I cast another glance at the document in my hand. ‘What are the conditions for – General Bonaparte?’
‘Very favourable ones. He may go where he likes outside France. He can take with him four hundred of his men, whom he can pick himself. Besides, he may retain the title of Emperor. Very magnanimous, is it not?’
‘What has he decided on?’
‘I heard the Island of Elba mentioned, a charming place much like Corsica in character.’
‘And the Empress?’
‘She will be made Duchess of Parma provided she renounces the claims of her son to the French throne. All these details are to be thrashed out at a big congress in Vienna. Reconstruction of Europe, return to the dynasties driven out by Bonaparte, and so on. I expect His Royal Highness will want to go to Vienna to maintain his rights to the Swedish throne. I am told that Austria and Prussia insist that His Highness has no legitimate claim. I shall gladly put myself at His Highness’s disposal at any time to sound opinion in Vienna and—’
I got to my feet. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I shall hand the document to my sister.’
If he had stayed another minute I should have screamed for help!
A little later the children came back from the victory parade and told me excitedly how marvellous Uncle Jean-Baptiste had looked in his resplendent uniform and that he had sat on his horse like a marble statue without once moving. The Tsar of Russia had kept smiling, the old Emperor of Austria waving his hand, the King of Prussia made a very angry face, but Jean-Baptiste had just sat on his horse, they said.
‘And what did the spectators say?’ I asked.
‘All sorts of things. There was so much to see, the many foreign uniforms, and the beautiful horses, and the Cossacks with their whips and the Prussians with their goose-step which made everybody laugh.’
‘And what did they say while Uncle Jean-Baptiste rode past?’
The children looked at each other. Finally Louis Napoleon said hesitantly: ‘Everybody was suddenly quiet. It was as quiet as the grave.’
I sent them into the house to have something to eat and went to Julie with the document Fouché had brought.
‘I won’t go,’Julie sobbed in despair, ‘I won’t go. They can’t take Mortefontaine, they mustn’t take Mortefontaine from me. Oh, Désirée, you must try to get them to let me stay on at Mortefontaine, me and the children.’
I stroked her thin lustreless hair. ‘For the time being you’ll stay here with me. Later on we can try to get Mortefontaine back. But what about Joseph? If he doesn’t get permission to stay, what then?’
‘He’s written to me from Blois. He wants to go to Switzerland and buy an estate there, and I am to follow him as soon as possible. But I’m not going, I’m not going!’Julie sat up. ‘Désirée, you won’t leave me, will you, you’ll stay with me till everything is settled, you’ll stay with me here in your house, won’t you?’
I nodded. ‘I brought her into the Bonaparte crowd,’ I thought, ‘it’s my fault that she is without a home now, I must help her.’
‘Will you promise me?’
‘I promise I’ll stay with you, Julie.’
On the evening of King Louis XVIII’s first court ball in the Tuileries I had a cold, not a real one, of course, only the kind of cold I had at Napoleon’s coronation. I stayed in bed, Marie brought me milk and honey, and I read the papers. The Moniteur described the departure of Napoleon for Elba. He left on April 20th. Not a single one of his Marshals had been present. General Petit paraded a regiment of Guards, the Emperor kissed the regimental colours and climbed into a coach in which General Bertrand waited for him, and that, according to the Moniteur, had been all. In the Journal des Débats, however, I found an interesting article on the Crown Prince of Sweden. There I read that the Crown Prince intended to divorce his wife Désirée Clary, sister of Madame Julie Bonaparte. After the divorce the former Crown Princess would continue to live in her home in the Rue d’Anjou in Paris under the name of the Countess of Gothland. The Crown Prince, I read, would have the choice between a Russian and a Prussian Princess. The entry of the former Marshal J.-B. Bernadotte into one of the legitimate dynasties of Europe would be of the greatest importance for his future position in Sweden.
After that, milk and honey had lost their taste for me, and I didn’t want to read any more papers either. I remembered that it was the night of the first court reception of the Bourbons, and I wondered whether Jean-Baptiste had accepted the invitation.
