It was fully ten o’clock, and Anna was thinking of returning home when Count Stanisław Potocki returned at last from the meeting with the French emperor. He sat down in the reception room, seemingly drained and tired, while everyone drew up chairs as if he were a patriarch about to read a fable to his grandchildren. That he did not seem jubilant concerned Anna. He took a sip of wine to refresh himself before beginning. Then he looked at the anxious eyes all about.
“Tell us,” his daughter pleaded, “what of Poland? What did he say?”
“Of Poland, Anusia?” He sighed. “Precious little. First, he talked of his deeds in Prussia. Went on for some time, pacing before us with his hands in his pockets and his chest puffed out like a parrot’s. When he paused long enough to take a drink, we made our presentation. I spoke, as did the Prince Pontiatowski, on behalf of the reconstitution of our nation.”
“And?” the count’s wife asked.
“The emperor did say that France had never recognized the partitions of Poland. This, of course, did our hearts good. He went on to say—between pinches of snuff—that independence brought with it sacrifice of every kind, of life and limb. He called for unity among all Poles. He called for provisions for his army, money for its maintenance, and men to form it.”
“And in return?” Anna spoke up now, giving voice to what she thought was everyone’s question.
Stanisław looked at Anna. He affected a smile. “Napoléon made no promises, Anna. No promises.”
No one said a word for the longest moment. The count shrugged. “That didn’t keep the bulk of our delegation from a heady enthusiasm. They assured the emperor of complete unity and the silver plate from their tables if he asked for it.”
“And he was satisfied?” someone asked.
“Oh, I think he was. Yes, indeed. But catching just a glance from Poniatowski, I realized there were at least two of us in the room who were not. There was nothing from the emperor’s lips to even suggest a promise.” The count took a long gulp from his wine glass and surveyed the intense faces around the room. “But who knows?” he questioned. “Promises from monarchs we have learned over the centuries and in recent times have been only that—promises!”
It was not long before Warsaw society got its first look at the emperor. As Anna prepared for the reception at the Royal Castle, she could not help but think of her visit there when she saw King Stanisław for the first time—and then a second time, in 1794 when she had encouraged him—unsuccessfully—to abort the rebels’ uprising against the Russians. How might things have been different had they waited for Kościuszko forces to free the city in a more bloodless way? Would Poland have been preserved? Would they be entertaining tonight a self-made foreign emperor in hopes that their country could be reclaimed from their three inveterate enemies: Prussia, Austria, and Russia?
Lines of vehicles snaked their ways from several directions to the arched opening of the castle’s Great Courtyard where they were dispersing the party-goers. “Pull into that opening!” Zofia called to her driver. Then, pantomiming a request to the driver of a nearby carriage from her coach window, she successfully carried out the cut in line. Even so, the wait lasted nearly half an hour.
“We should have walked,” Anna said. “We live but paces from the Castle.”
“And how would that have looked to all these people—the sight of us trudging along through the snow?”
“We’d at least be inside by now enjoying a bit of champagne.”
“Yes,” Zofia snapped, “with sopping slippers and wet hems!”
Anna was taken aback by the sharpness of Zofia’s reply, noting now that her cousin’s demeanor had been intense all day. The two waited silently until the footman opened the door for them to alight the carriage. It was already nearly nine o’clock, and Anna thought perhaps they would miss the emperor’s entrance.
Anna and Zofia had to pass through the middle of two lines of soldiers that led from the Senators’ Entrance—where their wraps were taken—up the winding, white marble staircase and into the Antechamber to the Great Assembly Room. The soldiers stood at attention, but Anna noticed that many of them could not help but steal glances at Warsaw’s women who had turned out, resplendent as possible. She had worn a blue gown; Zofia, red. “Wait,” Anna said, “I’d like to wander around a bit before we go in to the Great Assembly Room.”
“A splendid idea, Anna! We’ll see just who’s come out for this little divertissement.”
