‘Fernand, you’ll see to it that within an hour you’ll have a bedroom and a drawing-room ready for the Princess,’ ordered Jean-Baptiste. ‘And don’t take any of the damp furniture from the depot. Tell the Adjutant on duty to requisition some decent furniture from the big houses in the district.’
‘And without bugs!’ hissed Marie.
‘The Princess and I want to dine alone here, in my room, in an hour.’
We heard them continue their argument outside, and we laughed a lot, remembering our bridal bed full of roses and thorns. I climbed back on to his knees and talked to him about everything that came into my mind, about Julie’s difficulties as Queen, Oscar’s whooping cough, his measles, and Monsieur Beethoven’s message to him about the new symphony, which he could not, after all, dedicate to the Emperor but would simply call ‘Eroica’ to commemorate a hope which he had nourished once upon a time …
Fernand laid a small table and we sat down to a delicious chicken and marvellous Burgundy.
‘You have bought new cutlery, Jean-Baptiste! With the initials of the Prince of Ponte Corvo! At home I am still using our old cutlery with the simple “B” on it.’
‘Have the “B” erased and the new arms put in its place, darling. You need not economise, we are very rich,’ said Jean-Baptiste.
Fernand, having finished waiting on us, disappeared, and I braced myself to deliver the blow. ‘We are richer than you think,’ I said. ‘The Emperor has given us a house as a present.’
Jean-Baptiste looked up at me. ‘House? What house?’
‘The house of General Moreau in the Rue d’Anjou. He bought it from Madame Moreau.’
‘I know, for 400,000 francs. He bought it some months ago, and it caused a lot of talk among officers.’
Jean-Baptiste slowly divided an orange into segments and I drank a glass of liqueur. He looked suddenly very tired.
‘Moreau’s house,’ he murmured. ‘Friend Moreau went into exile whilst I have become the recipient of great Imperial presents. I had a letter from the Emperor to-day in which he tells me that he is going to hand over to me estates in Poland and Westphalia which guarantee me a yearly income of another 300,000 francs. But he doesn’t say a word about Moreau’s house and your visit. It is not easy to spoil a man’s joy at reunion with his wife. But the Emperor of the French manages it all right.’
‘He said that he admired your assault on Lübeck very much,’ I said.
Jean-Baptiste did not answer. A deep frown had appeared on his forehead.
‘I shall furnish the new house very comfortably,’ I went on, feeling helpless. ‘You must come home. The child keeps asking about you.’
Jean-Baptiste shook his head. ‘Moreau’s house will never be my home, only a pied-à-terre where I shall call to see you and Oscar sometimes.’ He stared into the fire and a smile came into his face: ‘I shall write to Moreau.’
‘But how can you communicate with him across the Continental Blockade?’
‘The Emperor wants me to administer the Hanseatic towns. From Lübeck it is easy to write to Sweden, still a neutral country from which letters go to England and America. And I have friends in Sweden.’
A memory came back to me, half forgotten and yet very clear:
Stockholm near the North Pole, a white sky … ‘What do you know of Sweden?’ I asked.
‘When I took Lübeck,’ said Jean-Baptiste, returning to his livelier mood, ‘I found some Swedish troops, a squadron of dragoons, in the town.’
‘How was that? Are we at war with Sweden, too?’
‘With whom are we not at war? That is to say, since Tilsit we are allegedly at peace again. Anyway, at that time Sweden had made common cause with our enemies. Its crazy young King imagined himself to be the tool of God to bring about Napoleon’s destruction. Apparently some kind of religious mania.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Gustavus. The fourth of that name, I believe. The Swedish Kings are all called Carl or Gustavus. His father, the third Gustavus, was so unpopular that he was murdered during a masked ball by a member of the Swedish aristocracy.’
‘How awful, how barbarous – during a masked ball!’
