The Second Empress

by Michelle Moran

  She gives me a meaningful look. “When my eldest son died, and I was grieving, he accused me of loving my son more than him. He will order Louis back only when he’s ready.”

  I think of all the orders he will give for our child, and Hortense pats my knee.

  “It will all go well for you,” she promises. “Look how lucky you’ve been so far.”

  But I think of Adam hearing about my pregnancy, and I don’t see how I’ve been fortunate at all.

  “And think,” she adds kindly, “if it’s a boy, you’ll be finished.” She rises from her chair, and Sigi begins to bark. “Shall we?”

  We leave my artist’s studio tucked in the corner in Fontainebleau, and Sigi leads us through the halls, sniffing at every passing boot, then barking when the boot’s owner stops.

  “There’s Pauline’s salon,” Hortense whispers to me.

  I look at the ornate double doors, and when the footmen see us, they push them open before we have a chance to wave them off. “Her Majesty, the Empress of France,” a herald announces, “and Her Royal Highness, the Princess Bonaparte.”

  I stop where I’m standing and exchange a look with Hortense.

  I have never seen Pauline’s salon in this palace. Now I can see that, like her rooms in Château de Neuilly, they have been made to resemble an Egyptian palace, from the polished ebony furniture to the painted murals. There are alabaster lamps in the shape of sphinxes, and pots of incense burning on the mantelpiece. But it’s not the décor that’s most shocking. It’s the sight of Pauline resting her feet on Madame de Chambaudoin’s neck. I am dumbfounded. The Princess Borghese uses women as footstools?

  Pauline stands from her extraordinary Egyptian throne. She’s carrying Aubree in her arms. The dog is adorned in a gold and lapis collar. With her regal snout and wide, dark eyes, she looks like she might peer back at you from an Egyptian tomb. “Marie-Louise,” she says. “Hortense. To what do we owe this double surprise?”

  I look around the room. Two dozen ladies-in-waiting are in attendance, each of them wearing Egyptian jewels.

  “We thought Aubree might enjoy a visit from Sigi,” Hortense fabricates. “Isn’t that right?” She looks down at Sigi, whose tail wags excitedly, then frees him from his lead.

  Pauline’s smile actually reaches her eyes. She bends down to release Aubree, and the dogs run in circles, jumping and sniffing each other.

  I glance behind her at Madame de Chambaudoin. The old woman is still lying supine on the floor. “What do you think?” Pauline asks me, casting her gaze around the room. “This could be Cleopatra’s court, don’t you agree?”

  “It’s very … convincing,” I say. I don’t know any other word for what’s she done. In all the courts of Europe, this has to be unique.

  “We almost ruled Egypt together, you know.”

  “We?” I confirm, as Hortense shifts uncomfortably on her feet next to me.

  “My brother and I. Who else?”

  My hand goes involuntarily to my stomach, as if to protect my child, and when Pauline sees the gesture, she narrows her eyes.

  “He loves me,” she whispers, so that even Hortense has to strain to hear her over the barking of the dogs. “More than Joséphine, or you, or even this child you’re carrying. Nothing comes between us.”

  It comes to me clearly: she is sick. Possibly in body, but definitely in mind. Doesn’t anyone else in Fontainebleau see it? How long has she been abusing old women?

  “Tell me,” she says, and as soon as she steps close to me, I can smell the incense on her clothes. “Does the emperor ever mention de Canouville?”

  “No.” I’ve never heard him mention the name.

  She nods, as if she’s trying to convince herself of something. “He does this on purpose. Sends away the people I love.”

  There’s a haunted look in Pauline’s eyes. Was it the departure of a man named de Canouville that prompted this behavior? I have never heard talk that the Princess Borghese uses women for footrests, or dresses her servants like Egyptian slaves.… She looks at me as if she is waking from a dream, then calls to Aubree, and her little greyhound comes running.

  “We—we should go,” I tell her. “Sigi!” My spaniel leaps over Madame de Chambaudoin. Hortense winces, and I can no longer keep my silence. “Why is she on the floor?”

