The Queen's Fortune

by Allison Pataki

  It was Napoleon whom they discussed, of course. Napoleon, following a crushing loss to the British at the Battle of the Nile, had left Egypt quickly and secretly, abandoning his men to make his own hasty return to France.

  “He’s heard of the instability here in Paris,” Bernadotte said. “He sees his opening. And he’s coming back to seize it. All of his talk of ‘glory for France’ and ‘camaraderie with the men’ goes to pot. He hasn’t kept quarantine, though members of his regiments are quite clearly carrying the bubonic plague. Now he abandons his men in Egypt in defeat, leaving them stranded. He returns to his own safety and to snatch his own moment of glory and risks bringing a plague of biblical proportions into our nation. The man could be court-martialed for such selfish, reckless behavior. Service to the nation and the army indeed! He is thinking of one thing only, and that is the insatiable ambition of Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  The Messager du Soir newspaper had told us all of this, the same newspaper that my husband was now hammering against the mantel. At the top of the article, the headline read: EVERYONE WAITS IMPATIENTLY FOR BONAPARTE, BECAUSE FOR EVERYONE HE BRINGS FRESH HOPE!

  “Patience, Bernadotte, patience,” Barras urged once more. “Bonaparte is ambitious, that I grant you. That I know better than anyone, as it was I who launched his career. But he’s no fool. If he plans to return to Paris, it’s for some sound reason. We will learn soon enough.”

  * * *

  The next morning, the news grew more troubling for us. My husband kissed me and Oscar farewell and arrived as normal to his offices at the Palais du Luxembourg, only to be met at the door by half a dozen of his fellow officers—all of those men lower than him in rank. The impromptu leader of this assemblage told my Bernadotte that he was being removed from his position as Minister of War.

  “On what grounds?” my husband demanded. “On whose orders?” But they were stone-faced and unified in their silence. Any opposition or refusal to vacate the office, they declared, would result in his imprisonment. A carriage waited to take him home, and a full company of armed guards stood ready to make sure my husband got in it. Bernadotte was ashen by the time he returned to the Rue de Monceau and told me of the morning’s events. We were incredulous—and terribly confused. “This government goes from bad to worse,” he said. And though I did not say it aloud, I was deeply troubled as I tried to understand what it all meant.

  Napoleon arrived back in Paris at the end of that week to a hero’s welcome, and Bernadotte and I awoke to the news that he was once again at home on the Rue de la Victoire. Julie appeared, breathless, at my breakfast table that same morning. She told me over hastily gulped coffee that the entire Bonaparte clan was gathering that evening, and my family was expected as well. Napoleon, she told me, wished to meet his godson. I had a footman fetch my husband and told him the news in front of Julie.

  “I’m not going,” Bernadotte said, flatly refusing. “And I do not think you should, either. Unless you fancy exposure to the bubonic plague.”

  I shifted in my seat, glancing from my husband to my sister.

  “Respectfully, I must disagree,” Julie interjected, crossing her hands before her waist. “Napoleon issued these invitations himself, and for his reasons, he wishes you to be there.”

  My sister left, and my husband and I quarreled for the remainder of the morning. Eventually, we reached a compromise: I would leave Oscar at home with Bernadotte, but I would go with Julie and Joseph, simply so that our family would have some representation. I was desperate to know what Napoleon was planning now that he was back in Paris, where our government was teetering on collapse. But mostly I needed to know what it might mean for my family.

  “Who else will be there?” I asked, as we rode the short distance in the coach from my sister’s home to Napoleon’s. Outside, the night was wet, with rain falling in slanted sheets over eerily quiet streets. I pulled my cloak tighter around my arms.

  “The whole family,” Julie answered.

  “The…whole…family?” I asked, and Julie understood my meaning. She nodded, but before she could answer, Joseph said: “I went to my brother first thing this morning to welcome him home. But I was told by a servant that Napoleon was still abed. And Josephine was in there with him.”

