Désirée (32 page)

"It is very late," I said. But he pulled me back into the armchair.

"Don't go yet, Eugénie—I am so glad you came to see me. And the night is long . . ."

"But you must be tired yourself," I interrupted.

"I sleep badly. And very little. I—" A hidden door covered with wallpaper, that I hadn't noticed before, opened a crack.
Napoleon didn't see it. "The camouflaged door is opening," I said. Napoleon turned. "What is it, Constant?"

A little man in lackey's uniform appeared in the doorway gesticulating frantically. Napoleon stepped nearer him.

"—won't wait any longer. I can't keep her quiet."

"Tell her to get dressed and go home," I heard Napoleon say. The door closed softly. It was Mlle George of the
Théâtre Français,
I decided. All Paris knows that Napoleon had been unfaithful to Josephine with Mme Grassini, the singer; now it's his "Georgina," the sixteen-year-old actress, Mlle George.

"I mustn't disturb you any longer," I said and rose.

"I've sent her away, you can't leave me alone," he said, and sat me back down again. His voice was gentle. "You asked me a favour, Eugénie For the first time in your life you asked me a favour."

I closed my eyes, exhausted. The quick changes in his tone of voice were breaking me down. The heat in the room was unbearable. On top of all that he positively exuded a restlessness that made me almost ill. Strange that after so many years I could still sense this man's every mood, every feeling. He was thinking it over, I knew, trying to decide and fighting with himself. I dared not leave. Perhaps he'll relent, perhaps he'll give in. . . .

"You don't realize what you're demanding, Eugénie Enghien himself is not important. I must once and for all prove to the Bourbons, prove to the whole world, how France feels. The French people must choose their ruler themselves—"

I raised my head.

"Free citizens of a free republic will go to the polls." Was he reciting a poem, or rehearsing a speech?

He was standing in front of the desk holding the document in one hand. The seal on it looked like a huge drop of blood. You asked me who sent me here tonight." I spoke loudly. "Before you make a decision I will answer your question."

He did not look up. "Yes? I hear you."

"Your mother."

He lowered his hand, slowly; went over to the fireplace, bent down and picked up a log. "I didn't know my mother
was interested in politics," he murmured. "I suppose people have been pestering her to intervene . . ."

"Your mother doesn't consider this death sentence a political issue."

"But?"

"Murder."

"Eugénie—now you have gone too far!"

"Your mother fervently begged me to talk to you. It's not exactly a pleasure."

The shadow of a smile flitted over his face. He fumbled among the files and documents piled high on the small tables. Finally he found what he wanted. He unrolled a large piece of drawing paper and held it under my nose.

"How do you like this? I haven't shown it to anyone yet."

In the top corner was a drawing of a large bee. In the centre a square buzzing with little bees, spaced out at regular intervals. "Bees?" I asked, startled.

"Yes, bees." He beamed happily. "Do you know what they mean?"

I shook my head.

"It's an emblem," said Napoleon.

"An emblem? Where will you use it?"

Expansive arm-waving. "Everywhere. On the walls, carpets, curtains, liveries, court carriages, the coronation robes of the Emperor—"

I gasped. He hesitated, looked at me. His eyes bored into mine.

"Do you understand me—do you, Eugénie?"

My heart was pounding. He was already unrolling another sheet. Lions this time, in all possible positions—sleeping lions, leaping lions, lions crouched, lions attacking. Across this sheet Napoleon had written, "An eagle with outspread wings."

"I've commissioned David, the painter, to design a coat of arms."

The lions were carelessly cast on the floor, and he now had the drawing of an eagle with outspread wings.

"I've decided on this one. Do you like it?"

The room was so hot I could hardly breathe. The eagle swam before my eyes, enormous and menacing.

"My coat of arms. The coat of arms of the Emperor of the French."

Had I dreamed these words? I gave a start and found the drawing in my shaking hands. I hadn't realized he'd handed it to me. Napoleon stood at the desk again, staring at the document with the red seal.

