The Second Empress

by Michelle Moran

  The women have white cockades on their breasts, and the men have pinned their support on their hats. The country is calling for Bourbon rule; they are afraid and want to find comfort in the past. And then I see it. In the park, where a great equestrian statue of my brother once stood, there is now a pile of rubble. They are breaking his statues and destroying his monuments.

  “Vivent les Alliés!” a woman shouts as we pass, and people all along the roads take up this chant as they recognize our carriage. “Down with the tyrant!” someone screams, and a rock hits the side of the coach. Aubree buries her head in my neck.

  “They have turned,” my brother says with resignation. Another rock hits the carriage.

  “A small mutiny. Nothing to worry about. The Allies won’t let them hurt me. They want to see me impotent on Elba.”

  When we stop in Millau, more than a hundred men surround our carriage, and even my brother is cautious.

  “TYRANT! TYRANT!”

  Napoleon opens the door. He steps out and shouts loudly, “The tyrant!” and there is sudden silence. The men exchange looks, then one steps forward. “You are the Emperor Bonaparte?”

  “I am.”

  “The same emperor who sent our sons to be murdered in Russia?”

  My brother takes off his hat and bows his head. “I mourn for those men. Every one of them.”

  “You left Moscow like a dog in the night!” someone shouts.

  “To defend my kingdom. What would you do with your sons dying upstairs and your wife about to be ravaged below? Whom do you choose? The dying, or the living?”

  He steps forward, and the crowd of angry men step back.

  “I walked with vanity and ambition once. But those devils did not ride with me into Russia. I went east to teach Czar Alexander a lesson, because a man who will trade with the British would just as soon ally himself with them against us!”

  He mounts a stone bench and declares, “For every man, woman, and child who has died under my reign, I am sorry.” He touches his heart. “Deeply, deeply sorry. But they have not died in vain. Cossacks are marching down the Champs-Élysées, but Paris will survive. Prussians are in the streets, and Austrians are in Fontainebleau, but no foreign army can take away France’s spirit. I forged this nation in the fires of revolution, and even Russians in the Tuileries can’t keep us from our destiny!”

  The men cheer, raising their hats in the air.

  I have never seen anything like it. He is magnificent.

  “We are the finest nation in the world,” he adds passionately, “and without me, France will continue to be great. She will never forget her dignity and pride.” He leaps from the stone bench and demands a horse from one of the Austrian soldiers. “I will ride these two days to Fréjus,” he tells them. “A leader should ride willingly to his fate.”

  There are actually tears as we leave, and one of the men hands the emperor a Bible. “For your journey,” he explains. “May God keep you safe.”

  The rest of the journey to the coast is the same. There are dozens of angry, threatening mobs, and as the Allied soldiers watch in awe, my brother charms them all. When we finally reach the port, thousands of people are waiting at the pier, all wearing cockades in my brother’s blue and gold.

  Napoleon climbs into my carriage, and Aubree leaps into his arms. She has never done this before. I put my hand to my mouth to keep from crying out.

  “I suppose this is farewell,” he says.

  “Six months,” I remind him. He doesn’t protest; he simply hands Aubree back to me. I look out at the large British frigate that will take him to Elba. Her name is The Undaunted. “It isn’t the end,” I tell him. “Look at these people.”

  The pier is so crowded that the soldiers are having difficulty keeping order. The women want to catch a glimpse of their Bony—that’s what they call him here—and the men want to lay eyes on a tragic hero.

  I reach for my réticule and hand him the heavy silk purse. “I want you to have these,” I say. “It’s enough to buy an army.”

  He tries to hand the Borghese family jewels back to me, but I refuse to accept them. “When you are alone, sew them into the lining of your coat. You don’t know what might happen.”

  He takes a letter from his pocket and hands it to me. It’s addressed to Joséphine. “I wrote it in Fontainebleau,” he says.

  I read the letter and my hands begin to tremble.

