The Josephine B. Trilogy (134 page)

She stayed only an hour, telling me all about the new baby. “He’s big and handsome—although he does take after
her
,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“But people say the Empress Marie-Louise is pretty.”

“Big jaw, Maman.” (We giggled, I confess.)

She told me Marie-Louise is childlike in her attachment to the
Emperor, that she weeps to be separated from him for even a minute, but also does not care to travel. “That makes it difficult,” I said, concerned. “An emperor must travel.” Especially Bonaparte.

“Especially now,” Hortense said, filling me in. Russia is refusing to enforce the blockade against England.

“I don’t understand. Tsar Alexandre agreed. He gave Bonaparte his word.”

“And now there is even talk of war,” she said with a grimace.

With Russia? What a terrible thought! “Does it look serious?”

Hortense started to answer when her boys came running; they wanted to ride the pony, they said. “I’m afraid we must go,” Hortense told them, tying her hat-strings. “I have an engagement in town.”

I persuaded her to leave the children with me for a few days. We waved until her coach was out of sight and then I rang for cakes while the pony was being tacked up. All the while we chattered, chattered, chattered. Petit and Oui-Oui are so sweetly excited about the new baby in the family—“Little King,” they call him.

Petit is mature for a six-year-old, I think, but Oui-Oui is still very much a baby. He seems a bit anxious about being three now. “Uncle says I am grown,” he told me solemnly. Their Uncle Napoleon, who insists on their company at his midday meal, who supervises their lessons, who is tending a rose garden at Saint-Cloud.

“Himself?” I asked, incredulous.

“He’s going to be a gardener when he grows up,” Oui-Oui told me.

“Yes, I think so.” Oh Bonaparte! “And what about the Empress? Do you see her often?”

Petit shrugged. “I don’t think she likes us. We’re wiggly, she says.”

“But Grandmaman does!” Oui-Oui sang, diving into my arms.

[Undated]

Petit, to Mimi: “Maman spoils me when I’m good, but Grandmaman spoils me all the time.”

And this afternoon, in the woods, Oui-Oui threw his cap in the air, exclaiming, “Oh, how I love nature!”

How I love
them.

[Undated]

Hortense came for the boys this morning. She looked distressed about something, so I lured her into the rose garden to talk. At last she confessed: Caroline, who is supposed to stand as godmother at the baptism, can’t leave Naples. She has asked Hortense to take her place.

“That’s quite an honour,” I said.

“But the ceremony will be held in Notre-Dame, Maman.”

Then I understood. Little Napoleon’s tomb is there. “You haven’t been in since…?”

She shook her head. “I’m so afraid I’ll break down!”

June 9, Sunday.

Little King was baptized today. The procession schedule was posted in the market: at two o’clock the Imperial coaches would arrive at Notre-Dame.

I’d planned a number of activities to keep my mind occupied, but with the gun salutes and church bells ringing, it was impossible. At noon I told Mimi: “We’re going.” She looked alarmed. “Incognito,” I assured her. I would wear a broad-brimmed hat and a mask. “I
have
to see.” Had to see the Empress, the
baby.
“We’ll take the landau.” It is a plain vehicle, without insignia, used for riding in the park when the weather is good. “If we leave now, we can get there in time.”

I hadn’t reckoned on the crowds, however. It was well after three by the time the coach driver had fought his way into the heart of the city. I asked Antoine to let us down a few blocks from the route. “We’ll walk.”

The streets were thronged. It was all the troops could do to hold people back. Festive banners had been hung from the rooftops and everywhere I looked I saw garlands of flowers. “Let’s wait here,” I told Mimi, ducking into a recess. Stone steps leading up to the door of a bootmaker’s shop afforded a view over the heads of the crowd.

And wait we did: four, four-thirty, five. The crowd began to thin, the hungry citizens reluctantly returning home. Mimi and I edged our way closer to the street. By luck, we found a spot that gave us a clear view. At five-thirty, at last, guns sounded and bells rang.

“What do you suppose that means?” a woman standing beside us asked.

“That the Emperor and Empress have just left the palace,” I told her.

“It won’t be long now,” someone behind us said. My heart thrilled to the distant sound of drums, a marching band.

