The Last Great Dance on Earth

by Sandra Gulland

  “I didn’t say to give it to his valet. I ordered you to give it to the man himself! Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  I heard footsteps approaching behind me: one of the guards. “Do you wish to speak with the First Consul, Madame Josephine?” Hugo asked, his deep voice announcing my presence.

  Bonaparte came to the door. “Josephine.” He looked pale. “You are dismissed,” he told Savary coldly, over his shoulder. The aide hurried out the door between us. “Come in,” Bonaparte said, “I have something to tell you.” I lowered myself onto a wooden armchair. “The Duke d’Enghien has been executed.”*

  *Ceruse was a thick paste made with white lead—and consequently corrosive and poisonous. It was used for several centuries as a make-up base, with devastating consequences.

  *Napoleon had sent the Prefect of Police a letter saying that he wished to talk to the Duke d’Enghien, but the letter wasn’t delivered until after Enghien had been executed. Fouché was later to say that the Duke d’Enghien’s execution was “worse than a mistake, it was a blunder.”

  In which a prophecy is fulfilled

  I found Savary in the drawing room. “General Savary, I would appreciate it if you could tell me—” Did I really want to know? “How did it happen?”

  “There was a tribunal, and then …” Savary wiped the perspiration off his forehead with his sleeve. “And then the Duke was taken to one of the trenches outside the château.”

  “A moat, you mean?” I had never been to Vincennes.

  He nodded. “A dry one.”

  A canary burst into song. “No last words?”

  “Just that he didn’t want a blindfold.” Savary felt in his jacket pocket, withdrawing a ring, a folded handkerchief and a sheet of paper. “Earlier he asked that his wife get these. Princess de Rohan-Rochefort, he said.”

  La belle Charlotte. The letter was short and tender—love eternal—the ring a simple gold band with an insignia on it. “And what’s this?” I asked, unfolding the handkerchief.

  It is late now. I am at my escritoire. Before me is a ring, a letter, a handkerchief containing a lock of hair: the remnants of a life.

  I study these artifacts, half-expecting them to speak, give me an answer. Was the Duke d’Enghien guilty of conspiring to murder my husband? Or was he innocent, and unjustly executed by him?

  As I write this, Bonaparte sits in the chair by the fire, watching the flames—as if expecting to see an answer there himself.

  March 23—Paris, windy.

  “I would say that the people of Paris are unsettled,” Fouché responded, in answer to my question. “They’ve been flocking out to Vincennes to view the trench, tossing in bouquets. Of course, that damn dog doesn’t help.”

  “What dog?”

  “The Duke d’Enghien’s dog. It stands over its master’s grave, howling day and night.” “Bring it to me.”

  “I suggest you reconsider. The First Consul would not care to—” “I know someone who would very much appreciate having that dog.”

  March 24.

  Princess de Rohan-Rochefort resides in Worms. I’ve sent the Duke d’Enghien’s last effects to her in the care of Moustache, along with the trembling dog—Mohilow by name—strapped into a wicker travelling basket. Against my better judgement, I included a note of sympathy.

  March 25—Paris.

  Both Bonaparte and I were uneasy setting out for the Opéra tonight. It was our first public appearance in Paris since the Duke d’Enghien’s execution. “Are you trembling?” Bonaparte asked, taking my arm. His face was pale as death.

  “Just a little chilled,” I lied.

  Immediately on entering our box, Bonaparte went to the front, showing himself to the audience. On hearing cheers, applause, Bonaparte turned, took my hand. Relief.

  March 27—almost midnight.

  Fouché arrived late at the drawing room tonight. “Ironically, the support for the First Consul has, if anything, increased,” he said when I told him about our experience at the Opéra. “The Revolutionaries feel that he is finally one of them—now that he has blood on his hands.”

  “Fouché, please, you know it’s not—”

  “And as for the Royalists,” he droned on, “they are entirely diverted by rumours of a crown.”

  A crown. The thought made me tremble! “I understand that there was a motion in the Senate today inviting Bonaparte to make his glory immortal.” What did that mean—immortal?

