Désirée (87 page)

"Forgive me, Mama, but all the Bonapartes are unattractive to me."

Like his father. Practically the same words. . . .

"Aunt Julie is a Clary, remember that."

"All right. We'll go to the wedding, Mama. And what then?"

"From Brussels I'm going to Switzerland to visit Hortense, the Duchess of St. Leu, at Castle Arenenberg. She was a Beauharnais, the daughter of the beautiful Josephine. I want you to go with me."

"Mama, I really have no desire to see these Bonapartes."

"I want you to meet Hortense's niece, the little Shooting Star."

"The little— what?"

"Her father is Eugène, the former Viceroy of Italy. Now he's called the Duke of Leuchtenberg, he married a daughter of the King of Bavaria. And the child is the most beautiful little Josephine you could ever imagine."

"No matter how beautiful she is, I still couldn't marry her."

"Why not?"

"You keep forgetting who I am! An obscure little Leuchtenberg isn't a suitable match for the Crown Prince of Sweden—for a Bernadotte, Mama!"

"No? Well, let me tell you something, Oscar. But first pour me some more champagne, I'm beginning to enjoy it. So—and now listen to me! Her paternal grandfather was Viscount de Beauharnais, a general in the French Army. And her grand
mother was Viscountess de Beauharnais, born Tascher de la Pagerie, the most beautiful woman of her time, the toast of Paris, and one of the great courtesans. By her second marriage she became Empress of the French. Your paternal grandfather was an honourable lawyer's clerk in Pau, and I know nothing at all about your papa's mother."

"But Mama . . ."

"Let me finish! Her maternal grandfather is the King of Bavaria. The Bavarian dynasty is one of the oldest royal families in Europe. Your maternal grandfather, on the other hand, was the silk merchant François Clary from Marseilles."

He beat his brow. "The granddaughter of a courtesan!"

"Yes—and an enchanting one at that. I've seen little Josephine only once, as a child, but—the same smile, the same charm as the older Josephine."

Oscar sighed. "Mama, on dynastic grounds . . ."

"Exactly, on dynastic grounds. I want to be the ancestress of a beautiful dynasty."

"Papa will never consent."

"No one succeeded in forcing him to marry a homely woman. I'll talk to Papa. All you have to do is see the Shooting Star."

"Waiter, the bill."

Arm in arm we walked to our hotel. My heart beat fast from happiness and too much bad champagne.

"How old is she, Mama?"

"Just fifteen. But I'd already been kissed at that age."

"You were a precocious child, Mama. Why do you call her a shooting star?"

I wanted to explain it to him. But the hotel was in sight, and he turned suddenly serious, his hand firmly encircled my wrist. "Mama, promise me you'll come with my bride on her journey to Stockholm?"

"Yes, I promise."

"And that you'll stay?"

I hesitated. "That depends."

"On what, Mama?"

"On myself, Oscar. I can only stay if I succeed in being a good queen. I take it very seriously."

"All you need is practice, Mama. . . . There they are— your Löwenhjelm. and my Löwenhjelm.—prancing with excitement."

"I'll carry out several reforms at the Swedish court," I whispered in his ear.

He smiled into my eyes. "Let's let the evening sun go down before the Shooting Star falls from heaven."

I nodded. "Let's retire Mlle von Koskull to a well-earned rest," I suggested.

"Mama, we're both a little drunk," Oscar declared uneasily. We began to laugh and couldn't stop.

Does this seem proper for an illegitimate grandmother?

In the Royal Palace, Stockholm Spring, 1823

"How beautiful our country is," whispered my daughter-in-law, Crown Princess Josefina of Sweden, deeply moved. We stood side by side at the railing of an imposing cruiser which had awaited us in the port of Lübeck, and was taking us to Stockholm.

"Is it much farther? Should Pierre put on his wooden leg?" Marie asked every few minutes.

