The Barbed Crown

Chapter 19





An aide to Talleyrand replaced my yellow ticket with a gold one. I was escorted without my family to a balcony bench just to the left of the triumphal arch where Napoleon would take his throne. “Wait for your wife here.” Talleyrand would attend on the cathedral floor, in a cluster of the highest ministers.

The air in the cathedral had warmed from the crush. Damp cloaks gave a wet-dog smell, mixed with incense and candles. Pigeons fluttered at the arched ceiling near holes that hadn’t been repaired since the revolution.

I was lucky. Most spectators were placed so distant in the nave that they’d have to crane their necks to see. I had a direct view of the disaster I intended to cause, even while pondering this new alliance with Talleyrand. If Napoleon was confounded, would men still be bidding for the Brazen Head? Probably more so, in any scramble for power.

My ticket meant I was perched near the important, who glanced at my traveler clothing as if I’d stumbled into the wrong reception. To get to my seat I elbowed and stepped over tribunes, grand officers of the Legion, generals, admirals, procurators-general of the Imperial Courts, sea prefects, mayors of good towns, presidents of canton assemblies, and so on, each placed to make clear the Napoleonic pecking order. Across from me on another tier of benches, stacked like produce in a market stand, were princes, princesses, diplomats, famed savants, ranking police officials, and even the minister of sewers and wells. If only Ben Franklin could see me now.

I catalogued my alliances. I’d conspired with the British spymaster Sidney Smith to take revenge for the death of my wife who, as it turned out, was not dead. I’d partnered with Comtesse Catherine Marceau for a return of royalists who, as it turned out, were arrested, scattered, or repatriated. I’d allied with Réal to advise Napoleon’s army officers, allied with Napoleon to find a medieval automaton I was skeptical existed, allied with odd Palatine to disrupt Napoleon’s coronation with religious blasphemy, and been promised ten thousand francs by Talleyrand to let him try this “android” first. Now I was sitting in the center of an agitated porridge of two million excited Frenchmen who, if they knew what I was about, would rip me limb from limb.

For such a simple man, my life is surprisingly complicated.

Astiza’s and Harry’s place was empty. Their absence made me uneasy. Had she gotten the better tickets? Perhaps she was helping the comtesse make the substitution. Perhaps Talleyrand’s aides were giving her further instruction on where to travel east. If chaos ensued, we should escape west as planned, but perhaps there was opportunity eastward as well. I shifted restlessly. I needed to consult with my wife.

Also conspicuously empty was a seat opposite me, intended for the emperor’s domineering and ever-dissatisfied mother. The politically astute artist David would later paint her into the coronation, but the vacuum created by her absence reminded everyone that even absolute power is not absolute.

We waited, interminably. The pope had set off for the cathedral at nine, Napoleon at ten. The music began at half-past ten when the pope’s regiment of robed clergy paraded into Notre Dame with miter hats, swinging censors, and ornate candlesticks. Cardinals and bishops from across Western Europe marched to the music of what I read in the ceremony brochure was two orchestras, four choirs, five bands, and altar boys with communion bells: about five hundred noisemakers in all. Hymns alternated with anthems followed by bands crashing into hideous military music, and then altar boys would jingle into the echoing silences. We endured, stoically.

Pius entered in a scarlet robe and weighted with a papal crown Napoleon had ordered made with a precisely reported 4,209 diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, just in case the Vatican missed the value of the bribe. The pope wore it like a yoke. Cloak and headgear were so heavy that once seated he shed them for modest white dress and simple papal cap. He blessed us, even me, turning from one group to another with fingers uplifted.

At eleven we heard the roars of adulation as Napoleon and Josephine finally arrived outside and were escorted into the Archbishop’s Palace to re-dress. They required nearly an hour to exchange the morning’s velvet frippery for coronation robes as bulky as bear pelts. As time crawled, Pius ran out of blessings and prayers and finally just sat with his eyes shut, praying or napping. The rest of us yawned as orchestra and choir banged back and forth. Vendors sold meat rolls that were passed hand over hand. Lords and ladies sipped from smuggled flasks.

Where was my family?

I impatiently peered into the shadows at either side of the triumphal arch, looking for Astiza and Harry. Finally, there they were, scanning the crowd to look for me! I lifted my arm, but they gave no recognition. Catherine, radiant in white, her hair gloriously set, figure sublime, whispered to this aide or that. She did glance my way, but if she saw me, she didn’t share it with Astiza.

