Désirée (49 page)

"Marie Louise of Austria is very beautiful, I'm told." He opened the box, held some snuff to his nose, took a deep breath, and pressed his handkerchief over his face—the very elegant and studied gesture of snuff-users. Handkerchief and portrait disappeared into his trouser pocket. He stared at me latently. "I still don't understand, Princess,, how you happen to be here." Since he wouldn't stay sitting, I tried again to stand up. He shoved me back into my armchair. "You're exhausted, Eugénie, I can tell. But what are you doing here?"

"The Empress wanted to see me. I reminded Her Majesty—" I swallowed, it was so difficult to explain to him. "I reminded Her Majesty of the afternoon on which she became engaged to General Bonaparte. It was a very happy time in the life of her Majesty."

He nodded, and sat down unceremoniously on the arm of my chair. "Yes, it was a happy time in the life of Her Majesty. And in yours, Princess?"

"I was very unhappy, Sire. But it's so long ago and long since healed," I replied. I was so tired and so cold that I forgot
who was sitting beside me. When my head dropped to one side and onto his arm, I was startled. "I beg Your Majesty pardon."

"Let your head stay, then at least I won't be so alone." He tried to put his arm around my shoulder and to draw me to him. But I made myself stiff and leaned my head against the back of the chair. "I've been very happy here, Eugénie I never moved.

"The Hapsburgs are one of the oldest ruling families in the world, did you know?" he announced. "An Archduchess of Austria is worthy of the Emperor of the French." I sat up straight because I wanted to see his face. Was he serious? That a Hapsburg princess is good enough for the son of the Corsican lawyer Bonaparte?

Again he stared off into space. Then he asked, "Can you waltz?" I nodded. "Can you show me? Everyone in Austria waltzes, I heard in Vienna. But back there in Schönbrunn had no time to try. Show me how they waltz."

"Not now, not—here."

His face was distorted. "Now. And here."

Horrified, I pointed to the door of Josephine's bedroom. "Sire, you'll wake her."

He did not give in. Just lowered his voice. "Show me! At once! This is a command, Princess."

I rose. "It's difficult without music," I said. Then I began to revolve slowly. "One, two, three, and one, two, three— that's how one waltzes, Your Majesty."

But he wasn't watching me. He still sat on the arm of the chair, staring into space.

"And one, two, three—and one, two, three—" I said a little louder.

He looked up. His heavy face looked grey and puffy in the early light. "I was so happy with her, Eugénie"

"Is it—necessary, Your Majesty?"

"I can't make war on three fronts at the same time. In the south I must quell riots, I must defend the Channel coast, and Austria. . . ."

He gnawed his lower lip. "Austria will make peace if the
Emperor's daughter is married to me. My friend, the Russian Tsar is arming, dear Princess. And with my friend, the Tsar of Russia, I can cope only when Austria is finally pacified. ' She will be my hostage, my sweet eighteen-year-old hostage—" He took out the snuffbox again and gazed with considerable relish at the rosy portrait. He got up suddenly and surveyed the room again. "So it used to be like this," he murmured as though he wanted to impress on his memory forever the stripes in the tapestries on the wall and the shape of the lovely sofa. As he turned to leave, I curtsied low. He put his hand gently on my head and stroked my hair absent-mindedly. "Can I do anything for you, dear Princess?"

"Yes, if Your Majesty would be kind enough to send up some breakfast. Strong coffee, if possible."

He laughed. It sounded young, awakening memories. Then he quickly left the salon in rapid strides. His spurs clanking.

At nine o'clock in the morning I escorted the Empress through the back door to the Tuileries. Her carriage awaited us. She wore one of the three magnificent sables the Emperor brought back from Erfurt as gifts from the Tsar. The second the Emperor had draped around Paulette's shoulders, but no one knew what had become of the third. Josephine was very carefully rouged and thickly powdered under her eyes. Her face looked quite sweet and only a little jaded. I hurried her down the stairs. Hortense was already waiting in the carriage.

"I'd expected Bonaparte would bid me farewell," said Josephine softly, leaning forward a little to see the rows of windows in the Tuileries. The carriage started up. Behind every window there were curious faces.

