In the afternoon, Le Roy delivered my rose-coloured dress and the white ostrich feathers to wear in my hair. At six o' clock a sudden cannon blast set our windows rattling. I ran to the kitchen and asked Fernand what was wrong.
"Every hour, from now until midnight, salutes will be fired and Bengal lights will light up all the squares. We ought take Oscar to town so he can see the lights."
Fernand went on polishing Jean-Baptiste's sword with fanatical zeal.
"It's snowing too hard," I replied. "And the child seemed hoarse this morning."
I went up to the nursery and sat by the window with Oscar on my lap. It was already dark, but I lighted no candles. Oscar and I watched the snowflakes dancing in the lantern light in front of our house.
"There is a city," I said, "where the snow falls every winter for many months. Not just for a few days, as it does here. And the whole sky looks all freshly washed."
"And then?" Oscar said.
"That's all," I said.
"I thought you were going to tell me a new story."
"It's not a story. It's true."
"What's the city called?" Oscar asked.
"Stockholm."
"Where is Stockholm?"
"Far, far away. Near the North Pole, I think."
"Does Stockholm belong to the Emperor?"
"No, Oscar. Stockholm has its own king."
"What's his name?"
"I don't know, darling."
Again the cannon roared. Oscar was scared, and flung his arms around me. "You mustn't be afraid, they're only cannon saluting the Emperor."
Oscar looked at me. "I'm not a bit afraid of cannon, Mama. And someday I'll be a marshal of France, like Papa."
I watched the snowflakes. They reminded me of Persson. "Perhaps you'll be a good, honest silk merchant like your grandpapa," I said.
"But I want to be a marshal. Or a sergeant. Papa told me he was a sergeant. And Fernand was, too." He was exited. Something very important had occurred to him. "Fernand says I can go to the coronation with him tomorrow."
"Oh, no, Oscar, children aren't allowed in the church. Mama and Papa weren't sent a ticket for you."
"But Fernand will take me to the door of the church. There I we can see the whole procession, Fernand says. The Empress and Aunt Julie and—" he took a deep breath—"and the Emperor with his crown, Mama. Fernand promised."
"It's much too cold, Oscar, you can't stand for hours in front of Notre-Dame. And in that tremendous crowd a little man like you would be mashed to pieces."
"Please, Mama—please, please."
"I'll tell you all about it, Oscar. I promise you." Two small arms hugged me and I got a sweet, very damp kiss. "Please, Mama If I promise to drink all my milk every day?"
"You can't go, Oscar, really, you can't. It's so cold, and you're coughing again. Be reasonable, darling."
"If I drink the whole bottle of that horrid cough medicine today, then could I, Mama?"
"In this, city, Stockholm, near the North Pole, there is a wide river, green chunks of ice—" I began, hoping to divert him. But Stockholm no longer interested him.
"I want to see the coronation, Mama, I want to terribly," he sobbed.
"When you are bigger, you may see a coronation," I heard myself saying.
"But will the Emperor be crowned again later?" asked Oscar skeptically.
"No, not that. But we will go to another coronation, Oscar, both of us. Mama promises you. And it will be a much more beautiful coronation than the one tomorrow. Believe me, far more beautiful . . ."
"Madame la maréchale shouldn't tell the child such tales." Marie's voice came from the darkness behind us. "Come, Oscar, you must drink your milk now and take that good cough medicine Uncle Doctor gave you."
Marie lit the nursery candles, and I left my place at the window. I couldn't see the dancing snowflakes any more.
Later Jean-Baptiste came up to tell Oscar good night.
Oscar immediately complained, "Mama won't let me stand outside the church with Fernand to see the Emperor with his crown."
"I won't allow it either," Jean-Baptiste declared.
"Mama says that she'll take me to another coronation later, when I am grown up. Will you come, too, Papa?"
"Who's to be crowned then?" Jean-Baptiste asked.
"Mama, who will be crowned?" Oscar demanded shrilly.
And, since I didn't know what to say, I tried to look mysterious. "I won't tell. It will be a surprise. Good night, darling and sweet dreams."
