The Second Empress: A Novel of Napoleon's Court

by Michelle Moran

  In the rows behind me, I count half a dozen—if not more—of Pauline’s former lovers. There is Gréoux, who only lasted a week, and the Comte de Forbin, among many others. I wonder that Pauline doesn’t blush to see them all here in one place. But that’s not her way. More likely than not, she’ll feel some sort of triumph to know that they are seeing her in such a glittering state.

  In front of me, Madame Mère weeps softly into her handkerchief, tears of joy staining her cheeks. And as the doors are pulled open once again by a pair of armed guards, she whispers reverently, “There he is!”

  The emperor appears in the dimly lit chapel wearing a shirt so heavily embroidered in gold that I am certain his arms will be sore come morning. There is a murmur of surprise as he approaches the chancel, and when he reaches the first pew, where I am standing with his mother, I can see why everyone is shocked: his shoes, which have always been the plainest of military boots, are encrusted with yellow diamonds and gold. I have never seen him dressed as he is now: in a black velvet hat and a long satin cloak embellished with golden bees. The crown jewels of France anoint his wrists, his neck, even his cap—the transformation is so complete, it’s hard to recognize the man beneath the trappings.

  Madame Mère watches her son, and I recognize Pauline’s devotion in her adoring gaze. But it’s the second empress of France who takes my breath away. She enters the salon in a gown of shimmering silver tulle. The velvet manteau that trails behind her is lined with ermine and stitched in silver thread. An intricate veil of Alençon lace covers her blond hair, and the diamond tiara that holds it in place catches the light from a hundred different angles. She is completely calm, as if the hundreds of courtiers and the Gobelins tapestries were simply not present. Not even Joséphine had such composure, but then I suppose this is the difference between a wife raised on the tiny island of Martinique and a princess raised in Schönbrunn Palace. She approaches the chancel with even steps, and when she reaches the emperor, she nods formally, as if greeting an equal.

  “Like one of Botticelli’s angels.” Madame Mère sighs, but I can see from Pauline’s face that she doesn’t share this view. She is standing behind Marie-Louise in a white silk gown and carrying the bride’s manteau alongside four other queens, which must certainly be a first in history. There is her sister Caroline, the queen of Naples; Napoleon’s sister-in-law Julie Clary, the queen of Spain; Joséphine’s daughter, Hortense, the queen of Holland; and Napoleon’s sister-in-law Catharina, the queen of Westphalia. None of the women appear particularly pleased, but Pauline is the only one whose face is set in an unsightly scowl. And when she turns to me, her expression is so unpleasant, I smile.

  “How can you laugh about this?” she demands when the ceremony is over and the Cardinal Grand Almoner has pronounced them man and wife. We are on the steps of the Louvre, where the imperial carriage will arrive to take the new empress and her husband to Pauline’s home. “I’ve turned the Château de Neuilly upside down for that woman,” she whispers harshly. “And do you know what I get for it? That.”

  I follow her gaze to a tall man in white silk pants and a satin cape. Camillo Borghese. He’s speaking with one of the few cardinals who came for this ceremony. Of the thirty who were invited, only seventeen appeared, since the pope is still refusing to recognize this marriage. The cardinal’s face looks troubled, and though he’s clearly saying something of great import, Camillo has his fingers spread apart and is inspecting his own rings.

  “I have to introduce him as my husband,” she tells me. “The entire world has to know I’m married to a fool. And do you have any idea how much this wedding fête is costing me?”

  She studies me with her great dark eyes, and I wish I could convince her that she doesn’t have to live like this—from petty jealousy to petty jealousy. She was a calmer, happier woman in Haiti. “She’ll be the mother of your niece or nephew someday. If you want to remain in Fontainebleau as the emperor’s hostess,” I say purposefully, since this is the new empress’s job, “I would take care to make very good friends with Marie-Louise.”

  I can see the rebuttal forming on her lips. Then she looks across the courtyard to her brother and his wife. “She’s a birthing cow. That’s the only reason she’s wanted. We have nothing in common to talk about.”

