"Not march, ride," protested Villatte, Colonel of Cavalry, indignantly.
I smiled through my tears. "Ride then, Colonel Villatte. Ride with God. And come back, safe and sound."
Paris, middle of September, 1812
I I think I'd go crazy if I couldn't write everything in my
diary.
I have no one with whom to share my thoughts. I am uns
peakably alone in this large city of Paris. In my city, as I call
it in my heart, because here I have been incredibly happy
and incredibly miserable. . . . Julie asked me to spend the
hot summer days in Mortefontaine, but for the first time in my life I couldn't say even to her what I think. We once
shared a young girls' room in Marseilles, but now she sleeps beside Joseph Bonaparte. And Marie? Marie is the mother of a soldier marching through Russia with Napoleon. That leaves —how comical—that leaves only my Swedish aide as my confidant. Count Rosen, pure Nordic, aristocratic, blond and blue-eyed, who never gets upset. He is Swedish with every beat of his heart. For centuries Sweden has been bled by wars against Russia. Now the new Crown Prince has made a pact with the archfiend. And blond Count Rosen doesn't understand what it's all about. And can't see why I'm anxious. It is so terrible. . . .
Just a few hours ago Count Talleyrand, Prince of Bénévent. and adviser to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and Fouché, Duke of Otranto and former Minister of Police, were here to see
me. They called on me separately, and met by chance in m
y drawing room. Talleyrand came first. I'm not used to vis
itors any more. My friends live for the victories on the Ru
ssian front, and avoid me these days.
"Call Count Rosen, tell him to meet me in the drawing room, " I said to Mme la Flotte. I hastily changed my gown. I
couldn't think what Talleyrand wanted from me. It was still bright afternoon; had he arrived at twilight to drink a glass
of champagne in the blue shadows of the garden, I would have known. . . .
Talleyrand awaited me in my salon studying with half closed eyes the portrait of the First Consul. Before I could present Count Rosen to Talleyrand, the Duke of Otranto was announced.
"I don't understand it," I burst out.
Talleyrand raised his eyebrows. "What doesn't Your Royal Highness understand?"
"It's so long since I've had callers," I said in confusion. "The Duke of Otranto is here, too."
Fouché was certainly unpleasantly surprised to find Talleyrand with me. His nostrils flared, and he lisped, "I'm glad that Your Highness has company. I had been afraid that Your Highness would be very lonely."
"I was very lonely until this instant," said I, sitting down on the sofa under the portrait of the First Consul. The two gentlemen sat opposite me. Yvette brought in tea.
"This gentleman is France's famous police minister who, because of his health, has retired to his estates," I explained to Count Rosen who was busily passing teacups.
"Information seems to reach the Duke of Otranto's estates as readily and accurately as the Foreign Ministry in Paris," Talleyrand remarked.
"Some news travels fast," Fouché said, as he drank his tea in refined little sips.
"What are you talking about?" I asked politely. "The French victories are no secret. The bells have scarcely stopped ringing out the capture of Smolensk."
"Yes, Smolensk—" Talleyrand had finally opened his eyes, and was considering Napoleon's youthful portrait with interest. "However, Your Highness, in half an hour the bells will ring again."
"You don't say so, Your Excellency," cried Fouché
Talleyrand smiled. "Does this surprise you? The Emperor is leading the greatest army of all time against the Tsar. The church bells will naturally soon ring again. This doesn't disturb Your Highness?"
"No, of course not. After all I am—" I broke off. I'm still a Frenchwoman, I wanted to say. But I'm no longer a Frenchwoman. And my husband has concluded a friendly alliance with Russia.
"Do you believe in the Emperor's ultimate victory, Your Highness?" Talleyrand inquired.
"The Emperor has never yet lost a war," I answered.
A strange pause ensued. Fouché stared at me curiously, while Talleyrand slowly and reflectively drank the really very good tea. "The Tsar has sought advice," he remarked at last and put down his empty cup.
I motioned to Yvette to refill it. "The Tsar will ask for peace," I said confidently.
