Désirée (52 page)

"Go on with your tale of horror, Count Brahe," I said.

He looked at me as though I'd made a joke. "Tale of horror?" But I wasn't laughing. He hesitated.

"Please tell us the rest."

"Gustavus IV interpreted Biblical passages to mean that he must destroy France—Revolutionary France, of course. That's why he allied himself with the enemies of France. Only after
the Tsar made peace with the Emperor Napoleon did the King attack Russia. We marched against the strongest powers on the Continent and were almost totally destroyed. Field Marshal von Essen lost Pomerania to your husband—pardon— to His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince Karl Johan, and the Russians took Finland away from us. Our Finland—"

He paused, but briefly. "And if the Prince of Ponte Corvo, when he was with his troops in Denmark, had crossed the frozen Öresund, there would today be no more Sweden. Madame—Your Royal Highness, we are an ancient state. We are tired after so many wars, but we want to—survive."

He bit his lip. A handsome young man with regular features—this Count Brahe of ancient Swedish lineage.

"Whereupon our officers decided to end these wild political gambles. Last year—on the thirteenth of March—Gustavus IV was taken prisoner in the Royal Palace in Stockholm. Parliament met and deposed him. They crowned his uncle, who'd once been Regent. The adoptive father of Your Royal Highnesses."

"And where is he now, this—mad Gustavus?"

"In Switzerland, I believe."

"He has a son, hasn't he?"

"Yes, another Gustavus. But Parliament has deprived him, too, of all rights to the Swedish crown."

"How old is he?"

"He is Oscar's age—the age of the Heir Apparent." Count Brahe stood up, picked the leaf that had so fascinated him and crumpled it between his fingers.

"Come back, and do tell me what they had against this young Gustavus."

Count Brahe shrugged. "Nothing. But they had nothing in his favour, either. The people fear the bad blood in the Vasa family. It is a very old dynasty, Highness, and there's been much intermarriage."

The House of Vasa is too old for them. They want Sweden to rise again as a great power, even if it means the ruination of the Swedish people. At last they appealed to the lower classes, the so-called commoners, for support, while members
of the aristocracy put on black masks and attended a ball. "Did the present King ever have any children?"

Brahe grew animated. "Charles XIII and Queen Hedwig Elisabeth Charlotte had one son, but he died many years ago. When he ascended the throne, His Majesty, of course, had to adopt a successor and chose the Prince of Augustenburg, brother-in-law of the Danish King. The Prince was also Governor of Norway. The Norwegians were very fond of him. Everyone hoped for a union between Sweden and Norway after he came to the throne. When the Prince of Augustenburg was accidentally killed last May, Parliament was convened. Your Royal Highness knows the result of that meeting."

"The result," I said softly, "but not how it was achieved. Please tell me that."

"Your Highness knows that in Lübeck the Prince—I mean the Crown Prince—took prisoner several Swedish officers."

"Naturally. Two of them are right now with Jean-Baptiste. This dishevelled Mons. Mörner—has he had a bath by the way?—and Baron Frie—"

"Yes, Mörner and Baron Friesendorff." Brahe nodded. "In Lübeck the Prince of Ponte Corvo invited these young officers for supper, and casually told them where he thought lay the future of the North. As a strategist, with a map in his hand. Our officers returned to Sweden, and since then the Army has become increasingly convinced that we need a man like the Prince, if Sweden is to be saved. That's all there is to tell, Your Highness."

"You say that after the death of Augustenburg, Parliament was convened. What did the aristocracy say to that? The old Swedish aristocracy which never has conceded that commoners were entitled to any rights?"

Count Brahe looked straight at me. "Most of the younger nobles are officers. We tried in vain to defend Finland, and to hold Pomerania. We were enthusiastic about the idea of Prince Ponte Corvo. We tried to win our parents over to our Plan. And after the murder, it was obvious to everyone that we were lost unless we chose a strong man to succeed to the throne."

"After the murder? Not another murder?"

"Your Highness has probably not heard that at the funeral of the Prince of Augustenburg Marshal Count Axel von Fersen was murdered. In the road very near the Royal Palace."

