The Last Great Dance on Earth (30 page)

“Shush,” Petit said, frowning at his younger brother.

Tsar Alexandre laughed. (I was relieved.)

“I’m so happy to see you,” I said, embracing my daughter.

“Malmaison looks fine. Nothing was taken?”

“Thanks to the Tsar Alexandre,” I said, introducing my daughter. “Honoured,” she said coolly, with only a slight dip of her head. “Can I offer you both an ice and tea?” Hortense wasn’t helping! “Cossacks drink vodka,” Oui-Oui said. “Pardon?” Hortense said with a reproving look. “I’d be delighted,” the Tsar said. “And yes, if you had vodka …” Pulling the brim of the child’s cap down over his eyes.

“He impresses me,” I told Hortense after the Tsar had left. “He seems sincere in his desire to put an end to the conflicts.”

Hortense shrugged.

“You disapprove of my receiving him, don’t you?” “We discussed this at Navarre, Maman. I understand your reasoning perfectly.”

“Then why …?”

“It was disconcerting, I admit, seeing
you
entertaining the enemy.” “Hortense, Tsar Alexandre has the power to help you and your children.” As well as the power to ruin them. “There is nothing we need.”

“Now is not the time for idealism! Do you want to be exiled from France, never to return? It might be wise to be civil, at least for the sake of your boys. And, need I remind you, for Eugene’s sake,
my
sake—
Bonaparte’s
sake. Who do you think must make the decision about Bonaparte’s future? The Tsar—that man you treated so rudely.”

We both burst into tears. “Oh, forgive me, Maman! I’ve had such a terrible two days.”

And then it all came out: how after Hortense’s long and arduous trip to Blois, the Empress Marie-Louise had kept her waiting, how when she’d finally received Hortense, she’d told her that it would be best, perhaps, if Hortense left, because her father, the Emperor of Austria, was coming to get her, and how the one thing that
really
worried her was that her father might force her to follow Bonaparte into exile.

I sat for a moment in stunned silence. “But I thought Marie-Louise was sincerely attached to Bonaparte. I thought you said she couldn’t stand to be separated from him even for one day.”

“I thought so, too, Maman.”

Poor Bonaparte! Everyone is deserting him, even his wife. “And the boy?” The son he loves so much.

Hortense smiled sadly. “He was so happy to see Petit and Oui-Oui. You know what he told them? That he knows he’s not a king any more because he doesn’t have any pages. Madame de Montesquiou told me he cries for his papa.”

I stood and went to the fireplace, holding my hands out over the embers. “I’d go to Bonaparte in a minute if I could.”

Hortense came up behind me, held me in her arms. “I know you would, Maman.”

Early evening.

The sight of the horse cantering up the laneway puzzled me. The rider looked familiar, yet I could not place him. I went to the garden gate, my basket full of cut roses. “Moustache?” But I wasn’t sure. “What’s happened to your …?” I pointed to my upper lip.

“I cut it off and gave it to the Emperor,” he said, handing a letter to me. “I told him he already has my heart; he might as well have my namesake.”

How touching, I wanted to say, but could not speak. The letter was from Bonaparte.

Fontainebleau

I wrote you on the eighth of this month (it was Friday), but perhaps you never received my letter. The fighting was still going on so it may have been intercepted.

I won’t repeat what I said—I complained then about my situation. Today I am better. I’ve had an enormous weight lifted from me.

So many things have not been told. So many have a false opinion! I loaded benefits on thousands of poor wretches. What did they do for me? They betrayed me—yes, all of them. With the exception of good Eugène, so worthy of you and me.

Adieu, my dear Josephine. Resign yourself as I have. I will never forget you. N.

“Thank you,” I told Moustache, slipping a diamond ring off my hand. He’d aged during his years as Bonaparte’s courier; his face was lined with furrows. “How is he?”

“The Emperor?”

I leaned toward him. “Yes.” Tell me.

“He’s … not well, Your Majesty.” His voice had a pleading quality. I nodded. And?

He looked away. “I’m told he tried to poison himself.” There was a century of silence, heavy and ponderous and dangerous.
“Tried?”

“Apparently it was not strong enough.”

“Thank you, Moustache,” I said weakly, turning away.

Grand Dieu. I
must
get to him.

Very late, past 2:00 A.M., I think.

