At that, my son shook with laughter. An uncontrollable fear seized me. I wanted to hold the dwarf, to protect him, but he always eluded me. Finally he ducked under the white garden table. I stooped, but I was so tired, so terribly tired and sad. Suddenly Joseph was standing beside me, holding out a glass. "Long live the Bernadotte Dynasty," he said with a wicked laugh. I looked at him but saw Napoleon instead. Then the bells pealed and I awoke.
Now I am sitting in Jean-Baptiste's study and have moved aside the heavy books and maps to make room on the desk for my diary. From the street I can hear merry voices and laughter and drunken singing. Why is everyone so happy when a new year begins? I am unutterably sad.
In the first place, I have quarrelled with Jean-Baptiste by letter. Secondly, I am afraid of this new year.
The day after Jean-Baptiste left, I obediently drove to the music teacher's, the one Rodolphe Kreutzer recommended. He is a spindly little man and his breath smells very bad. He lives in an untidy room in the Latin Quarter, and his walls are decorated with dusty laurel leaves. He told me at once that he gave lessons only because of his gouty fingers; otherwise, he would be giving concerts. Could I pay him for twelve lessons in advance? I paid him. Then I had to sit down at a piano and learn what the notes are called, and which key belongs to which note. As I drove home from my first lesson I felt dizzy and I was afraid I might faint again. Since then I've driven to the Latin Quarter twice a week, and I've rented a piano so I can practice at home. Jean-Baptiste wants me to buy a piano but I think it would be a waste of money.
I'm always reading in the
Moniteur
of Jean-Baptiste's victorious progress in Germany. But, though he writes to me almost every day, he never mentions the war in his letters. Instead, he asks incessantly how my lessons are going. I am a very bad correspondent and my letters to him are always too short and never say what I really want to tell him—that I am very unhappy without him and long for him terribly. His letters, on the other hand, sound like an elderly uncle— how important it is for me to continue "my studies"; and when he found out that I hadn't even begun taking dancing and deportment lessons, this is word for word what he wrote: "Though I long to see you again, it means a great deal to me to have you complete your education. A knowledge of music and dancing is important; I recommend a few lessons from M. Montel. I see I am giving you too much good advice and am therefore closing as I kiss your lips. Your J. Bernadotte, who loves you."
Is that a letter from a lover? I was so angry that in my next letter I never referred to his good advice at all, nor did I tell him that I had actually begun lessons with this M. Montel. Heaven knows who recommended this perfumed ballet dancer, this cross between an archbishop and a ballerina. He teaches me how to curtsy "gracefully" to invisible dignitaries, and he slithers around behind me to see if I look equally farming from the rear when I advance to meet—also invisible —old ladies, to escort them to a—praise be, visible—sofa. One would think M. Montel was grooming me to be received at some royal court. Me, a confirmed Republican, who at my grandest might expect to dine at Joseph's and sit next to Chief of State Paul Barras, who, they say, pinches young girls.
Since I never wrote about my deportment lessons, a courier brought me the following letter from Jean-Baptiste: "You do not mention the progress you are making in dancing, music and the other subjects. I am far away and I am glad that my little friend is making such good use of her lessons. Your J. Bernadotte."
This letter arrived one morning when I was particularly miserable, and I didn't feel in the least like getting up. I lay
alone in the wide double bed and had no desire to entertain either Julie, who had come to see me, or my own thoughts. Then the letter came. Even Jean-Baptiste's private correspondence is marked
République Française
and below this,
Liberté- Egalité.
I gnashed my teeth. Why should I, the daughter of a respectable silk merchant in Marseilles, be trained to be a "great lady"? Jean-Baptiste is a general, of course, and probably one of the "coming men"; but he, too, comes of a simple family, and, anyway, in the Republic all citizens are equal and I have no wish to know the kind of people who direct their guests from one room to another with affected gestures.
