Jerome looked at his sister, then at Camillo, and withdrew.
Pauline was still sitting up. He strode over and dropped to his knees beside the bed. “For God’s sake, lie down,” he said, his voice rough. “It hurts me just to look at you.”
“No,” she said. “I have to do this sitting up. If I thought I could stand, I would.” For the first time, he saw tears in her eyes. Her voice was weak, but it was steady and clear. “I have no right to ask this of you. You have already been more than generous.” She stopped. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“What? What is it?”
“Ask you to forgive me. I know God has forgiven me, and that is all I should care about, but I loved you, and I was so horrible to you, I know I don’t deserve—”
“Stop.” He put his hand over her mouth. “Stop. I won’t listen. Of course I forgive you.” He blinked away tears. “I forgave you a long time ago. The fault wasn’t all yours, you know.”
“Am I your wife again?”
“You were always my wife.”
“And you don’t mind that I asked to be buried in the Borghese chapel?”
“You’re a Borghese princess.” He kissed her forehead. She sighed. “Now I can lie down. Will you stay with me for a bit?”
“Yes.” He pulled up his usual chair.
He sat and held her hand and listened to her breathe. “I love you,” he whispered after a little while.
She smiled.
EPILOGUE
June 9,1845
The lamps were burning in the Borghese chapel, reflecting off the statues of golden angels cavorting behind the altar. The angels, for their part, were supporting an ancient and revered image of the Virgin, dark with age. In theory, the angels were merely the frame; in practice, their glittering bodies completely eclipsed the painting.
Sophie stood to the side; the others were still kneeling in prayer at the altar. She liked staring at the antique Virgin, who stared right back, frowning. Not for her the typical adoring, submissive gaze down at her divine child; no, she looked right at you, daring you to tell her she was a bad mother. Legend said she had been painted by Saint Luke, from life. Sophie liked that idea.
After a few minutes, Agnese got up, genuflected, and came back to stand by Sophie. “Aren’t you going to pray at all, Cousin Sophie?” she asked hesitantly. “If you don’t like priests, he’s gone now.”
“You asked me that last month, at the mass for your Uncle Camillo.”
The girl pursed her lips. “You might have changed your mind since then,” she pointed out.
“Aunt Paolina used to say the same thing when she bullied me to come to church,” Sophie said absently. “Only it wasn’t a month in between—it was more like three days.”
Agnese shifted from one foot to the other. She was getting restless; the commemoration service had been a long one. And Bettina, still determined to save Pauline from her just deserts, was not going to leave the altar until she had said one hundred Hail Marys.
“I’m going to go and look at the little house on the other side of the church,” Agnese announced finally. She darted off.
The “little house” was, in fact, an elaborate vessel for consecrated wafers in the chapel on the other side of the nave, built for Pope Sixtus V. The vessel was a very detailed two-foot-high model of the chapel that housed it, complete with bas-reliefs on the tiny doors and miniature statues on the domed roof. It was held aloft by yet another team of gilded angels.
Sophie wondered sometimes what it would be like to be a Borghese, to have basilicas like this one as your family church, your playground even, in the case of a child like Agnese. To have your ancestors staring down at you from niches in the walls, wearing the papal miter, surrounded by all the gold and paint and marble that centuries of Catholic wealth and power could command. To have a gold ciborium as a sort of sacred doll’s house.
She had hated the place when Pauline was first buried here. She had stood at the side of the chapel then, too, seething with grief and anger at the thought of confining Pauline inside this pious jewel box. She felt as though someone had stolen the body of the real Pauline and replaced it with someone else. Her joyous butterfly of a Pauline, her reckless, irresponsible, impatient Pauline, did not belong here. But it had been Pauline’s last wish, and Camillo’s, too. Sophie had gradually made her peace with the idea. After all, for twenty years now, Pauline had been a faithful Borghese princess. Camillo had been resting alongside her for thirteen of those years.
