The Second Empress

by Michelle Moran

  “You didn’t always believe that.”

  “And we didn’t always believe the earth revolved around the sun.”

  There’s no winning with him. There will always be an answer, or a quip, or some jibe. “You want this christening to look like Marie-Antoinette’s christening of her Dauphin?” I ask. “You want your son—or daughter,” I add provocatively, “to be dressed in the same clothes as Louis XVII?” I step back. “Then go ahead. Build nurseries in the Tuileries and Fontainebleau, but when your people revolt, don’t come asking me why.” I turn around, but he grabs my arm.

  “You are not dismissed.”

  My eyes meet his, and I hope he can feel their heat. “What? Shall we plan the child’s wedding, too?” I wrest my arm free and cross the chamber.

  “Do not leave this room.”

  “Or what?” I open the door and slam it shut. In the hall, Marie-Louise is waiting to see Napoleon. Immediately, she rises from her chair. I look at her stomach beneath her blue and white gown. God only knows what she’ll fit into in a few months. They’ll have to send for a tent. “You think you’re very clever, don’t you?” I ask, and I can see her surprise at my sudden change in attitude. “Beating my brother at chess, embarrassing him at billiards. We came from poverty,” I remind her sharply. “Some of us didn’t pass our childhood in games. But enjoy this time,” I suggest. “The presents, the flattery, the attention. Because six months from now, no one will be interested in you at all. And when my brother rejoins his army in Spain, don’t be surprised when he takes your child with him.”

  She flinches, and I don’t wait for her to respond.

  I FIND PAUL and de Canouville in my chamber. They are reading on opposite sides of the room. Paul, some book on fallen empires, and de Canouville—well, who knows what de Canouville reads? Probably a play. Some light piece that Talma would never touch. They both stop as soon as they see me, but only de Canouville hurries to his feet.

  “Is something wrong?” He puts down his book. “What happened?”

  I’m about to tell him when a knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. “What?” I snap, and suddenly Paul rises to his feet.

  “Your Majesty.” Paul bows, and de Canouville follows suit.

  I turn to meet Napoleon’s gaze and realize what has happened.

  “What did you tell my wife?” he asks quietly. “What did you say to her?” he shouts. When I don’t say anything, he tells me, “I am done, Pauline. I am finished with this. With all of it. What did you tell her?” he asks me again.

  “I—I warned her that once the child comes, things will be different.”

  Napoleon looks at Paul, as if my chamberlain could somehow verify this statement. Then he sees de Canouville, and his whole body stiffens. I follow his eyes. It’s inspection day, and de Canouville is wearing his captain’s uniform. But unlike the jackets of the other men, his is trimmed with Russian fur. He looks down at his coat, and the color drains from his face.

  Napoleon leaves without another word.

  CHAPTER 18

  PAUL MOREAU

  Fontainebleau Palace September 1810

  I TURN FROM THE DESPERATION IN DE CANOUVILLE’S FACE.

  At seven this morning, a courtier woke me with a note from Pauline’s lover asking that I meet him here in the gardens at noon.

  “Alone?” I’d asked warily, and the courtier leaned close.

  “The emperor is sending him away.”

  I had warned de Canouville. I had cautioned him against Napoleon’s jealousy, but instead of feeling vindication, all I felt in that moment was pity. Now I look at the silent rows of trees and wonder how long they’ll grow in Fontainebleau. When he and I are long gone from this place, those trees will still be standing. Not a care in the world. Just the grass and the rain and the sun above their heads.

  De Canouville begins, “If you speak with the emperor, I swear to you, I’ll be forever in your debt.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  He grasps my hand and squeezes it forcefully. “Thank you. Thank you. I hope you know that Pauline would want it this way. You have no idea how she’ll miss me. If you love her at all—you’ll find a way to persuade him.”

  I take back my hand and keep myself from saying something truly vile. “I must go.”

  “But you’ll tell him, won’t you?”

  “I said I would.”

  But the emperor is unmovable. The mention of de Canouville’s name turns his face red.