  “This latest attempt on the First Consul’s life has made people desperate for security,” Fouché said, stroking the mottled skin on the back of his hand. “It is generally believed that some form of monarchy would bring peace—and peace, of course, would bring prosperity. If a king is required, a citizen-king crowned by the people might not be such a bad thing. That the First Consul can now be counted on not to be in league with the Bourbons makes him all the more trustworthy.”

  “Fouché, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think that you yourself might be in favour of a monarchy.”

  “I made the motion.”

  “You made the motion about glory immortal?” I was momentarily speechless. “But you opposed Bonaparte being made First Consul for Life.”

  “Do you wish me back as Minister of Police?” Oh yes!

  “I want my department back. Any fool can see what’s required.” He smiled, a ghoulish expression on him. “If there is one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that flexibility is the key to survival.”

  April 5—a gorgeous day.

  Bonaparte leaned against the fireplace mantel, his arms crossed. He cleared his throat.

  I put down my cup of coffee. I knew that look. Bonaparte had something to tell me—something I was not going to like.

  “Josephine, my advisors are saying that a hereditary system of succession would put an end to the threats against my life.”

  Hereditary. Glory eternal. “Is that what is being proposed?” My voice betrayed my apprehension.

  “Yes, that succession be hereditary in the male line, by order of primogeniture. A traditional arrangement. This is the model that is being suggested, in any case.”

  “And so Joseph would be your successor?” How awful!

  “That is Joseph’s view, unfortunately. But ideally, the heir would be my son, a child raised to the role.”

  I looked away, blinking. There was no heir; there would never be an heir! All the mineral waters in all the spas of Europe could not give me what I wanted more than anything in the world: Bonaparte’s child.

  Very late—everyone asleep.

  “Bonaparte, there’s something we should discuss.”

  He yawned. “Now?”

  “Tomorrow, if you wish. In the morning.”

  He pushed back his nightcap, turned to me. “You look beautiful in the moonlight.”

  “You want to talk about it now?”

  “I don’t want to talk at all,” he said, pulling me close.

  “So what was it?”

  “What was what?” I yawned with contentment.

  “What you wanted to discuss.”

  “Oh …” I never wanted to talk about it, frankly!

  “Oh that,” he said, understanding.

  I nodded against his shoulder. He was damp with perspiration, smelling sweetly of lemon.

  “You should know that I’m insisting on the right to adopt,” he said softly, caressing my cheek.

  I pulled away. “You’d be able to adopt an heir?” Of course my first thought was of Eugène.

  “The child would have to be a blood Bonaparte—one of my brothers’ sons.”

  “Little Napoleon?” Smiling.

  “Come back here,” he said.

  April 7.

  I was surprised this morning to see our courtyard crowded with men in uniform, on horseback. “Bonaparte, why such a large escort?” And everyone in formal livery—even the pages. Perhaps I had misunderstood. “Aren’t we just going to see Louis and Hortense?”

  “This is a
n official visit,” he said, pulling at the ruffle edge on his sleeve.

  Hortense came down the stairs to meet us with little Napoleon in her arms. “You must not run down the stairs like that!” I admonished her (in spite of my resolve not to be overly protective). She is large for three months, already beginning to show.

  “What’s this about?” Hortense gave us both a quick kiss. “Is there a military review today?”

  “Nonan!” little Napoleon cried out to his uncle, squirming to be let down. Bonaparte took the boy from Hortense and tipped him upside down, making him squeal.

  “Careful, Bonaparte!”

  “Again,” the child demanded, giggling.

  Hortense, tucking a lock of hair under her cap, looked out into the courtyard. “Look at all the soldiers.”

  “Perhaps we should have sent word first. You were painting?” I asked. A week ago she’d begun a portrait of Eugène, and was finding it challenging.

  Hortense ran her long red-lacquered fingernails over her smock. “Earlier, while my sweet one was having a nap.”

  “No!” the boy protested, sticking his fingers in his mouth.

