October 15, 1804
—
Saint-Cloud.
“The Pope has finally answered,” Bonaparte informed me as I came in the door. “It’s not official yet, but he’s agreed: he’ll come to Paris.”
*
“To crown you?” I asked absently, putting down my basket. I’d been with Hortense all morning and was sick with concern. The new baby—Petit we’re calling him—is thriving, but Hortense herself is still not strong, not eating well, if at all.
“Call the architects, set up a meeting for later this afternoon. I’m free at five. The Pope will stay in the Pavillon de Flore. We’ll need to renovate.” He paused at the door. “What’s the matter? You don’t think it will suit?”
“Bonaparte, I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t … Did you say the
Pope
is coming? You’re serious? You’re not jesting?” “I told you before.”
“It’s just that … How does one do that—receive the Pope?” Bonaparte let out a little laugh. “What’s the problem?
I’m
the Emperor.”
October 16.
Hortense has milk fever. She’s in terrible pain, her breasts hard and
inflamed. A bread-and-milk poultice has done little to relieve her distress. The doctor will consider bleeding her if she does not improve by the morning.
[Undated]
Fifty-six rooms are going to be redecorated to house Pope Pius VII and his entourage.
Fifty-six rooms: imagine! I remember, not long ago, when a new bedstead was too great an expense.
Between tending Hortense and preparing for the coronation, I’m run ragged.
October 17—Saint-Cloud.
Busy! This morning I met with fashion designer Leroy and artists Jacques-Louis David and Isabey about the new court dress. I finally succeeded in persuading them that it would be brutal to resume the hoop. French women simply won’t tolerate such a medieval construction! What we have decided on is simple but elegant: a dress very much like the gowns worn today, but with the addition of a long mantle and a ruff. Although impractical, a ruff is, no doubt, becoming. Leroy has suggested one with long points, made of tulle embroidered with gold or silver. It attaches at the shoulders and comes up high behind the head, as in the portraits of Catherine de Medici. My ladies are in ecstasies.
October 19—a beautiful fall evening.
“I’ve got it—
finally.”
The poet Chénier was euphoric.
“Got what?” I asked.
“The subject for the tragedy the Emperor has asked me to write in commemoration of the coronation.”
“Ha! It should be a comedy, the way things have been going around here,” Chastulé said.
“All the poets in the Empire have been asked to create a piece to celebrate the coronation, Your Majesty,” Clari explained.
“Aren’t you going to ask about my subject, Your Majesty?” The poet scratched his head.
“Oh, yes, of course, Monsieur Chénier. Forgive me. What is the subject you’ve decided on?”
“The Emperor Cyrus!” Talma’s voice boomed behind us, making us jump. “Played by guess who?” The actor struck a heroic pose, looking for all the world like a Roman statue in spite of the curious costume he was wearing.
“I was going to tell her,” Chénier complained.
“Talma! What on earth are you wearing?” The tight breeches did not flatter his figure. The vain actor usually took pains to disguise his bowed legs.
“You don’t know, Your Majesty?” Talma twirled. “
This
is the new court dress.”
“Are you serious?” I frowned in disbelief. It was an ensemble in the style of the Renaissance, an embroidered satin doublet with a ruff and
puffed
pantaloons over skin-tight breeches, silk stockings and white high-heeled shoes with rosettes.
“The Emperor approved it this afternoon, but we can’t decide what to call it. What do you think? Spanish?” With a twirl. “À la Henri IV?” Another twirl. “The Troubadour? That’s what I suggested.” Three twirls, the short cape flying. “But who am I to say? I was merely”—he threw the velvet cape across his shoulder and strutted across the drawing room—”the
model?
“Bonaparte is going to wear that?”
Talma threw the black hat festooned with ostrich feathers into the air. “Apparently.” He caught it and positioned it back on his head. The plumes bobbed comically. “Or at least something like it. What His Majesty actually said was”—and here he imitated Bonaparte’s voice and movements exactly—”‘Enough. That’s it. Don’t bother me anymore about it! I have better things to do than to decide about lace. Do whatever you think. Just get out of here.’” At which the actor flung himself into the air as if propelled by some invisible force and landed on his backside.
