Désirée (44 page)

"Without bugs," Marie hissed.

"The Princess and I wish to dine alone. Here in my room— in an hour."

We heard them quarrelling a little while longer in the anteroom. We remembered the bridal bed adorned with roses and thorns. We laughed a great deal. I sat on his lap again and told him a wild mixture of news: Julie's queenly qualms, Oscar's whooping cough and measles, and Beethoven's message.

"I was to tell you that he cannot, after all, dedicate the new
symphony to the Emperor. He is simply calling it 'Eroica.' In memory of a hope which he once had," I said.

"Which we all once had." Jean-Baptiste nodded. "Eroica. Why not?"

Fernand set a small table. While we supped—Jean-Baptiste's cook at the Bug-Burg served us a delicious spring chicken, and Fernand poured heavy Burgundy into our glasses—I substantiated something. "You've bought some new silver—with the initials of the Prince of Ponte Corvo. At home I'm still using ours with the simple
B."

"Have the B removed and the new coat of arms engraved on it, Désirée. You needn't economize, darling. We are very rich."

Fernand finally left us alone. I took a deep breath.

"We are wealthier than you know," I began. "The Emperor has given us a house."

Jean-Baptiste raised his head. "You have many messages for me, little one. My old friend Beethoven calls a buried hope 'Eroica.' My old enemy, the Emperor, gives me a house. Which house?"

"General Moreau's house. In the rue d'Anjou. He bought it from Mme Moreau."

"I know. For four hundred thousand francs. Several months ago, and it's been much discussed among the officers."

Jean-Baptiste slowly peeled an orange. This orange had travelled through all of Europe. It might very well have been grown in the kingdom of my sister—to become a tiny part of the rations of the Grand Army now occupying the whole Continent. I drank a liqueur. Jean-Baptiste seemed suddenly depressed.

"Moreau's house," he murmured. "Comrade Moreau has gone into exile. To me, on the contrary, the Emperor gives fine presents. I had a letter today in which the Emperor informs me he will present me with estates in Poland and Westphalia which will guarantee me an annual income of over three hundred thousand francs. He did not mention Moreau's house or your visit. It's not easy to take the joy out
of a man's reunion with his wife. But the Emperor of the French has done it."

"He said he greatly admired your attack on Lübeck."

No answer. Jean-Baptiste frowned.

"I'll get the new house all ready and comfortable. You have to come home. The child always asks for you," I sail helplessly.

"Moreau's house will never be home to me, merely quarters, where I sometimes visit you and Oscar. . . ." He stared into the fire, then he smiled. "I shall write Moreau."

"You can't get in touch with him. We have the Continental system," I said.

"The Emperor assigned me to administer the Hanseatic towns. From Lübeck one can write to Sweden. And Sweden wants to stay neutral. From Sweden letters are sent on to England and to America. And in Sweden I have friends."

My memory stirred, a memory half-forgotten but suddenly very clear. Stockholm up near the North Pole, the sky like a white sheet . . . "What do you know about Sweden?"

Jean-Baptiste roused from his reverie, and spoke with animation, "When I took Lübeck, I found Swedish troops in the town. A squadron of Swedish dragoons."

"Are we at war with Sweden, too?"

"With whom are we not at war? That is, since Tilsit established so-called peace. But at that time the Swedes were fighting with our enemies. Their mad young King thought himself chosen by God to destroy Napoleon. A religious maniac."

"What's his name?"

"Gustavus—the Fourth, I think. In Sweden all the kings are either Charles or Gustavus. His father, the third Gustavus, had so many enemies that he was killed by his own nobles at a masked ball."

"Oh, how horrible. And barbaric—at a masked ball."

"Once upon a time our guillotine took care of such things," said Jean-Baptiste ironically. "Is that any less barbaric? It's hard to judge, but harder to condemn." He gazed again into the fire, his happier mood returned. "The son of this murdered
Gustavus—another Gustavus, the Fourth-also sent his dragoons to fight against France, and that's how I happened to find a Swedish squadron in Lübeck. Sweden interests me for a very particular reason, and I seized this opportunity to learn more about it. I invited the captured officers to supper, and that's how I met Mörner and—" He stopped. "Wait, I wrote down the names somewhere." He walked over to the desk.