Perhaps I’m going mad. My emotions rage within me. Oh, Bonaparte! I feel so helpless—

Monday.

Shortly after dinner I called for my carriage. “Fontainebleau,” I told the driver.

“But Your Majesty …” It would take hours and the roads were not safe, Antoine said. “And what about an escort?” The men were just sitting down to eat.

“I won’t be needing them,” I informed him. “I’ll be travelling incognito.” Alone.

The leather mask was curiously reassuring. I was of the world, but not part of it. Lulled by the sway of the coach, I watched the sun set, the moon rise, the outline of the hills become liquid and dark. I sat as if in a trance, without thinking.

Nearing Fontainebleau, we stopped at a posting house to refresh the horses. “Where in Fontainebleau?” Antoine asked. “The château.”

“But …” The Emperor was inside the château. It would be heavily under guard.

“I am expected,” I said, and even believed it to be true.

As we neared the sentry hut by the main gate, I perceived my foolishness. There were Russian guards everywhere.

I thumped the ceiling of the carriage roof with my fist: stop, please! I had to reconsider. “Your Majesty?” my driver called down.

“Wait a moment, Antoine.” A few lights were visible in the château: Bonaparte’s suite. A light went out, then flickered.

Out, on, out, on—as if someone were pacing back and forth, back and forth. “Pull over to the side of the roadway,” I said, my eyes on that light. On. Out. On. Out. And then on.

I waited, listening to the frogs croaking—so very like Martinico, I thought, but for the wind, which carried no scent of the sea. “Home now,” I said, tears streaming.

April 19, 1814, Tuesday—Malmaison.

“The French ambassador to Russia wishes to speak to you, Your Majesty.”

Armand de Caulaincourt! At last. “Thank you for coming so promptly,” I told him, once civilities had been exchanged, once we’d made what has become a ritual acknowledgment that the world has changed, and that we are all rather deceitfully playing new roles.

“I’ve been intending to call in any case, Your Majesty.” His blue eyes looked sad, resigned.

“About the Emperor?”

There was a moment of embarrassed hesitation. Which emperor? “About the Tsar Alexandre,” he said apologetically.

“But you’ve seen Bonaparte? You’ve been to Fontainebleau?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I’ve been with him throughout his … this terrible ordeal.”

Ah! I thought, as if I had come upon a treasure. “I’ve been so anxious for news of him, Armand,” I said, dropping all formality. “I’ve been told terrible things.” I toyed with my handkerchief, already damp. “I’ve heard—” How did one ask such a thing? “Is it true, did the Emperor try to …?”

“I’m afraid so, Your Majesty.” Armand sat forward. “I don’t know if you are aware, but before the last Spanish campaign, the Emperor had taken to wearing a small sachet suspended from a ribbon around his neck.”

The sachet!

“It contained a deadly mix of belladonna and white hellebore, in case of capture in battle. He did consume it, but it was old, no longer potent.” He smiled ruefully. “You can imagine the Emperor’s frustration.”

“But it must have made him terribly sick.” I felt ill at the thought. Bonaparte is so sensitive. The least thing causes him terrible pain.

“Very.” Constant stuck his finger down Bonaparte’s throat, to make him retch, he told me. “Then I forced him to drink milk. We thought he was dying,” Armand said, his voice thick. “And
he
thought so, too. At the time he asked me to tell you that you’d been very much on his mind.”

The sound of a canary singing broke the poignant silence. Oh, Bonaparte! “When will he be leaving for Elba, Armand?” “Tomorrow.”

Oh, mon Dieu, so soon! “I
must see
him.” One last time.
Please.

Armand shook his head, not meeting my eyes. “I’m sorry, but it just isn’t possible. The Emperor hopes to be reunited with his wife and child. Anything that might jeopardize that reunion must not—” He stopped. It pained him to have to explain.

“I understand,” I lied, thinking with bitterness of Marie-Louise’s reluctance. “I would never do anything that might cause the Emperor more pain than he has already had to endure.”

A maid entered with a tray of refreshments. I took the opportunity to recover my composure. “You said you wished to speak to me about the Tsar Alexandre,” I said, lifting my cup of tea, testing the steadiness of my hand. I took a careful sip. “He paid me a call several days ago. I found him to be respectful and courteous.”

“As ambassador to Russia, I’ve come to know Tsar Alexandre well. Certainly he honours me with his confidence. The last time I saw him, he appeared dejected. He confided to me that your daughter had received him coldly.”

