Désirée (89 page)

"Once—when Hedwig Elisabeth reproached you for being only a silk merchant's daughter, you flounced out of the room, and shortly afterward left Sweden. Until you came back as Queen. People here never forgave Hedwig Elisabeth for that. A court without a young crown princess—" She giggled shamelessly. "So the late Queen had to play the part of a wicked stepmother until her death—hee-hee-hee." This memory seemed to revive her.

"Oscar has brought the children to see me—little Charles, and the new baby."

"The new baby is called Oscar, too," I said proudly.

"Charles takes after you, madame," she assured me.

Children are a real pleasure when you don't have to be waked up by them at six o'clock in the morning, I thought. Then it occurred to me that even Josefina probably sleeps as late as she wants to. My grandchildren have a whole retinue of governesses and nurses. While Oscar's cradle was beside my bed his entire first year.

"I would like to have had children, but no suitable husband for me was ever found," lamented the dying Princess. "Oscar says you wouldn't mind if his children married commoners. How could you suggest such a thing, madame?"

"I haven't thought much about it. But princes can renounce their titles, can't they?"

"Of course. One need only find new names for them—" She mulled it over. "Count Upsala or Baron Drottningholm or . . ."

"But why? We have a good bourgeois name—Bernadotte. "

At the words "good bourgeois" her face contracted with misery. "But the future Bernadottes will, I hope, be a family of composers, artists, or writers," I quickly comforted her. "Oscar is very musical. And Josefina's aunt Hortense paints and writes poetry. In my family, too—" I stopped, she had dozed off and wasn't listening to me at all.

To my great surprise she spoke again.

"I wanted to talk to you about the crown, madame."

She's delirious, I thought, her mind is wandering as the end draws near.

"Which crown?" I asked out of politeness.

"The crown of the Queen of Sweden."

I suddenly felt very hot. In the middle of the Stockholm winter, when I'm usually half-frozen, I was hot. Her eyes were wide open, her voice was calm and clear.

"You weren't crowned with His Majesty, madame. Perhaps you don't even know that we also have a crown for our queens. A very ancient crown—not large but very heavy. I've held it in my hands several times. You are the mother of the Bernadotte Dynasty, madame. Why won't you be crowned?"

"Until now no one has thought of it," I said softly.

"But I have thought of it. I am the last Vasa in Sweden, and I ask the first Bernadotte to accept the ancient crown. Madame, promise me you will be crowned?"

"I care very little for these ceremonies," I murmured. "I'm too small for them, I don't look the least regal."

Her bloodless fingers reached out for my hand. "I no longer have time to plead with you. . . ."

I laid my hand in hers.

Once at a coronation I had to carry a lace handkerchief on a velvet cushion, the bells of Notre-Dame had pealed . . . Could she read my thoughts?

"I've had them read aloud to me the memoirs of this Napo
leon Bonaparte. How strange—" She examined me critically. "How strange, madame, that the two outstanding men of our times have been in love with you. You're really no beauty."

Then she sighed—softly, so softly. "A pity I'm a Vasa. I'd much rather have been a Bernadotte and married a commoner —and been less bored."

When I left, I bowed deeply and kissed the withered hand. The dying Princess smiled, first in surprise and a little maliciously. For I really am no beauty.

Royal Palace in Stockholm May, 1829

"His Royal Highness regrets, but it is impossible for His Royal Highness to arrange a free hour any afternoon this week. The Crown Prince is engaged for every minute," Oscar's chamberlain announced to me.

"Inform His Royal Highness that it's to fulfill a wish of his mother's." Oscar's chamberlain hesitated, wanted to refuse me. I looked at him sternly. And he vanished.

"Aunt, you know Oscar has endless obligations. His responsibilities as High Admiral, the reception and audiences he must hold. And since His Majesty has two ministers who speak horrible French, Oscar must also attend all the Councils of State." Marcelline interferes in matters that are none of her business.

Oscar's chamberlain returned. "His Royal Highness regrets, but it is out of the question this week."

"Then tell His Royal Highness I'll expect him this afternoon at four o'clock. The Crown Prince will accompany me on an errand."

"Your Majesty, His Royal Highness regrets . . ."

"I know, my dear Count, my son regrets that he cannot fulfill my wish. Therefore inform the Crown Prince that this is no longer the wish of his mother, but an order of the Queen."

Oscar was announced at the stroke of four. Escorted by two adjutants and his chamberlain. Around the sleeve of his blue admiral's uniform he wore a mourning band. I myself was in black. The entire court wore mourning for Princess Sofia Albertina, who died on March 17, and was laid to rest in the Vasa tomb in Riddarholm Church. Her state funeral startled
the populace. They thought she'd died long ago, and had completely forgotten her.

"At your command, Majesty," Oscar greeted me formally, and clicked his heels together. Then he tried to look off into space above my head to show me how furious he was.

"Please dismiss your gentlemen, I want to go with you alone." I straightened my hat with its mourning veil. "Come, Oscar."

Without a word we left my apartments. Without a word we descended the stairs. He kept a pace behind me. When we got to the side door through which we usually leave the Palace so as not to excite notice, he asked, "Where is your carriage?"

"We're walking," I replied. "It's such lovely weather."

The sky was pale blue, the Mälar gurgled green, in the mountains the snow is beginning to melt.

"We're going to Västra Långgatan," I informed him.

Oscar took the lead, and I tramped after him through the narrow alleys behind the Palace. Although he was inwardly boiling with rage, he continually smiled and saluted. Because all the passers-by recognized him and bowed. I pulled my mourning veil over my face, but it was wholly unnecessary. I was very simply dressed, and looked so uninteresting that no one had any idea I could be with His Royal Highness.

