Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “The attack was to scare me away from the island. I’m too close to you. So was Cipriani. The wine was to harm you so you never return to power.” She touched his sleeve. “The concerns brought up in my father’s letter.”

  “This Jules sounds like the guilty one. If he’s laid a finger on you, I’ll have his head!”

  “You said the count made excuses for why Jules was into the wine cabinet. If he’s tampering with the wine, wouldn’t it be at his master’s behest?”

  “I…too thought Cipriani poisoned.” Napoleon moved away from her, rubbing his chin. “Jules could be acting on his own, or with the British—you can’t rule that out.” He paced the narrow room in deep contemplation. Bertrand watched him, his eyes wary.

  Amélie walked to the fireplace and tossed a log on the grate, stirring the flames even though sweat already dampened her collar. She turned to face them. “I realize you appreciated the count’s support when you first arrived, but please don’t forget his disloyal words to Governor Lowe.”

  Napoleon stepped close to her again. “Indeed, the suspicions are there, yet let’s not assign any guilt until we’ve thought it through and assembled the facts.” His manner steadier, he pulled her to him and kissed her firmly on the lips. “Never keep such things from me again.”

  Amélie didn’t rehash his stubbornness to discuss it. She leaned into him. “The countess urged me down the road…without Marchand. What are you going to do?”

  “You don’t think Albine is in on any of this?” He sounded too incredulous.

  “Ask Marchand about her involvement.” She bit down on her lip. He’d have to prove his love by believing her, not his alleged mistress.

  “More things you kept from me?” Napoleon gazed at her with sadness. “I will call Montholon in to explain at once. No, he’s in Jamestown today. Bertrand, mention this to no one until I take care of it. Bien sûr, I depend on your discretion.”

  “Without reserve, Your Majesty.” Bertrand bowed. He gave no indication of what he thought of these accusations. “With your permission, I’ll take my leave now, Sire?”

  Once Bertrand departed, Amélie voiced another fear. “What if Governor Lowe insists I leave, forces me? I wasn’t very cooperative.”

  “Not as long as I’m alive.” Napoleon stared deep into her eyes. “He won’t send you away. You’re the one who brought me out of seclusion, he said so himself. Lowe wants to keep me well so he can maintain his importance here.” He sighed. “I need time to mull over this information.”

  Amélie slipped her arms around him, kissing him below the curve of his jaw. His love for her excited her, even in the midst of turmoil.

  “Oh, my sweet Amée. I want to take you away from all this. A place where we’d both be free...” He gazed at her with a mixture of sympathy and desire. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. My world is as reversed as this island. I will interrogate Montholon and this manservant first thing in the morning.”

  “Hélas, I’m still grappling with my mother’s...” Amélie winced at the mere conception of the word. She pictured her mother’s kind eyes and enveloping smile. In Amélie’s whirl of school and friends—the excitement of Paris—had she ignored the tension on Maman’s face those last weeks? She sniffed. “To learn that what you depended on for security as a child was a farce...a lie.”

  “I’m so sorry. That was devastating for you.” Napoleon framed her face gently. He caressed his fingers over her cheeks. “We’ve both had far too many sorrows, and there’s more to come.”

  “We’ll manage together.” Amélie closed her eyes and pressed her face into his hands.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ...Men almost never act in natural conformity to their characters but from a momentary secret passion—N.B.

  Napoleon paced slowly in front of Montholon and his servant, enjoying their discomfort as they stood at attention in his study. The manservant, Jules, looked like a conniving rascal.

  “There are several disturbing events I demand answers to.” Napoleon stopped in front of the count, watching his every inflection. Montholon’s face remained smooth as glass.

  “Sire, I think we could discuss this better without my valet here.”

  “No, I want you both here.” Napoleon smiled, knowing he increased his subordinate’s distress by upbraiding him before a servant. He’d had Ali roar up the fire and perspiration already beaded on their foreheads. He glared at Jules. “I asked you this before, where were you the night of Mademoiselle Perrault’s attack? Did anyone see you here at the house?”

