Desiree

  Was that a lover’s letter? I was so annoyed about it that in my next letter I didn’t mention his advice at all and didn’t tell him either that I was now having lessons with this Monsieur Montel. God alone knows who recommended this man to him, this perfumed ballet dancer, this cross between a bishop and a ballerina who makes me curtsey ‘gracefully’ to invisible dignitaries, walk up to equally invisible old ladies and conduct them to an invisible sofa whilst all the time he hops around me to check the effect. One might almost think that he was preparing me for a royal reception, me, a convinced Republican.

  As I had written nothing about my lessons in deportment the courier brought me one day the following letter from my Jean-Baptiste: ‘You say nothing about your progress in music, dancing and other subjects. While I am so far away I hope that my little girl will make the best of her lessons. Your J. – Bernadotte.’

  This letter came on a morning when I was particularly wretched and in no mood for getting up at all. I was feeling very lonely in the wide double bed, didn’t even want to see Julie when she called, didn’t want to think about anything at all. Then the letter arrived. The letterhead of the official notepaper which Jean-Baptiste uses for his private correspondence as well says: République Française, and underneath, Liberté – Egalité. Why, I clenched my teeth, why should I, the daughter of a worthy silk merchant from Marseilles, be educated into a ‘fine lady’? Jean-Baptiste, I thought, is probably a great General and one of the ‘coming men’, but for all that he comes from a very humble family, and anyway, in a Republic all citizens are equal and I don’t want to come into circles where you direct your guests about with affected gestures of the hand.

  I got up and wrote him a long, furious letter. I cried as I wrote it and the ink ran. I hadn’t married a preacher, I said, but a man of whom I thought that he understood me. And as for that man with the odious-smelling breath who made me do finger practice and that perfumed Monsieur Montel, they could go to the devil, I had had enough of them, enough, enough …

  Without reading the letter through I sealed it quickly and told Marie to get a cab and take it immediately to the War Office to be passed on from there to General Bernadotte. Of course, next day I was afraid that Jean-Baptiste would be really angry. I went to Montel for my lesson and afterwards practised scales for two hours on the piano and attempted the Mozart minuet with which I want to surprise Jean-Baptiste when he gets home.

  I felt grey and sad and forsaken, as sad and forsaken as our garden with its bare chestnut tree. A whole week crept by till at last Jean-Baptiste’s answer came. ‘You have not told me,’ he wrote, ‘you have not told me yet, my dear Désirée, what it was that offended you in my letter. I do not at all want to treat you like a child but like a loving and understanding wife. All I said should have convinced you that—’ And then he started off again on the completion of my education and told me unctuously that one gains knowledge ‘by hard and persistent work’. In the final sentence he wrote: ‘Write and tell me that you love me!’

  This letter I haven’t answered yet, for something has happened meanwhile which made any further letter-writing impossible.

  Yesterday morning I was, as so often before, sitting by myself in Jean-Baptiste’s study, twirling the globe on a little table and wondering about the many countries and continents of which I knew nothing. Marie came in and brought me some broth. ‘Drink that,’ she said, ‘you must eat things now that’ll make you strong.’

  ‘Why? I am very well. I’m even getting fatter all the time. The yellow silk dress hardly fits me round the waist now.’ I pushed the cup away. ‘Besides, I hate greasy things.’

  Marie turned to go. ‘You’ve got to force yourself to eat. And you know quite well why.’

  I was startled. ‘Why?’

  Marie smiled, came suddenly back to me and made to take me into her arms: ‘You do know, don’t you?’

  But I pushed her away and shouted at her, ‘No, I don’t! And it isn’t true either, I know it isn’t!’ With that I ran up to the bedroom, locked the door behind me and threw myself down on to the bed.

  Naturally the thought had occurred to me, of course it had. But I didn’t want to admit it. ‘It can’t be true,’ I thought, ‘it’s quite out of the question, it – it would be dreadful if it were true. It can happen that for some reason or other one can miss a period, or even two in succession, perhaps even three. It can happen, can’t it?’

