Desiree

by Annemarie Selinko

  ‘No, Monsieur, she only broke my heart once,’ I thought, and began to cry.

  ‘A fool, this Bonaparte, a fool!’ the old man said, and smoothed out with a tender hand a fold of the purple cloak. ‘A fool to divorce the only woman with whom, even on a lonely island, he would never have known a moment’s boredom!’

  Red roses were lying on the ermine collar of the Empress of the French. The heat of the candles had made them fade and their scent was almost painful. It seemed to choke me, to make me gasp for breath, I felt my knees grow weak, and suddenly I fell down by the side of Josephine’s bed and buried my face in the velvet depths of her coronation robe.

  ‘Don’t cry for her, Madame. Josephine died as she lived: on the arm of a very powerful man, who, on an evening in the month of May among the rose trees of Malmaison, promised to pay all her debts. Are you listening, dear, dear Josephine?’

  When I got to my feet again the old gentleman had disappeared into his dark corner. Nothing was heard but the monotonous flow of the requiem from the lips of the big black birds. I bent my head to Josephine once more and her long eyelashes seemed to flutter lightly.

  I went downstairs and straight into the garden. The sun was so strong that the air shimmered and everywhere there were roses of every colour. I came to a little pond. On the low wall enclosing it sat a small girl watching the funny little ducklings and their fat mother on the water. I sat close to her. She had brown curly hair which fell to her shoulders in corkscrew fashion, and wore a white frock with a black scarf. When she turned her head to look at me my heart almost stopped beating: a sweet oval face with long lids over almond-shaped eyes. The child began to smile. She smiled with closed mouth.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Josephine, Madame.’

  She had blue eyes and beautiful pearly teeth, and golden lights sparkled from her hair. ‘Like Josephine,’ I thought, ‘like Josephine.’

  ‘Are you one of the ladies-in-waiting, Madame?’ the child asked politely.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Because Aunt Hortense said that the Crown Princess of Sweden was coming, and Crown Princesses always bring ladies-in-waiting along. Of course only when they are grown-up Princesses.’

  ‘And little Princesses?’

  ‘Little Princesses have governesses.’

  The child turned her attention back to the ducks. ‘The ducklings are so small. I think they can’t have come out of their mother’s stomach earlier than yesterday.’

  ‘Nonsense, ducklings come out of eggs.’

  The child smiled in a very superior manner. ‘You need not tell me fairy tales, Madame.’

  ‘But ducklings do come out of eggs!’ I insisted.

  The child nodded, bored. ‘As you wish, Madame.’

  ‘Are you the daughter of Prince Eugene?’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t think Papa is still a Prince. If we are lucky the allies will give us a duchy in Bavaria. My grandfather, that is my mama’s father, is the King of Bavaria.’

  ‘Then you at any rate are a Princess,’ I said. ‘Where is your governess?’

  ‘I have run away from her.’ She put her hand into the water. Then an idea seemed to cross her mind. ‘If you are not a lady-in-waiting you are perhaps a governess?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you must be something.’

  ‘Perhaps I am a Princess too?’

  ‘Impossible. You don’t look like a Princess. I should like to know who you are.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘I like you. In spite of this stupid duckling story you have been telling me. Have you any children?’

  ‘Yes, a son. But he isn’t here.’

  ‘What a pity. I would much rather play with boys than with girls. Where is he?’

  ‘In Sweden. But you wouldn’t know where that is.’

  ‘I know exactly where it is, I am having geography lessons, you know. And Papa says—’

  ‘Josephine, Josephine!’ someone shouted.

  The child sighed. ‘My governess!’ She winked at me and pulled a real street Arab’s face. ‘A horrid woman, but don’t tell anybody, Madame!’

  I made my way back to the house. Only Hortense, Eugene, Julie and I were there for dinner.

  ‘Do you know when we shall be allowed to send a courier to Elba?’ he asked Julie before we left. ‘I should like to inform the Emperor as quickly as possible about Mama’s death. And also I want to let him have the unpaid bills.’

