Désirée (64 page)

"Désirée, of course—the Jack of Hearts is Désirée," cried Paulette.

Thérèse stared at me blankly, but Josephine nodded. "That might be. The little comrade, a young girl he once knew. I do believe Her Royal Highness . . ."

"Please leave me out of the game," I said hastily, embarrassed before Count Rosen.

Josephine understood me. "Enough for today," she said, and went over to the Count. "I think the rain has stopped. I'll show you the yellow roses and the greenhouses."

In the evening we drove back to Paris. It was raining again. "I'm afraid you were very bored at Malmaison, Count Rosen. But I wanted you to meet the most beautiful woman in France."

"The Empress Josephine must once have been quite beautiful," the young man answered politely.

She aged in a single night, I thought. I will also grow old someday, with or without silver paint on my eyelids. I hope not overnight. But that depends on Jean-Baptiste. . . .

"The ladies at Malmaison are very different from our ladies in Stockholm," Rosen declared suddenly. "They discuss everything from prayers to love affairs."

"People also pray and make love in Stockholm."

"Naturally. But they don't talk about it."

Paris, December 19, 1812

It has rained continuously since my visit to Malmaison. But in spite of the weather the past two days people have stood on street corners and read Bulletin 29 aloud to each other from rain-soaked newspapers, and tried to imagine their sons freezing in Russia. They wait for comfort, for further news. They wait in vain. I know of no single family who hasn't a close relative in Russia. In all the churches, services of Intercession are being held.

Yesterday evening I couldn't get to sleep. I wandered restlessly from room to room. Moreau's former house was cold and far too large for me alone. Finally I put Napoleon's sables on over my dressing gown, sat down at the desk in the little salon and tried to write to Oscar. Marie sat in a corner knitting a grey shawl. She's been knitting this shawl for Pierre ever since she heard about the icy cold of the Russian steppes. We've had no news from him. The needles clicked, Marie's lips moved silently. Now and then a newspaper rustled. Count Rosen was reading Danish newspapers, the Swedish papers haven't come for days. Now he was poring over the Danish court news. La Flotte and the staff of servants were long since asleep.

I clung to my thoughts of Oscar. I wanted to write him he
should be careful ice skating so he wouldn't break his leg. If
he were here—if he were here, he'd be called up for military s
ervice in a few years. How do other mothers stand it? Marie
knitted, and the snow falling incessantly in Russia, white and
soft, buried the sons. . . .

At that moment I heard a carriage stop in front of my house. Then a thundering knock at the door. "The servants have gone to bed," I said.

Marie put down her knitting. "The Swedish porter in the gatehouse will open the door," she said.

We waited with bated breath. Heard voices in the hall. "I will speak to no one. I have already retired," I said quickly. Count Rosen left the salon.

Very soon I heard his harsh French. A door opened, and he escorted someone into the adjoining large salon. Had he gone mad? I had told him I would receive no one. "You must go at once, Marie, and say I've gone to bed."

Marie got right up and went through the connecting door
into the large salon. I heard her begin a sentence and stop.
There was complete silence in the next room. Incredible to
admit anyone at this late hour against my express wishes.
. . . I heard papers rustle, and a log fall. The coachman was
lighting a fire in the big fireplace. That was the only sound
I heard. Otherwise all was deathly still.

Finally the door opened. Count Rosen came in. His movements were oddly stiff and formal. "His Majesty, the Emperor."

What? I couldn't have heard correctly. "Who?"

"His Majesty accompanied by one gentleman wishes to speak to Your Royal Highness."

"The Emperor is still at the front," I declared in confusion.

"His Majesty has just returned." The young Swede was pale with excitement.

I had calmed down. Nonsense, I won't let myself be intimidated, I won't be forced into this upsetting situation, I don't want to see him again, at least not now, not alone. . . . "Tell His Majesty that I have gone to bed!"

"I've already told His Majesty that. His Majesty insists on speaking to Your Highness immediately."

