chandelier called the couronne de lumière of a hundred flickering candles, all seemed at that instance the frame to his royal person. This otherworldly image seemed the culmination of the day, for never in Europe had a man looked as supreme and kingly as Napoleon did at this moment, with the Crown of Charlemagne at last atop his head. But, indeed, there was still more to come. For Napoleon then took a few steps forward to the very foot of the altar. He briefly raised his right arm, first to the side, and then to his temple. This was a military sign that all in attendance were well familiar with. The Emperor would now give his coronation speech.
“What is France? What is Europe? Has this blessed land we now stand on always been called France? Of course not. From the time of Clovis I all the way through the Merovingian dynasty, the entire world knew this land as Francia. Francia! What was the word ‘France’ then, but mere blather? But though Clovis’ great kingdom lasted for centuries, Francia, too, only stretches back to a certain, well-defined point. Before the year 496, only a fool would have called our lush and precious territory anything other than the Kingdom of Soissons. Prior to that, it was Gaul or Gallia, and on and on.
“But my people, I am not here today to bore you with a lesson in history. I am here—” at this point, the Emperor paused. He wrapped his crimson coronation mantle closer to his body. Then, he leaned back and stomped the floor with his tall white velvet boot, as he typically did when addressing his troops the very moment before sending them off into battle. The heel struck the stage and thundered down the hall.
“I am here, so that all of Europe can bear witness to my coronation!”
At this, the entire room stood up from their chairs and roared in hysterical, frenzied applause. The soldiers and officers were especially riotous, some grabbing hold of the benches in front of them and rattling them against the stone floor. But Napoleon’s voice soon rang out above the din.
“Yesterday, I was your First Consul.” He paused. “Today I am your Emperor!” The audience cheered and the wooden benches banged hard against the floor. “Eight years ago, I was the Commander of the Army of Italy. Today, I am Napoleon the First!” He paused again, as pandemonium engulfed him and his presence. “Twenty years ago, I was the second lieutenant in an artillery regiment. Today,” he paused and let out a brief sigh. The crowd, as though sensing a decrescendo in his speech, grew quiet. “Today, I am your Charlemagne.”
Napoleon took a step back from the front of the altar. He then looked briefly at Talleyrand, and Talleyrand motioned with his hands for the people to become quiet, even though they had already done so.
“I may be Emperor of France, and I may be on the verge of conquering all of Europe—”
His army began to stomp and roar again, but Napoleon quieted everyone down with his hands. Talleyrand made a similar gesture from his seat.
“I may now be the Emperor,” he said softly, “but I am no fool, and I am no Icarus. Today is the greatest day Europe has ever known, and all of Europe has come to celebrate. Today, there is not a man within ten thousand leagues of Paris who is not speaking of me and my coronation.” His voice came to a sudden halt.
“But somewhere out there,” he said quietly, in what seemed only a whisper. “Somewhere out there, somewhere on the island of Madagascar, let us say, there is an astrologer, or even a seamstress, who not only knows nothing of my coronation, but does not even know the name Napoleon! This man, this woman—they will go to their graves not knowing that this day ever existed. And so too, as the centuries pass. Go a far enough distance from France and my name will become obscure, go far enough in time from 1804 and this holy day will have become obscured. Indeed, will a day not come, will a century not come, in which my name has been, for the most part, forgotten?
“We may all today know of the last great emperor of France, Karolus Magnus, but who among us actually remembers Clovis of Francia, Aegidius of the Kingdom of Soissons, or Vercingetorix or Brennus or Divitiacos of Gallia? And surely, in the age before the Romans or the Celts, in that valiant and warlike world which can never be replaced, there were chieftains so fearless and worthy, that their immortality was simply presumed. And yet, here we stand today, and it is only Karolus Magnus who is universally remembered, and perhaps even he is fading. Somehow, men like Aegidius, Vercingertorix, Divitiacus, and on and on, are long forgotten, despite the glory and strength they once brought to this land.
