Did he still believe that liberty and equality and fraternity could guide the people of this new nation? Jean-Luc wondered. Would he tell his children with pride or with shame that he had served in the Revolution? He didn’t know; he couldn’t answer any of that on that day. All he knew was that Marie would have her way: he would raise her children, he would love them and keep them safe. He would teach them to be honest and kind and brave, as their mother had been. He’d honor the woman she’d been, the wife she’d been, the mother she’d been, the citizen and thinker she’d been. He’d raise her children in the belief that, as long as there were still men and women willing to stand for justice and for truth, there was still reason to hope for their nation and, indeed, for all.
And in that, Jean-Luc St. Clair would be performing a service more sacred than any he had yet done.
December 2, 1804
The frigid winter weather—falling snow, bitter wind that skittered off the Seine—did nothing to discourage the Parisians. They gathered by the hundreds of thousands, perhaps as many as a million, outside the magnificent cathedral, newly restored after the ravages of the Revolution, its Gothic spires rendered all the more glorious by the snowfall. Notre Dame stood proud once more, triumphant, signifying to all who looked on that God himself blessed France and the emperor she had chosen for herself.
Jean-Luc glanced around, holding more tightly to his son’s hand as his daughter bounced on his hip. He marveled at the spectacle of it all—the sheer size of the crowd, the volume of their cries, the fact that they’d come out in the cold and dark, assembling before the first light of dawn. He blinked, forcing out the memories of so many crowds before this one; today, their faces were not fiendish and vindictive, calling for blood. Today, they were hopeful and euphoric as they lined the entire parade route from the Tuileries across the river and along the island to the great Gothic entrance of the cathedral, waving the tricolor, shouting “Vive Napoleon!” as others sang the anthem. Today, the people were bestowing a crown rather than seizing one; making an emperor rather than destroying a king. As ever, they were ravenous, shouting, demanding a show.
Napoleon himself had seen to every detail of his own coronation. The people wanted a pageant, a majestic spectacle, and there was no one more fit and willing to give them one than the man who believed himself to be destined by God to carry forward the virtues of the Republic, now an Empire, in the style of Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar. Great men who, like Napoleon, had fashioned themselves into living gods. Every detail—from the decorative eagles lining the parade route to the hot-air balloon that would take flight from the square at the conclusion of the coronation Mass—reinforced his claim to the imperial throne.
Jean-Luc had read in Le Moniteur newspaper how Napoleon had ordered a crown made especially for the occasion, one to replace the medieval diadem destroyed in one of the Revolution’s many orgies of devastation. In wearing a crown modeled after Charlemagne’s own from centuries ago, Napoleon would silence those bold critics who dared to point out that the general, a Corsican, was not in fact of French noble blood—or French blood at all, for that matter.
All morning long, the gilded carriages rolled past—mayors of far-reaching French cities, army officers, naval admirals, members of the Assembly, distinguished judges, men of the Legion of Honor, ministers of the government. The people of France, having shivered along the parade route for hours, met each passing dignitary with an ever more fervent cry.
Jean-Luc noticed a mule approach, its rider bearing a magnificently bejeweled crucifix, and he supposed that this must be the papal procession approaching. Indeed, Napoleon had summoned Pope Pius, and Pius had come, bringing his most powerful cardinals and bishops from Rome to Paris. Everyone, even God himself, it appeared, now obeyed Napoleon. After years of sacking ancient churches, seizing holy relics, and defiling the very image of Jesus, the French people were willing to return to God, return to the church, and that was because Napoleon said they would.
Of course the pope would not be crowning Napoleon; Napoleon would not answer to Rome, nor anyone. He would crown himself, and Josephine, too. The papers had been abuzz with the scandal of it all—how Napoleon’s mother had refused to attend because of her dislike of her daughter-in-law, and how Napoleon had sat his siblings down, threatening his three sisters with exile until they finally agreed to attend the ceremony and walk behind Josephine as her humbled trainbearers.
As the carriages flooded the square now, the government ministers and royal dignitaries were ushered into the grand cathedral, where golden tapestries decked the walls, glittering against the backdrop of thousands of candles. Not one but two full choirs, accompanied by two full orchestras, sang the holy words of the music composed especially for this day, and the blasts of the trumpets, the clamor of the cymbal and the timpani, now spilled out to where Jean-Luc stood in the packed square.