Désirée (63 page)

"Have you read this, madame?" With shaking hands, I held out the paper to her.

Josephine gave it a fleeting glance. "Naturally. Bonaparte's
first from the front in months. It just confirms what we've
feared for a long time. Bonaparte has lost the war with Rus
sia. I take it he'll soon be back in Paris. Have you ever
thought of using henna when you wash your hair? Your dark
hair would have a reddish cast in candlelight. It would be
lovely on you, Désirée."

"This army, which on the sixth of the month had been the greatest army in history, was by the fourteenth completely demoralized. It had no cavalry, no artillery, and no transport," I read. "The enemy, apprised of the disaster which had befallen us, exploited our weakness to the full. Cossacks ambushed our columns. . . . "

In these words, Napoleon informed the world that the greatest army of all times had foundered, during its retreat, in the snowy wasteland of Russia. He soberly enumerated the troop formations. Of the hundred thousand cavalrymen who had ridden off to Moscow, for example, only six hundred riders were left. Six hundred—Napoleon's cavalry! The words "exhaustion" and "starvation" appeared again and again. At first I could take it in. I read on. I read the Bulletin 29 from beginning to end. It closed with the words, "The health of His Majesty was never better."

When I looked up, a strange face confronted me in the mirror. Large, melancholy eyes under silvered lids. An upturned nose, not pink as usual, but powdered brownish. And curved lips, a deep cyclamen pink. So I, too, can look elegant, so beautiful, so unexpected. I dropped my new face over the newspaper again. "And what will happen now, madame?"

A shrug and—"There are always two possibilities in life, D
esiree." Josephine kept polishing her fingernails. "Either B
onaparte will make peace, and abandon the idea of ruling al
l Europe. Or continue to make war. If he goes on with his wars
, there are again two possibilities. He could either . . ."

"And France, madame?" I must have shouted, for she shrank back, but I couldn't help it. Suddenly I understood the
Bulletin. And also the rumours. The rumours were true. Terribly true. Ten thousand men, a hundred thousand men stumbling through the snow, crying from pain like children, because their arms and legs are frozen, they suddenly fall and can't get up again. Ravenous wolves surround them. They try to shoot, but can no longer hold their muskets. The men scream in horror and the wolves slink back a little. It's getting dark. The night will be long, the wolves wait. . . .

In desperate haste the engineers build a bridge across a river, called the Beresina. Only over this bridge does the way lead back. The Cossacks pursue them closely. Any moment the bridge may be blown up, and their retreat cut off. So with a final agonizing effort, the exhausted men stagger onto the bridge. In the stampede many fall and are trampled by their comrades. The bridge sways . . . only to get across, only to live. Anyone who can't push his way through is crowded off the bridge and falls screaming among the ice floes in the river below. Tries to clutch the ice, is borne away by the current, screams, screams, screams and sinks. But His Majesty's health has never been better.

"And France, madame?" I asked again, dully.

"What about it? Bonaparte isn't France."

Josephine smiled over her shining fingernails. "Napoleon I, by the Grace of God, Emperor of the French. . . ." .winked at me. "We both know how that was done. Barras needed someone to quell a hunger riot, and Bonaparte was willing to fire the cannon on the people of Paris; Bonaparte became Military Governor of Paris, Bonaparte held the high command in the south, Bonaparte conquered Italy; after that Bonaparte was in Egypt, Bonaparte overthrew the Government, Bonaparte became First Consul—" She hesitated, then added hopefully, "Perhaps she'll desert him in adversity."

"She is still the mother of his son," I protested.

Josephine tossed her childlike curls. "That doesn't mean anything. I've always been more wife than mother. And this Marie Louise—a girl from an ancient family—is probably more daughter than wife or mother. My Bonaparte crowned me himself. Marie Louise, on the other hand, was married by her
papa to this Napoleon by the Grace of God. . . . Whatever happens, Désirée, don't ever forget what I've told you, will you promise?"

I looked at her, astonished.

