The Last Great Dance on Earth

by Sandra Gulland

  “Madame Bonaparte,” she said, dropping her head. Her graceful move showed respect, but displayed good breeding, as well.

  Short and a little plump, there was something childlike about her; she seemed younger than her twenty-two years, perhaps due to her archaic pleated cap.

  I led her to the chair by the fire. “Do you mind if I call you Claire?” During the Terror, she and Hortense had played with dolls together, but that wasn’t the only thing they had in common. Tragically, both girls had lost a father to the guillotine. (Oh, those terrible days …)

  “I would be honoured, Madame Bonaparte,” she said, straightening the neck ruffle of her old-fashioned gown, “but most people still call me Clari.” She placed her hands in her lap, one hand over another (to cover a stain on her glove).

  “Hortense tells me that you are married and have two children.”

  “Two boys,” she said, her melancholy eyes brightening. “One five years and quick, the other two years, but an infant in his growth and mind.” She swallowed before adding, with heartfelt emotion, “Madame Bonaparte, you are well-known for your generous heart, for your willingness to help the unfortunate. The Angel of Mercy, people call you, because you further the cause of every petition that is made to you—you never turn anyone away. We lost everything during the Revolution. We have not a sou. I beseech you, please help us.”

  “I am the one in need of help,” I assured her. The daughter of an impoverished aristocratic family, Clari no doubt found it humbling to beg employment. “I am in need of someone to accompany me—a lady-in-waiting. The salary is only twelve thousand francs, but you would share the position with several others, so you would still have time for your family.”

  “You are so kind!”

  “And your husband?” I asked. “The First Consul might be able to employ him, as well.”

  “I will be forever indebted,” she said, clasping my hands, her composure giving way.

  November 23, late morning.

  Bonaparte has approved my selection of ladies-in-waiting (except for the Duchess d’Aiguillon,* alas). Madame Lucay, Madame de Copons del Llor, and Madame Lauriston will report in shifts, beginning in a few weeks. Clari Rémusat will begin immediately. Her husband will be one of Bonaparte’s chamberlains, as well—which solves their monetary embarrassment.

  November 27.

  Clari Rémusat, her husband and children moved into a suite at Saint-Cloud yesterday. She is quick-witted and cultured, and seems eager to be of assistance—certainly, I can use help.

  November 29—Saint-Cloud, chilly.

  “I picked up your parcel in town, Madame,” Clari announced from the door, pushing back the hood of her cloak.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” I said, making smiling wide-eyes at Clari’s two boys, their cheeks red from the wind. “I’d like your advice.” I’d been studying a book of Greek statues that my architects had loaned me, and I was trying to get my shawl to fall in the manner of one statue in particular.

  “We got held up on the Rue Saint-Honoré,” Clari said, handing her youngest child into her nursemaid’s arms. “You should see the lineup at the Théâtre-Français! Even at noon there was a long queue.”

  “A lady got hurt and the police were there,” her eldest boy Charles said, one hand clutching the skirt of his mother’s gown.

  “Oh dear!” I told the boy, putting my hands to my cheeks—or pretending to. I was not to touch my face. Citoyen Isabey, Hortense’s art instructor, had attended to my make-up and regarded my face as a work of art.

  “It’s true.” The child nodded. He is an exceptionally sombre five-year-old, mature for his years.

  “Apparently, there was a bit of a press when Mademoiselle Georges arrived,” Clari said. “The Venus of Paris, people are calling the girl. Is it true she’s only fifteen?”

  It was after six by the time Bonaparte and I arrived at the theatre. “Not a seat empty,” the theatre manager told us, escorting us to our box. “And now, may the performance begin,” he announced, bowing deeply as the audience cheered.

  Over the balustrade I looked to see what faces I recognized, nodding to acknowledge Minister Talleyrand, and the Second and Third Consuls, Cambacérès and Lebrun. In the third tier, way at the back, I thought I recognized Fouché, sitting alone. “Everyone is here,” I whispered to Bonaparte. Caroline and Joachim (in pink), Elisa and Félix. “And Joseph,” I said—but not with Julie. “Ah, it’s your mother.” I made a little wave to them all, but they didn’t wave back.