I didn't move. What does one say to an Emperor who leaves his army stranded in the Russian snow? No, not stranded, there is no army any more. He lost his army. . . And he comes first to me . . . I stood up slowly, pushed the hair back off my forehead. It occurred to me that I was wear
ing my old velvet dressing gown and over it the sables and must look awfully funny. Against my will, I went to the door. He must know now that Jean-Baptiste is allied with the Tsar, and had advised him how to defend Russia. He must know now that Jean-Baptiste's advice was followed. "I'm worried, Count Rosen," I murmured.

The young Swede reassured me. "I think you need have no fear, Your Highness."

The large salon was very bright. Marie was putting candles in the last of the tall candelabra. The fire flickered. On the sofa, under the portrait, sat General Caulaincourt, the Emperor's chief equerry, once eighth aide-de-camp to the First Consul. Caulaincourt wore a sheepskin coat and a woolen cap pulled down over his ears. His eyes were closed, he was apparently asleep.

The Emperor stood close to the fire, with his arms on the mantelpiece. His shoulders sagged. He seemed so tired that he had to lean against something to stay upright. A grey Persian lamb cap sat crooked on his head. He looked completely strange. Neither of them heard me come in.

"Sire—" I said softly, and went over to the Emperor.

Caulaincourt awoke, snatched off his woolen cap and stood at attention. The Emperor slowly raised his head. I forgot to bow. I stared at his face aghast. For the first time in my life I saw Napoleon unshaven.

His beard was reddish, his bloated cheeks slack and grey. His mouth was a narrow line, and his chin jutted out to a point. His eyes looked at me, but did not focus.

"Count Rosen," I said sharply, "someone forgot to take Hid Majesty's cap and his fur coat."

"I am cold, I'll keep my coat on," Napoleon muttered, and
wearily took off his fur cap. Rosen carried out Caulaincourt's coat.

"Please come right back, Count. Marie, brandy and glasses." Marie had to play the part of a lady-in-waiting. At this hour of the night I couldn't receive gentlemen alone, even the Emperor of France. Especially not him. And Count Rosen must be a witness to our conversation.

"Please sit down, Sire," I said, and sat myself down on the sofa. The Emperor didn't budge. Caulaincourt stood indecisively in the middle of the room. Count Rosen returned. Marie brought brandy and glasses.

"Sire," I said, "a glass of brandy."

The Emperor didn't hear me.

I looked at Caulaincourt questioningly. "We've driven without stopping for thirteen days and thirteen nights," he murmured. "No one in the Tuileries knows yet that we have returned. His Majesty wanted to talk to Your Highness first."

It was fantastic. The Emperor had travelled thirteen days and thirteen nights to cling like a drowning man to my mantelpiece, and no one else knew he was in Paris. . . . I poured out a glass of brandy and took it to him. "Sire, drink this. Then you'll feel warmer." I said it very loud, and at last he raised his head and looked at me. Took in my old dressing gown and the sables he himself had given me. He swallowed the brandy in one gulp.

"Do ladies in Sweden always wear fur stoles over dressing gowns?" he inquired.

"Of course not, but I was cold. I am sad, and when I'm sad, I freeze. Besides, Count Rosen told you that I had already retired."

"Who?"

"My aide. Count Rosen. Come here, Count. I want to present you to His Majesty."

Count Rosen clicked his heels together. The Emperor raised his glass. "Give me another brandy. I'm sure Caulaincourt wants one, too. We have a long journey behind us." He poured the whole glass of brandy down his throat. "Are you surprised to see me here, Your Highness?"

"Of course, Sire."

"Of course? But we're old friends, Highness. Very old friends, if I remember rightly. What surprises you about my visit?"

"The late hour, Sire. And the fact that you come to me unshaven. "

Napoleon stroked his rough chin. A shadow of that youthful untroubled smile of the Marseilles days flitted across his slack, heavy face. "Forgive me, Highness. In the last few days I have forgotten to shave. I wanted to reach Paris as soon as possible." The suggestion of a smile vanished. "What was the effect of my last bulletin?"

