The Last Great Dance on Earth

by Sandra Gulland

  Well, alone except for a staff of hundreds. I’m at a loss, I confess. The household has become like some large beast, impossible to tame. “That’s my job, Your Majesty,” Monsieur d’Harville (Count Etiquette) assured me, handing me my schedule for the day. My marching orders.

  July 21—Saint-Cloud, early afternoon.

  I’ve been deceived. Count Etiquette is not my servant, he’s my jailer! He is present at each audience, standing behind my chair. With every move I make, his hand is out—to help, which is kind, but according to etiquette, his is the hand I must wait patiently for, regardless of the number of helping hands present, for he is the highest officer of my household. “It’s an honour to serve you, Your Majesty,” he reminds me officiously.

  This morning, preparing to leave for Aix-la-Chapelle, I remembered that I’d forgotten to ask that my new cashmere shawl be edged. I crossed two halls to find Agathe, whose handiwork I know to be precise. I was shortly informed by Count Etiquette that all orders to servants must be given through him, and him alone—that to do otherwise would, in his words, “compromise the dignity of the throne.”

  “I may not speak to my own maid?” Agathe has been with me for over a decade!

  “It would be contrary to the Code to suggest that your Imperial Majesty may not speak to a person, even to a servant,” the count informed me, his voice unctuous, “but I would not be doing my duty if I did not inform Your Majesty that there are formalities to be observed.”

  Grands Dieux! I can’t get used to being “Empress”—I detest it, frankly. If I drop so much as a fan, I may not stoop to pick it up. The most “honoured” lady-in-waiting present must first retrieve it, then hand it to Count Etiquette, who then hands it to me.

  I wasn’t raised for such a confining role. How I long for the delicious freedom of being a simple citizen, just to stroll along the Champs-Elysées on a sunny afternoon and go to Frascati for an ice. I informed Count Etiquette—with a smile and carefree air that I hoped would temper my words—that although such etiquette was entirely suitable to one born into a world of restraint, it was not always perfectly suitable for me, and that, therefore, on occasion, I would continue to give my orders directly.

  I’ve since repented this burst of “rebellion.” I am fortunate that Count Etiquette has accepted this position—and a difficult one it is, tutoring us parvenus on royal procedures. Somehow, I must find the patience to be an empress.

  [Undated]

  We are crawling through Europe, my four ladies-in-waiting, two chamberlains, two chambermaids (one ill), an equerry, master of the horse, private secretary, butler, two ushers and ten footmen in addition to an army of coachmen and kitchen staff … and a financial controller, who is tearing out his hair at the expense. At each relay we require over seventy horses and twenty postillions. To move this group in concert is a monumental task—and all just to escort me to a spa.

  I am reminded of an incident in my childhood: when a swarm of bees surrounded us, Mimi courageously reached for the queen bee and carried her to an open field, the swarm following.

  I am the queen bee, and this is my swarm.

  July 30—Aix-h-Chapelle, about 8:00 in the evening.

  We’ve arrived, at last, in Aix-la-Chapelle, a sordid little town—”wretched,” my ladies say (a word I hear often from them), in spite of its glorious history, its monumental cathedral, its treasure: the body of Charlemagne, Emperor of the West.

  September 3.

  Bonaparte has arrived and suddenly this sleepy town awakes. Banners are flying everywhere. Even the nags roped to crude carts sport ribbons.

  September 7.

  After a Te Deum in the Cathedral of Aix, Bonaparte was given the talisman Charlemagne wore on his collar when going into battle. Tonight Bonaparte returned to the talisman again and again, holding it in his hand, studying it, turning it. “Charlemagne was crowned by the Pope,” he said, “and I will be as well.”

  “You will go to Rome?”

  “Pope Pius VII will come to me.”

  I smiled, but perhaps it had the appearance of a scoff, for Bonaparte tugged my ear. “You don’t believe me?”

  August 19, 1804, Paris

  Chère Maman,

  How is the treatment going? What do the doctors say? I enjoyed your account of turning down the bone from Charlemagne’s arm. Everyone thinks your response clever*

  Don’t worry so much about me! Louis will be returning from Plombières next month. Until then I am quite busy organizing the layette. I feel enormous, but the midwife assures me I am just as I should be at seven months.