Oscar and the Shooting Star were married in Munich. But Oscar wasn't there. The Catholic Shooting Star naturally wanted to be married in a Catholic Church, and Oscar is a Protestant. He, therefore, was married by proxy in Munich. The official wedding celebration will begin after we reach Stockholm. I don't know whose brilliant idea it was to spare us the interminable journey through Denmark and southern Sweden by sending us this cruiser which passes the many small islands around Stockholm. Nor do I understand why Jean-Baptiste had me sail on a warship with eighty-four guns.

The sky was pale blue, and the islands rose craggy and steep from the waves. On every cliff and meadow there were birches—many thousands of birches with every variation of yellow in their spring foliage. "Our beautiful country," the granddaughter of Josephine repeated beside me, her eyes shining as she drank in the view of the birch forests.

"Should Pierre put on his wooden leg yet?" asked Marie again. Pierre sat beside his mother on deck and wanted to stand close behind me when we arrived—on his crutches and his wooden leg.

"We are nearing Vaxholm, Your Majesty," Chamberlain
Count Gustaf Löwenhjelm. told me, and handed me a field glass. "Vaxholm is one of our strongest fortifications." But I was thinking I'd never in all my life seen so many birch trees all at once. "Our country," the Shooting Star had said—our country?

Marcelline and Marius accompanied me. Etienne wrote me gratefully because I'd appointed his daughter chief stewardess of my household. And Marius will continue to administer my finances, and become a Swedish court official instead of a senior partner in the firm of Clary. Marius, Marcelline, Marie and Pierre—little bits of France I've brought with me. And Yvette, of course, the one person except Julie who can cope with my unruly hair.

Julie . . . How strong are the weak. How tenaciously her transparent, bloodless fingers clung to my arm, and for how many years she implored me, "Don't leave me, Désirée, write another petition to the King of France. I want to live in Paris, stay with me, help me, help me. . . ." My petitions were of no avail, but I'd always stayed near her. Until, at her daughter's wedding, she said, "Zenaïde and her husband will live in Florence. Italy reminds me of Marseilles. I'll move to Florence with the young couple." And Joseph, who had discoursed volubly about his herd of cattle and his railway shares in the state of New Jersey, said unexpectedly, "When I was born, Corsica was still Italian. When I am old, I'll join you in Italy." Julie slipped her arm under his. "So everything will be for the best," she said, indifferently but with satisfaction. She'd entirely forgotten about me. . . .

"I'm so happy, Mama," the Shooting Star beside me whispered. "From the very first moment, at Aunt Hortense's, Oscar and I felt we were made for each other. But I was sure neither you nor His Majesty would ever consent."

"Why not, my child?"

"Because—Mama, I'm only the daughter of a Duke of Leuchtenberg. Oscar could have made a much better match. You'd expected a princess from a royal family, hadn't you, Mama?"

Birches in yellow-green spring veils, waves as blue as the
sky. The child had asked me something, and held her curly head a little sideways, like the dead Josephine.

"Expected, Josefina? One counts on nothing, one only hopes —when a son's happiness is at stake."

A salute of guns boomed out. I drew back in fear. The fortress of Vaxholm was welcoming us. So I knew I had no more time. Count on nothing, only hope, with all one's heart. . . .

"Remember that, Josefina, when your children fall in love. . . Why do you blush? Because I'm talking about your children? Darling, as a little girl you wouldn't believe me when I said ducks lay eggs. Now don't tell me you still believe in the stork. I don't know if, in the years to come, we'll often have a chance to talk entre nous. That's why I urge you now to let your children marry for love. You will promise me?"

"But the succession to the throne, Mama?"

"You must have several children. One of your sons is bound to fall in love with a princess, leave that to fate. But teach all the Bernadottes that one marries only for love."

Her long lashes fluttered in dismay. "But if she's a commoner. Think of that, Mama!"

"What is there to think about, Josefina? We're of middle-class stock—we Bernadottes."

The salutes thundered again. A small boat steered toward us. I raised the field glasses to my eyes. "Josefina, powder your nose quickly. Oscar is coming on board."