  My head and spirit are freed from an enormous weight. My fall is great, but it may, as men say, prove useful. In my retreat I shall substitute the pen for the sword. The history of my reign will be curious. The world has as yet seen me only in profile—I shall show myself in full. How many things have I to disclose; how many are there of whom a false estimate is entertained. I have heaped benefits upon millions of ingrates, and they have all betrayed me—yes, all. I except from this number the good Eugène so worthy of you and of me. Adieu, my dear Joséphine. Be resigned as I am and never forget him who never forgot and who never will forget you. Farewell, Joséphine.

  Napoleon

  P.S. : I expect to hear from you at Elba. I am not very well.

  “ ‘I am not very well,’ ” I repeat. His eyes fill with tears, and my heart beats wildly. I have never seen Napoleon cry, not even when we were children. He opens the carriage door and offers me his hand. The cheer that goes up at his reappearance is deafening. The soldiers escort us to the docks, where he once stood after all of Egypt had fallen.

  “Goodbye, Paoletta.” His presses my hand to his heart. “Tell Maman I love her.”

  He walks the gangway, and I weep while the frigate’s cannons fire twenty-one shots: a salute to the man who once ruled an empire.

  CHAPTER 30

  PAUL MOREAU

  Villa Lozère May 1814

  THE ART DEALER SHAKES HIS HEAD AND GIVES A LOW whistle, walking around the collection for a second time. It takes up the entire salon of the Villa Lozère. “These are rare.” He takes a slow drag on his pipe. “Very rare. The Princess Borghese left them with you?”

  “You saw the letter,” I say sharply. “It’s written in her hand.”

  He strokes his dark beard and considers the collection: marble statues, paintings, Grecian urns, and alabaster vessels carved in ancient Egypt. These last are Pauline’s most prized possessions. Monsieur Dion sold her some of these works, and now he will buy them back again.

  “And what is she hoping to receive for all of this?”

  I hand him a second letter. This one is sealed with her initials in wax. She intends to go to Elba—an island eighteen miles wide and twelve miles long—and if I know Pauline, she is hoping she can incite Napoleon to fight again. But to do it, he’ll need money. She can’t see a cause that’s already lost.

  He opens the letter and makes a noise in his throat. “Is she mad? This is an outrageous sum!” I don’t respond. “Fifty thousand livres? She’s can’t be serious.”

  “Her Highness rarely jokes.”

  He looks over the collection again, this time running his hands over a marble Isis. With fifty thousand livres, Pauline could change the face of Saint-Domingue. The poorest sections of the island could be rebuilt, and every child given schooling in some trade. But instead this money will be squandered on Napoleon’s brutal wars. It will be used to fund death instead of life. “Fifty thousand livres then,” Dion repeats, thinking I will haggle. But this isn’t my collection, and soon it won’t even be my concern. I have my own money with the Eubard Banking House. When I retrieve it, I’ll be returning to Haiti.

  He takes out his pipe and seats himself on her best chaise. “You must have seen quite a show as Her Highness’s chamberlain.”

  “Front-row seat,” I reply.

  He laughs. “She’s an eccentric, isn’t she? Milk baths in the morning, a different lover every week. I hear she wants to join her brother on Elba. I guess that’s why she’s selling.”

  He doesn’t expect me to reply, and I don’t.

  “Tell me something,
” he says, and I know this will be an invitation to violate some confidence or another. “Did the emperor really say he’d rather see his own son killed than raised by Austrians?”

  But I don’t see how this is any great secret. “Yes.”

  He takes out his pipe and thinks. “Where does that kind of ambition come from?”

  I sit on the opposite chaise. “I believe they were born with it, monsieur.”

  “The entire family? Or were they fashioned that way by their father or Madame Mère?”

  I imagine Madame Mère, stalking the palace halls in black, and can’t imagine her molding young children into fierce political warriors. But her husband died of cancer when Napoleon was sixteen. Perhaps after his death she became something different. “I believe the father was a desperate gambler,” I say. “He left them utterly penniless. It was the emperor who had to support his family.”

