Betsy and the Emperor (9781439115879) (8 page)

I looked at him blankly. He continued.

“The re-establishment of the church destroyed by the Revolution. The setting up of new industries, the new Louvre Museum, warehouses, streets, the water supply of Paris. The quays along the river Seine. The revival of weaving mills in Lyons, and building of the Rhine-Rhone canal. More than four hundred sugar factories. The roads from the
Pyrenees to the Alps, from Parma to Spezia, and from Savona to Piedmont. The bridges across the Seine, and others in Tours and Lyons. The Napoleon Museum, where, I assure you Mademoiselle, the works of art have been obtained by purchase or peace treaties. These—these are all the treasures of Napoleon and will outlast the centuries!”

For the second time that day I was speechless. Could it be? Could one man—one man—really have been responsible for all those achievements?

We rode the rest of the way back to the Briars in silence.

O
uch! Marchand! Those are scissors, not the guillotine. Take care!”

The emperor patted the spot of blood on his neck where his valet had accidentally nicked him. It was merely a small scratch—I could see that from where I stood—but the emperor ordered, “Get a tourniquet!”

“I am very sorry, Your Majesty,” Marchand said, fetching a towel. “But you did not hold still. I warned you.”

“You blame me for my own wound?” Bonaparte said in a pique. He turned toward me. “Never let a Frenchman cut your hair, Betsy!”

“I will try to remember that, sir,” I said, really having no idea what he was talking about.

Watching a man get his hair cut was not my idea of an exciting way to spend an afternoon. But since I'd returned from school, I had lots of time on my hands
and little to do with it. According to my father, my education was now complete. “No girl should stay in school past the age of fourteen” was his motto. When my mother suggested that additional years of schooling might benefit me, my father flew into a rage. “What are we training Betsy for?” he boomed. “Governor-general of India?!”

As always, my mother surrendered.

I can't say I was disappointed at not returning to Hawthorne. And I daresay they would not be disappointed at not seeing me. But I felt I'd only exchanged one prison for another. What on earth was there for a girl to do on this miserable rock? I could dig up yams with the slaves. Learn sewing and other drivel from my mother. Listen to Jane's whining. Or watch the former emperor of France get his hair cut. It was not difficult to choose.

Marchand patted the emperor's neck as delicately as a baby's bottom. “There now, Sire,” his valet soothed. “The bleeding has stopped.”

“No thanks to you!” the emperor grumbled. He brushed some fine, dark hairs off his shoulders. Marchand handed him a looking glass so he could see the results of his labors. The emperor turned his head from side to side.

“
Petit Tondu,
” he said, looking critically at his reflection.

“Sir?” I said, wondering what he meant.

“Little Crop-Head,” he translated. “That's what the boys called me at the academy. It was not intended as a compliment.”

“They called me ‘The Colonies.' When I was at school.”

Bonaparte ran his hand through his shorn locks and looked at me quizzically.

“Because I was always in rebellion, as the Americans rebelled against the English,” I explained. The emperor smiled and hopped off the chair.

“
Viens.
Come,” he said, sweeping out of the room. I did not know where he was leading me, but neither did I particularly care. I followed.

We arrived in another room of the Pavilion. It was rather damp and chilly and filled with unpacked boxes. He had been right to compare it to the Russian winter.

“I will show you my autobiography,” Bonaparte said, approaching a large wooden crate filled with straw that was labeled
SÈVRES; TUILERIES
. He knelt and pulled straw out of the box rapidly, like an eager child unwrapping Christmas presents.

The object he pulled from the box was enveloped in old, yellowing copies of French newspapers. He unwrapped it. It was nothing but a china plate with a picture on it. He showed it to me pridefully.

“I thought you were going to show me your autobiography?” I said.

“Exactement!”
Bonaparte said. He lifted some more plates out of the box, leaving such a pile of straw scattered about that I felt I was in a pig barn. “These Sèvres plates from the Tuileries were made for me. They tell the story of my life.”

Intrigued, I looked carefully at the first plate.

“Shall you help me to unwrap them?”

I nodded and reached into the box.

“Of course, they are not in correct order of time,” he said, unwrapping plates as he spoke. He showed me their pictures.

