I opened the window to air out the room. My garden looked the same as yesterday. A day like every other, I thought. Yet the Russians, the Prussians and the Austrians will soon cross the Rhine. The Russians, the Prussians, the Austrians, and the Swedes.
"Don't stand at the open window in your dressing gown. Go to your room right away, or you'll catch cold," Marie said. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I'm getting the room ready for Jean-Baptiste. France has been defeated. The allied troops are marching to Paris. Jean-Baptiste is coming home, Marie."
"He should be ashamed of himself—" came from between clenched teeth. I could hardly hear it. My cavalier, my poor lonely cavalier. . . .
Paris, last week in March, 1814
"I hear at the baker's shop that the Cossacks rape all women, old ones, too," Marie announced excitedly.
"They prefer the old ones," I said.
"Eugénie! Don't make fun of me!"
"I'm not. The Cossacks believe that old women bring them luck."
"Nonsense."
I shrugged my shoulders. "You might as well know, Marie. . . ."
She was really angry. "Who told you that?"
"Villatte."
Marie frowned. "Couldn't you ask the Swedish Count if it's true? He's their ally, he must know."
"I can't possibly ask him that. A crown princess naturally doesn't know what ra . . ."
At that, for the first time, we heard the distant thunder.
A thunderstorm in March?" Marie murmured in surprise.
We stared at each other. It thundered again. "Cannon at the ci
ty gates," I whispered.
That was two days ago. Since then the guns of Paris have never been silent.
We had heard so often lately that troops of the Austrian Emperor would appear any moment at our gates. That the Cossacks would storm Paris, and burn down all the houses, That the Prussians had crossed the Rhine weeks ago, shouting, "To Paris! To Paris!" Naturally Napoleon was trying to halt the allied advance. Here in Paris we knew very little about his battles. The
Moniteur
mentioned only constant victories, now here, now there. But we no longer read the
Moniteur.
Now the guns are booming at the gates of Paris. Are they our guns? Austrian, Prussian, Russian?
My days are full to the brim with anticipation. I don't know where Jean-Baptiste is. I only know that he will come. Tonight, tomorrow night. His room is ready. . . . I've had no letters for a long time either from him or from Oscar. Germany and France lie between us and the intervening land is one huge battlefield. Now and then a note is smuggle through to us. That's how we found out that Jean-Baptiste, after the battle of Leipzig, refused to pursue the French troops across the Rhine. That of all his troops only his thirty thousand Swedes stuck by him and marched north with him, That he went through Hanover and probably revived many memories. Was I one of your memories, Jean-Baptiste? And
Herr van Beethoven and his lost hope? Chancellor Wetterstedt and the Swedish General Staff accompanied him and tried to explain that the Allies wanted only one thing from him, only one decision—to cross the Rhine. But Jean-Baptiste dictated a letter to the Tsar demanding the frontiers of France be respected. France was not Napoleon. It was Napoleon who had been defeated. . . . Now the Prussians, the Russians and the Austrians are marching into France. Jean-Baptiste meanwhile, is waging his own war. . . .
The guns seem closer. Will Marmont hold Paris? The Corps Marmont is defending the Capital. Marmont once asked me to marry him. What had Napoleon said about him long ago in
Marseilles? Yes—intelligent, hopes to build his career along with mine. No, Marmont won't hold Paris. At least not for Napoleon.
Jean-Baptiste marches with his Swedes toward Denmark. In September, Napoleon finally forced the Danes to declare war on Sweden. Unhappily, very unhappily, the Danes agreed. But their king, Frederick VI, held stubbornly to his alliance with France. Why? I tried to remember this Frederick whom I had seen only once in my life. The son of that mad Christian and his beautiful queen, Caroline Matilda, born in England, who fell in love with Struensee, the chief minister. Because of this affair Struensee was executed. The son never mentions his mother, and stands by Napoleon to revenge himself on England, her native land. The son—the son must have loved his mother terribly and been very jealous of her little bit of happiness. Strange that sons judge their mothers so sternly. We mothers. . . .
