The Queen's Fortune

by Allison Pataki

  I began to weep. Bernadotte crossed his arms, avoiding my gaze. His voice remained unyielding as he said, “I have no desire to overthrow the lawful constitution, nor to support any man who would. And you must tell him that.”

  Joseph turned to me, his features careworn and suddenly tired. “Desiree, please. Can’t you…is there not something you might say?”

  I shrugged my shoulders, my hopelessness surely apparent on my face. “I have tried, Joseph. Countless times. There is nothing I can do to change his mind.”

  Joseph nodded slowly, gazing back toward my husband. “Then you must leave Paris.” The words hit me like a clenched fist. Joseph went on: “Both of you. It might not be safe for you if events…well…”

  Bernadotte crossed the room and stood beside me now. He put his hand on my shoulder, but I shrugged him off. I had no interest in his touch; I could not even bring myself to look at him. I was to be forced from my home like a criminal because of his stubborn willfulness, his refusal to see that the events unfolding around us were larger than his damned principles.

  “Leave Paris,” Bernadotte exhaled, agreeing with Joseph. “Yes. Then that is what we shall do.”

  “Where will we go?” I asked, my words sounding choked.

  “We will be all right, my darling. I promise you,” Bernadotte said, his expression suddenly soft. I broke from his gaze, unwilling to meet his eyes.

  Joseph lifted a hand. “But…there’s something else.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I should keep Oscar,” Joseph said.

  Now it felt as if my heart might drop out of my chest. “No,” was all I could say, a pleading sound.

  “Only for a time,” Joseph said, trying to reassure me with a gentle tone.

  Bernadotte’s cheeks blazed an angry red. “You’re mad if you think I would leave my son.”

  “Never,” I said, agreeing with my husband for the first time in days.

  “Only until things have calmed down,” Joseph answered. “This will all be resolved soon enough.”

  “I won’t leave my son while I flee for my own safety,” I hissed, ready to fly up the stairs and take my baby in my arms.

  Joseph stood motionless before me. He was resolute now as he said: “Oscar will be safer with me. I will protect him as if he were my own, you have my word. On the life of your sister.”

  I blinked, feeling as if I might faint. I shook my head, fighting back against that sensation, and I stared into Joseph’s eyes, seeing his brother’s eyes as I asked: “Well, if you have that power, then why should we not all three stay with you?”

  Joseph nodded, considering my question. “My influence…can only extend so far. A babe. An innocent. His godson, no less. But…”

  “But you cannot guarantee our protection,” Bernadotte completed the thought.

  Joseph shook his head. “Not with the same certainty as I can Oscar’s. But you both have my word, my solemn vow: no harm shall come to your son. You two will be safer out of Paris. But Oscar, he will be safe in my home, as safe as my beloved wife, whose blood he shares.”

  I nodded, and then the hot, silent tears began to stream from my eyes, any resistance against them futile as I reckoned with the idea of leaving my son, not yet a year old, behind. I had never been angrier with my husband, nor indeed anyone. I had loved Bernadotte for his strength—his willingness to stand up to Napoleon even when I saw no one else doing so. But now that same strength stoked a white-hot ire in me, a rage perhaps stronger and more powerful than any love I might have felt for him. He had put us all in danger with his damned principles and stubbornness, and now we had no choice but to flee. To flee from Paris, from our home, from our own child. “Please,” I said, gasping out the words in between my sobs. “Julie. Tell her I love her. And my child…”

  Joseph, too, looked shattered. “And she returns that love to you and to your baby, of course. We will write, when…if we can.”

  “Joseph.” I took his hand, allowing myself to think, to wonder—for only a moment—how different it all might have been had I accepted and reciprocated his early attentions. “My baby?”

  “Will be safe.”

  “Thank you.” I nodded, my body going hollow, my heart beating uselessly as I accepted defeat.

  Chapter 20

  Paris

  Fall 1799

  I DONNED A MANSERVANT’S BREECHES AND overcoat, with a cap to cover my long hair, and we rode in a simple coach toward the barrier. The guard at the city wall barely looked at me, figuring me to be a young male attendant. He saluted my husband, dressed as a gentleman farmer, and we were permitted to quit the city with just a cursory review of our forged papers.

