“No, please, no more smashing. Wai—” Amélie jumped when the footman cracked the first bottle against the side wall, in full view of the sentries. Glass shards with the smell of wine tinkled over the ground like falling sleet. She grabbed the other two from his hands. “This makes the governor more contentious on us all. We have to stop this.” Lowe demanded the return of all wine bottles to be reused since they were scarce on the island. He ranted about the French overconsumption, so out of spite the servants sold bottles to the nearby soldiers and destroyed the empties.
“Amélie, come away from those silly games.” Napoleon stood in the back door entrance. “I want to discuss something with you.”
She handed Ali the two bottles and whispered, “No more breaking.” She walked toward Napoleon as if pulled by a string. “Yes, Sire?”
In the house, Napoleon took her hand and led her to the dining room. “I’ve decided it’s time for you to give your first performance in front of the household. To show everyone how well you’re progressing.”
“Oh, no, Sire. Perform before people?” She sucked in her breath and held fast to disbelief. “You’re teasing me…aren’t you?”
“Indeed I’m not. You need the exposure.” With his intrigued smile and sparkling eyes, Amélie feared he was serious. “Now I have chosen the songs I’d like you to sing. Have you a finer gown?” He put his arm around her and they walked into his study.
She absorbed the warmth of his embrace, her previous resolve to be strong trampled over by her racing pulse. “I’m afraid I haven’t a nicer gown. I don’t think I—”
“Too late to do anything this time. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” The emperor patted her arm, then handed her the list of arias in his almost illegible handwriting. “Don’t look so shocked. Everything will be fine.”
“Sire, really, do you think me good enough to perform in front of an audience?” Like some diva? Playing the pupil was one thing, but this hadn’t existed in her wildest imaginings.
“Yes, you will be a delight. Didn’t I say that intimate gatherings were perfectly acceptable? I decided to eliminate Proserpine, even though Paisiello is one of my favorite composers. He worked for me when I was First Consul, but the play wasn’t well received in Paris.”
“I hadn’t planned to make a career out of a temporary amusement.” Amélie licked her dry lips, forced decisiveness into her words, yet anxiously watched his face. “More weeks of practice would be better, don’t you think, Your Majesty?”
“Nonsense, time is a wasting.” His expression turned pensive. “Please, when we’re alone, you may call me Napoleon.” He now patted her cheek, almost a caress.
Amélie tried to hide her surprise at this sudden honor, though reveled in the privilege “I…if you insist I be so familiar. Napoleon.” She liked the way it sounded on her tongue.
“There, see how easy that is.” He nodded and smiled again as if he too enjoyed the intimate way she pronounced his name.
Amélie’s head swam and she grasped at something more important than an unwanted recital. She took a deep breath. “Your Majesty…Napoleon, I would like to discuss what I mentioned about the Count de Montholon and Governor Lowe. The count said he thinks it childish to insist on being called emperor when you don’t have a throne. How can you—”
“Montholon? Don’t worry. I understand him. We will speak no more of it.” Napoleon turned his back and walked into his bedroom. She bristled, perturbed that he still didn’t take her seriously. He dismissed her concerns as had Ali.
Suspecting her pending feat would be less than delightful, Amélie returned to her quarters to sort it out. She touched her cheek, still feeling the stroke of his fingers, the heat of his arm around her shoulders. Had Napoleon given her a step up in protocol to manipulate her to his desires?
Before the dinner preparation, her father caught her in the narrow hall separating their chambers. “The emperor has asked my permission to have dresses made for you. I told him it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted. You’re to perform in some recital? An important evolution in your development?” His vexed expression barely penetrated her dilemma. “Are you sure you want to be part of such a pageant?”
“I’m thinking it over. His Majesty shouldn’t have asked you about clothing. That should be my decision.” Her father doubted her, but the emperor did not. Did she want to sing in front of people who might pick apart her every imperfection? Her voice sounded good. She knew that now. Did she intend to be another courtier displeasing His Majesty in his arduous circumstances? Her stomach jumped, jittery.
