Chapter 25

Paris

Spring 1803

IT WAS INDEED A BOY born to Hortense and Louis, and he was called Napoleon Bonaparte. But our First Consul did not grow any less impatient with his own childlessness. The fights at the Tuileries continued. The weekly Bonaparte family dinners were often delayed or disrupted, with Josephine arriving late, if at all. The Bonaparte siblings whispered the hateful lie—loud enough for not only Josephine to hear but the French newspapers as well—that Napoleon was, in fact, the father to Hortense’s son. That the barren mother had pushed her own daughter into Napoleon’s arms in the hopes of getting him a son and keeping him happy. It seemed there was no end to the vile malice that churned throughout the First Consul’s family.

I came to dread my own visits to the Tuileries for fear of Napoleon’s increasingly regular and violent outbursts, made all the more horrifying because of their shamelessly public nature. Julie, besotted as she was as a new mother to a baby girl, confided to her husband that both she and I dreaded the company of his brother, and so Joseph allowed us to excuse ourselves from many of the family gatherings. Instead we gathered regularly as just two sisters, with Oscar relishing his new role as big boy, petting and admiring his darling new cousin.

But the invitation that came to me that morning was unlike any of the others—it felt more like a summons than a request. It bore Napoleon’s consular seal, even though it was written in Josephine’s long, elegant hand. I was to go to the Tuileries alone—without my husband or my sister. Even without my son, who enjoyed his visits to his godfather for the bonbons and toys offered at the palace, unaware in his childish innocence of the darker undertones of the adult interactions.

As Bernadotte was back at his headquarters in Brittany with the Army of the West, he wouldn’t have come anyway, but I would have liked the chance to speak with him before going. Nevertheless, when the morning of the appointed rendezvous arrived, I dressed with care, making sure that I selected a gown of French brocade and a fine brooch of sapphire and ruby stones—a color palette paying dutiful homage to our tricolor.

The Tuileries grounds were always bustling, especially the public gardens, but I was ushered quickly past the crowds and toward the grand stairway by a palace attendant clad in gold cloth. Inside, as I marched dutifully toward the staircase, I noted that the bloodstains across the wall were fainter, but not entirely gone. I shivered as I climbed.

I had no idea what Josephine wanted with me—I had long ago stopped trying to predict her moves. But if I had to guess, my suspicion was that perhaps she was finally pregnant and she wanted to somehow control how the news seeped out. Maybe she had use for me as some sort of advance messenger. Whatever my purpose to her, I was sure I wouldn’t understand it until after I had unwittingly performed whatever duty she had in mind for me.

I was admitted into her yellow salon, but it was not Josephine who awaited me there. Napoleon stood, alone, before the row of tall windows. “Ah, Desiree.” He turned upon my entrance. “My dear sister.” He crossed the room to me, taking my gloved hand in his and kissing the top of it. I was immediately on edge as his green eyes held mine. When was the last time we had been alone in a room together? I wondered. Had it been in Marseille? No, Italy? Surely that had to be it.

“It’s so good of you to come. Now, I’m just a rude soldier, but because my wife has taught me well, I know what my first question as host ought to be: What can I offer you? Something to eat? Drink?”

My throat was dry, but I answered: “Nothing, sir. I am…thank you.”

“ ‘Sir’?” He cocked his head, and I could see that he was in a mood to charm. “You are one of my oldest…friends.” But he didn’t tell me what I should call him instead of sir. He released my hand and gestured toward the nearest chair, upholstered in Josephine’s merry yellow silk. “Well, then, sit. Please.”

I did as he ordered.

“Josephine may join us eventually. She’s bathing. You know how she loves to languish in her baths, my lazy little Creole. I realize that it’s an outlandish luxury—these daily rosewater and jasmine baths of hers, when the Bourbon princes themselves set the tone at court for bathing only several times a year. But we certainly have the servants to haul the water. And she does love her perfumes and her oils….” He shrugged, flashing an indulgent smile.

I did not care to hear more, but I nodded.

His eyes held me in their narrowed gaze. “It is good to see you, Desi.” Desi? I forced my face to remain expressionless, saying: “You as well.”

“How is my godson Oscar?”

I felt my body clench at hearing my son’s name spoken by Napoleon’s lips, but I managed an even tone as I answered: “He thrives, thank you.”

“I am glad to hear it. And your husband?”

“He is in Brittany,” was all the reply I offered.

“Yes, that’s right.” Napoleon crossed his legs and folded his hands on top of his knees. He didn’t wear gloves, and I was momentarily dazzled by the pale, soft smoothness of his hands. A soldier’s hands, a horseman’s hands, yet they were as pristine as those of a lady who never lifted anything heavier than a porcelain teacup. I knew that Josephine gave him regular manicures—filing down his nails and massaging his palms with fragrant oils—and yet the sight still distracted me.

“I know,” he said, flickering his fingers, easily perceiving my thoughts. “I tell my wife that she pampers me more than a woman.” He shook his head. “But she is such a doting companion. She takes such pleasure in spoiling and nurturing me, I can’t very well tell her no.”

“Then you are lucky in your choice of a wife,” I said.

“What about you, Desiree?”

I stiffened, sitting up a bit taller in my chair. “Pardon?”

He arched a lone dark eyebrow as he leaned forward, his voice low and confidential as he asked: “What sort of a wife are you?”

