Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “What is it used for, sir?” Amélie asked, intrigued, and eager to humor the emperor’s friends. She’d heard this man also smuggled letters for Napoleon.

  “It’s put in tea. Many drink it to enhance...vitality and stimulation, among other things.” Balcombe’s plump cheeks reddened. He listed to one side, his right leg swollen with gout.

  “That sounds valuable. I’ll be happy to try it, sir, thank you,” Amélie said. Balcombe promised to send it right up.

  She was introduced to two more couples, and their names swam together in her mind. Amélie clutched Napoleon’s arm, her unease sharp over singing in front of so many strangers.

  Napoleon brought her a cup of tea, and they stood in a corner quietly discussing the songs she was to perform. The others in the room watched them, a few sneers from the officers. She wished everyone would disappear, leaving her to sing for Napoleon alone.

  The Countess de Montholon sauntered over in her low-cut Turkey-red gown. “I wish I felt up to playing tonight, Sire.” She fingered the black velvet ribbon tied beneath her pendulous breasts. A diamond-studded bandeau wound around her chestnut curls and puffy face.

  “I’m surprised you are even here.” Napoleon didn’t glance at her.

  “I still wouldn’t mind piano lessons.” Amélie blushed for the countess in her offensive display of clinging silk, far too scanty for a woman of her age and bovine figure.

  “I just had this dress made. Do you think it attractive on me, Your Majesty?” Albine leaned close to Napoleon’s ear, breasts quivering.

  Amélie bit at her lip and almost stuck out her own chest, but accomplishment and demeanor should outweigh shallow attractions.

  “You might catch a cold in it, Albine.” Napoleon gave a dismissive smile. “A woman in your condition should be at home, preparing for her blessed event.”

  Amélie stifled a laugh and clung tighter to his arm.

  “I hope this girl Fanny hired to play can match my expertise.” The countess glared at Amélie as if she’d made the comment. Then she scanned the room with narrowed eyes. “What have we come to when we invite the help to these fetes? C’est normal.”

  “The help appreciates fine music.” Amélie raised her chin as the woman waddled off.

  The girl from Jamestown sat at the piano. Fanny Bertrand raised a hand and announced the entertainment was about to commence.

  Amélie surveyed the eager faces and slowly stepped to her place beside the piano. After a deep breath, she began—the act of using her muscles for singing calmed her innards. Performing most of her old repertoire, she added a new aria from Zingarelli’s opera Ifigenia in Aulide, which she’d practiced. A young woman in Greek mythology about to be sacrificed to the gods.

  At the finish many were full of praise, but not all of her “outside” audience seemed impressed. With a twitch of a lip or roll of an eye, they might have thought of far better arias they’d heard in London. Were her French enthusiasts desperate for any amusement?

  Two very tall, somewhat handsome British officers converged on her and in halting French refused to take no for an answer. She found herself sitting in the best armchair with these gentlemen in attendance, fetching her wine, snacks, and asking questions. Amélie stared about the room. Napoleon talked with the Balcombes, the Countess de Montholon hovering close.

  She tried to bask in this, her own attention, especially after two glasses of wine. Part of her encouraged them, jealous of Napoleon with the countess.

  Finally catching the eye of the emperor who now stood near the fireplace, Amélie shivered at his grim expression. Did this indicate her singing wasn’t as fine as she’d hoped? For a few minutes more she listened to the officers’ chatter until impatience flushed through her. When they asked if they might call on her, she rose. “I’m sorry, I’m too busy with my studies, and your governor scorns such fraternization. Now if you’ll excuse me, Messieurs.”

  * * * *

  Amélie walked toward him, looking so graceful in her sweeping white dress, so youthful, a rare orchid. Napoleon hated his response to her: a young man awed by his first glimpse of beauty. He wasn’t a young man anymore.

  “Is anything the matter, Sire?” she asked in a low voice, sidling close.

  “No, of course not,” Napoleon replied, his voice unsteady before he firmed it. He couldn’t meet her searching eyes. “Things are progressing well, I can see.”

