Désirée (77 page)

"His Majesty was mostly in England, and filled his time with study. His Majesty translated Gibbon's great work, history of the
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,
into French."

Translated history instead of making it, I said to myself.

"Will this King Louis bring his own court to Paris?"

"Obviously. The really faithful followers of the House of
Bourbon are now returning to France with him. Therefore, may I ask Your Highness—"

I looked at him in astonishment. He never noticed at all.

"—to say a good word for me. Perhaps His Majesty won't fill all the positions with Frenchmen who have lived abroad since the Revolution. If someone brought up my name . . .

"Surely no one has forgotten you, M. Fouché I was still only a child, but I remember distinctly the many death sentences you signed."

"Your Highness,
that is
forgotten." He straightened his white cockade. "It must be brought to mind that, in the last few years, I've secretly tried to negotiate a peace with England. General Bonaparte denounced me as a traitor. I risked my life, Your Highness."

I looked again at the document in my hand. "And—General Bonaparte?"

"Very favourable conditions. The General may himself choose a residence anywhere outside France—an island, for instance, Elba—or he can go overseas. A troop of four hundred men, whom he may choose himself, can accompany him. Besides, he may retain the title of Emperor. Generous, extremely generous, isn't it?"
 

"What has the Emperor decided?"

"They're discussing Elba. A charming little island, reminiscent of the Emperor's birthplace. The same vegetation as Corsica, I hear."

"And the Empress?"

"Will become Duchess of Parma. That is, if she renounces her son's right of succession. But these details will be decided in Vienna at a large congress. The formation of a new Europe. The dynasties, dispossessed by Napoleon, will return to their thrones. An acknowledgment of legitimacy, Your Highness. . . . I gather that His Highness will also go to Vienna. To press his claim to the Swedish throne." Fouché cleared his throat mildly. "I hear that, unfortunately, some of the Russians and the Austrians have declared that His Highness has no—we'd say 'legitimate'—claim. I, naturally, am at His Highness' service, to represent him in Vienna, and . . . . "

I stood up. "I don't understand what you mean. I'll give the document to my sister." If he'd stayed another minute, I would have had hysterics.

Then I discovered the first daisies in the grass. And the buds on the rosebushes. Spring had come, and I hadn't noticed. How sweet the spring air was in Paris! They can't drive Julie away. . . .

Children's voices cut through the stillness. They were back from the parade, and ran to me—two tall, thin girls in the little rose-coloured jackets, and two blond boys in cadet uniforms.

"Aunt Désirée, Uncle was magnificent." Charlotte was breathless with excitement. "He rode on a white horse, and wore a violet velvet coat—so elegant—"

"It wasn't a coat," her cousin, Charles Louis Napoleon, interrupted seriously, "but a cape. On his hat he had white ostrich feathers, and in his hand a silver baton."

"That's the field marshal's baton," Napoleon Louis explained.

"Uncle Marius said it was his old French marshal's baton," whispered Zenaïde.

"And his face! As though it were carved out of marble, Aunt Marcelline said," from Charlotte.

"So pale?" I asked, worried.

"No—so, you know, immovable. Like a statue. . . . The Tsar smiled all the time, and the old Emperor of Austria waved to the crowd, but the King of Prussia—" The children giggled. "The Prussian King made a dreadful face and frowned. So we'd all be more afraid of him in future, Uncle Marius said."

"And the people, the other spectators. What did they say?"

"All sorts of things. There was so much to see. The foreign uniforms, and the Tsar's beautiful horse—and did you know that, besides their guns, the Cossacks carry long whips? Everyone laughed at the Prussians, they kick their legs up so high when they march in a parade, and . . ."

"And while Uncle Jean-Baptiste rode by, what did the people say?"

The children looked at each other.

"Aunt, all at once it was quiet," said Charles Louis Napoleon carefully. "Really—dead silence."

"The Swedes had captured many eagles and banners. They were carried by men right behind him," Charlotte whispered.

"Aunt, our eagles," Charles Louis Napoleon burst out indignantly.

