Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “He’s a sly one, like his employer. They both slime around like worms. Jules ogles too much at the women.” Madame sniffed loudly. “Why are you cutting onion now?”

  The cannon fired at that moment and Amélie jolted despite this sound being the serenade of their nights. She scraped the knife tip over the table. “The onion is for my father. Raw onion is good for the heart.”

  “It won’t do much for his breath. I heard he’s feeling ill. Give him my regards for a quick recovery, no matter the stink of the cure.” The scrawny woman hurried out the door, the summer evening breeze sweeping the onion smell away for a moment.

  Amélie needed to speak to Marchand about Jules. She washed her hands of the sharp scent, then stashed her writing in the safety of her room. Her father wrinkled his nose at the plate of onion she handed him, but she smiled and went into the main house.

  Marchand wasn’t in the attic and Ali had the duty tonight. At a candle lit in the library, she peeked inside and saw Marchand putting final touches to three sketches he’d made of Longwood.

  “You’re very good.” Amélie looked over his shoulder at the stark renditions of their residence and grounds. She’d seen his attractive watercolors in Napoleon’s study.

  “It keeps me occupied.” Marchand smiled at her, stretching his arm as if to relieve a cramp. “Between caring for His Majesty and working on his dictation of the Summary of Julius Caesar’s Wars. Now what can I do for you? How are you?”

  “I’m upset.” Amélie gripped the back of his chair. “I have some concerns about Jules. I think he’s tampering with the emperor’s wine.” She related the two incidents involving Jules.

  “The emperor’s sour Constantia wine? I don’t know why he’d want to steal it. We’re provided sufficient vin ordinaire that isn’t locked away. I’ll question him about it.” Marchand tapped his pencil on the table, his liquid brown eyes serious. “Madame Cloubert saw him putting the wine back? That does seem odd.”

  “The Count de Montholon is in charge of the wine, but Jules had the keys when I saw him, and the count boasts he lets no one touch them.” She studied the valet’s expression when he turned to look at her. “You don’t think someone could slip something in the emperor’s wine that doesn’t belong there?” Amélie whispered.

  The young man’s gaze sharpened, and his pencil tip broke off. “I would hope not. That was one of the purposes of locking it up in the first place. I’ll question Jules first thing tomorrow.”

  * * * *

  “Be careful with those dishes. They’re impossible to replace.” Amélie swept the kitchen floor as Clarice bustled in and dropped a tray of dirty lunch platters on the table. The force of her entrance scattered the flour, crumbs, and orange peels back across the stones.

  “If people don’t stop dumping more chores on me. Merde!” Clarice brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “It’s not as if I don’t have my own private life to attend to.”

  “We are all expected to pitch in with Chef Gascon down ill again. I’m baking, so someone needs to clean up dishes.” Amélie knew the futility of that the instant it left her lips.

  “Superior, are you?” Clarice’s fat cheeks, dappled with sweat, puffed out with her words. “Selfish is more the truth. You refuse to leave the island when it’s bad for your father’s health. He’s in the house now, looking like death.”

  “Doctor O’Meara advised him not to leave. I had nothing to do with it. My father hardly listens to my entreaties.” She tugged at her moist bodice. “Why are we always at each other’s throats? How much pleasure can you take in behaving as you do?” Amélie dragged the broom toward the door, re-sweeping. She glanced out, anxious to see Marchand and discover what he learned from Jules.

  “You dare question my behavior?” Clarice jerked off her white cap and fanned herself with it in the growing afternoon humidity. “I know why you won’t leave. We all do. Back in the emperor’s bed.”

  Amélie swished the remnants over the threshold and hid a smile. “I’m looking to my own happiness now. I hope you find yours.”

  “Jules told me I’m the prettiest woman on the island,” Clarice said, as if daring anyone to contradict, “and I’d have to say he has excellent taste.”

  “Are you so close to him?” Amélie scrutinized her in surprise.

  “We’ve shared kisses.” Clarice heaved her plump chest. “He wants to do far more.”