  “Was the new aria satisfactory?”

  “Satisfactory enough, in light of all these distractions.” Napoleon turned to smile at one of the women in the group of visitors and started to move away from Amélie’s endearing face, a face that asked so much of him.

  “I’m tired. Could someone please take me home, Your Majesty? I’d be extremely grateful. My father has already left. I waited…to speak with you.” She put her delicate hand on his arm.

  Napoleon studied her now, seeing no guile, only her desire to be near him. He needed to snatch her from this place, away from those groping soldiers, yet keep her at arm’s length. “Are you sure you’ve had enough socializing?”

  “Yes, quite sure.”

  He measured her for too long, their gazes caught in some unnerving trance. Yes, she’d bloomed into an alluring woman, dangerous. “I suppose I can take you back. I’ve had enough here as well.” He called to Marchand to retrieve her wrap and his hat. The valet joined them in the cart back to Longwood.

  Napoleon marched through the house and into his study, but Amélie followed behind.

  “Are you angry with me about something? Is my singing a disappointment?” she asked as Marchand lit a branch of candles before putting wood in the fireplace and lighting that. The valet waited until he dismissed him.

  After he warmed his hands over the crackling flames, Napoleon leaned on the mantel, not looking at her, but smelling her perfume. “Your singing was fine, as always.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I thought you were tired, Amée. Go to your chambers.”

  She sat on the sofa instead. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Wrong?” He faced her, his temper slipping out. “What could possibly be wrong? You had your glory tonight, with those English idiots staring down your dress all evening.”

  “They were being kind. I didn’t invite it.” Her startled look reminded him again of a fawn.

  “Kind?” He wrestled with his anger, but with luck it might chase her from the room. “They drooled all over you like hungry dogs.”

  Her mouth twitched. “If you didn’t like it, why didn’t you come over? I couldn’t find you when I finished.”

  “You can impress whomever you want, Amée, but to waste time on stupid Englishmen.” Napoleon struck his fist on the mantel. A candlestick jostled and fell with a plunk to the floor.

  “I cared nothing for them. I was being gracious. Isn’t that what you wanted, for me to act polished?” She stood again as her voice level rose.

  “It doesn’t matter...what I want.” Napoleon lost his sharp edge. His confidence at Hutt’s Gate evaporated like the smoke from gunfire.

  “It does; it matters to me.” They glared at one another across the room. She walked nearer, closing the distance between them, that dress flowing around her slim figure.

  “Amée...” He raised his hands as if to push her back. “I admit, I was jealous of those officers’ attentions to you.”

  “You had no reason. They meant nothing to me.”

  “I shouldn’t be jealous, Amée. You don’t belong to me.” His words tender, he hadn’t disguised his longing. His bravado vanished, opening him to the vulnerability he hated.

  Napoleon stiffened when she moved up, her breasts brushing his waistcoat. He breathed slowly, breathing her in, his hands stroking her arms. She laid her cheek on his shoulder. Unable to
stop himself, he hugged her body against his and kissed the top of her head, her fragrant hair on his lips. She felt so soft, so natural, as if she did belong with him. He fought the desire to lift her chin and kiss her on the mouth.

  He closed his eyes, held her for several minutes, and trailed his fingers down her spine and along her hip. Then he rallied his senses and pulled back, grasping at an excuse. “Did Fanny put that perfume on you? Don’t let her do that. You need no false scent.” Napoleon stared into her face and summoned his officious manner. “Go on now to bed, it’s late. Next time wear the fichu with that dress. You don’t want to give men the wrong impression.” She looked dazed as she spread her fingers over the top of her bodice. He squeezed her other hand and almost dragged her toward the study door. Who could he find to marry her, and soon? “I’ll have Marchand take you to your quarters, and…see you for the races tomorrow. Bonne nuit.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cupid’s treacherous arrows, are poisoned, it’s said—N.B.

