Elysium

by Diane Scott Lewis

Two more soldiers followed, carrying trunks brimming over with papers obviously from the count’s quarters in the back wing. Napoleon’s blood boiled.

  Saint-Denis bounded up the front steps and into the salon. “Your Majesty, the governor has arrested the Count de Las Cases and the soldiers confiscated everything in his rooms.”

  “Arrested for what reason? They’ve stolen all my dictation? This is insufferable! Ali, fetch Count Bertrand. Tell him to send Doctor O’Meara to find out what has happened.” Napoleon’s left leg twinged, something he experienced when overwrought. He resisted the urge to run out and demand an explanation. He could no longer act the impetuous youth who let his temper run wild—snatching up banners and storming bridges on battlefields. He had to preserve his imperial dignity.

  “Sire, do the British have a right to seize our people and haul them away like criminals?” Amélie asked, her fawn eyes earnest.

  “They will push their arbitrary rights to the limit.” Napoleon felt powerless, unable to protect his own people. He couldn’t let the girl sense his weakness. He smiled and squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, ma petite, Bertrand will see to it, at my direction.”

  * * * *

  Amélie lit candles in the drawing room to push back the late evening dark. “The count’s valet confessed to smuggling letters?”

  “That’s what Doctor O’Meara told His Majesty.” Saint-Denis leaned on the black stone mantel. Other servants gathered around. “The mulatto is shipping off in a few days with a new master, but he turned cowardly and told Governor Lowe he had letters written on white satin and sewn into his clothing. He was supposed to smuggle the information to Europe for the little count.”

  “He was a coward for turning against the Count de Las Cases. It’s so hard to know whom to trust here.” Amélie pulled down the room’s blinds, shutting out the soldiers. She resented their vulnerable existence and her own risk of arrest by tearing down a poster.

  “Now Lowe has all the count’s papers.” Ali spoke in disgust. “Those hundreds of pages dictated by the emperor, his justification of his career.”

  “That spy O’Meara probably reported Las Cases to that stickler of a governor.” Madame Cloubert crossed her skinny arms, nodding her head, almost in imitation of the little count.

  “Bertrand, go at once to Plantation House and demand the return of my chamberlain.” Napoleon paced through from the salon with Counts Bertrand and Montholon, his features twisted in anger. “That boja Lowe has no right to do this.”

  “Sire…” Amélie wanted to reach out to him, but he slammed into his study.

  Bertrand’s drooped his round shoulders and glared at Montholon. “Las Cases probably got what he deserved, playing with such intrigues.” The two men walked back toward the salon. Montholon seemed to fight a satisfied smile.

  “Las Cases is being held in a cottage not far from here, and can’t see nor speak to any of us.” Ali shook his head. “The little Jesuit snatched from his idol. He’s being ordered off the island immediately.”

  “My duties will be simpler without that persnickety little man.” Madame Cloubert sounded a shade regretful, as if now she’d have less reason to grumble.

  “His Majesty is distraught to lose the count. He’s been so fond of him.” Amélie chewed on her lip, then braced herself for Madame Montholon’s rushing in to offer Napoleon her inappropriate solace. Thankfully it didn’t happen. “Will the governor destroy the papers he found, all that work?”

  “He just might. One of the letters was a scathing criticism of Lowe himself. I’m sure that didn’t delight him.” Ali ran a hand through his slick hair. “From now on anyone who comes near us will be turned inside out before they’re allowed to leave the island.”

  Amélie frowned. “Or we’ll be forbidden any visitors.”

  “His officers aren’t sorry to see the little man go. They’re so cutthroat for His Majesty’s attention.” Jules shouldered into their group, slitted eyes glinting. “The Count de Montholon told his wife that Las Cases bungled this himself, so he could leave. His work was done, and he didn’t want to be chained here forever.”

  “The count deserts the emperor on purpose?” Amélie shivered. She didn’t want to believe Napoleon’s courtiers now betrayed him, and Las Cases, his most effusive champion.

  “My master said Las Cases is relieved to escape this reeking hole.” Jules’s laugh crept under Amélie’s skin. He turned and strode off. “As all of us will.”

