“Don’t try to talk,” she said every time Sophie woke up. “It will hurt your throat.”
But the sick girl did try, over and over again; there was something she wanted to say. No sound came out.
The servants tiptoed in and out, bringing Pauline food. At some point—she did not remember when—she had left the room briefly to change out of her evening dress. It was ruined; there were rust-colored stains all down the bodice. She left it crumpled on the floor, pulled the jet beads out of her hair and grabbed an old gown and shawl. Halfway up the staircase, she realized that she still had on her black satin shoes. She stepped out of them, leaving them on the landing, and continued in her stocking feet.
Back to Sophie’s bedchamber, where the shutters and curtains were closed against the infectious outside air, and it was always dim and stuffy—never quite day and never quite night. The timeless twilight of the sickroom was terrifyingly familiar. Sophie even looked like Emmanuel—the same fair hair and long, gentle face.
Not this time, Pauline said to herself over and over again. Not this time. I am in Paris, not the West Indies.
Should he marry Pauline Bonaparte? Camillo paced back and forth in front of the chair where Angiolini had been earlier. One thing was clear to him: if he did nothing, he would soon find himself wed to Napoleon’s sister. Gigantic forces were pushing him toward the altar: Angiolini, the Bonaparte brothers, his own family, and, above all, the pope’s desire to protect his land from the French army. Now was the time to take a stand; no public declaration had been made; it was all still couched in elaborate conditional queries sealed inside confidential dispatches. He had said nothing to Pauline; she had said nothing to him and treated him no differently than her other admirers. If he went to Joseph Bonaparte today and told him firmly, resolutely, that he had decided against the match, he could stop the proceedings before it was too late. Joseph, he had decided, was a safer choice than Angiolini, for this purpose. Angiolini was too glib and persuasive.
Should he marry Pauline Bonaparte? Did he want to marry her? Did he want to marry anyone?
Camillo considered the last question first. He knew that he was obligated to marry. He had been avoiding it for years. Now he admitted to himself that it was time to marry. A prince required an heir. More: a prince required a princess—a hostess, a governess of his households. As for wanting … Yes, he wanted a companion, a helpmate, a loving woman bound to him by vows and loyalty rather than by gifts of jewelry (his last mistress in Rome) or boredom with her husband (his next-to-last mistress in Rome). His reluctance to marry was rapidly diminishing now that his mother was so far away. In fact, yet another advantage of marriage: his mother would have to relinquish her place as the highest-ranking female in the Borghese family.
Next he considered the first question. Was marriage to a Bonaparte useful to his family? Unquestionably. Every single political consideration argued strongly for this alliance. Seven years ago, Napoleon had marched into northern Italy; it had taken him little more than a year to evict the “invincible” Austrians from their holdings and gobble them up for France, along with the papal states, only recently restored. Anything that a Borghese could do to dissuade France from once again invading the papal territories was a sacred duty.
That left the most difficult question: Did he want to marry her? Pauline. Beautiful, flirtatious, charming, capricious Pauline. He could picture her in every room of his enormous palace, making its gloomy, Tiber-damp chambers suddenly brighter. He could picture her in the tree-lined walkways of the Borghese villa just outside the city, admiring the decorative flocks of sheep and trailing her fingers in the fountains. He could picture her dancing and sparkling in the villa’s elegant reception rooms. He could picture her in his bed.
He could definitely picture her in his bed. But who would be in bed with her?
For all Angiolini’s reassurances, Camillo was inclined to believe at least some of the stories about Pauline. He had seen the shiny pink circle of the healed ulcer on her left hand himself. Her hair was very short. Too short to be explained as a fashionable whim. Even if she had not copulated on her husband’s coffin, there was something about her that suggested that she had copulated in other exotic locations.