“They’re coming!” a man behind us yelled.

I looked at Mimi and grinned. “It’s exciting on the street.”

“I see it,” a child straddling a man’s shoulders cried out as the glittering coronation coach pulled into view, drawn by eight white horses, just like out of a fairy tale. “Where’s the baby?” the boy demanded.

Bonaparte, in purple velvet and gold, looked out over the crowd. He’s thinking of his work, I thought. He’s wondering how long this ceremony is going to take. He’s gauging the enthusiasm of the people. He’s thinking how uncomfortable his jacket is.

“Empress Marie-Louise is prettier than I expected her to be,” Mimi said, covering her face with her shawl.

Marie-Louise. Big lower lip, strong jaw, plump. I thought she’d be more attractive. And she seemed bored—disdainful even. “She’s younger than I expected.” Only a girl. She was dressed—not very elegantly—in white satin, wearing a diadem of brilliants.
My
diadem.

“The other one used to smile,” the woman beside us said. “This one never does.”

“I see the baby!” the boy cried out behind us. “He’s in the next carriage. He’s dressed in white with red ribbons.”

Everyone craned to see as the second carriage pulled into view. The King of Rome was held by Madame de Montesquiou, his nanny. The fat, complacent baby was sucking his thumb. I blew him a kiss, my blessing.

Monday, June 10, 4:30 or so
—
Malmaison.

Hortense was full of stories about the Imperial baptism. “I’m so relieved that it’s over.” She’d gone to Notre-Dame the night before and persuaded the guards to let her in. In the empty cathedral she’d fallen to her knees before little Napoleon’s tomb and wept. “It was a good thing,” she assured me, seeing my stricken look. “The next day I was able to get through the ceremony without a tear.”

Now that the baptism is over, she would like to take the waters, she said. Could I look after the boys? (Gladly!) On leaving, she embraced me
somewhat stiffly, and with reserve. Something about the way she walks makes me think of a woman with child. No—
surely
she would tell me.

Lake Maggiore, September 2, 1811

Chère Maman,

I must stay away longer than I expected. My health is a little frail.

I am sending some trinkets for Petit and Oui-Oui. How I miss them! Embrace them for me. Speak to them often of their maman. I hope to be back in October. Will they even remember me after four months?

How are your eyes? (No weeping, remember!) Are you applying the salve I sent you?

I smiled, I confess, on learning that you are trying to make “economies.” Your heart is too good, maman. Your hand is always open.

Ah, my tender, gentle maman
—
the trials of this world do weigh upon me. We are punished for our pleasures; if only we were rewarded for our pain.

Your loving and dutiful daughter, Hortense

October 11
—
Malmaison.

Hortense returned in time for Petit’s seventh-year birthday fête. She is thinner, and has an air of melancholy. I suspect, but will not ask; know, but cannot say.

[Undated]

Bonaparte came to see me today. He seemed gloomy—it was clear that there is much on his mind. “Tsar Alexandre refuses to enforce the blockade against England,” he said, his hands on his knees. “And he promised! He’s shipping hemp to England—he
knows
it’s used to make rigging for their Navy. A continental blockade is the only way to get England to the peace table.”

I watched Bonaparte go out the gate with a heavy heart. There will be war again soon, I fear. I saw it in his eyes.
Le feu sacré.

February 11, 1812, Shrove Tuesday
—
Malmaison.

Carnival. Tonight there is a costume ball at the Tuileries—a ball to which I have not been invited, of course. Hortense will be performing a quadrille. She was here yesterday, showing me her intricate choreography, the lovely costumes. “Please come, Maman. I want you to see it! Nobody would know. You’d be in costume.”

I told her it was too risky, but that was only a partial truth. I cannot bear the thought of seeing Bonaparte attend to his young wife while I stand alone in the shadows.

February 12, Ash Wednesday.

