The Last Great Dance on Earth (18 page)

1:20 A.M.

On hearing a horse trot into the courtyard, I crept down the stairs in my dressing gown and cap, shielding the candle flame against the warm breeze that billowed the curtains. “Oh, Maman, it really is a little sad,” Eugène said, unbuckling his spurs. “He does care for her.”

“It’s a matter of policy, Eugène.”
Policy
has nothing to do with love and individual happiness. Policy has to do with peace and prosperity. Policy has to do with the well-being of a people, of a nation.

Eugène threw down his hat. “That’s what I told him. I explained that with power came responsibilities, that the Imperial family must set the example and that an illegal marriage could not be condoned.” All this in the mock voice of Bonaparte.

“And he accepted?”

“Not until I told him Papa would find him a buxom princess to marry.”

“You didn’t!” Both of us laughing.

A balmy evening, May 6—-Alessandria.

Jérôme and Bonaparte embraced. With promises of a princess and a crown someday soon, Jérôme has agreed to have his “marriage” declared null and void.

The young man set off this morning, waving his hat from the high road. “That scamp,” Bonaparte said, shaking his head, his eyes misty.

May 8
—
Milan.

We’re in Milan, in the royal palace facing the cathedral. How noisy it is! The thick stone walls shake (I swear) every time the bells ring, which is often. We’ve a water closet, but the arrangement of the rooms is awkward, our bedchamber uncomfortably small. Bonaparte is already pacing it off, deciding how it’s to be renovated.

May 24, close to 11:00 A.M.

Yesterday a mounted detachment was sent to Monza to bring back the Iron Crown. It’s a simple band of gold (not iron) about three inches high, decorated with a few irregular gems. Rather crude for a crown, I thought, but Bonaparte held it as if it were made of diamonds. “Charlemagne wore this crown,” he said reverently, placing it on his head to see if it would fit (it’s a little small).

“Is it decided?” I asked, shifting it forward on his head. “You’re to be King of Italy?” Certainly that’s what the Italians want, but England and the other Royalist nations won’t like it, that much is clear. Any indication that France is growing in power and prosperity alarms them.

“I tried to talk one of my brothers into it, but …” He made a gesture of futility. His brothers don’t want to give up their place in the line of succession for the French crown.

“So you will be King, but you’ll appoint someone to rule?” I asked, emboldened by the moment.

“Curious to know who that might be?” he teased, tugging my ear. And then, his countenance suddenly serious, he added, “Joachim was the obvious choice. He speaks the language and has commanded troops here.”

“You say he
was
the obvious choice.” Not any longer?

“Prince Bully-Boy is none too popular here, it would appear. He’s made a number of enemies.”

May 26—a superb day.

Yet another coronation behind us. Bonaparte shocked everyone by walking in carrying Charlemagne’s crown under his arm, like a hat.

Now everyone awaits the big announcement: whom will he name Viceroy?

June
7.

“You appointed
Eugène?”

“I thought this was what you wanted,” Bonaparte said, perplexed.

“Oh yes!” I said, but overcome by the realization that my son would no longer be living in Paris, or even in France; overcome knowing, suddenly, how very, very much I was going to miss him.

[Undated]

“Maman, I can’t sleep for worrying,” Eugène confessed. “I’m only twenty-three.”

“You have the best of teachers. Bonaparte has so much confidence in you.”

“I’m going to miss you and Hortense—and what about her boys? Little Napoleon will forget me.”

“We’ll just have to find you a wife,” I teased.
Soon.

July 6—Genoa.

As feared, England has joined with Austria and Russia to wage war against us—yet another Royalist coalition determined to put an end to the French Republic.
^*

“I must leave for Paris immediately,” Bonaparte said, ordering the travel carriage. I begged to return with him. “There will be no stops,” he warned. “I’m going to travel night and day.”

Yes, I nodded, ringing for a maid to pack my trunks. Now I am ready;
he
is not.

July 11—Fontainebleau.

We arrived at Fontainebleau before anyone expected us. The flustered cooks managed to find some tough mutton for us to eat.

Immediately I fell into bed (my feet swollen) and slept for hours, waking dazed. People can’t believe that we travelled from Genoa in eighty-five hours—a
record
—and this with a three-hour delay on Mont Cenis due to a storm. “This comet called Bonaparte,” Hortense once said. This comet indeed! Sometimes I feel I’m hanging on for dear life.

Milan
Chère Maman,

You will be pleased to know that I’m following up on your suggestion to establish a nursery-garden in order to supply trees to all my kingdom. Fruit trees are unknown here. Any recommendations?