“Here is the Battle of Austerlitz. The greatest victory of my career! You were four years old at the time, mademoiselle.”

“Against whom?” I asked.

“Russia and Austria,” he replied. He showed me another plate that depicted rearing horses and soldiers with muskets and cannon. A few men lay on the ground in dramatic poses with red bloodstains on
their uniforms. Who would want to eat dinner off of a plate like this? It would give me gas! A likeness of Bonaparte on horseback, his sword raised in the air—thinner and better looking than he is in the flesh—was prominent in the painting. “
Bien sûr,
sometimes the artist exaggerates a trifle,” he told me, grinning. “I fought that battle from my carriage!” He chuckled.

I unwrapped two more plates. One showed a lovely, dark-haired woman, her skin creamy white like a dove's breast. She wore a beautiful necklace of sapphires, surrounded by tiny sparkling diamonds. Her smile seemed to hold a secret, like the lady Mona Lisa's in the famous painting by da Vinci.

“Who is she?” I asked the emperor.

A wistful look passed over his features, followed by some long-ago memory of pain.

“My Joséphine,” he said quietly, as if fearful of disturbing someone's sleep.

“Is she your wife?”

“Once upon a time.” The emperor sighed. “
Ma belle
—sweet and matchless Joséphine….” He rubbed his eyes.

I did not ask him what had happened to her. I feared it might be too painful for him. I did not think I would ever care about offending the emperor's
feelings, but it was hard to remain unaffected by the pitiful look on his face.

“We'll open this one,” I said, handing him another plate. I hoped the change would cheer him, but I fear I chose unwisely, because when he removed the wrapping, we saw that this was a portrait of another handsome lady, with a charming, blond-haired little boy about my brother Alexander's age.

“My son,” Bonaparte said, struggling to keep control of his emotions. “The King of Rome. And his mother, Marie-Louise.”

“Where are they now?” I asked him.

“Held prisoner, as I. At Schonbrunn Castle in Austria,” the emperor said. He looked long and hard at the plate. He spoke softly, as if to himself. “Will they teach him to hate his father?”

I struggled to think of a comforting thing to say, as I had at family funerals. This time I had somewhat more success. “Perhaps you will see him again,” I said hopefully. “And you will teach him the truth about you, yourself.”

The emperor nodded, but I could see he was not optimistic. Then I added meaningfully, “As Huff has taught me.”

Bonaparte looked up at me slowly. There was
a burning light of gratitude in his eyes—and of victory, too. I suppose he had looked similarly at Austerlitz, and I could see why men would follow him—yes, even march to their deaths—for a chance at his approval.

I began to feel uneasy, wondering if I should have a sense of triumph or defeat. Who had won the day? The emperor or I?

Just then we heard footsteps and voices in the other room. It seemed that the admiral had arrived to discuss provisions for the Pavilion with Bertrand, the emperor's grand marshal. An instant later someone else came running into the room in search of the admiral. Whoever it was was clearly beside himself with excitement. Bonaparte and I eavesdropped on the conversation.

“Admiral! Admiral!” the excited man called out, breathless.

“What is it, Captain?” the admiral replied. “What's wrong?”

“Oh, there you are, sir. I've—I've lost the emperor! He has ridden off and escaped! I have looked all over the island for him, but—but he got away from me!”

“He's playing with you, Poppleton,” the admiral
said calmly. “I'm sure you'll find his horse in the stables. And he'll be eating his supper, happy as a lark. General Napoleon, that is, though likely his horse, too.”

The emperor and I looked at each other and giggled like small children. When we regained our composure—which took some time, I confess—we turned our attention back to the task at hand.

Bonaparte removed the last plate from the box and unwrapped it. “Ah!” he said. “My prize!” He showed it to me. There was no picture on this plate, just some words. “The Code Napoleon,” he said pridefully. “The plate cannot contain it all. Written here is a summary only.”

“A code? Like the one on the Rosetta stone?” I asked.

“No, mademoiselle,” he said. “Not that sort of code. These are laws, guaranteeing rights for all citizens. I gave these laws to France. And I would have given them to the rest of the world, also, if your charming General Wellington's army hadn't stopped me.”

