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.
“Your Majesty, I hold that my defeat is your defeat. My humiliation is your humiliation. And, in the end, if I am not recalled from this foul prison, my fate also will be yours.”
The emperor fell silent. After a moment he said, “The usual closing, Las Cases.”
Las Cases scribbled a few more lines and sprinkled blotting sand on the paper. He placed the letter, a silver ink bottle, and a quill on a silver tray, which was carried to the emperor by the boy. Ceremoniously, the boy dipped the quill into the ink, then handed it to the emperor to sign the document. Apparently, the boy was kept on solely to perform that one, trifling task. I thought it a ridiculous extravagance.
After he’d signed the letter, Bonaparte looked around, and his eyes fell upon me. He frowned. “Well?” he demanded impatiently, as if I’d been keeping him waiting.
“I have a message from my mother for you, sir.”
“Well?”
“She wishes to know if you would join us for supper today.”
He burst out laughing. Rather rude of him, I thought, but I ignored it.
“Shall we expect you, then?”
Bonaparte laughed even louder. Confused, I looked questioningly at Marchand.
“The emperor does not dine with others, mademoiselle,” Marchand kindly explained. “They dine with him. And then, only at His Majesty’s invitation.”
Marchand looked at the emperor expectantly. He seemed to be hoping that his master would invite my mother to supper.
“My robe, Marchand,” was all the emperor said. I can’t say I was surprised that no invitation was forthcoming.
Bonaparte began to stand up in his bath, heedless of the fact that a female was present. Marchand rushed forward with an Oriental bamboo screen to conceal him as he stepped from the tub.
The afternoon sunlight flooded through a tall window behind the emperor. I could see his dark, rotund outline through the screen as Marchand helped him on with his robe. The effect reminded me of those black paper silhouettes cut by the sidewalk artists of London.
The emperor’s silhouette shuddered. “Shut that window, Marchand! There’s a draft.”
Marchand obliged him.
Resplendent in his crimson velvet robe, the emperor stepped out from behind the screen. He shivered. “This drafty tomb will make me nostalgic for the Russian winter,” he said acidly, directing his remarks at me.
“I hope you will be comfortable, sir.” I said. “Most visitors like the Pavilion. Of course, they are usually soldiers and sailors.”
“And what am I, pray?”
“An emperor,” I said. I did not intend to pay him any compliment by this, I was merely stating a fact. But he nonetheless seemed pleased by my remark.
“In the past,” I added, “our visitors have been on active service.”
His smile instantly evaporated. “I, too, have been on active service,” he said.
There was a knock on the front door, and a moment later Gourgaud entered the room.
“What is it, Gourgaud?” the emperor said.
“Forgive the interruption, Sire. Admiral Cockburn is here. He says he wishes to see General Bonaparte about a matter of some importance.”
The emperor scowled and turned toward the wall. “Tell the admiral that as far as I know, ‘General’ Bonaparte was last seen fighting the Mamelukes in Egypt! If he wishes to see the emperor, that is another matter entirely.”
Gourgaud smirked approvingly at the emperor’s insistence upon protocol. He bowed and exited, returning a few moments later looking a bit dejected. “He says it is important, Sire.”
We all waited to see what the emperor would do next.
“Very well, Gourgaud,” he said at last. “Show him in.”
Admiral Cockburn entered with the brisk military gait I’d seen so often among my father’s naval friends. My father no longer walked that way since he’d developed the gout.
Cockburn stood in front of the emperor, who was now sitting in a chair at the end of the room. By his lofty manner, Bonaparte managed to turn that chair into a throne, and the admiral had to muster all his dignity so as not to seem like a peon. Cockburn took off his hat and nodded respectfully at Bonaparte.
“General,” Cockburn acknowledged.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” replied Bonaparte.
The admiral looked puzzled. He stroked his silver whiskers. “You mistake my rank, sir,” he said.
“And you, mine,” the emperor said brusquely.
