Chère Maman,
You should know that the details of the wedding gown you are having made for Hortense are lost on your son. What do I know of silk and fine lace? But would it be possible to have Hortense’s portrait painted wearing the gown? That, at the least, might console me for not being at the ceremony in person.
I’ve been getting my regiment ready to join you and Papa in Lyons next month. I regret that I can’t be in Paris for the big event—too much to do!
Your loving son, Eugène
Note—Hortense wrote that Pauline is unhappy about having to go to Saint-Domingue with Victor. I’ve heard it said that Papa wanted to get Pauline out of Paris, away from a number of admirers. (You can see how bored I am: I’ve stooped to gossip. Forgive me!)
December 25—Christmas Day.
Christmas dinner with the clan. “I’m so happy that Hortense and Louis are getting married, Aunt Josephine,” Caroline told me, piling her plate high with pudding and tarts. “Just think, Hortense and I will be sisters, as well as bosom friends—and Napoleon will be Hortense’s brother,” Caroline said, catching Louis’s eye. “That must please him; Napoleon is so very fond of Hortense. Everyone is talking about what a close family we are.”
December 26, early morning.
Something in Caroline’s expression last night made me uneasy. Against my better judgement, I’ve asked Mimi to contact her spy. “I was going to anyway,” she told me with a grin.
[Undated]
Mimi slipped me a note this morning. “From Gontier’s nephew?” I recognized the crude script.
“It isn’t very nice,” she warned me.
I tucked the note into my sleeve.
This Evinng Mme Carolin told her Brother Louis he must not marry the Old Woman’s daughter. Shee told Him Peopl say the 1st Consul is Lover of Mlle Hortens. Louis said that is a Lie, that it is not True, that He will marry Her. Mme Carolin broke 5 dishes Shee so angry.
I’m enraged! My hand is trembling as I write this.
December 29.
And so, in spite of opposition, rumours and suspicion, plans proceed for the marriage of a Beauharnais, the daughter of “the Old Woman,” to a Bonaparte. The contract will be signed on January first—in only three days; the ceremony to be held the day after. The wedding gown is almost finished. Leroy has outdone himself.
December 30.
Hortense was ill all night. Overcome with hysterics, she raged and wept. She could not possibly marry Louis, she finally confessed. “I have given my heart to another!” she said, falling against the pillows.
I folded and unfolded my hands, folded them again. What was my daughter telling me?
“I love Christophe Duroc,” she wailed.
11:20 A.M.
“She’s very upset. I don’t think she can go through with it.”
Bonaparte threw down his book in exasperation. “What do you mean? She has to! Everything is set.”
“She’s in love with one of your aides—with Duroc.”
“Christophe?” Bonaparte snorted with amusement.
Very late—past midnight (can’t sleep).
This evening before retiring, Bonaparte informed me that he’d offered Hortense to Christophe Duroc. “You did what?” It took me a moment to even respond.
“As we discussed,” he said, pacing in his nightshirt. “I told Fauvelet to tell Christophe that I’d give him half a million and the command of the Eighth Military Division at Toulon on condition that the wedding take place in two days and they leave for Toulon immediately.”
Toulon? “Fauvelet spoke to him this evening?” I gasped.
“Yes, he informed Christophe of the offer before Christophe left for the Opéra. He gave Fauvelet his refusal on his return.”
“Christophe Duroc refused her?”
“He wants to live in Paris, he said. He doesn’t want to live in Toulon.”
My poor daughter! Christophe Duroc entertains no affection for her whatsoever, for he responded to the offer quite crudely, telling Fauvelet that he couldn’t be bothered, that he was on his way to a whorehouse.
The air in Hortense’s bedchamber was close. “Hortense?” I parted the embroidered bed-curtains. Hortense was sitting against the pillows, the counterpane pulled up to her chin. “How are you feeling?”
“I am fine, Maman,” she said, her voice measured. “Thank you for inquiring.”