  Amélie lingered in her bed and watched the sunlight creep through her window. She stroked her hands over her body, reliving Napoleon’s embrace, smelling the herbal scent of the cologne on his skin. Again her nerves bundled beneath her flesh, her skin aware of every inch of theirs that had touched. Her emotions trembled, peeling away her former intellectual desires as if stripping away everything and leaving her naked.

  Napoleon said she didn’t belong to him, but what if she wanted him to belong to her?

  She stretched, hopped up, used her chamber pot, and dressed. She took special care with her toilette, donning the blue dress and her best straw hat.

  Given his reluctance to display himself before the English officials, Amélie’s pulse quickened to see that Napoleon awaited her for their walk to the Deadwood Camp to attend the races.

  “Good morning,” he said, his smile distracted.

  She waited for a special, intimate sparkle in his eyes, a sweet word, but he said nothing more. Disappointed in his brisk demeanor, she fell silent after greeting him. Their intimacy last night distanced him, while she desired more. How best to pull him back?

  Count Bertrand joined them and they walked around the small ravine that separated their residence from the camp a half-mile away. Napoleon always balked at showing himself at the races. Before this, he’d watched these events through field glasses from a window at Count Bertrand’s house.

  In the cold August air the mists crept along the plateau.

  They arrived as the Ladies’ Race began. The women, riding habits trailing over their horses’ flanks, leaned forward, hands anxious on the reins. A shot fired and they rode off down the track, jolting in their sidesaddles.

  “Are you betting on any of the races, Sire?” Amélie stood on Napoleon’s left, watching him as well as the riders.

  Napoleon glanced at the canopies set-up for attending dignitaries. “Lowe looks furious that I’m even here,” he said in amusement to Bertrand who stood on his right. “He’s afraid one of the Commissaires, who wait like vultures for a glimpse, will sneak over and talk with me. That Austrian, Stürmer, hadn’t the decency to bring me news of my wife and son.”

  “This is the perfect opportunity to meet the foreign delegates, Your Majesty.” Amélie repeated her argument of the past several days, but winced at his mention of his wife. She huffed. He needed to move beyond his past. A semblance of higher society might make Napoleon less hostile to the island.

  Count Balmain and Baron Stürmer, the representatives sent from Russia and Austria to oversee England’s custodianship of Napoleon, stood under the tent awnings. Governor Lowe and his wife, Sir Thomas Reade, the Count de Montholon, and various army and navy officers filled out the spectators. The wind rippled the canvas around them and swirled the dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves.

  “Montholon seems to be enjoying himself…as usual,” Bertrand said in his quiet way, as if not wanting to offend too much, “parading about for everyone to appreciate. Fanny says he ‘uses all his oily charm on that peahen Lady Lowe,’ and I must agree.”

  “Sire, why not send someone over to the tents to express your compliments to the delegates.” She raised her voice, frustrated by his mood, his ignoring her.

  “Bertrand, you and Montholon must come to terms. This constant bickering is impossible to bear.” Napoleon turned his shoulder to her.

  Soldiers trudged by leading horses smelling of sweat and oats. All the participants whispered and gaped at Napoleon as they went about their business.

  Another race prepared to start. Archambault, their groom, mounted one of the stable nags. The man weaved in the saddle. When the shot fired, he kicked his horse into action, his arms flailing, head wobbling as if his neck were jelly, obviously drunk. Rounding the first bend in the track, he tumbled from his horse into a heap in the grass. Many of the soldiers laughed.

  Napoleon lowered his field glasses. “Go and fetch that idiot. See if he’s hurt,” he said to the footman standing behind him, who sprinted off toward the crumpled groom.

  “Montholon undermines me, Your Majesty. He…happens to stretch the truth to put himself in a better light.” Bertrand hunched over. “Some of us wonder why he even came here, when more loyal men were refused. We hadn’t seen a trace of him for years, now he’s here as your supreme devoted subject?”