‘When we were young,’ said Jean-Baptiste ironically, ‘the guillotine used to do that kind of job. Do you think that less barbarous? It is difficult enough to judge, but more difficult still to condemn.’ He stared into the fire for a moment, then his good temper came back to him once more. ‘Well, the son of this murdered Gustavus, the fourth Gustavus, sent his dragoons into the war against France, and that was how I came to capture a Swedish squadron in Lübeck. I happen to be interested in Sweden for a particular reason, and having at last the opportunity of meeting some Swedes I asked the captured officers for a meal. And so I met Mr Mörner—’ He stopped. ‘Wait, I have the names somewhere.’ He got up and went to his desk.
‘It’s unimportant,’ I said. ‘Go on.’
‘No, it is not unimportant. I want to remember the names.’ He rummaged in a drawer, found a piece of paper and came back to me. ‘So I met Mr Gustavus Mörner, Mr Flach, Mr de la Grange and the Barons Leijonhjelm, Banér and Friesendorff.’
‘What unpronounceable names!’ I said.
‘These officers explained the situation to me. Their King had entered the war against the will of the people. He thought that in this way he could curry favour with the Tsar. The Swedes have always been afraid that Russia might take Finland from them.’
‘Finland?’ I shook my head. ‘Where is Finland?’
‘Come, I’ll show you on the map,’ said Jean-Baptiste, and I had to go with him to the big map by the fireplace.
Here he explained to me in great detail the merits of the geographical situation of Denmark, Sweden and Norway, the madness of King Gustavus’ policy towards Russia and France, and his firm belief that the only thing to do for the Swedes was to cede Finland to Russia and try for a union with Norway, at present under the unpopular sovereignty of the King of Denmark.
‘Did you explain that to the Swedish officers in Lübeck?’
‘I certainly did. I also told them that we are going to despatch French troops to Denmark very soon. “Save your country through armed neutrality, gentlemen,” I said to them, “and, if you needs must have a federation, forget about Finland and look to Norway for your partner.”’
‘And what did the Swedes answer?’
‘They stared at me as if I were a seven days’ wonder. Don’t look at me, look at the map, I told them.’Jean-Baptiste paused, smiling. ‘And next morning I sent them home, since when I have friends in Sweden.’
‘Why do you want friends in Sweden?’
‘It is always useful to have friends in all sorts of places. But I wish the Swedes would stop being bellicose to Russia and France at the same time. Otherwise I shall have to occupy their country. We expect the British to attack Denmark to use it as a base against us, and that is why Napoleon wants to station French troops in Denmark. As I am to be the Governor of the Hanseatic towns I expect to be Commander-in-Chief of the troops in Denmark, and if the Swedish Gustavus does not see reason some day the Emperor will give me the order to occupy Sweden. Getting there will be easy: I shall simply cross the Öre Sound from Denmark into the southern tip of Sweden. Come, have another look at the map.’ And I had to take up my position in front of the map again. But this time I didn’t look. I had travelled for days and nights without interruption to nurse my husband, not to listen to lectures on geography.
‘The Swedes can’t defend the southern part of their country; it is strategically impossible.’ He pointed to somewhere on the map. ‘I suppose they would stand and try to hold a line here.’
‘Tell me, did you say to these Swedish officers that you may possibly conquer their country? And that they could not hope to defend their southernmost region but would have to try to defend themselves farther north?’
‘I did. And you cannot imagine how they were taken aback when I told them. Especially this man Mörner. H
e kept exclaiming, “Monseigneur, you are giving your secret plans away. How can you take us into your confidence?” And you know what I answered?’
‘No,’ I said, and moved slowly across to the camp bed. I was so tired that I could hardly keep my eyes open. ‘What did you answer, Jean-Baptiste?’
‘“Gentleman,” I said, “I cannot imagine that Sweden would be able to hold out if it is attacked by a French Marshal.” That was my answer. Little girl, are you asleep?’
‘Almost,’ I said, and tried to make myself comfortable on that miserable camp bed.
‘Come,’ said Jean-Baptiste, ‘I have made them get a bedroom ready for you. Everybody has gone to bed. I shall carry you across and nobody will see it,’ he whispered.
‘I don’t want to get up any more. I am so tired.’
Jean-Baptiste bent down to me. ‘If you want to sleep here I can sit at the desk. I have so much reading to do yet.’