"Just between us—there are more distinguished dynasties than the Bernadotte family, Désirée! But the Swedes themselves chose Jean-Baptiste, and he won't disappoint them. Jean-Baptiste is a born ruler, my Bonaparte has always believed so. But you, my child, will never learn how to rule. You must at least do the Swedes one favour—be beautiful! Silver grease paint and cyclamen rouge."

"But my turned-up nose?"

"We can't change that, but your nose suits you. You look so young. You'll always look younger than you are. So—let's go down to the salon and have Thérèse tell our fortune from the cards. We'll ask her about Bonaparte's star. Too bad it's raining, I wanted to show your Swedish Count the garden. The yellow roses are still in bloom. But now of course they're drowning in this rain. . . ."

On the stairs Josephine suddenly stopped. "Désirée, why aren't you in Stockholm?"

"In Stockholm there is already one queen, and one queen mother. Isn't that enough?"

"Are you afraid of your predecessors?"

My eyes filled with tears. I swallowed hard.

" Don't be silly—predecessors aren't dangerous. Only—successors," Josephine said softly, and seemed somehow relieved. "You see, I was afraid you were here for his sake. Because you still loved him—Bonaparte."

In the white-and-gold salon, the ladies were still preparing e
ndlessly long gauze bandages. Paulette, crouched on the
wick carpet in front of the fireplace, wound them into tiny rol
ls. Queen Hortense lay on a sofa, reading letters. A dreadfull
y fat lady, completely enfolded in an Oriental shawl, loo
ked to me like a big coloured ball. The coloured ball was p
laying Patience. My young Count Rosen, at the window, gaz
ed disconsolately at the rain. When we entered, the ladies, bo
bbed up. Beautiful Paulette, however, merely shifted her
weight from her left leg to her right. The coloured ball sank before me into a court curtsy.

"Perhaps Your Highness remembers the Princess de Chimay?" Josephine asked. She calls me Désirée only if we're alone. Princess de Chimay? The name of one of the very oldest, most distinguished families in France. I was sure I had never before met a member of this frightfully grand family. "Nôtre dame de Thermidor," Josephine laughed. "My old friend Thérèse!"

Josephine's friend Thérèse The Marquise de Fontenay, who married the former valet Tallien during the Revolution to save her head. Tallien was a representative, and the lovely Thérèse became the first lady of the Directorate. And was said to have danced for her guests stark naked. And procured new trousers for Napoleon, his old pair was all worn out. I had forced my way into her house to find my fiancé. But lost him there and found Jean-Baptiste.

She had an even worse reputation than Josephine, whom she succeeded as Barras' mistress. Napoleon refused to receive Thérèse at court. He's gotten terribly moral since he became Emperor. Poor Thérèse was sick about it because she's Josephine's bosom friend. In the end, Thérèse decided to annoy Napoleon. She married the Prince de Chimay and had seven children. Now she was round as a ball, but her black eyes laughed irresistibly. Napoleon would have liked to receive the distinguished Prince in the Tuileries, a genuine aristocrat, after all. But the Prince wouldn't come because Napoleon still refused to invite Thérèse to the court. She had danced stark naked, and Napoleon could never forget it. Undoubtedly he had watched her. . . .

"I'm glad to see you again, Princess," I said spontaneously.

"See me again?" Thérèse opened her eyes as wide an rolls of fat on her cheeks permitted. "I've not had the honour of being presented to Your Highness."

"Désirée," came a voice from the fireplace. "The Empress has silvered your eyelids." Paulette, thin to the point of emaciation, wearing the pink pearls of the Borghese, looked me over. "But it's becoming to you. And tell me, little new Crown
Princess of Sweden, is your aide there at the window deaf and dumb?"

"No, only dumb, Your Imperial Highness," spluttered Rosen angrily. And I realized that it had been a mistake to bring him here.

Quickly Josephine laid her small hand on his arm. Very lightly, but Rosen quivered. "When it stops raining," Josephine said, "I'll show you the garden. In my garden, the roses still bloom in December. You love roses, too, don't you? You even have the same name."

Josephine looked up at him mischievously, smiled without showing her bad teeth, and gazed into his eyes. Heaven knows how she managed it. Then she turned to the others. "What does Count Flahault write from Russia, Hortense?"

