“And your escape cost Europe sixty thousand of its young men,” the admiral said bitterly, his whiskers bristling. “What right had you to trouble the world again with your ambitions?”
Bonaparte stood up and stalked around the room like a lion in a cage. “It was the will of the French people that I return! What right had Britain to choose for them their leaders? Louis XVIII was inflicted upon France by her enemies. Let the Bourbon kings rule England if they like! The French drink wine. They have no taste for Bourbon!”
The emperor paced rapidly up and down, as if he might wear a ravine into the floorboards. He tugged nervously at his sleeves as he walked. He turned to the admiral. “A few hundred men returned with me from Elba—a few hundred, no more. Had the people not welcomed my return, they would have crushed us like insects when we marched into the cities. Like insects! But, instead, from Paris to Provence, they laid down their arms—laid down the arms that their petty leaders had bade them use against me!”
The emperor crossed his arms and sat down. Then he seemed to reach way back into the depths of his memory and dust off some distant recollection. His eyes glazed over, and he was lost in a reverie.
“We marched into Paris,” Bonaparte said softly. “Some of my men feared a hostile reception. I know the French. I did not fear. The people thronged about me, cheering, throwing garlands at my feet. Women, young and old, wept for joy. At long last their emperor had returned to salvage France’s glory! I reveled in my victory. Until…until I saw the battalion of soldiers marching toward me. They were once my men, but now these grizzled veterans belonged to France’s puppet-king and they had been sent by him to destroy me!
“We were greatly outnumbered, but my men wished to engage them, taking the offense before we were attacked. But I said, ‘No. Wait. These men are Frenchmen still.’ Alone and unarmed, I approached them. One old veteran aimed his musket straight at my heart. I ordered my men to hold their fire. I walked toward the veteran till the tip of his bayonet grazed my uniform. ‘What! You old rascal,’ I said to him. ‘Would you fire on your emperor?’
“The man lowered his musket and handed it to me with great solemnity. He said, ‘Regarde, Majesté. C’est vide!’
“I looked down the muzzle. It was empty, just as he’d said. The old man wept and fell to his knees before me and pleaded for my forgiveness. I helped the poor fellow to his feet. ‘Rise, sir,’ I told him. ‘I see by your battle scars that you have fought many times for France. You need never kneel in shame on her soil.’”
The emperor was no longer remembering the past now. He was in it.
“Then I turned to the rest of the battalion and proclaimed, ‘Soldiers! In my exile I heard your voice. I have come back in spite of all the obstacles and all the dangers. Your general, called to the throne by the choice of the people and raised on your shields, is restored to you. Come and join him! Come and range yourselves under the flag of your leader. He has no existence except in your existence; he has no rights except your rights and those of the people. His interests, his honor, his glory are none other than your interests, your honor, your glory. Victory will march at a quickstep. The eagle and tricolor shall fly from steeple to steeple to the towers of Notre Dame! Then you can show your scars without dishonor; then you can pride yourselves on what you have accomplished. You will be the liberators of the fatherland! In your old age, surrounded and admired by your fellow citizens, you will be able to say with pride, “I too was part of the grand army that entered twice within the walls of Vienna, within those of Rome, of Berlin, of Madrid, of Moscow and which cleansed Paris of the pollution that treason and the presence of the enemy had left in it!”’
“I stepped back and waited to see what the soldiers would do. I did not have to wait long. ‘Long live the emperor!’ they cried by the thousand. Then a great cheer went up among them, and they waved their muskets in the air. They would have raised me up upon their shoulders in joy and triumph had their respect for my position not prohibited it. Mounting my horse, I took my place at the head of my new army and led them on to the center of Paris. They sang ‘La Marseillaise’ as they marched. ‘La Marseillaise’! That song had once been the greatest general of the Revolution. Now it was the anthem of my triumphant return to France!”
The emperor half sung, half spoke in a rough but passionate voice the stirring words that had inspired millions of Frenchmen to take up arms and fight for their freedom: “Allons, enfants de la patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé!…Aux armes, citoyens! Formez vos bataillons! Marchons! Marchons! Qu’un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!”