‘No-o. You are wounded. You must lie down.’
Undecided, Jean-Baptiste sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘You must take my shoes off and my dress. I am so tired.’
‘I think the Swedish officers will talk to their ministers and give them no rest till they force their King to abdicate. His successor would be an uncle of his.’
‘Another Gustavus?’
‘No, a Charles, Charles the Thirteenth. Unfortunately this uncle has no children, and he is said to be very senile. Why, darling, did you put three petticoats on?’
‘Because of the cold and the rain. Poor Mörner, senile and childless.’
‘No, not Mörner, the thirteenth Charles of Sweden.’
‘If I made myself very small and moved over as far as possible we would both have room in your camp bed. We could try.’
‘Yes, we could try, my little girl.’
I woke up some time during the night lying on Jean-Baptiste’s arm.
‘Are you uncomfortable, little girl?’
‘No, I am very comfortable. Why aren’t you asleep, Jean-Baptiste?’
‘I am not tired. So many things are going through my head. You go to sleep again, darling.’
‘Stockholm is on Lake Mälar,’ I murmured, ‘and green icefloes float on the Lake.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I just know it. I used to know a man called Persson …’
I didn’t return to Paris till autumn. Jean-Baptiste and his staff went to Hamburg, where Jean-Baptiste started his administration. From there he wanted to visit Denmark and inspect the coastal fortifications opposite Sweden.
The weather was good on my return journey, hot-water-bottles were superfluous. A tired-looking autumn sun shone into the carriage, on the highway and the fields which had seen no harvest this year. We saw no dead horses and only a few war graves. The rain water seemed to have levelled the little mounds and the wind had pushed over the wooden crosses. One could also forget that one was travelling across recent battlefields, or that thousands of men lay buried here. One could, but I didn’t.
Somewhere Colonel Moulin succeeded in finding an old issue of the Moniteur. In it we read that the Emperor’s youngest brother Jerome, that naughty boy Jerome who at Julie’s wedding had eaten too much and been sick, had become a King. King Jerome the First of Westphalia, a kingdom made up of some German principalities. In addition Napoleon had managed to marry the twenty-three-year-old King to Princess Catherine of Württemberg, the descendant of one of the oldest German princely families. I wondered whether Jerome still remembered Miss Patterson from America whom he so willingly divorced on Napoleon’s orders.
I told Marie the news.
‘Now nobody can keep him under control and he’ll overeat himself every day,’ she said.
Colonel Moulin was shocked. It was by no means the first lèse-majesté he had heard from her.
I threw the old Moniteur out of the carriage window and the wind carried it across the battlefields.
In our new home in the Rue d’Anjou in Paris. July 1809
The church bells woke me up. It was hot already although it was still very early. I pushed the blanket back, folded my arms under my head and mused. The bells of Paris …
‘Perhaps,’ I thought, ‘it’s the birthday of one of the many Kings of the Bonaparte family.’ Napoleon had turned every member of it into Kings and Princes. Joseph, by the way, was no longer King of Naples but of Spain, and for months, literally months, Julie had been on her way to Madrid. The Spaniards, it turned out, didn’t want Joseph as their King, ambushed his troops, surrounded and defeated them, and finally the rebels instead of King Joseph entered Madrid in triumph. So the Emperor had to send more troops to Spain to deliver Joseph’s people from these misguided patriots.
In Naples Murat and Caroline had taken the place of Joseph and Julie. Murat, being a Marshal of France as well as King of Naples, had to be away most of the time on some front or other, leaving Caroline to represent the royal family. But Caroline didn’t bother much about her kingdom and her son but stayed with her eldest sister Eliza, who reigned in Toscana, getting fatter year by year and having an affaire with her court musician, a man called Paganini.
Julie told me all about that. She had been in Paris for a few weeks before setting out for Spain, to have her new robes of state made here. They had to be purple, of course, at Joseph’s wish.
Oh those bells! Which Bonaparte’s birthday could it be today? It wouldn’t be Jerome nor Eugene de Beauharnais, now the Viceroy of Italy. This timid young man had changed a lot since he had married a daughter of the King of Bavaria. ‘Some of his timidity has disappeared,’ I thought, ‘and he, at any rate, seems happier.’
