Désirée (50 page)

"Count Brahe, I believe you belong to one of the most distinguished families in Sweden. And so I ask you to remind your friends and fellow officers that I was not always Prince of Ponte Corvo and also not always a marshal of France. In your aristocratic circles I would be called a former Jacobin general. And I began as a simple sergeant. In a word a parvenu. I ask you to remember this, so that you—" he took a deep breath, again his fingers clutched painfully at my arm—"so that you will not reproach me later." And very hastily, "Farewell, gentlemen."

We met Talleyrand a second time that evening in a most remarkable way. By chance his carriage stopped next to ours in front of the Tuileries. Just as we were getting in, I saw him limping up to Jean-Baptiste.

"Dear Prince," he said, "the gift of speech was given man to conceal his thoughts. But you, my friend, make no use of this gift. No one could truly maintain that you concealed your thoughts from the Swedes."

"Must I then remind a former bishop that it is written in the Bible: 'But let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil!' "

Talleyrand bit his lips. "I never knew you were a wit, Prince," he murmured. "You amaze me."

Jean-Baptiste laughed aloud. "Don't overrate the modest witticisms of a sergeant who used to sit around a campfire with his comrades." Suddenly he was serious. "Have the Swedish officers told you what member of the Swedish Royal House has been proposed as heir to the throne?"

"The brother-in-law of the deceased heir, the King of Denmark, is one candidate."

Jean-Baptiste nodded. "And who else?" "The younger brother of the lad who was killed, the Duke of Augustenburg. Also, the former King, who now lives in exile in Switzerland, has a son. But as the father is considered , mad, no one expects much of the son. So, we shall see. The Swedish Parliament will be convened. The people can decide for themselves. Good night, dear friend."

"Good night, Your Excellency."

Back home, Jean-Baptiste rushed right to his dressing room and tore open his high richly embroidered collar. "I've told you for years you should have your collars made larger, the marshal's uniform is too small for you."

"Too small," he muttered. "My dear, innocent little girl, who never knows what she's saying. Yes, much too small."

Without paying any more attention to me he marched off to his bedroom.

I'm writing, because I can't sleep. And I can't sleep because I am worried. Very worried about something that's about to happen and that I can't run away from. Jean-Baptiste, don't you hear me, I am really anxious. . . .

PART THREE

Our Lady of Peace

Paris, September, 1810

S
OMEONE shone a light in my face. "Get up at once, Désirée, and dress quickly!"

Jean-Baptiste stood with a candlestick by my bed. Then he put down the candle, and began to button the tunic of his marshal's uniform.

"Have you gone mad, Jean-Baptiste? It's still night."

"Hurry, I've had Oscar waked, too. I want the child to be present."

Voices and footsteps sounded on the ground floor. Yvette shuffled in. In her haste she'd pulled her maid's dress over her nightgown. It was one of my discarded nightgowns and it trailed after her across the floor. "Hurry, please. Help the Princess," impatiently from Jean-Baptiste.

"Has something happened?" I demanded. Yes—and no. You'll hear it all yourself. Just hurry now."

" What shall I wear?" I asked, completely distraught.

"The most beautiful dress you own. The most fashionable, the most expensive, do you understand?"

"No, I understand nothing." I was angry. "Yvette, bring me the yellow silk, the one I wore at court the other day. Will you never tell me, Jean-Baptiste—"

But he had already left my room. With flying fingers I fixed my hair.

"The tiara, Princess?" Yvette asked.

"Yes, the tiara," I said indignantly. "Bring me my jewel
box." I'll wear everything I own. If no one will tell me what's going on, how can I tell what to wear. And the child awake, in the middle of the night . . .

"Are you ready at last, Désirée?"

"If you don't tell me, Jean-Baptiste . . ."

"A touch of rouge on the lips," Yvette whispered.

In the dressing table mirror, my sleepy face yawned at me "Rouge, powder, quick, Yvette."

"Come on, Désirée! We can't keep them waiting any longer."

"Whom can't we keep waiting? All I know is it's the middle of the night, all I want is to go back to sleep . . ."

