The Coronation of Napoleon I

rest of the world for that matter, will look as it did on the Sixth Day of Creation, just before that final brushstroke of the Hebrew God. Napoleon will, of course, be gone by then—that goes without saying. But so too will all of the Empire, all of Europe, indeed, anyone possibly capable of remembering him.

  Looking out from this northern hill on this wintry morning, with wind and snow belting against one’s cheeks, where everything is white or grey or a silhouette, where rivers and mountains and trees have once again become the land’s most prominent features, one recalls the anonymity from which this land emerged, and to which it is headed. No, this city was not Paris. This was nothing more than snow.

  But this city was Paris, perhaps more today than on any other morning, because this was the day of the long-awaited coronation of Napoleon I. Now, Paris had been the undisputed capital of Europe since the days of Richelieu, and diplomats and princes from the far corners of the Continent always had one foot in here, whether they knew it or not. They were always listening in. A great baron from Oslo, or a wealthy cloth merchant from Antwerp, while he may have only tended to glance at The Glasgow Herald or the Wiener Zeitung on occasion, without question was reading La Gazette daily. The preeminence of Paris, of course, would have been the case since the time of Richelieu. But now it was different, because now they were coming. They were coming to the capital, and had been for weeks. All across Europe, stagecoaches were clattering over cobbled backstreets, rambling along mud-covered country roads, trekking through farm and pasture, all with alighting on Paris their only purpose. Indeed, ever since the Coronation was announced on October 16, shockwaves flew across the Rhine, the Elbe, and the Vistula, all the way to St. Petersburg and beyond. In this autumn, noblemen from the thousand kingdoms of Europe were stepping into carriages and hollering to their drivers one simple command: “To Paris!” Until this fall, Paris’ La Gazette never sold more copies abroad, and the magnificent Notre-Dame cathedral never received more pilgrims than it did in those weeks. Never was Paris more the topic of conversation, in alehouses, coffee shops, and salons, all across Europe. Even during the Terror, captivating and momentous as that disgraceful event was, Paris was not as habitually and repeatedly discussed as today.

  For who of our educated Europeans did not know that, today in Paris, history would reveal itself before them? Yes, it was now well understood that Paris was again the stage as the mighty story of Europe approached another zenith. The saga had come to another climax, and Paris was the arena, as it had been in 1789, in the morning, when a mob of a thousand besieged the old Bastille prison, or perhaps even in 1638, when our Great Sun King was born in the Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye. The Parisians knew that, once again, the entire world was watching their anointed city. Though the grey morning sky above, the Parisians knew that angels were working tirelessly to pull apart the clouds so that the sun might stream down on Notre-Dame.

  And maybe they were, because, by seven or eight o’clock in the morning, the gusts of freezing wind were slowing to a quiet breeze, and the falling snow, once a bombardment, was now a pleasant, perhaps even festive, sprinkling. This was just in time, too, because the guards at Notre-Dame had been fending off ticketholders as early as six, and by eight the place du Parvis-Notre-Dame was overflowing with the French people, all happy to be doing what, for centuries, they had always done best, that is, waiting for their king.

  Soldiers, horses, tricolored flags, mayors from all over France on stallions, a chevalier and one thousand more from the Legion of Honor, the black-robed judges, coaches, cardinals cloaked in crimson gowns, gold-emblazoned carriages, all were converging together on the Cathedral. These celebrated elite had left from carefully calculated points throughout the city, and through fastidious planning, these dozens of miniature processions were landing on the square all at once. Here, in front of this great church, all of Paris had come to gather, peasants, footmen, wheelwrights and pipers, bakers and stonemasons, old patriots, ladies clad in jewels and velvet, smiling children waving tricolored flags, all had come to see the savior of France, all now joining in the chant which some of the young had taken up … Vive l’Empereur !  Vive l’Empereur !