Talleyrand smiled. "That's what the Emperor expected after his victory at Smolensk. But a courier, who arrived in Paris an hour ago to report the victory at Borodino, knows nothing about any peace negotiations. Even though this victory leaves the road to Moscow open."
Had he come to tell me this? Victories, victories, for many years nothing but victories. I must tell Marie that Pierre will soon he marching into Moscow. "Then the Russian campaign will soon be over? Have another little piece of marzipan, Excellency."
"Has Your Royal Highness heard anything from His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince, recently?" Fouché inquired.
I laughed. "That's right, you no longer read my mail. Your successor could tell you that Jean-Baptiste hasn't written me for two weeks. But I have heard from Oscar. He is well, he—" I stopped. It would bore the gentlemen if I talked about my child.
"The Swedish Crown Prince has been away." Fouché never took his eyes off me.
"Away?" I looked from one to the other in astonishment. Even Rosen, too, opened his mouth in surprise.
"His Royal Highness was in Åbo," Fouché continued.
Rosen jumped. I turned to him. "Åbo? Where is Åbo?"
"In Finland, Your Highness," Rosen replied huskily.
Finland again. . . . "Finland is occupied by the Russian, isn't it?"
Talleyrand drank his second cup of tea. "The Tsar asked the Swedish Crown Prince to meet with him in Åbo," Fouché announced triumphantly and looked at Talleyrand.
"What does the Tsar want with Jean-Baptiste?" I whispered.
"Advice," said Talleyrand. "Where would he seek advice? A former marshal, familiar with the Emperor's tactics, is the perfect adviser in a situation like this."
"And on the basis of this advice, the Tsar has sent no emissaries to the Emperor but has let our armies press forward," Fouché said.
Talleyrand looked at the clock. "At any moment now the bells will begin to ring to announce the victory of Borodino. In a few days our troops will enter Moscow."
"Has he promised him Finland?" exploded Count Rosen.
"Who has promised Finland to whom?" asked Fouché in surprise. "Finland? What are you talking about, Count?"
I tried to explain. "Sweden always hopes for the return of Finland. Finland is close—I mean—close to the hearts of my countrymen."
"And to the heart of your respected husband, Your Highness?"
"Jean-Baptiste believes that the Tsar will not give up Finland. So he is most anxious for Norway and Sweden to unite."
Talleyrand nodded slowly. "My confidential sources inform me that the Tsar has promised to support the Swedish Crown Prince in establishing this union. Naturally, after the war."
"Won't the war end when the Emperor gets to Moscow?" I asked in amazement.
Talleyrand shrugged. "I don't know what advice your husband gave the Tsar."
Silence fell, heavy as lead. Fouché ate a marzipan and smacked his lips.
"The advice which His Royal Highness is said to have given the Tsar . . ." Count Rosen began.
Fouché grinned broadly. "The French Army has marched
into villages burned to the ground by the inhabitants. The French Army has found only charred granaries. The French Army is marching from victory to victory—starving. The Emperor has had to bring up provisions from the rear. He had not reckoned on this. Nor on a flank attack by the Cossacks, who were not supposed to be fighting. But the Emperor hopes to fatten up his troops in Moscow, where the Army will winter. Moscow is a wealthy city, and can supply the troops. So you see, everything depends on the entry into Moscow."
"And—do you doubt this entry?" Count Rosen asked in surprise.
"His Excellency, the Prince of Bénévent., has just said that at any moment the church bells will ring for the victory of Borodino. Beyond this, the road to Moscow lies open. By day after tomorrow, undoubtedly, the Emperor will be in the Kremlin, dear Count," Fouché explained, and grinned again.
A great fear caught at my throat. Despairingly I looked from one to another. "Please tell me frankly, gentlemen—why are you here?"
"I've wanted to call on you for a long time, Your Highness," Fouché said, "and when I heard what an important role your distinguished husband was playing in this great conflict, I had a heartfelt desire to express to Your Highness my deep sympathy, a sympathy of many years' standing, if I may say so."