  I hadn’t told Julie anything about it, for if she knew she’d drag me to a doctor. And I didn’t want to be examined, I didn’t want to be told that—

  And now Marie knew it. I stared up to the ceiling and tried to think it out. It’s something quite natural, I told myself, something quite natural, all women have children. There were Mama, and Suzanne, and – well, Julie has been to two doctors already because she so badly wants children and hasn’t got any yet. But children are such a dreadful responsibility, one needs to know such a lot oneself in order to bring them up and explain to them the things that are right and the things that are wrong. And I know so little myself …

  Perhaps it would be a little boy with dark curly hair like Jean-Baptiste himself? And perhaps one day this little image of Jean-Baptiste would be killed in the Rhineland or Italy like so many of the sixteen-year-olds whom they are conscripting even now to defend our frontiers? Or perhaps he himself would use a pistol and kill other people’s little boys?

  I pressed my hand on my stomach. Was there really a new little human being in there? What a preposterous thought! But at the same time it flashed through my mind that it would be my little human being, a little part of my own self, and for the fraction of a second I was happy. Then I tried to see it differently. My little human being? No, impossible, no man can be owned by another man. And was there any reason why my son should always be able to understand me? What about me and Mama, for instance? How often do I find her views old-fashioned, how often do I tell her white lies! And precisely the same thing would happen between my son and myself: he would lie to me, find me old-fashioned, be annoyed by me. You little fiend in my body, I thought angrily, I didn’t ask for you to come.

  Marie knocked on the door, but I didn’t open. I heard her going back into the kitchen, heard her returning and knocking again. This time I let her in. ‘I warmed the soup up for you,’ she said.

  I asked her: ‘Marie, at that time when you were expecting your little Pierre, did you feel very happy?’

  Marie sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘No, of course not,’ she said, ‘I wasn’t married, you see.’

  Very hesitantly I said: ‘I heard that you – I mean if you don’t want children you can – there are women, I mean, who could help you.’

  Marie looked at me very intently, ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘there are. My sister went to a woman like that. She has too many children as it is and doesn’t want any more. Yes, and afterwards she was ill for a long time. And now she can’t have any more children. And she will never be really right again either. But great ladies such as Madame Tallien or Madame Josephine, they are sure to know a proper doctor who would help. But it’s against the law, you know.’

  She paused. I lay with eyes closed and pressed my hand to my stomach. It was flat, quite flat, my stomach.

  ‘So you want the baby done away with?’ I heard Marie ask.

  ‘No!’

  I shouted it involuntarily. Marie got up and seemed satisfied.

  ‘Come, eat your soup,’ she said tenderly. ‘And then write and tell the General. He’ll be pleased.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I can’t write things like that. I wish I could say it to him.’

  I drank my soup, dressed, went to Monsieur Montel and learned some more dancing steps.

  This morning I had a great surprise. Josephine came to see me. Up till now she had only been twice, and every time together with Julie and Joseph. But from the way she behaved there was nothing to show that there was anything unusual about her sudden visit. She was magnificently dressed in
a white frock of thin woollen material, a short very close-fitting ermine jacket and a high black hat with a white feather. But the light of the grey winter morning was not kind to her features: when she laughed it showed up all the many wrinkles round her eyes and her lips seemed very dry and unevenly painted.

  ‘I wanted to see for myself how you are getting on as a grass widow, Madame,’ she said, and added, ‘We grass widows must stand by each other, must we not?’

  Marie brought hot chocolate for us grass widows, and I asked politely: ‘Do you hear regularly from General Bonaparte?’

  ‘No, not very regularly. He’s lost his fleet and the British have cut his communications. Only now and then a small ship manages to get through the blockade.’

  I had nothing to say to that. Josephine looked round and saw the piano. ‘Julie has told me,’ she remarked, ‘that you are taking music lessons.’

  I nodded. ‘Do you play the piano?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the former viscountess, ‘I have played since I was six.’

  ‘I’m also taking dancing lessons,’ I went on. ‘I don’t want to disgrace Bernadotte.’

