“Such a night owl I have become.” I played a seven of spades from my hand.
“It must be difficult for you to sleep alone in such a grand room. I cannot imagine it.” Mademoiselle Fornet placed her nine of diamonds on top of my card with a snap. “Nine takes seven.” She gathered the cards and placed them in her stack, then plucked a candied orange from the dish.
“The room is rather dreary,” I said, “but I don’t sleep alone. Bonaparte is always there.”
“He is? But I’ve seen . . . I mean, I have heard . . . never mind. I beg your pardon.” Madame Tricque blushed crimson. “I don’t know what I am blathering on about, madame.”
Hortense noticed my confused expression and shot me a warning look. Ignore their remarks, she seemed to say.
“Well? Go on,” I said. “You can’t say such things and not continue.”
Everyone cast their eyes to the floor but Madame Rémusat. I gave her a questioning look. “Then you truly have not heard?” She sighed and tossed her cards on the table. “I despair that I am the one to impart such news.”
I sat rigid, bracing myself. I knew what she would say.
“The first consul has taken many mistresses these last months.” Her words came out in a rush.
I sat frozen on my chaise.
Sympathy filled her eyes. “I am sorry, madame. I know how much you love him. He seems to care little for them and treats them poorly, if that is any consolation.”
Many mistresses? He betrayed me a thousand times. A knot clogged my throat. How could he belittle me so, in front of the palace, before all of France?
I leaned on the table for support. How had I not seen them? He must have taken great pains to hide his affairs. The room began to spin. How could I be here again—blinded by love, selling my soul to the man I loved?
A hand caught my elbow. “Madame?”
Hortense slipped her arm around me. “Ladies, we will say good night. Please excuse us.”
“Of course.” A chorus of bonsoirs followed them out of the room.
When the door closed behind them, I burst into tears. Hortense did not say a word. She embraced me until the tears dried.
Sometime later I stood and kissed my daughter’s cheek. “Thank you for being with me, my darling. I’m going to retire for the evening. We’ll not speak another word about it.”
Hortense squeezed my hand. “Whatever you wish, Maman. This isn’t truly shocking, is it?”
“No,” I said tersely. “It isn’t. Yet it does not lessen the pain.”
When she had gone I walked slowly to my bedchamber. I was surprised to find Bonaparte awake. Fresh from a late-night tryst?
My blood boiled at the sight of him.
He closed his book. “You’ve been weeping, amore mio. Come here.”
“You outlaw prostitution, yet you take whores! In our house!” I removed my shoe and launched it at the wall. “Are women nothing more than pawns to prove your manhood? I suppose I’m not enough for you!” A second shoe landed near the first.
He leapt from the red satin sheets. “I am more than five men put together. Let he who is greater challenge me!”
I rolled my eyes at his assertion. “How can anyone challenge you when you surround yourself with a hundred armies? When every word you utter is law?”
He clutched my arms. “Yet you, a mere woman, brave my anger!” He shook me, jarring my head back and forth. “You know those women are nothing to me!”
I wrenched free of his grip. “Everyone knows of your philandering! I’m humiliated!”
“I’m not having this conversation again, Josephine.”
I threw my hands in the air. “We wouldn’t have this conversation if you kept your trousers buttoned! You aren’t a schoolboy any longer.”
His face turned an alarming shade of purple.
“If I catch a wench in my house—”
“You will not command me!” He bent over me, fuming.
I met his gaze evenly.
After an instant, he tied a robe over his chemise. “No one expects a ruler to be faithful. And I am faithful—to my heart, to your heart!” He stormed through the bedroom door.
The following afternoon, Madame Rémusat and I rode to Malmaison to escape the stifling confines of the palace walls and the sympathetic stares of my ladies-in-waiting.
We strolled arm in arm through my orangery.