The windowpanes are rattling; the guns are very close. I must go on writing, and not think about Jean-Baptiste . . . . Jean-Baptiste is fighting his private war, and advancing into Schleswig. It's almost like a parade. From Kiel he sent the Danish King an ultimatum. Jean-Baptiste demanded that Norway be ceded to Sweden, and offered a million reichsthaler as compensation.
Also from Kiel a note was smuggled through to Count Rosen. Denmark has given up Norway, except for Greenland, the Färo Islands and Iceland, to Sweden. But the million thaler the Danish King has indignantly refused. The Norwegians were not for sale, he said. . . .
"Crown Princess of Sweden and Norway," said Count Rosen, looking thoughtfully at me.
I got out a map and found Norway. "And Greenland?" I asked.
Rosen pointed to a large white spot on the map. "All snow and ice, Your Highness."
I'm glad that the Danes have at least kept Greenland. Jean-Baptiste is quite capable of asking me to live on a white spot on the map!
I'm writing all this down to escape my great anxiety. Jean-Baptiste is no longer in Kiel. Jean-Baptiste is . . . I don't know where he is. He disappeared three weeks ago. He finally agreed to the Allies' request and marched to the Rhine; not across the Rhine, not across the Rhine. . . . He was last seen in Liége
,
in Belgium. There he took a travelling coach, Count Brahe was presumably with him and he has disappeared. No one knows where he was going. Many believe that Napoleon, in desperation, secretly asked Jean-Baptiste for help. And that Jean-Baptiste has quarrelled with the Tsar, because he won't recognize the frontiers of 1794. The Paris newspapers, in the meantime, allege that Jean-Baptiste is mentally ill. Marie and Yvette hide these articles from me, but La Flotte always leaves the newspapers lying around the salon. The reports say that Jean-Baptiste's father was out of his head when he died, and that his brother has also gone crazy—no, I can't go on. Not now when no one knows where Jean-Baptiste is. Perhaps he's already in France. Perhaps he's driving along the road which was conquered mile by mile by the Russians and Prussians. Probably he's seeing the scorched earth, the ruined houses . . . I've had word from Liége, from the Chamberlain, Count Löwenhjelm, who asked me if I knew where His Highness might be.
I don't know, Chamberlain, but I can guess. He's coming home—coming home through the ruins. And is supposed to wear his dress uniform and march in, victorious. I can't answer your question, M. Chamberlain—please, be patient. His Highness is also only human, leave him alone in these dark days and night—
Paris, March 30, 1814
Today, at seven o'clock in the morning, Marie came into my room. "You are to go to the Tuileries immediately."
I looked at her incredulously, half-awake. "To the Tuileries?"
"King Joseph has sent a carriage, you are to go to Julie at once."
I got up and dressed quickly. Joseph is Commandant of Paris, and hopes to hold the city. Julie has obeyed him, and we haven't seen each other for months. And now suddenly this urgent message.
"Shall I wake up one of your aides? And which one? The prisoner of war or the allied aide?"
Villatte is my "prisoner of war" and Rosen my "allied" aide. "I don't think I need an aide to call on Julie," I said.
"I never have understood why you always drag around an officer with you," Marie grumbled.
It was cold driving through the deserted streets. Street cleaners were sweeping away rumpled copies of a proclamation. I stopped, I had to read it. The lackey jumped down from the box and fished one out of the gutter.
Parisians surrender! Do as your brothers in Bordeaux! Recall Louis XVIII to the throne. Secure peace for France!
The proclamation was signed by Prince von Schwarzenberg, the Austrian commander in chief. The street cleaners of Paris didn't seem to think much of Louis XVIII. They were busily sweeping up the proclamations that had been secretly distributed during the night.
At the entrance to the Tuileries was a mounted cuirassier regiment, motionless as statues in the pale morning light. As we drove into the courtyard I saw a mass of carriages, as if for a ball. Close to the gate were ten green carriages of state with the Imperial coat of arms. Travelling coaches and transport wagons of every kind filled the courtyard. Relays of lackeys loaded heavy iron boxes in the wagons. The crown jewels, I thought, the treasures of the Imperial family. And money chests—a great many money chests. The sentries hatched, with impassive faces, the removal of the chests.
