by Thad Carhart
“Here we are in France,” Paul began, gesturing toward the large, roughly hexagonal shape colored in light blue. Close by, to the east, he indicated a much smaller territory in yellow. “This,” he said as he pointed to it, “is the Kingdom of Württemberg; Stuttgart is its capital. My cousin Wilhelm is the king; that much you know. His father—my uncle Friedrich—was a duke. Then Napoleon came along and started making alliances with everyone but the devil, and all of a sudden, in return for fighting the Austrians, Friedrich woke up with a crown on his head.” Paul shook his head at the image he had conjured. “It goes without saying that whatever I mention here today remains strictly between us.”
Baptiste nodded.
“My uncle Friedrich was extremely clever and, let us say, original. His middle name could have been ‘Excess,’ starting with food. Napoleon said of him when they first met to conclude their alliance, ‘King Friedrich is God’s laboratory for testing the ability of the human skin to stretch!’ He was far taller than me, and fully two hundred pounds heavier. You can imagine.” He shook his head at the memory. “For whatever reason, my uncle took a particular interest in my education and made sure that I was part of his official entourage. Some of the older courtiers said I was his twin as a boy. When I was nine, I was named a captain in the King’s Guard. Not even my older brother was given that honor. When I finally resigned my army commission at nineteen, I held the rank of major general.”
“Why did you leave the army?”
“I never wanted to be a soldier in the first place!” Paul responded. “Of course, it’s a bit more complicated than that, but that’s the essential point,” he added quietly. “There simply aren’t other avenues available to a lesser member of the royal family. A young duke can’t be a diplomat, he can’t be a government functionary, and he certainly can’t be involved in commerce. That leaves the clergy”—Paul grimaced—“but that has always seemed other than a real life to me. And so it was the army, whose ideals of chivalry, honor, and duty align perfectly with those of a small state whose very existence has been assured by feats of arms. My father and uncle were soldiers, my brother is a soldier, my sister married a soldier. Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers! It must seem unusual to someone from the wilds of the Missouri, where you do as you please, but this is what happens in the little world of the Württemberg aristocracy.” He was laughing now, though halfheartedly. “They manage these things better in England. There a nobleman can have his enthusiasms as well as his passions, and learning is respected for its own sake. And here in France not even the Bourbons have been able to corrupt the idea of scientific exploration as an honorable pursuit. There’s a reason von Humboldt has spent decades in Paris. Alas, things are different on the other side of the Rhine.”
He saw the question in Baptiste’s eyes. “The essential point is that I’ve chosen to devote myself to natural history, and it has set my family against me. That is what I am returning to.”
“So your family disapproves of your trip,” Baptiste said, trying to understand Paul’s agitation. “Will I meet them all in Stuttgart?”
Paul shook his head slowly. “No, actually. But my cousin the king is in Stuttgart, and where the king goes, the court must follow.”
“So we must go there,” Baptiste said.
“Think of it this way, Baptiste. A royal family is like a grand version of Chouteau’s fur traders on the Missouri, a family business where trust, loyalty, and control are everything, even over a difficult cousin like me.”
Paul rose from the table and added, “With the difference, of course, that fur traders are actually expected to do something.” He walked to one of the windows and gazed down into the garden, his hands clasped behind him.
The massive door to the library burst open. “So here you are!” Prince Franz cried, a tumbler of red wine in one hand, a lit cigar in the other. “Cooped up with my maps again, up to God knows what sort of mischief.”
Paul and Baptiste both smiled as Prince Franz strode into the room and settled into one of the armchairs. He placed his glass carefully on a side table and drew deeply on his cigar.
“I was just telling Baptiste a bit about Württemberg, Uncle.”
Prince Franz turned to Baptiste. “Then let me tell you a bit about the landscape you’re about to enter, young man. Take a seat, both of you, and listen to an old diplomat talk about something he actually knows.”