"It's not important—" I said. "Go on with the story."

"No, it
is
important. I must know the names."

He rummaged in a drawer, found a piece of paper, and came back to me. "They were Messrs. Gustav Mörner, Flach, De la Grange, and the Barons Löwenhjelm, Banér and Friesendorff."

"No one can pronounce such names."

"These officers explained the situation to me. Gustavus
broke with us in this war against the will of his people. He
probably counted on winning the Tsar's support by this move.
The Swedes are always afraid Russia might take Finland
away from them."

"Finland? Where is Finland?" I asked, confused again.

"Come here, I'll show you the whole thing on the map," said Jean-Baptiste, and so I had to look at the map. He held up the candlestick. "There you have Denmark, connected with the mainland by Jutland. Geographically it can never be defended against attacks from the Continent, so the Danes have made a pact of friendship with the Emperor. You understand, don't you?"

I nodded.

"Here you have the strait called Öresund. Here Sweden begins. Sweden doesn't want to ally itself with the Emperor. Up to now Sweden could count on the Tsar's help. Now it's too late. By the treaty of Tilsit the Tsar joined with the Emperor. And Napoleon is leaving the Tsar a free hand in the Baltic States. What do you think this Gustavus is up to now?"

I had no idea, naturally.

"This madman has declared war on Russia, because of Finland. See—here, on the map: There you have Finland. Finland belongs to Sweden . . ."

"How could the Swedes ever hold Finland if the Tsar decides to occupy it?" I was studying the map.

"You see, even an ignorant little girl like you asks this question. Naturally they couldn't hold Finland. The Finnns, and with them the Swedes, will be bled to death in such a struggle. Finland will, of course, be ceded to Russia. And so—" Jean-Baptiste. tapped the map— "And so Sweden should try to unite with Norway. It could be achieved with comparatively little difficulty."

"Who rules Norway?"

"The King of Denmark. But the Norwegians don't like him. These Norwegians must be peculiar people. No nobles, no court. The Norwegians are now more discontented than ever because, since the Danish King is also the King of Norway, Norway is considered committed to Napoleon. If I were asked to advise the Swedes, I would suggest ceding Finland to Russia, and working toward union with Norway. Such a union would at the very least have a sound geographical basis.

"Did you explain this to the Swedish officers in Lübeck

"Very clearly. At first they wouldn't hear of ceding Finland. None of their reasons seemed to me well-founded. Finally I said, 'Gentlemen, I am entirely objective. A Frenchman, who studies the map, a marshal who knows something of strategy, tells you that Russia needs Finland to safeguard her frontiers. If you really have the interests of the Finnish people at heart, work for an independent Finland. But I have the impression that you're not actually concerned about the Finns but the the Swedes who live in Finland. Even so, it must be clear to you that the Tsar will secure his frontiers, and that your country will be ravaged if you don't give in on the question of Finland. As to your second enemy, the Emperor of France, I can assure you that we will very soon be sending French troops into Denmark. Whether Sweden can defend herself against these troops depends on you yourselves. Norway, on the contrary, can be conquered by Napoleon only through Sweden. Save your country by armed neutrality! And if you want a union of states, gentlemen, stand by Norway.'"

"You expressed it very well, Jean-Baptiste. How did the Swedes reply?"

"By staring at me as though I'd invented gunpowder. 'Don't look at me,' I said, 'but at the map.' " Jean-Baptiste paused. . "Next morning I sent them home. Now I have friends in Sweden."

"Why do you need friends in Sweden?"

"Friends are useful everywhere and at all times. And if the Swedes don't stop fighting both France and Russia, I will have to occupy their country. We expect the English to seize Denmark and then attack us from there. That's why Napoleon is sending French troops to Denmark. Since I'm to govern the Hanseatic towns, the Emperor will also give me command of our troops in Denmark. And if the Swedish Gustavus continues to feel he's an instrument of God destined to destroy Napoleon, the Emperor will one day take the obvious step. He'll order the conquest and occupation of Sweden. From Denmark I simply cross the narrow strait, Öresund, and land in Schonen, in southern Sweden. Come, look at the map again."

