In 1802 a preeminent merchant meets with Josephine Bonaparte on behalf of the city of Lyon, the silk capital of France. He needs her help in persuading Napoleon to commit a great folly. He needs her help. The welfare of Lyon hangs in the balance.
“No, Monsieur Levacher, it is not possible.” Josephine flittered her hand like a butterfly over the lustrous fabric, then with the back of her hand, caressed it. She glanced at the closed mahogany door leading to her husband’s study.
“But, Madame, surely you understand the urgency.”
Josephine cinched her brows and stole another glance at the closed door. She lowered her voice.
“My husband prefers the rough, drab wool of the soldier’s blanket to the fine silk threads of the courtier’s jacket.” She traced the golden embroidery with the tips of her fingers as she spoke. “I’m sorry, old friend.”
“I’m sorry, too, Madame.” Levacher bowed his head. His eyes wandered through the forest green laurel leaves woven in the rug as if looking for a lost button or something to say.
A crash from the study like a cane crushing a spider startled Josephine and hastened Levacher’s hands as he stuffed the coat into the box.
“You should go,” she whispered. “He’s in a mood.”
The study door flung open and Napoleon strode into the room.
Napoleon’s gaze cascaded from Levacher’s eyes to the merry bow trimmed in lace round his neck, to his double-breasted waistcoat, to the sassy buttons at his knees until finally coming to rest on the tassels on his boots.
“And who is this?” he said, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes sizing up Levacher from the tassle on his boot, to the buttons at his knees, to his double-breasted waistcoat, until finally coming to rest on the merry bow of the cravat trimmed in lace around his neck.
“My dear, this is Monsieur Levacher, my silk mercer.”
“Sir,” Levacher bowed at the waist.
“I know that name from the exorbitant bills of sale for my wife’s extravagant dresses.”
“Your wife has been a friend to the silk industry.” Levacher glanced from Napoleon to the box in his arms and back again.
“How fares the silk industry?” Napoleon said.
Levacher put down the box and swallowed hard. “We are dying, General. As the rest of France prospers, the silk farmers, the weavers, the merchants are starving. Since the Revolution no one wishes to be mistaken for an aristocrat.”
Napoleon walked briskly to the picture box window. “What is to be done?” He didn’t turn around, but stared intently at the rows of Gallica Roses his wife had planted last spring
Levacher seized the coat from the box and shook it out, its heaviness like the stiff linen canvas of a sailboat that caught the wind.
Napoleon turned. The red taffeta shimmered on waves of light. The golden threads that traced the lines of olive branches seemed as if they could reach out and entwine the wrists that wore the jacket.
Josephine was the first to speak. “Monsieur Levacher believes that if you wear this coat, you will save the city of Lyon.” She looked at her husband from the soft brown lashes of a colt and held his gaze.
Levacher held his breath.
Napoleon crossed his arms and squinted at the red coat. “I will not deny that I have some repugnance to equip myself in this fantastic costume, but for that reason my resolution will be the better appreciated.”
He turned his back on Levacher and stretched back his arms allowing the merchant to adorn him in his new red coat.
Commentary
Napoleon’s quote about his repugnance in wearing such a dandified coat was pulled directly from the Memoirs of the Duchess D’Abrantes. The additional dialogue is mine though it is likely that Napoleon asked Levacher’s opinion on stabilizing the silk industry. He enjoyed engaging people in rapid-fire question and answer conversations. Children and women with no learning or experience were quizzed as zealously as experts.
Napoleon hated fashion as much as Nero loved it. He used fashion as a tool. By donning the pretentious and overstated red coat, all the courtiers, aristocrats, and parvenus followed suit bringing demand back to a failing industry. He also knew that people liked pomp and foreign dignitaries would be cowed by this show of wealth.
Napoleon boasted later in life that he could lose his fortune and be content. After all, he had lived in poverty the first half of his life without complaint. His socks and breeches, scarce to begin with, had holes that he darned again and again. His belly learned to stop growling for more than the thick chunk of peasant’s bread he stuffed into his mouth for most meals. With military success came the trappings of wealth: embroidered coats, personal chef, and elegant palaces. He insisted that the show of wealth was necessary for maintaining power, as if he felt the need to justify the ostentation. It would have sparked an interesting conversation: How could you not be affected?
In a strange twist of fate, he had the opportunity to prove his boast. The isle of St. Helena, ten miles wide by five miles long, confined Napoleon to 47 square miles of land boxed in by sea. He lived in a rat-infested barn converted to a house. Napoleon’s one extravagance for the rest of his life was soaking in hot baths.
Sources
D’Abrantes, Laura Junot. At the Court of Napoleon: Memoirs of the Duchesse D’Abrantes. (pp. 251-252). New York: Doubleday. 1989.
“Fashion condemns us to many follies, the greatest is to make oneself its slave.”
– Napoleon Bonaparte