The ceremony concluded with more rousing music, more cannon thunder outside. Napoleon was now Emperor of France, and Josephine, its Empress.
* * *
—
All of France was now ready to fête the imperial pair. We traveled back to the Tuileries along a circuitous route so that our new Emperor and Empress could wave to the millions who had traveled from across the nation to celebrate. Massive banners bearing the letter “N” were draped over doorways and balconies. Buildings throughout the capital were lit up—orders from the Emperor. It had been declared a national holiday, and the people of Paris were treated to red wine flowing from the public fountains, carts loaded with meat and bread, and a fireworks show set to color the Paris sky that night. In Place de la Guillotine, renamed Place de la Concorde by Napoleon, over the exact site where the French had killed their last monarch, there now gleamed a massive new statue of a star.
Inside, the Tuileries Palace was festooned with lilacs, lilies, orchids, and oleander, all clipped that morning from the imperial hothouses, their exquisite beauty and abundance standing in defiance of the frigid December snow. Platters of fragrant food filled the massive banquet tables when we arrived. Thousands of candles brightened the space and illuminated the newly restored splendor of the Emperor’s home, as footmen wove among us, offering flutes of chilled champagne.
The guests streamed in, quickly filling the massive rooms. Those of us who had played roles in the coronation Mass were relieved and lighthearted—eager to celebrate after the nerves and preparations of recent months. Those who had not participated in the ceremony appeared with their congratulatory smiles and their lavish attire, eager to jostle and vie for a place near the imperial couple. Napoleon, eyeing the splendor of the surroundings, nodded approvingly. Then he lifted his gloved hand. We all fell silent, attention fixing on our new Emperor as he made his toast. Instead of toasting, however, he announced to all of us that he would eat privately in his own salon—with only his Empress at the table.
My gaze went immediately to the sisters. I saw Elisa, scowling, as she announced: “Mamma was right to skip this.”
Napoleon ignored the insult, turning to his wife with perfect calm. “Come with me. And you will wear your crown throughout the evening, because no woman alive could wear a crown with more grace.”
Josephine smiled at this, then turned to her husband’s sisters. “Enjoy your dinner,” she said, her voice silky and low. And then they were gone.
Chapter 29
Paris
Winter 1805
“MAMAN, WHAT IS A…FEBRUARY?”
I smiled at my son’s confused frown. He studied the front of the morning newspaper, and I leaned over to read it with him. “It is a month, my darling boy. It is the month in which we find ourselves.”
“But I thought it was Pluviôse,” Oscar said.
“That was the revolutionary calendar,” I explained. “Napoleon…the Emperor…has returned us to the calendar we always followed, before the Revolution.”
“So then what comes next, if not Ventôse?”
“Next it shall be March.”
“March,” Oscar repeated, considering the new word. “But, Maman, how do you know all of this?”
I sat down beside him, smiling. “It was the calendar we had when I was a young girl. It was always the way we divided the year, until they changed it during the Revolution.”
Napoleon had done away with the revolutionary calendar within a month of his coronation. In truth, I was glad to be back to the old manner of recording time, before the awkward and unwieldy month names had been introduced—words like “Thermidor” to describe the summer heat, or “Floréal” to describe the time of spring blooms.
And the calendar was not the only change that our new Emperor swiftly enacted. Gone, too, was the modest, egalitarian austerity of the Republic. Napoleon declared that France and its leaders would return to an opulence not seen since the Bourbons—indeed, not seen since the court of Le Roi Soleil, the Sun King, Louis XIV. Napoleon had made us a rich country, and he wanted all the world to see it. “What I want, above all, is grandeur,” he proclaimed. “To throw golden dust into the French people’s eyes.”
