Betsy and the Emperor (9781439115879) (14 page)

B
etsy!” my mother called up from downstairs. “There's someone here to see you!”

Good heavens,
I thought,
it must be Carstairs! He's finally come here to see me!
But, alas, my hair was a fright, and one hand was smeared with guava pulp. I had been drowning my sorrows in tropical fruit.
Why is it,
I wondered,
that unexpected visitors have an uncanny way of ferreting out one's most unattractive days?

It was the morning after my row with the emperor. I was up in my room, pen in my guava-free hand, brooding on paper, as was my wont.

Carstairs! My ensign, my love,
I had written.
Soon we will be reunited.

“Coming, Mother!” I shouted, scrambling to straighten out my hair. I wiped my sticky hand on a linen towel and cascaded downstairs with a sway
and a saunter, as I imagined a London opera singer might.

“Good morning, mademoiselle.”

Blast!

“Oh,” I said, not bothering to conceal my enormous disappointment. “It's only you.”

“Only me?” Boney replied, teasing. “That's a fine
bienvenue
for the emperor.”

Poppleton stood by his side. The emperor's “nanny
du jour.
”

“Sorry,” I said. Then, remembering I was supposed to still be angry with him, I added, “What do you want?”

He took me by the hand. “Come with me, mademoiselle. I am about to keep a promise I made to you.”

I walked with him. It was a sticky, steamy day on St. Helena—a typically unpleasant one. It was a bit like breathing into a paper sack. Poppleton, in his tight uniform and weighed down by a heavy musket, sweated like a horse. Before long our destination became clear. Boney was taking us to Plantation House.

We rapped on the door and were admitted. Poppleton waited outside. Reade announced us.

Governor Lowe was seated at his desk—scribbling
another one of his pompous orders, I suppose. He did not bother to look up.

“So,” he said facetiously. “To what do I owe the high honor of this unexpected visit?”

“This is Mademoiselle Betsy Balcombe,” the emperor said. “I have learned how you have treated her family. I am not pleased with it.”

“I see,” Lowe said, looking up at us at last as if the effort were hardly worth the trouble. “You are not pleased. What a shame. And you have appointed yourself ambassador for this young girl? I suppose you must have something to occupy yourself, now that you won't be killing any more Englishmen.” Lowe stood and poured himself a glass of water without offering any to us. “My brother was one of them, you know,” he continued. “I was quite fond of him. You remember Waterloo, do you not? Oh, but of course you do.”

The emperor was seething. I mentally battened down the hatches, preparing for a big typhoon.

“What right had you to confiscate and read my private correspondence!” Boney thundered. “A man's communications with his wife are inviolable, sacred—and that of the emperor of France all the more so! Only a low and common thief would deprive him of that right of connection and stain
their marital bond with the foul pollution of his prying, prurient interest!”

“You don't know me, sir,” Lowe replied blandly. He yawned. If the governor was perturbed, he hid it well.

“Know you?” Bonaparte said with a small, derisive laugh. He leaned on the governor's desk and practically whispered in his freckled ear: “How could I know you? Soldiers make themselves known by commanding in the field. I know the name of every English general who has distinguished himself. And I have never heard of you.”

Lowe's face muscles twitched like cow haunches shooing flies. He turned bright red; and for a moment I could barely see the ugly brown stains on his face.

“I am known for doing my duty,” Lowe snapped, furious.

Boney pounded his fist on the governor's desk. “So is the hangman!” Boney replied.

Lowe was speechless.

The emperor grabbed me by the hand and stormed out.

 

We walked—or should I say, marched at a quickstep?—back to the Briars. I could barely keep up with
Boney. He must have maintained this furious pace when leading his troops on forced marches. I could tell he was still angry at the governor.

“You really shouldn't upset him so,” I told the emperor.

Of course, I was secretly pleased that Boney had berated the governor. I would have liked to have done so myself. And I was flattered that the emperor had blasted him partly for my sake. But I was worried about how Lowe would treat him as a result.

“That petty quill driver!” the emperor muttered, shuffling dirt with his Moroccan slippers. “He would have me poisoned if it would mean a raise in pay!”

“Oh, I doubt he would do that,” I said, hoping to reassure him.

“Non?”
Bonaparte said, raising an eyebrow at me. “Do you recall the time he surrounded my house with his staff?”

I nodded. Marchand had told me of it.

“Never have I seen such a murderer's visage!” Boney continued. “He reminded me of those cannibals of the South Sea Islands, dancing round the prisoners whom they are going to
flambé
on the spit and devour!”

His eyes blazed like those of a wild animal who
sees in the dark, and his eyebrows merged like mating caterpillars. I could not help giggling.

“What are you sniggering at, mademoiselle?

“You!” I said, laughing harder. “You look so funny when you are angry!”

