Désirée (65 page)

The Emperor turned to Caulaincourt. "Bernadotte's classic
crossing of the Alps is taught in all military colleges. A mas
terly achievement. Masterly . . . He brought me regiments
from the Rhine Army which had fought under Moreau's Command
." He paused. A log on the fire cracked and dropped.
Moreau, in exile. Jean-Baptiste, Crown Prince of Sweden . . . .

"Remind Bernadotte first of the reinforcements he brought
to me in Italy. Then of the battles in which he defended the
young Republic. Finally of the song:
'Le Régiment de Sambre et
Meuse, marche toujours aux cris de liberté, suivant la route
glorieuse. . . .'
Write him that fourteen days ago, I heard
this song in the Russian snow. Two grenadiers, who could go
no farther, were digging themselves in the snow. And while
they waited for the wolves, they sang this song. . . . They
must have been former comrades of your husband in the
Rhine Army. Don't forget to mention this incident."

My fingernails dug into my palms.

"Marshal Bernadotte advised the Tsar to secure peace in
Europe by taking me prisoner during the retreat. You can tell your husband, madame, that his plan almost succeeded. But only—almost. Since I am safe in your Paris salon, madame, I myself will secure the peace of Europe. And in order finally to defeat the enemies of France—and the enemies of a permanent peace everywhere—I offer Sweden an alliance. You understand, madame?"

"Yes, Sire, you offer Sweden an alliance."

"To express myself more simply, I want Bernadotte to march with me again. Write your husband exactly that, madame."

I nodded.

"To pay for her armaments Sweden will receive from France a million francs a month. She will also receive goods to the value of six million." His eyes were fastened on young Count Rosen's face. "After the peace, Sweden will be given Finland. And Pomerania, of course."

He gestured expansively. "Write Bernadotte he is to have Finland, Pomerania, and—northern Germany from Danzig to Mecklenburg."

Count Rosen, please get a piece of paper and write that down. It looks as though, when peace has been concluded, Sweden will have so many countries that neither of us could possibly remember them all without making a list."

"That's not necessary," Caulaincourt declared. "I have here a memorandum which His Majesty dictated to me this morning" He reached into his breast pocket and handed Rosen some closely written pages.

The young man skimmed them rapidly—and incredulously. "Finland?"

"We'll re-establish Sweden as a great power." Napoleon, smiled at Rosen, the engaging smile of the old days. "Moreover—this will interest you as a Swede, young man. In the Kremlin archives I found a documentary record of the Russian campaign conducted by your heroic King Charles XII. I am told that in Sweden his memory is highly revered. And I wanted to learn something from this great King's success in Russia."

Count Rosen was radiant. Napoleon continued. "But fortunately I learned that the Swedish Nation barely escaped being bled to death by his wars and impoverished by the taxes he imposed."

Napoleon smiled with bitter amusement. "Young man, I have a feeling that in the Stockholm archives, too, one can find records of the Russian venture of Charles XII. Someone has learned a great deal about it recently. Your—what do you call him?—Karl Johan. My old friend Bernadotte. . . ." Napoleon shrugged his shoulders, took a deep breath, and turned on me.

"Madame, you will write Bernadotte tomorrow. I must know where I stand."

So that's why he had come to see me. "You have not said, Sire, what will happen if Sweden doesn't accept this alliance?"

He didn't answer. Just looked again at his youthful portrait. "A good portrait. Did I really look like that? So—thin?"

I nodded. "By then, Sire, you had already begun to put on weight. Before, in Marseilles, for instance—you used to look desperately hungry."

"Before—in Marseilles?" He looked at me in surprise. "How do you know that, madame?"

"Yes, you did, but then . . ."

He drew his hand across his forehead. "For a moment —I had forgotten—yes, we've known each other a long time, madame."

I stood up.

"I'm tired, so terribly tired," he murmured. "I had to speak to the Crown Princess of Sweden. But you also are still Eugénie. . . ."

"Drive to the Tuileries, Sire, and have a good sleep."

"I can't, my dear. The Cossacks are on the move. And Bernadotte has established the Coalition: Russia-Sweden-England. The Austrian Ambassador in Stockholm frequently dines with Bernadotte. Do you know what that means?"

