The Josephine B. Trilogy (113 page)
“No!” the boy protested, sticking his fingers in his mouth.
“Not now,” Hortense reassured him with a kiss.
“Where is Louis?” Bonaparte demanded, letting the nanny take the baby from him.
“Out. He didn’t tell me where, just that he wouldn’t be long.”
“Perhaps we might wait?” I suggested to Bonaparte.
“I’ll be in the garden,” Bonaparte said darkly.
“Maman, what is this all about?” Hortense led the way into her drawing room, inviting me to sit beside her on the sofa.
Hortense tended not to follow politics. I didn’t know how much she knew. “Are you aware that a new constitution is being proposed?”
She nodded. “The Civil Code?”
*
“The Civil Code is an important part of it, certainly, but there’s more.” I paused, unsure how to explain. “As you know, this last conspiracy has raised concerns once again about Bonaparte’s safety—and, consequently, concerns about the stability of the nation. Our enemies know that if Bonaparte were to be assassinated, the French Republic would fall.” Was she following me? I took her hand. “But if a system of hereditary succession were in place, the nation would endure.”
“I thought you were against that, Maman.”
“I’ve come to understand the reasoning. The attempts on Bonaparte’s life must stop!”
“But what good is a hereditary system if you and Papa don’t have have an heir?” She bit her lip, regretting her words.
“Bonaparte is going to insist on the right to adopt.”
“Eugène?”
“To be legitimate, the adopted heir must be a Bonaparte.” My daughter looked suddenly wary. I smiled apologetically, a pleading look. “Bonaparte would like to adopt little Napoleon as his successor.”
“But he’s only eighteen months old, Maman!”
“Nothing would change,” I started to assure her, but was diverted by Bonaparte, standing at the door.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he said, beckoning me and then disappearing.
“Should I mention this to Louis?” Hortense asked, her voice thin.
“Bonaparte should be the one to say something, I think.”
“Maman, if Papa suggests it, Louis will be against it on principle.”
Bonaparte was seated in the carriage, impatiently tapping his sword against the floor. Soldiers on horseback were lined up behind the carriage in double file, the horses sleepy in the morning sun.
“I told her,” I said as the footman handed me in. “She’s apprehensive, I think, but—” My train caught on the carriage door. Just as I freed it, a man on horseback came through the gate. “It’s Louis.” He looked alarmed by the sight of so many soldiers in his courtyard.
“Zut,” Bonaparte said, annoyed at his brother for being late—late for an appointment Louis knew nothing about. Hortense was right, I thought. It would be a mistake for Bonaparte to approach Louis.
“I’ll talk to him,” I said, opening the carriage door.
First I had to assure Louis that nothing terrible had happened—that his son had not been murdered nor his wife abducted. “The First Consul and I came today regarding a matter of great importance to the nation,” I began, “a matter that would someday bestow a very great honour on you and your son.” I paused. The setting was less than ideal. We were standing in the entry, everyone watching. “We don’t expect an answer, only that you consider what we are proposing.”
“Which is?”
“As you know, Bonaparte must have a successor. The amendment that is being drafted to the Constitution will give him the right to adopt an heir—little Napoleon.”
Louis tilted his head toward his hunched-up shoulder, cradled his weak hand. “My
son
?”
Oh dear, I thought. Louis’s immediate concern was that he himself would not be the successor. “Such a fine prospect for a son might help console a father for not being named heir himself,” I said, giving him an imploring look.
April 8, Sunday.
Hortense was just here, very upset. Caroline called on her last night: accosted her is perhaps more accurate. In an angry tone Caroline informed Hortense that she had learned of Bonaparte’s proposal to adopt little Napoleon and was prepared to fight it! Little Napoleon would be the crown prince, but
her
children would be “nobodies” (her word), and she would not stand for such an injustice.
“I don’t understand,” Hortense said tearfully. “I thought she was my friend.”
[Undated]
Mimi slipped me a note this morning. “It’s just as you suspected,” she said with a grimace.
