Désirée (86 page)

That morning countless tourists visited the Cathedral. They surged around the tomb of Charlemagne. I followed every one with my eyes. Him? asked my heart. Or the little man with flat feet over there?

I don't know how a mother feels who's seen her son grow up. Who tells him good night and kisses his cheek with its first stubby beard, and knows when he first falls in love. Because then he suddenly pays attention to how he looks. All that I've missed. I'm now looking for a man, of whom I've dreamed all my life but never met. Great presence, irresistible charm, everything—I expect it all from an unknown son.

I recognized him immediately. Not because he was with Löwenhjelm., who hasn't changed since my long-ago Stockholm days. But by his carriage, his walk, the slight turn of his head when he whispered something to Löwenhjelm. He wore
a dark civilian suit, he is almost as big as his father. Only slender—yes, much slenderer. I stood up and went up to him. As in a dream, without thinking how I'd speak to him. He stood before the tomb of Charlemagne, and leaned a little forward to read the inscription. I plucked at his companion's arm. Löwenhjelm. looked up, and silently moved away.

"Is that Charlemagne's tomb?" I heard myself ask in French. It was the silliest question in the world, it said so on the tomb.

"As you see, madame," he said, without looking up.

"I know that my behavior is unseemly, but—but I'd like very much to meet Your Highness," I whispered.

He turned to me. "You know who I am, madame?"

The dark fearless eyes of his childhood. And the same thick hair. My hair . . . But a strange little moustache, which he had twirled up ridiculously.

"Your Highness is the Crown Prince of Sweden. And I—I'm a sort of compatriot. My husband lives in Stockholm . . ." I hesitated. He looked at me steadily. "I wanted to ask Your Highness something, but it will take a little time."

"Yes?" He looked around. "I don't know why my companion has suddenly deserted us," he murmured. "But I have an hour. If you'll permit me, madame, I'll gladly accompany you." He smiled into my eyes. "May I, madame?"

I nodded. There was a lump in my throat. While we walked to the exit, I saw Oscar's Löwenhjelm. hiding behind a pillar. Oscar didn't see him. Without speaking to each other, we strolled through the fish market in front of the Cathedral, across a wide road, and finally into a narrow street. I pulled my veil over my face because I felt Oscar looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He stopped at a small cafe with a few miserable little tables and two dusty palms in flowerpots.

"May I offer my charming compatriot a glass of wine?"

I looked in horror at the hideous potted plants. It wouldn't be proper, I thought, and blushed. Didn't he realize I was an elderly woman? Or was Oscar trained to be attentive to just any woman?

It's only because he's finally skipped out on his frightful Löwenhjelm., I comforted myself— and accepted. "It's not very g
rand here, but we can at least talk undisturbed, madame," he said amiably. Then, to my horror, he asked, "Waiter, have you any champagne?"

"Not so early in the morning!" I objected.

"Why not? Anytime. If there's something to celebrate."

"But there's nothing to celebrate," I protested.

"Yes. Knowing you, madame. Can't you push that ugly veil aside, so I can see your face, and not just the tip of your nose?"

"My nose is a great misfortune," I said. "When I was young, I was sick about it. Strange, but no one has the kind of nose he likes."

"My father has a fantastic nose. It juts out like an eagle's beak. His face is all nose and eyes."

The waiter brought champagne and filled our glasses.

"Skål—
unknown countrywoman! French and Swedish both, aren't you?"

"Like Your Highness," I said. The champagne was much too sweet.

"No, madame, I'm only Swedish now," he said quickly, "and Norwegian. This champagne tastes awful, doesn't it?"

"Too sweet, Your Highness."

"We seem to have the same tastes, madame; I'm glad. Most women prefer sugary-sweet wine. Our Koskull, for instance . . . "

I caught my breath sharply. "What do you mean—'our Koskull' "

"The lady-in-waiting, Mariana von Koskull. First, the late King's ray of sunshine. Then Papa's favourite, and, if I'd followed his wishes, my mistress. What surprises you, madame?"

