"I must order some mourning tomorrow," I said.
I walked slowly over to the piano. Looked at the music Oscar, Crown Prince of Sweden and Norway, had written. I riffled the keys. Then I closed up the keyboard. "I'll never play the piano again, Marcelline."
"Why not, Aunt?"
"Because I play too badly. Too badly for a queen."
"Now we can't go to see Aunt Julie. You'll go to Stockholm, naturally. Aunt Julie will be all upset. She counted so much on your visit."
"She can still count on it," I said, and went up to my bedroom. I simply threw myself on the bed, and stared into the darkness.
Julie Bonaparte—exiled from France like all the others with the name Bonaparte. They allowed her to stay in my house for one week after Napoleon's departure. But then I had to pack her boxes, and take her and the children across the Belgian frontier.
Since that time I've written a request every month to the
eighteenth Louis asking him to authorize Julie's return. And every other month I've received a courteous, very courteous, refusal. And after every refusal, I've gone to Brussels to comfort Julie and take care of her. Every time I come, she complains of some new symptoms, and swallows so much medicine it makes me sick even to watch her. Brother-in-law Joseph didn't stay around long. He took the title of Count de Survilliers and sailed to America. There he bought a farm near New York. His letters sound contented. His present life reminds him of his youth on his mother's farm. Thin and embittered, Julie drags herself from her sofa to her bed, from her bed to her sofa. How can he have imagined that she'd ever be well enough to follow him to America? I stroke her hands, and put compresses on her forehead. Julie, for years, we were together every day— Tell me, when did you stop loving Joseph?
That first week after the Hundred Days. . . . Hortense came for her sons. Count Flahault accompanied her. They were on their way to Switzerland. Hortense was quiet and sensible, she seemed almost happy. Beyond the Cape of Good Hope there are no women. Her lifelong jealousy is over. Only at the very last—I was helping her younger child into the carriage—her eyes flashed again.
"But one will come back and be the third," she whispered.
"Who, and third what?" I demanded.
"One of my sons, madame," she smiled craftily, "Napoleon the Third."
Hortense succeeded in reaching Switzerland. But not all were so lucky. Not Marshal Ney. . . . For after the Hundred Days, the eighteenth Louis ceased to believe he had gained the throne through chance, but by his own proprietary right. While he laboriously climbed the front stairs to the Tuileries, he remembered bitterly his flight out the back door. The Tuileries courtyard was deserted, and all over Paris people had hung banners of the Republic from their windows. Louis sat down at his desk and demanded the lists. But the lists of Republicans and Bonapartists had vanished during the Hundred Days. Then Fouché was announced. He brought not
only the lists but he had also added new names. With them Fouché handed over to Louis—France. A Republican government wouldn't have kept Fouché long as a minister. So he bargained with the Bourbons. He welcomed them as a representative of the Provisional Government, and they appointed him Minister of Police. The eighteenth Louis was thinking primarily of the lists.
Marshal Ney, in the meantime, had assembled what was left of the Army, and was leading them from Waterloo back to France. His name was also on the lists—hadn't he promised to take Napoleon prisoner and to exhibit him in a cage? Ney tried to escape to Switzerland, but was captured in flight. King Louis first had him brought before a court martial, but the court martial acquitted him. So Louis called the Upper House together, an assembly of the old nobility and of repatriated exiles. Marshal Ney, the son of a cooper, was sentenced to die for high treason.
That's when I wrote my first petition to King Louis. I wrote clumsily, with trembling fingers, while, beside me, Mme Ney knelt and prayed. But while I was still writing, the entire quarter around the Jardin de Luxembourg was cordoned off by Fouché's gendarmes. In the park cracked a volley of shots. We didn't know about this until Rosen came in, saw what I was writing, and told me it was too late. Mme Ney screamed. She screamed until she could scream no more. I often meet her, she has become taciturn and suspicious. But her screams still echo through my house. . . .
