In Julie’s carriage we reached the Luxembourg Palace and there heard Napoleon proclaimed Emperor of the French. The proclamation procession arrived with a battalion of dragoons at its head, followed, on foot, by twelve perspiring City Councillors. Obviously it could have been no fun for these pouchy gentlemen to march in slow procession right across Paris. Behind them appeared the two Prefects in dress uniform, and, announced by the roaring laughter of the crowd, old Fontanes, the President of the Senate, on horseback. The horse, a very gentle bay, was led along by a groom. In spite of that the President looked most precarious in his saddle. In his left hand he held a parchment roll, whereas his right clung to the horse’s neck for dear life. All the members of the Senate followed their President, and then a band came in sight playing a vigorous march which frightened Fontanes on his horse even more. The highest officers of the Paris garrison and four cavalry squadrons brought up the rear.
The procession stopped in front of the Luxembourg Palace. A trumpeter sounded a signal in all four directions, old Fontanes drew himself up solemnly and read from his parchment something which – as I read later in the papers – said that the Senate had resolved to elect the First Consul General Napoleon Bonaparte to be Emperor of the French. The crowd listened in silence to the trembling voice of the old man, and when he had finished a few voices shouted ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ The band played the Marseillaise and the procession went on its way to repeat the proclamation at other places.
Julie and I went on from there to the Dôme des Invalides. We were taken to the gallery which was reserved for the Empress, the Imperial ladies and the wives of the Marshals. We only just arrived in time.
Below there was a sea of uniforms. Seven hundred pensioned officers and two hundred pupils of the Polytechnic filled the seats. In front of them, on eighteen gilded chairs, sat the Marshals in blue and gold uniforms. They were conversing eagerly and were not, like the ex-officers and the future technicians, overpowered by the solemnity of the occasion.
Now the cardinal approached the altar, and as he knelt down in silent prayer the Marshals, too, fell silent. At the same time trumpets outside and the sound of innumerable voices shouting ‘ Vive l’Empereur, vive l’Empereur announced the arrival of Napoleon.
The cardinal rose and, followed by ten priests of high rank, went slowly towards the entrance. Here he received the Emperor of the French.
The Emperor entered accompanied by Joseph, Louis and his ministers. The two Princes wore peculiar uniforms which made them look like flunkeys on the stage of the Théâtre Français. The column of great secular and clerical dignitaries shimmered in all the colours of the rainbow as it moved up towards the altar with Napoleon and the cardinal at its head. But Napoleon’s uniform, alone amidst all the glitter of the rest, was of an inconspicuous dark green and showed no medals at all.
‘He’s mad,’ whispered Caroline, ‘he’s only put on a colonel’s uniform without any medals.’
Hortense, her neighbour, dug her elbows into Caroline’s ribs and hushed her.
Slowly Napoleon ascended the three steps leading up to the throne on the left of the altar. At any rate, I thought that it was a throne, never having seen one before. And there he sat, a small lonely figure in a colonel’s field uniform.
I strained my eyes in order to make out the emblem on the high back of the throne. It was an N, a big N surrounded by a laurel wreath.
The rustle of satin gowns around me made me realise that Mass had begun and that I had to kneel. Napoleon had got up meanwhile and descended two steps. I heard Caroline whisper into Polette’s ear that he had refused to make his confession, although Uncle Fesch had tried hard to get him to change his mind. Hortense hissed at her and Caroline grew silent. Josephine had put her folded hands in front of her face and she looked as if she were deep in prayer.
Uncle Fesch, yes, Uncle Fesch! The rotund abbot who during the Revolution had preferred to become a commercial traveller, and had asked Etienne for a job with the firm of Clary, had long ago returned to his clerical garb. From the day on which French troops had entered Rome and General Bonaparte had dictated the terms of peace to the Vatican, there had never been any doubt that a cardinal’s hat was waiting for Uncle Fesch. And there he was now down below in a cardinal’s crimson robe, holding aloft the monstrance.
Everybody was kneeling: the Marshals, the ex-officers who in the hour of the Republic’s need had defended its frontiers at the head of peasants, workmen, fishermen, clerks and raw recruits, the young pupils of the Polytechnic, Josephine, the first Empress of the French, and the whole Bonaparte family by her side, and all the priests, high or low. Only Napoleon was on his feet, standing on the first step to the throne and politely inclining his head.