He called me Eugénie., yet seems to have forgotten I am married to this Bernadotte.

"Then what's the use of my letter, Sire?"

"Because I shall wipe Sweden off the map if Bernadotte will not march with me." He was shouting again, and then, unsteadily, he turned to go.

"You will bring your husband's answer to me personally, madame. If it should be a refusal, you part from me forever. It would no longer be possible for me to receive you at court."

I bowed. "Nor would I care to come, Sire."

Count Rosen escorted the Emperor and Caulaincourt to the door. The memorandum in Caulaincourt's neat handwriting lay on the table in front of the sofa. Finland! With an exclamation mark. And Pomerania. North Germany from Danzig to Mecklenburg. He used to appoint his marshals, now he tries to buy them. I went slowly from candelabra to candelabra, blowing out the candles.

Rosen returned. "Will Your Highness write to the Crown Prince tomorrow?"

"Yes, Count, and you will help me with the letter."

"Does Your Highness believe that the Crown Prince will answer the Emperor?"

"I am convinced of it. And it will be the last letter my husband will ever write to the Emperor." The fire in the fireplace had died down, leaving many ashes.

"I'd rather not leave Your Highness alone just now," Rosen said hesitantly.

"That's kind of you. But I am alone. Dreadfully alone, and you are too young to understand. Anyway, I'm going to Marie and comfort her."

I spent the rest of the night at Marie's bedside. I promised her I'd write to Murat and to Marshal Ney, and, of course, to Colonel Villatte, from whom I hadn't heard for weeks. I promised that in the spring I'd go with her to the Russian steppes to search for Pierre. I promised and promised, and in her terror she was like a child and believed that I could help her.

Today special editions of the newspapers announced that His Majesty had returned unexpectedly from Russia. The health of His Majesty was never better.

Paris, end of January, 1813

At last a courier has arrived with letters from Stockholm.

"My dear Mama," Oscar writes, and his handwriting is regular and quite mature. In six months he will be fourteen Sometimes I could scream for loneliness. His soft tanned little child's neck, the dimples in his fat little arms . . . But that was long ago. Today Oscar is a thin, awkward lad in a Swedish cadet uniform, perhaps he shaves occasionally, though this I can't imagine. . . . "My dear Mama: On January 6 we saw a wonderful performance at the Theatre Gustavus III. A famous French actress, Mlle George, who used to be in Paris at the Théâtre Français, appeared here. She played Mary Tudor, and I was with the Queen, Princess Sofia Albertina, and Papa in a box. The ladies cried because it is a frightfully sad play. I never cry at the theatre. Nor does Papa. After the play, Papa gave a supper party for Mlle George. The Queen didn't like it because Papa and the actress talked on and on about Paris and the old days. So the Queen kept interrupting the conversation, and saying 'Our dear son Karl Johan.' This made mademoiselle laugh. She finally touched the large cross of the Legion of Honour which Papa always wears, and cried: 'General Bernadotte, that I would find you again here in Stockholm, and as the son of the Queen of Sweden—I never would have believed it.' This made the Queen so angry that she sent me to bed, and retired with all the ladies. The actress drank some more coffee and liqueurs with Papa and Count Brahe. The lady-in-waiting Mariana von Koskull was so furious and jealous that she took to her bed a whole week with a cold in the head. Papa works sixteen hours every day, and looks awful ill; that theatre party for Mlle George was his first in many weeks. . . ."

I laughed. And cried a little, too, and had a great desire to spend a week in bed with a cold like Mariana von Koskull. Mlle George in Stockholm . . . Ten years ago, Josephine fussed and fumed while the First Consul played hide and seek in his study with his new sixteen-year-old mistress. Georgina, he called her, Georgina. . . . When he became Emperor, he abandoned her, because Mlle George laughs too much. "Our dear son Karl Johan." . . . I hope she laughed in the Swedish Queen's face.

Oscar had written this letter by himself without the supervision of his tutor; it folded up very small and was simply signed, "your Oscar."

