Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Let’s peek in.” Amélie cracked the door open, her cheek pressed against the jamb.

  Generals Bertrand and Montholon, dressed in blue, gold-braided uniforms, swords at their sides, escorted the visitors from the salon. Marchand greeted them at the drawing room’s far door and announced them to His Majesty.

  Napoleon stood at the drawing room fireplace, hat tucked under his arm, striking in his full uniform. He asked the visitors questions, with the Count de Las Cases as interpreter. Napoleon displayed his wit, and attempted a few English words in a thick accent. His features came alive, eyes flashing, and he resembled the man she’d observed in Paris. A breathless fervor trembled in her lungs. The visitors, by their wide eyes and growing smiles, seemed to fall under the same spell.

  “Amélie, come away.” Saint-Denis tugged her back and closed the door again.

  “The British despised our emperor, and now he’s their prisoner they pay courtesy calls on him. They should pay court to His Majesty.” She ached to stay and watch. Napoleon hadn’t noticed her once since the incident at the wall.

  “His Majesty gets his revenge,” Ali said, eyes twinkling. “He’ll keep his visitors standing in his presence until they’re about to faint, like he does with his courtiers. That way he can once again be master and bend people to his wishes. These sycophants only come to see a caged beast. Now they’ll inform Europe he is still the emperor no matter his situation.”

  “She’s still innocent, our petite baton, yet a strange girl who doesn’t screech at seeing rodents.” Jules flicked his gaze over Amélie in a way that made her shrivel. “The British will kowtow to their government’s dictates, no matter how much the emperor charms them. His enemies fear his ambition, even from this rock.”

  Amélie glared into Jules’s face. How would he like it if she called him “squinty eyes”? “When you say something witty, I might care to hear it. The emperor should never have had to give up everything or make a humiliating peace.”

  “The continent was tired of war.” Jules thrust his stick like a sword when a rat poked his nose from the hole. “The only way to secure peace was by forcing the parvenu to abdicate.”

  “Don’t ever call him that.” Amélie hated the smirk on Jules’s square face. “They never thought of His Majesty as legitimate, after he more than proved himself able. He was a threat to the other monarchs ‘divine right’ to rule.”

  “She is full of knowledge. You shouldn’t trouble your head with such things.” Jules snickered as Amélie gripped her cue. “The Bourbons wanted their throne back.”

  “Their throne?” Saint-Denis twirled his stick, swiping it close to Jules’s nose. “The emperor decided it better to abdicate after Waterloo, than incite civil war as his chambers of deputies wouldn’t support him, but the army wanted to fight on.”

  “Mon Dieu, France hated the Bourbons. Their greedy, self-indulgent rule sparked the revolution.” Amélie hoped Ali would thrust his pole into Jules’s Adam’s apple. If he didn’t, she was tempted. “Then England and Russia forced fat Louis XVIII on us for a second time.”

  “He was the lesser of two evils, in the eyes of the victors,” Jules said. “France had no choice, but not all hated the king. Royalists always worked in the background against the emperor’s government.”

  “You sound in the Royalists’ favor.” Saint-Denis scrutinized the other man. “England, our benevolent host, is the one who wouldn’t rest until the Bourbons stole back the French throne. England broke the Peace of Amiens, something they conveniently forget. Then they poured money into the pockets of Russia, Prussia, even Austria to fight against France.”

  “Austria.” Amélie couldn’t help but scoff. “They turned against His Majesty though he married their emperor’s worthless daughter, Marie Louise.”

  “Be careful, Amélie, the emperor insists that no one speak ill of his empress. We must always show our profound respect.” Saint-Denis’s sardonic grin proved he agreed with her.

  “She deserted him. So thrilled to be with him in his glory, but when he fell she ran like a spoiled brat back to papa. His Majesty lost his country and his wife and son.”

  Jules laughed again, a laugh that never seemed to reach deep inside him. “She knew where her fortunes lay, and now she’s in the arms of that Austrian count.”

  “Worthless, as I said. I remember their marriage celebration.” Amélie thought of that cool April six years before when her mother had taken her to a main boulevard in Paris—the city of her birth—to witness the spectacle. Men strutted in plumed hats, swords slapping off their thighs. Women rustled in silk skirts, their perfume sweetening the breeze.