The last tone of the organ died away. Absolute silence reigned, as if the thousand people filling the Cathedral had stopped breathing.
Napoleon had taken a paper from his tunic and started speaking. But he never looked at his notes; he spoke freely and effortlessly. His voice floated through the nave with a metallic hardness and purity.
‘He’s taken lessons from an actor,’ whispered Caroline again.
‘No, an actress, Mademoiselle George,’ giggled Polette under her breath.
‘Hush!’ said Hortense.
As Napoleon came to the end of his speech he descended from the last step of his throne, went before the altar and raised his hand, saying: ‘And lastly you swear that, with all the strength at your disposal, you will guard liberty and equality, the principles on which all our institutions are based. Swear!’
All hands flew up, and mine with them. In unison the congregation shouted, ‘We swear!’ The mighty shout rose up to the cupola and ebbed away.
The organ intoned the ‘Te Deum’. Napoleon returned to his throne with measured steps, sat down and looked at the assembly. The sound of the organ filled the Cathedral.
Accompanied by his eighteen Marshals in their resplendent uniforms, Napoleon, an inconspicuous spot of green among the golden glitter, left the Dôme. Outside he mounted a white horse and rode back to the Tuileries at the head of the officers of his Guard regiments. The crowd went delirious with joy; one woman held up her baby to him and shouted: ‘Bless my son, bless him!’
Jean-Baptiste was waiting for me by our carriage. On the journey home I asked him, ‘You’ve been sitting right in front close to him. Did his face show any signs of emotion as he sat there on his throne?’
‘He smiled. But only his face, not his eyes.’
He didn’t say any more, and stared silently in front of him.
‘What are you thinking of?’ I asked.
‘Of the collar of my uniform. The regulation height is awful, I can’t stand it. Besides, the collar is too tight.’
I studied his get-up more closely: a white satin waistcoat, a dark blue tunic embroidered with oak leaves in gold thread. The blue velvet greatcoat was lined with white satin and bordered with gold, and gigantic golden oak leaves were strewn along the edges.
‘Your one-time fiancé is making it easy for himself. He squeezes us into this strangulating outfit, yet he himself puts on the comfortable field officer’s uniform,’ Jean-Baptiste said, disgruntled.
Leaving the carriage in front of our house we found ourselves surrounded by some shabbily dressed young men. ‘ Vive Bernadotte!’ they shouted, ‘Vive Bernadotte!’
Jean-Baptiste eyed them for a fraction of a second and answered: ‘Vive l’Empereur!’
Later on, as we faced each other at table, he remarked casually: ‘You’ll be interested to know that the Emperor has given his Chief of Police the order to keep watch not only over the private life of his Marshals but also over their private correspondence.’
I thought this over and said after a little while: ‘Julie told me that he is having himself crowned properly in the winter.’
Jean-Baptiste laughed. ‘Crowned by whom? By his Uncle Fesch in Notre-Dame perhaps?’
‘No, he wants the Pope to crown him.’
He put the glass of wine which he had just taken up back on the table with such vehemence that the wine spilled out all over the tablecloth. ‘That is, that is—’ He shook his head. ‘No, Désirée, I think that that is out of the question. Do you think that he’d go on a pilgrimage to Rome to have himself crowned there?’
‘Oh no. He wants the Pope to come here for the coronation.’
Jean-Baptiste found this unbelievable. He explained to me that the Pope to the best of his knowledge had never yet left the Vatican for coronations abroad.
I put salt on the wine stains so that they could be more easily removed in the laundry, and said: ‘Joseph thinks that Napoleon is going to force the Pope to come.’
‘God knows, I hold no brief for the Holy Church of Rome – you wouldn’t expect it of an old sergeant in the Army of the Revolution, anyway – but I don’t think it right to force the old gentleman to a journey from Rome to Paris over these miserable roads.’
‘They’ve dug up an old crown somewhere, a sceptre and an orb, and everybody is going to have a part in the ceremony,’ I said. ‘Joseph and Louis are having costumes made in the Spanish court manner. Louis in particular, with his corpulence and his flat feet, will look smart.’