  “Sire, he was with me, in my quarters.” Montholon spoke up, too quickly; a flicker of distress in his eyes? “Why do you wish to know?”

  “I will know everything that happens in my household.” Napoleon studied the servant’s face, his skin tone. “What happened with your toothache? Did O’Meara look at it?”

  “It…went away, Your Majesty.” The young man lowered his eyes, his voice barely audible.

  “I see. Toothaches seldom just disappear.” Napoleon loomed closer. “What were you doing at my wine cabinet?”

  The valet shriveled under his glare.

  “I explained to you before,” Montholon sputtered. “He was there at my behest, Sire.”

  “Am I speaking to you? Did I give you permission to have a servant handling my wine?” Napoleon whipped around to scrutinize the count. Montholon twitched, though tried to hide it.

  He jabbed a finger under the count’s slender nose. “If I find out that anything is amiss, that you’re lying to me...Did anyone see you both at the house the night of the assault?”

  Montholon seemed to hold his breath. “I don’t remember. If we could just—”

  “Come, come, soldiers and other servants are everywhere on these grounds. You spoke to no one that evening, either of you?” Napoleon walked to the fireplace and kicked a log, scattering sparks.

  Jules’s face dampened with even more sweat.

  “Certainement, Sire, I…we must have spoken with someone. Why do you ask?”

  “Don’t question my authority here.” Napoleon glared at Montholon, the supercilious aristo. He’d never seen action in war and yet he was a general. Why had he come here to join a man branded an outlaw by the allied powers? “I want names.”

  “May we please talk in private, Your Majesty?” Montholon pulled at his high collar, now moist at the top. “With your permission, of course.”

  Napoleon rubbed his chin and again stared at the valet. A square-faced, slit-eyed coward. If he’d dared touch Amée. Back in France, the servant would be banished—here, it wasn’t that easy. “Very well, but you stay away from Mademoiselle Perrault, young man. I’m in charge of this household, never forget that. Leave us!”

  Jules jumped. “Excellent idea, Your Majesty.” He gulped and slunk out, head down.

  Napoleon leaned on the mantel, mimicking a casual pose. “How can you be sure your valet was in his quarters the entire time? He might have slipped out without your knowledge.”

  “Because I insist he stays close, in case I need him.” Montholon shifted in his shiny boots. “As I recall, Sire, the foolish girl was walking back alone. The soldiers probably saw an opportunity to amuse themselves.”

  “Montholon!” Napoleon strode back and unleashed his temper, a strategy he used to throw his opponents off balance—but this truly infuriated him. “How dare you spout such slander. You consistently defy my wishes concerning Mademoiselle Perrault!”

  “I apologize, but—”

  “Stay out of my personal business! Not another word about her.” Napoleon bristled with anger that he hadn’t intimidated the count enough. This subordinate would have groveled before him at the Tuileries. “What about these comments to Governor Lowe overheard by others?”

  “A misunderstanding, I assure you, Sire.” H
is courtier’s smile between curly sideburns appeared not so confident. “I would never talk ill of you.”

  “What of Albine? Marchand says she insisted Mademoiselle Perrault walk down the road alone.” Napoleon regretted that this woman he once shared intimacy with might act so vicious.

  “Sire, you can hardly think my dear wife knew someone waited to attack the young lady in the night.” The count’s small mouth twitched. Did he react with sufficient astonishment?

  “Her behavior warrants scrutiny.” Napoleon picked up his snuffbox from his sideboard and flipped it open. He took a quick pinch, the acrid smell filling his nostrils.

  “Perhaps Albine is only jealous of your relationship with…Mademoiselle Perrault.” Montholon watched him with his cool blue eyes.

  Napoleon suspected the count encouraged his wife to steam up his sheets to lull him into submission. He cringed to think that this man, who tended him so well in the beginning, harbored malicious intentions. Jules might be working entirely on his own. “I demand you keep your valet away from my wine.”