I’ve also been thinking of creating a museum to display the fine works of art hidden away in the cellars of the monasteries and churches. I have so many dreams: of a library, a museum of natural history, a medical museum (don’t laugh). I think a school of design might do well here, too.

I get daily letters from Papa. I’m learning so much from him.
^*

A million kisses. I miss you and Hortense terribly. Kiss my nephews for me, remind them of their lonely uncle.

Your Prince Eugène, Viceroy of Italy

Note—You’ll be happy to know that my efforts to reduce the violence in the city have already had results.

July 19—Paris.

Caroline flashed a smile. “Joachim and I wish to convey sincere congratulations on your son’s appointment as Viceroy of Italy,” she said, her fingertips pressed together. “Don’t we, Joachim?”

“The Emperor is flawless in his wisdom.” Joachim doffed his pink hat and bowed, straightening with difficulty.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” Bonaparte demanded. “Better get in shape. We’ll be riding out soon.” Riding out to war again.

“Oh, it’s nothing!” Caroline said, answering for her husband—but I’ve since discovered the cause of Joachim’s leg injury. On learning of Eugene’s promotion, he broke his sword over his knee in a rage.

September
2,
1805, late afternoon—Malmaison.

It has been some time since I opened these pages. Anger impels me to pick up a quill once again. Anger and fear, I confess. This afternoon Caroline called to announce in a tone of victory that Joachim has been named Bonaparte’s second-in-command in the coming campaign. “How surprising that Louis was not chosen, or even Eugène,” she said, purring like a cat with her claws out.

“Eugène is quite busy governing Italy.” And doing so well!

“It must be difficult without a wife,” she said, helping herself to a fistful of aromatic pastilles.
“Speaking
of which, I heard the most astonishing rumour. It’s being said that Eugène is going to marry Princess Auguste of Bavaria.”

“Princess Auguste is betrothed to Prince Charles,” I said evenly.

I was so relieved when she left! Whatever marriage negotiations are undertaken, the last person I would want to know about them is Caroline.

September 9.

Austria has invaded Bavaria. “They must be stopped,” Bonaparte said, closeting himself with the Minister of War. Soon, I know, he will announce that we’re leaving. I’ve already sent silver, linen and furniture on ahead to Strasbourg.

September 23, the first day of the Republican New Year.

We leave in the morning, before dawn. The carriages,
fifty
of them, are lined up. I’ve been reviewing the lists. Bonaparte has just told me to make sure the telescope and compass have been packed. Which reminds me: dentifrice powder (for me) and wart paste (for Bonaparte).

I must make sure that the cooks prepare dishes we can take with us. Bonaparte doesn’t believe in stopping for something as unnecessary as eating, much less answering a call of nature.

September 26, I think.

We’re in Strasbourg, another flying trip. Keeping up with Bonaparte will be the death of me! We left at four in the morning and travelled without stopping for two days. At each posting house, the wheels had to be cooled with buckets of water. But no, I will
not
complain, lest Bonaparte command I stay behind.

And as to staying behind—the carriage carrying all the kitchen utensils broke down en route. Of the fifty carriages (the dust was terrible), only five were able to keep up.

Already Bonaparte is at work, organizing an attack on the Austrians. “Speed is my weapon.”
^*

October 1—Strasbourg.

Bonaparte left this morning. “A kiss—for luck,” he said, pulling on his battered hat. It has been five years since he rode to battle. He was anxious, I knew, and eager.

“I will be thinking of you.” Praying for him. (This I did not say.) “I put barley water in the berline—in the top right-hand cabinet.” That and a number of other remedies that helped “keep the balance,” as he put it.

“We won’t be long,” he called out as the carriage pulled forward. “I promise you.”

12 Vendémiaire 11:00 P.M., Munich

The enemy has been beaten, lost its head, and everyone is telling me that it was the happiest campaign, the shortest and the most brilliant ever made. The weather is terrible. I change clothes twice a day because of the rain. I love and embrace you. N.

October 23
—
Strasbourg.

Great Patience, Little Patience, Windmill. Every night I lay out the cards, praying for victory, fearing defeat. Tonight I won all three games: “They are victorious,” I announced to my ladies. A short time later a breathless courier was announced: Victory! I gave him my pearl ring, so great was my joy.

27 Vendémiaire, Elchingen

I did what I intended. I destroyed the Austrian army. Now I’m going after the Russians. They are lost. Adieu, a thousand kisses everywhere. N.

