“France seems to have turned cold towards its Emperor,” Sultan Mahmud said as he entered his mother’s sitting room and handed her a newspaper. It was the latest edition of the Paris Moniteur. “This was written by Napoleon’s first consul,” he added. Nakshidil read:
Bonaparte’s character presents many unaccountable incongruities. Although the most positive man that perhaps ever existed, yet there never was one who more readily yielded to the charm of illusion. In many circumstances the wish and the reality were to him one and the same thing. He never indulged in greater illusions than at the beginning of the campaign of Moscow. Even before the approach of the disasters, which accompanied the most fatal retreat recorded in history, all sensible persons concurred that the Emperor ought to have passed the winter of 1812-13 in Poland, and have resumed his vast enterprises in the spring. But his natural impatience impelled him forward, under the influence of an invisible demon stronger than even his own strong will. This demon was ambition.
He who knew so well the value of time, never sufficiently understood its power, nor how much may be gained by delay. Caesar did not conquer Gaul in one campaign. Another illusion by which Napoleon was misled during the campaign of Moscow was the belief that the Emperor Alexander would propose peace when he saw him at the head of his army on the Russian territory. Bonaparte’s prolonged stay at Moscow can be accounted for in no other way than by supposing he expected the Russian cabinet would change its opinion and consent to treat for peace. However, after his long and useless stay in Moscow, Napoleon left that city with the design of taking up his winter quarters in Poland; but Fate now frowned upon Napoleon. In that dreadful retreat the elements seemed leagued with the Russians to destroy the most formidable army ever commanded by one chief. To find a catastrophe in history comparable to that of the Beresina we must go back to the destruction of the legions of Varus in AD 9.
Nakshidil put the paper down and asked “What exactly is Beresina?”
“It is a river that separates Poland from Russia. My advisors say it should have been frozen in late November, when they were meant to cross, but it was not. The unexpected delay cost him an untold number of men and all his cannon.”
“How terrible,” she said. “It seems that Napoleon escaped with his life only to have his own people turn against him. How terribly French.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“My personal experience as a girl in Paris was not a pleasant one. Although, it was part of the reason I am here, for which I am grateful.”
“Will you tell me more of this, Mother? I know so little about your past.”
“Of course I will someday. At the moment, I am more concerned with the current events in France.”
~ ~ ~
On February 26, 1813 Russian troops began marching through Austria towards Prussia. Despite the Austrians’ agreement to support Napoleon, no Austrian troops gave any challenge to the Russians. The first Cossacks were seen in the village of Bergdorf, north of Hamburg, and each town capitulated gladly to them from fear. By the time Napoleon had rebuilt his army back up to 180,000 men, Russians occupied all the towns through which the French army had to pass.
The bitterness and determination against Napoleon’s seemingly unquenchable thirst for power and dominance caused unification throughout Europe. Countries that had been enemies for hundreds of years banded together to fight their common enemy. The sequence of defeats throughout 1813 eventually brought an end to Napoleon’s era of domination.
During the first three months of 1814, Napoleon’s armies were defeated on every front. On the fourteenth of March, the final blow was struck, when Austria, Russia, Prussia and Great Britain signed the Treaty of Chaumont that would bind them together in peace for twenty years—against Napoleon.
May 19, 1814
My dearest, dear Aimée,
Wonderful news at last! Once again it seems extraordinary happiness has come from terrible loss. As you may already know, Napoleon has suffered a final defeat at the hands of our own countrymen. The alliance of our enemies proved deadly, and he was forced to abdicate and go into exile on the island of Elba. He departed last month, but without his wife and son, who were meant to join him forthwith. She now refuses to accompany him in exile and has fled France to rejoin her family (and some say her lover) in Austria. What wife deserts her husband at such a time unless she is the most selfish and hateful of women? (Which he says she is). To take the child from him is particularly cruel, as the boy is his only true-born son and heir.
