The Last Great Dance on Earth

  “But Hortense,” I said, trying not to let my exasperation show, “Eugène even recommends him. Citoyen Robiquet is a gentleman, intelligent and well-educated. He has such good manners.” I felt like a fair vendor, hawking my wares. “Don’t you like the way he enters a room? The way he ties his neckcloth? Very elegant. And so charming! And from a very good family.” Wealthy. “What do you not like about him?”

  My daughter refused to say, her expression glaring defiance. Later, I learned the reason for her stubborn refusal: she’d discovered the young man rolling on the floor with one of my pugs. “Undignified,” she pronounced, refusing to be swayed.

  [Undated]

  “Too short.”

  [Undated]

  “Too tall.”

  [Undated]

  “Too—”

  “No! Don’t tell me!” I clasped my hands together—hard. I felt like strangling my daughter. The objection to one young man had been that he could not dance; the problem with another was that he had eruptions on his cheek. (Only two.) And yet another wore a silly hat. (High fashion in England.) All honest young men of good family! “Let me guess.” I paced in front of the fireplace, as Bonaparte does when he is angry. “He’s too educated, not educated enough. Too wealthy, not wealthy enough. Too aristocratic, too common, too …”

  Hortense’s chin puckered. “My thoughts exactly!” she exploded angrily, and stomped out of the room.

  I give up!

  July 29, 1801, Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne

  Chère Maman,

  Hortense has rejected all those suitors—even Citoyen Robiquet? I’ll try to think of some other possibilities. She’s not easy to please!

  I was elated to learn that England has finally agreed to negotiate. You see?

  Papa’s tactic is working: force Austria to sign a peace treaty, and then England will have to follow.

  A million kisses,

  Your loving son, Eugène

  Note—I’ve sent Uncle Joseph a note of congratulations on the birth of his daughter, although a letter of condolence might have been more in keeping, knowing how much he had hoped for a son.

  August 1, very hot—Plombières.

  We’re packing, getting ready to head back home. Hortense slumps about with a long face. Marry she must.

  August 8—Malmaison.

  Bonaparte greeted me with a lusty embrace. I feel like a field in spring—plowed and well-fertilized.

  August 17—Malmaison.

  Family gathering here tonight. Caroline brought Achille, who is seven months old already. She is feeling ill, she announced, suffering nausea and vomitings every morning. (Yes, she is with child again.)

  Bonaparte held little Achille for almost one hour. My throat tightened watching him. What a good father he would be, doting and proud.

  Faith, the water doctor told me. I must have faith.

  August 25, 10:15 P.M.

  Bonaparte was in a playful humour tonight as we gathered in the drawing room before dinner. Hortense (looking lovely in her new spotted silk gown trimmed with lilac ribbons) was sitting on the settee, working at her frame. “Well,” Bonaparte said, reaching over to tug her ear, “I’ve just been to your room and read all your love letters.” He often teases Hortense in this way, but this time, instead of smiling and shrugging, she made an awkward excuse and hurriedly left the room.

  Bonaparte and I looked at each other: what was that about? When she returned for dinner, Bonaparte asked if she had secrets. “No, Papa!” she said, then chattered non-stop about her acting lessons, how much she was learning from the great actor Talma, about the ball she and Caroline had gone to the night before, so charming a fête she “almost suffocated” (the highest praise). “Both Citoyen Dupaty and Citoyen Trénis danced a quadrille with Madame Récamier,” she chatted on (and on). Everyone said (she said), and she agreed, that Citoyen Trénis is a much better dancer than Citoyen Dupaty, that even Citoyen Laffitte is a better dancer than Citoyen Dupaty, and Citoyen Laffitte does not know how to make the grand bow with the hat. Citoyen Trénis’s jetés have verve, she said, and although they perhaps lack in grace, his spirit is lively and vigorous, and as for …

  After exactly fourteen minutes (as usual), Bonaparte threw down his napkin. “You’ll excuse me?”

  Hortense and I were left in silence. “Now,” I said with a smile, passing her some bonbons on a platter, “about running off to your room so mysteriously—is there anything my daughter might want to tell her mother?”

