Desiree

  I tried to remember what he looked like, but I couldn’t disentangle his face from all the many faces I had seen that night.

  ‘Do forgive me,’ I murmured, ‘that I let you down so badly at Madame Tallien’s.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter in the least,’ he said, ‘I am only sorry – for your sake.’

  ‘Do you know,’ I confessed, ‘I deliberately splashed the champagne over her white frock. It leaves stains.’ Suddenly I started crying again. ‘She is so much more beautiful than I … and such a great lady …’

  He held me very tight and with his free hand pressed my face against his shoulder. ‘Yes, cry, my child, cry. It’ll do you good.’

  I wept as I had never wept before. I just couldn’t stop. I wept and sobbed and moaned, and all the time I pressed my face into the rough cloth of his uniform.

  ‘I shall ruin your shoulder-padding with my crying,’ I said once, sobbing.

  ‘Yes, you’ll do that all right,’ he answered. ‘But don’t let that trouble you. Cry if you feel like it.’

  We must have been driving through the streets of Paris for hours and hours, and all the time I cried so much that in the end I could cry no longer.

  ‘I’ll take you home now. Where do you live?’ he asked.

  The Seine came back to my mind and I said: ‘Drop me here. I’ll walk home.’

  ‘Oh! Walk home? In that case we’d better drive on,’ he said dryly.

  I took my head from his shoulder. It felt no longer comfortable because I had cried too much on it and it was too wet now. A question occurred to me.

  ‘Do you know General Bonaparte?’ I asked.

  ‘No. I’ve only seen him once before in the War Minister’s ante-room. I didn’t like him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t know why. These things, likes and dislikes, can’t be explained. You, for example, I like.’

  We fell silent again after that. The cab rolled on through the rain which in the light of a street lantern made the pavement shine with many colours. My eyes hurt and I closed them and let my head rest against the back of the seat. Then I heard myself say:

  ‘I believed in him more than I have ever believed in anybody in the world. More than in Mama. More than in, or rather different from the way in which I believed in Papa. I just can’t understand …’

  ‘There are many things you don’t understand, my girl!’

  ‘We were to be married in a few weeks’ time. And he never so much as mentioned that …’

  ‘He would never have married you, my little girl, never! You see, he has been engaged for years to a wealthy silk merchant’s daughter in Marseilles.’

  I gave a start, and at once his hand closed warmly and protectively round my fingers again.

  ‘You didn’t know that either, did you?’ he continued. ‘The Tallien told me this afternoon. She said that our little General abandoned a big dowry in order to marry Barras’ ex-mistress. Bonaparte’s brother is married to the sister of this fiancée from Marseilles. But, as things are now, a former countess with good connections in Paris is more important to him than a dowry in Marseilles. You see, little one, you’d have been the last girl in the world for him to have married.’

  Evenly and almost comfortingly his voice came through the dark. At first I didn’t understand what he was driving at and I asked him:

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Frantically I tried to get my thoughts into some sort of order, at the same time clinging for dear life to his hand, which, at this moment, was the only warm thing in my life.

  ‘My dear little girl, I am sorry that I have to hurt you so much. But it is better that you should know everything. I know exactly how it feels, but – it can’t get worse now. That’s why I told you what the Tallien told me. First there was a rich middle-class girl and now there is a countess with excellent connections deriving from her amorous past associations with one of the heads of our State and two gentlemen of the Supreme Command of the Army. But you, my dear, you have neither connections nor a big dowry.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘One can see that. You are only a little girl and a very good girl. You don’t know how the great ladies behave and what goes on in their salons. And you haven’t got money either, otherwise you’d have slipped a note to Madame Tallien’s lackey and he’d have let you through. Yes, you are a decent little thing and …’

  He stopped. And then, quite unexpectedly, he burst out, ‘And I want to marry you.’

  ‘Let me get out, at once. I won’t let you make fun of me,’ I said, and knocked on the window. ‘Driver, stop! Stop!’ I shouted, and the cab stopped.

