We were reunited in Saint-Malo, that ancient fortified city of stone buildings and craggy hills along the windswept Atlantic coast. My husband had made his home and headquarters in an old château within the city’s walls, the home of the former Bourbon governor for the region. Though it was still summer, a damp ocean breeze clung to the city all day, and the nights were quite chilly, causing me to fear that Oscar might catch cold. The château was drafty and steeped with the permanent odors of saltwater and musty linen. As I shivered in bed at night, I would weave my feet under Bernadotte’s legs, seeking some additional warmth but instead only eliciting his scolding.
My husband’s mood had been less than cheerful since my arrival in Saint-Malo.
Napoleon had earned a fresh string of victories across Italy that summer, most recently in Marengo. When word reached our Atlantic outpost, the cannons went off across the city in celebration. People gathered outside our château, drinking and singing, shouting “Vive Napoleon!” But my husband lay beside me in an ill humor.
“It is a great honor to be in charge of such a large portion of the military, is it not, my dear?” I said, trying to lift my Bernadotte from his gloom. The west had long been the most pro-Bourbon and problematic region; the threat of open revolt or naval assault remained possible at any moment out here, even I knew that. Strong military leadership was essential.
But this seemed to prove no consolation to my husband, who growled in response: “I’m basically a police officer out here, thumping my chest to keep the royalists quiet. He has pushed me as far away as possible, so as never to see glory. And never to threaten his own.”
Chapter 23
Paris
Christmas Eve, 1800
WE ARRIVED LATE TO THE Tuileries Palace on Christmas Eve, and there was nothing Napoleon despised more than tardiness. Well, there was one thing that gave him greater displeasure: quarreling with Josephine. And it appeared as though he faced both woes that evening.
I did not know what had initially caused that night’s disagreement, but by the time we arrived to join them in their carriages to attend the opera, Napoleon was berating her. “You are a liar!” he roared. We stood in the grand front hall of the palace, the space filled with liveried servants and the Bonaparte sisters, Julie and Joseph and I keeping to ourselves in the corner as the attendants readied the coaches. Josephine turned away from us now, her face pale, her eyes red-rimmed as Napoleon continued: “I know the Red Sea came. You think I am a fool?”
“But that doesn’t matter!” Josephine replied, wringing her fur muff in her hands. The Bonaparte sisters sniggered among themselves, but Josephine ignored them, speaking only to her husband: “It just means that I am healthy! It shall happen, my darling. Please, just be patient.”
“Patient? Have I not been patient? For years?” His chest heaved as he pointed his index finger, holding it just inches from her face. “You tried to hide it from me! You thought I wouldn’t find out!” The high collar of Napoleon’s officer’s uniform appeared too tight around his red, bulging neck.
Suddenly I understood. Another month had passed, and still Josephine had not become pregnant with Napoleon’s heir. She must have just begun her monthly courses, and one of her servants had surely been tasked with reporting that to her watchful husband.
Josephine, in hysterics now, ignored us all and knelt at his feet, pleading with him to forgive her. Just then, the clock in the grand hall struck eight. Napoleon frowned, glancing toward the door. “We will discuss this later.”
And then he gave his orders for those of us gathered to exit the palace and load into the two waiting coaches. “You’ll go behind me, in the second coach,” Napoleon ordered his wife. “Joseph, come with me.”
Bernadotte was already at the theater, awaiting us with other generals and ministers, so I was to ride with my sister. Julie and I chose the second coach as well, along with Napoleon’s very pregnant sister Caroline, who was so round that it appeared the child might arrive at any moment. As she was helped into the carriage, I surmised from Caroline that the joy of her coming motherhood was nothing compared to the exultation she felt in knowing that her swollen belly infuriated her brother and agonized her sister-in-law. “If only the baby will wait a few more hours and allow me to see the whole performance,” Caroline said, smiling broadly as we took our seats in the coach.
It was to be Haydn’s The Creation that Christmas Eve, and Napoleon peeked his head into our carriage one last time to ensure we were all present. His eyes landed on his wife, and he glowered. “What did I tell you, Josephine?”
