Désirée (56 page)

While the cannon roared I went up on deck and stood next to Oscar. "Look, Mama—there's our country," the child shouted.

"Not our country, Oscar—the country of the Swedish peo
ple. Don't forget that. Never forget it." I took his hand. Snatches of military music floated out toward us. Out of the fog shone bright dresses and gold epaulettes. I saw a mass of flowers. Roses, carnations? They must cost a fortune here in winter. . . .

"As soon as we dock, I will cross the gangplank and hold out my hand to help Your Highness onto the quay. I want the Heir Apparent to stay close behind Your Highness. When we land, the Heir Apparent will take his position on the left of Your Royal Highness. I will be right behind Your Highness—" Count Brahe gave his instructions hastily. Yes, right behind me, to protect me. My young knight of ancient Swedish linage will not let them laugh at the daughter of a simple citizen.

"Did you understand, Oscar?"

"Look, Mama, all those Swedish uniforms. A whole regiment. Just look, Mama!"

"And where shall I stand, dear Count Brahe?" asked La Flotte.

I turned to her. "Keep in the background with Colonel Villatte. I'm afraid you're not the central figure at this reception

"Do you know what they called Count Brahe in Helsingör, Mama? Admiral Brahe," Oscar said.

Cannons crashed. "But why, Oscar? The Count is a cavalry officer."

"But they called him Admiral
de la Flotte,"
Oscar shouted between salutes. "Do you understand, Mama?"

I had to laugh. I was laughing all over my face when the ship docked in Sweden.

"Kronprinsessan skål leva!"
came from the fog.
"Kronprinsessan, Arveprinsen!"
Many voices, shouting rhythmically. But the fog swallowed up the faces of the people behind the cordon of soldiers. I could distinguish only the faces of the courtiers. Stiff and unsmiling, they looked me over. Looked over the child. My smile froze.

The gangplank was lowered. The Swedish national anthem, which I already knew, boomed out. Not a stirring battle song like "La Marseillaise." More of a hymn—pious, harsh, solemn.

Count Brahe hurried by me and jumped on land. His hand
stretched out to me. Quickly and uncertainly I edged toward him. Then I felt his arm under mine, felt solid land under my feet, stood there first alone, and then Oscar ran up beside me. The bright blooms—they were roses—came forward. A haggard old man in the uniform of a Swedish marshal presented the flowers. "Governor General von Schonen, Marshal Johan Kristoffer Toll," Count Brahe whispered. Faded old man's eyes looked at me but gave no sign of welcome. I took the roses, and the old man bent down over my right hand. Then bowed deep before Oscar. I saw the ladies, in their silks, in their wraps trimmed with ermine and nutria, curtsy. The rear-view of uniforms as the men bowed. It began to snow. I hastily gave my hand to one after another, the foreign faces assumed forced smiles. Their smiles more natural when Oscar held out his hand to them. Marshal Toll welcomed me in his harsh French. Snowflakes whirled around us. I turned my head to look at Oscar. He was enraptured by the whirling whiteness. Again the national anthem—so strange, so solemn. Snowflakes fell on my face as I stood without moving on the pier at Hälsingborg. As the last notes died away, Oscar's voice cut the stillness: "We'll be very happy here, Mama. Look, it's snowing."

Why does my child always say or do the right thing at the right moment? Just like his father. The same old man offered me his arm to escort me to the royal carriage. Count Brahe stayed close behind me. I looked at the unfriendly old man, at the foreign faces behind him, saw the light, cold eyes, the critical expression. "I beg of you, always be good to my child," I said suddenly.

These words were not in the programme, they slipped out, Probably tactlessly, and against all etiquette. Astonishment, enormous astonishment, flickered over every face, startled and condescending. I felt the snowflakes on my eyelashes and on my lips, and no one saw that I was crying.

That same evening, while I was undressing, Marie said, "Wasn't I right, Eugénie? I mean about the woollen underwear? You might have caught your death during the ceremony at the harbour."

