Desiree

  During the first few months the Empress was not allowed to hold receptions on any scale. For some reason or other Napoleon imagined that women conceive more easily if they don’t overtax their strength. But at last he could delay it no longer, and yesterday all of us, Marshals, Generals, Ambassadors, Princes and dignitaries of all kinds, were asked to the Tuileries to be presented to the new Empress.

  It was exactly as it had been once before. The great ballroom, the lights, the brilliant robes and uniforms, the Marseillaise, the opening of the great doors, the appearance of the Emperor and the Empress: it was a precise repetition of the coronation ball. Marie-Louise, dressed in pink satin and scented with jasmine, was far taller than the Emperor and had a full bosom in spite of her youth. She kept on smiling the entire evening. As she was the daughter of a real Emperor, who had been trained to smile graciously at two thousand people at once, it didn’t seem to be any strain on her at all. When I was presented to her I noticed that she wore hardly any make-up, which gave her an air of great naturalness compared with all those highly artificial creatures at her court. Her pale blue eyes looked as if they were made of china, and they had no expression at all.

  The Imperial couple took their seats on their thrones and the orchestra played a Viennese waltz. Julie joined me at this point. She was dressed in purple velvet and the crown jewels of Spain glittered all over her. But again her crown wasn’t straight.

  ‘My feet hurt,’ she complained. ‘Come, let’s go and sit in the next room.’

  At the entrance to that room we met Hortense, dressed in white as her mother used to be, and flirting with Count Flahault, her equerry. We sat down on a sofa and drank champagne.

  ‘I wonder whether she remembers that her aunt used to live here in the Tuileries,’ I said, apropos of nothing.

  Julie looked at me in surprise. ‘What are you talking about? At this Imperial court you will find no one who ever had an aunt living in the Tuileries.’

  ‘Oh yes, you will. The new Empress! She is the grandniece of Queen Marie Antoinette.’

  ‘Queen Marie Antoinette!’ repeated Julie, her eyes suddenly wide with fear.

  ‘Yes, Julie Clary, she too was a Queen. Your health, darling, and forget about her.’ I drank, and remembered how many reasons Marie-Louise had for hating us … ‘Tell me,’ I asked Julie, who had been with her several times already, ‘does the new Empress smile all the time?’

  Julie nodded gravely. ‘All the time. And I shall bring up my daughters to do the same. It seems to be the right thing for Princesses.’

  I smelled the bitter-sweet scent of an exotic perfume around us and knew: Polette! Here she was, putting her arm around my shoulders.

  ‘The Emperor thinks Marie-Louise is pregnant,’ she said, bursting with laughter.

  ‘Since when?’ Julie wanted to know, excited.

  ‘Since yesterday!’ said Polette, and passed on in her exotic aura.

  Julie got up. ‘I must get back to the ballroom. The Emperor likes to have the members of his family near his throne.’

  I looked round for Jean-Baptiste, and saw him leaning against one of the windows, glancing round at the crowd with utter indifference. I went up to him. ‘Can’t we go home?’ I said.

  He nodded and took my arm. Turning to go we found our way barred by Talleyrand.

  ‘I have been looking for you, Prince,’ he said. ‘These gentlemen have asked to be introduced to you.’ Behind him I saw some tall officers in foreign uniform, dark blue with yellow sashes. ‘This is Count Brahe, a member of the staff of the Swedish Embassy. Colonel Wrede, who, as the personal representative of the King of Sweden, has brought his sovereign’s good wishes to the Emperor on his marriage. And Lieutenant Baron Charles Otto Mörner, who arrived this morning from Stockholm as a special courier with some very bad news. Baron Mörner, by the way, is a cousin of that Mörner whom you, my dear Prince, once took prisoner in Lübeck. You remember him, don’t you?’

  ‘We write to each other,’ said Jean-Baptiste calmly, and cast his eyes over the Swedes. ‘You are one of the leaders of the Union Party in Sweden, Colonel Wrede, are you not?’

  The tall man bowed, whilst Talleyrand explained to me that the Union Party stood for the union of Sweden and Norway. Jean-Baptiste, meanwhile, smiled politely and, still holding my arm, turned his eyes on Mörner, a dark, thick-set man with short hair. This man looked very intently at Jean-Baptiste and said in fluent, somewhat harsh French:

  ‘I have brought the news that the Swedish Heir to the Throne, His Royal Highness Prince Christian Augustus of Augustenburg, has lost his life in an accident.’