Exhausted, the emperor leaned back in the chair. Admiral Cockburn was clearly impressed by Bonaparte’s performance—almost awed by it, really.
“Is there anything further you wish to say to me, Admiral?” Bonaparte said suddenly.
Cockburn was caught off-guard by the question. He stared blankly at Bonaparte at first, then quickly recovered his dignity. “No. Not at present.”
“Bon,” the emperor said. He called out: “Gourgaud! Show the admiral to the door.”
Gourgaud entered the room so quickly, I was convinced he’d been listening at the keyhole. He led the admiral away.
Admiral Cockburn may have been impressed by the emperor’s lengthy dramatic soliloquy, but I was not. All that talk of war, victory, and glory! What a waste of words! I’d heard enough of such things from my father when he reminisced again and again about his glory days in His Majesty’s Navy. My brothers always listened, enraptured, when my father told his fiery tales of battle at sea. Naturally enough, as he related them, my father was the hero of every engagement, single-handedly saving the day for king and country. I always found a way to absent myself whenever I sensed my father was about to launch into another of his battle tales. War stories were for old men and little boys. And war was for fools. If Napoleon Bonaparte was the world’s greatest general, that only made him the world’s biggest fool. What had he ever done in his life but shout orders and lead charges? It was clear to me that the man had far less concern for the greater glory of France than for the greater glory of Bonaparte.
The wars that had gone on during my lifetime always seemed so far away—not quite real. I had never felt any personal connection with them. But while I was at Hawthorne, I recall having sometimes been kept awake at night by a terrible wailing—from the girls, such as my good friend Madeline, who’d learned their brothers had been killed at the front. It was a chilling memory.
The emperor looked at me and raised an eyebrow quizzically. He must have sensed I was unmoved by his tales of glory, because he said, “You appear to be suffering from boredom. Sans doute, mademoiselle knows too little of war.”
“No, sir,” I replied. “Too much.”
I immediately regretted my comment, but it was too late to take it back. The emperor’s face and left thigh muscles twitched. By now I was quick to recognize the signs of anger in him. I braced for the explosion.
But then, to my surprise, the emperor appeared to swallow his anger. His rage was so enormous that, in fact, it was really more like watching a cobra swallow an elephant. He took a deep breath, and finally, his anger was under control.
“You may leave now, mademoiselle,” he said.
I was halfway out the door when he called me. “One moment, mademoiselle,” he said quietly.
I suspected that he’d changed his mind and decided to reprimand me after all. But I faced him unflinchingly. “Yes, sir?”
A dark cloud of memory and regret seemed to cast a shadow over his features. I would have given a great deal to know what he was thinking just then. The cloud lifted slightly.
“Touché, Betsy,” he said.
Chapter 5
It was early afternoon the next day when I began to hear unpleasant rumors that my mother wanted me for a sewing lesson. I knew how to stitch a hem, of course. And I suppose in a pinch I could mend a loose button. That, in my opinion, was quite sufficient. But my mother had other notions—not the l
east of which was the abiding conviction that all “proper young ladies” should be proficient at lace embroidery. Silly stitched flowers and such. Not at all aspiring to proper young lady-hood, I knew it was my moment to disappear, before Mother and her sewing accouterments could catch up with me.
Fortunately, the stable was deserted. I determined Belle’s leg had healed nicely and I could chance riding her. The heady odor of new hay filled my nostrils, bracing me like a tonic.
We burst out of the stable at a canter. The trees went by in a chartreuse blur. A cool wind cut sharply against my teeth, sending thrills up and down my spine. It had been a long time—too long—since I’d ridden Belle, but she answered my every move like we’d never been apart. Like we were one headstrong, wild creature, she and I together.
I glanced behind me. No one in sight. I slowed Belle for an instant to pull my dress up out of the way so I could switch from sidesaddle to astride, as I always did as soon as I was out of public view. Whatever fool determined that ladies should ride sidesaddle? The same one who blessed us with embroidery, no doubt!