“Hortense and I had a talk after he left,” I told Armand, chagrined. “These are
difficult
times. Hortense is fierce in her loyalty. However, I believe she now understands the importance of diplomacy.”

“He would very much like to call again, Your Majesty, and has asked if this coming Friday might suit you, for supper.”

“Of course.” One did not refuse such a request.

“You are wise. The Emperor likely would have been executed had it not been for the Tsar’s intervention.”

Before he left, I gave Armand a small parcel of things to give to Bonaparte, things he would be able to take with him into exile: a miniature of myself (from the first year of our marriage), Hortense’s book of songs, some bulbs—including an asphodel lily, so helpful for his sensitive digestion. “And
this,”
I said, enclosing the talisman Charlemagne had worn, heading into battle. “Tell him …” I turned away. Tell him I’ll be waiting.

April 20, Wednesday.

In bed all day. I hardly have the strength to walk. I can’t bear the thought of Bonaparte’s isolation.

I imagine him saying farewell to his men, riding captive in a carriage, surrounded by Russian guards. They will likely take the road to Lyons, but this time there will be no triumphal arches, no cheering crowds. This time it will be different.

I see him so clearly! He sits motionless (for once), watching but unseeing. What are his thoughts?

He will travel incognito, no doubt, but even so people will line the road to watch him pass—their “little corporal,” this man they once worshipped as if he were God. Oh, such glory! Will the world ever see the like of it again? It’s like a dream now.

And, as in a dream, I see the people standing in silent witness, watching his carriage as it trundles by. They lower their heads, as if for a funeral procession. The veterans with their wooden legs—are they there? Yes, I see them with tears in their eyes.

He did not want it so.

Adieu, Bonaparte. My spirit-friend.

[Undated]

I have given away almost half of my wardrobe to the servants. They are
overjoyed. Tomorrow I will go through my papers. I’ve a ringing in my ears that prevents me from sleeping. I’ve so little strength. Where is he now?

April 22, Friday.

Tsar Alexandre came to dinner tonight. He played with the boys—Hortense was gracious and even charming. I watched as if from a distance, thinking of Bonaparte.

May 3.

A gloomy day. The Pretender—King Louis XVIII now—has entered Paris. I’m told that the crowd was large, but unenthusiastic. “He’s boring,” Carlotta reported, as if this were an evil thing. I listen with indifference, my thoughts elsewhere.

May 8.

Eugène has arrived from Milan. He held me in his arms, telling me not to worry so, telling me that he’d been to the palace to see the King. “Already?”

“It went better than I thought it would.”

If my children are taken care of, then I can rest, I thought. “I’ve been sorting through my things. I have something I’d like to give Auguste.” Eugène looked at my diamonds in astonishment. “Don’t worry, I’m giving quite a few to Hortense, as well. And I’ve a crate of things I’m putting aside for you.”

He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes filling. “Aren’t you going to need them, Maman?”

[Undated]

Hortense, Eugène, the Tsar Alexandre: young, ardent, idealistic. How ironic that they have formed a friendship. I sit by the fire and make polite
conversation, but my heart is far, far away, on a small Mediterranean island.
Elba.
He should be there by now. The sea.

May 12, Thursday.

“But Maman, you
must
come,” Hortense begged. She’s invited Tsar Alexandre to her country château at Saint-Leu and now she is anxious. “After all, aren’t
you
the one who insisted I entertain him? It won’t be the same without you.”

“I know,” I protested, “but—” The ringing in my ears has become constant, making sleep impossible. I’ve been having spells of dizziness and malaise. And melancholy—oh, melancholy.

“But you’ll come?”

“Of course, darling.” I smiled.

May 14
—
Saint-Leu.

I managed the journey to Saint-Leu well enough, but shortly after I arrived yet another of my spells came on. How they frighten me! I’m in the guestroom, recovering. Mademoiselle Avrillion has brought me an infusion of lemon water and orange flowers. The weather is cold and damp—it was foolish of me to have gone for a ride in Hortense’s open calèche. I can hear Tsar Alexandre’s and Eugène’s voices downstairs, Hortense’s musical laugh.

I must gather strength for the dinner hour. “Restore the balance,” Bonaparte used to say. Oh, Bonaparte!

May 15
—
Saint-Leu still.