  The emperor and his new empress were married at the Louvre’s Salon Carre. Carnivals and banquets stretched from the Champs Elysees to the Arc du Carrousel. Standing atop a wall near the riverbank, Amélie held fast to her mother’s hand—that once secure warmth of her mother’s touch—as the imperial coach rolled by. The Hapsburg archduchess had a prominent jaw, her eyes flat in a broad face. An eighteen-year-old of royal birth, she was given in marriage to a man reviled by her fellow Austrians for devastating their country in war.

  “I felt sorry for Empress Josephine. She was far more gracious.” Amélie lowered her voice. “Marie Louise never smiled, I heard many people say. France hadn’t forgotten they’d put that other Austrian, her aunt Marie Antoinette to death, saying she brought bad luck.”

  “No room for sentiment in politics.” Jules crouched down and pulled the delicate, tiny carriage he’d built from under the sideboard. “Now catch me a rat and we’ll have a race.”

  “A man of the people should have married a commoner to prove he cared nothing for royal trappings. Our emperor threw away everything he’d first stood for.” Amélie felt this insult close to the bone, as if she owned Napoleon’s actions. His efforts were for the birth of a half-royal son in 1811—a boy he might never see again.

  After being sent to live with her oldest brother Théodore, Amélie resented missing the excitement, France in a constant state of war. Her father had remained at the Tuileries to serve their emperor.

  “Amélie, you look in a daze.” Saint-Denis nudged her.

  “I remember the emperor’s triumphant march through Lyon on his way to retake Paris from Elba. I rushed into the street with my brothers. The people cheered, welcoming him home. Our tri-color flag flew once more over the city.” Amélie heard laughter from the drawing room and again felt excluded. She’d appreciate such conversation, but could she untie her tongue to add intelligent responses? Their revolution tried to eliminate this division of the classes—women during the revolution demanded to be equal to men—though she was a child of the Consulate, the Empire.

  “Qu’ importe? That’s all past. Waterloo finished him. Now we have only the British and this boring island.” Jules managed to trap a rat and fumbled to hitch it to his carriage. The rodent rattled and banged it around the room as he chuckled. “You are quite the devotee.”

  “You are disloyal, Jules. How dare you say such things.” She glared at him. His arrogance bothered her. She stepped aside as Saint-Denis scrambled to catch the noisy carriage.

  “I’m loyal to my master, the Count de Montholon.”

  “You should keep your ugly opinions to yourself.” Saint-Denis released the rat and poked the miniature carriage into Jules’s chest. “We have enough malcontents around here. At least Admiral Cockburn won’t lord over us much longer. The British government is sending out a new governor to run things. A soldier with a notorious past whom the emperor is anxious to meet.”

  Amélie feathered the handkerchief under her chin. “Let’s hope he is kinder to His Majesty and we can relax our protocol.”

  “Shoo away, you barbarians.” The Count de Las Cases poked his face out the drawing room door. His lips twitched in disdain. “You’re making too much noise. Out, out.”
<
br />   Jules shuffled from the room. Ali gathered the cues.

  Amélie stared down the little count, refusing to scuttle like a rat back into her hole. “May I listen in, Count?” The door shut in her face.

  * * * *

  Franceschi Cipriani, the thin, swarthy maitre d’hotel, stood in Longwood’s drawing room arch. “Le diner de Sa Majesté est servi,” he announced in his nasal voice, sweeping into a bow.

  Amélie peeked around the corner into the dining room after she set the New Year dessert she’d baked on the table in the preparation room. The Count de Las Cases flanked one side of the doorway, waiting at attention, his feverish fingers constantly straightening his coat and sword.

  Napoleon entered. The little count bowed low, his sword tip scraping the floor.

  The imperial valets bowed, decked out in palace livery of emerald-green tailcoats with gold-embroidered collars and cuffs, white vests, black silk breeches, white stockings, and buckled shoes—all distinct in their dilapidated royal residence.

