Désirée (42 page)

"I've thought it over. I want to be a musician, a composer like this Herr van Beethoven. Or—a king!"

"Why a king?"

"Because a king can do good for a lot of people. One of the
lackeys at the palace told me so. They used to have a king in Hanover. Before the Emperor sent Papa there. Did you know that?"

Now even my six-year-old son has discovered how uneducated I am.

"A composer or a king," he persisted.

"Better be a king," I advised. "It's easier."

Paris, June 4, 1806

It's spring and Jean-Baptiste still hasn't come home. His letters are short and tell me nothing. He's governing in Ansbach and trying to introduce there the reforms he did in Hanover. I was to join him as soon as Oscar was all well, but when he recovered from whooping cough, he came down with measles. He still has them. Josephine called on me once. She said I was neglecting my roses and sent me her gardener from Malmaison. The gardener demanded enormous wages and attacked my roses so viciously there is almost nothing left of them. In between Oscar's illnesses, Hortense invited him to play with her two sons. Since Napoleon adopted these sons, Hortense and Louis Bonaparte are counting on the older boy's inheriting Napoleon's Imperial crown. Joseph is equally sure that he's the heir to the throne. (Why Joseph should be expected to survive his younger brother, and why Napoleon doesn't choose a son of his own as his heir, I'll never understand. Only last December, Josephine's reader, Eléonore Revel, "very quietly," but with a lot of talk, gave birth to little "Léon." Perhaps the Empress may yet succeed; she did in her first marriage. Fortunately it's none of my business.)

Every day was just like every other. Until the moment Julie took me unawares. Since Oscar caught the measles, she hadn't even come as close as the dining room. Instead she
was always sending her maid over to ask how we were. One spring afternoon, however, there she was in the salon in a great state of excitement. I appeared at the door that leads out into the garden, but she quickly clamoured: "Don't come any nearer—you'll infect me. And my children are so delicate. I only want to be the first to tell you the big news. It's unbelievable—"

Her hat was crooked, tiny beads of perspiration dampened her forehead, she was very pale.

"What on earth has happened to you?" I asked in alarm.

"I have become a queen. Queen of Naples," said Julie tonelessly. She looked as though she'd seen a ghost.

First I thought, she's sick. She's feverish. She's already caught the measles somewhere, but definitely not at our house. "Marie!" I called. "Marie—come quickly, Julie isn't well."

Marie hurried to her but Julie pushed her away. "Leave me alone. There's nothing wrong with me. I only have to get used to the idea. A queen. I am a queen. The Queen of Naples. Naples is in Italy, as far as I know. My husband—His Majesty, King Joseph. And I am Her Majesty, Queen Julie. . . . Oh Désirée, it's terrible. We'll have to go to Italy again and live in one of those monstrous marble palaces . . ."

"Your late papa, bless him, wouldn't have approved of that at all, Mlle Julie," Marie scolded.

"Shut up, Marie!" Julie said angrily. I had never heard Julie speak like that to our Marie. Marie snapped her mouth shut and stamped out of the room. The door slammed behind her. The next moment, however, it opened again and in came my long-lost companion. Mme la Flotte wore her best dress, and sank into a court curtsy before Julie, as before the Empress. . . . "May I congratulate Your Majesty?"

Julie had collapsed when Marie left the room in a fury. Now she sat bolt upright, with her hand to her forehead. Her mouth twitched. Then she got control of herself and made a face like a bad actress trying to put on a queenly act.

"Thank you. How did you know what has happened* Julie said in a new, strange voice.

My companion was still crouched in front of Julie. "They
talk of nothing else in the city, Your Majesty." And quite irrelevantly, "Your Majesty is too kind."

"Leave me alone with my sister," Julie commanded in the same queer new voice. Whereupon my companion, with her back to the door, tried to find the way out. I watched this maneuver with interest.

When she finally managed to wiggle out of the door, I remarked, "She seems to think she's at court."

"In my presence, from now on, people are expected to conduct themselves as at court," said Julie. "This afternoon Joseph is assembling a retinue." Julie huddled her narrow shoulders as though she were freezing. "Désirée, I'm so scared."

