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The golden crown, garnished with oak and laurel leaves, sat on a burgundy pillow in the very center of the high altar of Notre-Dame. It was raised in the air, on a Corinthian pillar of black marble, about the height of a man’s shoulders. Just beside it, on a smaller pillar about half the height, was a green-emerald velvet pillow, on which lay the silver crown of the Empress Josephine and the holy scepter of His Majesty the Emperor. The scepter was made of the finest silver by the house of Odiot. A golden serpent entwined the scepter, and the orb at the top had been made into a globe on which Charlemagne was seated on a throne. Josephine’s crown was even more wonderful than the Emperor’s, though far less holy. Hers was made marvelously by the House Margueritte. The crown had eight branches in the shape of myrtle leaves, set with diamonds, supporting a spectacular golden cross. Emeralds worth cities paraded around the crown, and pearls and amethysts let the bandeau glimmer. The crowns were sunk by their weight deep into the pillows, so dense were the gold and silver from which they were crafted, so heavy were the jewels and gemstones which they carried.
Beside the altar, the greatest chorus Paris had ever witnessed, the Chœur de Chambre de la Cité, was singing the Dixit Dominus of Giovanni Paisello. Every crevice, chapel, and altar of the cathedral was filled with music. The circular altar, at the eastern end of the Nave, was raised high off the floor. Four bronze statues of angels on low Corinthian pillars encircled the altar. More prominent were the two marble sculptures of storied French kings from the ancién regime. Louis XIII and his son Louis XIV were kneeling on the altar, facing each other, sculpted with outstretched, beseeching arms to the center. Though Louis XIII and Louis XIV were shown to be praying to the Mother Mary, how much it looked today as though they were blessing the ascent of the Emperor Napoleon and sanctifying the reemergence of a golden crown after twelve years of disgraceful irreverence.
Here it was, Coronation Day at last. Neither the most sacred of relics, nor the return of Mary Magdalene herself, would have brought more people to Notre-Dame on this glorious day. Whether it be Pentecost, the Day of St. Anne, or Christmas Day, never had the nave of Notre-Dame overflowed and teemed like this. Not a seat remained on any of the wooden benches leading from the southern portico to the altar. The right side of the nave seemed to be entirely dedicated to military officers. The left section was a colorful array. Here sat the wealthy merchants, the masters, wealthy lawyers, the Pope’s retinue of cardinals and hangers-on, diplomats from Europe and America, and even some of Napoleon’s handpicked musicians and actors. The mayor of Paris, Clemence Cabarus, could be spotted in the front row beside his wife, also named Josephine. It had been rare lately to see the couple together so prominently. Cabarus seemed to hardly leave the grounds of the Hôtel de Ville lately, as every day seemed to bring a new set of affairs for Paris. His box at the opera, where he and Josephine used to sit with their four children so happily, was routinely found to be empty over the course of the last year, and perhaps longer.
But it was on the high altar where the imperial family had gathered. How privileged it was to see a bevy of magnates clustered so tightly together in one space. Indeed, to what could this collection compare? Not since those golden evenings in the billiard room of the Palais de Versailles, when Louis XIV himself would reach for a cue stick, were so many potentates within feet of each other. Halet Efendi, the Ottoman ambassador, with a thick brown beard and a white turban, balanced himself on an unsheathed sword as he peered at the crown from the back of the altar. To the right of the ambassador was Louis Bonaparte, Grand Constable of the Empire and King of Holland. He was dressed in his captain’s uniform and, as usual, he wore his brown hair curly in locks over his forehead, without any pomade to hold it back. Beside him was Joseph Bonaparte, King of Naples and King of Spain, and also Imperial Prince of the Empire. He wore a mantle of green velvet, edged by the white fur of an ermine. The two brothers stood together underneath a magnificent display made to honor the great coronation. A few feet above their heads was a colossal painting of Clovis and Charlemagne, each on thrones with scepters in their hands. The dual portrait was bordered by dozens of coats of arms of the most important trade cities of France. The Emperor had been gracious enough to invite each city’s mayor to the coronation, and these honorable men could be found sitting together, side-by-side, in the third row on the left-hand side of the nave.