Jean-Baptiste took my arm. "Pull yourself together, little one."

"What's it all about? Will you please be kind enough to tell me?"

"The greatest moment of my life, Désirée!"

I wanted to stop and just look at him, but he had an iron grip on my arm and propelled me down the stairs. At the door of the large hall, Fernand and Marie shoved Oscar at us. Oscar's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Papa, is there a war? Papa, is the Emperor coming to see us? How beautifully Mama's dressed . . ."

They'd arrayed the child in his best suit and flattened his stubborn hair with water. Jean-Baptiste took Oscar by the hand.

The salon was brightly lit. Every candelabra we possess was aglow. Several gentlemen awaited us. Jean-Baptiste took my arm and slowly, between the child and me, he approached the expectant group.

Foreign uniforms, blue and yellow sashes, shining stars on their orders. And a young man in a dusty tunic, his high boots spattered from top to toe with mud. His bright hair hung all disheveled almost to his shoulders. He held a very large sealed document in his hand. At our entrance, the gentleman bowed most deferentially. It was quiet as the grave. Then the young man with the sealed document stepped forward. He must have been riding for many days and nights without a
break. Under his eyes were deep shadows. The hand holding the document shook.

"Gustaf Fredrik Mörner of the Upland Dragoons, my prisoner from Lübeck," said Jean-Baptiste meditatively. "I'm happy to see you again. Extremely happy."

So this was that Mörner with whom Jean-Baptiste had discussed the future of the North a whole night through.

With a shaking hand he held out the document to Jean-Baptiste.

"Your Royal Highness—"

My heart missed a beat. Jean-Baptiste let go my arm and calmly took the document.

"Your Royal Highness—as Chamberlain of His Majesty, King Charles XIII of Sweden, I have the honour to report that the Swedish Parliament has unanimously elected the Prince of Ponte Corvo heir to the throne. His Majesty King Charles XIII wishes to adopt the Prince of Ponte Corvo and to receive him in Sweden as his beloved son."

Gustaf Fredrik Mörner swayed. "Forgive me, I've been in the saddle for days," he murmured. An older man, his chest bristling with orders, leapt to support him. But Mörner rallied. "May I present these gentlemen to the Prince of Ponte Corvo?"

Jean-Baptiste nodded almost imperceptibly. "Colonel Wrede and Count Brahe I have already met."

"Our Ambassador Extraordinary in Paris, Field Marshal Count Hans Henrik von Essen."

The older man clicked his heels together, his face rigid. Jean-Baptiste nodded. "You were Governor General in Pomerania. You defended Pomerania excellently against my attacks, Field Marshal."

"Baron Friesendorff, Aide to Field Marshal Count von Essen."

"Also one of your prisoners in Lübeck, Highness." Friesendorff smiled.

Mörner, Friesendorff and young Brahe gazed with shining eye
at Jean-Baptiste. Wrede waited, looking stern. The face o
f Count von Essen was without expression. Only his tight-
pressed lips showed his bitterness. It was so still we could hear the candles drip.

Jean-Baptiste took a deep breath. "I accept the decision of the Swedish Parliament."

His eyes fastened on von Essen, the defeated candidate, the aging servant of an aging, childless king. Deeply moved, very impressively he continued:

"I thank His Majesty, King Charles XIII, and the Swedish people for their trust in me. I swear to do everything in my power to justify this trust."

Count von Essen bowed his head. Bowed his head lower, finally really bowed from the waist. And when he did, the other Swedes bowed with him. At this moment something very strange happened. Oscar, who until then had been so quiet, stepped forward and stood alongside the Swedes. Then he turned and his little hand grasped the hand of young Brahe, who can't be more than ten years older than he. Right in the midst of the Swedes stood Oscar, bowing his head as respectfully as they, bowing to his papa and mama.

Jean-Baptiste reached for my hand, protectively his fingers covered mine. "The Crown Princess and I thank you for bringing this message directly to us."

