Désirée (62 page)

White pieces of torn newspaper blew into the road, extras from the
Moniteur
announcing the new victory. Tomorrow the
street cleaner will sweep them into the gutter. We passed Parisians sitting placidly on their doorsteps—they are used to victories, and long only for their sons. It was the same as always except my heart was tight with sadness.

"Perhaps they'll really come back when this is all over. The Bourbons, I mean," the young blond Count said. I looked at him sideways. A classical profile, very fair skin, very light hair, slim boyish shoulders. We drove across the Pont RoyaL Marie Louise's windows were all alight.

"I'll present you to the Empress Josephine, Count," I said on an impulse.

After the divorce, she wept for two days and two whole nights. And then she had a facial massage and ordered three new gowns. . . . Silver eyelids, smiles with lips closed. For her sake Napoleon robbed the Italians of the portrait of Mona Lisa. I'll show the young Swedish Count the most beautiful woman in Paris. And ask Josephine how I ought to rouge my face. If the Swedes must have a parvenue Crown Princess, she should at least be beautiful. . . .

When we got home, I went immediately to my room and began to write. How long will I be so alone? Marie has just come in and asked, "Have you heard from Colonel Villatte? And has he mentioned Pierre?" I shook my head.

"After this new victory, the Tsar will ask for peace, a Pierre will be home before winter," Marie said happily. She knelt down and removed my shoes. In her hair there is so much white, her hands are rough, all her life long she has worked hard and sent her savings to Pierre. Now Pierre is marching toward Moscow. Jean-Baptiste, what will happen to Pierre in Moscow? Jean-Baptiste . . .

"Sleep well, Eugénie, and pleasant dreams."

"Thank you, Marie, good night." As in my childhood. Who is putting my Oscar to bed? One, two, three aides? Or chamberlains.

And you, Jean-Baptiste? Can you hear me? Let Pierre come home safely, let him come home . . .

But you probably cannot hear me.

Paris, two weeks later

It has happened again. Once more I am the disgrace of the family. Julie and Joseph came back into town from Mortefontaine, and gave a large party to celebrate Napoleon's entry into Moscow. And I, too, was invited. But I didn't want to go, and wrote Julie that I had a cold. The very next day she came to see me.

"I'm terribly anxious to have you come," she declared. "There's so much silly talk about you and Jean-Baptiste. Naturally, your husband should have joined Napoleon in his Russian campaign; then they couldn't say Jean-Baptiste had allied himself with the Tsar. I want to stop this malicious gossip . . ."

"Julie, Jean-Baptiste
has
allied himself with the Tsar."

Julie looked at me unbelievingly. "Do you mean to say that "— that it's all true, what people say?"

"I don't know what people say, Julie. Jean-Baptiste has met the Tsar and given him advice."

"Désirée—you truly are a disgrace to the family," moaned Julie, shaking her head hopelessly.

"I've been told that before. Because I invited Joseph and Napoleon Bonaparte to our house. Long ago, when it all began. . . . The disgrace of our family. By the way, which family do you mean?"

"Naturally the Bonapartes."

"I'm no Bonaparte, Julie."

"You are a sister-in-law of the oldest brother of the Emperor," she declared.

"Among other things, my dear, only among other things. Above all I'm a Bernadotte; in fact the first Bernadotte woman, cofoundress of a dynasty."

"If you don't come, everyone will believe the stupid rumours that Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte made a secret pact with the Tsar."

"That's no secret, Julie. The French newspapers just can't write anything about it."

"But Joseph insists that you come. Don't make things hard for me, Désirée."

We hadn't seen each other all summer. Julie's face is even thinner. The lines at the corners of her mouth are deeply etched, her colourless skin is flaccid. A terrible tenderness overwhelmed me. Julie, my Julie, is a harassed, faded, and profoundly disappointed woman. Perhaps she's heard about Joseph's love affairs, perhaps he treats her badly, because he himself becomes more embittered every year and has only Napoleon to thank for his kingly crown. Perhaps she knows that Joseph never loved her and only married her for her dowry. She must realize that today this dowry means nothing to Joseph who is enormously wealthy from speculations in houses and government estates. Why does she stay with him, why torture herself with ceremonies and receptions? For love? For duty? Or sheer obstinacy?

