Désirée (53 page)

"Teased you?"

"Yes, he tried to make a complete fool of me. Imagine, he tried to make me believe Jean-Baptiste is seeking his release from the French Army and wants to become a Swede. We laughed and laughed . . ."

I looked at her in astonishment. "Laughed? What's there to be funny about? I'm miserable whenever I think of it."

"Désirée—it can't be true?"

I kept still.

"But none of us ever thought of such a thing," she stammered. "Joseph is King of Spain, but still a Frenchman. And Louis King of Holland, but he wouldn't thank anyone who called him a Dutchman. And Jérôme and Elisa and . . ."

"That's the difference," I said. "You said yourself there's great difference between us and—you others."

"Tell me, are you really thinking of settling in Sweden?"

"Jean-Baptiste definitely. For me—it depends."

"What does it depend on?"

"Naturally, I'll go to Sweden." I bent forward. "Imagine, they say I must call myself Desideria. In Latin that means 'Desired one.' So if I should really be desired in Stockholm, I'll stay."

"What nonsense you talk. Of course they'll want you," Julie assured me.

"I'm not so sure," I said. "The old nobility in Sweden—and my new mother-in-law—"

"Rubbish, mothers-in-law are only hateful when one takes away a son," Julie contradicted, thinking of Mme Letizia. "And Jean-Baptiste isn't the Swedish Queen's own son. And you'll have Persson in Stockholm. He'll surely remember how kind Papa and Etienne were to him. All you need do is elevate him to some aristocratic rank and you'll have a friend at court," Julie said to comfort me.

"You've got it all turned topsy-turvy," I sighed, realizing that Julie, least of all, could understand the true situation.

But her thoughts soon reverted to the Tuileries. "Something incredible has happened. The Empress is pregnant. What do you think of that? The Emperor is wild with joy. The son will be called King of Rome. Napoleon is convinced that it will be a son."

"Since when has the Empress been pregnant? Yesterday?"

"No, for three months, and—"

A knock. La Flotte announced, "The Swedish gentlemen who return to Stockholm this evening ask if they may take their leave of Your Royal Highness."

"Let the gentlemen come in."

I don't think my face betrayed to a single one of the Swedes how very much I fear the future. To Field Marshal Count von Essen, most faithful adherent of the House of Vasa, I held out my hand. "Until I see you in Stockholm, Highness," were his parting words.

As I accompanied Julie to the entrance hall, I met, to my astonishment, the young Brahe. "Aren't you leaving for Stockholm with Field Marshal Count von Essen to prepare for my husband's arrival in Sweden?"

"I have asked to be appointed, for the present, aide to Your Royal Highness. My request has been granted. I am at your service, Your Highness."

Very tall, and boyishly slim, nineteen years old, dark eyes that shine with enthusiasm, curls like my Oscar's: Count Magnus Brahe, scion of one of the oldest and proudest families in Sweden. Personal aide to the former Mlle Clary, daughter of a silk merchant from Marseilles.

"May I request the honour of accompanying Your Royal Highness to Stockholm," he added softly. And let them dare to look down their noses at our new Crown Princess if a Count Brahe stands at her side, he clearly thought. Just le them dare.

I smiled. "Thank you, Count Brahe. But, you see, I've never had an aide, so I have no idea how to keep a young and distinguished officer occupied."

"Your Royal Highness will soon think of something," he assured me. "Until then, I can play ball with Oscar— your pardon, the Duke of Södermanland."

"As long as no more windowpanes are broken." I laughed. For the first time my awful anxiety abated a little. Perhaps it's all not so dreadful.

We'd been summoned to wait on the Emperor at eleven o'clock in the morning.

Five minutes before eleven we were in the anteroom in which Napoleon keeps diplomats, generals, princes, ant ministers—foreign and domestic—waiting for hours. At our entrance there was a sudden hush. Everyone stared at Jean-Baptiste's Swedish uniform and made way for us while Jean-Baptiste instructed one of the Emperor's aides to announce the "Prince of Ponte Corvo, Marshal of France, with his wife and son."