She’d probed into opera as something daring. Here lay her chance to be bold before everyone and prove herself to the emperor.
Chapter Ten
I also repent not having talked more with the ladies. I would have learned a great many things from them that men did not dare to tell me—N.B.
Amélie pushed a damp curl from her forehead. The study fire roared and she moved away from it. Her mouth was so dry she coughed and strained to swallow.
“This is your important night. Do you understand what’s required, ma petite Amée?” The emperor paced back and forth, increasing her fluster. In the past few days he’d ceased calling her Amélie and had shortened it. Napoleon stopped in front of her, appearing ready to do battle, face flushed, eyes glittering, while she struggled to take even breaths.
“Sire, even my father no longer calls me petite...at my request.” Her voice croaked out and she forgot about using his first name. “May I have something to drink?”
Napoleon handed her a cup of tea, tepid, but she gulped it down.
“Do you think those two arias from Cosi Fan Tutti complement each other back to back?” She prayed for the liquid to settle in her roiling stomach.
“Yes, yes, of course they do. They show off your voice, the jumps from top to bottom of the soprano range.”
“Fiordiligi is a taxing part.” Amélie rubbed her throat, thinking of the length and leaps from high soprano to contralto and back again in “Per pieta, ben mio perdona.”
“Cosi Fan Tutti was performed at my court in Compiegne...in 1811. Let’s see what we can do with it here. Remember to keep your chin up, and project, project. Are we ready? Then let’s greet your public.” Napoleon extended his arm graciously. She accepted it, hoping he couldn’t detect how badly she quivered.
Her “public” sat in a semicircle facing the piano in the capacious hall. The Count and Countess Bertrand were there, with Count de Montholon. In the back, alongside the wall, stood Cipriani, Marchand, and Saint-Denis. Chef Gascon waited next to her father, with various footmen and maids shifting beside them. Even Madame Cloubert appeared enthusiastic as she awaited the event’s start. Clarice slouched against the wall, her expression sullen.
Amélie crossed the room stiff on the emperor’s arm, and her father gave what seemed a smile of reluctance rather than encouragement.
At Napoleon’s request, the seamstress had altered one of the Countess de Montholon’s dresses for Amélie to wear this evening—a rich, blue velvet gown with delicate white lace at the collar and sleeves. Scooped low in front, Amélie had pinned the neckline to tighten it. Overheard grumbling to her husband, the countess hated lending it out. Then the woman had the audacity to announce this garment was a discard intended for one of her servants.
Where would a servant wear this on Saint Helena? Amélie fiddled with the gown’s lace collar chafing her collarbone. Despite the finery, she felt like a dowdy peasant as she took her place beside the piano.
The emperor sat in his reserved chair directly in front of her, then smiled and nodded. The countess, after making a production of swirling around her skirts on the bench, began to play. Amélie shut her eyes for a moment, inhaling a deep breath, her body trembling with tension.
First she sang from Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutti. She sang the
part of Dorabella: “Smanie implacibili,” then Fiordiligi: “Come scoglio” and “Per pieta, ben mio perdona.” Two sisters whose fidelity is wickedly tested by their betrothed after the men trick them to prove all women are fickle. Napoleon barely approved of its comic, though satirical, tone, but they were limited to the available material. Amélie sighed in relief to get through the exhausting sweep with few mistakes.
After this she performed as Alcina from La Liberazione di Ruggiero dall’isola d’Alcina, by Francesca Caccini. Amélie had insisted on the piece, as this seventeenth-century woman was hailed as the first female opera composer. She relished the part of Alcina, an alluring sorceress on an enchanted island, though in the end she descends into a fiery inferno.
Everyone applauded at the first break, commenting in surprise over Amélie’s wide range of voice. Albine de Montholon smiled and bowed her head, as if they meant the praise for her.
Amélie’s finale for the evening was Carolina’s aria from Il Matrimonio Segreto, “Questa cosa”—the aria that first enticed Napoleon to notice her. All at once, Amélie didn’t care for the premise of a girl trying to convince her patrician suitor she’s unworthy of him.