She returned his stare in confused silence. He went on, “Did I not tell you they’d all be there? Talleyrand, Bernadotte—” He caught sight of me looking on and changed tracks. “You were to dress your best.”
Josephine glanced down at her narrow frame, clad in a sleek silver gown and a colorful scarf with an elaborate design of swirling vines. “But…but I have,” she stammered. “Does my clothing displease you?”
Napoleon leaned forward into the coach and yanked at the shawl around her thin shoulders. “This scarf comes from Constantinople! I should know, after all, seeing as I paid for it! You dress in some heathen pattern on Christmas Eve, in open defiance of my orders? You wish to make me look a fool, as always? Inside now, and change quickly. I want a French shawl!”
We waited in silence as Josephine ran from the coach, back into the palace and up into her suite to hastily select a replacement. I could feel Napoleon’s rage mounting, even from our separate coach, and I pitied Josephine. She finally emerged from the palace, this time wrapped in a shawl of pale blue Lyonnaise silk. She did not say a word as she rejoined us in the coach and the horses set off through the courtyard. We would most certainly be late arriving to the theater.
Caroline rubbed her belly as we rode. “He’s just so large in there,” she said. “I’ve run out of space. Do you remember feeling this way with your son, Desiree?”
“Yes,” I answered, avoiding Josephine’s eyes. Julie’s, too.
After several minutes, we turned onto the Rue Saint-Nicaise, at the corner of Place du Carrousel. “My brother has so many questions for me,” Caroline said, her hand resting on the dome of her belly. “He approaches everything with such an exacting, inquisitive mind. Oh, how he longs to know everything there is about childbearing! He’s desperate to experience parenthood for himself.”
“I remember, with my first, my son,” Josephine said, interjecting. If she was pained by Caroline’s words, she did not reveal it, but instead fixed a calm smile on her features. “He was positively frantic inside my belly; he moved from dawn until dusk. A fiendish little creature inside of me. And yet, when he came out, my Eugene was the most placid, most serene little baby. A sweetheart, even if I had worried that I carried a rascal in my womb.”
“Oh, but that was so long ago,” Caroline gasped. “How can you even remember that far back?”
“Well,” Josephine wavered now, searching for words, but before she could find them, we were all rocked by a horrifying jolt, a ground-shaking blast. The horses screeched. It felt like a row of cannons firing over an earthquake. I cried out as we all tumbled to the floor, the windows of the coach shattering into a million shards. I could hear the coachman’s frantic shouts, his useless attempts to calm the horses. I blinked, stunned, my ears ringing in momentary deafness. Julie lay beside me on the floor of the coach, rubbing her own ears as she screamed. Caroline was crouched forward, as if protecting her stomach as she wailed. Josephine fainted. Outwardly, on the surface of our flesh, we appeared unharmed, even if horribly shaken. But what had happened? I scrambled to my knees and glanced out the shattered windows, where several of the nearest houses had been reduced to rubble. Their roofs and doorways were ripped entirely apart, replaced by gaping maws of splintered timber and cracked stonework.
A bomb—I knew it in an instant. An attempt on the life o
f our First Consul. The horses in front of our coach still bucked and kicked as the coachman and several servants struggled to calm them. The people in the street screamed, darting about in front of our coach, a mass of bloodied limbs and chaos.
Darkness thickened around us as my hearing came back. I blinked. We were in a clinging fog, no doubt caused by the explosion, but I heard his voice. “My wife, my wife!” It was Napoleon, frantic. “Where is my wife?” He hopped into our coach, spotting Josephine’s inanimate frame and taking her in his arms. “Josephine, my darling!” He did his best to rouse her, kissing and patting her face. Slowly she began to stir, disoriented, blinking as she looked around our demolished coach. “You’ve fainted!” he said, cradling her like a child. “But do you realize that you’ve saved my life?” She didn’t understand his meaning. Nor did I. Napoleon, meanwhile, was as alert as I had ever seen him. Even a bit giddy. “I was saved because of your scarf, my darling girl! Because of the delay we had while waiting on your silly outfit change. Can you believe it? All because of you! I’ve always known that you were my angel, and now you’ve really done it, you’ve saved us from the bomb blast!”