I tried to cheer her up. "Nonsense, you won't change."

But Julie shook her head and hid her face in her hands. "No, no, it's no use, you can't talk me out of it. I've actually become a queen."

She began to cry harder, and I went over to comfort her. Don't touch me, go away—measles!" she shouted.

I went to the garden door. "Yvette, Yvette!" My maid appeared. When she saw Julie, she, too, sank into a court curtsy. Fortunately Julie was too busy weeping to notice. "Bring us a bottle of champagne, Yvette."

"I'm just not equal to the task," Julie said. "More receptions, more court balls, and in a foreign country. We'll have to leave Paris—"

Yvette returned with champagne and two glasses, and another court curtsy. I waved her out of the room; then filled a glass for Julie and one for myself. Julie took hers and began to drink in hasty, thirsty gulps.

"To you, my dear. I take it congratulations are in order," I said.

"It's all your fault. You brought Joseph to our house in the first place," and she smiled at me. I laughed, too, through my tears.

I thought of the whispered rumours that Joseph is unfaithful to Julie. Little affairs, nothing serious. "I hope you're happy with Joseph," I said.

"I rarely see him alone," Julie replied, staring past me into
the garden. "I suppose I'm happy. I have the children— my Zenaïde, and little Charlotte Napoleone. . . ."

"Your daughters are princesses now, and everything will be for the best." I smiled and I also tried to imagine it all. Julie is a queen, her daughters are princesses, and Joseph, the little secretary in the Town Hall, who married Julie for her dowry is King Joseph I of Naples.

"The Emperor has decided to change the occupied territories into independent states that can be ruled In the Imperial princes and princesses. These states will, of course, be bound to France by treaties of friendship. We—Joseph and I —will rule Naples and Sicily. Elisa is Duchess of Lucca. And Louis, King of Holland. Murat, just imagine, Murat will be Duke of Cleve and Berg."

"Do the marshals have a turn, too?" I asked, horrified.

"No, but Murat is married to Caroline, and Caroline would be offended if she didn't get the revenue from some country or other." I sighed with relief. "Someone has to rule these countries we've conquered," said Julie.

"Who's conquered them?" I asked pointedly.

Julie didn't answer. She poured herself another glass of champagne, gulped it, and said, "I wanted to be the first to tell you all about it. I have to go now. Le Roy is making my robes of state. So much purple—"

"No—" I was very firm— "You can't. It won't be becoming to you. Let them make you a green coronation robe. Not purple."

"And I must pack. I want to look glamourous to Joseph, in Naples," she moaned. "Will you come with me?"

"No, I must get my child well, and besides—" Why pretend to Julie? "And besides, I'm waiting for my husband. Sometime he has to come, doesn't he?"

I heard no more about Julie for days. But then on I society page in the
Moniteur
appeared all kinds of accounts of balls, receptions, and
bon voyage
parties for Their Majesties, the King and Queen of Naples. This morning Oscar was allowed to get up for the first time and sit by the open window. It was an enchanting May morning and my garden was beautiful
even though my rosebushes had very few buds. In my neighbour's garden the lilac was in bloom. Lilacs, and my I longing for Jean-Baptiste, made me feel empty and heavy of heart.

A carriage drove up. My heart stopped as it does every time an unexpected carriage stops in front of my house. But it was only Julie.

"Is madame la maréchale at home?"

The salon door flew open, my companion and Yvette collapsed into a court curtsy. Marie, who had wanted to dust the salon, marched out into the garden with an uncompromising look. She doesn't want to see Julie any more.

Julie's regal twist of the wrist—undoubtedly learned from M. Montel—encompassed the room. Oscar got up and ran to her. "Aunt Julie, I'm well again." Without a word, Julie took . the child in her arms. She hugged him, then looked at me over his curly head. "Before you read it in the
Moniteur—
and it will be announced tomorrow morning—I wanted to tell you, Jean-Baptiste has been made Prince of Ponte Corvo. Congratulations, Princess!" She smiled. "Congratulations, little Crown Prince of Ponte Corvo!" She kissed Oscar.

