Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Napoleon stood in front of the flames, the warmth soothing on his back. “Very well.” A distraction might do him good.

  Montholon strode in and bowed. “Sire, I have to tell you, when over beneath the awnings, I heard everyone whispering about your little friend. She’s become quite an embarrassment. Is it wise, if I may be so bold, to flaunt her under the British noses?” The man brushed at his epaulets, looking as fresh as if he’d stepped from a fashion plate.

  Napoleon bristled with irritation. He felt rumpled and wrung out.

  “Don’t speak to me of these things. They are none of your business.” The count’s words cut too close. Napoleon dropped into his chair, having second thoughts about this distraction. “Have you prepared those letters for me to sign to give to Count Balmain? I know if Alexander understands the conditions I live under, he will request a more humane treatment.” The tsar, once his great friend, the Treaty of Tilsit, when he stood at the apex of his power. If all else failed, he might at least be moved closer to Europe. At someplace like Malta, he could slip away again—perhaps America this time. Napoleon picked up his penknife and gouged at the wood on his chair arms, over his previous scratches.

  “Of course I have, Sire. Like all your correspondence, we will be discreet, but I don’t know if Balmain will accept anything without the governor’s approval.”

  Napoleon suddenly doubted the veracity of the count’s words about the discretion of his letters. He hid many things from Montholon, how else to be in control of everyone? He’d have to consult Cipriani about this—the one man he could trust.

  Napoleon dismissed Montholon only to find Bertrand waiting to speak to him.

  “Sire, I have just learned that an East Indiaman is in the harbor.” Bertrand watched him carefully. “On their way back from the Cape.”

  “Who’s the captain?” Napoleon sucked in his breath and gripped the chair arms.

  “That O’Sullivan. The one you—”

  “Yes, yes, I met with him before.” Napoleon rose and stalked to the window. He grabbed up his field glasses and trained them on a shutter hole. His mind racing, he saw nothing unusual outside. “Go back to your house. I will be expecting a request for an interview from the man. You must grant it immediately, but don’t appear too anxious.” He calmed down his tone and shrugged at Bertrand’s startled expression. “I enjoy this fellow. He amuses me.” He prayed the boisterous sailor would agree with all his wishes. How fortunate Las Cases had met this man, a trusted employee of the East India Company who had free access to the island. An Irishman who hated England.

  * * * *

  Amélie, perturbed at being left behind at the races, knocked on the study door at one o’clock. She refused to let Napoleon treat her in this cavalier manner while her affections grew. Dare she have intimate feelings about her emperor, or contemplate an illicit relationship? Not illicit, romantic. She sighed and pushed these confusing thoughts from her mind.

  “Amée, no practice today. I might be having an important visitor,” Napoleon said after inviting her into his study. He seemed to force an air of affability, yet his clenching and unclenching hands betrayed anxiety. “However, I do have something important to discuss with you.”

  “Earlier I felt you were a little indifferent to me, but I might have been mistaken.” She kept her voice sweet, knowing that affected him. Now who played the coquette?

  “Was I? Well, listen to me now. How would you like to go back to Europe and study for the opera? Milan would be ideal.” He gave her his boyish smile that usually disarmed her.

  “No, I…don’t care to do that.” Her heart lurched and she swallowed hard. She stared into his face to find the jest. “I told you I have no interest in going on the stage.” Her faux serene manner wavered. “I have no more to say about that.”

  “Ah? Maybe then I should marry you off to Marchand. That would be a good position for you. He’s a decent young man, and has been with me since 1811.” Napoleon paced to his fireplace, his back to her as if he couldn’t meet her eyes.

  His words stung deep. The room swayed around her. He had a penchant for marrying off his mistresses when they became too demanding, though she hadn’t yet risen to that category. Even the word sounded tawdry.

  She tried a flippant laugh. “I don’t care to be married off either. A woman should be able to choose her own husband.” Napoleon punished her for his own slip of ardor. She recognized the signs. When he got too close, he pulled back. If she intended to fulfill her mounting desires, she had to tread lightly even as her pulse echoed in her ears.

