Désirée (34 page)

Jean-Baptiste laughed. "By whom? Does he perhaps plan to have his uncle Fesch set the crown on his head, accompanied by organ music, in Notre-Dame Cathedral?"

"No. The Pope is to crown him."

Jean-Baptiste set his wine glass down so hard that the wine spilled. "But that is—" He shook his head. "Désirée, I consider that impossible. He wouldn't go on a pilgrimage to Rome to be crowned."

"Of course not. He will have the Pope come to Paris for the occasion."

At first I couldn't understand why Jean-Baptiste found this idea so unbelievable. But he explained to me that the Pope never leaves the Vatican to crown anyone in a foreign country. "I'm not too well versed in history," he concluded, "but I don't think anything like that has ever happened."

I was frantically pouring salt on the tablecloth, hoping this would make the stain wash out better.

"Joseph says that Napoleon will force the Pope to come here," I said.

"God knows, I'm not a faithful son of the Holy Roman Church. That would be too much to expect of a former Revolutionary sergeant. But neither do I think he should badger old gentleman to come over those bad roads from Rome to Paris," Jean-Baptiste said.

"And they must somehow find an old crown, and a sceptre, and an imperial orb; and we're all supposed to take part in
the ceremony. Joseph and Louis want to do it up Spanish style. I can't see flat-footed Louis in any such rig."

Jean-Baptiste stared straight ahead. Suddenly he said, "I will ask him for some independent administrative post, preferably far away from Paris. I would prefer command of an entire province. Not only military command, do you understand? I have worked out a new system of licensing and toll-collecting, and I believe I could make any province prosper."

"But then you'd have to go away again," I objected in I despair.

"I have to in any event. Bonaparte will bring about new
 French peace negotiations, but no lasting peace. And we marshals will be riding all over Europe with our armies until—" he paused—"until we have killed ourselves with victories."

As he spoke, Jean-Baptiste began to loosen his collar. I watched him. "The marshal's uniform is too small for you,"
I said.

"That's true, my little girl. The marshal's uniform
is
too small for me. And therefore Sergeant Bernadotte will soon be leaving Paris. Come, finish your drink. It's time to go to bed."

Paris, 9 Frimaire of the Year XII
(By
the Church calendar: November 30, 1804)

The Pontiff actually came to Paris to crown Napoleon and Josephine.

And Jean-Baptiste made a terrible scene with me because he is jealous of him. (Not of the Pope but of Napoleon.) This afternoon, in the Tuileries, we rehearsed the Empress' coronation procession. My head is still spinning and in addition I am very worried because of Jean-Baptiste's jealousy. Between the
two I can't get to sleep, so I'm sitting at Jean-Baptiste's large desk, with his many books and maps, writing in my diary. Jean-Baptiste has gone out— I don't know where. . . .

The coronation will be in two days. For months Paris has talked of nothing else. It's to be the most brilliant even of all time, Napoleon says. And the Pope was persuaded to come to Paris, to convince the whole world, particularly the the Bourbon adherents, that Napoleon was properly crowned and anointed in Notre-Dame. The erstwhile great at the court of Versailles, who are all devout Catholics, had all been betting with each other on whether the Pope would come or not. Most of them considered it highly unlikely. And who should arrive in Paris a few days ago with a retinue of six cardinals, four archbishops, six prelates and a whole army of personal physicians, secretaries, soldiers of the Swiss Guard, and lackeys? Pius VII.

Josephine gave a great banquet in his honour in the Tuileries. But the Pope left early; he was offended because she had thought he would enjoy a ballet after supper. She really meant well. "Now that the old gentleman is in Paris—" Josephine explained to Uncle Fesch. But Uncle Fesch, now a cardinal from head to toe, only shook his head angrily.

Members of the Imperial family have been rehearsing for the coronation for weeks either in Fontainebleau or in the Tuileries. This afternoon, we, too, the wives of the eighteen marshals, were ordered to the Tuileries. The coronation procession of the Empress was to be rehearsed. When I got to the Tuileries with Laura Junot and Mme Berthier, we were shown in to Josephine's white salon. Most of the members of the Bonaparte family were already assembled and quarrelling.

