Désirée (38 page)

"I told you so," said his eyes. "Long ago at the hedge. You didn't believe me. You hoped so much that I'd be discharged from the Army, because you wanted to make a silk merchant out of me." . . . We kept looking right at each other. There he sat, the ermine collar practically up to his ears, and the heavy crown on his shorn hair; and yet for a moment he looked just as he once had. I remembered the Duke of Enghien; and Lucien, the first to be banished; and Moreau and the others—known and unknown French citizens who followed after him. I forced myself to look away and didn't look at the throne again until I heard the voice of the president of the Senate.

The Senate president stood before Napoleon, unfurling a parchment roll. With one hand on the Bible, the other raised,
the Emperor repeated the oath after him. His voice rang clear and cold as though he were giving orders. Napoleon I swore to preserve for the French people religious, political and civil liberties.

The clergy returned to escort the Imperial couple out of the cathedral. For a moment Cardinal Fesch stopped next to Napoleon. Laughing, Napoleon poked his uncle in the side with the sceptre. But the Cardinal's round face looked so horrified at his nephew's thoughtless gesture that Napoleon moved on with a shrug of his shoulders. The very next minute, Joseph, who was still carrying the purple train, called out loudly to Napoleon, "What would our father have said if he'd seen us here?"

Walking out behind Murat, I looked for the green turban of the Turkish Minister so I could find Etienne. I was lucky.
Etienne had his mouth open and seemed transported with rapture. He still gazed in adoration after his Emperor although by this time many backs blocked his view.

"Does the Emperor wear his crown in bed at night?" Oscar asked as I put him to bed that evening.

"No, I don't think so," I said.

"Perhaps it's too heavy," Oscar decided. (Julie had recently given him a bearskin cap which was much too heavy for him.)

I had to laugh. "Too heavy? No, darling, Napoleon doesn't find the crown the least bit heavy; quite the opposite."

"Marie says that many people who shout 'Vive l'Emperor' in the street are paid for it by the police," Oscar reported. "Is that true, Mama?"

"I don't know; but you oughtn't to say such things."

"Why not?"

"Because—" I bit my lips. I wanted to say, "Because it's dangerous." But Oscar should be able to say anything that pops into his head. On the other hand, the Minister of Police forbids people who say everything they think to live in Paris or anywhere near the capital. Just a little while ago, the authoress, Mme de Staël, Juliette Récamier's best friend, was exiled.

"Your grandfather Clary was a complete Republican," I said softly and kissed my son on his clean little forehead.

"I thought he was a silk merchant," replied Oscar. Two hours later I danced a waltz for the first time in my life. Brother-in-law Joseph, His Imperial Highness, gave a really large reception and invited all the foreign princes and diplomats, also all the marshals, and Etienne because, after all, he's Julie's brother.

Marie Antoinette had once tried to introduce the Viennese waltz to Versailles. But only the best people, those whom she received, learned it. During the Revolution, of course, everything was forbidden that reminded anyone of the Austrian. But now these sweet three-quarter-time tunes from abroad are accepted in France. Although I'd also practiced waltz steps at M. Montel's, I didn't really know how to dance it. But Jean-Baptiste, who before our marriage was our Ambassador in Vienna, showed me. He held me very close and counted in his sergeant's voice, "One, two three—one, two three—" At first I felt like a recruit. But he gradually relaxed, and we turned and twisted around and around. The ballroom in the Luxembourg seemed a surging sea of lights, and I felt him kiss the top of my head.

"The Emperor flirted with you during the coronation—one, two, three—I saw him distinctly," Jean-Baptiste whispered.

"I had the feeling that his heart wasn't in it," I said.

"In what? Flirting with you?" Jean-Baptiste wanted to know.

"Don't be horrid. I mean the coronation, naturally," I said.

"You must keep time, little one."

"A coronation should touch a man's heart," I insisted. "For Napoleon, it was only a formality. He had himself crowned an Emperor—and took the oath of the Republic. . . . One, two three-"

Someone shouted, "A toast to the Emperor!" Glasses clinked.

