Désirée (88 page)

Oscar suggested holding large-scale manoeuvres in south Sweden and travelling to Skaane with the entire court. "Why?" asked Jean-Baptiste, and dug in his heels. Naturally, without avail. Oscar and I had our way, and south Sweden welcomed the royal family. Evenings we danced in the castles of the landed gentry, mornings I stood for hours watching parades, afternoons I received one deputation of citizens after another. Marie—so good and so tired herself—massaged my poor legs. And the new Swedish ladies-in-waiting helped me with my
Swedish vocabulary. It was an awful trip but I, in the literal sense of the word, stood it.

Now we're in Drottningholm and supposedly resting. Yesterday I went to bed early, but I couldn't sleep. The clock struck midnight. The sixteenth of August, I thought. The sixteenth of August is dawning. I slipped into a dressing gown and began to wander around. I wanted to go to Jean-Baptiste. Everything was unearthly quiet except that the parquet floors creaked. How I hate these palaces . . . In Jean-Baptiste's study I almost collided with the marble bust of Moreau that Jean-Baptiste always keeps with him. Finally I groped my way through his dressing room, walked in—and nearly got shot.

Quick as a flash a pistol was aimed at me, and someone shouted in French, "Who's there?"

"A ghost, Fernand!" I laughed. "Only a ghost."

"Your Majesty frightened me," declared Fernand, offended. Then he got up from his camp cot and bowed. He wore a long nightshirt and still held the pistol in his hand. The camp cot barred the way to Jean-Baptiste's bedroom.

"Do you always sleep in front of His Majesty's door?" I demanded.

"Always," Fernand assured me. "Because the Marshal is afraid."

At that the door was flung open. Jean-Baptiste was still dressed. The green eyeshade he wears in secret when he works on his papers was rakishly askew.

"What does this disturbance mean?" he roared.

I dipped into a court curtsy. "Your Majesty, a ghost requests an audience."

"Shove the bed aside so Her Majesty can come in," Jean-Baptiste mumbled as he hastily removed the eyeshade. Somewhat embarrassed, Fernand pushed aside the camp cot, clutching his nightshirt tightly around him.

And then for the first time since my arrival in Drottningholm I entered Jean-Baptiste's bedroom. On the desk, documents were piled high. On the floor lay leather volumes in confusion. He's still studying, I thought. As he did in Han
over. As he did in Marienburg. . . . Jean-Baptiste stretched wearily. His voice was tender. "What does the ghost want?"

"The ghost is only reporting," I said, and sat down comfortably in an armchair. "It's the ghost of a young girl, who once married a young general, and lay on a bridal bed full of roses and thorns."

Jean-Baptiste sat on the arm of my chair and put his arm around me. "And why does the ghost walk tonight?"

"Because that happened twenty-five years ago," I said softly.

"My God," he shouted. "It's our silver wedding anniversary."

I crept closer to him. "Yes—and in the whole kingdom of Sweden no one but us will remember it. No cannons, no schoolchildren reciting poems, not even a regimental band playing a march composed by Oscar for this occasion. How lovely, Jean-Baptiste."

"We have both come a long way," he murmured, and he held me tighter. "And yet in the end you came to me." He closed his eyes.

"You have reached your goal, Jean-Baptiste," I whispered. "And nevertheless, you're afraid—of ghosts."

He didn't answer. He felt heavy against me. He seemed tired, very tired.

"You have Fernand sleep outside your door with a pistol. What are the names of the ghosts you fear?"

"Vasa," he groaned. "At the Congress of Vienna, the last Vasa king—the exiled one—presented his and his son's claims to the throne."

"That was eight years ago. Besides, the Swedes deposed him because he was crazy. Is he really crazy?"

"I don't know. His policies were. Sweden was at the brink of ruin—The Allies naturally brushed aside his claims. And finally, they're indebted to me. After all, I conducted that gruesome campaign . . ."

