Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  People exited the house. She stood and hastened toward the perimeter of the yard, sliding into the shadows to remain unseen. The emperor walked out with a medium-tall man in British naval uniform. They were engaged in a lively conversation judging by their voices. Another man and two women followed behind.

  Nothing changed for Napoleon. He’d vanquished her and marched on like a true soldier. Amélie clenched her hands, determined to stay strong, vigilant.

  As the voices faded out the gate, she went back to the bench and resumed her thoughts about her mother. If her mother were here to speak to, she’d have soothed, but perhaps advised her that she’d fallen in over her head. From the beginning Amélie swam out of her depth. The great Napoleon would never stoop to love a servant. Hadn’t she gotten out unscathed, as Fanny Bertrand said? Pushed out might be more apt, but safe just the same. She should feel proud of her resilience.

  At a noise to her right, Amélie tensed, sitting perfectly still. Total darkness now engulfed the landscape. The night patrol couldn’t be starting yet. Napoleon had managed to compel Lowe to rescind that order, sending the troops swarming around the house back to nine o’clock.

  She’d assumed the emperor and his guests had strolled on to Hutt’s Gate, but she detected a presence and a chill crept down her spine. “Is...anyone there?”

  “Marchand told me you were out here.”

  Amélie gripped the edge of the bench until the stone hurt her flesh. “I’m…enjoying the fresh night air, Sire.” She prayed her voice held steady. “I didn’t think anyone would mind.”

  “Bien sûr, you may go anywhere you like.” Napoleon’s voice soft, he sat beside her.

  She didn’t move, nor look in his direction, though all she saw were vague outlines.

  The wind whistled around the wall, pulling at her hair tendrils.

  “I know you’re very upset, and have a right to be, but I’m looking out for your best interests by agreeing on your return to Europe. Regardless of what...ahhh.” He took a slow, deep breath. “You’re aware I intervened with your father, as you first requested?”

  “Yes, Sire, but why? I don’t understand.” His presence, his voice so near, fluttered her senses. She fought the reaction.

  “Amée, someday you’ll leave this place and make a life for yourself in the real world. An honorable life, one you and your family can be proud of. Within the mores of society, as it should be. If you just stop and consider and see the inevitable outcome.”

  “No, I do see. I’m not that naïve.” She cared nothing for future predictions, only the here and now had mattered. She bunched her shawl around her neck. “Trouble no more, Sire. I will find my own way.” For a dazed moment she wanted to prove their connection. “As far as my honor, everyone believes the worst of me, with you, already.”

  “Servants? Courtiers? They all know full well it’s lies, as I’ve told them more than once.” Napoleon groaned. “I owe it to you to be honest. I have feelings for you I shouldn’t have—that I’ve no right to have. The kindest thing I can do is let you go.” He reached over and clasped her hand.

  The raw emotion in his voice confused her further. He’d founder to the dregs of sorrow before relinquishing his feeble ties with his empress.

  “Don’t you mean it might be the kindest thing for you?” A mosquito landed on her elbow and she allowed it to nip her flesh. Her hand trembled in his. Nerves shot like pinpricks up her arm and across her chest.

  “I’m far too old for you. My time for such things is past.” Napoleon sounded desolate. He ran his thumb over her knuckles. “You must consider your future, and soon. It may seem harsh now, but I’d like to offer again to send you to Europe, to any study you prefer…or a respectable marriage.”

  Amélie eased back her hand, her courage wavering. Wasn’t his despair another act to suit his purpose? “I would like to decide my own future, Sire.” Her pulse vibrated behind her eyes. “You may preserve your integrity. Just be aware of those in your court who don’t serve you well, and remember the one who did. I hope you still do not drink that wine.” Her voice thickened. “Good night, Your Majesty.” She stood and hurried into the darkness—her eyes fogged with tears—scratching at the bite.

  Amélie rushed into her quarters, drying her damp cheeks on her arm. Lighting a candle, she pulled more paper scraps from her drawer. Adding to her notes, she tried to conjure up the concise words to describe that warm, saturated feeling that made you throb inside, and explain the power of kisses that weakened resolve. She had to swallow her embarrassment and ask Fanny Bertrand for details of the ultimate act.