Prince Franz was remarkably frank in assessing his family and its future prospects. “My brother Friedrich had his quirks and excesses, God knows. Still, he had intelligence, audacity, and a sense of humor, which is far more than can be said of most rulers in Europe. It’s little wonder that he and Bonaparte managed to come to terms so quickly.”
His nephew, Wilhelm, the current king, had none of his father’s qualities, according to Prince Franz, just an earnest blandness that commanded the attention, if not the respect, of his subjects. “He’ll be on the throne until the day he dies,” Prince Franz muttered, “when, for better or worse, his eldest son will succeed him. What a peculiar system, this business of families installed forever. It can’t possibly go on.”
He leaned forward to extinguish his cigar in a marble pestle on the table beside him, then immediately produced another from his vest pocket and lit it.
“Every family I know has a dullard uncle, an idiot cousin, a simple brother. Now imagine if your country were ruled by one of them. Your sons would serve in his army, your daughters would dream of his castle, your taxes would fill his coffers. And every time you were confronted with his portrait—on every coin, in every public building, on every monument—a little voice would whisper in your ear, The man who rules my country is stupid. The public knows about his true capacities. That’s the secret no one will tell these kings.”
“The French Revolution didn’t change France very much?” Baptiste asked.
“Why it changed everything, everything!” Prince Franz shot back, then added, “Though I can well imagine that it appears that nothing at all had changed with these fool Bourbons back on top. It’s simply that the overturning of the ancien régime hasn’t filtered down for good. It will take time, but it will happen.”
“What did change?” Baptiste inquired.
“For one thing, the whole business of the divine monarch and his ruling family. In one of history’s better jokes, Napoleon’s ascendancy to the throne of France was possible only because of the French Revolution,” Prince Franz told him. “No Revolution, no Bonaparte: it’s as simple as that. Within ten years the greatest defender of the Revolution’s ideals had crowned himself Emperor of the French.” Prince Franz took a long drink of wine and then continued, warming to his topic. “Once Napoleon came along, the whole system of rule by inheritance was turned on its head. That’s why those of the ancien régime loathe him so and rail against him as a usurper. On top of that, the power, skill, and ambition of the man made every crowned head of Europe look mediocre, and everyone saw it. Everyone! Because whatever else you can say about him—and there is much to turn the heart sour—by God, he was smart!” He spat out the last word like a challenge, this trait that had lifted Bonaparte above the dreary stream of monarchs, princes, and hangers-on he had known, whose lack of intelligence hid behind divine right.
“My dear uncle, if Bonaparte was so smart, how do you explain his pathetic attempt to found his own dynasty?” Paul asked.
“This was surely one of his blind spots. If ever there were a man to whom there could be no logical successor, it was he. But never underestimate the attraction of a family to serve as one’s natural allies and protectors. In this the Bonapartes would have been no different from the Hohenzollerns, the Hapsburgs, the Bourbons, or the Romanovs.” Prince Franz turned to address Baptiste.
“Tell me, how does a man become chief of one of your Indian tribes?”
“It’s mostly by his courage and his accomplishments in battle, in defeating the tribe’s enemies. It also has to do with his wisdom in the Council of Elders. A man ha
s to speak clearly and show that his decisions about things like choosing hunting grounds, making alliances, or settling disputes have been good ones.”
“In other words, they are a pure warrior class,” Prince Franz said. “Does a chief ’s son automatically become chief after his father?”
“Oh, no, sir. He has to prove himself, too. It’s far more common that another young brave—perhaps his cousin or even a friend—will be recognized as chief by the Council of Elders.”
Prince Franz drew deeply on his cigar and then said, “After Napoleon, Europe’s warrior class is done for. They can prance about in their uniforms for as long as they like, but the man-at-arms as leader is a relic of the past. The future lies in commerce; the English have seen to that. Bonaparte wasn’t infallible after all. He called the English a nation of shopkeepers. Perhaps it’s just as well he hasn’t lived to see the shopkeepers rule the earth.” He settled back into the well-worn leather of his armchair. “I expect this is all new to you, young man. In your United States of America, you elect your leader; you don’t inherit him.”