After which we might as well have been on an island. No one wanted to recognize us, no one congratulated us. Oscar stuck close to me, his little fingers clutching my skirt. Everyone there knew what had happened. A foreign people, of their own free will, had offered Jean-Baptiste a crown. And
within, on the Emperor's desk, lay Jean-Baptiste's request to resign from the Army and relinquish his French allegiance. Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte no longer wishes to be a French citizen. They looked at us furtively, we made them uneasy. At court, everyone knew that a terrible scene awaited us. One of those frenzies of the Emperor at which the walls shook and plaster crumbled. What a blessing, I thought, that he always makes people wait for hours, and looked sideways at Jean-Baptiste. He was eying one of the two guards in front of the Emperor's door. Staring at his bearskin cap as though he'd never seen one before, or ever would again. The clock struck eleven. The private secretary of the Emperor, M. Ménéval, appeared. "His Majesty will see the Prince of Ponte Corvo and his family."

The Emperor's study is right beyond the waiting room. At one end is a huge desk. And an endlessly long way it seems from the door to this desk. For this reason the Emperor usually meets his friends halfway in the middle of the room. We, however, had to walk the entire length. Motionless as a statue sat Napoleon behind his desk, leaning forward slightly, waiting. . . . Jean-Baptiste's spurs jingled behind me as Oscar and I advanced toward the desk. Soon I could see his features clearly. Napoleon had put on his Caesar-mask, only his eyes glittered. Behind him stood Count Talleyrand, Prince of Bénévent, and the present Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Duke of Cadore.

Behind us Ménéval tiptoed cautiously.

The three of us lined up in front of the huge desk. The child in the middle. I sank into a curtsy and bobbed up. The Emperor never stirred, just kept staring at Jean-Baptiste. In his eyes flared an evil spark. Then he jumped up, pushed back his chair, came from behind his desk and shouted, "In what uniform do you dare appear before your Emperor and Supreme Commander, Marshal?"

"The uniform is an approximation of a Swedish marshal's, Sire," Jean-Baptiste answered. He spoke very softly but to the Point.

"And you dare come here in a Swedish uniform? You—a
marshal of France?" A bit of plaster dropped from an ornament in the ceiling, he was screaming like a madman.

"I
thought it didn't matter to Your Majesty what uniforms your marshals wore," Jean-Baptiste said placidly. "I've often seen Marshal Murat, King of Naples, in very peculiar uniforms at court."

That hit home. Baby-face Marshal Murat wears ostrich feathers in his three-cornered hat, has his uniforms studded with pearls, and gold embroidery on his riding breeches. This brother-in-law of Napoleon has a passion for fancy dress. And the Emperor laughs at him good-naturedly.

"His Majesty, my royal brother-in-law, has designed make-believe uniforms. As far as I know—they are his own invention." The suggestion of a smile hovered around his small mouth, and vanished. "But you dare to come here in a Swedish uniform. Before your Emperor.''

Napoleon paused for breath and stamped his foot in anger. Oscar tried to hide behind my skirt.

"Answer me, Marshal!"

"I considered it proper to report for this audience in a Swedish uniform. It was not my intention, Sire, to offend you. Also in a way this, too, is my own invention. If Your Majesty would like to see—" Jean-Baptiste raised his sash and showed the belt. "I am wearing the belt of my old marshal's uniform, Sire."

"Stop these masquerades, Prince. To business."

The Emperor's voice was strained and he spoke very fast. The overture, arranged to intimidate us, was over. What an actor, I thought, and felt very tired. Isn't he going to ask us to sit down?

He had no intention of doing so. He just stood behind the desk and stared down at a document—Jean-Baptiste's request.

"You've submitted a very remarkable request, Prince. You mention the prospect of your being adopted by the Swedish King, and ask permission to surrender your French citizenship. A strange document. Almost incomprehensible, if one thinks back. But you're perhaps not thinking back, Msgr. Marshal of France?"

Jean-Baptiste's lips were tight-closed.