Yesterday I made thirty-three thousand men put down their arms. I took sixty or seventy thousand prisoners, more than ninety flags and two hundred cannon. Never in the annals of military history has there been such a catastrophe. I have a bit of a cold. N.

October
27—
Strasbourg.

The wife of Bonaparte’s chamberlain stood with her hands clasped in front of her. “I have a message from the Emperor, Your Majesty,” she told me.

She had just come from Munich. I’d been expecting to hear something—something too delicate to entrust to a military courier. Something to do with the spoils of war. Something to do with the hand of a princess.

“The Emperor asked me to tell you that he has discussed a certain matter with King Maximilian of Bavaria.”

“Indeed?” I said, opening my fan. No doubt King Maximilian was grateful to Bonaparte for liberating his country from the Austrians: but
how
grateful? “And did he say King Maximilian was amenable?”

“Everything has been arranged, Your Majesty,” she said with a bow.

I’m to travel to Munich, she said, giving me Bonaparte’s detailed instructions itemizing exactly how much I’m to spend on gifts, whose carriage is to precede my own and whose is to follow. I’m to be heralded in every town by the ringing of bells, cannonading, drumming and trumpeting. I’m to accept the homage as my due. I am the wife of the victor.

November 21, 1805, Paris
Chère Maman,

Paris has been dispirited without you and the Emperor. Louis is with his regiment on the north coast, in case England invades. I am alone with my angels right now, but not for long. My dear friend Mademoiselle Adèle Auguié has agreed to be my lady’s maid—she’ll be starting next week. You can imagine how happy this makes me.

We read
Le Moniteur
for the names of the injured. Louis will want information pertaining to his aide-de-camp, Monsieur Flahaut. He was wounded at Lambach. Do you know anything?

Little Napoleon sends his love. He is sweet with Petit, who has just begun to crawl. They both suffered a bit of an ague that was going around, but are recovering well. My own health is improving with each day. I’ve been taking your tonics—don’t worry.

Your loving daughter, Princess Hortense

Note—I enclose an account of the disaster in Spain: twenty ships captured!
^*
Fortunately the Emperor’s victories in Germany help to console us for the loss. It is said all our luck is with him. It is also said that you are his luck, Maman.

December 4
—
a posting house somewhere en route to Munich.

Karlsruhe, Stuttgart, Ulm, Augsburg. Everywhere I go, I cast out gifts—
ebony snuffboxes, enamel miniatures, gems of every size and hue. I feel like a fairy godmother. (And I love it.)

December 5, Munich—snow, very cold.

I’m in Munich finally, at the royal palace—called the Residenz. This is a gay country, although curious. The women pile flowers on top of their heads with feathers and bits of chiffon tucked in, using an enormous number of little pins with diamond heads on them. And no face paint, no Spanish Red, and many wearing stays and awkward hoops. Their carriages, much like our old mail coaches, are unusually wide just so that the ladies in their hoops can fit in. (Even then it isn’t easy.) Sad-looking nags are harnessed to the carriages with rope. Turning a corner is, of course, difficult.

The Residenz itself is more like a city than a palace. How many courtyards—seven? There are eight galleries and even a museum, I’m told. It’s a maze, each apartment suite decorated in a different era: Renaissance, baroque. Mine is luxurious rococo. We have been greeted like royalty.

Well, we
are
royalty, I remind myself. However, walking these ancient halls hung with the portraits of illustrious ancestors dating back centuries makes me feel very much what I am, in fact:
a parvenue.

Tomorrow the receptions begin. I’m anxious to meet King Maximilian, Princess Auguste’s father.

December 6—Munich.

“Please, call me Max,” King Maximilian said in flawless French. “Everyone else does, even my servants.” He laughed gaily.

What a charming man! Tall, handsome, a noble face (in spite of a ruddy complexion), robust for his age, which I take to be about fifty.

He was guarded, however, on the subject of his daughter. “She will agree, I am quite sure.”

“She has
not
agreed?”

King Max threw up his hands. “I can’t force her.”

I’ve since made inquiries and discovered that Princess Auguste has refused to break her engagement to Prince Charles. She is encouraged in this by her stepmother. As well, the Princess’s governess and an aunt are said to be opposed to marriage with Eugène.

All this has me terribly worried. Tomorrow I’ve been invited to dine with King Max and his family. I’ve laid out my gifts, sent for a jeweller.

Chastulé will accompany me: the Rochefoucauld name will inspire respect. I’ve instructed her that she is to entertain our hosts with stories of what a good horseman my handsome Eugène is, how he excels at the hunt, what a fine ruler he is. (I’d prefer to tell them how much Eugène loves children, how gentle and kind-hearted he is, but I’m not sure that they would approve.) Chastulé will praise my son and I will modestly protest. My battle plan.