"If it will help in any way, I'll come," I said.

She pressed her hand against her forehead. "I have another of my bad headaches. So often lately. Yes, please come Joseph wants all Paris to know that Sweden is still neutral. The Empress will be there and the entire diplomatic corps." She stood up.

"I'll bring Count Rosen, my Swedish aide."

"Your—? Yes, of course, your aide. Do bring him, there'll be so few men. They're all away."

On the way out, she lingered for a moment in front of the portrait of Napoleon as First Consul. "Yes, that's how he looked then: long hair, sunken cheeks. Now . . ."

"Now he's fat," I said.

"Just imagine—the entry into Moscow. Napoleon in the Kremlin. It's enough to make you dizzy."

"Don't think, Julie. You'd better lie down. You look so tired."

"I'm worried about the party. If only everything goes well."

Disgrace of the family. I thought about Mama . . . If only everything goes well. One really never grows up until one's parents are gone. Then one can be so frighteningly alone— and un-grown up.

The high bronze candelabra in the Elysée Palace sparkled. I knew people were whispering behind my back, but my back was protected by the tall young Count Rosen. They struck up "La Marseillaise." The Empress entered and I bowed a little less deeply than the other ladies, for I am a member of a ruling house. Marie Louise—still or again in pink—stopped in front of me.

"I hear that a new Austrian ambassador has arrived in Stockholm, madame," she said. "A Count von Neipperg. Has he been presented to you, madame?"

"He must have come after I left, Your Majesty," I answered, and tried to read some meaning in her puppet-face. Since the birth of the little King of Rome Marie Louise has gained weight. She laces herself very tightly. There were beads of sweat on her short nose.

"When I was a young girl, I danced with Count von Neipperg. At my first court ball." Her smile deepened, suddenly became alive. "It was, by the way, my first and last court ball in Vienna. Shortly afterward I was married."

I hardly knew what to say. She seemed to be waiting for something and I was suddenly sad. Since she was a small child, she must have heard that Napoleon was a parvenu, a tyrant and an enemy of her country. And then all of a sudden she was forced to marry him, and be dominated by him.

"Imagine—Count von Neipperg has only one eye. He wears a black patch over the other," Marie Louise reflected. "And nevertheless—I have such pleasant memories of him. We waltzed together."

With that she left me, and I remembered the night when I had taught Napoleon the waltz. One, two, three—and one, two, three. . . .

At midnight they played "La Marseillaise" again. Joseph went over to the Empress, raised his glass of champagne:

"On September fifteenth, at the head of the most glorious
army of all time, His Majesty entered Moscow, and took up his residence in the Kremlin, the palace of the Tsars. Our victorious army will spend the winter in the capital of our defeated enemy.
Vive l'Empereur!"

I finished my drink, gulp by gulp. Talleyrand appeared beside me. "Was Your Highness forced to come?" he asked, and looked at Joseph.

I grimaced politely. "Whether I'm here or not has no meaning, Excellency. I don't understand politics."

"How strange that fate should have chosen you to play such a decisive role, Your Highness."

"What do you mean by that?" I demanded.

"Perhaps someday I'll come to you with a most important request, Your Highness. Perhaps you'll grant it. I shall make this request in the name of France."

"Do tell me—what on earth you are talking about?"

"I am very much in love, Your Highness. Forgive me, don't be shocked. You misunderstand—I am in love with France, Your Highness—our France." He rolled some champagne around on his tongue. "I recently told Your Highness that Napoleon no longer campaigns against an unknown, but against a man we know well. Your Highness remembers? And tonight we are celebrating the Emperor's arrival in Moscow. The Grand Army has at last found winter quarters in the Russian capital. Your Highness, do you believe that this has surprised the man whom we know well?"

