She didn't move—slender, very erect, a black shadow in the green twilight. "You are right. And why are you leaving madame?"
"Because I best serve the interests of the future king by leaving."
She was silent for a long time. "That's what I thought," she said at last.
Strains of guitar music fluttered through the trees. A
woman was singing. A few broken notes of her song could be heard. It was the voice of von Koskull.
"But are you also sure you're serving your own best interests, madame?" the old woman asked.
"Quite sure, madame. I'm thinking of a distant future, and King Oscar I," I answered quietly. With which I bowed deeply to her and went alone back to the palace.
Two o'clock in the morning. The birds are beginning to twitter in the park. Somewhere in this palace lives an old woman who cannot sleep. Perhaps she is still wandering around the park. She is staying, I am leaving. . . . I have described my last evening, there's nothing further to add. I still can't escape my thoughts. Has the Tsar daughters? Or sisters? Oh—I'm seeing ghosts again. My door is opening very softly, there might well be ghosts here. I feel like screaming, but perhaps I'm mistaken—no, the door is really opening. I pretend to be writing—
Jean-Baptiste.
My beloved Jean-Bap—
Paris, January 1, 1812
At the very moment all the church bells of Paris rang in the New Year, we found ourselves alone together—Napoleon and I.
Julie had surprised me completely with the invitation. After midnight, the Emperor and the Empress are holding a reception. But the family has been asked for ten o'clock. and you must definitely come with us, the Empress said."
That day Julie and I were sitting in the parlour in the rue d'Anjou. Julie was telling me about her children, her household worries, and about Joseph. He complains constantly about the French generals who were defeated in Spain and
couldn't hold his throne for him, a throne on which he's never actually sat. Julie, on the other hand, seems contented with her life. She wears purplish-red models from Le Roy's, makes doll dresses for her little girls, frequents court circles, considers the Empress truly majestic, and the little King of Rome delightful. He has blond hair, blue eyes, and two lower teeth. Napoleon crows like a cock to make his small son laugh,
or meows
like a cat. I tried to imagine a crowing or meowing Napoleon, but it was difficult.
Julie couldn't understand at first why I did not announce my return at the Tuileries. But I live very quietly, and see only Julie and my closest friends. That's why this invitation came as such a surprise. And I couldn't get rid of the feelings that there was some particular reason for the invitation. But what?
So it came about that for the third time in my life, I approached the Tuileries with fear in my heart. The first time was the night I begged Napoleon to spare the life of the Duke of Enghien. I had worn my new hat but my plea was in vain. The second time, I went with Jean-Baptiste when he asked to resign from the Army, and to give up our French citizenship.
This evening I wore my white-gold dress and the diamond earrings given me by the Queen Mother, Sophia Magdalena. I put on the sable stole though I wasn't cold. In Stockholm, it's freezing now at twenty to twenty-five degrees below zero. . . . The reflections of many lights were dancing in the Seine. As I entered the Tuileries, I took a deep breath. I felt—at home. The dark-grey liveries of the Emperor's lackeys, the Gobelin tapestries, and the carpets with the bees. Bees everywhere— just as he told me that night. And everywhere bright lights. No shadows, no ghosts.
The whole family had already assembled in the Empress' salon. When I came in they all wanted to welcome me at once. I had become a genuine crown princess, and even Marie Louise rose and came toward us. She was as always, or perhaps only again, wearing pink. Her porcelain eyes were expressionless, but she smiled gushingly, and immediately in
quired about her "dear cousin," the Queen of Sweden. Naturally a Vasa is closer to the heart of a Hapsburg than all the parvenu Bonapartes put together. Then nothing would do but I should sit next to her on a fragile sofa. Mme Letizia admired my earrings, and wanted to know what they cost. I was glad to see the old lady again, Madame Mère, with Parisian ringlets and beautiful manicured nails.