He stood motionless, his lips so tight together that his chin jutted out squarely. I felt small beads of perspiration on my forehead. He never looked at me. He leaned over, grabbed the pen, wrote a single word on the document and poured sand over it. Then he shook the bronze bell on his desk violently. On the bell there was a bronze eagle with outspread wings.

The secretary hurried in. Napoleon carefully folded up the document. "Sealing wax!" The secretary brought over wax and a candlestick. Napoleon watched him with interest.

"Drive to Vincennes immediately and deliver this to the commandant of the fortress. You are responsible for seeing that this is given to the commandant in person."

With his back to the door, and after three deep bows, the secretary managed to leave the room.

"I would like to know what you have decided." My voice was hoarse.

Napoleon went down on his knees before me and began to gather up the silk rose petals.

You've ruined your hat, madame," he remarked and gave me
a handful of torn petals. I got up, put the drawing of the ea
gle on a small table and the pieces of torn silk on the fire.

"Don't worry about it," he added. "The hat wasn't really
becoming to you."

Napoleon escorted me through the empty corridors. I noticed the walls. Bees ran through my head, bees, to decorate the Tuileries. I was jumpy because every few moments we passed a guard who saluted noisily. He took me right to the carriage.

Your mother's carriage. She's waiting for my return. What
shall I tell her?" He bowed over my hand. But this time he didn't kiss it. "Wish my mother a pleasant good night. And I thank you kindly for your visit, madame."

In our parlour I found Mme Letizia right where I have left her, in the armchair at the window. The sky was already light. Sparrows twittered cheerily in the garden. Jean-Baptiste was at work on his documents, writing.

"Forgive me for staying away so long, but he wouldn't let me go. He chatted about all sorts of things," I said. A lead ring seemed clamped around my temples.

"Did he send a message to Vincennes?" Mme Letizia asked.

I nodded. "Yes, he did, but he wouldn't tell me what he had decided. He told me to wish you a pleasant good night, madame."

"Thank you, my child," Mme Letizia answered and rose. At the door she turned. "In any event—thank you."

Jean-Baptiste took me in his arms and carried me up to the bedroom. He slipped off my dress and my underclothes. 1 tried to put on my nightgown, but I was too tired to raise my arms, and he simply wrapped a blanket round me.

"Did you know that Napoleon intends to be crowned Emperor?" I murmured.

"I've heard the rumour, but I believe that's being spread by his enemies. Who told you?"

"Napoleon himself."

Jean-Baptiste stared at me. Then he left me abruptly, and went into the dressing room. I heard him pacing up and down in there for a long time. I couldn't get to sleep until finally I felt him next to me, and I could bury my face in his shoulder. I slept until late in the morning, but I was terribly unhappy in my sleep. I dreamed of a white sheet of paper over which crawled blood-red bees.

Marie brought me my breakfast in bed and a late edition of the
Moniteur.
On the first page I read that this morning at five o'clock in the fortress at Vincennes the Duke of Enghien had been shot.

A few hours later Mme Letizia left Paris to join her exiled son Lucien in Italy.

Paris, May 20, 1804
(1
Prairial of the Year XII)

"Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Joseph," Fernand announced.

And in swished my sister Julie.

"Madame la maréchale, I trust you slept well," Julie said, the corners of her mouth twitching. Was she laughing or crying?

"Very well, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, Imperial Highness," I replied with the deep curtsy M. Montel had taught me.

"I've come early—let's sit in the garden a little while," said my sister, Her Imperial Highness, Princess of the French.

Our garden is small, and despite Josephine's good advice, our rosebushes have not flourished under my care, and there is no tree which could possibly mean as much to me as the old chestnut tree in Sceaux. But when the lilac blooms and the two apple trees Jean-Baptiste planted on Oscar's first birthday are in blossom, there's no sweeter spring scene than our little garden in the rue Cisalpine.