  It is terribly hot here in Paris. Little Napoleon, the charm of my days, is talking more and more. His favourite word is “no,” however!

  Your loving daughter, Hortense

  Note—I have just this moment had news that Pauline’s son died of a fever in Rome. How terribly sad—Dermide was such a dear child. Poor Pauline—-first Victor and now their son. I don’t know how one could survive the death of a child.

  September 12, 1804, Saint-Leu

  Chère Maman,

  Louis returned to Paris on the eighth, and immediately we set off to Saint-Leu. Our new country château is beautiful! We wanted to have some time here before returning to Paris for my confinement in one month.

  The château requires repairs, but even so, our sojourn here has been restful. Health permitting, Louis and his beloved water spaniel roam the hills and fields as I busy myself in domestic pleasures. I was in the kitchen all this morning, helping put up some delicious fruit preserves. Yesterday we made soap and next week it will be candles. Little Napoleon “helps,” of course. He is much happier now that his papa is home.

  His poor papa, whose health was not improved by this last spa treatment. Dr. Corvisart is of the belief that Louis suffers from chronic rheumatism, as you suspected. He’s been taking spirit vapour-baths every evening along with regular doses of extract of smartweed in addition to the anuric tablets Dr. Corvisart prescribed. These do seem to help temper the pain. He’s been told to avoid mutton, goose and pork—all of which he is sorely fond of It’s no wonder his spirits suffer now and again.

  Whatever you do, Maman, don’t worry: I’m well cared for. I’m enclosing a “drawing” little Napoleon made for you. That big scribble in the lower right corner is me!

  Your loving daughter, Hortense

  October 7, Sunday—Saint-Cloud.

  I returned to Paris ahead of Bonaparte in order to be with Hortense during her confinement—only to discover that she and Louis are still at their country estate. She’s due any day now!

  October 9.

  “What took you so long? You should have been here weeks ago,” I scolded my daughter (embracing her). “Look at you!” For she is huge with child and carrying quite low. “You shouldn’t be travelling over rough roads.”

  “Maman, don’t worry! The midwife assured me I have lots of time. The countryside was healing.”

  Yet she seemed uneasy. “Is that a sentry box in the garden?” I asked, looking out her bedchamber window. The guard was standing directly below. “And the garden walls are new, are they not?” The stone walls had been built up so high that a good part of the kitchen garden was now in shadow. The place had the feeling of a prison.

  “For security,” Hortense said, weaving a white ribbon through the lace edge of an infant cap.

  “Because of a follower?” Since the Empire had been proclaimed, both Hortense and I had been plagued by strange men—harmless simpletons, for the most part.

  “No,” she assured me (but colouring—why?).

  I gave her the bag of bulbs I’d brought from my travels and was explaining how they should be planted when little Napoleon ran into the room and bounded into my arms. “Oh, you are so big!” With a studious expression he pried open two fingers. “I know,” I said with a smile, kissing him. Our beautiful Prince—our heir. “Tomorrow you will be two.” I gave him one of the (many) gifts I’d brought: a small wooden sword from his Uncle
Napoleon.

  “From Nonan the soldier?” The child clasped the gift to his breast with such earnest sincerity that both Hortense and I laughed.

  “Your Majesty?” The governess curtsied. “May I …?” Little Napoleon’s cap had come off.

  “No!” The boy squirmed as his governess tried to put it back on.

  “Your Uncle Napoleon wears one just like it,” I told him, which changed his outlook immediately. He settled happily into my lap, clutching his new toy.

  Soon Louis arrived with an aide-de-camp, Monsieur Flahaut. “I didn’t know you were expected,” Louis said. He limped coming in and seemed to walk with difficulty. One would take him for a man of fifty instead of the young man of twenty-six that he is.

  “How good to see you, Louis—and you, Monsieur Flahaut,” I added, dipping my head to the aide-de-camp, my friend Madame de Souza’s son.