She finished, her throat and ears vibrating.
The company applauded, with a few bravos. The emperor jumped to his feet to congratulate her. His courtiers congratulated him. Amélie pressed her fingers to her abdomen, dizzy, but relieved. She tried to swallow past her raw throat.
“You are magnifique, my dear.” Countess Bertrand squeezed her hand. “What a beautiful voice you have. This was a refreshing change of pace. Where have you been hiding all this time?”
Amélie smiled, frozen in place, thanking the bobbing faces and surge of voices. A confidence in her ability seeped through her like a tonic, filling her up, and steadying her at the same time. Power came with success. This must have been, on a much larger scale, how Napoleon felt when as a young captain he’d chased the British out of Toulon—the first glint of his star.
“You were superb. Didn’t I tell you?” Napoleon clasped her by both shoulders. She giggled nervously and he laughed too. “You see, it wasn’t so frightening as you thought,” he whispered. “Don’t deny it, you trembled like those flags hanging on wires from Alarm House.” She now trembled with his breath in her ear—Calypso luring Odysseus with her haunting voice.
Napoleon turned to the audience. “I have a special surprise for Amélie, since she has entertained us so well tonight.”
To her astonishment he handed her a small white box tied with a pink ribbon.
“Merci beaucoup,” Amélie murmured, her cheeks growing warm. Everyone stared at her, her father with a brooding expression.
“Open it,” Napoleon urged as she continued to clutch the box in her hands.
Amélie fumbled with the bow as everyone leaned forward. Inside the box, nestled in white paper, lay the most exquisite necklace she’d ever seen: a delicate gold chain embellished with three oval pink stones, each framed in tiny pearls and gold filigree. She held it up, and the audience made appreciative noises.
“Here, I’ll put it on for you.” Napoleon took the necklace and draped it around her neck. Fastening the clasp in back, he whispered, “This was Josephine’s. A rare pink topaz. Her daughter gave it to me my last night at Malmaison. I have cherished it dearly.”
An important gift, once owned by his beloved Josephine. The emperor proved his deep affection by giving it to Amélie. She rippled with pleasure that Napoleon thought this highly of her. His fingers on her nape sent excited chills along her neck and shoulders.
“Don’t you like my gift?” he asked in the face of her silence.
“I adore it, Your Majesty.” Catching her breath, she saw every critical eye in the place glued to her, yet they mattered little. Her heart soared above them. She caressed the stones, cool against her throat, and turned to Napoleon and kissed him on the cheek.
The emperor appeared dazed by her forwardness, but smiled with pleasure and touched his cheek. “I too receive a present.”
Amélie laughed and it seemed to bounce off the walls. A few in the audience chimed in as others gaped in silence or looked away.
Perrault strode up, his brow furrowed, mouth pinched. “Forgive us, Your Majesty. My daughter has forgotten her place.”
“Papa,” Amélie whispered, embarrassed by her father’s interference. She yearned for a different place. Like the necklace, lifted from her box and caressed.
“Perrault, we are here to enjoy ourselves.” Napoleon rescued the moment, his voice theatrical, filling the room. “What finer compliment than to be kissed by a beautiful girl? Now, wine for everyone.”
The valets rushed forward and poured wine into glasses and passed them to the audience. Gascon plodded up with a tray of his miniature cream tarts: darioles. His droopy face ashen, he looked in danger of coughing onto the pastries.
Amélie ran her tongue to the corners of her mouth, still tasting Napoleon’s musky skin on her lips and couldn’t stop grinning. Her emperor’s face when enthralled appeared years younger, and his touch made her giddy and simmering inside.
“He’ll tire of her soon enough, mon ange. His Majesty’s ‘infatuations’ never last long. I’ll make certain of that.” The Count de Montholon elbowed Amélie as if by accident as he put his arm around his wife’s plump shoulders. The couple moved past her. Amélie shoved down her anger at their obvious ploy to ruin her evening. “How embarrassing,” Montholon spoke again, “when all of Europe hears that the great Napoleon fancies himself a singing master.”
