Reputation
11 Frimaire, Year XIII
(2 December 1804)
“Marius! Why aren’t you dressed yet?” The cannons had fired at 8 that morning, but Napoléon has been up since far earlier. “The procession begins in twenty minutes!”
Still in his bedclothes, Marius’s back remains toward Napoléon as he stares resolutely out the bright window of the Tuileries with his arms crossed. “I’m not going.”
Not this again.
“I did not follow you only to see France raise another king.”
“You know it isn’t like that,” insists Napoléon.
Indignant, Marius spins to face him. “You imported a pope to officiate!”
Ah, yes, he had done that. Marius is looking back out the window, but at the end of the day, this is Marius: Napoléon knows how to handle Marius. He kneels on the plush mattress of the bed, rumpled but made (Marius always insists on doing so himself, even if the staff are better at it), and beckons. “Marius, turn around.”
“It’s a betrayal of everything you’re supposed to stand for.”
“Marius,” he repeats, this time a little sharper.
Marius turns, still clearly pouting; his eyes are trained away from Napoléon.
“Come here,” he says, this time more gently.
It’s still begrudging, but Marius shuffles forward toward the bed.
“Sit.”
He does, feet on the ground and back toward Napoléon..
Napoléon wraps his arms around Marius’s waist and leans in, slotting their faces next to one another and inhaling. “I don’t like this pageant act any better than you.”
“Liar,” Marius mutters, corner of his mouth quirking.
“All right, I do,” says Napoléon with an easy shrug, “but only because I like to see the powerful squirm. Think of it, Marius: they have to concede that a lowborn noble from Corsica is their equal — the shame of it all.”
“It isn’t shameful,” Marius insists, trying (but not very hard, Napoléon notes) to pull free of his arms. “You’ve had to work twenty times as hard to receive half of the recognition.”
“Which is exactly the gap that this farce seeks to bridge! Don’t you see?” Napoléon had been kneeling before, but he crawls forward now to sit beside Marius, legs swinging over the side as one arm remains draped around Marius’s side. “This is all to gain the leverage I need to effect change, to get the other powers to accept me.”
With an impertinent roll of his eyes, Marius grumbles, “You aren’t even Catholic,.”
“No,” agrees Napoléon, “but most of France is, and the Pope is one of the most universally respected authorities in all of Europe.” Marius remains discontented, and Napoléon sighs. “I am an instrument of providence, Marius. She will use me, then she will break me like a glass.”
Marius glances over, a hint of the concern that has been steadily creeping into his looks over the past years coloring his features.
“It is the natural course of things, when one is destined for greatness — look at Caesar, look at Alexander. But listen to me: fate will have her way with me, and I will not make the mistake of Laius nor Achilles. I will neither fear my fate nor be so proud as to fight it.”
“You don’t believe in fate or luck,” Marius pathetically parries. “You would do well to remember that I am not one of your citizens to be swayed so easily by pretty words and pictures.”
“You are not.” says Napoléon with a serious nod. “I shall use fate, and I shall use lucky generals, and I shall use every resource at my disposal to convince providence of my worth — and if that means dressing up in fine things and making the Pope himself declare me equal to kings, then I shall wear my mantle and ride off to Notre-Dame to face him myself.
“But I should feel better with you at my side.”
Marius doesn’t answer right away, but Napoléon isn’t worried: this is Marius’s way. He also knows, however, that when he’d arrived several minutes ago, there had only been twenty minutes before the procession’s departure, and Napoléon begins doing the calculations on how long things can be stalled without drawing attention.
Marius must sense this, because he bumps his shoulder against Napoléon’s. “Go. I’ll wait for you at the cathedral. I wouldn’t want to interfere with fate, after all,” he says, eyes twinkling.
“You would only interfere if fate allowed you to,” Napoléon tells him, rising nevertheless.
With Marius meeting him there, there is no longer any rush. He remains seated on the bed, hands on his knees as he continues staring out the window at the end of the room. “It’s probably best if you’re not seen arriving with me, if this is all a spectacle to gain respect.”
Drawing himself to his full height, Napoléon declares, “Alexander was not embarrassed by Sisygambis, and I will not be cowed by France.”
“Napoléon, listen to me.” Marius is still seated in his bedclothes, having only turned his head, but he appears before Napoléon transformed to ancient royalty. “This moment is to magnify your glory and that of your empress. I do not fit into that. I shall support you, but your providence and glory are your own; remember also that it was Hephaestion who laid Alexander low, and Patroclus Achilles.”
Napoléon’s mouth goes acrid, and he feels his lips press together in a firm line. Marius spoke true before: he is indeed not one of Napoléon’s uneducated subjects or awestruck soldiers. Napoléon has been so swept up in designing and shaping the new world order that it can be easy to forget that Marius stands in the center of that hurricane, witnessing its creation yet moved by none of its winds. “Very well. I will be looking for you among my sisters.”
“Take care that they do not trip Joséphine on the way to the ceremony,” smiles Marius wryly.
Napoléon reaches forward, giving Marius’s ear two affectionate tweaks before letting himself out of the room.