"Don't you really remember? For instance, the time when a young recruit helped defend the frontiers of a new France? Or the battlefields on which this recruit fought as sergeant, lieutenant, colonel and finally general of the French Army? Or the day on which the Emperor of the French appointed you a marshal of France?"

Jean-Baptiste was silent.

"Not so very long ago, without my knowledge, you defended the frontiers of your native land." He smiled, suddenly, the old smile. "Perhaps you even, without my knowledge, saved France. I've already told you—it was long ago, and you may well have forgotten. I told you I cannot renounce the services of such a man as you. That was in the days of Brumaire. Perhaps you still remember? Had the Government so ordered, you and Moreau would have had me shot. The Government did not give this order. Bernadotte— I repeat, I cannot let you go."

He sat down and pushed aside the application. Looked up and said less intensely, "But since the Swedish people have chosen you—" he shrugged, laughed lightly—"heir to their throne, as your Emperor and Supreme Military Commander, I hereby give you permission to accept. And that's that."

And I shall inform His Majesty the King of Sweden that I cannot accept. The Swedish people want a Swedish Crown Prince, Sire," said Jean-Baptiste calmly.

Napoleon jumped up. "Nonsense, Bernadotte! Look at my brothers—Joseph, Louis, Jérôme. Did any of them give up their French citizenship? Or my stepson Eugène in Italy?"

Jean-Baptiste didn't answer. Napoleon again came around from behind his desk and began to pace up and down the room. My eyes met Talleyrand's. The former bishop was leaning on his stick, tired from standing so long. His eyes twinkled. What was he thinking? That Jean-Baptiste would win out? It certainly didn't seem so.

Suddenly the Emperor stopped and confronted me. "Princess," said he softly, "I don't believe you realize that the Swedish Royal House is mad. The present King is incapable
of pronouncing one coherent sentence, and his nephew had to be deposed because he was crazy! Really-cuckoo!" He tapped his forehead. "Princess, tell me, is your husband crazy? I mean crazy enough to give up his French citizenship for the Swedish succession?"

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

"Talleyrand—are the Vasas mad, or are they not?" Napoleon asked.

"It is a very ancient dynasty, Sire. Ancient dynasties are apt to be unhealthy," Talleyrand declared.

"And you, Princess, what do you say to this? Bernadotte also asks that you and the child be allowed to relinquish French citizenship."

"It's a matter of form, Sire. Without this we cannot succeed to the Swedish throne," I heard myself say. Had I given the right answer? I looked at Jean-Baptiste. But Jean-Baptiste was staring right past me. I looked around at Talleyrand. The great man nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Point two: Your resignation from the Army. That can't be done, Bernadotte, it really can't."

The Emperor was back behind the desk again, reading the application, which he must have already studied. "I cannot consider doing without one of my marshals. When new wars—" He hesitated. Then rapidly, "If England doesn't surrender there will inevitably be new wars, and I will need you. You will, as always, command one of my armies. Whether you are Crown Prince of Sweden or not. Your Swedish regiments will become a part of our great army. Or do you think—" He unexpectedly smiled and looked ten years younger. "Do you think I could let anyone else command the Saxons?"

"In view of Your Majesty's Order of the Day after the battle of Wagram which stated that the Saxons had not fired a single shot, it would seem of vast unimportance who commands them. Give the command to Ney, Sire. Ney is very ambitious and has served under me."

"The Saxons stormed Wagram. And under no circumstances
would I give this command to Ney. I shall permit you to become a Swede, if you remain a marshal of France. I fully understand the ambitions of my marshals. Besides, you are admirably fitted for the administration of a country. I remember Hanover and the Hanseatic towns. You are an outstanding governor, Bernadotte."

"I request you to allow me to resign from the French Army."

With that Napoleon pounded the desk with his fist. It sounded like a clap of thunder.

"My feet hurt, may I sit down, Sire?" I said. The Emperor looked at me. The glitter in his eyes dimmed, they looked grey. It was as though he looked through the wrong end of a telescope: the image grew smaller and smaller. It was as though, far distant, he saw one tiny scene: a girl in a garden, at dusk, a young girl racing to a hedge, and to please her, he let her win. . . .