Yes, for many years, Napoleon's Minister of Police spied on us. "I don't understand you," I said shortly, and turned to Talleyrand.
"Is a former mathematics master so difficult to see through, Your Highness?" Talleyrand asked. "Wars are like equations in higher mathematics. In wars, too, there's an unknown quantity. In this war, we are also dealing with an unknown quantity—but this unknown, since his meeting with the Tsar, is no longer . . . unknown. The Swedish Crown Prince has i
ntervened, madame."
"Of what advantage is this intervention to Sweden? Instead o
f armed neutrality, a pact with Russia," Count Rosen vehemently.
"I'm afraid the armed neutrality no longer impressed the Emperor. His Majesty has occupied Swedish Pomerania. You don't disapprove of your Crown Prince's policies, do you, young man?"
Talleyrand spoke kindly, but my blond young Count would not give way. "The Russians have a hundred and forty thousand men under arms, and Napoleon has . . ."
"Almost half a million—" Talleyrand nodded—"but a Russian winter without proper quarters could destroy even the biggest and best of armies, young man."
At last I understood. Without proper quarters . . . I understood, all right.
At that moment the bells started pealing. La Flotte threw open the door and shouted, "A new victory! The Battle of Borodino has been won."
We never moved. Waves of ringing bells surged over us. Napoleon wants to spend the winter in Moscow. What advice has Jean-Baptiste given the Tsar?
Fouché and Talleyrand have their spies and couriers in every camp, they'll always be on the winning side. Since they have come to see me today they believe that Napoleon will lose this war. Somehow, somewhere, while victory bells ring out in Paris. Jean-Baptiste has intervened and assured the freedom of a small country far up north. But Pierre will freeze, and Villatte will bleed to death.
Talleyrand was first to leave. Fouché, on the contrary, stayed on and on. There he sat chewing marzipan, exploring with his tongue the gaps between his long yellow teeth, gazing at Napoleon's portrait. And looking very pleased. With what? With the new victory? With himself, because he'd fallen into disfavour?
He didn't leave until the bells were silent. "The well-being of the French people is involved," he said in parting. "And the French people long for peace," he added pompously. I could find no double meaning in these empty words. "The Swedish Crown Princess and I have the same goal-peace."
Fouché bowed over my hand. His lips were sticky, and I snatched back my hand.
I went out to the garden and sat down on a bench. The roses were through blooming, the grass had withered. I suddenly feared my own house and all my memories. I had understood, but I still couldn't believe it. In my restlessness I ordered the carriage sent around. As I climbed in, Count Rosen was at the carriage door. I forget so often that I have a personal aide. I really wanted to be alone. We drove along the Seine. I seemed to recall that I'd been told something about Rosen. He broke into my thoughts with, "This Duke of Otranto—he's called that, isn't he?"
"Yes, he used to be Fouché The Emperor made him a duke. What about him?"
"This Otranto has some inside information about the conference at Åbo. He told me more about it out in the hall. His Royal Highness was accompanied by Chancellor Wetterstedt and Marshal Adlercreutz. Löwenhjelm was there, too." I nodded, these names told me so little. "At first the Tsar and His Highness were alone, later an English envoy took part in the conversations. It is assumed that His Highness will bring about an alliance between England and Russia. The decisive alliance against Napoleon, Your Highness. It's said that Austria, too, is secretly . . ."
"But the Emperor of Austria is Napoleon's father-in-law!" I exclaimed.
"That doesn't mean anything, Your Highness. Napoleon forced him into that. No Hapsburg would willingly have taken this parvenu into his family."
The carriage rolled along slowly. Out of the deep blue evening the steeples of Notre-Dame loomed blackly. "I was there, Count Rosen, when this parvenu, as you call the Emperor of the French, took the crown from the Pope's hands and placed it on his own head. I was standing behind the beautiful Josephine, holding a lace handkerchief on a velvet cushion. Here —in this cathedral, Count."