“Mademoiselle!” a voice suddenly called out to me; I knew it well. Blast—caught! I pulled Belle up short, but I did not turn around. “Or maybe I should call you, ‘monsieur,’” Bonaparte added slyly. He and the British guard sent to chaperone him on his outing galloped up to me from out of nowhere. I was suddenly very aware that my calves were showing. The emperor glanced at me sardonically, taking in the sight. Abruptly, I switched my position back to sidesaddle.
“Good afternoon, sir,” I said. My cheeks felt warm.
“Don’t worry,” Bonaparte said. “I will not tell on you. If I tell on you, you shall tell on me.”
“Tell on you? About what, pray?” I said. “What have you done?”
“Nothing. Yet,” Bonaparte replied, smiling. “But I always think of the future. That is how I got to be emperor, you know.”
I patted Belle idly on the neck and contemplated how I might best irritate him.
“I thought you got your empire by making wars against innocent people,” I answered. “You said as much yourself.”
His British guard looked quite ill at ease, as if his boots were pinching his toes—or he was afraid that Bonaparte might cuff me. But the emperor just laughed.
“Not making wars, mademoiselle,” he replied. “Winning them!”
I decided not to remind him that the emperor’s winning streak had recently come to an abrupt end.
“Shall you join me on my little excursion?” Bonaparte said, nodding toward his horse. “You mother shan’t object, I think. Even the wealthiest young lady in Paris can’t claim an English officer as her personal chaperone.”
“Well…er…” I hesitated, struggling to determine just what precisely a proper young lady would do in circumstances such as this, for I was bent on doing the opposite.
“Come, now, Mademoiselle Betsy,” Bonaparte scolded and cajoled me. “Captain Poppleton won’t mind, will you, Captain?” The guard nodded his head vigorously and sputtered something about “regulations,” but the emperor interrupted.
“You see?” said Bonaparte. “Captain Poppleton has no objection. There’s a fine officer, without a doubt. Now, what do you say, mademoiselle?”
“I say…”
“Yes?”
“I say it’s not for me to say.”
Bonaparte clicked his tongue and made a tsk-tsk sound like a strange bird. “Oh, mademoiselle,” he said with exaggerated disappointment. “Très triste. I had you pegged as a girl with—how do you British say?—skunk.”
“Spunk!” I corrected him. “It’s not ‘skunk.’ Skunk is an animal that makes a bad smell.”
“Ah, oui!” Bonaparte said. “Of course. My English is not so very good. Je le regrette. Please forgive me, mademoiselle.”
Finally!—an admission about his atrocious English. But did he really believe it? I couldn’t tell. It was impossible to know when this man was serious! Perhaps, I thought, that was the real secret of his success.
“So,” Bonaparte said, tipping his broad-brimmed hat at me, “it is spunk that you haven’t got. Merci. Au revoir, mademoiselle,” and he turned his horse to go.
Poppleton shook his head and followed.
The emperor and Poppleton rode away from me at a leisurely pace. I sat there for a moment on Belle, feeling rather stupid and doughy, like unbaked dinner rolls. Feeling as though, for once, the emperor had gotten the better of me. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Wait! Attendez, monsieur!” I called out.
Bonaparte turned around slowly in his saddle, as if to pretend he hadn’t expected me to change my mind. “You wish something, mademoiselle?”
I gave Belle a gentle tug on the reins to bring us alongside the black charger. “I have decided to go with you,” I announced. “Since I am going your way anyway.”
“I see. And exactly where were you headed…‘anyway’?” Bonaparte asked, stifling a smile.
I ignored his question. I would not let him gloat.
As we rode, Bonaparte and I feigned amiability, chatting about nothing in particular—the prospects for rain, the state of everyone’s health. The sorts of things adults discuss when they don’t want anyone to know what they’re really thinking.
We started at a walk, proceeded to a trot, then progressed to a canter. I began to get the idea that his small talk was only intended to distract me. What the emperor really wanted was a horse race.
