The Second Empress

by Michelle Moran

  “Journalists,” she protests. “They spin tales for a living.”

  “But the people believe it now, don’t they?” Her silence tells me all I need to know. It wasn’t so long ago that the French were angry enough to execute a queen. They are the same people today, with the same passions and resentments, only now their losses are greater. “What if the British do declare war?” I ask quietly. “Have you thought about what would happen to us?”

  If riots should start, it will be up to us to plan our escape from France. Hortense’s husband is in Austria with her sons, under my father’s protection. My husband is somewhere between Moscow and Paris.

  “We would flee,” she says. “We would have to. No foreign army will deal with us leniently now.”

  I look at my son, with his long golden curls and rosy cheeks. Did Napoleon ever look this way? I can’t imagine my husband playing quietly, petting a wooden horse and giving it a name like Jacques or Antoine. But there must have been a time when he was innocent; when he looked at Madame Mère, and she knew she would always do anything for him. But then I think of his rage when he pushed my face into a bowl of food, and of Franz unable to leave his lessons—and someday the battlefield as well—and I realize, If it comes to it, we really will flee. Then I will take my son to Austria.

  BUT ON THE night of the eighteenth of December, a young servant comes running into the Grand Salon. Despite the war, Christmas garlands have been hung over the wooden doors, and cheerful branches of holly spring from gold vases. Madame Mère is playing cards with Caroline, while dozens of courtiers are at games of their own. There is also music, but in truth, nothing seems very merry. I am speaking with Hortense when the servant first appears. I don’t see him waiting behind me for an audience, and she is the one who interrupts our conversation.

  “Your Majesty.” She indicates someone behind me. I turn to see a young boy in blue and gold livery who is waiting nervously to speak.

  “There—there is someone who wishes to see you,” he says. He looks nervously at the people who are watching him, then leans forward to whisper, “He says he’s the emperor of France.”

  I exchange a look with Hortense, and immediately we rise. “Where is he?”

  “At the gates, Your Majesty. But the guards aren’t sure. No one can be certain.”

  I cross the salon toward Madame Mère and tap her shoulder. “Can you come with me?”

  She hears the nervousness in my voice and agrees immediately.

  “What is it?” Caroline demands, and when I refuse to answer, she throws down her cards and follows behind us.

  An old man in a gray jacket is standing outside the gates. His beard is matted, and his shoulders are hunched against the cold. “Mio Dio,” I hear Caroline whisper, and Hortense is struck dumb by the sight. He is unrecognizable.

  “Napoleon?” Madame Mère cries and hurries forward, but the guards step in front of her before she can pass. “Are you certain this is the emperor, Madame?” they ask.

  “I know my own son! Let him through,” she demands. “He’s standing in the cold!”

  The men look to me, and the figure speaks. “Marie-Louise,” he says tenderly. “Don’t you know who I am?”

  “I didn’t. But now that I hear you speak …”

  He removes his hat, and I’m shocked at how gray his hair has become. “How is the king of Rome?”

  “Almost two years old now.” And happy, I want to tell him. Content with his life. But instead I add dutifully, “He misses his father.”

  Napoleon smiles, and now he is even less recognizable. “I will bathe and be in your apartment by seven.”

  He looks to Hortense and cups her chin in his palm. “I have ordered my brother to return with your sons. I want all of the Bonapartes in France.”

  “Why? Is there going to be war?”

  “Only God knows, and we’re not on speaking terms right now.”

  We allow the emperor of France to enter the Tuileries, and the entire palace comes alive with the news. Courtiers greet us in the halls, and there are shouts of “Vive l’imperator!” as we pass. Madame Mère is weeping tears of joy, and Caroline is defending her husband, Murat, who abandoned the army a month ago to protect this Kingdom of Naples. Everyone is talking at once, and after months of tense silence, it is all too much.