  “Imperial furs! She gave away my gift of the Russian czar’s furs.” I watch him pace from his mahogany desk to the empty fireplace, and though the summer’s heat is choking the paneled room, he refuses to open a single window. “It’s audacity, isn’t it?” he asks.

  “It’s poor judgment for certain, Your Majesty.”

  He stops walking and turns to face me in my chair. “Why are you always impartial? The man hates you, you know. So why are you speaking on his behalf?”

  “Because he’s ignorant,” I say truthfully, “and a terrible fool. But there’s no real malice in him.”

  He looks at me as if I’ve spoken in my ancestors’ tongue. “And you would risk my displeasure for a man like that?”

  “It was a calculated risk.”

  He waits for an explanation.

  “I was gambling that His Majesty would understand I came not for the captain’s benefit but for his sister’s. He loves her, and this seems to make her happy.”

  Napoleon nods, and for a moment I think I have won de Canouville’s reprieve. Then he replies, “I am always mystified by people like you.” A chill goes up my back. He clasps his hands behind him and watches me intently. This is the way his soldiers must feel.

  “I do what I think is right, Your Majesty.”

  “Even when it isn’t in your interest?” He shakes his head thoughtfully. “Do you know what my sister asked me this morning? She wanted me to take Captain de Septeuil instead.” He lets me absorb this sentence before continuing. “She offered me de Septeuil’s life for de Canouville’s, because de Septeuil once refused to spend the night with her.”

  I stare at him. I have met de Septeuil. I’ve seen him at Pauline’s fêtes. He is in love with his fiancée and would never abuse the girl’s trust. “Perhaps she didn’t realize—”

  “She knew exactly!” he says angrily. “Why do you defend her when you know what she is? Paul, I am going to tell you a truth.” He walks to the chair next to me and seats himself. If anyone saw us together like this, they would think we were old comrades, not the emperor and a servant. “She’s a habit for you.”

  I try to understand what he’s saying. “A habit?” I repeat.

  “Like snuff,” the emperor says. “At first it’s enjoyable. Then, with enough time, it simply becomes habit. You don’t know why you do it, except that you always have. And without it, life would be a little less.”

  I wait for him to finish. Less what? But he is waiting for me to respond. Is Pauline a habit I developed in Haiti? Do I love what she is, or what she was? I meet Napoleon’s gaze. How can the same man who tossed away a loyal wife to marry a nineteen-year-old be so incisive?

  He shrugs. “Think on it. Men of your age are married with children.” He stands. Our meeting is finished.

  “And de Canouville?”

  “Will be joining de Septeuil in Spain,” he says briskly. “I need two soldiers to deliver my messages to Commander Masséna. They both leave tonight.”

  WHEN I MEET Pauline in her apartments, the hope in her face infuriates me.

  “What did he say?” She rushes from the divan, her blue silk robe trailing behind her. She hasn’t dressed, and it’s two in the afternoon.

  “He said de Canouville will be leaving tonight.”

  She gasps.

  “With de Septeuil, per your request.” I turn away to go to my apartment, and she hurries after me.

  “You have to understand—”

  “What do I have to understand, Your Highness?
That you condemned an innocent man to certain death? The road to Salamanca is a war zone. If they come back alive, you may consider it a miracle.” Tears stream down her face, but the sight no longer moves me.

  “Please.” She reaches out.

  I move away. “Whatever happens to those men, it’s on your conscience.”

  I don’t return to my apartment. Instead I go to the stables, where I find the soldiers who first befriended me seven years ago. Dacian and François are unsaddling their horses. The mounts hear me first and snort. Then Dacian calls out, “Paul!”

  François slaps his thighs, and a small cloud of dust rises in the air. “Going for a ride?”

  “Not today.”

  Dacian nods. “Trouble at the palace?”

  “Am I that easy to read?”

  “It’s the only time you’re in the stables so late.”

