‘Before I forward the answer of the Prince of Ponte Corvo to Stockholm to-morrow morning,’ said the Field-Marshal in a tone which sounded almost menacing, ‘I should like to draw your attention to one point in this letter. It concerns your citizenship. It is a condition of the adoption that the Prince of Ponte Corvo becomes a Swedish citizen.’
Jean-Baptiste smiled. ‘Did you think that I would assume the Swedish succession as a French citizen?’
An expression of incredulous surprise spread over the Count’s face. But I thought I must have misheard him.
‘To-morrow,’ Jean-Baptiste went on, ‘I shall address an application to the Emperor of France in which I shall ask him to allow me to renounce French citizenship for myself as well as for my family. Ah, here comes the wine. Fernand, open all the bottles!’
Triumphantly Fernand placed the dusty bottles on a table. These bottles had come with us all the way from Sceaux via the Rue du Rocher to the Rue d’Anjou.
‘When I bought the wine,’ said Jean-Baptiste, ‘I was Minister of War. Oscar was born then and I told my wife, “We shall open these bottles the day the boy enters the French Army.”’
‘I shall be a musician, Monsieur,’ I heard Oscar’s high-pitched voice. He was still holding young Brahe’s hand. ‘But Mama wanted me to be a silk merchant like Grandfather Clary.’ Everybody laughed, even the tired Mörner. Only Count von Essen did not move an eyelid.
Fernand poured out the dark wine.
‘Your Royal Highness is going to learn the first word of Swedish now,’ said Count Brahe. ‘It is “Skål” and means “Your health”. I should like to drink to His Royal—’
Jean-Baptiste interrupted him. ‘Gentlemen, I ask you to drink with me to the health of His Majesty the King of Sweden, my gracious adoptive father!’
They drank slowly and solemnly. Someone shouted: ‘To the health of His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince Charles John!’
‘Han skål leve, han skål leve.’ It sounded from all sides.
What did that mean? Could that possibly be Swedish? I was sitting on the little sofa next to the fireplace. ‘They’ve woken me up,’ I thought, ‘in the middle of the night, they’ve told me that the Swedish King wants to adopt my husband so that he becomes Crown Prince of Sweden.’ But I’d always thought that only small children could be adopted. ‘Sweden, Sweden,’ I mused, ‘next-door to the North Pole, Stockholm, the town with the whitewashed sky. Persson will read it all in the papers tomorrow and will never guess that the Princess of Ponte Corvo, the wife of the new Heir to the Throne, is the little Clary girl of his Marseilles days …’
‘Mama, these gentlemen say that my name is now Duke of Södermanland,’ said Oscar. His cheeks were red with excitement.
‘Why Duke of Södermanland, darling?’
Young Baron Friesendorff explained eagerly that it was usual in Sweden for the brother of the Crown Prince to be known by this title. ‘But as in this case—’ He broke off, blushing.
Jean-Baptiste calmly completed the sentence for him: ‘But as in this case the Crown Prince does not intend to take his brother along with him to Sweden his son will take this title. My brother lives in Pau. I do not want him to change his residence.’
‘I thought Your Royal Highness had no brother,’ said Count Brahe involuntarily.
‘I have. I made it possible for him to study law so that he need not be a clerk in a lawyer’s office for the rest of his life like my late father. So, gentlemen, my brother is a lawyer.’
At the same moment Oscar asked: ‘Are you looking forward to Sweden, Mama?’
Deep silence fell. Everybody wanted to hear my answer. ‘What can they expect me to say?’ I thought. ‘After all, I’m at home here, I’m French.’ Then it came back to me what Jean-Baptiste had said about renouncing our French citizenship, it came back to me that I was now Crown Princess of a country which I had never seen, a country with a nobility as old as the hills, and not a new one likes ours in France. I saw how they smiled at Oscar when he said that my father had been a silk merchant, all of them but the Count von Essen, who had felt nothing but shame …
‘Say it, Mama, that you are looking forward to it,’ urged Oscar.
‘I don’t know Sweden yet,’ I said, ‘but I shall do my best to enjoy it.’
‘The people of Sweden cannot ask more than that,’ Count von Essen said gravely.