Since the night of his arrival we have hardly been alone together. I have visited him in the Swedish headquarters in the Rue St Honoré often enough, and in his ante-chamber I found Fouché waiting every time I called, Talleyrand on three occasions, and even Marshal Ney was sitting patiently there once or twice. In Jean-Baptiste’s office there seemed to be eternal conferences between Wetterstedt, the Prime Minister, and his Generals and Admirals, whilst Jean-Baptiste either pored over documents or dictated letters.
This afternoon we had a reception in the Rue St Honoré in honour of the Tsar. To my horror the Tsar brought along the Count of Artois, brother of the new King of France. This Count, a man with a coarse and embittered face, wears a wig. The Bourbons are trying to persuade themselves that the Revolution has changed nothing. Yet Louis XVIII had to promise to take the oath of obedience to the laws of France, which meant to the Code Napoléon.
The Count of Artois dashed forward towards Jean-Baptiste. ‘Dear cousin, France will be eternally in your debt.’ Jean-Baptiste grew pale, but before he could say anything the Bourbon had turned to me and said: ‘Your Highness, you will come to-night to the reception in the Tuileries, will you not?’
Pressing my handkerchief to my nose I answered that I was suffering from a spring cold. The Tsar was very concerned when he heard that and hoped that I would soon recover.
Lying in bed I tried to imagine what was going on in the Tuileries. All the soft furnishings would have lilies instead of bees, there would be no Marseillaise, of course, Louis XVIII, an old gentleman suffering from dropsy, would stare with tired eyes at the ballroom from which they dragged his brother to his doom many years ago, and perhaps he would embrace a certain J.-B. Bernadotte, a fanatical Republican and Crown Prince of Sweden, and call him ‘our meritorious cousin’, perhaps …
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of steps coming quickly up the staircase. Who could it be? Everybody was in bed, as far as I knew.
‘I hope I did not wake you, my girl.’
It was Jean-Baptiste, not in full court dress but in his blue field uniform.
‘You are not really ill, Désirée?’
‘Of course not. And you, Jean-Baptiste? Why aren’t you at the Tuileries?’
‘Because of the strange fact that a former sergeant seems to have more sense of what is fitting than a Bourbon King.’ There was a pause. ‘A pity you are in bed, I wanted to say good-bye,’ he went on. ‘I am leaving to-morrow morning.’
I thought everybody in the house would hear the hammering of my heart. He was going to-morrow, to-morrow …
‘I have done what I came to do here. Nobody could ask for more than that. Besides, the allies have agreed to my treaty with Denmark. But imagine, Désirée, the Norwegians don’t want the union with Sweden.’
‘So that is our farewell,’ I thought. ‘I am in bed, a candle flickers, he talks of Norway.’ ‘Why don’t they?’
‘Because they want to be independent.’
Then let them,’ I said.
Jean-Baptiste pointed out to me that that was out of the question for a variety of reasons. Above all, he had promised the Swedes this union and his position depended to a great extent on the fulfilment of his promise. If he disappointed them the Swedish Parliament that had elected him to the Succession could also exclude him from it.
After he had said that he caught sight of the papers on my bedside table. Absent-mindedly he turned the pages of the Journal des Débats. An article, I knew well which, attracted his atte
ntion and he began to read.
‘If you married a Princess, you could become a member of one of the old dynasties,’ I said, and my heart felt as heavy as a stone. He kept on reading the Journal. ‘Haven’t you seen this article before?’
‘No. I really have no time for scandal stories. Disgusting court cackle!’ He threw the paper back on the table. ‘Pity, I have a carriage waiting downstairs and wanted to suggest – no, let’s leave it, you are probably too tired.’
‘You wanted to say good-bye and to suggest something,’ I said, pulling myself together. But I couldn’t prevent my voice from sounding flat and toneless. ‘Say it quickly, or I’ll go crazy.’
He stared at me in surprise. ‘It is not as important as all that. I only wanted to drive with you once more through the streets of Paris. For the last time, Désirée.’
‘For – the last time?’
‘Yes, because I shall never come to Paris again.’
At first I thought I hadn’t heard aright. When I knew that he had said just that, I started crying, crying with relief.
‘What is the matter, Désirée? Are you not feeling well?’