  We rode in silence away from the capital, out to the wooded village of Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, each forward step feeling as though I pulled further away from my heart, which had been yanked out and left behind in Paris. Oscar, I thought, more frantic each time I saw his round face in my mind, will you think your maman has abandoned you? We arrived in the early morning, as dawn was just beginning to purple the thick forests, revealing a modestly handsome home tucked back off the river amid a copse of linden trees. I slipped out of my cap, but there was nothing to do about the breeches and overcoat, especially on such a chilly morning.

  “This is the home of Dumas. General Thomas-Alexandre Dumas,” Bernadotte explained to me. I was furious with my husband, but I listened with interest now. “Who is Dumas?” I asked. My voice was hoarse with fear and sleeplessness, a cold night of travel on a rutted forest road, and my arms ached for my baby.

  “He’s an old, trusted friend. An army man, an officer who cares little for political intrigue and rivalry. He’s an outsider, like me. He will not betray our presence here.” Bernadotte put a hand on my arm, saying in a low, quiet voice: “Desiree, just…don’t…act surprised. His father was of the French nobility, but his mother was from the islands.”

  I didn’t understand what Bernadotte meant, but I didn’t have time to ask, because just then a shadowed figure emerged at the door of the home. The man held a candelabra in the early-dawn light, a sleeping gown covering his tall frame. “Bernadotte?” His deep voice called into the dim morning as our coach slowed to a halt. “You are welcome here. Come, come.” He waved us toward the threshold of his home, and I guessed that our arrival had drawn him from bed.

  I looked a bit closer at our host now that the man stood before us, suddenly understanding what my husband’s warning had meant: the man’s skin was a shade darker than any I’d ever seen. He appeared like one of the Caraïbes I had heard about, the enslaved islanders whom Josephine had described on her Caribbean plantation. He had side-whiskers and a muscular build—nearly as thick from front to back as he was from shoulder to shoulder. And yet Bernadotte had described this Dumas as an old friend and a fellow officer in the French army. What was this man’s story? I wondered.

  “We are sorry to arrive at this hour,” my husband said as we entered a comfortable kitchen, the gray ash on the hearth showing that the cooking fires had not yet been lit for the day.

  “What does the hour matter, in times such as these?” our host said, shrugging his broad shoulders. He looked at me, his dark eyes taking in my curious clothing, but he said nothing of it. “Ah, Manon, good.” The man gestured toward an old woman who entered the kitchen just then. She shuffled in on threadbare slippers as she tucked her gray hair under her linen cap. A maid or housekeeper, I presumed, thinking it unusual that an old Frenchwoman waited on a man such as this Dumas.

  “Manon will show you to your room, Madame Bernadotte,” Dumas said, his face holding mine with a warm and hospitable smile. He was not unattractive, I conceded. Not at all.

  “I’m sure that you would like to…change your clothes. And take some rest,” Dumas said, directing the old woman to lift my hastily packed trunk. I was just about to reply, saying that ther
e was no way I could possibly sleep, but then our host turned to my husband, saying: “Bernadotte, I think you and I will have a chat.”

  * * *

  The season of fog and mist.

  Brumaire.

  We’d always known it as November, but since the Revolution and the advent of our new calendar, “Brumaire” had been the label for this time of the year. And it was a time of mist and fog, of obscured darkness and confusion, indeed.

  We remained in the countryside at General Dumas’s home for three days. Our host was a kind man, courteous toward me—even if from an aloof distance. I guessed that he sensed my agitated nerves, my frustration with my husband, and my desperation for my son. I thought of Oscar constantly: What was happening in Paris? Was my baby safe? Was he frightened, wondering where his maman had gone? The longer we stayed, the more I became convinced that I’d made a terrible mistake in leaving him.

  I kept to myself mostly, cloistered in the small upper bedroom that Dumas had offered me. I dared not step outside during the daytime hours, even to walk through the small thicket of trees toward the Seine, for fear that someone might see me. Were Napoleon’s agents roving these woods? Were they searching for my husband, and therefore me? Would Napoleon reinstate the guillotine?