  “Your Majesty,” Flahaut answered with a graceful bow. A pretty man with elegant manners; it is easy to see why the women fuss over him. (Indeed, it is rumoured Caroline fancies him.)

  Louis stooped to kiss Hortense on the cheek. “You are well, my precious love?”

  “Oh yes, perfectly well, darling,” she said with a bright smile.

  What a lovely portrait, I thought: the young, happy mother, the doting father.

  October 11—quite late now (exhausted).

  It was still dark when Mimi woke me, whispering, “Your daughter’s footman is here. Her confinement has begun!”

  Bonaparte was asleep, dead to the world. I slipped out of bed, following Mimi into the adjoining room. “What time is it?” I asked, wrapping a cashmere scarf about my head.

  “Twenty after three,” she said, checking a yawn.

  “Are the horses harnessed?”

  “Slow down, Your Majesty.” Mimi smiled, handing me a mug of hot chocolate. “You can’t go out like that. What will Count Etiquette say? The baby will take its imperial time and you should, too.”

  But I felt there was a fire under me; I could not be idle imagining my daughter’s discomfort. I quickly slipped on the gown Mimi brought from the wardrobe and left. Empress or not, my daughter was having a baby.

  Louis met me at the door, en déshabillé. “Oh,” he said, as if surprised to see me. “I thought you were the accoucheur.”

  I removed my cape and gave it to a butler in livery (thankful that Mimi had persuaded me to dress respectably). “But the midwife is here? How is Hortense?” I asked, trying to get my hat ribbons untied, for in my haste I had knotted them. “Has the Arch-Chancellor been sent for?” Impatiently I pulled the hat off my head, tearing one of the ribbons.

  Louis gave me a puzzled look. “De Cambacérès?”

  “There must be a witness at Imperial family births, remember? According to the new protocol.”* This had been discussed, had it not? The amended Constitution decreed that an official witness must be present at the birth of any child in the line of succession.

  “Pour I’amour de Dieu,” Louis muttered, and headed up the stairs.

  The accoucheur didn’t arrive until just before noon. Shortly after, Arch-Chancellor de Cambacérès arrived in a carriage drawn by six horses and accompanied by six pages, a footman and a chamberlain. The servants kept the Arch-Chancellor content at the dining table with dishes of bloated herring à la Dublin, mutton kidneys and several glasses of an excellent Madeira. (De Cambacérès related all this to me later in detail.)

  The baby was born at half-past two. Another boy! “A good specimen,” the midwife pronounced. De Cambacérès saw enough through his silver-rimmed lorgnette to fulfill his duty as a royal witness (but not so much as to upset his stomach). Louis examined the baby thoroughly before he was swaddled by the nursemaid.

  “What a blessing: two sons,” I told him. “He looks like you.”

  “Do you think?” Louis said.

  My daughter pressed my hand against her cheek. “Isn’t he beautiful, Maman?” she said, the colour rising in her cheeks.

  “You’re beautiful,” I said. How brave she had been.

  *18 Brumaire: date of the coup in 1799 which overthrew the government of France and instituted Napoleon as First Consul.

  *Before General Moreau—who was exiled to America after being found guilty of involvement in the Cadoudal conspiracy—the ancient château had been owned by Josephine and Napoleon’s friend Paul Barras, who had conspired with the Royalists and was overthrown by Napoleon.

  *Josephine refused the bone fragment, saying that she had for her own support an arm as strong as Charlemagne’s.

  *Queen Marie Antoinette and queens before her had been required to give birth in a room crowded with gawking witnesses.

  In which I am offered a crown

  October 15, 1804—Saint-Cloud.

  “The Pope has finally answered,” Bonaparte informed me as I came in the door. “It’s not official yet, but he’s agreed: he’ll come to Paris.”*

  “To crown you?” I asked absently, putting down my basket. I’d been with Hortense all morning and was sick with concern. The new baby—Petit we’re calling him—is thriving, but Hortense herself is still not strong, not eating well, if at all.

  “Call the architects, set up a meeting for later this afternoon. I’m free at five. The Pope will stay in the Pavillon de Flore. We’ll need to renovate.” He paused at the door. “What’s the matter? You don’t think it will suit?”