  Jean-Baptiste suddenly gripped my arm so hard that I very nearly screamed. It lasted only the tiniest fraction of a second. Then Jean-Baptiste said most calmly: ‘How dreadful! I should like to express to you, gentlemen, my deepest sympathy.’

  There was a pause, filled only by the tune of the waltz. ‘Why don’t we go?’ I wondered. ‘Surely all this is no concern of ours? What of it if the childless Swedish King has to find a new heir to his throne? Let’s go,’ I thought, ‘let’s go.’

  ‘Has a successor to the deceased heir been designated?’ asked Talleyrand casually, with polite interest. Just then I happened to look at Mörner, and it struck me as curious that he was still staring at Jean-Baptiste as if he wanted to convey something to him.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I thought, ‘what do they want of my husband? He can’t bring their dead Prince back to life, the accident can’t possibly be of any interest to him. We have our hands full enough here in Paris, we have to be careful, we are in disgrace.’

  But now I realised that this tall Colonel Wrede or something was staring at Jean-Baptiste in exactly the same way. At last Baron Mörner said:

  ‘The Swedish Parliament will be convened for August 21st to decide the question of the succession to the Throne.’

  Another imcomprehensible pause followed. Then I spoke up and said: ‘I am afraid, Jean-Baptiste, we shall have to say good-bye to these Swedish gentlemen.’ The officers understood and bowed.

  ‘I ask you once again,’ said Jean-Baptiste, ‘to convey to His Majesty the King of Sweden my sympathy and add how greatly I share his and his people’s sorrow.’

  ‘Is that all I am to tell him?’ Mörner ejaculated.

  Half turning to go, Jean-Baptiste once more let his eyes go from one Swedish face to another. They came to rest on young Count Brahe, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen years of age. Jean-Baptiste said: ‘Count Brahe, you belong, I believe, to one of the oldest Swedish noble families. Therefore I ask you to remind your friends and your brother officers that I have not always been Prince of Ponte Corvo or Marshal of France. I am what in your circles is called a former Jacobin General, and I began my career as a Sergeant. In a word, I am – a parvenu. I should like you to remember that, so that you do not—’ he took a deep breath and once more his fingers gripped my arm hard – ‘that you do not hold it against me later.’ And quickly he added: ‘Good-bye to you, gentlemen.’

  Strangely enough, we met Talleyrand once more before we left. His carriage was standing next to ours outside the Tuileries. We were just about to get into ours when I saw him limp towards us. ‘My dear Prince,’ he said to Jean-Baptiste, ‘man has been given the gift of language to conceal his thoughts. But you, my friend, use this gift in the opposite direction. No one could say of you that you concealed your thoughts towards the Swedes.’

  ‘Do I have to remind you, a former bishop, that it says in the Bible, “Let your speech be Yea yea, nay nay: and whatsoever is more than these is of the evil one”? That is how the Bible quotation runs, does it not, my Lord Bishop?’

  Talleyrand bit his lips. ‘I had never realised that you could be witty, Prince,’ he murmured. ‘You surprise me.’

  Jean-Baptiste laughed heartily.

  ‘Do not over-rate the modest jokes of a Sergeant who is used to a bit of fun with his comrades round the camp fires!’ He turned serious. ‘Did the Swedish off
icers tell you whom the Swedish royal house is going to propose as Heir to the Throne?’

  ‘The brother-in-law of the late heir, the King of Denmark, is going to be a candidate,’ Talleyrand answered.

  Jean-Baptiste nodded. ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘Yes, the dead man’s younger brother, the Duke of Augusten-burg. Besides these there is a son of the deposed King who now lives in Switzerland in exile. But as his father is considered insane the son is not held in very high esteem. Well, we shall see. The Parliament of Sweden is going to be convened and the Swedish people themselves can make their choice. Good night, dear friend.’

  ‘Good night, Excellency.’

  At home Jean-Baptiste went to his dressing-room and tore open his high, richly embroidered collar.

  ‘I have been telling you for years,’ I said, ‘that you should have your collar let out. The Marshal’s uniform is too tight for you.’

