It was late at night, and we were sitting on Jean-Baptiste bed, surrounded by his packed travelling bags. "If I ever do return to Paris, it will be difficult and painful," he muttered, and stared into the candlelight. "You are right, it would best to have a place here. We'll keep the house, little one."
This morning the big coach rumbled up to the door. Fernand stowed away luggage, and stationed himself at the carriage door. As usual he wore his wine-red uniform, but he'd sewn on buttons with the Swedish coat of arms. Gustaf Mörner was waiting for Jean-Baptiste in the front hall.
Oscar and I came downstairs with him. His arm was around my shoulder. The farewell wasn't so very different from the many other times he'd left to go to the front or as a Governor.
In front of General Moreau's bust, he stopped suddenly and stared at the marble face. How they loved the Republic, these two, I thought. One of them lives in exile in America, the other has become a Crown Prince . . . "Send the bust to Stockholm with my other things," Jean-Baptiste said. He hugged Oscar and me. "You are responsible for seeing that my wife and Oscar come very soon, Count Brahe," he said hoarsely. "It could be of the utmost urgency that my family leave France very soon. Do you understand what I mean?"
Count Brahe looked straight at Jean-Baptiste. "I think so, Your Highness."
Whereupon Jean-Baptiste jumped into the travelling coach, Mörner sat next to him, Fernand closed the door, and swung up beside the coachman on the box. A few passers-by stopped to watch, a disabled soldier with medals from many campaigns on his chest shouted,
"Vive Bernadotte!"
Jean-Baptiste quickly drew the curtains.
Helsingör in Denmark, the night of December 21 to December 22, 1810
1 never realized that nights could be so long and so cold. Tomorrow Oscar and I embark on the warship with the many pennants which will carry us across the Sund to Sweden. We will land in Hälsingborg where Sweden will welcome Crown Princess Desideria and her son, the Heir Apparent. My good little son.
Marie put four hot water bottles in my bed. Perhaps the night will go faster if I write. I have much to record. But I'm shivering in spite of the warm bottles.
I'd like to get up, put on Napoleon's sables and tiptoe into Oscar's room and sit beside his bed. I'd like to hold his hand and feel his warmth. My son, you are a part of myself. I've sat so often by your bed when I felt lonely. Those many nights in which your father fought on so many fronts. Wife of a general, wife of a marshal. . . . I never sought this, Oscar. And I never guessed a time would come when I couldn't freely go to your bedside. But you no longer sleep alone in your room. Colonel Villatte is escorting us. For many years your father's faithful aide. Your father gave orders that Villatte was to sleep in your room until we reach the Royal Palace in Stockholm. To protect you, darling. From what? From murderers, my child, from assassins who are ashamed because proud Sweden is bankrupt, her lost wars and mad kings have exhausted her. She has chosen simple M. Bernadotte Crown Prince. And young Oscar Bernadotte, grandson of a Marseilles silk merchant, to succeed him. That's why your father wants Villatte to sleep in your room, and Count Brahe in the next. Darling, we're afraid of murderers.
Marie is asleep in my dressing room. And how she snores. Marie and I have travelled a long way together. Too long perhaps. For two days, fog has postponed our trip across the Sund. Impenetrably grey lies the future before me. I never thought it could be as cold anywhere as it is here in Denmark. But people say, "Wait till you get to Sweden, Your Highness!"
We left our home in the rue d'Anjou the end of October. I put linen dustcovers over the chairs, and draped the mirrors. Oscar and I went to Julie's at Mortefontaine to spend the last few days with her. But young Brahe and the gentlemen from the Swedish Embassy in Paris were impatient for us to leave France. I learned the reason for their impatience just yesterday. Nevertheless I couldn't go until Le Roy delivered my new court dresses.
I sat with Julie in her autumnal garden redolent of damp warm earth. Her little girls played with Oscar. They're thin and pale like Julie, and don't in the least resemble the Bonapartes. "You must come visit me soon in Stockholm, Julie," I said.
She shrugged her narrow shoulders. "As soon as the English are driven out of Spain, I must go to Madrid. Unfortunately I am still Queen."