  By the end of the first act, the audience was becoming restless, in spite of Talma’s riveting performance as Achilles. Everyone had come to see Mademoiselle Georges play Clytemnestra, and she was not to appear until the second act. So when the curtain opened, the claque cheered loudly.

  At last the moment arrived: Clytemnestra stepped onto the stage. She is beautiful—tall!—but from our close vantage point, I could see that the poor girl was trembling. “Mon Dieu, Bonaparte, she can’t speak,” I whispered. Fortunately, the appreciative murmur of the crowd seemed to give the young actress courage and she began to recite her lines—somewhat mechanically, however, and without that fire that one senses in the great artists of the theatre.

  It was during the third act that the trouble began. My heart jumped at the first hiss. It seemed to come from the benches toward the front. Then increasingly the critics became more and more vocal until, during the fourth and final act, there was a very long hiss during one of Mademoiselle Georges’s speeches. Then the pit erupted: shouting, raising canes and umbrellas. Blows were exchanged!

  Poor Mademoiselle Georges stuttered out a few lines. She looked as if she might faint. “Courage, Georges!” I heard someone yell out, and at this the young actress’s voice became strong—angry even—and the audience fell silent. At the final curtain, the audience burst into cheers.

  December 1, early evening—Saint-Cloud.

  Talma struck a pose, his eyes raised in prayer, his shoulders thrown back, signifying pride. “Even Geoffroy, that idiot of a critic, was impressed with my protégée’s masterful performance,” he said, crossing both hands on his chest, casting his eyes down slowly and bowing his noble head.

  “Bravo!” Clari clapped with delight. The famous theatre critic had recently lashed out against Talma, calling him a “Quaker of dramatic art.” Talma’s new school of acting, in Geoffroy’s view, should be banished for tampering with the incantatory alexandrine.

  “That’s wonderful,” I exclaimed, feeling that perhaps it was Talma who should be commended for a masterful performance. Although certainly beautiful, Mademoiselle Georges tends to speak her lines in a monotonous drawl, and that, to my mind, hinders perfect elocution. Still, she is only fifteen. “We should send her a note of congratulation, Bonaparte.”

  “I’ve already seen to it,” Bonaparte said, staring out onto the terrace, lost in thought.

  December 16—cold!

  Troubling news from the Islands. Things are not going well in Saint-Domingue—apparently there has been a revolt. “Damn Victor Leclerc!” Bonaparte ranted. “I gave him my best men, our most seasoned soldiers, and even then he can’t manage so much as a skirmish.”

  December 22—still at Saint-Cloud.

  I confess I’m growing weary of Mademoiselle Georges—weary of the cult of enthusiasm that attends her every move. Or is it simply that I am growing old, and am jealous of her youth?

  Bonaparte and I arrived late at the theatre. Mademoiselle Georges was centre stage, drawling a monologue. (There I go again!) The audience applauded our appearance, demanding that the actors start over—which they did.

  All in all, it was a passable performance, I thought—at least on the part of the young actress. There was one curious moment when Mademoiselle

  Georges said the line, “If I have charmed Cinna, I shall charm other men as well,” and the audience craned to look at Bonaparte.

  “It appears they think you’ve been charmed,” I said, touching my husband�
�s hand (watching his eyes).

  December 23.

  Terrible news—Victor Leclerc is dead. He died in Saint-Domingue of yellow fever. We are stunned to hear it. Bonaparte’s beautiful sister Pauline is now a widow.

  Bonaparte’s new secretary brought the bulletin just after Bonaparte and I had finished our midday meal. “It regards your sister’s husband, First Consul,” Méneval said.

  Bonaparte scanned the bulletin, then folded it, creasing it methodically. “My poor sister,” he said, standing.

  Victor Leclerc, dead at thirty-six. (He was older than I thought.) “The blond Bonaparte” we called him because of his habit of adopting Bonaparte’s movements, even Bonaparte’s expressions—which was why he irritated Bonaparte so much, I think.

  We aren’t sure how to proceed, frankly. Victor’s family must be notified, of course. Who is to do it? My heart goes out to his mother and father, flour merchants, so very proud of their son.