  My husband, on the other hand, took long walks during the day, sometimes with Dumas and sometimes on his own, leaving me behind with nothing but my agonized thoughts. He’d return, his brow creased in his solitary thoughts, but I could not speak to him. I could not even look at him. His own stubbornness had put us all in this present danger, had forced us to flee to the countryside and hide like thieves. Away from our son and at odds with our family members. It was a state of waiting, and nothing made the hours pass slower than the thick and clinging fear.

  Finally, on the third day, we received word from Paris. Two letters arrived during breakfast—one from Julie to me, the other from Joseph to my husband. I tore through the red wax seal on Julie’s note, ravenous for her news. It was a short letter, stating only:

  Come home, my dear sister. You shall be safe. Oscar is safe. There is nothing more to fear.

  It was Julie’s seal and handwriting, of that I could be certain. Joseph’s note gave more explanation but contained the same message: we were safe to return to Paris.

  Much had happened in the capital since our midnight departure, Joseph wrote. Napoleon had been named First Consul of France, leader of a small council of men who were now ostensibly sharing the reins of power, though we knew enough of Napoleon to suspect that the First Consul was the true authority. Alongside the First Consul would preside the Senate, its members appointed directly by the First Consul.

  My brother counts you among his friends, Joseph wrote. And indeed, your wife and son are his family. I can vouchsafe that no harm shall befall you should you return to your rightful home and your place in our family—and government.

  Bernadotte looked at me, relief breaking across his features like sunshine after the dark clouds glide past. For the first time in days, he smiled, a faint flicker, but there it was nonetheless. I, too, allowed myself to exhale, but my tone was cold as I reached across the table and pointed at the letter, saying: “There. You made your stand. You said what you believed. But the events have unfolded as they have unfolded. We have a new government, and we shall have a new constitution.”

  Bernadotte heaved a heavy sigh. “And so it has come to this.”

  I rose from my chair, declaring, “You can do as you wish, but I am going back to Paris.”

  My husband’s frame sagged as he nodded and tucked Joseph’s letter into his pocket. “If you return to Paris, Desiree, then I shall go with you.”

  Chapter 21

  Paris

  November 1799

  NAPOLEON SAT ACROSS FROM ME, his intense eyes belying the friendly smile that he’d affixed to his features. “I finally had the chance to meet your son, though you were not there for the occasion,” he said. Bernadotte was at my side on the silk settee, and Josephine sat beside Napoleon. She wore the red kerchief in her hair, and even though it was the afternoon, it looked as though our visit had roused her from bed. She was barefoot, her legs crossed and tilted toward her husband. “Try as I might, I could not find the two of you,” Napoleon added.

  We sat with our hosts in a large salon on the ground floor of their new home, the palace they’d taken for themselves on the night of the coup. They now occupied the largest apartments of Paris’s Luxembourg Palace, the sprawling building that had once served as the château of Queen Marie de Medici before turning into government offices during the Revolution. “Coffee? Or wine?” Josephine asked, her harpist’s fingers languidly stroking her husband’s bare hand.

  “No, thank you,” I answered.

  Napoleon kept his attention fixed on my husband, sitting quietly for a moment before he asked: “Did you have a nice sojourn in the woods?”

  My husband stiffened beside me—I could feel it. He weighed his words before leaning forward, speaking in a calm tone. “Come, Napoleon, we are old friends. You know where I stood. It was nothing personal.”

  Napoleon’s face was an inscrutable mask. He looked from my husband to me before speaking, his lips tight as he said only, “Indeed.”

  “But I serve France before all else,” Bernadotte said. “And France has declared you to be its new leader. And so I shall serve you. With my life, if necessary.”

  Napoleon did not answer. I could hear the ormolu clock where it ticked on the marble mantel, but otherwise the room swelled with silence. Outside on the street, someone shouted, “Vive Napoleon!”

