Betsy and the Emperor (9781439115879)

by Rabin, Staton

  “It seems mademoiselle does not agree with your assessment,” the emperor remarked.

  “She is young,” Huff said with a sigh. “She will learn.” His condescension was an annoyance, at best. Huff turned to me once more. “Napoleon Bonaparte brought the blessings of civilization to all of Europe. A gift of knowledge, justice, and order. Had Wellington not stopped him at the Battle of Waterloo—”

  “I should have sent my reserve troops up sooner on the seventeenth,” Bonaparte muttered, as if refighting the battle in his brain. He shook his head. “I wish I’d died in Moscow. Till then my fame was undiminished. If only heaven had sent me a bullet in the Kremlin! History would have compared me to Julius Caesar!”

  “If those fools hadn’t stopped him at Waterloo,” Huff said again, “he would have gone on to unite the globe, cleaning out the cobwebs of ignorance and injustice from every nation on earth!”

  Bonaparte seemed well pleased with Huff’s summation and added nothing to it. As for me, I merely shrugged.

  “Look here,” Huff said to me, standing up with difficulty. He took my hand and led me to an old trunk. Huff struggled to release the catch on a chain around his neck. But his hands did not work too well for such a delicate operation.

  “Allow me,” the emperor said, undoing the catch. A key dangled from the chain, and with a trembling hand, Huff used it to open the trunk.

  Inside was a large flat rock with strange letters carved into its shiny black surface.

  “Mon Dieu! The Rosetta stone!” Bonaparte exclaimed. “But—how?”

  “Not the original, Your Highness,” Huff explained. “Just a copy.”

  I held the lamp over the peculiar rock with its indecipherable message.

  “So?” I said.

  “This stone,” Huff said, taking both my hands in his and staring at me with singular intensity, “will unlock the mysteries of the ages. The secrets of the Pyramids! The riddle of the Sphinx!”

  To me, it looked like a rock, not a riddle—with a bunch of boxes and birds and squiggly lines drawn all over it.

  “Hold the lamp closer,” Huff instructed me. I did as he said. “This stone comes from Egypt, land of the Pharaohs. It is very ancient. Written on it is a single decree in three different tongues. Here we have Greek. Here, the same message in another ancient language, demotic.” The emperor and I looked over his shoulder as he pointed. “We scholars know how to read those languages. And here, our great mystery to solve: Egyptian hieroglyphs. We have only to compare the letters of the known languages to the symbols in the unknown one, and we will break the code.”

  “So?” I said again. “And what does this have to do with the emperor?” Bonaparte surely did not like that I was talking about him as if he weren’t present, but for the moment he said nothing.

  “The emperor and his men retrieved the original of this precious relic during his military and scientific expedition to the shores of the Nile River in 1799. And, with it, we will be able to open a whole new world of understanding. We shall open a window on the magnificent world of ancient Egypt! How did they mummify their dead? We shall find out. Who built the Pyramids, how, and why? Where are the tombs of the great Pharaohs, with all their golden treasures, to be found?”

  “Have you broken the code, as you say, monsieur?” Bonaparte asked.

  “I am working on it,” Huff replied. “Not yet.” He lowered the trunk lid.

  “It is treasures like these,” Huff said, “that Napoleon Bonaparte lifted from the depths of intellectual darkness into the sunlight of reason. Wherever he has gone, he has left the treasure of enlightenment behind.” The old man brushed the dust from his hands, as if he felt he’d had the final word.

  I would have responded with an argument, but I really didn’t know what to say. I had always admired and respected Huff. He had been one of my few confidants when I was younger. His admiration for Bonaparte took me entirely by surprise, and, I must confess, my respect for Huff’s judgment made me feel rather confused. Was it merely because he was half French that he praised the emperor? Or might it just possibly be that Huff was correct about our famous visitor’s merits and that I was guilty of misjudging Bonaparte?

  Before I could say anything, the emperor removed a pocket watch from his coat and glanced at it. He addressed both of us.

  “Marchand is waiting to cut my hair,” he said. “So I fear we must be on our way.”

  He kissed the old man on both cheeks, in the French manner. Rather excessive, I thought, but Huff seemed pleased. I gave Huff a hug in farewell, in the English manner.

