“I do know that, Bonaparte,” I said. “That’s what makes it so hard.”
Saturday afternoon.
Carlotta put a vase of roses on my escritoire. “Thank you, Carlotta.”
She curtsied. “It is my pleasure to serve you, Your Majesty.”
I believed her. “I would like you to join us tonight, Carlotta, in the drawing room.” The girl was no doubt bored to tears, relegated to her small attic room.
“But Your Majesty, I’m merely a …”
Merely a reader, she started to say. Readers are not granted drawing room privileges; my ladies would no doubt object.
“It would please the Emperor, Carlotta,” I said with a knowing smile.
And now—at long last—I believe I have finally begun to understand. Carlotta has become my gift to Bonaparte, like some succulent fruit I place before my husband. In loving her, he must love me. In loving her, he must feel beholden.
October 25, Sunday.
This morning, returning from Mass, Fouché (lurking in a window recess) pulled me aside. “I have a matter of grave importance to discuss with you, Your Majesty,” he said, clearing his throat. He glanced toward the door, where a guard was stationed.
“Oh,” I said, not a little concerned. His manner was uneasy. And when had he ever addressed me as “Your Majesty”?
He pulled a tightly rolled paper out of his inside coat pocket and handed it to me. Sunlight caught the diamond in the ring on his little finger.
Warily I slipped off the silk cord and unrolled the scroll. The script—Fouché’s—was tiny, difficult to make out. “I’m afraid I don’t have my reading spectacles with me.”
“Read it later, Your Majesty. I’d like you to … reflect on the contents.”
“And what is it, may I ask?” Why were we being so polite with each other?
“It’s a draft of a letter I suggest you send to the Senate.”
“You think I should write a letter to the Senate?” Why?
“You are no doubt aware of the public fears that as the Emperor ages, he will follow in the traces of Sardanapalus.”
I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but I thought it sounded like something concerning Bonaparte’s health.
“Even the general public, so deserving of peace and security, is crying out. As devoted as they are to you, Your Majesty, they are even more devoted to the Emperor and the Empire he has created—an Empire which they know will crumble upon his death.”
Did Bonaparte have a life-threatening disease? Was there something I did not know? “Fouché, is the Emperor—?”
“The Emperor suffers, Your Majesty,” Fouché said, taking out an ivory snuffbox adorned with precious gems, “for he has reached the painful conclusion that a compelling political necessity, however abhorrent to him personally, must be undertaken for reasons of state. Yet, as brave as he is on the battlefield, he lacks the courage to speak to you on this matter.”
My hands became cold, and my heart began to skitter. A nervous apprehension filled my veins. This had nothing to do with Bonaparte’s health. “And what matter might this be?”
Fouché sniffed a pinch of snuff, then dusted off the tip of his nose. “Why, the matter of a divorce, Your Majesty.”
“You’re suggesting that I—?”
“I’m suggesting that you write to the Senate, informing them that you are willing to make this sacrifice for the good of the nation. I know how devoted you are to the Emperor, and I believe your love for him is such that you would sacrifice your life, if it meant that his would be spared.”
I leaned against the wall. This is it, I thought. Bonaparte doesn’t have the courage to speak to me, and so he has arranged to have Fouché speak on his behalf. The coward!
“Our soldiers are willing to sacrifice their lives for their country,” Fouché said, grasping my elbow. “It is rare for a woman to have an opportunity to prove her devotion, her—”
“I must know one thing,” I said abruptly. I felt on the edge of a precipice. I feared I might lose control, but I had to know. “Minister Fouché, did the Emperor ask you to speak to me about this?”
“Although I know the Emperor’s thoughts on this matter, I had no order from him,” Fouché said evenly, examining a timepiece which hung from his breeches on a heavy gold chain. “I regret to say that I must bring an end to this melancholy interview, Your Majesty, for I have an urgent appointment.”
And without even so much as a bow, he left. Hortense found me shortly after, standing near the window recess clutching the drapes.
[Undated]
I went to Bonaparte’s room early this morning, just after seven. I thought it best to talk to him before his work began, so I was surprised to find him dressed in a hunting coat, with his valet helping him on with his Hessian boots. “You’re not going on the hunt, Josephine?” He pulled on his left boot and stood to embrace me. “Not feeling well?”