I could not believe it, but Napoleon then announced that we would still go forward with his plans to attend the performance. “To the opera, this very instant.”
“Are you…certain?” Joseph asked, his arms wrapped around a trembling Julie.
“Yes.” Napoleon nodded, his face pale but resolute. “People must not think me dead.”
We were all, miraculously, unhurt, though of course very badly shaken. I wanted nothing more than to return to my own home, where I would have a tall glass of brandy and a warm bath before climbing into bed, with Oscar sleeping peacefully at my side. And yet, Napoleon declared that we would not allow his would-be assassins to intimidate us, to intimidate France, and so, with our carriages ruined and our horses petrified, we walked the short distance remaining to the theater.
We entered the Consul’s opera box to whispers and applause, though no one in the hall could have heard yet what had just happened. The performance had begun, and the players continued on in spite of the excitement that our entrance elicited. I needed to sit. I lowered myself into a seat toward the back of the box, seeking out my husband, but I couldn’t find him. Napoleon, too, noticed this. “Where is Bernadotte?” he asked me, not bothering to whisper in spite of the music.
“I…I do not know,” I answered, trying to conceal the way my hands trembled in my lap.
Finally, several minutes later, the tall figure of my husband appeared in the box; he had a harried look, his dark hair somewhat disheveled. Napoleon watched him enter.
Bernadotte’s breath was uneven as he leaned over to place a kiss on my cheek. “Hello, my darling.”
Bernadotte bowed toward Napoleon and then took his seat beside me. I stared sideways at him. “Do you have any idea what just happened to us?”
He shook his head. “No. Why were you late?”
Napoleon was watching our exchange, so I kept my account brief, my face composed as I explained about the bomb, our coach, the streets in deathly disarray. “Mon Dieu,” my husband said, taking my hand in his. “Thank God you are safe.”
“Yes,” I agreed. But then, agitated by my husband’s loud breathing, I grumbled, “Why are you so out of breath?”
Bernadotte shifted in his seat, his body leaning away from me, looking out toward the opera stage. “I…I just ran…up the stairs.”
Curious, I thought, my mind entirely unable to focus on the musical performance before us. My husband had wondered why I was late, but now I wondered the same thing about him.
* * *
After the opera, we returned to the Tuileries for a late Christmas Eve feast, just as planned. Napoleon insisted that nothing about our night be disrupted, even if we were a quiet, sober group gathering around the feast laid out before us. I had no appetite, and it did not appear that my husband did, either. As the bells of the nearby Notre Dame heralded midnight and the arrival of Christmas, even Napoleon succumbed to the somber, ruminative mood. In spite of his steely resolve from earlier in the evening, he now appeared visibly shaken, his wineglass trembling in his hands, his fork pushing the food around his plate but barely lifting it to his lips.
He leaned toward Joseph at the end of dinner, speaking in a quiet voice: “I have no heir. Who would have carried it on? Had they…succeeded in…”
Josephine turned a shade paler. Joseph nodded, stating: “My dear brother, do not worry about such questions, for the happy truth is that they did not.”
Napoleon frowned at this. “But Joseph, I must consider it. I must wonder, who would step in, since it would not be a son?”
Joseph propped his elbows on the table, pushing his plate away. “One of your family, we would have stepped in, gladly. The good work of the Bonapartes…of, er, France, would be carried on in your name.”
“No,” Napoleon said, shaking his head, his voice toneless. And then he lifted his face, looking around the table before resting his attentive eyes on my husband. I noticed with a jolt that my husband returned Napoleon’s gaze, his expression steady, even a bit defiant. Where had my husband been? I wondered again. Why had he arrived late to the theater, disheveled and out of breath? I had noticed, I had wondered; surely Napoleon had as well.