  “I will, of course. Has the wine not been to your satisfaction? If not, it is the British you should be careful about, Sire. The orderly officer, the governor. I have been your most devoted servant.” Montholon bowed. “Heedful to your every wish.”

  “More exaggerations from you!” Napoleon scraped his thumbnail across the snuffbox. Cipriani, his loyal Cipriani. Could the British have had him murdered, or agents for the Royalists in France? Their faction several times attempted to assassinate him when he was First Consul and Emperor. He calmed himself, to keep to the business at hand. “How is your stepfather, the Count de Semonville?”

  “He…is well, Your Majesty.” Montholon quickly masked the surprise on his face.

  “Are the rumors about him true? He was a Royalist spy during the Revolution?”

  “An unfounded tale,” the count said through stiff lips. “If I could only—”

  “I’m keeping a sharp eye on you, Charles. Dieu le sait, I’ve always been surrounded by betrayal. It’s the chance you take when you’re in a position of importance.” Napoleon slapped the snuffbox onto the sideboard, intent on Montholon squirming. The Royalists could be shrewd enough to send this blue blood with him into exile to make certain he never regained power.

  “I would never betray you. I deeply apologize for any ill-conceived comments I might have made…”

  “Enough of your self-serving prattle.” Why indeed had this man joined him after he escaped Elba, insisting he be a chamberlain of his court? A man he’d dismissed years ago for disobeying orders. Where, however, was the unequivocal proof? He disliked refuting her, but did Amée try much too hard to find guilt in everything the count had done? “Return to your quarters and await my decision on what your future role will be here.”

  After the count bowed out, Napoleon snatched up the box and took another pinch of snuff. Bertrand and Las Cases as well as Amée warned him not to trust the count, but he had an inborn aversion to being advised. He grumbled. His generals in battle would agree with that. They’d said as much after his abdications. Still, doubts remained.

  Napoleon sagged against his sideboard. He’d wanted the British to be the villains.

  * * * *

  Amélie squeezed a cloth and wiped up crumbs and spills from the dinner mess Chef Gascon left. The kitchen remained her haven—a world separate from court intrigues. Her father’s apron still hung from a peg near the door and she trailed her fingers over the stiff, stained material.

  She’d fretted throughout the day with the troubles clouding her mind, but had encouraged Napoleon to spend time with his soon to depart doctor.

  She scrubbed the table, then the window with vinegar and water.

  In the courtyard, Clarice snatched clothing from the clothesline in the setting sun. Amélie heard her arguing earlier with her mother about why laundry was still her duty when now she was forced to be the kitchen maid.

  About to turn away, Amélie saw Jules walk up behind Clarice and pinch her fat buttocks. Clarice laughed, faced him, and snaked her arms around his neck. Jules ran his hands across her hips in the fast fading light and the two strolled off together out of the courtyard.

  Amélie slapped the rag against the window sill. There was an attachment between Clarice and the most infamous servant at Longwood. No matter their animosity, she dreaded to think of Clarice involved in this alleged conspiracy.

  An hour later, Amélie returned to her room. Napoleon was still with Doctor O’Meara. The two men had taken a last ride around the island together, and now enjoyed a brandy in Napoleon’s study. In the library she sat on her bed, rereading a letter from her brother Théo. As slow as the mail was, the news of their father’s death would take more weeks to reach France.

  A floorboard creaked outside her room, then again. She rose, picked up the candle, and eased her door open. A shadow crept along the wall near the alcove where the wine cabinet stood. Her pulse trebled and she stepped out to peer around the corner. She started when someone stood and moved into her light.

  “Surprised, mignonne? Are you spying on me again?” Jules frowned, squinting. He clutched a bottle of wine to his chest. His clothes were rumpled and his hair in disarray with a few pieces of straw, as if he was just returning from his tryst.

  “What are you doing here? His Majesty ordered the count this morning to forbid you from his wine cabinet.” Amélie stiffened, breathless with anger.

  Marchand hurried out of the drawing room, as if hiding there. “Now I’ve caught you, Jules, don’t deny this again.” He spoke with unfamiliar sharpness. “I’ve kept you under watch.”