"That you—tell all this to a stranger," I said sternly.

"A countrywoman, madame. The late Queen Hedwig Elisabeth had little use for her husband's primitive urges. Mlle von Koskull used to read aloud to him, and he was happy if he could stroke her arm as she read. Papa accepted the etiquette of the Swedish Court as it was. He didn't want to upset anything or change anything. He took over the Koskull, too."

I stared at him, fascinated. "Are you serious?"

"Madame, my father is the loneliest man I know. My mother hasn't come to see him for years. Papa works sixteen hours a day, and spends the late evening hours with a few friends he made while he was Crown Prince. For instance, Count Brahe, if this name means anything to you. Mlle von Koskull often joins them. With a guitar. She sings Swedish drinking songs for Papa. The songs are wonderful, but unfortunately he can't understand the words."

"And the court balls, the receptions? One can't have a court without them?"

"Papa can. Don't forget, madame, we have no queen at our court."

I sipped my champagne slowly. He promptly refilled my glass. "Everything will be different when Your Highness marries."

"Do you think a young princess would be happy in an immense ice-cold palace, madame, in which the King refuses to receive anyone but his councillors of state and his old friends? My father has become very odd. A king who doesn't understand the language of his country, and is beset by a sickening neurotic fear of being deposed. Do you know what it's come to now? My father absolutely forbids newspapers to publish any article personally displeasing to him. Although the Swedish Constitution, guarantees freedom of the press. Madame, the King himself violates the Constitution, do you realize what that means?"

Oscar's face was pale with misery. I asked tonelessly, "Your Highness, you're not set against your father?"

"No. Or it wouldn't upset me so. . . . Madame, my father's foreign policy has secured for Sweden a position in Europe no one would have believed possible. His trade policy turned this bankrupt state into a prosperous country. Sweden has him to thank for her independence. Yet today he opposes with all his strength every liberal tendency in Parliament. And why? Because His Majesty thinks liberalism might lead to revolution, and the revolution would cost him his crown. In Scandinavia, revolution isn't the problem at all. But only
a healthy evolution. But that a former Jacobin can not grasp. Am I boring you, madame?"

I shook my head.

"Things have gone so far that some people—individuals madame, not any party—talk of forcing the King to abdicates in my favour."

"That—you mustn't even think of it, much less talk about Your Highness," I whispered through quivering lips.

His thin shoulders slumped forward. "I'm tired, madame. I wanted to be a composer, but what came of it? A few songs, a few military marches. I began an opera, but haven't time to finish it, because I must not only devote myself to my duties as Crown Prince and as artillery general, but also as a go-between. I, madame, I must make my father realize that the French Revolution also brought about changes in Sweden. Papa should receive commoners instead of having only the old nobility at court functions. Papa must refrain, in every speech before a new session of Parliament, from talking about his achievements as a military commander, and about the large sums from his private fortune he has sacrificed for Sweden. Papa must . . ."

I couldn't bear it any longer. I had to interrupt him. "And this Koskull?"

"I don't think she's ever done any more than sing songs for him. Though—of course, Papa was a man in the prime of life when his loneliness began, wasn't he? Besides, he had the antediluvian notion that mistresses, whose talents had been proved for a couple of generations, should teach Crown Princes in the art of love. Madame, he recently sent Mlle von Koskull to my room in the middle of the night—armed with her guitar."

"Your papa meant well, Highness!"

"My father locks himself in his study, and is out of touch with reality. He needs—" He broke off and refilled the glasses again. The deep furrows in his forehead reminded me of Jean-Baptiste. The champagne tasted flat. "When I was a child, madame, I wanted more than anything to see Napoleon's coronation. I wasn't allowed to. I can't remember why, but
I remember my mother, who was with me in the nursery, saying, 'We'll go to another coronation, Oscar. You and I. Mama promises. And it will be a much more beautiful coronation than tomorrow's, believe me, much more beautiful. . . .' Yes, madame, I went to another coronation. But my mother didn't come. Why are you crying into your champagne glass?"

