the conformity was intimidating. I’d been conspiring against a man who’d just won more than 99 percent of the popular vote. Still only thirty-four years old, he wasn’t just the most powerful man in France, he was the most powerful man in the world.
Madness.
It didn’t help that Napoleon’s appointees were making the order of things clear. “Severity but humanity!” Dubois had proclaimed in writing when appointed Paris prefect of police five days before. “My eye shall penetrate the innermost recesses of the criminal’s soul, but my ear shall be open to the cries of innocence and even the groans of repentance . . .”
My old foe Fouché had been reinstated as head of the national police that same day. He’d first been reminded by Napoleon that he could fall, and now was reminded that, under Napoleon, he could rise again.
So be it. I wasn’t about to martyr myself and leave my family bereft; that’s for men with greater conviction than me. So I’d convey news to England they already knew by reading French newspapers: namely, that the man they feared most was the most popular French hero since Roland and Joan of Arc. I’d once more play the murky role of double agent, never quite belonging to anyone but myself, and deciding at each crisis which path to take. My wife would search for tidbits in the ossuaries of musty records. And we’d wait for opportunity to . . .
What? Somehow undermine Napoleon’s legitimacy, as Catherine had urged. It seemed a futile goal.
I glanced at Pasques, but he wasn’t even watching us. Like everyone else he had eyes only for the emperor.
The triumphant procession commemorated a new medal of merit. The Legion of Honor was roughly modeled on the Roman legion, but it was an honorary fraternity of the best of France, a pantheon that all men could, and should, aspire to. Inductees had to either achieve something outstanding or serve the state for at least twenty-five years. It was open not only to soldiers but to scientists, inventors, artists, writers, entrepreneurs, and explorers. No women, of course.
Today was public demonstration of the society of merit Napoleon had in mind for France and Europe. Granted was prestige without the requirement of high birth. I’ve never seen a more baffling juxtaposition of symbols. Here crippled veterans and bright young scientists alike would be given democratic honor by a man more absolute than former kings. All human situations have their inconsistencies , Franklin had observed.
With Napoleon’s arrival we went inside the Invalides, its brilliantly white arched church a sumptuous backdrop for political opera. Dark-suited senators and deputies occupied the front rows of temporarily erected tiers of seats, as if elected representatives still mattered. Colonels, society ladies, contractors, savants, and artists sat in rows behind, looking down as if on an athletic contest. The main floor was jammed with the new legionnaires and the most favored generals, bishops, and ministers. An altar was ringed by Catholic clergy with splendid gowns and mitered hats, demonstrating Napoleon’s astute recruitment of the Church. The prelates were led by ninety-four-year-old Cardinal Jean-Baptiste de Belloy, who won the post by supporting the new regime and who’d moved into the Archbishop’s Palace next to Notre Dame.
The Invalides church was dominated by Napoleon, not God. Green-carpeted steps, the color of Corsica, led to a scarlet-and-gold armchair that was the day’s throne, the elevated perch canopied by a red awning gaudily crowned with ostrich plumes and a gilded imperial eagle. Standing below on the nave floor were the milling honorees. Grizzled grenadiers boasted imposing mustaches. Rising generals sported muttonchop whiskers. Courtiers and diplomats sneezed bits of snuff into lace handkerchiefs: Napoleon himself used two pounds of the inhaled tobacco a week. Male hair was in transition from powdered wig to the revolutionary pigtail and on
Madness.
It didn’t help that Napoleon’s appointees were making the order of things clear. “Severity but humanity!” Dubois had proclaimed in writing when appointed Paris prefect of police five days before. “My eye shall penetrate the innermost recesses of the criminal’s soul, but my ear shall be open to the cries of innocence and even the groans of repentance . . .”
My old foe Fouché had been reinstated as head of the national police that same day. He’d first been reminded by Napoleon that he could fall, and now was reminded that, under Napoleon, he could rise again.
So be it. I wasn’t about to martyr myself and leave my family bereft; that’s for men with greater conviction than me. So I’d convey news to England they already knew by reading French newspapers: namely, that the man they feared most was the most popular French hero since Roland and Joan of Arc. I’d once more play the murky role of double agent, never quite belonging to anyone but myself, and deciding at each crisis which path to take. My wife would search for tidbits in the ossuaries of musty records. And we’d wait for opportunity to . . .
What? Somehow undermine Napoleon’s legitimacy, as Catherine had urged. It seemed a futile goal.
I glanced at Pasques, but he wasn’t even watching us. Like everyone else he had eyes only for the emperor.
The triumphant procession commemorated a new medal of merit. The Legion of Honor was roughly modeled on the Roman legion, but it was an honorary fraternity of the best of France, a pantheon that all men could, and should, aspire to. Inductees had to either achieve something outstanding or serve the state for at least twenty-five years. It was open not only to soldiers but to scientists, inventors, artists, writers, entrepreneurs, and explorers. No women, of course.
Today was public demonstration of the society of merit Napoleon had in mind for France and Europe. Granted was prestige without the requirement of high birth. I’ve never seen a more baffling juxtaposition of symbols. Here crippled veterans and bright young scientists alike would be given democratic honor by a man more absolute than former kings. All human situations have their inconsistencies , Franklin had observed.
With Napoleon’s arrival we went inside the Invalides, its brilliantly white arched church a sumptuous backdrop for political opera. Dark-suited senators and deputies occupied the front rows of temporarily erected tiers of seats, as if elected representatives still mattered. Colonels, society ladies, contractors, savants, and artists sat in rows behind, looking down as if on an athletic contest. The main floor was jammed with the new legionnaires and the most favored generals, bishops, and ministers. An altar was ringed by Catholic clergy with splendid gowns and mitered hats, demonstrating Napoleon’s astute recruitment of the Church. The prelates were led by ninety-four-year-old Cardinal Jean-Baptiste de Belloy, who won the post by supporting the new regime and who’d moved into the Archbishop’s Palace next to Notre Dame.
The Invalides church was dominated by Napoleon, not God. Green-carpeted steps, the color of Corsica, led to a scarlet-and-gold armchair that was the day’s throne, the elevated perch canopied by a red awning gaudily crowned with ostrich plumes and a gilded imperial eagle. Standing below on the nave floor were the milling honorees. Grizzled grenadiers boasted imposing mustaches. Rising generals sported muttonchop whiskers. Courtiers and diplomats sneezed bits of snuff into lace handkerchiefs: Napoleon himself used two pounds of the inhaled tobacco a week. Male hair was in transition from powdered wig to the revolutionary pigtail and on
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