Mme Carolin told Louis He must not let the 1st Consul take his son. Shee told him the Old Woman wants the 1st Consul to dis-inherit all the Clan. Shee told him He wood hav to bow down to His own Son. Shee told Him that Peopl say the 1st Consul is the Father of his Child. Shee told Him that if the 1st Consul wants a Son, He must divorse the Old Woman.
April 9.
Louis has sent an angry letter to Bonaparte. “He demands to know why I want to disinherit him,” Bonaparte said. “He can’t stand the thought that little Napoleon would be his superior. He says he’d rather die than bow his head to his son.”
“He wrote that?” I asked, pretending to be surprised.
“
And
that he’d leave France and take his son with him,” Bonaparte said quietly.
Pour l’amour de Dieu!
“
And
that the only solution to the problem of an heir is for me to—” Bonaparte stopped. “Listen,” he said, his voice thick, “according to the new constitution, I will have the right to adopt the boy when he turns eighteen. Louis will come around, with time.”
Louis, perhaps—but what about Caroline?
April 23, evening, almost 9:00, I believe.
Tonight Bonaparte informed me the Legislature has voted in favour of hereditary succession. “It will become law in less than a month. At that point, everything is going to have to change.”
“Again?” We’d been in a constant state of change for years, it seemed.
“We’re going to have to have a legitimate court, more servants—”
I sighed. We already had far more than I could manage.
“—and ritual.” He made a circling motion with one hand. “And costumes.”
“Livery, you mean?” We already had “costumes,” as he put it.
“You’ll see to it?”
“I will, King Bonaparte,” I said with a teasing smile (wondering when I should break the news to him how much new liveries would cost).
“No, never king.”
“No?” Hopeful!
“The title ‘king’ reminds people of the Bourbons. My title must be more expansive, more of antiquity. ‘Emperor’ harks back to the Roman Empire and the reign of Charlemagne. It alarms some people because it’s vague and conveys a sense of immensity—but that’s what appeals to me. What’s wrong with immensity?”
“You’re serious.”
Emperor?
He smiled at my puzzled expression. “Emperor Napoleon.” This with theatrical flair, his hand in his vest.
11:20
P.M.
Yeyette, Rose, Mademoiselle Tascher, Citoyenne Beauharnais, Madame Bonaparte:
Empress.
Grands Dieux. It’s just a courtesy title, I tell myself—it doesn’t give me any official standing.
I tell myself. I tell myself.
April 26, late afternoon.
A long meeting today with Madame Campan, who has agreed to help organize our household—our “court.” (I’m so relieved.) “You must have aristocrats serving you,” she said, looking over the list of those who might be invited. “Men and women of the most ancient houses of France.”
The nobility of history: Chevreuse, Montmorency, Mortemart. The
names alone terrify me. “Madame Campan, with respect, the men and women of those families do not even deign to speak to me. How could they possibly serve me?”
“The nobility are raised to bow, to be bowed to. They understand the power that subservience confers. It’s the wife of a soldier who will balk at the notion of lowering her head, for fear of being taken for a maid. What about Countess de la Rochefoucauld?” she said, flicking the paper with her finger. “A Rochefoucauld would impress. Others would then follow.”
No doubt. The Rochefoucauld name is one of the oldest—and most revered.
“She’s your cousin, is she not?”
“A distant cousin,” I said, “through the family of my first husband. She was at Plombières last time I went.” Chastulé de la Rochefoucauld does make me laugh. A hunchback with a plain countenance, she nevertheless approaches life with humour and wit.
“It would be a victory to persuade a Rochefoucauld to be your lady of honour. It’s one of the most powerful positions at court. She would manage your staff, your appointments, your budget and ledgers. Anyone who wishes to call on you must apply first to her. Such a position might interest her.”
“I very much doubt that she would agree, however.” Chastulé is fond of me, but blistering in her condemnation of Bonaparte—”that upstart Corsican,” she is said to call him.
“I believe she might. The family is said to be seriously embarrassed.”
May 4
—
sunny!
