Désirée (35 page)

"Le Roy won't be able to whip me up a sky-blue ensemble in two days," I said.

Josephine, after the long hours she'd spent in the morning having her coronation robes fitted, must have been too tired to be discreet about her past. She said, "Paul Barras once gave me a pair of sapphire earrings. If I can find them, I'll gladly lend them to you."

"Madame is too kind, but I think . . ."

That's as far as I got because we were interrupted. Joseph stood before us. "What's happened now?" Josephine demanded.

"His Majesty requests Your Majesty to come to his study at once," Joseph said.

Josephine raised her thin eyebrows. "New difficulties about the coronation, dear brother-in-law?"

Joseph could contain himself no longer. "The Pope has just informed us that he refuses to crown Your Majesty," he said with considerable relish.

Josephine's small rouged mouth smiled derisively. "And on what grounds does the Holy Father refuse?"

Joseph looked discreetly in every other direction. "Tell me. No one can hear us but Princess Julie and Mme Bernadotte, and they're both in the family after all," said Josephine.

Joseph pulled in his chin, doubling it. "The Pope has learned that His Majesty and Your Majesty were not married in a church, and has declared . . . pardon me, madame, . these are the words of the Holy Father—that he cannot crown the concubine of the Emperor of the French."

"And where did the Holy Father discover that Bonaparte and I had only a civil marriage ceremony?" Josephine asked him calmly.

"That's what we have to find out," Joseph replied.

Josephine thoughtfully studied her empty glass. "And how has His Majesty decided to answer the Holy Father?"

"His Majesty will probably argue with the Pope."

"There's one very simple solution." Josephine smiled and rose, She handed Joseph the empty champagne glass. "I will speak to Bona—I will discuss it with the Emperor." And, on her way out, "We'll even be married in church. Then everything will be in order."

While Joseph gave the empty glass to the nearest lackey and dashed after Josephine so as not to miss her conversation with Napoleon, Julie said thoughtfully, "I wonder if she didn't tell the Pope herself."

"Yes, or else she would have been more surprised," I said.

"I'm actually sorry for her," Julie said, inspecting her hands. "She's so afraid of a divorce, and it would be horrid of him to leave her now. Just because she can't have any more children. Don't you think so?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "He's having this entire farce of a coronation in the style of Charlemagne combined with the ceremonial at Rheims to impress on the whole world that he's founding an hereditary dynasty. I don't see any point in it, when only Joseph, if he outlives him, will become Emperor, or one of the little sons of Louis and Hortense."

"But he can't send Josephine away," Julie practically wept. "She got engaged to him when he couldn't even afford new trousers. She's kept up with him step by step and always tried to help him in his career. And anyway, her crown has been delivered, and the whole world recognizes her as Empress and . . ."

"He can't play Charlemagne and be crowned by the Pope and, at the same time, be involved in a divorce case like an ordinary citizen," I said. "But if even I realize this, Josephine, who is a hundred times cleverer than I, has known it a long time
. Napoleon must be counting on her coronation, and he'll surely make it all right with the Church."

"And after the church ceremony, it won't be so easy for him to get a divorce, will it? Josephine is counting on that?"

"Yes, of course."

"He does love her. In his own way, but he really loves her and he can't let her down."

"No?" I said. "He can't? Believe me, Napoleon can . . ."

There was a rustle of gowns all through the room. Every-one curtsied. The Empress had returned. On her way in, Josephine took a glass of champagne from the tray and said to Despréaux, "We can go over my coronation procession again." She came over to Julie and me. "Tonight Uncle Fesch is going to marry us quietly in the palace chapel," she said, taking a couple of quick sips of champagne. "Isn't that funny,
after almost nine years of marriage? So—madame la maréchale, have you decided to borrow my sapphires?"

On the way home, I decided not to let Napoleon make me w
ear a blue dress. Tomorrow my rose-coloured dress—all the
marshals' wives are to wear rose—will be delivered by Le Roy, and I shall wear rose when I carry Josephine's handkerchief
through Notre-Dame.