Then many things happened fast. Jean-Baptiste sail "Fernand, bring the bottles I laid down in the cellar when Oscar was born." I tried to find Marie. The members of our household were,at the door. Mme la Flotte, in an elegant negligee (paid for perhaps by Fouché), did a court curtsy. Next to her, my reader did likewise. Yvette sobbed. Only Marie seemed normal. She had on her wool dressing gown over her old-fashioned linen nightshirt. She'd dressed Oscar and had had no time to think about herself. So she stood in a corner anxiously trying to hold her dressing gown together.

"Marie—" I said in a stage whisper. "Did you hear? The Swedish people offered us the crown. It's not like Julie and Joseph. It's—entirely different. Marie—I'm frightened, Marie."

"Eugénie—" vehemently, hoarsely—and then Marie forgot to hold her dressing gown together. A tear rolled down her cheek, while she—Marie, my dear Marie—curtsied to me.

Jean-Baptiste leaned against the mantelpiece and studied the document Mörner had brought. The austere Field Marshal, Count von Essen, went over to him. "Those are the conditions, Your Royal Highness," he said.

Jean-Baptiste looked up. "I take it you yourself heard about my election less than an hour ago. You've been in Paris the whole time, Field Marshal. I regret—"

Field Marshal von Essen raised his eyebrows in astonishment. "What do you regret, Your Royal Highness?"

"That you had no time to become accustomed to the idea. I'm sincerely sorry. You have defended every policy of the House of Vasa with great loyalty and courage. That was not always easy, Count von Essen."

"It was extremely difficult. And the battle I once fought against you I have unfortunately lost, Your Royal Highness."

"We will build up the Swedish armies together," Jean-Baptiste answered.

"Before I send Prince Ponte Corvo's answer to Stockholm tomorrow morning, I must draw your attention to one paragraph in the document," said the Field Marshal. He sounded almost menacing. "It concerns nationality. The adoption requires that the Prince of Ponte Corvo be a Swedish subject."

Jean-Baptiste smiled. "Had you thought I would succeed to the throne of Sweden as a French citizen?"

An incredulous smile dawned on the face of Count von Essen. But I thought that I hadn't heard Jean-Baptiste correctly.

"Tomorrow I shall apply to the Emperor of France and ask His Majesty to allow me and my family to relinquish our French citizenship. . . . Oh, the wine! Fernand—open all the bottles!"

Triumphantly Fernand set the dusty bottles on a small table. I had shepherded these bottles from Sceaux to the rue du Rocher and from there to the rue d'Anjou.

When I bought this wine, I was Minister of War," Jean-Ba
ptiste said. "At that time Oscar came into the world and I
said to my wife, 'We shall open these bottles on the day
on which the youngster joins the French Army—'" Fernand had uncorked the first bottle.

"I'm going to be a musician, monsieur." That was Oscar' childish voice. He still clung to young Brahe's hand. "Though Mama hopes I'll be a silk merchant. Like Grandfather Clary."

Even the weary Mörner laughed. Field Marshal von Essen's face remained expressionless.

Fernand filled the glasses with the dark wine.

"Your Royal Highness will now learn his first Swedish word. It's
'Skål,'
and means to your good health," said the young Count Brahe. "I should like to propose the health of His Roy . . ."

He got no further. Jean-Baptiste held up his hand. "Gentlemen, I ask you, empty this glass to the health of His Majesty the King of Sweden, my kind adoptive father."

They drank slowly and seriously. I'm dreaming, I thought, and drunk the superb wine. I'm lying in my bed and dreaming. Then someone shouted, "To His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Karl Johan!"

"Han Skål leva—"
they cried to each other. What does that mean? Is it—Swedish? I sat on the small sofa by the fireplace. They'd waked me up in the middle of the night to inform me that the Swedish King wants my husband to be his son. That makes my husband Crown Prince of Sweden. I'd always thought one could adopt only small children. Sweden, close to the North Pole! Stockholm, the city over which the sky lies like a white sheet. Tomorrow Persson will read it all in the newspaper. And won't know that the Princess of Ponte Corvo, wife of the new Crown Prince, is the little Clary girl of long ago.