Desiree by Annemarie Selinko
Suddenly the cab stopped. A chain of gendarmes barred the entrance to the Rue d’Anjou. The driver dismounted and opened the door. ‘Can’t drive on,’ he said, ‘the Rue d’Anjou is cordoned off; they expect the Tsar.’
‘But I must get into the Rue d’Anjou, I live there.’
The driver explained that to a gendarme, and I was allowed to pass, but only on foot. So I got out and paid the driver.
Gendarmes drawn up on both sides of the street formed a lane, the carriage-way was empty and made my steps resound. Just before I reached my house I was stopped by a sergeant-major of the gendarmerie on horseback. ‘No entry here!’
I looked up at him. His face seemed familiar. Yes, it was the man who for years had been standing guard over our house by order of the Minister of Police. I never knew what it meant, whether honour or supervision. Napoleon had the houses of all his Marshals guarded. This sergeant-major was an elderly man in a shabby uniform and a shabby hat. His tricorne showed a darker patch, the patch where up till two days ago he had worn the blue-white-red rosette of the Empire. It was obvious that he had left that patch free by design. The white rosette of the new Government was loosely fastened alongside it.
‘Let me pass, you know I live in that house over there.’ I nodded in the direction of my house, in front of which gendarmes were standing in a bunch.
‘In half an hour’s time His Majesty the Emperor of Russia is going to pay a call on Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess of Sweden. My orders are not to let anybody walk past the house,’ he rattled off without looking at me.
‘My God,’ I thought, ‘that’s the last straw, the Tsar visiting me!’ ‘In that case let me pass at once,’ I shouted furiously. ‘I must change my dress!’
But the shabby sergeant-major was still looking over my head into space.
I stamped my foot. ‘Look at me, will you? You have known me for years. You know very well that I live in that house there.’
‘Sorry, my mistake! I mistook Your Highness for the wife of Marshal Bernadotte.’ At last he turned his eyes on me, eyes full of a malicious glint. ‘I apologise for the mistake. I realise now, Your Highness is the lady who receives the Tsar’s call.’ He roared: ‘Clear the way for the Crown Princess of Sweden!’
I ran the gauntlet of the gendarmes. My feet were as heavy as lead, but I kept running.
They were waiting for me at home. The front door opened from inside when I reached it and Marie hauled me in. ‘Quick, quick,’ she said, ‘the Tsar will be here in half an hour’s time.’
I threw the bag with the money to Pierre and ran up to my boudoir. Marie undressed me quickly, Yvette started brushing my hair, and I shut my eyes, exhausted. Marie forced a glass of cognac on me, which I drank in one gulp. It made my throat burn.
‘What will you wear?’ asked Marie, and I decided on the purple velvet dress which I had worn at the last interview with Napoleon.
Just as I was putting on my gold paint and rouge I saw in the mirror that Julie had come in, dressed in one of her purple gowns and holding one of her small crowns in her hand. ‘Shall I wear the crown or not, Désirée?’
I turned round and looked at her, uncomprehending. She had gone so thin that the purple dress, which doesn’t suit her anyway, hung round her body in loose folds. ‘For Heaven’s sake, what do you want the crown for?’
‘I thought – I mean when you present me to the Tsar you would probably introduce me by my old title and—’
I turned away and spoke to her reflection in the mirror. ‘You really want to be presented to the Tsar, Julie?’
She nodded energetically. ‘Of course I do. I shall ask him to protect my interests and those of my children. The Emperor of Russia—’
‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Julie Clary? Napoleon has only just abdicated, his family shared in his success, you accepted two crowns from him, now you must wait for what is going to be decided about you. Your interests—’ I swallowed. My mouth felt dry. ‘Julie, you are no longer a Queen but only Julie Bonaparte née Clary. No more. But no less either.’
The little crown fell clattering to the floor. The next moment Julie had banged the door behind her.
Yvette placed the ear-rings of the Swedish Dowager Queen in my ears, and Marie said that all day long people had been asking for me.
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing. You’ve been away a long time.’