He remembered watching her with one of Napoleon’s young officers a few weeks earlier. The lieutenant had been turning away after bidding her farewell, and Pauline had evidently decided that she did not want him to leave just yet. She had stretched her shoulders back like a cat, pushing up her breasts, tilting her chin, drawing in her breath—for one small moment, a woman on her back in bed, although she was standing fully clothed in a crowded receiving room in the Tuileries. The young officer had been frozen in place.
So had every other man in the room.
She was wild. Too wild.
The following morning, he presented himself at the Hôtel Marboeuf, Joseph’s mansion, and was ushered at once into the same large salon where Joseph and his wife, Julie, had received him six weeks earlier on his first afternoon in Paris. Then the room had seemed bright and hospitable; now the tall windows and heavy furniture loomed over him and made him feel nervous. When Joseph bustled in, friendly and eager, a few moments later, Camillo could barely pull himself out of his chair.
How on earth had he believed he could tell Pauline’s brother that he found his sister unacceptable? Yes, he and Joseph had become friendly, had talked of horses and travel and music, and even, in one slightly drunken conversation, of their overbearing mothers. But this was no casual conversation about common interests or family foibles. Camillo could hardly pretend that he thought Pauline unattractive or socially awkward.
Joseph would know the truth: Camillo thought his sister was a slut. The man would be outraged, perhaps even outraged enough to issue a challenge. Camillo was quite proficient with the small sword; it was possible he would kill Joseph … kill the brother of Napoleon … this was a disaster.
“My dear fellow!” Joseph, like Angiolini the day before, was ebullient. “Everything is all but settled, I hear. No, no, sit down.” He waved Camillo, who was standing frozen in dismay, back to his seat. “I have sent for some champagne. We will toast your nuptials.”
“Well. Yes. About this marriage—” Camillo looked helplessly at his host. Joseph’s face, in the gentle sunlight, suddenly bore a remarkable resemblance to Pauline’s—a perfect, delicate cameo of a face. “I—I do not think your sister cares for me,” he stammered.
Joseph looked surprised. “But she likes you very well! She has told me so herself, in fact.”
He was floundering. “I called yesterday and was turned away.”
This was not entirely true. He had not visited in person, but one of his servants, sent over to the Hôtel de Charost with a note, had reported that Madame Leclerc was not receiving visitors.
Joseph laughed. “Ah! Now you show me that you are a lover, to read so much into so little! Well, Pauline does not wish it generally known, but her little cousin, Mademoiselle Leclerc, has been ill for the past few days.”
It took Camillo a moment to recall Sophie; so much fuss had been made over Dermide on his previous visits that the other child had faded into the background. He remembered her now: an awkward, pale girl who never smiled and in fact had seemed to glare at him once or twice. He had thought her rather unappealing and far preferred the exuberant and cheerful Dermide, whose blond curls set off his mother’s dark elegance beautifully. Nor did he have much sympathy for the sick; he was rarely ill and had never paid much attention to discussions of disease or infirmity, which seemed to him slightly distasteful. If it was taboo for polite men and women to discuss the normal functions of their bodies—sex and defecation, for example, two of the most pleasurable activities, being entirely forbidden—then why was it acceptable to dwell endlessly on the malfunctions of those same bodies?
“I hope she is better now?” he said politely.
“Yes, I sent a boy this morning to inquire and he reports that she is improving. In fact,
I am going over there shortly to see Pauline, now that the child is out of danger. Perhaps you could accompany me, let her make her own excuses for her discourtesy yesterday?”
Camillo was saved from answering by the appearance of the champagne, which was duly poured.
“To Mademoiselle Leclerc’s recovery,” he said hastily, before Joseph could propose a toast to his marriage.
“Indeed.” Joseph eyed him narrowly and turned the conversation to the unseasonably cool weather.
By the third day of Sophie’s illness, Pauline began to hope, cautiously, that she had won the battle. The fever had gone down—not entirely but enough. The rattle had disappeared from the halting breaths. The drops squeezed from the endless supply of napkins seemed to be making their way somehow down Sophie’s throat. Pauline allowed herself to sleep for a few hours at a time on a cot instead of on the chair next to Sophie’s bed. When Nunzia came to tend the fire, signaling the arrival of yet another dawn, she let her open the curtains and bring up some chocolate. She had finished half the pot and was nodding off in her chair when she heard a rustle from the bed beside her.
