The Josephine B. Trilogy (130 page)
It has become torture here. Tomorrow, thank God, we return to Paris.
November 14.
Paris: city of whispers. I enter a room, and suddenly there is silence, embarrassed smiles. Isabey, making up my face each morning, says nothing about my red-rimmed eyes. “Perhaps a little ceruse?” he suggests, applying the thick white base. I look in the mirror and my face is a mask. “But no crying, Your Majesty,” he scolds me tenderly, and tears fill my eyes once again.
November 15.
“Monsieur Calumet?” The man who had been my legal advisor years ago had aged. Why was I surprised?
“Madame Bonaparte,” he said, rising with difficulty. He hesitated to extend his bare hand. “
Empress,
Your Majesty. Forgive me.”
“How are you, kind sir?” I asked, taking a seat. Monsieur Calumet had been witness to my civil marriage to Bonaparte. How things have changed. Now diamonds adorn my headdress and tears my heart.
“Oh,” he said, his voice quavering, “your husband has been good to us all. Long live the Emperor!”
This with a burst of emotion that quite took me aback. “I’m afraid I’ve come about a…delicate matter, Monsieur,” I began, my hands on my knees, like a schoolgirl. “I wish to consult with you regarding the legitimacy of my marriage—at least in the eyes of the Church. Have you had a chance to consider the document I had sent to you?”
“The Catholic certificate of marriage?” He withdrew it from a drawer and placed it carefully before him. “Your Majesty, forgive me for being the one to tell you, but I’m afraid that there is a problem.”
“Oh?” I said, my heart sinking. This was my last hope.
“According to Church law, the requisite witnesses were not present.”
“
What
requisite witnesses?”
“The priest of your district, for one. Your Majesty, I do not wish to…” He cleared his throat, his hand to his chest.
“Monsieur Calumet, I have come to you because I know I can count on you to tell me the truth. Honesty is rare when one sits on a throne.”
He looked away. “Your Majesty, the truth is that this document is worth nothing.”
Nothing?
The word burned! I am your wife forever, I told Bonaparte that night. Is that nothing?
I returned to the palace in a daze. I stood before the fire in my bedchamber for a time, this “worthless” document in my hand. Twice, I started to throw it into the flames…and twice I held back. In the end I sent Mimi for the oak strongbox. I’ve locked it back in there, along with my old journals, along with Bonaparte’s fiery letters of love.
It is true: documents are worth nothing. What binds is the heart—the heart’s true story. I love Bonaparte and Bonaparte loves me. We
are
man and wife. Come what may, come what will.
December 1, Friday.
Bonaparte has spoken.
I wore a wide-brimmed hat to dinner, to hide my eyes. We ate in silence, our attendants standing like statues behind us. Our plates were put on the table, then taken away, the food untouched.
“What time is it?” Bonaparte asked one of the kitchen officers, mechanically hitting his knife against the side of his glass.
“Five to seven, Your Majesty.”
Bonaparte stood and headed into the drawing room. I followed, a lap cloth pressed against my mouth. I felt I was moving through deep water, that every step I made required all my concentration. We eat, Bonaparte stands, I follow him. We’ve been through this ritual for all the days of our life together, but suddenly, it seemed foreign.
The drawing room was stifling hot. The butler entered with the usual tray, standing before me so that I might have the honour of pouring the Emperor’s coffee. I reached for the silver jug, but Bonaparte was there before me. Watching me steadily,
defiantly
, he poured his own coffee, spooned in the sugar, and drank. He put the empty cup on the tray and made a dismissive motion, closing the door behind the flustered attendant.
“Josephine,” he said, turning to face me, “we must divorce.”
He wanted me to see reason. The security of the Empire required this sacrifice. He relied on my devotion to give my consent. “This is a great and noble sacrifice we must make,” he said firmly.
“You are wrong, Bonaparte. This would be a mistake! We would live to regret it.”
There is no solidity to his dynasty without an heir, he repeated. He’d come to see the absolute necessity of it. The Empire must endure more than a day; it must endure for all eternity.
“Name Eugène heir,” I argued. “You’ve trained him well. He’s loyal and devoted to you. He understands your aims, your vision. You
know
the nation would benefit.” The Empire would flourish! “You can
trust
him. Under Eugène, your legacy would endure.”
“He is not a Bonaparte.”
Blood is everything.
