The Queen's Fortune

by Allison Pataki

  Bernadotte shook his head. “The love is still young, but it is love indeed. He is mad for her. She shares his bedroom. He has never allowed that with anyone, well, other than Josephine. He lingers all day beside her like a sick puppy. I haven’t seen him like this. Ever.”

  * * *

  To our shock, Napoleon invited me the next day to Finckenstein Castle. Bernadotte was still on bed rest and far too weak to travel those frigid roads alongside me, even if it was only for the day. And yet, I noted, the summons had not mentioned him; Napoleon had expressly stated my name, and my name only.

  I went. Of course I went. One did not refuse the Emperor such invitations. But even more, I longed to catch a glimpse of the beautiful Countess Marie Walewska; I wondered if she’d be beside Napoleon when I arrived.

  He received me in a private study, alone. I almost frowned when my eyes swept the room and I saw no beautiful Polish countess, but only our Emperor, seated behind a desk on a raised chair that allowed him to look down on his company. He looked stout, rounder even than the last time I had seen him, but his face had a new, uncharacteristic aspect to it—he looked to be at peace. Even, I wondered, happy?

  “Desiree Clary,” he said, rising to greet me. I curtsied, and he showed me to a chair, dismissing the attendant who had admitted me. “Good to see a pretty French face out on these Polish plains.”

  So then, he was in the mood to charm. I sat up a bit taller, girding myself even as I kept a mask of carefree calm on my features. “Good to see you, sire. Congratulations on a stunning victory.”

  He nodded appreciatively. “Tell me, did your Marseillaise blood freeze on the roads here?”

  I smiled, leaning my head to the side. “I have brought every fur I own.”

  He studied me with his intense green-eyed gaze, the hint of a smile touching his lips. “I can’t imagine the young girl I once knew ever buying a fur.”

  My feet fidgeted under my skirt, but I crossed them at the ankles. Pulling my shoulders back, I answered: “I wouldn’t have imagined many of the things that have come to pass, sire.”

  “Perhaps that is true.” His jeweled fingers drummed the top of his desk. “Tell me: how does your husband do? Recovering over in that castle?”

  “Indeed, sire. Thank you.”

  “He must be happy that you are out here to nurse him, eh?”

  “He grows stronger every day.”

  “Good, good.”

  I wondered yet again why he had called me here. If it was to inquire about the status of Bernadotte’s recovery, surely a letter would have sufficed. Pushing that confusion aside, I braced to deliver the message from Josephine, but just then, the door opened and a blond figure swept in, clearly not believing that a knock was necessary. The beautiful young lady smiled bashfully at Napoleon and then saw me seated opposite him. “Oh! I am sorry! I did not know…” Her words tapered off, but I had heard enough to detect the wiry tinge of the Polish accent. Countess Marie Walewska looked at me, her large blue eyes taking in my appearance with a quick, full-bodied appraisal, and then, sadness settled over her lovely features. A childlike disappointment, guileless, pure and forthright, with no attempt on her part to mask it; she presumed me to be a rival lover.

  It was hardly an unreasonable supposition, given Napoleon’s reputation. He lifted a hand toward her. “Mon ange, my angel, please, come here.” He had seen it, too, of course. He saw everything. “This is my family…this is Desiree Bernadotte. Julie’s sister, the one married to my General Bernadotte. You remember?”

  “Oh!” Countess Marie Walewska’s face changed in an instant. Grief gave way as relief bloomed across her fresh, unlined features, and she glided toward her lover with a newly restored cheerfulness. “Desiree, of course! I’ve heard so much about you and your husband. It’s so wonderful to meet you. How does Bernadotte fare? Better, I’m sure, now that you are at his side. Are you attending him with great love and care?” Indeed, her French was flawless, with just the hint of a Polish accent to add a charming touch.

  “I am, madame,” I answered. “You are kind in your concern.”

  “Well, we have been so worried about him,” she said, pressing her hand over Napoleon’s. He received the gesture with a beneficent smile, placing his other hand atop hers, as if they were exchanging vows. And then, raising an eyebrow, he asked: “My darling, will you leave us for just one moment? I shall be finished shortly.” His voice was softer than I had ever heard it.