"That was your brother Etienne," said Jean-Baptiste.

"Let's go on dancing," I whispered, "on and on—"

Jean-Baptiste kissed my hair again. The crystal chandeliers sparkled in a thousand colours and seemed to sway. The whole
ballroom revolved around us. As though from far away, I heard the voices of the many guests, sounding like cackling hens. One, two three—don't think back, but only of Jean-Baptiste's lips and dancing the waltz. . . .

On our way home we drove past the Tuileries. They were brilliantly lighted in honour of the occasion. Pages with glowing red torches were on guard. Someone told us that the Emperor had dined all alone with Josephine. Josephine had to keep her crown on because he thought it very becoming to her. After the meal, Napoleon retired to his study and unrolled general staff maps. "He's working on his next campaign," Jean-Baptiste explained to me. It had begun to snow and many of the torches died out.

Paris, two weeks after the Emperor's coronation

A few days ago the Emperor distributed the eagle to every regiment. We all had to assemble on the champ de Mars. Napoleon wore his coronation robe again and put on the large crown. Each regiment held a standard on which perched a golden eagle. Under the eagle flew the tricolour. These eagles must never fall into enemy hands, the Emperor said, and promised our troops new victories. We stood for hours on a platform and watched the regiments pass by. Etienne, next to me, shouted himself hoarse and almost deafened me in his enthusiasm. It started to snow again, the parade seemed endless, and we all got wet feet. I had time to think over the preparations for the marshals' ball.

The Master of Ceremonies had hinted to the marshals that they arrange a ball in honour of the Emperor. It was to be the most magnificent ball ever, and they had requisitioned the Opera House for the occasion.

We marshals' wives held many meetings and checked the
guest list so no one would be forgotten and offended. M.
Montel lectured us on how we were to advance to greet the
Imperial couple and how to escort Napoleon and Josephine
to the ballroom. Despréaux informed us that the Emperor
would offer his arm to one of the marshals' wives, and one
of the marshals would escort the Empress to her throne. We
debated for hours on end which marshal and which wife were
worthy of this honour. Finally Murat, as the husband of an
Imperial princess, was selected to accompany the Empress.
As to which lady was to take the Emperor's arm, however,
they vacillated between Mme Berthier, the oldest marshal's
wife, and me, the sister of the Imperial Princess Julie. But I
succeeded in convincing the others that fat Berthier was the
only proper person to welcome the Emperor. I was actually
furious with Napoleon because he was still letting Jean-
Baptiste wait for the independent command far away from
Paris.

The afternoon of the ball, Paulette called on me unexpectedly, flanked by an Italian violin virtuoso and a French captain of dragoons. She sat them both down on the sofa in my salon, and then came back upstairs with me to the bedroom.

"Which of them do you think is my lover?" she asked and , laughed. Gold powder glittered in her dark-blond hair under a little black velvet hat. Emeralds, from the Borghese family jewels, sparkled in her tiny ears. Her light-green velvet skirt fitted snugly across her hips, and the black velvet jacket showed off, with startling frankness the points of her breasts. Her eyebrows were as black as when she was fifteen, but she now used a fine pencil instead of pieces of coal from her Mother's kitchen. Under her lustrous eyes, which always reminded me of the eyes of Napoleon, there were deep shadows.

"Well, which of them is my lover?" she asked again. I didn't know. "Both of them," cried Paulette triumphantly and sat down at my dressing table. The gold jewel box was still there. "Who had the bad taste to send you a jewel box decorated with those dreadful Imperial eagles?" she demanded.

Now, you must guess," I replied.

Paulette frowned. This guessing game intrigued her. She
racked her brains. Suddenly she gasped, "Was it—tell me, was it—?"

I didn't move a muscle. "I have the infinite graciousness of our sovereign to thank for the box."

Paulette let out a long low whistle. Then, excitedly, "What do you know! At the moment, he's supposed to be cheating on Josephine with Mme Duchâtel—you know, the lady-in-waiting with the violet eyes and the long nose."