My son's second letter was more studied. "A famous French authoress, exiled by the Emperor of the French because she wrote against his despotism, has arrived here, and is often received by Papa. Her name is Mme de Staël, and she calls Papa the Saviour of Europe. The lady is very fat (this word had been scratched out and "corpulent" written over it) and talks incessantly. Papa always has a headache after she has called. Papa is working sixteen hours a day, and has reorganized the Swedish Army—" Mlle George, Mme de Staël, a Russian grand duchess is waiting. . . .

Oscar's second letter was signed formally: "Your ever-loving son, Oscar, Duke of Södermanland."

I looked for a letter from Jean-Baptiste. He must have gotten my letter about Napoleon's visit and offer long ago. But I found only a few scribbled lines:

"My dearest little girl, I am overwhelmed with work, and will write more next time. Thank you for your account of the Emperor's visit. I will answer the Emperor. But I need time. My answer will not be only to him but also to the French nation and to posterity. I don't know why he wants me to send it through you. But I'll do it. I regret that you may have another difficult interview. I embrace you. Your J. -B."

A page of music fell out of the envelope. "Oscar's first composition. A Swedish folk dance. Try to play the melody. J. -B." was scrawled in the margin.

A simple melody that reminded me of a waltz. I sat right
down at the piano and played it over and over. "I want to be a composer. Or a king . . ." he had said in the coach on our way from Hanover to Paris. "Why a king?" "Because a king can do so much good." Yes, Oscar, but a king must also face decisions that may break his heart, and his nation's neck. "Composer or king," my child had said . . . "Better be a king, it's easier."

I re-read Jean-Baptiste's hasty note. "My answer will not be only to him but also to the French nation and to posterity." I suddenly thought of Herr van Beethoven with the dishevelled hair: "To the memory of a hope which was not fulfilled . . . " I rang and called Count Rosen. The courier had also brought letters for him. He had a large bundle of letters in his hand. "Good news from home, Count?"

"The letters are very discreet. One never knows if the French secret police will let a courier through. But between the lines . . ."

"Between the lines?"

". . . I read that the Allies—Russia, England and Sweden—have asked His Royal Highness to plan the coming campaign. And Austria, represented in Stockholm by the Ambassador Count von Neipperg, is well informed, and very kindly disposed toward these plans."

So his father-in-law, too, the Austrian Emperor Francis, will fight against Napoleon.

"The occupied German territories are prepared to revolt," Count Rosen continued. "The Prussians particularly are eager to march across the Rhine, naturally."

"The Prussians are always eager to march, and always across the Rhine," I said absent-mindedly, and thought— even his father-in-law.

"The preparations for this campaign, the greatest in history are being made secretly in Stockholm," Count Rosen whispered, his voice hoarse with excitement. "We will be a great power again. And Your Highness' son, the little Duke of Södermanland . . ."

"Oscar has sent me his first composition, I'll practice it and play it for you this evening," I said. "It's a Swedish folk dance.
Why are you looking at me so oddly? Are you disappointed in my son?"

"Of course not, Your Highness. On the contrary—I was only surprised—I didn't know . . ."

"You didn't know that the Heir Apparent is musical? And you prefer to discuss the possibility that Sweden may again be a great power?"

"I was thinking of the Empire which His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince, will one day bequeath his son." His words fell over each other. "Sweden has chosen one of the greatest generals of all time to succeed to the throne. The Bernadotte Dynasty will re-establish Sweden as a great power."

"You talk like a textbook for schoolchildren, Count," I said in disgust. "The Bernadotte Dynasty—your Crown Prince will fight these battles for the people, for men's rights which we call liberty, equality and fraternity. He's fought for them since he was fifteen. That's why, at the old courts of Europe, he was privately called the Jacobin General. And later, when this is all over, and Jean-Baptiste will have won this terrible war for all Europe, they'll call him that again. Then—" I stopped, because Count Rosen looked at me uncomprehendingly. "A musician, who understands nothing of politics, once spoke of a hope which was not fulfilled," I said softly. "Perhaps this hope may yet be fulfilled, at least in Sweden. And your little country will then really be a great power, Count. But different from what you are imagining. A great power, whose kings will make no more wars, but have time to write poetry, to compose music. . . . Aren't you happy that Oscar composes?"