The Last Great Dance on Earth

by Sandra Gulland

  “That’s cruel of him, Your Majesty.” Her look was defiant—loyal.

  “The Emperor suffers,” I told her firmly. “He does what he must.”

  And so, by the bright winter light, my new life begins. I look ravaged, yet I will play the part, assume the costume of the Empress, recall her calm and charitable heart. After the celebration of the peace, Bonaparte will make a public announcement. As for this moment, I’m suffering an indisposition, that’s all.

  Brave words, but as soon as Mademoiselle Avrillion left, I gave in to despair. How can I do this? I’ve a reception at Malmaison tomorrow, and the day after is the big celebration, a ball. And then more balls and fêtes, and fêtes and balls, all in a spirit of gaiety. How will I find the courage, the strength?

  Saturday, December 2—Malmaison.

  It is late. I’m writing this at the little mahogany writing table in Bonaparte’s bedchamber at Malmaison. I’m in my nightgown, warmed by the bearskin I’ve pulled off the bed.

  The sovereigns have all departed, even Bonaparte, who decided to return to the Tuileries in preparation for the morrow—in spite of the snow and freezing rain. “This is your lucky day,” I told him, on leaving. He looked puzzled. “The second of December.” The anniversary of the coronation: how could he forget?

  “Oh,” he said, shrugging, as if luck no longer mattered.

  It is a relief to be alone now. The hardest part was receiving the family. Queen Caroline and King Joachim, newly arrived back from Naples, watched me closely. They suspect, I know. And what will they do, I wonder, when they learn that they have won the day, won the battle, won the war? They will proclaim a victory, no doubt. They will have the Emperor to themselves, at last—all his power and all his riches. And all his heart, they will assume—not knowing his heart, not realizing that this sacrifice will harden him.

  It is now almost two, I suspect. The fire has burnt down; I begin to feel the winter chill. My portrait by the bed is in shadow—Bonaparte’s favourite, though not mine.

  Five years ago today Bonaparte crowned me Empress. Oh, it was the most glorious day! I accepted that crown as if it were a betrothal ring, thinking that it would bind me to my husband. And now … now I see that it is the one thing that has pushed me away from him. Without issue, I have no right to that throne—no right, indeed, to the Emperor’s Imperial bed. As Empress, there was only one thing I was required to do: provide the link to the past and to the future, secure the Emperor’s place in history. In the womb of an Empress, the future unfolds. She is the past, she is the present, she is the future. And I? I was never an Empress. Only Yeyette, Rose, Josephine—an ordinary woman from Martinico. An ordinary woman who loves her husband.

  How much does it matter, in the end, my love for Bonaparte? Not much, truly, when balanced against the needs of a nation. Indeed, it is a sacrifice we are making, Bonaparte and I—a noble sacrifice. I only pray that it will not be made in vain, that my fears are unfounded. “Superstitious nonsense,” as Bonaparte would say, “womanish imaginings.” (Pretending not to be superstitious himself.)

  Oh, Bonaparte—how hard it is for me to comprehend the changes that lie before us. I feel you in this room with me now—your light lemon scent lingers. Your spirit is everywhere. A half-empty crystal champagne glass engraved with your monogram is on the table beside a stack of journals, a snuffbox. A small, battered medal catches my eye: Charlemagne’s talisman, carelessly tossed in among the pocket clutter. A book you were reading—History of the Revolutions of the Roman Empire—is facedown on a chair beside the bed, the spine cracked, the pages dog-eared. Your vest is thrown over the arm of the black leather chair. A crumpled news-sheet litters the carpet.

  The clock has just chimed two. I don’t want to leave this room, this moment so full of memory, but I’ve a difficult day tomorrow, I know. I will lock the door when I leave, forbid entry. It will always be here for me.

  Sunday.

  First, a Te Deum at Notre-Dame. I was not to go there in the Emperor’s coach, was not to sit beside him, Duroc explained, his manner officious, as if I were a servant he was instructing. Rather, I was to sit with Caroline and Jérôme’s wife, Catherine. “The Emperor wishes the people to begin to be prepared,” Duroc said. “He wishes it to be conjectured.”

