The Second Empress
Page 4
“Archduchess Maria Lucia of Austria,” they announce.
I step forward and halt immediately. Everyone is inside, including Adam Neipperg and my stepmother, Maria Ludovika. Maria passes me a warning look as I approach the table, and suddenly the room is silent. My father indicates a chair across from him.
“Maria,” he begins, but can’t seem to find words to continue. I bury my fingers in Sigi’s fur and wait for my father to say it. Clearly, the French emperor has asked for my hand, and now Austria must begin the tricky dance of turning him down without grave offense. He looks to Prince Metternich, who clears his throat.
“Your Highness,” the prince says, “there is joyous news.”
I make a point of raising my brows, then looking around the table from face to solemn face. If this news is so joyous, why does everyone look as if someone has died?
“The emperor of France,” Metternich continues, “has requested your hand in marriage. As you know, this is a great honor for the house of Hapsburg-Lorraine, for there has not been a marriage between Austria and France for thirty-nine years.”
“Yes, and that ended well,” I reply. But no one smiles. My father shifts in his seat, and when I look at Count Neipperg, his face is grave.
“The emperor is a man of swift decisions, Your Highness. Three days ago he sent his stepson, Eugène de Beauharnais, to our embassy in Paris to ask for your hand. Our ambassador was told he must accept the offer at once or risk displeasing the emperor … greatly.”
My heart begins to race beneath my cloak. “So what are you saying?”
Metternich glances at my father before speaking. “That the offer was accepted, Your Highness.”
The room blurs. The Chinese wall hangings fashioned from blue rice paper take on a whitish hue. Sigi nuzzles my arm, and his cold nose against my skin brings it all back into focus.
“Maria,” my father begins, and the heartache in his voice is unbearable. “It is still your decision—”
“But understand,” Metternich interjects swiftly, “that this decision comes with lasting consequences.”
He means that if I refuse, my father will lose his crown. If I refuse, eight hundred years of Hapsburg-Lorraine rule will be ended with the unwillingness of an eighteen-year-old girl. And still my father is asking me to choose.
I have never loved him more than I do now.
I look at the faces assembled around the room, then at the long council table gleaming red and gold beneath the chandeliers. I had not imagined this to be the place where my marriage would be decided. I had imagined it would happen in my late mother’s quiet study, or in the eastern terrace with its frescoed ceiling of angels.
“Your Highness, we need your answer,” Metternich says. Because tomorrow there shall either be a wedding or a war.
My stepmother’s face is pale, and next to her, Adam Neipperg looks murderous. But I cannot allow myself the luxury of considering either of them. I know my duty to my father and my kingdom. My eyes burn, and though I feel my stomach rise, I will the word to come. “Yes.”
Metternich leans forward. “Yes to what, Your Highness?”
“To …” I breathe deeply. “To the marriage with the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.”
There is a moment of silence while everyone comprehends what has just happened. Then they all begin talking at once. Adam Neipperg, who has been so dear to me since his return from our campaign against Napoleon last year, bangs his fist against the table and shouts, “I stand firmly against this!”
“There is nothing to stand against,” Metternich retorts, and the two men rise from their seats. But Metternich is no match for Adam, who is the opposite of the prince in every way. At thirty-four, Adam has experienced more war than peace. He was part of the Blockade of Mainz, and at Dolens, after his right eye was taken by bayonet, he was left for dead on the battlefield. Despite these wounds, he recovered, and now he wears a silk patch over his eye. There is no woman in Austria who has not heard of Adam’s daring feats, so when he leans across the table, Metternich backs away.
“Enough,” my father says, and when no one can hear him, he shouts, “Enough!”
Both men sit down, and I avoid Adam’s gaze.
“This council is dismissed. The answer has been heard, and no one is to speak of it. Count Neipperg, Prince Metternich, please stay.” The other men push back their chairs to leave, and when my stepmother rises as well, my father puts a hand on her arm. “You should be here. For Maria,” he adds.