  Eight gunshots went up into the air, by the last the noise of the crowd had dropped to a whisper. Then, the steady beat of a military drum. All eyes turned toward the Cathedral. It was the Boys Choir of the Order of St. Genevieve, assembled on two large grandstands in front of the western façade. A narrow opening remained between the two ensembles, leading directly to the entranceway of the nave. Dressed in black silk gowns with white sashes, the boys waited with lowered heads and downcast eyes. Thousands of statuettes hovered above their heads, of saints, animals, and demons. Suddenly, the boys raised their chins to the air in unison and began to chant proudly. The crowd roared in delight, immediately recognizing the triumphant Jubilate Deo of Jean Baptiste Lully, that avaricious court composer to Louis XIV. The next motet was gentle and melancholy. Lully’s treasured Dies irae was now floating over the square. The quivering voices of the boys hovered in the air…Rex tremendœ maiestatis, Qui salvandos salvas gratis… Military men removed their two-cornered hats in reverence for the sacred and gentle music. The clouds were being pulled apart, the fog was lifting, and the entire sky was bathed in golden-blue light as the sun rose high above the eastern spire.

  It was then that the strangest and most wonderful thing began to happen. Like Noah’s animals, these great men of France formed themselves into a long line of twos, which lead through the choir and right up to the west portal. The choir exhaled the final notes of Lully’s Exaudiat te Dominus and then the two ensembles turned sideways to face each other. The military drum took up again, and these great men of France began to disappear into Notre-Dame two at a time. After the last men stepped through the portal into the narthex, two Chausseurs of the Old Guard marched to the entrance and pulled shut the heavy wooden doors. Of course, the square was now littered with dozens of unoccupied carriages, horses, and mules. But soon a team of hired young boys who worked nearby at the magnificent Hotel de Crillon swarmed the area and promptly removed all remnants of the grand display.

  High up in the southwest tower of the Tuileries Palace, above the piles of rollicking red-faced peasants and the wobbly renditions of la Marseillaise breaking out everywhere, a man pressed open a stained glass window and looked out onto the city. The winter air rushed through the window and blew steadily against his hardened, resolute face. He heard an explosion and took a small step backward. He looked up—only the thunderous sound of green, blue, and purple fireworks crackling in the sky. Still, he felt the urge to reach for the musket fastened to his left boot. A church bell began to toll in the distance. Somehow, this steady clang rose above the celebratory din of the streets, loud enough for all Paris to hear. But soon, the entire city was filled with chiming, ringing, jangling bells and carillons. It was nine o’clock. It was his time. Finally, after so many years of warfare, revolution, and all in all, degeneracy, it was time for the Coronation.

  He adjusted his gilded brass helmet and, to dry his perspiring hand, ran his fingers through the white plume. He checked to make sure the long tails of his blue coat were in order. At last, he formed his hand into a fist and gave two firm pounds on the center of his steel breastplate. He was now ready to take his first step down the winding staircase. This was Gustave d’Aurien, a senior officer in the cuiriassiers of the Grande Armée. Gustave knew that, with each step he took, his longtime friend and comrade, Raymond Mouton-Rinxent, would be descending in concert with him, just across the way in the west tower.

  It was his job, as it was with Raymond, to walk the corridor together and open the door which Napoleon would walk through on his way to an additional door, through which he would walk, at which point he would, a few feet later after passing through a third door, at last enter into the crowds outside the palace. In short, it was his job, as well as Raymond’s, to open the fourth of the seven doors Napoleon would progress through on
his way out of the castle to the church.

  D’Aurien took his first step. Then he took his second and third. Then he took his fourth and fifth and sixth. He continued in this manner for each of the twenty steps of the winding stairwell. At one point, at about step number nine, he had a fleeting thought that perhaps he was descending too quickly, and that Raymond may still have been on his fifth or even fourth step. Given the gravity of the day, most men would have allowed this thought to linger in their minds and trouble them, but for d’Aurien—an officer—the thought retreated in that same instant, and by the tenth step, d’Aurien was absolutely certain that Raymond’s leather boot, too, had just landed on step number ten.

  He slowly opened the door to the Salle de Marbre. He quickly saw that the door directly across the hall was still shut. Where was Raymond? Raymond should have been opening his door at this precise moment. D’Aurien scanned the room. The walls were lined, shoulder-to-shoulder, with nobles, courtiers, and diplomats. Each person stood there motionless, looking straight ahead,