In the midst of a debate about his theory that my father’s yams caused indigestion, Bonaparte suddenly nudged his horse in the sides with his silver spurs. And he was off!—galloping away at a furious pace. I could hear his merry laughter on the breeze, and I was determined that he should not win. I followed.
Belle kept apace with the charger, though I worried if her game leg would hold. Poor Captain Poppleton, astride a tired old nag and bouncing along with his musket and rusty canteen, was falling far behind us. Soon he was a dot in the distance—tearing his hair in frustration, no doubt.
Before long I passed the emperor, who muttered French oaths under his breath. Then I drew up on the reins and waited for him by the mouth of a cave. I hadn’t intended to come to this spot, but it was a path Belle and I had followed so many times that instinct must have guided me here.
“You are quite a horsewoman, Betsy,” Bonaparte said as he came upon me, breathless. He found me yawning, standing calmly beside Belle, as if I’d been waiting for him for an eternity. “I could have used more like you at Acre.”
Acre? I had never heard of the place, but I assumed it was some sort of battle of his that hadn’t gone so well for him.
“Merci.” I acknowledged his compliment without making a fuss over it.
“I would like to race Hope someday. At the English races. That has always been my dream. But I don’t think your king would approve.”
I smiled at his attempt at wit, then nodded toward his charger. “Hope. That’s his name?”
“Ah, oui.”
“He doesn’t have the shape for it,” I said, scrutinizing the horse with my practiced eye. “That’s no racer. He’s a warhorse. All those big, heavy bones—”
“Nonsense!” the emperor replied. “Surely you know I let you win.”
Of course I knew this to be untrue, but I let it pass.
Bonaparte dismounted and stretched with a grimace. I suppose it had been a while since he last rode in battle, and he was out of practice. He glanced in the general direction of the Briars.
“It appears Captain Poppleton is absent without leave,” Bonaparte said, not without amusement. “Ah,” he said with a sigh, “how much simpler it all would be if I had Roberaud with me now.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“Un ami?” Bonaparte mused. “Not really. We are too much the same. He is my double.”
“Double?”
The emperor nodded, as if that should make everything crystal clear. But I kept staring at him, so he
sighed impatiently and explained: “Let’s say the Emperor Napoleon is about to go someplace where he would be in more than the usual danger. Oh, not the battlefield. Nothing so tame as that. Say, London Bridge, par exemple. Or a visit to his wife’s mother! The emperor stays home and eats licorice and sends Roberaud in his place.” Bonaparte shrugged. “No one is the wiser.”
“Then, he resembles you?”
“He could be my twin,” the emperor replied, tethering our horses to a tree. “Now, let us examine the events of today,” he continued. “If Roberaud were here, I could have left him back at the Pavilion with Poppleton and the others. And then I could have sneaked out like a tomcat to go for my ride on Hope. As far as I like, without a chaperone. No one would know I was gone. C’est bon?”
“Where is Monsieur Roberaud now?” I asked.
Bonaparte squinted, as if trying to remember something. “I heard he escaped when I was captured at Waterloo. If I know Roberaud, he’s sitting under the apple trees in the countryside of la belle France. Normandy, perhaps. Waiting for his orders. Wooing the ladies. He takes after me that way, you know.”
The emperor fell silent. He seemed a trifle sad—as if he longed to sit under the apple trees again himself but knew he never would.
“Would you like to see my cave?” I offered. I don’t know what made me suggest it. I had never brought anyone here before.
“Hmmm?” I seemed to have startled him from a reverie.
“Follow me,” I said, and led the way. He raised no objection.
Though it was still daylight, the cave was dark, even near the entrance. That was one of the reasons I had chosen it as my occasional refuge to begin with. No one would suspect it held anything of interest.
I crouched and edged my way through the passageway. The ceiling was low and hard, lethal limestone spikes jutted from it, formed by the minerals dripping from the ceiling over the centuries.
“Watch out for your head,” I warned the emperor as he followed me.
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