  But the General shouted even louder, ‘Drive on at once!’ and the carriage immediately got going again.

  ‘Perhaps I didn’t express myself properly,’ the General’s voice came somewhat hesitantly out of the dark. ‘Please forgive me. I never have a chance of getting to know young girls like you. And – Mademoiselle Désirée, I really would like to marry you.’

  ‘In Madame Tallien’s salon there are plenty of ladies who have a preference for Generals,’ I said. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘You don’t believe, do you, that I would marry cocottes – sorry, Mademoiselle, ladies like that?’

  I was too tired to answer, too tired to think. I still didn’t understand what this man Bernadotte, this giant of a man, really wanted from me. In any case, what was the good? My life, I felt, was finished. The cold of the night made me shudder in spite of his big coat, and my silk shoes, soaked and heavy, hung like lead on my feet.

  ‘Without the Revolution I shouldn’t be an officer now, Mademoiselle, let alone a General. You are very young, but perhaps you remember that before the Revolution no one not belonging to the aristocracy could get beyond the rank of captain. My father was a lawyer’s clerk and the son of a very humble artisan, Mademoiselle, and I had to work my way up. I joined the Army when I was fifteen, was nothing but a sergeant for many years, and then step by step – well, anyway, I am a Divisional General now. But perhaps you think I am too old for you? …’

  What was he saying? ‘You’ll believe in me whatever happens, won’t you?’ Napoleon asked me once. A great lady with connections and painted eyelids! Of course, I thought, I understand you, Napoleon, I do. But it’ll break me …

  ‘I asked you an important question, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘I am sorry, I didn’t hear it. What did you ask, General Bernadotte?’

  ‘I asked whether, perhaps, I am too old for you?’

  ‘But I don’t know how old you are. And what does it matter, anyway?’ I said.

  ‘It matters a great deal indeed. I may really be too old for you. I am thirty-one.’

  ‘I’m going to be sixteen shortly. But I am so tired. I should like to go home now.’

  ‘Of course. Forgive me, I am so inconsiderate. Where do you live?’

  I gave him the address and he told the cabman.

  ‘Won’t you think over what I asked you?’ said the General. Then his voice came more hesitantly through the dark, ‘I shall have to be back in the Rhineland in ten days’ time. Perhaps you could give me an answer by then?’ And quickly he added, ‘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.’

  ‘Child? What child?’ I asked involuntarily. The things he said were quite beyond my comprehension.

  ‘Our child, of course,’ he said eagerly, and felt for my hand again, but I withdrew it quickly. ‘I want a wife and a child,’ he continued, ‘have been wanting them for years, Mademoiselle.’

  At that my patience gave out.

  ‘Do stop,’ I said, ‘you don’t know me at all.’

  ‘Oh yes, I do,’ he said and it sounded very sincere. ‘I believe I know you better than your family knows you. I have so little time for myself, I am always at the front, you see, and therefore I can’t visit your family for weeks at a time and – well, I can’t t
ake you out for walks and all that sort of thing, the things you are supposed to do before you propose. I have to decide quickly and – I have decided!’

  Oh God, he means it, he means it! He wanted to use his leave to get himself married, to buy a house and …

  ‘General Bernadotte,’ I said, ‘in any woman’s life there is room for only one great love.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, I …’ Yes, how did I know? ‘You can read it in all the novels, and it is certainly true,’ I said.

  At that moment the brakes screeched. We had arrived at the house of the Clapains in the Rue du Bac. He opened the door and helped me out.

  There was a lantern over the house door. As at the gate of Madame Tallien’s house, I raised myself on my toes to see his face. He had beautiful white teeth and a strikingly big nose.

  I gave him the key borrowed from Madame Clapain and he unlocked the door.

  ‘You live in a noble house,’ he remarked.

  ‘Oh, only the servants’ quarters,’ I murmured. ‘And now, good night and many thanks, many thanks for – everything.’

  But he did not move.

