The Winter sun of 1807 was shining on Paris as the Grand Army returned marching footsore and weary through her streets. Was the war really over, or was this just a dream from which they would wake to find another campfire burning low? Could they believe they were home and safe? They looked around and took in the sights. It was true, they had been spared. The streets of Paris were alive with people in their thousands, people with smiling faces with shouts of thanks for the “heroes”.
They hadn’t died and gone to heaven.
Bands played la Marseillaise, drums beat, cymbals clashed, trumpets blared as long columns marched in uniforms stained with dust and blood. The soldiers stunk, but they could be excused for that. The shopkeepers cheered, the labourers, the servants and maids the washerwomen, the men in top hats the ladies in elegant dresses and bonnets. Dogs raced, yapping while boys skipped with sticks on their shoulders in place of muskets. For a time the soldiers could forget those left behind on the battlefields of Europe, those who would never know again the pleasure of the warmth of the sun or of a welcome home.
Bonaparte, that man they had loved and hated, feared and admired, had brought them home as victors. He believed in his ‘star’ but for the foot soldiers war was simply a matter of life and death, a struggle against the enemy but also the cold, heat, thirst, hunger and disease. War was bivouacking in the mud or a scorching sun overhead when a march had to be made when orders had to be followed. The history books could record the glory and the brilliance of the manoeuvres the masterful strategies of the conqueror.
For those who lived it though, war was simply a drudgery haunted by the fear of dying a painful death in a foreign land.
In the streets around the Tuileries there was barely room to move as the crowds pressed hard up against the fence which girded Napoleon’s Imperial palace. Gendarmes d'elite on black mounts fought to keep the people back brandishing swords and cursing. The palace gates opened beneath the Arch of the Carousel and Ney rode through into the forecourt where battalions of the Imperial Guard stood immaculate in dress uniforms and tall bearskin bonnets with bright red plumes. Regimental banners fluttered on staffs topped with the Imperial eagle the veterans presented arms and the band of the Imperial Guard struck up the “Triumph of Trajan”.
The doors of the throne room swung open and inside chandeliers shone with the light of a thousand candles the walls gilt with the plundered gold of Europe. Servants in green livery stood to attention and crowds of ladies in rustling silk dresses whispered while diplomats and princes in braided coats looked down their noses. Strangers to a battlefield they respectfully acknowledged Ney as he approached. Napoleon, the little man who now controlled Europe stood at the foot of his throne in plain green coat and white breeches the medal of the Legion of Honour on his chest. His body was still trim, his mind sharp. He could play the game of the diplomats and courtiers but he also knew the smell of blood and guts spilled on a battlefield.
Ney clicked his heels and bowed. The courtiers concealed their envy with approving grins. How could they understand? Their manoeuvres were those of the salons and soirees their chatter of the bedrooms and dalliances. Which young actress of the Comedie Francaise was the Emperor bedding this week as Josephine wept? It was a world for which Ney, the cooper’s son, had a bitter distaste. Napoleon embraced him as the courtiers fumed. Then he stepped back smiling and extended his arm to the slight, blonde young woman who moved shyly from behind Josephine. It was Aglae, Ney’s wife. She had waited so long to see him. How many times had he died a gruesome death in her nightmares? In the evening Paris was still busy celebrating the new era of peace. Only the Emperor himself knew how long the festivities would continue; the parades, the banquets the concerts. Choirs sang the “Song of Return”, Franconi the horseman gave exhibitions of trick riding with his six white stallions and the daredevil Foriosi walked the tightrope. Children gathered around puppet stalls and laughed at the raucous guignol or watched toy boats bob in the fountains of the Tuileries. In the cathedral of Notre Dame worshippers gave thanks to God and praised the Emperor. The Arc de Triomphe cast a long shadow over the Champs Elysee having begun to rise from amongst the orchards. On top of Mount Napoleon the mills turned grinding the last of the day’s flour for tomorrow's bread. And tired farmers drove home their carts emptied of produce at the markets and stores which the Emperor had built for the growing city. The gardens of the Tuileries were filled with thousands of people who strolled its avenues of rose beds, the planting of which had been overseen by the Empress herself. And as night approached the chandeliers of the palace lit up a gathering of the elite of France and Europe; courtiers, marshals, diplomats, authors, artists and musicians. At the end of the Hall of Marshals Napoleon and Josephine sat side by side in gilt armchairs overlooking the gathered nobility. From the hothouse that was the Imperial kitchen came a stream of servants bringing plates of roast lamb and chicken, duck and turkey while a constant flow of wine and champagne from the cellars found its way into clinking glasses. The din of conversation all but drowned out the clashing cymbals and blaring trumpets of the military bands outside. Every now and then the guests watched open mouthed from the balconies of the palace as fireworks streaked into the sky overtaking hot air balloons that rose sedately billowing clouds of coloured smoke. “The Emperor has just completed the longest most daring military expedition in history! Through Europe swarming with soldiers disciplined and brave! He belongs to the heroic times of yesteryear!” A man enthused drunkenly spilling a measure of his wine. “As does Marshal Ney!” He added as Ney and Aglae walked past making there way to the balcony where a fresh breeze blew in gently from the gardens.
Ney looked at the face of the Emperor as he wriggled in his seat barely suppressing a look of boredom. Josephine’s eyes showed a hint of tears. Behind her, Ladies in waiting watched for the slightest gesture, an indication of her desire. There was one, slim dark-haired with eyes that always seemed to be laughing her lips always hinting an impertinent grin. Madame Duchatel.
The Emperor stood and walked across the floor, the crowds parting reverentially as he strolled.
Was he about to bestow some honour they wondered?
Would he stop and grant them a few Imperial words of wisdom as all watched and admired? What great thoughts and plans were ticking over in that mind of genius? They could only wonder as he stopped in the midst of the room and stood. Without a word. Without a movement. For a second. For a minute. How many minutes past before the grins of self-satisfaction began to disappear from the faces of the elite. The champagne and sumptuous meals were forgotten. The roar of boisterous conversation peaked and dancers stopped in their tracks as the guests of the Emperor began to fall silent. Noisy talk changed to whispers as they gathered in a circle around something and dared to look.
They watched and waited without saying a word. They dared not. They waited for him to speak, to move, to set the Empire in motion, to maintain its order. They waited. One minute, two minutes, three minutes. How long did he stand there in a world of his own? It seemed like an eternity. Not a word, not the blinking of an eye, his arms folded across his chest a stony expression on his face as if he was mocking them all making them play some childish Imperial game. After all, this Empire was his to do with as he pleased.
Did they understood the nature of the Empire in which they lived? That it was the creation of one man’s mind and ambition, the product of his military genius of his luck of his victories of the blood on the soles of his boots of his gifts and of his failings? Would it take just one defeat to make it all crumble like a house of cards?
That night in the Imperial chambers the little man had returned to the world again oblivious to the fact of his temporary absence. Once again he was in command. His secretaries arched over a long desk with quills in their aching hands taking down the ideas and orders which streamed from his mind endlessly, more quickly than they could possibly write or comprehend. Their quills continued to scratch as he dashed from the room but then they glanced at one another and grinned because they knew what was going on.
The Emperor's breeches were already down around his ankles and Madame Duchatel’s legs were curling around his waist.
Not far away Josephine lay alone in her bed and felt the trickle of tears down her face. She knew Napoleon would never be content with just one lover. How long could he live without his favourite mistress - WAR?
Battle reenactment photographs reproduced courtesy of the 45eme, 1er Chasseurs a cheval de la ligne, 3eme cuirassiers, Napoleonic Association affiliated reenactment groups.
Copyright Philip Eagles © August 2006