“Your daughter’s quadrille was
brilliant
,” Mademoiselle Avrillion told me. “You should have heard the cheers! Men were standing on their chairs to see her perform. What a talent she has, every move so precise, so light, so…” She made a floating motion with her hand. “So
elegant.
And her troupe of dancers—they were absolutely magical. It brought tears to my eyes to see them. Queen Caroline looked as if she was going to have a fit, she was so angry. Oh, everyone clapped for her dance certainly, but only out of politeness. All that dreadful clumping! And the Emperor? He loved your daughter’s quadrille, it was easy enough to see, but otherwise…? Three times I saw him yawn and pull out his timepiece. And when he and the Empress stood to take their leave, you know what I heard him hiss at her? ‘Try to be graceful.’”

“Oh, the poor girl.”

“Your Majesty, she didn’t smile, not even once.”

Monday, early afternoon at Malmaison, March 9.

Bonaparte stood at a distance, in full view of his aides. It had been months since we’d seen one another, but I had been expecting him. It was, after all, our sixteenth wedding anniversary.

“You’ve gained weight,” he said with a smile.

“So have you.” Even so, he looked unhealthy. “How are you, Bonaparte?”

“Well enough.” He needed to get back in shape, he said, for the coming campaign. He’d been hunting every day in the Bois de
Boulogne, to toughen himself. He’d managed to “disappear” this morning, in order to visit me.

“You can stay a few minutes?” I invited him to join me on the stone bench under the tulip tree. “I want to hear all about your son.” He would have his first birthday in two days.

“He’s a big, healthy boy—a bit of a temper, though.”

Like his father, I thought fondly. “Petit and Oui-Oui tell me so many stories about him. I think it’s wonderful, the time you take with the children.”

“Marie-Louise thinks it unnatural.”

I’d heard that Marie-Louise rarely saw her baby, that weeks went by without her sending for him. “Certainly it’s unusual for a man to enjoy the company of children the way you do.” To
dote
on them. “I’d love to see your son, Bonaparte.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. “It will have to be arranged carefully, so that Marie-Louise does not find out.”

[Undated]

Baron de Canisy, first equerry to the Little King, has let me know that Madame de Montesquiou will be taking the child to the park of Bagatelle next Sunday. I am to wait for her in the little château there.

Sunday, a beautiful spring day, bright and crisp.

I rode to Bagatelle, as arranged.
^*
As soon as I saw the Imperial carriage approaching, I went to the little room at the back. Soon the matronly figure of Madame de Montesquiou appeared with the baby in her arms. I stood, bowed: the King of Rome.

“What a
surprise
to see you, Your Majesty,” Madame de Montesquiou
said in carrying tones. (This was the fiction we’d arranged.) “I’m going to rest with the baby here for a moment,” she told her attendants in the other room.

She sat down beside me, gently prying open the baby’s grip on her hat ribbon. “You see what a good baby he is? Watch.” She bounced him on her knees to make him laugh.

Big forehead, heavy jaw. “He takes after the Empress,” I said, catching the baby’s eye, making a funny face at him. He gazed at me for a long moment and then jammed his fist into his mouth. Lively eyes—Bonaparte’s eyes.

“But his spirit is that of his father,” the nanny said with a laugh, struggling to hold onto the baby as he squirmed to climb down. “Quite
wilful.
”

I reached into my basket and brought out a wooden doughnut with brightly coloured objects attached to it, dangled it in front of him. He reached for it, missed, and then reached for it again, closing his fingers around the ring.

“Do you think he’d mind?” I asked, patting my knees.

“He’s become particular,” she said, “but we could try. He doesn’t even let his mother hold him.” She shifted the baby onto my lap.

He was quiet, absorbed in the toy. In a reverie of emotion, I inhaled his sweet baby scent, and something else, a hint of lemon. “He smells like the Emperor,” I said, grinning (eyes stinging).

“He was with his papa just before we came. His papa who said to send you his regards.” She looked at me tenderly. “His papa who still misses you very much, Your Majesty,” she added quietly.

April 17, late afternoon.

Bonaparte leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. We were sitting, as had become our custom, on the curved stone bench in the rose garden, under the tulip tree. “I’ve sent for Eugène,” he told me. “I’m giving him command of the 4th Corps: eighty thousand men. He should be pleased.”

“Then it’s true, what everyone is saying, that there is going to be war?” Bonaparte’s silence gave me the answer. “Who will act as Regent while you are away?”

“I’m not sure who I can trust.”

April 22
—
Malmaison.