  On the way back through a blue evening it occurred to me that if one had to start a dynasty it might as well be a charming one. A shooting star fell at that moment and I wished very hard on it. ‘The Swedes would call her Josephina,’ I said aloud.

  ‘Whom are you talking about?’ Julie asked, surprised.

  ‘Oh, no one. I was only thinking of the shooting star.’

  Paris. In the late autumn 1814

  Behind his steward’s back Oscar wrote to me from Norway. I will paste his letter into my diary so as not to lose it.

  Christiania, November 10th 1814

  My Dear Mama,

  Count Brahe is sending a courier from here to Paris and I hasten to write to you. A special reason for writing now is that my steward, Baron Cederström, is in bed with a cold. He always wants to read my letters to you to see whether they are properly styled. The old idiot!

  My dear Mama, my heartiest congratulations! You have just become Crown Princess of Norway. Norway and Sweden have been linked in a union, and the Swedish King is now also King of Norway. We have just been through a campaign in which we conquered Norway. Last night I arrived with Papa here in Christiania, the capital of Norway. But I had better tell you all in proper order.

  Papa’s entry into Stockholm was magnificent. The whole population lined the streets through which Papa drove, and shouted with joy. His Majesty embraced Papa and cried for happiness, and her Majesty cried too, only a bit more discreetly. The Swedes feel like a heroic nation once again as in the day of Charles XII. But Papa was tired and rather sad. Can you imagine why, Mama?

  And then although the Danes had ceded Norway to us the Parliament of Norway wanted their country to be independent and just to annoy us made a Danish Prince Regent and declared they would defend their independence.

  Our Swedish officers were enthusiastic about the campaign, and the old King asked Papa for a warship with which to go into battle. Papa said Sweden could not afford a war longer than three months and he bought the warship out of his own pocket. The old King doesn’t know that.

  I said that if the old King could come along I wanted to be there too and Papa did not mind. He said these Norwegians were marvellous. They had an army only half the size of ours and had hardly any ammunition at all, and yet they risked war. He was very touched and said he would give them the most liberal constitution in Europe.

  But these marvellous Norwegians insisted on their independence. So Papa and his General Staff went off to the campaign and the King and Queen and the whole royal household and I myself followed him on board the man-of-war. When we took the fortress of Kongsten there was such a lot of shooting and firing that I said to Papa, who was standing next to me: ‘Papa, send an officer to the Norwegians and tell him that they could be independent for all you cared. Don’t keep on shooting at them with your guns.’ And Papa said: ‘Of course not, Oscar, we are only shooting at them with dummy shells.’ ‘But in that case, Papa, it is not a real campaign, is it?’ ‘No, Oscar, only an excursion.’ Papa said the Norwegians would retire behind their mountains, and when I asked him if he could cross the mountains Papa said he had crossed the Alps once with an army, and when he said that he looked very sad. ‘In those days,’ he said, ‘I defended a young Republic’s independence. To-day I am taking it away from a small freedom-loving people. That shows you, Oscar, how one outlives oneself.’

  The whole campaign lasted only a fortnight, and we returned to Stockholm and Papa let the old King drive in triumph through the streets. Four days late
r Papa and I went back to Norway, because Papa had to appear in Christiania in person to confirm the union of Sweden and Norway. We rode there on horseback and had to sleep in tents because Papa did not want to inconvenience the peasants. I enclose a little song which I call ‘Song of the Rain’ and which I composed during this endless ride to Christiania.

  We passed through the Fortress of Frederiksten, where the Norwegians defended themselves once against the Swedish King Charles XII, the famous Swedish King who made war against the Russians and lost it and then tried to conquer Norway. As we were riding through rain and mist we suddenly came to a big wooden cross on which was written ‘This is the spot on which Charles XII fell.’ The Marshals Essen and Adlercreutz at once started to say the Lord’s Prayer, but Papa did not join in their prayer (he never prays!), and when we went on he said to Essen and Adlercreutz: ‘You had better forget that man, he was Sweden’s misfortune!’ Adlercreutz was offended and said: ‘Opinions differ on that, Your Highness!’ From that you can see, Mama, that you have to be very careful when talking about Charles XII, whom Papa calls ‘the greatest amateur in military matters’ and whom the Swedes revere as a hero.