"Don't talk about it, Jean-Baptiste, don't torture yourself with those memories," I said quickly. A shudder ran through him. I felt it with every fibre of my being. "Jean-Baptiste, the Swedes know very well what you have done for them. Aren't
there figures that prove to you that through you Sweden has become a sound and prosperous country?"

"Yes, yes—I have figures," he murmured. "But the opposition in Parliament . . ."

"Do they speak of the Vasas?"

"No, never. But it's enough that this opposition, which calls itself Liberal, exists. That its newspapers always harp on the fact that I wasn't born here."

I straightened up. "Jean-Baptiste, if anyone reproaches because you weren't born here, and don't speak the language, it's a far cry from
lèse-majesté.
It's simply the truth."

"From opposition to revolution is a short step," he muttered stubbornly.

"Nonsense! The Swedes know what they want—you were proclaimed and crowned King."

"And I can be murdered or deposed to make room for the last of the Vasas. He's an officer in the Austrian Army."

At that I decided to lay the ghost of the Vasas once and for all. I would have to hurt and frighten him, I thought sadly. But from now on he could sleep in peace.

"Jean-Baptiste—in Sweden the Bernadotte Dynasty rules, and you are the only one who seems not to realize it."

He only shrugged his shoulders.

"But, unfortunately, there are people who feel that, in your fear of the opposition, you disregard the Constitution." I didn't look at him. "The Swedes put great stock in the freedom of their press, dearest. And every time you suppress a newspaper, someone or other suggests you should be forced to abdicate."

He recoiled as though I'd hit him. "So? Look, I'm not afraid of shadows. My ghosts are very real. The Prince of Vasa . . . ."

"Jean-Baptiste, no one mentions the Prince of Vasa."

"Who then? Whom do the Liberals want as my successor?"

"Oscar, of course. The Crown Prince."

A deep sigh of relief. "Is that true?" he whispered. "Look me in the eye—is that really true?"

"No one is dissatisfied with the Bernadotte Dynasty. It's established, Jean-Baptiste, established. You must tell Fernand
to sleep in his own room. And not with firearms. And why should I run into Fernand in his nightshirt outside your door when I want to visit you late at night?"

Gold epaulettes scratched my cheeks, the candles had burned low.

"My darling, you shouldn't visit me late at night. Queens don't creep around their palaces in their dressing gowns. You're supposed to wait in your apartments with true feminine restraint until I come to you!" Later—much later—we drew back the curtains from the windows.

The sun had risen. The Drottningholm park was bathed in golden light. I stood close to Jean-Baptiste. "As for Oscar—" I began, but he stopped me. Very gently, he kissed me on the top of the head.

"I gave Oscar what I lacked—an education. An education suitable for a sovereign. Sometimes I regret I'll never see him king."

"That's the way it goes, you won't live to see it," I said impressively.

He laughed. "No, I'm not afraid of our young rascal."

I took his arm. "Come with me. We'll have breakfast together just as we did twenty-five years ago."

When we came out of Jean-Baptiste's bedroom Fernand had vanished. "Fernand knows I can lay ghosts," I boasted. In the study we stopped suddenly, silently. "Comrade Moreau," murmured Jean-Baptiste thoughtfully. I ran my finger lightly over the marble cheek, and discovered how badly things are dusted in royal palaces. Then, close together, we strolled on again.

"I'm glad I gave in to you and let Oscar marry Josefina," Jean-Baptiste said unexpectedly.

"If he'd followed your wishes he'd have some hideous royal princess as a wife and run to Mlle von Koskull for consolation—you unnatural father, you!"

"Nevertheless—the granddaughter of our Josephine on the Swedish throne—" Jean-Baptiste looked at me reproachfully.

"But wasn't she enchanting—our Josephine?"

"Much too enchanting. I only hope people here in Scandinavia don't know the details."

We had reached my dressing room, and there we found a great surprise. On the breakfast table, set for two, was a huge bouquet of fragrant roses. Red, white, yellow, and pink roses
.
Propped against the vase was a note.

"To Their Majesties, our Marshal J. -B. Bernadotte and his wife, with best wishes—Marie and Fernand."