  Conjectured. Of course. Rumours would be circulated, hints given, predictions printed in the popular journals. And perhaps it is for the best. Perhaps in this way I, too, will begin to be “prepared.”

  “Does anyone in the household know?” I asked.

  “Only the Imperial family, Madame.”

  Madame. Not Your Majesty—just Madame. Well, so be it, I thought, swallowing hard.

  “Madame Bonaparte,” Caroline said with a bright (smug) smile. “How lovely you look this afternoon.”

  “How kind of you to say so,” I replied with a bright (false) smile. “Queen Caroline.” (How trivial it all seemed to me, in truth, catching a glimpse of the tomb of little Napoleon tucked into a corner of that vast cathedral.)

  After Mass, the Imperial cortège drove to the Legislature, where Bonaparte was received with thunderous cheers. My heavy heart gladdened to the sound of “Hail to the Peacemaker! Long live the Emperor!” From habit and affection, Bonaparte glanced over his shoulder at me, sharing the moment.

  At five the cortège returned to the Tuileries, where we received the foreign ambassadors before proceeding into the Gallery of Diana for the Imperial banquet. (My last, thank God—how I hate them.) King Joseph was seated on my left, Madame Mère on my right. King Louis, newly arrived from Holland, sat next to his mother (with whom he is staying). Bonaparte sat directly across from me, with the King of Saxony on his right. Hortense was on his left. I avoided my daughter’s eyes, for fear I might weep.

  And then, of course, all the others: the King of Württemberg, King Jérôme and his wife Catherine, a conspicuously gay Princess Pauline, King Joachim in pink silk embroidered with gold stars—and, of course, an exultant Queen Caroline, ordering the servants about as if she were in charge, as if she were the hostess.

  Bonaparte seemed anxious, motioning to the chamberlain for no purpose, wiping his mouth even when he wasn’t eating, creating a growing pile of soiled napkins behind him.*

  We ate without speaking, each silently attended by three footmen, the only voices those of the carvers, passing the trays to the footmen. I don’t believe I was ever so glad to see Bonaparte rise. Immediately everyone stood, turned, advanced one pace toward the line of butlers, who offered trays. With trembling hands I squeezed lemon into the white bowl, cleansed my mouth and swished the tips of my fingers in the blue bowl. To think I’ve finally mastered this little ritual, I thought, tossing my napkin into Caroline’s pile.

  December 4, Monday—Paris.

  My demise—my loss of a throne, a crown, a husband—begins to be “conjectured.” At the military review this morning, a market woman placed flowers at my feet, as if I had died.

  The review was followed by a fête given by the city of Paris, with the court of the Hôtel de Ville transformed into an enormous ballroom. I’d been instructed to go alone. My ladies would be there to meet me, I was told, but when I entered, I found the foyer empty, the small drawing room beside the grand staircase where the attendants waited deserted. Where were my ladies, my entourage? The head butler came running down the marble stairs. “Your attendants have been seated,” he said, out of breath.

  “I’m to enter alone?”

  “It is the Emperor’s wish.”

  I will it. Bien. Drums sounded my entry into the Grand Salon. I could hear the hushed whispers as I made my way to the dais: an Empress without an Emperor. As I approached the throne, my knees began to give way. Quickly I was handed into the velvet-cushioned throne. I sat back, faced the crowd.

  The drums beat again, and Bonaparte entered with Caroline on his arm, Jérôme following behind.

  Caroline caught my eye, glowing with the triumph of victory.

  December 5—Paris, sh
ortly before dinner.

  A message from Eugène—he’ll be here in a few days.

  Thursday.

  I was at my toilette when Hortense appeared at the door, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glistening. “Eugène is here!”

  I pressed my hands to my heart. I hadn’t seen my son since he and Auguste had married—almost four years ago now.

  “He’s with the Emperor,” she said, touching her cheek to mine. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m . . . fine.” I reached for the vial of herbal essence Dr. Corvisart had prescribed, for nerves. I put a drop on my finger and held it to my nose, inhaled slowly. I had not been sleeping, and already this morning I’d had one of my “tropical storms”—a torrent of tears that seemed to come upon me unexpectedly and without warning. I inhaled again and sat back. “I’m all right,” I repeated (but with tears welling up). “I’ve been—”

  I was interrupted by the thundering sound of footsteps in the private passage. “Come in,” I called out at the sound of Bonaparte’s characteristic rap-rap. How I’ve missed that sound!

