Amélie swallowed, trying to stir up saliva. “To teach them things other than the usual lessons considered appropriate for girls...the math and such.”
“That is so, but a woman shouldn’t be filled with too much wisdom, making her wiser than the men around her. It isn’t becoming.” Napoleon said this as a statement of fact. His narrow view of women upset though didn’t surprise her. “Did you ever think to study singing?”
“Oh, no, Sire. It isn’t a profession that’s…considered…it isn’t well respected.” Her cheeks burned. Just because she came from a lower station, he shouldn’t think her lacking in morals.
“En vérité, but I see I’ve embarrassed you. No, I didn’t mean for the stage. Singing for small gatherings as entertainment is proper. Now you’re on this rock at the end of the ocean where no one will hear you.” He seemed to sag and include himself in that remark. “Why did you come to Saint Helena?”
“To be with my father, Your Majesty.” Her response sounded inadequate as she looked at the man before her. To find my grand adventure, she didn’t say.
“Indeed, you are an obedient daughter. How old are you, Amélie?”
She didn’t think herself an obedient daughter, but as a woman, her expected definition was as property of another man. Why couldn’t she belong to herself? “I will turn twenty in three days, Sire.”
“Twenty? You look younger. What else do you do to busy yourself here?”
“I grow the herbs and spices in the courtyard.” She resisted a glance down at her attire to see if she did appear too childish. Her drabness again shamed her. “I also read, and—”
“Ah, yes, the little herb gardener.” He nodded, his gaze now elsewhere, as if he assessed a distant battlefield. “A noble undertaking, trying to force life onto this desolate plain.”
She strived to keep his attention and absorb his experiences. “I’ve always wanted to ask you, Sire, what was it like in Egypt?”
A shadow fell across them and Napoleon turned toward the door. The Countess de Montholon hovered in the doorway. Marchand, still the quiet sentinel, bowed his head and stepped aside.
“Albine, come in,” Napoleon said with a sweep of his hand, though he remained seated.
Amélie’s heart sank and she shifted on the sofa, disappointed to share this interview.
“You wanted to see me, Your Majesty?” The countess smiled and curtsied, not bothering to acknowledge Amélie. Her dark blue eyes sparkled for the emperor.
The woman minced farther into the room and hovered near him, bending forward. The countess’s dress revealed too much cleavage for afternoon attire. His alleged mistress smeared her rouge too heavily over her cheeks and lips. A woman nearing forty, she must be desperate to disguise her aging.
”Yes. Mademoiselle Perrault is an aspiring opera singer. You can accompany her on the piano.” Napoleon rose to his feet. “Let’s go into the reception hall.”
“I would be happy to play for you, Sire.” The countess slinked beside him and relegated Amélie to trail behind. When the woman placed a neat white hand on the emperor’s shoulder, Amélie’s stomach clenched.
* * * *
Napoleon strode the length of the room. The girl, bright and not overly forward, sang two arias from Le Nozze di Figaro: “Porgi amor” and “Dove sono.”
He stopped and confronted Amélie in her plain little dress.
“Having a great voice is one thing, but you must learn to conduct yourself with distinction like the women of the Paris Opéra. You have to project your voice from deep inside to give it strength. You must improve your gestures, make them flow. I myself showed the great Talma how he should play Nero in Racine’s Britannicus.” He waved around his hand to demonstrate. “Albine can assist you in clarifying your note reading.”
Albine faced him and fluttered her eyelashes, but he ignored her impertinence—the woman could be tiring at times. The countess grimaced at Amélie. He’d reprimand her for that later.
“Your Majesty, I did sing only for fun,” Amélie said, sounding unsure of herself, “but…of course, if you insist.”
“I do. I won’t allow you to disregard your talents. Now I appreciated the finest drama in opera. I rarely suffered these sentimental librettos.” Napoleon continued his stride around the room, his mind on something pleasant for the first time in weeks. The great commander in him came alive, again formulating plans. His innards relaxing, blood flowing. He smiled at this invigorated feeling. “The renowned Ferdinando Paer was my Imperial composer. As was Etienne Mehul, who wrote La prise du Pont de Lodi, celebrating my victory over the Austrians in 1796. The magnificent Girolamo Crescentini, who dazzled in Zingarelli’s Giulietta e Romeo, sang exclusively for me in Paris.”
