Betsy and the Emperor (9781439115879) (4 page)

“Now, was that really necessary, sir?” said the admiral to Bonaparte, attempting to be stern. But, really, it was obvious the admiral was as amused as I.

My father did his best to overlook the incident, but I noticed that he did not look at Bonaparte when, a moment later, he presented me to him.

“This is our daughter Elizabeth,” he said. “We call her Betsy.”

“
Je suis très heureuse de faire vôtre connaissance,
Your Majesty,” I said, bowing my head slightly since curtsying did not suit me.

Bonaparte raised an eyebrow and looked at me with an odd combination of agreeable surprise and suspicion. I suppose he wasn't certain whether I was being respectful or subtly mocking him. I watched as his small gray eyes narrowed into lizardly slits of concentration. Then he scrutinized my face feature by feature, like a gypsy fortune-teller reading tea leaves. I realized that he was wondering why I looked so familiar to him.

“We have met before, you and I…,” he mused.

“No, sir. That is, I don't see how that would be possible, sir,” I lied, hoping against hope that he wouldn't recognize me as the girl who'd nearly run him over in the parlor.

“I'm sure mademoiselle must be correct,” he said with formality.

I would have felt relieved at hearing this, but his manner was disturbingly ambiguous. It was impossible for me to judge his sincerity by his expression.

Then, quite unexpectedly, he demanded to be left alone with me. Naturally, my mother was mortified. She rose instantly from her chair to protest. But, somehow, my father managed to stop her before she voiced her objection, in that mysterious way married people have of communicating their desires without saying a single word.

My family and the admiral filed quickly out of the room without ceremony, like good soldiers given the order to break ranks. Frankly, I resented their unquestioning obedience to Bonaparte's wishes. Was I worth so little to my parents that they would hand me over to anyone, however disreputable, who took the trouble to ask? It would serve them right if Bonaparte took this opportunity to bludgeon me with the coatrack or the andirons!

For the moment, however, the man seemed to have entirely forgotten that I was in the room with him. He walked briskly about the library, freely picking up and examining all of dozens of objects that took his fancy. His curiosity bordered on gluttony. It was immediately apparent to me that his mind functioned at an almost unimaginable pace, swallowing information as voraciously as a shark devours its prey. Though the room was crammed to overflowing with books, objets d'art, and my father's nautical memorabilia, Bonaparte managed to navigate through the sea of articles with startling speed and efficiency. He did not damage or misplace anything. I noted that he was able to collect half a dozen or more items at once from different locations in the room, study them, then return each to its proper place, seemingly without a moment's thought or hesitation.

He seemed particularly fascinated by my father's old navy sword, which hung from worn leather thongs over the fireplace, and two ship models: of Admiral Nelson's frigate, the
Victory,
and Admiral Collingwood's
Royal Sovereign.

Once he'd satisfied his curiosity about the contents of the room, he moved toward the south window overlooking Toby's rose garden. The morning
sunlight streamed through the glass, making rainbows in the bell jars that covered my father's ship models. Bonaparte placed himself directly in the path of the sunlight. He took off his big bicorne hat—he'd been rude enough to have worn it inside the house—placed it under his arm, and stared out the window. In a moment he seemed to have entered a trance.

By this time I had grown very impatient with the man and was anxious to leave. He was so eerily absorbed in his daydreaming that I was certain he would not notice my exit. I headed for the door.

“It is very quiet,” he said, startling me. I wasn't sure whether he had directed his remark at me or at himself, but I decided that I ought not leave just yet. I risked a reply.

“We are in the country, sir.”

He continued to stare out the window. I was not accustomed to holding a conversation with a man's backbone. I made for the door once more.

“You speak French well,” he said crisply. “Better than the others.”

This remark drew me back. He was silent for a moment, and I got the impression that he was waiting for me to return the compliment. How ridiculous!
Surely,
I thought,
he must know his English is dreadful.

“I've only just returned from school,” I said diplomatically.

“From school…,” he mused. Then, with appalling speed and suddenness, he fired questions at me like a barrage of artillery. I battled to keep apace.

“What is the capital of France?” he ordered.

“Paris.”

“Of Italy?”

“Rome.”

“Russia?”

“Petersburg now,” I said, breathless. “Moscow formerly.”

Then, abruptly, he turned to face me. His fists were clenched white, eyes like two long gray pins fixing me where I stood. He was agitated, electrified—almost mad, really. The nervous twitching of his left thigh muscle caught my eye.

“Qui l'a brûlée?”
he demanded.

I was stunned by his senseless intensity, struck dumb by it.

“Who burned it?!” he roared, slamming his fist on the desk. The bell jars rattled with the force of the blow.

“I—I don't know, sir,” I said.