The Tuileries Palace was too bare and simple, he declared, even with the artwork he’d hung and the new furniture he’d acquired. He wanted a more flagrant display of wealth and glory. He hired a new team of designers and ordered them to build a grand new banquet hall, where two thrones burnished with gilt would preside over the massive space. He ordered that the walls, some of them still stained by revolutionary battles, be covered in plush silk, tapestry, and brocade. His imperial eagle, the symbol he’d chosen for the nation, was carved into moldings on the walls and the new mahogany tables. Golden bees, the personal symbol of Napoleon’s choosing, were now ubiquitous at the Tuileries—woven into the carpets and curtains and clothes, carved on the gold of his massive coaches, ever-present on the jewelry of his Empress and her ladies.
“And I shall choose the swan as my insignia,” Josephine declared, announcing her decision to Julie and me during one of our weekly audiences with her. She invited us often, for tea or wine or games of whist, and we understood the foolishness of declining such invitations.
“The swan,” I said, nodding, “a lovely choice.” I thought this perfectly apropos: a figure of grace and elegance in the eyes of the world, and yet, no one knew how hard the creature worked beneath the smooth waters, kicking itself along. A picture of placid beauty, but a fierce and vicious fighter when called to defend itself.
* * *
My Bernadotte had left us once more, gone from Paris that winter to assume command of thousands of Frenchmen in Hanover, where Napoleon’s Grande Armée was once again preparing for a great offensive. Our newly crowned Emperor had asked his senate to raise him an army, the grandest army France had ever mustered, to fight the coalition of Germans, Austrians, Russians, and British who opposed his coronation. Napoleon needed eighty thousand more men to stand up to such a force, and Frenchmen rushed to answer his call.
We attended a grand parade on the Champ de Mars to honor this force shortly before Napoleon and his men marched out of the capital to meet my husband and his troops to the east. There, on the vast green fields, the eagle standards loomed over neat squares of soldiers. Oscar stared on, clutching my hand as his mouth fell agape at the pageantry of it all. “Look, Maman! There is Godfather!”
“Yes, my dear,” I said, forcing a bright tone as I followed my son’s gaze. Napoleon stood before the soldiers, the ministers, the cheering crowds, exalted over all of us atop a raised dais. After years in the civilian clothing of his Parisian administration, Napoleon appeared apple-shaped in his new imperial military uniform, fidgeting as he inspected the troops, a jumpy, restless energy pulsating from him. “Soldiers!” he cried out, eventually bringing the ebullient mob to heel. “These eagles shall be your rallying point! Do you swear to lay down your lives in their defense?” The men in uniform shouted their hearty assent as, all around us, the crowds waved the tricolor. Napoleon continued: “Apparently, the Habsburgs and their friends wish to remind me that I’m a soldier. The imperial purple has not caused me to forget my first trade. If Austria wants war, then she will have it!”
* * *
—
Josephine carried on in her husband’s absence, just as he had ordered her to. She frequented the state box of the opera house and listened to the petitions of the crowds who gathered in the gardens of the Tuileries. She hosted receptions and parties and ensured that her husband’s court was a gathering place for elegant people of fashion, politics, and the arts. She invited me often to attend her state dinners and informal salons.
The strict court etiquette of the Bourbons, established by Louis XIV, governed formal and social gatherings once more. Josephine told me that Napoleon had ordered the old manuals and guidebooks of Louis’s court br
ought out of storage and studied. Ritual and rules dictated every detail of palace life, from how people entered a room to how they were to sit at the table.
“We will out-etiquette even the Bourbons themselves,” Napoleon had ordered his wife before his departure, and she carried this on in his absence.
And there were so many rules he had left her as well. He wished for her never to repeat an outfit, even though she was to change her gown at least three times each day. She was to have a full team of attendants dedicated entirely to her wardrobe and jewelry and its upkeep. She was never to ask the price when merchants and dressmakers presented their jewels and gowns and trinkets. Soon, the papers reported that Josephine had tossed out Marie-Antoinette’s old jewelry case because it was not large enough for her collection.