"I can't understand what Napoleon has against my confessional chairs," she complained to the Empress. "I bought three old sentry boxes at an auction of surplus army stock and I use them in my private chapel at Versailles. They make excellent confessional chairs, and they were very cheap. Napoleon says I'm stingy. But in this household money means nothing." Mme Letizia looked disapprovingly around the Empress' salon. No, no one in the Tuileries tried to save money. . . .
"Mama mia—
oh,
Mama mia,"
Paulette laughed. The Princess Borghese is, if possible, more beautiful than ever. She still looks dainty and delicate, and around her big grey eyes are dark blue shadows. She had her champagne glass refilled again and again. Julie had told me Paulette was ill. "An illness no one mentions, and which women rarely get," Julie said, and blushed furiously. I looked at Paulette and racked my brain over what her mysterious illness could be.
"Do you remember the New Year's Eve you felt so ill? When you were expecting Oscar?" Joseph asked me. I nodded. "We drank a toast to the Bernadotte Dynasty," Joseph laughed. Not a pleasant laugh.
"King Joseph I of Spain is pale with, envy," remarked Paulette, and emptied her glass.
It was after eleven. The Emperor had not yet appeared. "His Majesty is working," Marie Louise explained. The family's champagne glasses were refilled.
"When can we see the little boy?" Julie asked.
"At midnight the Emperor will welcome the New Year with the child in his arms," said Marie Louise.
"It's bad for the child's health to wake him up and show him off to so many guests," Mme Letizia scolded.
Ménéval, the Emperor's secretary, had come in. Majesty wishes to speak to Her Royal Highness," he said.
"Do you mean—me?" I asked involuntarily.
Ménéval, with a set face, repeated, "Her Royal Highness, the Crown Princess of Sweden."
Marie Louise, chatting with Julie, showed no surprise at this summons. I realized she had invited me at the express command of the Emperor. But the Bonapartes stopped talking as I made for the door.
"His Majesty expects Her Royal Highness in his small study," Ménéval said as we walked through a great many rooms. My two earlier meetings with Napoleon had taken place in the large study. At our entrance the Emperor looked up fleetingly from his papers.
"Please be seated, madame." That was all. He was being very rude. Ménéval disappeared. I sat down and waited.
Before him lay a portfolio full of closely written sheets. The handwriting was so familiar to me. Probably Alquier's reports from Stockholm, I decided. The French Ambassador in Sweden is an industrious man. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked toward the New Year. A gilded bronze eagle with outspread wings supported the face of the clock. What's the stage set for, I wondered. The Emperor had sent for me to tell me something important.
"You don't need to intimidate me by keeping me waiting, Sire," I said. "I am by nature very timid, and I'm particularly afraid of you."
"Eugénie, Eugénie—" But he still didn't look up. "One waits until the Emperor speaks. Didn't M. Montel teach you that a least?"
He read on, and I had time to study him. The mask of Caesar has gotten fleshy, the hair very thin. And this face, I realized, I once dearly loved. That was long ago, but I well remember my love. Only, I had forgotten his face.
.''Sire," I said impatiently. "Did you send for me to lecture me on questions of etiquette?"
"Among other things. I wish to know, madame, what brought you back to France."
"The cold, Sire."
He leaned back, crossed his arms on his chest, and twisted his mouth ironically. "So-oo. The cold. In spite of the sable I sent you, you felt the cold, madame?"
"In spite of the sable, Sire."
"And why have you not presented yourself at court since your return? The wives of my marshals regularly pay their respects to Her Majesty."
"I am no longer the wife of one of your marshals, Sire."
"Of course. I'd almost forgotten that. We are now dealing with Her Royal Highness, Crown Princess Desideria of Sweden. But you should realize, madame, that members of foreign royal houses request an audience when they visit my capital. Court courtesy, madame."
"I'm not on a visit. This is my home."
