Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Over the mantel, Frederick the Great’s clock ticked by twenty minutes. Amélie stroked Napoleon’s brow. Her stomach flipped as if she might retch herself.

  Marchand finally brought in the army surgeon. From the bedroom doorway Amélie nibbled her lip while he examined Napoleon.

  Her fears roiling, she rushed outside to the butler’s pantry and unlocked the cabinet. She snatched out her bottle of oil she’d made recently of distilled young rue shoots in water. With honey slopped in a bowl, she stirred in the oil. She hurried back across the courtyard, almost bumping into Chef Gascon. He stared at her with his droopy face. His son was killed at Waterloo. Gascon had free access to their food. Was she chasing off the wrong person?

  Her father would have known though, working so closely, and reported him to Count Bertrand. She gulped a breath and must trust her instincts.

  Amélie gripped the bowl, fetched a spoon, and scurried back to the bedchamber, her heart in her throat. “How is he, Doctor?”

  The tall skinny officer, his red uniform an intrusion in the emperor’s sacred chambers, frowned. “Who are you?” he asked in stilted French.

  Amélie rushed and sat on the bed beside Napoleon. His skin looked like yellow wax, his breathing shallow. Teeth clenched, she lifted Napoleon’s head from the pillow. “I want you to swallow this.” She spooned her oil and honey into this mouth.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing? Move away, miss.” The doctor glared at her. “What is that concoction?”

  “What is your diagnosis, Doctor?” Marchand stepped forward, his eyes wide with concern.

  The man sighed. “The patient seems to have had an acute attack of the bowels. I’m going to give him tartar emetic to clean out his ills, induce more vomiting.”

  “Mais non!” Amélie gasped, terrified when she thought of Cipriani’s similar diagnosis right before his death. “He’s been poisoned, can’t you see? This is a cure.” She must cure him. She prayed to believe in her restorative powers. Her love couldn’t slip away now.

  “That’s not my opinion. Stop this instant. You’ll only make him worse.”

  “I trust her,” Napoleon rasped, his voice so feeble. He accepted another spoonful of the rue mixture. “Tastes awful.”

  Amélie smiled and set the bowl aside.

  “I really must object to this unorthodox procedure.” The doctor pulled a vial from his bag. “Now let me—”

  “What more can you do for him than give him more poisons?” Amélie sobbed, pressing her forehead against Napoleon’s clammy one. She eased his head back down.

  The Bertrands bustled into the chamber. Ali had run to Hutt’s Gate to inform them.

  “How is His Majesty?” Count Bertrand stepped to the bed and the doctor immediately complained about Amélie’s actions. Bertrand nodded to her, then clasped the doctor’s arm and led him away. “Is there any more you can do for him, Doctor? Herbal tinctures have been known to work.”

  “Do you suspect Napoleon’s been poisoned?” Fanny asked after Amélie told her what she’d done. “Where are Charles and Albine?”

  “I wonder that myself.” Amélie caressed the stray lock of hair on Napoleon’s pale forehead. He closed his eyes, his breathing easier. “I panicked and had Marchand bring the doctor. I hope my remedy works if it is poison. Fanny, please sit with him until I return.”

  The countess sat down by the camp bed, her black eyes distressed. Amélie kissed Napoleon’s cheek and hurried out, through the house, out the front door, and along the right wing of Longwood. More tears blurred her vision, her body seething with fear and anger.

  She pounded on the Montholons’ door, but no one answered. Furious, she jerked the knob and the door opened. The empty chamber smelled of stale perfume. Amélie stepped inside. Shoddy furniture filled the small bedroom and sitting room. The countess’s clothes press slumped in a corner, overstuffed with clothes. Where were they, these vermin of Longwood?

  She opened drawers and searched dresser tops, with no idea of what she hoped to find. In the drawer of a small table beside the bed, under some lace handkerchiefs, Amélie pulled out a book. About to toss it aside, she read the title.