The bells went on. I could distinguish the deep chime of Notre-Dame from the rest. When was King Louis’ birthday? That boy was going to reach a good old age in spite of his many imaginary ailments, of which only his flat feet were real. What, by the way, was the name of the Dutch rebels who repeatedly attempted to rise against Louis? Saboteurs, that was it, saboteurs, because of their sabots, the wooden shoes which they wear like our fishermen at home in Marseilles. They hate Louis because Napoleon made him their King. If only they knew how Louis dislikes his brother! Every time a merchant ship secretly left one of his ports to sail for England Louis turned a blind eye. Louis was the Dutch saboteur-in-chief to annoy his brother. He seemed to think that the least Napoleon could have done was to allow him to choose his own wife.
Who was it who talked to me about Louis only the other day? Ah, Polette of course, the only Bonaparte who has never meddled in politics but only lived for her pleasure and her lovers. No church bells would ring for her birthday, or for Lucien’s for that matter. Napoleon offered the still-exiled Lucien the crown of Spain on condition that he divorced his red-haired Madame Jourberthon. Lucien, the blue-eyed idealist, refused, and tried to make his way to America. His boat was intercepted by the British, who took him as an ‘enemy alien’ to England. The other day he succeeded in getting a letter smuggled through to his mother in France, in which he wrote that he lived under observation – yet free! To think that it was Lucien who helped Napoleon to the Consulate in order to save the French Republic! No, there wouldn’t be any church bells for Lucien either …
The door opened a bit. ‘I thought that the bells had wakened you,’ said Marie. ‘I’ll get you your breakfast.’
‘What’s all this bell-ringing for, Marie?’
‘What for? The Emperor has gained a great victory.’
‘Where? When? Anything in the paper?’
‘I’ll send you your breakfast and your reader.’ She bethought herself a moment. ‘No, your breakfast first, then the young madame who reads to you.’
It’s a continual source of fun to Marie that I, like the other ladies at court, have to engage a young girl of the old impoverished nobility to read the Moniteur to me, and novels. But I’d much rather read by myself and in bed. The Emperor insists that we Marshals’ wives be attended as if we were eighty and not, as in my case, thirt
y.
Yvette brought my morning chocolate and opened the window. Immediately sunshine and the scent of roses streamed into my bedroom. The garden – there are only three rose trees in it – is very small, which is no wonder as the house is right in the middle of the town. Most of Moreau’s furniture which I found here I gave away, and bought new and very expensive furniture instead. In the drawing-room I discovered a bust of the former owner. I didn’t know at first what to do with it. Certainly I couldn’t leave it where I found it, as Moreau is in disgrace. But I didn’t want to throw it away either. So I put it in the hall, and the obligatory portrait of the Emperor into the drawing-room.
I was fortunate in obtaining a copy of Napoleon’s portrait painted when he was First Consul by Adolphe Yvon. In this painting the face of the image of God on earth is as lean and straight as it was in the days at Marseilles. The hair is shown as untidy and as long as it was at that time, and the eyes have not yet acquired their present steeliness and eerie iridescence but look dreamily yet sensibly into the distance. His mouth in the portrait is still that of the fledgling Napoleone who one summer night leaned against a hedge and spoke of men chosen to make history …
Meanwhile the bells went on and on. My head felt like starting to ache at any moment, although by now we ought to have got used to victory bells.
‘Yvette,’ I asked, ‘where and when did we win this victory?’
‘At Wagram, your Highness, on July 4th and 5th.’
‘Send Mademoiselle in and Oscar.’
They came in at the same time. I pulled Oscar to me on to the bed, and Mademoiselle started reading. And so we learnt that at Wagram, near Vienna, an Austrian army of 70,000 men had been completely destroyed. Only 1,500 Frenchmen had fallen, 3,000 had been wounded. Among the details were the names of the Marshals present at that battle. Yet there was no mention of Jean-Baptiste, although I knew that he was in Austria with his troops, the Saxon regiments fighting with the Emperor’s Army.