Désirée (75 page)

He means to take his own life, the violets prove it. I'll have Villatte ride to Fontainebleau immediately and go straight to Napoleon's bedroom. Villatte may be too late. But, nevertheless, I must call him, I must try, I must . . .

Must I? Why must I stop him? He's already at the hedge. Force him back because it's the conventional thing to do?

I slid off the chair, lay on the floor, and bit my fist to keep from screaming. I didn't want to wake anyone. The night was very long. . . .

Not until dawn did I drag myself back to bed. I ached all over and I was cold, terribly cold. After breakfast-chocolate, white rolls and sweet marmalade, for we have money again—I sent for Colonel Villatte.

"Please go to Talleyrand's office this morning, and inquire on my behalf about the health of the Emperor."

Then, with Count Rosen, I drove in a hired carriage to the warehouse for I'd heard that the Prussians in Paris were "buying" without paying, while the Russians, on the other hand hunted for perfume. They drink the little bottles of scent and say it tastes better than brandy.

As we entered the Clary shop, M. Legrand was struggling vainly to keep two Prussian soldiers from helping themselves to our last rolls of silk.

I quickly pushed Rosen forward in his Swedish uniform.

"Paris surrendered on condition that it would not be looted," Rosen said politely.

I prodded him in the back. "Shout at them."

Rosen took a deep breath and shouted, "I'll report this! General Blücher!"

The Prussians muttered, fingered the material again, and finally dipped into their pockets and paid for it.

When we returned to the rue d'Anjou, the gendarmes had to clear the way for us, so great was the crowd by the house. In front of the door two Russian guardsmen marched solemnly up and down. As I climbed out, they presented arms. They had full beards and looked frightening.

"A guard of honour," Count Rosen murmured.

"What are all these people waiting for? Why are they staring up at the windows?"

"They've probably heard a rumour that His Royal Highness is arriving sometime today. After all, tomorrow is the official entry of the victorious sovereigns and field marshals into Paris It's inconceivable that His Highness will not lead the Swedish troops in the victory parade."

Inconceivable, yes, inconceivable. . . .

Before dinner, Colonel Villatte took me aside. "At first no one wanted to talk. But when I said that I asked on behalf of Your Highness, Talleyrand told me in confidence," Villatte whispered. "It's unbelievable," he concluded. With which followed me into the dining room.

It didn't occur to me until dessert that everyone was sitting in gloomy silence. Even the children.

"Is—something wrong?" I asked.

At first no one answered. Then I saw that Julie beside me was fighting back tears.

"You act so strange, Désirée," she said miserably, "so—unapproachable, not like you used to be."

"I'm worried, and I sleep so badly, these days are so sad," I said softly.

"And you presented none of us to the Tsar," Julie sobbed. "And the children want so much to see the victory parade tomorrow, but no one dares ask you if you'll let us use the carriage with the Swedish coat of arms. In your carriage, they'd be safe—the poor, pathetic Bonaparte children."

I looked at the children. The sons of Hortense and Louis are delicate, blond and shy. They don't remind one in the least of their uncle Napoleon. Julie's Zenaïde, on the contrary, has inherited the high Bonaparte forehead. Charlotte, with her dark curls, resembles my Oscar.

"Naturally, my carriage is available to anyone who wants to see the victorious troops."

Julie touched my arm. "That's sweet of you, Désirée."

"Why? I won't need it tomorrow. I'm staying home all day."

Paris, middle of April, 1814

That night—from the twelfth to the thirteenth of April— I didn't blow out the candle on my night table. At about eleven, the murmur of voices in front of the house ebbed away. The curious crowd had scattered. It was very quiet in the rue d'Anjou. The footsteps of the two Russian sentries echoed. Midnight: still only their footsteps. The clock struck one. The day of the victory parade had dawned. Every muscle in my body was tense. I listened. I thought I would go mad. The clock struck two.