"I don't understand. Jean-Baptiste is not a brother of the Emperor." It was the first thing I thought of.

'But he's governing Ansbach and Hanover so magnificently, the Emperor wants to honour him," exulted Julie. She let Oscar go. "Aren't you pleased, Highness? You—Princess, you!"

"I suppose. . . . " I interrupted myself. "Yvette, champagne!" Yvette danced in. "I get a little drunk if I drink champagne in the morning," I remarked. "But since you made Marie so mad she never serves any chocolate when you come to see me. So—and now tell me, where is Ponte Corvo?"

Julie looked blank. "Stupid of me, I should have asked Joseph! I don't know, darling—but what does it matter?"

"Perhaps we'll have to go there and rule it," I suggested. That would be awful, Julie."

"The name sounds Italian, so it must be near Naples," said Julie hopefully. "Then you'd at least live near me. But—" Her face fell. "Too good to be true," she said. "Your Jean-Baptiste
is still a marshal, the Emperor needs him for his campaigns. No, you'll surely be allowed to stay here, and I have go to Naples alone with Joseph."

"Someday these dreadful wars must surely end," I said "We are killing ourselves with 'victories.'" Who told me that? Jean-Baptiste. France has no more frontiers to defend. France is practically all Europe. And is ruled by the Emperor and by Joseph, by Louis and Caroline and Elisa. And now the marshals, too.

"Good health, Princess!" Julie raised her champagne glass.

"Good health, Majesty." I smiled back.

Tomorrow it will all be in the
Moniteur.
The champagne prickles, pleasantly sweet. Where is Ponte Corvo? And when will my Jean-Baptiste ever come home?

Summer, 1807, in a travelling coach
somewhere in Europe

Marienburg—my destination's called, but unfortunately I'm not sure where Marienburg is. However, a colonel, assigned to me by the Emperor, is sitting next to me with a map on his knees. From time to time he calls directions to the coachman, so I assume we'll ultimately reach Marienburg. Marie, sitting opposite, grumbles continually about the muddy roads in which we often get stuck. I think we're driving straight through Poland. When we stop to change horses, I hear a language that doesn't sound German. "A short cut," the colonel told me. "We could drive through North Germany but it would be roundabout and Your Highness is in a hurry. . . . "

Yes, I'm in a hurry, a very great hurry.

"Marienburg is not far from Danzig," the colonel informed
me. That tells me very little because I don't know where
Danzig is.

"They were fighting on these roads just a few weeks ago," the colonel said. "But now, of course, we're at peace."

Yes, Napoleon has once again concluded a peace treaty. This time in Tilsit. Led by the Prussians, the Germans had risen and tried to drive our troops from their country. And the Russians supported the Germans. The
Moniteur
had told us all about our glorious victory at Jena. And Joseph told me privately that Jean-Baptiste had refused to obey the Emperor's orders. For "strategic reasons." And he then told the Emperor he could go on and have him court martialled. But before it came to that, Jean-Baptiste had encircled General Blücher with his army in Lübeck (wherever that is) and taken the town by storm.

Then followed the endless winter when I had so little news from him. Berlin fell and the enemy troops were pursued across Poland. Jean-Baptiste commanded the left wing of our army. At Mohrungen he won a great victory although his troops were greatly outnumbered. With this he not only inflicted a final defeat on the enemy, but saved face for the Emperor as well. This personal success so impressed the enemy's high command that they sent back his travelling bag with his marshal's uniform and his camp cot, both of which they'd captured. All this was months ago. Again and again Jean-Baptiste's regiments threw back flank attacks against our army. The Emperor won the Battles of Jena and Eylau and Friedland, collected representatives of the European States in Tilsit and dictated his peace conditions to them. Then, quite unexpectedly, Napoleon returned to Paris. And it was somewhat surprising, too, when his lackeys in their green uniforms—green is the Corsican colour, as Mme Letizia explained —rode from house to house inviting people to attend a huge victory celebration at the Tuileries.