  As we left the laboratory, Bonaparte took a misstep and bumped into the bookcase. One volume toppled from it. Bonaparte picked up the book, blew the dust from the cover, and recited the title in French. It translated to Aeronautical Experiments—by Joseph-Michel and Jacques-Étienne Montgolfier.

  “Ah!” Bonaparte said in recognition. “The Montgolfier boys!”

  “You knew them?” Huff asked, excited.

  “Mais oui!” Bonaparte replied. “They wanted to build one of their hot-air balloons for me—for aerial spying on the battlefield. I dismissed them, of course. A good general knows his enemy without viewing the top of his head.” The emperor returned the book to the shelf.

  We bade adieu to Huff, who was staying behind to work on the hieroglyphics, and made our way out of the cave. I couldn’t help wondering how feeble old Huff managed the difficult journey through the cave to and from his laboratory every day; but I suppose he had in determination what he lacked in vitality.

  Twenty minutes later the emperor and I emerged into the daylight.

  “It looks like rain,” I said. “We better go back.”

  “Yes,” the Emperor replied. “But, as Docteur Franklin said, it is wise to make haste slowly.”

  Hope was nuzzling Belle like an amorous suitor.

  “Ah,” Bonaparte said. “Hope is like myself. He cannot resist a pretty face!”

  We mounted up.

  There was something I wanted to say to the emperor, now that Huff was no longer with us to take offense at my words.

  “You stole the Rosetta stone, didn’t you?”

  The emperor shrugged. “Borrowed it, one could say.”

  “My sister Jane says that you have hidden vast treasures. You have stolen from—”

  Bonaparte turned on me angrily. “Would you like to know about Napoleon Bonaparte’s treasures? Would you, Mademoiselle? Yes, they are vast, but they are not hidden away. The harbors of Antwerp and Flushing, where there is room for the largest fleets in the world. The waterworks I built at Dunkirk, Havre and Nice. The huge docks of Cherbourg, the port of Venice. The high roads from Antwerp to Amsterdam, from Mainz to Metz, and from Bordeaux to Bayonne. The passes over Simplon, La Corniche, and Mont Genèvre, which open the Alps in four directions and excel all the constructions of the Ancient Romans. More treasures? More?”

  I looked at him blankly. He continued.

  “The re-establishment of the church destroyed by the Revolution. The setting up of new industries, the new Louvre Museum, warehouses, streets, the water supply of Paris. The quays along the river Seine. The revival of weaving mills in Lyons, and building of the Rhine-Rhone canal. More than four hundred sugar factories. The roads from the Pyrenees to the Alps, from Parma to Spezia, and from Savona to Piedmont. The bridges across the Seine, and others in Tours and Lyons. The Napoleon Museum, where, I assure you Mademoiselle, the works of art have been obtained by purchase or peace treaties. These—these are all the treasures of Napoleon and will outlast the centuries!”

  For the second time that day I was speechless. Could it be? Could one man—one man—really have been responsible for all those achievements?

  We rode the rest of the way back to the Briars in silence.

  Chapter 8

  Ouch! Marchand! Those are scissors, not the guillotine. Take care!”

  The emperor patted the spot of blood on his neck where his valet had accidentally nicked him. It
was merely a small scratch—I could see that from where I stood—but the emperor ordered, “Get a tourniquet!”

  “I am very sorry, Your Majesty,” Marchand said, fetching a towel. “But you did not hold still. I warned you.”

  “You blame me for my own wound?” Bonaparte said in a pique. He turned toward me. “Never let a Frenchman cut your hair, Betsy!”

  “I will try to remember that, sir,” I said, really having no idea what he was talking about.

  Watching a man get his hair cut was not my idea of an exciting way to spend an afternoon. But since I’d returned from school, I had lots of time on my hands and little to do with it. According to my father, my education was now complete. “No girl should stay in school past the age of fourteen” was his motto. When my mother suggested that additional years of schooling might benefit me, my father flew into a rage. “What are we training Betsy for?” he boomed. “Governor-general of India?!”

  As always, my mother surrendered.