Sophie was awake. Truly awake, blinking. And as Pauline hastily brought over a fresh cloth and squeezed it between her lips, she swallowed, very carefully, wincing but triumphant.
What a miracle, thought Pauline, watching the slender throat contract and relax again. From the lips, to the tongue, to the back of the mouth, to the throat, to the stomach. Impossible without those tiny muscles in our neck, without that opening sloping down behind our tongue. How frail our bodies are.
Sophie clearly thought one swallow was enough for the moment. Pauline disagreed. Quickly, she tipped a little bit of the liquid into a glass and held it to Sophie’s mouth.
“Ah,” said Sophie, indistinctly after the second swallow. It was more of a croak than anything else.
“Don’t talk,” said Pauline automatically, offering her more barley water.
“Ah, ah.” She looked determined to speak.
“Here.” Pauline set down the glass and propped Sophie higher on the pillows. She tried to guess what Sophie was trying to say. “Do you want something else to drink? Something hot? Or some cherry cordial?” The cherry cordial was Dermide’s favorite, although Pauline diluted it so much that it was more like cherry-flavored water.
“Sorra,” whispered Sophie.
Pauline bent over her. “Hush.”
“I’m sorry.” This time it came out more clearly.
“You can talk again; that is wonderful,” said Pauline, patting her hand. “And swallow properly. The doctor will be very pleased. Can you drink more?”
Sophie nodded.
Pauline slipped her arm behind Sophie’s shoulder and helped her sit up and take small sips of the barley water. Every swallow made Sophie wince. “That’s it, that’s my brave girl,” she said after each sip. She made her drink half a glass, then said, remembering, “Why are you sorry?”
“For getting sick,” mumbled Sophie. “For being such a trouble.”
Pauline laughed. “As if you had any say in the matter! No one chooses to be sick!”
Later, Sophie would remind her of that comment, but now she just gave a little smile and closed her eyes again.
Pauline stepped into the sitting room and beckoned to Nunzia, who had been keeping her own vigil.
“Broth, tea, watered wine,” she ordered. “And perhaps some grapes, if Madame Golet can obtain them. Beef jelly.” Her mental inventory of food for convalescents failed her temporarily. “Whatever else Carlotta thinks a sick child should eat. We’ll let her sleep for two hours, and then see what she can get down.”
Nunzia looked at the sleeping Sophie, then at Pauline. “She is getting better, then? It is true? God be praised!” She had tears in her eyes.
“The kitchen. And Carlotta,” Pauline said, prompting her.
“Yes, signora.” Nunzia danced out the door, calling out in Corsican as she reached the back stairs, “She is better! She is better! I need Carlotta in the kitchen right away!”
Pauline sank back into her chair, exhausted. It was probably safe to leave Sophie with someone else now. She could take a break from the sickroom. Her stomach grumbled; she had barely eaten for three days—the servants had brought her food, but terror had killed her appetite. She should eat. She should summon her chamberlain and see if the household was still functioning after three days of neglect. She should have a bath and wash her hair, which was so stiff with dried sweat that it felt like a wig glued to her scalp.
Instead, she fell asleep, her feet tucked up beneath her and her head resting on the curved back of the chair.
“My sister is expecting me,” said Joseph, handing his hat and coat to the nervous footman who had finally answered the door. “Is she with Mademoiselle Sophie?” He looked around. The household seemed to be in a state of chaos. None of the old retainers he knew were visible anywhere; strange servants were peering rudely from the side room at the two men without offering to help the footman, and he could hear some sort of commotion floating up from the kitchen, which was underneath the back hallway.
“I believe so, monsieur.” The footman looked around desperately for a more senior member of the household staff.
