The Second Empress (11 page)

“Because his ego is delicate,” Maria puts in, and when I look from my father to Metternich, neither contradicts her.

“What, is Napoleon a child?”

“He is an emperor with a new throne,” my father says wearily. “Old crowns never have to be polished in this way.”

“But that also means you will be treated to more furs and jewels than any empress in Europe,” Metternich adds. That he thinks this is appealing shows how little he has learned about me these past nineteen years.

“Does he paint?”

Metternich frowns. “He is an emperor, Your Highness.”

“Does he at least have an appreciation for the arts?” I demand.

Metternich shifts on his seat, and I can see that he is becoming frustrated. If only I could be an empty-headed girl content with new gowns. “I do not know these answers,” he replies curtly. “But the emperor has prepared extensively for this wedding, and no expense has been spared. There are new apartments ready for your stop in Compiègne—”

“I’m to visit the same city where King Louis first greeted Marie-Antoinette?” No one has told me this, and now even Maria looks away.

“I shall hope you are not superstitious as well as romantic,” he says dryly.

I stare at him to see if he is joking, but he is my father’s foreign minister, a diplomat through and through. I spend the rest of the ride in silence, listening while he tells me about Napoleon’s daily regimen. He is up at six and has a cup of orange-flower water at seven. By eight, he has read through all his letters, and the valet has finished drawing his bath. By nine he is dressed and in his study, where no one is allowed to disturb him until noon.

“And what does he do in there?” Maria asks.

Metternich glances at my father. “The same thing your husband does, Your Majesty.”

I laugh sharply, for I very much doubt this. My father has never locked himself in his rooms plotting the overthrow of the Western world. Nor has he journeyed to another continent to subdue its people and pillage its wonders.

“He answers letters,” Metternich continues, ignoring my outburst, “and dictates instructions to his secretary, Méneval.”

“What sort of instructions?” my father asks. I know he is intrigued by this man, in spite of himself; a commoner who at twenty was made lieutenant colonel and by thirty-six had crowned himself emperor of France.

“If a new chair is needed for the Tuileries Palace, he is the one to choose its color. He wrote fifteen thousand letters from his tent in Poland—”

“He was only there for six months!” my father exclaims.

“Nothing escapes his notice. There are also eccentricities Your Highness may wish to note …”

Maria meets my gaze. But Hapsburg women have faced far worse than this.

“At his desk, the emperor keeps figurines,” he explains. “No one is to touch them. They are arranged in a very specific way. While he is working, or thinking in his study, his papers will be strewn all about the floor. They are garbage, but no one is allowed to clean them until night. And every book that is published in Italian or French is brought to him immediately.”

“He reads them all?” my father asks.

“Not exactly.” Metternich uncrosses his legs. “The nonfiction he keeps. The fiction he often burns.”

“
What
?”

Metternich shrugs, as if we all burned unwanted literature in our fireplaces.

I sit back against the seat and close my eyes. I don’t want to hear any more.

“But he likes to read,” Maria says hopefully. “His conversation—”

“Is not about books,” Metternich warns. “He will not discuss literature with anyone but a Haitian servant named Paul.”

My father is astounded. “He keeps
a slave
?”

“The man is the Princess Borghese’s chamberlain.”

Metternich prattles on about the emperor’s schedule—his Spartan lunch at noon, his twenty-minute dinner at eleven—but my head is throbbing and I’m only half listening. “And there is one last thing,” Metternich adds, as the carriages roll through the gates of the palace. “It is the emperor’s younger sister, Queen Caroline of Naples, who is arriving to meet Your Highness in Braunau.”

My father’s reaction is so violent that the coachmen stop the carriage to see that he is well. “Is this an insult?” he rages, and suddenly I am fully awake. “
That
crown belonged to her grandmother,” he shouts, “not some Corsican commoner! Queen Caroline
of Naples
?”

I have never seen him so angry, but it was my grandmother, Queen Maria-Carolina, who once sat on that throne.

“If this is intentional—”

“Your Majesty,” Metternich interjects, and his voice is smooth, “this was not intended as a slight. He only wished to send an equal to greet his wife. It was either Queen Caroline or Princess Pauline.”

But my father is not convinced. He calls out the window for the carriage to continue, and we come to a stop before the Innenhof, where my uncle is waiting to stand as a proxy for Napoleon Bonaparte. I am normally glad to see the soaring white marble of my father’s favorite residence, but today the Hofburg looks imposing and cold.

“Your Highness,” Metternich begins solemnly, “Austrians from Prague to Carinthia understand the sacrifice you are about to make. If I may give one last word of advice?” he asks.

I nod shortly, and Metternich clears his throat.

“When Queen Caroline meets you in Braunau, obey her in everything. She will bring with her French perfume, French clothes, French food. She will instruct you in all the ways of the French. You are French now. The Empress Marie-Louise.”