"I see. . . . This is your home—" He got up slowly-, came out from behind the desk, stood before me, and suddenly shouted, "What do you mean by that? This is your home. And every day your sister and the other ladies tell you what's said here. And you sit down and write to your precious husband. Do people in Sweden consider you clever enough to send you here as a spy?"
"No, quite the opposite. It's because I'm stupid that I had to come back."
He hadn't expected this answer. He was all set to shout at me again. But instead he asked in a normal voice, "What do you mean?"
"I am stupid, Sire. Remember the Eugénie of the old days. Stupid, gauche, untrained. Unfortunately I didn't make a good impression on the Swedish court. And since it's very important that we—Jean-Baptiste, Oscar and I—be liked in Sweden, I came home. It's all very simple really."
"So simple that I don't believe you, madame." Like the crack of a whip. He began to pace up and down. "Perhaps I'm wrong, perhaps you really aren't here at Bernadotte's request At any rate, madame—the political situation has become so extremely critical that I must ask you to leave France."
I stared at him, utterly disconcerted. Was he driving me away? Driving me out of—France?
"I want to stay here," I said softly. "If I can't stay in Paris, I'll go to Marseilles. I've often thought of buying back our old house. Papa's house. But the present owners don't want to sell. So I have no home 'except the house in the rue d'Anjou."
"Tell me, madame, has Bernadotte gone mad?" Napoleon asked abruptly. He pawed through the papers on his desk, and picked out a letter. I recognized Jean-Baptiste's handwriting. "I offer Bernadotte an alliance, and he replies that he is not one of my vassal princes."
"I have nothing to do with politics, Sire," I said. "And I also don't see what that has to do with my staying in Paris."
"I will tell you, madame!" He struck the desk with his fist. Plaster drifted down from the ceiling. Now he was in a frenzy, really raging.
"Your Bernadotte dares to turn down an alliance with France. Why do you think I made this offer? Well, answer me."
I didn't answer.
"Not even you, madame, can be that stupid. You must know what's common gossip in every salon. The Tsar has repudiated the Continental system, and his empire will soon cease to exist. The greatest army of all time will occupy Russia. The greatest army of all time . . . The words intoxicated him. "At our side Sweden could acquire eternal glory! Sweden could again become a great power. I've promised Bernadotte Finland if he marches with us. Finland
and
the Hanseatic towns. Imagine, madame—Finland!"
I tried as I had so often before to imagine Finland. "I've seen it on the map, big blue spots which mean lakes," I said.
"And Bernadotte won't accept. Bernadotte is not marching with us. A French marshal not participating in this campaign!"
I looked at the clock. In a quarter of an hour a New Year would begin.
"Sire, it's nearly midnight."
He didn't hear me. He stood in front of the mirror over the mantelpiece, staring at his own face. "Two hundred thousand
Frenchmen, one hundred and fifty thousand Germans, eighty thousand Italians, sixty thousand Poles, not counting one hundred and ten thousand volunteers from other countries," he muttered. "The Grand Army of Napoleon I. The largest army of all time. . . . I'll be on the march again."
Ten minutes to midnight. "Sire—" I began.
He turned, his face distorted with fury. "And Bernadotte thinks nothing of this army!"
I shook my head. "Sire, Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte is responsible for the well-being of Sweden. Whatever he does, he does solely to serve the interests of Sweden."
"Who is not for me, is against me! Madame, since you will not leave France of your own free will, I may have to arrest you as a hostage."
I didn't stir.
"It's late," he said suddenly, went back to the desk and rang a bell. Ménéval, who must have been lurking just outside the door, shot into the room.
"Here—deliver this by special courier immediately," and to
me, "Do you know what it is, madame? An order. To Marshal
Davout. Davout and his troops will cross the frontier and o
ccupy Swedish Pomerania. Well, what do you say to that, m
adame?"
"That you're trying to cover the left flank of your great army, Sire."
He laughed out loud. "Who taught you that sentence? Have , you been talking to any of my officers during the last few days?"
"Jean-Baptiste told me that a long time ago."