‘I thought you were going to tell me that you wanted a divorce,’ I sobbed, and pushed back the bed-cover. ‘I’ll dress quickly and we’ll drive through Paris, shall we?’
The carriage, an open one, rolled along the Seine quays. I put my head against his shoulder and felt his arm holding me. When we got to ‘our’ bridge the carriage stopped, and we went arm-in-arm and looked over the side of the bridge into the water where the lights of Paris shone back at us. The words of our first conversation there came back into my mind and without thinking I asked them again: ‘Do you know General Bonaparte?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘and I don’t like him.’
I went on speaking, addressing my words to the lights of Paris dancing on the waters of the Seine: ‘I had to work my way up. I joined the Army when I was fifteen, was nothing but a Sergeant for many years. I am a Divisional General now, Mademoiselle! My name is Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte. For years I have saved up part of my salary. I could buy a little house for you and the child … That’s what you said at the time, you remember?’
‘Of course. But I should rather like to know how you envisage your future, Désirée.’
‘If you think that it is necessary, for you and Oscar, to marry a Princess, then let us have a divorce,’ I said fumblingly at first. But the last part came out all right. ‘On one condition,’ I added.
‘And that is?’
‘That you make me your mistress.’
‘Out of the question! I don’t want to start this mistress business at the Swedish court. Besides, I couldn’t afford a mistress, my girl. No, you will have to remain my wife, Désirée, whatever happens.’
The murmuring of the water from below the bridge came up to me like sweet music. ‘Even if the worst happens and you are King?’
‘Yes, darling, even if I am King.’
Slowly we made our way back to the carriage.
‘You could do me a favour and stop selling silk yourself,’ he remarked a bit later.
‘I shall ask Pierre to draw my share of the profits regularly. He’ll be my steward, Marius Clary my chamberlain and Marceline Tascher my lady-in-waiting. I want to dismiss Madame La Flotte.’
Driving past Notre-Dame, Jean-Baptiste told the coachman to stop, and he looked at the Cathedral for a long time, as if he wanted to commit to his memory every stone and every line of it. Then we went on to have a look at our first house in Sceaux. The stars were out, lilac trees blossomed behind garden walls.
‘I went this way twice daily when I was Minister of War,’ he said, and most unexpectedly he added: ‘When, do you think, may I expect Your Royal Highness in Stockholm?’
‘Not yet,’ I said, nestling to his shoulder, ‘the next years will be difficult enough for you. I don’t want to make them any more so. You know how unsuited I am for the life of the Swedish court.’
He looked at me sharply. ‘Do you mean to say that you are never going to accept the Swedish court ceremonial?’
‘When I come,’ I said with emphasis, ‘I shall be in a position to determine all questions of etiquette myself.’
The carriage stopped in front of No. 3 Rue de la Lune in Sceaux. Strangers lived in it now. ‘Up there,’ I thought, ‘behind those first-floor windows, Oscar was born.’
At that very moment Jean-Baptiste said: ‘Imagine, Oscar has to shave already. Twice a week!’
On the way back we were so close to each other that we did not speak at all. Only when the carriage was rounding the corner into the Rue d’Anjou Jean-Baptiste said sharply: ‘You have no other reasons for wanting to stay here? Really not?’
‘Yes, Jean-Baptiste, I have. Here I am wanted, and there I am superfluous. I must help Julie.’
‘I have beaten Napoleon at Leipzig. Yet I can’t get rid of these Bonapartes all the same!’
‘It’s not the Bonapartes, it’s the Clarys. Don’t forget that, please!’
For the last time the carriage stopped. It all happened very suddenly. Jean-Baptiste got out with me and gazed at the house, attentively, in silence. I gave Jean-Baptiste my hand, which he put to his lips. ‘Whatever rumours the papers spread, don’t believe them, you understand?’
‘A pity. I should have liked to be your mistress. Ow!’ I said, because Jean-Baptiste had bitten my finger.
Unfortunately, the two sentries were watching all the time.
Paris. Whit-Monday, May 30th, 1814. Late in the evening
Nothing is more disagreeable to me than having to make visits of condolence, particularly when it is a beautiful Whit-Sunday!