  The countess bobbed her head of thick golden ringlets. “Of course.” She glanced once more toward me, her limpid eyes smiling with warmth. “It was wonderful to meet you, Desiree. I hope we see one another again. And, please, give our best to the dear general.” At the door, Countess Marie Walewska glanced back one final time toward Napoleon, a perfect little smile on her lips, the faint hint of a parting giggle. With that, she shut the door, leaving a sprinkling of charm in her wake, as well as the lilac aroma of her perfume.

  Napoleon continued to stare at the door after she had gone, still entranced by the mere memory of her. And then he remembered himself. “Yes,” he said, focused and alert once more as he turned back toward me: “Desiree.” He said nothing of the girl I’d just met. Nor did he ask after his wife, whose presence he knew I had only recently quit. He merely looked at me, and his face reverted back to an expression of matter-of-fact business as he rose from his chair. He crossed the room to where a massive trunk stood in the corner. Lifting the top, he explained, “I met the Tsar of Russia recently. When he surrendered to me. He presented me with these three fur coats, splendid pieces worthy of a Russian winter.” Just then he hoisted a large pelisse from out of the trunk; it was thick, a plush dark brown. It looked heavier than Josephine’s coronation gown. “I have been wondering to whom I shall give them.”

  “Oh?” I replied, confused.

  “I have just the three. They are quite precious, as you can imagine. I shall keep one for myself,” he said. “The other I must give to Mamma, of course. She has been so cross with me lately. But this third one…I’ve thought long and hard. I have decided that I shall give it to you, Desiree.”

  I stared at him, then the coat, speechless. Why me? I wondered.

  Of course there was a reason. And Napoleon did not wait for me to ask. “In exchange,” he said, his eyes traveling toward the door once more, where the beautiful countess awaited him on the other side, blue-eyed and fair-haired, with her floral-scented smiles and charming accent.

  And then Napoleon turned back to me as he said: “I would appreciate your friendship when…if the time comes when I have need of it.”

  Chapter 31

  Paris

  July 1807

  BERNADOTTE AND I WERE PART of the cavalcade as Napoleon and his army entered Paris in state, crossing the eastern barrier and slowly marching through the streets of the capital to the backdrop of a grand parade: flags waving, citizens cheering, windows opened as children leaned over the balconies, craning for a glimpse of their newly returned Emperor. Napoleon had commissioned a massive new arch to honor his victories, and both the soldiers and the crowds gaped as they beheld the work beginning on this Arc de Triomphe.

  As splendid as it all was, my husband and I cared little for the fanfare, hastening to Rue d’Anjou for the reunion with Oscar that we so desperately craved. Our boy had just turned eight, and he ran outside on sturdy legs to embrace us as our carriage rolled into the forecourt.

  “Maman! Papa!”

  “Oscar, my darling!” I wept into his glossy dark curls as I pulled him close, breathing him in as though I would never get enough. He looked less like a baby and more like a boy, I noticed with a twinge of pain in my heart, but at least his body was still soft and sweet as I held him.

  “Maman, I saw your carriage coming! I waited all morning, and I knew you would come!”

  “There’s my boy. Look how tall you’ve grown.�
� My husband, I noted, still moved his neck gingerly, but the bandage was off and his doctors were confident he’d make a full recovery.

  “What did you bring me?” our son asked, his big brown eyes lit with excitement as the servants hurried around us, unloading trunks and baggage.

  “Wait until you see the toy soldiers I’ve brought,” my husband said, chuckling. “A gift from a great Swedish general. You and I shall lay them out in my study so I can show you how we French have won a great battle.”

  “I wish to hold the figurine of you, Papa! The Great General Bernadotte.” My husband beamed at this; though Napoleon seemed to have nothing but derision for my husband’s military prowess of late, our son’s praise brought a welcome smile to his travel-weary features.

  But before our trunks could be unpacked, before Bernadotte could overtake his study with the battle scenes of his great Swedish toy soldiers, we saw the summons. Josephine’s handwriting, I knew. We were expected at the Tuileries for dinner.

