Eugène held up his hands. “Everyone’s fine. Papa got your letter. He sent me to tell you that he’ll give you the money you need for repairs.”
“But no letter from him?”
“He said to tell you he would write soon. He wanted me to have a look, see how you’re doing.” Eugène frowned at the rotting windowsill. “Well,” he said, his hands on his hips. “I see the problem.”
“It’s really much improved.” In my joy to see my son, my complaints had vanished. “And the fishing here is excellent, I’m told. Isn’t it, Bishop? Oh, forgive me, I’ve neglected civilities. Prince Eugène, Viceroy of Italy, may I have the honour of introducing you to the Bishop of Évreux. The king of trictrac, we call him.”
“A defeated king, alas,” the old man said, struggling to rise.
“Please, stay seated,” my son insisted, lowering himself onto the (hard) sofa.
“No, no, I only care to get trounced once in an evening,” the Bishop said, taking his leave. “Tomorrow evening, Your Majesty, as usual?”
“A charming man,” Eugène said, after he’d left.
“He has saved my life here,” I said, sitting beside my son and taking his hand. “And how is Bonaparte?” How is the Empress? I wanted to ask, but dared not. Not yet.
“Papa is well,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Although—” He grinned. “Although he has had to make a few adjustments.”
I frowned. Bonaparte did not care for “adjustments.”
“She calls him Popo, for one thing.”
Emperor Popo?
“She likes her bedroom icy cold.”
Bonaparte could not tolerate the cold!
“She becomes vexed if rushed.”
“Oh-oh.”
“And she refuses to watch tragedies.” Eugène sighed. “Consequently the court is required to sit through a burlesque every single night, while the—”
“Bonaparte as well?” I couldn’t imagine him sitting through a comedy.
“—while the Emperor sleeps in his chair.”
“And does he…?” I tilted my head, smiled, my finger on my chin—as if posing a light, almost fanciful question. “Does he love her, do you think?”
Eugène looked down at the worn carpet. “It’s different, Maman.”
Thursday, early afternoon—Château de Navarre.
A lovely morning with my son. I showed him the new herb bed, my roses and lilacs, the pretty cascades and pools, the charming vistas. “Already you’ve created a paradise here,” he said.
“It’s peaceful.” Isolated, in truth: but I didn’t want him to worry. “And just think: no intrigues.”
“No clan, you mean,” he said, for even the new Empress has been made to suffer. “Even Auguste,” he confided.*
June 10, Sunday—Malmaison.
I’m back at Malmaison again, at last. It is quiet except for the distant crack and fizz of the fire-rockets. Most of my staff are in Paris at the fêtes in honour of the Emperor and Empress. The servants will return drunken and gay. I plan to be asleep.
Mon amie, I’d like very much to see you. I need to know that you are happy and well. Never doubt the sincerity of my feelings for you. They shall last until I die. N.
June 13.
Bonaparte arrived this morning precisely at ten. A startled maid directed him to the garden, where I was tending roses. I hurried toward him, then stopped short. (We were being watched.) I would not weep!
We sat side by side on a curved stone bench for over an hour—talking and talking, as if nothing has changed between us. “I understand Prince Mecklenburg-Schwerin made you a proposal,” he said.
“Who told you that?” I’d been touched (and surprised) by the offer, but had not given it more than a moment’s thought.
“So it’s true? I think you should accept.”
“He’s young. It wouldn’t be fair to him.” And in my heart I was still married, still very much in love with my husband.
At my urging, Bonaparte talked to me about Marie-Louise, his difficulties and concerns. (She’s not pregnant yet, which worries me.) “And unfortunately she’s exceedingly jealous of you,” he said. “She was upset to learn that you are back at Malmaison. I had to use the utmost secrecy to come see you today.”
“Perhaps if I met her.” I want Marie-Louise to regard me as an older sister, as someone she can confide in, learn from. I could help her. I could tell her what pleased the Emperor—and what did not. I could tell her how to tend to his delicate health, how to calm his easily ruffled temper.