She is young, I reminded myself, subject to moods. I sat down beside her. “There’s something I have to tell you.” There was no other way, or time. “I know you entertain a hope of marrying Christophe Duroc. I discussed the matter with Bonaparte, and he offered, but…Duroc refused,” I said, as gently as I could.
“You’re just saying that! You don’t want me to marry him,” she sobbed, throwing pillows. “Where are you going?” she demanded when she saw that I was leaving.
“I’m going to summon Fauvelet,” I said, trying to remain calm. “He will tell you himself what Christophe Duroc said.”
“Don’t go!” she wept, her shoulders heaving.
I took her in my arms. She was so hot! “I’m sending for a doctor.”
December 31, New Year’s Eve.
With considerable difficulty I managed to get Bonaparte to postpone the wedding. “Two days,” I said. “Dr. Corvisart feels she will be well enough by then.” Dr. Corvisart is the only doctor Bonaparte trusts.
“You don’t understand!” Bonaparte exploded. (Everyone is being so temperamental! There is too much going on at once.) “Several hundred Italian delegates are expecting me in Lyons to inaugurate their new republic. All the arrangements are going to have to be changed. Do you have any idea what this entails?”
“She just can’t do it, Bonaparte!”
Almost 10:00 P.M.
“A two-day delay?” Louis looked suspicious. “It will make a poor impression,” he said, drawing his head into his shoulders. “May I inquire why?” He didn’t feel that a wedding date should be changed under any circumstances, he said.
“She’s really quite ill. Believe me, Louis, it will make an even poorer impression if you go ahead with it. She can barely sit up, she’s so weak.”
January 2, 1802, early morning.
Hortense has recovered—well enough, in any case. And so we will proceed with the signing of the contract, the civil ceremony, the religious ceremony—dragging my reluctant daughter into the holy state of matrimony.
“All girls feel that way,” Madame Campan assured me. “Hortense is more expressive than most.”
More stubborn than most!
Sunday, January 3.
The contract has been signed, so at least that ordeal is behind us—and an ordeal it was. Bonaparte’s mother scowled the entire time; Caroline and Joseph smiled falsely. In spite of my resolve, I wept, which distressed the groom. Only Hortense seemed unperturbed (aloof).
After the signing, Bonaparte presented Hortense with the stunning diamond necklace set we’d had made for her. “Thank you,” she said, but without any emotion. She is determined that nothing please her.
January 4, just after 8:00 A.M.
I woke with the dawn and have already accomplished a great deal: reviewed the menus, arranged with Leroy to make one last alteration to Hortense’s gorgeous wedding gown (it’s a surprise for her), sent a letter asking Cardinal Caprara to officiate at the religious ceremony to be held at the little house on Rue de la Victoire after the civil ceremony.
Frankly, I’m in such fits over this wedding that I keep forgetting Bonaparte and I will be leaving for Lyons in a few days and will be away for a month. I’ll see whether Hortense and Louis would like to stay at Malmaison, look after all the animals.
Hortense and Louis. Hortense and Louis. Hortense and Louis.
Louis and Hortense.
Madame Louis Bonaparte.
Madame Louis.
Madame.
11:45 P.M. A long day.
Shortly before nine I knocked on the door to Hortense’s room. She emerged
in a plain crêpe gown, carrying a small orange-blossom bouquet. “You’re not dressed? It’s time to go upstairs. Everyone is waiting.”
“I am dressed,” my daughter informed me.
I looked at Mimi in confusion. “What happened to the wedding gown?” The exquisite gown of white satin. “Was it not delivered?” And what about the diamonds Bonaparte had given her? Hortense was wearing a single strand of inferior pearls.
Mimi rolled her eyes as if to say: I give up. “The bride prefers to be simply attired.”
I pressed my lips together, trying as best I could to hide my frustration. It would do no good whatsoever to argue, I knew. “You look lovely,” I lied.