  I shook my head, finding the news incredible. “How did she…?”

  Julie shrugged. “Perhaps he can only fight his wars on so many fronts.”

  * * *

  The crowds swarmed outside the gates at No. 6 Rue de la Victoire, and they applauded even at the sight of Joseph. “Vive Bonaparte!” they cried out, waving the tricolor as our coach pulled through the gate and into the forecourt. “Hurrah for Bonaparte—he shall save the country!”

  In spite of the rain, the entire neighborhood roiled in an atmosphere like that of a national holiday. Several in the crowd waved the newspapers calling for Napoleon’s installation as king. I pulled my hood over my head and hurried from the coach into the mansion, grateful that my boy was safe and dry at home. And that my husband did not have to witness this scene.

  Inside, Napoleon already appeared as one enthroned. He sat at the head of his grand dining room table, Josephine perched on his legs. Perhaps my sister was correct, that Napoleon was less interested in waging a domestic war when he was so clearly poised for some political maneuvers. Perhaps it was politically expedient to remain married—divorce would mean a scandal, and Josephine was a colorful and well-established Parisian favorite in her own right. Perhaps she had wept and convinced him of her innocence. Or perhaps he simply loved her so much that all had been forgiven. I did not know; but then, hadn’t I been perplexed and aghast at the love affair between Napoleon and Josephine from the beginning?

  Whatever Napoleon’s reasoning, I supposed it didn’t matter now, because there Josephine was, dressed in white, her perfumed curls framing her relaxed, cheerful face. Napoleon’s sisters sat beside them on each side, scowling, infuriated at the couple’s reunion but present nevertheless. I did not see Mamma Letizia, and Julie told me that she had taken to her bed with a headache.

  Napoleon looked directly at me as I entered the room. His skin was bronzed from the Egyptian sun, his hair slightly lighter. He wore a saber around his waist like some desert warlord. The cloying smell of his cologne filled the room, as did his self-assured voice: “Ah! Welcome to the radiant new mother. Congratulations are in order, Madame Bernadotte.”

  “Thank you.” I curtsied. “And welcome back to Paris,” I replied.

  “I return home as a godfather.”

  I nodded. “And we are grateful that you’ve accepted the role.”

  Napoleon looked around the room, then back toward me. “But it was my pleasure. I only wish I could have met the little lad this evening. And seen his proud father. Where is Bernadotte?”

  “Yes. Bernadotte is…so busy these days.”

  Napoleon cocked his head to the side, and I noticed the surplus flesh around his neck. It appeared he’d eaten well in the desert. “Surely not with work? I’ve heard the Gascon’s been removed from his post at the Ministry of War.”

  “Yes,” I stammered. Had Napoleon had something to do with that? I wondered, my blood heating. Did he view my husband as a rival, an obstacle even? I felt all of the Bonapartes in that room looking at me and decided to steer the conversation back toward safer ground: “And the baby…”

  “Yes?” Napoleon leaned forward in his chair.

  “The baby took ill this evening, and so we wished for him to remain home. This rain hardly seemed good for his health.”

  Now Napoleon narrowed his eyes, offering me a wry smile. “Ah, yes. Bernadotte always did make such a splendid nursemaid. I’m sure that’s it.”

  * * *

  The next day, Napoleon invited my husband to his home once more. And once more, to my mounting frustration, my husband declined.

  “I feel very strongly that
you should see him,” I said, no longer even trying to curb the agitation in my voice.

  My husband merely shrugged off my protestations. “I don’t care to sit down to dinner with someone carrying the plague.”

  “But…you know he’s up to something, Bernadotte. You know how shaky our government is. That members within the Directory itself are hungry for a coup. They merely need a general to join them. Should the crisis that you expect…arise, won’t it be bad to have resisted the man who…well…what if he makes himself a king?”

  “He will not become king.” My husband waved his hand in dismissal. “The people don’t want another king. Not after everything we’ve been through for this Revolution. They’d just as soon send a man to the guillotine as to the throne.”