  The Count de Montholon, crisp in his full uniform, epaulets and stars glittering, strutted in behind the emperor. Napoleon seated himself at the head of the dining room table. Montholon elbowed past Las Cases and swooped into the chair on the emperor’s left.

  Saint-Denis, passing Amélie, grinned and whispered, “Count de Montholon’s victory this time.” At communal meals, the Count de Las Cases insisted on that chair of honor for himself.

  Amélie stifled a laugh and decided that both Montholons had a penchant for rude elbows.

  Las Cases sat down one chair away from Montholon and sniffed into a vermilion silk handkerchief. The little count wiped his nose with much aplomb, lips sucked in, so wounded by the nudge, his eyebrows dancing on his high brow.

  The Countess de Montholon entered the room and floated over to Napoleon’s right. In her slinky dress she curtsied low, her breasts in danger of spilling out. Amélie cringed at such vulgar behavior right in front of her husband.

  “Madame, please sit down,” Napoleon said in a torpid voice. The countess fluttered into the chair on his right, scratched the back of her neck and made a girlish titter.

  Someone poked Amélie’s shoulder. She moved aside, basking in the aroma of roast chicken, to let the footmen and valets carry the first course into the dining room.

  “Montholon, have you written to Admiral Cockburn, insisting he enlarge my limits to ride and allow any officer or island inhabitant to visit me here?” Napoleon asked. “I refuse to submit to the admiral’s society, but it’s always stimulating to talk to soldiers about their careers.”

  “I did it immediately, as you requested, Sire, but I’m not sure he will bow to your wishes. Isn’t Bertrand dining with us?” A faint sneer flitted across Montholon’s tiny mouth. “A pity his wife refuses to live near you, along with your grand marshal. Madame Bertrand’s socializing around the island is an embarrassment, as I’ve said before.”

  “Indeed you have, many times. They are both aware of my displeasure.” Napoleon didn’t glance up from his plate. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and he looked anxious to get the meal over with. Montholon tugged at the high collar of his uniform. He and Las Cases soon had sweat glistening on their upper lips in the stuffy room.

  Near the center of the building, the dining room had no natural light. Dozens of candles burned on the sideboard and table. Patches of green mold dripped from the walls near Amélie, the stench thickening the air in the poorly ventilated house. She opened the sachet of rosemary she carried and sprinkled the fragrant herb about.

  “Ma foi, I’m glad they don’t live here. This place is already too crowded.” Countess de Montholon smiled for Napoleon and fondled his arm. “Fanny Bertrand can be such a prig, and she’s always late to meals—as you can see, which you hate, Sire. They wouldn’t act like this if you were presiding at the Tuileries.”

  Napoleon glowered at the mention of his once grand palace, a palace now occupied by gouty Louis XVIII. Amélie huffed that both Montholons provoked the emperor’s upset.

  A second course of boudin á la Richelieu was served. Count and Countess Bertrand bustled into the room, Bertrand’s sword slapping against his boot.

  “I’m sorry we’re late, Your Majesty,” Bertrand said after Napoleon’s grunted greeting. The count crumpled his hat in his hands, but the countess looked aloof, her face still as wax.

  “I had some papers to go over with Admiral Cockburn,” Bertrand continued. “He didn’t care for the strong tone of that last letter, Sire. I wish you had allowed me to write it for you.” He glanced at Montholon as he and his wife seated themselves at the table. He then watched Napoleon like a lapdog desperate for a pat on the head.

  “If you were closer at hand, I might have. I’m certain you will smooth it over with Cockburn. Besides, he’s being replaced. Have you studied the island fortifications as I asked you?” Napoleon stirred the food on his plate. “I heard the English have even put troops on the tiny islands close by.”

  “Yes, Sire. Ascension Island and Tristan d’Acuna.”

  “I’m sure you exaggerate about the tone of my letter.” Montholon slanted his gaze over Bertrand. “Fanny, do you continue to tell the admiral how well we’re being treated here in our cow barn?”

  “Longwood house was never a cow barn. What’s wrong with trying to find a little gaiety? The island isn’t so distasteful if you keep busy.” Fanny Bertrand’s reply clipped, her cheeks flushed red. Her husband squeezed her hand.