  Last night at long last we reached Christiania in an equipage which had followed us from Stockholm. The streets were pitch-black and deserted, and there was only the guard of honour to receive us outside the palace of the former Danish Governor, and the Speaker of the Norwegian Parliament and the members of the Government inside.

  The Speaker addressed Papa in excellent French. Papa smiled his winning smile, shook the solemn gentlemen by the hand and said he brought the good wishes of His Majesty the King of Sweden and Norway. I had the impression that these solemn men found it difficult not to burst out laughing at that. After all, what has the old gentleman in Stockholm to do with this union? This union is exclusively Papa’s work. Papa at once started a weighty speech. ‘Norway’s new constitution defends the Rights of Man for which I have been campaigning in France ever since I was fifteen. This union is more than just a geographical necessity, it has been a deeply felt desire of my heart for a long time!’

  I don’t think it made any impression on the Norwegians. And I don’t think either that they will ever forget that Papa beat them with dummy shells …

  I went with Papa to his bedroom and saw him take off all his medals and throw them on the dressing-table with a gesture of disgust. He said: ‘Yesterday was Mama’s birthday. I hope our letters reached her in time,’ and then he went to bed.

  Dear Mama, I am very sorry for Papa. But you cannot be a Crown Prince and a Republican at the same time. Do please write him a nice cheerful letter. We shall be home in Stockholm at the end of the month. And now I can hardly keep my eyes open and the courier is waiting. I embrace you and kiss you.

  Your son

  Oscar.

  PS. Do you think you could manage to find Monsieur Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony in Paris and send it to me?

  The courier who brought Oscar’s letter also brought a letter from Count Brahe to Count Rosen. It said that on all official occasions the Norwegian flag has to be flown alongside the Swedish on my house. And on the door of my coach the arms of Norway have to be painted by the side of the Swedish arms.

  I asked for a map of Europe and looked for the second country of which I am now Crown Princess.

  Paris. March 5th, 1815

  The afternoon began to-day like so many afternoons. With the help of my nephew Marius I drafted an application to Louis XVIII to get an extension of Julie’s permit to stay on as my guest. Julie sat in the small drawing-room and wrote a long and dull letter to Joseph in Switzerland. Then Count Rosen entered and announced Monsieur Fouché, the Duke of Otranto.

  This type of man is quite incomprehensible to me. When in the days of the Revolution the members of the National Assembly were asked to cast their votes about the fate of Louis XVI, Deputy Fouché cast his vote for death. And now he is moving heaven and earth in order to be received graciously by the brother of the executed King and to be given a job. The man was odious to me, but I let him come in.

  He was in cheerful mood. His face, the colour of parchment, had red spots. Tea was served and he stirred his tea with an expression of great pleasure.

  ‘I hope I did not disturb Your Highness in any important occupation?’

  I didn’t answer. But Julie said: ‘My sister has just drafted an application for me to His Majesty.’

  ‘Which Majesty?’ asked Fouché.

  I thought that the most stupid question possible. ‘King Louis, of course,’ said Julie, irritated. ‘As far as I know there is no other Majesty in France.’

  ‘This morning I might have had the chance of supporting your application, Madame. You see, His Majesty has offered me the job of – Minister of Police.’

  ‘Impossible!’ I said.

  ‘And?’ asked Julie anxiously.

  ‘I refused.’ Fouché took several well-bred sips of tea.

  ‘If the King offers you the position of Minister of Police it is a sign that he feels insecure. And there is really no reason for that,’ put in Marius.

  ‘Why not?’ Fouché was surprised.

  ‘The list, the secret list on which he puts not only all Republicans but also all adherents of the Emperor, is enough to give him unlimited power,’ said Marius. ‘It is said that your name is at the top of the list, Duke!’

  Fouché put his cup on the table. ‘The King has interrupted the compiling of the list. If I were in his place I too should feel insecure. After all, he is advancing irresistibly.’

  ‘Would you mind telling me whom you are talking about?’ I asked.

  ‘Of the Emperor, of course.’