How many faces seem to haunt me from the darkness. Shot, imprisoned, exiled—Louis struck one name after another from the lists. Finally only one single name remained. Then he struck this one off, too, and sent his Minister of Police, the Duke of Otranto, into exile.
Julie in Brussels, Joseph in America. The other Bonapartes in Italy. But I was still here, and King Louis would call on me. Suddenly I was dreadfully frightened, because I didn't now what had become of Jean-Baptiste's letter. Perhaps I'd left it lying in the salon—and he said that I was to behave "accordingly."
Accordingly.
I was relieved to feel the letter under my pillow. Marie came in and lighted the candles.
She'll scold me for lying on the silk bedspread with my shoes on, I thought. But Marie didn't scold me at all. She shone a light on my face, and looked at me respectfully, just like Marcelline.
"Don't be angry, I'll take off my shoes." I sat up, embarrassed.
"Your niece told me about it. You might have told me yourself," Marie grumbled.
"I know what you're thinking. That my papa wouldn't have approved. I know it myself. You don't have to tell me."
"Hold up your arms, Eugénie, and let me take off your dress."
I raised my arms. She slipped off my dress. "There—now sit up straight, Eugénie, and lift your head. It doesn't matter what one is, but how one acts. If you're a queen, then at least be a good one. When do we leave for Stockholm?"
I picked up the letter and reread the casual scrawl. Written in such haste, so full of anxiety that I might be unworthy of him. I reached for a candle and held the letter to the flame.
"Well, when do we go, Eugénie?"
"In three days. Then I won't have time to receive King Louis. By the way—we're going to Brussels, Marie. Julie needs me, and in Stockholm I'm superfluous."
"But they can't have a coronation without us!" Marie protested.
"Apparently they can. Or they would have invited us to it." The last corner of the letter crumbled into ashes. I got out my diary, and began, for the first time in ages, to write it all down. Now it has really happened to me—I am Queen of Sweden.
Paris, June, 1821
The letter lay among many others on my breakfast table. The dark-green seal showed clearly the coat of arms forbidden all over the world. At first I thought I must be dreaming. I examined the seal from all sides. It actually was a letter with the crest of the Emperor. And addressed to Her Majesty, Queen Desideria of Sweden and Norway. 1 finally opened this unexpected communication.
Madame, I have been informed that my son, the Emperor of the French, died on May the fifth of this year on the island of St. Helena . . .
I looked up. The chest of drawers, the night table, the mirror in its gilt frame. Nothing had changed. Oscar's picture as a child, and Jean-Baptiste's portrait. Everything looked as usual. I couldn't take it in. After a while I read the letter to the end.
. . . . on the island of St. Helena. His earthly remains at the order of the governor of the island will be buried with military honours due a general. The English Government has forbidden the erection of a tombstone with the name "Napoleon." Only the inscription "General N. Bonaparte" has been allowed. Therefore I have decided that the grave will remain unmarked. I am dictating these lines to my son Lucien who frequently stays with me in Rome. My eyesight has been failing for years, and unfortunately I am now blind. Lucien has begun to read aloud to me my son's memoirs, which he dictated to Count de Mon
tholon on St. Helena. They contain the sentence, "Désirée Clary was Napoleon's first love." This proves, madame, that my son never stopped thinking of his first love. Since they tell me the manuscript is soon to be printed, please let me know whether this sentence should be omitted. We understand you must consider your exalted position, and will gladly comply with your wishes. I send you my son Lucien's kind regard, and remain as always your devoted . . . .
The blind old woman had signed the letter herself. It was barely legible and in Italian:
"Laetizia, madre di Napoleone."
In the course of the day I asked my nephew Marius how the letter with the green coat of arms had come to my house. Since I've appointed Marius my Court Chamberlain, he's supposed to know about these things.
"An attaché to the Swedish Embassy brought it. The letter was delivered to the Swedish Chargé d' Affaires in Rome."
"Did you see the crest?"
"No. Was it an important letter?"