  We arrived for the family gathering at the palace, Bernadotte and I, scheduled for a prompt six o’clock, as was the Emperor’s wish. It was a pleasant evening in midsummer, and the windows of the ground floor were open, allowing in the balmy breeze from the fragrant gardens.

  Josephine greeted us. She wore a lilac gown accented in peacock feathers, her fingers, wrists, ears, and hair sprinkled with diamonds, a massive choker strung tight around her perfumed neck. But behind her smile, I detected the telltale signs of tension: puffy eyes, a haggard pallor that even the most liberal application of her expensive rouge could not entirely conceal. “You are so good to join us, Desiree.” She looped her delicate arm around my waist. “Even when you yourself must be overcome with joy and relief at being home once more with your Bernadotte and Oscar.”

  “A year was a long time to be apart,” I said, agreeing with her.

  “Too long,” she agreed. “But they are back now. Even if we don’t know for how long. Ah, Julie! Joseph, welcome. Bonaparte is just finishing up in his study; he shall be down directly.”

  My sister greeted Josephine with a smile, while her husband went directly to his mother and gave her a dutiful kiss. Josephine ignored Joseph’s snub, walking after him to repeat her welcome and, I presumed, hear what he discussed with his mother.

  I was delirious with joy to be reunited with my sister, and I pulled her into a giddy hug.

  “Desiree!” She returned the embrace and then linked her arm in mine. “Come with me.” She pulled me to the corner of the room, where we slipped through the glass doors and out onto the terrace.

  “You look well,” I said, taking in her appearance. She had a healthy color to her cheeks, and her green dress complimented her figure. “Naples suits you,” I said. “Though I wish you would never leave France.”

  “We are here now for a while. But you are one to talk,” she chided. “Only just freshly returned from your Prussian castle.”

  “Indeed, and so happy to be here,” I answered. “What have I missed?”

  “They are quarreling already, even though he’s only just returned,” Julie said, glancing around the terrace to ensure that we were free of eavesdroppers.

  “Hardly a surprise there.” I had long since grown accustomed to their tempestuous exchanges. I simply wished to speed through this dinner so that Bernadotte and I could return home to Oscar after so long apart.

  “No.” Julie shook her head. “It’s different this time.”

  “Why?” I asked. It seemed that every time the Bonaparte family became confident in their ultimate triumph over Josephine, she somehow found a way to thwart them. “She is a cat with as many lives as she needs. Their saga will never be over.”

  “Because this time she might be the one to depart.”

  I looked at my sister askance, unsure of her meaning.

  Julie continued, her voice low: “She found something this afternoon while helping him unpack.”

  “What did she find?” A portrait of Marie Walewska, perhaps?

  “A list, drafted for him by his advisers. Of all the marriageable princesses of Europe. For his review, so that he may choose one as his bride. The Tsar has offered his sister.”

  I absorbed the words and, with them, the shock of their meaning.

  “And of course we’ve all heard about his love affair with the Polish countess. That Marie Walewska.”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. “I met her.”

  “You did?” Julie’s eyes widened. “Is she as lovely as everyone says she is?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Napoleon told Joseph he plans to bring her to Paris and set up a household for her. If she should conceive his child? It’s only a matter of time before Josephine…well, her situation grows ever more precarious.”

  “To be sure,” I said, sighing. That explained the Empress’s red eyes, the mirthless smile. Perhaps it also explained Napoleon’s acquisition of those three fine Russian coats, one of which he’d gifted to me, for some reason I still did not yet understand. I met the Tsar of Russia recently. When he surrendered to me. So then, the Tsar had offered him more than just priceless Russian fur—he’d offered him a Russian princess as well.

  “Poor Josephine,” I said. “All the world is against her.”

  Julie nodded, but offered a sideways tilt of her head as she replied: “Not so poor, covered in those diamonds.”

  Napoleon appeared from his study promptly at six, and we sat down to a supper of roasted chicken, rosemary potatoes, and Chambertin red wine. “You’ll have to excuse the simple menu,” he said, looking around the table, landing his eyes on me. “A soldier’s tastes. I’m not yet reacclimated to the decadence of this place, the decadence with which my Empress eats and…so forth.”