In the Royal Palace, Stockholm.
End of the interminable winter of 1811

At last the sky really was like a fresh-washed sheet, and green ice floes swam in the Mälar! The rising water roared under the green floes, the snow melted, like thunder the ice cracked apart. Strange—spring doesn't come gently to this country. But tumultuously, passionately, fighting. And at the last very slowly.

On one of these spring afternoons, Countess Lewenhaupt appeared before me. "Her Majesty invites Your Royal Highness to have a cup of tea in Her Majesty's salon."

That surprised me. Every evening, Jean-Baptiste and I dine alone with the child, and then we spend at least an hour with the Queen. The King, incidentally, is much better. Earlier he had suffered a slight stroke and the very evening he was taken ill, the Queen slipped the heavy seal ring from the King's finger and put it on Jean-Baptiste. That mean the King entrusted him with the government, but not that has become Regent.

The King is sitting up again in his usual chair, an uneasy smile on his mouth. Only the left side pulls down slightly. But I've never called on the Queen by myself. Why should I? We have nothing to say to each other.

"Announce me to Her Majesty," I said hastily to Lewenhaupt and dashed to my dressing room. I brushed my hair, put on the fur-lined shawl Jean-Baptiste recently gave me
,
and walked up the icy marble staircase to Her Majesty's salon.

They were seated around a little table—all three of them. Queen Hedwig Elisabeth Charlotte, my adopted mother-in-law, who should be fond of me. Queen Sophia Magdalena, who has every reason to hate me. Her husband was murdered,
her son exiled, her grandson of Oscar's age deprived of all his rights to the throne. And Princess Sofia Albertina, the lady of indefinite age. She is an old maid with a faded face, a flat bosom, a childish bow in her hair, and unattractive amber beads around her thin neck. The three ladies were bent over their needlework.

"Sit down, madame," the Queen said.

The three ladies continued to embroider. Rosebuds in a strange rose-violet colony were stretched out on their embroidery frames. Tea was served. The ladies dropped their needlework and concentrated on their tea. I took a couple of gulps and burned my tongue. The Queen motioned the lackeys out of the room. Not a single lady-in-waiting was present. "I want to talk to you, dear daughter," the Queen said.

Princess Sofia Albertina bared her long teeth in a malicious smile. The Queen Mother, on the other hand, stared indifferently into her teacup.

"I wanted to ask you, dear daughter, whether you yourself feel that you are fulfilling your duties as Crown Princess of Sweden?"

I felt myself blushing. The pale, near-sighted eyes were fixed pitilessly on my flushed face.

"I don't know, madame," I finally managed to answer.

The Queen's dark, heavy eyebrows shot up. "You don't know, madame?"

"No," I said. "I can't judge, because it's the first time I've ever been a crown princess. And I've been one for such a very short time."

Princess Sofia Albertina began to bleat. She really did, like a goat. The Queen gestured irritably, but her voice was smooth as silk. "It's extremely unfortunate for the Swedish People and for him whom the Swedish people have chosen as heir to the throne that you don't know how a crown princess should behave, madame."

The Queen took a slow sip of tea, and kept looking at me over the rim of her cup. "So I will tell you, my dear daughter, how a Crown Princess must behave."

Everything had been in vain, I thought: M. Montel deportment lessons, my piano lessons, the graceful gestures I had practiced so diligently. And in vain, too, that I'd kept still at the court functions in Stockholm so as not to embarrass Jean-Baptiste. All, all in vain.

"A crown princess never takes a drive with one of her husband's aides without a lady-in-waiting."

What did she mean—Villatte? "I—I've known Colonel Villatte for many years; he visited us in Sceaux. We like to talk about old times," I said finally.

"At court functions crown princesses should converse graciously with everyone. You, however, act as though you were deaf and dumb."

"Speech has been given man"—the words slipped out—"to conceal his thoughts."

The virginal goat bleated shrilly. The pale eyes of the Queen opened wide in astonishment. Quickly I added, "That's not original with me but with one of our—one of the French diplomats, Count Talleyrand, Prince of Bénévent. Perhaps Your Majesty has heard . . ."

