The Last Great Dance on Earth

by Sandra Gulland

  Obligingly, I made it like a horse, and my daughter fainted dead away.

  I’m so worried! Afterwards, perplexed and concerned, I dropped in to see Eugène, who was himself frantic. His mare had rejected her foal and he was spending days and nights in the stable trying to save the little thing. On top of all that, he was going crazy with the renovations being done to his house.* I helped with some decisions about wallcoverings and drapes—and then we talked about Hortense. “She is getting better, Maman,” he assured me, for he calls on her every day.

  He will make some young woman a wonderful husband—in time—but for now I get the feeling that he’d rather be with his horses.

  October 25.

  Hortense has been relieved of her milk, which has been causing her such terrible pain.

  10:20 P.M.—Saint-Cloud.

  The coronation was to be held in two weeks—but this evening Bonaparte learned that the Holy Father hasn’t even left Rome yet! Consequently the coronation has been put forward to December 2. Frankly, I’m relieved. There is so much to do.

  October 26, late, after 2:00 in the morning—can’t sleep.

  Tonight, after Bonaparte returned to his cabinet to work, Eugène suggested a game of billiards. He played well, though with too much force—I won the first game, he won the second, but not without a struggle. By the third we were laughing and talking: of his newest mount, of finding a good (quiet) riding horse for me, of Hortense—who is sitting up and eating—and her beautiful boys. Then we talked of my growing staff, my need to hire yet more ladies-in-waiting (as Madame Campan had long ago predicted).

  “Madame Duchâtel would be good,” Eugène blurted out.

  “Adèle Duchâtel?”

  “She asked if I could help her get a position.” Flushing.

  Aha, I thought—winsome Adèle Duchâtel had caught my son’s fancy. Certainly she is a beauty: slender, with an abundance of golden hair, blue eyes, good teeth. On the other hand, she is tall, and her nose is a bit beaky. I find her manners cold, but perhaps she is simply shy. “I think Madame Duchâtel would be a lovely addition to my staff, Eugène, but I’m not sure she’s qualified.” Adèle Duchâtel is married to an elderly, disagreeable man, a councillor of state. His status doesn’t merit a position for his wife at court, regardless of her personal charm.

  “Please, Maman.”

  I took up my cue and circled the table, assessing the shots. Thinking: it is time my son started dreaming of something other than horses. Thinking: Adèle Duchâtel has a husband, so marriage wouldn’t be a possibility. That is good. The choice of a wife for Eugène will have to be dictated by political concerns—he understands that, understands that it is one of the sacrifices demanded by our position. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said, sinking two balls.

  “Promise you won’t tell Hortense or Papa?”

  “I promise,” I said, ruffling his hair. My boy.

  October 27.

  Madame Duchâtel begins tonight, at our ball. I’ve sent a note to Eugène.

  Past midnight.

  It was painful to observe Eugène courting Adèle Duchâtel, painful to see his confusion, for she refused his invitation to the contredanse.

  Eugène slouched against the wall all night with a despondent air. “Come to my drawing room tomorrow evening,” I suggested.

  October 30.

  Bonaparte lingers in the drawing room each evening of late. Tonight he cautioned Madame Duchâtel against taking a green olive. “An olive in the evening will upset your stomach,” he said, and the girl lowered her eyes.

  “And we wouldn’t want that,” Caroline said, putting her arm around Adèle’s shoulders.

  “Perhaps a brandied cherry?” Eugène offered, ever hopeful.

  [Undated]

  Bonaparte is being gallant. I’m suspicious.

  October 31, Décadi—Tuileries.

  This morning a model of the interior of the cathedral of Notre-Dame was set up on a table in the Yellow Salon. Cardboard figures of the people in the procession were lined up in order.

  “Where is yours, Maman?” Eugène asked, studying the layout before we joined the clan for dinner. I pointed to the figure that represented me, standing on the mantel. “Why isn’t it on the table with the others?” he asked, perplexed.

  “Because they haven’t decided where to put me yet.”

  “They?” He tilted his head in the direction of the room where the Bonapartes were assembled.