  “She likes it. Don’t you, Madame?”

  The old woman nods.

  “And you believe that?”

  Pauline shrugs. “You believe my brother is faithful to you, that your lover is pining for you somewhere in Austria.” She measures my expression. “We all have our little dreams.”

  I am speechless. Hortense scoops Sigi into her arms, and the footmen hurry to open the doors.

  “You’re no different than any of us!” she calls, as Hortense and I take our quick departure. “You’re a Bonaparte now, and your child will be a Bonaparte.”

  My child will be a Bonaparte, Pauline, when you are a royal.

  “YOU WISHED TO see me, Your Majesty?”

  Paul stands at the door of my studio, and I nod from behind my wooden easel. “If you would like to come inside and take a seat—”

  He glances behind him, perhaps because he’s heard that I’m not permitted audiences alone with men. But this is important. “Shall I shut the door, Your Majesty?”

  “If you would.”

  I watch as he crosses the room and am surprised that for someone so attractive, there isn’t more gossip about him at court. According to Hortense, there was once a pretty lady-in-waiting of Joséphine’s who caught his eye, and some talk that one of Pauline’s women might be allowing him to visit her chamber at night. But he has never married, and after eight years of serving Pauline, there has never been so much as a whisper of their ever having been together. If he is wise, he will never allow her to seduce him. The moment the chase is over, she will be finished with him forever.

  He takes a seat on the chair across from me and glances around the studio. It’s a cozy chamber, with paint-spattered tables, a pair of wooden easels, and a thickly padded cushion next to the fire. He smiles at Sigi, then waits for me to begin.

  “I visited the Princess Borghese this afternoon.”

  Immediately he looks alarmed. “And did Your Majesty enjoy herself?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He nods slowly, as if he were expecting this.

  “Monsieur Moreau,” I begin.

  “Please, Paul.”

  “Paul, there is something very wrong with her. She was using women as footstools, and her eyes—”

  “Yes. She is sick, Your Majesty.”

  “With what?”

  He looks at his hands in his lap and whispers, “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to keep away from her recently,” he admits. “She has done things I’m not sure I can forgive, though she is better when I am there.”

  “But was she always this way?” I press.

  “It used to be only when she was under great stress. But now …” He lets the words die away.

  “Is she taking medicine?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say, Your Majesty.”

  “Because you won’t?”

  “Because I don’t know. There are things she keeps even from me. But if I had to guess, I would say she is taking mercury.”

  As sheltered as I may have been in Schönbrunn, even I have heard about mercury treatments for diseases like syphilis and the clap. For women, it’s taken by mouth, but for men, whose symptoms are often worse, it’s injected by syringe into the tip of the penis. I think of the famous saying, A night with Venus, a lifetime with Mercury, and wonder if she’s contracted some venereal disease.

  “I saw the pills last month in her boudoir,” he explains. “But I’ve never seen them before or since.”

  “Perhaps it’s a new treatment she’s started?”

  “I don’t know. But she’s been sicker than I’ve ever seen her. If Your Majesty could refrain from telling the emperor, I will … I will return to
her salon and make sure she never uses women as footstools again.”

  “Then it’s happened before?” I ask incredulously.

  “Never when I’m there. But yes.”

  I stare at him, trying to determine what it is that makes him stay, after so many years. Then, as if he could read my mind, he tells me, “When I return to her chambers, she’ll ask me to read to her from Rousseau, and we’ll discuss the principles of this country’s Revolution. Tomorrow we’ll read Racine. I shouldn’t have left her. She is sick, Your Majesty, and when I’m with her, she feels safe. Calm.”

  “And her—eccentricities—don’t worry you?”

  “No. Her callousness does.”

  To the empress at Malmaison.

  March 12, 1810.

  My love—I hope you will be pleased with what I have done for Navarre. You will see in it a new proof of my desire to make you happy. Take possession of Navarre. You can go there on the 25th of March, to spend the month of April.

  Adieu, my love.