“I can breathe again.” I drank in the sight of sun’s rays filtering through the thick glass and warming the air. Flowers bloomed in clusters of fragrant white stars, and a constant trickle of moisture watered the trees. I pulled a branch toward my nose and inhaled. I wished I could hide among the trees, be lost amid the roses and trumpet vines like a songbird. I puffed out a long sigh.
Madame Rémusat patted my shoulder. “This will pass, madame. He’ll tire of those women. But you must not argue with the first consul. You enrage him with your jealousy and he pushes you away. Do not let someone come between you.”
Her words shot through me like a poisoned arrow. How could I keep silent while he ripped me apart? I did his bidding at every turn. I had given my life over to him.
I tread upon the petals littering the walkway, their once-white silkiness browned and their edges curled. He would desert me in time and I would be left with nothing. Empty, floating on a vacant sea. My hands began to tremble.
“What if he falls in love? Or one of his women becomes pregnant? I have failed him.”
“You haven’t failed him. You’re his friend, his lover, and good luck charm. Besides, he has had many women and not a single one is with child.”
I pushed away a clawing branch. “All he needs is proof he is fertile and—”
“Be his oasis, the only person who does not vie for his attention or his power. He will be pulled in many directions if he becomes emperor.”
He had spoken of becoming emperor for weeks. I hoped the idea would be forgotten.
Suddenly, the perfumed air clogged my throat and the sun’s rays bored into my skull. Bonaparte would be forced to travel constantly as emperor. How many beautiful maidens would he meet in Prussia, Italy, Spain?
“Why can’t little Napoléon be named his heir? And Hortense is pregnant again.” Madame Rémusat said. “Her children carry the bloodline.”
“We planned for that very thing, but Louis forbids it. He refuses to be passed in the line of succession, even by his own son.” I opened the greenhouse door and a blast of cool air rushed in around us. “I don’t understand a man who doesn’t wish for his son’s honor. Hortense has pleaded with him to reconsider. And now if Bonaparte becomes emperor . . .”
“He would never d—” She stopped short.
I nodded. “Yes, divorce me. You can say it.”
“He would never divorce his empress.”
My eyes grew wide and the first smile in days tugged at my lips. “No, he would not.”
Bonaparte declared the French Empire in May, though he could not decide if I would be granted the title of empress.
“What does a woman do with such a title? It isn’t necessary,” he said. “It doesn’t change your power.”
“It would improve your reputation,” I said. “Your wife would make history alongside you.”
“The people do love you,” he mused aloud. “We will see.”
Once the empire had been declared, we attended an impossible number of official dinners and traveled from town to town, too far from my little Napoléon, the children, and Malmaison. A depressive humor came over me, made worse by my detestable in-laws.
“Bow to your emperor!” Bonaparte bellowed from his place at the table during a family celebration.
“You aren’t emperor yet,” Elise retorted, sinking her teeth into a roll. Through a mouthful of food she asked, “When will the coronation take place?”
&n
bsp; “Elise! Do not speak while chewing,” Letizia said.
Elise glowered at her mother.
“It will take months to prepare. I’m aiming for December.” Bonaparte dabbed at a spot of sauce hollandaise that had splattered his jacket.
“And what will my new title be?” Elise demanded.
“I don’t intend to distribute new titles to everyone,” Bonaparte said. “Joseph, Louis, and Eugène will become princes for the sake of the bloodline. Their wives will become princesses. The rest of you will remain as you are.”
My heart plummeted. He had decided. And I could be replaced. I focused on the lacy pattern on the tablecloth to hold my rising emotion at bay.
“How can you condemn us to obscurity?” Elise asked, incredulous. “Your own flesh and blood! I should be made a princess!”
“At least she won’t be named empress,” Caroline quipped, eyeing me with contempt. “After all, she’s quite unable to fulfill her wifely duties, never mind her duty to the empire.”
My mouth dropped open in shock. She spoke as if I weren’t in the room. Before I could reply, Bonaparte slammed the table with his fist.
