charges. Dignity has disappeared. The church pews were gone, confessionals hidden, and the regular altar and its gate obscured.
Pope Pius, I guessed, would not be pleased.
In the transept of the cathedral’s center, where the side arms join the main axis, a triumphal arch had been built out of wood. Steep steps led up to twin thrones canopied with scarlet. To one side was a temporary elevated altar with a throne for the pope.
If the hangings were grand, people’s costumes were grander. Ushers wore black and green; pages purple. A choir the size of a regiment was in pious white, and a full orchestra in black glittered with polished brass instruments and lacquered violins. Officers among the assembling spectators wore the distinctive uniforms of grenadiers, fusiliers, chasseurs, dragoons, voltigeurs, tirailleurs, carabiniers, hussars, cuirassiers, and the Imperial Guard. There were turbaned Mamelukes, high-ranking gendarmes, naval marines, ladies-in-waiting, jeweled duchesses, counts, abbesses, Turkish ambassadors, a Polynesian potentate, and society matrons. No doubt they’d have thrown in some vestal virgins if they could have found any in Paris. The poles of battle flags, regimental standards, and silver pikes jostled and clinked. Swords rattled. Ten thousand female throats bore diamonds that glinted like white flames. I saw foreign uniforms of yellow, pink, orange, turquoise, and ivory. I was dressed shabbily, in clothes meant for escape, and felt as conspicuous following Pasques as a fly on a wedding cake.
The policeman led me to a door giving access to the north bell tower, guarded by a quartet of grenadiers. I hesitated. Was I going to be charged with the theft of bell rope at the scene of my crime?
“Inside, American.”
No, the “limping devil” was truly waiting, his own plush coat cardinal red, his white silk sash as wide as a saddle blanket, and his silk stockings, lace cravat, and tricorne hat outdated but dignified, reflecting his affection for traditional royalist fashion. He took my cold hand with his own white-gloved one. I hesitantly half bowed, wary, curious, and calculating.
“Monsieur Gage! We’re flattered by the attendance of a representative of the United States.”
“Hardly that, Grand Chamberlain. A citizen of America, yes, a Franklin man for certain. But representative? No one from my country knows I’m here.”
His smile was shrewd. Talleyrand, like Réal and Fouché, always gave the impression of knowing all. “But consultant to the emperor! Which is what I want to discuss. These ceremonies take aeons to unfold, and Napoleon will be late getting through the narrow streets, so come up for the view. I’ve also reserved you better seats inside. The whole affair will be gaudy as a circus and longer than the opera, but well worth remembering.”
With surprising energy he stumped his way up the circular stone stairway. I followed, retracing my steps with Harry. I half expected the grand chamberlain to pause dramatically at the bells, point at a sliced rope, and accuse me of high treason. But no, we didn’t go that high; instead, we came out on the walkway and parapet between the two Gothic towers, this grand balcony putting us directly over the main doors to the church.
The view was magnificent.
Not only had the flurries stopped, the clouds had lifted like a rising curtain. Low December sun cast golden light across Paris. The Seine glinted, and rooftops sparkled from their coating of snow. There was a haze of smoke past the Louvre, where celebratory cannon batteries kept firing. Napoleon, the gunner, would have a battle just to hear their music. Church bells pealed, though not the ones directly above us yet, and the snaking admission lines twitched as people shuffled forward. What must it feel like to have hundreds of thousands standing in the cold merely to glimpse your arrival? What power! What vanity!
“Paris is extraordinary, is it not?” the grand chamberlain asked.
“I’m drawn as if by a woman.”
“The feminine beauty we see today is one of the joys of life. Do you remember my theory of the feminine and masculine cycles of history?”
“Yes. And that men and Mars are triumphant now.”
“So in autumn I seek the last leaf, and in spring the first crocus. I frequent the Louvre, Monsieur Gage, and not just to gaze upon the wonders brought back from Italy and Egypt.” The old palace, not lived in since the 1660s, had become Europe’s first public presentation of great works of art. It was usually so jammed it was tiresome. “I go for art, yes, but also for the visiting women. Sometimes I sit discreetly in a shadowy