“Then what about your nephews? What about Petit?”
“It’s not the same as a son, born to the purple, raised in a palace. I
must
have a child of my own, Josephine. It’s cruel of you to deprive me!”
And then I began to weep. “You don’t know the pain we will suffer.” I felt crazed, beyond reason.
“I will always love you. I will come to visit you—often.”
“Don’t you understand? It will not be the same!” He was deluding himself. This man who prided himself on his clear vision did not know his own heart.
“I
promise
you,” he went on, as if words would heal. “You will keep your title. I will give you five million a year. You may have Malmaison. I’ll buy you a country château—anything! I’ll make you Queen of Rome. You will have your own domain.”
“Bonaparte, no! Whatever you do,
please
—don’t send me away.” I envisioned myself alone and unloved. I fell on the carpet, giving way to pitiful sobbing.
I remember very little of what followed. I was carried down the narrow passage to my room and Dr. Corvisart was summoned. “You’ve suffered a violent attack of nerves, Your Majesty.”
Hortense appeared before me through a laudanum blur. “Eugène and I will follow you,” she told me. “Together we’ll lead a quiet life. It will be peaceful. We will know true happiness.”
I wrapped my arms around her thin shoulders. Mother and daughter, we were both alone in the world. It is perhaps best that she does not know what lies ahead, I thought. I felt like a Cassandra, calling out futile warnings of impending doom. Destiny has been crossed; the downward slide will now begin.
At eight, as is her custom, my maid of the wardrobe entered my bedchamber with a selection of gowns. “Come in, Mademoiselle Avrillion,” I said, parting the bed-curtains. “I have something to tell you, but first, make sure that the door is closed.” I fell back against the pillows. I still felt weak, but calmer.
Mademoiselle Avrillion put down her basket and smoothed her skirt, her expression apprehensive. We’d all been expecting the worst, waiting for the sky to fall—knowing that it would, but not knowing when. Not knowing how life would go on after.
But life does go on. I took a breath and began. “The Emperor informed me that he has decided to—” In telling her, I was again overcome. I struggled to finish. “He has decided to pronounce a divorce.” Mademoiselle Avrillion clapped her hands over her mouth, let out a cry. “However, everything must appear normal for the time being.”
“That’s cruel of him, Your Majesty.” Her look was defiant—loyal.
“The Emperor suffers,” I told her firmly. “He does what he must.”
And so, by the bright winter light, my new life begins. I look ravaged, yet I will play the part, assume the costume of the Empress, recall her calm and charitable heart. After the celebration of the peace, Bonaparte will make a public announcement. As for this moment, I’m suffering an indisposition, that’s all.
Brave words, but as soon as Mademoiselle Avrillion left, I gave in to
despair. How can I do this? I’ve a reception at Malmaison tomorrow, and the day after is the big celebration, a ball. And then more balls and fêtes, and fêtes and balls, all in a spirit of gaiety. How will I find the courage, the strength?
Saturday, December 2
—
Malmaison.
It is late. I’m writing this at the little mahogany writing table in Bonaparte’s bedchamber at Malmaison. I’m in my nightgown, warmed by the bearskin I’ve pulled off the bed.
The sovereigns have all departed, even Bonaparte, who decided to return to the Tuileries in preparation for the morrow—in spite of the snow and freezing rain. “This is your lucky day,” I told him, on leaving. He looked puzzled. “The second of December.” The anniversary of the coronation: how could he forget?
“Oh,” he said, shrugging, as if luck no longer mattered.
It is a relief to be alone now. The hardest part was receiving the family. Queen Caroline and King Joachim, newly arrived back from Naples, watched me closely. They suspect, I know. And what will they do, I wonder, when they learn that they have won the day, won the battle, won the war? They will proclaim a victory, no doubt. They will have the Emperor to themselves, at last—all his power and all his riches. And all his heart, they will assume—not knowing his heart, not realizing that this sacrifice will harden him.
It is now almost two, I suspect. The fire has burnt down; I begin to feel the winter chill. My portrait by the bed is in shadow—Bonaparte’s favourite, though not mine.