  Saint-Denis urged Amélie back toward the preparation area, but she hesitated, concerned about the court’s disgruntled behavior so early in their tenancy.

  “I must say, Charles, you take too much delight in detailing Fanny’s every movement.” Las Cases appraised Montholon with heavy-lidded eyes. “I still don’t know what prompted you, as one who enjoys such stellar associations back in Europe, to voyage all the way out here.”

  Montholon cast the little count a derisive look, before his “courtier’s face” resurfaced. His wife continued to fawn over Napoleon and Montholon smiled in a detached manner. Countess Bertrand thumped down her wine glass and frowned at the other woman. Napoleon ignored both countesses and bolted down his food.

  Amélie stepped back into the preparation area. “I’ll help serve, Papa. One of the footmen just snuck off with a headache, faint from the dank room.”

  Her father sliced up her cherry cake and put it on plates with a ladle full of rich yellow butter sauce. Napoleon liked his repast to progress quickly.

  “Remember, you do not serve His Majesty. His valets wait exclusively on him at meals.” Perrault raised a gray brow. “Do it quietly, please. The Count de Las Cases has complained that you’ve been underfoot too much in the main house.”

  Underfoot, like a dog? She swallowed her retort.

  With Saint-Denis, Amélie carried in the dessert. The Sévres plates and coffee cups, accompanied by gold knives, spoons, and forks, were decorated in emerald and gold borders patterned with swords and laurels around Napoleon’s battlefield scenes in Egypt. Again inches from her emperor, she wished he’d look up and recognize her.

  The plate she held wavered. She bumped it against Saint-Denis, who served the emperor, and dripped a few dollops of sauce onto Montholon’s lap.

  “Stupid girl.” The count swept out his handkerchief and dabbed at his pants. “I see we’ve left the more accomplished servants behind in France. Pitiful what we must endure here.”

  “I’m so sorry, count.” Amélie set the plate before him, more amused than embarrassed. She backed off a step, wishing she’d slopped all the sauce over his patrician legs.

  “Nothing satisfies you, Charles.” Las Cases flipped up his wrist. “Sire, I am perfectly honored to be here beside you, no matter the situation, unlike some. I have received more English newspapers which I’ll take pleasure in read
ing to you later.”

  “Not if I must hear further bad news of the executions of my officers in France,” Napoleon said. “Ney was a brave man. Unfortunately his character never matched his courage, but it’s still an ignoble end. What the king is doing is monstrous.” He resumed eating with a vengeance. Marshal Ney had been shot by a firing squad for joining Napoleon at Waterloo.

  “The cherry cake is prepared especially for you, by my own hands.” Amélie spoke to no one in particular. She studied the emperor to see if he approved of the dessert’s taste.

  “Las Cases, can’t we enjoy our meal without you persisting in unpleasant reminders?” Madame de Montholon pursed her lips.

  “I have proven my worth, beyond and above what anyone might expect.” Las Cases sniffed as if she smelled bad. “They still praise my superb atlas in London, which I published as an émigré during the revolution.”

  “I wouldn’t brag about London, or anything English, here.” The Countess de Montholon nibbled a bite of cake. She pushed it aside, her snub nose in the air.

  Amélie glared at this woman who had almost knocked her over. The countess’s rouged smiles seemed contrived. Her flimsy mauve dress, with gaudy jewelry, clung to her plump white shoulders and bosom, making her look salacious.

  “Brag all you wish. How I’d enjoy seeing London. If only we could have stayed.” Fanny Bertrand gazed off in the distance as if she glimpsed that city from here. A smile tugged at her lips below a strong nose that gave her an air of dignity. “I wonder what they’re wearing in society this year.”

  “Oh, Fanny dear, don’t be so tiresome.” Madame Montholon tittered.

  Napoleon laid down his fork and stared around the table as if he couldn’t believe where he’d ended up. “You are only a little group at the bottom of the world. Why can’t you try harder to get along with one another? Such efforts will make our time here more satisfying.” He raised his wine glass, his face like stone. “To the New Year, 1816, may we prosper.”