Of course, he wasn’t the only Borghese who had been buried here recently. Sophie wondered how Pauline was getting along with Agnese’s mother, the saintly Lady Gwendolyn.
“Are you watching us, Pauline?” she whispered, leaning against a pillar. “Do you like it here? Does it make you laugh when Bettina says prayers for you?”
The old servant was struggling to her feet, assisted by Matteo. It was time to go. Sophie looked around for Agnese and spotted her a few feet away, right by the silk rope across the entrance to the chapel.
“Cousin Sophie, come look,” she said, beckoning. “I just noticed something.”
Sophie went and stood beside her.
“See?” Agnese pointed to the sign next to the rope. “Look at the name of the chapel!”
CAPPELLA PAOLINA was the heading, in large block capital letters. Then, in smaller script underneath, The Cappella Paolina is closed this afternoon for a private family memorial. Visitors to the basilica are asked to remain on this side of the rope.
Sophie smiled. “It’s not named for Pauline,” she told Agnese. “It’s the pope who built the chapel, Pope Paul. The one who was also named Camillo Borghese.”
“I know that,” said Agnese. “But don’t you think it’s nice? That a Camillo is a Pauline? Don’t you think it’s a sign that they are happy together, now?”
Another Borghese romantic in the making, thought Sophie. Just like Camillo.
She reached instinctively for the folded paper at her chest. It had been sent to her on the first anniversary of Pauline’s death, and when she had opened it, she had thought there must be some mistake. Why would Camillo send Sophie a letter addressed to a ghost? But he had.
Dearest Pauline,
the letter said,
You wrote me so many letters that I never answered, and now it is my turn. I wish I had answered those letters. I wish I could have been more like Sophie. She was honest enough to admit that she loved you all along; I was too proud, too careful of my dignity, until it was almost too late. You never had dignity, Pauline, and I thought it was a terrible flaw in your character. Now I ask myself why I valued it so highly. You had joy, you had passion. Dignity isn’t worth much in comparison with that.
I miss you. I miss your body, and your voice, and the way you tilt your head sideways. I miss your eyes. No one else has eyes that large and dark. I miss your ridiculous, extravagant habits. A few months ago I discovered what I had spent on milk for your baths while you were in Florence. I could have bought an entire herd of cows! But I laughed when I saw the accounts.
I went to Lucca in August, to the villa you left me in your will. It’s perfect. I was happy and sad there, both at once, because the whole place was so much like you. I’m going back there in a few weeks, to be happy and sad again.
Do you know where I am right now? I’m sitting across from you, with four dozen candles shining on your naked body, just the way you liked me to see you. It took me a while to get up my courage for this. After you died, I couldn’t even think about the statue for a long time. But today, on the anniversary of your death, I made myself go and visit you. I arrived in Rome just before sunset, and when they unlocked the room the light was coming in sideways and firing your skin with a hint of pink color. You looked so beautiful. The candlelight is more spectacular, but not as lifelike.
I’m no longer jealous. I think I’ll open the room more often, let people see you. You always enjoyed having admirers. Perhaps I’ll even move you to the villa, wh
ere you can have other lovely statues for company in the quiet hours when the salons are closed. Sophie can go visit you there; she always liked the villa better than the palace. I’m sending this letter to her, in fact.
She is the only one who will understand why I wrote it.
Your husband, Camillo
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many people were a major part of the process of putting this book together, from early on in life in the form of inspiration right up to now—too many to thank but a few I have to.
To my brother and sister, grandmother, aunts and uncles, and the rest of my family, I’m so proud to have you all in my life! And, of course, to my parents for leading by example. My editors, Lucia Macro and Esi Sogah, are amazing, and I could not have shaped this book without their guidance. My agent, Ian Kleinert, thank you for getting the ball rolling. I would also like to thank a friend who is a professor for advice and assistance with the process of researching and writing this book, whose help was enormous. And lastly, I would like to thank all the people who have been a part of my life and have made my journey thus far so very special. You know who you are. Please know I will never forget you or the wonderful moments we have spent together.
