Napoleon's eyes narrowed. "Does he plan to defend Sweden Pomerania? It would amuse me to see him and Davout fighting each other."
"Amuse you?" I thought of the battlefields. The pathetic bounds of earth with the wind-lashed crosses. Tidy rows of bounds. And this amuses him. . . .
"Are you aware, madame, that I can have you arrested as a hostage, and thus force the Swedish Government into an alliance?"
I smiled. "My fate would not influence the decision of the Swedish Government in any way. But my arrest would prove to the Swedes that I am willing to suffer for my new country. Will you really make a martyr of me, Sire?"
The Emperor was annoyed. Even a blind chicken picks up a grain of corn occasionally. Certainly Napoleon had no wish to make a Swedish national heroine out of Mme Bernadotte. . . . He shrugged. "We force our friendship on no one. Many people strive to win our friendship."
Three minutes before midnight.
"I expect you to urge your husband to try to win our friendship." His hand was on the door handle. His eyes gleam wickedly. "In your own interests, madame."
At that moment the bells rang. We were drowned out by the pealing of the bells. Napoleon mechanically let go the door handle. As though in a trance he stared into space. The bells of Paris proclaimed the New Year. These bells, I thought, how much I love these deep bells. "A great year in the history of France has begun," Napoleon said in a hushed voice. I turned the handle of the door.
Aides and chamberlains waited in the large study. "We must hurry, Her Majesty is expecting us," said Napoleon hastily, and began to run. His aides and chamberlains chase after him, their spurs jingling. I walked slowly with Ménéval through the deserted rooms.
"Have you sent the order?" I asked. He nodded. "The Emperor's first act in the New Year," I declared, "was to disregard the neutrality of another country."
"No, Your Highness—" Ménéval corrected me. "His last act in the old year."
In the Empress' salon, I saw the little King of Rome the first time. The Emperor held him in his arms, and the poor little thing screamed with terror. The infant wore a lace shirt and a wide sash of some order.
"Sashes of orders instead of diapers! Well, I must say. . . . " raged Mme Letizia. The Emperor, to quiet his shrieking son, tickled him tenderly. But the foreign diplomats in their court uniforms, the ladies giggling among themselves, and the members
of the Bonaparte family, all of whom wanted to pet the child, scared him even more. Marie Louise, beside the Emperor, looked at the baby with some interest. Her eyes were no longer expressionless, just astonished. She seemed unable to grasp the fact that she had borne Napoleon a child.
When Napoleon saw me, he came over to me with the yelling baby. His fleshy face beamed. "You must stop crying, Sire, kings do not weep," he told the infant. Without thinking I held out my arms and took the child from him. Mme de Montesquieu, the aristocratic nurse, loped over to me. But I held the child tight. Under his lace finery he was very damp. I caressed the blond hair at the nape of his neck, he stopped crying and peered around timidly. I held him close. Oscar, I thought. Oscar is at this moment drinking champagne in the Queen's salon. . . .
. Skål—
he touches his glass politely with Their Majesties', then with the scrawny Princess Sofia Albertina, and finally with the Queen Mother. The Koskull warbles an aria. In a few days Jean-Baptiste will know that Davout has marched into Swedish Pomerania, the Koskull warbles on. . . .
I kissed the silky blond hair. "A toast to His Majesty, the King of Rome," someone called. We emptied our glasses. I handed the infant to his nurse. "He is very damp," I whispered to her. She then carried the child out. The Emperor and the Empress were in a pleasant mood, and they conversed —what was it the Queen of Sweden said?—yes, graciously.
I noticed Hortense. Two months ago she had a son though she hasn't lived with Louis Bonaparte for years. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shone, and she leaned against her equerry, Count Flahault. Her life has lost all meaning. Her sons will no longer be Napoleon's heirs. As usual the Emperor ignored his stepdaughter. A Count Flahault, why not?
"Your Highness will see, the Crown Prince will join Russia. And the Crown Prince is right," I heard. Had someone whispered these words—or had I only dreamed them?