“They, too, had celebrations and masques to attend their ascent to power. Indeed, it is said that when Divitiacus won the Battle of Magetobria and massacred the Aedui, the festivals and pageants lasted for seventy-two days, and enough wine was drunk to fill all the baths in Rome. But today, if we do not even remember whom Divitiacus was, then surely his great victory and accompanying feast are only all the more insignificant and purposeless to us.
“And only a fool would think that today should be any different. Great citizens of France, I know all too well of my own greatness and my destiny, but I am no Icarus! Simple math proves that I cannot be immortal, I do not need Newton to tell me as much. Look far enough into time, far enough across the Earth, and all will become hazy, obscure, and meaningless.”
Here, Napoleon took a step back and appeared to collect himself. His countenance, nearly always a model of indefatigable optimism, now appeared sorrowful—even frustrated—and this was clear for all to see. He gazed upward for a moment at the cathedral’s vaulted ceiling. The room was silent. Then, Napoleon stepped forward to the very edge of the altar and looked straight ahead.
“But look around you. Look at the mayors who have come from all corners of France, dressed in their liveries and their grand collars and their embroidered badges older than Philip the Fortunate. Let sound in your ears the names of the many towns from which they come—Tours, Avignon, Lille, Blois. The mere name is enough to dream up in your mind’s eye all of the enchantment contained in each one of these little kingdoms. Indeed, try to hear the word Avignon without picturing the Palais de Papes and the Pont Saint-Bénézet, and you will be in vain. But then hear the beauty of the city names themselves and marvel at your ability to detect beauty in mere words, and ask yourself again whether this day will not live forever.
“Yes, look around you and hear the sounds around you. Hear the angelic voices of the Chœur de Chambre de la Cité. Never mind how miraculous it is that these heavenly tones originate from millions of delicate vocal cords vibrating together in unfathomable precision, not to mention the countless other innovations in our anatomy which must exist for such heavenly notes to be released. Instead, consider the composers—some medieval, some modern—who had to sit with ink and quill before these captivating hymns and songs could be released to the world. Contemplate the music of a man, for example, like Palestrina, and let flow through your mind his Missa Papae Marcelli, which flows through one’s mind like cool water. Think of what perfection must have coalesced in his mind, over and over again, before such a divine combination of notes could have appeared line by line on the page. And then, with the ink scarcely dry, imagine what ecstasy he surely felt as he told his wife, his children, and his fellow Italian composers of his latest creation. But go back further, and see Palestrina as a child, learning his art from the finest composers in Italy. Imagine these maestri, dressed in their Medici collars and their Venetian breeches, imparting to the young Palestrina all of the compositional tricks and theory which had been developed and perfected throughout Italy over centuries’ time. Picture the maestri and Palestrina laughing together in the classroom over the humorous sound made by a deliberately misplaced seventh chord, or any of the other musical jokes that experienced composers can insert into their music. Hear in the classroom the giggles of Palestrina and his boyhood friends rise above the hoarse, experienced chuckles of their Italian masters. And then move forward thirty years to 1562, when Missa Papae Marcelli was first copied into a manuscript at the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome. See in your mind’s eye the relieved faces of the cardinals upon hearing this work, who would
forever rejoice that their very own Palestrina had saved polyphony, and most beautifully. And now, knowing this story, and hearing the Missa Papae Marcelli actually sung 250 years later, ask yourself again whether this most sacred of days will not live forever.”
Napoleon took a few steps back from the front of the altar. The room was completely still, and all that could be heard was the sound of his robe grazing against the ground.
“Now,” he continued, “we sit today in Europe’s greatest cathedral. Notre-Dame was created during our medieval past, during an age before salons, before Newton, indeed, before Martin Luther. But yet, it still stands, more triumphant and majestic than ever, providing us with warmth and shelter and inspiration on this momentous day. But look closely at the vaulted ceilings, the colossal pillars, and the transverse arches. Study this harmonious, august craftwork, which appears so integral and preordained, not just in this church, but in this city, and ask yourself: am I being deceived? For what is this sculpture at its essence, but mere stone? Is it nothing more than stone, cleverly fashioned? Indeed, what a trick the medieval architects and