Desiree

  ‘I must ask you not to insult His Majesty King Charles XIII in my presence,’ Jean-Baptiste said sharply.

  ‘Talleyrand, are the Vasas cuckoo or not?’

  ‘It is a very old dynasty, Sire. Old dynasties are often not very healthy,’ Talleyrand answered.

  ‘And you, Princess, what do you think of it? Bernadotte’s request for relinquishing French citizenship applies to you and the child as well.’

  ‘It is a matter of form, Sire. Otherwise we cannot accept the Swedish succession,’ I heard myself say. Did I say the right thing? I looked at Jean-Baptiste, but he stared past me. I glanced across to Talleyrand, and he nodded gently.

  ‘Next: your discharge from the Army. That is out of the question, Bernadotte, really, that is out of the question.’ The Emperor went back behind his desk and studied the application, perhaps for the hundredth time. ‘I would not dream of doing without one of my Marshals. If war breaks out again—’ He stopped, then added quickly: ‘If Britain does not give in, war is bound to break out again and in that case I shall need you. You will be as usual in command of one of my Armies. And it will not make any difference to me whether you are Crown Prince of Sweden or not. Your Swedish regiments will simply form part of your Army. Or do you believe—’ here he broke into a smile which made him look ten years younger – ‘or do you believe I could put anybody else in command of the Saxons?’

  ‘Since it stated in Your Majesty’s Order-of-the-Day after the battle of Wagram that the Saxons did not fire a single shot, I do not think it matters much who will command them. Why not hand the command over to Ney, Sire? Ney is ambitious and has served under me.’

  ‘The Saxons took Wagram and I most certainly will not hand over your command to Ney. I will allow you to become Swedish if you remain Marshal of France. I have much sympathy for the ambitions of my Marshals. Moreover, you are a brilliant administrator, as you have shown in Hanover and the Hanse towns. You are an excellent Governor, Bernadotte.’

  ‘I asked to be discharged from the French Army.’

  Napoleon’s fist crashed down on the table at that. It sounded like a thunderclap.

  ‘My feet hurt, may I sit down, Sire?’ I said involuntarily.

  The Emperor gazed at me. His wavering eyes became quieter, grey. Did he, I wonder, remember at this point a little girl in a garden over which evening was falling, a little girl who raced him to the hedge and whom he allowed to win? …

  ‘You will have to stand for many hours when you receive your subjects as the Crown Princess of Sweden, Eugenie,’ he said calmly. ‘Please, sit down. Gentlemen, let us all sit down.’

  And thus we found ourselves comfortably seated round the table.

  ‘Where were we? Oh yes, you wish to be dismissed from the Army, Prince of Ponte Corvo. Do I understand correctly that you want to join our Armies not as a Marshal of France but as an ally?’

  An expression of intent interest became visible in Talleyrand’s face. So that was what Napoleon was driving at, had been driving at the whole time, the alliance with Sweden.

  ‘If I accede to the requests which for formal reasons you consider to be necessary I shall do it because I do not want to put obstacles in the way of one of my Marshals whom an old and not very healthy dynasty wishes to adopt. I should even go further and call it an excellent idea on the part of the Swedes to express their friendship for France by the choice of one of my Marshals. If I had been asked before the selection was made I should have suggested one of my own brothers, to show clearly how much store I set by that alliance and how highly I esteem the House of Vasa. However, I have not been asked, and as I have to say what I think about this selection, such a surprising one to me, after it has been made, let me say, then, that – that I congratulate you, Prince.’

  ‘Mama, he really isn’t so bad,’ said Oscar.

  Talleyrand bit his lips to stifle a laugh, and so did the Duke of Cadore. Napoleon looked thoughtfully at Oscar and then said: ‘What a coincidence that I should have picked on a Nordic name for this godson of mine! And on the hot sands of Egypt at that!’ He laughed as if he were going to burst and slapped Jean-Baptiste’s thigh: ‘Is not life crazy, Bernadotte?’

  He turned to me: ‘You have heard, Princess, that Her Majesty is expecting a son?’

  I nodded: ‘I am very glad about it, Sire.’