Five years ago today Bonaparte crowned me Empress. Oh, it was the most glorious day! I accepted that crown as if it were a betrothal ring, thinking that it would bind me to my husband. And now…
now
I see that it is the one thing that has pushed me away from him. Without issue, I have no right to that throne—no right, indeed, to the Emperor’s Imperial bed. As Empress, there was only one thing I was required to do: provide the link to the past and to the future, secure the Emperor’s place
in history. In the womb of an Empress, the future unfolds. She is the past, she is the present, she is the future. And I? I was never an Empress. Only Yeyette, Rose, Josephine—an ordinary woman from Martinico. An ordinary woman who loves her husband.
How much does it matter, in the end, my love for Bonaparte? Not much, truly, when balanced against the needs of a nation. Indeed, it
is
a sacrifice we are making, Bonaparte and I—a noble sacrifice. I only pray that it will not be made in vain, that my fears are unfounded. “Superstitious nonsense,” as Bonaparte would say, “womanish imaginings.” (Pretending not to be superstitious himself.)
Oh, Bonaparte—how hard it is for me to comprehend the changes that lie before us. I feel you in this room with me now—your light lemon scent lingers. Your spirit is everywhere. A half-empty crystal champagne glass engraved with your monogram is on the table beside a stack of journals, coins, a snuffbox. A small, battered medal catches my eye: Charlemagne’s talisman, carelessly tossed in among the pocket clutter. A book you were reading—
History of the Revolutions of the Roman Empire
—is facedown on a chair beside the bed, the spine cracked, the pages dog-eared. Your vest is thrown over the arm of the black leather chair. A crumpled news-sheet litters the carpet.
The clock has just chimed two. I don’t want to leave this room, this moment so full of memory, but I’ve a difficult day tomorrow, I know. I will lock the door when I leave, forbid entry. It will always be here for me.
Sunday.
First, a Te Deum at Notre-Dame. I was not to go there in the Emperor’s coach, was not to sit beside him, Duroc explained, his manner officious, as if I were a servant he was instructing. Rather, I was to sit with Caroline and Jérôme’s wife, Catherine. “The Emperor wishes the people to begin to be prepared,” Duroc said. “He wishes it to be conjectured.”
Conjectured.
Of course. Rumours would be circulated, hints given, predictions printed in the popular journals. And perhaps it is for the best. Perhaps in this way I, too, will begin to be “prepared.”
“Does anyone in the household know?” I asked.
“Only the Imperial family, Madame.”
Madame. Not
Your Majesty
—just
Madame.
Well, so be it, I thought, swallowing hard.
“Madame Bonaparte,” Caroline said with a bright (smug) smile. “How lovely you look this afternoon.”
“How kind of you to say so,” I replied with a bright (false) smile. “
Queen
Caroline.” (How trivial it all seemed to me, in truth, catching a glimpse of the tomb of little Napoleon tucked into a corner of that vast cathedral.)
After Mass, the Imperial cortège drove to the Legislature, where Bonaparte was received with thunderous cheers. My heavy heart gladdened to the sound of “Hail to the Peacemaker! Long live the Emperor!” From habit and affection, Bonaparte glanced over his shoulder at me, sharing the moment.
At five the cortège returned to the Tuileries, where we received the foreign ambassadors before proceeding into the Gallery of Diana for the Imperial banquet. (My last, thank God—how I hate them.) King Joseph was seated on my left, Madame Mère on my right. King Louis, newly arrived from Holland, sat next to his mother (with whom he is staying). Bonaparte sat directly across from me, with the King of Saxony on his right. Hortense was on his left. I avoided my daughter’s eyes, for fear I might weep.
And then, of course, all the others: the King of Württemberg, King Jérôme and his wife Catherine, a conspicuously gay Princess Pauline, King Joachim in pink silk embroidered with gold stars—and, of course, an exultant Queen Caroline, ordering the servants about as if she were in charge, as if
she
were the hostess.
Bonaparte seemed anxious, motioning to the chamberlain for no purpose, wiping his mouth even when he wasn’t eating, creating a growing pile of soiled napkins behind him.
*
We ate without speaking, each silently attended by three footmen, the
only voices those of the carvers, passing the trays to the footmen. I don’t believe I was ever so glad to see Bonaparte rise. Immediately everyone stood, turned, advanced one pace toward the line of butlers, who offered trays. With trembling hands I squeezed lemon into the white bowl, cleansed my mouth and swished the tips of my fingers in the blue bowl. To think I’ve finally mastered this little ritual, I thought, tossing my napkin into Caroline’s pile.