‘Yes. I sent the manager round to collect debts, and I had to attend to the customers while he was away.’
‘Five minutes to go,’ said Marie. ‘How is business?’
‘Flourishing. They are selling satin and muslin for the new court dresses for the wives of Napoleon’s old Marshals. Give me another glass of cognac.’
Marie poured out another glass without a word, and without a word I gulped it down. It burnt my throat, but now it was rather an agreeable burning.
I looked at myself in the mirror. The last time I had worn this dress I had had a bunch of violets on my décolletage. ‘A pity,’ I thought, ‘I haven’t any to-day.’
‘By the way, Eugenie, some flowers have come for you, violets. I put them on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room. You must go down now.’
I don’t know whether it was my tiredness or the cognac, at any rate I floated down the stairs as if in a dream. In the hall everybody had lined up, Marceline, General Clary, Madame La Flotte, Julie’s daughters, Hortense’s sons, Count Rosen in a Swedish full-dress uniform, and, in the background, Colonel Villatte. As soon as I got down Villatte asked to be excused from attending, and I let him go.
‘I should like you all to go into the big drawing-room and stay there. I shall receive the Tsar in the small drawing-room.’ I saw astonishment on all their faces. ‘I notice, Count Rosen, that you have found yourself a Swedish adjutant’s uniform.’
‘His Royal Highness sent it me through a Russian adjutant.’
‘Jean-Baptiste,’ I thought, ‘never forgets the tiniest detail.’ ‘You will accompany me into the small drawing-room, Count.’
‘And we?’ exclaimed Marceline.
From the door to the drawing-room I said: ‘I shouldn’t like to ask anybody French to be introduced to the ruler of a hostile power before peace has been concluded between France and the members of the coalition. To the best of my knowledge the Emperor has only just abdicated.’
Marius blushed, Marceline uncomprehendingly shook her head, Madame La Flotte bit her lips and the children asked whether they might be allowed to peep through the keyhole. The small drawing-room was in perfect order. Champagne, glasses and sweetmeats were arranged on the small table by the mirror, and on the mantelpiece stood a silver basket with violets in it, puny-looking and past their best, and against it a sealed envelope.
The sound of trumpets and horses’ hooves filled the room as a carriage drew up outside. I stood, rigid, in the middle of the room.
The door opened and the Tsar strode in, a giant with a round boyish face, fair hair and a carefree smile, a giant in a brilliantly white uniform with glittering white epaulettes. Immediately behind him came Talleyrand and a host of people in foreign uniforms. I bowed and held out my hand to the young giant, who put it to his lips.
‘Your Highness, it is my deeply felt need to pay my respects to the wife of the man who has contributed so largely to the liberation of Europe,’ said the Tsar.
My two servants crept round, offering champagne. The Tsar sat down with me on the small sofa, and Talleyrand took the chair opposite. ‘The Prince of Benevento was kind enough to put his house at my disposal,’ said the Tsar, and smiled.
‘Does he always wear uniforms of brilliant white,’ I wondered, ‘even in battle? Nonsense, the Tsar was no leader of armies, he was a monarch waiting for news of victory from his Generals. Only Jean-Baptiste was Prince and General at the same time,’ I thought, and smiled into my glass of champagne.
‘It was a matter of infinite regret to me that Your Highness’s husband did not enter Pari
I drank and smiled into my glass of champagne.
‘I should have been glad if His Royal Highness could have taken part in the discussions on the shaping of the new France. After all, Your Highness’s husband is better informed about the wishes of the French people than I or our dear cousins, the Emperor of Austria and the King of Prussia. Moreover, they and their advisers are apt to pursue quite different and particular interests.’ The Tsar emptied his glass and an adjutant refilled it. Neither of my servants was allowed near him.
I kept smiling.
‘I am awaiting with impatience the arrival of your husband, Highness. Perhaps Your Highness knows when I may expect him?’
I shook my head and drank my champagne.