  I climb the stairs to my apartment, and though Hortense offers to come with me, I want to be alone. I have lost the regency of France. My father’s letters, which have been coming once, sometimes twice a week, will no longer come to me, and Franz will return to his rigorous studies without time for play. In a single night, I have gone from captain to passenger. I know it would be a crime against God to wish that the war had lasted longer, but when I think of how little I shall see Franz now, I feel sick that Napoleon is home for good.

  Inside my chamber, Sigi is sleeping contentedly near the fire. He thumps his tail as soon as he sees me but doesn’t make any attempt to move. I can’t blame him. It’s cold. I sit at my armoire and take the silver pins from my hair, arranging the curls so that they fall on either side of my face. Would Ferdinand recognize me if we saw each other now? It’s been nearly four years. My hair is longer, and my face is slightly thinner, now that Franz is almost two. I overheard a courtier yesterday telling the Duchesse de Feltre that I look ten years older than my twenty-two. I turn my face to the side and wonder if it’s true.

  “Marie-Louise.”

  I jump, then put my hand to my chest. “I didn’t hear you come.”

  Napoleon laughs. This is a favorite trick, and I see that some things haven’t changed. He crosses my chamber and holds out his hand. I take it, and he studies me for a moment before speaking. “As fresh and beautiful as I remember.” He leads me to the bed, but instead of lying down, he remains seated, and I sit next to him.

  “I saw our son. He has grown significantly,” he says.

  “Yes. Six months is a long time to be away.”

  “Did any of the court’s men pursue you?” he asks.

  I lean back. “Certainly not!”

  “You can tell me,” he says quietly. “Or maybe it was you. Pretty little flowers will reach for the rain when the sun is gone.”

  I gasp. “I’m a mother!”

  “So is Joséphine,” he says darkly. “That’s never stopped her.”

  I stand from the bed. “I am not one of your soldiers,” I say heatedly. “You may speak to them as you wish, but I am—”

  “The empress of France,” he finishes. “And you are worth more than a hundred siblings. They tell me you ruled well.”

  I scowl. “Was this a test?”

  “Does it matter?” He pulls me down beside him. “Even my Minister of War was impressed. You saw the Twenty-ninth Bulletin?”

  I stare at him. “All of France has seen it.”

  He lowers his voice. “What do the people say?”

  “Half a million men are gone,” I reply. “And there are Frenchmen dying in Spain. Two wars with no resolution. There is despair among the people.”

  “What do they expect?” he demands. “The czar will not negotiate. Do you know how I had to get here?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “By sled. It’s one step between the sublime and the ridiculous!”

  I don’t need to ask what would have been sublime. Victory, at any cost.

  “They burned Moscow when we reached the city. There were mountains of rolling flames as wide as a sea. Can you imagine? An entire city, burning. It was the greatest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Aren’t you glad that I’m alive?”

  “Yes.” But half a million men are dead!

  He stands from the bed. He is dressed in his robe and slippers. “I went to Malmaison before coming here,” he admits. “And do you know what Joséphine said? That a million lives are worth one of me.”

  Then she is as deluded as you are, I think.

  “Certainly, many men were killed,” he explains. �
��But they were happy to die for France.”

  “In the icy rivers, screaming for their wives?” He looks stricken, but I’ve read the reports, I know the truth. “This country lost half a million to its Revolution,” I say. “And now that same number to a war in the east. There is a darkness infusing France. Total disbelief that anything will ever get better.”

  “Then we shall show them that this is only a small setback.” He moves toward the door. “Tomorrow there will be a victory ball. After that, a dance every night until the new year.”

  He shuts the door, and immediately I am ill. I rush to my washbasin, and Sigi follows behind me, whimpering at the sounds I’m making as I vomit.

  “Your Majesty!” I hear Hortense call from the door. Then I see her in the mirror and wince. “What happened?” she asks kindly. She holds back my hair as I heave, but nothing else comes. “Sit down.” She guides me to a chaise, but I’m shaking so badly, it’s difficult to stay still. She takes a blanket from my armoire and wraps it around me. “Something happened,” she says firmly. “What did he say?”