Oscar stopped. "Here, Your Majesty, is the Västra Långgatan. May I ask where we go from here?"

"To a silk shop. It belongs to a certain Persson. I've never been there, but it won't be hard to find."

At that Oscar lost his patience. "Mama! I cancelled two appointments and postponed an audience to obey your orders. And where are you taking me? To a silk shop. Why don't you have the court purveyors come to you?"

"Persson is not a court purveyor. And besides—I want to see his shop."

"May I ask why you need me for this?"

"You can help me pick out the material. For my coronation robe, Oscar. . . . And I'd also like to introduce you to this M. Persson."

Oscar was speechless. "To a silk merchant, Mama?"

My spirits sank. Perhaps it was a bad idea to bring Oscar wit
h me. Sometimes I forget my son is a Crown Prince. How they
all stare at him.

"Persson was an apprentice for your grandfather Clary in Mar
seilles. He even lived in our villa." I swallowed desperate
ly. "Oscar—he's the one person in Stockholm who knew my papa
and my home."

At that Oscar quickly unbent and tenderly took my arm. The
n we looked hopefully around. Finally Oscar stopped an eld
erly gentleman to ask for Persson's shop. Unfortunately the
gentleman bowed so respectfully, almost down to the ground, that Oscar, too, had to bend practically double to hear what he said. At last they both straightened up.

Over there," Oscar said triumphantly.

It was a relatively small shop. But displayed in the window I saw fine quality silk and velvet in rolls. Oscar pushed open the door. In front of the counter ranged a crowd of customers. No
well-turned-out court ladies, but rather middle-class women in good dark street dresses and tight velvet jackets. Their unrouged faces were framed in heavy curls. This hairdress is frightfully modern, and I realized that Persson's customers knew what was what. The ladies fingered the various materials with such concentration that they didn't even notice Oscar's uniform, and we were elbowed this way and that until our turn came. Behind the counter were three young men. One of them had a horseface and blond hair, and reminded me of the erstwhile young Persson. Finally he asked me,
"May I serve you?"

"I'd like to see your silk," said I, in my broken Swedish. At first he didn't understand me, and I repeated it in French. I'd better call my father. My father speaks very good French," said young Horseface eagerly, and disappeared through a side door. Suddenly, to my surprise, I realized that we
had plenty of room and were actually entirely alone at the
counter. All the other customers stood back against the wall, gaping at us. They were whispering a single word,
"Drottningen." I pushed back my veil to see the material better.

At that moment the side door opened, and Persson came in. Persson from Marseilles. Our Persson. He hadn't changed very much, his blond hair had gone a colourless grey. His blue eyes weren't shy any more but calm and self-sufficient. And he smiled encouragingly as one always smiles at customers, and thereby showed his long yellow teeth.

"Madame wishes to see some silk?" he asked in French.

"Your French if possible is worse than ever, M. Persson," I declared. "And I once took so much trouble with your accent."

A shudder went through the tall gaunt figure. He opened his mouth to say something, but his underlip began to quiver, and he couldn't get out a word. There was dead silence in the shop.

"Had you forgotten me, M. Persson?"

He shook his head. Slowly as in a dream. I tried to help him and leaned across the counter. "M. Persson, I want to see your silk," I said clearly.

Confused, he mopped his brow and mumbled in his atrocious French, "Now you've really come to me, Mlle Clary."

That was too much for Oscar. The crowded shop, the eavesdropping ladies, and Persson stuttering in French . . .

"Perhaps you'd be good enough to take Her Majesty and me to your office and show us the silk there," he said in Swedish.

Young Persson raised the connecting flap between the counter and the space beyond, and took us through a side door into a small office. The high desk with the firm's books and a hundred swatches of silk everywhere reminded me vividly of Papa's holy of holies. Over the desk hung a framed broadside. It had turned very yellow, but I recognized it immediately.

"Well, here I am, Persson," I murmured, and sat down on the chair beside the high desk. I felt completely at home.

"I'd like to present my son. Oscar, M. Persson was apprenticed to your grandfather in Marseilles."

"Then it surprises me, M. Persson, that you have not long
ago been appointed purveyor to the court," Oscar remarked amiably.

"I never applied for it," said Persson slowly. "Besides, I've had rather a bad name in certain circles since my return from France." He indicated the framed broadside. "Because of that."

"What's that in the frame?" Oscar inquired.

Persson took it down from the wall and handed it to Oscar.

"Oscar," I said, "that's the first printing of the Rights of Man. Papa—your grandfather—brought it home. And M. Persson and I learned the Rights of Man together by heart. Before his return to Sweden, M. Persson asked me for this broadside as a remembrance."

Oscar didn't answer. He went to the window, wiped off the glass with the sleeve of his admiral's uniform, and began I read. Persson and I looked at each other. He'd stopped trembling, his eyes were wet. "And the Mälar is really as green as you told me. Once I couldn't imagine it. Now it flows in front of my windows. . . ."

"To think you remember all that, mademoi—I mean Your Majesty," said Persson hoarsely.

"Naturally— That's why, that's why it took me so long to come to see you. I was afraid you might take offense, that . . ."

"Take offense? How could I ever take offense at you?" Persson asked in dismay.

"That I'm now Queen. You and I were always Republicans." I smiled. Persson sneaked a horrified look at Oscar. But Oscar wasn't listening. He was too engrossed in the Rights of Man.

At that Persson lost his shyness completely and whispered, "That was in France, Mlle Clary. But in Sweden we're both —Monarchists." He glanced at Oscar again and added, "Provided, of course—that—"

I nodded. "Yes, provided that— But you have a son yourself, Persson. It all ultimately depends on the training of that children."

"Of course. And His Royal Highness is, after all, a grand
son of François Clary," he reassured me. We were silent and thought of the villa, and the shop.