The carriage is being prepared for my return to Malmaison. I’m still not well. While I have the energy, I want to record my conversation with the Tsar last night.

Before dinner, I sent word that I wished to see him. He came immediately to my room. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I fear we have tired you. Don’t stand,” he insisted, asking leave to take the chair closest to me.

“Tsar Alexandre, I am—”

“Your Majesty, I implore you—please call me Alex. I command it,” he said with a smile.

“Very well, then,
Alex.”

“I have a confession to make.” He placed his right hand over his heart. “I love your family.” I searched for a dry handkerchief, weakening again. “Oh, you see, I
have
wearied you.”

“Tsar—
Alex,
I mean, I must speak frankly. I am anxious about what is to become of Hortense and Eugène. I won’t be able to sleep until their futures are settled.”

“I will see to it immediately,” he said, kissing my hand.

If only I could believe him. Bonaparte trusted him, and was betrayed.

May 16, Monday—Malmaison.

Home again, but still
so
ill. A devastating weakness has come over me, an unbearable sorrow. Dr. Horeau prescribed an emetic, which has not helped.

May 23.

Eugène escorted me to my bedchamber after dinner tonight with guests. “I’m fine,” I insisted.

He put his hand on my forehead. “You must rest, Maman.” “I
will
rest, Eugène—once it’s determined how you and Hortense are to be looked after.”

“Maman, Maman, Maman.”

Hortense came to my room shortly after. “Eugène said you aren’t well.”

“I’m just a little tired.” “I’m calling the doctor.”

Tuesday.

“Dr. Horeau is right, you should not receive guests,” Mimi said. “You should be in bed.”

“Did Dr. Horeau tell you to say that?”

Mimi reached her hand out to feel my forehead but I ducked away. I had a fever, I knew, but it was slight. “Send the cook up,” I insisted. The Tsar and the Russian Grand Dukes would be coming for dinner. The menu had to be carefully considered. Any day now, they—”the Powers,” Mimi calls them—will make a decision about Hortense and Eugène.

May 26.

Slight fever, light-headed. I’m writing this in bed, covered with a terrible rash. Hortense wants to summon her doctor, but that would upset Dr. Horeau, I know. “I will do whatever you tell me,” I told him. Now I’ve a disgusting plaster on my throat. Still no word from “the Powers.”

[Undated]

Hortense looked puzzled when I told her I needed her to fetch a box hidden behind my hats. “Please—get it down for me,” I told her.

“Why don’t I get a manservant to help?”

“No,” I said, falling back against the damp pillows.

The oak strongbox
was
heavy, to judge by Hortense’s pink cheeks, the beads of perspiration along her hairline. She plunked it down on the bedside table. “No, on the bed,” I said, struggling to sit. “The key is in the upper left drawer of my escritoire—under the box of calling cards.”

The metal felt cold in my hands. I fiddled with the lock and eventually got it to open. And there it all was: my old journals, the Church marriage certificate, Bonaparte’s letters tied up in a scarlet ribbon. These I took out, carefully. Mere scraps of paper—yet such passion, such burning love. “I’d like you to put these in a safe spot,” I told Hortense. She leaned forward to reach for them. “But not yet,” I said, pulling back. I wasn’t ready to let them go. “And these,” I said, indicating the old journals. “I’d like you to burn them … when the time comes.” Hortense looked confused. “Can I trust you?” She made a tiny nod, her expression wary. “And one other thing: you must not read them.”

“Maman, why are you doing this?”

“Just
promise”

She exhaled with exasperation. “Yes, Maman,” she said, like a dutiful schoolgirl.

I smiled. “Do you know how much I love you?”

Her eyes filled. “Yes, Maman.” A sniff. Two. She pulled a handkerchief out of her bodice. “And I love you!”

I opened my arms and she fell into bed beside me, as if she were a girl again, not the woman she’d become. I held her close until her breathing steadied. The pendulum clock rang four gongs. And then, in the heavy silence that followed, I asked, very quietly, “Hortense, is there anything you want to tell me?”

“No, Maman, why do you ask?” she said, sitting up and wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands.

“It doesn’t matter.”
Remember that.

[Undated]

I can’t talk, but I can write. My throat! The children are so very dear. I see the distress in their eyes—the
fear.
I love them so much! At least they have each other.

Oh, Bonaparte, if only …