“Mais oui!”
he said with a laugh. “You know very well. I did!”

So. He burned Moscow, just as he'd destroyed so much else with his battles and conquests. What was I to say?
Jolly good show
?

Bonaparte delighted in his own cleverness, chuckling heartily. All signs of anger and agitation instantly vanished from his features. He was merry, lighthearted. He didn't even seem to notice that I was not laughing with him.

How could I have laughed? The change in his behavior was too sudden, too sweeping. I began to wonder about the angry scene I had witnessed only moments before. Was it playacting? Was he merely testing me?

Bonaparte sat down in the chair behind my father's desk. He drummed his fingers nervously on the desktop and looked straight at me. “Why did you try to deceive me?” he said.

“Sir?” I didn't know what he meant.

“We met in the drawing room,” he said. “You are not a very good liar.”

“I—I try to be, sir.”

He laughed. “Never mind. I have had more practice at it than you.”

I looked at him, not knowing quite what to say. It didn't matter; by now his attention was occupied elsewhere.

From his position at the desk, he could see out another of the library's windows. This one had a view of dark boulders streaked with brackish water from underground wellsprings like greenish blood. Instead of trees and grasses, there was a barren and colorless expanse; volcanic ash and pumice stretched as far as the eye could see, long since having beaten all life into dreary submission. And instead of gently rolling hills, there was a row of terrible, sharp mountains, jutting like fangs from the jaw of a leviathan.

Bonaparte was transfixed by the melancholy landscape. I supposed that he was thinking about what life would be like for him now—his life as a captive on St. Helena. He muttered something very quietly to himself, as one does in dreaming. I doubted he was aware he'd said anything aloud.

“The Bastille was a kinder prison…,” he said.

I stood for a few moments more, waiting for him to dismiss me. He seemed so deep in thought that I didn't dare disturb him.

I let myself out.

B
onaparte spent the night at Porteous' Inn in Jamestown—a fact that Admiral Cockburn took great pains to conceal from its nervous citizens.

The next morning Bonaparte moved into the Briars. Or, rather, “Bonaparte & Company” did. He was accompanied by a suite of French officers and their wives—aristocrats, mostly—as well as his personal servants, chefs, and valets. They had all sailed with Bonaparte on the
Northumberland
after he was taken prisoner by the English. I'm not sure how my parents felt about putting up so many unexpected guests, and such odd ones at that, but they did their best to conceal any resentment they may have felt.

There wasn't room for the exiles in the main part of the house, so my father set them up in the Pavilion. The Pavilion was a house detached from the rest of the Briars but only a few steps away. We'd used it to
house high-ranking visitors in the past, including Bonaparte's nemesis, the Duke of Wellington, who'd sent him down to defeat at Waterloo.

I watched in amazement as crate after crate of Bonaparte's belongings was carried into the house. There was an endless stream of them. Some of the boxes were so large that they had to be turned on their sides in order to fit through the door. My father had called in some of his field hands to assist, and they worked side by side with Bonaparte's men. No one but the ladies and the emperor himself was exempt from carrying crates. Bonaparte oversaw the whole operation as if he were commanding in battle, dividing up responsibilities, coordinating flanks, and shouting, “
Vite!
Quickly!” to rouse failing spirits. It was a strange sight to see—dignified French officers transporting goods on their backs like pack mules.

Most seemed to take the situation in stride, but a few did not. One man complained constantly and bitterly about everything: his aching feet and back, the arduousness of his task and its inappropriateness to one of his high station. He bemoaned the heat of the day, which seemed to me a particularly ridiculous complaint since he was so obviously overdressed for
the weather. A bit of a dandy, I thought. A fop. I took an instant dislike to him.

The man half dropped one of the crates on the Pavilion doorstep with an “ooph!” and a thud. Then he grimaced, gripped his lower back, and limped—rather too theatrically, it seemed to me—toward the emperor.

“Sire,” he whined, “I am happy to serve His Majesty in whatever capacity he sees fit. But if I am crippled with the lumbago, I will unfortunately be deprived of the pleasure of serving him in the future!”

“Now, now, Gourgaud,” Bonaparte replied, humoring him. “We've been at sea a long time. The exercise will do you good.”

“But, Sire—”

“Ah-ah-ah!” Bonaparte said, raising his index finger. “You must set a good example for the others, Gourgaud. They all look up to you, you know.”

Gourgaud seemed very pleased by this transparent flattery. His chest puffed up with pride until the ruffles on his shirtfront stood out like pheasant's plumage. He rejoined the work detail.

About a quarter of an hour later Bonaparte made an announcement. “Messieurs,” he said, “it is time
for a rest.” He pointed to several of the slaves. “You—you, there!—you, you, and you. You will take a respite.
Dix minutes—c'est tout!
The remainder of you will have your rest once they return.”