I struggled to translate the words scripted on the plate: “Indi-individual liberty,” I read. “Freedom of—”

“Freedom of work,” the emperor said. “Freedom
of conscience. Freedom of religion. Equality of all men before the law.”

“But—but that sounds like the American Constitution!”

“The Americans stole it from the French,” Bonaparte said, smiling. “From our philosophers—Monsieur Rousseau and others. Though the Americans had their little revolution before ours.”

Freedom. Rebellion. What a lovely idea. I thought I could be happy living in France.

“Did you write these laws?” I inquired.

“Enough of them,” Bonaparte said.

Well, well,
I thought. Perhaps he wasn't such a dictator, after all. Perhaps Bonaparte's loss wasn't exactly the world's gain.

I helped him set up his plates on the fireplace mantel. A cold draft blew through the room. The emperor shivered and asked me if I'd have my father send some firewood. I agreed. Then I went home to supper.

 

It was only a short walk from the Pavilion to the Briars. As I was rounding the corner, someone grabbed me by the arm. I screamed—but was cut short by a hand quickly clapped over my mouth. The
moment my eyes showed I had recognized who had detained me, my “gag” was removed.

“Huff! What's the matter?”

“Shhh! Come with me….” the old man said in a whisper, leading me to a secluded place behind a banyan tree. There was an armed sentry standing nearby, charged with keeping an eye on the emperor. I thought he was an extraordinarily handsome fellow.

“Are you quite all right, Miss Balcombe?” the sentry called out to me.

“Er…yes, sir!” I replied, surprised that this fine-looking soldier knew who I was. He caught me staring at him, and to my astonishment, he winked at me. Then he tipped his hat and continued on his rounds.

I turned toward the old man. “What is it, Huff?”

“I need your help, my dear,” he said.

“Are Willie and Alexander neglecting their studies again? Surely you know I will not be the best influence on them.”

“Shhh!” he said again, drawing me closer. Huff wrung his hands nervously and looked around to see if anyone was observing us.

“Why are you whispering?” I said, a bit annoyed.

“The emperor must continue his good work,” Huff said with conviction. “Perhaps he shall lead a
Muslim rebellion in Arabia! Or finish what Alexander the Great began and conquer Asia Minor. He must be allowed to bring freedom and science to all mankind!”

“Well, that sounds like a worthy cause,” I said lightly, “but that will be difficult, seeing as how he is holed up here.”

“I have a plan for his escape!” Huff replied, as simply as if he were noting the weather.

Escape! God's nightgown! It seemed the old man really had lost his mind.

“And you are going to help me,” Huff added.

“What? I will do no such thing. Really, Huff, I think you have been sniffing at your chemicals too long.” I started to walk away from him.

“Betsy, wait! Betsy! Please,” he said, following. “Just let me speak.”

I stopped. A fair hearing? I owed the old man that, at least. I spun around to face him and crossed my arms. “Well?” I said impatiently.

Huff put his bony arm around my shoulders. “Think, my dear—just think what it will be like, to be known as the girl who freed the great Napoleon Bonaparte! The girl who enabled the achievements of the Revolution to be spread across the globe!”

“Ridiculous!” I said. “Why—why, can't you see? I'd cause a scandal! A bloody outrage! No one could ever imagine the daughter of William Balcombe capable of such a thing! My family—the whole British Empire—will have a—a—blathering fit!”

Huff lifted my chin with his long fingers and looked straight into my eyes. He nodded slowly. Very slowly.

Hmmm,
I thought. So I could stir up a delicious commotion, free the emperor, and save the world in the bargain, eh? Not half bad for a girl who was bored senseless and had failed Miss Bosworth's history lessons at school.

The light dawned.

“I'll do it,” I said.

I
arranged to meet Huff at his laboratory the next morning. He would tell me no more about his plans for Bonaparte's liberation until then. But he did make one request—and an odd one, at that. He asked me to bring as many silk dresses as I could find. To beg, borrow, or steal them, if need be. But that whatever I did, I should under no circumstances reveal the purpose to which they'd be put. Of course, I could not have revealed what I did not know in any case.