  Napoleon looked once more at Oscar. ‘I understand that you have to become Swedish, Bernadotte, if only for the child’s sake. I am told that the deposed lunatic has a son, too. You must never lose sight of this exiled son, Bernadotte, you understand?’

  ‘Now, he’s mapping out our future,’ I thought, ‘now everything’s going fine. He’s accepting things now.’

  ‘Meneval, the map of Scandinavia!’

  The maps were brought. ‘Sit here, Bernadotte.’

  Bernadotte went and sat on the arm of Napoleon’s chair. The Emperor unrolled the map and spread it on his knee. ‘How often these two must have sat like that in their headquarters,’ I thought.

  ‘Sweden, Bernadotte, breaks the Continental Blockade. There, at Gothenburg, British goods are unloaded and secretly taken to Germany.’

  ‘And to Russia,’ remarked Talleyrand casually.

  ‘My ally, the Tsar of Russia, unfortunately does not devote sufficient attention to this question. There are British goods even in my ally’s country. However that may be, Bernadotte, Sweden is at the bottom of it all. You will clean up in Sweden and, if necessary, declare war on the British.’

  Meneval had started writing down the salient points of the conversation, and Talleyrand looked curiously at Jean-Baptiste. The Duke of Cadore nodded contentedly and said: ‘Sweden will complete the Continental Blockade. I believe we can rely on the Prince of Ponte Corvo.’

  Jean-Baptiste was silent.

  ‘Have you any objections to raise, Prince?’ the Emperor asked sharply.

  Jean-Baptiste looked up from the map. ‘I shall serve the interests of Sweden with all the means at my disposal.’

  ‘And the interests of France?’ the Emperor said pointedly.

  Jean-Baptiste rose, folded up the map of Scandinavia carefully and handed it to Meneval. ‘As far as I know, Your Majesty’s Government and the Government of Sweden are at this moment negotiating a non-aggression pact which could be extended into a pact of friendship. I believe that I am therefore in a position to serve not only Sweden but at the same time my former motherland as well.’

  Former motherland, how that expression hurt! Jean-Baptiste looked tired and weary.

  ‘You are the ruler of a small territory under French suzerainty,’ said the Emperor coldly. ‘I have no option but to withdraw from you the Principality of Ponte Corvo and its not inconsiderable revenues.’

  Jean-Baptiste nodded. ‘Certainly, Sire. I made a point of asking for just that in my application.’

  ‘Do you intend to arrive in Sweden as plain Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, Marshal of France, retired? If it is your wish you might, in view of your services, be allowed to retain the title of Prince.’

  ‘I prefer,’ said Jean-Baptiste, ‘to renounce the Principality as well as the title. Should Your Majesty, however, be so gracious as to grant me a wish, I should like to ask that a barony be conferred on my brother in Pau.’

  Napoleon was astonished. ‘But are you not taking your brother along with you to Sweden? You could make him a Count or a Duke there.’

  ‘I do not intend to take my brother or any other member of my family along with me to Sweden. The King of Sweden desires to adopt only me and not all my relatives as well. Believe me, Sire, I know what I am doing.’

  We all looked at the Emperor, probably thinking the same thing: the man who showers crowns, titles and dignities on his stupid brothers.

  ‘I believe you are right, Bernadotte,’ the Emperor said slowly. He rose, and we did the same. Looking at the application for the last time, he asked, with his thoughts apparently elsewhere: ‘And what about your estates in France, in Lithuania, in
Westphalia?’

  ‘I am about to sell them, Sire.’

  ‘To pay the debts of the Vasas?’

  ‘Yes, and to pay for the court expenses of the Bernadotte dynasty.’

  Napoleon took up a pen and looked from Jean-Baptiste to me and back to Jean-Baptiste again. ‘With this signature you, your wife and your son will cease to be French citizens, Bernadotte. Do you want me to sign?’

  Jean-Baptiste, his eyes half-closed, his mouth a thin hard line, nodded.

  ‘This signature also retires you from the French Army, Marshal. Do you really want me to sign?’

  Again Jean-Baptiste nodded. I felt for his hand.

  At that moment a trumpet sounded in the yard for the Changing of the Guard. Its noise drowned the scratching of Napoleon’s pen.