  Memoire du procez extraordinaire contre la dame de Brinvilliers, the story of Madame de Brinvilliers. She’d read this book a few years before about Marie-Madeleine d’Aubray, Marquise de Brinvilliers, a woman beheaded for poisoning her father, her brothers, and several other people with arsenic in the 1600s.

  Heart thumping, Amélie rushed back into the house and showed Fanny the book.

  Countess Bertrand sucked in her breath as she flipped through the sticking pages.

  Amélie sat down beside Napoleon and kissed the sweet honey from his lips. She pulled the taffeta curtains close and stretched out beside him in the bed, her arm hugging his chest. Count Bertrand and his wife left, shutting the bedroom door.

  * * * *

  “The milk will coat your stomach.” Amélie held up the glass, urging Napoleon to drink the following morning. Propped up in bed, some color had returned to his cheeks. “Did you eat or drink anything separate from me before your illness?”

  “A cup of coffee, but the coffee was locked up. No one unauthorized could have interfered with it.” He coughed, his voice still raspy, and set aside the milk. “Then you try to poison me with your own wicked brew, and dare to bring a doctor I don’t know in here.”

  Amélie breathed easier, relieved at his teasing. “What could it have been? I was so frightened.”

  Napoleon held out his arms and she slid into them, cuddling him through his flannel nightshirt. “I wouldn’t dare leave you…by dying, after at last finding you,” he murmured into her ear.

  Brushing her cheek against his bristly one, she sat back, wiped away her tears, and smiled. “I’ll prepare soupe à la reine for your lunch.”

  Napoleon smiled back, then frowned. “Where has Montholon been throughout this?”

  “He’d apparently disappeared.” Amélie sighed in irritation. “However, he’s outside now demanding to see you, and I told him you were resting.”

  “No, let him in. I want to speak to him.” He scooted up taller in the bed.

  Amélie reluctantly opened the bedroom door, stared into the count’s smug face, and informed him that the emperor would receive him.

  “Your Majesty, Albine and I have been overcome with sorrow at your illness.” Montholon oozed into the room, not a hair out of place, his uniform pressed. His medals reflected the sun streaming in through the window. “Grâce à dieu, you’ve recovered. What could have caused this relapse? More of those annoying island maladies, I’m certain.”

  “Bertrand has secured a cottage for you and your family in Jamestown. You can await a ship from there. You have Lowe’s permission to depart the island,” Napoleon said in a frigid voice, “but more important, you have mine.”

  Montholon stood stiff at attention. “Again, Sire. I lament that I’ve vexed you. The wine tonic was an insolent blunder.” The count flicked a glance at Amélie. “I will make amends with the young lady, anything to honor you.”

  Make amends with her? The man had to be frantic. She stifled a scoff as she observed from the fireplace.

  “That won’t be necessary, as you are departing Longwood today.” Napoleon smoothed the blanket over his chest. “Have your servants pack your things.”

  “Sire, I am an indispensable member of your court. My guidance and advice to you has always been sincere. That’s why I request to stay and serve you.”

  Amélie clenched her teeth and pressed her fingers along the mantel’s gray paint.

  “Serve your family, and give Albine back her book.” Napoleon pulled the Brinvilliers book from his night table and held it up. “Interesting story, this poisoning.”

  Montholon accepted the book. Turning the item over in his h
ands, he barely glanced at it. “I...haven’t read the story. If I could only convince you not to change your once warm affections for me.”

  Napoleon pinned the count with his chiseling gaze. “Retire to the cottage Bertrand selected. Be free to move around the island, away from the cordon of sentries. Then we will talk again.” He coughed and reached for his glass of orange water. “This is my command and I expect you to obey it.”

  Amélie stepped toward the bed at Napoleon’s aggravated tone and clasped her hand on his shoulder. “Count, you should go. You’re tiring him. You’ve heard the emperor’s wishes.” She quivered at the man’s desperation. If he had an important mission to accomplish and bungled it, he’d return to France in disgrace.

  “I’ll send my dear wife off with my blessing and remain with you, Sire, as I dedicated myself to in the beginning.” Montholon cast Amélie a derisive glare. He fingered his left epaulet, scratching with his fingernails until he stopped himself. “My manservant is the one who behaved badly, but he will go with Albine.”