  ‘Do go back to your cab,’ I said. ‘You’ll be wet through. And you can make your mind easy, I’ll stay at home all right.’

  ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘And when may I come for your answer?’

  I shook my head. ‘In any woman’s life—’ I began saying, but he raised his hand. Then I broke off and said instead, ‘Really, General, it won’t do! Really it won’t! Not because I’m too young for you but, you can see for yourself, because I’m far too small!’ And with that I rushed into the house and banged the door to behind me.

  When I reached the kitchen of the Clapain family I was no longer tired, only numb. I couldn’t sleep now, I’d never be able to sleep again, never …

  And therefore, at this moment, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, writing, writing, writing. The day after to-morrow this Bernadotte fellow will come here and ask for me. I certainly shan’t be here any more. Where I shall be forty-eight hours hence I don’t know …

  Marseilles, three weeks later

  I have been very ill: a cold, sore throat, a high temperature and what the poets call a broken heart. Illness enough.

  I sold Marie’s gold medallion in Paris and got enough money for it to get home. And at home Marie at once put me to bed and sent for the doctor because of my temperature. The doctor of course couldn’t understand why I had got a cold because there hadn’t been any rain in Marseilles for days. Marie also sent for Mama, who returned without delay to nurse me. Up till now no one has found out that I was in Paris.

  At the moment I am lying on a sofa on the terrace. They wrapped me up in countless blankets and said that I was looking pale and dreadfully thin. Joseph and Julie, who came back yesterday, are expected to visit us to-night. I hope they’ll allow me to stay up.

  Now Marie comes running on to the terrace waving a paper in her hand. How excited she seems!

  General Napoleon Bonaparte has been appointed Military Governor of Paris. Riots in the capital have been suppressed by the National Guard.

  At first I couldn’t read at all, the paper trembled badly in my hand. But then it steadied and I could read in comfort. Napoleon, the paper said, has been made Military Governor of Paris. An infuriated mob wanted to storm the Tuileries and to tear the Deputies to pieces. Driven into a corner, Director Barras handed over command of the National Guard to General Napoleon Bonaparte, the man who had been sacked by the Army. On his appointment he demanded carte blanche from the Assembly and got it. After that he ordered a young cavalry officer by the name of Murat to collect some guns, and these he placed along the northern, western and southern sides of the Tuileries so that they covered the approaches along the Rue Saint-Roche and over the Pont Royal. The mob was not deterred by the sight of the artillery and kept on advancing till a voice with an edge as sharp as a knife ordered, ‘Fire!’ A single cannon-shot sufficed to drive the mob back. Now everything was quiet again, and the Directors Barras, Lareveillière, Letourneur, Rewbell and Carnot expressed their gratitude to the man who had saved the Republic from new disorders and appointed him Military Governor of Paris.

  I tried to think it all over. A conversation in the window niche of Madame Tallien’s house came back to my mind: ‘If I were in Barras’ place I’d shoot the mob to pieces, my dear Fouché.’ ‘For that you’d first have to find the man ready to do the shooting.’

  One cannon-shot was enough, then, and it was Napoleon who did the shooting. He gave the order for the guns to fire, at whom? At the rioting mob, the paper said. Who were the rioting mob? Probably the wretches who were living in cellars and couldn’t pay the inflated price of bread. As to cellars, Napoleon’s mother, too, was living in one. ‘Your son is a genius, Madame Buonaparte.’ ‘Yes, unfortunately,’ she answered.

  Someone interrupted me, and so I am now writing in my room.

  As I was still pondering over the news I heard Joseph and Julie come into the living-room. They arrived far earlier than expected, and through the terrace door, which wasn’t quite shut, I overheard Joseph saying:

  ‘Napoleon sent a courier with a long letter and plenty of money for Mama, and I asked Mama through a messenger to meet us here. You don’t mind, Madame Clary, do you?’