His harsh French reminded me of Persson. I very much wanted to be friendly and so I said: ‘I have an acquaintance in Stockholm, a man called Persson, a silk merchant. Perhaps you know him, Field-Marshal?’
‘I regret I do not, Your Royal Highness,’ came the brief answer.
‘Perhaps you do, Baron Friesendorff?’
‘I am very sorry, Your Highness.’
I tried Count Brahe. ‘Perhaps you know a silk merchant Persson in Stockholm, by chance?’
Count Brahe smiled: ‘Really, I don’t, Your Royal Highness.’
‘And you, Baron Mörner?’
Mörner, Jean-Baptiste’s oldest friend in Sweden, wanted to be helpful. ‘There are many Perssons in Sweden, Your Royal Highness. It is a very common middle-class name.’
Someone extinguished the candles and drew back the curtains. It was day and the sun glittered over Jean Baptiste’s uniform. ‘I do not want to sign any party manifesto, Colonel Wrede,’ he was saying, ‘not even that of the Union Party.’
Mörner, still dusty and exhausted, standing by Wrede’s side, put in: ‘But at that time in Lübeck Your Royal Highness said—’
‘I said that Norway and Sweden form a geographical unit, and we shall do our best to bring about the union. But that is the concern of the Swedish Government, not just of one individual party. And, by the way, the Crown Prince must stand above all parties. Good night, gentlemen, or rather good morning.’
I don’t remember how I got up to my bedroom. Perhaps Jean-Baptiste carried me, or Marie with the help of Fernand.
Lying on my bed with eyes closed I felt Jean-Baptiste’s presence. ‘You must not shout at your new subjects like that,’ I said.
‘Try to say Charles John,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘That is going to be my name. Charles, after my adoptive father, and John for Jean, of course.’ He played with the words. ‘Charles John, Charles XIV John. “Carolus Johannes” it will be on the coins. Desideria, Crown Princess Desideria.’
I sat up with a jerk. ‘That’s going too far. I won’t have myself called Desideria. Under no circumstances, you understand!’
‘It is the wish of the Queen of Sweden, your adoptive mother-in-law. Désirée is too French for her. Besides Desideria sounds more impressive. You must admit that.’
I fell back on the pillows. ‘D’you think I can do away with my own self? Can I forget who I am, what I am, where I belong? Can I go to Sweden and play at being a Crown Princess? Jean-Baptiste, I fear I’m going to be very unhappy.’
But he wasn’t listening, he was still playing with the new names. ‘Crown Princess Desideria. Desideria is Latin and means the longed-for one. Is there a more fitting name for a Crown Princess whom a people itself has chosen?’
‘No, Jean-Baptiste, the Swedes don’t want me. They want a strong man, yes. But they certainly don’t want a weak woman who, moreover, is the daughter of a silk merchant and whose only acquaintance is a Monsieur Persson.’
Jean-Baptiste got up. ‘I am going to have a cold bath now, and than dictate my application to the Emperor.’
I made no move.
‘Pay attention, Désirée, please. I am applying on behalf of my wife, my son and myself for permission to relinquish French citizenship in order to acquire Swedish citizenship. You agree, don’t you?’
I gave no answer and didn’t look at him either.
‘Désirée, I shall not apply if you object. Don’t you hear me?’
Still I gave no answer.
‘Désirée, don’t you see what is at stake?’
At last I looked up at him, and I fe
lt as if I saw him for the first time properly: the high forehead with the dark, curly hair fringing it, the bold nose jutting out, the deep-set eyes, at once inquiring and reassuring, the small yet passionate mouth. Then I remembered the leather-bound tomes in which the former Sergeant studied law, and the Customs regulations in Hanover which revived that country’s prosperity … ‘Napoleon picked a crown out of the gutter, but you Jean-Baptiste,’ I thought, ‘were offered it by a whole people with the King at its head.’ And as I thought it out I was filled with the miracle of it all.
‘Yes, Jean-Baptiste, I know what is at stake.’
‘And you are coming to Sweden with Oscar and me?’
‘If I am really Desideria, the longed-for one. And if you promise never to call me that?’ At last I had found his hand and pressed my cheek against it. I loved him, my God, how I loved him!
