Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 10

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Admiral Cockburn had effected some manner of introductions with his smattering of French. Everyone was standing in a rather strained group, with Napoleon in the center. Having dismounted, he had lost much of the imposing dignity he had enjoyed while in the saddle. The assorted counts, barons, and military officers, who made up his party, were watching Mr. and Mrs. Balcombe in a cool appraisal.

“The daughters of the house, General Bonaparte,” said the admiral, when the two girls paused in the doorway. “Miss Jane Balcombe. And Miss Elizabeth Balcombe.”

Both girls curtsied with stiff uncertainty. The Comte de Bertrand, on Napoleon’s right, leaned closer to whisper in his ear. “The younger one speaks French, sire. The older one—ah, sire, is she not charming?”

Napoleon’s eyes swept over Jane and then came to Betsy. There they stopped. He leaned a little forward in the absorption with which he studied her. Then he leaned back and whispered in Bertrand’s ear.

“Ma foi, Marshal,” he said. “Are you becoming blind? The older one is pretty, yes, but look at the other one. La petite.”

“Miss Elizabeth Balcombe,” said the admiral, “will act as interpreter for us. Will you—ah, take charge, Miss Betsy?”

Much of the assurance which the girl had felt on descending the stairs had deserted her. There was an anxious flush on her cheeks. “I am willing to try, my lord,” she said, “but my French is quite limited, I’m afraid.”

Napoleon understood something of what was being said. He smiled at the fourteen-year-old girl. “You must let me judge, Mam’selle Betsee,” he said. “You are not afraid of me?”

“No, Your Highness. At least, I don’t think I am.”

“Where did you learn to speak French?”

“I had a nurse from Brittany when I was a small girl. I spoke nothing but French with her for several years.”

“I am sure you found it a great pleasure to learn something of our very graceful tongue.”

Betsy was recovering enough of her usual composure to give him an honest answer. “I liked it when I had my old nurse, Your Highness. But later, at school, well—”

“Yes, how did you like it at school?”

“We had French teachers there, Your Highness. And they made the language seem—well, kind of excitable.”

The stern expression on the face of the Man of Destiny seemed to become somewhat more pronounced. He frowned at her. And then, abruptly, he began to laugh. “Ah, my child. You have spirit. You say what you think. That is good. I like to see it. I have done it all my life, mam’selle. See, we must make a bargain between us. We will always say to one another what we think. It will be an understanding, a game perhaps. And now,” he turned to the situation confronting him, “will you tell your parents, mam’selle, that I have a request to make? It will take a long time to finish the additions and repairs to this dreadful place, this Longwood. It will be a matter of weeks. Perhaps even of months.” He gave his shoulders an impatient shrug. “What am I to do? I cannot spend another night at that impossible inn.”

Admiral Cockburn had been following the conversation with some difficulty. “I regret, General Bonaparte,” he said, “that you found it so hot and uncomfortable.”

“That was not all. The food! Ma foi, it is hard to believe that even English cooks could produce such abominable messes.” He turned back to Betsy. “And so, mam’selle, I must make this request of your parents. Could it be arranged for me to stay here until this—this dreadful place in the hills has been made fit for human habitation? I would be quite content with the summerhouse I see up there. It looks cool and inviting.”

Betsy conveyed the suggestion to her parents. They spoke together briefly in low tones. Then Mr. Balcombe nodded his head.

“Tell General Bonaparte we will be glad to give him possession of the pavilion. For as long as he needs.”

A gratified look took possession of Napoleon’s face when the girl translated this for him. He nodded his head several times. “M’sieur and Madame are most kind,” he said. “Please tell them, ma petite, how grateful I am. And please make it clear that I will strive to render my stay as little difficult for them as possible. My servants will see to my needs and will, of course, prepare my meals.”

“When does he want to come?” asked Mrs. Balcombe.

Betsy conveyed this question to him and Napoleon cried out emphatically. “Now! At once! Ah, that dreadful room! That stifling heat! I hope never to set foot there again!”

After another consultation with her parents, Betsy reported: “Papa says you are to consider this your home at once. They will consider it an honor if you will be their guest at dinner tonight.”

“I shall be happy to dine with them,” answered the ex-emperor. “How can I repay them for such kindness?”

“It will be a family dinner, Your Highness. My sister and I will be of the company. But not our brothers. They are having their supper inside now.”

“How many brothers have you, mam’selle?”

“Two. One eight. And one four.”

“Four!” Napoleon’s manner suddenly became grave, “Then he is the age of my little son, the King of Rome. I think it will be a pleasure for me to see this small brother.” He appeared lost in thought for several moments and then he shrugged his shoulders and spoke to Bertrand. “Will you see to things at once? Have my camp cot brought up without fail. I think, if our very nice little interpreter will accompany us to the pavilion, we can decide at once what other things will be necessary.”

Betsy led the way through the grounds and up to the relatively high position where the pavilion stood. Napoleon paused in the shade of a grape arbor which covered the entrance to the thickly planted gardens beyond.