The next morning after breakfast I went up to my room, pleading a headache. After determining that I was indeed alone, I opened the clothes chest. The musty odor of mildew assaulted my nostrils. Since prissy Jane changed her dresses so many times each day, it was a miracle that the wooden chest stayed shut long enough to acquire such a singularly unpleasant
odor. I held my breath and looked through the dresses to see what I could find: the pink one; the floral one with the flounces that I hated so much; the horrid green one Cousin Cassandra had handed down to me. None of my dresses were silk—just cotton, because I did not care about the latest fashion. A girl could run like a horse in cotton. Silk just made me sweat like one. But Jane liked finery and would not run to save her life, so I was pleased to discover that most of her frocks were of the type that began life with the labors of prized Chinese silkworms. Surely, I reasoned, she would not miss a few.

“What are you up to, Betsy?”

As usual, Jane had entered the room with the stealth of a cobra. She stared at me with those cold green eyes shifting slightly from side to side, as if she were looking for a good place to affix her fangs. I stood there holding a bunch of dresses in my arms, praying my wits would not fail me.

“Mother wants these altered,” I said, impressed by my own skill at spontaneous invention.

“Why?” Jane said crisply. “What's wrong with them?”

Oh, dear.

“Uh…nothing. It's just that…er…she feels
that you've filled out nicely in the bust and that you ought to show it off more.” When in doubt, flatter. That always worked on Jane.

“Hmmm,” Jane said, pondering.

My, my. A close call.
But I couldn't relax, not just yet.

“Mother wants me to show decollétage? That doesn't sound like Mother,” Jane mused.

“Well,” I said. “I—I was surprised too, at first. But you know how badly she wants you to get married,” I said quickly. “The young officers are fond of low necklines. And there are bound to be some parties around Christmas….”

Jane wrinkled her brow. Thinking was always a strain on her, poor dear.

“I see,” she said.

At last!
I'd convinced her. I barely hid my sigh of relief.

“I'll go down and model them for Mother,” she said, reaching to take the dresses from me.

Horrors! Think fast, Betsy!

“Uh, no, you can't do that!” I said, pulling the dresses out of her reach.

“Why not?” Jane replied. “How can she possibly fit them properly without me in them?”

“It's—it's—”
Come on, old girl, you can do it!
“It's
going to be a surprise.”
Ah!—Betsy's wits come to the rescue again!
“For your birthday. Don't spoil it for Mother. She'll murder me if she finds out I told you.”

“Oh,” Jane said, utterly convinced. “Don't worry, little sister. I'll keep your secret.”

Not bloody likely.

Jane turned to go out the door. I began to relax. Her birthday was so far off, surely I'd think of a way out of this mess by then. God willing. But a second later, Jane leaned in the doorway and faced me again.

“Betsy, are you quite all right? You seem…agitated. Like you did that time before the blacksmith pulled your tooth.”

“I'm fine, Jane,” I said. “I've only been home a few days. I guess I need some time to get…used to it.”

Jane shrugged and went out the door.

Nearly an hour later, when I was sure she'd left the house on an errand—shopping in town, I believe—I stuffed her silk dresses under the one I was wearing and sneaked out of the Briars.

 

I found a preoccupied old Huff poring over a calcified book in his laboratory. A large diagram—construction plans for some sort of scientific contraption—was spread out over the worktable, the lamplight casting
long shadows over it like huge, dark fingers. The drawing indicated distances and measurements, the dimensions for a basketlike contraption, and an immense bulbous object suspended by strings or wires above it. I suspected that the diagram related in some way to Huff's plans for the emperor.

“Making progress?” I asked him.

“Yaaa!” Startled, the old scholar sprang out of his chair like a man half his age. “For mercy's sake, Betsy! You'll stop an old man's heart!”

“Sorry,” I said.

Huff sat back down and pointed to the diagram. “This will carry the emperor to freedom.”

Then he referred back to the tome he was reading. I looked over his shoulder. It was the same book the emperor had knocked from the shelf the previous day—the Montgolfier brothers' book of aeronautical experiments. Huff was reading the chapters about construction of a hot-air balloon.

“You mean, the emperor's going to
fly
off St. Helena?” I asked.