  [Undated]

  The news is even worse than we originally thought. A vast percentage of the men sent to Saint-Domingue have died of yellow fever. The numbers are stupefying: of the twenty-eight thousand who sailed, fewer than ten thousand remain. Mon Dieu. How is that possible?

  Bonaparte is overcome. This evening I placed his coffee at his elbow, touched his hand so that he knew it was there, returned to my frame. All the while he sat motionless, his hand over his mouth.

  February 12, 1803.

  Pauline is back, her husband in a lead coffin, her beautiful black hair shorn, entombed with Victor’s body. She is enfeebled, both physically and emotionally. “They all died,” she said weakly, kissing Bonaparte’s hands. “Every last one of them.”

  February 19, early—not yet 9:00 A.M. (and cold).

  England is refusing to honour the terms of the peace treaty. Bonaparte is not sleeping well, if at all.

  “Stay, Bonaparte,” I said, reaching for him in the middle of the night.

  “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he said, pulling away.

  I feel old in his presence—unappealing, without grace. I feel like a beggar, scrambling.

  February 28—Paris.

  “Mimi?” I found her in the wardrobe. I’d debated all morning about taking this step, was debating even as I spoke.

  “I wish I could find that new lace veil, the silk one,” she said, going through an open trunk. “I know I saw it here not long ago.”

  “Maybe it’s at Malmaison. Or at Saint-Cloud.” I never know where anything is anymore. I sat down on the little velvet stool in front of the chimney. “I was wondering, have you heard any rumours?”

  Mimi closed the lid of the trunk. “About?”

  I shrugged. “Oh, about Bonaparte and a woman.”

  “There are always rumours.”

  “For example?”

  She blew out her cheeks. “Flowers are being sent upstairs of late.” “To the room above Bonaparte’s cabinet?” She screwed up her face.

  “You could find out for me. You could ask Roustam, or Bonaparte’s valet—or even Hugo, the cabinet guard.” Even the new secretary would know, I realized with chagrin. “Please, Mimi.”

  I may be played false, but I’ll be damned if I am going to be played for a fool.

  March 2, 2:30 P.M.

  “There’s a young woman who comes most every afternoon around four, and …” Mimi put up her hands. “And that’s all I know.”

  March 3.

  “It’s that actress everyone is talking about.” Mademoiselle Georges. I knew it! “The girl,” I said. “She’s not a girl anymore.”

  March 12—-gloomy Tuileries.

  “Your powder was smudged tonight,” Bonaparte said as I slipped under the covering sheet.

  Of course it was—I’d been crying! Our weekly dinner for over one hundred in the Gallery of Diana had been unusually trying. Conversation kept coming around to theatre, to the “brilliance” of Mademoiselle Georges. Glances in my direction made it clear that everyone knows. “I’m miserable, Bonaparte.”

  Bonaparte took a candle and disappeared into the wardrobe. He looked ghostly re-emerging, the light from the candle throwing shadows over his face. “I couldn’t find a handkerchief,” he said, handing me a madras head scarf. “Now—what’s this all about?”

  I could tell from his tone that he knew the answer. “It concerns your amourette … with Mademoiselle Georges.”

  He sat down on the end of the bed, his nightcap askew.

  “There’s no use in denying it!” At the last theatrical we’d attended, Mademoiselle Georges had the audacity to wear my lace veil on stage.

  Bonaparte crossed his arms. “Why should my amusements matter to you? I’m not going to fall in love.”

  “But Bonaparte, it’s not right—”

  “It is my right!”

  [Undated]

  Clari discovered me in my dressing room in tears. The gentle touch of her hand on mine unleashed my torrent of woes. She, so sweetly comforting and wise beyond her years, advised me to be patient. “This is but a temporary affair, Madame. It will pass, time will cure.”

  I know, I know, I nodded—but I was raging within. Plump, aging La Grassini was one thing—this beautiful young actress is another matter altogether.

  “Just ignore it, that’s my advice. It’s your gentle acceptance that the First Consul loves. He will return to you, in time.”