  At a flapping noise, she looked up. A moth batted itself against the wall where the candlelight crept along, then flitted around the flickering taper. When first on the island she’d vowed to soar as high as a butterfly. A pity the moth she believed herself to be had singed its wings on the imperial flame.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It is literally true that you can succeed best and quickest by helping others to succeed—N.B.

  Napoleon Bertrand, his grand marshal’s eldest at nine, recited his multiplication tables earnestly in the salon. Napoleon enjoyed the honest innocence of children, their enthusiasm, such eagerness to please. He smiled at his namesake. How old would his son be now? He dashed that thought away before it pierced him. He’d suffered enough with the public humiliation of his wife cuckolding him in Italy.

  Where was that letter of confirmation of the actions put in motion by his Uncle Fesch?

  “Sire, I’m finished. I knew them all.”

  “Indeed you did, and I have a present for you.” Napoleon fished a gold watch out of his waistcoat pocket. The boy rushed forward, his grin stretching out his cheeks, to receive the gift. Napoleon pinched his namesake on the tip of his nose.

  Fanny Bertrand smiled proudly. Albine fought a grimace since her son, Tristan, stumbled over his figures. Bertrand and Montholon looked on impassively near the open windows where an early October breeze stirred the muslin curtains.

  Amélie’s lilting voice once filled this chamber. How strange she still occupied his heart.

  Napoleon rubbed his face and bent down to Montholon’s son. “Tristan, have you been studying your lessons? You must work hard every day. You do eat every day, don’t you? One mustn’t eat if one doesn’t work.”

  “Yes, Sire,” the six-year-old replied, his eyes bright. “I will work hard every day.”

  “Albine, has our illustrious governor granted your permission to return to Europe?” Napoleon’s sharp question made her simper. He wouldn’t miss her, but disliked being deserted.

  “I have decided not to go, Sire. Now that, uh, matters have changed, I don’t mind staying.” Albine’s coquettish air seemed more contrived than usual. Her nurse stood by, the infant Helene-Napoleone in her arms, but Albine rarely looked in the baby’s direction.

  Napoleon deflected his irritation over changing matters by taking little Helene into his arms. He tickled her and made funny faces and the baby gurgled in delight.

  “What a darling little girl.” Fanny glanced at the child, then at Napoleon. “Who do you think she resembles, Albine? You…or her father?”

  “Fanny, impertinence ill becomes a lady.” Napoleon shot her a warning glare, putting sarcasm into the last word. She needed to be knocked down several pegs. Her zeal for scandal shone in her eyes.

  “I don’t know what you insinuate, Fanny. Some women just have the advantage of being ‘admired’ by numerous men.” Albine thrust out her ample bosom and smirked. Her figure, ruined from her recent pregnancy, burst like dough from her silk dress.

  “Admiration is your ‘earned’ right, my dear.” Montholon masked any feelings behind his courtier’s lassitude.

  Napoleon pushed down his disgust at this comedy.

  “I want a gift like my brother.” Hortense Bertrand
skipped up and made a pretty pout.

  “Aren’t you dressed rather badly today, little Hortense?” Napoleon inspected her ugly yellow dress made of shabby material. He handed Helene back to her nurse, who offered the child to her mother, but Albine waved her away like spoiled cheese.

  “Your Majesty, the dress was bought in Jamestown, where we haven’t many choices,” Bertrand replied in apology, his neck red under his collar, as his daughter pouted again.

  In their colonial backwater, his courtier’s blue tunics were faded, the gold braid shabby, unraveling, the color like unpolished brass. The women’s silks looked stained and threadbare in places.

  “I can solve that. Marchand, bring me my Consulate coat, quickly.” At Napoleon’s request, the valet rushed to do his bidding. A devoted young man, maybe Napoleon could still persuade Amélie to marry him. Then he cringed at the idea of her in another man’s arms—more weakness he must ignore.