  “Not now,” Hortense reassured him with a kiss.

  “Where is Louis?” Bonaparte demanded, letting the nanny take the baby from him.

  “Out. He didn’t tell me where, just that he wouldn’t be long.” “Perhaps we might wait?” I suggested to Bonaparte. “I’ll be in the garden,” Bonaparte said darkly.

  “Maman, what is this all about?” Hortense led the way into her drawing room, inviting me to sit beside her on the sofa.

  Hortense tended not to follow politics. I didn’t know how much she knew. “Are you aware that a new constitution is being proposed?” She nodded. “The Civil Code?”*

  “The Civil Code is an important part of it, certainly, but there’s more.” I paused, unsure how to explain. “As you know, this last conspiracy has raised concerns once again about Bonaparte’s safety—and, consequently, concerns about the stability of the nation. Our enemies know that if Bonaparte were to be assassinated, the French Republic would fall.” Was she following me? I took her hand. “But if a system of hereditary succession were in place, the nation would endure.”

  “I thought you were against that, Maman.”

  “I’ve come to understand the reasoning. The attempts on Bonaparte’s life must stop!”

  “But what good is a hereditary system if you and Papa don’t have have an heir?” She bit her lip, regretting her words.

  “Bonaparte is going to insist on the right to adopt.” “Eugène?”

  “To be legitimate, the adopted heir must be a Bonaparte.” My daughter looked suddenly wary. I smiled apologetically, a pleading look. “Bonaparte would like to adopt little Napoleon as his successor.”

  “But he’s only eighteen months old, Maman!”

  “Nothing would change,” I started to assure her, but was diverted by Bonaparte, standing at the door.

  “I can’t wait any longer,” he said, beckoning me and then disappearing. “Should I mention this to Louis?” Hortense asked, her voice thin. “Bonaparte should be the one to say something, I think.” “Maman, if Papa suggests it, Louis will be against it on principle.”

  Bonaparte was seated in the carriage, impatiently tapping his sword against the floor. Soldiers on horseback were lined up behind the carriage in double file, the horses sleepy in the morning sun.

  “I told her,” I said as the footman handed me in. “She’s apprehensive, I think, but—” My train caught on the carriage door. Just as I freed it, a man on horseback came through the gate. “It’s Louis.” He looked alarmed by the sight of so many soldiers in his courtyard.

  “Zut,” Bonaparte said, annoyed at his brother for being late—late for an appointment Louis knew nothing about. Hortense was right, I thought. It would be a mistake for Bonaparte to approach Louis.

  “I’ll talk to him,” I said, opening the carriage door.

  First I had to assure Louis that nothing terrible had happened—that his son had not been murdered nor his wife abducted. “The First Consul and I came today regarding a matter of great importance to the nation,” I began, “a matter that would someday bestow a very great honour on you and your son.” I paused. The setting was less than ideal. We were standing in the entry, everyone watching. “We don’t expect an answer, only that you consider what we are proposing.” “Which is?”

  “As you know, Bonaparte must have a successor. The amendment that is being drafted to the Constitution will give him the right to adopt an heir—little Napoleon.”

  Louis tilted his head toward his hunched-up shoulder, cradled his weak hand. “My son?”

  Oh dear, I thought. Louis’s immediate concern was that he himself would not be the successor. “Such a fine prospect for a son might help console a father for not being named heir himself,” I said, giving him an imploring look.

  April 8, Sunday.

  Hortense was just here, very upset. Caroline called on her last night: accosted her is perhaps more accurate. In an angry tone Caroline informed Hortense that she had learned of Bonaparte’s proposal to adopt little Napoleon and was prepared to fight it! Little Napoleon would be the crown prince, but her children would be “nobodies” (her word), and she would not stand for such an injustice.

  “I don’t understand,” Hortense said tearfully. “I thought she was my friend.”

  [Undated]

  Mimi slipped me a note this morning. “It’s just as you suspected,” she said with a grimace.