She went with me for my fittings at Le Roy's. At last I could wear white dresses at court. In Paris I never did because Josephine always wore white. But in Stockholm they know very little about the former Empress and her gowns. Someone told me that Queen Hedwig Elisabeth and her ladies-in-waiting still powder their hair. I can't imagine it. Even in Sweden no one could possibly be that old-fashioned. But as I said, Brahe insisted we leave Paris. My dresses were delivered on the first of November, and on the third our travelling carriages appeared.
I was in the first carriage with Colonel Villatte, and the doctor—Jean-Baptiste had engaged a personal physician for our journey—and Mme la Flotte. The second carriage followed with Oscar, Count Brahe, Marie and Yvette. In the third was our luggage. I had planned to bring my reader, too, but she wept so bitterly at the mere thought of leaving Paris that I recommended her to Julie instead. Shall I engage a new reader? Count Brahe says that the Swedish Queen has already arranged for my royal household: ladies-in-waiting, readers, chambermaids. La Flotte, however, was all agog to come because she's in love with Count Brahe.
"That you can write I am aware. For your reports on the Crown Prince and me, written for the police, you were well paid," I told her. "But can you also read?" She blushed beet-red. "If you can also read, I shan't need to engage a new reader."
La Flotte bowed her head. "I'm looking forward so to Stockholm— the Venice of the North," she lisped.
"I would prefer the Venice of the South," I said. "I'm from the South."
All this seems very long ago, although it's really only six weeks. And in these six weeks we've sat from early until late in our carriages. And every evening there's been a banquet or a reception in our honour. In Amsterdam, in Hamburg. We stayed overnight in places with such odd names as Itzehoe
and Apenrade. We made our first long halt at Nyborg in Denmark. From there, we were to travel by sea from the Island of Fünen to the Island of Seeland, on which lies Copenhagen. Here, however, a courier from Napoleon overtook us.
He was a young cavalry officer, carrying a large package, and just as we were about to embark he hailed us. He had tied his horse to a post on the quay. Panting, he dashed up with his large bundle. "Your Royal Highness, may I deliver this with highest regards from His Majesty?"
Count Brahe took the ungainly package, and Villatte asked, "Have you no letter for Her Highness?"
The young officer shook his head. "No, only this verbal greeting. When His Majesty heard that Her Highness had left Paris, he murmured, 'Terrible time of year to go to Sweden,' and looked around. His eye happened to light on me. So I was ordered to ride after Your Highness and to deliver this gift. The Emperor said, 'Hurry, Her Highness will need this gift badly.' So, Your Highness, here it is." The officer clicked his heels together.
The cold wind brought tears to my eyes. I held out my hand to him. "Thank His Majesty, and give my regards to Paris."
It was time to go on board. In the cabin we unpacked the Emperor's present. My heart stood still. A sable stole. The most magnificent sable I'd ever seen. "One of the three Stoles the Tsar gave him," whispered La Flotte in awe. We'd all heard about the three sable stoles presented the Emperor by the Tsar. Josephine had one, the second went to Paulette, his favourite sister, and the third—yes, the third is now on my knees. Because I needed it so badly. Nevertheless, I'm cold. In the old days, a general's coat warmed me better. Napoleon's coat that stormy night in Marseilles. Jean-Baptiste's coat, one rainy night in Paris. They weren't so heavy with gold like generals' coats today, but rough and shabby and poorly cut. Uniforms of the gallant young Republic.
The ship pitched for three hours from Nyborg to Korsör. La Flotte was seasick and wouldn't let Count Brahe hold her head. A sure sign how much she loves him.
Tomorrow we cross over to Sweden. It's still foggy but the sea is calmer. For the last time, I studied the list of ladies and gentlemen who will receive me in Hälsingborg. My new lady-in-waiting, a Countess Carolina Lewenhaupt. Another, Mariana von Koskull. Equerry Baron Reinhold Adelswärd; chamberlains Count Erik Piper and Sixten Sparre, and finally a new physician, whose name is Pontin.
My candles have burned low, it is four o'clock in the morning, and I must try to sleep. Jean-Baptiste did not come to meet me. I had not heard until I got here that on the twelfth of November Napoleon had sent Sweden an ultimatum: Sweden must either declare war on the English within five days, or be considered at war with France, Denmark and Russia. The State Council was convened in Stockholm. All eyes focused on the new Crown Prince.