  And then, with obvious relief, Hortense confessed that Bonaparte’s aide, Christophe Duroc, had slipped a letter into Lives of the Saints, a book she had been reading.

  “Duroc wrote you a letter?” I asked, concerned. I don’t care for Christophe Duroc (phlegm), and not just because he is known as “the procurer.” He is handsome, in a fashion, and fanatically loyal to Bonaparte, but his manner is cold—I can’t imagine him loving a woman. And in any case, it is improper for a young man to write a girl a letter; many a reputation has been ruined for less.

  “I did not open it, Maman,” Hortense hastened to assure me—but confessing that she had tried to read it without breaking the seal. “I only wished to see how a man proposed.”

  Proposed! “Hortense, a gentleman who respects a young woman wouldn’t propose without discussing it with her parents first,” I said carefully. And a gentleman who respected a girl wouldn’t write to her unless they were already engaged.

  September 2—Paris.

  It has been almost one month since I returned from Plombières, and still no change. Faith.

  September 3.

  Bonaparte’s young brother Louis has taken to joining us in the drawing room evenings, reading aloud from Young’s Night Thoughts while Hortense sketches and I sit at my tapestry frame. (Bonaparte, of course, is usually in his cabinet immersed in work.) Now and then Louis will look up and gaze at Hortense as she applies charcoal to a self-portrait. I wonder—

  September 5, late afternoon.

  Is it possible that Louis is in love with Hortense? He, Bonaparte and I were enjoying a pleasant conversation yesterday evening on the subject of German literature when Hortense came into the room. Abruptly Louis stopped talking. No persuasion on our part could induce the crimson-flushed young man to continue. “The silent one,” Hortense teased, oblivious to the powerful effect she has on him.

  Shortly after 2:00 A.M.—can’t sleep.

  Why haven’t I considered Louis before? He is twenty-four (a good age), serious in his demeanour, not unattractive, intelligent. Educated, literary. Since his fall from a horse in Italy, his health has been a concern—he uses his right hand with increasing difficulty—but it is not a congenital problem and will no doubt improve with treatment. He’s a bit moody, sometimes, but gentle (he dotes on his mongrel water spaniel). Generous features, a nice height. Excellent teeth.

  September 8.

  I’ve been to see Madame Campan for advice on staff. As a former lady-in-waiting to Queen Marie Antoinette, she is invaluable, but as Hortense’s former schoolmistress, she is even more so. I told her all I’ve been going through trying to find a suitable husband for Hortense, all the excellent young men who have been introduced to my daughter, how she has rejected them all. I told Madame Campan my concerns: that Hortense has formed an ideal in her mind that no man can live up to, that the novels she reads have given her romantic notions, that she is intent on a love marriage, a practice that is becoming more and more common, true, but so often ends in misery.

  Madame Campan looked alarmed. “A love marriage is out of the question,” she said firmly, smoothing her black gown, which was modest in design, without frippery or devices. “Young people are swayed by emotion—they are unable to choose wisely. Your daughter is intelligent. I am confident she will come to the conclusion that the French system is superior to any other. Who do you have in mind?”

  I told her that although I’d not yet discussed it with Bonaparte, I was coming to the conclusion that his brother Louis
might be ideal.

  Madame Campan sat back with a satisfied look. “I was going to suggest that you consider Louis. Even if he were a repulsive candidate, I would recommend him, for the benefits to you, your husband—indeed, the nation—are abundantly clear to all concerned.”

  Abundantly clear. “Certainly, but—”

  “But fortunately, he is not a repulsive candidate. Louis is a reflective individual. He is kind and has simple tastes, as does Hortense. They share a poetic sensibility. And his feelings for your daughter?”

  “Frankly, I’m beginning to suspect Louis may be in love with her.”

  “They would have handsome children.”

  Oh yes! And what a joy it would be for Bonaparte and for me. Their children would unite us, console us if we are never able to …

  September 8—Paris.

  “Josephine?” Bonaparte nudged my shoulder. “Are you awake? I’ve been thinking: what about Louis? As a possible … you know, for Hortense.”