I watch the chamber empty, and when there are only the five of us in the room, it suddenly becomes real. I will never be regent for my brother Ferdinand. Who knows whom the task will be left to, but I will not be here to guide him. Instead, I am to marry the man who stripped our kingdom of its wealth and slaughtered more than three hundred thousand Austrian soldiers, a man whose taste for the lavish, crude, and unrefined is known throughout Europe. I look down at Sigi, and my tears dampen his fur.
“Maria,” my father begins, and I realize how pale and drawn he looks. He has been struggling with this knowledge for two days. “I want you to know there was nothing any of us could do.”
But there is nothing anyone can say to remedy this. “Yes. I understand.”
“Whatever you need, whatever you want to take with you to France, you shall have.”
I swallow my pain and try to sound grateful. “Thank you.”
“The French court will be very different from Austria,” he warns. “Prince Metternich can explain—”
“Everything,” the prince says eagerly, and I realize that of the five of us assembled, only he is excited. I wonder what his role has been in this marriage, and whether my father might find a handsome payment from the French if the prince’s accounts were exposed. “Over these next three months—”
“Is that when the marriage is to take place?” I ask him.
“Yes. But first there will be a ceremony here.”
“Then Prince Metternich and Count Neipperg shall be escorting you to the border,” my father explains, “and a second ceremony will be held in Paris.”
My heart races. “But his divorce—”
“Is to be announced tomorrow. This contract will not be public knowledge until the new year.”
Then there’s hope! Perhaps in three months the French emperor will change his mind. Perhaps he will find a Russian who is more to his liking. But my father sees the look on my face and shakes his head.
“Maria, this emperor is not like your mother.” Who could change her mind three times in a day. “He looks to marry the great-niece of Marie-Antoinette.”
I had thought myself fortunate to be a Hapsburg princess. I was wrong.
“He will wish to change your name,” Prince Metternich warns. “The Empress Joséphine was once Rose de Beauharnais. And he will want to choose your outfits,” the prince continues. “He is very particular about what his women—”
“This is ridiculous!” Adam Neipperg shouts, and the longing I feel for him is unbearable. I will never hold him again, never touch his face or run my fingers through his hair. “What does it matter what she wears?”
“Perhaps it doesn’t,” Metternich says hotly. “But these are not my rules. If you don’t like them, I suggest you speak with the French emperor.”
“Am I allowed to bathe myself, at least?”
Metternich sighs, and this is the first time I have seen him appear at all sympathetic. “He will be a difficult man to please, Your Highness. He is stubborn and jealous and filled with ambition. But he is also a visionary. That should be something.”
But it isn’t.
IN THE HALL outside the Council Chamber, Adam remains after the others have gone. “You can refuse this,” he tells me, leaning close to my ear, and I am touched that he thinks I am worth fighting a war over.
“I am no Helen of Troy,” I say. “This is my father’s crown. The Empire of Austria is everything to him.”
“And there’s no reason to believe he wouldn
’t keep it.”
“Except the Treaty of Pressburg and the Treaty of Schönbrunn,” I answer, naming our two previous defeats against the “Modern Alexander.”
“Trust me, Maria.” He reaches out to take my hand and I blush to hear him use my Christian name. “Your father and I will come for you.”
But I must not believe such promises. Next week I will be nineteen, and more likely than not, I shall pass every future birthday in France. I swallow against the tightness in my throat. “Thank you, Adam.”
“This is not an idle promise,” he swears. “We will come for you.” He squeezes my hand. “That is a vow.”
CHAPTER 5
PAULINE BONAPARTE, PRINCESS BORGHESE
Tuileries Palace, Paris
“Pauline Bonaparte was as beautiful as it was possible to be.… She was in love with herself alone, and her sole occupation was with pleasure.”