Jean-Baptiste carefully tucked the covers around our little son and blew out the candles.
For the first time in ages I prepared our evening meal myself. Marie, Fernand, and the kitchen maid were all out. Free performances were being given at every theatre. Yvette, my new lady's maid, had vanished at noon. Julie had explained to me that a marshal's wife can neither do her own hair nor sew on buttons, so I finally gave in and hired Yvette, who before the Revolution had powdered some duchess's hair and naturally considers herself far grander than I.
After supper, we went to the kitchen. I washed the dishes and my marshal put on Marie's apron and dried them. "I always used to help my mother," he remarked. And, with a little laugh, "She'd have loved our crystal glasses." His smile faded. "Joseph told me the Emperor's personal physician come to see you," he said.
"In this city everyone knows everyone else's business." I sighed.
"No," said Jean-Baptiste, "not everyone, but the Emperor knows a great deal about a great many people. That's his system."
As I dropped asleep I heard the cannon thunder again. Really, I would have been quite happy in a country house near Marseilles, I thought. A country house with a nice neat poultry run. But neither Napoleon, Emperor of the French,
nor Bernadotte, Marshal of France, has any interest in chickens. . . .
I woke up because Jean-Baptiste was shaking me. It was still dark. "Must we get up already?" I asked uneasily.
"No, but you were crying so hard in your sleep, I had to I wake you. Did you dream something terrible?"
I tried to remember. "I went with Oscar to a coronation." I struggled to reconstruct the dream. "We had to get in the church, but there were so many people at the portal we couldn't get through. We were pushed and buffeted about, the crowd got bigger. I held Oscar's hand and— suddenly I there weren't any people at all, but a flock of chickens running between our legs, cackling dreadfully—" I moved closer I to Jean-Baptiste.
"And was that so awful?" was all he asked, but his voice was gentle and comforting.
"Yes, it was terrible. The chickens cackled like—exactly like nervous people. But that wasn't the worst. The worst was the crowns." "The crowns?"
"Yes, Oscar and I were wearing heavy crowns. I could hardly hold my head up, but I knew my crown would fall off I if I didn't. And Oscar—yes, Oscar's crown was much too heavy for him, too. I saw his thin little neck stiffen under it, and I was afraid the child would collapse. And—then you woke me up. It was a dreadful dream. . . ."
Jean-Baptiste slipped his arm under my head and held me close. "It's quite natural for you to dream about a coronation. In two hours we must get up and dress for the ceremony at Notre-Dame. But what about the chickens?"
I didn't answer. I tried to forget my hateful dream and go back to sleep.
It had stopped snowing, but it was colder than last night. We heard later that the people of Paris had waited since five o'clock that morning in front of Notre-Dame and along the route for the golden carriages of the Emperor, the Empress and members of the Imperial family. Jean-Baptiste and I had to go to the Archbishop's palace, where the coronation procession was forming. While Fernand helped Jean-Baptiste into his uniform, breathing hard on the gold buttons and giving each a final fillip with his polishing cloth, Yvette arranged the white ostrich feathers in my hair. I sat at my dressing table and stared in horror at the mirror. With this headdress I looked like a circus horse. Every few minutes Jean-Baptiste called from the next room, "Aren't you ready yet, Désirée?" But the ostrich feathers just wouldn't set right.
Finally Marie flung open the door. "This has just been delivered for madame la maréchale. By a lackey in the livery of the Imperial household."
Yvette took the little package and laid it before me on the dressing table. Marie naturally didn't leave but kept staring curiously at the red leather box I unpeeled from the paper. Jean-Baptiste shoved Fernand aside and stood over me. I looked up and met his eyes in the dressing table mirror. Napoleon has surely thought up something dreadful and Jean-Baptiste will be furious, I thought. My hands shook so I couldn't open the leather box. "Let me," said Jean-Baptiste. He pressed the lock and the box flew open.
"Oh——" breathed Yvette. "Mmm," from Marie, while Fernand gasped. Inside was a small jewel box of sparkling gold. On the lid hovered an eagle with outstretched wings. My eyes popped.