I relaxed. All was in place, and I assumed my wife and son would join me shortly. I practiced looking innocent.

The final high plenipotentiaries marched into the cathedral, the pace stately as a wedding. Cardinal Belloy looked serene for a man who has just been robbed in his own chambers, but perhaps nothing much rattles you at ninety-five. Then five long minutes of pregnant silence, except for the rustling and coughs of a huge assembly in a vast cathedral. Finally, a relieved stir when Napoleon paced into view, looking swallowed by his robes. He wore an embroidered classical tunic that fell to his ankles like a nightgown, a sash with enough fabric for a tablecloth, and a red fur-trimmed robe so heavy, and so intricately inlaid with embroidery, that he looked like he was caped in a carpet. It dragged like a cross. I knew Napoleon had battlefield courage, but it took courage of another kind for this kind of performance, where even a misstep would become the merciless gossip of Paris.

Yet Josephine was the one who entranced the crowd.

Women glow when they’re in love, when they’ve made love, or when they are pregnant. The empress had a flush of utter triumph this day. Her smile was closed to hide her poor teeth, but what a wide smile it was, eyes damp, head high, her expression joyous from the religious recognition of her marriage the night before. And now the political legitimization of her role as empress, an opulent crowning that Marie Antoinette never enjoyed!

The Creole from Martinique was the most beautiful I ever saw her, exquisitely made up, and at forty-one—six years older than Napoleon—she looked twenty. Her gown was a spotless white and her scarlet mantle a sumptuous ten yards long, all of it embroidered, bejeweled, and lined with enough white ermine to depopulate the fur farms of Russia. Despite her mantle’s size and weight, it was kept off her shoulders so that she could display elegantly puffed sleeves and a shapely bust; one end of the train was attached near her neck and the other with a strap to her waist. She seemed to be emerging from a pool of velvet and fur.

Women sighed at the sight of her.

Napoleon’s sulking sisters carried Josephine’s train. Yet even in their foul mood they shone from being gowned like goddesses. Each had a tiara, a long dress off the shoulders, and a necklace costly enough to buy a gun battery.

The choreography was intricate as a minuet, the panoply riotously over the top, and the drama absolutely unforgettable, as it was meant to be. Royalists might plot to assassinate a mere first consul and upstart general, but a blessed and crowned emperor? Despite what slaves once whispered into the ears of the Caesars, Napoleon was no longer a mere man. He was a political demigod.

We were transfixed, the women in the audience murmuring with envy and the men muttering excitedly about future opportunities. Napoleon’s ambition fused with that of everyone in the cathedral. They would rise, and risk, with him.

And then there was a jostling of bodies, apologies of excusez-moi, and a man plopped exhaustedly down next to me, taking Astiza’s seat.

“My pardon, monsieur, but I was told this space has become available. What a grand view we share!” I recognized the voice immediately but had trouble placing it, and then realized that by astonishing coincidence I was seated next to Marie-Etienne Nitot, the jeweler who’d first told us last year that my stolen emerald was from a legendary Aztec hoard. Before I could sell it to him, scoundrels attacked us. I’d assumed they learned of the jewel from his boasting.

“Nitot, you devil,” I growled.

“Monsieur Gage, my old friend! Ah, what happenstance! I’d feared you’d come to harm, and yet here we both are, at the center of the new Europe.”

If he felt guilt for the way my family was handled in his shop, he hid it well. I scowled. “You mean the harm that came our way last year?”

“But of course! We were investigating your remarkable gem, the Green Apple of the Sun, and then these rogues accost me! I found my workshop in shambles and you disappeared. I didn’t know what was going on and feared scandal would damage my reputation. Then I was told you have a habit of getting mixed up with unsavory villains.” He was genuinely curious. “Did you get the emerald back?”

“Eventually.”

“I’d still be interested in buying it.”

The gall of him to pretend innocence! But perhaps he was innocent, and, in any event, I’d no time for him now. “I sold it in London.”

“Alas, an opportunity lost. May I ask what you got for it?”

It was none of his business, but what was the harm? “Ten thousand pounds.”

“But you could have earned twice that, at least, in Paris!”