Rolling wheels shattered the silence. They rattled to a stop in front of my house.
Click-clack:
the sentries presenting arms. A hard knock on the door. Voices. Three, four—but not the voice for which I waited. I lay rigid, my eyes closed. Someone ran up the stairs. Hurried, two steps at a time. Flung open my bedroom door, kissed my mouth, my cheeks, my eyes, my forehead.

Jean-Baptiste.
My Jean-Baptiste.

"You must have some warm food, you've had a long journey," I said awkwardly and opened my eyes.

Jean-Baptiste knelt beside my bed, his face on my hand. "A journey—yes, a horribly long journey," he said tonelessly.

With my free hand I stroked his hair. How light it shone in the candlelight—it had gone grey, really entirely grey. I sat up. "Come, Jean-Baptiste, go to your room and rest. I'll go to the kitchen and make you an omelette, shall I?"

But he didn't stir. Pressed his forehead against the side of my bed and didn't move.

"Jean-Baptiste, you're home, home again at last."

He slowly raised his head. The sharp lines around his mouth had deepened into furrows, his eyes were blank.

"Jean-Baptiste, get up! Your room is ready, and—"

He drew his fingers across his brow, as though he wanted to wipe away a memory. "Yes, yes—of course. Can you put them all up?"

"All?"

"I haven't come alone. I've brought Brahe as aide-de-camp, and Löwenhjelm as Chamberlain, and Admiral Stedingk, and . . ."

"It's impossible, the house is already overcrowded. Except for your bedroom and dressing room, I haven't a single room free."

"Overcrowded?"

"Julie and her children and the sons of Hortense and . . ."

He jumped up. "Do you mean to tell me you're harbouring all these Bonapartes, and supporting them at the expense of the Swedish court?"

"No, I only have Julie and various children—children, Jean-Baptiste. My house is open to them. And to the Clarys. You sent me the two aides yourself. And the household expenses, as well as the aides' salaries and the Swedish servants, I'm paying myself."

"What do you mean—yourself?"

"I'm selling silk. In a shop, you know—" I went quickly into my dressing room, and slipped into my beautiful green velvet dressing gown with the sable collar. I came back to him and continued. "The firm of Clary. . . . So now I'll make you and your gentlemen an omelette."

Then a miracle happened. He laughed. Sat on my bed and shook with laughter, and held out his arms. "My little girl— my priceless little girl. Crown Princess of Sweden and Norway—selling silk. Come, come here to me."

I went to him. "I don't see that it's anything a laugh about," I protested. "My money was gone. And everything is dreadfully expensive, you'll soon see."

"Fourteen days ago I sent a courier to you with money."

"Unfortunately, he didn't get here. Look, when the gentlemen have eaten, we must find hotel rooms for them."

He looked serious again. "The Swedish headquarters will be
in a palace in the rue St. Honored It was requisitioned long ago. My staff can probably go right there." Then he opened the door between my bedroom and his.

I held up the candle. "Your bed is made," I said, "the bedspread has been turned back, everything's ready for you."

But he stared into his bedroom, his familiar room with the familiar furniture, as though he'd never seen it before. "I'll stay at the Swedish headquarters, too," he said without expression. And hastily, "I'll have to receive a great many people. And this wouldn't do—I can't receive them here, Désirée! Don't you understand?"

"You won't live here any more?" I was dismayed.

He put his arm around my shoulder. "I've only come back to Paris so that the Swedish troops can take part in the victory parade. Besides, I must confer with the Tsar. But I'll tell you one thing, Désirée, I'll never return to this room, never!"

"Five minutes ago you wanted to live here with your entire staff," I exclaimed angrily.

"That was before I'd seen my room again. Forgive me, it was my mistake. But there's no return from where I've come." He held me close. "There—and now let's go down. My gentlemen hope that you will welcome them. And Fernand has probably prepared a meal."

Fernand. . . . The thought of him and the roses in our bridal bed helped me back to reality. I put on rouge and powder.

