The Second Empress

by Michelle Moran

  “Or what? You’ll banish me?”

  He grabs my arm. Suddenly he’s so close, I can feel the desire in his breeches. “You will behave yourself,” he warns through clenched teeth. “At the church, at every fête, even in the birthing room when she gives me a son. This is not a game.”

  I pull my arm away. But his eyes are dark, and I wonder if I have pushed him too far. He has ordered men killed for less. He does not do it himself. He sends them to the fronts, to the most dangerous fighting, and when they fail to return, he is all polished speeches and feigned regret. I’ve had lovers die this way. “What is that?” I ask quickly, turning his attention to the miniature city re-created with clay models on his desk.

  “The streets of Paris,” he says irritably. “I instructed Méneval to prepare it.”

  Just as he had Méneval prepare half a dozen models, each the height of my hand, for his coronation. My brother leaves nothing to chance. He is dangerous to cross, but anyone must admire a man who can plan a wedding like a military campaign. I move closer to the model of our city. The route to the Louvre has been traced with string, and next week, on the first of April, the wedding procession will pass through my brother’s unfinished Arc de Triomphe, down the Champs-Élysées, and through the Tuileries Gardens. I have already picked out my dress for the ride. Yellow satin and tulle with a rabbit’s-fur muff.

  “What do you think of the Louvre chapel?” my brother asks. “I had it renovated.”

  Yes, and even looking at it in miniature, it’s possible to see just how beautiful it is. I think of how young I’ll look in the soft light of the nave, with the silvery light of the stained glass on all sides of me. “Pretty.” Then I notice that Méneval has found some entertaining figures to represent those who will be in attendance. There is Napoleon, painted in red and black, with a bicorne hat and black knee-high boots. And Marie-Louise, with hair made of old straw. My figure is dressed in the purest white, and someone has even remembered my cameo necklace. I am standing behind the bride, and though I have the urge to point out that she will be taller and more ungainly in real life, I do not.

  My brother’s shoulders grow tense. “I want an heir, Pauline.”

  Paul told me he called her a walking womb. “What happens if she isn’t fertile?”

  He turns to me and his eyes are wild. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because it happens—sometimes.”

  “It will not happen to me.”

  “If she fails to give you a son, you could always dismiss her,” I say. “Then you could find someone else.” Only it wouldn’t be me. My child-bearing days are finished. The doctors told me this after the birth of my son. So if it’s not Marie-Louise, it will only be someone else.

  “She will give me an heir,” my brother says firmly.

  I nod, suspecting he’s right. Then perhaps he will grow tired of her, the way he grew tired of Joséphine, who, delightfully, has been told to leave Paris for the Château de Navarre when Marie-Louise arrives. The press has been forbidden to mention Joséphine’s name. Imagine having to move to Normandy. That far north, you might as well be dead.

  “I want you and my new wife to become good friends,” my brother says.

  “Oh, we’ll be very close, I’m sure.”

  He gives me a sideways glance. “You will not bait her, Pauline. You will not treat her the way you treated Joséphine.”

  “Beauharnaille was a liar.”

  “And Marie-Louise is a princess. A real princess, with eight centuries of Hapsburg blood in her veins. And if it’s a choice between her and you,” he warns, “then I will choose her.”

  CHAPTER 9

  PAUL MOREAU

  Braunau, Austria

  “[With Caroline] I have always had to fight a pitched battle.”

  —NAPOLEON ON HIS SISTER

  THE COCHER SAYS WE ARE TO REACH THE AUSTRIAN BORDER in an hour. If he’s lying, I will take my chances in the driving rain and walk to Braunau rather than listen to Queen Caroline complain any longer. Yes, the ride has been unbearable. Yes, it has been rough. But at least we are not horses. They have had to swim most of the way from Paris in all this melting snow and mud.

  The emperor gave instructions that we are to bring the princess back by the twenty-eighth of March. But like most things the emperor wants, it’s a near impossible task. It’s meant driving for eight days through the rain and sleet with just a single break, then riding again until well after nightfall. Everyone is in a foul mood, especially the women, who aren’t used to such journeys. But only Queen Caroline feels the need to express her discontent.