  “We should be devoted enough to stay if His Majesty must stay.” She pictured all the courtiers making a mad scramble to abandon their emperor, leaving him at the full mercy of the British. To her chagrin, she still stood on the other side of Napoleon’s closed door.

  Chapter Nine

  What do I care how people feel about me, so long as they show me a friendly face—N.B.

  Amélie set down the untouched cup of basil tea on the kitchen table. Marchand had sent her out of the main house, the emperor refusing the beverage. Napoleon had cancelled two of her lessons, staying in his rooms, lamenting the loss of his chamberlain. She couldn’t comfort him—his valets kept her at bay—and she tried not to consider how much comfort the indiscreet countess provided in her absence. She struggled not to be crushed by this bizarre existence and sorted through her herbs in her baskets, enjoying the fragrances, but her world felt scraped dry.

  Chef Gascon removed fresh baked brioches from the oven, the buttery smell mouth-watering. “Amélie, can you take these out to the Count de Montholon? He’s having breakfast with Governor Lowe near the Park.” Gascon moaned and wiped perspiration from the folds in his neck.

  “How silly. The governor refuses to even enter the grounds since the emperor won’t grant him an audience.” She laughed in irony. Napoleon and Lowe were both mired in stubbornness—more futility. If people didn’t speak to each other, how could they reach an understanding? “I’ll be happy to, Chef Gascon.”

  Gascon put his brioches on a plate, covered them with a linen napkin, and gave the plate to her. Amélie walked around the house and out the front gate, the aroma rumbling her hunger. A small table had been set up in the meager shade of the gumwoods, their brittle leaves snapping in the breeze. She placed the plate on the table. The two men didn’t bother to glance at her.

  “Pour us some more tea,” the Count de Montholon ordered. He lifted the linen to inspect the contents. Amélie picked up the ceramic teapot and poured. She didn’t look at their faces but watched the count’s slender hands with polished oval nails as he caressed the porcelain plate. The governor’s bony fingers, with red tufts of hair on the knuckles, twitched near his teacup.

  “I’ve gone into detail about the regulations I’m entrusted with,” Lowe said. “After all, our government has never acknowledged your Bonaparte as an emperor in any official sense. It is only proper to refer to him as ‘General’ here, no matter how much it upsets him, as your General Bertrand is fond of telling me.”

  “Governor, not everyone has been brought up in the realm of diplomacy. I hope you realize I’m the only true aristos in His Majesty’s court, and I assure you I do understand your constraints.” Montholon spoke in a smooth manner. His offered the plate toward his guest with a feline liquidity. “Brioche? Our pastry chef is quite talented when he makes the effort.”

  “I still think your general misunderstands my intentions. I know he is angered by my sending away the Count de Las Cases, but the count’s underhandedness left me little choice.” Lowe turned his teacup in his long fingers, the liquid sloshing about.

  Amélie placed the cream and sugar close to the cups. If she spoke to ask what each preferred it might break her cloak of being an invisible servant.

  “Las Cases deserved what happened. We’re better rid of him,” Montholon continued with a self-satisfied tone, “and, I myself find it childish to insist on being referred to as emp
eror, when one no longer has a throne.”

  Amélie bit her lip, and turned and stalked away, silently daring them to call her back for further orders. She kicked a pebble when she passed the front gate, her hands clenched on her elbows. A deep sadness weighed her down. The count always seemed a slippery character, and now she had proof he only pretended to be a loyal courtier. She dreaded informing Napoleon of the man’s treachery so soon after losing the Count de Las Cases.

  The heat of anger sent her rushing into the house. “Marchand, please let me see His Majesty. I have something very important to tell him,” she said when the valet poked out his head at the study door. “I won’t be turned away.”

  After a quick consultation, Marchand invited her in. Napoleon sat on the sofa in his dressing gown. He hadn’t shaved and looked forlorn, a pale ghost, in this shuttered room full of depressing shadows.

  “Now what is so important?” he asked with a sad smile.

