On April 4, Napoleon signed the following act of abdication:
The Foreign Powers having declared that the Emperor Napoleon was an obstacle to the re-establishment of peace and to the territorial integrity of France, and Whereas: being loyal to his principles, and to his promises to further the happiness and glory of the French people in all things, Therefore: the Emperor Napoleon declares that he is ready to abdicate in favour of his son, and to send that Act in due form as a message to the Senate, as soon as the Powers shall have recognized Napoleon II together with the Constitutional Regency of the Empress. Upon this condition the Emperor will withdraw immediately to the palace which shall be agreed. Given at our Palace of Fontainebleau, April 4, 1814.
[Signed] NAPOLEON.
Two days later the Senate announced that a Regency for Napoleon II was out of the question. I don't know where People have suddenly found the Bourbon banners which they've hung out of their windows. They flap, soiled and grey, in the April rain. No one pulls them down, no one exults over them. The
Moniteur
writes that only the restoration of the Bourbons would guarantee a lasting peace. The police, charged with clearing the roads for the entry of the allied troops, no longer wear blue-white-red cockades, but the white cockades, symbol of so much bloodshed during the great Revolution.
Most of the Bonapartes fled from Rambouillet with the Em
press to Blois. The Empress won't see anyone. Safe in the arms of His Majesty, her papa, she weepingly begs him to protect her and her child. Her child now, only hers. The Austrian Emperor calls his little grandson Francis. He doesn't like the name Napoleon.
Joseph has written several letters to Julie from Blois. They were brought by peasant lads who gladly smuggled them through the lines so they could see Paris. Julie and her children are to stay with me until the new Government and the Allies have decided the fate of the Bonaparte family, and the size of the "compensation for property" to be paid them On April 1, Julie asked me for money to pay her governess salary. "I haven't a sou," she said. "Joseph took all our money and the securities with him in a money chest. My jewelry too." Pierre, as my manager, paid the governess. Then my nephew, Marius, wanted to borrow some money. I turned him over to Pierre.
Although Marcelline is afraid of the passers-by who collect in small groups outside my house, she decided to take a drive. She used my carriage with the Swedish coat of arms, and came back with two new hats. The bill she had sent to me. On the morning of April 11, Marie brought me up a cup of artificial coffee, which tastes horrible, and a piece of dry grey bread. Setting the tray on my night table, she said, "Pierre must talk to you. You have no more money."
Pierre now lives with Marie in the former porter's rooms on the ground floor. I found him at his desk. His wooden leg was leaning in a corner, he rarely uses it. The wound in his right stump hasn't yet healed. On the desk our money box—open and empty. Entirely empty. I sat down on the chair beside the desk. Pierre handed me a piece of paper covered with long rows of figures.
"An account of the payments I've made since the first 1 April—wages; purchases for the household. The sums are high, we can buy food only at exorbitant prices. Last month, at the last moment, I sold Your Highness' French Government securities, and we've been living on the proceeds. The cook could buy a veal roast today for all your guests, it I had a
hundred francs. Or Swiss currency. Your Highness, we haven't a sou." He shoved the money box toward me. Yes, yes—I've seen, it's empty.
"Can Your Highness count on money from Sweden any time soon?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Perhaps His Highness, the Crown Prince . . ."
"But I don't know where His Highness is."
"I can, of course, borrow any amount, if Your Highness signs a promissory note. Any sum is at the disposal of the Crown Princess of Sweden. Will Your Highness sign?"
I put my hand to my head in desperation. "I can't borrow money. At least not as Crown Princess of Sweden. It would make a dreadfully bad impression, and my husband wouldn't like it. No, I really can't."
Marie had come in. "You can sell some silver dishes, or pawn them," she said to me, and to Pierre, "You must wear your wooden leg, or you'll never get used to it. . . . . Well, Eugénie?"