“Don’t forget Guiseppina Grassini, Sire.” The countess gave him a probing smile as she rose from the piano bench and swirled around her skirt. She then fluffed out her curls. Napoleon admired her ample figure, but in public she should behave less like a courtesan. He’d dismissed Montholon years before for disobeying his orders over marrying her. You never married your mistresses.
“Grassini, yes, a ravishing woman. She displayed her brilliant voice at many of my soirees.” Napoleon warmed at this memory. Madame Grassini had been his mistress when he was First Consul, before he grew bored with her. Abruptly, his memory soured. Rumor had it this disloyal diva was now the mistress of the Duke of Wellington. He sighed. Salon and theater women, you couldn’t trust them. “Amélie, come back to my study. I have something for you.”
In the study, he pulled a large book from his bookcase of pine-board shelves painted green—a sad comparison to his immense library at the Tuileries. He doubted King Louis had the intelligence to appreciate it. “Since you have studied history, read this on Alexander the Great, then tell me what you think.” He winked at her—a fresh face, eager to please, a new interest in his stagnant existence. “I doubt it will matter if you’re wiser than most of the men around here.”
“Merci, Your Majesty.” Amélie clutched the book, her smile wide and sincere. Her thick blond hair waved about her face. “To discuss literature with you is my fondest wish.”
Napoleon thought of the evening ahead with the same dreary people. “Tonight, you should come to listen to my little court in our simplified version of going to the theater.”
The girl almost stood on tiptoes. “I would be so honored, Sire.”
“Fine. Speak with Ali, he will set it up.” Her enthusiasm pleased him. The malleability of girl performers. Napoleon thought of the actress Mademoiselle George, his once mistress. How many times had he watched her in his favorite play, Cinna? Now he’d grown too jaded for such misalliances with young girls. Again, he studied Amélie. Her attentive brown eyes drew him off the island and back into Paris for a moment.
* * * *
Amélie returned to her quarters and slumped on her bed in a daze. He didn’t mind making her wiser than the men? Napoleon always promoted men on merit alone. Women, at least she, should have the same opportunity. She caressed the leather cover of Alexander the Great. Personally entrusted with one of the emperor’s books and a promise of discussion, that relationship she coveted all along, and now he invited her to attend a reading with the court. His valets often spoke of how his court spent evenings reading drama.
After a dinner she barely ate, Amélie climbed up narrow steps and entered the attic. The air smelled like sweaty bodies and soiled clothes, even with the few tiny windows open. Dirty skylights dripped from the recent rain. The ceiling’s black exposed beams were cloaked with spider webs as if wrapped in gauze. Wooden partitions divided the area into cramped cells for the servants.
“Ali, are you here?” she called into the shadows that crept up the walls. Loud giggling erupted from the far corner of the room.
Saint-Denis stepped from her right, ducking under a beam. “I al
ways smack my head up here. Perhaps we should go down now.”
“How can you breathe? I’ll give you some wild thyme to sweep across the floor.” Amélie heard more muffled laughter. Floorboards creaked across the room and some area of skin sounded playfully slapped. Curious and embarrassed at the same time, she asked, “Is that one of those prostitutes the servants gossip about?”
“Shhh, don’t give our unholy chamber away.” Ali’s bright grin reflected in the light of his candle, and he steered her back toward the stairs. “Count de Montholon complained so much about them, he ordered twice as many sentries at night. He’s scandalized by the activity he hears through his ceiling.”
“Shouldn’t he worry about his own wife’s conduct before anyone else’s?” A bed frame squeaked and Amélie flushed. These women provided something wives or mistresses did with men behind closed doors, but now she speculated on the finer details of this “activity.”
“His Majesty raged over the increased sentries, since he hates being guarded,” Saint-Denis replied as they clattered down the stairs. “He told Montholon this place wasn’t a convent. The sailors do call Saint Helena the ‘brothel of the Atlantic.’”