  “Poverty can drive a man to many things.” He looks back at the handsome collection of treasures waiting to be sold, and there is conflict in his face. “She took great care of these antiques, didn’t she?”

  “They’re her passion.”

  “And she’s willing to give it all up for Napoleon?” he asks me.

  “That, and much more.”

  CHAPTER 31

  MARIE-LOUISE

  Tuileries Palace, Paris

  “The Allied powers cannot take from me hereafter the great public works I have executed, the roads which I made over the Alps, and the seas which I have united. They cannot place their feet to improve where mine have not been before. They cannot take from me the code of laws which I formed, and which will go down to posterity.”

  —NAPOLEON

  FROM A DISTANCE, THE PARADE MIGHT ACTUALLY BE A carnival. I can see children dancing in the streets and women laughing beneath the warm afternoon sun. The people are overjoyed by the man who will take Napoleon’s place on the throne of France. They have a new Bourbon king, the grandson of King Louis XV. They believe he will save them from endless wars and death. He has signed the Charter of 1814, agreeing that under his reign there shall be freedom of religion, freedom of the press, and chambers of both deputies and peers to vote on taxation. There is nothing more for me in France.

  My father holds out his arm for me to take, and I look one last time on King Louis XVIII. May this throne bring you more joy than it ever brought me, I wish for him.

  I take my son’s hand, and we walk as a small Austrian procession through the halls of the palace. I look down at Franz, and my heart aches. He was born here, and Paris is all he’s ever known. I bend down to kiss his cheek and feel a selfish delight that he looks nothing like his father. In Schönbrunn, he will be received with great joy. When the people see him, there will be no reminder of the emperor who killed nearly four hundred thousand of our people.

  “Farewell, Your Majesty.” The courtiers bow deeply to me as I pass. Some of the women are weeping. I stop before one of my ladies-in-waiting who is particularly distraught and promise her tenderly, “Her Royal Highness, the Countess of Provence, will be a lovely queen. My father has told me about her. She is a good woman, and her crown has come unexpectedly.”

  In the courtyard outside, Monsieur Laurent is waiting near the imperial carriage. He has brought something for my son. As soon as Franz sees him, he runs to his tutor and embraces his leg. “Will you come to Austria?” he begs. He doesn’t understand that we are moving between countries, not palaces.

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Your Highness. But I brought something for you.” He hands my son a package wrapped in silver tissue. “Open it.”

  Franz tears at the package, and inside there’s a wooden duck with a working bill.

  “Do you remember what this kind of duck is called?”

  My son thinks for a moment, then nods. “A mallard.”

  Monsieur Laurent looks misty-eyed, then rubs the head of his pupil and sighs. “A very good trip to Vienna, Your Highness. Don’t forget Monsieur Laurent back in Paris,” he says.

  My son hurries over to show me his gift. I thank Monsieur Laurent for everything he’s done these many years. “I thought, when I met you, we would have great battles. I was wrong.”

  Adam comes up beside me, and Franz holds up his duck. “From Monsieur!” he exclaims.

  “Very nice.” Adam makes a great show of inspecting Monsieur Laurent’s gift. “Does he have a name?”

  Franz purses his lips and thinks. “Simon?”

  “Simon the Duck,” Adam repeats admiringly, returning the new toy. “Would you and Simon like to get into the coach?”

  My son runs off, and Adam holds out his arm to me. We will be returning to Vienna with an escort of more than seven hundred soldiers. In two months, my father will follow with the rest of his army. “It’s a long journey,” he warns as I step into the carriage.

  “Yes.” Five years ago I undertook it under very different circumstances, not knowing if I would ever return. Now, I think of the improbability of it all: Napoleon’s invasion of Russia, his decimated army, the sixth Allied war against him—and this one successful.

  A soldier brings Franz and Simon to the carriage, and I think of all of the men who sacrificed their lives for my husband’s throne. My throne. Yet if not for so many French deaths, I would not be going home. How does anyone make sense of this? Of feeling joy at the cost of so much misery?