Boney scowled at me. “Funny, eh?
Drôle?
”

Then the frown melted from his face. He smiled and pulled my ear—not enough to hurt. “I'll show you funny, Mademoiselle Elizabeth-We-Call-Her-Betsy Balcombe!” he said. He made a ridiculous face at me, pounded his chest, and made guttural sounds. He looked like the gorilla in Huff's laboratory. I howled.

It was good to see Boney laughing again.

 

That evening, I supped with the emperor and his suite.

“Marchand,” he said to his valet toward the end of the meal, “this was superb.
Merveilleux!
My compliments to Le Page. Tell him I shall award him the Légion d'Honneur for that roast!”

Boney was not quite serious about the medal, of course.

“Yes, Sire,” Marchand replied, heading for the kitchen.

“And bring seconds!” Boney commanded. “I am still famished!”

Yes, it was a fine meal. Having been accustomed to English cooking all my life, I was amazed by what Boney's French chef could do with a roast. My parents were dismayed that I was missing more and more meals at home.

“So, mademoiselle,” Boney said mischievously. “Shall I bring
le petit
Las Cases in here? We shall pin him down for you so that you may kiss him!”

The emperor knew how much Las Cases's son repelled me, and delighted in teasing me about him.

“Oh, bring him right in!” I said facetiously, having the good sense not to get angry, as it would only encourage him.

Marchand returned from the kitchen empty-handed. He seemed rather nervous.

“Well?” the emperor said.

“
Je le regrette,
Sire,” Marchand apologized uneasily. “Le Page
dit, ‘Je n'en ai pas.'”

“No meat?” Boney said, puzzled. “Why, Marchand?”

Marchand bit his lip and seemed fearful of replying. Bertrand responded for him. “Our rations have been cut, Your Majesty. I regret to say that—”

The emperor stood up suddenly and threw his napkin on the table. “Lowe!” he thundered.

And so, for the second time that day, we paid a call on the governor. I insisted on going with him. This would be too good to miss.

Unbeknownst to Boney, some days earlier my father, in his role as purveyor, had argued vociferously against Lowe's cutting the budget for the Pavilion. But my father's pleas on the emperor's behalf had fallen on deaf ears.

 

Poor Poppleton was hauled away from a lucrative card game to accompany the emperor and me to Plantation House.

 

“You again! You are interrupting my supper!” Lowe blustered as Boney and I brushed past the orderlies and entered the dining room. “And with a dustman's manners!”

Seated at the table with him were his wife, Lady Lowe, and daughter, Charlotte, whom I'd heard was a shameless coquette. By comparison to the governor's daughter, my sister Jane was a sister in a holy order.

“Don't send me any more food!” Boney said. “I will take my meals with those brave fellows of your
Thirty-fifth Regiment over there.” He pointed to the British soldiers standing guard outside, who could be seen through the window. “Not one of them will refuse to share his rations with an old fellow soldier!”

“You will take off your hat, sir, when in the presence of my wife,” Lowe sneered. “And then I will thank you to get out!” Lowe turned toward the hallway. “Guards!”

The governor's orderlies rushed in and grabbed Boney by the arms.

“No!” I protested. I was sickened, too stunned to move. In his entire life I don't think anyone had dared—dared!—place his hands on the emperor like this before. These men weren't fit to lick his boots!

Though the guards carried guns and he did not, Boney courageously struggled free of them. For a small man, his strength was staggering. And, somehow, the emperor's inherent dignity discouraged them from another attempt to grab him. They stepped back.

“You have power over my body,” Boney said with quiet authority, “but none over my soul. That soul is as proud, as fierce, as determined at the present moment as it was when it commanded all of Europe.”

Boney shifted his gaze to a huge old tortoise—
Jonathan, by name—in the corner of the room, insouciantly munching some lettuce. An incongruous sight, to be sure, the beast had been a present to the governor from the East India Company—and turtle soup had been its intended fate. But island legend had it that Lowe, animal lover that he was, had spared the old creature's hide and now it was a family pet.

“You will outlive me, Governor,” the emperor remarked. “But that tortoise will outlive us both. And let us pray, for England's sake, the prince regent appoints him your successor!”

Boney turned his back on Lowe and took me by the arm. “Come, mademoiselle,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “I am in need of fresh air!”

C
haud…chaud…plus chaud.”
The emperor guided a blindfolded Alexander with his voice as he stumbled his way around the room. Boney waited until the little boy was within inches of touching him, then danced quickly out of the way. “
Froid!
Oh, brrrrr!” the emperor said, feigning a shudder.
“Très, très froid!”