  Napoleon held up the striking red coat with gold silk lining the valet handed him. He ran his fingers along the velvet. “Now, Hortense, you can have a pretty jacket made from this. It was given to me in 1800 when I was First Consul. I signed the Concordant in this coat. Come here.” Hortense ran over and he draped the item across her shoulders. Her little face lit up. He had the growing need to unburden himself of material things.

  Napoleon walked to the salon’s front door and peered out the holes in the shutters. Near the steps a footman wielded an ax, breaking apart a bed frame while the sentries stared from the gate. The chopping noise grated in his head. He hated resorting to such tactics.

  Albine flounced up beside him, her perfume overwhelming. “Do you think this activity will embarrass the governor enough, Your Majesty?” She stroked the air near his shoulder with her talons, her smile too saccharine.

  “Lowe knows I hate the smell of coal for my fires, but refuses to send up any wood. When news of this reaches him, his prickly personality won’t allow the soldiers to think I’m so deprived I have to burn my furniture.” Napoleon stepped back to his dreary courtiers. “The weather is warmer, however. Amée insists I open my windows for fresh air.”

  At his spontaneous saying of her name, both Montholons wrinkled their noses. Napoleon’s innards groaned. He pressed on his stomach, his digestion terrible.

  “Speaking of Amélie, I hope we’ll be having another opera recital soon. We could use the entertainment,” Fanny said. Napoleon didn’t care for the speculative look she gave him.

  “That’s all passé. The girl had a limited talent,” Albine said. “His Majesty needs to spend time with his courtiers. We don’t need just anyone mixing with their betters.”

  “Albine, that’s enough, your fangs are showing.” Napoleon gritted his teeth and felt perspiration seep under his collar.

  “You should send the girl off the island, Sire,” Montholon harped again.

  “In His Majesty’s regime, people were qualified by their achievements, not luck of birth.” Fanny glared at Albine, speaking in so brittle a manner, her face might crack.

  Albine swished around her skirts and sniffed.

  Montholon caressed her arm as he pulled at the high collar of his uniform jacket. “You’re right, mon ange, such ‘lowering’ would never have happened in Paris.”

  Saint-Denis walked in to clear up the plates on the table.

  Napoleon scrutinized his second-valet. “Ali, where are your shoe buckles? Don’t ever attend me unless you’re fully dressed.” Everyone went too far in their disrespect. He had to retain the upper hand. They must never know how his grasp faltered.

  Hortense strutted about the room like a princess, the beautiful jacket flapping around her thin frame. She sang a silly song as she pirouetted past the globes. Napoleon Bertrand opened and shut the gold watch, laughing at the click of the mechanism, inspecting every inch of it. He then snapped it in his sister’s face and she squealed in anger.

  “Some people don’t know how to teach their children manners.” Albine snorted.

  “Don’t tell me how to raise my children,” Fanny snapped. “When you ignore yours.”

  “The children are fine.” Sweat beaded on Napoleon’s forehead. They all wearied of each other, this farce winding to the finale he hoped for each and every night. He offered a dariole from the sweets set out to Tristan. “The rest of you should stop acting like them.”

  Tristan stuffed the tart in his mouth, cream dribbling over his chin.

  Little Helene, still in her nurse’s embrace, burst into tears at the quarrelsome voices.

  “Ma foi, you’re setting a poor example for all of us with your complaints, dear Fanny.” Albine trailed one finger across the top of her cleavage.

  “Put an end to this bickering, both of you. Albine, see to your daughter. She’s upset.” Napoleon clenched his fists. Amélie’s sweet, selfless face swam before him, but he needed no one. He’d always been his own master.

  “Take the child to my quarters,” Albine ordered the nurse, who rushed the infant out.

  “You dare accuse me of poor examples! A woman of your low birth and reputation?” Fanny jerked from her husband’s restraining hand and advanced on Albine. Montholon stepped in front of his wife, who cowered behind his shoulder.

  “Stop this now! All of you, you’re dismissed. Leave me.” Napoleon turned and strode toward the drawing room.