"Gentlemen," Jean-Baptiste had said, "I ask you to forget that I was born in France, and that the Emperor holds in his power what is dearer to me than anything on earth. Gentlemen, I will not take part in this meeting of the State Council, as I do not wish, in any way, to influence your decision."
Now I understood why the gentlemen of the Swedish Embassy in Paris were anxious for Oscar and me to hasten our departure. The Swedish State Council decided to declare war against England. On November 17 the Swedes transmitted to England their declaration of war. But Count Brahe, who has talked to several Swedes here, told me, "His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince, sent a secret messenger to England, asking that this declaration of war be considered a mere formality. Sweden wishes to continue trading with England, and suggests that from now on English ships entering Göteborg harbour should fly the American flag."
I have tried in vain to understand all these developments. Napoleon could have held Oscar and me as hostages. But he let us go, and even sent me the sables. Because he thoughts I'd be cold. . . . Jean-Baptiste, on the other hand, requested the State Council to take no notice of his family. Sweden is more important to him. Sweden is to him the most important thing on earth.
On all sides I hear how eagerly the Swedes are waiting for our child. If only he were sleeping alone, I could go to him in my fear. I drive on through cold and fog to give
up my child. And I don't even know if Oscar will be happy. Are heirs apparent usually happy?
Hälsingborg, December 22, 1810
(Today I arrived in Sweden)
The cannon on the Kronborg bastion in Helsingör thundered salutes as we embarked on the Swedish man-of-war. The crew stood at attention. Oscar's small hand touched his three-cornered hat; I tried to smile. As always it was foggy, and the icy wind brought tears to my eyes. I stayed in the cabin. Oscar, however, wanted to remain on deck to examine the cannon.
"And my husband still hasn't come?" I asked Count Brahe again and again. All forenoon small vessels with messengers from Hälsingborg had docked at Helsingör to bring detailed reports on preparations for our reception.
"Important political issues are keeping His Royal Highness in Stockholm. A new demand is expected from Napoleon."
An entire world seemed to lie between this icy fog and the gentle winter rain in Paris. Lights are dancing on the Seine. A whole world lies between Jean-Baptiste and Napoleon. And Napoleon demands . . .
My small green velvet hat with the red silk rose is becoming t
o me; my green velvet coat fits snugly, and makes me
look taller than I am. In my green velvet muff I clutch the
list of Swedish courtiers who are expecting me. The ladies-in-
waiting, Lewenhaupt and Koskull, the chamberlains Piper
and—I'll never learn these names. . . . "Your Highness is not anxious?" said Count Brahe softly.
"Who is with Oscar?" I asked. "I don't want him to fall in the water."
"Your own Colonel Villatte is taking care of him," Brahe answered. The words "your own" sounded sarcastic.
"Is it true that Your Highness has put on woollen underdrawers?" Mme la Flotte was horrified. She was fighting against seasickness again. Her face, under the pink powder, had a greenish cast.
"Yes, Marie bought them in the town. It was her idea, she saw them in a shop. I think one needs warm underwear in this climate. We'll probably stand around in this ice-cold harbour for a long time listening to speeches, and no one will look under our skirts." I immediately regretted this remark. A Crown Princess doesn't say such things and Countess—I consulted my list—Countess Lewenhaupt, my new lady-in-waiting, would be shocked.
"Now we can see the Swedish coast plainly. Perhaps Your Highness would like to come on deck?" Count Brahe suggested. And waited for me to hurry on deck.
"I'm so cold and tired," I said, burrowing deeper into Napoleon's fur.
"Of course, forgive me—" murmured the young Swede.
Cannonfire. I was startled, although by now I should be used to this thunder. The first salutes came from our ship, and were answered from the coast. Yvette held up a mirror for me. I whisked the powder puff over my face. Put a little more rouge on my lips. Under my eyes were deep shadows from last night's sleeplessness.
"Your. Highness looks very beautiful," Count Brahe assured me. I was so scared, I thought. People imagine a Crown Princess to be right out of a fairy tale. And I am still only the . former citizeness Eugénie Désirée Clary!