  I sit on a bale of hay and watch my friends strip their horses. The earthy scents of dust and summer grass remind me of my youth. Not a day went by that my father and I didn’t ride out to oversee the plantation.

  “So what’s the trouble?” Dacian asks. “Or can’t you say?”

  “The emperor is sending de Canouville to Spain.”

  “The princess’s lover?” Dacian confirms.

  “Yes.”

  He laughs. “So why are you upset? He’s gone, and you’re there. Isn’t this what you’ve been hoping for?”

  The entire palace knows. “Is there anyone who doesn’t think I’m waiting for the princess?”

  Dacian and François exchange looks. Then Dacian seats himself next to me and puts his arm around my shoulders. “We’ve known it for years, Paul. She’s all you talk about. Of course, it’s useless. Even you know that. She’s married to a prince and has a courtesan’s appetite for men. But ‘the heart has its reasons which Reason knows not of.’ ”

  I’m not in the mood to hear Blaise Pascal quoted to me. Dacian can read it in my face because he immediately amends, “At least that’s what they say.”

  “When I met her, she was innocent.”

  “Really,” François asks, “or in your mind? Because she had a reputation in Paris long before she went to Saint-Domingue.”

  “But she was different there,” I protest. “Tender—”

  François shakes his head. “Paul, the woman has bedded half of Paris and probably has the clap. What are you hoping to gain by staying with her? You’re her husband without any of the privileges that come along with that position.”

  “Or money.” Dacian laughs, and François passes him a withering look.

  I rise from the hay. “This is the Princess Borghese you’re speaking about!”

  “Beauty like hers can make a man forget many things,” François says. “But Charles VIII died of syphilis. A title doesn’t confer immortality. How often is she ill? Once a week? Twice?”

  It’s hard to say. Pauline is a great actress. There’s no telling when she’s truly sick or just wanting attention.

  “And it’s always her stomach, isn’t it?” François asks. “She’s sick with the clap, and any man who beds her is risking the same.”

  The stables and horses begin to blur as I let myself absorb what François has just said. How many times did I watch women suffering from the clap in Haiti? The infertility … the pelvic pain …

  “So why is de Canouville being sent to Spain?” Dacian asks.

  I explain about Pauline’s gift of imperial furs, and how de Canouville had them sewn onto his military coat. Then I tell them what is truly making me sick: how Pauline asked that he send de Septeuil instead, so now the emperor is sending them both.

  “I don’t know who’s more vindictive,” François reflects at length. “The emperor or his sister.”

  I close my eyes. It’s too much for one day. “I’m going back.”

  “To Saint-Domingue, or to the palace?” Dacian jokes.

  “I don’t know.”

  François stands. “Paul, you belong here.”

  But I never intended to stay this long. And what have I accomplished? After eight years, the emperor feels the same about slavery as he did before we met, though I have pushed him as hard as any courtier would dare to free the slaves in France’s remaining colonies. I’ve tended Pauline through every sickness, yet her health has only gotten worse. And now, knowing what she is capable of doing to an innocent man …

  Dacian and François continue watching me, and I tell them the truth. “I want to return to my home. To Haiti.”

  “But Saint-Domingue was destroyed,” Dacian replies. “You’ve heard the stories.”

  “Yes. I know all about how the French burned my people alive in cauldrons of molasses. How they mutilated and tortured Haitian prisoners, digging pits on the beach and waiting for the tide to roll in so they would drown. In Port-au-Prince,” I tell them, “the emperor’s soldiers invited all mulâtres to a ball. Then at the stroke of midnight, he announced that the men would be put to death. They killed them right there, in front of their wives.”

  François and Dacian look horrified, but is it any worse than what their fellow soldiers did in Egypt, when Napoleon allowed his men two days and nights of raping and looting? Even Napoleon himself found himself a personal conquest: the sixteen-year-old daughter of Sheikh El-Bekri, who was made to submit to him as the new ruler in Egypt. When Zenab begged Napoleon to take her with him as the French moved out, he refused, not knowing—or caring—what would become of a girl who had been dishonored in Egypt. So her fate was to be beheaded by the city’s elders, and when Napoleon heard of it, he shrugged. “If they want to kill their most beautiful women, that is their choice,” he said. So why is it any surprise that his soldiers massacred the blacks of Haiti?