The admiral smiled slightly and said nothing. I guessed that this wasn’t the first time they’d locked horns over the admiral’s refusal to call him “Your Majesty.” This round appeared to be a victory for the emperor.
After a moment Bonaparte nodded at Marchand, who offered the admiral a chair. Cockburn sat down.
“You will be subject to certain rules and regulations while you are under my supervision,” the admiral began. “I see no reason to delay in informing you of them.” Cockburn then glanced at me uncomfortably. “Miss Balcombe, I believe your father said he was looking for you.”
“I just spoke to him, sir,” I said, refusing to take the hint.
One thing I could count on: Whenever adults tried to evict me from a room, the conversation was about to become interesting. I stood there with the innocent look on my face I’d perfected during my years as a desperado at Hawthorne.
“Miss Balcombe…,” the admiral admonished. Reluctantly, I turned to go.
“Mademoiselle may stay,” the emperor intervened, much to my surprise. “I may need a witness, one day.”
“A witness?” Cockburn asked. “To what?”
“My imprisonment is a crime,” he replied. “One is always better off having witnesses when a crime is committed. N’est-ce pas?”
The admiral did not respond, but he accepted my presence without further dispute. No one invited me to sit down, so I leaned against the fireplace and prepared to listen.
“You and your suite will stay at the Pavilion until construction is completed at Longwood,” the admiral said to Bonaparte. I knew Longwood House. It was a dilapidated structure a few miles from the Briars. It had once been owned by the East India Company, but no one had lived in it for years.
“Longwood should be ready for you sometime after the arrival of the new governor,” the admiral continued. “He will take over my responsibilities of overseeing your captivity.”
Bonaparte listened without comment.
I wished I could have asked the admiral about the new governor. I wanted to know whether he had any daughters my age. It would be nice to have someone to talk to besides Toby and Huff, the eccentric old tutor of my little brothers.
“You may divide up responsibilities in your household as you see fit,” the admiral said to the emperor. “You will be permitted to go on outings—supervised, of course—and you may have visitors. But you are to remember that you are a prisoner here, and as such, you will be guarded continuously.” The admiral looked very much like the important British officer he was when he made these caveats. “Look out the window,” the admiral added.
Bonaparte frowned and did not comply. “I am well aware, Admiral,” he said testily. “I’ve already taken the trouble to count your charming sentries. Cent vingt-cinq—one hundred twenty-five, with bright, shiny bayonets.”
I looked outside the window and saw a long row of red-coated sentries. I hadn’t seen them when I’d entered the Pavilion. They must have been positioned at the edge of the woods and moved in closer within the past several minutes.
“You need never inquire as
to how far you may safely venture forth on St. Helena,” the admiral said to him. “Note the position of the sentries, and you will know your limits. During the daylight hours you may go for a ride, but my orderlies will accompany you.”
“Naturellement,” the emperor grumbled.
“At nine o’clock each evening the cordon of sentries will form a ring around the Pavilion. You may walk in the garden if you wish. But at the stroke of eleven you will not be permitted to so much as step off the veranda. I might add that all roads are patrolled, night and day. Over twenty-two hundred soldiers in all. And lest you think of escaping by sea, be assured that two well-armed brigs stand watch over the coast.”
The emperor yawned. “Escape? Really, Admiral, you flatter me. I am a fair swimmer, but surely you know that the nearest land is over nineteen hundred kilomètres away. I’m not sure they would welcome me in Africa, in any case, since I once put down a Negro revolution in Haiti!”
The admiral was not amused. “Elba was an island too, sir.”
I had a dim recollection that the emperor had once before been sentenced to exile—on the island of Elba in the Mediterranean. Somehow, he’d escaped. He certainly would have been much better off staying there, since it was no doubt a nicer place than St. Helena. I supposed that exiling him to St. Helena was a last-ditch attempt to stow him in a place so remote, he’d have little chance of ever escaping again.
“I made myself a little kingdom when I was captive there,” Bonaparte said. Then, with mock petulance: “It was too small. I outgrew it.”
Betsy and the Emperor (9781439115879) Page 4