* * * *
The pink cotton frock, gathered at the neck, with lace on puffed sleeves, looked almost too little girlish. Amélie held the garment up in her chamber after the seamstress dropped off her new apparel. Days past her performance, she still reveled in her triumph and this added to her feeling of privilege. The elegant, column-like white gown with its typical low-cut bodice presented the complete opposite. The material felt featherlight as she traced her fingers along the dotted muslin. The deep-blue dress with square-cut neckline fell somewhere in between, the silk sleek in her hands. All had high waists with ribbons that tied under the breasts.
She twirled the blue dress around. Never in her life had she owned such beautiful clothes. Little wonder the others in the house might question her status and expect the worst, but who cared about their perceptions.
Still, the emperor spent money on her, but previously destroyed his own silver to support his household? No, that had been a ruse to mortify Governor Lowe.
Clothes neatly folded, she hurried into the main house. Amélie walked through the half-open study door, then realized her serious breach. The emperor and Albine de Montholon stared in surprise from the sofa.
Amélie’s face burned, but she twinged with jealousy. “Pardon.” She dropped a quick curtsy. “Please forgive me, Your Majesty.”
“What is it, Amée, what has happened?” Napoleon rose and smiled, not appearing upset, though the countess glowered enough for them both.
“I wanted to thank you for the fine dresses that just arrived, Sire.” She straightened and returned the woman’s provoking glare.
“De rien. You must start to wear them immediately.” His expression warmed with pride. “Of course, a Parisian seamstress would have been far superior, but we must make do. Did you finish the Alexander book yet?”
The countess’s features glazed over like desolate arctic ice.
“Do you have time to discuss it now?” Those gowns weren’t suitable for her regular duties, but glancing at her drab garment, Amélie wished she’d slipped one on. She stepped farther into the room.
“Yes, Albine was just leaving. Come in and we’ll review the book.” Napoleon waved her over to the sofa.
The countess stood slowly, her manner stiff at this dismissal. Her glare slashed across Amé
lie. Chosen over the emperor’s supposed mistress, Amélie suppressed a grin. She averted her eyes from the woman’s growing abdomen as the countess passed from the room.
“I don’t know what possessed me, to walk in uninvited.” Amélie gave Napoleon a shy smile, though didn’t feel bashful now. “I hope you didn’t mind.”
“No, strangely, I didn’t. Your valor was a storming of the ramparts.” Napoleon radiated amusement, brightening the chamber as if the sun flowed in. “A little excitement around here won’t kill anyone. In fact, we could use it.”
“I also want to say, and I’m very grateful, but you needn’t have been so generous to me with the clothes. The seamstress said silk is difficult to get here, although we’re on the route from China.” A rat skittered along the baseboard, almost over her toes, before disappearing into a hole in the wall. Even the rats dared to disturb her emperor.
“Why not be generous? A performer must dress accordingly, even in this dreary land where everything is impossible to get.” His amusement faded, then he forced a smile. “So, what is your opinion of Alexander the Great?”
“Alexander was loved and inspired by his men. A brilliant general who moved troops at unheard of speeds.” Amélie rehearsed this in her room, determined to sound as intelligent as possible. “His early death kept him from realizing all his plans.” Suddenly, she wasn’t talking of Alexander. Wasn’t an indefinite imprisonment similar to death?
She didn’t mention Alexander’s growing tyranny, his desire to surpass even the gods as he annexed the world under his sovereignty. Were these parallels as well, these traits whispered by some and shouted by others when the Bourbons held France and Napoleon’s enemies exiled him to Elba? Cowards wheedling for favor in the new regime? Still, Amélie’s hero worship couldn’t blind her to Napoleon’s faults.
“C’est vrais. Alexander barely outgrew his boyhood when he captured most of the globe. He fought few battles, but arranged his troops well. That was his genius.” At his bookcase the emperor pulled out another thick volume. “Here’s one on Julius Caesar, a man whose genius and boldness were equally great. The more you read, the more you’ll understand events and why things repeat themselves throughout history.”
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