Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “You still want to abolish all protocol?” Ali leaned against the dining room wall. “His Majesty seldom holds court anymore, but when he discusses his career, his experiences, then his listeners are never drowsy. They all enjoy that.”

  “I’d adore it. The emperor and I are going to discuss books.” Amélie, heavy with disappointment, longed to be more effective than his courtiers. She didn’t want to leave the house and walked over to the chamber across from the emperor’s, used as the Imperial Library. “Ali, did you ever catalogue those thirteen cases of books requested from the British government?” She opened the door. The soft light from the dining room outlined stacks of books along the walls.

  “The majority. His Majesty was so excited when they arrived, he helped unpack them, but the British also sent him the bill, over a thousand in their pounds. Nearly 25,000 francs. The emperor was furious and refused to pay.” He chuckled again.

  Amélie moved closer and reached out to touch one of the books. “I’ll help you sort through them. C’est ça, you could appoint me your library assistant.”

  “A girl assisting in the emperor’s library? Don’t you have your hands full now?”

  “Why can’t a girl, rather a woman, do such things? You shouldn’t discourage me.”

  “The emperor prefers women in their place, as comforts to their husbands and households. You are too forward at times, but amusing.” The valet’s smirk exasperated her.

  “A progressive man shouldn’t feel that way.” The countess was fawning and far bolder. Did she bring comfort to someone other than her husband?

  Amélie gazed back into the drawing room. Napoleon shifted in his sleep, as if bad dreams pursued him. She had the sudden desire to brush the lock of hair from his pale forehead.

  Ali pushed away from the wall. “I’d better make certain His Majesty’s fire is roaring hot.” He hurried into Napoleon’s chambers, leaving Amélie near the library doorway.

  The courtiers quietly exited the drawing room into the front salon—his previous sycophants now scurrying away like rats. Both Montholons’ expressions looked aloof and dismissive toward their sleeping sovereign. Quite a frigid contrast to their actions under his gaze.

  Amélie shuddered. Longwood’s walls seemed to close in on her, someplace more unsafe than she realized.

  “You should encourage His Majesty to go out riding again,” she said when Ali rejoined her. “It isn’t healthy for him to stay cooped up inside.” She glanced over at the back door, at the glass pane, just in time to see a sentry trudge by shouldering his rifle.

  “You don’t speak to the emperor about things he doesn’t care to discuss.” Saint-Denis brushed soot from his sleeves. “No one wants to face His Majesty’s temper. Though it’s short-lived and he strains for good humor here.”

  “Even if the subject is for his own welfare?” Amélie rubbed her arms, feeling ice-cold in this cloistered atmosphere. “Hasn’t His Majesty written in protest to the British government about his treatment?”

  “Do our letters actually make it to their government after being scrutinized by Lowe? Everything we mail has to be sent ‘open’ through the governor. Then most of the words are scribbled over or cut out.” Ali couldn’t hide a sly twitch of his lips.

  “I know correspondence is smuggled off the island, sending Governor Lowe into more fits.” Amélie glanced away, aware she shouldn’t say such things aloud. Incoming letters were treated with the same scrutiny. The last letter from her brother had half the words indecipherable. “What does His Majesty do to stay occupied since he won’t go out?”

  “He goes over his battle errors, reorganizes troops, artillery. His Majesty’s generals write different aspects of his career.” Ali took a deep breath. “I have firsthand knowledge of some of it. I served with him in Russia, and…Belgium.”

  “Outside pursuits would be a change of pace for His Majesty. He should ignore any British escort.”

  “He finds that intolerable, but we’re all at a loss to keep occupied. The emperor does in-depth research on various subjects apart from his career. He’s fascinated by science and mathematics.” The drawing room door opened wider and the valet turned. “Now he has you to sing for him. He changes his habits at will.”

  Napoleon ambled into the room, rubbing his face. “Ali, bring me a hot lemonade, or that special tea you make. I feel a cough coming on.” He looked at Amélie as if, for a moment, he’d forgotten he invited her. “Ah, Amélie, did you enjoy our theatrical display?”

