Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 15
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ОглавлениеNapoleon wakened the next morning at eight o’clock. He had slept well. The cool breeze which came in at one window and left by another was in pleasant contrast to the heat of the room he had occupied at the inn. A vague thought took possession of his mind. Would those busy officials of the stubborn English Government allow him to remain here permanently and forget all about the possibility of converting that rat-infested rookery on the crest into a residence for him?
After a few moments of such speculation, he sat up in bed and called, “Marchand!” There was an instant squeak of leather soles outside the door and his head valet entered.
“Yes, Your Imperial Highness,” said Marchand, bowing.
“I shall get up now.”
“That is good, Your Imperial Highness,” declared the valet, opening the toilet case he had carried in with him. “There is a breakfast ready for you. Monsieur Lepage has not yet been able to set up an oven but the cook from the other house brought over a loaf. It is too much, Your Imperial Highness, to hope for anything eatable from a servant trained in English ways. But it must be allowed that the bread smells most appetizing.”
Marchand was right. The loaf had been spreading an enticing odor all through the small rooms of the pavilion. Napoleon seldom had much appetite in the morning but for once the thought of bread hot from the oven was an invitation.
“The shaving may wait, Marchand,” he said.
The table was set out with flowers fresh from the gardens and practically dripping with dew. There was a pot of chocolate, the loaf on a plate of brightly colored crockery, a large pat of butter, and a jar of jelly made from Cape gooseberries. The Man of Destiny took a bite of bread and said in audible tones: “Ah! It is good. What miracle is this, Marchand?”
“The miracle, Your Highness, if you think it such, is the work of a colored woman, wearing a purple ribbon around her head.”
“That would be the one they call Sarah,” said Napoleon to himself. “She is ma petite Betsee’s best friend in the household. I perceived that much at the meal last night.”
After breakfast he bathed in a special tub of India rubber, which had been brought out with his other belongings, was shaved by the skilled fingers of Marchand, and dressed in his invariable costume. Then he strolled out into the garden.
The first evidence he had of life at the Briars was the prompt appearance of two small round heads above the fence which separated the two houses. “These must be the sons of the family,” he thought. He walked down the path and said, “Good morning.” This exhausted his supply of English for the moment and he waited for developments. There were none immediately. The two round faces seemed very young and quite devoid of expression. He pointed to the larger and said, “You are Will-yum.”
This elicited a response. The larger face nodded. “Sir, some call me Billy and some Will.”
Napoleon looked at the smaller face. “And you?” he asked, pointing.
“I, sir, am Alex,” said the small boy.
“Alex,” repeated Napoleon. “You are named after the emperor of Russia, then?”
Somehow the smaller boy grasped the sense of this and shook his head. “No, sir. I’m named after my grandfather. My mother’s father. They say he was a nice old man but I never saw him. I was too young. But,” proudly, “he left me his watch. In his will. It’s gold.”
The visitor could not think at the moment of anything to say beyond this question of names. He tapped his chest and then raised his forefinger. “Who am I?”
They responded to this at once. “Boney!” they exclaimed, in unison.
At this moment a sound of shrill and angry barking reached their ears. Apparently a crisis of some kind had arisen at the rear of the Briars. The two faces vanished from sight and Napoleon could hear the scrambling of feet through the gardens as the boys raced to discover what was happening in the kingdom of their pets.
“The small boy is exactly the size of the King of Rome,” the prisoner said to himself as he retraced his steps.
