Napoleon laughed. He seemed to find it all very amusing, and I saw now that the whole thing had been amusing him from the very beginning. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘if you promise to behave I shall confer on you—’
‘Sire!’ shouted Eliza and Caroline in joyous surprise, and Polette said breathlessly: ‘Grazie tante, Napoleone!’
‘I should like to see the rehearsal of the coronation procession,’ said Napoleon, turning to Despreaux. ‘Please start!’
Someone played a solemn hymn on a piano. It was meant to indicate the organ. Despreaux divided up the Marshals’ ladies into eight couples, and Montel showed them how to walk gracefully and at the same time solemnly. But the ladies were quite unable to do it because of the presence of the Emperor, who with a stony face kept staring at their feet. Dreadfully embarrassed and awkward, they stumbled through the room, and Polette put her hand to her mouth to prevent a fit of laughter. At last Securier and Murat were called in. They joined the parade of ladies, gravely carrying a cushion from a divan on their outspread palms. After them I had to do the walking by myself, likewise carrying an ordinary cushion. Finally it was Josephine’s turn, and the freshly promoted Imperial Highnesses, with Julie and Hortense, carried her dragging bed-sheets without the slightest objection.
Four times we walked up and down the room. We stopped only when Napoleon turned to go. We curtsied as he left. But Joseph ran after him shouting, ‘Sire, I implore you, Sire!’
Impatiently Napoleon said, ‘I have no more time to spare.’
‘Sire, it concerns the virgins,’Joseph explained, and beckoned Despreaux to come.
Despreaux came and repeated, ‘The virgins, Sire. They are a difficult problem. We cannot find any.’
Napoleon suppressed a smile. ‘For what do you need virgins, gentlemen?’
‘It may have escaped Your Majesty’s memory, but the chronicle about the medieval coronation ritual in Rheims, according to which we are to proceed, states that, after the anointing of Your Majesty, twelve pure virgins have to go up to the altar, a candle in each hand. We thought of a cousin of Marshal Berthier’s and one of my mother’s sisters, but—’ Despreaux stammered, ‘but, but both ladies are – are not—’
‘They are virgins but too old,’ Murat’s voice trumpeted across the room. Murat, the cavalry officer, had momentarily forgotten his courtier’s dignity.
‘I have repeatedly stressed my desire to allow France’s traditional nobility to take part in the coronation ceremonies, which are the concern of the whole of France. I am convinced, gentlemen, that among the families of the Faubourg St Germain you will find some suitable young ladies.’ With that he finally disappeared.
Refreshments were handed round, and Josephine sent one of her ladies-in-waiting to ask me to join her on the sofa. She wanted to show her pleasure at the distinction Napoleon had conferred on me. She sat between Julie and myself and emptied a glass of champagne in hasty gulps. The delicate face seemed to have shrunk during the last few months, the eyes under their make-up looked unnaturally big, and the magnificent layer of paint on her cheeks showed tiny cracks. Two fine lines ran from her nostrils down to the corners of her mouth, and her forced smile made them show up considerably. But her babyish curls, brushed upwards as usual, still had their old spell of touching youthfulness about them.
‘Le Roy won’t be able,’ I remarked, ‘to let me have a sky-blue gown within two days.’
Josephine, exhausted by hours and hours of rehearsal, forgot that she must no longer bring up her past and said: ‘Paul Barras once gave me some sapphire ear-rings. If I can find them I shall gladly lend them to you to go with your blue gown.’
‘Madame, you are too kind, but I believe—’
Here I was interrupted by a very agitated-looking Joseph.
‘What is it now?’ Josephine asked.
‘His Majesty asks Your Majesty to see him at once in his study.’
Josephine arched her eyebrows. ‘New difficulties about the coronation, my dear brother-in-law?’
Joseph could no longer contain his malicious joy and, bending forward, he said: ‘The Pope has just told the Emperor that he refuses to crown Your Majesty.’
An ironical smile curled round Josephine’s lips. ‘And what reason does the Holy Father give for his refusal?’
Joseph looked round the room with affected discretion.
