Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “I do want to learn everything. I have read Shakespeare’s play about Julius Caesar...” Caesar’s murder by close associates fearing his ambitions mirrored the emperor’s betrayal by his allies. Amélie’s pulse skittered. Napoleon must know she understood this correlation.

  “Next I might give you Plutarch’s The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans. That stimulated me to the exploits of the empire-building of Alexander and Caesar.” Napoleon appraised her closely—here stood the great soldier of the past, so proud—and she shivered. “Unless this is all too much for you. They say truth will set you free, but I say it’s knowledge. Though much more so for a man than a woman.”

  “No, of course it isn’t too much.” Amélie’s favored position today emboldened her. “Can’t a woman be considered an equal to a man, Napoleon?” She hoped he remembered his permission to use his name.

  “A woman should be of a gentler mind and occupation,” he said as another statement of fact. “She keeps the household and cares for the children, both important tasks.”

  “Still, you’re giving me all these history books to read—and I’m happy you are.” She gushed this out in case he changed his mind. “Many women have intelligence and courage to offer. There have been numerous great women throughout history. Joan of Arc is one.”

  “In some ways, perhaps, a woman might be equal, but Joan was burned as a heretic—by the evil English, no less.” Napoleon walked toward the fireplace and his thoughts seemed to drift elsewhere. He pulled his bell cord. Ali rushed in, stoked the fire, and left quickly.

  “Women during our revolution strived for equality with men.” She wouldn’t drop the subject close to her heart. “Such as Marie Madeline Jodin, and Olympe de Gouges.”

  “Most were prostitutes or actresses, melodramatic women full of artifice, catching the spirit of madness that prevailed.” He leaned on the mantel, flipping up his hand in a grand gesture.

  Napoleon hadn’t minded actresses when they served as his mistresses.

  “Some insisted on lodging and training for poor women, and women’s divorce rights—”

  “Does your father know you read about such things?” He stared at her wide-eyed, though she suspected he baited her.

  “My father doesn’t dictate what I read. He encourages my education.”

  “An overly educated woman can be a domineering, unfeminine shrew. Most learned women are shrill and ugly.” Napoleon grimaced and her boundaries crumbled.

  “Is a woman worth nothing if she isn’t beautiful?” Amélie pressed the book to her chest. Is that how he thought of her?

  “There are ways to be beautiful that have nothing to do with physical attraction.” He ran his fingers over a music box on the chimneypiece mantel, his eyes now unfocused. “I think we are through discussing this.”

  “Bien entendu. We can discuss other topics.” Amélie studied the emperor. His brisk manner had to hide his deep sadness. She’d test the limits of her influence and raise him above his enormous sorrows. A woman might tread where a valet wouldn’t dare. “I wish you would reconsider and start riding again.”

  Napoleon turned to her, brows raised. “What do you mean?” he asked gently.

  “I know you don’t ride your horses anymore.” Amélie fingered the book’s edges. “You ought to get out of this place once in a while. The fresh air would be good for you.”

  “Are you aware the governor requires a British soldier to follow me if I leave this area? I refuse to ride under such ridiculous conditions.” His voice swelled in pitch, his gaze narrowed.

  Amélie regretted his upset, but he scrutinized her with an expectant air. “That shouldn’t matter. Isn’t it only hurting you to confine yourself here? You...everyone needs exercise. If I had such fine horses, I’d ride them every day.”

  Now he laughed, though it came out harsh. “Are you saying I’m getting too fat?”

  “No, I didn’t say that. I would never—”

  “I know that I am. You think I don’t have eyes, Amée?” He fixed her with his penetrating stare, and she bit at her lip. “Giving in to the British is out of the question. Remaining out of their sight, I retain my dignity. In here I’m always the emperor and not reminded of this unjust captivity by having the soldiers or Lowe dictating my every move.”

  “I’d hate to be shut up inside this house day after day. Fresh air is good for a change in outlook. Still, it’s none of my affair. I’m sorry to have brought it up.” She feigned resignation, a new tact—again testing her sway, and moved toward the study door, clutching the book.

