“De Caulaincourt is with the Emperor?” Gentle, aristocratic Armand de Caulaincourt. It would comfort me to know that he was with Bonaparte.
“Yes, Your Majesty. He sent me expressly to tell you to do what you can.” This last in a rush of words for fear I would yet again interrupt.
“What does that mean?”
Do what you can.
“It means that you try to seek favour for yourself and your children at the court of the enemy, Your Majesty.”
April 13.
A note from Armand de Caulaincourt. He urges me to return to Paris—it’s in my best interest, he said. It behooves me to show myself, press my case with the Tsar. It is the Emperor’s wish.
Je le veux.
And then, a note at the bottom, in the secretary’s tidy script:
Your Majesty, it is urgent that they be persuaded to be charitable with respect to the Emperor.
I’m packing.
4:45
P.M.
“Very well,” Hortense said, but in a tone that suggested she did not approve.
“You don’t think I should go,” I said.
“Do what you want, Maman,” she said, “but I won’t be going with you.”
“You’ll stay here?” I was relieved, frankly. She and the boys would be safer at Navarre.
“I’ve decided I must go to Blois, to see the Empress.”
“But Hortense, that’s risky!” A show of allegiance to the Empress would be held against her. “You must think of your future, and that of your boys.”
“It’s my duty, Maman,” she insisted. “Marie-Louise is young and very much alone. Imagine the torment she must feel! You have raised me to do what is honourable.”
“I understand,” I said, turning away, both furious and proud.
April 15, Friday
—
Malmaison.
It was disconcerting to see Russian guards at the gates to Malmaison. I tried to explain who I was, but it wasn’t until my groundskeeper came hobbling that I was allowed in. “What happened?” I asked, alarmed, for he had bandages on his head and one arm was in a sling.
“Cossacks. I tried to stop them, Your Majesty, but—” He shrugged, a movement that made him wince. “They broke the leg off the table in the entryway, but that was all. It was the orangutan that scared them away.”
And so it was with a sense of disbelief that I walked back into my home of priceless treasures to find it all untouched. But for the Russians at my gate, one would not know that the nation had fallen.
[Undated]
Oh, the stories: that the theatres in Paris closed for only one day—the day Paris capitulated—that the actors carried on even as cannon boomed. That it was Joseph Bonaparte who gave the order to raise the white flag of surrender and then disappeared, not even handing over command. (Just as he had in Madrid—the coward!) That everyone in Paris is wearing a Bourbon white rosette, that Bourbon banners are everywhere. (Ingrates!) That the Pretender’s brother, the Count d’Artois, has arrived, that he wears a powdered wig topped by a silly hat. That his servants wear strange Gothic tunics with enormous crosses hanging from the buttonholes. That Cossacks sleep with their boots on. That shopkeepers are doing a brisk trade. That in the Tuileries Palace they have simply pasted Bourbon fleurde-lis over the Imperial bees. That Talma played for the Tsar and was forced by the crowd to proclaim, “Long live King Louis XVIII,” but left the stage in tears. (Poor man.) That Empress Marie-Louise’s father, the Emperor of Austria, paraded down the Champs-Élysées in full daylight, not even trying to hide the fact that he had profited from his daughter’s misfortune. That the people were falling over themselves to bow before the new regime, claiming that they’d detested “that monster” Napoleon. That even his family has deserted him.
How devastating all this is.
Almost midnight (can’t sleep).
Clari looked like a matron in her bonnet, clutching a wicker basket. “I was afraid you would not receive me,” she said, fingering the gold cross that hung from a yellow velvet ribbon around her neck.
“It is not in my nature to hold a grudge,” I said, feeling vindictive nonetheless. She had betrayed Bonaparte, the nation,
me.
“Speak your business.” And go.
“The Tsar Alexandre begs permission to call on you.”
“I take it you are his servant, then?”
“I help out where I can.” Her sharp nose in the air.
“I understand you helped the enemy enter Paris.” Clari and Talleyrand. “Such helpfulness is well rewarded, I expect.”
“I did not intend to hurt
you.
”
“I think you should go.”
“Will you consent to receive the Tsar? It would be to Napoleon’s advantage for you to do so.”
“How dare you speak his name!” A vase fell to the floor, shattered.