Joseph is responsible for directing the coronation festivities, but details are being decided on by Master of Ceremonies Despréaux, who will be paid two thousand four hundred francs for his services. Despréaux is also the stage manager and his assistant is that frightful M. Montel from whom I once learned proper deportment. We marshals' wives huddled together in one corner and tried to find out what the quarrelling was about.

"But it is His Majesty's expressed wish," cried Despréaux in despair.

"And if he throws me out of France, like poor Lucien," yelped Elisa Bacciochi, "I won't do it."

"Carry her train indeed. Don't make me laugh," indignantly from Paulette.

"But Julie and Hortense have to carry the train, too, and aren't objecting although they're both Imperial Highnesses." Joseph tried to calm his sisters. His thinning hair, usually slicked firmly back, was every which way.

"Imperial Highnesses," hissed Caroline. "And why weren't we, the Emperor's own sisters, called Highnesses, if I may ask? Are we perhaps not as good as the silk merchant's daughter and . . ."

I felt my face reddening with rage.

". . . and Hortense, the daughter of this—this—" Caroline groped for an insulting word for Her Majesty, the Empress Josephine.

"Ladies, I implore you," moaned Despréaux.

"It's about the coronation robe with the enormous train," Laura Junot whispered to me. "The Emperor wants his sisters and Princesses Julie and Hortense to carry it."

"Now—can we begin the rehearsal?" Josephine had entered by a side door. She looked very peculiar. To her shoulders were fastened two sheets sewn together to represent the coronation robe which hadn't been finished. We all sank down in a court curtsy.

"Please line up for Her Majesty's coronation procession," Joseph called.

"She can walk on her hands for all of me. I'm not carrying the train." Elisa Bacciochi quivered with fury.

Despréaux sidled over to us. "The eighteen marshals' wives will unfortunately be seventeen," he announced mysteriously. "For, as a sister of the Emperor, Mme Murat will help carry the train."

"She wouldn't dream of it," Caroline shouted clear across the room.

"Now, I don't see how these seventeen ladies can go two by
two," Despréaux mused. "Montel, have you any idea how seventeen ladies can form nine pairs to precede Her Majesty with grace and dignity?"

Montel tripped up and down, frowning anxiously. "Seventeen ladies—in couples—none may walk by herself—"

"May I help you work out this difficult strategic operation?" asked someone right behind us. We turned around and sank again into a deep court curtsy. "I suggest that only sixteen marshals' wives lead Her Majesty's procession. Then will follow, as arranged, Serurier with Her Majesty's ring, Murat with her crown, and finally one of the marshals' wives carrying —a cushion with one of Her Majesty's lace handkerchiefs. It will be a very poetic touch."

"A stroke of genius, Your Majesty," exclaimed Despréaux, deeply moved, and practically bent double in one of his best bows. Montel, too, bowed down to the ground.

"And this lady with the lace handkerchief—" Napoleon peered reflectively from Mme Berthier to Laura Junot, from Laura Junot to plain Mme Lefebvre. I already knew but for once I held my tongue and looked right past him. I wanted to be one of the sixteen. The wife of Marshal Bernadotte. No more and no less, I didn't want to be singled out, I didn't want . . .

"We will ask Mme Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte to assume this responsibility. Mme Bernadotte will look charming. In sky blue, perhaps?"

"Sky blue isn't becoming to me" I put in quickly, remembering the blue silk dress I'd worn at the Tallien's.

"In sky blue," the Emperor repeated, undoubtedly also remembering that unfortunate dress, and turned aside.

He went over to, his sisters and Paulette started right in, "Sire, we do not wish. . . . "

"Madame, you forget yourself," came like the crack of a whip from Napoleon. No one may address the Emperor without his speaking first. Paulette shut her mouth. Napoleon turned to Joseph. "More trouble?"

"The girls don't want to carry the Empress' train," Joseph complained, pushing back his few damp strands of hair.

"Why not?"