"Fersen? Who is Count von Fersen?"

Brahe smiled. "The lover of the late Queen Marie Antoinette. The man who tried to smuggle the poor Queen and Louis XVI out of France. Their whole party was caught at Varennes. Incidentally, until his death Count von Fersen wore the Queen's ring. A very sad story. . . ."

"All the stories you've told me are sad, Count Brahe," I murmured. "The more you tell me about Stockholm, the sadder it seems." Strange that Marie Antoinette had a Swedish lover, I thought. How small the world is. "But why was this Count von Fersen murdered?"

"Because he was a fanatic enemy of the new France. Am also because Augustenburg wanted peace at any price with France before Sweden was entirely destroyed. A rumour circulated that Count von Fersen had poisoned the erstwhile Crown Prince. Nonsense, naturally—the Prince of Augustenburg fell off his horse during a parade. Anyway, the mob, who considered Fersen opposed to any peace negotiations, fell on him in the street and stoned him to death. During the funeral procession of the unlucky Augustenburg."

"Were no guards near?"

"Troops were lined up on both sides of the street. They didn't move," said Brahe with no particular emotion. "It's said the King was forewarned of this attack and did nothing to prevent it. Fersen was an enemy of our new policy of neutrality. After Fersen's murder, the Governor of Stockholm declared he could no longer guarantee law and order in the capital. So Parliament met in Orebro instead of Stockholm."

Oscar was poking holes in the sand with the toe of his boot. The conversation bored him, and he paid no attention. I'm glad he didn't hear the story of the man who was murdered while the Swedish regiments stood stolidly by.

"Since Fersen's murder the aristocracy realizes that the
young officers, who wanted to call in the Prince of Ponte Corvo, are right. The old King is considered . . ."

"A murderer," he wanted to say—but he didn't say it.

"And the third and fourth estates?" I asked.

"Our unsuccessful wars depleted our treasury. Our salvation is trade with England. But only a man on good terms with Napoleon can help Sweden avoid being forced into the Continental System. The third and fourth estates are also aware of this. Besides, a poverty-stricken court is not respected by the workers. The House of Vasa will soon be too poor to pay the palace gardeners. And when the commoners were told that the Prince of Ponte Corvo is very rich, they voted for him."

"Mama, is Papa really so rich he can pay all the gardeners in Sweden?" Oscar asked.

"People often assume that self-made men are rich," I said. "The people of Sweden and its aristocracy apparently assume so."

"For years I've saved a part of my pay. I can buy a small I house for you and the child," Jean-Baptiste told me that first rainy night when we drove through the streets of Paris. A
little house for me and the child, Jean-Baptiste, but not this Royal Palace in Sweden where the nobles wear black masks and murder their King. Not this palace, in front of which the mob stoned a marshal of the realm, while the King's soldiers
looked on. Not this palace, Jean-Baptiste . . . I buried my face in my hands and wept.

"Mama, dear Mama." Oscar put his arms tight around my
neck. I wiped away my tears and saw Count Brahe's serious fa
ce. Had this young man any idea why I cried?

Perhaps I shouldn't have told you all this, Your Royal
Highness," he said. "But I think it's better for you to know."

"The aristocracy, the officers, the third and fourth estates elected my husband. And His Majesty, the King?"

"The King is a Vasa, Your Highness. A man, hardly more than sixty, who has already suffered several strokes. A man who is crippled with gout, and whose mind has become cloudy. He resisted to the end, and suggested one after an
other of his North German cousins, and various Danish princes. Finally he had to give in. . . ."

Finally he had to give in and adopt Jean-Baptiste as his beloved son. "The Queen is younger than His Majesty, isn't she?"

"Her Majesty is a little over fifty, and a very energetic and clever woman."

"How she will hate me," I whispered.

"Her Majesty is very happy about the little Duke of Södermanland," said Count Brahe quietly.