  Napoleon looked her up and down, a faint smile playing across his lips. “O’Meara constantly insists I resume riding as well. Harps on it, in his unassuming way.”

  She flushed under his scrutiny. “If you went out again, you’d be showing the British they have no effect on you. That…what they do is beneath your notice.”

  “They want me to give up exercise by insulting me—to perish sooner, as if from a natural death and not one they forced upon me by these restrictions.” He rubbed his chin and spoke philosophically.

  “If that’s what they want…” Amélie’s conviction strengthened as she twisted the doorknob. “Then take it away from them by defying their wishes, and riding out as you need to.”

  He studied her as if absorbing her reasoning, assessing his battle plan. “Your point is...tempting. Very well, I might go riding again, if you will go with me?”

  She’d succeeded. She almost slumped against the door in relief. “I would be happy to.”

  “Splendid! Tomorrow I’ll have my groom prepare the horses. We can ride after breakfast. Is that satisfactory?” Napoleon spoke louder as if trying to convince himself.

  “Yes, quite satisfactory.” Amélie opened the door and smiled. She wouldn’t admit that she’d never graced the back of a horse before, but how hard could it be?

  * * * *

  That aristocratic bearing that gave Montholon his superior air struggled against the disapproval in his expression. “You intend to ride out before the British, with your kitchen maid?” He coated his words with a deferential tone, but Napoleon still bristled. “Do you think that is wise, Sire?”

  “I don’t need you to question my motives.” Napoleon pulled his snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket and took a pinch. He ran it beneath his nose, inhaling the acrid smell, and threw the rest in the study fireplace. How much longer must he put up with these people? He’d thought Montholon a useful addition to his entourage: an actual tie to the old aristocracy, to make him legitimate in the eyes of European royalty, even in exile. The prissy man, however, grated on his nerves. “You will accompany us. Now leave me.”

  “I only wish to protect you from any slander the English might attach to such a display, but, of course, it is your prerogative, Sire.” Montholon bowed and strode from the room, leaving behind that prick of chastisement.

  “She is just a child. No one will care.” Napoleon smiled, dismissing his annoyance with Montholon. That little scamp Amée had talked him into this before he knew what happened. She had more depth than he’d first surmised. She brought him out of his torpor, challenged him, and made him feel alive again. When was the last time a girl had so affected him, beyond the selfish occasional need to have one in his bed? His first months with Marie Louise had brought him pleasure—his dominance over her royal person, but as soon as she’d slipped from his influence…He rubbed his thumb over the antique coins on his snuffbox and refused to allow himself to dwell on that.

  Yes, Amée would be a pleasant distraction until his situation changed. Napoleon had to trust that the situation would change, that this island was but a stumbling block in his illustrious career. Stuffing the obvious devastations—loss of family, territory, prestige, in a separate compartment in his mind—kept him sane. Like the eagle, he had to stare forward over the horizon
. That’s how he survived in a world that had punctured him far too many times.

  * * * *

  Perrault knitted his smoky brow as he rattled his pots onto their hooks. The evening candlelight wavered in the drafty kitchen. “You’ve never ridden before, to my recollection.”

  “No, in Paris and Lyon I could walk everywhere.” Amélie stepped down off the stool where she hung herbs to dry from the rafters. “It’s the only way the emperor will resume his exercise, and he has grown extremely overweight and slow.”

  “Amélie, I hope you didn’t tell him that to his face.” Perrault arched both eyebrows, and smoothed back his thick mass of gray hair. “Has your outspokenness made you forget your manners?”

  “Papa, allow me more sensitivity than that.”

  “As long as you don’t weary His Majesty.” Perrault poked wood into the oven to ready it for the next morning. “You like to be too forward at times. I hope there will be a chaperone?”

  “Of course.” Amélie barely let his question register. She felt swept up, caught in a wind that might blow her to the edge of the island’s cliffs. She had to balance herself carefully.

