The Second Empress (33 page)

“We’re to celebrate his victory tomorrow,” I whisper. “And the night after that. And all the nights until January.”

She presses her hand to her stomach. “He can’t mean it.”

But the emperor has issued a command.

And so we dance. While Prussia declares war on France, courtiers fill the ballroom in their finest clothes. And when Great Britain, Russia, and Sweden all follow, we continue to waltz. There are no young men. They have all been wounded or killed in battle. But the old courtiers who were unfit for war partner the young women who are mourning their husbands.

When Pauline returns from whichever spa she has been hiding at, the nights grow longer. There is no stopping the Bonapartes. They will dance until there is nothing left, not even a floor beneath them.

The ministers come to me for help, but there is nothing useful I can tell them. “What is he going to do?” they ask. “Is he preparing for war?”

But Napoleon is silent. He dines, and sleeps, and spends long hours in Pauline’s lavish apartments. I know I should want to keep him away from her, but I’m grateful when I don’t have to see him, even if I can no longer spend the days with my son. Then on New Year’s, during the waltz, he tells me, “Your father has betrayed us and joined the nations waging war against France.”

I stop dancing, but he wants to continue.

“I know your loyalty is to me and our empire. But a crushing blow will have to be dealt to anyone who rises against me. I’m sorry.” He cups my chin in his palm, and my heart beats faster. Is he going to imprison me? What about Franz? Tears well in my eyes, and he wipes them away with the back of his hand. “My kind, tenderhearted empress,” he says pityingly.

“What’s going to happen?”

“I will have to ask something very difficult of you.”

I can no longer hear the music. Even Pauline, who is standing near the Duc de Feltre and watching us speak, fades from my sight. “Yes?”

“In April, when I leave to fight your father, I will need you to be regent.”

To the empress at Malmaison
.

1812
.

I have received your letter of the tenth of June. I see no objections to your going to Milan, near the vice-queen. You will do well to go incognito. You will be very warm
.

My health is very good. Eugène is well, and conducts well. Never doubt my interest in your welfare, and my affection
.

Napoleon

Malmaison, 1812
.

You restore me to life again, my dear Hortense, in assuring me that you have read the letters from the emperor to the empress. She is very kind in having shown them to you. I feel infinitely grateful to her for the friendship she manifests for you. I acknowledge that I am all the time exceedingly anxious. Why does not Eugène write? I am compelled, in order to calm my agitation, to believe that the emperor forbids him to write, that there may be no private letters
.

Goodnight, my dear daughter. I embrace you with my whole heart, and with my whole heart I love you
.

Joséphine

1812
.

My good mother—I write you from the field of battle. The emperor has gained a great victory over the Russians. The battle lasted thirteen hours. I commanded the right, and hope that the emperor will be satisfied
.

I can not sufficiently thank you for your attentions and kindness to my little family. You are adored at Milan, as everywhere else. They write me most charming accounts of you, and you have won the love of every one with whom you have become acquainted
.

Adieu. Please give tidings of me to my sister. I will write to her tomorrow
.

Your affectionate son, Eugène

C
HAPTER
26

PAULINE BORGHESE

Tuileries Palace, Paris January 1813

I
LIE BACK ON THE CHAISE AND LOOK UP AT THE CEILING
of the Tuileries Palace. I try to breathe deep, but it doesn’t matter. In Saint-Domingue, in Milan, in Fontainebleau—this part’s always the same. I spread my legs wider and wait for him to finish, and once he lowers the blanket and clears his throat, I know he’s done. He waits for me to compose myself, and when I’ve pulled down my dress and put on my slippers, Dr. Halle begins.

“I would like to ask an extremely personal question, Your Highness. How many lovers have you had in the last week?”

I glance at my physician, Dr. Peyre, who insisted that this gynecologist come today. I rise from the chaise, and Dr. Halle holds up his hands. “This is important, Your Highness.”

“And what are you implying?”

“If you can just answer the question—”

Dr. Peyre, whose face has gone red, interjects. “If you answer his question, it will help,” he admits.

I try to think.
Who knows
? “Two? Three?”

“Different men?” he confirms.

“Of course. You asked about lovers, not liaisons.” The doctors exchange looks, and I take my seat. “I’m not dying?”

“No.” But Dr. Halle hesitates slightly. “You have
furor uterinus
.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You have overused your vaginal canal.”

I wait for him to laugh. And when both men appear serious, I am through. “Get out!” They jump from their seats and I shriek loudly, “Out!”

“Your Highness—”

“I won’t hear another word.” Paul appears at the door, and I point at the doctors. “Take them away. I don’t want to see either man again.”

“But Your Highness,” Dr. Peyre pleads. He has been with me for ten years.

“Not even you!” I’m so angry, I’m trembling.

“What did they do?” Paul demands when he returns.

“They wanted to convince me … they wanted to pretend …” I can’t even say it. I can’t be bothered. What do these men know anyway? They all say something different. One is sure I have the clap, another swears it’s cancer of the stomach. Now I’m a nymphomaniac. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Who is Marie-Louise’s doctor? The handsome blond?”

“Dr. Espiaud?”

“Yes! Tell him I want to see him tomorrow.”

Paul hesitates. “Can it wait?”

I take a deep breath and nod. “I’m finished being probed for today.”

But Paul returns with Dr. Espiaud before dinner. I wonder if any other man on earth would have done this. Perhaps de Canouville. He might have.

“Your chamberlain tells me you’re in a bad way,” the doctor says, speaking from the door of my salon. He is tall and blond, with the largest teeth I’ve ever seen. If my little Italian artist, Canova, could see him, he’d sculpt him as a god. “May I come in?”

I step back to let him pass, then squeeze Paul’s hand tightly after the doctor steps inside. “Thank you,” I whisper, so glad he is with me.

I can see Espiaud’s surprise as he enters. The room is practically bare, stripped of its priceless furnishings; almost nothing is left except the couches and a chaise.

“Is Your Highness planning a trip?” he asks.

“The doctors tell me I should be somewhere warm. Next week I’ll be in Nice.”

But he casts his gaze around the room, and I know what he’s thinking. A princess doesn’t pack her marble urns and paintings for a simple trip to the south. The imperial family is preparing for something else.

“Where should we have the exam, Your Highness?”

“The salon will do. My chamberlain will wait outside until it’s finished.”

Paul excuses himself, and I take my place on the couch.

“I have spoken with Dr. Peyre—”

“That man knows nothing.”

“It may be. But he’s given me your history. From this exam, I will draw my own conclusions.”