The Last Great Dance on Earth

by Sandra Gulland

  January 12, a beautiful Sunday.

  This afternoon, in a quiet ceremony, Bonaparte adopted Eugène as his son and designated him heir to the throne of Italy. He embraced Eugène with love in his eyes. The look in Caroline’s eyes was of another sort.

  Monday.

  “Caroline is too ill to come,” Joachim told Bonaparte, his chin buried in a ruff of artificial pink lace. “She sends her regrets.”

  Bonaparte looked up from cleaning his fingernails with a coral toothpick. “Ill with bile, I venture.”

  “Ill with good reason.”

  I glanced from Joachim to Bonaparte, not a little concerned. Now was not the time for a brouhaha. In two hours the contract was to be signed, followed by the civil wedding ceremony.

  Bonaparte frowned, methodically tucking the toothpick into its gold case. “And what might that good reason be?”

  “These royal fops scorn us.” Joachim spat into a spittoon.

  “What do I care what they think? You are jealous, face it. Eugène’s children will have the blood of Charlemagne in their veins. They are not even born and their future is writ large on the pages of history. And you say this is a bad thing? I see it as a great victory—equal to the victory at Austerlitz.”

  In fury, Joachim knocked a vase over with his sword on his way out. “You see, Josephine?” Bonaparte said, picking up the book he had been reading. “Our people don’t even know how to walk properly.”

  January 14.

  At seven this evening in the Royal Chapel, Eugène was married to Princess Auguste-Amélie of Bavaria. The young couple could not take their eyes off each other. We bask in the glow of this miraculous love.

  As is the royal custom (we’ve learned), Bonaparte and I saw the newly-wed couple to the door of their suite. “So,” said Bonaparte, clearing his throat. “I guess this is it.” He grasped Eugène’s hand and gave it a mighty shake.

  I embraced my new daughter-in-law. “I can’t tell you how happy I am.” Truly.

  Auguste looked up at Eugène and slipped her hand into his. “Well, I guess this is it,” Eugène said, repeating Bonaparte’s words.

  I kissed them both (a blessing) and took Bonaparte’s arm, tugging him away. We meandered down the wide marble halls arm in arm, the portraits of centuries looking down upon us.

  *The Austrians believed Napoleon and his army were still on the Channel coast. It was an understandable assumption: never in history had so large an army been moved so quickly.

  *On October 21, 1805, the French-Spanish fleet was defeated by England off Cape Trafalgar, on the southwest coast of Spain.

  *The Russian Tsar Alexandre wrote to a French general after the battle of Austerlitz: “Tell your master that I am going away. Tell him that he performed miracles yesterday, that the battle has increased my admiration for him, that he is a man predestined by Heaven, that it will take a hundred years for my army to equal his.”

  *As of this date, the French Empire officially returned to the Gregorian calendar.

  In which we are devastated

  January 27, 1806—Paris, at last.

  Tears sprang into my eyes when I saw Hortense. “Are you not eating?” I exclaimed, embracing her. She is so gaunt.

  “I am fine, Maman,” she assured me. “Now, tell me everything.”

  With pleasure I described how wonderful Auguste is, Eugène’s happiness, how much in love they are. “If only I could have been there,” Hortense said wistfully. “Louis would not allow me to go.”

  “No doubt he was concerned about the rough roads, especially in this season.” Especially considering her health.

  We talked for a time of this and of that—of the boys, Louis’s latest (bizarre) treatments,* a song she was composing. I described the curious fashions worn in Munich, the elaborate royal rituals we’d observed there. I told her that the new furniture Messieurs Fontaine and Percier had designed for my suite at the Tuileries was hideous, but that I was pleased with the chambermaid my hairdresser Duplan had recommended. Hortense had been using Duplan herself, she said—did I mind if he dressed her hair on Wednesday?

  “Are you and Louis planning to go see Talma play Manlius that night?” I asked.

  But before she could answer, we were diverted by the sound of the children outside the open door. Little Napoleon ran into my arms. “I can count, Grandmaman.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said, covering his cheeks with kisses, counting with each one.