  “What a good idea!” I said, wrapping my arms around him. “Why didn’t I think of it?”

  September 10.

  “Bonaparte, we must do something about Hortense and Louis.”

  “Do what?” Bonaparte asked, closing the book he was reading, a history of the Emperor Charlemagne, holding his place with his finger.

  “You know—what you talked about.”

  “That’s a woman’s job,” he said, opening up the book again. (Breaking its spine.)

  “But someone needs to talk to Louis, and really, it should be you.” “What do I know of such matters?” “More than you think,” I said with a smile.

  [Undated]

  “So I talked to my brother.” Bonaparte sat down beside my toilette table, examined my gown (approvingly), the embroidered lawn, the décolleté. “Louis is in love with—”

  “Bonaparte!” I hissed, rolling my eyes in the direction of my hairdresser.

  Citoyen Duplan laughed, fluffing out my side curls. He’d persuaded me to try a rhubarb and white wine tint, which gave my chestnut hair a hint of gold. “Madame Josephine, you know me better than that.”

  “I know you too well.”

  Then Bonaparte’s secretary appeared at the door. (It’s always like this now: bustle and turmoil.) “First Consul, Minister Talleyrand wishes to have a word with you.”

  I took my husband’s hand. “And?” What about Louis?

  “And he agreed,” Bonaparte said with a shrug, standing up.

  “That’s all?”

  “I’m not in the room!” Duplan said, digging in his case of combs. “I’m invisible.”

  “He was going to anyway, he said.” Bonaparte lowered his voice.

  “Now someone needs to talk to you-know-who, see if you-know-who would be … you know: receptive.”

  “Nowhere to be seen!” Duplan exclaimed, throwing up his hands, turning his back.

  “I don’t think I should be the one to discuss it with her.” It would put too much pressure on her. “Best to have someone outside the family, I think.”

  “Fauvelet could do it,” Bonaparte said.

  “Certainly,” Fauvelet said. “Do what, First Consul?” I heard him say as he followed Bonaparte out.

  “Citoyen Duplan, I’m serious, don’t you dare say a word,” I told my hairdresser immediately after the door had closed. “Not even a whisper.” Especially not a whisper.

  4:30 or so.

  This afternoon, when Bonaparte’s secretary came to model the new jacket I’d designed for him (it’s excellent—even Bonaparte has requested one), I told Fauvelet our thoughts. “Louis is gentle and affectionate and he cares for Hortense sincerely. Were they to marry …” I outlined the benefits to all concerned. “I agree with Bonaparte that you are the ideal person to approach Hortense on this delicate matter.” Well—perhaps not ideal, but …

  “I know, Madame Josephine, the First Consul discussed this with me, but I don’t think I could—”

  “You and Hortense play in theatricals together. You have a companionable relationship. Please. Would you mind? Could you just find out what her feelings might be?”

  September 13.

  “She wept, Madame.”

  Wept! “Why? What did she say?”

  Fauvelet shrugged his thin shoulders. “She didn’t.”

  “Well—what did you tell her?”

  “That she owed it to her country.”

  Mon Dieu.

  “And that the First Consul and you had decided.”

  “Didn’t you point out Louis’s good qualities?”

  Fauvelet looked at me quizzically. “Louis has good qualities?”

  “Didn’t you point out how gentle and sensitive and intelligent he is? Didn’t you tell her that Louis loves her?” As I had instructed him to say!

  “I started to, Madame, but I don’t know if she heard me.” He pursed his lips. “She was crying awfully hard. Don’t worry!” He held up his hands, as if surrendering to an enemy. “She assured me she would never do anything to displease you.”

  Hortense has asked for eight days to consider. Now, alone at my escritoire, I am full of remorse. How difficult this is. Are we doing the right thing?

  September 15—Malmaison.

  I observe my daughter’s sad look and have to turn away. “She must decide herself,” Bonaparte told me, taking me in his arms.

  September 16.

  Madame Campan is with Hortense now. I can hear the low murmur of their voices, the muffled sound of Hortense weeping. I can’t bear it.