  Napoleon

  Joséphine to Napoleon.

  Navarre, April 10, 1810.

  Sire, I received this morning the welcome note. After having known all the sweets of a love that is shared, and all the sufferings of one that is so no longer—after having exhausted all the happiness that supreme power can confer, and the happiness of beholding the man whom I love enthusiastically admired, is there aught else save repose to be desired? What illusions can remain for me? All such vanished when it became necessary to renounce you. Thus the only ties which yet bind me to life, are my sentiments for you, attachment for my children, the possibility of being able still to do some good, and above all, the assurance that you are happy. Do not, then, condole with me on my being here, distant from a court which you appear to think I regret.

  I can not sufficiently thank you, sire, for the liberty you have permitted me of choosing the members of my household, all of whom contribute to the pleasures of a delightful society. One circumstance alone gives me pain, namely, the etiquette of costume, which becomes a little tiresome in the country. You fear there may be something wanting to the rank I have preserved, should a slight infraction be allowed in the toilette of these gentlemen. But I believe you are wrong in thinking they would for one minute forget the respect due to the woman who was your companion. Their respect for yourself, joined to the sincere attachment which they bear to me, which I cannot doubt, secures me against the danger of being ever obliged to recall what it is your wish they should remember. My most honorable title is derived, not from having been crowned, but assuredly from having been chosen by you. None other is of value—that alone suffices for my immortality.

  I expect Eugène. I doubly long to see him, for he will doubtless bring me a new pledge of your remembrance; and I can question him at my ease of a thousand things concerning which I desire to be informed, but cannot inquire of you; things, too, of which you ought still less speak to me. My daughter will come also, but later. In short, I find myself perfectly at home in the midst of my forest, and entreat you, sire, no longer to fancy yourself that there is no living at a distance from court. Besides you, there is nothing there that I regret, since I will have my children with me soon.

  Joséphine

  To the empress at Navarre.

  April 28, 1810.

  My love—Eugène has informed me that you wish to go to the springs. Do not deprive yourself of anything. Do not listen to the gossips. They are idlers and know nothing of the true state of affairs. My affection for you is unchangeable; and I desire exceedingly to hear that you are tranquil and happy.

  Napoleon

  To the empress at the Waters of Aix, in Savoy.

  July 8, 1810.

  My love—You will have seen Eugène, and his presence will have done you good. I have learned with pleasure that the waters agree with you. The King of Holland has abdicated the crown.

  My health is good. I shall see you with pleasure this autumn. Never doubt my love. I never change. Take care of your health, be cheerful, and believe in the truthfulness of my affections.

  Napoleon

  September 9, 1810.

  My dear Hortense, respecting myself: I have received no letters from the emperor; but I have thought it proper to testify to him all the interest which I feel in the pregnancy of the empress. I have just written to him upon that subject. I hope that this act will place him at ease, and that he will be able to speak to me of that event with as much confidence as I have of attachment for him. I wait impatiently for you to receive the answer from the emperor, and to receive myself the assurance that you will come to rejoin me.

  Adieu, my dear daughter; I embrace you tenderly.

  Joséphine

  P.S. Remember me to all your companions.

  To the empress at the Waters of Aix.

  September 14, 1810.

  My love—I have received your letter of the 9th of September. I learn with pleasure that you are well. The empress is decidedly enceinte for four months. She is well and is very much attached to me.

  My health is pretty good. I desire to hear that you are contented and happy. They say that one of your household has broken her leg by going upon the ice.

  Adieu, my love; never doubt the interest I feel in you, and the affection with which I cherish you.

  Napoleon

  CHAPTER 20

  PAULINE BORGHESE

  Tuileries Palace, Paris February 1811

  IT’S HAPPENING!” SOMEONE SHOUTS IN THE COURTYARD, and I run to my balcony. A courtier in my brother’s favorite bicorne hat and black riding boots is standing in the gardens of the Tuileries Palace. When he sees me, his face breaks into a smile. “Wonderful news!” he exclaims from below. “The empress is giving birth!”