Jean-Baptiste pondered and then said: ‘I shall ask him to give me some administrative job somewhere as far as possible away from Paris. A really responsible job for some territory, not only just a military one but one that involves civil authority as well. I have thought out a new licensing system and Customs law, and I think I could do something to raise the prosperity of the country of which I should be put in charge.’
‘But then you would have to go away again!’
‘I should have to do that in any case. Bonaparte will never give us permanent peace, you know. We Marshals shall be for ever crossing Europe till—’ He paused for a moment, then continued, ‘till we have ruined ourselves with our victories.’
During these words Jean-Baptiste had started to undo his collar. ‘This Marshal’s uniform is too tight for you,’ I said.
‘True, my little girl. The Marshal’s uniform is too tight for me. And that’s why Sergeant Bernadotte is going to leave Paris soon. Come, drink up, let’s go to bed.’
Paris, 9th Frimaire of the Year XII. (November 30th, 1804, according to the Church calendar)
The Pope did come to Paris after all to crown Napoleon and Josephine!
And Jean-Baptiste made a dreadful scene because he had suddenly turned jealous – of Napoleon, not of the Pope.
This afternoon in the Tuileries we rehearsed the coronation procession of the Empress. My head is still heavy from it. Besides, I am feeling desperate because of Jean-Baptiste’s jealousy. So, what with one thing and another, I can’t go to sleep and I’m sitting at Jean-Baptiste’s writing desk with his many books and maps on it and writing in my diary. Jean-Baptiste himself has gone out, I don’t know where.
In two days’ time the coronation will take place, and for months past Paris has been talking of nothing else. It will be the most magnificent spectacle of all time, Napoleon said. He forced the Pope to come to Paris to let the whole world, and in particular the adherents of the Bourbons, see for themselves that the coronation in Notre-Dame is the real thing.
Most of the former grandees of the Court of Versailles – all of them pious Roman Catholics – had secretly laid bets against the Pope’s coming. Hardly one of them thought he would. And lo and behold, who arrived a few days ago with a suite of six cardinals, four archbishops, six prelates and a whole host of physicians, secretaries, Swiss Bodyguards and lackeys? His Holiness Pope Pius VII!
Josephine gave a banquet in his honour in the Tuileries, from which the Pope retired and in high dudgeon because she wanted to amuse him with a ballet performance afterwards. Oh yes, she had meant well. ‘Seeing that he is in Paris anyway …’ she tried to explain to Uncle Fesch. But Uncle Fesch, every inch a cardinal now, was much annoyed and cut her short.
The members of the Imperial family have been rehearsing the coronation ritual for weeks, alternately at Fontainebleau and in the Tuileries. This afternoon we too, the wives of the eighteen Marshals, were ordered to the Tuileries to rehearse the Empress’s coronation procession. I went there with Laura Junot and Madame Berthier, and we were taken to Josephine’s white room. We arrived there in the middle of a furious argument between various members of the Bonaparte family.
The responsibility for the conduct of the ceremony falls on Joseph, but all the details are in the hands of the Master of Ceremonies, Monsieur Despreaux, who is to receive a fee of 2400 francs for his work. He therefore is actually in charge, assisted by this dreadful Monsieur Montel who, years ago, gave me lessons in deportment.
We Marshals’ wives huddled together in a corner and tried to find out what the argument was about.
‘But it is His Majesty’s explicit wish!’ shouted Despreaux at this moment, in despair.
‘And even if he throws me out of France as he did poor Lucien, I’m not going to do it,’ vituperated Eliza Bacciochi.
‘Carry the train? Me carry the train?’ shouted Polette indignantly.
Joseph tried to calm them down: ‘But Julie and Hortense have to do it too, and they don’t refuse although they are Imperial Highnesses.’
‘Imperial Highnesses indeed!’ hissed Caroline. ‘Why haven’t we, the Emperor’s sisters, been made Highnesses, may I ask? Are we less than Julie, the silk merchant’s daughter, and—’
I felt my face grow red with rage.
‘—and Hortense, the daughter of this – of this—’ Caroline fumbled for a suitable word of abuse for Her Majesty Empress Josephine.