  “You told me you wanted to talk to Count Balmain, Sire.” Amélie struggled to drag the attention back to her. She brushed her fingers near Napoleon’s elbow, yet bit her lip to keep from spouting about Montholon’s supposed devotion.

  “Enough, does any of this matter now?” Napoleon still spoke to his general. “It’s just jealousy on your part. Why must we constantly go over the same things?”

  “I’m sorry, Sire, but Montholon only tells you to your face what you want to hear.” Bertrand’s voice now sulky, his subservient manner seemed to blow away with the trade winds. “I think you put up with him because his wife amuses you.”

  Amélie stifled a gasp at Bertrand’s very personal remark. The pregnant sow couldn’t still be amusing her emperor. She swept her hair off her shoulder. Had his kiss in her tresses meant nothing?

  “Montholon is useful to me. When he is no longer, then I have no need for him. Try to be more like him.” Napoleon’s face impassive, his fingers clenched on his field glasses. “You have accompanied me here to be my comfort, then behave as such. Look to your own wife’s conduct. The eyes of foreigners are on us all. You are dissatisfied here? Think of me, all my humiliations. How much I have to blame myself for.”

  “The dullness of this island is so hard on Fanny.” Bertrand lowered his head. “I’ve tried to interest the Commissaires in visiting, as you wished, so we’d have social contacts. I thought Count Balmain was amenable, but now he avoids me.”

  “Perhaps Count Bertrand could invite Count Balmain to join you, Sire. He might not refuse with all these people watching.” Amélie’s heart pounded. She shivered in the cold, acting like the worst of Napoleon’s courtiers, scrambling for his attention.

  Bertrand flicked her a surprised glance, pushing her farther from the center.

  Two footmen dragged Archambault, stinking like cheap wine, stumbling by them, in the direction of Longwood.

  “The governor wants me to have little contact with outsiders. Look how Lowe stares over here.” Napoleon chuckled, but anger lurked beneath it. “If one of the delegates comes anywhere near Longwood, Lowe interrogates them with petty annoyances. I’m not the only one to swallow his insults.”

  “I heard that as long as your door is closed to the governor, the delegates won’t come into Longwood.” Amélie moved closer, her arm brushing his sleeve. That proved Napoleon needed to form a relationship with Lowe, if his stubborn pride would allow it.

  “I heard that Baron Stürmer declared Lowe wasn’t quite sound of mind,” Bertrand said.


  The delegates stared in Napoleon’s direction, but none made a move from the awnings. The governor and Lady Lowe stepped into the dignitaries’ line of sight with broad gestures, as if to redirect their focus.

  Horses snorted and men shouted as the Deadwood regiment set up another race.

  Montholon left the canopy and walked over to his sovereign. Amélie tried not to shrivel under his derisive stare. “Sire, I’m afraid you will have to make the first effort at reconciliation.” Montholon dabbed at his cheek with a handkerchief. “Though I realize that is too inferior a position to subject you to. An insult for Lowe to even insist.”

  “Vraiment, it is the governor who should prostrate himself before me and those delegates, their governments have no power over my person.” Napoleon’s voice hardened at Montholon’s words. The count purposely stirred his anger. “I’ve witnessed enough races today. I must go and see if my groom has survived his fall.” She started to follow, anxious to be alone with him. “No, Amée, stay and enjoy yourself.”

  * * * *

  Napoleon returned to the house after checking on Archambault. The fool was only bruised and sore. He’d chided him before about his drinking, making a spectacle of himself before the British.

  He entered the study and rubbed his aching neck. A draining sadness wouldn’t leave him. He’d spurned Amée, but needed to keep her in her place no matter how he cared for her. Caring for her would do neither of them any good. He’d almost lost his equanimity last night with her in his arms. She sparked the flint inside him that he couldn’t allow near the gunpowder. He refused to sully her. He had to do something, send her away from this island, so it would never happen again.

  “Your Majesty, the Count de Montholon requests an audience,” Marchand said when he walked in and stoked up the study fire.