Désirée (76 page)

"Jean-Baptiste, the Tsar is proud to be your friend. And understands perfectly why you couldn't accept the crowd of France. I explained it all to him."

"You—explained—it all to him?" Jean-Baptiste grabbed my shoulder, looked me full in the face.

"Yes, he came to pay his respects to the wife of the victor of Leipzig."

How relieved they were, Jean-Baptiste and his Swedes. I stood up. "And now I'll wish you good night—or rather good morning, gentlemen. You'll want a few hours' rest before the victory parade. I hope by now everything has been made ready for you in the rue St. Honoré."

Then I hurried out of the salon. There are limits, and I couldn't bear to watch Jean-Baptiste leave his own home to spend the night in a palace around the corner. He caught up with me on the stairs, put his arm across my shoulders, and leaned heavily on me, all the way to my bedroom. There he dropped down on my bed. I knelt beside him and tried to take off his boots. I pulled and pulled. "You must help, Jean-Baptiste, or I'll never get them off."

"If you knew how tired I am—"

He let me undress him like a child. Finally I pulled the covers over us both, and blew out the candle. But the morning was already beginning to creep relentlessly in through the cracks in the shutters. "This damnable victory parade . . ." he mumbled. Then, "I can't march down the Champs Elysées hup-two-three-four at the head of the Northern Army—I can't."

"Of course you can. The Swedes have fought gallantly for the liberation of Europe, and naturally they want to march in the Paris parade, led by their crown prince. How long will it take? An hour, two at the most. It will be much easier than —Leipzig, Jean-Baptiste."

He moaned and put his head on my shoulder. "At Grossbeeren, he sent my oldest regiments against me. . . ."

"Forget it, Jean-Baptiste, forget it." I hated myself, but I went on, "Remember why you fought!"

"Why did I? For the Restoration of the Bourbons, perhaps, Désirée? Exactly what did you say to the Tsar?"

"That in France you're a Republican, and in Sweden a
crown prince. In somewhat different words, Jean-Baptiste. But he understood me."

His breathing was quieter. "Did you tell him anything else little girl?"

"Yes, that you didn't want the French crown, but longed with all your heart for a Russian grand duchess. So he wouldn't think you'd turn down all his suggestions!"

"Mmmm."

"Are you asleep, Jean-Baptiste?"

"Mmmm."

"The Tsar thinks you'd better stay with me. He says the grand duchesses he knows are not at all pretty."

"Mmmm."

At last he fell asleep. He slept only briefly and restlessly, as a traveller in an unfamiliar bed in a strange inn.

Marie and Fernand squabbled in my dressing room—over the large flatiron. Jean-Baptiste lifted his head from my shoulder.

"Brahe," he cried. "What's going on in front of my tent?"

"Go back to sleep, Jean-Baptiste."

"Brahe, tell Löwenhjelm . . ."

"Jean-Baptiste, in the first place, you're not in a tent, but in your wife's bedroom. Secondly, you're hearing only the usual squabble between Marie and Fernand. Go to sleep."

But Jean-Baptiste sat up. And looked thoughtfully around my room. A look of farewell, not of homecoming. Fernand voice rose angrily, "No, your large flatiron for the dress uniform."

At that Jean-Baptiste got up and went to his dressing room. I rang, and Marie brought breakfast for two. "The Marshal should have left Fernand at home," she grumbled.

"What do you mean, at home?" I demanded.

She shrugged. "With the icicles. In Stockholm."

The door between my dressing room and Jean-Baptiste was ajar. I heard the following conversations:

Fernand: "Brahe and Löwenhjelm have reported for duty Your Highness, rooms in the rue St. Honoré are ready. Yesterday the Tsar moved over to the Elysée Palace, to the Rus
sian headquarters. Mme Julie used to live there. The parade begins at two o'clock. Cannon have been placed in front of Your Highness' headquarters, for reasons of security. The rue St. Honoré will be closed off. Demonstrations, Highness, mobs . . ."

Jean-Baptiste said something I couldn't catch.