"Your mother's name is Desideria—the desired one. Perhaps, at the time, her presence was not desired."

"Not desired? My father had her proclaimed queen in two marvellous countries and she—she never came to either. Do you think a man like my father would beg her to?"

"Perhaps your mother isn't suited to be a queen, Highness."

"The people of Paris shouted
Nôtre dame de la paix
up at my mother's window, because she prevented a civil war. My mother wrested Napoleon's sword from him . . ."

"No, he gave it to her."

"Madame, my mother is a wonderful woman. But she is at least as stubborn as my father. I assure you that the Queen's presence in Sweden is not only desirable, but a necessity."

"If that is so, the Queen will come, of course," I said softly.

"Mama. Thank God, Mama! And now take off the veil, so I can see you, really see you. Yes—you haven't changed. You're even more beautiful. Your eyes are larger, your face is fuller, and your forehead . . . Why are you crying, Mama?"

"When did you recognize me, Oscar?"

"Recognize? I only stationed myself at Charlemagne's tomb to wait for you. Moreover, I was delighted to learn how you speak to strange gentlemen."

"I was sure your Löwenhjelm. would keep his mouth shut!"

"My Löwenhjelm. had nothing to do with it. From the beginning I meant to see you again without witnesses. The Count knew how I'd racked my brain to arrange it. So he tipped me off that you had beaten me to it."

"Oscar—is everything you told me about Papa true?"

"Of course. I only exaggerated a little to speed your homecoming. When are you coming?"

He took my hand and pressed it to his cheek. Homecoming —homecoming to a foreign land in which I had once been so
cold. He rubbed his cheek against my hand. "Oscar, you have whiskers, like a real man. . . . And you don't know how deeply they hurt me in Stockholm."

"Mama, little Mama—who hurt you? The weird widow of the murdered Vasa? She's been dead for years. The old gentleman's widow? Hedwig Elisabeth died a few months after her husband. Or old Princess Sofia Albertina? Don't be ridiculous, Mama, who could hurt you now? Don't forget, now you're the Queen."

"No, no, I'm not forgetting. I think of it every minute, it haunts me, I'm afraid of it . . ."

"Mama, back there in the Cathedral, you murmured something about a favour from His Highness. Did you say that only to start a conversation?"

"No, I do want to ask you something. It's about my daughter-in-law."

"There's no such person. Papa has compiled a long list on princesses I'm to see. Oranienburg princesses, and above all, Prussian princesses. One more hideous than the other. Papa got their portraits."

"I'd so much like to have you marry for love, Oscar."

"Believe me, I'd rather, too. When you come home, I'll secretly show you my little daughter! Her name is Oscara, Mama!"

I'm a grandmother . . . And grandmothers are old ladies! And I had hastened to my last rendezvous without apprehension.

"Mama, Oscara has inherited your dimple."

Oscara. My granddaughter Oscara. . . . "Tell me, have these dimples a mother?"

"A charming mother—Jaquette Gyldenstolpe."

"Does Papa know?"

"What are you thinking of, Mama! Promise me you'll never mention it?"

"But shouldn't you . . ."

"Marry her? Mama, you forget who I am."

This gave me a turn. I don't know why. Oscar continued rapidly, "Papa first decided on a union with the House of
Hanover. But to the English the Bernadotte Dynasty isn't elegant enough. I suppose I'll have to marry a Prussian princess."

"Listen, Oscar. It has been arranged that from here you travel with me to Brussels for the wedding."

"I've forgotten—who is marrying whom?"

"Aunt Julie's daughter Zenaïde is marrying a son of Lucien Bonaparte. Joseph Bonaparte is returning from America for the occasion. Perhaps he'll stay in Europe with Julie."

"I hope so, then we'll finally be rid of her and her frail health."

"Aunt Julie is very delicate."