Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 12

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After dinner the men moved out to the front porch to take advantage of the evening breeze. The port was placed on a table there, convenient for use. Admiral Cockburn joined his host in obeisance to the rich and heady wine but Napoleon sniffed at it scornfully.

“Is it true, my lord admiral,” he asked, “that Englishmen sometimes drink as many as five bottles of this at dinner?”

The admiral picked his way carefully through the much obstructed roadway of his knowledge of French. “There are five-bottle men, General Bonaparte. But they are—er, exceptional. You must understand, I don’t mean to speak of them as admirable. Few men ever aspire to such a high—er, rating. Three-bottle men are more general. Even two-bottle.”

Napoleon, bowing and rising to his feet, said to himself: “I should have waited a few years more. Surely a few only were needed for all Englishmen to drink themselves into the grave.” He announced aloud his intention of taking a brief stroll in the gardens before going to bed. Captain Poppleton, a young officer of the 53rd Regiment, whose duty it was to keep the Captive always in sight, materialized instantly from his station in the gardens. He began to follow at a discreet distance.

Mrs. Balcombe had not accompanied the men to the porch and so Admiral Cockburn faced his host alone. He glanced across the table, noting the broad lines of Balcombe’s somewhat florid face. “There could be truth in the story they tell about him,” he thought. “Certainly there’s a Hanoverian hint in the cut of his jib. Which one of them could have been his father? Old King George himself?”

After a rather long stretch of silence while he turned this over in his mind, and Balcombe continued to sip his wine in full enjoyment, the admiral brought his attention back to the problem which faced him. “I’ll be glad, Balcombe,” he said, “when I’m relieved of this duty. It’s not going to be easy, you know.”

“But,” protested the host, “he seems very easy in his manners. Even quite amiable.”

“That’s all surface. Underneath he’s seething with emotions which never show. Quite an actor, you know. I had plenty of chance to see under the surface during that interminable voyage. I can tell you this: he doesn’t expect to stay here long. France, he believes, will realize he is being treated badly and will rise to demand his return. He never said this in so many words, but he made it clear in many ways.”

“It’s a forlorn hope,” declared Balcombe.

“Quite. The powers of Europe will never agree to let him get away from this island. The French can demand as loud as they care—matter of fact, I don’t believe they care at all—but the allies will stand firm. What chance would there be of French vessels breaking through the navy cordon we’ll maintain around St. Helena? None whatever. The eagle doesn’t know it yet but he’s caged for life.”

“I heard in town today that the other powers are sending out envoys to keep an eye on things.”

The admiral nodded. “Russia, France, and Prussia. They’ll bring their families and their own servants. How are we going to accommodate them?”

“It will be a problem,” conceded Balcombe. “You know, my lord, the Plantation House is the only place on the island suitable for an ex-emperor. It would save us a great deal of trouble if the government would assign it for his use and let the governors make do with Longwood instead.”

Cockburn chuckled. “That suggestion has been voiced in the presence of old Wilks but he pretends not to hear. Of course, he’s leaving soon. I don’t expect it will make any difference when the new governor arrives. The new man will be just as insistent on his own comfort.”

“What’s that verse about a sow’s ear?”

“You mean the Peter Pindar lines? ‘You cannot make, my lord, I fear, a velvet purse of a sow’s ear.’ Exactly, Balcombe. Longwood is a sow’s ear. Not all the money in the English treasury will ever convert it into a decent residence. Certainly it won’t suit a man who enjoyed so long the grandeur of Versailles and the comfort of Malmaison. I watched him as we went over the place and I could read disgust in every expression of his face.”

“I doubt if you can get rid of the rats up there.”

“They’re all over the place.” The admiral gave his head a doubtful shake. “There was a hole in the floor of the room he may have to use as his bedchamber. A rat put its head through and stared at us. He was enormous and he didn’t seem afraid of us at all. Napoleon looked at him and said: ‘This fellow must be the king of the rats. Has he many subjects?’ He did not intend to be jocular. His face was white with rage. Still, he has made it clear already that he will maintain a semblance of imperial dignity, no matter where we put him. Have you heard how many people he has brought with him?”