The Royal Castle’s interior was unchanged from the last time Anna had seen it. They walked through the Marble Room, where there hung portraits of more than twenty past Polish kings. A sudden pang entered Anna’s heart. Knowing that it was indeed possible there would never be another Polish king, an immeasurable sadness filled her.
Entering the National Hall, Anna felt an even deeper melancholy in this room that was a veritable pantheon of Polish history, its massive canvasses displaying richly important scenes from the interconnected past of Poland and Lithuania. Passing into the Throne Room, Anna relived in just a few seconds the day King Stanisław had surprised her—and hundreds of others—by naming her a princess. She looked up at the king’s dais now, a hundred carved eagles flying against the red velvet backing of the canopy. There the gilt throne stood shimmering in the light of a score of the best bees wax tapers—empty and forlorn.
“Are you all right, Anna?” Zofia asked.
“What?—Yes, fine.”
“You look a bit pale.—Charlotte is supposed to be here. Do help me keep a lookout for her.”
Everyone of the slightest importance in Warsaw and beyond had been invited, and judging by the thickness of the crowd, no one had declined. After about fifteen minutes, Anna and Zofia came across the Potockis in the Great Assembly Hall and were welcomed into their party. Compliments were made all around as to the women’s appearances. Anna was particularly taken by Anusia Potocki’s black velvet gown, a perfect foil for the Potocki diamonds.
“There’s Charlotte now,” Zofia said, waving across the room. She immediately excused herself and melted into the crowd.
“Bring her over,” Anusia called after her, but it was unclear whether Zofia heard because even though people were speaking in low, anticipatory tones, the muffled drone in the hall obscured any one voice. In but a few minutes a loud voice boomed out from a doorway that had been closed previously, crying “Make way! Make way!”
An opening appeared in the middle of the hall and Anna could see the gentleman who was speaking. “That’s Monsieur Talleyrand,” Lord Potocki whispered to Anna and his wife, pointing out the Grand Chamberlain and Minister of Foreign Affairs.
At that moment two words reverberated through the hall: “The Emperor!”
A palpable thrill passed through the room, leaving no one impassive. Anna, too, had heard and read too much about this man not to be impressed.
Emperor Napoléon Bonaparte stalked into the room, stopping in the large circle that had been made, and came to stand like a self-satisfied bull in his pen. He neither bowed to the crowd nor lowered his eyes. In full military regalia, he paused, as if to allow everyone to take in his appearance, seeming to revel in his own reputation as a prodigy.
What seemed a long moment of awe played out now, a moment in which protocol was forgotten and little gasps were audible. Then, as if a collective memory tapped each guest on the shoulder, the men began to bow and the women curtsey.
Anna felt a profound sadness, for this foreigner’s presence filled the room, filled the Royal Castle, filled the onlookers with a substance both to be admired and feared, in a way that the presence of the former mild and meek King Stanisław had not.
His bicorne hat in hand, the emperor began to make the rounds of the room, chatting briefly with an individual or group, then moving on. By the time he was half-finished, the guests’ awe seemed to wear off a bit, and the wines being served sparked conversation and gaiety.
Soon it came their turn to meet the new Caesar. Lord Potocki introd
uced the emperor to his little group. Anna curtsied nicely, realizing to her surprise as she stood that his gray eyes were just slightly below the level of her own. This mighty figure on the continent was not quite as tall as she.
A softness had come into his eyes as they moved from the men to Anusia, then to her mother-in-law, and then to Anna. “What pretty women!” he declared before moving on. “Sweet as peaches!” And although they had heard him employ the same epithets on others before he reached them, they were nonetheless flattered. Anusia even blushed.
Within an hour the formalities were done with, and the guests seemed to be enjoying themselves. Anna looked about for Zofia. Across the room, near the dais that supported the throne, Zofia and Charlotte were chatting and laughing with the emperor. Anna watched as the conversation went on for no little length of time.