“Talma,” I gasped. “Are you all right?”
The famous actor stood, brushed himself off, and before our very eyes
transformed,
as if by magic, into a Roman figure once again.
October 20, 6:00 P.M. or so.
“Please, darling, just try a little,” I coaxed my daughter, trying to tempt her with a crumb of the rhubarb cake she had loved as a child. “Show little Napoleon.” I smiled down at my grandson, who studied his mother with a grave expression.
“Make it like a horse,” he said, showing me the trick his Uncle Napoleon uses to get food into
him.
Obligingly, I made it like a horse, and my daughter fainted dead away.
I’m so worried! Afterwards, perplexed and concerned, I dropped in to see Eugène, who was himself frantic. His mare had rejected her foal and he was spending days and nights in the stable trying to save the little thing. On top of all that, he was going crazy with the renovations being done to his house.
*
I helped with some decisions about wallcoverings and drapes—and then we talked about Hortense. “She
is
getting better, Maman,” he assured me, for he calls on her every day.
He will make some young woman a wonderful husband—in time—but for now I get the feeling that he’d rather be with his horses.
October 25.
Hortense has been relieved of her milk, which has been causing her such terrible pain.
10:20 P.M.
—
Saint-Cloud.
The coronation was to be held in two weeks—but this evening Bonaparte learned that the Holy Father hasn’t even left Rome yet! Consequently the coronation has been put forward to December 2. Frankly, I’m relieved. There is
so
much to do.
October 26, late, after 2:00 in the morning—can’t sleep.
Tonight, after Bonaparte returned to his cabinet to work, Eugène
suggested a game of billiards. He played well, though with too much force—I won the first game, he won the second, but not without a struggle. By the third we were laughing and talking: of his newest mount, of finding a good (quiet) riding horse for me, of Hortense—who is sitting up and eating—and her beautiful boys. Then we talked of my growing staff, my need to hire yet more ladies-in-waiting (as Madame Campan had long ago predicted).
“Madame Duchâtel would be good,” Eugène blurted out.
“Adèle Duchâtel?”
“She asked if I could help her get a position.” Flushing.
Aha, I thought—winsome Adèle Duchâtel had caught my son’s fancy. Certainly she is a beauty: slender, with an abundance of golden hair, blue eyes, good teeth. On the other hand, she is tall, and her nose is a bit beaky. I find her manners cold, but perhaps she is simply shy. “I think Madame Duchâtel would be a lovely addition to my staff, Eugène, but I’m not sure she’s qualified.” Adèle Duchâtel is married to an elderly, disagreeable man, a councillor of state. His status doesn’t merit a position for his wife at court, regardless of her personal charm.
“Please,
Maman.”
I took up my cue and circled the table, assessing the shots. Thinking: it is time my son started dreaming of something other than horses. Thinking: Adèle Duchâtel has a husband, so marriage wouldn’t be a possibility. That is good. The choice of a wife for Eugène will have to be dictated by political concerns—he understands that, understands that it is one of the sacrifices demanded by our position. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said, sinking two balls.
“Promise you won’t tell Hortense or Papa?”
“I promise,” I said, ruffling his hair. My boy.
October
27.
Madame Duchâtel begins tonight, at our ball. I’ve sent a note to Eugène.
Past midnight.
It was painful to observe Eugène courting Adèle Duchâtel, painful to see
his confusion, for she refused his invitation to the contredanse.
Eugène slouched against the wall all night with a despondent air. “Come to my drawing room tomorrow evening,” I suggested.
October 30.
Bonaparte lingers in the drawing room each evening of late. Tonight he cautioned Madame Duchâtel against taking a green olive. “An olive in the evening will upset your stomach,” he said, and the girl lowered her eyes.
“And we wouldn’t want
that,”
Caroline said, putting her arm around Adèle’s shoulders.
“Perhaps a brandied cherry?” Eugène offered, ever hopeful.
[Undated]
Bonaparte is being gallant. I’m suspicious.
October 31, Décadi—Tuileries.
This morning a model of the interior of the cathedral of Notre-Dame was set up on a table in the Yellow Salon. Cardboard figures of the people in the procession were lined up in order.