Jean-Baptiste waited for me in the dining room. He looked like a hungry lion. Anyway he looked as fearsome as I suppose a hungry lion does. "What kept you so long in the Tuileries?" he demanded.

"I listened to the Bonapartes quarrel with each other. Then w
e rehearsed. And I've been given a special part. I don't have have
dance in with the other marshals' wives. I come in all
alone after Murat carrying a handkerchief for Josephine on a c
ushion. Isn't that an honour?"

Jean-Baptiste thought that one over. "I don't want you to take a special part. Joseph and that ass Despréaux made it up just because you're Julie's sister. And I forbid it."

I sighed. "That won't make any difference. Joseph and I Despréaux have nothing to do with it. The Emperor wishes it."

I would never have believed that anything could so upset
Jean-Baptiste. His voice was almost shrill. "What did you say?"

"The Emperor wishes it. I can't do anything about it."

"And I can't endure it. My wife can't expose herself before the whole world." Jean-Baptiste shouted so he made the glasses on the table jingle. I had no idea he was that furious.

"Why are you so angry?" I asked.

"They'll point at you. The fiancée, they'll say, Mme Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, the Emperor's young love, whom he cannot forget. His little Eugénie who will show off at his coronation. Now as before—his little Eugénie And I'll be the laughing stock of Paris."

Disconcerted, I just gaped at Jean-Baptiste. No one knows as well as I how strained his relationship with Napoleon is. How he is tortured by the constant feeling that he has betrayed the ideals of his youth. How impatiently he waits for approval of his request for an independent command far \way from Paris. And Napoleon lets him wait, wait, and wait. But I certainly never expected this miserable waiting to lead to a jealous scene. I went to him and put my hands on his breast. "There's no sense letting a whim of Napoleon's upset you, Jean-Baptiste."

But he pushed my hands away. "You know exactly what's happening," he declared. "You know very well. People all think he's granting a special favour to his little fiancée of long ago. But I assure you, he's quite forgotten this 'long ago.' As a man I know he has. Only the present interests him. He's love with you. He wants to make you happy so that you. . . .

"Jean-Baptiste!"

He put his hand to his forehead. "Forgive me, it's not your fault," he murmured. At that moment Fernand appeared and set the soup tureen on the table. Silently we took our places. Jean-Baptiste's hand, raising the spoon to his mouth, shook.

"I won't take any part in the coronation ceremonies. I'll stay in bed and be sick," I said. Jean-Baptiste didn't answer. After dinner he left the house.

Now, sitting at his desk writing, I'm trying to decide whether Napoleon really is in love with me again. That in
terminable night in his office, before the Duke of Enghien was
shot, he spoke to me in his long-ago voice, "Take your hat
off, madame. . . ." And a little later: "Eugénie—little Eugénie
. . ." Mlle George was sent home. I believe that night he
remembered the hedge in our garden in Marseilles. And the
sleeping meadows and the stars that were so near. How strange
that in two days the little Bonaparte of the hedge will be
crowned Emperor of the French. And that there was a time in
my life when I didn't belong to my Bernadotte.

The clock in the dining room just struck midnight. Perhaps
Jean-Baptiste is calling on Mme Récamier. He speaks of her so
often. Juliette Récamier is married to a rich old bank di
rector and reads all the books that are published and some
that aren't, and lies all day long on a sofa. She fancies herself
as the Muse of all famous men, but she kisses none of them.
Not even her own husband, Paulette maintains. Jean-Baptiste
often discusses books and music with his bosom friend. And
sometimes she sends me a boring novel and asks me to read the
masterpiece. I hate and admire the Récamier very much.