‘You may speak. Except for Princess Julie and Madame Bernadotte nobody can hear us, and these two ladies are members of the family, are they not?
Putting on an impressive air Joseph said: ‘The Pope has learnt that His Majesty and Your Majesty did not contract their marriage in church, and he has stated that he could not – I apologise, but these are the words of the Holy Father – that he could not crown the concubine of the Emperor of the French.’
‘And where did the Holy Father learn so suddenly that Bonaparte and I were married in a registry office only?’ Josephine inquired calmly.
‘We do not know yet,’ Joseph answered.
‘And how, do you think, is His Majesty going to answer the Holy Father?’Josephine looked thoughtfully at the empty glass in her hand.
‘His Majesty will naturally enter into negotiations with the Holy Father.’
‘There is a very simple way out.’ Josephine smiled, rising to her feet and pressing the champagne glass into Joseph’s hand. ‘I shall talk to Bona—, to the Emperor about it at once. We shall get married in church, and everything will be all right.’
Joseph passed the glass on to one of the lackeys and ran after her to be present at the interview if possible. Julie meditated and said: ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if she has drawn the Pope’s attention to it herself.’
‘Yes, otherwise she would have shown some genuine surprise,’ I admitted.
Julie studied her hands. ‘You know, I am sorry for her. She is so afraid of a divorce. And it would be so mean if he kicked her out now, simply because she can’t have any more children. Don’t you think so too?’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Here he is, staging this elaborate coronation farce in the style of Charlemagne and the ritual of Rheims and Heaven knows what, in order to impress on the world that he has founded a dynasty. And all that simply to make Joseph Emperor, if he survives him, or the small son of Louis and Hortense.’
‘But he can’t just throw her into the street!’ Tears came into Julie’s eyes. ‘She got engaged to him when he was too poor to buy himself a pair of trousers. She accompanied him in his career step by step, she helped him make his way, and now that her crown has been delivered and everybody regards her as the Empress—’
‘No,’ I said, ‘he can’t play at Charlemagne and have himself crowned by the Pope, and at the same time, like any Tom, Dick or Harry, be involved in a divorce action. If even I see that, Josephine, who is a hundred times cleverer than I, sees it most certainly too. No, Napoleon is sure to insist on her coronation and therefore will hastily arrange a church marriage ceremony.’
‘And once their marriage has the Church’s sanction a divorce will be far more difficult, won’t it? And Josephine counts on that, doesn’t she?’
‘I’m sure she does.’
‘Besides,’ continued Julie, ‘he loves her, in his own way, of course, but he loves her and wouldn’t just abandon her like that.’
‘Wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he? Believe me, Napoleon would.’ At that moment the Empress returned. Passing a lackey, she took a glass of champagne from him, called to Despreaux, ‘One more rehearsal, please,’ and came to us.
‘Uncle Fesch is going to marry us secretly to-night in the Imperial Chapel,’ she said, drinking with nervous haste. ‘Is it not funny? After having been man and wife for nine years! Well, Madame la Maréchale, have you thought it over, and would you like to borrow my sapphires?’
On the way home I decided that I would not let myself be forced by Napoleon to wear pale blue. To-morrow morning Le Roy would deliver my shell-pink robe – all the Marshals’ wives are to be dressed
in shell-pink – and I should carry Josephine’s handkerchief across Notre-Dame in shell-pink.
Jean-Baptiste was waiting for me in the dining-room, apparently in a very bad temper. ‘What were you doing all this time in the Tuileries?’
‘I listened to the Bonapartes arguing among themselves and then took part in the rehearsal. By the way, they’ve given me a special part to play. I am not to walk with the other Marshals’ ladies but by myself behind Murat and I am to carry a handkerchief for Josephine on a cushion. What do you say to this distinction?’
Jean-Baptiste flew out: ‘But I don’t want you to have a special position. Joseph and this monkey, Despreaux, thought it out because you are Julie’s sister. But I forbid it, you understand?’
I sighed. ‘That won’t be any use. It’s nothing to do with Joseph and Despreaux. The Emperor wants it.’
I should never have thought it possible that anything could upset Jean-Baptiste as badly as this did. In a hoarse voice he brought out: ‘What was that you said?’