About the Author
PRINCE LORENZO BORGHESE
PRINCE LORENZO BORGHESE is an Italian and American citizen who has resided in Manhattan since 1997. His storied paternal ancestors include Napoleon’s sister Paulina Bonaparte Borghese. Lorenzo graduated from Rollins College in Winter Park, Florida, and has an MBA from Fordham University in New York. In 2006 he starred on ABC’s reality TV show The Bachelor—Rome. An avid animal lover and founder of Royal Treatment, a highend pet line offering a vast array of pet supplies, Lorenzo is also creator and founder of RoyalPetClub.com, a discount pet luxury website that sells pet supplements and organic grooming products manufactured in Italy.
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AFTERWORD
It was the summer of 1988, and I was headed to Rome. I was to spend two days there with my family prior to what would be, in my mind, my “real vacation,” a trip on my uncle’s yacht, Valentine, through the Mediterranean.
Although I was born in Italy, I hadn’t spent much time there since moving to the United States at the age of seven. This was going to be my first trip back to Rome in a long while. To be honest, I didn’t know much about my family history at this point, nor did I really care. I was the type of kid who was excited to go to Rome because there was no drinking age. I was a punk. Really. I remember I had a pierced ear with a big colored parrot hanging from it. My poor parents! The weather was sunny, hot, and humid—a typical July day in Rome. My father and mother were taking me to Villa Borghese, Rome’s largest park, which was owned by my family until 1903; in that year, the Villa Borghese (the park itself, the villa, and my family’s art collection) was nationalized by the state and then handed over to the municipality of Rome.
I remember when I first saw the entrance to the park. Two massive stone pillars framed the gate, one decorated with an eagle, the other with a dragon. As I walked in between these twin symbols of the Borghese clan, I could see lawns, fountains, and statues spread out in front of me. Bicycles rolled down the concrete pathways; Italians were sprawled on blankets kissing; street vendors were selling gelatos and beverages. From the trees overhead birds chirped, drowning out the city sounds just beyond the stone walls that separated the park from the central districts of Rome.
The park was enormous, the landscaping beautiful. Terrace led to fountain led to grotto led to avenue. After an hour, when I thought we had seen everything, my father took me to the center of a path and pointed up a slight hill. A building gleamed white in the sunshine. It was perfectly proportioned, one of the most elegant mansions I had ever seen.
“The Galleria Borghese,” my father said quietly. “Home to your relatives until 1903.” (Perhaps, in some sense, it is still my family’s home; the history of this magical place is filled with my ancestors’ stories, statues, and paintings.)
I followed him along the paved walkway past what seemed like hundreds of trees and flowering shrubs. It took a full five minutes to reach the entrance of the Galleria. Up the marble steps, through the door, across the atrium, down a hall, into an elegant square room—and there she was.
Even to a teenage philistine, that statue was spectacular. The white cold marble, the finely crafted couch, the apple, and Paulina. How stunning! It really was one of the most beautiful works of art I had ever seen. I stared.
“That is your relative, Paulina Bonaparte Borghese,” my father said. “She was Napoleon’s sister; she married Camillo Borghese.”
That was my first introduction to Paulina.
After our tour of the Galleria Borghese, my parents took me to Santa Maria Maggiore, one of Rome’s five basilicas and home to the Borghese chapel. Although the chapel was splendid (my brother would get married here thirteen years later), nothing was more moving to me than the Borghese crypt, which was beneath the chapel. As this is a private area in the church, open only to members of the Borghese family, my father had to ask Monsignor Cocuzza to unlock the massive wooden doors and let us in.
The crypt is at the bottom of a long flight of steps, deep beneath the basilica. There, on the marble floor, spread out across the entire expanse of the crypt, was my family tree, all beautifully carved (the names, the crests, the tree with its leaves … everything). Flanking the tree on both sides were tombs, each inscribed with the name of its occupant. When I saw Paulina’s name, I was actually quite shocked. Why would a Frenchwoman (especially a Bonaparte) want to be buried in Rome surrounded by all the Borgheses? And that was when my father told me the story of Paulina and Camillo.
