Désirée (58 page)

"The material of this uniform is softer and finer, and doesn't scratch so much," I sobbed. Then I pulled myself together and got up. "I think it's time for dinner."

Jean-Baptiste stayed, poised on the arm of the chair. As soon as I got away from the stove, the icy cold that lurked in every corner of the room gripped me.

"Did you know that the mimosa is in bloom now in Marseilles?"

The Chancellor has assured me that spring will be here in four weeks, and Wetterstedt is a reliable man," Jean-Baptiste replied.

Slowly I walked to the door. With every fibre of my being I waited for one word from him. For his decision. I would
accept it as a final judgment. At the door I stood still. Whatever he decides, it will be the end of me, I felt.

"And how am I to explain your leaving to Their Majesties and to the court?" It sounded so indifferent, almost meaningless. The decision was made.

"Say that my health demands I go to Plombières for the baths. And that I must spend the autumn and winter in Paris because I can't stand this cold climate," I said and I left the room quickly.

Castle Drottningholm in Sweden.
Beginning of June, 1811

Like pale-grey silk the night sky is taut over the park. Midnight has long since passed and still it's not dark. Summer nights in the north stay light. I have closed the curtains, and dark draperies have been hung over my windows so I might
sleep. But I've slept badly. I don't know whether this greenish twilight is to blame or my proposed departure. Tomorrow
morning I can start my return trip to France. . . .

Three days ago, the court moved to the summer residence, Drottningholm Castle. As far as the eye can see, there's nothing but park. Beautifully aligned linden trees, perfectly clipped hedges, and a maze of paths. But when one final gets to the end of the huge park, one suddenly sees natural meadows, where delicate birches grow, and yellow primroses and deep-blue hyacinths. The long twilights smell very sweet. And everything seems as unreal as a dream. One doesn't sleep properly, but wanders in the half-light; it's neither night nor day. And these last days before I leave my life here are indeed a twilight interlude—the last words, unreal in their sincerity; the farewells, devastating. Yet bittersweet, because I have to go back.

I turn over the pages of my diary and think of Papa . . . .

"For years I have saved a part of my pay. I can buy a small house for you and the child—" Jean-Baptiste said, and I wrote it down. Jean-Baptiste, you kept your word, you bought a little house, it was in Sceaux near Paris and was very small and very comfortable, and we were very happy there. . . .

So, anyway, on the first of June we moved to the summer palace of Drottningholm. Jean-Baptiste, you promised me a small house, why do you give me palaces, marble staircases, pillared halls, and ballrooms? Perhaps I'm dreaming, I tell myself in the twilight of this last night in which I still call myself Crown Princess of Sweden.

Tomorrow I start off, travelling incognito as a Countess of Gotland. Perhaps I really am dreaming, and will wake up in my bedroom in Sceaux. Marie will come in and lay little Oscar in my arms. I'll open my nightgown, and put Oscar to my breast. . . .

But the array of trunks is very real. Oscar, my child, your mother isn't going to France because of her health. This is no rest cure, my child, and I won't see you again for a very long time. And when I do see you, you will no longer be a child. At least not—my child. But a real prince, a royal highness, trained to the throne. For the throne one must be either born or trained. Jean-Baptiste was born to rule. We'll have to see about you. Your mama, however, was neither born nor trained to be a queen. And that's why, in a few hours, I'll clasp you once more to my heart and leave.

For weeks, the court couldn't grasp the idea that I was actually going. They gossiped away and glanced curiously and surreptitiously at me. I had expected them to reproach me, but strangely enough they are taking it out on the Queen. The rumour is that she wasn't a good mother-in-law to me and drove me away. They would enjoy a feud between Her Majesty and Her Royal Highness. They will be disappointed tomorrow when my travelling coach sets off and an unknown Countess of Gotland leaves the country.