  The cocher opens the glass door of the carriage, and once we’re inside, a thought occurs to me. “You should ask about her dog,” I say with studied casualness. “Queen Caroline made her leave her spaniel in Braunau.”

  She sits forward. “What?”

  “She said everything Austrian must stay.”

  “A dog is not Austrian!” Pauline exclaims, looking incredulous. As I had hoped, she is considering how she would feel if anyone tried to part her from Aubree. In a life filled with constant movement and loss, her Italian greyhound is the one constant that has never disappeared. Jewels, houses, lovers—all of these things have come and gone. Even Dermide, the son she named after a character in one of Ossian’s Celtic poems, died when he was only eight years old. “What is the matter with her?” she says, almost to herself.

  I keep my silence as the carriage rolls toward Château de Neuilly, but I can think of half a dozen things wrong with Queen Caroline.

  “She will get that dog back,” Pauline says with certainty. “I will see to it tonight.”

  “He is a spaniel named Sigi.”

  Pauline looks out the window at the setting sun, and her eyes fill with tears. “I suppose this could be a blessing,” she says at last. “My brother’s determined to get a child on her this year. If I’ve befriended Marie-Louise, he’s more likely to listen to me when I tell him he must divorce her after she’s given birth.”

  I sit back against my seat, and the shock on my face must be plain. “She’s the daughter of the Austrian emperor—”

  “And my brother doesn’t belong with her!”

  It frightens me how she can be so certain.

  “Your Highness,” I begin, and I hope my voice is calmer than my heart, “any thoughts he has of immortality are in the form of heirs, not new kingdoms. Your dream of living in Egypt—”

  “I hear she’s panting after some general back in Schönbrunn Palace,” she says, cutting me off. The carriage stops before the torchlit courtyard of Château de Neuilly, and Pauline takes out a hand mirror to check her reflection. “So in a year or so—”

  “She’ll have a child and be sent back to Austria?” If Pauline has set her mind on her brother’s divorce, she will needle and infer and pour a hundred different poisons into his ear until he believes the idea is actually his own. I watched her turn his mind against Joséphine.

  The cocher opens the door, but I grab the handle and pull it shut. “Not yet!” I turn to Pauline, who is flawless in her ivory gown and pearls. “You are being very unattractive, Your Highness.”

  She has never been told this in her life. She is utterly still, and I’m reminded of statues in the Louvre: pale, smooth-bodied, and completely cold.

  “What’s to be gained here?” I demand. She stares out the window at the long row of servants helping the guests from their carriages. I lean forward, and we are so close that I can smell the faint scent of her soap. “What? Did you think he would make you queen?” When she doesn’t respond, I add heatedly, “You’re his sister.”

  “Cleopatra married her brother.”

  “That was two thousand years ago!”

  “But it’s what I want.”

  I search her face to see if she’s in earnest. Then she points out the window to the towering figure of Château de Neuilly. Pauline has turned it into a glittering fairyland, with small white lanterns hanging from the trees and torchlights lining every winding path.

  “In five hundred years, this will still be standing. And the Egyptian artifacts I’ve collected inside will last even longer. A thousand, maybe two thousand years.”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with—”

  “I have to know that people will remember
me. If you can just wait—” She reaches out, and this time I allow her to press her palm against my cheek. “You know how I feel about you, mon ange. You keep me calm. And happy.”

  “So why do you need other men?”

  Her eyes expand; how can it be the first time I’ve ever challenged her this way? “Because they don’t mean anything!”

  “De Canouville?”

  She blushes. “He’s a child. A innocent child.” But she is smiling wolfishly as she says it, imagining his dimpled face and earnest gaze.

  “What about Napoleon?”

  For a moment, she stops breathing. “I told you,” she says, and her voice has an edge. “You are the one I want to grow old with. But in the meantime—” She pulls me close to her, then kisses my cheek briefly and leans back. “Let’s entertain as we’ve never entertained before!”

  She opens the carriage door, and outside half a dozen people begin calling her name.