“Impossible! She’s a child in many ways.” Bonaparte stood, paced. “And perhaps she is right, perhaps she has good reason to be jealous. It’s likely for the best that you will be going to Aix-les-Bains to take the waters soon.”
For the best that I go away—and stay away.
June 18—Aix-les-Bains.
I’ve arrived at the spa, exhausted from days and nights of travel. Already I long for home.
July 6, 1810
Chère Maman,
I’ve just received shocking news: I don’t know what to make of it. In what Papa calls an “act of madness,” Louis has abdicated the throne of Holland, disappearing with his beloved dog.*
So I am no longer a queen, Maman. I am not unhappy, I confess. I have no ambition but to lead a quiet life with my boys.
I hope the spa treatment at Aix-les-Bains is proving beneficial for your nerves. Is it true that Madame de Souza and her son Charles are both there? Perhaps I will visit.
Your loving and dutiful daughter, Hortense
Note—I spoke with Madame Clari Rémusat at Talleyrand’s salon. She looks remarkably well.
And another—Empress Marie-Louise is suspected to be with child.
September 14, Saint-Cloud
Mon amie, the Empress has been with child for four months. She is well. Do not doubt the interest I take in you, the feelings I have for you. N.
November 11—Malmaison.
I am back at Malmaison, but for only a few weeks. I’ve had a fever, but
I’m better today. Dr. Corvisart has ordered rest. The Château de Navarre won’t be ready until the end of next week, in any case.
6:15 P.M.
Countess d’Arberg has just informed me that an Imperial baptism was held yesterday. Bonaparte and Marie-Louise baptized a number of infants—sons and daughters of the grandees of the Empire. Every baby girl brought to the font was named Josephine, unfortunately. This will only inflame Marie-Louise’s jealousy of me. I had hoped it would be different. I don’t want to go to damp, cold Navarre right now, but I know I must.
December 9, 1810, Milan
Chère Maman,
I’m now the father of a big, healthy son. The labour was difficult, but my lovely Auguste seems to be out of danger. Don’t worry—we’ll do exactly as the midwife says.
My girls are thrilled to have a brother. Augustus Karl Eugen Napoleon he will be named—Augustus, for short. Do you like it? Little Josephine asked me to send you this drawing she made of him. You can see that he has a healthy crop of black hair. Eugénie has decided that Augustus is her doll—she will be two on Christmas Eve. It’s hard to believe. Where does the time go?
I think your decision to go to Navarre until after the birth is wise, Maman.
I must be off—I hear the baby crying!
Your very proud and happy son, Eugène
March 19, 1811—Château de Navarre, Évreux.
The villagers of Évreux came in carts harnessed to field nags, reciting verses that they’d written in my honour. They presented me with a bust they’d had made of me, decorated with a crown of wilting spring flowers.
March 20—Château de Navarre.
I was resting, nursing a head pain, when I heard the bells begin to ring in town. “The child is born!” I heard someone call out. A gun salute was followed by another a minute later, and then another, and then another. The silence after the twenty-first salute seemed an eternity. And then…one more. Twen
ty-two guns: a boy!*
Thank God! My sacrifice has not been in vain. The Empire has an heir.
In which all is for naught
March 21, 1811—Château de Navarre.
Eugène embraced me at the door, sweeping me off my feet. “Our prayers have been answered.”
“Bonaparte must be overjoyed!”
“He commanded me to come to you immediately,” he said, leaning against the wall so that a servant could pull off his muddy boots. “He’s going to write to you tonight, he said. He can’t take his eyes off the baby.”
“Coffee and breakfast cakes,” I told a maid. “And a bottle of champagne,” I called out to her. “Come,” I said, taking my son’s hand, pulling him into the drawing room. “I want to hear all about it.”
And I did. Grands Dieux—the young Empress had very nearly died. “Oh, the poor girl.”
