Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 17
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After turning out from the green paths about the Briars and the cool solace of its shade trees, they found themselves on the rocky and twisted Longwood Road. The change to the scrubby brown growth which barely covered the hard surface of the earth and the stunted trees of strange patterns was as abrupt as it was unwelcome. The handsome Mameluke stirred up yellowish dust with his majestic hoofs, and the barricades of bush and undergrowth made it necessary for even the diminutive Tom to detour around them.
Across the granite shelvings of Rupert’s Valley they caught glimpses of the sullen Atlantic rolling into Flagstaff Bay. It was not a pleasant prospect even to Betsy, who knew every foot of the road. It inspired in Napoleon a bitter train of thought.
“Islands!” he said. “The seas are full of them, these useless patches of land, vomited up by the sea—all of them harsh and unfriendly and lonely. I’m sure this one is going to prove the worst of all.”
His downward glance as he indulged in this opinion crossed an upward look from Betsy. She seemed disturbed at what he said. Perhaps she had been hoping he would come to like St. Helena.
“Mon Dieu!” continued the onetime Man of Destiny. “All the misfortunes of my life, I verily believe, can be traced back to islands.”
“I must make it clear in my recollections,” he went on, “that my life has been conditioned, restricted, and thwarted by nature’s inconvenient habit of dividing the earth between continents and islands. To begin with, I was born in Corsica. On an island such as that the people become different from all others—in habit, in speech, in looks, and in dress. When I was sent to a French school, all the other boys knew me for what I was and they looked down on me and made things hard for me in every way. Because Corsica raises fine sheep, my fellows at school would get together in groups and bleat at me as I passed. ‘Mouflon!’ they would shout after me. I was not happy at school but perhaps it was just as well because I had nothing else to do but study and read.” He glanced down a second time at his companion, jogging along sidesaddle on her stocky pony. “Do you find this dull also, Mam’selle Betsee?”
“No, no, sire. I am listening to every word you say.”
“You will find my next point more interesting, ma petite. It concerns England. That large and wealthy island stood in my way at every stage of my life. The English refused to make peace with me and kept all Europe in arms by supplying the funds. Never was I given a moment’s rest by those stubborn shopkeepers. Why did I not lead my armies across the Sleeve and beat them to their knees? I had my plans made, and once, at Boulogne, I had an army of invasion drawn up and ready. But I held back. Why? Because England is an island. The English Navy was so strong I could not hope to defeat it.
“All through the centuries the English have known how to reap the advantage of that narrow twenty miles of water between them and the continent. Europe has been torn by wars while the English have sat in their seclusion, in peace and comfort, and reaped all the profits. I loathe these people of yours, my child. But I also admire them.
“Yes, Betsee, it is not because of the snows of Russia or the huge armies of the allies that I am now a prisoner. It is because England is an island!
“When my generals betrayed me and I had to abdicate the first time,” he went on, “they sent me to an island. Elba. It was pleasant enough. Some day I will tell you about it, and some of the strange things that happened while I was there. But when a man has been the ruler of most of Europe, can he be content with a cluster of little hills and a few thousand yokels to govern? Elba, the island of peace, drove me mad!
“I should have remained there, of course. The waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea provided a barricade between me and a continent swarming with my enemies. I should have realized that France was exhausted. But I had complete faith in my power to ride any whirlwind they might stir up. As I fled from this sanctuary, I said to myself, ‘I shall never set foot on an island again!’
“And now I am on another island, the smallest, the hottest, the most remote they could find. Trust the perfidious English to select a natural prison house!” He paused as his eye ranged along the line of the hills, the black and tortured masses of rock which volcanic action had raised above the level of the ocean. When he resumed, it was in a low tone, as though he had forgotten his listener. “The English believe in islands and they think I can be kept here until I die. Perhaps they are right. But if I must remain here, it will not be for long. Can an eagle survive if chained to the mouth of Hades?”
2
The barrenness of the soil and the stunted trees came to an abrupt ending. Ahead of them stretched a pleasant elevation of land somewhat similar to the Briars. Betsy said, “Whoa, Tom!” and slipped to the ground.
“This is where she lives, sire.”
In a clump of green trees stood a low frame house built around an interior courtyard. The windows were all closely shuttered and it looked deserted. The paint was peeling from the boards and the high-pitched roof was in need of repairs.
“A secluded place, certainly,” commented Napoleon.
“That was why she selected it. She never sees anyone and it’s impossible to find the servant most of the time. I can’t help feeling very sorry for them.”
“I am not sure, Betsee, you should waste your sympathies on people like these. The woman has some desperate need to hide herself away. She may be a criminal or a political refugee.”