It was a grim affair, in truth. We stood solemnly as the mayor joined Louis and my daughter in marriage. The family and the Second and Third Consuls watched the proceedings without any indication of joy. Bonaparte was impatient to have it over with quickly. (He had work to do!) I feigned happiness, but it was difficult: Hortense looked so miserable. Louis regarded her anxiously—my heart went out to him.
After, the cheerless party proceeded to the little house on Rue de la Victoire, where Cardinal Caprara had been waiting in his canonicals for hours. (He’d misunderstood the time.) After champagne, which I hoped would make the gathering at least a little bit gay (it didn’t), Cardinal Caprara joined Hortense and Louis in the eyes of God. And so the knot is truly tied, for better or for worse.
Bonaparte wished the two well, and then he and the two Consuls immediately departed—they had much to do to prepare for the trip to Lyons, they said. While waiting for dinner to be announced, Caroline mentioned to the Cardinal that she and Joachim had only had a civil marriage and that someday soon they intended to be married by the Church.
Cardinal Caprara examined his timepiece, a heavy gold instrument dangling on a thick chain. “I could marry you now, if you like. It would only take a half hour or so,” he assured me, for the table had been set.
I glanced at Hortense and Louis, sitting glum-faced on the sofa. “You wouldn’t object?” It was, after all, their happy day. (Hardly.)
“Of course not,” Hortense said dutifully, but then added, “that is, if my husband does not object.”
“No, I do not object,” Louis said, his voice so quiet that it was hard to hear.
“Anyone else wish to marry?” the jolly Cardinal said after he’d rushed Caroline (six months along and already enormous) and Joachim through the ceremony.
“Pity the First Consul isn’t here, Maman,” Hortense said, and then wisely bit her tongue, for it isn’t generally known that Bonaparte and I have never been joined by the Church. At the time, it was not possible*—and now it is awkward.
Then, as dinner was announced, Cardinal Caprara took his leave: “I’m afraid I am expected elsewhere.”
“Before you go, Cardinal Caprara, would you mind? If you could…” I looked around to make sure no one could hear. “If you could bless their bed.” It is an old custom, and who can say? Perhaps it will help. Certainly Hortense and Louis are in need of a blessing.
In which we are all of us blessed
January 31, 1802—Paris, home again, 7:30 P.M. approximately.
We’re back, at last. The trip to Lyons was…well, surprising. The adulation! But also all the pomp, the tiring ceremonials. It helped that Eugène joined us there, so proud with his regiment.
Speaking of whom—he has just arrived. He’s anxious to go see his sister—as am I!
9:45 P.M.
Eugène lifted Hortense off her feet in a big bear hug. “Madame Louis! You haven’t changed a bit.”
“I’m the happiest woman in the world,” she said (catching my eye), chatting on about Louis’s problematic health, the art class they are taking together, a pug dog’s litter, a lame horse, old Gontier’s trouble with his back. Then Louis joined us and Hortense fell silent as he talked of this and that, clasping her hand in his, never taking his eyes off her.
I’m so relieved.
February 18—Malmaison.
Louis looked so proud. I knew right away what he was going to say! “The midwife informs us that although it is too early to know for sure, my wife is likely with child.”
“That’s wonderful!” I exclaimed, embracing Hortense—restraining myself from crushing her, so great was my joy.
Eugène heartily shook Louis’s hand. (His weak hand: I cringed.) “I guess this means I’m going to be an uncle.” He struck a dignified pose that made us laugh.
“How do you feel?” I asked Hortense anxiously. I feel so protective of her!
“Sick!” Hortense moaned.
“Good, then it will be a boy.” Bonaparte tweaked Hortense’s ear. “Joseph has a girl. Lucien has girls. It’s about time we had a boy Bonaparte.”
My daughter is going to have a baby—I’m delirious!
February 23, a chilly afternoon.
Louis’s plan to go to a spa for a health cure is an excellent idea (clearly, he needs it) except for one thing: he expects Hortense to accompany him. I’m ill with concern! Barèges is so far. It would take over a week to get there, and the roads are terribly primitive. I’ve persuaded Dr. Corvisart to have a word with Hortense about the dangers of such an expedition for a young woman in her condition.