  Bonaparte stumbled into the room, blinking against the light. “Hortense is here,” he said over his shoulder.

  And then close behind him appeared a tall, good-looking young man with broad shoulders and honest, smiling eyes: Eugène! I stood to embrace my beloved son. “Oh, mon Dieu, Eugène, you look so old!” So handsome—so manly.

  He swung me playfully in his embrace, crooning, “Oh Maman, Maman, Maman …”

  “And you’ve grown sideburns.” And a kingdom. And two daughters. “You look wonderful,” I said, blinking back tears. “Doesn’t he?” I said, turning to Bonaparte—Papa. “Doesn’t he?” Turning to Hortense.

  “Oh Maman, don’t,” Eugène said, his eyes brimming. He pulled me against his chest, patting my back, stilling my sudden sobs.

  “Hold her, Eugène.” Hortense saw my knees beginning to buckle.

  Supported by them both, I regained my strength. “Forgive me. I’m sorry.” I glanced up. Bonaparte was staring at the three of us, his cheeks wet with tears.

  “Oh, Papa,” Hortense whispered, pulling him into the circle of our embrace.

  December 8.

  As we married, so we must divorce: with ceremony.

  We begin with specifics: who, what, when, where. The date has been set for a week from today, next Friday. Evening, court attire. Reception in the throne room, the ceremony itself in Bonaparte’s cabinet. In the presence of family and a few officials, Bonaparte will make a statement, I will follow, and then the legal document will be signed. Arch-Chancellor de Cambacérès will see to the legalities. His secretary will send out the invitations.

  “As you wish,” I said, my mouth dry.

  [Undated]

  “Your Majesty, did I understand you correctly? There is to be no lace, no embroidery, no pearls—nothing?”

  “The gown must be plain, Monsieur Leroy,” I said, “like one a nun would wear.”

  [Undated]

  Arch-Chancellor de Cambacérès has given me a draft of a divorce statement he thinks would be appropriate. I cannot speak his words. I will write it myself.

  [Undated]

  I tried to write my divorce statement this morning—gave up in tears.

  No longer having any hope of conceiving children, I give my beloved husband proof of my devotion by … By divorcing him.

  Oh, mon Dieu—this is not the right thing to do, Bonaparte!

  December 13, Wednesday evening.

  An exhausting day attending to my charities, my wardrobe.* To bed. Tomorrow there is a formal reception followed by dinner in the Gallery of Diana. I’ve begged permission not to attend, but I’m told I must. It will be my last appearance as Empress.

  I declare that, no longer having any hope of conceiving children, I am willing to give my husband proof of my devotion by …

  December 14.

  The reception and dinner were difficult. At least it is over. “It always gives me a head pain anyway,” I told Chastulé as she took my crown away.

  I declare that, no longer having any hope of conceiving children, which would satisfy the interests of France, I am willing to give the greatest proof of my love and devotion by …

  December 15, Friday.

  Leroy has delivered my gown. “I finally understand, Your Majesty,” he said. “You wish to adorn yourself in precious gems. The simplicity of the gown will be what designers call a counterpoint.”

  “No, Monsieur Leroy, I intend not to wear a single gem.” Only my wedding ring, which I will wear to my grave.

  He looked at me as if I’d gone mad—and perhaps he is right.

  Mademoiselle Avrillion came for me shortly before nine. “Your Majesty, are you ready? The Emperor is expecting you in his cabinet.”

  “I am ready.”

  She burst into tears. “You should see them all.” “They’ve arrived?” Already?

  “They’re in the throne room, Your Majesty. I’ve never seen Caroline and Pauline looking so grand. Even Madame Mère is wearing a fuchsia-and-yellow brocade—and rubies! One would think it was carnival. I will be honest, now that we are leaving. I think that they’re beastly individuals and I detest them!”

  At the landing, I sent Mademoiselle Avrillion away. “I’ll be all right,” I assured her, proceeding through the antechamber, the waiting room, the drawing room, nodding to the guards, the maids. Hugo, his chin puckered in misery, threw open the door to Bonaparte’s cabinet. “The Emperor is expecting you, Your Majesty.” Bowing deeply.