I came with them to Drottningholm only because I wanted to see the famous Vasa palace in which Oscar will from now on spend his summers. On the evening of our arrival, a play
was presented in the little theatre. The mad Gustavus III built it and had it decorated ever so elaborately. Happy as a little lark, Mlle von Koskull sang a few arias. The King applauded enthusiastically, but Jean-Baptiste seemed quite indifferent. Odd, for a while during the long dark winter, I thought . . . But now since I've decided to leave, the great tall Koskull with the healthy teeth, the Valkyrie with the golden shield, the goddess of battle, seems to have lost a charm for Jean-Baptiste.

Dearest, though I should be far away in Paris, I'd still be deeply hurt.

Yet must I not be prepared for that? The words spoken in the twilight of this last evening were so very clear . . . .

Their Majesties gave a farewell banquet in my honour, and after dinner there was dancing. The King and Queen sat in gilded chairs with high stiff backs, and smiled graciously. That is, the King thought he was smiling graciously. But he only looked sad with his drooping mouth and vacant face. I danced with Baron Mörner, who brought us the message in the first place, and Chancellor Wetterstedt and Foreign Minister Engeström, who talks incessantly about Finland. An also with Jean-Baptiste's youngest secretary, Count Brahe. Although the bright northern nights are rather cool I said, "It's hot in here, I'd like some fresh air," and we went into the garden.

"I must thank you, Count Brahe. You have stood by me gallantly since I came here. You've done everything in you power to make things here easier for me. Forgive me for disappointing you. It's all over now."

His dark head was bowed, and he gnawed on the little moustache he's cultivating. "If Your Highness wishes . . . he began, but I shook my head strenuously.

"No, no, dear Count. Believe me, my husband is an excellent judge of character. If, in spite of your youth he appointed you to his staff, it's only because he needs you. He needs you here in Sweden."

He didn't thank me for this compliment, but kept worrying his moustache. Suddenly he looked up desperately. "I beg
Your Royal Highness not to leave—I implore you to stay."

"My decision was made weeks ago, Count Brahe, and I'm sure I'm right."

"No, no—Your Highness. Please stay, postpone your journey. It's the wrong—" He stopped again, drew his hand through his thick hair, and then exclaimed vehemently, "This is not the time for you to leave."

"Not the time? I don't understand you, Count Brahe."

He turned away. "A letter from the Tsar has come, Highness, more I dare not say."

"Then don't say it. You are one of the Crown Prince's secretaries. You should not discuss with me His Royal Highness' correspondence with ruling monarchs. I am glad that a letter has come from the Tsar. The Crown Prince depends greatly on his fine relationship with the Tsar. I hope it was a friendly letter."

"Too friendly."

I was puzzled by young Brahe's attitude. What has my departure to do with the Tsar?

"The Tsar offers the Crown Prince proof of his friendship," said Brahe earnestly, and without looking at me. "The Tsar begins his letter with 'My dear Cousin.' Your Highness will appreciate that this is considerable proof of his friendship."

Yes, considerable. The Tsar addressing the former Sergeant Bernadotte as his cousin. I smiled. "That means a great deal— for Sweden."

"It's about an alliance. Russia will give up her alliance with France, and that ends the Continental System. Now we must decide whether to ally ourselves with Russia or Napoleon. Both have suggested an alliance with Sweden."

Yes I know. Jean-Baptiste can't get by with armed neutrality much longer.

" So that's why the Tsar writes 'My dear Cousin' to His Royal Highness, and, to strengthen his personal position in Sweden, offers him—"

"Finland?"

" No, not Finland. But the Tsar offered to make His Royal Highness a member of his family, if it would secure His Royal
Highness' position in Sweden." Brahe shook head tragically. His thin young shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the world.

I was stupefied. "What does that mean? Does the Tsar also want to—adopt us?"

"The Tsar means only—His Royal Highness." Finally Brahe turned his tormented face toward me. "There are other ways of establishing a family .relationship, Your Highness. . . ."

At last I understood. There are other ways. . . . Napoleon married off his stepson to a Bavarian princess. Napoleon himself is the son-in-law of the Austrian Emperor, and thus related to the Hapsburgs—closely related, in fact. A man need only marry a princess. It's that simple. An Act of State, a document; like the one Josephine had to read out. . . . Josephine, hysterical, choking with sobs on her bed.