  The baby staggered toward me and then fell onto the carpet. I held my breath, waiting for a howl. Instead he scampered at a crawl to my feet and, grasping my gown, pulled himself up. I hoisted him onto my lap, little Napoleon close beside me. “Oh, what treasures you have given us,” I told my daughter, my heart overflowing.

  Wednesday, January 29.

  We didn’t get to the theatre until the end of the first scene. Seeing Bonaparte, the audience cheered with such passion that the actors decided to begin the play again. We stayed to the end. Talma got a standing ovation—even the critic Geoffroy was observed to applaud.

  Caroline and Joachim were there with an entourage, including a comely maid in a daring ensemble, Caroline’s new reader—whom Caroline took special pains to introduce to Bonaparte, I noticed. I’m watchful.

  March 2, Sunday.

  Bonaparte made a number of announcements to the family tonight: in addition to naming Joseph King of Naples, he will add Lucca to Elisa’s domain, and will name Joachim and Caroline Duke and Duchess of Berg.

  Caroline looked as if she’d eaten something sour. “Berg isn’t even a kingdom,” I heard her hiss to Joachim.

  “But maybe it comes with the droit de cuissage,”* he said, guffawing.

  March 5.

  Bonaparte has just returned from the Murats’ country estate—where he went to hunt, he told me cheerfully, taking me into his arms. I pretended to believe his lie. He smelt of a boudoir, not a stable.

  Princes Carolin builtt a litle House for her Readr. This day the Emperor was 2 hours with the Readr in it.

  [Undated]

  Oh, I do find this difficult. How do other women manage to be so accepting of a husband’s mistress? I may pretend to “be blind,” but I rage within!

  April 10.

  “The Kingdom of Holland has formally requested a sovereign from us,” Bonaparte informed me at dinner tonight.

  This had been rumoured. Caroline expected that the crown of Holland would go to her husband.

  “I’m considering Louis.” Bonaparte opened his snuff tin, but closed it without taking a pinch. “Hortense would be Queen, of course.”

  “Oh?” I said, dissembling my surprise. Louis didn’t seem to have the energy to walk, much less to rule a nation. And as for Hortense … “Do you think Louis would want such a position?”

  “What he wants has nothing to do with it. We do what we do because we must, because it is the will of destiny.”

  I nodded, but thinking, I confess, that we do what we do because it is Bonaparte’s will.

  June 1, Sunday—Saint-Cloud, a glorious day.

  At the Bonaparte family dinner tonight, Bonaparte made the announcement that at the request of Holland, Louis will be their King, Hortense their Queen.

  Now both Hortense and Caroline are miserable. Caroline wants a crown; Hortense does not.

  June 12, Thursday.

  Bonaparte and I bade farewell to Louis and Hortense this morning (King and Queen!), farewell to little Napoleon and Petit. “Bye-bye, Grandmaman,” little Napoleon said solemnly. “Bye-bye, Nonan the Soldier.” Giving his beloved uncle a salute.

  “Take care of your brother,” Bonaparte said, tugging little Napoleon’s ear. (Little Napoleon, his heir—Bonaparte is uneasy about letting the child out of France, I know.)

  “Andy our mother,” I said, eyes stinging. God knows when we will see them again.

  June 15.

  “I wish I didn’t have to give this to you,” Mimi whispered, slipping a scrap of paper into my hand.
<
br />   Princes Carolins Readr is 3 Months With Child—by the Emperor, Shee says.

  July 14, Bastille Day—Saint-Cloud.

  I’ve been ill for over a month, in bed with a fever.

  Tuesday, August 19—Rambouillet.

  We’re at Rambouillet, a dank and cheerless hunting abode. Caroline arrived with a full suite to attend her, including her reader, clearly with child. Bonaparte has been gay.

  As I write this, the court makes merry dancing to fiddlers. Fifteen wolves were bagged today.

  August 26, 1806, Milan

  Chère Maman,

  I have the most wonderful news: my lovely Auguste is with child. Don’t worry—we are taking the utmost care.

  The news of the Prussian advance is disturbing. I’m putting the Army of Italy on a war footing in case we are needed. Auguste sends her love.