  “We’re to celebrate his victory tomorrow,” I whisper. “And the night after that. And all the nights until January.”

  She presses her hand to her stomach. “He can’t mean it.”

  But the emperor has issued a command.

  And so we dance. While Prussia declares war on France, courtiers fill the ballroom in their finest clothes. And when Great Britain, Russia, and Sweden all follow, we continue to waltz. There are no young men. They have all been wounded or killed in battle. But the old courtiers who were unfit for war partner the young women who are mourning their husbands.

  When Pauline returns from whichever spa she has been hiding at, the nights grow longer. There is no stopping the Bonapartes. They will dance until there is nothing left, not even a floor beneath them.

  The ministers come to me for help, but there is nothing useful I can tell them. “What is he going to do?” they ask. “Is he preparing for war?”

  But Napoleon is silent. He dines, and sleeps, and spends long hours in Pauline’s lavish apartments. I know I should want to keep him away from her, but I’m grateful when I don’t have to see him, even if I can no longer spend the days with my son. Then on New Year’s, during the waltz, he tells me, “Your father has betrayed us and joined the nations waging war against France.”

  I stop dancing, but he wants to continue.

  “I know your loyalty is to me and our empire. But a crushing blow will have to be dealt to anyone who rises against me. I’m sorry.” He cups my chin in his palm, and my heart beats faster. Is he going to imprison me? What about Franz? Tears well in my eyes, and he wipes them away with the back of his hand. “My kind, tenderhearted empress,” he says pityingly.

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “I will have to ask something very difficult of you.”

  I can no longer hear the music. Even Pauline, who is standing near the Duc de Feltre and watching us speak, fades from my sight. “Yes?”

  “In April, when I leave to fight your father, I will need you to be regent.”

  To the empress at Malmaison.

  1812.

  I have received your letter of the tenth of June. I see no objections to your going to Milan, near the vice-queen. You will do well to go incognito. You will be very warm.

  My health is very good. Eugène is well, and conducts well. Never doubt my interest in your welfare, and my affection.

  Napoleon

  Malmaison, 1812.

  You restore me to life again, my dear Hortense, in assuring me that you have read the letters from the emperor to the empress. She is very kind in having shown them to you. I feel infinitely grateful to her for the friendship she manifests for you. I acknowledge that I am all the time exceedingly anxious. Why does not Eugène write? I am compelled, in order to calm my agitation, to believe that the emperor forbids him to write, that there may be no private letters.

  Goodnight, my dear daughter. I embrace you with my whole heart, and with my whole heart I love you.

  Joséphine

  1812.

  My good mother—I write you from the field of battle. The emperor has gained a great victory over the Russians. The battle lasted thirteen hours. I commanded the right, and hope that the emperor will be satisfied.

  I can not sufficiently thank you for your attentions and kindness to my little family. You are adored at Milan, as everywhere else. They write me most charming accounts of you, and you have won the love of every one with whom you have become acquainted.

  Adieu. Please give tidings of me to my sister. I will write to her tomorrow.

  Your affectionate son, Eugène

  CHAPTER 26

  PAULINE BORGHESE

  Tuileries Palace, Paris January 1813

  I LIE BACK ON THE CHAISE AND LOOK UP AT THE CEILING of the Tuileries Palace. I try to breathe deep, but it doesn’t matter. In Saint-Domingue, in Milan, in Fontainebleau—this part’s always the same. I spread my legs wider and wait for him to finish, and once he lowers the blanket and clears his throat, I know he’s done. He waits for me to compose myself, and when I’ve pulled down my dress and put on my slippers, Dr. Halle begins.

  “I would like to ask an extremely personal question, Your Highness. How many lovers have you had in the last week?”

  I glance at my physician, Dr. Peyre, who insisted that this gynecologist come today. I rise from the chaise, and Dr. Halle holds up his hands. “This is important, Your Highness.”

  “And what are you implying?”