I got up and wrote him a long, long letter. While I wrote I cried and made blots. I had not married an old sermonizer I said, but a man who—I thought—understood me. The little man with the bad breath who gives me finger exercises, and that perfumed M. Montel, could both go to the devil— I had had enough of them, more than enough. I sealed the letter quickly without reading it over and had Marie call the carriage and take the letter to the Ministry of War for immediate forwarding to General Bernadotte's headquarters.
The next day, of course, I was terrified that Jean-Baptiste might be really angry. I drove to monsieur's to take my lessons, and afterward I sat for two hours at the piano practicing scales and the little Mozart minuet I want to surprise Jean-Baptiste with when he comes home. Inside, I felt as grey and gloomy as the garden and the leafless chestnut tree. A whole week crept by and at last came Jean-Baptiste's answer:
"I do not yet know, my dear Désirée, what was in my letter that wounded you so. I have no wish to treat you as a child, but as a loving and understanding wife. Everything I say should convince you of this fact. . . ." And then he began all over again to discuss the progress of my education, and remarked unctuously that knowledge can be acquired only "with hard and persistent labour." Finally he demand "Write and tell me that you love me."
Up to now I have not answered his letter. And now something else has happened which makes further letter writing impossible.
Yesterday morning I was sitting, as I often do, alone in J
ean-Baptiste's study, twirling the globe which stands on a li
ttle table and thinking of the many countries and continents a
bout which I know nothing. Marie came in and brought me a
cup of broth. "Drink this," she said. "You need nourishment."
"Why? I'm very well. Except I'm too fat. My yellow silk d
ress is too tight," I said, pushing the cup away. "Besides, t
hat greasy soup is revolting."
Marie started toward the door. "You must make yourself eat; you know quite well why."
"Why?"
Marie smiled, came over and put her arms around me. "You really do know, don't you?"
I thrust her aside and shouted, "No, I don't know . . . and it's not true, it can't be true!" I tore upstairs, locked the door, and flung myself down on my bed.
Of course I had known, but I had refused to believe it. It's just not possible—because it would be awful! It's perfectly natural to skip a month, or two or even three. . . . I hadn't said anything to Julie because she would have insisted I see a doctor; and I didn't want to be examined—I didn't want to be sure . . . .
So Marie knows. I stared up at the ceiling and tried to imagine what it would be like. It's quite normal, I said to myself; all women want children. Mama and Suzanne—and Julie has already been to two doctors because she wants a child so much and hasn't had any. But children are a terrible responsibility; one must always sound so wise and plausible in explaining to them what one should and shouldn't do, and If am so ignorant. . . . A little boy with black curls like Jean-Baptiste . . . Except that nowadays they're calling up the sixteen-year-olds. A little boy like Jean-Baptiste, to be murdered in Italy or the Rhineland—or to kill other women's sons.
I laid my hands tentatively where he was. A young new human being—in me? It seemed incredible.
My
little human being. I suddenly thought, part of myself. Fleetingly I was entirely happy; but—
my
little human being? No one belongs to anyone else. And why should my small son always under
stand me? I certainly consider Mama's ideas old-fashioned. How often I've had to tell her white lies. My son will surely do exactly the same—he'll lie to me and find me old-fashioned and be annoyed with me. . . . I never asked for you, little stranger within me, I thought angrily.
Marie knocked on the door but I didn't open it. I heard her go back down to the kitchen. After a while she came back and knocked again. Finally I let her in.
"I warmed up the soup for you," she said.
"Marie, when you were expecting your little Pierre, were you very happy?"
Marie sat down on the bed and I stretched out again. Naturally not. I wasn't married."
"I've heard that when—I mean if you don't want a child, you can—there are women who can help—" I said hesitantly.
Marie looked at me speculatively. "Yes," she said slowly, "I've heard that, too. My sister went to one of those women. You see, she'd already had so many children she didn't want another. Afterward she was ill for a long, long time. Now she can never have more children—nor will she ever be really well again, either. But the fashionable ladies—like the Tallien or Mme Josephine—I am sure they know a good doctor who would help. Of course it's illegal—" She paused. I lay there my eyes closed, my hands on my stomach. It was quite flat. I heard Marie ask, "So you want an abortion?"