  I shuddered at this, but I did not share my husband’s convictions. Did the people even know what they wanted, further than wheat and wine, safety and a nation not in tatters? And what if Napoleon wanted it? Didn’t I know better than anyone that Napoleon found a way to get what he wanted?

  The next day was my birthday. I turned twenty-two years old, and my sister paid a call that morning with her husband to wish me well. “Thank you,” I said, though I hardly felt like celebrating. All of Paris was on edge with rumors of riots. National guardsmen stood on alert outside of the Tuileries and along the bridges.

  “Have you…agreed to see him yet?” Joseph asked Bernadotte as we sat in our salon. Julie bounced a fussy Oscar on her knees while I sat beside her, twisting my hands in my lap, trying to conceal the depths of my agitation in front of our guests.

  “No.” My husband shook his head. He wore the navy blue officer’s uniform—a soldier awaiting an assignment—even though he’d been sacked from his post at the War Ministry.

  Joseph looked to me, then back toward Bernadotte. “I strongly urge you to see him. And sooner rather than later.”

  I could have kissed Joseph with gratitude for these words, but my husband rose from the sofa, crossing to the far side of the room and the row of windows that opened out over our walled gardens. Eventually, all he offered was: “Joseph, please.”

  But my brother-in-law’s face was one of fixed resolve. “Bernadotte,” he said, his tone hard as granite, “I advise you as a friend. And a brother.”

  Julie’s eyes met my own. Bernadotte crossed his arms, and I could feel the effort he put into remaining calm. Eventually, he nearly whispered, “Don’t ask this of me—”

  “I ask it of you because I care for your well-being, and I wish for Desiree, and for my nephew—”

  “Enough!” My husband interrupted, his face inflamed. “I won’t speak ill of your brother to you! Don’t force me to do it. Please.”

  We all fell silent, the tension clawing at the room and each of us in it. A log on the fire burst with a pop, showering a spray of ash across the hearth. The baby let out a plaintive squeal, but none of us spoke. After several moments I stood, taking Oscar from my sister and walking cautiously toward my husband. “Bernadotte, please.”

  He turned toward me as I put my hand softly on his shoulder. “Darling,” I said, “do it for me. And for your boy.” My husband looked at me, incredulous, deeply offended that I would hold our family over him like this. But I forced myself to continue, feeling quite certain that we were running out of time. “It is my birthday. You shall ruin not only my day but quite possibly our entire lives if you continue with this stubborn refusal. Why must you insult him? You know he never forgets a grudge.”

  * * *

  I waited up for my Bernadotte’s return, knowing that sleep would be futile until he was home, safe, with me once more. It was late when he finally burst through the bedroom door, tearing his cap from his head and throwing it across the room. “Insufferable, shameless, delusional man.”

  I sat upright in bed, my hopes pierced, my voice faint as I asked: “What did he say?”

  Bernadotte sighed, kicking his boots off each foot. “Only implications and insinuations. He asked me which posts I desired in our government. He implied that he had the power to instate me in any of them. If I would openly declare my support for him.”

  “Your support for him…in what?”

  “He clearly wants power,” Bernadotte said, sitting down on the bed. His entire frame looked heavy.

  “Well.” I sighed. “We can see which way the winds are blowing.”

  Bernadotte turned to me now, his face registering shock. Perhaps even disappointment. And then I saw it, the defiance gripping his features, taking root. “Never,” he said, his voice no more than a whisper, and yet girded with stone.

  At this I grew frustrated. “Why would you risk your safety, that of our entire family?”

  “I cannot give my support to any man who would use his sway over the army to steal the power from the people. Not for Napoleon. Not even for myself! We are a republic of laws—we have a constitution!”

  “You’ve seen how shifty the laws of this nation have proven in recent years,” I said, my voice toneless.

  “But I have integrity,” he insisted. “I have principles. I thought you did, too.”

  “What good will our principles do, Bernadotte, if we are arrested—or dead?”