"Sire, the ladies Bacciochi and Murat, and the Princess
Borghese feel . . ."

"Then Their Imperial Highnesses, the Princesses Julie and Hortense Bonaparte, will carry the train alone," Napoleon decided.

"The train is much too heavy for two alone," said Josephine, gathering her sheets around her, and going over to Napoleon.

"If we can't have the same privileges as Julie and Hortense, we won't take on the same duties," Elisa burst out.

"Shut up!" Napoleon shouted. And to Paulette, whom he prefers, "What exactly do you want?"

"We have as much right to the rank of Imperial Highness as those two." Paulette jutted her chin at Julie and Hortense.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows. "One would think I'd inherited the crown from our common father, and were cheating my sisters in distributing our inheritance. My sisters seem to forget that any distinctions they receive depend on my bounty. So far a very generous bounty, don't you think?"

In the deafening silence Josephine's voice rippled like a gentle melody. "Sire, I beg that in your graciousness you raise your sisters to Imperial Highnesses."

She needs allies, went through my head; she's afraid. Perhaps the rumours are true, perhaps he really is considering a divorce. . . .

Napoleon began to laugh. The scene apparently amused him enormously and we realized it had all along.

"All right," he said to his sisters, "if you promise to behave, I'll grant you . . ."

"Sire!" screamed Elisa and Caroline delightedly. Paulette elapsed into,
"Napoleone, molti grazie!"

"I would like to see Her Majesty's coronation procession. Proceed!" Napoleon looked at Despréaux.

A very inferior piano, representing the organ, tinkled out a solemn march. Despréaux arranged the sixteen marshals' wives in eight couples and Montel showed them how to walk gracefully, lightly, and above all joyously. This the ladies kerned unable to do because the Emperor stared stonily at
their feet. They stumbled in deadly embarrassment around the room, and Paulette bit her hand to keep from laughing. Finally Serurier and Murat were summoned. Both joined the march of the marshals' wives solemnly carrying a sofa cushion on their outstretched palms. This was how the Empress' insignia were to be borne at the coronation. After them I pranced in alone, also armed with a sofa cushion. Finally came Josephine, her trailing sheets cheerfully carried by the two newly created Imperial Princesses and Julie and Hortense.

In this order we marched up and down the room four times, stopping only when Napoleon turned to leave. At that, of course, we sank into another deep court curtsy. But Joseph ran after his brother like a madman. "Sire, I beg of you—Sire!"

"I really haven't time," said Napoleon impatiently.

"Sire, it's about the virgins," Joseph exclaimed and beckoned to Despréaux, who scampered over.

"The virgins are a very serious problem," Despréaux said. "We can't find any."

Napoleon heroically suppressed a smile. "Why must you have virgins, gentlemen?" he asked.

"Your Majesty has perhaps forgotten—in the account of the medieval coronation ceremony in Rheims, on which ours is modelled, twelve virgins, with two candles each, walk to the altar after the anointment of Your Majesty. We have considered a cousin of Mme Berthier, and one of my aunts on my mother's side," Despréaux stammered, "but both ladies already are—they are not—"

"They are undoubtedly virgins, but well over forty," thundered Murat's voice from the background. Murat, the cavalry officer, had forgotten his courtly dignity.

"I have repeatedly asked that members of the old aristocracy take part in the coronation, an event which concerns the entire French people. I'm convinced, gentlemen, that around the Faubourg St. Germain you will find plenty of suitable young girls." With that we curtsied again and Napoleon really did leave.

Then refreshments were served and Josephine sent a lady-in
-waiting to ask me over to her sofa. She wanted me to know
that she was pleased about my distinguished new duty.
She sat between Julie and me and gulped champagne. Her
slender face seemed to have got smaller in the last few months.
Her eyes, under the silver lids, looked unnaturally large,
and the remarkable layers of enamel on her cheeks had
cracked up during the long afternoon. Two fine lines, from
the sides of her nose to the corners of her mouth, deepened
whenever she tried to smile. But the childish curls, piled high
on her head, looked, as always, young and carefree.