  Oh no, Mama didn’t mind at all, on the contrary, she said, she’d be very glad to see her. And meanwhile wouldn’t they like to say how-do-you-do to me out there on the terrace? I was, Mama added, still very poorly.

  But Joseph seemed to hesitate and Julie started to cry and to tell Mama that Napoleon had written to Joseph of his engagement to the widow of General de Beauharnais. And there was also, I heard Julie say, a message for me that he always wanted to remain friends with me.

  ‘Oh God, oh God!’ Mama exclaimed, ‘The poor child!’

  At that moment I heard Madame Letitia, Eliza and Polette enter, and everybody talked at once, till Joseph’s voice started to read out something. That must have been the letter of the New Military Governor of Paris.

  Later he and Julie came out on to the terrace and sat down with me. Julie stroked my hand whilst Joseph in obvious embarrassment said something about how autumnal the garden looked already.

  ‘May I congratulate you on your brother’s success, Joseph?’ I said, pointing to the letter which he was nervously crumpling between his fingers.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I have some news for you, Eugenie, which Julie and I regret …’

  ‘Never mind, Joseph, I know,’ and when he looked puzzled I added, ‘You see, the door to the living-room was open and I heard everything.’

  I had hardly finished my sentence when Madame Letitia happened on the terrace, looking very bellicose.

  ‘A widow with two children,’ she exclaimed, ‘a widow with two children and six years older than my boy! And that is the kind of daughter-in-law Napoleone dares to bring me!’

  I remembered Josephine in that room at Madame Tallien’s house: silver-painted eyelids, babyish curls, sophisticated smile. And here was Madame Letitia with red calloused hands and the scrawny neck of a woman who had spent her life washing her children’s clothes and preventing them from getting into mischief. Her bony fingers were closed round a wad of banknotes. Aha, I thought, the Military Governor of Paris has lost no time in sending his mother a part of his Governor’s salary.

  A little later I was put on the divan in the living-room and heard them discuss the great events. Etienne brought out his best liqueur and emphasised how proud he was to be related to General Bonaparte. But Mama and Suzanne bent their heads over their needlework and said nothing.

  ‘I am quite well again, really,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you let me have one of my napkins which I had started to embroider for my trousseau? I want to get on with my monograms.’

  The serviettes were brought and I started another series of B’s which made them all feel awkward when they noticed it. Suddenly I ha
d the feeling that one phase of my life had come to an end, and so I said into the silence that had fallen on us:

  ‘I don’t want to be called Eugenie any longer. My name is Bernadine Eugenie Désirée and I like Désirée best of all. Couldn’t you call me Désirée?’

  They looked at each other with concern. I felt sure they thought I had gone out of my mind.

  Rome, three days after Christmas in the Year v. (Here, in Italy, they still go by the pre-Republican calendar and say: Dec. 27th, 1797)

  They’ve left me alone with the dying man. His name is Jean Pierre Duphot, a General on Napoleon’s staff. He arrived in Rome to-day in order to propose to me, and then, two hours ago, a bullet hit him in the stomach. There was nothing he could do, the surgeon said, and so we put him on the sofa in Joseph’s study.

  Duphot has lost consciousness. His breath sounds like so many little sobs, and a thin trickle of blood comes from a corner of his mouth, so that I have to fold a serviette round his chin. His eyes are half open, but they see nothing. From the adjoining room I can hear the murmuring voices of Joseph, Julie, the doctor and two Embassy secretaries.

  Joseph and Julie left the room because they don’t like seeing a man die, and the doctor went with them. This Italian doctor thinks it far more important to be introduced to His Excellency the Ambassador of the French Republic in Rome and brother of the conqueror of Italy than to attend to some unimportant staff officer on his deathbed.

  I don’t know why, but I have the feeling that Duphot will regain consciousness once more although I realise like the others how far gone he is already. Therefore I have fetched my diary and have begun writing in it once again after all these years. I shan’t be quite so alone now. My pen scratches away on the paper, and that at any rate means that the sobbing death-rattle from the sofa is no longer the only sound in this room.