  Jules’s gaze slid between them both. “My master told His Majesty I was helping him inventory, and never forbade me access. What is this game?”

  “I think your master was covering up the fact you were caught.” Amélie jerked the candle and the flame wavered. “Now you both have disobeyed Napoleon.”

  Jules shrugged, then half smiled. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Then what are you up to?” Marchand demanded. “Confess it now, sur l’heure.”

  Jules leaned toward Marchand with a conspiratorial wink, his lower lip stuck out to its limits. “If you must know, since you dog my steps, I take the wine to the Count de Montholon. He puts a special tonic in it for the emperor, and—”

  “What sort of tonic?” Amélie’s heart lurched and she tightened her fingers on the candlestick. Her fears were correct!

  “You’re aware the emperor shuns medicinals. The count is looking out for his health.” Jules turned to Marchand. “You shouldn’t say a word, though I doubt she will keep quiet.”

  “Where does the count get this tonic?” She shoved her flame near his face.

  Jules cast her an insolent look. “From Doctor O’Meara.”

  Not the mild, ineffectual doctor whose innocence she’d defended? “How could…and you’ve been doing this one bottle at a time?”

  “O’Meara gives my master a small ration at a time, but today was another waste. There seems to be as many bottles as before, as if the wine isn’t being drunk very often.”

  Napoleon admitted he frequently forgot to request the wine. “You will stop this at once,” she warned.

  “Someone will speak with your master about this tonic.” Marchand snatched the bottle from Jules. “Give me the keys.”

  Jules grimaced and held the keys aloft. Marchand twisted them from his hand.

  “Peste! The Count de Montholon will hear of this.” The man slunk out of the room toward the front door.

  “Napoleon will have to see the complicity now. He’s already agitated because O’Meara leaves Longwood for good tomorrow. The doctor can’t be involved. There has to be a rational explanation,” Amélie said as she and the chief valet stood before her door. She told him of N
apoleon’s interrogation earlier. “We need to question Doctor O’Meara in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry if I doubted you before this. I’m used to so much slander here, I disliked making a rash judgment.” Marchand rocked on his feet and jangled the keys.

  “I understand, Louis. Good night.” Amélie shut her door, the candle now wavering in her hands, the flame dancing. She mused on her willingness to give O’Meara the benefit of the doubt, but not so the Count de Montholon.

  * * * *

  Amélie left her half-eaten breakfast and hurried outside. Marchand waited near the doctor’s door in Longwood’s right wing, more a line of connected sheds. She stifled a nervous yawn, having spent a tormented night stewing over O’Meara’s alleged involvement.

  The doctor invited them in with a smile. He removed things from his dresser and placed them in a battered valise already overflowing with clothes.

  “To what do I owe this great honor?” he asked, always the amiable Irishman.

  “We won’t waste too much of your time, Doctor.” Amélie clenched her fingers together, her words even. “I know you’re readying to leave Longwood today.”

  “Lowe demanded I not speak to anyone when he ordered my dismissal. I insisted I be allowed to pack my own possessions, and say goodbye to Napoleon.” O’Meara shoved a brush into the clothes, conversing in the bad French he’d learned since living here, so Marchand understood him.

  “Doctor, it’s come to our attention that the Count de Montholon,” she emphasized the name, bitter in her mouth, “may be adulterating the emperor’s wine.”

  “We caught Jules at the cabinet last evening.” Marchand crossed his arms. “He admitted to a tonic he says came from you.”

  Amélie studied O’Meara for a guilty response, a sign of fear or anger at being discovered. To her relief he gave an amused smile and chuckled softly.

  “The count did ask me for a tonic, to improve Napoleon’s health. It’s harmless really. Montholon said he was concerned his sovereign wasn’t getting enough exercise. This was before you came along, Amélie, to shake him out of his self-imposed inactivity.” The doctor wiped mold off a pair of shoes and wedged them in his case, his manner relaxed and congenial.