Talleyrand limped by me.
I wanted to go home, I was tired. But the Emperor came
up to me, the Empress on his arm. No woman with cheeks as red as hers should ever wear pink.
"And here's my hostage—my beautiful little hostage," said the Emperor amiably. The onlookers laughed, well-bred little laughs. "But, ladies and gentlemen, you don't yet know what I mean." The Emperor is sometimes annoyed when people laugh before he gets to the point of a funny story. "I fear, however, that Her Highness is not in a laughing mood. Marshal Davout has unfortunately been forced to occupy part of the northern homeland of Her Highness."
How silent the room had become.
"I take it the Tsar has more than I to offer, madame. I am told he is even offering the hand of a grand duchess. Do you suppose this might tempt our former marshal?"
"Marriage to a member of an ancient royal house is always tempting to men of simple middle-class origins," I said slowly. The by-standers were abashed.
"Undoubtedly." The Emperor smiled. "But such a temptation might endanger your own position in Sweden, madame. Therefore, as an old friend, I advise you to write to Bernadotte and urge him to conclude an alliance with France. For the sake of your own future, madame."
"My future is assured, Sire." I bowed. "At least—as Queen Mother."
He looked at me, quite startled. "Madame, until the Swedish-French alliance is concluded, I do not wish to see you court," he said, and moved off with Marie Louise.
Marie was waiting up for me at home. I'd given Yvette and the other maids the evening off, so they could enjoy New Year's Eve. Marie removed the diamond earrings and unclasped the gold straps over my shoulders.
"Happy New Year, Marie. The Emperor has created the largest army of all time and I'm to write to Jean-Baptiste about an alliance. Can you tell me how I got involved in world history?"
"If you hadn't gone to sleep in the Town Hall, this M. Joseph Bonaparte would not have had to wake you up. And if you hadn't set your mind on finding a fiancé for Julie . . . ."
"Yes, and if I hadn't been so curious to meet his brother, the little general. How shabby he looked in his old worn-out uniform. . . . ." I leaned my elbows on the dressing table and closed my eyes. Curiosity, I thought, simple curiosity was to blame for everything. But the road to Napoleon had also led to Jean-Baptiste. And I had been very happy with him.
"Eugénie," Marie said cautiously. "When are you returning to Stockholm?"
If I hurry, I thought desperately, I may be in time to celebrate my husband's engagement to a Russian grand duchess.
Marie looked at me, searched my face. "Happy New Year," she said.
The year 1812 had at last begun. I think it will be terrible.
Paris, April, 1812
Marie's son Pierre is here.
He came quite unexpectedly. He volunteered for the Grand Army, and was assigned to a regiment which will leave for the front from Paris. I have regularly paid eight thousand francs a year to buy Pierre off from military service. I've paid it gladly. I can't help it. I've always had a guilty conscience about Pierre. After his birth, Marie sent him to foster parents, so she could be my wet nurse and earn her living. I drank Pierre's mother's milk, and Marie fondled me when she longed for him. Mother's milk or not—Pierre is a great tall brawny fellow, tanned by the southern sun. He has Marie's dark eyes, but a jaunty look which he must have inherited from his father. He wore a spanking new uniform, and an equally new bear-skin cap. Even his blue-white-red cockade gleamed, it was so new.
Marie, as always, practically lost her mind over him. Her
bony hands stroked his arms shyly. "But why?" she asked again and again. "You were so happy in the estate manager's post Her Highness got for you."
Pierre showed his startlingly white teeth. "Mama, we must do it. Join the Grand Army, conquer Russia, occupy Moscow. The Emperor has called us to arms to unite Europe at last. Think of all the possibilities, Mama. One could . . ."
"What could one do?" asked Marie sourly.
"Become a general, a marshal, a crown prince, a king—how do I know—!"
His words tumbled over each other. No, a man couldn't possibly toil in a vineyard near Marseilles when the Emperor was assembling the greatest army of all time. Day and night I see from my window the regiments on their way to Russia, their bands blaring forth. Their heavy tread shakes the houses. At the sound of drums, people rush to their windows to cheer them on.