I blushed. "On the day of his coronation, Napoleon paid back an old debt from the Marseilles days. Nothing more."

Paulette stretched out her small hands, loaded with diamonds also from the house of Borghese. "God forbid, little one —naturally nothing more." She paused, then looked thoughtful. "I want to talk to you about Mother," she began, in a conciliatory tone. "Mother arrived yesterday. Secretly. I don't think even Fouché knows she's in Paris. She's staying with me. And you must help them."

"Help whom?" I asked in bewilderment.

"Both of them—Madame Mere and Napoleon, too—her royal son and heir." Paulette laughed, but it didn't ring true.

"I'm worried," she continued. "Napoleon insists she stand on ceremony and wait upon him at the Tuileries to advise him of her arrival. Just imagine—Mother curtsying and all those grand opera goings-on—" I tried in vain to visual Mme Letizia bowing low in a court curtsy before Napoleon. "You see, he's angry because she purposely travelled in slow stages so as not to be here for the coronation." Paulette gnawed her lower lip. "And he's hurt because Mama didn't want to see his triumph. He truly longs to see her and Eugénie, Désirée, madame la maréchale, please get then together. As though by chance, you understand? And leave them alone at the moment of meeting so it won't matter whether there's any ceremony or not. Can you fix that?"

"You really are a dreadful family!" I exploded.

But Paulette didn't turn a hair. "You've always known that. And do you know I'm the only one of his brothers and sisters Napoleon really likes?"

"Yes, I know," I said, and thought of an afternoon when P
aulette went with me to see the Commandant of Marseilles.

"The others only want to be his heirs," Paulette remarked, and began to polish her nails. "Joseph, by the way, isn't recog
nized as successor to the throne now that Napoleon has adopted Louis and Hortense's two little boys. Josephine nagged him night and day to make her grandchildren crown princes. And do you know the lowest thing?" Paulette's eyes widened in indignation. "She tells him he's to blame for their
childless marriage! I ask you—Napoleon!"

"I'll bring Mme Letizia and the Emperor together," I said quickly. "At the marshals' ball. I'll send word to you by Marie. You have only to see that your mother comes to the box I choose."

"You are a darling, Eugénie Am I relieved!"

She ran her finger around my small jar of pomade and began earnestly dabbing it on her upper lip. Then she pressed her lips together to colour the lower lip, too.

"The other day," she said, "an English newspaper published a scandalous article about me. My little long-haired violinist translated it for me. The English call me 'the Napoleon of Love.' Such nonsense." She turned to me. "We have an entirely different technique, Napoleon and I; he wins offensive Wars—I lose my defensive battles." A forlorn little smile flickered over her face. "Why does he always make me marry men who don't interest me? First, Leclerc; and then Borghese. Both my sisters have it easier; and, besides, they're ambitious. They don't care anything about people except as useful connections. Elisa can't forget that horrible cellar and is beset with fears of being poor again. So she grabs everything she possibly can. Caroline, on the other hand, was so young when we lived in the cellar she doesn't remember it at all. And to wear a crown on her head, Caroline's ready to stoop to any meanness. Now I. . . . "

"I think your two cavaliers must be getting impatient," I said.

 Paulette jumped right up. "You're right, I must go. I'll wait for
your message and then send our
madre
to the opera. Agreed?"

I nodded. "Agreed!"

What if my own little rascal, my Oscar, should ever demand a court curtsy of me!

Allons enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé. .

The voices of the violins were drowned out by the jubilant wind instruments. On Jean-Baptiste's arm, I slowly descended the stairs to the bottom step where I was to welcome the Emperor of the French as a guest of his marshals.

Aux armes citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons!

The anthem. The song of Marseilles, song of my girlhood. Once I stood in my nightgown on the balcony of our white villa and tossed roses down to our volunteers; to Franchon, the tailor, and to the shoemaker's bowlegged son, and the Levi brothers in their Sunday suits—citizens all, marching away to defend the young Republic against the whole world; the Republic which then hadn't money enough to buy boots I for her soldiers.