“No, I’m not—not going on the hunt, that is.” I’d forgotten entirely. “Bonaparte, I need to talk to you.” It was hot in the room; a fire was roaring.
“Fine,” Bonaparte said, sitting down and sticking out his right foot.
“Privately,” I said, clasping Fouché’s letter, which I’d rolled into a tight tube and secured with a yellow ribbon, the colour of betrayal.
Bonaparte stood and stomped his foot. “That’s good,” he told Constant, dismissing him. He led me to one of the chairs by the fire.
“You’re pale. You must be cold.” He kicked the burning log, sending embers flying, and then sat down, watching the flames.
“I always imagine that you’re thinking of camp when you look at a fire like that,” I said, fumbling to untie the ribbon, which had become knotted.
“Josephine, I’m willing to talk, but I can’t take all morning. The Austrian ambassador is expecting me. What’s the problem?”
“It’s … complex,” I said, finally succeeding in sliding the ribbon off and handing him the rolled-up letter.
“This is for me?” He tried to get it to lie flat on his thigh. “Who wrote it?” Squinting.
“Your Minister of Police.”
“Fouché wrote this?” He held the paper close to his face and then back, at arm’s length. “My eyes are getting so weak,” he complained. “Haven’t those spectacles been delivered yet?”
How could Bonaparte be thinking of such details? Our life was falling apart and all he could think about were his new spectacles. “Yes, Fouché,” I said, making an effort to sound calm. “He gave it to me yesterday, after Mass. He … he suggests that I write such a letter to the Senate.”
“Basta,” Bonaparte exclaimed, reading. He threw the document into the flames.
“You knew nothing about this?”
“Of course not. Fouché has no business in our bed.”
I pulled a handkerchief from my bodice. (I’d thought to bring several.) It was difficult to gauge Bonaparte’s reaction. Was he pretending to be innocent? “I was so afraid that you might have asked Fouché to do this terrible thing,” I said, my voice breaking.
“Josephine, I am quite capable of bringing up such a matter myself. I have no need to get Fouché to talk to you on my behalf.” There fell an uncomfortable silence. Bonaparte cleared his throat. “And so, since we are speaking of it, I will ask you: What do you think?”
“I think you should dismiss him,” I said, knowing perfectly well that that was not what Bonaparte meant.
“Fouché?” Bonaparte scoffed. “His crime, if anything, is an excess of zeal. He acted out of devotion, to me and to the Empire.”
Devotion. It was the same word Fouché had used. “Devotion to his self-interest,” I said heatedly. “You are surrounded by flatterers, Bonaparte. They delude you into thinking that by divorcing me and marrying a young and fertile princess, you would be rendering a great service to your country.”
“Josephine, you must not—”
“You asked me what I think and I will tell you!” I persisted,
twisting my handkerchief into a rope—a rope to hang myself with. “If I believed for even a moment that by our divorcing peace would come and the Empire would prosper—if I thought that, I would do it! But I don’t think that.” My brave speech broke down in stupid female whimpers. “I will be honest, Bonaparte, since we must speak of this. I do fear for myself, for I love you. I don’t care about my crown, or my rank. All I care about is you.”
“Josephine—”
“I beg you to listen to me! I believe they are wrong. I fear that they are pushing you down a path that will lead to your downfall, and the downfall of the Empire with you. They don’t care about your happiness—they only care about their own. They are greedy and fearful and do not understand you as I do.”
Bonaparte watched me, his big grey eyes glistening. “I have one more thing to say,” I said, “and then I will go. You and I have travelled a very great distance together. Indeed, in many ways I believe that our … our destiny is so extraordinary that it must be directed by Providence.” I paused, afraid of saying what I truly feared might be true—that in some mysterious way, Bonaparte’s extraordinary luck was linked to me, to our union. “We’ve talked of this before,” I said instead, my heart pounding. He nodded, very slightly, but an acknowledgement nonetheless. “You put me on a throne, Bonaparte. It would not be right for me to step down from it. If you ask me to, I will. I want you to know that. But you will have to be the one to say so.”