  “Before the war could finish,” I tell them, “French soldiers killed my family.”

  Dacian is shocked. “I’m sorry.” He glances at François. “I didn’t realize—”

  I nod. “Even the emperor doesn’t know.”

  “You understand that you won’t find the same country you left behind,” François says heavily.

  “Then that’s what I’ll go to do. Rebuild.”

  Both men stare in disbelief, and I know what they’re thinking. Why would anyone look to trade civilized France for lawless Haiti, with its heat and dirt and cities razed to the ground? But they haven’t heard the palm swifts calling to each other in the warm spring breeze. Or woken from a nap in the afternoon heat to hear the thunder drumming in the distance. My father’s plantation may be gone, but there is still the land.

  CHAPTER 19

  MARIE-LOUISE

  Fontainebleau Palace December 1810

  SHALL I READ IT TO YOU?” HORTENSE ASKS. SHE PUTS down her brush. Since Napoleon gifted me this space last month, I’ve been teaching her to paint. But although she’s a good student, she seems to tire quickly.

  “There won’t be any news about Ferdinand,” I say wearily. “And certainly none of Adam.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  But I do. Her mother might have been free with her gossip when she was empress. My father is not. She removes the letter from the open envelope and begins:

  My dearest Maria,

  You wrote about feeling confined, but I can assure you that these months will pass quickly, and sooner than you know, you will be experiencing the joys of motherhood. God blessed me with thirteen children, and though some have returned to His eternal embrace, I will always be grateful for their presence, however fleeting, on this earth. Whatever happens in February—boy or girl, stillborn or live birth—you have made the house of Hapsburg-Lorraine proud.

  I sent Prince Metternich with a gift last month and was informed that you no longer receive male visitors alone. If this is true, I am sorry it applies to the prince. I had believed the emperor had more sense than that.

  Hortense lowers the letter onto her lap, and we stare at each other in silence. My father knows that Napoleon’s ministers read every piece of correspondence that come
s to me, particularly from Austria.

  “It’s a reprimand,” she says aloud.

  “Yes.” After announcing my pregnancy to the court in September, Napoleon forbade me to leave the palace. Even taking Sigi outside is now prohibited. As the future mother to the heir of an empire, nothing dangerous—physically or morally—is permitted. When I argued, warning him that a prison is no place for a child to be born, he asked me which amusements I’d miss the most. “Everything,” I replied indignantly. “The fresh air, the gardens …” So he had a winter garden planted inside the palace. And when that wasn’t enough to stave off boredom, he ordered an artist’s studio built as well.

  It’s true, there are unexpected freedoms in being pregnant. I am enjoying the nights in my bed alone and the privilege to eat whatever I please. This morning I had coffee with thick cream and rolls, and tonight I shall have almond milk with pastries. But these are small compensations for living like a monk.

  “We should stroll through the palace,” Hortense says suddenly. She puts down my father’s letter and claps. “Come here, Sigi!” My spaniel runs from his warm basket next to the fire and climbs into her lap, licking her cheek and barking. “He needs a walk.”

  I wish I could bend over and pick him up, but it’s become too difficult to carry him now. I put my hand on my belly, and the small movement inside makes me smile. But what if this child is like his father? Or even worse, like her aunt Pauline? I catch Hortense watching me curiously, and I tell her, “I’ve been hoping for a little girl.”

  She fastens a lead to Sigi’s collar and sighs. “I always wanted a girl. But I wouldn’t exchange my sons for the world,” she adds at once, “even if they’re in Austria.”

  If only we could trade places, I think. “How long will their father keep them there?”

  “Until Napoleon orders him back to Paris,” she says softly. “And that could be tomorrow, or never.”

  “You haven’t asked the emperor to send for them?”