  Mme Carolin told Louis He must not let the 1st Consul take his son. Shee told him the Old Woman wants the 1st Consul to dis-inherit all the Clan. Shee told him He wood hav to bow down to His own Son. Shee told Him that Peopl say the 1st Consul is the Father of his Child. Shee told Him that if the ist Consul wants a Son, He must divorse the Old Woman.

  April 9.

  Louis has sent an angry letter to Bonaparte. “He demands to know why I want to disinherit him,” Bonaparte said. “He can’t stand the thought that little Napoleon would be his superior. He says he’d rather die than bow his head to his son.”

  “He wrote that?” I asked, pretending to be surprised.

  “And that he’d leave France and take his son with him,” Bonaparte said quietly.

  Pour l’amour de Dieu!

  “And that the only solution to the problem of an heir is for me to—” Bonaparte stopped. “Listen,” he said, his voice thick, “according to the new constitution, I will have the right to adopt the boy when he turns eighteen. Louis will come around, with time.”

  Louis, perhaps—but what about Caroline?

  April 23, evening, almost 9:00, I believe.

  Tonight Bonaparte informed me the Legislature has voted in favour of hereditary succession. “It will become law in less than a month. At that point, everything is going to have to change.”

  “Again?” We’d been in a constant state of change for years, it seemed.

  “We’re going to have to have a legitimate court, more servants—” I sighed. We already had far more than I could manage.

  “—and ritual.” He made a circling motion with one hand. “And costumes.”

  “Livery, you mean?” We already had “costumes,” as he put it. “You’ll see to it?”

  “I will, King Bonaparte,” I said with a teasing smile (wondering when I should break the news to him how much new liveries would cost).

  “No, never king.”

  “No?” Hopeful!

  “The title ‘king’ reminds people of the Bourbons. My title must be more expansive, more of antiquity. ‘Emperor’ harks back to the Roman Empire and the reign of Charlemagne. It alarms some people because it’s vague and conveys a sense of immensity—but that’s what appeals to me. What’s wrong with immensity?”

  “You’re serious.” Emperor?

  He smiled at my puzzled expression. “Emperor Napoleon.” This with theatrical flair, his hand in his vest.

  11:20
P.M.

  Yeyette, Rose, Mademoiselle Tascher, Citoyenne Beauharnais, Madame Bonaparte: Empress.

  Grands Dieux. It’s just a courtesy title, I tell myself—it doesn’t give me any official standing.

  I tell myself. I tell myself.

  April 26, late afternoon.

  A long meeting today with Madame Campan, who has agreed to help organize our household—our “court.” (I’m so relieved.) “You must have aristocrats serving you,” she said, looking over the list of those who might be invited. “Men and women of the most ancient houses of France.”

  The nobility of history: Chevreuse, Montmorency, Mortemart. The names alone terrify me. “Madame Campan, with respect, the men and women of those families do not even deign to speak to me. How could they possibly serve me?”

  “The nobility are raised to bow, to be bowed to. They understand the power that subservience confers. It’s the wife of a soldier who will balk at the notion of lowering her head, for fear of being taken for a maid. What about Countess de la Rochefoucauld?” she said, flicking the paper with her finger. “A Rochefoucauld would impress. Others would then follow.”

  No doubt. The Rochefoucauld name is one of the oldest—and most revered.

  “She’s your cousin, is she not?”

  “A distant cousin,” I said, “through the family of my first husband. She was at Plombières last time I went.” Chastulé de la Rochefoucauld does make me laugh. A hunchback with a plain countenance, she nevertheless approaches life with humour and wit.

  “It would be a victory to persuade a Rochefoucauld to be your lady of honour. It’s one of the most powerful positions at court. She would manage your staff, your appointments, your budget and ledgers. Anyone who wishes to call on you must apply first to her. Such a position might interest her.”

  “I very much doubt that she would agree, however.” Chastulé is fond of me, but blistering in her condemnation of Bonaparte—”that upstart Corsican,” she is said to call him.

  “I believe she might. The family is said to be seriously embarrassed.”