For the sum of three hundred thousand francs,
plus
an annual salary of eighty thousand (with guaranteed increases each year),
plus
a position for her husband, Countess Chastulé de la Rochefoucauld has agreed to be my lady of honour.
“Ha!” she exclaimed. “When do I start? Next month? Fine. Whoever said aristocrats had principles? Wave a little gold in front of my eyes and I’m yours, ready to serve in the house of the devil. Not that
you’re
the
devil.” She tugged on my elbow—gestured to me to bend down so that she could kiss my cheek. “Ha! You see, Your Majesty. Everyone bows to a hunchback.”
Your Majesty,
did she say?
May 6.
Bonaparte insists that once the Empire is officially proclaimed, once we are named Emperor and Empress, everything we do—what we say, how we move, what we wear—must be done according to royal tradition (
legitimacy
).
I’ve been studying an ancient book that was found in the palace library:
The Code.
Over eight hundred articles outline what is done in any situation an emperor or empress might encounter. Even so, much is left unsaid. Consequently, I’ve been consulting Madame Campan. She explains how things were done in the days of kings and queens—how people were addressed, what privileges were accorded to whom. We go over the procedures, the rules and forms, considering what to keep, what to reject. Poor Clari’s hand is cramped from writing down all that Madame Campan dictates—over two hundred pages already.
May 17.
Subject to ratification by the people, tomorrow the Republic will be formally entrusted to a hereditary emperor.
“Are you ready?” Bonaparte asked.
“I’m not sure.” How did one prepare for such a thing?
Bonaparte told me what to expect: Cambacérès, Arch-Chancellor now, will come from the Senate with a delegation in order to make the official pronouncement. The officials will go first to Bonaparte, make their presentation, and then they will come to me.
Madame Campan and I have been going over the elaborate procedures. How foreign it all seems. “Look upon it as a performance,” she told me, sensing my apprehension. “Look upon it as your greatest role.”
May 18.
I was dressed long before I heard the clatter in the courtyard announcing the arrival of Arch-Chancellor
de
Cambacérès (now) and his large delegation: men from the Senate, the ministers and the councillors escorted by a regiment of cuirassiers. De Cambacérès entered my apartment with great pomp, coming to a halt six paces from me. (Why so far? I thought. Is this what it means—that from now on no one will dare come near me?) Then, dropping a full court bow—as full as he could manage with his large belly, that is—de Cambacérès spoke the one word I never wanted to hear:
Empress.
How unhappy a throne makes one.
—
Josephine, in a letter to Eugène
May 18, 1804
—
Saint-Cloud, thunder and lightning still.
Empire. Emperor. Empress. It has been little over a day since the Empire was proclaimed, and already we have become like animals, snarling over a bone. It frightens me to see what greed can do to people.
But I jump ahead of myself.
After the proclamation, there was a formal state dinner—an
Imperial
occasion, our first. (Three footmen for each guest, and Bonaparte unhappy because Talleyrand used the aristocratic word “supper” on the invitations instead of the more plebeian “dinner.”)
The family, the officials and the officers of the household assembled in the Grand Salon, awaiting Bonaparte—or rather, awaiting the
Emperor
, as we are to call him now. Of the family: Hortense and Louis, Eugène, Elisa and Félix, Caroline and Joachim, Joseph and Julie—a smaller number of Bonapartes than usual because Signora Letizia, Uncle Fesch, Lucien and Pauline are all in Italy, and young Jérôme is still in America.
Duroc—looking bandy-legged in the Imperial skin-tight knee breeches—informed everyone that Joseph and Louis are now to be addressed as Prince, their wives as Princess. Caroline cast furious glances at her husband, who was slouched in the corner in his circus finery, tossing one of the new coins in the air (Emperor Napoleon on one side, the French Republic on the other).
The
Emperor
arrived promptly at six and saluted the new princes and princesses as well as
Madame
Caroline,
Monsieur
Joachim,
Monsieur
Eugène and so forth. Caroline’s expression had taken on a hard aspect.
Just then a violent thunderstorm broke outside. A flash of lightning followed by a roll of thunder sent the pugs scurrying.