  Amélie couldn’t imagine Jules putting up with Clarice’s temper. Those two together made her uncomfortable.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Marchand walk into the courtyard and wave to her.

  “You’re dallying with His Majesty and his valet…I didn’t think you had it in you.” Clarice snickered, yet eyed her with a trace of admiration. “No wonder Marchand avoided me.”

  “Not everyone has the morals of a dog. I have business to attend to.” Amélie shoved the broom at her. She might need it to fly around and cast evil spells. She left the kitchen and strolled with Marchand toward the stables.

  “Jules acted quite agitated when I asked him about the wine,” Marchand said as the scent of hay and manure drifted over the breeze. “He denied any misconduct, and said he only did what the Count de Montholon asked him to.”

  Amélie’s stomach tightened. “The count knows of this, since Jules only does what he’s asked to do?”

  “He did act haughty when I said I’d inform his master. I couldn’t get anything else from him. Since the Count de Montholon is in charge of the wine, there isn’t much I can do. We should tell His Majesty to let the count know of his servant’s behavior.”

  “I did. I’d have thought little of the incident, except for Jules’s aggravated manner when Madame Cloubert and I happened to catch him near the wine cabinet. Is it possible that the British are...poisoning the wine?”

  “Poison? What makes you suspect such a thing?” Marchand’s soft features hardened, making him look older. “Do you think Jules is working for the British?”

  “I don’t know, but the only time I drank that wine it made me sick with the identical symptoms as the emperor’s climactic illness. That tells me the wine is tainted, and wouldn’t England profit the most from an act like that? Then what about Montholon, if the count tells Jules what to do…?”

  “Britain’s allies in Europe or any of the Royalists would benefit from such an act.” He touched her sleeve. “Amélie, if you’re right we have to stop the emperor from drinking the wine immediately.”

  “I’ve taken care of that. I don’t want to say anymore now.” Amélie rubbed her hand through her hair. “I hate to get Napoleon in an uproar until I have more proof, so don’t repeat this. Please try to squeeze more out of Jules.”

  * * * *

  Napoleon squinted and aimed the pistol. The goat that foraged through the front garden slipped off beyond the turf wall. He dropped his arm. “I thought I wanted to remain here, a world figure, surrounded and persecuted, while mankind guesses my next move.”

  “Sire, I know whatever you do will be brilliant,” Ali replied.

  “Indeed, my boy, indeed. Now I have the delicate matter of making sure Amée follows in good time. You will see to that, of course.” He stepped out farther among the rose bushes.

  “I will, Your Majesty.”

  The goat poked out his head from the turf and began to munch on the new strawberry plants. Napoleon grimaced and raised the pistol again. He wouldn’t admit to his nearsightedness, and saw only a brown blur. He squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, snapping open the previous silence. The blur loped off out the front gate.

  “Did I miss?”

  “I’m afraid so, Sire, but the sentry enjoyed the bullet whizzing by his ear.”

  Several sentries ran into the yard, rifles in the air. Napoleon laughed at their anxiety as Ali waved them back. Do them good
to rile them up, though it countermanded his wish to keep matters sedate around Longwood.

  “I used to be quite the shot. I’m out of practice.” Napoleon inhaled the familiar scent of gunpowder, then turned to catch the amusement in his valet’s eyes. He handed Ali the pistol and heard the sentries commenting on his actions. Napoleon kept his tone officious to minimize his concern: “I want her to remain safe. Is that clear? I know she’ll have the courage for what lies ahead.”

  “I have every confidence that Amélie will be brave. Have you…spoken to her of these covert, and extremely clever, plans of yours yet, Your Majesty?”

  “No, but I intend to. Keep your own mocking mouth quiet, Ali.” Napoleon pinched his valet’s ear until the young man cried out. He still marveled that he’d fallen for this girl. Was it lasting, or the misguided lust of an aging soldier? He hoped the former. He blamed all his casual affairs on his youth and impulsive nature. Amée expected him to be faithful, and he’d try his utmost. “I’m certain everything will soon fall into place,” he said with a forced assurance.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It is true that I hate scheming women worse than anything—N.B.