This would all be terrible news indeed if not for the fact that Napoleon has asked me to join him! Just writing those words fills me with joy. Of course I have agreed and feel happier and more excited than I have since leaving Martinique. Leaving France will not be difficult, as I have already endured the past four years in exile. Now, both of our exiles shall end with our reunion. However much time may be left to us shall be spent in joyous union together. And, dear cousin, we will live on a delightfully secluded island, just as we grew up, without the bonds of politics, government or society. As you said in your letter, “We are no longer young,” and must be grateful for the gifts we have. Napoleon has always been one of my most precious gifts, and I believe him when he says the same of me.
I sail to join him two weeks hence and shall post a letter to you when I arrive, with instructions for posting to me. There is much to do.
Wish me well, dearest cousin, pray to the God that hears you, and know that I shall be happy again at last!
Ever your loving cousin,
Rose
Aimée was thrilled for Rose. This would truly be life’s best gift to her. She wished she could write back immediately to tell her how excited she was, and realized she must tell Mahmud.
“Come take a walk in the garden with me,” she said. “There are some things I want to tell you.”
“Not another dire prediction from a fortuneteller, I hope.”
“Not dire and not a prediction. Just a bit of family history—my family in France.”
They walked into the Sultan’s private gardens, past a tranquil pond, and sat on a marble bench beneath a weeping willow tree.
“I’ve had a letter from my cousin, Rose, The Empress Josephine,” she began.
“I always find it interesting that you call her Rose,” he said.
“Did you know that she still calls me Aimée?”
He gave her a quizzical look. “I did not.”
The Valide Sultana smiled. “Before I came to this place, my name was Marie-Marthé Aimée Dubucq de Rivery.”
“Why have you never told me this?” he asked.
“I had no reason before now. It occurs to me that one day you may wish to travel to France, and if you should, you would have the opportunity to meet members of my family—your cousins. Rose and I have meant so much to each other all our lives. Perhaps one day you will meet one of your cousins through our bloodline, and he may become part of your life as Rose is a part of mine.”
“Cousins,” he said thoughtfully. “I never realized that I have no family except you.”
“Not here, but you do in France. You’ve always shown such an affinity for France and all things French. Why not visit the country itself and meet your French relatives?”
“Why not indeed?” he replied. “What an extraordinary idea.” She had given him something to ponder. Are all Sultans without family except for children?
“I’ll write down as much of my family history as I can recall. It reaches far beyond France. Rose’s daughter, Hortense de Beauharnais, married Emperor Napoleon’s brother Joseph. Until recently, they were King and Queen of Holland. Her son, Eugène, is a prince of Venice and married a princess of Bavaria. They have several children... all your cousins. One never knows how or when such connections may be useful to a ruler like yourself, with eyes on the West.”
“As always, Mother, you are correct, and I look forward to learning about these relatives and, perhaps one day, meeting them. An extraordinary idea,” he repeated.
“You have French blood in your veins as well as Ottoman, and both serve you well. Why not walk in both worlds?”
“Why not, indeed,” he replied.
“I am sorry that your cousin Selim is not here with us,” she said.
“Yes, I miss him too, and he would be so excited by the progress we are making.”
“He was easily excited by so many things,” she said wistfully.
Mahmud watched her face intently. “Did you love him?” he asked.
“Yes, Mahmud. I loved him very much.”
~ ~ ~
With plans to embark for the island of Elba on June first, Josephine went happily about the tremendous task of packing her home and possessions, deciding what to take, what to sell and what to leave in the house. There were meetings with her solicitors and financial advisors, and all manner of letters of instructions for maintaining the house during her absence. Hortense brought the children to Malmaison for the final weeks, and planned to live there whenever she was not in Paris. Everyone was sworn to secrecy regarding the move, as the former Empress wished to avert direct confrontation with those who might oppose her decision. She also did not wish the news to reach the new Empress Marie-Louise until after she was gone. Who knew what spiteful act that woman might set in motion? That was another reason for haste. Josephine was well aware of how fast gossip spread. The Parisian gossipmongers would eventually feast upon the tasty morsel, but hopefully not until she was gone. For this reason, she avoided any contact with Mlle. Le Normand and went about her organizing and packing in high spirits, despite the onset of an annoying cough.