I hardly heard the roar of cannon. The coast was black with waiting people, the wind carried their cheers through the blue air, and more and more little boats, with garlands of flowers, danced around our ship. Oscar and Josefina stood close together and waved. Josefina wore a gay blue dress, and an ermine stole, now slightly yellow with age. It once belonged to Josephine, a present from Napoleon. Hortense gave it to the child many years ago as a remembrance of her beautiful grandmama.

"The port of Djurgaarden, Your Majesty. We'll soon land, announced Löwenhjelm.

I turned around. "Marie, it's time for Pierre to put on his
wooden leg." I clenched my fists, my palms were wringing wet.

"Aunt—they've made a triumphal arch of birch branches," cried Marcelline. The guns boomed. Yvette rushed up and held a mirror in front of my face. Powder, rouge, a little silver on my eyelids. Marie put the heavy sable stole over my shoulders. Silver-grey velvet and sables seemed suitable for a mother-in-law.

Marie's work-worn hand covered my tense fingers. Her face has grown old and wrinkled. "We've reached our goal, Eugénie."

"No, Marie, we're just beginning."

The cannon were silent. And music resounded, an exultant fanfare. "I composed that for you," said Oscar. He said it to the Shooting Star. Löwenhjelm. again handed me the field glasses.

A violet velvet cape. White plumes on the hat.

Suddenly everyone whisked away. Even Oscar and the Shooting Star. All alone I stood on the ship's bridge. The Swedish National Anthem burst forth. The thousands on the quay turned into statues. Only the delicate birch boughs on the triumphal arch quivered lightly.

Then two gentlemen, who'd been standing close beside the violet velvet cape, strode together up to the bridge to escort me to land. Count Brahe smiled and Count Rosen went deathly pale with excitement. But a hand in a white glove motioned them both aside, the violet velvet cape came forward, the ship's narrow bridge swayed, and on my arm I felt a strong, very familiar hand.

The crowd yelled, the cannons thundered, the orchestra rejoiced. Oscar escorted his Crown Princess ashore. Under the triumphal arch, a little girl in a white dress was thrust before me. The child, practically invisible behind a huge bouquet of blue lilies and yellow tulips, had to recite a poem. Then, obviously relieved, she thrust the blue and yellow flowers a me. No one expected me to thank her. But when I opened my mouth there was a sudden hush. I was stiff with fear, but my voice was loud and calm. I began with the words:

"Jag har varit länge borte—"

They held their breaths. Swedish—the Queen speaks Swedish. I'd composed my little speech myself and Count Löwenhjelm had translated it. Then I had learned it by heart. Word for word—it was hard to do. My eyes filled and I concluded with:
"Länge leve Sverige!"

We drove through the streets in an open festive coach. The Shooting Star beside me bowed graciously, to right and left. Jean-Baptiste and Oscar sat opposite us. I held myself very erect and smiled at the crowds until the muscles of my mouth ached. And even then I smiled. "I can't get over it, Mama, you made a speech in Swedish," said Oscar. "I'm terrible proud of you."

I felt Jean-Baptiste look at me, yet I dared not meet his eyes. Because we were in an open coach, and I had made a dreadful discovery! I'm in love with him still.

Or perhaps again—I don't really know myself.

P. S. He's a grandfather. (But he doesn't suspect it.)

Drottningholm Castle in Sweden August 16, 1823

Today at midnight I was for the first time a ghost. In my white dressing gown I haunted the Palace as "the white lady."

The light summer nights are to blame; the sky is never completely dark. During my first visit to Drottningholm, I cried through them. And now—twelve years later—I have to dance through them. Oscar and the Shooting Star of course whirl from one party to another. And I'm forcing Jean-Baptiste to go, too. Naturally, he makes a hundred excuses. Work and more work. Even his age is dragged in. Jean-Baptiste is sixty years old, it's true, but he couldn't be healthier. I've laughed him out of it and transformed the lonely bachelor quarters in the Stockholm Palace and in Drottningholm into fine court households.

A regiment of ladies-in-waiting and chamberlains were appointed. The lackeys were dressed in brand-new liveries. Paperhangers and carpenters, tailors, dressmakers and hairdressers had their hands full. They all profited and they were all happy. And last but not least my dear silk merchants. . . .