  ‘Too tight,’ he murmured, ‘my dear little stupid girl never realises what she is saying. Yes, far too tight.’ Without paying any further attention to me he went into his bedroom.

  I am writing this now because I can’t go to sleep. And I can’t go to sleep because I am afraid of something, something, that seems to loom over me, inescapably. I am very much afraid …

  PART 3

  Notre-Dame de la Paix

  Paris, September 1810

  A light shone straight into my face. ‘Get up at once, Désirée. Get up and dress quickly.’

  It was Jean-Baptiste holding a candelabrum over my bed and buttoning up the jacket of his Marshal’s uniform.

  ‘Are you mad, Jean-Baptiste? It’s the middle of the night!’

  ‘Hurry up. I told them to wake Oscar as well. I want the boy to be present.’

  I heard voices and steps on the ground floor. Yvette slipped into the room. She had hurriedly thrown a maid’s uniform over her nightdress.

  ‘Hurry up,’ said Jean-Baptiste impatiently, and to Yvette: ‘Do help the Princess, won’t you?’

  ‘For God’s sake, has anything happened?’ I asked in terror.

  ‘Yes – and no. You will hear it all yourself. But do get dressed quickly.’

  ‘What am I to put on?’ I asked on confusion.

  ‘The most beautiful dress you have, the most elegant, the most precious, you understand?’

  I was furious now. ‘No, I understand nothing at all. Yvette, bring me the yellow silk dress, the one I wore at court the other day. Jean-Baptiste, won’t you tell me—’

  But he had gone already. I did my hair with shaking hands.

  ‘The diadem, Princess?’ asked Yvette.

  ‘Yes, the diadem. Bring me my jewellery box. I am going to put on everything I have. If I’m not told what’s happened I can’t know what to dress for. And to wake the child, in the middle of the night!’

  ‘Désirée, are you ready?’

  ‘If you don’t tell me, Jean-Baptiste—’

  ‘A spot of rouge on the lips, Princess,’ said Yvette. I saw my sleep-drenched face in the mirror. ‘Yes, Yvette, rouge and powder, quickly.’

  ‘Do come, Désirée, we cannot keep them waiting any longer!’

  ‘Whom can’t we keep waiting any longer? As far as I know it’s the middle of the night. As far as I’m concerned I want to go back to bed.’

  Jean-Baptiste took my arm. ‘You must keep a grip on yourself now, little girl.’

  ‘What is the matter? Won’t you kindly tell me what is happening?’ I said furiously.

  ‘The greatest moment of my life, Désirée.’

  I wanted to stop and stare at him, but he held me firmly by the arm and led me downstairs. Outside the door of the big reception-room Fernand and Marie pushed an excited Oscar towards us. His eyes shone with excitement.

  ‘Papa, is it war? Papa, is the Emperor coming to see us? How beautifully Mama is dressed …’

  They had put the boy into his best suit and brushed his unruly curls close to his head. Jean-Baptiste took him by the hand.

  The reception-room was brightly lit. All our candelabra had been collected and put here. Some gentlemen were waiting for us.

  Jean-Baptiste took my arm again, and with the boy on one side and me on the other walked slowly towards the group of visitors.

  They wore foreign uniforms embellished with blue-and-yellow sashes and glittering medals. One of them, a young man, however, was clad in a grimy tunic, his high boots were splashed all over with mud and his fair hair hung untidily down over his face. In his hand he was holding a very big sealed envelope.

  They all bowed deeply as we entered, and there was a sudden silence. Then the young man with the sealed envelope stepped forward. He had the look of a man who had been riding for days and nights without interruption. Dark circles surrounded his eyes.

  ‘Gustavus Frederik Mörner of the Uppland Dragoons, my prisoner of Lübeck,’ said Jean-Baptiste slowly, ‘I am glad to see you again. I am very glad.’

  So that was that man Mörner with whom Jean-Baptiste had talked one night about the future of the North. His trembling hands held out the envelope to Jean-Baptiste. ‘Your Royal Highness—’ he said.

  My heart stopped beating.

  Jean-Baptiste released my arm and calmly accepted the letter.

  ‘Your Royal Highness,’ the young man continued, ‘as Chief Chamberlain of His Majesty King Charles XIII of Sweden I beg to report that the Parliament of Sweden has unanimously elected the Prince of Ponte Corvo to be Heir to the Throne. His Majesty King Charles XIII wishes to adopt the Prince of Ponte Corvo and to welcome him in Sweden as his beloved son.’