I fix the prince with my gaze. “No, I am not. And this masquerade,” I tell him, looking down at my red velvet gown with its gold
embroidery and ermine trim, “is for the emperor’s benefit. He may dress me in white silk and put a crown on my head, but I will always be the daughter of Francis I and I shall never stop being an Austrian.”

I
T IS A
brief ceremony.

My uncle stands in for Napoleon, and a French official is there to record that it is done. When the ceremony is finished, there is no celebration. If I had married anyone else—a lowly deputy even—the streets would be filled with singing and dancing. Flowers would be tied to every wagon, and the public squares would be flowing with wine. But no one is in a celebratory mood. Austria has been beaten, her royal house humiliated, and the Hapsburg emperor has been forced to give his daughter to the son of a petty Corsican nobleman.

Outside, a light snow has begun to fall, and I wonder if it ever snows in France. Surely, it must. But truthfully, I don’t know.

Our carriage ride back to Schönbrunn is solemn. Even Metternich keeps his silence. But before we part company on the icy steps of the palace, the prince holds out a hand to stop me. I step back, and he leans in to my ear to whisper, “Pride is not a trait the French value in their rulers. They killed a queen for less.”

I study him in the cold light of the afternoon. His nose is red and his cheeks are flushed, but his eyes are bright and alert. “Are you saying I’m in danger?”

“Your great-aunt was beheaded seventeen years ago.” He pauses for a moment before adding, “The people haven’t changed.”

I watch him disappear into the palace behind my father and stepmother. I cannot bear the thought of them ever receiving the news that I have been killed, that the French mobs have torn me apart, limb from limb, like the Princesse de Lamballe, or sentenced me to the guillotine. I will behave. I will do my duty as a daughter and a queen and be a credit to my Hapsburg ancestry. But when I pray, it will be as Maria Lucia.

God, at least, will know my name.

I
NSIDE
S
CHÖNBRUNN
, I walk the halls of my childhood home and try to commit it all to memory: the candlelit chambers, the painted ceilings, the marble fireplaces where my sisters and I played with dolls and painted pictures of snow-capped roofs. I avoid the curious gazes of the courtiers, who all want one last word with me, and hurry instead to my studio. The door is open, and I let myself in. Immediately, I shiver. Without a fire, the chamber is cold. I hug my cloak closer to my body and cross the room. All along the walls are framed images of my family: sisters, brothers, uncles, cousins—generations of faces I will never see again. And on an easel at the far side of the room is the painting of my youngest sister, Anna. There will never be time to finish it now. I look at her sweet face and wonder what she will be like when she’s nine, twelve, fifteen even.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

My stepmother, Maria, is standing in the doorway, framed like an angel by the hall’s chandelier. “My father told me to make my farewells,” I say, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’ll miss you so much. And Father. And Schönbrunn.”

“It’s not impossible to think you’ll return,” she says desperately, crossing the room. “He might let you visit.” She takes my hand. “Be kind to him,” she advises. “Let him think you’re in love. When he takes you for the first time—”

I gasp.

“You’re a married woman now. It’ll happen.”

Yes, but I have tried not to think on it.

“When he takes you, ask him to do it again.”

I stare at her, but she nods. “They want to believe they’re irresistible. If you please him in bed, he’ll please you in other ways.” I try not to imagine her doing these things with my father, but she is my stepmother as well as my friend. It is her duty. “And
never
compete.”

I frown. “Have you ever seen me at games?”

“All the time! Chess. If he asks to play, you should refuse. Or lose.”

“
Never
.” I could never do that.

“You should not have so much pride,” she warns.

I think of Metternich’s warning and hesitate. She rests her head on my shoulder, and I can smell the scent of lavender from her hair. “You’re the closest friend I’ve ever had,” she whispers.

She comes with me as I make my goodbyes.

I go first to Nurse Judith, who had the job of raising me until I was grown. She caresses my hair and tells me not to weep. “He has shown great kindness to the Jews. Perhaps God has a plan.”

“I hope so,” I whisper. But what if He doesn’t? What if He’s forgotten the Hapsburg-Lorraines?

Then I go to visit my ladies-in-waiting. And finally I see my youngest siblings in their nursery. There is much confusion. At eight years old, my brother Karl does not understand the concept of marriage. When my father appears to say goodnight, he is the one who explains what it is to be married.

“Then I will leave as well?” my brother asks.

“No, you are a boy,” my father says.

“Then Anna will leave?” Karl asks, and now there is no consoling Anna at all. The sobs that wrack her body are pitiful to see. I take her in my arms.

“Shhh.” I stroke her hair. We share the same golden color.

“I don’t want to go.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” I promise.

“But I don’t want
you
to leave.”

“Why don’t you kiss Maria goodnight,” my father offers. “Then we can walk her to her room,” he suggests comfortingly.

Anna nods. Then we walk the halls together one last time as a family.

C
HAPTER
8