  Later.

  I walked Madame Campan to her carriage. “She will be fine,” she said. “You must be patient.”

  “What is Hortense’s objection?” Why is my daughter so miserable? We are not asking her to marry a repugnant old man. Certainly that sort of thing happens all the time. “Does she dislike Louis? Bonaparte and I were under the impression that she cares for him.”

  Madame Campan leaned toward me. “I think she expects to feel rapture,” she said. I frowned. “Exactly!” she exclaimed. “Of course she cares for Louis. He’s just not her ideal. Hortense has always been very … theatrical, one could say, but in the best sense! Sensitive, certainly. Romantic, I’m afraid. She’ll come round—you’ll see.”

  September 17.

  Bonaparte has issued an ultimatum to England: unless a peace treaty is concluded, negotiations will be broken off. “And as for your daughter he said, pressing for resolution.

  Four more days.

  September 21, early afternoon—Tuileries Palace.

  Fauvelet poked his head in the door. “Madame Josephine?”

  I looked up from my fancy-work.

  “She has agreed. She said she would not stand in the way of your happiness.”

  I scrambled for my handkerchief, my chin quivering.

  * Hortense and her cousin Emilie composed the following letter about the journey: “Never has there been a more agonizing journey to Plombières. Bonaparte mère showed courage. Madame Josephine trembled in fear. Mademoiselle Hortense and Madame Lavalette argued over a bottle of eau de Cologne. Colonel Rapp made us stop frequently in order to ease his bile. He slept while we forgot our troubles in the wine of Champagne.

  “The second day was easier, but the good Colonel Rapp was suffering still. We encouraged him to have a good meal, but our hopes crumbled when, arriving in Toul, we found only a miserable auberge which offered nothing but a little spinach in lamp oil and red asparagus simmered in sour milk. (We would have loved to see the gourmets of our household seated at this disgusting meal!) We left Toul in order to eat at Nancy because we’d been starved for two days.

  “We were joyfully welcomed when we arrived in Plombières. The illuminated village, the booming cannon, all the pretty women standing in the windows helped us not to feel sorry about being away from Malmaison.

  “This is the exact story of our trip, certified to be true.”

  * Josephine began menopause in her early thirties, likely due to the trauma
of her imprisonment during the Terror.

  In which my daughter finally marries

  September 22, 1801, almost 10:00 P.M.—a rainy day in Paris.

  Louis looked terrified. “You wish to speak to me, Napoleon?”

  “Yes, sit,” Bonaparte said, throwing a crumpled paper into the roaring fire. “Hortense has agreed to consider an offer of marriage, were one submitted to her.” I cringed. Bonaparte can be so blunt! “I recommend her. She is a sweet and virtuous girl.”

  Just then Hortense came into the room with a bound music book in her hand. Seeing Louis, she turned and fled.

  “A bit timid, perhaps,” Bonaparte said, bemused.

  [Undated]

  Now all that remains is for Louis to make his declaration to Hortense. The two are painful to watch, always at opposite ends of a room, always silent. Bonaparte and I wait … and wait and wait. How long can this go on?

  October 3, 1801, Saint-Jean-de-Maurienne

  Chère Maman,

  A quick note (the courier is leaving soon). The news that England has finally agreed to sign a peace treaty is glorious!

  Victor wrote that he has been put in charge of the fleet sailing to Saint-Domingue.* What a splendid command! This is his opportunity to prove his worth. Pauline must be pleased.

  Hortense hasn’t written for some time. Too busy entertaining suitors?

  A thousand kisses, I am well,

  Your loving son, Eugène

  October 14.

  “Perhaps you should have a word with Louis,” I suggested to Bonaparte. “Encourage him to … you know.” Propose! Simply getting the young man to speak to my daughter was going to be a problem. “What do I know of these things?”

  “Would you prefer that I take care of it?” Our big ball was coming up: the perfect setting.

  October 21, 6:00 A.M.—Malmaison.

  Oh, it’s early in the morning, but I’m too fraught to linger in bed. My heart is aswirl with feelings of joy, doubt—but most of all, relief.