"All right—no mobs. As Your Highness commands—passers-by. Anyway, the police believe, Your Highness, that these passers-by intend to . . ."

The rest was drowned out by a splash of water. As usual every morning, Fernand was giving Jean-Baptiste a cold rub-down. "Send up Brahe and Löwenhjelm."

Brahe's voice: "Wetterstedt has arrived, with his attaches."

I mulled over Wetterstedt. Of course—Chancellor Wetterstedt.

Brahe: "Wetterstedt has already been in touch with Metternich and the English. And, what's more, our headquarters are being besieged."

Jean-Baptiste: "By the passers-by?"

"No, the street was closed long ago. Gendarmes and Cossacks are forming cordons. The Tsar has placed an entire regiment at our disposal."

Jean-Baptiste spoke very rapidly, and I could understand only a few words. "Definitely Swedish dragoons . . . under no condition Russian sentries . . ,"

Chamberlain Löwenhjelm.: "Our headquarters are besieged by visitors. Talleyrand wants to welcome Your Highness in the name of the French Government. Marshals Ney and Marmont left their cards. The personal aide-de-camp of the King of Prussia called. The English Ambassador. A delegation from the citizens of Paris . . ."

Brahe: "Colonel Villatte asks to be received."

Jean-Baptiste: "Have him come in at once. I have very little time."

I tiptoed into Jean-Baptiste's dressing room. My husband stood in front of the tall mirror, buttoning the tunic of his Swedish field marshal's uniform. Fernand sprayed him with eau de cologne and then handed him the Grand Cross of the
Legion of Honour. Jean-Baptiste, from long habit, took the chain and started to hang it around his neck. Suddenly he hesitated.

"Your Highness must dress for the parade now," Löwenhjelm. reminded him. "After the gala breakfast of His Russian Majesty, there'll be no time to change."

So Jean-Baptiste reluctantly put on the chain, and the Star of the Legion of Honour. His eyes narrowed. "Parade—Marshal Bernadotte," he murmured to the dejected face in his mirror. Just then in came Villatte. Jean-Baptiste turned quickly, went to him, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Villatte. How happy I am to see you again."

Villatte stood at attention.

Jean-Baptiste shook his shoulder. "Well, old comrade?" But Villatte didn't budge. His face was stubborn. Jean-Baptiste's hand slipped from his friend's shoulder.

"Can I do something for you, Colonel?"

"I hear that yesterday the Allied Powers agreed to the release of all French prisoners of war. I therefore ask for— my release."

I laughed. But my laughter died. Villatte wasn't joking, his set face was deeply sad.

"Naturally, Colonel. You are entirely your own master," said Jean-Baptiste quickly. "But I'd be very glad if, for a while, you'd stay with us as our guest."

"I thank Your Highness for your friendly offer. I must, unfortunately, decline it, and beg Your Highness to excuse me." He came quickly over to me and bowed low.

Over his shoulder I saw how grey Jean-Baptiste's face was. "Villatte," I whispered, "you've gone a long way with us. Stay with us, won't you?"

"The Emperor has released his army from their oath," Jean-Baptiste said hoarsely. "I hear that some of the marshals have called on me. So why . . ."

"That's why, Highness. Only a few guards' regiments have remained in Fontainebleau. The marshals haven't even considered it worth their while to take leave of their former commander in chief. I'm only a colonel, Highness. But I know
what's right. From Fontainebleau I rejoin my regiment."

When I looked up again, Villatte had gone, and Jean-Baptiste was wrapping on his Swedish sash. "Before you go, I want to speak to you a moment alone, Jean-Baptiste," I said, and went back to my dressing room. He followed me. I waved him into the chair in front of the dressing table. "Sit down."

Then I took my little jar of rouge, and began carefully, very carefully, to paint his grey cheeks.

"You're crazy, Désirée—I won't have it," he objected.

Carefully I rubbed in the rouge, he really began to look more natural. "There—" I said with satisfaction. "You can't ride at the head of your victorious troops along the Champs Elysées with a face like death. When you come as a victor, you must also look like a victor."

He shook his head in revulsion. "I can't." It sounded like a sob. "You—I can't."