“My cousin’s husband is one of your legionnaires,” Zofia told Napoléon. Her spirit soared. She had held him in conversation longer than anyone else that evening. The trick had been to allow him to lead the conversation while being concise and witty in her responses. He had a vast storehouse of questions.
“Ah, the legionnaires are invaluable,” Napoléon said. “You must thank your cousin for sparing him. They are all heroes.”
“Of course,” Charlotte said, “the legionnaires hold out hopes for a quid pro quo, as do our leaders here in the city.”
“Do they, Princess Sic?” What had been a sincere smile was immediately transformed into one as false as a player’s mask.
But Charlotte did not pick up on his shift in expression. “Indeed, they hope you will restore the nation to what it was before ‘95.”
“Shush, Charlotte,” Zofia said, attempting to blunt the faux pas. “Politics are not for women. And you know I can’t abide them.”
“The princess here is only voicing what everyone is thinking here tonight, I suspect,” the emperor said, the edge in his voice sharp. “That I am the new Messiah, yes? But only she is naïve enough to mention it.”
Realizing the sensitivity of the emperor to her comment, Charlotte looked from him to Zofia, and blushed deeply. “A thousand pardons, Sire. I only meant to advise you.”
The emperor turned on Charlotte. “You think because you are French you can tell me what the Polish want? That you have the right to confide in me? To advise me? Madame, your time would be better spent readying yourself to meet the public. While your diamonds do deflect from your dullness, Princess Sic, yellow is no color for a woman of your figure.”
Charlotte’s mouth fell open in shock. She studied the emperor’s face, thinking perhaps he was joking. He was not.
Zofia’s heart raced at the turn the conversation had taken. The emperor’s reputation for cruelty to women was suddenly fully validated. Charlotte stammered an apology and, managing an awkward curtsey, hurried away.
“Your friend may be French,” the emperor snarled, “but she is not noble, I can assure you.”
“Then you have that in common.” Before she could think, Zofia had blurted out the cutting words in defense of Charlotte. Only after they were out of her mouth did she realize the full extent of the insult to the Emperor of France. But she could not take them back.
He stared at her, the gray eyes round in surprise. He looked as if he had been slapped. Zofia became certain her comment had stifled any hope to ensnare the man. The very notion that she could capture him suddenly seemed vain and foolish. She thought she should make an exit herself but could not induce her feet to move. Her heart caught and seemed to be held between beats as the emperor stepped back, his eyes moving over her, from her slippers to her emerald combs. She waited.
The corners of his thin mouth began to twitch and quiver. And then—he laughed. Long and hard enough to catch the attention of those around them. “And I thought Polish women were merely pretty!” he cried. “They are bold, as well, I might add. Brava!”
Zofia did not know how to react. Relief that he had not made her a target poured through her.
“Please extend my apologies to your friend,” Napoléon said with a little bow and wave of his hand. “I’m certain that in her day she was a fully packed little turnip.—Tell me, Zofia Grońska, in what other ways are you so forward?”
Forgetting the insult done to Charlotte, Zofia’s mind worked quickly. “I know the Royal Castle quite well, Your Highness. If you have yet to see it all?”
“A tour guide! How excellent. You knew the former king?”
Zofia nodded. “Yes, I knew Stanisław.”
“Stanisław?—How well?”
Zofia turned back a blush at the insinuation in his words and smiled. “You know, Charlotte is royal.”
Napoléon shrugged. “A bluestocking of the old days is no better than a pretender.”
Zofia repressed the desire to suggest that he was himself a pretender. That would surely be pressing her luck. Instead she said, “Have you seen the little Portrait Room?”
“No, I don’t think I have.”
“It’s a little room the king used for meditation or extremely delicate policy negotiations. On its walls are portraits of all the heads of Europe.”
“Surely not all?”
“I do suspect it’s missing a very important one.”
“No doubt!” Napoléon gave a light laugh, his eyes moving to the scant red tulle that covered Zofia’s breasts. “I’m certain that in due time the situation can be remedied.”
“I would be happy to show you the chamber. It’s just off the Throne Room.”
