"I've given you Louis Bonaparte as a dinner partner;
the fa
t boy is such a bore, I can't very well inflict him on anyone else," she said.
"I'd
like to ask you something," I said. "Can you ask Joseph not to write Napoleon anything about the dressing gown— I mean the dressing gown M. Charles was wearing at Malmaison?"
"The
letter to Napoleon has already gone off. Any further discussion is superfluous," said Joseph at that very moment.
I hadn't
heard him come into the dining room; but there he
was,
standing by the sideboard, pouring himself a drink of
brandy.
"I'd like to bet Josephine came to you today and asked
you
to intercede for her. Didn't she, Désirée?"
I shrugged.
"But why you want to help her instead of us is beyond me,"
Joseph
continued indignantly.
"What do you mean by 'us'?" I demanded.
"Me, for example, and Napoleon, of course."
"It's none of your business. And Napoleon, off in Egypt, can't undo what's done. It will only make him unhappy. Why trouble him?"
Joseph looked at me with interest. "Still in love with him? How touching—" he mocked. "I thought you had forgotten him long ago."
Forgotten?" I was astonished. "No one can ever forget his first love." Napoleon . . . I hardly ever think of him. But how my heart beat then, and that special happiness—and my heart-sickness afterward; that I'll never forget.
And therefore you want to spare him this great disillusionment." Joseph seemed to enjoy this conversation. He poured himself another brandy.
Of course. I know what disillusionment can mean."
Joseph grinned. "But my letter is already on the way."
" So there's no point in discussing it further," I said.
Joseph, meanwhile, had filled two more glasses. "Come, Julie, Désirée, we three must wish each other Happy New Year. Have to be in the right mood—our guests will be here any minute."
Dutifully, Julie and I each took a glass. I hadn't even taken
a sip when I suddenly felt wretched. The smell disgusted me, and I hastily put the glass back on the sideboard.
"Aren't you well? You're green in the face, Désirée," cried Julie.
I felt beads of sweat on my forehead, fell into a chair shook my head. "No—no, it's nothing—it often happens." With that I closed my eyes.
"Perhaps she's expecting a baby," I heard Joseph say.
"Impossible, or I'd know about it," Julie declared.
"If she's ill, I must write to Bernadotte right away," Joseph said eagerly.
I quickly opened my eyes. "Don't you dare, Joseph. I will not write him a word about this. I want to surprise him!"
"What with?" asked Joseph and Julie simultaneously.
"With a son," I announced, suddenly proud.
Julie fell to her knees and hugged me. Joseph said, "But perhaps it will be a daughter."
"No, it will be a son. Bernadotte wouldn't want a daughter." I stood up. "And now I'm going home. Don't be hurt, but I'd rather go to bed and sleep over the New Year."
Joseph had poured still more brandy, and he and Julie drank to me. Julie's eyes were wet.
"Long live the Bernadotte Dynasty," Joseph laughed.
I enjoyed this jest. "Yes, a toast to the Bernadotte Dynasty," I said.
Then I drove home.
But the church bells didn't let me sleep over the New Year. Now at last they are silent, and we're already in the Year VII. Somewhere in Germany Jean-Baptiste drinks with his staff officers. Perhaps they drink to the health of Mme Bernadotte. But I am facing this New Year all alone. No, not quite alone. . . . We'll face the future together—you little unborn son. And we'll hope for the best, won't we? For the Bernadotte Dynasty!
Sceaux, near Paris, 17 Messidor, Year VII
(To Mama, probably July 4, 1799)
Eight hours ago I had a son.
He has dark silky down on his head, but Marie says this first hair will probably fall out. He has dark-blue eyes, but Marie says that all new babies have blue eyes.
I'm so weak that everything swims before my eyes; and they would be very upset if they knew that Marie gave in and secretly brought me my diary. The midwife is sure that I am going to die, but the doctor thinks he can pull me through. I've lost a lot of blood, and now they have somehow raised the foot of the bed to help stop the hemorrhage.
I hear Jean-Baptiste's voice out in the living room. Dear, dear Jean-Baptiste. . . .