  “I can’t understand how these Austrians can eat Spätzle,” she complains. “Can you imagine eating that dish, day in, day out? It’s no wonder they’re all so fat.”

  “That’s what my father says,” Collette replies. Of the seven ladies-in-waiting who have come on this trip, she’s the queen’s favorite, a seventeen-year-old raised in a country château and brought to court for an education. And it is some education she’s getting. I have not seen a dress anywhere in Paris as low-cut as hers, or shoes so high. “That our new empress will be as large and stupid as an ox.”

  “Well, I’m not bringing home some farm animal to my brother. If we have to starve her from here to Compiègne, then that’s what we’ll do.”

  The talk in the carriage continues like this until we arrive in Braunau an hour before sunset, and I begin to regret accepting the emperor’s request to act as his ears and eyes on this trip. Nothing is good enough for Her Highness. The beer served to us at dinner is too strong, the food is too bland, the people have no sense of fashion. But as soon as the horses slow to a trot, the mood in the carriage lifts. For days it’s been nothing but rolling hills and mist. The scent of fire has lingered with us everywhere, yet now, as a castle’s towers appear in the distance, there’s the smell of a bustling city as well—of cooking, and horses, and brewers making ale. I look out across the lake to the palace beyond, where the new empress will be waiting for us with her Austrian escort. I wonder if her portraits are accurate, or whether the painter has flattered her, as artists often do.

  “The second empress of France,” Queen Caroline says as the carriages roll to a stop before Schloss Hagenau. “I’ll bet her French isn’t half as good as Metternich promised.” From the fur trimming on her cloak to the silk lining of her boots, the queen is dressed almost entirely in black. It is an outfit suited to a funeral.

  “What if she can’t speak any French at all?”

  The queen cuts her eyes at Collette. “Then life will be very boring for her in Paris, won’t it?”

  As we descend from the carriage, a pair of liveried guards open the wooden doors of Schloss Hagenau, and a man in an eye patch emerges from the castle. His black hair is tied back with a golden cord, and his embroidered cloak is exceedingly fine.

  Queen Caroline turns to me. “My God, he’s even taller than you.”

  And like mine, his shoulders are broad. He has either worked on a farm or spent a great deal of time preparing for war. Perhaps Germans aren’t so fat and lazy after all.

  “Really,” Caroline adds as the man comes closer, “he must be a giant.” She looks from one of us to the other, as if she’s expecting some kind of trouble. “You remember what my brother said?” she asks nervously. “Nothing can go wrong tonight. He’s desperate for this match.”

  “The ceremony has already happened,” I reply.

  “That doesn’t mean anything until he’s had her.”

  The man stops in front of us, and he looks furious. Clearly, his French is good. “Count Adam von Neipperg,” he says shortly. The bow he gives us is as brief as decorum can allow. “I expect you are Caroline, queen of Naples.”

  “I am.” She brings her black sable muff up to her cheek and shivers for effect.

  He takes in the velvet seats and plush satin pillows of the coach behind us. “It must have been a very difficult journey,” he says, then adds dryly, “Terribly unpleasant
.”

  “We have been on the road for eleven hours today,” Caroline replies, caught off guard by his remark. “I hope you are not mocking me.”

  “Not at all, Your Highness. It is a pleasure to have the emperor’s sister in Austria.”

  As soon as Count Neipperg says this, an army of servants appears from the castle to take our belongings. “And you must be Paul,” he says to me, “the Haitian chamberlain.” I bow, and this time his smile is genuine. “We’ve heard of you even in Vienna,” he says.

  I can’t imagine what it is the Viennese have heard, but there is no time to find out. Collette’s teeth are chattering, and the count ushers us quickly through the icy courtyard. The scent in the air tells me it will snow tonight, making the roads slick and dangerous for travel. Still, we must leave early in the morning if we are to achieve the emperor’s schedule.