"The Emperor rode to Versailles very early this morning. He's spending a few days with his mother," Hortense said.

All the way to Malmaison, not another word was said.

Paris,
end of June, 1810

She looks, unfortunately, just like a sausage.

The new Empress, that is. The wedding festivities are over, and the Emperor spent five million francs without batting an eye to redecorate Marie Louise's apartments in the Tuileries. First, Marshal Berthier was sent to Vienna in March as matchmaker. Then came the proxy wedding in Vienna, at which the Emperor had the bride's uncle, Archduke Charles, whom Napoleon had once defeated at Aspern, stand in his stead. Finally, Caroline was dispatched to the frontier to welcome the Emperor's bride. Near Courcelles, the ladies' carriage was halted by two unknown horsemen. It was raining cats and dogs; the two strangers tore open the coach door and flung themselves in. Marie Louise naturally screamed, but Caroline calmed her down. "It's only your bridegroom, the Emperor, dear sister-in-law—and my husband, the considerate Murat."

They spent the night in the palace at Compiegne and next morning Napoleon breakfasted at Marie Louise's bedside. When Uncle Fesch married the Imperial couple in Paris, the wedding night had long been over.

During the first month, the Empress was not permitted to hold any big receptions. For some reason or other, Napoleon feels that women conceive more readily if they don't exert themselves. At least, that's his theory by day. But finally the receptions could no longer be postponed, and yesterday, along with all the other marshals, generals, ambassadors, dignitaries, and noble and ignoble princes, we were summoned to the Tuileries to be presented to the new Empress.

It was exactly as it had been— last time. The great ballroom, the thousand candles, the crowd of uniforms, court gowns
with long trains over which people stumbled. Striking up of "La Marseillaise" flinging open of the folding doors, entrance of the Emperor and Empress.

In Austria it's apparently customary for youthful brides to wear pink. Marie Louise had been squeezed into a tight-fitting pink satin gown, hung all over with diamonds. She is much taller than the Emperor, and, in spite of her youth, she has plenty of bosom, which she obviously straps in. Her face is pink, too, and very full, and she uses almost no make-up. She looks very natural next to the painted court ladies, but a little more powder on her shiny nose and red cheeks wouldn't have hurt. Her eyes are pale blue, large, and somewhat protuberant. Her hair is lovely, golden brown, very thick, and artfully arranged. Did anyone else remember Josephine's downy-soft childlike curls?

Marie Louise smiled incessantly. Without any noticeable
effort. But then she's the daughter of a genuine Emperor and
probably's been brought up to smile at two thousand people
all at once. She watched her father's armies march off to fight
against Napoleon and lived through the occupation of Vienna.
She must have hated the Emperor from childhood, but her
father made her marry him. At Compiègne he was a stranger
and insensitive to the feelings of a young girl brought up by
elderly governesses in a palace. . . .

The Emperor and Empress stood before us. I curtsied. "And this is the Princess of Ponte Corvo, my brother Joseph's sister-in-law." Napoleon sounded bored. "The Prince of Ponte Corvo is a marshal of France."

I kissed her jasmine-scented glove. I could have sworn she would prefer jasmine to all other scents. Her pale-blue eyes met mine. They were like porcelain, and they didn't smile.

When the Imperial couple had taken their places on their
thrones, the orchestra played a Viennese waltz. Julie came ov
er to me. "Charming—" she whispered, examining my new dr
ess critically. She wore purple velvet and the crown jewels o
f Spain. Naturally her crown sat on the bias. "My feet hurt," sh
e complained. "Come on, let's go sit down in the next room."

At the door I bumped into Hortense. She now wears white,
as her mother used to. Hortense was with Count Flahault, her equerry, and gazing deep into his eyes. Julie made for a sofa and straightened her crown. We thirstily lapped up the champagne someone brought us.

"Do you suppose she realizes her aunt once lived here in the Tuileries?" I'd suddenly remembered it myself.

Julie looked startled. "Now, really, in this Emperor's entire court you'll find no one who had an aunt who ever lived in the Tuileries."