“Enough! You behave like greedy swine! After all I have given you, you demand more!” His face burned scarlet. “And my wife has done nothing to deserve your scorn! She’s been gracious and kind. You spurn her sisterly affection without merit.”
“Nabulione,” his mother began, “you should consider the problem of your heir—”
“She will be my empress!”
Relief and gratitude flooded my heart. Then love. I smiled at my beloved husband.
Caroline’s ears burned. Louis directed a pointed look at Joseph and then his mother.
Bonaparte noted the exchange. “Madame Mère, I believe you’re sitting in my wife’s seat. Her Imperial Highness, Empress Josephine should be at the head of the table.”
“How dare you speak to our mother that way!” Caroline shouted.
“Son, your head has grown too large for your body,” Letizia said in a glacial tone. “I’ll move when I like. You’re not my husband or my master.”
“I am your ruler!” He pitched his fork at his plate and stood.
I flinched at the clang of metal on porcelain.
“You ungrateful ass!” Elise said.
“Who is the ingrate here?” Bonaparte roared. “Leave my table at once!” He swept his goblet to the floor. The crystal smashed to pieces.
“Gladly! It’s clear I’m not respected here! You tyrant!” Elise pushed back from the table with such force her own glass wobbled.
“You haven’t seen me act the tyrant yet, sister!” The veins in his neck throbbed.
“I’m not afraid of you! You and your empress can go to hell!” She stormed from the room.
Caroline jumped to her feet and followed. Once they had gone, Madame Mère, Joseph, and Louis turned their eyes to me. I alone was to blame. Every family issue, every fault of Napoléon’s stemmed from his marriage to me, their eyes said.
I met their looks with placid resolve. They would not bully me anymore. I could not be cast aside, forgotten and belittled. I would do my duty to my husband and my country, not to them.
I would be empress.
Summer faded to fall while we prepared for the coronation. Bonaparte pressured the Pope to attend, and he would, it seemed. I worked with a team of valets on clothing, banquet food, and musicians. Everything must be perfect for the historical day. In the evenings after a day of endless preparations, the imperial party studied a model of our procession made with paper dolls. No one could misstep or move out of position, lest they disrupt the entire ceremony.
The night before the coronation, snow dusted the gardens in a fluffy powder. Fitting, I thought, to begin anew in a blanket of white. But by morning, the dazzling carpet had turned to slop under driving rain. When the time came to set out for Notre Dame, the children and I rushed into the carriage to remain dry.
Onlookers gathered along the boulevards, throwing flowers despite the rain that beat their flimsy umbrellas. Crowds had traveled from afar to pay homage to my husband, the emperor.
A lightness settled over me, despite my nerves.
I would be Empress Josephine.
I smiled as much to myself as to the citizens in the street. My position would be secure—all I had worked to maintain for my family, for myself, would be safeguarded. Bonaparte had fended off his family, at last. They could not separate us.
When we reached Notre Dame, my hairdresser whisked me away to the priests’ chambers in the rear of the church. He had already applied chestnut coloring to the patches of gray the evening before. Now he threaded diamonds among the strands and affixed my golden diadem.
“Voilà,” Monsieur Justin said, tilting a silver-backed mirror this way and that.
My hair sparkled like a glittering halo. My cheeks blushed petal pink and my eyes sparked with excitement. Fit to be empress.
“It is time for the dress.”
My stomach somersaulted. My ladies-in-waiting moved around me in a tornado of hands and fabric, assisting me into a form-fitting gown with a high waist—Monsieur Isabey’s design—in white satin stitched with silver and gold thread and diamond studs. A stout lace collar jutted from my shoulders toward my chin, cupping my face.
Bonaparte, adorned in white satin, entered the chamber, followed by a crowd of servants and Monsieur LeRoy, who flitted about in a nervous frenzy.
“The family is ready,” Bonaparte said. “They’ve all gone to their stations.” He brushed my cheek with his lips.
I squeezed his hand as the crowd shuffled into the church and filled the pews.