  We follow Count Neipperg through the paneled halls. I inhale the rich scents of cedar wood and coffee. In Paris, the emperor spends a king’s ransom on heating; these halls retain a chill the emperor would never allow. We walk through a passage lined entirely with mirrors, and the queen can’t keep her eyes from her own reflection. She is an imposing figure, a twenty-eight-year-old woman who appears forty-five. She tries a brief smile, but the act looks painful. I wonder how she behaves toward her four children in Naples, and whether she sees the same old woman I do in the glass.

  We pass through a series of chambers decorated by someone with a love for thick carpeting, and when we reach a cozy salon, I recognize the empress at once. She’s sitting calmly in the middle of the room with a dog in her lap, surrounded by women the same age as she—eighteen, nineteen, twenty perhaps. She nods formally when she sees that we have arrived, but it’s only when she recognizes Queen Caroline that she rises. The artists have been faithful to her appearance. She is plump, with large lips and a slightly hooked nose. But her hair is thick, and her eyes are an extraordinary shade of blue.

  Queen Caroline whispers, “She’s as tall as the count!”

  It’s an exaggeration, but as Marie-Louise makes her way toward us, it’s clear that she will tower over the emperor. Napoleon doesn’t like his women tall. Or plump.

  “Your Majesty.” Queen Caroline curtsies low, and behind her, the seven ladies she’s brought with her do the same. “It is an honor to greet the new empress of France.”

  “Welcome to Austria,” the new empress says. A flush comes over her cheeks, and I wonder what it must be to have skin so translucent that every emotion shows on your face. “I imagine your journey has been difficult so far. Would you like to stay here and speak with my ladies,” she asks, “or retire to your rooms upstairs and rest for the night? We have some lovely excursions planned for tomorrow.”

  Queen Caroline exchanges a look with Collette. The empress’s French is absolutely flawless.

  “That is gracious of you,” the queen replies, and I am reminded anew that the Bonapartes speak French with an Italian accent. “But this is the only time we’ll have together.”

  The empress frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “We leave for Compiègne in the morning.”

  The empress turns swiftly to Count Neipperg, and a heated conversation is exchanged in German.

  The count clears his throat. “I’m not sure we understand, Your Highness. Your party has just arrived. Surely, the emperor would want—”

  “What the emperor wants,” Caroline interrupts, “is his bride. The ceremony has been performed, so why wait?”

  The empress touches Count Neipperg’s arm, and a tender look passes between them. Francis I has sent his daughter’s lover with her as an escort, I realize. I glance at the queen to see if she has noticed, but she has eyes only for the spaniel in the empress’s arms. Unlike Pauline, the queen has no affinity for dogs. A coolness descends over the salon. Finally, it is the empress who says, “Tomorrow, then. Shall we talk in here, or somewhere more private?”

  “This will be fine.” Caroline moves across the room, and the empress’s ladies step back to make way. She takes a grand chair with padded arms and heavily embroidered cushions. When she has arranged herself, she surveys her domain, and the rest of the women hurry to take their places.

  The empress, by contrast, joins Count Neipperg on a small settee near the fire. He briefly touches her knee, and I gasp. He had might as well be openly courting her! But there is only the thrill of the hunt on Queen Caroline’s face. She has been waiting for this moment, and as she sits forward in her chair, I have a good idea what she’s going to say.

  “So tell me, Your Majesty, how does it feel to be the empress of France?” Caroline, a queen with riches beyond imagining, is envious of this nineteen-year-old girl.

  Marie-Louise hesitates. She has no idea how competition runs in the Bonaparte blood. “It—it is a tremendous honor,” she replies.

  “Not yet twenty, and the entire world before you. What do you want to do, now that you’re married? What goals do you hope to accomplish?” Caroline wants to know how her life will change on Marie-Louise’s arrival.

  The room waits tensely for her answer. Perhaps it’s the firelight on her golden hair, or the earnestness in her gaze, but there is something appealing in this second empress. “I can think of nothing I wish to accomplish,” she says, “but to be a good wife to my husband and serve the nation.”

  Caroline turns to Collette and laughs. She thinks Marie-Louise is toying with her. “A good and obedient wife,” she repeats. “How charming.”

  “You asked what I hoped for,” the empress replies, “and those are my desires.”