That possibility just made me grumpier, not to mention reminding me that by embroiling myself in conspiracy in France I was cut off from my funds in England. If we traveled to Bohemia, our poverty would continue. I was once again for all practical purposes poor, surrounded by rich men, and drawn in conflicting directions. “I’m impressed that you’re in the stands of the highest notables,” I said, implying that perhaps he didn’t deserve to be here, either. Where the devil was Astiza?

“Yes. I remain a favorite of Josephine, even if Marguerite did get the commission for the crowns. But my seating is actually due to your new companion, Inspector Catherine Marceau. Such beauties you accumulate!”

“Inspector?”

“Yes, the woman in white.” He pointed at my confederate, far below.

I was confused. “You know Catherine?”

“We’ve done business together. Rumor holds she took the place of a strangled comtesse during the Terror and has been valiantly spying on England. As brave as she is lovely! She gave me the ticket for this seat.”

“She told you she’s a spy?” I said stupidly. Had Catherine made up a story about herself to secure our safety?

“An agent of the police. Your wife tragically lost and this new beauty at your side: what a lucky rogue you are, American!”

He thought my wife was still lost?

“And you must be doing well the way your mistress spends your money as if plucked by the vine. What an eye for jewelry she has!”

“Spends my money?” My understanding was officially lost.

“The new French francs and old English gold sovereigns she said you brought from London! Gorgeous coins for uncertain times. Here, look at the minting.” He reached in a vest pocket and brought out one that shone like the sun. Several spectators looked curiously in our direction. I was confused. Catherine had no money. What was Nitot talking about?

Gasps brought my attention back to the stage. Now Napoleon was kneeling, the pope droning on with a blessing and the emperor replying with a pledge. Censers swung on cue, incense drifting over the tableau. The substitution of the crowns would be revealed in moments. I looked down in the shadows toward Catherine and my family.

The comtesse was looking up at me, smiling as triumphantly as Josephine but with her teeth on display, ice white and perfect. A huge, looming figure had joined the group. It was Pasques, who took Astiza’s arm in his firm grip and pulled her deeper into the unseen choir, Harry dragged with them.

Catherine had no money.

Unless she’d not really lost her money in the Channel surf as she claimed when we came ashore, and had been lying to me ever since.

I blinked. Without thinking of it, my hand closed over Nitot’s hand and coin. Why had Catherine lied about losing her money? To selfishly keep it? Had she really been stealing from my purse in Paris, as well?

She looked up at me as if I were a joke. Was nothing true? Had the comtesse really wormed her way into Josephine’s retinue? Or had she been invited there from the very beginning, as a double agent operating in London to foil the American adventurer, Ethan Gage?

Why was she watching me now, instead of the coronation?

There was a bustle at our tier of seats. Gendarmes had appeared at either end of my row, searching faces for my own.

The critical moment had come. The pope ceased speaking, and Cardinal Belloy handed him a golden box, presumably containing the imperial crown. Napoleon stood and ascended the steps to the Catholic altar. The pope turned, took the box from Belloy with slow gravity, and opened it.

Pius froze in shock. No one could see what was inside, but I knew what he was viewing: the vines that had tortured Jesus. Catherine had succeeded after all, the greedy spendthrift! My relief was intense, the world spinning, while the church was absolutely silent except for the rustlings of twenty thousand onlookers waiting impatiently for the crowning.

Now the pope would lift out the Crown of Thorns, sharing his outrage and consternation with the whole world.

Except he had no time to.

Army Marshal Joachim Murat strode forward bearing a simple crown of golden laurel leaves on an ornate pillow.

Napoleon wheeled to meet this precisely timed flanking maneuver. While Pius stood paralyzed, staring stupidly at the holiest relic in Christendom, the new French emperor calmly turned his back on the prelate, plucked the crown off Murat’s pillow, and put the golden wreath on his own head, cocky as Caesar. He looked defiantly out into the crowd, ignoring the pope and daring anyone to object to his boldness.

There was an excited murmur, rising to a roar as people whispered. “Did you see? He’s crowned himself!” Astonishment rushed through the cathedral like wind and wildfire.

There was a snap as the lid of the golden box that held the Crown of Thorns snapped shut. Pius stood in shock, goggle-eyed and confused.