  “We haven’t yet consummated our relationship.” Amélie laid down her cards. Fanny Bertrand sat across from her in the drawing room. They’d just finished Christmas dinner, topped off with the Bûche de Noël, prepared by Chef Gascon. Ashamed of her virginal status, she almost laughed. In polite society it would have been the other way around.

  Napoleon and Count Bertrand stood near the fireplace having a low conversation. They argued over the lack of progress in Amélie’s assault.

  “I’m surprised Napoleon has been so patient. You’ll have plenty to write about in your treatise after you do.” Fanny laughed and winked. “You’ll understand better with firsthand experience.”

  “Mais oui.” I have pen and ink ready.” Amélie ran a card tip along her lower lip, anxious for the sensual details, that heavy warmth inside her. How much longer would she allow her worries over her father to keep her “pure”? “I don’t know how much writing I’ll do, if Napoleon finds out.”

  “That could be the end of your career.” Fanny tugged at her gown’s neckline. “I’ll never get used to celebrating Christmas in hot weather.” Her smile faded. “Where are the Montholons? They couldn’t join us for another exciting Saint Helena holiday repast?” She scanned the room as if they nestled like vermin in the corners.

  “They’ve been hiding away, not that I mind.” Amélie leaned across the little table. “You’ve known them for a while. What was the count’s character back in France?”

  “Well…I’ve always found it odd that in all those years of warfare Montholon never distinguished himself, but was still promoted.” She glanced toward the men. “He seemed to be in constant debt and even embezzled money from an army payroll. His stepfather, the Count de Semonville, was rumored to be a Royalist spy during the Empire.”

  “A spy? I wish Napoleon would send him away. He disregards my concerns.” Amélie snapped the cards on the table, more leery toward the count.

  “Why did Montholon even insist on coming here? He would have been accepted back into Louis XVIII’s regime. Why vanish into exile? He joined the Bourbons when Napoleon was exiled to Elba.” Fanny’s shoulders sagged. She dog-eared the already fragile cards. “Now I’d take that island over this one. How much longer?”

  “Is your husband requesting to be released?” Amélie studied the woman’s expression. Did Fanny know about schemes that she didn’t?

  “What is all this whispering over here?” Napoleon strode to the table. “Are we playing cards? Bertrand, we must listen in on our lovely ladies, who seem to be hatching some evil plot.” He stroked the back of Amélie’s neck.

  “We are solving the world’s problems.” She basked in his attention, the heat on her skin, but she couldn’t dispel her anxiety over Montholon. He appeared a man deep in debt and ripe for a lucrative mission.

  * * * *

  Seen through the lenses of Napoleon’s field glasses, Count Balmain stared toward Longwood, shook his head at Bertrand, turned his horse about, and galloped off. Bertrand, his upper torso drooped, strode back to where Napoleon waited in the park of gumwoods. He lowered his glasses. A tree rat scratched on a nearby trunk and Napoleon sighed. Only on this strange island would they have rats that lived in trees.

  When Bertrand approached, he saw by his grand marshal’s glum expression that the meeting hadn’t gone as he wished. Napoleon suppressed any aggravation from his features. “The very proper Balmain still refuses to meet me without Lowe’s introduction?”

  “Yes, Sire. Pardon me for having to say…again, but it seems you will need to make amends with Governor Lowe before—”

  “Bah! I won’t lower myself to England’s petty official. Lowe discourages any of the delegates from approaching me, except as some creature in a cage to be stared at.” He’d hoped to persuade a meeting with the Russian commissaire on casual terms, a friendly drink over the New Year tomorrow, but would it have mattered? He’d learned Balmain’s master—Tsar Alexander—had insisted on the harshest terms toward the deposed Emperor of the French at the Congress of Vienna. “Destroying me is that villain’s sole purpose and Lowe wants the delegates under his thumb as well.”