"I know quite well who Talleyrand is," said the Queen sharply.

"Madame, if one is not too clever nor too well educated, and yet must conceal one's thoughts, speech doesn't help. Therefore, I am forced—to be silent!"

A teacup rattled. The Queen Mother had put down her cup, her hand trembled so.

"You must force yourself to make conversation, madame," the Queen continued. "And besides—I cannot imagine what thoughts you wish to conceal from your Swedish friends and future subjects."

I folded my hands in my lap, and let her go on. Everything ends, and so would this tea party.

"From one of my lackeys I hear that your servant has inquired about the shop of a certain Persson. I want to make it quite clear that you are to make no purchases whatever at this shop."

I lifted my head. "Why not?"

"This Persson is not a purveyor to the court, and never will be. I have myself, since I heard about your servant's inquiries, made some myself, madame. This Persson is known to have some very revolutionary ideas."

My eyes popped. "Persson?"

"This certain Persson lived in France at the time of the Revolution. Ostensibly to learn the silk business. Since his return, he has associated with students, writers and other muddle-headed creatures, and he discusses with them the very ideas which once were the undoing of the French nation."

What did she mean? "I don't quite understand, madame. Persson once lived with us in Marseilles, he worked with Papa in the shop. In the evening I gave him French lessons, we learned the Rights of Man by heart . . ."

"Madame"—like a slap in the face—"I must insist you forget that. It is incredible that this certain Persson took lessons from you—" she was breathing hard—"or that he had anything to do with your father."

"Madame, Papa was a highly respected silk merchant, and the firm of Clary is today a very substantial one."

"I ask you to forget all that, madame. You are Crown Princess of Sweden."

A long silence followed. I looked down at my hands, trying to collect my thoughts. But my mind blurred, only my emotions were clear.

"Jag er Kronprinsessan—"
I murmured in Swedish, and added clumsily, "I've begun to learn Swedish. I want to do my best. But obviously that isn't enough. . . ."

No answer.

I looked up. "Madame, would you have persuaded His Majesty to appoint Jean-Baptiste Regent if—if I would not then have become the Regent's wife?"

"Possibly."

"Will you have another cup of tea, madame," bleated the goat. I declined.

" I d like you to consider seriously what I have said, dear
daughter, and to act accordingly," the Queen said icily.

"I'm already considering it, madame."

"You should never for an instant forget the position of our dear son, the Crown Prince, madame," the Queen concluded. That finished me.

"Your Majesty has already reproached me because I cannot forget who and what my dead papa was. Now, madame, you tell me not to forget my husband's position. I want you understand once and for all—I forget nothing and nobody."

Without waiting for the Queen's permission, I stood up. To the devil with etiquette. The three ladies sat up straighter —if possible—than ever. "In my home in Marseilles, madame, the mimosa is now in bloom. When it's a little warmer, I will return to France."

That worked. All three jumped. The Queen was shocked the old goat incredulous, and even the Queen Mother looked surprised.

"You would go—back?" the Queen asked haltingly. "When did you decide this, dear daughter?"

"This instant, Your Majesty."

"It's politically unwise, definitely unwise. You must talk it over with my dear son, the Crown Prince," she said rapidly.

"I do nothing without my husband's consent."

"And where will you live in Paris, madame? You have no palace there," declared the goat happily.

"I never have had a palace there. But we kept our home in the rue d'Anjou. An ordinary house, no palace. But so beautiful to me," I told her and hurried on. "I don't need a palace. I am not used to living in palaces. I—hate palaces, madame."|

The Queen had regained her poise. "Your country house near Paris might perhaps be a more suitable residence for the Crown Princess of Sweden."

"La Grange? We sold La Grange and everything else to pay Sweden's debts abroad. They were very large debts, madame."

She bit her lip. Then quickly, "No, that won't do—Crown Princess Desideria of Sweden in an ordinary Paris dwelling. And besides . . ,"