Sceaux, near Paris, a week later
Now not even the giantess, my pessimistic midwife, thinks I'm going to die. I lie propped up with pillows while Marie brings me all my favourite food. In the morning and at night the War Minister of France sits on my bed and discourses at len
gth on the raising of children.
Jean-Baptiste came back very unexpectedly about two months ago. After New Year's Day I pulled myself together an
d wrote him again; but only short letters, and not at all affe
ctionate, because I longed for him so terribly and at the same time I was angry with him. I read in the
Moniteur
that he
captured Philippsburg with three hundred men—the town was defended by fifteen hundred—and then set up his headquarters in a place called Germersheim. From there he went
on to Mannheim, captured the town and became Governor of Hesse. He ruled over the German inhabitants in accordance with the laws of our Republic; forbade punishment by whipping and abolished the ghettos. The Universities of Heidelberg and Giessen wrote him enthusiastic letters of thanks. I think Germans are peculiar people: Until their cities area conquered, they consider themselves—for some unfathomable reason—braver and better than everyone else on earth; as they've been right royally beaten, a howling and gnashing of teeth goes up all through Germany and the Germans declare that they have always secretly sided with their enemies.
Next, Jean-Baptiste got word from Barras to come to Paris and he turned over the command of his army to General Maséna. One afternoon I was sitting as I often did at the piano, practicing the Mozart minuet. It went quite well except for one part I spoil regularly. The door behind me opened. "Marie, that's the minuet I've learned as a surprise for our General. Does it sound all right?"
"It sounds wonderful, Désirée; and it's an enormous surprise for your General!" Jean-Baptiste took me in his arms, and after two kisses it was as though we'd never been separated.
While I set the coffee table I racked my brains about how to tell him our son was on the way. But my hero's eagle eye misses nothing. Jean-Baptiste asked, "Tell me, little girl, why didn't you write me that we're expecting a son?" (The possibility of a daughter never occurred to him either.)
I stood still, frowned, and tried to look furious. "Because I didn't want to cause my old sermonizer any trouble. You were already beside yourself anytime anything forced me to interrupt my education." Whereupon I went to him. "But calm yourself, you great big General; your son has already began his lessons in correct deportment at M. Montel's, tucked under his mother's heart."
Jean-Baptiste forbade me to go on with my lesson; he hardly wanted me to leave the house, so anxious was he about my health.
Meanwhile, all Paris talked of nothing but a domestic crisis,
and dreaded riots—some organized by the Royalists who, gaining strength again, were openly corresponding with
émigré
aristocrats, and other riots organized by the extreme Left, the austere Jacobins. I didn't pay much attention. The white tapering blossoms of our chestnut tree were out, and I sat under its broad branches, hemming diapers. Julie, beside me, was bending over a baby pillow she was making for my son. She came to see me every day, hoping I'd "infect" her—she wanted a child so much. And it would make no difference to her whether it was a boy or a girl, she says, she'd take whatever came. So far, unfortunately, nothing's come.
In the afternoon Joseph and Lucien Bonaparte often called, and both talked earnestly to my Jean-Baptiste. It seems that Barras had made him some sort of offer which Jean-Baptiste had indignantly refused. We have five directors, but only Barras has any real power. Every party in the Republic is unanimously dissatisfied with our more or less corrupt heads of state, and Barras hoped to exploit this discontent and get rid of three of his fellow directors. He would like to carry on the Directorate with just the collaboration of the old Jacobin, Sieyés.
Since Barras was afraid that the coup d'état he was planning might result in riots, he had asked Jean-Baptiste to stand by him as his military adviser. Jean-Baptiste refused. Barras should obey the Constitution; and, if it needed changing, he should ask the deputies.
Joseph thought my husband was crazy. "You could be the Dictator of France tomorrow, with the support of your troops," cried Joseph.
"Quite so," answered Jean-Baptiste quietly, "and that must be avoided. You seem to forget, M. Bonaparte, that I am a confirmed Republican."