  Josephine took one of the marzipan cakes. ‘It’s no simple matter to be married to a General – I mean a General who is away, in the war. Misunderstandings arise so easily when you are separated.’

  ‘Heaven knows she’s right,’ I thought, and remembered my stupid exchange of letters. ‘One can’t write everything one wants to write,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly!’ Josephine agreed readily. ‘But there are always other people who interfere and write malicious letters. Joseph, for example, our brother-in-law.’ She pulled out a lace handkerchief and put it to her lips. ‘Joseph, let me tell you, wants to write to Bonaparte to tell him that he called on me yesterday at Malmaison and found Hippolyte Charles there – you remember Hippolyte, don’t you? That charming young Army contractor? – well, that he found Hippolyte there in his dressing-gown. So he wants to bother Bonaparte, who has other things to think of just now, with a trifling thing like that.’

  ‘Why in the world does Monsieur Charles want to walk about Malmaison in a dressing-gown?’ I really couldn’t understand why he chose this type of clothing for his visits.

  ‘It was nine o’clock in the morning,’ said Josephine, ‘and he hadn’t yet finished his toilette. Joseph’s visit was a surprise, you know.’

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  ‘I need company, I can’t stand being left to myself so much, I have never been alone in all my life,’ she said, and tears came into her eyes. ‘And as we grass widows must stand together against our brother-in-law I thought that you might have a word with your sister. Perhaps she could influence Joseph not to say anything to Bonaparte.’

  So that was what she wanted. ‘Julie has no influence whatever on Joseph’s actions,’ I said truthfully.

  Josephine looked frightened. ‘You refuse to help me?’

  I said that I was going to a New Year’s Eve celebration at Joseph’s house to-night and that I would have a word with Julie. ‘But you mustn’t expect too much, Madame,’ I added.

  Josephine was visibly relieved. ‘I knew you would not desert me, I knew! Tell me, why do I never see you at Theresa Tallien’s? A fortnight ago she had a baby. You simply must come and see it.’ Walking towards the door she turned round once more: ‘Life isn’t too boring for you in Paris, Madame, is it? We must go to the theatre together sometime. And please, tell your sister that he can write to Bonaparte as much as he likes, only I’d rather he omitted all mention of the dressing-gown!’

  I drove to the Rue du Rocher half an hour earlier than expected. Julie, in a new red frock which didn’t suit her at all, fluttered in confusion across the drawing-room, arranging and re-arranging the little silver horse-shoes which she had put on the table to ensure a happy new year for all of us.

  ‘Louis Bonaparte will be your neighbour at table,’ she said. ‘The fat fellow is so boring, I really don’t know whom else I dare bother with him.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you something,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you ask Joseph not to mention the dressing-gown to Napoleon, I mean the dressing-gown of this gentleman Charles at Malmaison?’

  ‘The letter to Napoleon has gone. Any further discussion is useless,’ said Joseph, entering at this moment. He went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of cognac. ‘I wager Josephine came to your house to-day to ask for your good offices. Is that right, Désirée?’

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘It’s a mystery to me why you are on her side instead of on ours,’ Joseph continued indignantly.

  ‘Whose do you mean by ours?’ I asked.

  ‘Mine and Napoleon’s of course.’

  ‘You are not concerned in it at all. And Napoleon in Egypt can’t undo what has been done. It would only grieve him. Is there any need for that?’

  Joseph looked at me with great interest. ‘So you are still in love with him! How touching!’ he scoffed. ‘I thought you had forgotten all about him!’

  ‘Forgotten?’ I was amazed. ‘How can you ever forget the first time you were in love? Napoleon himself, good God, I hardly ever think of him, but the wild heart–throbs, the happiness and all the pain and suffering that followed it, I’ll never forget those!’

  ‘And that’s why you want to save him a great disappointment now?’ Joseph appeared to find this conversation amusing. He poured himself another drink.

  ‘Yes. I know what such a disappointment feels like.’

  Joseph grinned. ‘But my letter is on its way already.’

  ‘In that case there’s no sense in continuing to talk about it.’