“Where is yours, Maman?” Eugène asked, studying the layout before we joined the clan for dinner. I pointed to the figure that represented me, standing on the mantel. “Why isn’t it on the table with the others?” he asked, perplexed.
“Because they haven’t decided where to put me yet.”
“They?” He tilted his head in the direction of the room where the Bonapartes were assembled.
“They
argue that I’m not to be part of the ceremony, that I’m to be merely a witness,” I whispered, taking his arm as we entered the room, the family all rising to bow.
November
3—
Saint-Cloud.
I’ve ruined everything! This evening at around seven, Bonaparte left the
drawing room. A short time later, Madame Duchâtel got up from her embroidery frame and left as well. I waited for her return: five minutes, ten minutes, twenty.
Finally I could stand it no longer. I called Clari over to a window recess and told her that if anyone asked where I was, to say that I had been summoned by the Emperor. “Where are you going?” she asked, her tone apprehensive.
“I’ve got to find out if something is going on.” I slipped away before she could protest.
I proceeded in the direction of Bonaparte’s cabinet. I told myself he was working, as he often did in the evening. No doubt Madame Duchâtel was simply indisposed and had retired. There were any number of explanations.
These were the thoughts going through my mind. But what would I say to Bonaparte? I wondered, stopping outside the door to his cabinet. I would ask him if he wished to play a game of chess. No, he would know that I would not venture through the cold, dark corridors to ask such a thing. I decided to tell him that I needed a private moment to talk with him regarding my concerns about Hortense, her health.
The antechamber to Bonaparte’s cabinet was dark. The moonlight illuminated the sleeping form of a guard. Stools had been positioned around the perimeter of the room, a room at rest. I tapped lightly on the door to the cabinet. No answer. The guard stirred, but did not wake. Was the door locked? I lifted the iron latch and the door swung open. The room was empty. I slipped up the stairs behind the bookcase, the stairs that led to the private suite of rooms above. Bonaparte had recently had the rooms redecorated.
At the top, I heard voices—Bonaparte’s, and that of a young woman: Adèle Duchâtel.
Foolishly, I knocked on the door. (Why? What possessed me?) I heard scurrying about, then the door opened: Bonaparte, shirtless. “What are
you
doing here?” he demanded. Behind him, in the shadows, I could see the frightened girl.
I knew from the tone of his voice that I should not speak, yet heedlessly I cried out, “This is wrong, Bonaparte!”
Enraged, he picked up a stool and brought it down with force against
the stone hearth. The girl let out a squeal. “Get out!” he yelled. “Get out of my sight!”
I tumbled down the stairs, letting the pewter candle holder clatter onto the stones. I heard the door slam shut, the bolt slide into place and I was plunged into darkness.
Trembling, I hurried back to the salon. With others present, I would be safe—at least this is what I told myself. In truth, I was not myself. I’d never seen Bonaparte in such a rage, and it frightened me—frightened and angered me.
Four of my ladies were still around the game table by the fire. Clari was at her frame. They all stood when I entered, bowed. “Please, be seated, continue,” I told them, taking my place behind my embroidery frame. I took up my needle. I’d been working on the stem of a vine, in cross-stitch. I made a stitch, but it was unruly.
The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire, the shuffling of cards and an occasional groan or murmur from the players. Thoughts of Bonaparte’s infidelity, his rage kept coming back to me. “Clari,” I called out, my voice shaky—and louder than I’d intended. She jerked her head up, regarding me with a look of caution. “I’m … retiring for the evening. Please attend me.” Good, I thought, standing, at least I’m not trembling.
I looked about my bedchamber as if I’d never seen it before. “Your Majesty?” Clari inquired from the door.
“I …” But no sooner had I opened my mouth than tears spilled. “I discovered them,” I managed to say. “Bonaparte and Madame Duchâtel.” My hands felt like ice, yet my heart was racing. “He’s furious! Soon he will come here, and …”
“Please,
Your Majesty, permit me to go! His Majesty would be furious were he to think that you confided in me. It will be best if he finds you alone.”
I sat down at my toilette table, fussing without thinking over my baubles. I put a pearl ornament in my hair, then took it out. It was sharp—it might inflict harm.