  This time Napoleon accompanied us on the long way from his desk to the door, his hand on Oscar’s shoulder. In the ante-chamber diplomats, Generals, Princes and ministers bowed deeply as Meneval opened the door for his master.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the Emperor said, ‘I should like you to join me in congratulating Their Royal Highnesses the Crown Prince and the Crown Princess of Sweden, and my godson—’

  ‘I am the Duke of Södermanland,’ cried Oscar’s bright voice.

  ‘And my godson, the Duke of Södermanland,’ Napoleon added.

  On the drive home Jean-Baptiste sat silently in his corner. I didn’t disturb him.

  A small crowd had assembled in the Rue d’Anjou, and someone shouted, ‘Vive Bernadotte, vive Bernadotte!’ exactly as on the day of Napoleon’s coup d’état when some people thought that Jean-Baptiste could defend the Republic against him.

  Count Brahe, Baron Mörner and some Swedish gentlemen who had just arrived from Stockholm with important messages were waiting for us at the house door.

  ‘I must ask you to excuse us,’ Jean-Baptiste told them. ‘Her Royal Highness and I wish to be alone.’

  We went past them into the small drawing-room. But there was another visitor waiting for us, Fouché, the Duke of Otranto. He had fallen into disgrace recently because of his secret negotiations with the British, which had come to Napoleon’s ears.

  He held out to me a bunch of very deep red, almost black roses. ‘May I congratulate you?’ he lisped. ‘France is very proud of her great son.’

  ‘Stop it, Fouché,’ said Jean-Baptiste wearily. ‘I have just renounced my French citizenship.’

  ‘I know, Your Highness, I know.’

  ‘Then please excuse us. We cannot see anybody just now,’ I said, taking the roses.

  When we were alone at last we sat down side by side on the sofa, tired, very tired, as if we had come home from an endless walk. After a little while Jean-Baptiste got up, went to the piano and listlessly picked out a tune on it with one finger, the only tune he can play, the Marseillaise. Suddenly he said: ‘To-day I have seen Napoleon for the last time in my life.’ Then he continued playing, the same tune, always the same tune …

  Paris, September 30th, 1810

  At lunch time to-day Jean-Baptiste departed for Sweden.

  He had been so busy during these last days that we had seen very little of each other. The French Foreign Ministry at his request made him a list of those Swedish personalities whom it considers important. Mörner and Count Brahe told him afterwards who the people on the list were.

  One afternoon Baron Alquier was announced, a man in the gold-embroidered gala uniform of an Ambassador and with an eternal court smile. ‘His Majesty has appointed me Ambassador in Stockholm,’ he said, ‘and I should like to call on Your Royal Highness before your departure.’

  ‘You need not introduce yourself,’ said Jean-Baptiste, ‘we have known each other for years. Let me see, you were His Majesty’s Ambassador in Naples when the Neapolitan Government was overthrown and a Cabinet after His Majesty’s wishes put in its place.’

  Baron Alquier nodded smilingly. ‘Magnificent country round Naples—’

  ‘And you were His Majesty’s Ambassador in Madrid and the Spanish Government was forced to resign in order to make way for a Government acceptable to His Majesty,’ Jean-Baptiste continued.

  ‘A beautiful city, Madrid,’ remarked Alquier, ‘only a bit too hot.’

  ‘And now you are going to Stockholm,’ concluded Jean-Baptiste.

  ‘A fine town, but very cold, I hear.’

  Jean-Baptiste shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps it depends on the kind of welcome one receives. There are warm ones, and cold ones!’

  ‘His Majesty the Emperor assured me that Your Royal Highness would welcome me very warmly. As an ex-fellow countryman, so to speak.’

  ‘When are you leaving, Excellency?’

  ‘On September 30th, Your Highness.’

  ‘Then we shall probably get to Stockholm at the same time.’

  ‘What a fortunate coincidence, Your Highness!’

  ‘Generals rarely leave things to chance and coincidence, Excellency. And the Emperor is first and foremost a General,’ said Jean-Baptiste. He rose, and Alquier had to take his leave.