“I couldn’t, Josephine,” he said, his voice a whisper. I fell into his arms. The valet found us thus, weeping and embracing.
November 20—back in Paris.
“I was tempted to burn this one,” Mimi said, handing me a scrap of paper.
Princes Carolin & her Husband were with Min. Fouchay last Evinng. Min. Fouchay say Everything wood be easyer if the Empress wood die.
[Undated]
It is late, two in the morning; everyone is asleep. Bonaparte is on the way to Italy. I am alone in the palace—alone with my fear. My ring of keys sits on the desktop before me. They sprawl, a long-legged insect—an insect with the insidious power to open locked doors.
One of the keys—a heavy, slightly rusted one—is the key to Bonaparte’s cabinet. I could, if I dared, open that door, look into his files. I know where to look, know where Fouché’s police reports are kept. I can see that leather portfolio as if it were lying in front of me now: black cowhide, thick and unbending, secured with a grosgrain white ribbon, stained from having been tied and untied by men with snuff on their fingers.
I could go—now. Discover exactly what is being said behind my back, know once and for all who my enemies truly are. The secretary is not here, nor is the valet; Roustam is not asleep outside the bedchamber door. They are all with Bonaparte in Italy, with Bonaparte always. But what of the others, the night watchmen, the guards?
No, I will go in the morning, early. I will tell Hugo, the cabinet guard, that I need to get something out of the Emperor’s files—something he wished to have sent to him. I will bring Hugo a coffee laced with cognac, to cheer and distract.
Police Report of November 17: People were astonished not to see the Empress on Tuesday at the performance of Trajan. It was said that she was upset. Most spoke of the dissolution of the Imperial marriage. This news is the talk of all classes, and the truth is that there is not one who does not view it as a guarantee of peace.
Police report of November 19: At court, in the homes of the princes, in all the salons, people are talking of the dissolution of the marriage. The people who are in the confidence of the Empress share the opinion that the Emperor would not resort to this rupture. They say that the Empress is adored in France; that her popularity is useful to the Emperor as well as to the Empire; that the good fortune of both the one and the other depends on the duration of this union; that the Empress is the Emperor’s talisman; that their separation would be the end of their good fortune.
The other part of the court—the part which regards the dissolution as necessary to the establishment of the dynasty—try to prepare her for this event, giving her advice that they judge appropriate to the situation.
In the Imperial family, there is one opinion only: they are all unanimously in favour of a divorce.
December 2—Malmaison.
I became suddenly ill last night after the fête for the ambassadors. Mimi insisted I empty my stomach, making me take mustard mixed with warm water and tickling the back of my throat with a goose feather. Then she sent for Dr. Corvisart, who pronounced my symptoms “puzzling.”
“And if I were being poisoned,” I asked him weakly, “what would my symptoms be?”
“Your Majesty, who would do such a thing?” he said gently—but not answering my question.
[Undated]
I’m still quite ill … and frightened. There are some, I know, who wish me dead.
January 2, 1808—Tuileries.
“Josephine?” I heard a man say as I slept. The voice was soft, caressing: Bonaparte’s voice. Was I dreaming? I opened my eyes, swollen shut with fever. It was Bonaparte, standing at the side of the bed with a New Year’s gift in his hand—a box of pink, white and blue sugared almonds. He put the box down and took my hand. “They told me you were ill, but …” His eyes filled.
“I had a bad reaction to a purge,” I reassured him weakly. So Dr. Corvisart insisted—nothing more. “I’m getting better.”
“You must,” he said, clasping my hand so hard it hurt.
January 12—Paris.
Stronger today. I spent an hour this afternoon making the final plans for Stephanie’s wedding next month to Prince d’Aremberg.
Fort de France, Martinico
Chère Yeyette, my beloved niece,
My wife and I are grateful for the part you have played in making the arrangements for Stéphanie’s marriage. It is hard to imagine that our little girl will be a princess. Remind her not to let her stockings sag and to cover her mouth when she burps.
God bless you,
Your aging uncle, Robert Tascher
February 1—Tuileries.