  Bonaparte was seated on the chaise by the fireplace, his back to the door. “Josephine!” He jumped to his feet. He was wearing a blue velvet suit richly embroidered in gold. He wiped his hands on his breeches and came to me, hands extended, as if I were a guest he’d been expecting. But stopped short. “The family will be shown in soon. I thought you would sit here, by the writing table.” He pulled out the antique chair.

  Slowly, I sat down. The chair needed to be reupholstered, I noticed—the silk piping was beginning to fray. The fabric was an unusual shade of green kersey. It would be difficult to match. I vaguely recalled that a length of it had been stored in the attic wardrobe. I should let Bonaparte’s chamberlain know.

  “Josephine, are you …?” Bonaparte patted my shoulder, very lightly—as if afraid to touch me.

  I nodded, swallowing, my eyes stinging. A gold quill stand had been placed on the table before me in readiness, a parchment beside it. I put my own parchment down, smoothing it out so that it lay flat. I declare that …

  Bonaparte took up a matching chair and placed it in front of the fire. “And I will sit here. Everyone else can sit on the stools—but for my mother, of course. I thought perhaps she might sit on the chaise. What do you think?”

  “Your mother doesn’t care to sit too close to a fire.”

  “She doesn’t?”

  Nor too far. “Perhaps if the chaise were placed against the wall,” I suggested.

  “Good idea,” he said, shoving the chaise into place and then tugging at the corner of the carpet to straighten it.

  The big pendulum clock began to sound the hour.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  At the fourth chime the door creaked open. “Your Majesty, it is time,” Christophe Duroc informed Bonaparte (without glancing at me). He was wearing the grandest of his Grand Marshal ensembles: an enormous cape with a batwing collar made stiff with bone.

  Five.

  Six.

  Seven. Bonaparte and I looked at each other for what seemed a very long moment.

  Eight. Let’s leave, I felt like crying out. Let’s escape to some island, frolic in the surf, grow flowers and vegetables. Let’s grow old together, fumbling and fond.

  Nine.

  “Send them in,” Bonaparte said, looking away.

  I could hear Caroline’s voice, and then Pauline’s shrill giggle. I pulled out a fresh handkerchief, took a deep breath.
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  Duroc announced everyone in order of status. First Madame Mère (smiling), then Louis—leaning heavily on two walking sticks, his expression hooded—followed at a distance by Hortense, Jérôme and his wife, Caroline and Joachim (snickering), Julie (Joseph is in Spain), Eugène and, at the last, a giggling Pauline.

  Hortense reached for the back of my chair as Eugène strode across the room to stand beside Bonaparte. My son crossed his arms on his chest and stared at the carpet, paler than I’d ever seen him.

  I touched my daughter’s hand and looked up at her. Her red-rimmed eyes glistening, her face streaked by tears—that sensitive face so full of intelligence, so full of grace. No wonder the Bonaparte sisters loathe her, I thought. Hortense is everything they are not.

  Arch-Chancellor de Cambacérès came in, his cape pulled back to better display the medals and ribbons that covered his vest, followed by dignified Count Regnault, the clan lawyer. We lapsed into the uncomfortable fifteen minutes of silence required by the Code, broken only by Hortense’s sniffs, one muffled occurrence of flatulence (Joachim, I suspect), Pauline’s and Caroline’s whispers. I caught Bonaparte’s eye. He smiled wanly and looked away. My throat tightened and a wave of tears rose up within me. I took a deep breath, tracing a circle on the head of the gilt-bronze gryphon that ornamented the arm of my chair. I declare that …

  Bonaparte broke the silence. “You have been summoned here,” he began, “to witness the declaration the Empress and I are obliged to make.” He cleared his throat. “We are divorcing.”

  Eugène reached out for the mantel. He was trembling, I realized with alarm. Hortense stifled a sob. I caressed her fingers, my eyes fixed on my husband.

  He read quickly at first, as if racing to get the ordeal over with. Then he paused. “She has adorned fifteen years of my life. The memory of those years will be forever inscribed on my heart,” he read haltingly, finishing with difficulty.