  Amélie held her breath. Would Montholon admit that Jules assaulted her?

  “I won’t argue with you anymore.” Napoleon turned from the count and patted her hand. “Amée, pull the bell cord, tell Marchand I wish to shave.”

  Marchand entered a minute later, as if always at the ready, with a basin of warm water and a mug of shaving soap. Napoleon shaved himself while the valet held the mirror, always wary of anyone near his throat with a sharp object.

  “As I said in Plymouth,” Montholon’s voice squeaked out, before he tamed it, his distress clinging to him like sweat, “I am the only true aristocrat left in your entourage.”

  “Basta!” Napoleon leaned forward, his eyes afire. He shook the razor blade, flinging soap across the blanket. “I won’t hear any more. You sorely try my patience. True aristo, indeed, as if my Empire meant nothing. As I already told you, I’ll see that you’re compensated financially for your time here. The solution for all concerned is for you to leave with your family. Now go!”

  The count bowed out the door. Amélie shut it, and clicked the key in the lock. Marchand handed his sovereign a towel to wipe his face before being dismissed.

  She kissed Napoleon’s silky, sweet-smelling cheek, regretting his spiritual depletion at this showdown with a false friend. “You’re still providing him money?”

  “I won’t give him a sou.” He kissed her on the mouth. “Neither will I speak to him again.” He trailed his fingers up her bodice. “I have better attentions to provide.”

  “I think you need someone to keep you warm.” Her flesh tingling, she lifted the blanket and climbed into the bed.

  * * * *

  Amélie glared out the salon window. Near the garden, Jules wrapped rope around the Montholons’ trunks and heaved them in the waiting cart. He whistled and waved, acting unperturbed by this departure. Her muscles clenched.

  The nurse climbed in the cart with the infant Helene-Napoleone, while Tristan made a final visit with the emperor in the drawing room.

  Ali walked up beside Amélie. “The count and countess ranted at each other all day. We hear much through our attic floorboards.” He waved at Jules. “I’m glad the troublemaker is going.”

  “Do you mean Jules or Montholon?” She fingered a hole in the shutters. The sun dipped toward the shrouded summit of Diana’s Peak.

  “Both. Montholon is livid at his discharge, but the countess wants to go home.”

  “The count stalled most of the day. I’ll have to throw away our precious food supplies and begin again to make sure there was no last minute tampering.” Amélie slammed the shutter closed.

  “I’m still injured that you kept all this skullduggery from me.” Ali put his hand over his heart, but he did sound a trifle upset. “I want to protect His Majesty, too, don’t forget.”

  “You neglected to tell me about Jules.” She wagged a finger at him. “At least the supply ship came today. I told Napoleon not to eat or drink anything until the soldiers bring replacements. I’m starting in the butler’s pantry.”

  Amélie left the house and bustled across the courtyard, grinning in reprieve after so much turmoil. She rippled her shoulders to shed off her anxiety.

  Inside the pantry, she plucked the key from her apron pocket and unlocked the cabinet. She’d discard everything, secured or not, to be safe. Again, she fought doubts about Chef Gascon, but he’d spoken of his son’s army service, and how proud he was of him, how he’d died a hero’s death in Belgium.

  “Mademoiselle Perrault, tres fortune, only the two of us here.”

  Amélie flinched. She turned to face the Count de Montholon, who stood in the doorway.

  Her skin prickling, she raised her chin. “Count. You should be boarding the cart with your family.”

  “First things first. A word with you.” Every word he uttered dripped in menace from his small mouth. He didn’t bother to clip on his courtly smile.

  “I have nothing to say that the emperor hasn’t already said.” Amélie strained to keep her tone nonchalant. She fisted the key and half-turned back to the cabinet.

  “You’re quite satisfied with yourself...locking away the food, undermining my influence with His Majesty.” He slid one step inside the pantry.

  Amélie picked up a large tin of flour. “You had no business tampering with the emperor’s wine and conniving in other deceits behind his back.”