‘I promise I shall never call you Desideria.’
‘I’ll come,’ I said.
I slept long and fitfully and woke with the feeling that something dreadful had happened. I looked at the clock on the bedside table. Two o’clock. Two o’clock in the morning or in the afternoon?
I heard Oscar’s voice from the garden and a man’s voice I didn’t recognise. Daylight filtered through the closed shutters. How did it come about that I had slept so late? Uncomfortably I felt that something had happened. But I couldn’t think what.
I rang the bell. Madame La Flotte and my reader came in together and curtsied. ‘Your Royal Highness desires?’
Then I remembered and I felt unhappy, desperate.
‘The Queen of Spain and the Queen of Holland have asked when Your Royal Highness can see them,’ said Madame La Flotte.
‘Where is my husband?’
‘His Royal Highness and the Swedish gentlemen are in conference in his study.’
‘With whom is Oscar playing in the garden?’
‘He is playing ball with Count Brahe.’
‘Count Brahe?’
‘The young Swedish count,’ said Madame La Flotte with an ecstatic smile on her face.
‘Oscar has smashed a window-pane in the dining-room,’ my reader added, and Madame La Flotte commented, ‘That means good luck.’
‘I am awfully hungry,’ I said. My reader curtsied and left at once.
‘What message can I give to Their Majesties of Holland and Spain?’ asked La Flotte.
‘I’ve got a headache, and I want to eat, and I don’t want to see anybody but my sister. Tell the Queen of Holland that – oh well, invent something you can tell her. And now I’d like to be alone.’
La Flotte curtsied and disappeared. ‘This curtseying business is going to drive me mad,’ I thought. ‘I’m going to forbid it.’
After the meal I got up. Yvette came in curtseying and I told her to get out. I put on my plainest gown and sat down at the dressing-table.
Desideria, Crown Princess of Sweden, I mused. Former silk merchant’s daughter from Marseilles, wife of a former French General, everything I loved and was familiar with seemed to be ‘former’ now. In two months’ time I should be thirty-one years of age. Could people tell by my face? It was still smooth and round, too round even, I would have to eat less whipped cream. There were a few wrinkles round the eyes, barely visible, perhaps only caused by smiling. When I tested them by trying to laugh they deepened.
I had never known my mother-in-law. Mothers-in-law are supposed to be a difficult problem. Would adoptive mothers-in-law be easier to deal with? I realised I didn’t even know the Swedish Queen’s name. And why, I wondered, why did the Swedes pick on Jean-Baptiste, of all men, for their Crown Prince?
I got up, opened the shutters and looked down into the garden.
‘You are aiming at Mama’s roses, Count,’ Oscar was shouting.
‘Your Highness must catch the ball. Look out, I am going to throw,’ shouted young Brahe. He threw hard and made Oscar sway as he caught the ball. But – he caught it!
‘Do you think I could ever win battles like Papa?’
‘Throw the ball back, hard!’ commanded Brahe.
Oscar threw and Brahe caught it. ‘A good shot,’ he said, and as he threw the ball back once more it landed among my yellow roses, my big yellow fading roses which I love so much.
‘Mama will be very annoyed,’ said Oscar, and looked up to my windows. He saw me. ‘Mama, did you sleep well?’
Count Brahe bowed.
‘I should like to speak to you, Count Brahe. Can you spare me a minute? I shall come down into the garden.’
I went down and sat between the young Count and Oscar on the small bench by the espalier fruit. The gentle September sunshine flowed gently over me, and I felt very much better now.
‘Could you not talk to the Count later on, Mama? We have been playing so beautifully.’
I shook my head. ‘I want you to listen carefully.’ I heard voices coming from the house, and Jean-Baptiste’s among them sounded determined and loud.
‘Field-Marshall Count von Essen and the members of his mission are going back to Sweden to-day to convey His Royal Highness’s answer,’ said Count Brahe. ‘Mörner is staying here. His Royal Highness has appointed him aide-de-camp. A special courier has gone on ahead to Stockholm.’
I nodded whilst I searched hard in my mind for a suitable starting point for my questioning. I didn’t find one and therefore said straight out: ‘Please tell me candidly, my dear Count, how it is that Sweden should offer the crown to my husband, of all men.’