  Your loving and happy son, Eugène

  Note—I’m not in the least bit surprised to learn that Pauline and her prince have separated.

  [Undated]

  “Auguste will have a girl,” Bonaparte predicted.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Charlemagne’s son Pépin—the one he sent to rule Italy—had daughters. Five daughters and one son. Eugène will have the same.”

  “Excuse me for being confused, Bonaparte,” I said with a smile, “but I thought you were the embodiment of Alexandre the Great.” He’d once told me as much!

  “Charlemagne’s reign is, in fact, closer to mine,” he said in all seriousness.

  This curious comment sent me into the library for information on the ancient Emperor of the West. The similarities are striking: Charlemagne was not tall, but he was strong, with a thick neck. He dressed simply. He was temperate in his eating and drinking and, like Bonaparte, remedied illness by fasting. Also like Bonaparte, he was in the habit of rising several times during the night to work. Charlemagne crossed the Alps into Italy and he was crowned Emperor by the Pope.

  I was amused by the parallels until I read that Charlemagne repudiated his first wife, by whom he had no children, and married a woman of high birth, by whom he did have children.

  September 6, Saturday, 7:10 P.M.—Paris.

  It was a hot afternoon for a military review: Bonaparte sweltered in his black beaver hat and greatcoat. In spite of the marching bands, the stirring spectacle of bayonets glittering, flags waving, the heart-stopping cavalry charge—in spite of all this, the crowds seemed curiously silent. They watched sombrely as the soldiers marched by.

  “Funds down,” Mimi said.

  There is a sense of departure in the air, a sense of something ending. Our men will soon be marching out to war.

  September 24.

  Bonaparte is humming “Malbrough.” Tomorrow he leaves on campaign.

  Gera, October 13, 2:00 A.M.

  I am at Gera today, ma bonne amie. Things are going very well. The Queen of Prussia is at Erfurt. If she wishes to see a battle, she will have that cruel pleasure. I am well. I’ve gained weight since I saw you. All thine, N.

  October 16, Weimar

  Everything has gone as I calculated. Never has an army been so beaten and so completely lost. The fatigue, the bivouacs and the watches have fattened me. Adieu, ma bonne amie. All thine, N.

  November 2, Berlin

  We have taken Stettin. Everything is going as well as possible and I’m very satisfied. I miss the pleasure of seeing you, but I hope that it will not be long. Adieu, mon amie. All thine, N.

  December 3, Posen, 6:00 in the evening

  You must calm yourself. I wrote you you could come when winter had passed; thus you must wait. The greater one is, the less one can do as one pleases. One depends on events and circumstances. As for myself, I am a slave, and my master is the nature of things. N.

  New Year’s Day, 1807.

  Caroline’s reader has given birth to a boy.

  January 16, 1807

  My dear, your unhappiness pains me. Why the tears? Have you no courage? I will see you soon. Show character and strength of spirit. Adieu, I love you. N.

  January 18, 1807, Warsaw

  I’m told that you always cry. Fie! That’s terrible! Be worthy of me and have more character. I love you very much, but if you cry all the time, I will think you are without courage. I do not like cowards. An empress must have heart, even down to the small cousins. Speaking of which, I kiss them. They must be low, because you are always sad. Adieu, mon amie, I kiss you. N.

  Tuesday, February 10—Paris.

  The carnival season is gay; I am not. I’m trying to be the empress that Bonaparte wishes me to be, one with spirit and character. As it is, I’m an empress with a head pain. They’ve been coming frequently again.

  Mon amie, your letter grieved me—it was too sad. Your heart is excellent, but your powers of reasoning are weak. You experience things wonderfully, but you think poorly. There, enough quarrelling. I want you to be happy with your lot—not grumbling and crying, but cheerful and gay. The nights are long. N.

  February 9, 3.00 in the morning

  Mon amie, we had a big battle yesterday. Victory was with me, but I lost many men. The enemy’s loss, which was considerably greater, does not console me. I love you. All thine, N.

  February 14, 1807

  Mon amie, I’m still at Eylau. This country is strewn with the dead and the wounded. It is not the prettiest part of war. One suffers and the soul is oppressed to see so many victims. However, I did what I wanted and repulsed the enemy. Calm yourself, and be gay. All thine, N.