"Mama, you must decorate my musket with roses."
The soldiers of the greatest army of all time are being decorated with flowers. . . . In the garden the first roses were in bloom. Marie looked questioningly at me. "Pick them, Marie, give them to him, see—that bud there, the dark-red one, tie that one on his musket."
Marie went into the garden, and cut the early roses. I'll always remember that I carried on my musket roses from the wife of a marshal of France," Pierre assured me, who had cheated him of his mother's milk.
"The wife of a former marshal of France," I said.
"I would rather have fought under monsieur's command," he began.
"You'll like it just as much in Marshal Ney's army corps," I assured him.
Marie came back from the garden. We stuck roses in all Pierre's buttonholes, tied two yellow roses to the hilt of his sword, and pushed the red roses down the musket barrel. Pierre stood at attention and saluted.
"Come home safe, Pierre!"
Marie went with him to the door. When she returned, she
was frowning deeply. She grabbed a polishing cloth and set to work violently on the candelabra.
Outside, a regiment again passed by with beating drums and blaring trumpets. Villatte came in. Since the mobilization of the Grand Army, he's been terribly restless.
"Why do soldiers always march into battle to music?" I asked.
"Because martial music is inspiring. It helps the men keep in step. And it also keeps them from thinking too much."
"Why must soldiers march in step?"
"Your Highness—try to imagine a battle. An order to attack. What would an attack be like if some soldiers advanced with long and others with short steps?"
I thought it over. "I still don't understand. What difference would it make if some soldiers attacked the enemy in long strides, and others in shorter ones?"
"It wouldn't look well. Besides, some of the men might be frightened at the last moment and not attack at all. Do you understand, Your Highness?"
That I understood.
"So regimental music is essential," Villatte concluded.
The music suddenly sounded hollow. Brass trumpets, d
rums, and more brass trumpets. It's a long time since I first
heard "La Marseillaise." Without a band, only the lusty voices o
f dock workers, bank clerks, and craftsmen. Now thousands of
trumpets pick up the melody whenever Napoleon appears.
Count Rosen came in. He had a dispatch in his hand, and said something. I couldn't hear him, the trumpets in the street were so loud. We turned from the window. "I have important news for Your Highness. On April fifth, Sweden concluded an alliance with Russia."
"Colonel Villatte—" My voice failed me. Villatte—Jean-Baptiste's comrade in 1794 when the Republic was in danger, his colleague at the Ministry of War, aide at all his battles, the true friend who followed us to Sweden, and returned with me because Sweden disapproved of our French friends, our Villatte. . . .
"Your Highness wishes?"
"We have just learned that Sweden and Russia have become allies." The martial music had ceased, and we could hear only the marching feet. I couldn't look at Villatte but I had to say something. "You are a French citizen, and French officer, Colonel Villatte. I think this alliance with the enemies of France will make it uncomfortable for you to remain in my house. You once asked for leave of absence from your regiment to help us and stay by my side. Now I ask you to feel free of these obligations."
How it hurt me to say that!
"Highness—I can't leave you alone now," Villatte said.
I looked at the blond Count Rosen and said, "I am not alone."
The Count stared fixedly at a corner of the room. Did he realize I must part from our best friend? "Count Rosen has been appointed my personal aide. "Count Rosen will protect the Crown Princess of Sweden if it should be necessary," I continued. I didn't mind if Villatte saw the tears streaming down my cheeks. "Good-by, Colonel Villatte."
"Has the Marshal—I mean, has His Royal Highness—sent me no letter?"
"None has come. I had the news from the Swedish Embassy," Count Rosen told him.
Villatte was distraught. "I really don't know . . ."
"But I know how you feel. You must either resign from the French Army as Jean-Baptiste did. Or—" I waved toward! window, toward the marching columns, toward those long lines of marching men—"Or march on, Colonel Villatte.