My hand gripped the stem of my champagne glass.

"My brother should feel at home in the Kremlin. The Tsar's palace is furnished in more than oriental splendour," said someone right behind us. Joseph, King Joseph. "Sheer genious that my brother could get through so quickly. Now our troops can winter peacefully in Moscow."

But Talleyrand slowly shook his head. "Unfortunately, I can't agree with Your Majesty. A courier arrived half an I ago. Moscow has been in flames for two weeks. Even the Kremlin is on fire."

From far away I heard the waltz tunes. The candles flickered, Joseph's face was like a mask, greenish-white, the eyes
 wide open, the mouth gaping with horror. Talleyrand, on the
other hand, kept his eyes half-closed, was unmoved and unaffected, as though he'd expected for two weeks the news
which had reached us only a half-hour before.

Moscow is on fire.

Moscow has been burning for two weeks.

"How did the fires start?" asked Joseph hoarsely.

"Incendiaries, undoubtedly. And simultaneously in various parts of the city. Our troops have tried in vain to put out the fires. Every time they think one fire is under control, a fresh blaze is reported from some other district. The inhabitants are s
uffering terribly!"

"And our troops, Your Excellency?"

"Will be forced to withdraw."

"But the Emperor has told me many times that under no
circumstances would he lead the troops across the Russian st
eppes during the winter. The Emperor counted on Moscow
as winter quarters," said Joseph.

"I'm only telling you what the courier reported: The Emp
eror cannot spend the winter in Moscow, because Moscow is
burning down."

Talleyrand raised his glass to Joseph. "Don't let your face b
etray you, Your Majesty. The Emperor would not want the n
ews known prematurely.
Vive l'Empereur!"

"Vive l'Empereur,"
Joseph repeated mechanically.

"Your Highness?" Talleyrand raised his glass to me. But I was p
etrified. I saw the Empress waltzing with an old gentlema
n crippled with gout. One, two, three—and one, two, three. . .
Joseph wiped away beads of sweat from his forehead with
a lace handkerchief.

" Good night, Joseph, my love to Julie. Good night, Your Ex
cellency," I murmured. One doesn't leave a ball before Her Ma
jesty has retired, but etiquette could go hang. I was tired and confused. No, no—not confused. I saw everything clearly, so terribly clearly.

Torchbearers ran along beside my carriage as always when I drive out to attend an official function. "It was an unforgettably
brilliant ball," said the young Swedish Count on my left.

"Do you know Moscow, Count Rosen?"

"No, Your Highness. Why?"

"Because Moscow is burning, Count. Because Moscow has been burning for fourteen days."

"The advice of His Highness to the Tsar in Åbo. . . ."

"Don't talk any more, please don't talk any more. I'm so tired."

And Talleyrand's important request? What request— and when?

Paris, December 16, 1812

In Josephine's white-and-gold salon at Malmaison ladies rolled bandages for the wounded in Russia, and in her boudoir Josephine herself, tweezers in hand, bent over me plucking my heavy brows. It hurt, but the thin arched line made my eyes seem larger. Next she rummaged through her rouge pots and powder boxes, and found a small jar of silver make up, rubbed a little of it on my eyelids, and studied my new face in the mirror. At that moment I noticed the morning edition of the
Moniteur
under ribbons and combs on her dressing table. It was flecked with red. I began to read. It was Emperor Napoleon's Bulletin 29, in which he openly admitted that his Grand Army lay spent, frozen, starved and buried in the snowy wastes of Russia. There was no more Grand Army. The red on the paper looked like drops of blood, but it was only lip rouge.

"You must make up like this, Désirée, when you appear in public," Josephine said. "Thin, arched eyebrows, a little green on the eyelids and, above all, the silver. When you show yourself at a window or on a balcony you must always stand on a footstool. No one will notice it, and you'll seem much taller. Believe me . . . . "