  “It would be beneficial, Sire, to have the commissaires in your corner. To open up communication with Europe. I could, with your approval, set up a meeting with the governor and yourself, with Count Balmain, for reconciliation.”

  “No, on this I remain steadfast.” Napoleon strode down the path, ducking under a sticky orb of web that dangled between two trees. He’d have to put all his faith in O’Sullivan’s return. “I’d like to keep a shred of dignity. Lord Bathurst wrote Lowe that no delegate is to be presented to me except in their official capacity, and introduced by Lowe himself. They knew I’d never agree. I’ve compromised enough riding and walking again with the degradation of surveillance.” He swiped at a branch and wouldn’t admit that these actions benefited him. “Before Sully arrives, I’ll return to my reclusive ways, pretend I’m ill, and show Lowe for the barbarian he is.”

  “You shouldn’t rely on one source of relief. This is a risky venture, Your Majesty,” Bertrand whispered, following on his heels through the front gate of Longwood.

  “If Lowe brought news he was taking me back to my throne, somehow he’d make even that disagreeable.” Napoleon resented Bertrand’s warning, prying open his own fears. He hesitated at the front steps of the house. “I’ve heard the Duke of Wellington, a man I have reason to dislike, called Lowe a damned fool. As for risks, in my early career during the revolution, I learned that your associations can be helpful at one moment, and lethal the next. This taught me to be pragmatic, as well as an opportunist. I’ve always taken risks. Why stop now?”

  * * * *

  Amélie set a potpourri of herbs in the dining room to freshen the musty space. She entered the salon where Napoleon had spread out his maps on the billiard table. With red and white pins representing soldiers, he explained his battle plan of Rivoli to Count Bertrand, Marchand, and Saint-Denis. He flipped through the few numbers of Le Moniteur, and the atlas he kept nearby, to accentuate his points.

  Amélie watched, intrigued by Napoleon’s details and gestures, the dynamic commander in the field.

  He looked up and smiled. “Excuse me, Messieurs, I have sweeter plans to attend to.”

  Napoleon offered his arm to her and they walked out the front door, past the trellis where red, white, and purple passion flowers intertwined. An early dinner had been set out for them on a tiny table in the garden. “Amée, this morning I insisted your father relinquish some of his duties to Chef Gascon. I hope his health is improving.”

  “It’s hard to tell with Papa. Thank you for talking to him.” She sat in the chair he pulled out, and they at
e a light meal of salad, chicken, and lentils. Once finished, she gazed around at the breeze-ruffled bushes. “We need a line of strong pines to block the wind, to protect the plants. If you request that the new house be rebuilt in the sheltered vale…”

  “Ah, if I could stroll with you in the gardens of the Elysée Palace.” He leaned both elbows on the table, his hands under his chin. “The Tuileries was magnificent, but open to the public. Though I wouldn’t mind seeing that public now: French men and women, excited to catch me at the windows.” Napoleon stared off, a satisfied smile on his face.

  “The English are always excited to see you. What about the house in the vale—do you think Lowe would agree?” She grinned when he flicked her an irritated glance. “Don’t you want to be more comfortable?”

  Napoleon refilled her wine glass. “This isn’t what I care to discuss with you this evening. You’re behaving in a facetious manner.” He gave a sly wink. “I must be rubbing off on you, but not in the way I’d prefer.”

  Amélie shifted in her chair and drank from the glass. “What all is kept in that wine cabinet the Count de Montholon holds the keys to?”

  “Just my Constantia wine, nothing else, why? I stopped drinking it to please you, and I request a bottle now and then to imply consumption, as you asked.”

  “Have you had any of your strange symptoms?” Amélie draped her shawl around her shoulders in the cooling air. She smelled the fragrant roses.

  “No, I must admit. I also feel less bloated and appear to be losing more weight.”

  “I have noticed that. Doesn’t this change in your condition prove the wine must be tainted? I hope you followed my other advice, about not telling anyone?”

  “To the letter, my sweet.” He reached over and clasped her hand. “Why these questions?”