"Perhaps you'll sit down, Sire?" I suggested.

"Thank you, I'd rather stand near the fire. But, please don't let it disturb you, madame. And, gentlemen, please be seated."

I sat down again on the sofa. "General Caulaincourt." I waved toward an armchair. "Count Rosen, please, here. Ana you must sit down, too, Marie."

"General Caulaincourt has been Duke of Vincenza for a long time," Napoleon remarked. Caulaincourt lifted his hand as though warding off my apologies. Then he fell into his chair and closed his eyes.

"May I ask, Sire—" I began.

"No, you may not ask, madame. You most certainly may not ask anything, Mme Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte," he roared, ana turned away. Count Rosen shrank back.

"I would like to know to what I owe the honour of this unexpected call, Sire," I said calmly.

"My call is no honour to you, but a disapproval. If, all your life, you hadn't been such a childish, brainless creature, you'd realize what this visit implies—Mme Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte!"

"Sit down, Count Rosen. His Majesty is apparently too tired to be courteous," I entreated my young Swede. Rosen had jumped up, and already had his hand on his sword. That would have been the last straw.

The Emperor ignored it. He came nearer and stared at the portrait above my head. The portrait of the First Consul, the
portrait of the young Napoleon with the thin face, the shining eyes, and the tangled hair that hung almost to his shoulders. In a monotone he began to speak. More to the portrait than to me. "Do you know where I've come from, madame? I've come from the steppes where my soldiers lie buried. Where Murat's hussars stagger through the snow. The Cossacks have killed their horses. The men are snowblind and they whimper with pain. Do you know at all what it is, madame—snow blindness? I have come from a bridge which collapsed under Davout's grenadiers. The ice floes cracked their skulls, and the icy water turned red. At night men crawled under their dead comrades to keep warm. I have . . ."

"How can I send him this shawl?" Marie's cry cut off Napoleon's words. She leapt to her feet, rushed to the Emperor, suddenly fell on her knees before him and clutched his arm fiercely. "I am knitting a warm shawl for my Pierre. Or he can wear it over his ears, but I don't know where to send it. Your Majesty has couriers. Help a mother, Your Majesty, send a courier . . ."

Napoleon tore himself loose. His face was distorted with rage.

"I've written down the number of his regiment, he would be easy to find—" Marie whispered. "This shawl, this warm shawl—"

"Are you mad, woman?" Saliva oozed from the corners of Napoleon's mouth. "She asks me to send a shawl to Russia, a shawl—" He began to laugh, shook with laughter, choked with laughter, groaned with laughter. "A shawl for my hundred thousand dead, for my frozen grenadiers, a grey warm shawl for my Grand Army—" There were tears in Napoleon's eyes—from laughing.

I led Marie to the door. "Go to bed, dearest, go to bed."

Napoleon was silent, standing helplessly in the middle of the room. Then he walked with strangely stiff steps to the barest chair and sank down into it. "Forgive me, madame, I am very tired—"

The minutes ticked away, and none of us stirred. This is the end, I thought. My thoughts wandered across a continent and over
the straits to Jean-Baptiste in the royal palace in Stockholm.

A clear hard voice—"I have come to dictate to you a letter for Marshal Bernadotte, madame."

"Please have one of Your Majesty's secretaries write this letter."

"I.wish you to write this letter, madame. It's a very personal letter, and not at all long. Inform the Swedish Crown Prince that we have returned to Paris to prepare the final defeat of the enemies of France."

The Emperor stood up and began pacing up and down the room, his eyes fixed on the floor as though the map of Europe were spread out on it. He tramped over this imaginary map with dirty boots. "We wish to remind the Swedish Crown Prince of the young General Bernadotte, who, with his troops in the spring of 1797, rushed to the assistance of General Bonaparte. His crossing of the Alps, the most rapid crossing ever made, was the decisive factor in the victorious Italian campaign. Do you remember this, madame?"

I nodded.