‘The provisional Government of France under the leadership of our friend, the Prince of Benevento’ – he raised his glass to Talleyrand and Talleyrand bowed – ‘has informed us that France longs for the return of the Bourbons and that only their restoration can guarantee internal peace. This has surprised me. What does Your Highness think of it?’
‘I know nothing about politics, Sire.’
‘During my frequent conversations with Your Highness’s husband I had rather gained the impression that the Bourbon dynasty is not – hm, well, is not at all acceptable to the French people. Therefore I suggested to His Royal Highness—’ he held his empty glass up to the adjutant without taking his eyes off me, ‘Madame, I have therefore proposed to your husband to persuade the French people to elect its great Marshal Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, Prince of Sweden, as its King.’
‘And what did my husband answer, Your Majesty?’
‘Nothing, Your Highness, quite incomprehensibly, nothing. Our dear cousin, the Crown Prince of Sweden, has not answered our letter, he has not arrived in Paris at the appointed time, my couriers can no longer establish contact with him. His Highness has – disappeared.’ He emptied the freshly filled glass and looked at me sadly. ‘The Emperor of Austria and the King of Prussia support the return of the Bourbons, and Britain is putting a man-of-war at our disposal to convey Louis XVIII across. As the Crown Prince of Sweden has not answered me I shall conform to the wishes of the French Government and of my allies.’ He stared thoughtfully into his glass. ‘Pity,’ he said, ‘pity.’ And abruptly he added: ‘You have a charming salon, Madame.’
We rose, and the Emperor went to the window and looked out into the garden. I was standing quite close to him and hardly reached to his shoulders.
‘This is Moreau’s old house,’ I said.
The Tsar, overcome by sudden painful memories, closed his eyes. ‘A shell smashed both his legs when he was serving as a member of my General Staff. He died at the beginning of September. Did Your Highness not know?’
I pressed my head against the cool glass of the window. ‘Moreau is an old friend of ours from the days when my husband still hoped to be able to preserve the Republic for the people of France.’ I spoke in a very low tone, and not even Talleyrand was near enough to hear us.
‘And is it for the sake of this Republic that your husband will not accept my suggestion?’
I made no answer.
‘No answer is answer enough,’ he smiled.
Then I remembered something and became very angry. ‘Sire,’ I said.
He bent down. ‘My dear cousin?’
‘You offered my husband not only the French crown but also the hand of a Grand Duchess!’
He laughed. ‘It is said that walls have ears. But that even the thick walls of Abo should possess them! … Do you know what your husband answered, Highness? “But I am married already,” he said, and the subject has never been touched on again. Does that reassure you, Highness?’
‘I never needed a reassurance, Sire, at least in that respect. Will you have another drink, my dear – cousin?’
Talleyrand joined us, bringing glasses, and he didn’t leave us alone for another second.
‘If I could do anything for you, dear cousin, you would make me very happy.’
‘You are very kind, Sire. But I need nothing.’
‘Perhaps you would like a guard of honour of Russian Guards officers?’
‘For Heaven’s sake, no!’ I exclaimed. Talleyrand smiled ironically.
‘I understand,’ the Tsar said gravely, ‘of course I understand, my dearest cousin.’ He bent over my hand. ‘Had I had the honour of knowing you before I should never have made that suggestion to the Crown Prince. I mean the Abo suggestion.’
‘But you meant well, Sire.’
‘The ladies of my family who might have been considered are very ugly. You, however, my dear, my very dear cousin …’
The rest of his sentence was drowned by the clicking of his spurred heels. Then he left with his entourage.
After he had gone my thoughts wandered back to Moreau who had come back from America to fight for France’s liberty. He had not lived to see the return of the Bourbons and the white rosettes … I caught sight of the faded violets. ‘Count Rosen, where did the flowers come from?’
‘Caulaincourt brought them. He was on his way from Fontainebleau to Talleyrand to hand over the instrument of abdication.’
I went to the mantelpiece. There was no address on the sealed envelope. I tore it open and found a sheet of notepaper with nothing on it but a scribbled ‘N’. I took out a bunch of the violets. They smelled beautifully as if they were still fresh, still quite alive, yet they were half dead already.
