squeezing her hand.
There was a light tap at the door, and a woman came in, nodding gracefully to the footman as he held it open.
She curtsied. “Your Excellency, thank you for seeing me.”
Surely this wasn’t Sophie? Tall, yes, fair-haired, yes, same gray eyes—but not a girl. A woman, fashionably but quietly dressed, with a neat figure and small lines at the corners of her eyes, which spoke of strain. Then she gave him a familiar, twisted little smile, and he was on his feet, rushing over to her.
“No, no, not Your Excellency! It is still Cousin Camillo, surely. Or just Camillo.” He kissed her on both cheeks and held on to her a moment longer than necessary.
Her shoulders trembled slightly in his grip; she was nervous. He almost looked down to see if she was twisting her hands in her skirt. But that was silly; she was a grown woman now.
“Vivi,” he said, turning toward the sofa, “may I present Signora—Speare? Is that right? Did I pronounce it correctly? English names have all those letters one does not say. And this is my cousin Livia, the Duchess della Rovere.”
The duchess gave a cold nod in acknowledgment.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he said, leading Sophie over to a chair. “How long has it been?”
“Since Napoleon’s wedding to Marie-Louise.” She thought for a minute. “Fifteen years? Sixteen? Fifteen, I suppose.”
“You look very well.” He assisted her into the chair. “I have had news of you, of course. I heard about your wedding, on Elba. And then you lost your husband at Waterloo. That must have been very difficult.”
“It wasn’t much of a marriage.” She gave him another one of her not-quite smiles. “We had about six weeks together, and then Napoleon escaped and off went all the British soldiers to chase him.”
A maidservant came in with a tray of little cakes and glasses of sweet vermouth.
“Thank you,” said Sophie, accepting some of each. “Pauline said I only married Charles to spite her, because he was English. I hate to admit it, but I think she was right.” She took a small bite of cake, then set it back down on her plate.
Pauline. She had said the name. Livia stiffened.
“How is Pauline?” Casual, as though he had not read the letters, in some cases three or four times.
“She’s dying.” The curt statement was like a blow.
“So it’s true,” he whispered. He hadn’t believed the letters. It was simply impossible to picture Pauline dying.
“But surely she has been ill off and on for many years?” Livia interjected defensively.
“Yes. This is different.” Sophie’s expression was stark. “That is why I came in person. I knew you wouldn’t believe the letters. How many times has she claimed to be dying before? Dozens. Scores. I don’t know. This is real. She has cancer. Some sort of growth, on her liver. The doctors are quite certain; they all agree. Oh, some give her two months, some six, some as much as eight. But no more than that.” She leaned forward, her voice urgent. “Camillo, you can help her. She needs you.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I am sorry to hear that she is so ill. But we have been legally separated for almost ten years. She has a generous allowance and the use of several of my properties. I am not sure that I am in a position to increase the amount—”
She cut him off. “I don’t mean financially. She has ample funds. I know she was a bit extravagant at times, but she has changed.”
“A bit!” He snorted. “Five hundred thousand francs for one necklace? More than a bit, I would say.”
“She has changed,” Sophie repeated. “Since Napoleon’s defeat, she is quite frugal, at least by her standards. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t about money. It’s—” She looked at the duchess and stopped.
“If you will excuse me.” Livia rose and gave him an icy glare. “I shall leave you to reminisce in private.” She swept out of the room.
“Oh, dear,” said Sophie. “I’m sorry. I suppose I was expecting to find you alone, even though I know she has been with you for many years. She seems very nice,” she added politely, in spite of abundant evidence to the contrary.
“I’m the one who should apologize.” He sighed. “She’s afraid of anything connected with Pauline.” Then, with a little laugh, “She’s somehow convinced you’re going to persuade me to take my wife back.”
She gave him a level stare, very like the Sophie of
old. “I am,” she said.
“You can’t be serious.” Livia’s glare was even colder than the one she had favored him with during Sophie’s visit. “I’m to move out. Of my home. With you.” Her gesture took all of it in: the high-ceilinged room, the bed where they slept together, the paintings he had bought her, the furniture covered with embroidered fabric he had watched her make, the windows looking out on the Via Ghibellina, where they would often walk in the evenings, wandering through the crooked streets around the Duomo and the old prison. “And she is to move in. And be waited on. And be your wife again.”
“I am still her husband,” he reminded her.
“Camillo! She betrayed you! Not once, not twice, but a hundred times.”
An exaggeration, he thought, but not an outrageous one. He estimated the actual number at something like thirty.
“The last time you saw her, when you traveled to Paris for Napoleon’s wedding, she charged you rent for staying in her house.”
True. Of course, that was in retaliation for his letter telling her she could no longer draw funds from any Borghese accounts.
“And refused to see you except in public.”
True. He hadn’t wanted to see her, either. They had barely looked at each other, even when they had to stand together behind Napoleon when Marie-Louise arrived in Paris. Luckily, he had only been required to stay in Paris for two weeks. Even an emperor cannot afford to prolong his wedding festivities when he is at war with most of Europe.
“And made you live on one floor of the house, while she lived on the other, and forbade you to leave your floor.”
The Princess of Nowhere Page 20