  Couriers from Stockholm brought news about the preparations for a magnificent reception. Danish diplomats called to report that Copenhagan was getting ready for a great welcome to the Swedish Crown Prince. And every morning the pastor of the Protestant community in Paris came to instruct Jean-Baptiste in the tenets of Protestantism, which is the State religion in Sweden. Before Jean-Baptiste reaches Sweden, at the Danish port of Elsinore, he is to be received into the Protestant faith and has to sign the Augsburg Confession in the presence of the Archbishop of Sweden.

  One day I asked Jean-Baptiste: ‘Have you ever been to a Protestant church?’

  ‘Yes, in Germany, twice. It looks the same as a Catholic church, but without the pictures of the saints.’

  ‘Must I become a Protestant too?’

  He pondered. ‘I do not think it necessary. You can do as you wish. But at the moment I have no time for this nice young pastor. He can instruct Oscar instead. I want him to learn the Augsburg Confession by heart, in Swedish as well if possible. Count Brahe could help him with it.’

  So Oscar learnt the Confession in French and Swedish.

  I’ve also taken an interest in those lists of important Swedes. Among the many Löwenhjelms on the list is one, Charles Axel Löwenhjelm, whose name is underlined on the list. He is to meet Jean-Baptiste in Elsinore and accompany him to Stockholm as his lord-in-waiting and to inform him on questions of Swedish court etiquette.

  ‘I leave you the lists,’ said Jean-Baptiste. ‘Learn them by heart.’

  ‘But I can’t pronounce them,’ I said. ‘How, for instance, do you pronounce “Löwenhjelm”?’

  Jean-Baptiste couldn’t do it either. ‘But I shall learn to do it. One can learn anything if one wants to.’ He added: ‘Hurry with your preparations for the journey. I do not want you and Oscar to stay here longer than is absolutely necessary. As soon as your rooms in the castle in Stockholm are ready you must set off at once. Promise me that!’

  He sounded most serious about it, and I nodded.

  ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘I have thought of selling this house.’

  ‘No, no, Jean-Baptiste, you can’t do that to me.’

  He looked at me in amazement. ‘But if you want to come to Paris later on you can always stay with Julie. It is an entirely superfluous luxury to keep up a big house like this.’

  ‘It is my home, and you can’t take my home away just like that. If we still had Father’s villa in Marseilles, yes. But we haven’t got it any more. Please, Jean-Baptiste, please, leave me this house!’ And I added: ‘You too are sure to come to Paris again, and then you’ll be glad of this house. Or are you going to stay at a hotel or the Swedish Embassy from now on?’

  It was late at night. We were sitting on the edge of the bed, his bags packed ready around us.

  ‘If I ever return,’ he murmured, ‘it will be a sad business, it will hurt me.’ He stared into the candlelight. ‘You are right, my
girl. It will be better to stay here, if ever I do come here again. We will keep the house.’

  At lunch time to-day the big coach drew up at the gate. Fernand, still wearing his purple livery, but with the buttons showing the insignia of Sweden, put the luggage inside and waited by the carriage door.

  Baron Mörner was waiting in the hall as we came downstairs, Jean-Baptiste, Oscar and I, Jean-Baptiste with his arm round my shoulder. It was all very much as it had been so often before when he left me to go to the front or to go somewhere as Governor.

  Jean-Baptiste stopped in front of General Moreau’s bust and stared at it. ‘Send the bust to Stockholm together with my other things,’ he said. He embraced Oscar and me and turned to Count Brahe: ‘It is your responsibility to see to it that my wife and Oscar follow me as soon as possible,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘It may even be of the utmost importance that my family leaves France very quickly. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do, Your Highness.’

  Jean-Baptiste and Mörner got into the coach, Fernand took his seat beside the coachman. A few passers-by stopped, and an invalided soldier with the medals of all the campaigns on his chest shouted, ‘Vive Bernadotte!’ Jean-Baptiste closed the curtains and the coach moved off.

  Elsinore in Denmark, during the night of the 21st to the 22nd of December 1810

  I never knew how long and how cold nights could be. Marie brought me four hot-water-bottles. But in spite of them I am still freezing. Perhaps the night will pass more quickly if I go on with my diary.

  To-morrow I shall board the Swedish man-of-war that will carry us across the Sound to the Swedish port of Hälsingborg, me, the Crown Princess Desideria, and my dear little son, Oscar, the future Heir to the Throne.