‘The Emperor wants it. It isn’t my fault.’
‘I will not have it! I will not have my wife compromised before the whole of France!’Jean-Baptiste roared so violently that the glasses on the table tinkled.
I didn’t know what to make of his rage. ‘Why are you so furious?’ I asked.
‘They will point at you. His fiancée, they will say, Madame Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, the great love of his youth whom he cannot forget, they will say, his little Eugenie to whom he wants to show special favour on the day of his coronation, now as ever his little Eugenie, that’s what they will say! And I shall be the laughing-stock of all Paris, do you see?’
Disconcerted, I stared at Jean-Baptiste. Nobody knows as well as I do how his strained relationship with Napoleon tortures him, how he is haunted constantly by the thought of having betrayed the ideals of his youth, and how agonisingly he is waiting for the independent command as far away from Paris as possible, for which he has applied and for which Napoleon keeps him waiting, waiting, waiting. But that this painful waiting should have led to this scene of jealousy came to me as a shock.
I went up to him and put my hands on his chest. ‘Jean-Baptiste,’ I said, ‘it really isn’t worth your while to get angry at one of Napoleon’s whims.’
He pushed my hands away. ‘You know quite well what he is about,’ he gasped, ‘you know it. He wants to make people believe that he is only showing favour to his little fiancée of old. But let me tell you, let me tell you as a man that he is not interested in this “old old”, he is interested in you now, at this moment, he is in love with you and wants to do something special for you so that—’
‘Jean-Baptiste!’
He brushed his hand across his forehead. ‘I am sorry. It is not your fault,’ he said under his breath.
Fernand appeared and put the soup tureen on the table. We sat down, facing each other in silence. Jean-Baptiste’s hand which held the spoon shook.
‘I shall not take part in the ceremony at all,’ I said, ‘but go to bed and be ill.’
Jean-Baptiste did not answer. After the meal he left the house.
And so I am sitting now at his desk, writing, and trying to make clear to myself whether Napoleon really loves me again or not.
That endless night in his office before the execution of the Duc d’Enghien he spoke to me in the tones of the young lover. ‘Do take off your hat, Madame …’ and a little later ‘Eugenie, little Eugenie …’ He sent Mademoiselle George away. Perhaps because he remembered that night by the hedge in our garden in Marseilles, perhaps because he remembered the fields and the stars of that night? Isn’t is strange that the little Buonaparte of that night in two days’ time will be crowned Emperor of the French? Isn’t is quite unimaginable that there was a time in my life when I did not belong to my Bernadotte?
The clock in the dining-room strikes midnight. Perhaps Jean-Baptiste has gone to see Madame Récamier. He speaks about her so often, Juliette Récamier, the wife of an old and wealthy banker, who reads all the books that are published and even some that are not, and lies on a sofa all day long. She fancies herself as the muse of all the famous men but will have herself touched by none, least of all, according to Polette, by her own husband. Jean-Baptiste often talks to this muse about books and music, and sometimes she sends me boring novels, ‘masterpieces’ which she asks me to read. I hate her, and I admire her.
It’s half-past twelve now. Napoleon and Josephine are at this moment most likely on their knees in the chapel of the Tuileries, and Uncle Fesch is marrying them according to the canon of the Church. How easy it would be for me to explain to Jean-Baptiste why Napoleon does not forget me, but it would only annoy him. I am a part of Napoleon’s youth, that is the explanation, and no man ever forgets his youth even if he thinks of it only rarely. If I turn up in blue at the coronation I shall be for Napoleon no more than a memory come to life. Of course, it is possible that Jean-Baptiste is right and that Napoleon wants to revive his old feelings. A declaration of love from Napoleon would be like balm on a wound that doesn’t need balm any longer because it healed long ago. To-morrow I shall stay in bed with a heavy cold, and the day after to-morrow as well. His Majesty’s Memory in Blue has a cold and sends her apologies …
I fell asleep over my diary and woke up when someone took me gently in his arms and carried me to the bedroom. The metal braids of his epaulettes scratched my cheeks as they so often do. Sleepily I murmured:
‘You’ve been to see your muse. I’m very offended.’