  The whole room began to spin round, shadows moved before my eyes and I felt dizzy, the kind of feeling I have not experienced since the days before Oscar’s birth. Fouché’s voice came to me as from a distance: ‘The Emperor embarked eleven days ago with his troops in Elba and arrived at Cannes on March 1st.’

  I heard Marius say: ‘But that is fantastic. He only has 400 men with him,’ and part of Fouché’s answer: ‘… have gone over to him with flags flying and are marching with him in triumph to Paris.’

  ‘And the foreign powers, Duke?’

  Count Rosen’s harsh French rang out for a moment: ‘The foreign powers—’

  ‘But, Désirée, you are pale, aren’t you feeling well?’ said Julie, and Fouché added: ‘Quick, a glass of water for Her Highness!’

  They gave me some water and the room stopped spinning round and everything became clear again, clearer even than before.

  I saw the glowing face of my nephew Marius. ‘He has the whole Army behind him,’ he said. ‘You cannot with impunity halve the salaries of the officers of France who made this nation great. We are marching, we are marching once more!’

  ‘Against the whole of Europe?’ Marceline asked pointedly. (Her husband has not returned to her. He fell in the battles around Paris, but, to be exact, he fell into the arms of a young girl who hid him …)

  A servant announced another visitor, the wife of Marshal Ney. She, a very big woman, came in like a whirlwind, pressed me to her mighty bosom and shouted: ‘Well, what do you say to that? But he will show him, he will! He banged his fist on the table and said he would show him once and for all!’

  ‘Sit down, Madame la Maréchale, and tell me who is going to show whom.’

  ‘My husband is going to show the Emperor!’ Madame Ney thundered, and fell into the nearest chair. ‘He has just received the order to stop the Emperor at Besançon and take him prisoner. And do you know what my old Ney answered? He’ll lasso him like a mad bull and put him in a cage and exhibit him round the country, that’s what he said.’

  ‘Pray forgive me, Madame,’ lisped Fouché, ‘why is Marshal Ney so annoyed with his former Supreme Commander and Emperor?’

  Madame Ney hadn’t noticed him before she spoke, and now became strangely embarrassed. ‘So you are here too?’ she said. ‘How is that? Are yo
u not in disgrace at court? Are you not supposed to be on your estates?’

  Fouché smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

  At that she lost her assurance. ‘You don’t think, do you, that the Emperor – will manage it?’ she brought out in a voice that trailed away into a whisper.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marius with great certainty, ‘yes, Madame, he will manage it.’

  Julie rose. ‘I must write that to my husband. It will interest him greatly.’

  Fouché shook his head. ‘Don’t do that, Madame. The King’s Secret Police will certainly intercept the letter. Besides, I feel sure that the Emperor is in contact with your husband and has informed his brothers about his plans in advance.’

  ‘You don’t think, Duke, that it is a pre-arranged plan, do you?’ asked Madame Ney. ‘Surely my husband would know that!’

  Marius thundered at her: ‘It cannot have escaped the attention of Marshal Ney that the Army is dissatisfied because officers and men have been put on half-pay and the pensions of the veterans and invalids have been reduced.’

  ‘Nor that of the Emperor in Elba,’ Fouché added amiably, and took his leave.

  When he had gone there was a long silence. With a jerk Madame Ney turned to me and her deep voice growled: ‘Madame, as a Marshal’s wife you will agree—’

  ‘You are mistaken, I am no longer the wife of a Marshal but the Crown Princess of Sweden and Norway. I must ask you to excuse me. I have a headache.’

  Yes, I had a headache as never before in my life. My head was full of hammering, ringing, banging noises. I lay down and said that I wasn’t at home to anybody. I felt I wasn’t even at home to myself, least of all myself …

  You can escape your servants, you can escape your family. But whatever happens you cannot escape Hortense. At eight o’clock in the evening Marie announced ‘the Duchess of Saint Leu, former Queen of Holland’. I pulled the blanket over my head.

  Five minutes later Marceline wailed outside my door: ‘You must come, Aunt. Hortense is in the small drawing-room and says she’ll wait for you if she has to sit up all night. She has brought her sons along, too.’