  “Your Highness!” two young women shout, then her lover de Canouville sees her, and the officer actually breaks into a run. “Pauline!” he cries, and when she turns to him, his eyes light up like a child’s. “You put Venus to shame tonight.”

  “I should hope every night,” she says, teasing him.

  “We were waiting for your carriage door to open. Everyone was wondering what was happening.” He looks over at me, and the suspicion is clear.

  “Did you think I’d miss my own soirée? But tell me”—her voice lowers—“has my brother arrived?”

  This is the moment the royal calèche comes bearing down the drive. Everyone stops, then Napoleon emerges with Empress Marie-Louise. Immediately Pauline is at her brother’s side, both de Canouville and I forgotten.

  “Welcome to Château de Neuilly,” she announces, and for the first time since she has come to France, I see Marie-Louise’s eyes widen. Musicians have begun playing Austrian music from somewhere inside, and the sound of women’s laughter reaches us over the clink of glasses and plates.

  “How did you find this music?” the empress asks. “It’s old—very old. It’s … wonderful.”

  I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve heard one of my mother’s songs. Years now. Napoleon gives Pauline a congratulatory smile. “Pauline could turn water into wine, if she put her mind to it. Shall we go inside?” Napoleon asks. “There is nothing like this château in all of France. My sister has exceptional taste.”

  As we cross the castle’s threshold, I try to imagine seeing Château de Neuilly through a foreigner’s eyes. Every surface that isn’t marble is carved from polished mahogany. Magnificent cut-glass chandeliers cast a golden sheen across the thickly woven carpets. Books, thousands and thousands of them, line the walls of every room we pass. “Have you read all these?” she asks.

  Pauline actually grins. “Almost.”

  “There are thousands of them.”

  “Her Highness is a great reader,” de Canouville says proudly, though no one has thought to introduce him to the empress.

  She searches our faces for an explanation, and it occurs to me that her blue eyes are larger than anyone’s I’ve ever seen. But when no introduction is forthcoming, she clears her throat delicately and turns to me. “Do you have a favorite author, Monsieur Moreau?”

  “Homer,” I say. “And Your Majesty?”

  She hesitates. “Genlis.”

  “The romance writer?” Pauline asks incredulously.

  Napoleon frowns. “Why not?”

  “Because you’ve said it yourself!” Pauline exclaims. “It’s—”

  “Very addictive,” I say, before she can add something truly insulting.

  Marie-Louise is shocked. “So you’ve read her?”

  I shrug. “There are many more books in France than in Haiti. If I could, I would explore them all.”

  We have reached the salon, and a dozen people rush forward. All around us are calls of “Your Majesty!” At first Marie-Louise tries to greet each person separately, but there are too many, so she smiles politely and nods.

  “Isn’t anyone interested in me?” Napoleon demands.

  No one in the salon is fool enough to believe that he might be joking. Immediately, the great press of women fluttering around the empress move toward the emperor. Marie-Louise glances at me, then turns to de Canouville.

  “So you must be Camillo Borghese,” she says, and there’s a moment of tense silence.

  “God no. This is de Canouville. Unfortunately, my husband could not attend this evening.”

  “Perhaps she forgot his invitation.” De Canouville winks.

  Marie-Louise looks from Pauline to de Canouville, as if this might be some kind of jest.

  “The Prince Borghese has taken ill,” I explain. “De Canouville is Her Highness’s good friend.”

  “Her very good friend,” de Canouville adds crassly, and Pauline rewards his obnoxiousness with a kiss.

  For a moment, the empress doesn’t know where to look, so she keeps her eyes on an Egyptian painting.

  “From my collection,” Pauline says.

  De Canouville snorts. “She has entire rooms of this stuff. When the emperor conquered Egypt, he brought back every treasure he could find. Would you like to see them?”

  Pauline shoots him a look, but de Canouville is oblivious, and the empress, who is desperate to escape the crowds, nods at once. “I would love to.”

  Pauline cuts through a group of admiring women to interrupt Napoleon. “Your wife would like a tour of Château de Neuilly.”