  “What greater honor than to be married to one of my staff? I’ll give you time to consider.” Napoleon strode across the room. He bent down and pulled a large book from his bookcase. “Have I given you this book about the great Emperor of the French, Charlemagne? A man whom I modeled my own Empire after. Like Charlemagne I united the crowns of France and Lombardy and my Empire extended to the Orient.” Now he sounded sad, lamenting the loss of that empire.

  “Charlemagne was a great man. I’ll enjoy reading about him. You don’t really wish to send me away?” Amélie tensed against the hurt, stepped forward, and put her hand on Napoleon’s shoulder to draw him close again. They each jostled for a different place in these unfolding events.

  The study door creaked open wide with a waft of perfume.

  “Your Majesty, remember you promised to play cards with us.” Albine hovered in the doorway, her rouged lips in a pout. Her small features squeezed into the center of her plump face like raisins in a cream puff. “Don’t disappoint me, us, again.”

  “Never barge in on me, it is unacceptable behavior,” Napoleon groused. “I don’t have time…I might be…on second thought, let us play. A good distraction. Sur l’heure.”

  “May I…join you, Sire?” Now Amélie barged in, refusing to be shuffled aside. She held her breath.

  Napoleon raised a brow at her. The countess smirked as if certain he’d say no.

  “Very well, we’ll make it a household occasion.” He threw up a hand and marched from the study.

  Amélie strode after him, leaving the lumbering countess to follow.

  In the drawing room with its yellow Chinese wallpaper and worn flowered carpet like a trampled garden, Montholon waited with his supercilious smile. Saint-Denis placed the cards on the game table, still warm from the oven where they had to dry them or they’d bend and stick together.

  “The new furniture is here at last, Sire.” Albine indicated a set of black wooden chairs with bronze gild and green velour cushions. She swished around her skirts before sitting in one of the chairs, then grinned up at Napoleon. “Do forgive my being presumptuous, but I didn’t think you would mind.” She patted her mound of belly and Amélie choked down a groan.

  “The little mademoiselle is playing?” Montholon cast her a withering glare, then caressed his wife’s shoulder.

  “This lovely furniture is for the new house the governor is building for you, Sire. For your future comfort.” Amélie tapped an oak octagon table with brass inlays. She’d love to plan a new household for him…for them?

  Napoleon gave a dismissive snort and sat down. “I told the governor I want no permanent home here. He’s wasting his time.”

  Amélie sat beside him. “The carpenters have started building out on the plain. The house looks like it will be much larger, and airier than Longwood.” She wanted Napoleon to be interested in the house, to acclimate himself to happiness here.

  “Isn’t this marvelous, Sire? We haven’t played thus in such a long while.” Montholon perched himself in a chair and crisply shuffled and divided the cards. “Shall Albine be your partner? I’m certain the mademoiselle is unfamiliar with piquet.”

  “Learning has never been a problem of mine, Count.” Amélie caught Napoleon’s eye, and smiled. “I would like to be your partner.”
>
  “True. If one never tries new things, one never learns.” Napoleon dealt himself and Amélie twelve cards each, leaving eight in the talon.

  “Don’t deny you have neglected us, Your Majesty. Being so busy with other things.” Albine shook a finger at him, then stroked his arm. “It’s almost your birthday. How would you like to celebrate?”

  Napoleon stiffened his shoulders. “I would like not to be reminded of such things.”

  “I’ll bake you a cherry cake. I know you’re partial to that flavor.” Amélie balanced on the edge of her chair, now sorry to sit among these courtiers’ glowers.

  “When we switch partners, I hope you don’t try any of your little tricks with the cards. I’m wise to them.” Albine’s chair creaked as she moved her bulk about.

  “Albine, don’t upset His Majesty.” Montholon gazed languidly at his wife. “Our emperor only does it to test the intelligence of his adversary, as in the wars.”

  “Mais oui, if he’s caught it is such a jest for him. Naughty boy, Sire.” Albine scratched her neck with the edge of her cards and tittered.