All of Paris wished to dress like Josephine. Those who hadn’t seen her in person saw her image every day in Le Journal des Dames et des Modes, the fashion publication. I recalled how she had bucked Napoleon in designing the svelte silhouette of the coronation gown, eschewing the Marie-Antoinette hoopskirt that he had originally wanted. Overnight, Josephine had given France—and Europe—a new trend. It was being called the empire style, with a high waist and loose, free-flowing skirt. I wondered if Josephine appreciated this style because it concealed her stomach, making it impossible for people to see whether a baby was growing within.
* * *
—
As summer turned to fall and the weather grew chilly, my thoughts traveled to the east, and I longed for my husband. It was the longest absence we’d faced since the start of our marriage, and my son asked after his father often.
Josephine had quit the capital that fall, traveling to meet Napoleon in Munich, so my sister and I were free of obligations at court for Christmastime, and I welcomed the idea of a small, intimate holiday, even if I would miss my Bernadotte. I hosted Julie and Joseph and my niece, Zénaïde. We laughed in delight as the children learned the carols and enjoyed the bûche de noël, the traditional Christmas cake made to look like a Yule log.
And yet, even the happy moments of that Christmas were tinged with sadness for me. As Joseph had recently been named King of Naples by his brother, he and my sister would have to travel there for a time. I dreaded her absence, growing sad whenever the thought returned to my mind that Julie would be leaving.
But then, several days later, some good news reached Paris. Napoleon, with my Bernadotte beside him, had crushed the alliance and had taken the Habsburg seat of power in Vienna. They had won a great battle near the Austrian capital at Austerlitz. Both Napoleon and Bernadotte, along with the other senior French officers, were installed in the Schönbrunn Palace as the Austrians fled toward safety in Russia.
Napoleon’s letter soon arrived for Joseph, and I hurried to their home to hear the news. “I must say how satisfied I am with the conduct of all those who had the good fortune to fight in this memorable battle. My soldiers! They are the finest warriors in the world. The recollection of this day, and of our deeds, shall be eternal! For thousands of ages hereafter, as long as the events of the universe continue to be related, it will be remembered.”
Joseph paused from reading the letter, wiping a tear from his eye. “Anything else?” Julie asked.
“Just a bit more,” Joseph said. He read on, relaying Napoleon’s words: “Now, I have not changed my shirt for eight days. But I am wonderfully well. Austria’s Emperor Franz begs me for peace. Can you imagine—an Emperor born of kings coming to humble himself by pleading for peace to the son of a modest Corsican family? Now I stand at the summit of power, arbiter of the destinies of Europe. We shall return to Paris.”
Napoleon had his victory over those who had insulted him. He had his glory. Now I simply hoped that, with the Habsburgs and their allies crushed, my husband would return safely to me.
Chapter 30
Mainz, the Confederation of the Rhine
October 1806
“DO YOU TASTE THE EARTH? I do. I taste it—it’s sweet. Like flowers. But also heavy. Thick, like a syrup. Or honey?” Josephine raised the cup to her lips, breathing in the aroma of the wine before draining the contents in one gulp. As she lowered her cup, she smirked, offering an afterthought of a toast: “To pleasure! And the men who give it to us!”
Josephine was drunk. I turned away, raising my glass and taking a small sip of the sweet Riesling wine as my eyes roved over the view that unfurled before us. The German language struck me as severe and guttural, their food as overly rich and heavy, but their scenery was indeed breathtaking. I could admit that much.
We were lodged in the Rhineland, in a picturesque curve of the majestic river for which the region was named, where vineyards striated the beautiful rolling hills and river ships made their languid passage across a layered horizon. The men had left, moving east toward Poland, but Napoleon had ordered his wife and her ladies to remain behind. And so, here we were, in a region of German states annexed by Napoleon to his ever-growing French Empire.
I saw my time in the Rhineland as an assignment more than any pleasurable adventure or sojourn. Oscar, installed back in Paris with his tutor and his nanny, was safe at least, but without my son, my husband, or my sister—who was with Joseph in Naples—I felt unmoored.