Preparing to go to Hortense’s for Stéphanie’s wedding, I was startled by a pounding on the door. It was Bonaparte’s valet. “Your Majesty, come quickly—the Emperor is terribly sick. I think it’s one of his episodes!”*
I scooped up my train and rushed up the dark stone staircase after Constant, my heart’s blood pounding. “It happened just as the Emperor got out of his bath, Your Majesty,” Constant said, trying to hold the light so that I might see better. “He forbids me to summon Dr. Corvisart. He said he had need only of you.”
We stumbled into Bonaparte’s suite. The roaring fire and a candle on a table afforded little light. Constant raised his lantern in the direction of the bed where Bonaparte was buried under the covers. His face was grey. “Speak to me, Bonaparte!”
Wordlessly Bonaparte grasped my arm and, in spite of my finery, pulled me into the bed. A tremor seemed to go through him. Was it the falling sickness? “Constant, get the vial.” The valet looked confused. “The nitrite of amyl—in the Emperor’s travelling case.” “Josephine!” Bonaparte blurted out finally.
Constant reappeared. “Two or three drops on a handkerchief,” I told him.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” the flustered valet murmured, pulling out a handkerchief, dosing it and handing it to me.
“Breathe,” I said, holding the cloth to his nose.
“Josephine, I can’t live without you,” he said finally, gasping.
Mon Dieu, I thought. “Bonaparte, we can’t go on like this,” I heard myself say, holding him to my heart, stroking his fine hair, as if he were an infant I was soothing.
Saturday, April 2—sad.
Bonaparte just left for the south—very quickly. (As quickly and as secretly as an entourage of thirty-six carriages can leave, that is.) Officially it’s being said that he’s making an inspection tour of Bordeaux, but in truth he intends to study the situation in Spain.
“Don’t
be long,” he said, holding me in his arms. I’m to join him in a few days.
April 6—Saint-Cloud.
I’ve just returned from seeing Hortense, bidding her farewell and Godspeed, for I leave in the morning to join Bonaparte in the south. I leave with a worried heart.
I took her a number of pretty items to add to her layette—as well as a copy of Madame de Souza’s new novel, Eugene de Rothelin*—and promised to return in time for her confinement in six weeks. As I was folding a tiny flannel waistcoat and putting it on the table next to the cradle, I saw something black at the bottom of a travelling basket of embroidered muslin.
“What is this?” I asked Hortense—for it looked like a shroud.
“Oh nothing,” she said uneasily. “Just a length of fabric the dressmaker left here.”
She wept when I left. She is a young woman alone now; no husband to plague her, but no husband to care for her, either.
As I was getting into my carriage, I saw Hortense’s friend Mademoiselle Adèle Auguié—now her lady’s maid—returning with Petit. I called out to them.
“I’m …” I am concerned about Hortense, I wanted to tell Adèle. “I regret having to leave at this time.”
“Don’t worry, Your Majesty. We’ll look after your daughter,” Adèle said, smiling down at the boy. “Won’t we?”
I wanted to ask her about that length of black cloth, but dared not. “I know you will,” I said.
April 10—Palais de Bordeaux.
Bonaparte welcomed me with open arms. He was relieved to see me, much in need of my help with a demanding (and sensitive) social calendar. I’m exhausted from the journey, but will nonetheless attend a reception tonight.
April 24, 1808, Paris
Your Majesty,
You will be relieved to know that Queen Hortense has been delivered of a boy—almost a month early! Both mother and son are safely out of danger.
On the twentieth of April, a Wednesday, Princess Caroline invited your daughter and Petit to a fête. In spite of Queen Hortense’s delicate health, she decided to attend (travelling lying down in the carriage). It was to be a fête for children, with a number of nursemaids and nannies and parents and even important officials standing about watching Princess Caroline’s children swing from the lamps and terrorize the guests. In short, the usual circus; and a circus it was, complete with clowns and tightrope dancers performing above the children’s heads! Every time one of them slipped (which was often), Queen Hortense clutched my hand. We were both terrified that one of the performers would fall onto the children—and, in particular, onto our sweet Petit. (It is my contention that Queen Hortense’s alarm precipitated the contractions.)
The Last Great Dance on Earth Page 24