  “Lavender flowers, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves, drank with distilled water, helps giddiness.” Amélie arranged her cards, chewed on her lip, and resisted kicking the countess under the table.

  “Just what do you insinuate?” The countess sat back, her lips pursed.

  “Enough of this. Stop acting like children. Let’s play,” Napoleon said, and they all studied their cards.

  Amélie looked indifferently at her hand. She was supposed to discard and replace from the talon. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the countess’s fingers creep like snakes along Napoleon’s sleeve.

  “You have indeed neglected us, Sire. Perhaps you have explored all you can with Mademoiselle’s singing.” The count looked down his saber thin nose, shadowing a crimp of mouth, at Amélie. “How much more could there be?”

  “I’m sure there’s plenty more.” Amélie strained not to sound like the fearful child who rumbled inside her. “Isn’t there, Your Majesty? We could try Proserpine, by Paisiello again. You did say he’s one of your favorite composers.”

  “We’ll see…we’ll see.” Napoleon concentrated on the cards in his hand. When he swept Albine’s fingers from his sleeve, Amélie grinned.

  “You are a forward girl, aren’t you?” The count’s tone patronizing, he snatched up a card. “Something His Majesty has never liked, too obvious for your own good.”

  Albine muttered “impudent brat” under her breath. She draped her hand on Napoleon’s shoulder and her husband smiled. Amélie cringed. Why did the count sanction such intimacy?

  “Albine,” Napoleon warned. Whether for her touch or utterance, the woman removed her hand.

  “At least I try to keep my self-respect, Comtesse.” Amélie struggled to remember what sequences she needed to score. The woman’s actions on top of Napoleon’s urge to send her away or sacrifice her in marriage sliced into her.

  “So you say, but what else have you given up?” Albine lowered her cards.

  “Are we playing or ridiculing?” Napoleon frowned and laid down his hand. “Montholon, control your wife. A wife’s sole duty is to preserve her husband’s peace of mind. That should apply to all the men around her. Amée, you should also attend to this advice.”

  “Your Majesty, Rousseau said that.” Amélie’s cheeks burned—rebuked in front of the Montholons. Her fingers curled around the cards, her grasp on her emperor slid off. “Rousseau allowed a woman to be unfaithful in marriage as well as a man, but she must misbehave in secret to ‘preserve the husband’s peace of mind.’” She flicked a gaze at the count, who showed little on his deadpan face, except his eyes freezing on hers. “Men have no such obligation. Many women, especially ones in high places, don’t bother either.”

  “This game is over.” The emperor rose and tossed down his cards, his glare on Amélie. “Sometimes advice on behavior is better heeded.”

  Amélie recoiled from his stunned expression. Her chest constricted as if someone squeezed her heart. She’d just thrown his wife’s dissolute actions into his face.

  Napoleon stalked from the room. Montholon jumped up to follow like a soldier called to action.

  “Do you still keep your self-respect?” The countess smiled shrewdly from across the table. “Now you’ve upset His Majesty, but my husband will comfort him.”

  Amélie dropped her cards and stood, feeling queasy. “As long as it’s just the count who comforts him.”

  “You are quite bold for the kitchen help.” The countess studied her fingernails. “You’re so far beneath His Majesty’s attention—a frivolous pastime. He’ll discard you soon and only show devotion to his empress.”

  “You are shameful in your boldness, Madame.” Amélie walked toward the door, pressing on her stomach. Tears gathered in her eyes. Napoleon was trying to discard her. “You should leave the emperor alone and only show devotion to your husband.”

  Albine scraped back her chair, lumbered to her feet and flung her cards on the floor. “I won’t tolerate a servant speaking to me like that! His Majesty will send you packing, back to your scullery!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  ...Marriage is not derived from nature but from society and its mores—N.B.

  Napoleon gripped the study mantel, knuckles white, anxious for O’Sullivan’s visit. Still grumbling over Amélie’s words of yesterday—too close to the truth—he should stay angry with her, yet found it difficult. He hadn’t walked with her this morning; neither did she show up to attend him. Napoleon lamented his need to pull away, but couldn’t afford to weaken. At the same time he struggled with the urge to keep her close, his own possession, her sweetness soothing. More weakness! The schemes that stormed through his head must come to fruition, and he’d never allowed any woman to thwart his ambitions.