  She gulped a breath, hating to add to his sorrows. “Sire, I was just in the Park. Governor Lowe is there with the Count de Montholon. I overheard the count make a disloyal—”

  Napoleon held up his hand. “Amélie, I would dislike you to become a carrier of sordid tales like so many others. Please, I am not in the mood. Be a good girl and stick to your singing.”

  He rose and lumbered into his bedroom.

  “Sire, the man is not who you think he is.” Amélie quivered, speaking to a closed door. She felt chastised as well as ineffectual. She couldn’t allow the emperor’s forceful personality to reduce her to an anxious minion.

  * * * *

  “No, I don’t care for any ‘soothing’ at this moment.” Napoleon stared into the mirror above the gray-painted wood fireplace in his bedroom. He ran his hands along his cheeks: too jowly. At forty-six, however, his face remained unlined, and not a speck of gray in his hair. Albine’s reflection smiled at him and he turned. “I’m in no mood to follow the script. I’m long past believing in your farce; let’s put an end to the play.”

  “Don’t be so cynical, Sire.” Albine pouted, caressed her hand down his waistcoat and fingered one of the gold buttons. “I insist on honoring you. Have I not pleased you in the past?”

  “I understand your type of honor. You’d enjoy fondling coins and jewels.” He plucked her hand from his button, weary of being surrounded by false fawning. All this close occupancy with minimal distraction made him realize he had no true friends here, yet he’d discouraged friendship as his power rose, insisting on his place at the center of them all. “If I care to partake ever again, I will let you know.”

  “Hélas, if you didn’t spend so much time with the little kitchen maid, you wouldn’t neglect those dear to you.” She purred like a cat, but he saw a wolf instead. A wolf with red rouge, like blood, on its front teeth. “I’m experienced in the ways of pleasure.”

  “Pleasure is in the mind, my dear Albine.” Napoleon thought of Amélie’s voice and her eager smile, but she was just a child to amuse him. This woman before him took too many liberties. He’d grown bored by her attractions. Especially now, when her dress started to bulge with child. She had no dignity. Only the lack of selection had prompted him to encourage her in the beginning. A bad habit from his younger days, this perfunctory bedding of women, to confirm his prowess—and hide his insecurity. He sighed and walked from the bedroom and through his study, out to the salon. The countess minced along behind him.

  Amélie awaited him, fresh in her plain little dress, that lovely hair over her shoulders like woven gold. Napoleon couldn’t help a genuine smile when he looked at her. Here was someone unsullied and selfless.

  “Back already, Sire? Is everything satisfactory?” Montholon’s unctuous voice broke the spell. He seemed to sprout out of nowhere beside his wife.

  “Albine, play the piece we discussed yesterday.” Napoleon pointed at the piano bench, hiding his irritation. Had Montholon no pride? He acted far too anxious to force his jaded wife into the imperial bed. He’d taken it as his right, but now suspected the count’s motives.

  “Your Majesty, I don’t know if I can play today. I’ve broken a nail. These lessons have become a chore. I’d rather we play cards, since I’ve so missed our time together.” Albine made no effort to sit. “My dear husband can’t recall the last time you played chess with him. You know how we cherish our moments with you.”

  “You leave no time for those most devoted to you, Sire.” Montholon didn’t twitch an eyelash over his wife’s refusal. “Now that Las Cases is gone, we desire nothing more than to attend you to our fullest capacity.”

  A look crossed Amélie’s face and she glared at Albine’s changing figure. The rumors flying about over the child’s paternity at first flattered, now embarrassed him.

  “Then attend me as you profess, and sit and play the piece, Albine.”

  “Sire, have you had time to look over my account books?” Montholon capered before him with his wheedling gestures, an insipid parody.

  “I’m prepared to sing unaccompanied, Sire.” Amélie turned away from the count with raised brows. Even she saw the buffoonery of his courtiers. This farce loomed all around him, and Napoleon would have laughed if their actions didn’t anger him at this moment.

  “You may have to,” he replied to the girl, then turned his scowl on Montholon. “Your ledgers seem to have some discrepancies in the household accounts that we can discuss later.” Napoleon had cut off Amélie’s tale on the count’s meeting with Governor Lowe, not wanting to know that this man he relied on might betray him. His little court dwindled down and he struggled to retain it. He couldn’t allow this community of hardship to diminish his rank. If he had no court, he was no longer an emperor to the world at large, just what the British wanted.