I put my hands on his shoulders. "And after the victory parade, Jean-Baptiste, you must appear at the gala performance at the Théâtre Français. You owe it to Sweden. I'm afraid you must go now, dearest."

He leaned back. His head lay against my breast, his pale lips were chapped and sore. "In all France I think there'll be only one other as lonely as I during this parade—Napoleon."

"Nonsense. You're not lonely. After all, I'm with you and not with him. Go on now, the gentlemen are waiting."

He rose obediently, and pressed my hand to his lips. "Promise me you won't watch the parade. I don't want—I don't want you to see me. . . ."

"Of course not, Jean-Baptiste. I'll be in the garden, thinking about you."

When the bells started to peal, I went out to the garden. They announced the beginning of the victory parade, and rang continuously all the while the victorious troops, led by the Tsar of Russia, the Emperor of Austria, the King of Prussia, and the Crown Prince of Sweden, marched happily through Paris.

The children had driven off with Mme la Flotte and their
governess in my carriage. At the last moment, my nephew Marius, and Marcelline climbed in, too. Heaven knows how they all found room. Julie stayed in bed, and had Marie put cold compresses on her forehead. She was hurt because Jean-Baptiste had forgotten to speak to her. I had given my servants the day off. That's how I came to be sitting alone in the garden, and no one announced my unexpected caller.

This unexpected visitor had found the house door open, had come in and wandered through the deserted salons. Finally he came to the garden. I didn't notice him, because my eyes were closed and I was thinking about Jean-Baptiste. The Champs Elysées will seem endless today, Jean-Baptiste, endless.

"Highness," a voice shouted above the bells. Startled, I opened my eyes. A man was doubled over in a deep bow before me. He straightened up—a pointed nose, little eyes with pin-point pupils. So he's still around. When Napoleon discovered that his Minister of Police was negotiating secretly with the English, he threw him out. But shortly before the Battle of Leipzig, he appointed him Governor of some Italian province to keep Fouché away from Paris. The former Jacobin wore an inconspicuous frock coat, and an enormous white cockade.

Helplessly, I indicated the garden bench. In a flash, he sat down beside me and began to talk. But the bells drowned out his words. He regretfully shrugged his shoulders and smiled. I turned my head away. Jean-Baptiste, it can't go on much longer. . . .

The bells ceased.

"Forgive me, Your Highness, if I'm disturbing—"

I'd forgotten Fouché Unwillingly, I looked at him.

"I've come with a message from Talleyrand to Mme Julie Bonaparte," he began, and took a document out of his breast pocket. "Talleyrand is very busy these days while I—" he smiled pitifully—"unfortunately—am not. And as I wanted to call again on Your Highness in any case, I suggested to Talleyrand that I bring this document with me. It concerns the future of members of the Bonaparte family."

He handed me a copy of a long legal document. "I'll give it to my sister," I said.

He tapped the document with his forefinger. "Look at the list, Your Highness."

It read:

To the Emperor's mother: 300,000 francs; King Joseph: 500,000 francs, King Louis: 200,000 francs; Queen Hortense and her children: 400,000 francs, King Jérôme and his Queen: 500,000; Princess Elisa: 300,000 francs; Princess Pauline: 300,000 francs.

"Yearly, Your Highness, yearly," Fouché explained. "The Emperor's family will receive property or revenue from the state funds, and these sums will be guaranteed them annually. Our new Government is truly generous, Your Highness."

"Where will the members of the family live?"

"Abroad, Highness, never in France."

Julie, who always felt miserable away from home—an exile. A lifelong—exile. And why? Because I once brought Joseph to our house. I must try to help her, I thought. I'll do all I can to help her.

"You will ask His Highness to do what he can for Mme Julie Bonaparte, won't you? Perhaps you yourself will go to King Louis and intercede for her. King Louis ..." I repeated, and tried to get used to the words, at least.

"His Majesty is expected in the Tuileries within the next few days."

"What has this King Louis done with himself during the long years of his exile? How has he kept busy?" I asked. I wanted to visualize the future of the Bonaparte brothers.