“He murdered the Duke d’Enghien!”
“You’re a fool. If anyone can be held responsible for the death of the Duke d’Enghien, it is your friend Talleyrand. He’s the one who persuaded Bonaparte to arrest the Duke.”
“He told me you would say that.”
I took two steps toward her, trembling.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she whispered, backing out through the door.
April 16, Saturday.
Tsar Alexandre arrived attended by only a few guards. “I am honoured,” he said, bowing before me. He is attractive, a man of middle years—thirty-five? thirty-six?—imposingly tall, with golden curls, pale blue eyes.
I was surprised (and reassured) by his show of respect. I am the ex-wife of an ex-emperor. He is the victor, ruler of one of the most powerful countries on earth. “Your Majesty,” I answered with self-loathing, “the honour is all mine.” As I spoke, he stooped close, and I recalled that he was slightly deaf. “The honour is all mine,” I repeated, raising my voice, flushing (knowing the servants could hear).
I took him on the usual tour of Malmaison—through the gallery, the music room, the theatre, the rose garden, the hothouse—and even through the dairy (my Swiss cows interested him). I found him easy to talk to, for his French is excellent and his mind of an inquiring nature. (So like Bonaparte in that respect.) He wanted to know about the grafting technique my gardeners had been using with success on evergreen shrubs, how much sun was advisable on tulip beds, what proportion of cow-dung was added to the compost used for the auriculas, how much milk my cows yielded.
We paused in front of the hothouses, talking of theatre: he’d been to see Talma in
Iphigénie en Aulide
at the Théâtre Français and had been tremendously moved. “Although,” he said, “there was an incident afterward that was painful to witness, I confess.”
“I have heard of it.” Poor Talma—I was beginning to fear his mind had turned. He’d physically attacked Geoffroy for having written a critical review.
“The actor remains attached to the Emperor. His feelings are honourable and should be respected.”
“We
all
remain attached to the Emperor,” I said with more heat than was wise.
“I understand,” the Tsar said with feeling.
But it is you who have destroyed him! my heart cried out.
It was then that we were—fortunately perhaps—diverted by the sound of children’s voices: Petit and Oui-Oui! They raced down the path, stopping short when they saw the tall and imposing stranger beside me. “Come, come,” I said, stooping to embrace them. Why were they at Malmaison? Hortense had taken the boys with her to Blois, to see the Empress Marie-Louise. “I’d like to introduce you to Tsar Alexandre of Russia.”
Petit looked concerned. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “Make your best bow.”
The Tsar smiled and bowed in turn.
“Where is your mother?” I asked anxiously.
“She’s coming
slowly.
She has to stop to admire
everything
,” Oui-Oui said, dramatically rolling his eyes.
“We didn’t stay long at Blois,” Petit informed us, pulling at a ringlet. (Oh dear, I thought. Now the Tsar will know that Hortense went to see Empress Marie-Louise.)
“We’ve been in a carriage for
days
,” Oui-Oui said, rolling his eyes yet again.
Hortense had stopped beside one of the rose beds. I waved to catch her eye. She smiled—
There
you are!—then frowned, twirling her percale sun umbrella, taking in the figure beside me.
“We’re over here, Maman,” Petit said.
“With a Cossack,” Oui-Oui cried out, throwing up his cap.
“Shush,” Petit said, frowning at his younger brother.
Tsar Alexandre laughed. (I was relieved.)
“I’m so happy to see you,” I said, embracing my daughter.
“Malmaison looks fine. Nothing was taken?”
“Thanks to the Tsar Alexandre,” I said, introducing my daughter.
“Honoured,” she said coolly, with only a slight dip of her head.
“Can I offer you both an ice and tea?” Hortense wasn’t helping!
“Cossacks drink vodka,” Oui-Oui said.
“Pardon?” Hortense said with a reproving look.
“I’d be delighted,” the Tsar said. “And yes, if you had vodka…” Pulling the brim of the child’s cap down over his eyes.
“He impresses me,” I told Hortense after the Tsar had left. “He seems sincere in his desire to put an end to the conflicts.”
Hortense shrugged.
“You disapprove of my receiving him, don’t you?”