I felt very tired. Selling satin and muslin for the firm of Clary, reading Napoleon’s abdication, entertaining the Tsar of Russia, learning the news of Moreau’s death, and now the violets from Fontainebleau, it was enough to make me reel with tiredness. So I told Rosen to apologise for me at table and went straight to my room.
At the bottom of the stairs Marie was waiting for me. She took me to bed, undressed me and tucked me in as if I were a child.
I woke in the middle of the night and sat up in bed with a jerk. Everything was black around me and perfectly still. I pressed my hands against my temples to remember what it was that had woken me. What had it been? A thought? A dream? No, the knowledge that something was going to happen during the night, perhaps at this hour, something that I had felt coming all through the evening, something – Suddenly I knew. It was something to do with abdication and the violets.
I lit the candle and went into my boudoir. The special edition with the announcement of the abdication was still lying on my dressing-table. I read it through very, very carefully: ‘… the Emperor declares that he renounces the thrones of France and Italy and that there is no sacrifice, not even that of his life, which he is not willing to make …’ ran the Emperor’s proclamation.
That was it, ‘no sacrifice, not even that of his life …’ They were the words that had woken me. I knew, I knew for certain that he was going to commit suicide. That was why he had sent the violets: a man alone at the end of his life looked back to his youth, to the beginning of his journey where he found the young girl leaning against the hedge in a dreamy garden and, since she was still within reach, he sent her the last greeting, she, who had been the first.
The violets were all the proof I needed that he was going to take his life. ‘I shall order Villatte,’ I thought, ‘to ride to Fontainebleau at once and to force his way into his bedroom. Perhaps he will be too late, but I must try it, I must.
‘Why must I, why? Was there any obligation on me? Must I really?’
I slipped from the chair down to the floor, fighting hard not to lose my self-control, not to scream, not to wake anybody, fighting hard the sense of doom. It was an endless night. Not till dawn broke did I get back to my bed. My limbs ached and I felt terribly cold.
After breakfast I sent for Colonel Villatte: ‘Go to Talleyrand’s of
Later I took a cab and drove with Count Rosen to the shop of the firm of Clary. I had been told that the Prussians were ‘shopping’ in Paris without paying for the goods. When we arrived Monsieur Legrand was just trying unsuccessfully to prevent Prussian soldiers from carrying off our last rolls of silk. I told Rosen, whose Swedish uniform commanded respect, to deal with them, and he managed to persuade the Prussians to pay up.
When we returned an enormous crowd had assembled in front of my house. Two Russian Guardsmen were solemnly pacing up and down the length of the house. As I got out, these men, who wore enormous beards and looked altogether frightening, presented arms. ‘It is a guard of honour,’ said Count Rosen.
‘But what are these people waiting for? Why are they staring up at the windows?’
‘Perhaps there has been a rumour that His Royal Highness is returning to-day. After all, to-morrow is the day for the official entry of the victorious rulers and their Marshals. It seems hardly possible that His Royal Highness should not take part in the victory parade at the head of the Swedish troops.’
Hardly possible, yes, hardly possible …
Before the mid-day meal Colonel Villatte reported to me on his visit to Talleyrand. ‘At first,’ he said, ‘they hedged. But when I said that you had sent me, Talleyrand told me in strictest confidence that—’ Villatte recounted what Talleyrand had told him and finished up by saying: ‘It is inconceivable.’
The meal took place in a most depressing silence. Even the children didn’t say a word. And what was the reason for it? Firstly, said Julie, because I hadn’t presented any of them to the Tsar, and secondly, I had been so strange, so unapproachable to them lately that the children, who very much wanted to see the victory parade, dared not ask me to lend them my carriage with the Swedish colours on it. I told Julie that I had plenty of problems and cares, and that I slept badly and that these were sad days. But they could gladly have my carriage if they wanted to see the parade. They would be safe in it and I didn’t need it. I would stay at home to-morrow. When I had said that the horizon brightened considerably …