Once more I had to trot over to the map. But I didn't look. I d been travelling day and night to take care of my husband, and instead I had to have a geography lesson.

"The Swedes can't defend Schonen. Strategically untenable. I assume that here—" he beat on the map—"they would fight, and hope to hold."

"Tell me, did you tell these Swedish officers that you would Probably be conquering their country? And that, since they can't hold—what is it—Schone or Skone, they'd better take a stand farther north?"

"Yes. You can't imagine how nonplussed they were when I
  did. Especially one of them, this Mörner, with the round face and long curls. He got very excited. 'You're betraying your secret plans, monseigneur,' he kept saying. 'How can you divulge your plans to us?' Do you know what I said?"

"No," I said, getting a little closer to the narrow camp cot. I w
as so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open. "What did you say, Jean-Baptiste?"

" 'Gentlemen, I can't believe Sweden can be defended if it's attacked by a marshal of France.' That's what I said. Little girl, are you asleep?"

"Almost—" I murmured and tried to make myself comfortable on the narrow camp cot.

"Come, I've had a bedroom prepared for you. I suppose everyone else has gone to bed. I'll carry you to your room no one will see us," Jean-Baptiste whispered.

"But I don't want to get up, I'm so tired—"

Jean-Baptiste leaned over me. "If you want to sleep here I can go back to my desk. I have so much to do."

"N-no, you're wounded, you must lie down—" I muttered. Hesitantly Jean-Baptiste sat down on the edge of the bed. "You must take off my shoes and my dress—I'm so tired—" I said.

"I believe that the Swedish officers will speak to their ministers and give them no rest until the Swedish King abdicates. His uncle would succeed him—"

"A Gustavus—"

"No, a Charles. Charles the Thirteenth. This uncle has, unfortunately, no children. He's also said to be somewhat senile. Why are you wearing three petticoats, darling?"

"Because it rained all the time during the journey. I was cold. Poor Mörner. Senile and childless . . ."

"No, not Mörner, the thirteenth Charles of Sweden."

"If I make myself as thin as possible and get 'way over to one side, there'd be room for both of us in the camp cot. We could try—"

"Yes, we could try, my darling."

Sometime during the night I woke up. I lay on Jean-Baptiste's arm.

"Are you uncomfortable, little girl?"

"I'm marvellously comfortable. Why aren't you asleep, Jean-Baptiste?"

"I'm not tired. So many thoughts are going through my head. But you must sleep, darling."

"The Mälar flows through Stockholm, and on the Mälar float green ice floes," I said softly.

"How do you know that?"

"I just know it. I knew a man named Persson. Hold me closer, Jean-Baptiste, so I'm sure I'm really with you. Otherwise I'll think it's all a dream. . . ."

Not until autumn did I return to Paris. Jean-Baptiste and his officers went to Hamburg, and his administration of the Hanseatic towns began. He also planned to visit Denmark and inspect the fortifications on the Danish coast opposite Sweden.

I had good weather on my return trip. Hot bottles were not necessary. A tired autumn sun shone on our carriage, and on the highways and the fields, from which this year there was no harvest. We saw no more dead horses. And only a few graves. The rain had beaten down the mounds of earth and the crosses had been knocked down by the wind. One could forget that the route led across battlefields. One could forget that here thousands of men lie buried. But I did not forget.

Somewhere Colonel Moulin got hold of an old copy of the
Moniteur.
We discovered that Napoleon's youngest brother Jéröme—that dreadful child who ate too much at Julie's wedding and threw up his insides—had become a king. The Emperor had united several of the conquered German principalities and established the Kingdom of Westphalia. Jérôme I, King of Westphalia. Besides, Napoleon managed to marry off twenty-three-year-old Jéröme I of Westphalia to the daughter of an ancient German dynasty. Catherine of Württemberg was now Julie's sister-in-law. Does Jéröme ever let himself remember the Miss Patterson in America whom he so cheerfully divorced on Napoleon's orders?