  “Our emperor has always been fond of young people.” Perrault bent to brush ashes from the bread oven. “He enjoys playing with Count de Montholon’s and Count Bertrand’s children.”

  “Mon Dieu, Papa, when will you stop seeing me as a child?” She said it softly, and picked up the broom and brushed herb remnants toward the door. In this tiny community, he had to have heard the insinuating gossip about her. Was this his way of denying it might be possible?

  “A mature adult knows when to be humble.” Her father removed his apron and shook off the day’s debris, his tone brusque. “I hope you don’t intend to misbehave the way you did after your recital.”

  “He didn’t mind. You shouldn’t scold me now that I am a young woman.” She smiled and patted her father’s shoulder.

  “We are now so familiar, we need only say ‘he’?” Her father’s gaze grew more disconcerting. His haggard face pricked her with guilt.

  “Did I? My mistake.” Amélie gave her father a peck on his dry cheek, something she hadn’t done in far too long, but it didn’t improve his expression. “Why don’t you go and rest?”

  “Just remember, ma fille, you come from decent family. I will curtail these…lessons, if I must.” He turned and left the kitchen.

  Amélie retired to her room, her father’s threat unsettling. Now she’d gone from child to woman before his eyes, the transformation might not be to her advantage.

  An emperor overruled a chef, and she was through being subservient. She wriggled into her shabby cotton nightgown, threw aside the blanket, and stretched out on her thin mattress. She traced her fingers along her goose-bumped arms when she thought of her deepening tenderness toward Napoleon.

  Chapter Eleven

  The native earth has invisible charms...the very smell of its soil is so present in my senses...—N.B.

  Napoleon shivered in the dank air of his bedroom—he’d always been sensitive to cold—and lamented his impulsiveness. He crawled from his moist sheets and rang for Marchand.

  After stoking up the fire, Marchand brought him breakfast then helped him dress. The valet wiped the blue mold off Napoleon’s leather boots, a frequent occurrence in this climate. The young man draped the green hunting jacket with green velvet collar and cuffs over Napoleon’s shoulders: a garment he insisted his tailor turn rather than replace with English cloth. He rubbed an ache from his shoulder, thrust his arms in the sleeves and fastened the stag and fox-shaped silver buttons over his paunch. He plopped his cocked hat on his head and strode from his interior. Outside the misty air made him grumble. Already July and an austral winter was upon him.

  At the stables Amélie waited. A prompt girl, a key virtue. She wore a frayed spencer jacket and a straw hat for her introduction into horsemanship. Yes, he suspected she’d never ridden before. She talked with the stableman, Cloubert, a plump, fat-cheeked man of kind nature. Married to an abrasive woman who worked as head chambermaid, so Ali had told him.

  When the girl looked at him, Napoleon increased his gait to appear jaunty. Despite his girth, he would carry himself with a commanding presence.

  “Are you ready for this great ride, Amée?” Napoleon smiled and her face lit up as if he were a ray of sun. This idea warmed him in the chilly breeze. He turned to his groom who approached leading three horses. “You found a proper sidesaddle, Archambault?”

  “Bien sûr, Your Majesty. Mademoiselle, allow me to assist you onto your mount.” Archambault, stinking like cheap wine, stooped and cupped his hands.

  “I’m more than ready, Sire.” Amélie stepped over and the groom hoisted her up onto the horse. She settled herself uneasily in the saddle. Archambault handed her the reins.

  Montholon strode into their group as Napoleon mounted. “You’re late, Charles. You disrespect me in such behavior.”

  Amélie frowned at the count.

  “Please except my profound apologies, Your Majesty. Albine is feeling a little ill. After all, her delicate condition, and Tristan has the sniffles.” Montholon, straight as a saber, sliced his shiny boot toe into the stirrup and mounted.

  “Your wife should take your son out more, to enjoy God’s good air. Let us begin.” Napoleon inhaled the air and urged Hope forward. Amélie’s horse followed, and his jolting walk forced her to grip the saddle for balance. She looked uncomfortable with her leg looped over the pommel.