Arm in arm, Jean-Baptiste and I walked into the dining room. I would gladly have kissed my erstwhile young knight, the young Count Brahe. But Löwenhjelm, who had once tried so hard to teach me Swedish etiquette, stood beside him. So I didn't dare. Admiral Stedingk, covered with orders and decorations, came up to me. And Fernand, in a brand-new livery with Swedish gold buttons.

"How is Oscar?" I asked. For months my child had lived alone among strangers in Stockholm. Jean-Baptiste extracted some letters from his breast pocket.

"The Heir Apparent has composed a regimental march,"
he announced proudly. For a moment my heart beat happily, the candles burned brightly: Oscar is composing.

Fernand's coffee tasted bitter and yet sweet. Like his homecoming, I thought. We sat in front of the fireplace in the large salon. The far end of the room was in darkness. But Jean-Baptiste peered into the darkness and at the portrait of the First Consul. Our conversation subsided. There was a painful silence. Suddenly Jean-Baptiste turned to me, and demanded cuttingly, "And—he?"

"The Emperor is waiting in Fontainebleau for his fate to be decided. And last night he tried to commit suicide."

"What?" they all cried together— Brahe, Löwenhjelm, Stedingk, Rosen. Only Jean-Baptiste said nothing.

"Since the Russian campaign, the Emperor has always carried poison," I said, and watched the flickering flames. "Today, or rather last night, he swallowed this poison. His valet saw him and—took action at once. That's all."

"What action?" Löwenhjelm asked in surprise.

"If you must know, the story is that Constant, the valet, stuck his finger down the Emperor's throat, and he threw up. Then he called Caulaincourt, and Caulaincourt forced the Emperor to drink some milk. The Emperor had severe cramps for a while, but this morning he got up as usual and dictated letters."

"That's grotesque," Stedingk declared, shaking his head. "Tragic and comic, too. Stuck a finger down his throat. Why didn't he shoot himself?"

I didn't answer. Jean-Baptiste gnawed on his lower lip and stared into the fire, his mind seemed far away. And again this heavy silence. Brahe cleared his throat. "Your Highness, about the victory parade today—"

Jean-Baptiste pulled himself together, and as he had before in my room drew his hand across his forehead. His absent-minded expression changed, he came over to us, and began to speak clearly and precisely. "In the first place, any possible misunderstanding between the Tsar and me must be cleared up. The Tsar, as you gentlemen know, expected me to cross the Rhine with the Prussians and the Russians. However, I
led our troops northward, and took part in not a single battle on the soil of France. Should my allies take exception—" He stopped.

I looked at Brahe. Hesitantly he answered my silent question. "We've been driving around for weeks aimlessly, Your Highness, in Belgium, and in France. His Highness wanted to see the battlefields—" Brahe looked at me helplessly and added, "His Highness could agree to this trip to Paris only with a heavy heart."

"In the villages where there's been fighting, not one stone remains on another. That's not the way to make war, not that," said Jean-Baptiste between his teeth.

Then Löwenhjelm determinedly opened the portfolio he'd
been carrying around the whole time. A package of letters
came to view. "Your Highness, I have here all the Tsar's hand
written letters that have not yet been answered," he said
loudly. "About . . ."

"Don't say it," Jean-Baptiste shouted. I'd never seen him so out of control. Then he leaned forward, and stared into the fire. The eyes of the Swedes turned on me. I was their last hope.

"Jean-Baptiste," I began. He didn't move. So I went over and knelt beside him and laid my head on his arm. "Jean-Baptiste, you must let the gentlemen speak out. The Tsar suggested that you become King of France, didn't he?"

He stiffened, but I went right on. "You haven't answered he Tsar. That's why Count d'Artois, Louis XVIII's brother, will arrive in Paris tomorrow to prepare for the return of the Bourbons. The Tsar has finally agreed to the proposals of the other Allies and Talleyrand's suggestions."

"The Tsar will never understand why I didn't cross the Rhine with him, why I wouldn't fight on French soil, why, above all, I haven't responded to his various suggestions. But, Sweden can't afford a breach with the Tsar—can't you see?"