Gourgaud, who, of course, was not among those selected for the first ten-minute rest period, huffed toward the emperor, his long puffy shirtsleeves flapping in the breeze. He was red in the face, sputtering like a teakettle. “Sire! Sire, forgive me for speaking so boldly, but—but I cannot understand why you have allowed these Negroes to take a respite ahead of me! After all, they are merely slaves. They are used to performing manual labor. Whereas I—”

“Assez!”
the emperor snapped. “We are guests here!”

Gourgaud stood quietly.

“You are correct that these men are slaves,” the emperor said brittlely. “When we are finished with them here, they must toil again all day in the fields while you retreat to a warm bath and a good meal. All the more reason why they should have a rest before you!”

I was more than a little surprised by Bonaparte's remarks. I would not have expected that he'd have any compassion for his social inferiors, since he'd demonstrated so little for his equals. As for me, I'd
never had any stomach for slavery. I'd seen one too many of those execrable floating dungeons we call “slave ships” from Guinea and Angola sail into Jamestown Harbor with their wretched human cargo in chains. It had always troubled me that my family kept slaves. We were no different from other reasonably well-to-do families on St. Helena in that respect, but to me, this did not lessen the offense. On several occasions I'd tried to convince my father to free our slaves, but my efforts were in vain. He'd always tap his pipe nervously in the palm of his hand when I brought up the subject, explaining that while he deplored slavery as much as I, there were no other laborers on the island who had the necessary skills to tend our yam fields and could be hired at reasonable cost and that, in any case, he was sure our slaves were better treated than most paid workers on St. Helena. While this may have been true, I still felt my father's attitude was rather hypocritical. Of course, I did not tell him so.

It was not long after Monsieur Gourgaud grumblingly returned to the work brigade that I heard my mother call me from the house. By tradition, I never answered her before the third “Bet-see!” and this time was no exception.

“Yes?” I called back at last. She poked her head out of a downstairs window.

“Yes, who?” my father said to me as he approached.

He was returning from a hunt carrying his musket, and had the dogs with him. They yapped busily at his heels.

“Yes, who?” he said again.

“Catch anything?” I asked, evading his question. I grinned at him slyly because I knew full well he hadn't bagged so much as a sparrow. My father wasn't much of a shot. He tried to frown, but a bit of a smile showed through. This was a game we often played.

“Never mind that now, Miss Balcombe,” he said teasingly. “Your mother is calling you. Yes, who?” I stifled a groan.

“Yes, Mother,” I said, giving in. We'd been through this procedure umpteen times; I felt I was really getting a bit old for it.

“Much better, young woman,” he said. He bent down and patted our dog Tom Pipes on the muzzle. “And to you, sir,” he said to the dog, “better luck next time. Where's that grouse you promised me? A gentleman always keeps his promises, sir.”

I laughed. My father was in a surprisingly good mood, considering he'd just returned from hunting.
He looked at me. “Go and see what your mother needs,” he said.

When I returned outside shortly thereafter, to relay the message my mother had asked me to convey to the emperor, Bonaparte was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the area in front of the Pavilion was deserted. Bonaparte and his suite were probably inside. I wondered what I should do.

I stood for a few moments on the doorstep of the Pavilion, listening to the call of the mynah birds in the distance.
Would it be all right if I knocked on the door?
I wondered. I stood there dumbly, hesitant, as the birds mocked me.
How absurd,
I thought.
Here I am on the doorstep of my own home, and I'm behaving as if I were a wandering beggar!
I knocked loudly, then reached for the doorknob. My hand snatched only the air; someone had opened the door.

“Oui?”
Gourgaud inquired superciliously. He looked me over, making no effort to conceal his contempt. I stood up as tall as I could.

“I have a message for the emperor,” I said.

“Who are you?”

“Betsy Balcombe.”

Gourgaud frowned and tugged at his lacy cuffs. “His Majesty does not wish to be disturbed.”

He seemed about to shut the door in my face, so I spoke quickly. “The message is from my mother, who has been kind enough to provide the emperor with a place to stay.”

Gourgaud sighed loudly and crossed his arms impatiently. “You may give your message to me,” he said.

“My mother has asked me to give the message to the emperor.”

Gourgaud stared at me for a moment, surprised, I suppose, by my persistence. “His Majesty does not wish to be disturbed,” he said with finality, pushing the door toward the jamb. I had to jump backward in order to avoid getting my nose smashed by it.
Blast the blackguard!

“Gourgaud,
qui est là
?” a voice called from inside the Pavilion.

Gourgaud froze; the half-shut door stayed where it was. “
Personne,
Sire!” he called back.