"That would undoubtedly secure His Royal Highness' position," I heard myself say.

"Not with us in Sweden. The Tsar took Finland away from us; we can't forget this loss so quickly. But in the rest Europe, Your Highness . . ."

Josephine screaming on her bed. It can be done quit easily. But Josephine had no son. . . .

". . . in the rest of Europe, His Royal Highness' prestige would doubtless be increased."

But Josephine had no son. I have a son.

". . . so I would like to repeat that this is not the time for Your Highness to leave."

"Yes, Count Brahe. Right now. One day you'll understand." I held out my hand to him. "I ask you from my heart to stand by my husband loyally. My husband and I sometimes feel that our French friends and servants are frowned upon here. For that reason Colonel Villatte, my husband's oldest and most faithful aide, who fought with him on every front, is returning to Paris with me. I expect you to take his place. My husband will be very much alone. I'll see you in the morning Count Brahe."

I did not return to the ballroom immediately, but wandered bewildered, down to the park, past the clipped hedges. Everything
here is under the pall of the past. Not twenty years a
go mad Gustavus III gave his famous garden parties here. The
gardeners know how dearly he loved this park, and they co
ntinue to carry out his instructions. There by the Chinese pa
vilion, he composed his elegies. How often he dressed up
and invited his friends to a masquerade. . . .

Tonight the park seemed infinite. The murdered man's son was declared insane. And he was forced to abdicate. He was promptly brought back here—a prisoner. Here to this gay summer palace. I've been told about it often enough. He paced up and down, back and forth, along these formal paths with his keepers behind him. In his despair and madness he talked to himself and to the linden trees. And over there, near the Chinese pavilion, his mother waited for him. Mother of a man, widow of a murdered man—Sophia Magdalena.

The summer wind sang softly through the leaves. Suddenly I saw a shadow—it was moving toward me. I screamed, tried to run, but couldn't move.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you."

Close beside me on the moonlit gravel walk, stood the Queen Mother dressed all in black.

"You— Have you waited for me here, madame?" I asked, ashamed because my heart was pounding so hard I could hardly speak.

"No. I couldn't guess that you'd prefer a walk to a dance, m
adame," she said tonelessly. "I myself always take a walk on be
autiful summer nights. I sleep very badly, madame. And this p
ark holds so many memories. Of course, only for me, madame."

I could think of no reply to that. Her son and her grandson had been exiled. My husband and my son had been called in.

" I'm saying good-by to these paths which I don't really now," I said politely. "Tomorrow morning I go back to France."

"I had not expected to see you alone, madame. I'm glad of the opportunity." We walked on, side by side. The clipped linden trees had a sweet fragrance. I wasn't afraid of her anymore. Just an old lady in black.

"I think often about your leaving. And I believe I'm the only one who knows why."

"It's better not to talk about it," I replied, and began to walk faster. She took my arm. This startled me so that I jumped back.

"Are you afraid of me, child?"

Her voice took on color, but sounded deeply sad. We stood still.

"Of course not—that is—yes, I am afraid of you, madame."

"You are afraid of a sick and lonely woman?"

I nodded vehemently. "Because you hate me. Just like the other ladies of your family. Like Her Majesty, like the Prince Sofia Albertina. I disturb you, I don't belong here, I—" I paused, then continued, "There's no reason to discuss it, it can't change the situation. I understand you very well, madame. Our aims are very similar."

"Please tell me what you mean by that?"

Tears welled in my eyes. This last evening had been so indescribably horrible. I sobbed, but only once, before I got myself under control. "You stay in Sweden, madame, as a constant reminder to the people of your exiled son and your exiled grandson. As long as you are here, no one can forget the last of the Vasas. Probably you would rather live with your son in Switzerland. He's known to be not too well off. You could keep house for him and darn his socks instead of embroidering roses in Her Majesty's salon." I lowered my voice and confided to her our common secret. "But—you stay here, madame, because you are the mother of an exiled king and your staying serves his interests. Am I not right, madame?"