  Queen Caroline stiffens. “Well, the first empress was loved in Paris,” she says. “No one in France had more class or style. So if you wish to be a good wife, I suggest you pay attention. Tomorrow I will give you appropriate clothing. And that dog”—she wrinkles her nose in distaste—“will have to stay here.”

  “No one is taking Sigi!” The empress rises, and Count Neipperg stands as well. “He goes with me or I do not go at all.”

  “Your husband does not like animals, Your Highness. I suggest you make your farewells tonight. And not just to Sigi,” she adds cruelly, “but to all things Austrian. Including your ladies. These are instructions from the emperor himself.”

  “That she leave her spaniel?” Neipperg challenges.

  “It’s an animal,” the queen replies, as if no one could ever grow attached to such a thing. “It will find a new owner.”

  Marie-Louise buries her face in the dog’s fur, and the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fire. When my father taught me history as a boy in Haiti, he spoke of just such a scene when Marie-Antoinette was sent from Vienna. “I won’t leave Sigi behind,” she swears.

  But Caroline is unmoved. “You do not have a choice.”

  Marie-Louise looks at Neipperg, as if the final decision rests with him. “We are done here,” he announces, and takes her arm.

  The Austrian women hurry to rise, and Queen Caroline calls after them, “We leave at eight.” But no one is paying her any attention. “Tell them, Paul! Make sure they understand—”

  Marie-Louise spins around. “We understand perfectly. My hearing,” she explains, “is as good as my French.”

  Collette covers her mouth in shock as the new empress turns on her heel and walks away.

  As soon as the Austrians are gone, the queen whispers, “He will lock her in his rooms and throw away the key. Paul, I want you to be sure that girl is ready for eight. That means up at five and dressing by six. She will look French whether she wishes it or not.”

  “And the count?” I search Caroline’s face, to determine whether she can really be so ignorant. “Shall I wake him as well? He will want to come.”

  “He may want all sorts of things,” she says viciously. “Unless his name is Metternich, he stays here. In Austria. Our little swan is a married woman now. If she was foolish enough to take the count as her lover, that is no concern of mine.”

  So
she did see the way he touched the empress’s knee, and how she watched him when he rose angrily to defend her.

  Half a dozen servants arrive to show us to our chambers, but when I reach my room, sleep does not come. It’s bitterly, bone-chillingly, impossibly cold. But that is not what is keeping me awake. Tomorrow a young woman’s life will be altered. Whether or not she has bedded the count, the empress’s childhood will come to its real end when she crosses the border from Austria into France. Braunau will be the last Austrian city she ever sees, and the food she’s had tonight she will never taste again. Tomorrow she will ride toward Compiègne to meet her husband. Like a lamb to a pack of wolves, I think, and close my eyes, remembering what I had hoped for on my first voyage to Paris.

  I was almost eighteen—nearly the same age as the empress—when Pauline convinced me to leave Haiti. But unlike this girl, the choice had been my own. The war was tearing apart my family, and my mother refused to speak with my half brother when she saw how he supported Napoleon’s invasion. She had been like a parent to him. Luc’s own mother had died when he was seven years old. Yet here he was, offering the French soldiers free food and wine, knowing they wanted to enslave the woman who had raised him. I was tired of the anger poisoning our house, and with Pauline, there was the promise of a future—and calm.

  My mother cried tears of relief that I was leaving and would no longer be caught up in France’s war. But by leaving my father’s plantation, I abandoned my family to a fate far worse than discord. The message that arrived telling me of their deaths was written by our neighbor.

  “They are gone,” he wrote a year after I arrived in Paris, “and I am returning to France and civilization.” But it was the French who killed my family, the French who enslaved my Haitian mother, and the French who started the war.

  Yet if not for the French, I wouldn’t exist.

  I think of my father and how happy he would be to know that of all the learned men in Paris, I am the one the emperor seeks out when he wants to discuss Voltaire. If he were alive, he would be writing me letters about the winter’s harvest, telling me how tall the beans have grown and how lazy Luc is still. We would joke about Maman’s weariness of the rain and avoid the subject of war at all costs.