‘Ladies, ladies, please!’ implored Despreaux.
‘It’s about the coronation robe with that enormous train,’ whispered Laura Junot into my ear. ‘The Emperor wants his sisters and the Princesses Julie and Hortense to carry it.’
‘Well, can we start the rehearsal?’ It was Josephine who had entered by a side door. She looked very peculiar in two sheets sewn together over her shoulder to represent the coronation gown, which apparently was not ready yet. We sank into a deep curtsey.
‘Please take your places for Her Majesty’s procession,’Joseph called out.
‘And if she stands on her head, I am not going to carry her train,’ said Eliza Bacciochi once more.
Despreaux came over to us. ‘Hm,’ he said, ‘the eighteen Marshals’ ladies are only seventeen, I see. Madame la Maréchale Murat as the Emperor’s sister is carrying the train.’
‘She wouldn’t dream of it,’ shouted Caroline across the room.
‘I don’t quite see,’ meditated Despreaux, ‘how seventeen ladies, two by two – Montel, can you tell me how to group seventeen ladies in nine couples to proceed ahead of Her Majesty?’
Montel danced towards us and frowned heavily. ‘Seventeen ladies – in couples – not one must go by herself—’
‘May I assist you in the solution of this strategic problem?’ asked a voice close to us. Startled we spun round, and immediately sank into another curtsey.
‘I suggest that only sixteen of these ladies open the procession of Her Majesty. Then Securier, as arranged, with the ring of the Empress, Murat with her crown and finally one of these ladies with a – with a cushion with one of Her Majesty’s lace handkerchiefs on it. It will give it a very poetic flavour.’
‘Magnificent, Your Majesty,’ murmured Despreaux, and bowed deeply, as did Montel by his side.
‘And this lady carrying the lace handkerchief—’ Napoleon paused and with apparent thoughtfulness his eyes glanced round us, from Madame Berthier to Laura Junot, from Laura Junot to the ugly Madame Lefébvre.
But I knew his decision. Firmly I avoided looking at him. I wanted to be one of the sixteen, just the wife of Marshal Bernadotte, neither more nor less. I certainly didn’t want an exceptional position, I certainly didn’t want—
But Napoleon spoke: ‘We ask Madame Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte to take over this task.
Madame Bernadotte will look charming. In sky-blue, don’t you think so?’
‘Sky-blue doesn’t suit me,’ I jerked out, remembering the pale blue silk frock I had worn in Madame Tallien’s salon.
‘Yes, sky-blue, I think,’ the Emperor, who no doubt remembered that frock too, repeated, and turned away.
As he went over towards his sisters, Polette opened her mouth and said, ‘Sire, we don’t want—’
‘Madame, you are forgetting yourself!’ Napoleon’s voice came cuttingly across the room. Of course, no one may speak to the Emperor without permission.
Napoleon turned to Joseph: ‘More difficulties?’
‘The girls don’t want to carry the Empress’s train.’
‘Why not?’
‘Sire, the Ladies Bacciochi and Murat and the Princess Borghese are of the opinion that—’
‘In that case the Princesses Joseph and Louis Bonaparte will carry the train by themselves,’ Napoleon decided.
Here Josephine intervened.
‘The train is far too heavy for two,’ she said.
‘If we don’t get the same rights as Julie and Hortense,’ said Eliza, ‘we shall do without the same duties.’
‘Hold your tongue!’ Napoleon turned to Polette, of whom he is quite fond. ‘Well, what exactly do you want?’
‘We have the same claim to Imperial rank as those two,’ said Polette, pointing with her chin in Julie’s and Hortense’s direction.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Indeed! One would think that I had inherited our father’s Imperial crown and was cheating my brothers and sisters out of their rightful inheritance! They seem to forget that every distinction conferred is nothing but a proof of goodwill on my part, a goodwill so far entirely unearned, surely?’
In the silence following his words Josephine’s voice came sweetly: ‘Sire, I beg of you that you, in your gracious kindness, may see fit to raise your sisters to the rank of Imperial Highness.’
She is looking for allies, it occurred to me, she is afraid. Perhaps it was true what people were saying, that he was thinking of divorce …
Desiree Page 25