  “They argue that I’m not to be part of the ceremony, that I’m to be merely a witness,” I whispered, taking his arm as we entered the room, the family all rising to bow.

  November 3—Saint-Cloud.

  I’ve ruined everything! This evening at around seven, Bonaparte left the drawing room. A short time later, Madame Duchâtel got up from her embroidery frame and left as well. I waited for her return: five minutes, ten minutes, twenty.

  Finally I could stand it no longer. I called Clari over to a window recess and told her that if anyone asked where I was, to say that I had been summoned by the Emperor. “Where are you going?” she asked, her tone apprehensive.

  “I’ve got to find out if something is going on.” I slipped away before she could protest.

  I proceeded in the direction of Bonaparte’s cabinet. I told myself he was working, as he often did in the evening. No doubt Madame Duchâtel was simply indisposed and had retired. There were any number of explanations.

  These were the thoughts going through my mind. But what would I say to Bonaparte? I wondered, stopping outside the door to his cabinet. I would ask him if he wished to play a game of chess. No, he would know that I would not venture through the cold, dark corridors to ask such a thing. I decided to tell him that I needed a private moment to talk with him regarding my concerns about Hortense, her health.

  The antechamber to Bonaparte’s cabinet was dark. The moonlight illuminated the sleeping form of a guard. Stools had been positioned around the perimeter of the room, a room at rest. I tapped lightly on the door to the cabinet. No answer. The guard stirred, but did not wake. Was the door locked? I lifted the iron latch and the door swung open. The room was empty. I slipped up the stairs behind the bookcase, the stairs that led to the private suite of rooms above. Bonaparte had recently had the rooms redecorated.

  At the top, I heard voices—Bonaparte’s, and that of a young woman: Adèle Duchâtel.

  Foolishly, I knocked on the door. (Why? What possessed me?) I heard scurrying about, then the door opened: Bonaparte, shirtless. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. Behind him, in the shadows, I could see the frightened girl.

  I knew from the tone of his voice that I should not speak, yet heedlessly I cried out, “This is wrong, Bonaparte!”

  Enraged, he picked up a stool and brought it down with force against the stone hearth. The girl let out a squeal. “Get out!” he yelled. “Get out of my sight!”

  I tumbled down the stairs, letting the pewter candle holder clatter onto the stones. I heard the door slam shut, the bolt slide into place and I was plunged into darkness.

  Trembling, I hurried back to the salon. With others present, I would be safe—at least this is what I told myself. In truth, I was not myself. I’d never seen Bonaparte in such a rage, and it frightened me—frightened and angered me.

  Four of my ladies were still around the game table by the fire. Clari was at her frame. They all stood when I entered, bowed. “Please, be seated, continue,” I told them, taking my place behind my embroidery frame. I took up my needle. I’d been working on the stem of a vine, in cross-stitch. I made a stitch, but it was unruly.

  The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire, the shuffling of cards and an occasional groan or murmur from the players. Thoughts of Bonaparte’s infidelity, his rage kept coming back to me. “Clari,” I called out, my voice shaky—and louder than I’d intended. She jerked her head up, regarding me with a look of caution. “I’m … retiring for the evening. Please attend me.” Good, I though
t, standing, at least I’m not trembling.

  I looked about my bedchamber as if I’d never seen it before. “Your Majesty?” Clari inquired from the door.

  “I …” But no sooner had I opened my mouth than tears spilled. “I discovered them,” I managed to say. “Bonaparte and Madame Duchâtel.” My hands felt like ice, yet my heart was racing. “He’s furious! Soon he will come here, and …”

  “Please, Your Majesty, permit me to go! His Majesty would be furious were he to think that you confided in me. It will be best if he finds you alone.”

  I sat down at my toilette table, fussing without thinking over my baubles. I put a pearl ornament in my hair, then took it out. It was sharp—it might inflict harm.

  Shortly after, the door flew open: Bonaparte, in stocking feet. He came into my room, snorting like a bull about to charge. “How dare you spy on me!” he yelled. “I will not put up with it!”

  It humiliates me now even to think of it, for I cowered like an animal. I crouched trembling but dry-eyed as he destroyed what he could, throwing bottles and gems against the looking glass (glass shattering everywhere), splintering the leg of my Jacob toilette chair, tearing the lace bed-curtains.