—PRINCE METTERNICH, AUSTRIAN STATESMAN
ILEAN TOWARD MY MIRROR AND MARVEL THAT NONE OF the pain shows in my face. My stomach has been cramping since dawn, and though the doctors insist that an “excess of nightly passion” is to blame, I know it isn’t true. This is something more. But ill or not, I will look my best tonight.
I arrange my hair around my face, and try to imagine how I shall look in Joséphine’s crown once my brother acknowledges that I should be queen. Of course, the design will have to be altered. Or perhaps I will use the Egyptian crown he gave me. I would never want to be seen in anything she wore, although diamonds and sapphires have always suited me.
“What do you think?” I turn to face Paul and hold up two gowns, one in cerulean blue, the other in bright cerise.
“The blue,” he says. “This isn’t a ball.”
I toss the blue back into my commode and put on the deep red; it’s more festive. “You’re wrong, you know. There’ll be dancing tonight. He sent out invitations.” My chamberlain thinks Joséphine walks on water. Sweet Joséphine, charming Joséphine. Was she sweet when she cuckolded my brother the first week they married, sleeping with that lieutenant, Hippolyte Charles? And was she charming when he discovered that she had lied about her debts, year after year? She ruined my relationship with Fréron, and he still has sympathy for her. “What time is it?”
Paul watches me slip on my gloves. My mother taught me the proper way to do it when I was eight. “You begin with your bare arm outstretched,” she said, then showed me how to slowly, very slowly, tease them on and off. And if every man in the room isn’t watching, she added, you’ve done it wrong. He leaves his book—Machiavelli’s The Prince, my very first gift to him—to look at the clock in the salon.
“Twenty till eight,” he calls to me.
My God, it’s all going to happen in twenty minutes. My heart is beating so swiftly that I can see its rise and fall through the light fabric of my dress. Then a spasm in my stomach nearly makes me bend double. I sit on my chaise and look around my chamber. From the pillars of gilded bronze to the statues of Isis, my brother has re-created the Palace of Thebes for me in here. We belong together. And tonight, when he is free of Beauharnaille, I will convince him to return to Egypt.
WHEN THE CLOCK strikes eight, Paul offers me his arm, and we cross the palace toward my brother’s Throne Room. The halls are filled with dignitaries, all hurrying to get the best spot in the chamber, like a rushing stream of white diamonds and feathers. Nearly a thousand courtiers have arrived, including Eugène de Beauharnais and his sister, Hortense, looking sorry for themselves. It was my brother who insisted that Joséphine’s children be here tonight. Many years ago he made Eugène the prince of Naples, and Hortense the queen of Holland. I doubt he will take their titles away, so they could at least try and look grateful.
“YOUR HIGHNESS.” The ambassador of Russia bows deeply to me, and next to him, I acknowledge the governor of Paris.
As we ascend the marble staircase, Paul whispers in my ear, “Look at your sister, Queen Caroline.”
I follow his gaze to my younger sister. She is talking eagerly to a man I don’t recognize, and the pair of them are ascending the stairs together. “Who is he?”
“The ambassador from Austria,” Paul says.
“What’s she doing with him?”
But he can no longer answer. We have entered the Throne Room, with its red velvet hangings and elaborate gold paneling. This was once the bedroom of King Louis XVI, but my brother has turned it into his Salle du Trône. After the barbarism of the Revolution, there wasn’t a single item of value left in the Tuileries. Since everything had either been stolen or sold, one room was the same as any other. I wonder how many of these courtiers realize how empty these halls were when my family first arrived. It was my brother who turned this ruin back into a palace; my brother who restored this country’s greatest treasures to their former glory. I step forward, and when I am the only figure in the door, I nod.
“Her Royal Highness the Princess Borghese,” the usher announces grandly.
The entire chamber turns, and the women gasp as I pass through the chamber, snapping open their fans to gossip behind them. Yes, keep up your nattering, mes chéries. I know what I’m wearing, and that you’re all dressed in black, as if we’re here for a funeral and not an act of separation. A second usher appears to guide me toward the dais, and Paul follows behind. I can feel his presence like a steady shadow, and when we’ve taken our places before my brother’s throne, I lean over and whisper, “Did you see their faces? Those women nearly expired!”