‘His Majesty King Charles XIII has no children, and for years now we have admired the magnificent administration, the great abilities of His Royal Highness, and—’
I cut him short. ‘I am told that one King has been deposed because he was believed to be insane. Is he really insane?’
Count Brahe looked away towards the espalier peaches and said: ‘That is what we suppose.’
‘Why?’
‘His father, King Gustavus III, before him had been rather – rather strange. He wanted to restore Sweden’s old position as a great power, and attacked Russia. The aristocracy and all the officers were against it. And in order to show his noblemen that the King alone and no one else decides on peace or war he turned to the, well – to the lower classes and—’
‘To whom?’
‘To the businessmen, the craftsmen, the farmers.’
‘I see. What happened then?’
‘Parliament, in which only the lower classes were represented at that time, conferred wide powers on him and the King marched once more against Russia. But the country was on the verge of bankruptcy and could not pay for this continuous arming. Therefore the nobility decided to take a hand and the King was murdered during a masked ball by some men in black masks. He died in the arms of his faithful von Essen. After his death our present King, his brother, took over the regency till the murdered King’s young son, Gustavus IV, came of age. Unfortunately it soon became obvious that he was of unsound mind.’
‘This is the King who imagines himself to be God’s chosen instrument for the destruction of the Emperor of the French, isn’t it?’
Count Brahe nodded and continued to look towards the espalier peaches.
‘Do go on with your murder story, Count Brahe,’ I said.
‘Murder story?’ He looked at me as if I had been joking. But I did not smile, and he hesitated to go on. I repeated my request and he continued.
‘So we fought first against France, and when Russia and France came to terms, against Russia as well. You know what happened. We lost Finland to the Tsar and Pomerania to your husband – I am sorry, to His Royal Highness – and if the Prince of Ponte Corvo at that time when he was in Denmark with his troops had marched across the frozen Sound there would have been no Sweden left. Your Royal Highness, we are a very old nation, we are tired and bled white in wars, but we do want to – to go on living.’ He gnawed his lips, then went on. ‘That was why our officers decided to put an end to this mad policy. So they imprisoned Gustavus IV in his
castle in Stockholm, deposed him and crowned his uncle, the former Regent and now adoptive father of Your Royal Highnesses.’
‘And where is he now, this mad Gustavus?’
‘In Switzerland, I believe.’
‘He has a son, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, another Gustavus. He has been declared by Parliament incapable of succession.’
‘How old is he?’
‘About as old as Oscar, Prince Oscar.’ Count Brahe got up absent-mindedly and picked a withered leaf from the espalier peaches.
‘Come back and tell me what are the objections to this little Gustavus.’
Count Brahe shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing in particular. But there is nothing in his favour either. Sweden is afraid of a diseased strain in the Vasa family. It is a very old family, Your Highness, with too much inbreeding.’
‘Has the present King always been childless?’
Brahe came to life again. ‘Charles XIII and Queen Hedvig Elizabeth Charlotte had a son, but he died many years ago. At his accession the King had to adopt a successor and he chose the Prince of Augustenburg, brother-in-law to the King of Denmark and Governor of Norway. He was very popular with the Norwegians, and we had hopes of a union between Sweden and Norway through him. After his fatal accident Parliament was convened and you know the result, Your Highness.’
‘I know the result, yes. But I don’t know how it came about. Please tell me about that.’
‘Your Highness knows that the Prince – I mean His Royal Highness – at the time of the Pomerian campaign took some Swedish officers prisoner in Lübeck?’
‘Of course I do. Aren’t there two of them with Jean-Baptiste at this very moment? This dusty Mörner – I hope they’ve given him a bath meanwhile – and Baron Frie—’
‘Yes, Mörner and Friesendorff. The Prince of Ponte Corvo invited these young officers, when they were his prisoners, to dinner, and during the course of the conversation told them, realistically with maps and figures, how he sees the future of Scandinavia. When our officers returned home they reported their conversation and ever since then it has been said more and more loudly in Army circles that we need a man like the Prince to save Sweden. And that, Your Highness, is all there is to it.’