Nobody?
The arrogance of the man!

I couldn't quite make out his French, but Bonaparte then said something to the effect of: “Nonsense, Gourgaud! Nobodies don't knock on doors. Find out who it is.”

Gourgaud's shoulders sank.

“Est-ce qu'un homme ou une femme?”
the emperor called.

Gourgaud, flustered, made no reply.

“Gourgaud!
Parlez!
”

“
C'est…c'est une femme,
Sire. A young lady,” he called. Then, after looking at me disdainfully:
“Je suppose…”

“Ahhh!” the emperor exulted, as if anticipating a “conquest.” “
En ce cas…entrez,
madame!”

I smirked triumphantly at Gourgaud. With great reluctance, he opened the door and led me up to the emperor's chambers.

The emperor was holding court from his bath. He sat in a great iron tub—the length of two men—which rested on four gargoyle feet in the center of the room he'd chosen as his bedchamber. The tub was filled with hot water, steam rising from it like rings of pipe smoke. But instead of tobacco, the scent of sandalwood soap filled my nostrils. Presumably, the emperor was quite naked; but from where I stood, I could see only those parts of him that were above the waterline.

The hair on the emperor's head and chest was chestnut-colored, pressed close and flat against his plump body by steam and sweat. His skin was
startlingly white and looked as soft as a lady's. Overall, he resembled nothing so much as my mother's steamed potato dumplings. Still, his nose was straight and regal, the small nostrils curling delicately like two apostrophes. And his dimpled hands, which rested on the sides of the iron tub, were small and elegant like those of a master violincellist. Even seated, the emperor's back remained straight as a ramrod. So, despite his plumpness, his appearance could not have been called unkingly.

Gourgaud and I had entered the room cautiously; the emperor had not yet noticed us. He was busily giving orders to a young valet who, using buckets of hot and cold water, was doing his best to maintain the bath at a temperature to His Majesty's liking. But there seemed no pleasing him. At the emperor's request the valet added more cold water to the bath.

“Brrrr!
Trop froid!
” Bonaparte complained.

The valet promptly picked up another of the buckets and poured hot water into the tub.

“
Arrêtez,
Marchand!” the emperor roared, stopping him.
“Trop chaud!”
The gentle Marchand, a handsome fellow with curly blond hair and smiling azure eyes, seemed to have infinite patience with his emperor's fickle demands.

In addition to Marchand, two other attendants were present: a stooped, bespectacled old man who sat, quill in hand, at a writing desk; and a gaunt, unattractive boy who was perhaps a year younger than I and bore an unfortunate family resemblance to the old scribe. The boy was perched on a high stool, his long bony legs dangling like he was a heron caught in a tree; he stole moonstruck glances my way that irked me.

Gourgaud cleared his throat and stood at attention. “Sire,” Gourgaud announced, “Mademoiselle…er…”

“Betsy,” I supplied, annoyed.

“Mademoiselle Betsy,” Gourgaud proclaimed. He spun on his heel and marched from the room.

Bonaparte turned to look at me. His anticipatory smile promptly fell from his face, and his eyes widened in astonishment. I was clearly not the sort of visitor he'd hoped for.

“Who gave you permission to enter?” the emperor demanded.

“You did, sir,” I said.

His cheek muscles twitched, but he said nothing. Without a moment's pause, he turned toward the old man and said, “Where were we, Las Cases? Read it back to me.”

Las Cases adjusted the spectacles on his nose,
picked up a document from the desk, and read aloud: “‘A letter to His Majesty, King George III of England. No—better make that to the prince regent. They tell me the old scoundrel's so addled, he doesn't know his crown from his—'”

“Diable!”
Bonaparte swore, splashing about angrily in his tub. “You fool!”

“What's wrong, Your Majesty?” Las Cases asked.

“Oh…never mind!” Bonaparte sighed, trying to regain his composure. “We begin again,” he said. “To His Majesty, the Prince Regent of England.” The emperor dictated rapidly. Poor Las Cases scribbled in a race to keep up with him, his pen scratching on the paper like chickens hunting for grubs in the barnyard. “Your Royal Highness: Some months ago, I came to England to throw myself upon the hospitality of the British people and place myself under the protection of their laws. I anticipated a fate just and reasonable, befitting my exalted position. I expected no less from Your Majesty as the most powerful, the most constant, and the most generous of my enemies.

“Instead, I was condemned to ignominy on this island, a miserable wart on the face of the deep.

“The monarchs of Europe, whether friends or foes, are brothers by virtue of their common bonds of
sacrosanct authority. It is not possible to debase one imperial brother without similarly diminishing all the others. The peoples under their dominion, if taught to disrespect one sovereign, will learn to disregard them all.