  “You’re to move out immediately.” He sneezed, overwhelmed by the jasmine scent that filled the air. “We’ll work out the details of the divorce proceedings next week,” he said, holding a handkerchief over his mouth and nose.

  And then the door slammed shut.

  The floor was strewn with debris. A clock chimed eight bells. Only eight? I stood and, stepping carefully, reached for the servants’ bell rope. A chambermaid came to the door. “Please tell Madame Clari that I’d like to speak with her,” I told her, my voice surprisingly calm. “I believe she is in the Yellow Salon.”

  The girl took a long, gaping look at the floor, and stifling a nervous giggle, hurried off down the hall.

  Clari found me at my toilette table, looking into my shattered image. “Oh, Your Majesty!” she exclaimed, dismayed by the state of my room. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I said dreamily. “You are going to Paris tonight?”

  “Our coach has been called for nine,” she said, stooping to pick up a broken crystal decanter, and then another, putting these on a side table. “Oh là là! Perhaps you’d prefer if I stayed.”

  “Others can attend to it. I’d like you to go to Paris and call on my son. Tell him …”I leaned my chin on my hand.

  “Your Majesty?” Clari asked, retrieving a powder puff from under the bed.

  “Tell him the Emperor and I have had a … disagreement,” I said. “Tell him the Emperor has demanded a divorce.” And then I broke down.

  “Maman?” Eugène called to me from the door of my bedchamber. The light from the lantern he was carrying made him look like an angel—which he is, to me. “Are you awake?” he asked softly, glancing around the room. The glass had been swept up and the bed-curtains and vanity quickly replaced, but even so, he must have sensed that something was different.

  “Come in,” I said, sitting up, pulling on my bed jacket. “I was just lying here.” Cursing. Praying. Repenting. “Do you know what happened? Have you talked to Bonaparte?” I wasn’t crying any more.

  He nodded, putting the lantern down on the little table beside my bed. “He’s upset,” he said, lowering himself onto a stool.

  I wondered how much Bonaparte had told him. “Did he tell you he wants a divorce?” My voice quavered in spite of myself. “Did he tell you I discovered him with a woman?” I wondered if Eugène knew who it was I had found Bonaparte with.

  My son nodded in a matter-of-fact way. (Good, I thought. He doesn’t know it was Adèle Duchâtel.) “I told Papa I would follow you into exile—”

  Exile! Was I to be banished?

  “—even if it meant going back to Martinico with you.” He smiled sweetly, so full of love.

  November 4, late morning—just rising.

  “I suppose you’ve heard?” I asked Mimi as she handed me a dish of morning chocolate. My hands were unsteady; I had to be careful not to spill any.

  “Gontier and Agathe told me,” Mimi said, slipping a note under my pillow.

  This Evinng Princes Carolin told her Husband that her Plan workd. The Emperor bedded the girl & the jelos Old Woman found Him with Her naked. Now the Emperor will Divors the Old Woman & they will have Everything.

  Mimi gave me an orange-blossom infusion, to calm. “I told you she’s a witch,” she said.

  November 5.

  “How was the family dinner last night?” I asked Hortense (peeking at the sleeping baby in the bassinet, blowing him a kiss). The weekly clan dinner had been held at the home of Bonaparte’s mother. I had not been invited, of course.

  “I was too ill to go,” Hortense said, sitting forward so that the maid could plump the big feather pillows. “Fortunately,” she hissed, as the maid closed the door behind her.

  “Oh?” I asked, placing a pretty box of comfits on her bedside table. Although still confined to bed, Hortense seems better. There is spirit in her voice.

  “The Bonapartes have been … how should I put it?” She reached for a comfit. “Rather openly pleased, one might say, over recent developments.” “I’m not surprised.”

  “But they’re gloating so openly over what they see as their ‘victory,’ they’ve managed to annoy Papa. I gather he had a big fight with them last night.”

  “Bonaparte?” That surprised me. “Was Eugène there?” “No, I wasn’t invited,” said a voice at the door.