  Montholon’s wily smile surfaced. “As I’ve said, it’s Bertrand that has—”

  “Enough! Am I not supposed to have any enjoyment here? Both of you try my patience.” How he missed the witty conversation of Las Cases. His invaluable help. Napoleon left the Montholons and came over to Amélie who had seated herself at the piano and now toyed with the keys. Her growing boldness amused him for some reason. “Perhaps you should take lessons.”

  “If it’s necessary, Your Majesty. The countess never helped with perfecting my note reading, and I hate to take up her time. I’ve studied hard on my own.” Amélie’s subtle jab at Albine made him chuckle. Her warm gaze cooled his temper and her perceptive smile drew him.

  Napoleon smiled back. He sat on the bench beside her. She brushed her fingers over the ivory keys. “You seem more relaxed in this pursuit of opera. Yes, I noticed your discomfort, but with hard work you will come into your own.” He put his hand on her arm and felt her tremble beneath it. A sliver of pleasure rose in him that he still affected an innocent like her.

  “Such insolence, she sits in His Majesty’s presence without being asked,” the countess said to Montholon, loud enough for all to hear. Napoleon glared at them, amazed by their own insolence. He pointed to the far door and they shrank back, finally creeping from the room.

  “I did not mean to cause offense, but I intend to come into my own, Sire,” the girl said with a new maturity that intrigued and unsettled him at the same time.

  * * * *

  Across from the kitchen, Amélie and Ali gathered up empty wine bottles in the butler’s pantry where the majority of servants ate their meals. “I don’t care how much the Montholons complain about me. The emperor is in a very unhappy household. Their self-serving rivalry for his attention is disgusting.” Her presence must relieve Napoleon from the disgruntled atmosphere for the short time she played pupil.

  “Don’t you enjoy his attention? Now His Majesty spends time with you, that cuts into theirs even further.” The valet smirked and took the bottles.

  She turned from his assessment, but warmed when she remembered the way Na
poleon’s touch made her feel, almost ashamed that she desired more. Then she clenched her teeth, thinking of the countess’s “condition.” What exactly did the woman’s fullest capacity entail? “I don’t know how His Majesty trusts those Montholons. The count…he’s underhanded.”

  “Mr. Blue Blood himself?” Ali shook his head as if to contain his broad grin. “Something he likes to remind us of as often as he can.”

  “Because his title wasn’t ‘awarded’ to him by the emperor, like Count Bertrand’s? That’s more deserving than inheriting it whether you’re worthy or not.”

  “Isn’t it ironic that Count Bertrand has the aristocratic wife when he’s the parvenu?” The valet chuckled as they strolled into the courtyard, the bottles clinking in his arms. “Our blue-blooded Count de Montholon’s wife has a shady past.”

  “I tried to tell His Majesty the count made betraying comments at his luncheon with the governor, but he refused to listen.” She wiped sticky hands on her apron.

  “You intend to arouse his anger? Everyone here makes nasty comments, except for me, of course.” Ali winked at her. “The emperor prefers his women sweet and docile.”

  Amélie heated again under her clothes. “The count spoke right in front of me, as if I’m not the emperor’s friend.” She regretted not insisting that Napoleon hear her out. He remained such an imposing force to her, though her stomach knots since beginning the lessons had disappeared.

  “Montholon likes to preen himself up in importance to whoever might be in charge. It’s probably nothing.” Ali stirred the weeds she’d put in a pile near her garden with his buckle-shoed toe, a challenging spark in his eyes. “Now with Las Cases gone, the Montholons will ooze closer to our emperor. You’ll have a battle before you.”

  “I’m not afraid of battles.” Amélie worried that her emperor deluded himself that his courtiers served him the same as when he reigned supreme. People changed with circumstances, and not usually for the better.

  A footman hurried up and the valet handed him three of the bottles. “Smash away, my good man,” Ali said with a grand wave of his arm as if imitating Napoleon.