  Amélie smiled into his tired expression and curtsied. “I wish it had lasted longer, Sire.”

  Napoleon nodded and continued toward his study. He moved, shoulders and head slumped, like walking were a burden to him, his ankles swollen in his stockings. Marchand followed behind and closed the study door.

  “At once, Your Majesty.” Ali straightened from his bow. They heard him coughing behind the door. “The slightest humidity and chill affects the emperor. That’s why this house is terrible for his health. To the kitchen, Mademoiselle Perrault.”

  “I make that special tea for him, with orange flower leaves and maidenhair syrup.” Amélie grasped credit where it was due. “Marchand said no, but His Majesty might take herbs for his well-being. Maidenhair is a fern.”

  “The emperor seldom follows any advice on his health. He can be like a child sometimes.” Saint-Denis spoke with indulgence. “He doesn’t know how to take care of himself.”

  “If no one has the nerve to advise him what’s best.” Amélie opened the back door, the wind sweeping in, rustling her hair. Ali asked permission to pass from a sentry. “His Majesty needs someone to attend him who isn’t afraid of him. You are all too submissive.” She took a deep breath. Here was her chance to be useful, but would she have the nerve to tell her emperor what might be best?

  Chapter Seven

  You have miscalculated the heights to which misfortune, the injustice and persecution of your government, and your own conduct have raised the Emperor—N.B.

  Fire crackled in the study hearth, warming the damp air with a tinge of smoke.

  Napoleon flicked a finger across the offensive paper he held. “Now that muddleheaded governor insists that I report to the orderly officer twice a day. Like a lackey? Grand Dieu!”

  Count Bertrand stood by, hat in hand. “Admiral Cockburn apparently had the same rule, but never enforced it. Lowe is angry because you refuse to receive him anymore, Sire.”

  “I can’t reason with such a man. He wants me to be humbled, resigned.” Napoleon tossed the paper on the floor. How much more humiliation did the British expect him to swallow? He felt the chains tremble around his body, squeezing like tentacles until he couldn’t breathe. “Insult piled on insult. Bertrand, I also demand you reprimand your wife for her behavior last night. I won’t tolerate such disrespect among my own court.”

  “I understand, Sire, and have spoken to Fanny. What will you do about this? The governor is concerned that you’ll…escape. He wants to make certain, for his government, that you’re still here.” The count’s head seemed to shrink into his round shoulders.

  How much influence did Napoleon retain over Bertrand since he resided elsewhere with his domineering wife? Bertrand, only four years younger, served as his aide-de-camp and distinguished himself as an army engineer before Napoleon appointed him grand marshal of his palace—the man should be grateful.

  So many others deserted him when his power faded, but to relax his guard, reveal a crack in his fortitude, and be grateful himself at Bertrand’s loyalty—Napoleon needed to keep these few who remained under his thumb.

  “Escape? I should think about it.” If the only viable option. Louis XVIII stuffed onto his imperial throne—a throne carved from the ashes of the Revolution. Now that fat Bourbon ruined France while he rotted here. Dare he continue to expect another coup that might bring hi
m back to Europe, or did he wish to go elsewhere, unencumbered by prejudice? He’d recently made queries into other plans of action and spoken to that Irish merchant captain—an interesting man—introduced by Las Cases. Napoleon had money available to him, the gold he’d had his valets secure in belts worn on their persons when they boarded the British ship. He stroked a knuckle over his forehead. He couldn’t allow this place to devour him. “This enrages me. I won’t bow to this petty official’s insults. Marchand!” He glared around the shabby chamber wishing he could shatter it with a cannon ball. The chief valet rushed in. Napoleon jabbed a finger at him. “Make sure my pistols are loaded and put them on my night table.” The valet ran out.

  “Your Majesty, what are you planning?” Bertrand asked, mouth agape, hat crumpled in his grasp.

  “I plan to shoot any Englishman who dares invade my private quarters.”