"Yes, that's one solution. But—no, Marie, that won't do either. Everything is engraved. Either with
J. B.
or the Ponte Corvo coat of arms. On the large meat platters, which might really be worth something on a loan, there's the Crown Princess' crown. All Paris would know immediately that we have no money. And that would look bad for Sweden."
"I could pawn some of Your Highness' jewelry, and no one would guess whose it was," Pierre suggested.
"And if, as Crown Princess of Sweden, I had someday to receive my mighty cousins—the Russian Tsar or the Austrian Emperor? There I'd be with a bare neck. I have so little really valuable jewelry . . ."
"Julie has always been dripping with diamonds, she . . ."
"Marie, Joseph took all of Julie's jewelry."
"How will you feed all the people under your roof?" Marie demanded.
I stared at the empty box. "Let me think, please let me think."
They let me. A hush fell over the room. "Marie, in Papa's
time, the firm of Clary had a warehouse in Paris, didn't it?"
"Of course. The warehouse is still here. M. Etienne visits it whenever he comes to Paris from Genoa. Hasn't he ever mentioned it to you?"
"No, there was no reason to."
Marie raised her eyebrows. "No? Who inherited the half of the firm that belonged to your mama?"
"I don't know. Etienne never . . ."
"According to law, you, Queen Julie, and your brother Etienne each inherited a third of this half," Pierre declared.
"But when Julie and I were married we had a dowry," I argued.
"Yes, that was your inheritance from your papa. Etienne inherited one-half of the business, and your mama the other. Marie frowned. "But since your mama's death—"
"A sixth of the firm of Clary belongs to Your Highness," Pierre said, and I decided to talk it over with Julie. But Julie stayed in bed all day, and had Yvette put cold compresses on her aching head. So I couldn't suddenly burst in and say we had no money to buy dinner.
"Marie, tell the cook to buy the veal roast. The butcher will be paid this evening. And please call a carriage for me at once."
The large salon was like a madhouse. Marius and Villatte were bending over a map, and, with wonderful hindsight winning all the battles Napoleon had lost during the last month. Julie's daughters were fighting with Hortense's sons over the contents of a very fine Sèvres porcelain candy box. La Flotte, in a flood of tears, was translating to Rosen a newspaper article in which Napoleon was denounced as a monster.
I turned to Marius. "Where is the Clary warehouse?"
Strange to say, he blushed. "You know I have nothing to do with the silk trade, Aunt. I've been an officer all my life."
This conversation was particularly embarrassing with Villatte there, but I didn't give up. "But your father is a silk merchant, and you ought to know where his warehouse is. He goes there whenever he is in Paris."
"But I've never gone with him, I—"
I looked him in the eye. He faltered. "It's in a basement; in the Palais Royal, if I remember rightly," he said hastily, and gave me the address.
"Do you think your Yvette could do my hair?" Marcelline asked me at the same time, rustling in, in an expensive dressing gown. "I want to take a drive," she continued. "That is, if you don't need the carriage, Aunt."
"I don't need it. But I advise you not to take the carriage with the Swedish coat of arms."
"Oh, it's very quiet on the streets. People have got used to the change-over very quickly." Marcelline smiled. "May I?"
I nodded. "Your carriage is here," Marie whispered in my ear. No one noticed me leave.
The hired carriage stopped before a roomy, very elegant basement shop in the Palais Royal. A small sign in dignified gold letters said,
François Clary, silks, wholesale and retail.
I had the coachman wait, went down three steps, opened a door, heard a shop bell tinkle, and stood in an office beautifully furnished with delicate chairs and little tables. Only the half-empty shelves along the walls, with large rolls of silk on them, showed what kind of business was transacted at the handsome mahogany desk. Behind the desk sat an elderly man in a well-cut business suit, the white cockade of the Bourbons in his buttonhole.
"What can I do for you, madame?"
"Are you the Paris manager of the Clary firm?"
The man bowed. "At your service, madame. White for the Restoration is in great demand. White satin is, unfortunately, sold out, but we still have a few pieces of white muslin which madame could hang over her curtains. It is very popular in the Faubourg St. Germain—"
"That's not what I want," I said sharply.