Betsy gave her head a shake. “I can’t believe that, sire. I’ve seen the servant a few times and she always smiles. She has a most pleasant smile. But she never speaks.”
“Do you come this way often?”
“Every morning. I make a point of coming home this way when I’m finishing my ride before breakfast. I always whistle to let them know I’m coming and then I call, ‘Good morning, lady’ as I ride by.”
“And they don’t answer?”
“No, sire. But I know she hears me, and somehow I am sure she doesn’t mind. Really, I’ve an idea it pleases her.”
“Do your parents know about this?”
Betsy hesitated. “N-no,” she said. “I’ve told Jane. And Toby knows because he helped me get the peaches to take over to them. Look! The basket is hanging on the outside of the gate. It looks empty.” She glanced up at him and smiled. “You might have been served fresh peaches last night if I hadn’t robbed the trees. I expect Mamma was upset when she found there were none to be had.”
Betsy walked over to the wide wooden gate which stretched between the two wings of the house and seemed to be the only means of entrance. The small basket, hanging above the iron lock, was empty, as she had expected. As she reached up to take it, a door at the rear of the courtyard opened and a serving girl in a gaily colored dress appeared. She was, as Betsy had previously observed, rather attractive in a decidedly buxom way; her chief asset being a pair of blond braids hanging down on each side of her shoulders.
The girl smiled broadly as she crossed the cobblestoned yard and peered at them through the pickets.
“Pitches—good!” she said.
“Oh, I’m so glad you liked them,” said Betsy. “I’ll bring some more one of these days. Did your mistress like them?”
The servant sensed what had been asked but her stock of words was so limited that it took some time for her to say, “Ma’am—enjoy.”
Betsy’s attention at this point was drawn to the activities of a lonely and scrawny chicken, scratching between the cobblestones with the most meager results. She pointed at the bird and then indulged in a pantomime to express the opening of an egg with a spoon. “Would you like some eggs?” she asked.
The servant’s smile grew wider as she grasped the meaning. Then she shook her head. “Hen, no. Roost’, ” she said.
“Then you must need fresh eggs. Perhaps I’ll be able to bring you some.”
The girl’s broad cheeks broke into a smile which expressed real delight. “Aches?” she said. “Ah, aches good.”
Before reaching the house they had been aware of a small black speck in the sky, somewhat larger than a man’s hand but certainly not in excess of a human head. As they talked it had grown considerably and was approaching with alarming speed. Betsy looked up and gave vent to an exclamation of dismay. She sprang back into the saddle.
“We’re in for a heavy shower, sire,” she said. “I’m afraid we’ll have to gallop all the way back if we want to escape a good drenching.”
But Napoleon’s eyes were fixed on the figure of a horseman a short distance down the road. They began to glitter with malicious amusement.
“There he is, the great simpleton,” he said. “The spy they have set on me. What is his name?”
“Captain Poppleton.”
“A typical English name. Well, ma petite, it occurs to me that if we were to loiter a little this—what is your word for it?—Ah, yes, ubiquitous. This ubiquitous captain, this English fathead, would have to ride a long way behind us and he would get soaked to the skin.” He had a tendency to play tricks on those about him as his new friends would soon discover. “Betsee, let’s teach him a lesson.”
Betsy looked down the road and saw that Captain Poppleton was wearing the rather elaborate parade uniform of the 53rd, a long-tailed gray coat buttoned back by loops of gold lace, a scarlet collar and cuffs, the skirts of the coat showing a white lining. “Poor Captain Poppleton!” she thought. “It’s not his fault. He’s here on orders. That beautiful uniform would be terribly damaged by a heavy rain.” To Napoleon, she said: “But, sire, we have ourselves to think of. It would ruin my dress if we were caught in the rain and you can imagine what Mamma would say to that. Besides, sire, what about that wonderful coat of yours?”
Napoleon gave in instantly. “Of course, Betsee, I must not get you into trouble. But”—the malicious light still showing in his eyes—“we must plan between us to play some tricks on this fellow. When the weather is better.”
Betsy tapped the flank of her pony with a suddenly insistent heel. “Up, you slow fellow Tom! We’re going to catch it if we don’t ride hard.” Then she called, turning her head in the direction of the shuttered windows, “Good-by, lady!”
As they galloped back with the black cloud becoming alarmingly close by the moment, Napoleon leaned down from his high saddle. “My hearing is rather acute. When we stopped in front of that house, I heard a slight click. It was like the space between shutters being cautiously enlarged from the inside. It must have been your mysterious lady. Betsee, I’m certain she saw and heard everything.”
