The Puppet
July 17, 1429 — Morning
The Archbishop's Palace
Napoleon stood in the center of the room, arms outstretched, while three valets fussed over him.
They were dressing a doll.
First came the crimson satin tunic (tunique), representing the priesthood. It was stiflingly hot.
Then came the dalmatic (dalmatique) of azure blue, embroidered with golden fleur-de-lys. It was heavy, weighing down his shoulders like a lead yoke.
Finally, the purple velvet boots.
Napoleon looked down at his feet.
In 1804, he thought, I wore a laurel wreath of gold. I wore a mantle of red velvet bees. I looked like a Roman Emperor.
Today, I look like a stained-glass window.
"The Oath, Sire," Regnault de Chartres whispered, holding out a heavy, leather-bound Gospel. "You must swear to defend the Holy Church and exterminate heretics."
Napoleon placed his hand on the book. The leather was cold.
Exterminate heretics, he thought, glancing at the window where the sun was rising. If I did that, half my artillery corps would be burned at the stake.
"I promise," Napoleon mumbled, his voice a low blur, rushing through the Latin words as if agreeing to the terms of a loan he intended to default on. "I swear. Peace to the Church. Justice to the people. Et cetera."
"Sire..." Regnault looked pained. "You must enunciate."
"I have enunciated enough with cannons, Regnault," Napoleon pulled his hand away. "Let us get this theater over with."
He walked toward the door. The heavy robes rustled—a sound like dry leaves, or whispering ghosts.
A King is made by oil and silk, he told himself. But an Emperor is made by iron.
The Anointing
The High Altar of Reims Cathedral
The organ roared. It shook the dust from the high vaulted ceilings.
Gilles de Rais stood at the very edge of the sanctuary. His hands were trembling, not from fear, but from a strange, aesthetic ecstasy.
He held the Sainte Ampoule.
He watched as the King was stripped of his heavy outer robes. Napoleon stood in his white linen shift. The shirt had special slits cut into the chest, the shoulders, and the back.
To Gilles, the King looked vulnerable. Like a sacrifice prepared for the knife.
Archbishop Regnault took a golden needle. He extracted a single drop of the holy oil from the vial Gilles held. It was thick, red-gold, like coagulated blood.
Regnault mixed it with the Chrism on the paten. The smell of balsam and ancient musk filled the air.
"I anoint thee," Regnault chanted, his voice echoing in the stone silence. "With the oil of Clovis. With the oil of St. Louis."
Regnault's thumb touched the King's crown of the head. Then the chest. Then the shoulders.
Gilles leaned forward, his eyes wide. He wanted to see the transformation. He wanted to see the Holy Spirit descend.
But he saw nothing.
Napoleon did not tremble. He did not weep. He did not close his eyes in rapture.
He stood there, enduring the touch of the oil as a soldier endures the cleaning of a wound.
The oil cooled instantly on his skin. It didn't burn. It didn't glow. It simply sat there, turning from a holy sacrament into sticky grease.
His eyes were open. They were grey. They were cold.
Gilles shivered. A smile crept onto his lips.
He is not receiving God, Gilles thought, thrilled by the blasphemy of it. He is tolerating Him.
This is not a saint. This is something much more beautiful.
The Blur
The Foot of the Throne
Joan of Arc stood closer than anyone.
She held her white banner in her left hand. Her right hand rested on her heart.
She was crying.
The tears streamed down her face, unbidden, unstoppable. She looked at the man she had found in Chinon—the man who had been hiding in a crowd of courtiers, the man who had doubted himself.
Now, he stood bathed in the multicolored light of the rose window. The oil glistened on his forehead.
My King, she thought. My Gentle King. We made it.
"The Crown!" Regnault's voice boomed.
The Twelve Peers (or their proxies) stepped forward. Alençon, Clermont, Richemont... they all reached out their hands to support the great Crown of Charlemagne.
It was the moment. The consummation of her mission.
Joan was overwhelmed. The light was too bright. The glory was too heavy.
She felt unworthy to watch the final mystery.
Slowly, reverently, Joan bowed her head. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the cool wood of her banner's staff.
Lord, she prayed. Let him be wise. Let him be safe. Let France be healed.
She heard the rustle of the Archbishop's heavy sleeves as he lifted the crown.
Then—
A sound.
It was a soft, heavy thud.
The sound of gold hitting bone. Not a fall. A placement.
Then, the rustle of twelve pairs of hands grasping at empty air.
A gasp.
It wasn't a cheer. It was a sharp, collective intake of breath from three thousand throats. A sound of shock.
Then, absolute, terrifying silence.
The organ stopped. The chanting stopped. Even the air seemed to freeze.
What happened? Joan thought. Did he faint? Did the crown fall?
She kept her eyes closed, afraid to look, afraid that the omen had turned bad.
Then, she heard Regnault's voice. It was high, strained, almost shouting—as if he were trying to cover a mistake, or explain a miracle.
"BEHOLD!" Regnault cried out. "He does not wait! He accepts the burden freely! He takes the thorns upon himself!"
The thorns? Joan opened her eyes.
She looked up.
The Crown was already on Charles's head.
It sat there, heavy and golden. Napoleon was standing tall. His hands were at his sides. He looked calm, while around him, the great nobles looked pale and shaken.
Regnault was trembling, his hands empty in the air.
Joan blinked through her tears. She didn't understand what had happened in that second of darkness.
He accepts the burden freely, she repeated to herself.
Yes. That must be it. He is so eager to serve God that he could not wait.
"Noël!" Joan cried out, her voice breaking the silence. "Long live the King!"
As if released from a spell, the crowd erupted.
"NOËL! NOËL! NOËL!"
The roar was like the ocean. It washed away the awkward silence. It washed away the confusion. It drowned out everything but the victory.
The King
The Great West Door
The massive oak doors of the Cathedral swung open.
The sunlight of July hit them like a physical blow.
Napoleon stepped out onto the parvis.
He was wearing the full regalia now. The Crown. The Scepter. The Hand of Justice. The blue velvet mantle lined with ermine.
He looked magnificent.
But Alençon, walking a step behind him, looked like he had just seen a ghost. He was grinning, but it was a nervous, hysterical grin.
Richemont, on the other side, looked grimly satisfied, his hand resting on the pommel of the Sword of State.
And Regnault de Chartres... the Archbishop looked aged by ten years. He was sweating profusely, wiping his brow with a trembling hand.
Only the King was unmoved.
Napoleon looked out at the sea of people—citizens, soldiers, peasants—stretching as far as the eye could see. They were screaming his name. They were weeping.
He felt the weight of the crown on his brow. It was heavy. It dug into his skin.
It fits, he thought.
He raised the Scepter, not like a holy relic, but like a marshal's baton.
"The play is over," he whispered to himself, his voice lost in the cheering.
"Now, the reign begins."