  “It is noisy from dawn ’til midnight,” Napoleon said, smiling now. “But what do you think of our new accommodations?” he asked, raising a hand as he looked around the massive, high-ceilinged room.

  “Beautiful parks and gardens surrounding the place. Marie de Medici certainly took to the Bourbon way of luxury,” Napoleon said. “And if you look out that window, you see Rue de Vaugirard.” Napoleon pointed toward one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows. “And just up the street stands Les Carmes.”

  Josephine shuddered, and he put a protective hand on her thigh. “The prison where my little Creole was held during the Terror. Before her scheduled trip to the guillotine.”

  I swallowed, my eyes turning instinctively toward Josephine. Her amber eyes, rimmed in dark kohl, were fixed downward toward the ornate Aubusson carpet.

  Napoleon arched an eyebrow, tilting his head as he glanced toward my husband. “I believe I heard, Bernadotte, that you predicted I’d end up at the guillotine, if I remember correctly. You said that my coup would lead to it. Did you not?”

  “I…I misjudged…the will and desires of the people.” I could feel the blood roiling in my husband’s veins, but I resisted the urge to put a calming hand on his. Napoleon would notice such a gesture, I was sure of it. Instead, Bernadotte remained calm of his own accord; he knew the importance of this meeting. Of smoothing over relations with Napoleon once more.

  “Ah.” Napoleon considered my husband’s defense for a moment, eventually nodding. “A dangerous thing to do—misjudging the will of the people.”

  “I see that now,” Bernadotte said.

  “It’s something I’m certain never to do.” Napoleon leaned to his side and wrapped his hand around Josephine’s waist, whispering something in her ear—prompting her low, throaty laugh—before turning back toward us.

  “You hurt my feelings, Bernadotte. I’ll admit, when all my friends came to my side, offering their loyalty and support…and you weren’t there, I was cross with you. Quite cross. I told Joseph as much. But he…and then there’s my godson…” Napoleon’s words trailed off, but my heart clenched. “Well.” Napoleon looked directly at me now, and the sharpness of his features seemed to soften, ever so slightly. “Desiree is an old friend. And my little Creole here told me that she’s gro
wn quite fond of your wife. You’ve been kind to her, Desiree. Even when my own flesh and blood were not. And she has seen it.”

  Napoleon held me with his intense gaze, even as my eyes slid toward Josephine. She nodded her agreement, shifting her lithe frame on the sofa as she continued to stroke her husband’s hand. A soothing gesture, slow and rhythmic.

  My husband uncrossed and then recrossed his legs beside me; I could hear the groaning of his leather boots.

  “You idealize our Revolution, Bernadotte,” Napoleon said. “But have you so quickly forgotten the fear? The chaos? The anarchy?”

  My husband made to answer, but before he could, Napoleon cut him off with a wave of his hand, declaring: “The Revolution was worthy in that it ended the inefficacy of the Bourbons. It allowed the people to rise up and choose for themselves a new leader. To choose a leader who is one of them, a leader who shall serve for them. And choose they have. But now they want order. They want peace. They want prosperity. The Revolution is over. I am the Revolution.”

  Chapter 22

  Tuileries Palace, Paris

  Spring 1800

  “I WAS NOT MADE FOR such grandeur,” Josephine said, sighing. “I can feel the queen’s ghost asking me what I am doing in her bed.” With that, she took my hand in her own and gave it a conspiratorial squeeze. “As a girl, I ran barefoot through the sands of the Caribbean. And Napoleon? He ran barefoot through the dust of the Corsican olive groves. And yet”—she looked around, as if unsure how she had arrived to this room—“here we are. The people have spoken.”

  I did not say so, but I was not entirely certain it was the people who had insisted that Josephine and her husband—our country’s undisputed, if not exactly official, sole regent—make their home in the Tuileries Palace, the ancient residence of French princes in the heart of Paris. Nor had the people insisted that they take the apartments formerly occupied by Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, or sleep in Marie-Antoinette’s mahogany bed, only recently restored after the havoc of the Revolution. But to have said any of that would have been madness. Not when we were so newly reinstated in Napoleon’s good favor.