"Madame is thinking of a gown?" He looked at the shelves. "Up to yesterday we had some brocade with a woven fleur-de-lis pattern, madame, but unfortunately we're sold out, all sold out. Perhaps velour or white—"
"Business is good, monsieur—?"
"Legrand, madame, Legrand," he introduced himself.
"These white materials—brocades with embroidered fleurs-de-lis of the Bourbons, the curtain muslin for the Restoration, and the other white cloth—when did they get here? Aren't the roads from the south to Paris still closed?"
He laughed so hard that both double chins jiggled up and down in his high collar. "M. Clary shipped it from Genoa months ago. The first consignment arrived right after the Battle of Leipzig. M. Clary, the head of the firm, is politically well-informed. Madame knows who M. Clary is—" He cleared his throat impressively. "M. Clary is the brother-in-law of the victor of Leipzig. The brother-in-law of the Crown Prince of Sweden—madame will, therefore, understand . . ."
"And for weeks you have been selling white silk to the ladies of the old aristocracy?" I interrupted. He nodded, proudly. I stared at the cockade in his buttonhole. "I couldn't imagine where so many white cockades came from overnight," I murmured. "The ladies of the old families whom the Emperor received at his court have also been secretly making white cockades?"
"Madame—I beg of you," he tried to soothe me, but I was angry, terribly angry. The shelves were almost empty.
"And you've sold white silk, roll after roll. While French troops fought to hold back the Allies, here you sat, coining money. Am I right, monsieur?"
"Madame, I'm merely an employee of the firm of François Clary," he said, hurt and on the defensive. "Besides, most of our accounts have not been paid. Unpaid bills, nothing but unpaid bills. The ladies who bought the white material with the fleurs-de-lis are waiting for the Bourbons' return. Then their husbands will have important positions, and the ladies can pay their bills. But the gowns for the Bourbons' reception in the Tuileries must be made first." He paused, and eyed me suspiciously. "What can I do for you, madame?"
"I need money. How much have you here?"
"Madame, I—I don't understand . . ."
"A sixth of the firm of Clary belongs to me. I am a daughter of the late founder. I need money urgently. How much have you in the cash box, M. Legrand?"
"Madame—I don't quite understand. M. Etienne has only two sisters. Mme Joseph Bonaparte, and Her Royal Highness, the Crown Princess of Sweden."
"That's right. I am the Crown Princess of Sweden. How much money have you in the shop, monsieur?"
M. Legrand groped with a trembling hand in his breast pocket, drew forth his glasses, put them on, and looked at me. Then he bowed as deeply as his fat stomach would permit. When I held out my hand to him, he began to sniffle with emotion. "I was an apprentice in your papa's business in Marseilles when Your Highness was still a child—a dear child, Your Highness, but naughty, very naughty! "
"But you didn't recognize me, did you? Not even with your glasses?" I began to cry. "I'm not naughty any more, I only try to do my best in these troubled times. . . ."
Legrand went swiftly to the door and locked it. "We don't want any customers now, Your Highness," he whispered.
I searched in my handbag for a handkerchief. Legrand gave me his, snowy-white, of the finest silk. "I've racked my brains figuring how I can manage without going into debt. A Clary just doesn't go into debt. I'm waiting until my husband—" In despair I crumpled up the handkerchief of our former apprentice.
"All of Paris is waiting for the gala entrance of the victor of Leipzig," Legrand assured me. "The Tsar has already arrived, and the King of Prussia. It can't be long before—"
I wiped away the last of my tears. "In all these years I've never taken my share of the firm's profits. So now I must take all you have on hand."
"I have very little on hand, Your Highness. The day before he left King Joseph asked for a large sum." My eyes widened in amazement, but he did not notice, and plunged on. "Twice a year, King Joseph drew his wife's share of our profits. When he left Paris he took all the money we'd made up to the end of March from the secret sale of white material. There's nothing left but unpaid accounts, Highness."