Hortense's lover is aide-de-camp to the Emperor. Since Hortense no longer lives with fat Louis, her relationship with Flahault has been quietly accepted in her mother's salon.

"He's marching through the snow at the Emperor's side," Hortense declared proudly.

"Bonaparte marching through the snow! He's probably driving in a sleigh, and your Flahault's letter is utter nonsense," said Josephine.

"Count Flahault tells me he has marched beside the Emperor since Smolensk. The Emperor has to walk, because nearly all the horses have frozen to death. Frozen, or been shot and eaten by the hungry troops, Mama. The Emperor wore the fur coat the Tsar once gave him, and a cap of Persian lamb. He leaned on a cane. He was accompanied by many generals who had lost their regiments. The Emperor marched between Murat and Count Flahault."

"Ridiculous. His faithful Ménéval marched beside him," said Josephine.

Hortense riffled through the pages of the long letter in her hands. "Ménéval has collapsed from exhaustion and been loaded on a wagon with the wounded."

There was dead silence in the room. A log in the fireplace crackled, but we all felt cold.

"Tomorrow I'll arrange for a service of Intercession," Jo
sephine announced, and asked Thérèse to tell Napoleon's fortune from a large star. Thérèse very seriously shuffled her cards, divided them into two piles and said to Josephine, "Bonaparte, as always, is King of Hearts." Then Josephine had to choose cards from each pile. Thérèse wrinkled her brow solemnly, and laid out the cards in the form of a star. Josephine held her breath with excitement. Hortense came over and stood behind her, her long unpowdered nose hung sadly over her upper lip. Paulette sat close to me and looked at the young Count. Count Rosen, however, let his gaze wander, and probably doubted our sanity.

Thérèse is an artist at fortunetelling. After she had arranged the cards in a star, she stared impressively and silently into space. Finally Josephine couldn't bear it any longer and whispered, "Well?"

"The situation is ominous," intoned Thérèse, and relapsed into thoughtful silence. At last, "I see a journey."

"Naturally," Paulette said briskly. "The Emperor is coming back from Russia. He may be walking, but he's, nevertheless, on a journey."

Thérèse shook her head. "I see another journey over water? In a ship." A long pause. "No, unfortunately the outlook is not favourable."

"What about me?" Josephine inquired.

"The Queen of Spades won't accompany the Emperor. Your situation will remain unchanged. I see financial worries, But that is nothing new."

"Yes, I'm in debt again, at Le Roy's," Josephine admitted uncomfortably.

Thérèse raised her hand dramatically. "I see a separation from the Queen of Diamonds."

"That's Marie Louise," Paulette whispered to me.

"But it means nothing good. In fact, I see no favourable signs." Thérèse made her voice as mysterious as possible. "Moreover what can the Jack of Hearts mean here? He lies between the Emperor and the Jack of Clubs. The Jack of Clubs is Talleyrand. . . ."

"The other day he was Fouché," Hortense reminded her.

"Perhaps the Jack of Hearts is the little King of Rome. Bonaparte is returning to his child," suggested Josephine.

Thérèse picked up the cards and began to shuffle them madly. Then she divided them again into two piles and laid out a fresh star.

"No change. Still the sea voyage, financial worries, treachery of—" Thérèse paused.

"Treachery by the Queen of Diamonds?" demanded Josephine. Thérèse nodded. "And for me?" Josephine asked.

"I can't understand it. There's nothing between the Queen of Spades, and the Emperor. And nevertheless—" Thérèse sighed and shook her head. "And nevertheless, he doesn't come to her. I really don't know why, dearest Josephine. And here we have the Jack of Hearts again! Next to the Emperor, always next to the Emperor. The seven of Clubs and the Ace of Clubs can't get to him, because they're held off by the Jack of Hearts. That can't be the little King of Rome, it must mean an adult. But who?" She looked around the circle, perplexed. We didn't know the answer. She looked down and pondered over the cards again. "It could also be a young woman—a girl, for instance, whom the Emperor doesn't treat as a woman—someone who's known him all his life, and who wouldn't leave him in a pinch, perhaps . . ."