  [Undated]

  Publicly we celebrate victory; privately we mourn. Daily couriers arrive with lists of the dead, the wounded, the missing. I’m mortified how close Bonaparte himself came to death, how he exposes himself to danger.

  March 15, 1807, Milan Chère Maman,

  Wonderful news! At 6:47 last night, Auguste gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. I hope you and Papa aren’t disappointed. I’m going to write to him now, to tell him we’d be delighted if he chose a name for her.

  My Auguste was as brave as any soldier, Maman. She is remarkably well, and the baby is sucking strongly. How is it possible for one’s heart to be so full?

  Thank you for the bulletins you sent on the Eylau victory. It’s excellent news, but oh, the losses! I understand that you are upset the Emperor exposed himself to danger. You must have faith, Mama—Papa is blessed by Lady Luck. Did you know that the soldiers are convinced that you are his Lady Luck?

  A million kisses,

  Your son, a father! Eugène

  April 28, La Hague

  Chère Maman,

  Little Napoleon is very sick with measles. I have been up for two nights. Pray for our dear little prince, Maman.

  Your devoted (and worried) daughter, Hortense

  Chère Maman,

  This is just a quickly scribbled note to let you know that our prayers have been answered: little Napoleon has recovered.

  Your devoted (and very much relieved) daughter, Hortense

  May 5, Tuesday.

  I was awoken before dawn by Mimi. “There’s a courier downstairs. He rode all the way from La Hague without stopping.” She handed me a cap. “He insists on speaking to you.”

  The mud-splattered courier had a message from King Louis of Holland, he said. Prince Napoleon’s condition had worsened. The child had developed a congestion in the chest and was having difficulty breathing. King Louis wished me to send Dr. Corvisart.

  “Order the Master of the Horse to have our travelling carriage harnessed to our fastest horses,” I commanded a sleepy chamberlain. “Have the cook put together a basket of provisions. Have the controller provide a purse of coins, both French francs and Dutch florins. Dr. Corvisart will be leaving immediately for Holland.”

  “Immediately?”

  “Immediately!”

  [Undated]

  I feel like a sleepwalker, not of this earth. A light drizzle, the dank smell of the gardens, a pale early morning light envelop me. I know tha
t when I wake from this dream, life will never again be the same. The fabric of our happiness has been forever rent. Little Napoleon is dead.

  May 6, 1807

  Aunt Josephine:

  I’m leaving tonight for Holland. My brother King Louis will need me. I’ve instructed Arch-Chancellor de Cambacérès to organize everything for your journey. I suggest you meet your daughter at the Château de Laëken near Brussels.

  Princess Caroline

  May 15—Château de Laëken, Brussels.

  Hortense endured my embrace with patience. “Good afternoon, Maman,” she said—but without any emotion.

  “Oh, darling!” Her manner confused me.

  “Hortense,” Louis said, “your hat.”

  “Thank you,” she said, slowly reaching out her hand, dreamlike. “He liked the flowers on it. He wouldn’t want me to lose it.” And then, to Clari, “He is dead, you know.”

  Petit tugged his father’s hand. “Brother?” Louis motioned to the child to be silent.

  “It doesn’t matter what the boy says,” Caroline said, gesturing to the servants to move the trunks out of her way. “She’s not listening.”

  We followed Hortense into the great hall. She stood looking around at the entryway, the walls covered with tapestries. There was a chill about her; she seemed of another world. “He was here with me not long ago. I held him on my knees—there.” She pointed to an upholstered chair. And then she fell silent and would not speak.

  Early evening, 6:20, I think—awaiting dinner.

  Louis and I sat on a musty sofa in the château library, Dr. Corvisart on a cracked leather armchair opposite us. I gave Louis a look of sympathy. “You are being admirably strong.” It was true.

  “At heart I weep,” Louis said with feeling. And then he recounted how it had happened: little Napoleon had recovered, but then suddenly his face turned blue and he began to have difficulty breathing. They summoned the best doctors in Holland—