  “This place is intolerable. When does it end? What are those people in Europe and America doing?” Fanny sputtered, her eyes moist. Bertrand closed his eyes and groaned.

  Napoleon stopped and glared at her in shock, then composed his face to register nothing. He’d dared to let Bertrand in on his plans, and the fool told his wife? Grand Dieu!

  “What exactly do you refer to?” Montholon slanted his prissy stare over the Bertrands, his right hand fingering his left epaulet.

  “Enough!” Napoleon lunged forward and slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the remaining dishes. Tristan stifled a sob. Napoleon Bertrand cast his father a nervous glance. Hortense grinned at her emperor, still brimming with pride at her new acquisition.

  “Montholon, this doesn’t concern you. Bertrand, have you no control over your wife’s silly rantings?” Napoleon’s stomach clumped like a cannon ball. He’d reprimand Bertrand more fully in private. “I won’t tolerate any more of your rude behavior. I am very badly attended by all of you. Children, accept my apology for these proceedings.” Tramping into his study, he shut the door. He leaned back against it and the dark, musty room leached into his muscles.

  * * * *

  Amélie hurried to her father’s bedchamber. “Chef Gascon says you felt heavy in your chest. Shall I fetch the doctor?” Filled with guilt, she’d ignored his waning health, too caught up in her own problems.

  Her father’s face ashen, he lay on his bed fully dressed. “It’s nothing, ma fille. I’ll be myself in a while.” His depleted voice did nothing to calm her. “This place drains us all.”

  She planted a kiss on his forehead. “Then rest. You never take time for yourself. I’ll make you some chamomile tea.”

  “Amélie, the strangest thing happened.” He pushed himself up on his elbows in the bed. “The Count de Montholon asked me earlier when we’d be leaving for Europe. Have you discussed this matter with anyone...the emperor?”

  “No. You told me the emperor requested we stay. I’ve spoken to no one about leaving.” Amélie swallowed hard. If leaving edged closer as an option, no one would order it, least of all Montholon. “The count just wishes I wasn’t here. Don’t worry about it.”

  “The man hasn’t been very kind when it comes to you. Jealous, I suppose, of your time with…I know you no longer see His Majesty.” Perrault watched her with tired eyes. “In fact, you avoid him.”

  “Everything’s fine. Please, try to rest.” Amélie left his room more agitated. Both
Montholons were ecstatic she no longer consumed Napoleon’s attentions. They insinuated this with bold sneers and sly whispers. Still, why would the count anticipate her removal from the island? Perhaps Napoleon was now determined to send her back to Europe. That thought weighed her down.

  After preparing the chamomile tea and taking a cup in to her father, Amélie remembered she’d promised to give some of the herb to Countess Bertrand. She must stop stalling, ask the secrets of the marriage bed, and hope the woman didn’t shoo her away in revulsion. A walk would do her good. Amélie snatched her herb jar and strolled down the road to Hutt’s Gate.

  The maid directed her behind the dwelling, where the countess stood watching her children romp on the grassy slope that led down to the stream. The wind ruffled camellias, sweet alice, and periwinkle on the slope’s borders.

  “Amélie, thank you for bringing this. I hope it helps me relax,” Fanny said with a genuine smile. The woman held a crumpled letter in her hand. “Look at this missive from my cousin, so many words crossed out. She tried to write me of the unrest in France. Of course, Lowe doesn’t want us to know how the Bourbons are ruining our homeland. Wouldn’t a political upheaval free us all? Children, don’t trample the flowers I just planted!”

  “Do I want to be freed?” Amélie took a deep breath, unnerved by the woman’s mood, and what she came to ask. “Countess, there is something personal I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “I do hope you’re feeling better. I wish you would give another recital.” Fanny sounded splintery. Her body looked so thin she might snap in two. “You can’t have given that up just because our emperor is his usual hard-hearted self? Now, I’m not his favorite.”

  “I behaved no better. I encouraged his attentions.” Amélie’s throat tightened. She wanted to cling in private to her distress. “I think women fall prey to men due to their ignorance. I’ve been…writing details about intimacy.”