"Yes, the new Empress. She is the great-niece of Queen Marie Antoinette."

"Queen Marie Antoinette," said Julie, and her eyes opened wide.

"Yes, Julie Clary, also a queen. A toast, my dear, and don't think about her." I drank to her. Marie Louise has many reasons for hating us, I thought. "Tell me, does the Empress always smile?" I asked Julie, who had already seen her new sister-in-law several times.

"Always." Julie nodded seriously. "And I shall train my daughters always to smile, too. Real princesses never stop smiling."

A bittersweet, sophisticated perfume drifted by—Paulette. She put her arm around my shoulder. "The Emperor has decided Marie Louise is pregnant." Paulette shook with laughter.

"Since when?" Julie asked excitedly.

"Since yesterday." The exotic perfume wafted away.

Julie stood up. "I must go back to the throne room. The Emperor wants the members of his family near the thrones," she announced solemnly.

My eyes sought Jean-Baptiste. He was leaning against a window, watching the crowd indifferently. I went over to him. "Can we go home soon?" He nodded and took my arm. Suddenly Talleyrand barred our way.

"I've been looking for you, dear Prince. These gentlemen have asked me to present them to you." Behind him stood several enormously tall officers in foreign uniforms. Dark blue, with blue and yellow sashes.

"Count Brahe, a member of the Swedish Embassy. Colonel
Wrede, who has recently arrived to convey to the Emperor on the occasion of his marriage the felicitations of His Majesty the King of Sweden. And Lieut. Baron Karl Otto Mörner, who arrived here from Stockholm this morning with tragic news. He is, by the way, dear Prince, a cousin of the Mörner who was once your prisoner in Lübeck. You still remember him?"

"We continue to correspond," said Jean-Baptiste quietly, glancing from one to the other of the Swedes. "You are one of the leaders of the so-called Unionist Party in Sweden, are you not, Colonel Wrede?"

The tall man bowed. Talleyrand turned to me. "You see, dear Princess, how well informed your husband is about the situation in the North. The Unionist Party is striving for a union between Norway and Sweden."

A polite smile played around Jean-Baptiste's mouth. He still held my arm. He looked contemplatively at Mörner. The dark-haired, undersized man, with his hair slicked back from his forehead and temples, caught his eye. "I am here on a tragic mission, Prince," Mörner said in fluent but rather harsh French. "I bring the news that the Swedish heir to the throne, His Royal Highness, Prince Christian Augustus of Augustenburg, has been killed in an accident."

Jean-Baptiste's fingers dug suddenly and so painfully into my arm I wanted to scream. Only for a fraction of a second. How terrible," he said calmly. "I extend my sincere sympathy to you gentlemen."

There was a pause. A few measures of the waltz drifted in. Why don't we leave? It has nothing at all to do with us. Now the childless Swedish King must simply look for another successor. Let's go home.

"Has a successor to the late heir already been chosen?" Talleyrand asked. He sounded casual, polite, interested.

I happened to look at Mörner How odd: he kept staring at
Jean-Baptiste with a peculiar expression. As though he w
anted to work some thought-transference on Jean-Baptiste. W
hat can they possibly want of my husband? He can't bring
their dead Augustenburg back to life. The accident is no con
cern of his. We have enough troubles of our own; we're in disfavour here in Paris. I looked at the tall Colonel with the blue and yellow sash, this Wrede or some such name. He, too was watching Jean-Baptiste. Finally the short man, the Baron Mörner, said, "On the twenty-first of August, the Swedish Parliament will meet to decide on a successor to the throne."

Another incomprehensible pause.

"I fear we must take leave of these Swedish gentlemen Jean-Baptiste," I said. The officers promptly bowed.

"I beg of you again to express my sympathy to the King of Sweden, and tell him how deeply I mourn with him and his people," Jean-Baptiste said.

"Is that the only message?" Mörner burst out.

Jean-Baptiste, already turning to go, looked again first at one and then the other. Finally he considered the young Count Brahe, who couldn't have been more than nineteen years old.