"Now go in, children, and have Marie give you something to eat," I said hastily. Then I went to have a talk with Julie.

First we just tried to understand the contents of the document which disposed of her future in such a businesslike style. Julie flung off the compresses, buried her face in the pillow and sobbed, "But I won't go, I won't, I won't. . . . They can't take Mortefontaine away from me! Désirée, you must see that I stay in Mortefontaine. With the children."

I stroked her straggly hair. "Meanwhile, you'll stay with me. Later we'll try to get back Mortefontaine. But Joseph? What if Joseph can't get a permit to stay?"

"Joseph wrote me from Blois. He wants to go to Switzerland and buy an estate there. And I'm to follow him with children as soon as possible. But I won't—I won't go. .
.
She suddenly sat up. "Désirée, you won't desert me? You'll stand by me until it's all settled?"

I nodded.

"You won't go to Sweden, but stay here—here in your house. And help me?"

It's my fault she ever got mixed up with the Bonapartes, my fault that now she had no home, I must help her, I must. . . .

"Do you promise, Désirée?"

"I'll stay with you, Julie."

Paris, early May, 1814

On the evening King Louis XVIII gave his first court ball in the Tuileries, I had a cold. Not a real cold, of course. I went to bed, just as I had before Napoleon's coronation, and was just as sick. Marie brought me milk and honey. I always enjoy milk and honey. I began to read the newspapers.

The
Moniteur
described Napoleon's departure for Elba. On April 20, the travelling coaches were drawn up in the courtyard of the
Cheval Blanc
in Fontainebleau. Not a single marshal was present. General Petit had assembled a regiment of Imperial guards in the courtyard. The Emperor came out, and General Petit held up one of the gilded eagles. Napoleon kissed the flag under the eagle. Then he got into the coach in which General Bertrand was waiting for him. That was all. At least all that the
Moniteur
reported to its readers.

In the
Journal des Debats,
however, I found an interesting article about the Crown Prince of Sweden. I read that the Crown Prince intended to divorce his wife, Désirée Clary, sister of Mme Julie Bonaparte. After the divorce the former Crown Princess of Sweden, under the name of a Countess of Gotland, would continue to live in her home in the rue d'Anjou. The Crown Prince, on the other hand ... I took a swallow of hot milk and honey. "The Crown Prince, on the other hand, has a choice between a Russian and a Prussian princess."

Even the possibility that he might marry a Bourbon princess was explored in the
Journal des Debats.
An alliance between former Marshal J. -B. Bernadotte and one of the reigning dynasties would secure his future in Sweden.

I finished the honey and milk, but it no longer tasted sweet.

And I didn't want to read any more newspapers either. I thought again about the Bourbons' first court ball. How strange that Jean-Baptiste and I had been invited. On second thought I suppose it was not so strange. Jean-Baptiste had, after all, commanded one of the three armies that liberated Europe. Besides he's the adopted son of the King of Sweden. I wonder whether Jean-Baptiste accepted the invitation.

Since that first night, we've hardly been alone with each other at all. Of course, I've often visited him at the Swedish headquarters in the rue St. Honoré. Cannon are mounted out in front. Swedish dragoons, heavily armed, stand guard. Every time I've found Fouché in the anteroom. And three times, Talleyrand. Marshal Ney, too, waits around impatiently. In the main salon, on the other hand, Chancellor Wetterstedt, Admiral Stedingk and the Swedish generals seem to hold interminable conferences. Jean-Baptiste, bowed over his files, dictates letters.

This afternoon we gave a reception in the rue St. Honoré in honour of the Tsar. To my horror, the Tsar brought Count d'Artois, the brother of the new King of France. The Count has a gross, embittered face, and wears an old-fashioned peruke. The Bourbons try to pretend that the Revolution changed nothing. Although Louis XVIII had to promise to swear an oath of allegiance to the present laws of France. In short, the
Code Napoleon.

Count d'Artois hurried over to Jean-Baptiste. "Your Highness, France will be in your debt forever. Dear Cousin!"