  “Eugène!” I jumped up to embrace my son. “What a surprise.” He smelled of winter chill.

  “Maman and I were just talking … about Papa,” Hortense said self-consciously.

  “Oh?” Eugène said, leaning against the windowsill and crossing his arms.

  Hortense widened her eyes at her brother.

  I glanced from one to another. Something was up. This “encounter” had been planned. “Oh?” I echoed.

  “Maman, Eugène and I have been thinking,” Hortense said finally.

  “About?”

  Eugène shrugged sheepishly. “You and Papa.”

  “Oh.” I inhaled sharply. That.

  “It’s just that Papa is a young man, Maman,” Hortense said, flushing.

  Eugène cleared his throat. “It’s natural for a man to … you know.”

  I sat forward, my hands on my knees. “Are you taking Bonaparte’s side?” They didn’t understand!

  “We don’t think you need to feel jealous, that’s all,” Eugène said. “Papa loves you.”

  Hortense nodded, her eyes filling. “And we love him.”

  November 6, 7:00 P.M.

  Thérèse was shocked, and not a little reprimanding. “You did what?” she exclaimed, very much flurried. “You walked in on them—intentionally? Are you crazy? After all I’ve told you? And what about your dear departed Aunt Désirée? I thought you promised her to ‘be blind’—on her deathbed! I know, I know—it’s hard not to notice when it’s right under your nose, but where else is an emperor supposed to go? It’s not as if he can wander the streets like an ordinary soldier. No wonder he’s provoked! Oh, forgive me, I’m sorry. It’s cruel to harangue, but trust me, my dear, dear friend—you don’t want to be divorced. It’s hell!”

  November 7.

  I knocked on Bonaparte’s cabinet door. It was early; I knew he would be working. “Entrez.”

  Courage, I told myself, and pushed open the door.

  “Josephine!” Bonaparte stood, taken aback. For a moment I thought he looked happy to see me, but then his expression changed, growing severe. “I’ve a meeting in fifteen minutes with Talleyrand.”

  “It will only take a moment, but I can return later,” I said. “Whenever you wish.”

  He paused before motioning me in, slouching back down in his chair. “What do you want?”

  “I want …” What did I want? I wanted Bonaparte at my side—I wanted my husband, my “spirit-friend.”
I wanted our quiet moments together, our rides in the park, our early morning walks in the garden. I wanted our consoling moments of tenderness. “I want peace between us,” I said finally.

  “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “You mistake me, Bonaparte. You believe I am motivated by jealousy. It is more than that. What you call innocent dalliances are damaging your image with the people.”

  “You spy on me in the interests of policy? Josephine, you are not a good liar.”

  He was right. I was lying—to him, as well as to myself. What was the truth? “I will own that my preference is for fidelity, Bonaparte, but I believe I can learn to live without it if I must—so long as I have your love.”

  “I do love you,” he said angrily. “This … business means nothing to me. It is merely an amusement.”

  “Yet you become harsh toward me.”

  “Because you wish to control me—and I will not be controlled!”

  “Very well then, I see a solution. I will raise no objection, and you will not be harsh.” I opened my hands.

  “I may do as I please?”

  “With my blessing,” I lied.

  This Evinng Princes Carolin told Prince Joseph that the Emperor is a Fool. Shee say the Emperor must divors the Old Woman. Shee & Prince Joseph will talk to Him tomorrow Evinng at 8 hours.

  November 10, Décadi.

  “Good evening, dear sister.” Joseph kissed me on both cheeks. “You look especially lovely tonight. Doesn’t she, Caroline?”

  “Indeed,” Caroline said. “That gown must have cost a million francs.”

  “Thank you both so much.” We were all lying—smiling from the teeth out, as Bonaparte says. “You are so very kind.” Like a rabid fox. “I understand you have a meeting with the Emperor at eight,” I said, glancing at the clock.

  Shortly before midnight.

  Bonaparte tore off his jacket in angry frustration. “What is it?” I asked, helping him with his vest.

  “Do you know why Joseph does not want you crowned? Because it would be against his interests. His interests—it has nothing to do with policy, with what might benefit the Empire.”