  Josephine ignored the comment, smiling. “We are all simply happy to have you back; I think we would eat wet cornmeal just to have you at the table once more.”

  He grunted in reply, cutting into his chicken. Josephine, for her part, pushed away her plate, sitting upright, an expectant smile on her face. “But the timing is so perfect.”

  No one responded to her cryptic comment, but Josephine continued: “I really am so delighted to have all of our family gathered, because I do have joyous news to share.” She beamed at Napoleon.

  My pulse quickened. It could not be—had Josephine finally conceived a child? Just in time, and not a minute sooner? But no, it was not possible—not when they’d been apart for so many months.

  “My darling son, Eugene, has had his baby, and it’s a beautiful little girl! He’s named her Josephine Napoleone—after her grandfather and grandmother. So, there you have a baby, my darling. And she bears your name.”

  A consolation, a desperate gift offered by a terrified supplicant. Napoleon loved his stepson, Eugene, and so Josephine was hoping he would feel that the child could be a suitable heir.

  But Napoleon did not return his wife’s smile from the far end of the table. Instead, he shrugged at the news, finishing his bite of chicken before he answered: “Ah, so she bears my first name. But not my surname. There is still no heir to bear my surname.”

  * * *

  Napoleon vented his frustrations by taking ever more lovers and planning to seize ever more land through relentless war. He told my husband, who was once more in his good graces, to prepare for a march on Spain. If he could take that wealthy kingdom, he would control all the way from the Atlantic Ocean to the River Elbe, and from Germany in the north down to Italy in the south—more territory than any ruler of modern times.

  My husband had grown into a rich man under Napoleon’s imperial patronage, but he became disillusioned as this talk of fresh war escalated. “It’s an insatiable appetite for war. Almost a madness. As if he wishes to conquer the entire globe. And he doesn’t care how many men he loses along the way,” Bernadotte fumed to me in the private confin
es of our mansion on the Rue d’Anjou. “Do you know that in Prussia he made us fight having had no food in days? How are men to fight when their bodies are starved?”

  Meanwhile, the Bonaparte family grew ever more frustrated by Napoleon’s unwillingness to leave Josephine. When a madman escaped the asylum in Paris and attempted to attack Napoleon as he was leaving the theater, Napoleon asked his reason for doing so. “I am in love with the Empress Josephine!”

  “So she’d bring about his death but leave him with no heir,” Letizia said when she heard the story.

  It seemed that with every quarrel, they presumed it to be Josephine’s end, and yet, somehow, our Empress remained. When the imperial painter, Jacques-Louis David, finally unveiled his masterpiece of Napoleon’s coronation after years of unrelenting labor, we were all summoned to the Tuileries to admire it. Napoleon studied us as we studied his new tableau—but I did not need to feign any awe or approval. The work was overwhelming. It stood as tall as four men, and wider still. The rich colors of the oil and the artist’s skill in capturing the glorious detail of the crowd inside Notre Dame Cathedral presented a stunning feast for the eyes. As I looked on, I imagined that I could study this scene for hours and still find new and magnificent details to admire.

  Even with the artist’s undeniable technical skill and classical techniques, the work was done not according to reality but according to Napoleon’s specific wishes. In the painting of his coronation day, Napoleon stood lean and handsome. His sisters looked on with beneficent smiles, even though I remembered the scowls they had in fact worn for the entirety of the ceremony. Letizia was present, positioned as prominently as the Pope, a proud and approving mamma. But it was Josephine alone who shared the glory with David’s rendering of the Emperor. The precise moment that David—and thus Napoleon—had chosen to highlight was the moment not of Napoleon’s crowning, but of Napoleon crowning a humble, kneeling Josephine. To look at this exquisite portrait, hanging so prominently over Napoleon’s staterooms, was to see just how deeply the Emperor still adored his wife. So she continued to share his bed and spend his money as the summer days cooled toward autumn. And yet the only thing she truly needed, the one thing she could not acquire for herself, continued to evade her.