I tilted back in my chair, hoping to put as many inches between us as possible as I weighed my words. He had become such an unapologetic seducer, sleeping with all variety of women, married or not. Perhaps he had cycled through all the ladies of Paris and now sought to revisit old paramours? I cringed at the thought. “I am a faithful wife,” I said, my tone decisive, without a drop of flirtation. “My husband and my son are, well, everything. As such, I try always to be an attentive wife and loving mother.”

Napoleon studied me, and I couldn’t help but notice the full, fleshy softness of his face. And not just his face—without the constant exertion of battle, with all of his feasts and parties and the celebrated chefs now in his employ, Napoleon was downright plump.

“Would you ever…stand up to your husband? If he needed…if the situation warranted it?”

I tried to mask the confusion that his question elicited. Was he asking me not to become his lover but instead act as his spy? To go against my own husband? “I’m not sure of the question, sir, and thus I fear I cannot provide you with the answer for which you hope.”

He waved his hand, swatting the thought away. “Never mind.” He looked around the room. “What do you think of the artwork?”

I tried to follow the thread of his thoughts, but I couldn’t see any connection, so I answered as truthfully as I could: “I think the artwork adorning your palace is second to none. I think that here in this palace of the Tuileries and in the Louvre, you have collected a body of art that will be the envy of nations for many ages to come.”

“Do you see that bust over there?” He pointed toward a marble piece in the corner of the salon. “It’s done by an Italian sculptor, a man by the name of Ceracchi.”

“Ah, Giuseppe Ceracchi, I admire his work,” I said, glancing at the bust, relieved to find the conversation drifting toward something as benign as art. I was eager to keep it there. But Napoleon’s green eyes careened toward mine, an unmistakable flicker setting them aflame.

“Yes, Giuseppe Ceracchi. So you know him?” The sudden intensity of his tone, and indeed his expression, unnerved me.

“Not…not well.” I shifted in my seat, rearranging the folds of my skirt. “Bernadotte and I, we have met him once or twice. Most likely at parties given by you and the First Consuless.”

Napoleon nodded, still studying me intently. “Is that so?”

“Sir?”

Now, his eyes narrowed, he said: “The same man, this Ceracchi, has recently been found guilty of plotting against my life.”

I gasped. I knew that Napoleon lived in constant fear of dying without an heir. I knew that he had agents all over the city, and indeed all over Europe, constantly digging around for word of any potential attempt on his life. And yet, I didn’t understand what any of this had to do with my husband or myself. I still did not know why I had been called here. All I could manage to answer was: “How horrifying. I am very troubled to hear that.”

Napoleon uncrossed his thick legs and pressed his palms onto them, the tips of his manicured fingers going white from the pressure he exerted. “He followed me to the theater. He was covered in explosive material. He planned to blow me up.”

I shuddered, my eyes flying to the door. All I wanted was to leave and return home. Or, at the very least, for Josephine to walk through that door and join us. Her presence would at least defuse the discomfort of this exchange.

Napoleon continued, oblivious of—or perhaps indifferent to—my uneasiness: “I know how to interrogate a man, Desiree.”

“Oh?” I shifted in my seat.

“And a woman, for that matter,” he said. “I know how to…pull…the truth out of someone.”

I swallowed, noting that my mouth was parched. Even my words sounded dry as I said, “I’m sure you have had much experience.”

“Yes. I have. You know, it’s always interesting, when you are breaking a man. The three-hundred-pound German warrior cries out for his mama, while the scrawny thirteen-year-old might prove tough as sword steel. You never get what you expect.” He paused, his eyes fixed squarely on mine. The room was silent; all I could hear was the steady ticking of the clock, and the blood thrashing between my ears.

“With Ceracchi…you know what I found out that I didn’t expect?” he asked me.

I resisted the urge to fidget, forcing myself to return Napoleon’s stare. “What is that?”

His voice was toneless as he declared: “Your husband owes him money.”

The air fled my lungs. “What…what for?”

“Now, that I have not yet been able to extract.” Napoleon crossed his legs.

“Surely I don’t know. My husband is…as I said…he’s not in Paris.”

Napoleon looked away now, back toward the Ceracchi bust. When he spoke next, his tone was suddenly light. “Desiree, you know that I care for you, don’t you?”

“Of…of course.”

“And I feel as though I may be candid with you. Speak plainly. Is that the case?”

Where was your candid speech when you were breaking my heart? I wondered. Evading and avoiding, while I ached for the truth. Only a girl waiting for the man she trusted. But of course I said none of this; what purpose would it have served to dredge up the history buried so deeply in our shared past? And what did it matter now? Instead, I merely nodded my assent.

“Good,” he said. “Yes, I am glad of it. Your sister is married to my brother. We are family. Corsicans value family above all else. Even when we should throw them all out to sea.” A mirthless laugh, and then he went on. “I have been very forgiving of my family. You know that, right?”

I nodded.

“And now you’re going to do something for me, in return for my loyalty.”

I was? I said nothing, allowing him to continue. “Your husband is on his way back to Paris, even at this very moment. He’s done leading a third of my army. He’s done flinging muck at my government. He puts on a nice enough smile at my parties, but I know it’s because you tell him to. I know his true feelings. I’m going to offer him a post, and you’re going to tell him to accept it.”

“I…what is this post?”

“Governor.”

It hardly seemed a punishment. “That’s most gracious of you,” I said.

“Governor of our colony Louisiana. I’m sending you and that hot-headed Gascon to the Americas.”