December 8.

Oh, my goodness, she
is
lovely. Tall (I made sure to mention how very tall Eugène is), and
so
beautiful, but in an entirely natural, unstudied way. Seventeen years old with a sylphlike figure—she reminds me of Hortense. A lovely complexion, big dark eyes—
soft
eyes. Shy, gracious—I saw my grandchildren in her lovely arms.

But she is, as well, loyal. She is fond of her pudgy cousin and refuses to break her engagement to him. And headstrong, too, for she resists her father’s will.

[Undated]

“Ha. It’s the three women we must first convince, Your Majesty,” Chastulé said.

The three women:
the stepmother (“Madame Hard-face,” Chastulé calls her), the governess (“Madame Fat-face”) and the aunt (“Madame Old-face”).

“Chastulé, you’re cruel,” I protested, laughing.

14 Frimaire, Austerlitz

I’ve concluded a truce. The Battle of Austerlitz is the best I have ever fought. Forty-five flags, more than one hundred and fifty cannon and thirty thousand prisoners—plus twenty thousand killed, a horrible spectacle.

Tsar Alexandre is in despair. He showed neither talent nor bravery.
^*

Finally peace has returned to the continent. One can only hope that peace will now come to the world.

Adieu, my good friend. I very much long to embrace you. N.

December 19—Munich.

Caroline has arrived. We kissed and pretended to be happy to see one another. I’m in dread of her finding out about the delicate negotiations going on right now.

[Undated]

Auguste is holding firm. “What do you think it will take?” I asked Chastulé, discouraged.

“To get the Princess to consent?” Chastulé made herself comfortable in one of the enormous armchairs, swinging her feet back and forth like a child. “Well, for one thing, the Three Faces object because there’s no crown,” she said. “Ha. Yes, a crown
always
helps.”

The crown of Italy. “Of course,” I said, shrugging, “but—”

“Or if your son were to be named
heir
to the crown. Even King Max objects that Eugène is ‘merely’ a French gentleman.”

“I thought King Max favoured this match.”

“He has consented to it, Your Majesty, but that does not mean he favours it.”

“But Eugène is a prince, Chastulé. How can King Max say he’s ‘merely’ a gentleman?”

“Prince-parvenu,
and not even the Emperor’s son.”

“So if Bonaparte were to formally adopt Eugène as his son and declare him heir to the crown of Italy …?” “That would help.”

I paused, smiling slowly.

“If that’s what it takes, Chastulé, then perhaps that’s what the Princess should demand.”

December 21.

“Ha. The Three Faces are very long this morning, Your Majesty.”

My heart jumped. “The Princess has accepted?”

“Not quite, but she
has
agreed to consider breaking off her engagement to Prince Charles.”

“In order to marry Eugène?”

“Not quite. I’m told there are
conditions.”
Chastulé grinned.

December
23—
Munich.

“Is Princess Auguste betrothed?” Caroline asked as we dined tonight.

“Yes,” I said, lying with conviction. “To Prince Charles.”

December
31,
early—not yet 9:00 A.M.

Bonaparte arrived just before midnight last night—chilled, weary and
furious
that the wedding contract has not yet been signed. “But she hasn’t agreed to it, Bonaparte!”

4:20 P.M.

“I’m sending for Eugène,” Bonaparte announced. “She agreed?”
Finally!

“But on two conditions: one, that I adopt Eugène, and two, that he be made heir to the throne of Italy.” “And so …?”

Bonaparte shrugged. “And so I said yes,” he replied with a sheepish smile.

January 1, 1806, New Year’s Day—a Wednesday (not Primidi—hurrah! No more Republican calendar).
^*

Caroline has had a nervous fit and taken to her bed. “I wouldn’t go to too much trouble, Your Majesty,” Chastulé said as I was preparing a basket of healing tinctures and salves to take to her. “It’s said Princess Caroline is indisposed because of Prince Eugène’s engagement, because now your son’s children will take precedence over her little monsters. It’s even said she tried to convince the Emperor that he should divorce you and marry Princess Auguste himself.”

Mon Dieu, that girl …

January 6, Kings’ Day—Monday.

Now Auguste is ill. The wedding will have to be postponed, we’ve been told. Bonaparte sent Dr. Corvisart over to “help.”

“I could find nothing amiss,” the doctor reported back.

“The girl is dissembling,” Bonaparte said, smiling at her nerve.