Julie carefully dusted off the garden bench with a handkerchief before she sat down in her dark blue satin dress. This set the blue ostrich feathers in her hair to waving solemnly. Marie brought us lemonade, and looked at Julie critically.

"Her Imperial Highness should use some rouge," she remarked. "Madame la maréchale looks much better."

Julie tossed her head irritably. "The Marshal's wife has an easier life. I'm so worried by this big move. We're moving over to the Luxembourg Palace, Marie."

"The lovely villa in the rue du Rocher is no longer good enough for the Princess Julie," Marie remarked sarcastically.

"But, no, Marie," Julie said. "You're unjust. I hate palaces. It's only because the heirs to the French throne always have lived in the Luxembourg."

Julie, wife of the heir apparent to the throne of France, looked thoroughly miserable. But Marie had no sympathy. "The late M. Clary wouldn't have approved, not at all," she grumbled. She put her hands on her hips. "Your late papa was a real Republican."

Julie was terribly uncomfortable. "I can't help it, Marie."

"Leave us alone awhile, Marie," I begged, and as soon as she was out of hearing, "Pay no attention to the old dragon."

"But I really can't help it," Julie moaned. "Moving's no pleasure, and all these ceremonies make me sick. Yesterday, at the appointment of the marshals of France, we had to stand for three solid hours, and today in the Dôme des Invalides . . ."

"We will sit," I declared. "Drink your lemonade."

The lemonade was just like the last few days: sweet-bittersweet. We've been overwhelmed with congratulations. My Jean-Baptiste has been made a marshal of France. This is every soldier's dream, whether he's a recruit or a general. And now for my husband the dream's come true. Only not at all in the way we'd imagined it.

Soon after my nocturnal visit to the Tuileries, George Cadoudal, the Royalist leader, was arrested. After the execution of the Duke of Enghien no one doubted the outcome of Cadoudal's trial. I was worried about Jean-Baptiste when General Moreau, General Pichegru and certain other officers were also arrested and accused of conspiring with Cadoudal. We expected the state police any hour. Instead Jean-Baptiste, just as before, was summoned to the Tuileries by the First Consul.

"The French nation has chosen me. You will not oppose the Republic?"

"I have never opposed the Republic, and I cannot imagine ever doing so," answered Jean-Baptiste quietly.

"We will appoint you a marshal of France," Napoleon declared.

This was too much for Jean-Baptiste.

"We?" he demanded.

"Yes. We. Napoleon I, Emperor of the French."

Jean-Baptiste was dumfounded. This so delighted Napoleon tha
t he roared with laughter, slapped his knees, and danced
happily around the room.

General Moreau was found guilty of high treason, but not c
ondemned to death, only exiled. He sailed for America, wearing his French general's uniform. His sword, on which, according to custom among all officers, were the names and d
ates of the victories he'd participated in, accompanied him. T
he last meticulously engraved inscription was
Hohenlinden.

Then everything happened in rapid succession. Day before yes
terday, the First Consul went to St. Cloud to hunt. There h
e allowed himself to be surprised by the decision of the Senate to elect him Emperor of the French. Yesterday, against he back drop of an imposing military parade, he presented m
arshals' batons to the eighteen most famous generals in the French Army. A week before, Jean-Baptiste had been instructed
in strictest confidence to order a marshal's uniform from his tailor. A detailed drawing of this new uniform had bee
n sent him from the Tuileries. After the batons had been distributed, each of the new marshals made a short speech. All eighteen addressed Napoleon as "Your Majesty."

During the speeches of Murat and Masséna, Napoleon half-closed his eyes. One could see how tiring the last few days had
been for him. However, when Jean-Baptiste began to speak, thanking him for the honour, Napoleon's face was transfigured with a look of eager interest and a smile—that solicitous, compelling smile. He advanced on Jean-Baptiste, seiz
ed his hand and urged him to consider him "not only as Emperor," but also his friend. Jean-Baptiste stood at attention and never moved a muscle.