Jean-Baptiste went white. The Bourbon turned next to me. "Your Highness will surely be at the court ball in the Tuileries this evening?"

I held my handkerchief to my nose. "I fear a spring cold. . . ." The Tsar was most solicitous and wished me a speedy recovery.

And so I lay in bed, while the guests—so many familiar faces!—assembled in the large ballroom in the Tuileries and admired the new curtains, sky blue and white with embroidered fleurs-de-lis, and the orchestra tuned its instruments. Napoleon insisted on good dance music. . . . The
 folding doors are opened, wide, the ladies' dresses rustle as they curtsy, but where is "La Marseillaise"? Forbidden, of
course, forbidden. The eighteenth Louis leans heavily on his
cane. Under the white knee breeches his swollen calves are
bandaged, he suffers from dropsy and can hardly walk. The tired old gentleman surveys the ballroom. Here the Parisians beat and kicked my brother, he must be thinking, they dragged him out of this very ballroom. . . . Now the old master of ceremonies is calling out the guests' names, the old gentleman inclines his head the better to hear. First the allied sovereigns are announced. We thank them for making possible our appearance in this ballroom. And We embrace a certain J. -B. Bernadotte, fanatical Republican and the Crown Prince of Sweden, "Our esteemed cousin. The dancing will begin immediately, Your Highness—"

My thoughts were interrupted. Someone was coming up the stairs. That's odd, I thought, everyone was already asleep. Yet someone was hurrying up, two steps at a time . . .

"I hope I didn't wake you, little girl."

Neither gala uniform nor velvet cape. Only the dark-blue field uniform.

"You're not really ill, Désirée?"

"Of course not, but how about you, Jean-Baptiste? The new King invited you to the Tuileries."

"Strange that a former sergeant should have more tact than a Bourbon, don't you think?"

A pause. Then, "I'm sorry that you've gone to bed, little I one. I've come to say good-by. I'm leaving tomorrow morning."

My heart hammered heavily. Tomorrow, so soon. . . . "I've done my duty here and made my triumphal entry. What more can they expect? Besides, my agreement with Denmark has been signed by the allied commissioners. The Great Powers have recognized the ceding of Norway to Sweden. But, imagine, Désirée—the Norwegians don't want i it."

So that was our farewell. I sat up in bed, a candle flickered, he talked about Norway. "Why not?" I asked.

"Because they prefer to govern themselves. In spite of my offering them the most liberal constitution in the world! And promising not to send a single Swedish administrator to Christiania. But they're convening their Storting . . ."

"What Ting are they convening?"

"Storting—the Norwegian National Assembly. They want to be independent. Perhaps even a republic."

"Then let them have it!"
                                         
,

I couldn't see his face, his head was sunk forward, his eyes in shadow. Jean-Baptiste—could this really be the end?

" 'Let them, let them.' How you simplify things. In the first place, Norway and Sweden are a geographical unit. Secondly, I promised Sweden this union. Third, it would console them for the loss of Finland. Fourthly, I can't afford to disappoint the Swedes. In the fifth place—I won't have it. Do you understand?"

"Afford? The Swedish Parliament elected you, once and for all, successor to their throne, Jean-Baptiste."

"And the Swedish Parliament can, once and for all, depose me—and recall the Vasa Prince. With the Bourbons back in power, my child— Away with the Jacobin general, call the old dynasties back, forget the last twenty years!"

His glance fell on the newspapers on my night table. Absent-mindedly he leafed through the
Journal des Debats.
Suddenly he began to read.

My heart lay heavy and hard as a stone in my breast. "You could marry a member of an old dynasty, Jean-Baptiste," I said. And since he kept on reading the paper, "Haven't you seen this article before?"

"No, I've really no time for scandal stories. Gossip, ridicu
lous court gossip . . ." He flung the paper down on the
night table, and looked at me. "It's too bad. I had my carriage
wait, I wanted to suggest that you . . . No, never mind
you're probably too tired."