  * * *

  The servant woke us in the middle of the night. I blinked, my eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness of our bedchamber. “Is it Oscar?”

  “No, madame, your son sleeps,” the woman said.

  “Then what is it?” I asked. I heard my husband stir beside me.

  “It’s a visitor, madame. It’s, er, Monsieur Bonaparte to see you and the general.”

  Bernadotte and I both bolted upright. “Bonaparte?” my husband repeated the name. He hopped from bed, bumping his leg against the side table in the dark and releasing a string of curses.

  “Aye, sir,” said the servant as she lit a candelabra.

  “What does he want?” I asked, sliding from bed, my pulse galloping as the servant handed me my slippers.

  “He awaits you both downstairs, madame.”

  To our great relief, it was Joseph, not Napoleon, who sat in our salon. A servant had lit several candles, and I could see through the skittering shadows that Joseph’s features were taut and pale. He stood when we entered the room.

  “Oh, Joseph, thank goodness,” I said, collapsing into a hug in my brother-in-law’s arms. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  Joseph quickly returned my hug and then stepped away, turning toward my husband. His expression was grim, and I felt the dread thicken in my gut as he spoke: “Bernadotte,” he said, “it is done. And we hope you shall remain a friend.”

  “What is done?” my husband asked, his tall frame going rigid. In our haste, we hadn’t dressed, and both Bernadotte and I stood in our dressing gowns over our nightshirts, my husband holding a quivering candelabra.

  Joseph, on the other hand, was fully dressed and appeared as though he had no plans to sleep that night. “My brother, er, General Bonaparte…has heard the desperate pleas of the French people. In seeing their pain, he has agreed that our disgraced government was nothing more than a den of vipers. And he has humbly accepted the reins of power that the people of France have seen fit to bestow on him.”

  “Enough of the lofty rhetoric, Joseph. It’s me. Speak plainly, man,” my husband growled, his voice raspy and impatient. He leaned closer to Joseph, towering over him with his great height. “When?”

  Joseph lowered his eyes and answered: “This night.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “He has removed the legislature from the Tuileries Palace and is holding them out in Saint-Cloud.”

  “Holding them? Under arrest?” my husband asked, his voice thick with disapproval.

  Joseph shrugged. “Not…not in theory.”

  “But in practice,” my husband said, and I saw how the candelabra trembled in his grip.
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  Joseph continued: “You know they had lost all credibility…with the people. He will disband the Directory and establish a new government. He has the regiments with him.”

  “A coup, using the military as his own arm,” my husband spat. “He saw his opportunity and, where other men, better men would have—”

  “Please, Bernadotte, stop,” Joseph raised his hands. “I do not wish to hear anything that…” Joseph sighed, pressing his palms together as if in prayer, his tone beseeching when he continued: “He wishes you to join him. To take your place beside him as a partner. A brother in arms and a brother in his family.” Joseph looked to me, then turned back to my husband. “You know that he returns from Egypt an incredibly popular man. He has the generals on his side. Barras is his ally. Sieyès and Talleyrand have been brought into the fold. Now he needs only you.”

  We’d heard all about this plan. We’d heard the scheming words of these men—the same men who had first asked my husband to seize power as their general. The very men to whom my husband had said a resolute no.

  Bernadotte turned away from Joseph, crossing the room with his long-legged stride. When he reached the far side, he raised his hands and pressed them to the wall, leaning like a storm-battered tree. Joseph looked to me, and I only shook my head; I awaited Bernadotte’s word with as much concern and trepidation as he did. We both remained quiet.

  Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, my husband turned. Looking at Joseph, he declared: “I cannot do it. I’m sorry.”

  I groaned, lowering myself into a chair. Joseph dropped his head, shaking it. “Bernadotte,” was all he said, as if mourning the death of a friend. He looked at me a moment, then returned his gaze to my husband. “If you will not make yourself a friend, then he will have no choice but to see you as…a rival.”