  I can’t say I was disappointed at not returning to Hawthorne. And I daresay they would not be disappointed at not seeing me. But I felt I’d only exchanged one prison for another. What on earth was there for a girl to do on this miserable rock? I could dig up yams with the slaves. Learn sewing and other drivel from my mother. Listen to Jane’s whining. Or watch the former emperor of France get his hair cut. It was not difficult to choose.

  Marchand patted the emperor’s neck as delicately as a baby’s bottom. “There now, Sire,” his valet soothed. “The bleeding has stopped.”

  “No thanks to you!” the emperor grumbled. He brushed some fine, dark hairs off his shoulders. Marchand handed him a looking glass so he could see the results of his labors. The emperor turned his head from side to side.

  “Petit Tondu,” he said, looking critically at his reflection.

  “Sir?” I said, wondering what he meant.

  “Little Crop-Head,” he translated. “That’s what the boys called me at the academy. It was not intended as a compliment.”

  “They called me ‘The Colonies.’ When I was at school.”

  Bonaparte ran his hand through his shorn locks and looked at me quizzically.

  “Because I was always in rebellion, as the Americans rebelled against the English,” I explained. The emperor smiled and hopped off the chair.

  “Viens. Come,” he said, sweeping out of the room. I did not know where he was leading me, but neither did I particularly care. I followed.

  We arrived in another room of the Pavilion. It was rather damp and chilly and filled with unpacked boxes. He had been right to compare it to the Russian winter.

  “I will show you my autobiography,” Bonaparte said, approaching a large wooden crate filled with straw that was labeled SÈVRES; TUILERIES. He knelt and pulled straw out of the box rapidly, like an eager child unwrapping Christmas presents.

  The object he pulled from the box was enveloped in old, yellowing copies of French newspapers. He unwrapped it. It was nothing but a china plate with a picture on it. He showed it to me pridefully.

  “I thought you were going to show me your autobiography?” I said.

  “Exactement!” Bonaparte said. He lifted some more plates out of the box, leaving such a pile of straw scattered about that I felt I was in a pig barn. “These Sèvres plates from the Tuileries were made for me. They tell the story of my life.”

  Intrigued, I looked carefully at the first plate.

  “Shall you help me to unwrap them?”

  I nodded and reached into the box.

  “Of course, they are not in correct order of time,” he said, unwrapping plates as he spoke. He showed me their pictures.

  “Here is the Battle of Austerlitz. The greatest victory of my career! You were four years old at the time, mademoiselle.”

  “Against whom?” I asked.

  “Russia and Austria,” he replied. He showed me another plate that depicted rearing horses and soldiers with muskets and cannon. A few men lay on the ground in dramatic poses with red bloodstains on their uniforms. Who would want to eat dinner off of a plate like this? It would give me gas! A likeness of Bonaparte on horseback, his sword raised in the air—thinner and better looking than he is in the flesh—was prominent in the painting. “Bien sûr, sometimes the artist exaggerates a trifle,” he told me, grinning. “I fought that battle from my carriage!” He chuckled.

  I unwrapped two more plates. One showed a lovely, dark-haired woman, her skin creamy white like a dove’s breast. She wore a beautiful necklace of sapphires, surrounded by tiny sparkling diamonds. Her smile seemed to hold a secret, like the lady Mona Lisa’s in the famous painting by da Vinci.

  “Who is she?” I asked the emperor.

  A wistful look passed over his features, followed by some long-ago memory of pain.

  “My Joséphine,” he said quietly, as if fearful of disturbing someone’s sleep.

  “Is she your wife?”

  “Once upon a time.” The emperor sighed. “Ma belle—sweet and matchless Joséphine….” He rubbed his eyes.

  I did not ask him what had happened to her. I feared it might be too painful for him. I did not think I would ever care about offending the emperor’s feelings, but it was hard to remain unaffected by the pitiful look on his face.

  “We’ll open this one,” I said, handing him another plate. I hoped the change would cheer him, but I fear I chose unwisely, because when he removed the wrapping, we saw that this was a portrait of another handsome lady, with a charming, blond-haired little boy about my brother Alexander’s age.