“How peaceful it is,” he said, with a sigh. “And so very cool. Do you have this breeze all the time?”

“Always, Your Highness. The trade winds seem to blow straight across our property. In winter we would like them to stop because it is cold and raw then. But they never do.”

“Perhaps I could stand here and raise up my arms to the skies like Joshua and command them to stop.” There was a smile on Napoleon’s face which suggested he half believed what he was saying. His eyes became attracted to the waterfall in the background. “How extraordinary! Doesn’t the water ever reach the ground?”

“I don’t think so, Your Highness. We are very proud of it. My papa says there is nothing quite like it anywhere. Even at Carlton House.”

Napoleon leaned over and gave her ear a light pinch. “How lucky for me, ma petite, that you had a French nurse.”

There were chairs in the garden. Napoleon seated himself in one and motioned Betsy to take another. “Make what arrangements you think necessary,” he said to Bertrand. “And now, mam’selle, we shall have a talk.”

“If it please Your Highness, may I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“What should I call you? It has been announced that it’s to be General Bonaparte but that—that doesn’t sound right.”

The ex-emperor turned in his chair to look at her more closely. It was a frail piece of furniture and squeaked alarmingly.

“And why, ma petite, does it not seem right to you?”

“You were emperor and should always be called that. I can’t address you in any other way without feeling you will be offended.”

“And you don’t want to offend me?”

“Oh, no, Your Highness.”

Napoleon had often asserted that with him the human passions never mounted higher than his throat. But at this point in the conversation he made it clear that such was not the case. The skin of his face, generally so white and cool, suddenly showed a flush of anger and this spread rapidly to the fine marblelike expanse of his brow.

He got to his feet and began to pace up and down. His arms were not locked behind his back as was invariably the case when he fell into deep mental concentration. Instead they swung back and forth without keeping in accord with the rhythm of his steps. It was clear that his emotions had been deeply stirred.

“There is no General Bonaparte!” So ran his thoughts. “He ceased to exist when I left Egypt. His place was taken by the First Consul and then by the Emperor. If he existed today, it would be as a shadow, as a spirit, wafted along those hot roads to the Pyramids. Or perhaps on that ship which took me back to France. General Bonaparte has been obliterated by the achievements of the First Consul and the glory of the Emperor.

“But these English, these cold, carping storekeepers and bankers and builders of ships! They know the most cunning ways of offending me. They say they never acknowledged me as Emperor and that I shall always be General Bonaparte to them! They are determined to keep alive the picture of that scrawny, starving young officer who came up out of the revolutionary maelstrom! This I most solemnly swear: I shall never acknowledge the name. I shall refuse to answer when so addressed. I shall return unopened any notes or letters delivered in that name. They may be from these petty officials or they may be from the Emperor of Austria or the King of England. It will be all the same to me. Never, never will they be opened! Even if it means they will put me in close confinement or even in a solitary cell. General Bonaparte has ceased to exist!”

Then he noticed that Betsy had risen and was standing undecided beside her chair, holding her bonnet against her skirt. She looked very much upset.

Napoleon’s mood changed. “She thinks she has said something to annoy me,” he thought. “On the contrary, this child has been the only one with the decency to see it is all wrong. And she has had the courage to tell me so.”

He returned and dropped into his chair so abruptly and heavily that the creaking of the wood became positively alarming.

“You say you don’t want to offend me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“I am happy you feel that way. It has been customary to address me as sire.”

Betsy was silent for a moment. Then her lips parted in an involuntary smile. “S-i-r-e?” she asked. When he nodded, she paused again. She seemed afraid to speak. “But—but, Your Highness, are you sure there isn’t a mistake? In English we have a much different use for that word.”

“Indeed? What may it be?”

“With us it means—the father of a horse.”

Napoleon was annoyed. He looked at her severely, suspecting she was making a joke at his expense. Then he managed a smile, a rather bleak one. “This is my fault,” he said. “I told you to speak frankly. But, ah, what an abominable language! I shall have to train you to a proper appreciation of French.”

“I am afraid,” said Betsy, “that I am a failure as an interpreter.”

“No, no! not at all. I think you a great success. But I am afraid you will have to learn to accept my rudeness and not feel hurt. Rudeness is necessary in a ruler. Even—an ex-ruler.”

Some minutes later Mrs. Balcombe, standing at the outside door of the kitchen, motioned to her husband to join her there.

“Listen,” she said,

A sound of voices reached them from the direction of the pavilion garden. Mr. Balcombe listened for a few moments and then shook his head. “It’s the general talking to Betsy. But I can’t tell what they’re saying.”

“Of course you can’t. But they have been jabbering away like this for half an hour. Sometimes they actually seem to be quarreling. Then they begin to laugh instead.” She gave her head a shake. “That Betsy! We certainly have an odd child.”

“There are a lot of words which could be applied to our younger daughter. But I don’t think ‘odd’ is one of them, my dear.”