  Joseph meanwhile had poured out two more drinks. ‘Come on, girls,’ he said, ‘now let’s wish each other a happy New Year, you must put yourselves into a cheerful mood. Any moment the first visitors may arrive.’

  Obediently Julie and I took the glasses. But I had not even touched the cognac when I suddenly felt very sick. The smell was repellent to me, and I put the glass back on the sideboard.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’Julie exclaimed. ‘You’re green in the face.’

  I felt beads of perspiration on my forehead, dropped on to a chair and shook my head. ‘No, no, it’s nothing. I feel like that so often now.’ I shut my eyes.

  ‘Perhaps she is going to have a baby,’ I heard Joseph say.

  ‘Impossible. She would have told me,’Julie contradicted him.

  ‘If she’s ill I’ll have to write and tell Bernadotte at once,’ said Joseph.

  Quickly I opened my eyes. ‘Don’t you dare, Joseph! You won’t breathe a word. I want to surprise him.’

  ‘With what?’ both of them asked at the same time.

  ‘With a son,’ I said, and suddenly I felt very proud.

  Julie knelt down by my side and took me in her arms. Joseph said, ‘But perhaps it’s going to be a girl.’

  ‘No, it’ll be a son,’ I declared. ‘Bernadotte is not a man for daughters.’ I rose from the chair. ‘And now I’m going home. Don’t be annoyed, please, I’d rather like to lie down and sleep into the new year.’

  Joseph had filled the glasses again, and he and Julie drank my health, Julie with tears in her eyes.

  ‘Long live the Bernadotte dynasty,’Joseph said, and laughed.

  The joke pleased him. ‘Yes, let’s hope for the best for the Bernadotte dynasty,’ I said. Then I left for home.

  But the bells wouldn’t let me sleep into the new year. Now they’ve finished, and we’ve been in the Year VII for quite a while now. Somewhere in Germany Jean-Baptiste is celebrating the New Year with his staff. They may even be drinking my health. But I’m facing the new year alone.

  No, not quite alone. Now there are two of us wandering into the future; you, my little son as yet unborn, and I, and we hope for the best, don’t we? For the Bernadotte dynasty!

  Sceaux near Paris, 17th Messidor of the Year VII. (Mama would probably write July 4th, 1799)

  My
son arrived eight hours ago.

  He has dark, silky hair. But Marie says he’ll probably lose his first hair anyway.

  His eyes are dark blue. But Marie says that all newly born children have blue eyes.

  I am so weak that everything quivers before my eyes, and they would be very annoyed if they knew that Marie had given in and secretly brought me my diary. The midwife even thinks that I shan’t survive, but the doctor says that he’ll get me through all right. I’ve lost lots of blood, and they’ve somehow managed to raise the lower bedposts to stop the bleeding.

  Jean-Baptiste’s voice comes from downstairs.

  My dear, dear Jean-Baptiste.

  Jean-Baptiste!

  My beloved Jean-Ba—

  Sceaux near Paris, one week later.

  Now not even that giantess, my midwife, believes that I shall die in childbirth. I am sitting in bed propped up by many cushions, Marie brings me all my favourite dishes, and in the morning and evening France’s Minister of War sits by my bedside and gives me long lectures on how to bring up children.

  About two months ago Jean-Baptiste returned out of the blue. After New Year’s Day I had taken myself in hand and written to him again, short notes and not at all loving ones, because I did want him back so badly and at the same time was so angry with him. I read in the Moniteur that he had taken Philippsburg, which was defended by 1500 men, with a force of 300, and that he had taken up his headquarters near a town called Germersheim. From there he went on to Mannheim, conquered the city and became Governor of Hesse. He governed the Germans of this territory according to the laws of the Republic, prohibited flogging, put an end to the ghettoes and received enthusiastic addresses of thanks from the universities of Heidelberg and Giessen. There must be some very strange races about: as long as you don’t conquer them they think themselves for unknown reasons to be cleverer and better than anybody else in the world. But once you’ve beaten them they’re full of unimaginable weeping and gnashing of teeth, and many of them maintain that secretly they’ve been on the side of their enemy all the time!