“Quite a household, I understand.”

“More than forty. Already he has made his appointments. Bertrand is to be grand marshal of the palace. He’s a good enough fellow but a real stickler for form and he insists on being addressed as m’sieur le grand maréchal. What utter folly! Grand marshal of a cow stable!”

“I hear good things about Madame Bertrand.”

“Why not? She’s part English, you know. Her father was a Dillon. A descendant of the Dillon who organized the regiment of the Wild Geese in Paris.”

“Oh, yes. It was made up entirely of young Irishmen, wasn’t it?”

“From top to bottom. The share of Anglo-Saxon blood in the Dillons has worn pretty thin by this time. Still, it’s enough to make a fine lady of her. The Comte de Montholon is to be minister of finance, external and internal affairs and prefect of the palace. Have you enjoyed a glimpse of his wife? The fair Albiné! Not at all adverse to extramarital activities, that one. It’s said that Napoleon—well, I don’t need to put it into words. Then there’s Gourgaud, who will be chief orderly officer and have charge of the stables and carriages. And finally there’s the Marquis de Las Cases who will be chamberlain and chief secretary. A different stripe from the others, this fellow. He’s come for one purpose only, to get material for a life of Napoleon. He expects to make a fortune by publishing it in all European languages. Nothing of the soldier in Las Cases. The others look down on him.”

The long peaceful moments while they lingered over their wine were the best that this lonely island had to offer. The sun was sinking somewhere back of the high rock walls and the light which reached them was filled with a gentle melancholy. They felt the breeze from the sea but it reached them on almost soundless wings. Only the occasional piping of birds high above them broke the silence.

“You have been here some time now, Balcombe,” said the seaman, raising his glass to appraise the rich coloring. “Some people tell me this is a heaven on earth. Others say it is no more than a ghastly parody of life. Which is true?”

“I incline to favor the life here,” answered the merchant after a few moments of thought. “My wife never complains, being the sweetest woman on the face of the earth, but I fancy she is on the other side. She misses her friends and the church bells and the gentle rains. I like it because it’s so even. You never waken up to find snow piled up over the window sills. And you never suffer from tropical heat. I’m speaking of what we have here in this particular spot and with no consideration of the weather in town. It can get pretty bad there.

“But you know, my lord,” he went on, “there are times when the longing for home becomes almost unbearable. I wish I could tell you how often I have sat on this very spot and felt that I would trade an eternity of this placid existence for one hour—one hour, mind you—in a cold house with a real old London fog making it impossible to see the railings in front.”

“Of course, my dear fellow, of course, of course!” affirmed the admiral. “You wouldn’t be a true Englishman if you didn’t feel that way. But he”—motioning over his shoulder in the direction that Napoleon had taken—“he won’t. He won’t long for anything about France except the power and the glory. I don’t believe there’s a sentimental bone in his body. I don’t indeed.”

“I’m not as sure of that as you are,” declared Balcombe, reflectively. “No man has lived a more romantic life.”

“Are you referring to his campaigns or to the fair ladies who figured in his life?”

“A combination of both.”

“I will tell you this, my dear sir. I shall be a happy man when I set foot again on the quarter-deck of my ship and sail back to England, leaving all these responsibilities behind me. It’s going to be impossible to keep things on an even keel with this extraordinary man. I hope the government has the good sense to send out a diplomat, a man who knows how to tread on eggs, how to meet aggression with a properly firm hand well concealed in a velvet glove. A Talleyrand. Not an army man. No, no, that would never do! Balcombe, if the government borrowed the services of the Archangel Michael and sent him down here straight from heaven, this man would hate him on sight. He would pick quarrels and fill the air with outrageous demands. This is not guesswork, Balcombe. I know!”