At that moment Mörner came out of the house. He was fresh and clean, his round boyish face beamed, he wore dress uniform. Oscar ran to him. "I want to see the coat of arms on your buttons." He fingered one of the buttons on Mörner's uniform. "Look, Mama, three little crowns and lion who wears a crown. What a beautiful coat of arms. "

Mörner let his eyes range thoughtfully from Brahe to me. I looked weepy, and the young Count embarrassed.

"Her Royal Highness wished to hear the recent history our Royal House," hesitatingly from Brahe. Mörner raise astonished eyebrows.

"Are we now also members of the Vasa family?" Oscar asked excitedly. "If the old King adopts Papa, that makes all Vasas, doesn't it?"

I flinched. "Nonsense, Oscar, you stay what you are— a Bernadotte," I snapped, and stood up. "Did you want to tell me something, Baron Mörner?"

"His Royal Highness requests Her Royal Highness to come to his study."

Jean-Baptiste's study was a strange sight. Next to the desk, on which, as always, were piled all sorts of documents, stood the large mirror from my dressing room. Jean-Baptiste was trying on a new uniform. Before him knelt three tailors, their mouths full of pins. The Swedes were piously watching the fitting. I examined the new blue coat. The high collar was simply edged in gold. None of the heavy embroidery of the marshal's uniform. Jean-Baptiste earnestly contemplated himself in the mirror. "It's tight," he said sepulchrally, "under the
right arm." The three tailors jumped up simultaneously, undid the seams under the sleeve, and pinned them together again. "Can you pick any flaw in the uniform, Count von Essen?" Jean-Baptiste asked. With which all the Swedes circled studiously around him. Essen shook his head, but Friesendorff ran his hand over and then under Jean-Baptiste's shoulders.

"Forgive me, Your Royal Highness," he said, and finally solemnly announced, "It pulls under the collar." So all three tailors felt Jean-Baptiste's back, but couldn't find anything wrong. Fernand, of course, had the last word.

"Marshal, sir, the uniform fits perfectly."

"Your sash, dear Count von Essen," and Jean-Baptiste unwound the blue and yellow sash from the waist of the embittered Count and put it on. "You'll have to return to Sweden without your sash, I need it for tomorrow's audience. I couldn't get another in Paris. Send me three Swedish marshal's sashes as soon as you reach Stockholm." Just then did he notice me. "This is the Swedish uniform—is it becoming?" I nodded. "We're to see the Emperor tomorrow morning at eleven. I asked for an audience, and want you to accompany me." Then, "Essen, should the sash be worn over or under the belt?"

"Over the belt, Your Royal Highness."

"Excellent. I needn't borrow your belt. I'll wear the one from the marshal's uniform—I mean the French marshal's uniform— no one will notice. Désirée, do you really think the uniform fits well?"

At that very moment Mme la Flotte announced Julie. "I'll also need a Swedish dress sword," I heard Jean-Baptiste say as I went downstairs.

Julie looked small and lost in her heavy elegantly draped wine-red velvet coat. She stood at the window gazing thoughtfully out into the garden. "Julie, forgive me—I've kept you waiting."

My entrance had a strange effect on Julie. Her thinnish neck stiffened, her eyes popped wide open, as though she'd never seen me before, and down she went into a deep court curtsy.

"Don't you make fun of me, I have troubles enough as it is." I was furious.

Julie replied earnestly, "Your Royal Highness, I'm not making fun of anything."

"Get up. Get up right away and stop annoying me. Since when does a queen curtsy to a crown princess?"

Julie straightened up. "If the Queen is a queen without a country, whose subjects have opposed her and the King from the very beginning, while the Crown Princess is the wife of a man unanimously elected heir to the throne by Parliament —such respect is proper. I congratulate you, darling. I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart."

"How did you hear all that? Last night was the first we knew of it ourselves." I sat down beside her on a small sofa.

"Why, all Paris is talking about nothing else. The rest of us were simply put on our thrones by the Emperor in countries he'd conquered. As his deputies, so to speak. Whereas in Sweden, Parliament selected Bernadotte. Désirée—I just can take it in." Julie laughed. "By the way, I dined today in the Tuileries. The Emperor talked a long time about it and teased me frightfully."