Baptiste sensed that Prince Franz was asking a question more than making a statement. “The details are new to me, sir, but my schoolteacher in St. Louis made a particular point of the importance of what he called the two revolutions that changed the world, the American and the French.” Prince Franz seemed interested, so Baptiste continued. “And Captain Clark often talked to me about Napoleon and how Mr. Jefferson’s purchase of Louisiana would someday make the United States a great nation.”
Prince Franz pulled his chair closer to the table and gestured to Baptiste and Paul to look at the map laid out before him. “Just imagine! Half a continent for sixty million francs!” He placed his hands on the center of the North American landmass and shook his head in disbelief. “But it did give Bonaparte the money he needed to equip his armies and secure his control of Europe. One continent for another.”
“Baptiste was born in the far reaches of the territory that Bonaparte sold,” Paul said. He placed his finger on the map and traced the Missouri northward until Baptiste nodded his assent, indicating the location of the Mandan villages. The three men peered at the map and the broad expanse surrounding Paul’s finger, an area that bore no place names or geographic markers save the river.
“You’re just another of Napoleon’s lost children,” Prince Franz exclaimed, “wandering the earth in search of an adventure whose time has passed!” He rose and strode to the window. “Ah, don’t mind an old man’s musings,” he said in a soft voice as he looked up at the broken clouds. “That’s the Old World talking, and you’re from the New.”
THIRTEEN
MARCH 1824
The mild weather on the night of Prince Franz’s ball delighted everyone. While not warm, neither was it harsh and damp, a common circumstance in late March. The sun had shone brightly all day, leaving a breath of spring in the evening air that promised milder weather. When Baptiste and Paul returned at six o’clock, they found the entire household had been in a fury of preparation for the festivities: windows had been washed, floors stripped bare and polished, whole rooms of furniture moved to make way for the expected crowd. A few hours still remained before the first guests arrived, but Baptiste found it hard to see how the house could be made ready in such a short time with so much activity on every side.
They stood at the open doors of the cavernous ballroom on the second floor and watched the enormous chandelier being lowered from the ceiling to hang just above the floor. Half a dozen servants stood on chairs and reached into its branches, cleaning each of the faceted crystals with damp cloths. Others placed fresh candles among the gleaming clusters. The sparkling cascade of prisms made Baptiste think of laughter turned into glass. He had been fascinated with glass windowpanes when he first visited St. Louis as a young boy, and he remembered thinking as he watched Alberta clean the Clarks’ oil-lamp chimneys that nothing could be more beautiful than curved glass. It was like a ripple in the creek transformed into a clear and brittle stone. A touch on his elbow woke him from his revery. Paul indicated the far end of the room.
“There’s something you won’t see on the frontier: les frotteurs.”
Baptiste watched three old men moving in circles as if they were skating on ice. They wore large felt pads on their feet, and they moved their legs back and forth vigorously as they turned around one another. Baptiste looked at Paul.
“They’re polishing the parquet, don’t you see?” Paul declared. “It wouldn’t do to have a dance floor that didn’t shine.”
Paul continued up the main staircase, but Baptiste lingered.
A group of men carried in gilt chairs and music stands for the orchestra; they were followed by the musicians themselves in the most colorful clothes he had ever seen. Each wore a suit cut in the same style as those worn by the liveried servants, with a long coat and knee breeches, but fashioned of a brilliant purple brocade set off by black velvet touches at the cuffs, collar, and button closures. White silk stockings, shiny black shoes with buckles, and pure white wigs completed the antique effect. Baptiste thought of the portrait of General Washington in Captain Clark’s study, an image when he was a boy of everything that was old and formal. The musicians removed their resplendent coats and placed them on the backs of the chairs, then took off their wigs and placed them on top of the music stands.