"It was the last letter I shall ever receive with the Emperor's crest on it. I want you to send some money to the English Ambassador asking that in my name a wreath be laid on the grave at St. Helena. On the nameless grave, you'd better add."
"Aunt, your wish cannot be granted. There are no flowers on St. Helena. The terrible climate of the island kills all plant life."
"Do you think Marie Louise will marry Count von Neipperg now, Aunt? They say she already has three children by him," said Marcelline.
"She was as good as married to him long ago, my child."
"And what about the son of her first marriage? The King of Rome was referred to as Napoleon II in all official French documents for several days during the second abdication negotiations," Marius declared vehemently.
"The King of Rome, also known as l'Aiglon, is now called Francois Joseph Charles, Duke of Reichstadt, son of Marie Lou
ise, Duchess of Parma. Talleyrand showed me a copy of the letters patent making him a duke."
"And his father isn't mentioned at all?"
No. As far as the document goes, his father is—unknown."
"If Napoleon had foreseen his future—" Marcelline began.
"He knew," I said. Then I sat down at my desk. An island without flowers. An island on which nothing survived. Our garden in Marseilles, the meadow—yes, the meadow. I began my letter to his mother.
"Aunt Julie once intimated that you—" Marcelline stammered. "Or rather, that he once—I mean that . . ."
"You can read about it in his memoirs." I sealed my letter. "Nothing will be left out."
In a hotel room in Aix-la-Chapelle, June, 1822
That I could once again experience all the sweetness, the anxiety, the impatience of a first rendezvous, I thought this morning, in front of my mirror. My fingers shook as I put on my rouge. Not too much, I told myself, I'm forty-two years old, he must not think I'm trying to seem younger. But I want him to find me attractive. . . .
"And when will I see him?" I asked for about the hundredth time.
"At half-past twelve, Aunt. In your salon," Marcelline answered patiently.
"But he gets here early in the morning, doesn't he?"
"No one knows the exact hour of his arrival, so the appointment was made for half-past twelve, Aunt."
"And will he dine with me?"
"Of course. Accompanied by his chamberlain, Karl Gustaf Löwenhjelm."
"My Löwenhjelm.'s uncle." My Löwenhjelm. is Gustaf, too. He has recently been sent me from Stockholm to replace Count Rosen, who went back home. But he's so pompous and distant I hardly dare speak to him.
"Otherwise, Aunt, only Marius and I will be there. So you'll be able to talk to him freely."
-
My Löwenhjelm., his Löwenhjelm., Marcelline and Marius. No. And again, no. I made up my mind. "Marcelline, be sweet and send me Count Löwenhjelm."
He'll arrive, I thought, and need to wash, and, after the long drive, he'll want exercise. Besides, he's never been in Aix, the hotel is near the Cathedral. Like any tourist, he'll want to see the Cathedral. . . .
I said to Löwenhjelm., "You must be sure your uncle understands. Your uncle is to leave as soon as he sees me. Promise me that?"
My Löwenhjelm. was horrified. "The advantage of ceremonial protocol is that surprises cannot possibly occur," he explained. I refused to give in. "As Your Majesty commands," he sighed.
So I put on my hat with the travelling veil. The veil came over my cheeks. I tied the ribbons tightly under my chin. Besides, I thought, it's dark in the Cathedral. I left the hotel by myself. This is the last, the decisive surprise of my life, I thought on the way to the Cathedral. The first rendezvous with a new man can mean anything—or nothing. In half an hour I'll know.
I sat on a choir bench and folded my hands. Eleven years is a long time. Perhaps, without realizing it, I've changed into an old lady. In any case, he has grown up. A young man sent abroad to find a bride in the courts of Europe. Reliable Karl Gustaf Löwenhjelm. has been assigned to accompany him, so he won't stray.
The same reliable Löwenhjelm. who, years ago, awaited his father's arrival in Sweden, to initiate him into Swedish court ceremonial. But I will disregard this ceremonial. . . .