“It is strange to ask for more guards from your enemies.”
“Montholon wants to be in control of the emperor, and does it through wheedling and false words. At least that’s how I see it. He makes policy changes and insists it’s in His Majesty’s best interests.” Ali stared her up and down with that glint of mischief. “Our little Amélie has been invited to the theater?”
“Why not? I managed to slip in here before the night patrol marches around the house.” She squinted in the dim dining room. “How do these town women get past the sentries?”
“They have their own sleazy bribes. We suffer enough without being deprived of entertainment.” Ali’s airy tone drained away. “Everything gets harsher, and many already talk about leaving. The British want the emperor abandoned.”
A chill crept along her spine, and Ali’s candor surprised her. “I’m afraid that’s true. I’ve heard it as well, but you won’t abandon him, will you?”
“Me? I’m as loyal as they come. Better for him than his officers, if I may be so brash.” He took his taper and lit a few candles on the sideboard. The smell of tallow filled the room.
She laughed. “You’re most often brash.”
“How can you misjudge me, lovely demoselle?” Saint-Denis wrestled his expression from a smirk to playful innocence.
Amélie shrugged off the flattery. She’d gained more weight, but no one ever referred to her as lovely, and she considered Ali a big brother. “I doubt your sincerity, Monsieur Saint-Denis. Am I only of value if I might be pleasing to the eye?”
“What do you mean—have I insulted you?”
She wasn’t sure if he had or not. “Women are worth more than just their attraction for men. Girls need to be educated and useful too. My father agreed with that. Does the emperor ever...pay attention to those prostitutes?” She tried to sound nonchalant.
“No, no. He said when we arrived on the island that he was already an old man. Women had nothing to fear from him.”
“He’s not so old. Especially when he’s excited about something.” Napoleon’s warm smile, those vivid eyes, warmed her. “Life here is aging. Are there no females here who appeal to him?” Amélie wanted Saint-Denis to denounce the rumor about their sovereign and the Countess de Montholon as a lie.
“I thought your interests were academic.” Saint-Denis winked and set down the candle.
“They are.” Why did her emperor’s alleged dallying with the countess bother her?
“You like empire history. Have I ever told you why the emperor calls me Ali?” The valet thrust his hands in his waistcoat pockets, his long arms flapping.
“Something to do with a military honor?” Amélie threw this off. Voices came from the drawing room. “Oh, they must be gathering now.”
“When His Majesty was in Egypt…” Saint-Denis cleared his throat. “He hired foreign young men, Mamelukes, an ancient military caste to work as his bodyguards. They proved troublesome, so the emperor called me Ali and I acted as the new Mameluke.”
“What does a Mameluke do, exactly?” Amélie edged toward the drawing room door.
Saint-Denis placed a hand on his heart and raised his dimpled chin. “Decked out in ceremonial garb from the Orient, on the emperor’s every campaign I was by his side, bearing the imperial spyglass, dressing-case, and a silver flask of brandy. Since Mameluking isn’t needed here, I keep busy rewriting His Majesty’s dictation and being his librarian.”
“Ecoute, I think it’s time to join them.” She tugged on his sleeve, her anticipation sharp.
Ali stepped ahead of her and poked his face around the door. Then he picked up a stool. “You can sit behind the screen and I’ll stand in attendance. Good, the Bertrands have consented to come.”
“Behind the screen?” Amélie almost protested at being hidden like a stain, but thought better of it. She should be flattered to have been invited at all.
With the stool placed behind a Chinese silk screen, Amélie sat and peeked around near Ali’s thigh, able to see most of the room. Las Cases, along with Counts Bertrand and Montholon and their wives, waited at attention as Napoleon entered. Countess Bertrand looked elegant in a white conical gown with long, repeated puff sleeves. She stood half a head taller than their emperor, who reached just average height. Her perfume wafted around as she swept into a curtsy and Napoleon wrinkled his nose when he passed. He sat and nodded. The others arranged themselves in chairs. Marchand stood silently behind Napoleon’s larger arm chair.