  Gustavus Frederik Mörner swayed on his feet. An elderly man, his chest full of medals and stars, quickly put his hand under Mörner’s arm. ‘I am sorry,’ Mörner said in a low voice. ‘I have not been out of the saddle for days.’ Then, louder: ‘May I introduce these gentlemen to Your Royal Highness?’

  Jean-Baptiste nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Our Ambassador Extraordinary to France, Field-Marshal Count Hans Henrik von Essen.’

  The elderly man clicked his heels, his face was rigid.

  Jean-Baptiste nodded again. ‘You were Governor-General in Pomerania, Field-Marshal. You defended it excellently against me at that time.’

  Mörner continued. ‘Colonel Wrede.’

  ‘We know each other.’Jean-Baptiste’s eyes fell on the sheet of paper which Wrede had suddenly produced.

  ‘Count Brahe, a member of the staff of the Swedish Embassy in Paris.’ The man whom I had met at the court ball bowed.

  ‘Baron Friesendorff, adjutant to Field-Marshal Count von Essen.’

  Friesendorff smiled. ‘Another of your prisoners at Lübeck.’

  Mörner, Friesendorff and young Brahe gazed at Jean-Baptiste with a fervent glow in their eyes. Wrede waited with a deep frown on his brow, and the face of Field-Marshal von Essen bore no expression whatever; only his taut lips had an air of bitterness.

  It was so still that we could hear the guttering of the candles.

  Jean-Baptiste took a deep breath and said: ‘I accept the nomination of the Parliament of Sweden.’ He looked across at von Essen, the man whom he had once conquered, the ageing servant of an ageing childless King, and, deeply moved, he added: ‘I want to thank His Majesty King Charles XIII and the Swedish people for the trust they are placing in me. I vow to do everything in my power to justify this trust.’

  Count von Essen bent his head, bent it deeply and bowed, and all the other Swedes bowed with him.

  At this moment something strange happened. Oscar, who up till now had not moved at all, stepped forward and went over to the Swedes. There he turned round and his child’s hand gripped the hand of young Brahe, who was not ten years his senior. There he stood, among the Swedes, and like the Swedes he bowed his head deeply, bowed it before his papa and his mama.

  Jean-Baptiste felt for my hand. Protectively his fingers closed over mine. ‘The Crown Princess and I wish to thank you for bringing this message.’ br />
  After that a lot of things happened simultaneously. Jean-Baptiste said: ‘Fernand, the bottles which have been in the cellar since Oscar’s birth!’ I turned round and my eyes searched for Marie. All our servants were standing by the door. Madame La Flotte in an expensive evening gown, no doubt paid for by Fouché, curtsied deeply, and so did my reader. Yvette was sobbing for all she was worth. Only Marie did not move at all. She was wearing her woollen dressing-gown over her old-fashioned linen nightdress. She had had to dress Oscar and therefore found no time to dress herself.

  ‘Marie,’ I whispered, ‘did you hear? The Swedish people offer us their crown. It’s different from Julie and Joseph. It is quite different. I am afraid, Marie, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Eugenie!’ Marie’s voice sounded hoarse, choked with emotion, a tear rolled down her cheek, and then Marie, my old Marie, sank into a curtsey before me.

  Jean-Baptiste, meanwhile, was leaning against the mantelpiece studying the letter which Mörner had given him. That severe man, Field-Marshal Count von Essen, went up to him.

  ‘Those are the conditions, Your Royal Highness,’ he said.

  Jean-Baptiste looked up and said: ‘I presume that you yourself were informed of my selection only an hour ago. You have been in Paris during all this time. I am very sorry—’

  Field-Marshal von Essen raised his brows: ‘Why are you sorry, Your Royal Highness?’

  ‘That you had no time to get used to the idea. I am very sorry indeed. You defended with great loyalty and fortitude whatever policy the House of Vasa chose to adopt. That cannot always have been easy for you, Count von Essen.’

  ‘It was very difficult at times. The campaign which I had to conduct against you I lost, unfortunately.’

  ‘Together we shall rebuild the Swedish Army,’ said Jean-Baptiste.