Napoléon tossed off an intimate smile. “Not now.” He seemed to enjoy the chase as much as she. “Shall we say in an hour or so—at midnight?”
Before Zofia could reply, however, Monsieur de Tallyrand approached the emperor, who turned and wordlessly moved away with him.
Zofia went in search of Charlotte.
“Well, Anna,” Anusia Potocka asked, “what is your opinion of the man?”
Anna studied the emperor, who was passing near to them, Talleyrand at his side. “My impression is that he thinks a great deal of himself.”
Anusia laughed. “That goes without saying. Great men have great pride.”
“I suppose you’re right. But pride isn’t everything, Anusia. King Stanisław had pride and tonight a Frenchman sleeps in his bed.”
“What was he lacking, Anna? You met him.”
“Decisiveness, perhaps. And determination. But he was a good man.”
“Father says that one good man can be undone by a majority of lesser men.”
“And what about one good woman?” Zofia said, inserting herself into the Potocki circle. “Has Charlotte come this way?”
“No,” Anna said. “The last we saw of her you were both in heavy discussion with the emperor.”
“Well, she managed to say just the wrong thing, and he insulted her. I think she may have left.”
Zofia chatted with the group for a space of time but appeared distracted. After twenty minutes, she excused herself, first pulling Anna aside. “If you don’t see me when you’re ready to leave, dearest,” Zofia whispered, “go ahead and leave without me.”
21
Zofia awoke in a sweat. The room was insufferably hot. She picked her head up and turned to see him adding more wood to the fire in the hearth. How could he? Dare she say something? He turned around now and approached the bed. He wore only his shirt, open at the front. “It’s not yet dawn, but I sleep little. Did I wake you, my sweet?’
“It’s very warm in here.” Hot as hell, she thought.
“And so it should be. A bedchamber—any room of mine—must be well-heated!”
Zofia lay on her stomach. As she started to pivot to her back, pushing back the covers at the same time, the emperor placed a hand on her side to restrain her. “There, stay as you are, Zofia. I’ll pull back the covers if you’re warm.”
Zofia obeyed, feeling now the fingers of his hand feathering lines over the exposed rise and fall of her back and buttocks.
H
e sat on the side of the bed. “There is nothing like a woman’s backside, my dear. Nothing like it. No artist could reproduce it.” Forward and back, his fingers moved, slow then slower.
Zofia fought off a chill the sensation was inducing. “Why do you say that?”
He applied more pressure. “Because it’s true.”
Zofia didn’t reply. She thought the comment eccentric. No one had ever told her such a thing.
“Tell me,” Napoléon asked, “how long since you’ve lost your virginity?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“A gentleman doesn’t ask such things.”
“I’m an emperor, my sweet, not a gentleman.”
Zofia peered up at him. The man was indeed odd—boldly so. “And are you commanding an answer?”
“Would you tell the truth if I said I am?”
“No.”
Napoléon guffawed. “I thought not. Never mind. You do know your way about the castle, my petite bird. You knew right where the king’s privy was, too, didn’t you?—You’ve slept here before! Don’t even try to deny it.”
When Zofia turned her gaze toward the pillow and gave no answer, Napoléon slapped her hard across the buttocks. It was the last thing she expected and it hurt like the devil! Instead of crying out, she twisted in the bed, turning to her side and trying to cover herself. Napoléon grasped her wrist. “You have, haven’t you?”
“What if I have?” Zofia wanted to spit the words out at him—but instead she reverted to an innocently flippant tone.
“He was an old man, wasn’t he—Stanisław?”
Zofia shrugged. “In his sixties.”
“You like them old? You couldn’t have been out of your teens.—Isn’t that odd?”
Zofia thought. She remembered her exhilaration at pleasuring the King of Poland. “No odder than liking backsides.”
“Touché, my little vixen.—They do say an old lover is like an old stove—much smoke but little steam. What say you about the old king?” He punctuated his joke with a laugh and another slap.
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