“Never mind,” said Joseph, adding Camillo’s coat to the pile on the man’s arm. “I know the way.” He led Camillo toward the stairs. “This place was a mausoleum when Pauline bought it,” he confided as they began climbing. “She was living with me and Julie when she returned from the West Indies, and she wanted a house of her own, but we thought she was mad to buy something this size. At any rate, she wanted to show me every room in this cursed house at every stage of the redecoration. And when the little girl came to live with her, she redecorated that suite again. Now Julie wants to buy new furniture for the first-floor rooms in our house. A chair is a chair, I said, but she tells me I have no notion of fashion.” He paused for breath at the second landing. “One more flight, Sophie’s rooms are right over Pauline’s.”
Camillo had never been beyond the public rooms on the first floor of Pauline’s house; he was surprised to see that the carpeting and paneling continued all the way up to the second and third floors. Lamps in the halls, some still lit, silk hangings, elaborate plasterwork. Pauline had expensive taste.
“Just down here,” Joseph was saying. He knocked gently and pushed open the doors. “Pauline?” He motioned for Camillo to follow him and went in.
They were in a small sitting room whose furnishings had clearly been chosen by a young girl: pink and white walls, pink damask curtains, flowered cushions, small china animals on every available surface. The room was empty, but the door to the adjacent bedchamber was open. They walked toward it, suddenly quiet, remembering that this was a sickroom.
Camillo could see over Joseph easily; he was nearly five inches taller. The girl was asleep in the bed. Next to her, curled up in a chair, was Pauline. She was wearing a faded yellow cotton dress and her hair was tied up under a kerchief. It was the first time Camillo had seen her wearing any color but black. It was the first time he had seen her without jewels and cosmetics. It was the first time he had seen her asleep.
She looked terrible. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her lips were pale and dry. Her hair, what little could be seen underneath the kerchief, was plastered to her forehead. Scattered around her was all the evidence of the recent ordeal: basins, glasses, pitchers, spoons, droppers, bottles of medicine. Below her chair on the floor was a pile of discarded napkins, each with one wrinkled, stiff corner.
As quietly as possible, Camillo backed away. He tiptoed through the sitting room with its menagerie of china animals, tiptoed down the three flights of carpeted stairs, tiptoed through the entrance hall, and let himself out the front door. He didn’t try to find a servant to bring him his hat and coat. He would be back later. He would send her a note, and she would bathe and dress and put on jewelry and curl her hair and arrange herself on her chaise with Dermide like
a goddess with an attendant cherub.
And then he would ask her to marry him, because he had seen her when she thought no one was looking.
FOUR
Two days later, Camillo returned to the Hôtel de Charost. Forty-eight hours of reflection had not banished the oddly magnetic image of the haggard, sleeping Pauline. Part of him wanted to be cautious, to consider, to delay. He had tried to summon up the doubts and misgivings that had prompted his visit to Joseph. They were still there but misted over, like faded ink on an old sheet of paper. Part of him wanted to rush back to Pauline and throw himself on his knees now, at once, before his more cowardly self could stop him. In the end, he did go back—he could not stay away. But he did not commit himself yet; he sent no word of his visit in advance and announced, as he handed his hat and gloves to the footman, that he had come to inquire after Mademoiselle Sophie. He assumed that he would be taken to one of the formal drawing rooms and that Pauline would receive him. He expected to wait; he had come without warning, after all, and he knew that Pauline would want to look her best. He expected to be dazzled, as always, by Pauline’s beauty. He expected to be given some sign—a word, a gesture—that Pauline wanted him to propose to her.
He did not expect that he would actually be taken to see Sophie, and so he paid no attention to where he was going until it was too late.
The young Corsican maid who escorted him upstairs noticed the flat box under his arm just as she opened the door into the pink sitting room.
“Oh, Your Excellency, I should have taken that from you!” she said, horrified. Before Camillo could say anything, she had it firmly in both hands and was stepping into the suite ahead of him, holding out the box.
The Princess of Nowhere Page 5