Jean-Baptiste began to laugh—and I to cry. We're so very different, and yet . . .

Yes—and yet.

Royal Palace in Stockholm
 
February, 1829

I really feel sorry for the old Princess Sofia Albertina. From such a fine family—the last Vasa in Sweden. And now she lies dying, with a silk merchant's daughter holding her hand.

I've been leafing through the pages of this diary. I see I once called her an old goat. She was one of those who ridiculed me. Strange, that her bleating once hurt me so. . . . Since her brother's death, the old Princess has been living in the so-called Heir Apparent's Palace in the Gustavus Adolphus market place. Jean-Baptiste has always seen to it that she dined at court from time to time. But only Oscar ever paid any real attention to her. He calls her Aunt, and says when he was a child she smuggled him sweet coughdrops. Yesterday he noticed she was suffering greatly and was very weak. This morning she unexpectedly sent one of her ancient ladies-in-waiting: it was the last wish of Her Highness, Princess Sofia Albertina, to speak to me—to me—alone!

Poor old thing, I thought on the way to her. Now the last of the Vasas has also gone crazy. . . . In my honour the old Princess had got all dressed up. She lay on a sofa and as I entered she tried to rise. "Please don't, Highness," I exclaimed, shocked by her appearance. She looked more like a goat than ever. Her skin stretched taut over her sunken cheeks and was as transparent and wrinkled as tissue paper. Her lifeless eyes were deep-sunk in their sockets. But her scraggly white hair was tied with girlish rose-coloured ribbons. Her salon overflowed with embroidery—red roses on violet backgrounds on cushions, chairs, and on the bell pull. The poor creature had embroidered nothing but roses all her life long, and always
in the same pattern! The old face forced a smile. I sat down beside her and she dismissed her ladies-in-waiting.

"I'm very grateful to Your Majesty for coming. I hear Your Majesty is very busy."

"Yes, we have a great deal to do. Jean-Baptiste with affairs of state and Oscar with his new duties. Oscar is now Admiral of the Swedish Fleet, Your Highness."

She nodded. "I know about that. Oscar often calls on me."

"Has he also told you about his plans for reform? He's working now on a book about prisons. He wants to improve prison conditions and set up a new kind of penal institution," I said enthusiastically.

She looked at me in astonishment. No, Oscar hadn't spoken of that. "A peculiar occupation for an admiral," she remarked sharply.

"And for a composer," I added. She nodded, already bored. Somewhere a clock ticked. . . .

"Your Majesty visits many hospitals?" she suddenly demanded.

"Of course, that's part of my job. Besides, I want to improve them. In France, we invariably have nuns as nurses. Does Your Highness know who takes care of the sick in Swedish hospitals?"

"Worthy devout souls, I suppose?" she asked sharply.

"No—former prostitutes, Your Highness."

She recoiled. Never before in her life had she heard the word straight out. She was speechless.

"I've been to see the nurses. Old beggar women hoping a earn a bowl of soup. Without training, without interest in their calling. Without the slightest conception of cleanliness. I'll change all this, Your Highness."

The clock ticked. . . .

"I'm told you speak some Swedish, madame," she said next.

"I try, Highness. Jean-Baptiste hasn't time for lessons. The plain people don't blame him for that. They take it for granted that a man knows only his native tongue. But—"

"Our aristocrats speak excellent French."

"But commoners, too, study foreign languages, and I have
a feeling they expect the same of us. That's why I speak Swedish when I receive deputations of citizens—as well as I can, Highness."

She seemed to have fallen asleep, and her face was as white as her powdered hair. The clock ticked on, and I was afraid it might suddenly stop. I began to feel terribly sorry for the dying Princess. No member of her family at her side, her favourite brother murdered at a masquerade, her nephew declared insane, and banished. And now the poor creature had to see someone like me on the throne of her forefathers.

"You're a good queen," she said unexpectedly.

"We do our best—Jean-Baptiste, Oscar and I."

A shadow of her former malicious smile flitted over her wrinkled face. "You're a very clever woman." That floored me.