“It was awful, Maman. They had to pull the baby out by the feet. Marie-Louise fainted dead away, mercifully. The accoucheur was in a frightful state. Imagine. At one point he told Papa that he was going to have to choose between the life of the child and the life of the Empress. Papa never hesitated—he told the doctor to save Marie-Louise.”
“But she’s all right?”
“It’s early yet, of course. She seems well—fatigued, of course.”
“And the baby?” King of Rome.
“A big boy.”
Mon Dieu—and feet first.
“They thought he was dead, but he revived. A lusty crier,” he said, grinning broadly.
“Bonaparte loves children so much.” A child, at last—and a son. “And so, no doubt, there is much celebrating in Paris?”
“Except on the part of the sisters,” Eugène said, imitating their long faces. “All they could think of was that their influence would be lessened, that their children would lose rank.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” I said as the maid came in with a collation. “A toast,” I said, handing my son a glass of champagne. “To the King of Rome. To peace.”
“To the Emperor!”
“And to his wife,” I said, raising my glass. I sacrificed my marriage for this baby, but young Marie-Louise had very nearly sacrificed her life.
March 22, Paris
Mon amie, I received your letter. Thank you. My son is big and very well. He has my chest, my mouth and my eyes. I hope that he will accomplish his destiny. N.
April 2—Malmaison, at last.
How beautiful Malmaison is, the air sweet, the flowers blooming. I’ve been all morning with my gardeners. Yet even so my thoughts pull ever toward Paris, toward them.
May 18, Saturday.
My daughter appeared like a fairy angel, her cheeks pink under a lime green velvet hat with a high feathered crown. She has gained weight, which is encouraging. I suspect she’s in love (at last), for she blushed when I inquired about aide-de-camp Charles Flahaut.
She stayed only an hour, telling me all about the new baby. “He’s big and handsome—although he does take after her,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“But people say the Empress Marie-Louise is pretty.”
“Big jaw, Maman.” (We giggled, I confess.)
She told me Marie-Louise is childlike in her attachment to the Emperor, that she weeps to be separated from him for even a minute, but also does not care to travel. “That makes it difficult,” I said, concerned. “An emperor must travel.” Especially Bonaparte.
“Especially now,” Hortense said, filling me in. Russia is refusing to enforce the blockade against England.
“I don’t understand. Tsar Alexandre agreed. He gave Bonaparte his word.”
“And now there is even talk of war,” she said with a grimace.
With Russia? What a terrible thought! “Does it look serious?”
Hortense started to answer when her boys came running; they wanted to ride the pony, they said. “I’m afraid we must go,” Hortense told them, tying her hat-strings. “I have an engagement in town.”
I persuaded her to leave the children with me for a few days. We waved until her coach was out of sight and then I rang for cakes while the pony was being tacked up. All the while we chattered, chattered, chattered. Petit and Oui-Oui are so sweetly excited about the new baby in the family—“Little King,” they call him.
Petit is mature for a six-year-old, I think, but Oui-Oui is still very much a baby. He seems a bit anxious about being three now. “Uncle says I am grown,” he told me solemnly. Their Uncle Napoleon, who insists on their company at his midday meal, who supervises their lessons, who is tending a rose garden at Saint-Cloud.
“Himself?” I asked, incredulous.
“He’s going to be a gardener when he grows up,” Oui-Oui told me.
“Yes, I think so.” Oh Bonaparte! “And what about the Empress? Do you see her often?”
Petit shrugged. “I don’t think she likes us. We’re wiggly, she says.”
“But Grandmaman does!” Oui-Oui sang, diving into my arms.
[Undated]
Petit, to Mimi: “Maman spoils me when I’m good, but Grandmaman spoils me all the time.”
And this afternoon, in the woods, Oui-Oui threw his cap in the air, exclaiming, “Oh, how I love nature!”
How I love them.