One-thirty. Now Napoleon and Josephine are undoubtedly kneeling in the chapel in the Tuileries, and Uncle Fesch is performing the marriage ceremony. How easily I could explain to Jean-Baptiste why Napoleon can't forget me, but it would only annoy him. I am a part of Napoleon's youth. And no one forgets his youth, even though he seldom thinks about it. If I walk in the coronation procession in sky blue, I am no more than a memory to Napoleon. But it is quite possible that Jean-Baptiste is right and Napoleon would like to refresh this memory. A declaration of love from Napoleon would be balm a long-healed wound. Tomorrow I'll stay in bed with a terrible cold, and the next day, too. His Majesty's sky-blue memory has the sniffles and begs to be excused. . . .

Last night—no, it was already today—I fell asleep over my diary. I woke up only when someone took me in his arms and carried me to the bedroom. The gold braid on the epaulettes scratched my cheeks as usual. "You were with your soul-mate. It makes me sick. . . . " I muttered sleepily.

"I was at the Opera, little girl, and all alone. I longed to
hear some good music. Then I dismissed the carriage and walked home."

"I love you very much, Jean-Baptiste. And I'm serious ill with a cold in the head and a sore throat and can't take part in the coronation ceremony."

"I will convey Mme Bernadotte's regrets to the Emperor." And after a while, "You must never forget, little one, that I love you very much. Do you hear me or are you already asleep?"

"I was dreaming, Jean-Baptiste. What happens when someone puts balm on a wound healed years ago?"

"One laughs at the someone, Désirée."

"Yes, I'm laughing at him, the mighty Emperor of the French."

Paris, at night after Napoleon's coronation
December 2, 1804

Impressive and occasionally comical was the coronation of my former fiancé as Emperor of the French. As Napoleon was sat on the throne, the heavy gold crown on his head, our eyes suddenly met. I stood behind the Empress in front of the altar the whole time holding a velvet cushion with a lace handkerchief.

Things naturally didn't happen at all as I'd planned. Day before yesterday, Jean-Baptiste explained to the Master Ceremonies that to my horror and despair a heavy cold and fever would keep me from the coronation. This was too much for Despréaux since the other marshals' wives would have staggered from their deathbeds to appear in Notre-Dame. Why shouldn't I? "Madame la maréchale," Jean-Baptiste told the shocked Despréaux, "would drown out the organ music with her sneezing."

I actually stayed in bed all day. At noon, Julie, who had
heard of my sudden illness and was quite worried, came and
fixed me hot milk and honey. It tasted very good, and I didn't
have the nerve to tell her that I wasn't sick at all. But yester
day morning I got so bored in bed, I dressed and went to the
nursery, and Oscar and I killed a National Guardsman—I
mean a toy one. We wanted to see what the head was stuffed
with. It turned out to be sawdust which spewed out all over
the floor so that we had to slide quickly around the room to
clean it up. Both Oscar and I are afraid of Marie, who gets
stricter with us every year.

Suddenly the door opened and Fernand announced Napoleon's personal physician. Before I could say that I would receive Dr. Corvisart in my bedroom in five minutes, Fernand, the clumsy fool, had him in the nursery. Dr. Corvisart put his black bag on the saddle of the rocking horse, and bowed to me politely.

"His Majesty has asked me to inquire about madame la maréchale's health. I am glad I can inform His Majesty that madame has recovered."

"Doctor, I still feel very weak," I said hopelessly.

Dr. Corvisart raised his odd triangular eyebrows that look as though they'd been pasted on his face. "I believe I can reconcile with my conscience as a physician the opinion that madame is strong enough to carry Her Majesty's lace handkerchief at the coronation." And with another bow and without cracking a smile, "His Majesty has given me very detailed instructions."

I gulped, and realized that with a stroke of his pen, Napoleon could reduce Jean-Baptiste in rank. How powerless we are, I thought.

"If you advise me, Dr. Corvisart—" I said.

Dr. Corvisart bowed over my hand. "I urgently advise you to be at the coronation, madame," he replied earnestly. He Picked up his black bag and left the nursery.