Amélie grinned, elbows on her knees and her chin cupped in her hands.
The emperor gave them a token good evening. Count de Las Cases fluttered into a pose of adoration, sitting on a stool near the emperor’s feet. “We are all honored to be here with you, Sire. Me, most especially,” the little man said. “I await with suspense over what we shall hear in your august presence.”
“Monsieur Rapture,” Montholon muttered, still keeping his smile between curly sideburns condescending.
“Now, what shall we read tonight, my captive audience?” The emperor reached into a scratched bookcase and pulled out a book. “Andromaque or Phedre by Racine, Corneille’s tragedy, Horace. The translations of Homer or Virgil?”
“Homer, the Odyssey, we have something in common,” Amélie whispered, her pulse quickening. Ali shushed her.
“No, I think Voltaire’s Zaire is appropriate.” Napoleon opened the book on his lap and began to read. He’d obviously made his decision ahead of time.
Fanny Bertrand slumped in her chair. She rolled her black eyes, which contrasted with her fair coloring and made her face lively. Amélie stroked her cheek. Did that combination of dark and light work for her?
“Very good, Sire.” Countess de Montholon smiled and fanned herself with her silk fan. The women appeared overdressed in these shabby surroundings with their silks and jewels, their husbands in full uniform, this strict code of dress always maintained before their sovereign.
“Sire, haven’t we read Zaire too much already?” Countess Bertrand said. Her husband flicked a startled gaze at her.
“Madame?” Napoleon lowered the book and glared at her.
“Zaire is...perfect, Your Majesty.” Bertrand squeaked this out, his neck growing scarlet. He grasped his wife’s hand as if to quiet her.
“Anything you read is ideal, Sire, I must say.” Las Cases bobbed his head, his needle nose twitching. “Some people just enjoy complaining and stirring up discontent, unlike myself.”
“You need only tell us your wishes, Your Majesty. We are here to serve.” Montholon seemed to parody the effusive Las Cases. Amélie pictured them both doubling over into toads.
“En vérité, Sire
, only to serve you.” Countess de Montholon flashed her contrived grin. Both her and her husband’s commiseration, their gestures and words, so perfect, so rehearsed, Amélie couldn’t believe the emperor didn’t see it.
Napoleon resumed reading, his sentences speeding along. He didn’t give the words nuance or the correct emphasis. Amélie didn’t care. She leaned forward eagerly on her stool, her temple bumping the screen.
Fanny Bertrand yawned, barely concealing the fact.
“You are bored, Madame?” The emperor’s words cold, the company squirmed in their chairs. Amélie stiffened on her perch. “Would you like to finish this, since it seems you are?” He bent forward and thrust the book into the woman’s hands.
Amélie started to rise from her stool, anxious to be the one chosen to read, but Ali dug his fingers into her shoulder.
Countess de Montholon gave a taunting titter behind her fan.
Countess Bertrand sighed, her face redder than her husband’s throat. She glanced around the room, the book unsteady in her grasp. She began to read in a tentative voice.
Napoleon settled back in his chair, closed his eyes, and it was soon obvious he’d fallen asleep.
Ali gestured for Amélie to get up and he skulked from the room. In the dining room, the valet shook with laughter. “That’s as bad as the other evening at dinner, when the emperor told both ladies they looked like washerwomen dressed up in their Sunday finery.”
“Both of them?” Amélie relished that Napoleon spoke to the Countess de Montholon with disdain, but didn’t he understand that the women arrayed themselves in his honor?
“The emperor upset Madame Bertrand so much, she told her husband she’d never come to Longwood again, but you see he’s dragged her back. It’s hard to stay aloof in this tiny social circle.” Ali snickered. “Count Bertrand’s mortified. He regards himself the savior of etiquette. He’s been with him since Egypt and is selflessly devoted to the emperor.”
“He seems one of few.” Amélie sighed and gripped her elbows. “Countess Bertrand shouldn’t have yawned. She ruined my evening. I’m sure the emperor is just as bored with their society. Are you certain His Majesty wouldn’t have allowed me to sit nearer to him?”
Elysium Page 8