"No!"
I'd shouted "no" without thinking. Marie got up, seeming very pleased. "Come, eat the soup," she said tenderly, "and then sit down and write to the General. Bernadotte will delighted."
I shook my head. "No, I cannot write about things like that. I wish I could talk to him."
I drank the soup, dressed, drove to M. Montel's and learned a new quadrille.
This morning I had a great surprise—Josephine came to see me! She's been only twice before, and each time with Julie and Joseph; but no one would have known that her sudden visit was at all unusual. She was beautifully dressed—a white d
ress of thin wool; a short, fitted ermine jacket; and a high black postillion hat with a white ostrich feather. But the grey wintry morning wasn't kind to her—when she smiled, the many small wrinkles around her eyes showed, and her lips must have been very dry, for her rose-coloured lipstick stuck to them unevenly.
"I wanted to see how you were doing as a grass widow, madame," she said—and added, "We grass widows must stick together, mustn't we?"
Marie brought us "grass widows" hot chocolate, and I asked politely, "Do you hear regularly from General Bonaparte, madame?"
"Irregularly," said she. "Bonaparte has lost his fleet, and the English are blockading his lines of communication. Now and then a small vessel gets through."
I couldn't think of anything else to say. Josephine saw the piano. "Julie tells me you are taking piano lessons, madame," she remarked.
I nodded. "Do you play?"
"Yes, of course—since I was six years old," replied the former Countess.
"I am also taking dancing lessons from M. Montel," I announced. "I don't want to disgrace my Bernadotte."
"It's not so simple, being married to a general—I mean a general off at the front," Josephine said, nibbling a marzipan cake. "Misunderstandings can occur so easily."
They certainly can, I silently agreed, and thought of my nonsensical correspondence with Jean-Baptiste. "You can't always write what you mean," I confessed.
" That's true," Josephine agreed. "And other people meddle in matters that aren't any of their business and write malicious letters." She drank her chocolate. "Joseph, for instance. Our mutual brother-in-law—"
She took out a lace handkerchief and dabbed her lips. " Joseph intends to write Napoleon that yesterday he came to see me at Malmaison and found Hippolyte Charles there. You rem
ember Hippolyte, the charming young army contractor? And also, that Hippolyte was in his dressing gown. Imagine
his bothering Napoleon with such a trivial matter, when he has so many other things to worry about."
"Why ever was M. Charles walking around in a dressing gown at Malmaison?" I really couldn't understand why he didn't dress more suitably for his visits.
"It was only nine o'clock in the morning," Josephine said, "and he hadn't finished dressing. Joseph arrived very unexpectedly." That floored me.
"I need companionship, I can't bear to be alone so much; I've never been alone in my whole life." Josephine's eyes filled with tears. "And since we grass widows must stick together against our mutual brother-in-law, I thought you could tell your sister. Julie might persuade Joseph not to write to Bonaparte."
So that was it—that's what Mme Josephine wanted from me. "Julie has no influence on Joseph's actions," I replied truthfully.
Josephine's eyes were those of a terrified child. "You won't help me?"
"Tonight I'm going to Joseph's for a small New Year's dinner, and I'll speak to Julie," I said. "But you mustn't expect too much, madame."
Josephine stood up, obviously relieved. "I knew you would understand my position. And why do I never see you at Thérèse Tallien's? Two weeks ago she produced a little Ouvrard. You must come see him."
And again at the door, "You're not bored in Paris, madame? We must go to the theatre together soon. And please tell your sister that naturally Joseph can write whatever he likes to my Bonaparte; he's just to leave out the dressing gown."
I drove half an hour earlier than I'd planned to the rue de Rocher. Julie, in a new red dress that was very unbecoming because it made her naturally colourless face look even paler, fluttered excitedly around, rearranging the little silver horseshoes with which she had decorated the table and which were supposed to bring us all happiness in the new year.