  * * * *

  “The emperor refuses to see anyone but myself and Marchand. He even sent his doctor away, because he might tell Lowe about it,” Ali said to Amélie in the kitchen. The two of them mixed together an array of jasmine, orange flower, and other herbs steeped in spirit of wine they used to make the emperor’s cologne, since the French type Napoleon preferred was impossible to obtain on the island.

  “He can’t keep hiding away. It’s been three days. What about my lessons?” She regretted sounding like a petulant child, but couldn’t believe he forgot her already. The mixture’s light, musky smell reminded her of what she might lose.

  “His Majesty is stubborn.” Ali smiled and shrugged, his sooty eyes giving away little. He recapped the small crystal bottle with its silver gilt lid and left the kitchen.

  Amélie stepped into the courtyard, disillusionment roiling inside her. She must request an audience with Napoleon, and strode toward the house. She hesitated at the sound of galloping. Several horsemen raised dust over the Deadwood Plain—soldiers, like red hornets on their steeds. They entered the grounds and careened around the left side of the house. Amélie gasped to see Governor Lowe followed by his henchmen.

  Clarice snatched towels off the nearby clothesline and rushed across the courtyard. “Now we’ll see some excitement in this godforsaken place, won’t we?” She swayed and flashed a grin for the soldiers.

  “Ali told me His Majesty keeps loaded pistols with him, intending to shoot.” Amélie rushed toward the back door of Longwood, fearing gunplay between Napoleon and the orderly. She almost wished the English hadn’t returned their weapons.

  Lowe dismounted, his frame as stiff and brittle as a twig. His horse snorted and swished its tail. “Captain Poppleton! Come to me at once!”

  The orderly officer sprinted from around the house and saluted Lowe, almost knocking off his own hat.

  “Why can’t you do your duty? I’ll have you replaced for incompetence. Spy in his bedroom window if you must.” The governor flailed his fist around as if trying to strike something. “Pound on his door and demand admittance! I won’t have this breach of my authority!”

  Poppleton, red in the face, slunk under the emperor’s bedroom window and put his nose to the pane, but the closed blinds blocked his view.

  “Demand entrance!” Lowe pointed at the door leading to the emperor’s study from the outside. “I will write to my superiors about this. The prisoner must make himself visible.” He glowered at the servants who gathered to watch. “You French glean some joy from…from making things difficult for me. I can be a reasonable man…but…”

  Poppleton knocked. The door finally opened and Marchand confronted him with an apologetic smile. “The emperor is ill and in bed, and receiving no one,” the valet said in a calm voice, blocking the doorway. “You can’t disturb a sick man, Captain.”

  The orderly officer turned to his commander in embarrassment and shrugged.

  Lowe clenched his fists, his mouth working. “Tell your master, the general, I won’t have it! Poppleton, if any of these people continue to tear down my directives, arrest them immediately.”

  Amélie cringed when Lowe seemed to glare toward her. The governor remounted, fidgeted angrily in his saddle, then kicked his horse in the flanks and rode away in a fume of horse sweat.

  She hurried over to Marchand. “Will His Majesty speak to me? Is he really ill?” She searched his gentle face for clues.

  “I’m sorry. It’s best to leave him alone in his present temper.” The chief valet’s smile was kind yet firm as he shut the door.

  Sighing, she walked toward the wall. Lowe’s retreating figure crossed the plain. The governor would forbid any ships from sailing from Jamestown until the orderly “saw” their emperor, terrified he might slip away. “Why do the British have to shove everything down our throats?”

  * * * *

  Amélie worked in her garden not long after the cannon fired from Alarm House to announce the rising sun. She didn’t bother to sing, and guessed Ali was right when he said the emperor changed his habits at will, but she wasn’t ready to accept his brief focus and her return to a life on the fringe. She had to devise some way back into his company. An egotistical part of her was convinced Napoleon needed her in his life.