“We discussed this at Navarre, Maman. I understand your reasoning perfectly.”
“Then why…?”
“It was disconcerting, I admit, seeing
you
entertaining the enemy.”
“Hortense, Tsar Alexandre has the power to help you and your children.” As well as the power to ruin them.
“There is nothing we need.”
“Now is not the time for idealism! Do you want to be exiled from France, never to return? It might be wise to be civil, at least for the sake of your boys. And, need I remind you, for Eugène’s sake,
my
sake—
Bonaparte’s
sake. Who do you think must make the decision about Bonaparte’s future? The Tsar—that man you treated so rudely.”
We both burst into tears. “Oh, forgive me, Maman! I’ve had such a terrible two days.”
And then it all came out: how after Hortense’s long and arduous trip to Blois, the Empress Marie-Louise had kept her waiting, how when she’d finally received Hortense, she’d told her that it would be best, perhaps, if Hortense left, because her father, the Emperor of Austria, was coming to get her, and how the one thing that
really
worried her was that her father might force her to follow Bonaparte into exile.
I sat for a moment in stunned silence. “But I thought Marie-Louise was sincerely attached to Bonaparte. I thought you said she couldn’t stand to be separated from him even for one day.”
“I thought so, too, Maman.”
Poor Bonaparte! Everyone is deserting him, even his wife. “And the boy?” The son he loves so much.
Hortense smiled sadly. “He was so happy to see Petit and Oui-Oui. You know what he told them? That he knows he’s not a king any more because he doesn’t have any pages. Madame de Montesquiou told me he cries for his papa.”
I stood and went to the fireplace, holding my hands out over the embers. “I’d go to Bonaparte in a minute if I could.”
Hortense came up behind me, held me in her arms. “I know you would, Maman.”
Early evening.
The sight of the horse cantering up the laneway puzzled me. The rider looked familiar, yet I could not place him. I went to the garden gate, my basket full of cut roses. “Moustache?” But I wasn’t sure. “What’s happened to your…?” I pointed to my upper lip.
“I cut it off and gave it to the Emperor,” he said, handing a letter to me. “I told him he already has my heart; he might as well have my namesake.”
How touching, I wanted to say, but could not speak. The letter was from Bonaparte.
Fontainebleau
I wrote you on the eighth of this month (it was Friday), but perhaps you never received my letter. The fighting was still going on so it may have been intercepted.
I won’t repeat what I said
—
I complained then about my situation. Today I am better. I’ve had an enormous weight lifted from me.
So many things have not been told. So many have a false opinion! I loaded benefits on thousands of poor wretches. What did they do for me? They betrayed me
—
yes, all of them. With the exception of good Eugène, so worthy of you and me.
Adieu, my dear Josephine. Resign yourself as I have. I will never forget you. N.
“Thank you,” I told Moustache, slipping a diamond ring off my hand. He’d aged during his years as Bonaparte’s courier; his face was lined with furrows. “How is he?”
“The Emperor?”
I leaned toward him. “Yes.” Tell me.
“He’s…not well, Your Majesty.” His voice had a pleading quality.
I nodded. And?
He looked away. “I’m told he tried to poison himself.”
There was a century of silence, heavy and ponderous and dangerous. “
Tried?”
“Apparently it was not strong enough.”
“Thank you, Moustache,” I said weakly, turning away.
Grand Dieu. I
must
get to him.
Very late, past 2:00 A.M., I think.
Perhaps I’m going mad. My emotions rage within me. Oh, Bonaparte! I feel so helpless—
Monday.
Shortly after dinner I called for my carriage. “Fontainebleau,” I told the driver.
“But Your Majesty…” It would take hours and the roads were not safe, Antoine said. “And what about an escort?” The men were just sitting down to eat.
“I won’t be needing them,” I informed him. “I’ll be travelling incognito.” Alone.
The leather mask was curiously reassuring. I was of the world, but not part of it. Lulled by the sway of the coach, I watched the sun set, the moon rise, the outline of the hills become liquid and dark. I sat as if in a trance, without thinking.
Nearing Fontainebleau, we stopped at a posting house to refresh the horses. “Where in Fontainebleau?” Antoine asked.
“The château.”
“But…” The Emperor was inside the château. It would be heavily under guard.