Napoleon, meanwhile, was erect as a guardsman and as pleased as a triumphant actor. His self-crowning was audacious, unprecedented, and brilliant. The pope was on hand to provide endorsement, but he’d been adroitly prevented by the emperor’s circle, including Catherine Marceau, from doing the act himself. Napoleon’s new stature came not from the Catholic Church, but from the will of the French people. He’d honored a thousand years of tradition, yet surmounted it with his own. He’d maneuvered Christianity into alliance, yet owed the pope nothing. He’d been blessed, but was not a penitent to Rome.

Josephine was still kneeling, hands clasped in prayer, head humbly bowed. A second, more spectacular crown was presented. Instead of mimicking the Roman emperors, this was the medieval style with velvet, gold, and jewels, as big as a helmet. Napoleon lifted it from its pillow, smiled with his mouth but not his eyes, and crowned his own wife empress.

Another gasp rotated round the cathedral. I had lost the ability to breathe. All my mad risk, with wife and son, had served only to elevate the Corsican devil higher than ever! All that I had assumed was a lie.

Pius hurriedly slid the box with the Crown of Thorns under his chair, cast an angry, puzzled glance at Cardinal Belloy, and sat. He looked mortified. Belloy looked bewildered.

Choir and orchestra burst into song.

And I, Ethan Gage, who’d conspired with my family to humiliate this new Caesar, had instead been tricked into elevating his coronation into an assertion of secular state power.

Astiza and Harry had disappeared.

The gendarmes were closing from both sides, spectators objecting as the policemen temporarily blocked their view.

Disaster!

Napoleon was mounting the steep steps up to his new throne. He jerked to a halt at the beginning, the weight of his robes pulling him backward. Leaning into it, he trudged up the stairs to his imperial perch, dragging his mantle like a tarp.

Josephine’s experience was even worse. Just as she reached the stairs the heavy train carried by Napoleon’s sisters was abruptly dropped. I couldn’t tell if the princesses did so out of jealousy or rehearsal, but the fabric weighed half as much as Josephine herself, and it almost toppled her. Napoleon gestured for her to keep going. She bent, surged, and staggered to the top, the clumsiness partly masked by the acreage of her mantle. A sail that big makes anything seem to ripple and flow.

A shaken Pius mounted the stairs after them, completely outmaneuvered, but, following rehearsal, he still kissed the emperor on the cheek. “Vivat Imperator in aeternum,” he proclaimed. A parade of beautiful maidens appeared to carry the Bible and sacramental objects from the altar up to the throne, everyone bowing, holding, thrusting, kissing, and twenty thousand viewers coming to their feet. The presidents of the Senate, Tribunate, and Corps Legislatif came forward to administer the oath. Bonaparte put his hand on the Book of Gospels and recited: “To govern only in accordance with the interests, the happiness, and the glory of the French people.”

“Excusez-moi,” the surrounding gendarmes said as they struggled to reach me. “Ethan Gage, remain where you are!”

Senators, princes, and soldiers roared. Music swelled, the Gothic arches making it sound as if it came from heaven. Outside, a hundred cannons bellowed, and the concussion of the report punched through the air of Notre Dame, the roosting pigeons erupting as if their wings were joining the applause.

I was trapped from the press of people around me. Nitot clasped my arm, excited as a child. “Did you see, did you see? He crowned himself!”

I knocked his hand aside. Where was my family? Catherine had played me from the very beginning. She was an imposter, taking the place of a lovely young aristocrat who had probably been strangled in her cell and truly buried. She had escaped to England with a new biography to pose as a comtesse and work as a French spy. Was the mysterious Palatine part of the plot, too? Was everyone false? I was a puppet with a block of wood for a head.

All we could do is run for the borders.

With exit through the crowd impossible, I crouched and rolled under the curtain at the base of our bench and into the timber framework that held up the viewing stands.

“Monsieur Gage, not that way!” the idiot Nitot cried.

“Halt!” policemen shouted.

It was dark, the music and cheers reverberating as if I were in a drum. People were stamping in celebration. I dropped down through the framing, hit the cathedral floor backstage, and sprinted down the side aisles to the rear of the church, looking for my family.

We must escape before our arrest for the theft of the Crown of Thorns.

We must salvage something, such as the Brazen Head.

Unless that was a lie, too.