[Undated]
Hortense came for the boys this morning. She looked distressed about something, so I lured her into the rose garden to talk. At last she confessed: Caroline, who is supposed to stand as godmother at the baptism, can’t leave Naples. She has asked Hortense to take her place.
“That’s quite an honour,” I said.
“But the ceremony will be held in Notre-Dame, Maman.”
Then I understood. Little Napoleon’s tomb is there. “You haven’t been in since…?”
She shook her head. “I’m so afraid I’ll break down!”
June 9, Sunday.
Little King was baptized today. The procession schedule was posted in the market: at two o’clock the Imperial coaches would arrive at Notre-Dame.
I’d planned a number of activities to keep my mind occupied, but with the gun salutes and church bells ringing, it was impossible. At noon I told Mimi: “We’re going.” She looked alarmed. “Incognito,” I assured her. I would wear a broad-brimmed hat and a mask. “I have to see.” Had to see the Empress, the baby. “We’ll take the landau.” It is a plain vehicle, without insignia, used for riding in the park when the weather is good. “If we leave now, we can get there in time.”
I hadn’t reckoned on the crowds, however. It was well after three by the time the coach driver had fought his way into the heart of the city. I asked Antoine to let us down a few blocks from the route. “We’ll walk.”
The streets were thronged. It was all the troops could do to hold people back. Festive banners had been hung from the rooftops and everywhere I looked I saw garlands of flowers. “Let’s wait here,” I told Mimi, ducking into a recess. Stone steps leading up to the door of a bootmaker’s shop afforded a view over the heads of the crowd.
And wait we did: four, four-thirty, five. The crowd began to thin, the hungry citizens reluctantly returning home. Mimi and I edged our way closer to the street. By luck, we found a spot that gave us a clear view. At five-thirty, at last, guns sounded and bells rang.
“What do you suppose that means?” a woman standing beside us asked.
“That the Emperor and Empress have just left the palace,” I told her.
“It won’t be long now,” someone behind us said. My heart thrilled to the distant sound of drums, a marching band.
“They’re coming!” a man behind us yelled.
I looked at Mimi and grinned. “It’s exciting on the street.”
“I see it,” a child straddling a man’s shoulders cried out as the glittering coronation coach pulled into view, drawn by eight white horses, just like out of a fairy tale. “Where’s the baby?” the boy demanded.
Bonaparte, in purple velvet and gold, looked out over the crowd. He’s t
hinking of his work, I thought. He’s wondering how long this ceremony is going to take. He’s gauging the enthusiasm of the people. He’s thinking how uncomfortable his jacket is.
“Empress Marie-Louise is prettier than I expected her to be,” Mimi said, covering her face with her shawl.
Marie-Louise. Big lower lip, strong jaw, plump. I thought she’d be more attractive. And she seemed bored—disdainful even. “She’s younger than I expected.” Only a girl. She was dressed—not very elegantly—in white satin, wearing a diadem of brilliants. My diadem.
“The other one used to smile,” the woman beside us said. “This one never does.”
“I see the baby!” the boy cried out behind us. “He’s in the next carriage. He’s dressed in white with red ribbons.”
Everyone craned to see as the second carriage pulled into view. The King of Rome was held by Madame de Montesquiou, his nanny. The fat, complacent baby was sucking his thumb. I blew him a kiss, my blessing.
Monday, June 10, 4:30 or so—Malmaison.
Hortense was full of stories about the Imperial baptism. “I’m so relieved that it’s over.” She’d gone to Notre-Dame the night before and persuaded the guards to let her in. In the empty cathedral she’d fallen to her knees before little Napoleon’s tomb and wept. “It was a good thing,” she assured me, seeing my stricken look. “The next day I was able to get through the ceremony without a tear.”
Now that the baptism is over, she would like to take the waters, she said. Could I look after the boys? (Gladly!) On leaving, she embraced me somewhat stiffly, and with reserve. Something about the way she walks makes me think of a woman with child. No—surely she would tell me.
The Josephine B. Trilogy Page 104