  Voices sounded in the dining room. He tipped his ear to the study door.

  “Captain O’Sullivan, Your Majesty.” Bertrand opened the door after Napoleon’s permission. Napoleon stepped to the fireplace again and affected nonchalance. He’d insisted on a private meeting in here, instead of the grand display in the drawing room.

  O’Sullivan bounded in, that broad grin on a ruddy face, one tooth missing. He smelled like the sea—of freedom. “’Tis great to be seeing you again, your emperorship,” he said, his Irish brogue stronger than O’Meara’s, his French stumbling. He stuck out a meaty paw.

  “You may go, Bertrand,” Napoleon said. Bertrand’s throat reddened, but he left, shutting the door.

  Napoleon rarely shook hands, but gave the Irishman the honor of his own. “Captain, I would like to expand on what we touched on at your previous visit.” He lowered his voice. “My…discreet removal from this island.”

  “Aye, you want to go through with it?” O’Sullivan bounced his bulky frame with his sailor’s wide-stepping gait around the chamber. He didn’t seem surprised by this decision. “Been mulling it over meself, to and from Cape Town. I ’spect there is no other way?”

  “The recent efforts on my behalf have failed and I’m tired of waiting.” Napoleon told him about Lord Holland and Amherst. He scraped a fingernail along his frock coat, heart drumming, but kept his face impassive. “You will be generously compensated for your risk.”

  “It won’t be easy, but you know that, now don’t you? Will be many weeks before I return from England.” The man gave an impish smile, as if this venture enthralled him. “Your incarceration at the hands of these scoundrels, ’tis not fair. O’ course, I will need the money for me family back home.”

  “I’ll arrange everything. Including the arrival of a certain man for my subterfuge.” Such relief coursed through Napoleon that he grew weak in the knees. He leaned on his sideboard.

  O’Sullivan bowed his head, his hat slapped against his chest. “I do i
t for me countrymen, your emperorship. The proud Irish who been treated poorly by them English and their insane king. We must show them they’re not the lords over everyone.”

  Napoleon smacked the rickety sideboard. A new strength knotted through him and he couldn’t help a thoughtful chuckle. “They forgive their insane king for being born to his sins, but parvenus like me are guilty for freely choosing them.”

  * * * *

  “Doctor O’Meara. Wait a moment.” Amélie caught the emperor’s physician in the courtyard. She’d hurried from the kitchen, leaving her reading of The Housewife’s Herbal Remedies.

  “Aye, Mademoiselle Perrault. What may I do for you?” The doctor smiled, his round face framed in a riot of woolly nut-brown hair, his Italian Irish-tinged. The dreaded spy, according to Madame Cloubert.

  “How is His Majesty today? I hear he has a visitor.” She stifled a yawn, since she’d slept badly the night before, upset over her quarrel with Napoleon and the countess’s threat. She’d injured his pride with her hasty words and must rearrange her footing to remain in step with the court’s business.

  “Napoleon does have a visitor. A compatriot of mine, Captain O’Sullivan.” The doctor used Napoleon’s given name, as the British were warned never to address him as emperor.

  “A captain of the East India Company…” She angled for more information. Napoleon had acted too excited when he heard this man’s ship was in port.

  A rat scurried by her.

  “That he is.” O’Meara averted his eyes. “You’re a good lass, Amélie. You did what I couldn’t, encouraging Napoleon to exercise again. Sir Hudson is also delighted. It makes the orderly officer’s life easier.”

  “I’m happy to oblige everyone.” She gritted her teeth, and hoped her Italian didn’t express dismay. She hadn’t brought Napoleon out of his hermitage to spend time with others. As with her garden, she’d coaxed his life from the arid soil of Saint Helena. Their relationship had brought her closer to his level, more intimate—the way he’d held her in his study proved his interest. “Tell His Majesty I’m ready to walk when he is.”