  I slam the doors shut and turn to Paul. “He wants me to be present!” I cry. “Even when he knows that seeing it will make me sick.”

  He shrugs. “Then don’t go. But the emperor will send for you anyway, and when his courtier doesn’t find you, he’ll come for you himself.”

  “Aren’t you upset that I’ll be sick?”

  “You’re always sick. It won’t be any different from yesterday or tomorrow.”

  I am shocked by his coldness. “What’s the matter with you?”

  He doesn’t say anything, although he hands me the special juice he prepares daily for me and watches to see that I’ve taken it all. He is different lately. Unsympathetic to my pain and less caring. Then I realize what it must be. Napoleon has made him afraid. He thinks what happened to de Canouville will happen to him. “Paul,” I say gently, and he looks away. “My brother would never send you to Spain.”

  He laughs shortly. “You believe that’s what I’m worried about? Your Highness, I have told you. I wish to leave France.”

  I inhale. “Paul, don’t leave me. Please. I need you.”

  “And what’s different now from a year ago, or two years?”

  “Just give me a year. One more year, and I’ll go back with you.” Suddenly, I can see myself on the island with Paul, dancing in his arms on those hot summer nights. My brother will hate to see me go, and certainly I’ll miss Paris. But life was calm in Saint-Domingue; it was easy there. I’ve never given him a date before. “Next December we’ll leave,” I say.

  “And why not now?”

  “Because there are things that have to be done,” I explain. In a year, Napoleon will be divorced, and I’ll have convinced him to return with his army to Egypt. Then, with Egypt as part of our empire, we’ll retake Saint-Domingue. “Paul, you’ll wait for me, won’t you?” He has to. We’ll make him king of Saint-Domingue, and I’ll visit him from Egypt the way Cleopatra visited Caesar as his true queen in Rome.

  But Paul is silent.

  “I have plans for us both. You’ll be happy, and we’ll be together. One year,” I repeat, and when he doesn’t argue, I turn to the mirror and imagine the crown of Egypt on my head. “Destiny,” I whisper, but a knock at the door interrupts the vision.<
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  “The emperor or one of his servants,” Paul warns.

  It’s one of his servants. The man is dressed in my brother’s green livery, and when he bows, I see that his hat is embroidered with the imperial emblem of bees. “You are wanted in the birthing chamber, Your Highness.”

  Paul glances at me, expecting an outburst. But I have spent the last month preparing for this. “If you will wait one moment,” I tell the young man with a calm I certainly don’t feel. But it’s important no one knows how much the arrival of this child crushes me.

  I go to collect my shawl, then stop in my room of antiquities. The high-vaulted chamber is brightly lit, and a pair of heavy chandeliers cast light across the hundreds of artifacts I’ve collected since my brother’s coronation. I walk to the cabinet where the crown of Egypt rests on a velvet pillow, a powerful symbol of immortality. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. Children do not ensure immortality. I reach out and touch the glass. If there were more time, I might take the crown from its resting place. But my brother is waiting.

  When I return to the salon, the servant and Paul are both waiting for me.

  “Is Your Highness ready?”

  We follow the man through the halls. Napoleon has always loved this palace. It’s not as grand as Fontainebleau, but everything in the Tuileries is gilded, and the poorest courtier feels like a king walking these halls.

  The courtier enters first and announces our names. Then we step into the antechamber.

  Thirteen years ago the same people gathered for the birth of my son in Milan. Six years later, they came together again for his funeral. I rushed to the Villa Mondragone to be at his side as fast as the horses could carry me. But all the court can remember is that I wasn’t there when he was dying. That while he burned with fever, I was swimming and eating well in Tuscany. My only child, my precious Dermide, the only good thing to come of my first marriage. After his death, I cut off my hair and placed it in his coffin.

  “Pauline!” Caroline calls as soon as she sees me, and we stand together in a corner of the antechamber, with its mother-of-pearl secrétaire and large porcelain busts. My entire family is present. My mother looks so happy, she might actually weep.