  Gentle acceptance? I imagine Bonaparte in the arms of that girl and I weep tears of despair! I imagine her young, supple body—so responsive and fertile—and I feel withered within. I am not a young woman, and in truth, I fear I am older than my years, for my passion is no longer of the flesh. Passion of heart I have—oh yes—and spirit in abundance. But no amount of salves, lotions and face paint can disguise the dryness of my skin, my thinning hair—my waning lust.

  Oh, I know this emotion all too well, this humiliating jealousy, this fear. My first husband was a coxcomb, true—and he never did love me. Bonaparte does: I know that! And it is this that frightens me—the possible loss of his love.

  *The Duchess d’Aiguillon had shared a prison cell with Josephine during the Terror. She was not permitted to hold a position at court because she had been divorced.

  In which Bonaparte is deceived

  March 14, 1803—Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

  In spite of the wind and driving rain, I set out for Saint-Germain early this morning. The hastily penned note from Aunt Désirée’s new husband*—sent by courier, no less—worried me: “Come quickly, your aunt is gravely ill.”

  Therefore I was relieved (but also, I confess, not a little surprised) to find Aunt Désirée, her husband Monsieur Pierre and Aunt Fanny enjoying brandy and crumpets.

  “What are you doing here?” Aunt Désirée demanded, trying to rise from the chaise longue.

  “Gentle b-b-beloved,” Monsieur Pierre stuttered (for this is what he calls her!), “you have been ailing, and I thought—”

  “You thought I was dying?” Aunt Désirée said in accusation.

  The poor man turned crimson.

  “Stop stuttering and pour my niece a brandy, Monsieur Pierre,” Aunt Fanny said. “She’s been out in all that fresh air. Grand Dieu, if anyone’s apt to die today, it’s going to be her, and then we’ll all be the worse for it. She brings the First Consul good luck—everyone says so. God knows where we’d be without her.”

  “So all the more reason for the First Consul to stay home,” Aunt Désirée said with an all-too-knowing look.

  “And not to be going out all the time to the theatricals,” Aunt Fanny said, emptying her glass of brandy and holding it out for more.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I told Monsieur Pierre, declining a glass. “You have not been well?” I asked Aunt Désirée—intentionally changing the subject. It was humiliating to discover that Bonaparte’s amourette with Mademoiselle Georges was talked about even in Saint-Germain.

  “Your Aunt Désirée has endocarditis,” Monsieur Pierre said.

  “
Which rhymes with nothing,” Aunt Fanny said, frowning.

  “It’s something to do with the heart,” Aunt Désirée explained, fluttering her hands over her bosom, “with the irritation of blood passing through it. At least that’s what the doctor said, but what does he know? I’m the picture of health, as you can see.”

  However, not long after Aunt Fanny departed and Monsieur Pierre excused himself to go to his club, Aunt Désirée did, in fact, become quite ill—an attack coming on suddenly and severely. I helped her to her chamber where she collapsed into her musty feather bed.

  “I’m sending for a doctor,” I insisted.

  “No, wait,” she said, gesturing me back to her bedside.

  “Aunt Désirée—rest. You must not talk!”

  “This is important! I speak from your mother’s grave.”

  Mother’s grave? But Mother isn’t dead!

  “Just listen! To keep a husband, a wife must be cheerful and understanding, but above all, blind.”

  I promised to heed her advice on the condition that she rest and allow me to send for the doctor. He’s with her now.

  5:20 P.M.

  Mon Dieu, we’ve lost her. The doctor left with assurances that Aunt Désirée was not in danger. I was preparing the tincture he’d prescribed when she began to turn blue, struggling for breath.

  “Aunt Désirée!” I cried out, overcome with alarm. She was slipping away, and there was no one to help, no one I could turn to. I ran to the door and yelled for the servants. Someone!

  “Above all, be blind!” she gasped.

  I was trying to calm her when she suddenly stopped breathing and died in my arms.

  I persuaded a very distraught Monsieur Pierre to retire as I helped the maids lay Aunt Désirée out. I moved without tears, my heart curiously still. Gently, I closed her eyes, arranged her limbs, helped wash and dress her. We debated: should she wear stays? “She wouldn’t want to be without them,” I finally decided. Even in death. Even in the hereafter.

  After all was done, I dismissed the servants, and sat by her side as the candles melted down. Oh, Aunt Désirée, how can you leave me?