“Precisely,” Huff said. He looked me up and down. “You've put on weight, my dear. Try to dipense with it. We need you as light as possible for our test flights.”

Test flights? You wouldn't get me up in one of those things! As for my supposed tendency toward corpulence, I removed the wad of silk dresses from under my gown and handed them to him.

“Ah!” he said. “Thank you, my dear. I knew I could count on you.”

The old man started ripping Jane's dresses into long strips.

“Huff! Those are Jane's! She'll eat me alive!”

“Never mind, my dear,” Huff said, continuing his work.

It was not difficult for me to figure out how those dresses would be used. The balloon would be constructed out of them! How would Jane feel to know her dresses were instrumental in the escape of Britain's most famous prisoner? I must say I smiled at the thought.

“Here is a needle and thread,” Huff said, handing me a red velvet box. “I need your young eyes and hands.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Sew the pieces back together side by side. Like this,” he said, showing me the balloon diagram.

“I'm afraid sewing is not my strong suit. Mother was going to show me—”

“Never mind,” Huff said again with a wave of his hand. “You will get better at it as you go along.”

I sighed, threaded the needle, and began sewing, after a fashion. What irony! Who would have thought I'd ever regret not having taken more sewing lessons!

“Ouch!” I pricked my finger. I sucked the metallic-tasting drop of blood from my fingertip. “Wtdsthemprhvtsybtalofths?”

“What? Speak plainly, my girl! Don't talk with your fingers in your mouth.”

“I said, what does the emperor have to say about all of this?”

“About escaping in my balloon?” Huff asked. I nodded. “I don't know.”

“What! You mean, you haven't told him?”

“There is no need for him to know,” the old man explained, “until the very last moment. And it would be inadvisable to tell him before then.”

I gave him a puzzled look. He elaborated.

“First of all, there are spies everywhere. And it will be difficult to get the emperor alone to tell him.”

Huff was right about that. I thought of Poppleton and the others who guard the emperor. And what about the meddlesome Gourgaud? I could not imagine that any secret would be safe with him—and surely
he'd get wind of this one if the emperor knew of it.

“In any case,” Huff added, “I do not want to give the emperor too much time to think about our plans. As you saw yesterday from his reaction when we spoke of the Montgolfiers, he is not enamored of aeronautics. But he is a man of action and of courage! If we simply present him with the finished product, he will recognize our balloon represents his only hope of freedom—and climb aboard.”

“Well, perhaps you are right,” I said. “Though I really wish you'd let me tell him.”

“No! It must remain a secret!” Huff said, the tassel of his fez vibrating with his excitement. “And there is no time to waste! We must finish the balloon before he is moved to Longwood. When will that be? Have you heard?”

I strained to remember what I'd overheard the admiral say to my parents. “Perhaps a month or two, I think.”

“Good!” said Huff, drumming his fingers on the table. “That will give us just enough time.” He stood up slowly and paced the dirt floor of the cave. “At Longwood he will be watched more closely. It would be nearly impossible to effect his escape from there. And around the time he's transferred to
Longwood—no one knows just when—the new governor will arrive. The emperor's new jailer. I hear Sir Hudson Lowe is not so…flexible a man as our Admiral Cockburn.”

I wondered what kind of jailer Governor Lowe would be and what sort of life he had in store for the emperor. Huff interrupted my thoughts.

“We shall need more dresses, Betsy. These are not nearly enough. Can you get more?”

I shook my head.

“Not from Jane, anyway. I fooled her once. She won't fall for the same trick again.”

“This presents us with difficulties.” Huff sighed.

He rubbed his forehead, thinking. Then he seemed to get an idea. He reached in his long, white robes and produced a few guineas—or what we called “guineas,” since English coins were so scarce on St. Helena that we all used Spanish reals, Dutch “lion dollars,” Venetian ducats, or silver rupees as a substitute.

“Here,” he said, handing me the money. “Go into Jamestown. A supply ship came in shortly before you returned to St. Helena. Perhaps it brought bolts of silk for the ladies. There are shops that sell such things, are there not?”

“I suppose so,” I said.

“Buy as much as you can.”

I put down my sewing and prepared to go.

“And make sure you are not observed,” the old man warned.