  “You’re forcing His Majesty to dismiss me. Everything progressed splendidly until you interfered. The great Napoleon under the thumb of his kitchen whore.” He advanced farther into the room. His jaw jutted out with lower teeth showing.

  Amélie’s pulse vibrated in her chest. She gripped the tin before her. “You should be happy to leave this existence, and not be separated from your wife and children.”

  “What business is that of yours?” He tugged at a curly sideburn with his slender fingers. “I had promised...promised to stay until the end.”

  “The end?” She swallowed hard. “That could be twenty years from now.” She forced her breath to move slowly, inside and out. “Could it not?”

  A flicker in his icy blue eyes made her hands tighten around the cool, smooth tin.

  “Nothing I say persuades him to my remaining. How can a simple maid replace a courtier and loyal soldier such as I? Regardless of how…inviting her favors are.” His cold monotone alarmed her more than outright anger would have.

  “Loyal, are you? Your time here is done. Why can’t you accept it?” Her stomach churned. “Don’t come any closer. One shout and I’ll have several servants in here. Now leave.”

  “His Majesty won’t be able to function without me. He’s grown too soft, too obtuse.” Montholon gave a slick smile, another step forward. “How much money would you accept to persuade him to change his mind?”

  “You are a fool, Count.” Amélie’s anger burned up her throat. Edging back a step, her heel bumped the cabinet. She jerked off the tin’s lid. “Napoleon doesn’t need a courtier such as you. Get out of here.”

  “You will never understand my importance.” Montholon reached out, long fingers groping for her arm. “Stop behaving like a stupid little girl.” His hand grazed her, like a claw. “Gold always entices whores.”

  “C’est odieux!” Amélie threw the lid at his face and slammed the tin into the side of his head. In a cloud of flour, she ran from the pantry, across the courtyard, and into Longwood where she called for Napoleon.

  “Captain Blakeney!” Napoleon stomped out the back door with Amélie beside him and shouted for the orderly officer, much to that soldier’s surprise. “Remove the Count de Montholon from these premises at once!”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  What is love?...the feeling that he is at the same time powerless and immortal—N.B.

  “Why don’t you and
your family move into the Montholons’ old quarters?” How gratifying to say that. Amélie picked up two silver candlesticks from the new dining room sideboard. “There’s rat droppings back here.”

  “I wouldn’t mind leaving the attic.” Madame Cloubert swiped her polishing cloth over the inlaid ebony. The linseed scent thickened the air. “Now, you must give me time to grow used to you being mistress of the house.” The woman snorted. “I never thought I’d admit this, but it’s too quiet around here. Except for Gascon whining about his ills and his dull cooking. So many people have gone from when we first arrived.”

  “I’m enjoying the calm.” Amélie laughed. She walked toward the back door. “No one picking quarrels or flaunting their importance. No more fits of jealousy.” She’d felt especially relieved when she watched the ship carrying the Montholons and Jules sail away from the island that afternoon, three days after they’d left Longwood.

  “I’m off to bed.” Madame Cloubert tossed down her cloth and climbed the attic stairs. “I wonder if my lazy husband is already snoring. I’ll ask him about the move, not that he gives a damn.”

  Amélie opened the door, the breeze on her face. Napoleon was occupied at his desk, so she stepped out for a moment. The fleeting dusk retreated from their yard in ever darkening shadows. The frogs grunted along with the inherent blowing of the wind. Even in the twilight she saw the mess the Chinese were making, digging furrows close around the house in which to place more plants at Napoleon’s recent behest.

  The evening chilly, she pulled her shawl close around her and strolled toward the wall. Lights glittered at the Deadwood Camp. Oxen drawn carts rolled over the plain in that direction, carrying women with boxes on their laps. They would be attending a Regimental ball, wearing their traveling clothes for the rough journey along the twisting road, their dancing gowns preserved in the boxes. Slaves hurried beside them bearing lanterns as the wind flapped the canvas covers of the carts. Such fetes were a separate world from Longwood, but Amélie didn’t mind her exclusion. She smiled and swayed in the breeze. She had everything she needed right here.