Napoleon’s focus remained on Bernadotte as he pronounced, a joyless smile tightening his features: “It would have been General Bernadotte to whom the people would have turned in their grief. Like Antony, he would have hoisted the bloodstained robe of Caesar. And then he would have stepped into the place vacated by my death.”
Chapter 24
Paris
Spring 1802
ONCE MORE THERE WAS SCREAMING in the streets of Paris, but this time it was a celebration. A clamor of revelry and bells. Peace had come, at last, to France—and Napoleon had brought it.
That was what our First Consul told the people, proclaiming it in the newspapers and pronouncing it through messengers on the streets and bridges and in the cafés of Paris; Napoleon, after more than a decade of Revolution and chaos and bloodshed, had delivered a victory for France abroad and a new era of lasting peace and prosperity at home.
Joseph had, in fact, been the primary architect of the peace treaty, traveling with Talleyrand that spring to the ancient French city of Amiens, where he joined the ministers of Great Britain, Spain, and Holland to carve out a new treaty for the nations of a blood-soaked Europe. The news was declared throughout France with state-sponsored feasting and the roar of cannons across each city’s square. France was victorious; not only would we retain our borders and the lands we had won under Napoleon’s conquests, but we would also regain free and open access to the seas, no longer haunted by powerful British warships. Our colonial territories were to be preserved across our empire, and thousands of French prisoners of war would be set free.
France reveled, but Paris was positively euphoric. Throughout the streets, people hoisted the tricolor and engravings of Napoleon’s image, the “Great Angel of Peace,” his likeness wreathed in laurel like the august emperors of antiquity. Newspapers named him the “Great Pacificator” and the “God of Peace,” and printing presses churned out new songs and poems written in his honor.
When we attended the opera with the Bonaparte family that spring evening, his arrival in the consular box was greeted with thunderous shouts and standing ovations that stretched on, with no end in sight, until he finally raised a hand and offered an appreciative nod.
If the Parisians wished to deify him, Napoleon appeared ready to let them do so. I noticed, that spring, that he began to dress differently. Ever since I’d first known him, he’d worn the military jacket and breeches of an officer in the French army. Now that he had brought peace, however, he put aside his military uniform. That season, he began to wear a high-necked jacket of red velvet. The rest of his appearance
showed more care as well: breeches trimmed in gold embroidery, high leather boots, a jeweled sword, a sash across his ample torso. When we would sit, en famille, for the Bonaparte dinners or evenings of cards or music, he’d have Josephine buff his fingernails with a cambric handkerchief, pausing every few minutes to scrutinize her work.
For the first time since I had been living in Paris, Napoleon did not ride out that warm season for battlefields in Italy or Austria but rather remained with Josephine and the rest of his family in residence at the Tuileries. Napoleon the soldier had given way to Napoleon the great statesman.
And he brought peace to more than just the battlefields. That spring, church bells pealed across Paris, celebrating the official reconciliation of France with Rome and the Pope. “We now have peace not only with the powers of the earth, but with the powers of the heavens as well!” Napoleon declared, triumphant, to the nation’s newspapers. It was a reversal of one of the first and central tenets of our Revolution, but the common people of France rejoiced at the news. As with our revolutionary calendar, the nation had never truly taken to the mandated godlessness of the Republic, had never fully pushed aside Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary for the Supreme Being and the Goddess of Reason. The reconciliation with Rome was good politics, and Napoleon knew it.
We rode from the Tuileries to Notre Dame, a long procession of gilded carriages carrying the members of Bonaparte’s family and government, to kneel and pray before the newly reinstated Archbishop of Paris. Bernadotte and I sat with Joseph and Julie in the carriage immediately following Napoleon, who traveled in front with his wife and her two children, Eugene and Hortense. “You see how busy our streets are?” Joseph pointed out the windows. He was right: the return of the warm weather always meant the return of the vendors and flower stalls, a fresh surge in foot traffic, and yet, that day, the capital was positively swarming.
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