  They circled the house and left the grounds, heading out over the Deadwood Plain. Another rider galloped after them.

  “Ahh, my English spy.” Napoleon’s irritation crept up. “The orderly officer who dogs my every step. How does he know I intend to leave the designated area?”

  “I…might have informed Captain Poppleton, Sire. As due course.” Montholon’s words sounded only marginally contrite.

  “Sometimes I don’t know whose side you’re on.” Napoleon flashed his courtier an angry glare and urged his horse on faster, his shoulders hunched. Amélie warned him about this man. He must keep a close watch on Montholon.

  Napoleon’s muscles, unused to riding, soon ached, but it was an ache he didn’t mind. He stretched his back and neck and watched the girl grow familiar with her horse’s pace, a smile replacing her cautious expression.

  Before Hutt’s Gate, the trio followed the twisting road around the Devil’s Punchbowl, where gorse bushes hung over the edge by their roots. Navigating a steep, muddy track beyond, they rode down into the hollow known as Sane Valley. Napoleon dubbed it Geranium Vale, due to its geranium plants as tall as trees, so his people referred to it as such. A few pines and yellowing oaks clung to the grassy slopes. Napoleon breathed in the sweet, peppery scent from the mango, aloes, and myrtle.

  “I’ve never seen geraniums and begonias so large.” Amélie scrutinized the valley with interest. Their nearest water source, a stream shaded by weeping willows, intersected its center. “I wished we lived here, surrounded by such scenery, sheltered from the wind.”

  The indigenous Wire Birds, resembling ringed plovers, hopped on their wiry green legs and flapped gray wings at the intruders. Amélie laughed when one bird dove for a large black beetle as it skittered over a rock among tangled briar. Napoleon smiled at her spontaneous mirth.

  The English soldier maneuvered closer and Napoleon kicked his horse into a canter. Amélie rocked in the saddle when her mount also picked up speed. She yanked on the reins, jamming her foot in the stirrup until her horse fell behind.

  “I’d like to lose that English imbecile.” Napoleon slowed his mount to let her catch up. “Cockburn, at my request, made the ‘escorts’ wear plain clothes and stay far back, away from me. Often I prevailed with no one. I could reason with Admiral Cockburn, but never that rascal Lowe.”

  Amélie wi
nced and arranged herself more securely in the saddle, as if her buttocks were already sore from rubbing across hard leather. “Isn’t the valley part of the area permitted without an escort?”

  “May we gallop over the hill, Sire? Like we used to do,” Montholon said as if to drown her out. The haughty aristo brimmed with jealousy.

  “How fast is a gallop?” Amélie tightened her grip on the reins, her eyes wide.

  “You’re not afraid are you, Amée?” Napoleon asked with a wry smile.

  “This sidesaddle is awkward. I don’t know if I can keep my balance.” The girl’s mouth thinned in determination. “How do women manage to ride in such an odd position?”

  “You’re used to riding the conventional way? You should have told me.” He chuckled when she narrowed her eyes. His suspicion must be obvious, but he appreciated her bravery.

  They left the valley and skirted Longwood’s grounds again, past the Deadwood Camp, rambling through arid soil dotted with red thistle and loose pebbles. The mist swirled about their horses’ hooves. “Such a desolate place. It reminds me of the bleak plains of Russia, burned by her fleeing inhabitants.” Napoleon wished he rode in the lush woods at his St. Cloud palace where he’d indulged in hunting—images that still comforted him. “Do you know overzealous tanners ruined a great forest here, by stripping tree barks to boil and tan goat hides? Leaving the trees to fall over and rot. That’s why they call this plain Deadwood.”

  They approached the area known as Great Horse Point. Stunted trees sprouted among scrubwoods emitting a strong aromatic smell. Tangles of herbal boneseed, with hairy stems, crept like worms along the sandy soil.

  “Look, Sire. That plant is called ‘Old Father Live Forever.’ It’s a cousin of the geranium. The thick gnarled stems resemble the withered appearance of an old man.” Amélie grinned and pointed. “Saint Helena has such unique plants.”