" But perhaps it's in the best interests of the Republic to have a military man head of the Government in time of war, or—let's say—firmly behind the Government," Lucien said, reflectively.
Jean-Baptiste shook his head. "A change in the Constitution is the responsibility of the people. We have two chambers—
the Council of Five Hundred, to which you yourself belong Lucien, and the Council of Ancients, to which you probably will belong when you reach the proper age. The deputies must decide these things, and certainly not the Army or one of its generals. But I'm afraid we're boring the ladies. What's that funny-looking thing you're sewing, Désirée?"
"A little jacket for your son, Jean-Baptiste."
Nearly three weeks ago, on 30 Prairial, Barras succeeded in forcing his three fellow directors to resign. Now he and Sieyés are at the head of the State. The Parties of the Left, who were the most prominent, demanded the appointment of new ministers. Talleyrand was replaced as Foreign Minister by our minister in Geneva, a M. Reinhart; and M. Cambacérès, our most famous lawyer, and gourmet, was named Minister of Justice. However, since we're conducting a war on all fronts, and the Republic couldn't shoulder this risk unless conditions in the Army were improved, everything depended on the choice of a new Minister of War.
Early in the morning of 15 Messidor, a messenger arrived from the Luxembourg Palace: Jean-Baptiste was urgently requested to confer with the two directors immediately. Jean-Baptiste went right to town, and I sat under the chestnut tree all day, feeling annoyed with myself. The evening before, I had eaten a whole pound of cherries at one sitting, and these cherries were rumbling around in my stomach; I felt more and more uncomfortable. Suddenly, pain stabbed through me like a knife. It lasted only a fraction of a second, but afterwards I sat paralyzed. How terribly it had hurt.
"Marie," I called. "Marie!"
Marie came, gave me one look and said, "Up to the bedroom. I'll send Fernand for the midwife."
"But it's only the cherries from last night."
"Up to the bedroom." Marie took my arm and pulled me up. The knife didn't stab again and, relieved, I ran up the stairs. I heard Marie dispatch Fernand. (Fernand had come back from Germany with Jean-Baptiste.)
"At last that fellow is good for something," Marie said, when s
he came up to the bedroom. She spread three sheets over th
e bed.
"It's just the cherries," I insisted. At that moment the knife j
abbed again; this time from behind and right through me. I s
creamed; and when it was over, I began to cry.
"Aren't you ashamed? Stop crying at once!" Marie comm
anded, and I knew she was worried.
"Julie—I want Julie," I moaned. Julie would pity me, she'd
pity me terribly; and I so longed to be pitied.
Fernand came back with the midwife and was sent off to
fetch Julie.
The midwife! There never was such a midwife! She had
examined me several times in the last few months and always
gave me the creeps. Now she reminded me of a giantess in
some gruesome fairy tale. The giantess had huge red arms and a broad red face with a real moustache. The most unwholesome thing about this female grenadier, however, was that her lips, under her moustache, were smeared with lipstick; and on her tangled grey hair she wore a coquettish white lace cap.
The giantess gazed at me observantly and, it seemed to me, with considerable contempt.
"Shall I undress and get in bed?" I asked.
"There's plenty of time. It's going to take you forever," she prophesied.
In a minute Marie said, "I have boiling water ready in the kitchen
."
The giantess turned on her, "No hurry about that. Better start some coffee."
"Of course, strong coffee. To cheer up madame?" Marie inquired hopefully.
"No, to cheer me up," replied the giantess.
An endless afternoon turned into an endless evening; the evening, into a long, long night; a dusky dawn dragged into a sticky hot morning which went on and on. Then it was afternoon again, another evening and another night. By then I could no longer tell one time of day from another. Incessantly the knife thrust through me; and far away I heard someone
screaming, screaming, screaming. Sometimes everything went black; then brandy was poured down my throat, I threw up and couldn't breathe, sank into nothingness and was roused by a fresh pain. Occasionally I sensed Julie's nearness; someone kept wiping my forehead and cheeks, the sweat flowed in streams, my nightgown stuck to me. I could hear Marie's quiet voice, "You must help, Eugénie, help—"