~ ~ ~
By mid-July, it was too hot to stroll in her private gardens so instead, Nakshidil Sultana bathed in an outdoor cool-water pool. She was stretched out on the soft grass at the pool’s edge, partially covered with a light cloth, when Perestu arrived excitedly waving a letter. “From France,” she said happily. “It came by special messenger, and I thought you would want to see it right away.”
“Oh, good. I’ve been waiting to hear from her.” She sat up and excitedly tore the letter open. She read the first line and her face crumbled into tears. Crushing the letter to her breast she sobbed, “No, no. Rose, not Rose.”
Perestu knelt to wrap her arms around her sobbing friend and gently took the letter from her hands. She read, It is with great sadness that I write to inform you of the death of my mother, your cousin, the Empress Josephine.
“Rose,” Perestu whispered. She continued reading silently. Amidst preparations to leave France and join her beloved Napoleon in exile, she contracted pneumonia, and passed from this world in three days’ time, on twenty nine May. She scanned the rest of the letter to the end and saw that it was signed by Rose’s daughter, Hortense. “Oh, Namay, I am so sorry.”
“Why Rose? Why now? She was so excited to reunite with Napoleon—was so happy,” she sobbed. “Why could she not have happiness?”
“I do not know. I think maybe only God knows,” Perestu said.
“What God?” Nakshidil said angrily. “Why would any God do this? What God chooses to make our lives a misery?”
“But Namay, your life is wonderful,” Perestu replied. “God has given you so many gifts.”
“And taken so many from me as well,” she said bitterly.
The Valide dried her tears with the edge of the blanket. “Taken more than you know, dear friend.” She sighed heavily and looked directly into the younger woman’s eyes. “You are the only friend left to me now, little bird. You and Mahmud are all I have left. Everyone I have ever loved has been taken from me. Everyone.” She began to weep again as snippets of memories played in her mind’s eye—Rose, Mihrisah and Selim. All gone. She took in a slow deep breath to quiet her tears then released it with a sigh. “Save for the two of you, I am alone.”
“My dearest Namay, was it not you who taught me that we are all truly alone?” Perestu asked. “You said we are born alone and die alone, with only God beside us.”
Nakshidil thought about it a moment. “I suppose we are, my dear.” She patted the younger woman’s hands and repeated. “I suppose we are.”
The realization that Rose was truly gone began to seep deeper into Aimée’s consciousness as another wave of sorrow brought more tears. Perestu gently stroked her sobbing friend’s shoulders and back.
When the grip of sadness subsided the older woman looked into the younger’s deep brown eyes and asked, “When did you become so wise, little bird?”
“When I lost the first person I ever loved,” she answered.
Nakshidil nodded. “Of course.” The thought of Selim brought a bittersweet smile to her lips. “I loved him too, you know.”
“Yes, I suspected as much and was glad of it. Selim needed all of our love.”
“He deserved our love, little bird. And now, Rose is gone too. Poor Rose. What a cruel turn of fate.”
“Yes,” Perestu said, “Kismet is not always kind.”
“Ah, kismet. We expect that it always brings us together but it also tears us apart.” The Valide took a deep breath and then smiled at her young friend. “I am grateful it brought you to me; one day it will take me too.”
“Not for a long time, I hope. Your life is so very happy now.”
A puzzled look came over the Sultana’s face. ”What did the old woman say?” she mused.
“What old woman?” Perestu asked.
“The old obeah woman, Euphemia David.”
Perestu looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean?” she asked. “I do not know these words.”
Aimée was lost in reverie, remembering the tiny shack in the jungle, and two young girls sitting on the floor. She could hear the old woman’s gravelly voice saying, when you t’ink yourself da most happy, a wasting sickness will take you away. “Do you think me to be truly very happy?” she asked aloud.
“I do Naksh. Your son sits on the throne, and you have everything your heart desires. The people love you both because you have given them so much to be grateful for. Why would you not be happy?”
The Sultana listened to her friend’s words intently. “Well then,” she said, feeling distinctly calmer than she had a moment before. “I believe you are correct. And if I am indeed ‘the most happy,’ I had best enjoy it. Who can know how long it will last? If I’ve learned any lesson well in this life it is that nothing lasts forever. All we ever truly possess is each moment.”