  “If you can just answer the question—”

  Dr. Peyre, whose face has gone red, interjects. “If you answer his question, it will help,” he admits.

  I try to think. Who knows? “Two? Three?”

  “Different men?” he confirms.

  “Of course. You asked about lovers, not liaisons.” The doctors exchange looks, and I take my seat. “I’m not dying?”

  “No.” But Dr. Halle hesitates slightly. “You have furor uterinus.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You have overused your vaginal canal.”

  I wait for him to laugh. And when both men appear serious, I am through. “Get out!” They jump from their seats and I shriek loudly, “Out!”

  “Your Highness—”

  “I won’t hear another word.” Paul appears at the door, and I point at the doctors. “Take them away. I don’t want to see either man again.”

  “But Your Highness,” Dr. Peyre pleads. He has been with me for ten years.

  “Not even you!” I’m so angry, I’m trembling.

  “What did they do?” Paul demands when he returns.

  “They wanted to convince me … they wanted to pretend …” I can’t even say it. I can’t be bothered. What do these men know anyway? They all say something different. One is sure I have the clap, another swears it’s cancer of the stomach. Now I’m a nymphomaniac. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Who is Marie-Louise’s doctor? The handsome blond?”

  “Dr. Espiaud?”

  “Yes! Tell him I want to see him tomorrow.”

  Paul hesitates. “Can it wait?”

  I take a deep breath and nod. “I’m finished being probed for today.”

  But Paul returns with Dr. Espiaud before dinner. I wonder if any other man on earth would have done this. Perhaps de Canouville. He might have.

  “Your chamberlain tells me you’re in a bad way,” the doctor says, speaking from the door of my salon. He is tall and blond, with the largest teeth I’ve ever seen. If my little Italian artist, Canova, could see him, he’d sculpt him as a god. “May I come in?”

  I step back to let him pass, then squeeze Paul’s hand tightly after the doctor steps inside. “Thank you,” I whisper, so glad he is with me.

  I can see Espiaud’s surprise as he enters. The room is practically bare, stripped of its priceless furnishings; almost nothing is left except the couches and a chaise.

 
“Is Your Highness planning a trip?” he asks.

  “The doctors tell me I should be somewhere warm. Next week I’ll be in Nice.”

  But he casts his gaze around the room, and I know what he’s thinking. A princess doesn’t pack her marble urns and paintings for a simple trip to the south. The imperial family is preparing for something else.

  “Where should we have the exam, Your Highness?”

  “The salon will do. My chamberlain will wait outside until it’s finished.”

  Paul excuses himself, and I take my place on the couch.

  “I have spoken with Dr. Peyre—”

  “That man knows nothing.”

  “It may be. But he’s given me your history. From this exam, I will draw my own conclusions.”

  “You don’t think it’s anything serious?” I ask.

  “I’d be lying if I said no. You’ve been in pain for seven years, and in terrible pain now for two.”

  Yes. I used to think it was God’s way of punishing me for giving away my virtue at the Clary house. “You’re the prettiest girl in Marseilles,” Clary told me. “You can’t blame me for wanting this.” So I chose to believe him and blamed myself. Then I married Leclerc and suddenly understood. It wasn’t something about me—it was what all men wanted.

  “If you will lie down on the couch,” Dr. Espiaud says, “and pull up your gown …”

  I do as he asks, and wait for the inevitable pain. It’s only a few moments.

  One … two … three …

  He sits back and hurriedly makes notes in his book. Then he tells me to breathe and probes me again. When he’s finished, I struggle to sit without wincing.

  “I apologize for any pain,” he says softly.

  I nod, too ill to speak.

  “Given what I’ve seen, and what Dr. Peyre has already told me, I believe there is an infection of the fallopian tubes.”

  I have no idea what this means. “Is it curable?”

  “I suggest a warmer climate, as Dr. Peyre has said, and I would refrain from any—activity—as often as you can. It may not be the cause, but it is undoubtedly aggravating it.”