  “How can you stand to touch dirt with all the creepy things in it? My hands are raw enough from all my duties.” Clarice sauntered over, carrying her laundry basket. “I heard you sang for His Majesty. You must not have impressed him.”

  “Clarice, you always like to insult instead of having a simple conversation.” Amélie shifted on her knees in the soil. She tugged at her corset where it rode up under her arms. Her herbs tangled into each other and she started to thin out the plants.

  “I don’t need conversation. I need a life away from here.” Clarice jerked the basket from side to side. “You thought you had it better than me, but here you are back in the mud. Did you think you had a chance with His Majesty?”

  “Don’t blame me if you’re unhappy.” A chance? How absurd. Amélie bit down on her lip. “I know you’re afraid of spiders, but do you like worms?” She picked up a caterpillar undulating toward her plants. She held it higher in the palm of her hand where it wriggled: a dark brown, smooth-bodied creature with black and yellow lines. With luck, the creature would chase off Clarice. “They damage the plants, but don’t you think it has its own natural beauty?”

  “Peste. There’s nothing pretty on this island.” Clarice started to step away when Marchand walked from one of the outbuildings. He smiled, greeted the two girls, and entered the house. Clarice sighed, heaving her ample chest. “You prefer worms, but don’t you think Marchand has his own natural beauty?”

  “Yes, I respect Marchand.” Amélie liked that he rarely joined into the petty antagonisms of the others. Too bad he hadn’t stopped to deliver a message to her from the emperor. She jerked a weed from the earth to redirect her frustration.

  “You’re getting older and aren’t so thin now. You need to pay attention to the men around us. We haven’t much to choose from.” Clarice prodded Amélie with her foot. “There’s more to life than plants.”

  “You’re far too anxious. I’d choose none of them.” Toiling with her hands, the earth moist between her fingers, seemed one of the few things Amélie could control. Her outward appearance had taken on more flesh, her clothes tightening around her breasts and waist. Her efforts for the garden to flourish seemed to leach from the earth into her own being. This strangeness fueled a need inside her, the island’s backwards rhythms coalescing with her own. “What happened to your attraction to Ali?”

  “He has a whore in Jamestown. Now if I acted as brazen as the Countess de Montholon does with our emperor, Marchand might notice me.” Clarice bounced her basket against her knees, tendrils of auburn hair sweeping over her fat cheeks. “Did you know the countess is breeding? I wonder whose child it is. His Majesty’s?”

  “I don’t believe it.” Amélie ripped at her plan
ts, tasting bile from her churning stomach. She hadn’t known, and didn’t want to know, about the countess’s condition. A jerk on the Double Gee, a tenacious creeping weed, flung dirt in her eye. Blinking at the sting, she wiped her eye with her sleeve. “Why would her husband put up with that from His Majesty?”

  “The emperor has had husbands’ consent before.” Clarice stared longingly at the door Marchand passed through. She wriggled hips that now stretched out her dresses, hiking the hem above her ankles. “Don’t think you’re alluring enough to attract His Majesty again.”

  Amélie stood, strode into her chamber, dipped quill in ink and scribbled a note: Sire, when shall we continue my lessons? She hurried into the house and handed it to Marchand.

  She warmed with a feeling of success when Napoleon replied in turn: tomorrow.

  * * * *

  At the piano, the Countess de Montholon tapped her satin-slippered toe, a sound that pounded into Amélie’s head. The woman’s gaze raked over her as if she schemed to rip Amélie in half and push her through a window.

  Napoleon paged through the opera book and approached. “Amélie, let’s try this piece today, a quick run-through.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” She smiled and he smiled back. Submissive, yes, but she fluttered at his reaction.

  The Count de Montholon pranced into the reception hall.

  “What do you want, Montholon? I’m very busy.” The emperor didn’t look up from the page he marked. His indifference to his courtier had the countess wriggling on the bench, her toe tapping louder.

  “Excusez-moi, Sire. I’d forgotten this was your school time.” The count’s tone patronizing, he gave an insipid smile. “May I stay and observe, if it won’t bother you in any way?”