Last night a tear-stained ex-lady-in-waiting from Malmaison appeared to tell me that Josephine had died at mid-day the day before. She had died of a heavy cold which she had contracted a few days before during an evening stroll in the Park at Malmaison on the arm of the Tsar. ‘The evening was very cool,’ the lady reported, ‘but Her Majesty would not under any circumstances put on a coat. She wore her new muslin frock with a very low decolletage and only a very thin and transparent scarf round her shoulders.’
‘Josephine, I know that muslin,’ I thought, ‘not substantial enough for a May evening. Purple it was, wasn’t it? A bit melancholy and so becoming …’
The former lady-in-waiting gave me a letter from Hortense. ‘Bring the children along, my sole comfort,’ wrote Hortense with many dashes and exclamation marks. And so I went to Malmaison with Julie and the two sons of the former Queen Hortense.
I tried to make the boys understand that their grandmother had died.
‘Perhaps she isn’t dead at all, perhaps she is only feigning it and is secretly going to join the Emperor at Elba,’ said Charles Napoleon.
In the Bois de Boulogne lime blossoms floated into our carriage. It seemed impossible to realise that Josephine was no longer alive.
At Malmaison we found Hortense and Eugene Beauharnais. Eugene was sitting in front of a minute writing desk rummaging among piles of bills. Pointing to them, the gauche young man, former Viceroy of Italy and husband of a Bavarian princess, sighed. ‘It is inconceivable to me. Nothing but unpaid bills. For dresses, hats, rose trees!’
‘Mama could never manage on her allowance,’ said Hortense.
‘The State and the Emperor between them paid her three million francs a year! And yet—’ He ran his fingers through his hair, obviously at his wits’ end. ‘I should like to know who is going to pay these debts, which go into millions.’
‘That will not interest the ladies,’ said Hortense, and asked us to sit down. We sat down stiffly, and through the open French windows the scent of Josephine’s roses came in from the garden.
‘The Tsar of Russia called on Mama, and Mama asked him to dinner,’ Hortense said. ‘I suppose she wanted to ask him to take an interest in my children. You know that I am divorced now, don’t you?’
We nodded politely. Hortense’s lover, Count Flahaul
t, appeared, and Eugene continued to exasperate himself about his mother’s unpaid bills.
‘Do you want to see her?’ Hortense asked in the midst of her brother’s laments.
Julie shook her head, but I said ‘Yes’ instinctively.
Count Flahault took me up to Josephine’s bedroom where she lay. Tall candles burned steadily. The shutters were closed and there was an overpowering odour of incense, roses, and the heavy perfume which Josephine used. The whole room was shrouded in half-darkness. When my eyes were used to it I saw nuns like giant black birds kneeling at the end of the bed, and I heard them murmur their requiem in a monotonous undertone.
At first I was afraid to look at the dead woman. But then I pulled myself together and went to the bed. Her coronation cloak was spread over the bed in soft folds like a good warm blanket. Her ermine collar had been placed over her breast and shoulders. It shone yellow in the light of the candles, yellow like the face of the dead Josephine.
No, Josephine didn’t look horrifying, nor did she make one want to cry. She was too beautiful for that, even now. Only her small nose had an air of sharpness and strangeness about it, which emphasised the smile that was still hovering round her closed mouth, and her babyish curls held the aura of youthful attraction in their strands as they had done in life.
‘How charming she looks!’ said someone by my side. It was an old gentleman with a bloated face and beautiful silvery hair. He seemed to have come out of some dark corner.
‘My name is Barras,’ he introduced himself, and raised a lorgnette to his eyes. ‘Have I the pleasure of knowing Madame?’
‘It’s a long time ago,’ I said. ‘We met at General Bonaparte’s house and you were Director of the Republic at the time.’
He dropped his lorgnette. ‘This coronation robe, Madame, this coronation robe is Josephine’s debt to me. “You marry this little Bonaparte,” I told her at the time, “I shall make him Military Governor of Paris and all the rest will take care of itself, my dearest Josephine!” And, as you know, Madame, everything else has taken care of itself.’ He laughed softly. ‘Was she a close friend of yours, Madame?’
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