  So the five of us move from room to room, and Marie-Louise exclaims over all of Pauline’s treasures. Her pleasure seems genuine. We visit the guest chamber, with its tub so large you could bathe an elephant, and Pauline’s bed, so tiny it might be for a porcelain doll.

  “You sleep here?” Marie-Louise has no idea how happy this question will make Pauline.

  “Her Highness is a petite fleur,” de Canouville answers. “A delicate bed for a delicate princess.”

  Napoleon lowers his brows, but de Canouville is already making his way toward the salon. “Feel this,” he says, pointing to the blue velvet couches. “There’s nothing finer in all of France. Our emperor himself gifted these to Pauline. And out there is the grotto.” He opens a pair of double doors and inhales deeply of the fresh air. “Have you ever seen a grotto like this? Fountains, statues, flowers, urns.”

  Despite herself, the new empress laughs.

  “Shall we take her to the Egyptian galleries?” de Canouville asks. He looks from face to face, but only Marie-Louise is smiling.

  We pass through a hall filled with portraits of Aubree, and the empress halts. “Who did these?” she wants to know.

  Napoleon is incredulous. “The dog paintings?”

  “They’re wonderful.” Tears fill the empress’s eyes, but she blinks them away and inspects one depicting Aubree in the grotto.

  “Richard Cosway.” Pauline’s smile is genuine. “He’s my favorite artist. No one captures Aubree like he does.”

  “They’re very good.” The empress steps closer, to get a better view. “Is she a greyhound?”

  “An Italian greyhound. It’s a smaller breed. I can bring her out if—”

  “We’re here to see the galleries, not a zoo,” Napoleon says shortly.

  I’ve often thought he is jealous of his sister’s dog.

  Pauline’s voice turns to ice. “The galleries are in here.”

  As we enter the first chamber, Marie-Louise seems overwhelmed. In a château filled with opulence, these galleries are the finest. The walls are covered in paintings taken from Cairo, and innumerable treasures fill endless polished-glass cabinets and wooden shelves. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” the empress whispers.

  I remember how astounded I was the first time I saw the hundreds of figurines lining the walls, some lapis, others alabaster. Oil lamps, combs, golden necklaces, and bejeweled boxes dizzy the senses. And then there are the sarcophagi. The empress reaches out to touch the painted fa
ce on a woman’s coffin. Slowly, with an artist’s hand, she traces the ancient features of the young doomed girl.

  “That is from a tomb in Egypt,” Napoleon says proudly. “Their temples,” he adds, “were incredible. Unbelievable. Carved gods stood from this ceiling to the floor.” He indicates their height, and when his wife is duly impressed, he adds meaningfully, “Had I stayed, I might have made myself pharaoh.”

  “You still could,” Pauline replies swiftly.

  A moment passes between brother and sister that makes Marie-Louise hesitate.

  But not de Canouville. “And these?” he wants to know. He points to a pair of alabaster vessels on the tallest bookcase.

  “Canopic jars,” Pauline explains. “For storing your organs after you die.”

  De Canouville doesn’t ask about anything else as we pass through the next two galleries.

  I watch the empress marvel over numerous artifacts—some of which are encrusted with jewels or made of precious metals. I am touched to see that it is the artist’s palette that fascinates Marie-Louise the most. The ancient wooden tray is still stained with ochre, malachite, and lapis. She touches each color, and I imagine she’s thinking about the last hands that held this—a painter’s hands, living more than two thousand years ago. Was he old? Young? How did he die? Did he have a family? Or was the artist a woman?

  “Stunning,” she says. “I have no words.”

  WHEN WE EMERGE from the galleries, a waiter appears offering wine. “For Your Highness?”

  Pauline is the first to take a glass. “Always.”

  Downstairs in the salon, the Austrian musicians have stopped playing, and scantily dressed women have taken their place on a small stage. The actor Talma is among them, singing something I can’t understand and holding up a heavy glass of wine. “Is it time?” he shouts when Pauline appears.