  “My son,” Bonaparte said, struggling to keep control of his emotions. “The King of Rome. And his mother, Marie-Louise.”

  “Where are they now?” I asked him.

  “Held prisoner, as I. At Schonbrunn Castle in Austria,” the emperor said. He looked long and hard at the plate. He spoke softly, as if to himself. “Will they teach him to hate his father?”

  I struggled to think of a comforting thing to say, as I had at family funerals. This time I had somewhat more success. “Perhaps you will see him again,” I said hopefully. “And you will teach him the truth about you, yourself.”

  The emperor nodded, but I could see he was not optimistic. Then I added meaningfully, “As Huff has taught me.”

  Bonaparte looked up at me slowly. There was a burning light of gratitude in his eyes—and of victory, too. I suppose he had looked similarly at Austerlitz, and I could see why men would follow him—yes, even march to their deaths—for a chance at his approval.

  I began to feel uneasy, wondering if I should have a sense of triumph or defeat. Who had won the day? The emperor or I?

  Just then we heard footsteps and voices in the other room. It seemed that the admiral had arrived to discuss provisions for the Pavilion with Bertrand, the emperor’s grand marshal. An instant later someone else came running into the room in search of the admiral. Whoever it was was clearly beside himself with excitement. Bonaparte and I eavesdropped on the conversation.

  “Admiral! Admiral!” the excited man called out, breathless.

  “What is it, Captain?” the admiral replied. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, there you are, sir. I’ve—I’ve lost the emperor! He has ridden off and escaped! I have looked all over the island for him, but—but he got away from me!”

  “He’s playing with you, Poppleton,” the admiral said calmly. “I’m sure you’ll find his horse in the stables. And he’ll be eating his supper, happy as a lark. General Napoleon, that is, though likely his horse, too.”

  The emperor and I looked at each other and giggled like small children. When we regained our composure—which took some time, I confess—we turned our attention back to the task at hand.

  Bonaparte removed the last plate from the box and unwrapped it. “Ah!” he said. “My prize!” He showed it to me. There was no picture on this plate, just some words. “The Code Napoleon,” he said pridefully. “The plate cannot contain it all. Written here is a summary only.
”

  “A code? Like the one on the Rosetta stone?” I asked.

  “No, mademoiselle,” he said. “Not that sort of code. These are laws, guaranteeing rights for all citizens. I gave these laws to France. And I would have given them to the rest of the world, also, if your charming General Wellington’s army hadn’t stopped me.”

  I struggled to translate the words scripted on the plate: “Indi-individual liberty,” I read. “Freedom of—”

  “Freedom of work,” the emperor said. “Freedom of conscience. Freedom of religion. Equality of all men before the law.”

  “But—but that sounds like the American Constitution!”

  “The Americans stole it from the French,” Bonaparte said, smiling. “From our philosophers—Monsieur Rousseau and others. Though the Americans had their little revolution before ours.”

  Freedom. Rebellion. What a lovely idea. I thought I could be happy living in France.

  “Did you write these laws?” I inquired.

  “Enough of them,” Bonaparte said.

  Well, well, I thought. Perhaps he wasn’t such a dictator, after all. Perhaps Bonaparte’s loss wasn’t exactly the world’s gain.

  I helped him set up his plates on the fireplace mantel. A cold draft blew through the room. The emperor shivered and asked me if I’d have my father send some firewood. I agreed. Then I went home to supper.

  It was only a short walk from the Pavilion to the Briars. As I was rounding the corner, someone grabbed me by the arm. I screamed—but was cut short by a hand quickly clapped over my mouth. The moment my eyes showed I had recognized who had detained me, my “gag” was removed.

  “Huff! What’s the matter?”

  “Shhh! Come with me….” the old man said in a whisper, leading me to a secluded place behind a banyan tree. There was an armed sentry standing nearby, charged with keeping an eye on the emperor. I thought he was an extraordinarily handsome fellow.

  “Are you quite all right, Miss Balcombe?” the sentry called out to me.

  “Er…yes, sir!” I replied, surprised that this fine-looking soldier knew who I was. He caught me staring at him, and to my astonishment, he winked at me. Then he tipped his hat and continued on his rounds.