Since it was impossible to drive further, I climbed out and made my way to the door between the waiting carriages. I asked to be received by Joseph immediately. "Just tell him his sister-in-law is here," I explained to the officer on duty.
He was clearly startled. "Very well, Your Royal Highness."
They haven't forgotten me either in the Tuileries.
To my surprise I was escorted to the private apartments of the Empress. As I entered the large salon, my heart skipped a beat—Napoleon? No, only Joseph at the moment trying desperately to look like his brother. Joseph stood in front
of the fireplace, his hands crossed behind him, and talked rapidly, his head thrown back. The Empress, now called the Empress Regent, because Napoleon entrusted her with absolute power to rule during his absence, sat beside Mme Letizia on a sofa. Mme Letizia wore a shawl peasant-fashion around her shoulders, while the Empress wore a travelling coat and had put on her hat. Marie Louise acted like a guest who couldn't spare the time to sit down. I noticed Ménéval, now secretary to the Regent, and a few senators. Behind Mme Letizia, tall, slender and wearing a faultless uniform stood King Jérôme of Westphalia, the greedy child of long ago. The Allies long since took away his kingdom. The room was bright with many candles. Their glow blending with the grey morning dawn made the whole scene seem strangely unreal.
"Here—look—here it is all written out," said Joseph, and reached into his breast pocket for a letter. "Rheims, March 16, 1814. My verbal instructions were," Joseph read, "and so forth and so forth—Here is the passage I meant: 'Do not desert my son, and remember that I would rather see him in the Seine than in the hands of the enemies of France. The fate of Astyanax, prisoner of the Greeks, has always seemed to me the greatest tragedy of all time. Your affectionate brother.' Signed, 'Napoleon.'"
"You read that letter yesterday to the State Council. We
already know what Napoleon thinks about the fate of As
tyanax. What chance is there of the child falling either into
the Seine or into the hands of our enemies?' demanded
Jérôme. Since his sojourn in America he speaks very slowly
and somewhat nasally.
"Napoleon writes," Joseph said, taking another letter from his breast pocket, " 'Stand steadfast at the gates of Paris, place two cannon at each of the gates and the National Guard on duty. At each gate station fifty men with muskets or fowling pieces, and one hundred men with lances, also two hundred and fifty men at the main gate.' As if I couldn't count. He writes to me as though I were an idiot," Joseph interjected, and then continued, "'Every day a reserve of three thousand men is being trained to muskets, fowling pieces
and lances, and they should be sent, as necessary, to the battery of the Guard, or the War Academy, or elsewhere. Your devoted brother.' Signed, 'Napoleon.'"
"That's perfectly clear," Mme Letizia said calmly. "Have you carried out the orders, Joseph?"
"That's just it—I can't carry them out. We have neither muskets or fowling pieces, and the Overlord of the Underwear can't get any more. And the Guards refuse to fight against a modern army with old lances from the museum."
"Refuse?"
cried Jérôme indignantly.
"Could you defend a city against cannon with lances?"
"I wouldn't know how to handle a lance. And Napoleon probably wouldn't either."
"His Majesty can do anything in the defence of France," declared Ménéval firmly. There was a slight pause.
"Well?" asked Marie Louise calmly and indifferently. "What are we to do? Shall I leave with the King of Rome or stay here?"
"Madame—" Jérôme raced to her from behind the sofa. "Madame, you've heard the oath sworn by the officers of the Guard: as long as the Empress Regent and the King of Rome are in Paris, Paris will not fall. The Guard will make a super-human effort to protect the Regent and the Emperor's son in the Tuileries. Imagine the situation—a woman, a young and beautiful woman and a helpless child on the steps of the throne of France. Every man capable of bearing arms will fight to his last drop of blood!"
"Jérôme—" Joseph interrupted. "Remember we have only lances for the arms-bearing men."
"But the Guard is still fully armed, Joseph."
"A few hundred men . . . But I can't take the responsibility alone. I realize that the presence of the Regent would inspire not only the Guard but also the people of Paris to resist to the last ditch. The departure of the Regent would be . . ."