I suppose Boney took a special interest in my little brother because his own son was about Alexander's age. He even let Alex win at the game of
colin-maillard
—very uncharacteristic of him, seeing as how the emperor hated to lose! Once Boney told me that when he was a boy his history teacher had the class line up in two groups, one under the flag of ancient Rome, the other under that of its enemy, Carthage. Boney's big brother was assigned to the mighty former, and he to the humble latter. “Oh, how I kicked up a fuss!” Boney told me. “Wahhh! I
blubbered like
un bébé
—until Teacher agreed to switch me with Joseph, so I could be on the winning side!”

The emperor finally let Alexander catch him.

“Now you're it!” Alexander crowed, handing Boney the blindfold. Boney flopped on the divan and performed a dramatic pantomime, hilariously demonstrating exhaustion.

“Please, Boney?” little Alex whined.

The emperor shrugged in mock exasperation, nodded, and took the blindfold.

Just then, Bertrand entered to announce the arrival of a letter. We all knew what it would contain. This was the day we'd been dreading for so long.

The emperor read the letter silently. He did not speak for a moment after and then rubbed his eyes and sighed.

“Well, Mademoiselle Betsy,” he said, attempting to be cheerful, “it is time. What are you staring at? Send for your father.”

I was too upset to do anything but obey his wishes.

 

“I am sorry about the shortage of provisions,” my father apologized to the emperor upon entering the room. “I did my best for you, but the governor is…not the most amenable of fellows.”

Boney waved his hand as if to say,
It is no matter.
He seemed to know that my father was not to blame.

“I thank you for all your kindness,” the emperor said. “
Et vôtre femme,
your good wife,
aussi.
” He waved the letter in the air. “It seems I have a date with the rats and mildew at Longwood.”

Yes, Boney knew well that his new accommodations would be a far cry from the Pavilion, but little did he know just how awful they would be.

I had visited Longwood on several occasions in the past, to get a feel for the emperor's new circumstances. The house was only five miles from the Briars, but it might have been on another world for all the two resembled each other. His new quarters sat high atop a sheer, cold cliff—one had to pass around the abyss known as the “Devil's Punchbowl” to reach it—on the most unforgivingly bleak part of St. Helena. The place was a grim volcanic wasteland under a perpetual cloud; when it wasn't raining—and it rained every day at Longwood, three times more often than elsewhere on the island—it was fogging; when not fogging, it was misting. A few pathetic sprigs of green hung tremblingly on the sheer face of that cliff—for dear life, so it seemed—but Longwood was otherwise
devoid of anything resembling God's creation. A steep, heart-stoppingly narrow winding road, without rails or parapets, led up to the house. And even a sure-footed mule would be wise to get his affairs in order before attempting it.

I had chosen not to inform the emperor of my explorations of the area. What would I have told him? That the rats were so numerous, ravenous that they had skinned the few remaining gum trees like expert tanners? That the wind blew so relentlessly and cold that the inside of one's head rang with its hollow moans like a chambered nautilus? That the water was thick and fetid, would liquefy your bowels, and not fit for drinking?

And what of the house? It began life as a barn and to this day was more suited to domiciling a hog than the former emperor of a great nation. The library, facing east, stank of mold, and the room that was to be Marchand's flooded when it rained. As for the emperor's room, it was hardly large enough for a cobbler's bed, and the walls bore the hideous stains of saltpeter. Was I to have told him all this?

No, I had wisely concluded, the less the emperor knew about where he was headed, the better off he would be.

 

It came time to say our farewells. The rats were awaiting him.

Marchand and the others had, some days prior, packed up the emperor's belongings as well as their own. Gourgaud sat outside in the carriage.

“You must not cry, Mademoiselle Betsy,” Boney said, fondly pinching my ear. “You must come and see me next week, and very often.”

I nodded, choking back tears. Both of us desperately wanted to believe that we would be seeing no less of each other, that nothing had really changed. But I am certain that deep down the emperor understood as well as I that nothing, nothing would ever be the same.

Boney turned toward my father. “Balcombe, you must bring Miss Betsy to see me next week, eh? When will you ride up to Longwood?”

My father mumbled something about later in the week, but I knew that it was unlikely he would bring me with him. He thought it too dangerous a ride.

Willie was inconsolable when Boney began to say his good-byes, so my mother was holding him on her lap, trying in vain to comfort him. Meanwhile, little Alex hugged the emperor around the waist and clung
desperately to him as he walked about like a four-legged beast. When it came time to go, my brother had to be surgically removed from him by Count Montholon.

“Sire!” Gourgaud shouted impatiently from outside. “We are waiting!”

“
Un moment,
Gourgaud!” Boney shouted back.

The emperor presented me with a gift: a little candy box. “You can give it as a
gage d'amour
—a love present—to
le petit
Las Cases,” he said humorously. But there was no laughter in me today.

I burst into tears and ran from the room.

From my bedroom window, I watched the emperor approach his carriage. Then I shut my eyes. It hurt my heart too much, as if a heavy boot were pressed upon it, to look upon him as he left us—and rode away.