“You never tire of creating a scandal, Your Highness.”
I look toward the dais, where a single gilded throne remains: Joséphine’s has been removed. I remember the night the carpenter, Jacob-Desmalter, was summoned to the palace and told he must create something entirely unique. “Blue silk and blue velvet,” Napoleon said. “And it should be embroidered with a single ‘N.’ ”
“You must also include your three insignias,” I urged him. So the giant eagle, the Legion of Honor star, and golden bees were all embroidered into the fabric.
The chamber grows silent as liveried trumpeters herald my brother and Joséphine’s approach. I clutch my réticule so tightly that I can feel my knuckles turning white on the clasp. “Remember to breathe,” Paul advises.
It’s true. I don’t want my brother to see me red-faced when he looks down from the dais. I have prepared fourteen years for this moment, and my complexion is not going to ruin it for me. And then: there they are. My God, look at Joséphine’s pallor. It couldn’t be more unattractive. As she takes her place next to my brother, she looks as if she might faint. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for her, standing in front of a thousand people to surrender her crown. It must be mortifying. And then I study her more closely: she has actually purchased a new gown for the event! And those diamonds in her hair did not come cheap. No doubt he will let her keep them.
“To my devoted stepchildren,” my brother is saying, “I am immensely grateful. Eugène and Hortense are like my own …”
Please. If that were the case, there would be no divorce.
“God alone knows what this resolve has cost my heart,” my brother continues.
He can really lay it on thick when he wants to. “I have found courage for this act only through the knowledge that it serves the very best interests of France.” There is some murmuring among the assembled. “I have only gratitude to express for the devotion and tenderness of my well-beloved wife. She has adorned fourteen years of my life, and the memory of those years will remain forever in my heart.”
I think to clap, but everyone else is still, so I refrain.
Then my brother steps back, and Joséphine takes his place in the center of the dais. Now the room has gone utterly silent. You can hear the rustling of women’s gowns, and the heavy, labored breathing of the old men behind me.
“With the permission of my dear and august husband,” she begins, “I offer him the greatest proof of devotion ever given to a husband on this earth …”
“Monsieur Moreau.” Incredibly, Napoleon crooks a finger at my chamberlain. He wants Paul to read the rest of Joséphine’s speech!
I know my brother has great esteem for Paul, but this is unprecedented. I glance at the men standing in my immediate vicinity and spy the actor, Talma, dressed in a red velvet coat with white cashmere breeches. For Christ’s sake, why not ask him to perform for her?
I will Joséphine to get ahold of herself, but Paul begins speaking in her stead. “I respond to all the sentiments of the emperor in consenting to the dissolution of a marriage which henceforth is an obstacle to the happiness of France by depriving it of the blessing of being one day governed by the descendants of that great man, evidently raised up by Providence, to efface the evils of a terrible revolution and restore the altar, the throne, and social order.”
I stare directly at Joséphine. This is her moment to deliver a performance the court will never forget, and what does she do? Hand her part to someone else.
“But his marriage will in no respect change the sentiments of my heart; the emperor will ever find me his best friend. I know what this act, commanded by policy and exalted interests, has cost his heart, but we both glory in the sacrifices that we make to the good of our country. I feel elevated by giving the greatest proof of attachment and devotion that was ever given upon earth.”
She is an imbecile.
As the divorce papers are being signed, no one knows what to do. Should they talk? Remain in dignified silence? In the middle of writing his name, my brother breaks his quill, and a nervous murmur spreads until a new one is brought. From somewhere behind me, I hear a woman click her tongue and whisper, “Obviously a sign.” But when my brother dips the new nib into the ink and finishes his signature, no one dares to speak. A sharp crack of thunder echoes from outside, and the courtiers look to my brother for their next cue.