‘I have been to the opera, my little girl, and on my own. To hear some decent music. I sent the carriage away and walked home.’
‘I love you very much, Jean-Baptiste. And I’m very ill, I’ve a cold and a sore throat and I can’t go to the coronation.’
‘I shall apologise to the Emperor for Madame Bernadotte.’ After a little while he added: ‘You must never forget, my little girl, that I love you very much. Do you hear me, or are you asleep again?’
‘I am dreaming, Jean-Baptiste, I’m dreaming. What do you do if suddenly someone wants to pour balm on a wound that healed long ago?’
‘You laugh at him, Désirée.’
‘Yes, let’s laugh at him, the great Emperor of the French …’
Paris, on the evening after Napoleon’s coronation. (December 2nd, 1804)
It was very solemn, the coronation of my ex-fiancé as Emperor of the French, and once or twice it was funny too. Yes, I was there; it turned out very differently from what I expected.
The day before yesterday Jean-Baptiste explained to the Master of Ceremonies, Monsieur Despreaux, that, to my infinite distress, a high temperature and a heavy cold were making it impossible for me to attend the coronation. Despreaux couldn’t understand it; the other ladies, he thought, would willingly rise from their death-bed to get to Notre-Dame. Couldn’t I make is possible to attend after all? But Jean-Baptiste pointed out that my sneezing would drown the organ music.
I did stay in bed all next day. Julie, who had heard about my illness, came about lunch time and made me drink hot milk and honey. I dared not tell her that I wasn’t ill at all.
However, yesterday morning I was so bored lying in bed that I got up, dressed and went into the nursery. We played merrily, but always careful not to make a mess for fear of Marie, who gets more severe with us every day.
In the middle of our playing Fernand appeared and announced Napoleon’s physician. Before I had a chance of telling him that I would be ready to see Dr Corvisart in my bedroom within five minutes this fool of a Fernand had shown him into the nursery. Dr Corvisart put his black bag on the saddle of Oscar’s rocking-horse and bowed politely.
‘His Majesty,’ he said, ‘has commissioned me to inquire after Madame la Maréchale’s health. I am glad to be able to report to his Majesty that you have quite recovered.’
‘But, Doctor, I am still feeling very weak,’ I said, in despair.
Dr Corvisart raised his funny triangular ey
ebrows and said: ‘I believe I can say, with a good conscience as a doctor, that you will be sufficiently strong to carry Her Majesty’s handkerchief in the coronation.’ Without the ghost of a smile he bowed once more, saying: ‘His Majesty’s instructions have left no doubt in my mind.’
I had a lump in my throat. It occurred to me that Napoleon could demote Jean-Baptiste with a stroke of his pen, that in fact we were completely in his power.
‘If you really advise me to, Doctor—’ I said.
Dr Corvisart bent over my hand. ‘I advise you most urgently, Madame, to attend the coronation.’ He took his black bag and left.
In the afternoon Le Roy sent my shell-pink robe and the white ostrich feathers for my hair. Round about six o’clock I was terrified by a sudden volley of artillery which shook the windows. I ran into the kitchen and asked Fernand what was going on.
‘From now till midnight there will be a salvo every hour,’ he said, polishing Jean-Baptiste’s gilded sword with great zeal. ‘At the same time there will be fireworks in all the public squares. We ought to take Oscar to see them.’
‘It’s snowing too hard,’ I said, ‘and Oscar was coughing this morning.’
I went up to the nursery, sat down by the window and took Oscar on my knee. It was quite dark in the room but I didn’t put on the light. Oscar and I watched the snowflakes dancing through the light of the big street-lamp in front of our house.
‘There is a town where every winter the snows stays lying in the streets for many months, not just for a few days as here,’ I said.
‘And then?’ Oscar asked.
‘Then? Nothing.’
Oscar was disappointed. ‘I thought you were going to tell me another story.’
‘It isn’t a story. It’s true.’
‘What town is that?’
‘Stockholm.’
‘Where is Stockholm?’
‘Far, far away. Near the North Pole, I believe.’
‘Does Stockholm belong to the Emperor?’
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