And yet, even with this, I knew that Josephine suffered far worse than I did. Our Empress put forth her best attempt at cheeriness, but I could see how miserable she was to be left behind, marooned here as her husband moved on to conquer further lands—and lovers. I could see it in the restless, shiftless way she took my hand, raising it to her cheek as though in need of a mother’s touch, the gesture of a lost girl. I noted the way she filled our days with manic activity—boat rides along the Rhine, horseback riding with some local German prince or count eager to curry favor with Napoleon through his infamous Empress. The way she had us drinking the sweet Riesling native to the area constantly, from breakfast until bedtime. “I’ll bring this Riesling home with us to Paris,” she said now, her lips loose and sluggish around her words. “Crates and crates of it. He’ll love it. My Bonaparte is always saying it’s up to me to make sure there is good taste at our court—that he doesn’t know how he’d get by without me. God knows, my soldier, if it were up to him? We’d be eating roast chicken off of spits and drinking that awful vinegar that Corsicans call wine.”
She had the hiccups now, and her narrow body jolted as she bent her legs and pulled her knees up to her chest like a young girl hugging herself tight. “I’m the one with noble blood,” she said, hiccupping once more. The afternoon sun filtered in through the lead-paned windows, washing her in a small, bright puddle of autumn light. “Napoleon always tells me I have the best taste of any woman.”
She smiled then, but her attempt was careworn, forced; she wished to be with her husband. Or, rather, she wished for him to wish for her. Gone were the days of the Italian campaigns, when he had pined daily for her, begging her to cross rough roads to join him at camp. Now he wouldn’t allow her to join him. I cannot have you here, he wrote, when she begged to join Napoleon’s army as it moved east. An army camp is no place for a lady. And yet, we knew the thinly veiled excuse for precisely what it was; we knew there were plenty of other ladies to fill his time.
On days when his letters did arrive—he no longer wrote her daily as he once had—Josephine would take to her bed for the remainder of the afternoon and weep. His words weren’t enough. He was stingy with them. His letters served only to remind his wife of his distance—both physical and emotional. Josephine was starving for more news, more affection, more of an assurance that she still held the prime place in his heart. Oh, how I knew her agony. How I remembered being the recipient of those terse, withholding letters. But of course I could say nothing to her of that. Those memories were mine, and they would remain buried in the past where they belonged.
Somehow, Napoleon heard of Josephine’s regular crying fits, and this fuele
d his annoyance, even at the great distance of his eastward camp. He wrote with censure in his words: I hear that you cry all the time. Be worthy of me, show more strength of character. I don’t like cowards.
And so the days passed, all of us growing restless at our German camp, but no one more so than Josephine.
* * *
It was a chilly night in mid-October, and we ladies were gathered in Josephine’s salon, huddling around the fire as a way to ward off the damp and dark. We weren’t allowed to retire to our own beds until she wished to sleep, and that was often impossibly late, sometimes only as dawn approached. I guessed that she feared the dark, dreaded the troubled thoughts that hung heavy as sleep evaded her, because she always insisted on activities at night—charades, chess, whist, musical talent shows. Tonight, she had arranged a tarot card reader.
“You all know how the sorceress in Martinique foresaw my rise,” Josephine said, seating herself opposite the visitor. The old woman wore a mauve turban on her head, making it impossible to see the color of her hair, but she had the appearance of a Roma, and she had a dark-eyed young girl beside her acting in a servant’s capacity. The old woman summoned the girl forward now and took two piles of cards into her bare, weathered palms.
Josephine clapped her own hands excitedly. “Isn’t this fun?”
I exchanged a look with Elise la Flotte, another lady in Josephine’s party. Elise was about my age but widowed. In Julie’s absence, I had grown somewhat close with Elise during my time in the Rhineland. She was, if nothing else, a far more pleasant companion than the three Bonaparte sisters in our midst.
“There is to be a child,” said the old fortune-teller, pulling my attention back toward her table.
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