"Open it," Jean-Baptiste ordered.
I fumbled at it and finally I got a good hold on the eagle between its outstretched wings and pulled. The lid came off. The box was lined with red velvet, and on the velvet sparkled— gold pieces. I wheeled around and looked at Jean-Baptiste. "Can you understand it?" There was no answer. Jean-Baptiste looked like he'd seen a snake. His face was very pale. "They're gold francs," I murmured, and absent-mindedly shifted the top coins through my fingers. Then I spread them out on the dressing table beside my powder box, hair brushes and jewelry. Something rustled. I pulled out a piece of paper from among the gold pieces. Napoleon's handwriting. His large uneven letters. First they danced before my eyes, then finally formed words.
"Madame la maréchale., in Marseilles you were kind enough to lend me your secret savings so that I might travel to Paris. This journey has brought me good fortune. It is an obligation which I take pleasure in meeting today, and thank you. N." And a postscript: "The amount involved at the time was 98 Fr."
"There are ninety-eight gold francs, Jean-Baptiste," I said.
I was greatly relieved when Jean-Baptiste smiled. "I had saved up my pocket money to buy the Emperor a decent uniform, his old one was so shabby, but he needed the money to pay his debts, and to get Junot and Marmont out of the inn," I explained with a rush.
We arrived at the Archbishop's palace shortly before nine o'clock. We were shown to a large room on the upper floor where we greeted the other marshals and their wives, and were served hot coffee. We all crowded near the windows. At the portals of Notre-Dame there was a milling throng. Six grenadier battalions, aided by hussars of the guard, struggled !to maintain order. Although the doors of the cathedral had been opened for the invited guests since six o'clock in the morning, men were still working feverishly inside on the decorations. A double line of National Guardsmen pushed back the curious crowd.
"Eighty thousand men are guarding the Emperor's coronation procession," Murat confided to Jean-Baptiste. As Governor of Paris Murat is responsible for all such things. All of a sudden the Prefect of Police stopped all traffic to Notre-Dame, so the specially invited ladies and gentlemen arrived at the door on foot. Only those of us taking part in the procession were allowed to leave our wraps at the Archbishop's Palace. The other guests had to go coatless to the cathedral, and it made me shiver just to see the ladies who had left their carriages and scurried through the cold in thin silk dresses, Then something funny happened. A group of these ladies chanced to meet the procession of High Court Judges. The Judges were wearing long red robes. They gallantly opened their enormous robes, and the freezing ladies crept in gladly.
Though our windows were closed tight, we could hear the crowd laughing at these unlikely couples.
A few carriages drove up anyway—foreign princes invited as guests of honour. "Third sitting," muttered Jean-Baptiste. "Napoleon's paying all their expenses. There's the Margrave of Baden and over here the Prince of Hesse-Darmstadt, and right behind him the Prince of Hesse-Homburg."
Jean-Baptiste pronounces these impossible Germanic names so easily. How does he do it? I left the window, stood by the fireplace and finally got a second cup of coffee. Meanwhile, some sort of altercation was going on near the door. But I hadn't noticed it particularly until Mme Lannes dashed over and said, "I think it's about you, dearest Mme Bernadotte."
And it was. A gentleman in a tobacco-brown coat, his lace cravat askew, was arguing with the sentries at the door who refused to let him in. "Let me go to my little sister—Mme Bernadotte—Eugénie—"
The gentleman in brown was Etienne. When he saw me he screamed like a drowning man. "Eugénie—Eugénie—help me!"
"Listen here, why won't you let my brother in?" I asked the sentries, and pulled Etienne into the room. The sentries mumbled something about, "Orders to admit only ladies and gentlemen in the coronation procession." I called Jean-Baptiste, and we urged the sweating Etienne into an armchair. He'd travelled day and night from Genoa to Paris to be at the coronation. "You know, Eugénie," he said, "how close I am to the Emperor. The friend of my youth, the man on whom I've set my hopes for years—" Etienne paused for breath. He looked miserable.
"Then what's bothering you? The friend of your youth will be crowned Emperor any minute. What more do you want?"