  “Bonaparte, I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t … Did you say the Pope is coming? You’re serious? You’re not jesting?” “I told you before.”

  “It’s just that … How does one do that—receive the Pope?” Bonaparte let out a little laugh. “What’s the problem? I’m the Emperor.”

  October 16.

  Hortense has milk fever. She’s in terrible pain, her breasts hard and inflamed. A bread-and-milk poultice has done little to relieve her distress. The doctor will consider bleeding her if she does not improve by the morning.

  [Undated]

  Fifty-six rooms are going to be redecorated to house Pope Pius VII and his entourage.

  Fifty-six rooms: imagine! I remember, not long ago, when a new bedstead was too great an expense.

  Between tending Hortense and preparing for the coronation, I’m run ragged.

  October 17—Saint-Cloud.

  Busy! This morning I met with fashion designer Leroy and artists Jacques-Louis David and Isabey about the new court dress. I finally succeeded in persuading them that it would be brutal to resume the hoop. French women simply won’t tolerate such a medieval construction! What we have decided on is simple but elegant: a dress very much like the gowns worn today, but with the addition of a long mantle and a ruff. Although impractical, a ruff is, no doubt, becoming. Leroy has suggested one with long points, made of tulle embroidered with gold or silver. It attaches at the shoulders and comes up high behind the head, as in the portraits of Catherine de Medici. My ladies are in ecstasies.

  October 19—a beautiful fall evening.

  “I’ve got it—finally.” The poet Chénier was euphoric.

  “Got what?” I asked.

  “The subject for the tragedy the Emperor has asked me to write in commemoration of the coronation.”

  “Ha! It should be a comedy, the way things have been going around here,” Chastulé said.

  “All the poets in the Empire have been asked to create a piece to celebrate the coronation, Your Majesty,” Clari explained.

  “Aren’t you going to ask about my subject, Your Majesty?” The poet scratched his head.

  “Oh, yes, of course, Monsieur Chénier. Forgive me. What is the subject you’ve decided on?”

  “The Emperor Cyrus!” Talma’s voice boomed behind us, making us jump. “Played by guess who?” The actor struck a heroic pose, looking for all the world like a Roman statue in spite of the curious costume he was wearing.

  “I was going to tell her,” Chénier complained.

  “Talma! What on earth are you wearing?” The tight breeches did not
flatter his figure. The vain actor usually took pains to disguise his bowed legs.

  “You don’t know, Your Majesty?” Talma twirled. “This is the new court dress.”

  “Are you serious?” I frowned in disbelief. It was an ensemble in the style of the Renaissance, an embroidered satin doublet with a ruff and puffed pantaloons over skin-tight breeches, silk stockings and white high-heeled shoes with rosettes.

  “The Emperor approved it this afternoon, but we can’t decide what to call it. What do you think? Spanish?” With a twirl. “À la Henri IV?” Another twirl. “The Troubadour? That’s what I suggested.” Three twirls, the short cape flying. “But who am I to say? I was merely”—he threw the velvet cape across his shoulder and strutted across the drawing room—”the model?

  “Bonaparte is going to wear that?”

  Talma threw the black hat festooned with ostrich feathers into the air. “Apparently.” He caught it and positioned it back on his head. The plumes bobbed comically. “Or at least something like it. What His Majesty actually said was”—and here he imitated Bonaparte’s voice and movements exactly—”‘Enough. That’s it. Don’t bother me anymore about it! I have better things to do than to decide about lace. Do whatever you think. Just get out of here.’” At which the actor flung himself into the air as if propelled by some invisible force and landed on his backside.

  “Talma,” I gasped. “Are you all right?”

  The famous actor stood, brushed himself off, and before our very eyes transformed, as if by magic, into a Roman figure once again.

  October 20, 6:00 P.M. or so.

  “Please, darling, just try a little,” I coaxed my daughter, trying to tempt her with a crumb of the rhubarb cake she had loved as a child. “Show little Napoleon.” I smiled down at my grandson, who studied his mother with a grave expression.

  “Make it like a horse,” he said, showing me the trick his Uncle Napoleon uses to get food into him.