Barely visible beside his towering father was the little boy Napoleon Charles Bonaparte. He was the first son of Louis Bonaparte and his pretty though sometimes mischievous wife Hortense de Beauharnais. He was a sickly boy, surely no older than three years. It was a wonder they had let this sickly child stand on the main altar, with men like Talleyrand, Cambacérès, and Lebrun no more than a few feet away. But there he was, the little boy, his navy tailcoat no bigger than a handkerchief.
At that moment, the choir and orchestra reached the final note of In convertendo Dominus, the famous motet by Rameau. All became quiet in the cathedral. With the church music stopped, the muted sounds of the crowds celebrating outside began to filter into the cathedral, replacing the total silence. A few footsteps from somewhere near the entrance echoed down the hall. A man coughed. All was quiet for a few more moments. But then, a figure emerged from the assembly of magnates standing atop the altar. It was Talleyrand, walking calmly to the foot of the stage. He gave the crowd his signature grin, what had come to be known as the “Talleyrand smile,” the countenance he often took on when saying farewell to a foreign diplomat, or placating one of his many unruly mistresses.
Talleyrand bellowed down the nave in a great crescendo: “Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Vatican City State, Servant of the servants of God, His Holiness, Pope Pius VII!”
The crowd turned to see Pope Pius VII walking down the central aisle of the nave. He processed majestically, though still with modesty. The choir took up the anthem of Tu es Petrus. Pius was wearing the white papal mantle, bedecked with gold and silver jewels. On his head was the Papal Tiara, that three crowned cap, covered in golden crosses, reaching upward to the vaulted roof. At the very zenith of the cap was a bronze orb, which carried another golden cross. The Pope at last reached the transept. He calmly ascended the steps and took his seat on a throne on the left side of the high altar. Tu es Petrus continued to sound throughout the church for several minutes after the Pope had reached the throne. The voices of the sopranos were free and heavenly; looking deep into the stained glass of the south rose window with this music all around, one swore one was hearing the voices of angels.
Tu es Petrus came to a rest, and Talleyrand’s voice boomed out again: “Josephine, wife of Napoleon I, House of Beauharnais, House of Bonaparte.”
The little Bonaparte boy inched closer to his father’s leg, as though taking refuge from Talleyrand’s booming, echoing voice.
From the right transept, the door to the reliquary slowly creaked open. Backed by the warm, golden light of the reliquary, Josephine emerged. She wore a dress in the Ancient Roman style, covered in rubies and diamonds. She advanced toward the altar, as the choir began to sing from the Missa Prolationum of Ockeghem. The music began slowly and quietly. Only the baritone and bass voices could be heard; they were setting a pulse and nothing more. But by the time Josephine had stepped into the crossing of the church, the soprano and alto parts had risen high above the lower voices, and all four melodies were interlacing in the finest, most incomprehensible display of Northern Renaissance polyphony. As the music played, and as Josephine processed through the crossing, she gave a quick turn of her head to the left. She smiled briefly at her hundreds of onlookers, standing together in the nave. She then returned her gaze to the altar as she processed forward. The music grew to a culmination, and, as Josephine took her first steps up the altar, the trumpets and the bass drum sounded together three times, bringin
g the Kyrie of the Missa Prolationum to a celebratory halt. In the silence, Josephine’s satin slippers tapped against the marble steps as she ascended the altar. She then tiptoed past LeBrun, Talleyrand, and Louis Bonaparte, on her way to the throne. Josephine calmly sat down beside the Pope. And with the empress now reclining on her throne, the hundreds of standing men at once took their seats.
Again, all eyes turned to Talleyrand. The altar now housed some of the loftiest and most sanctified figures France had ever known. Somehow, all were assembled in one place. Who could recall the last time, in France, the Pope and the queen sat beside each other in Notre-Dame? But to the audience—specifically the army—this pageant had in many ways been only a prelude. For today in France, there was only one man who mattered, and it was he and he alone whom the people had come to see. In his presence, in his company, all around him appeared small in the contrast. It was then that Talleyrand gave the crowd the Talleyrand smile and began to chant out for the final time.
“Napoleon, House of Bonaparte, President of Italy,