“Amen,” and I meant it. Astiza was justified in being suspicious. The French say one escapes temptation by succumbing to it.
And why did Napoleon, who didn’t seem to believe in anything but himself, want the pope’s consecration for a rule the people and Senate had already granted? Because to have Pius VII at the ceremony meant being anointed by God. It would mimic the crowning of Charlemagne. It would grant what Bonaparte craved most, legitimacy. It would reinforce his intention to pass his crown to his heir, should he father one. Thus far, Josephine had been barren since the birth of two children by her first husband. Yet Napoleon, who truly loved her, planned to crown her, too, a glory no French queen had been granted in two hundred years.
The Invalides, which had sufficed for the Legion of Honor, was too small for the coronation. Bonaparte wanted Notre Dame jammed with twenty thousand admirers. His spurs would be golden, his scepter made of unicorn horn, and his ushers would carry silver pikes. No French notable could resist such a show, and by Coronation Day, December 2, 1804, Paris was jammed with two million people—four times its normal population—and prices had soared. A simple meal cost a ridiculous three francs. I was thankful I’d been put on the French payroll, but my purse was still so light that I wondered if Catherine borrowed from it without telling me. I couldn’t ask her because she spent Coronation Eve with the ladies waiting on Josephine, assuring me that the substitution would be made once we were all in the cathedral.
“I’ll meet you at the pavilion entrance at nine that morning very precisely,” Catherine told me before she left our apartment for the last time.
“Which means what time, again?”
“Nine, very precisely.” She’d looked at me as if I were slow-witted.
So we hoped for the best. We’d arrive at Notre Dame as minor dignitaries, our rank with Napoleon gaining us modest tickets. With luck we’d watch chaos play out. Then we’d slip off in a plan I’d devised.
In considering the morrow, I took one other precaution, too.
Like all of Paris, Astiza, Harry, and I slept restlessly the night before the ceremony. The streets were noisy as carnival. Cannons thudded in celebratory salutes. Theaters had been made free and were jammed. Military bands and minstrels marched up and down the avenues, people dancing drunkenly in their wake. So many lanterns, candles, and bonfires were lit that the city glowed orange. Our coppersmith neighbors tramped home at four in the morning singing the “Marseillaise.”
My wife and I discovered each other awake and made restless, rather desperate love in the middle of the night, grateful that our royalist lodger was absent. The tension gave our congress sweet urgency, but afterward we snuggled, Astiza shivering slightly from anticipation. I’ve felt such tension only before battle, a crucial card game, shooting matches, or boyhood athletic contests.
We groggily rose before dawn, our apartment cold and our souls restless. I opened the kitchen window and held my palm outside. Snowflakes stuck.
“Be sure to dress warmly. Whether things go badly or well, we’ll likely flee Paris.”
“The streets will be choked,” Astiza said.
“All the easier to melt into the crowds, and why my proposed escape makes sense. I’ve hidden rifle, powder, food, and clothing, experienced adventurer that I am. I’m trying to think ahead for once.”
“What about Catherine?”
“What about her?”
“Will she also flee with us?”
I guiltily remembered our recent encounter. “If she’s willing. I don’t want her to lose her nerve by plotting escape, but if she succeeds, we owe her what help we can. It also means she won’t be captured and betray us under torture.”
“I’d prefer she seek shelter with royalists here in Paris. She’s been a trial.”
“Agreed. But if we do leave France together, she’ll go her own way in London.” I didn’t know if this was true, but it was my intention.
Astiza nodded curtly, the good soldier. “Then we should take a cloak for her, just in case. Boots as well.”
“We can leave a bundle stashed somewhere. Can you pick what a woman would take? I’ll finish dressing Harry.”
Ten minutes later my son was ready, but my wife was not. When Astiza emerged from Catherine’s chamber, she looked troubled.
“You have her things?”
“Most are missing.”
“She’d take some to the Tuileries if staying overnight. And maybe she has her own plan for fleeing. She’s smart in her own haughty way.”
“It would be helpful if she confided such smartness.”