The men who had all looked so perfectly similar moments ago were, in fact, of different ages and countenances, some balding and grizzled, others with full heads of hair framing boyish faces. As the members of the orchestra found their places, a young man about his own age put a clarinet to his mouth and, miming the ardor of a snake charmer, addressed a slow glissando to his wig as if it were a sacred effigy. The musicians on either side laughed, and he was about to begin another passage when he glanced up and caught Baptiste’s eye. He stiffened and lowered his instrument, smiling awkwardly. Baptiste saw that the music director had just entered the room. He wore no wig, and he did not remove his coat as he called the orchestra to order.
The musicians sat down, took up their instruments, and, at the conductor’s downbeat, sounded a long full chord that thrilled Baptiste. Lost in the pure pleasure of the dance rhythms that filled the ballroom, he listened to them play several pieces. Eventually Schlape appeared at his side, a look of concern on his face. “Sir, wouldn’t it be wise to take your bath and dress for the evening?”
“Yes, Schlape, of course. I just want to listen for a while.” Baptiste gestured toward the orchestra.
Schlape leaned in closer and added in a more insistent tone, “If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, your presence makes them uncomfortable.”
Baptiste was surprised. “Why, Schlape?”
The older man raised his voice a little. “These musicians are preparing a prince’s ball in honor of Duke Paul. You are one of Duke Paul’s friends and cannot properly be seen to consort with the servants. Your proper place is among the guests tonight.”
The conductor gave them both a long glance before taking up his baton and calling the ensemble to order.
“And you?” Baptiste asked.
“I am in service, sir, and you”—he raised his eyes to indicate the floor above where both Baptiste and Paul were housed—“are not.”
Baptiste thought of the young clarinet player’s diffidence. He saw that there was no use arguing, so he left the room, shadowed by Schlape, who waited on the landing while he walked up, as if to assure himself of the compliant behavior of a schoolboy.
Paul greeted him through the open door of his apartments. “There you are, my friend. Time to put on that new suit of clothes and prepare to meet Paris society.”
He was standing in front of a cheval glass set diagonally in the corner of the room, adjusting his white tie and pulling his shirt cuffs down from his coat sleeves. To Baptiste, there were two Pauls, the real one seen from behind and his reflection, which nodded and talked to Baptiste as he primped before the mirror. A gold medal su
spended from a broad scarlet ribbon hung around Paul’s neck, and on his left breast pocket was pinned a smaller medal with the same striped ribbon Baptiste had first noticed in Le Havre. His face was ruddy from its recent scrubbing, his hair still damp and freshly combed; his eyes sparkled and his teeth gleamed. I’ve never seen him look like this, Baptiste thought.
“Quite impressive!” Baptiste said, and Paul turned around.
“It’s time to clean up the uniform and”—he flicked an imaginary speck from his forearm—“brighten the armor.”
“The ladies will notice; that’s for certain.”
“They can notice all they like, but nothing will come of it. Tonight is strictly about wives, untouchable daughters, and elderly aunts and, as the guest of honor, I have to be on my best behavior.” Paul grimaced with pretended affliction.
“What does the big medal signify?” Baptiste asked.
“It’s a decoration given to members of the Württemberg royal family.”
“It is like the peace medals Indian chiefs wear around their necks, with the likeness of the Great Father in Washington,” Baptiste said. Some of the old chiefs still wore profiles of Jefferson, given to them by Captain Clark or Captain Lewis many years ago. Like Paul’s decoration, he reflected, they conferred importance on the wearer.
“Yes, I suppose it is”—Paul laughed—“but in this case the Great Father is the founder of our dynasty.”
“And the one on your coat?”
Paul fingered the ribbon lightly. “That one is special. It’s for valor and was conferred by my uncle when I served in his guard.” He turned back to the mirror and changed the subject abruptly. “I asked Schlape to help you dress.” Paul’s face spoke to him from the frame. “You’ll find that it takes a bit of getting used to.”
Not long afterward, Baptiste descended the staircase looking elegant, or at least formal. Schlape had been indispensable in attaching the studs down the shirt’s starched front and the links at its cuffs. There was nothing he could do about the stiff collar, however, and Baptiste strained against its chafing like a young horse fighting the bridle.