“No time to waste, Your Imperial Highness.” Monsieur LeRoy clapped his hands and the servants brought forth the last pieces of our ensembles, scarlet velvet robes lined with ermine and embroidered with golden bees.
I stepped in front of the looking glass. My petite frame dripped in rubies and diamonds and beautiful fabrics.
“Amore mio, you are a vision,” Bonaparte said, eyes filled with joy. “We make history today.”
My heart skipped a beat. Empress of France, of all Europe.
“With the emperor of my heart.” I blew him a kiss.
Martial music blared, signaling the beginning of our march. My stomach buzzed as if the golden bees on my robe swarmed within.
We entered the frigid church in the slow procession we had practiced. The Bonaparte sisters took their places behind me, supporting the weight of my lengthy train. Onlookers shivered with awestruck faces. A full orchestra played. Light filtered through the towering stained glass windows, and candles glowed.
I fixed a smile upon my face and counted my steps as we moved. One at a time.
Once everyone took their places, the Pope and his cardinals began a lengthy mass. I studied the throng of familiar faces. Our ministers and supporters, family members and friends sat in silent reverence. Finally, when Pope Pius called Bonaparte forward, all eyes fixed upon my beloved husband.
The Pope raised his hands above Bonaparte’s head and anointed it with oil. “May the spirit of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, guide you and keep you. I hereby anoint thee, Napoléon Bonaparte, Emperor of France and of all her territories.” The Pope lifted the crown from its velvet pillow.
In one swift motion, Bonaparte stood and snatched the diadem from the Pope’s holy hands.
A gasp echoed in the stillness of the room.
“Emperor Bonaparte, I am thus crowned.” My husband placed the heavy circlet upon his own head. “Emperor of France, Emperor of Europe.” His voice thundered in the vast church.
I glanced at the startled faces in the crowd. Bonaparte did not seek anyone’s blessing. The service had been for show. I was not shocked at his behavior, but no one knew him as I did.
My husband inclined his head i
n my direction.
I began my ascent to the altar. Could they hear my heart pounding?
I moved slowly, steadily. When I took my final step, a great weight yanked me from behind. My sisters-in-law had dropped my mantle. The wretches wanted me to fall.
I struggled to regain my footing.
Bonaparte glared at his siblings with such ferocity they gathered my train at once.
I inhaled an even breath. I would not waste another thought on them on this most important day.
I knelt before God, the congregation, the Pope, and my husband.
Bonaparte lifted my own diadem and said, “I crown thee, Imperial Highness Josephine Bonaparte, Empress of France, Empress of Europe.” He lowered it to my head.
My heart leapt in exultation.
I bent over my folded hands and serenity filled me. Empress of the French, Empress of Bonaparte’s heart.
My duties did not change, though the expansion of our royal court burdened everyone, even my husband, who had demanded it.
“The finery and lavish displays demonstrate my power,” he insisted.
We sat through lengthy introductions and state affairs, Bonaparte fidgeting on his throne all the while. I thought three sets of curtsies and a kissing of his ring a bit extreme, but enforced his wishes among my ladies-in-waiting. He enjoyed their attentions.
“You’re exquisite, Mademoiselle Larouche.” He held her hand an instant too long and gazed into her eyes.
I pretended not to notice, though I would love to expel her from court. Or give him a swift kick.
My bustling salon and Bonaparte’s constant meetings consumed our days. Our evenings alone waned as Bonaparte’s time on the road increased.
I lamented of it to Hortense one afternoon while playing whist. “I feel as if he’s never here and when he is, his mind is consumed.”
“An emperor’s responsibilities must be infinite. And wearing on an empress.” Hortense sorted through her cards and placed them in her preferred order. “I worry about you, Maman. You will make yourself ill with your schedule. You suffer such strain and for what? The admiration of courtiers who care for nothing but rank? You should take some time away. Come with me to the springs. Your grandchildren will be thrilled to have you along. A visit to the spa will do you some good.”
Becoming Josephine: A Novel Page 31