Theirs was not a fairy-tale marriage; the story is sad, even tragic. And yet it is also beautiful and romantic, and it contains a very important lesson about love, a lesson I wanted to share with all who cared to read this book: love is about understanding, forgiveness, and communication. Without these elements, love simply cannot work, nor can it grow. This was true with Camillo and Paulina. It was understanding, forgiveness, and communication that reconciled the unhappy couple in the end, but it was the absence of those elements that poisoned their love for so many years. Only when it was too late did they realize what they needed to make their marriage real.
Today, all that is left to remind us of this tragic story is the beautiful statue of Paulina. If you happen to visit Rome, go pay Paulina a visit. Perhaps you will even be lucky enough to do so accompanied by someone you love. You can tell them the story of Paulina and Camillo. Then I encourage you to take a romantic walk through the Borghese gardens. In that lovely setting, you can remind your companion of how much they mean to you, of how much you love them. Paulina and Camillo would approve.
If you enjoyed reading this book, please visit the book’s official website:
www.PrincessOfNowhere.com
Here you can learn more about Pauline’s life, view the list of characters surrounding her, see pictures of the beautiful palaces she lived in, have discussions with other readers, and much more!
CHARACTER LIST
† deceased before story begins
[not mentioned]
fictional
BONAPARTE FAMILY
Mother: Letizia (Madame Mère)
Uncle: Cardinal Fesch, Letizia’s stepbrother
Brothers and sisters: Joseph (wife Julie)
Napoleon (wife Josephine; second wife Marie-Louise of Austria)
Lucien (second wife Alexandrine)
Elisa (husband Felix Bacciochi)
Louis (wife Hortense, daughter of Josephine)
Pauline (also Paolina, Paoletta)
Caroline (husband Joachim Murat)
Jerome (second wife Catherine of Württemberg)
LECLERC FAMILY
Victor Emmanuel Leclerct, Pauline’s first husband
Dermide Leclerc, Pauline’s son
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Adolphe Leclerc, Victor’s uncle and Sophie’s grandfather
Sophie Leclerc, Victor’s cousin (once removed); ward of Napoleon
Charles Speare, British officer on Elba, Sophie’s husband
BORGHESE FAMILY
Camillo Filippo Ludovico, Prince Borghese
Anna Maria, Dowager Princess Borghese, Camillo’s mother, widow of Prince Marcantonio
Francesco Borghese, Camillo’s younger brother, later Prince Borghese
[Marcantonio Borghese, Francesco’s son, Prince Borghese, named for his grandfather]
Lady Gwendolyn Talbot, wife of Marcantonio
Agnese Borghese, daughter of Gwendolyn and Marcantonio
PAULINE’S HOUSEHOLD (FIGURES SERVE AT VARIOUS TIMES)
Madame Ducluzel, housekeeper
Doctor Peyre
Carlotta, nursemaid
Nunzia, Sophie’s maid
Auguste de Forbin, count, Pauline’s chamberlain
Felix Blangini, music master
CAMILLO’S HOUSEHOLD
Maxime de Villemarest, secretary
Matteo, manservant
Bettina, family attendant, sister of Matteo
Doctor Vastapani, court doctor at Turin
OTHER IMPORTANT CHARACTERS
Luigi Angiolini di Serraverra, Italian diplomat
Gian Andrea Visconti, young Milanese aristocrat
Chevalier de St.-Luc, royalist French agent in Rome
Prince Georg, heir to Grand Duchy of Mecklenberg-Strelitz
Antonio Canova, sculptor
Duchess Lante della Rovere, Camillo’s mistress (and cousin)
Copyright
THE PRINCESS OF NOWHERE. Copyright © 2010 by Lorenzo Borghese.
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