  “Is there anyone else you’d like to bid goodbye?” Adam asks me.

  “Only my father.”

  He approaches the imperial carriage with its high glass windows and golden trim, and I pass my hand through the window. He came. Just as he promised he would.

  “Keep her safe,” my father tells Adam firmly. “I don’t plan to lose her for a second time.”

  Adam draws a heavy breath and smiles. “Me neither.”

  A whip cracks in the air, and my father squeezes my hand. “Auf Wiedersehen.”

  “Auf Wiedersehen!” my son calls as the carriage rolls away.

  I sit back against the velvet cushions and look out on Paris for the last time. We pass by Napoleon’s unfinished arch at the head of the Champs-Élysées, and my son points to it eagerly.

  “Look, Maman!”

  Yes. In all fairness to Napoleon, he took a city ravaged by war and created something truly beautiful. Not just in this arch, which is celebrating his victory over Austria, but in the Pont d’Austerlitz, the Palais Brongniart, and Rue de Rivoli, whose construction isn’t finished. Though it was all meant to glorify himself, he succeeded in what he came here to do—fashion something eternal.

  CHAPTER 32

  PAULINE BORGHESE

  Villa Lozère November 1814

  AT FIRST I DON’T BELIEVE HIM.

  “This is your money from Monsieur Dion,” Paul says, “and the letter to verify how much he paid.”

  “Do you think I’d accuse you of theft?” I cry.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  I glance around the salon and realize that the trunks I thought he’d packed for Elba were really packed for his return to Haiti. But when I try to imagine life without Paul, it isn’t possible. He has always been here. He won’t abandon me. “Please, just come with me to Elba,” I beg.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m finished.”

  “Why?” I weep.

  He lifts his two trunks and moves toward the door. “Because I’ve already waited two years longer than I promised. Because slavery is still a blight on this empire. Because I want to go home. Good luck, Your Highness—in everything.” His eyes are cold. “I had planned to leave on your return from Fréjus.” He pauses. “But I wanted to see if once your brother’s dreams of conquest were over, you could finally lay yours down.”

  “Please … I can change.”

  “But you won’t.” He steps around me and walks through the door. Outside, a hired berline is waiting. I cling to his arm.

  “Paul, I need you!” For thirteen years we’ve been together.

  “Then come t
o Haiti.”

  While my brother needs my help? “I can’t.”

  “I know. You’re a Bonaparte. Your ambition is far too great for that.”

  “You have no idea about ambition!” I scream after him, and he pauses in the drive. “If not for my ambition,” I say, “you would never have made it out of Saint-Domingue alive. Your neighbor told you it was the French who killed your family, didn’t he?” Paul turns around. His look is murderous, but I don’t care. I’ve protected him long enough. “It was your own people. They killed your mother the same as they killed your father and brother!”

  He shakes his head. “That isn’t true.”

  “When my brother received the news, I had him keep it from you. Ask the people who witnessed it,” I challenge him. “Going back to Saint-Domingue without protection is a death sentence. I would have made you its king—”

  “What?” he cries. “Over an island that lost a hundred and fifty thousand people in the name of freedom? And you think—even if it could have been accomplished—I would have wanted that?”

  I am dumbstruck by his ingratitude.

  He leaves me in the doorway and whistles to the cocher. “Ready?”

  The man tips his hat. “At your command.”

  “Wait!” I call, but he is no longer listening. “Please,” I beg as he shuts the door. Then the carriage drives away, and I sink to the floor. “Paul!” I cry, and my greyhound comes running, afraid that I am hurt. She curls into my lap and looks up at me as I weep.

  ON THE VOYAGE to Elba, I am numb. The world is gray and colorless without Paul. I miss his wit, his perceptiveness, his laugh.… But he’ll come back. If only my brother had reconquered Saint-Domingue and made Paul its king. The island would have made the perfect home, and we would have been untouchable; safe. But when he learns what truly happened there, he will return to France on the next ship. He may have received the news that his family died, but he has no idea how barbaric his people are.