February 28, Sunday and a Décadi—Malmaison.
Hortense has dark circles under her eyes. Louis has been waking her in the middle of the night. “He weeps, Maman! He says if I loved him, I would follow him anywhere.”
“You explained to him what the doctor said?”
Hortense nodded. “And so I told him I’d go with him, but that if I miscarried, it would be his responsibility.”
“Hortense, you can’t risk that!” I said, my hands clasping her shoulders.
March 1—Tuileries Palace.
“He wept as the carriage pulled away, Maman,” Hortense said, collapsing into my arms. “He says he can’t live without me!”
Oh, the early years of marriage are so passionate, I thought—so stormy. “Bonaparte said things like that when we were first married,” I told her, to soothe. “Corsican men are extreme in love—or maybe just Bonaparte men,” I added with a smile. Extreme in everything, I might have said: love, hate, ambition, pride. “Louis’s health concerns him, I know. The waters will help. And once the baby comes, things will settle down. You’re lucky to be married to a man who loves you so much. And something tells me he’ll be a devoted parent.”
Hortense smiled through her tears. “He has already filled a closet with toys.”
March 27, 11:30 A.M.
It’s official now—England has actually signed a peace treaty. “Your island is French again,” Bonaparte told me with a kiss, as if presenting me with a gift: my beloved Martinico.
“Ah, just think of the cashmere shawls we’ll be able to buy now,” Caroline said, eating macaroons by the handful. (She’s enormous—only one more month.)
“And gowns of English muslin.” Hortense gave me a private wink—we’ve been wearing English muslin all along, only telling Bonaparte that the fabric is French leno.
“And English plants for an English garden,” I mused. I’ve already written letters to England, to botanists there.
March 30.
I’ve sent a parcel to Martinico, sent Mother portraits of Bonaparte, me and the children along with a gold box beautifully decorated with diamonds. Inside, I’ve tucked some gold medals and coins in honour of Bonaparte’s victories.
Now that the seas are safe to travel, I’m hoping Mother can be persuaded to move to France. I’ve also suggested that Uncle Robert send my goddaughter, fifteen now. Young Stéphanie would benefit from a year at Madame Campan’s school before marrying.
April 6—Paris.
Peace was signed with England less than twelve days ago and already Paris is swarming with Lord Such-and-Suches and Lady So-and-Sos, going about town with their quaint umbrellas and their noses stuck in the air. This in spite of the fact that they are incredibly impressed,
blinking their eyes, disbelieving, taking in the glory of our new Republic—taking in our fine clothes, our glittering entertainments, our vitality, our pride. Expecting squalor and disarray, they are stunned to find a wellmanaged, thriving country, shocked by our fine new hospitals (especially the one just opened for children—the first of its kind), our schools, our roads. Everywhere one looks there is construction: a new quay, bridges, monuments. “I wish to make France the envy of all nations,” Bonaparte told me not long ago—and I believe he has already succeeded.
April 8.
Wonders upon wonders: now there will be peace with the Church. “We’ll celebrate Easter Sunday in the Cathedral of Notre-Dame,” Bonaparte told me.
Celebrate in regal style: all the servants to be in livery.
“Easter Sunday?” Leroy exclaimed. The distraught dress designer placed the back of his wrist to his brow and closed his eyes. Only ten days.
April 18—Easter Sunday in Paris.
The church bells of Paris are ringing again. What a glorious sound! Bonaparte opened the casement windows and stood at the sill in his nightshirt, as if breathing in the deep resounding peal of Emmanuel, the big bell of Notre-Dame—silent for how long? Ten years?
Our morning reverie was shattered by a salvo of guns that made the windows (and my heart) tremble. “I have everything I could wish for,” Bonaparte said solemnly. Peace with England. Peace with the Church. “If only…”