Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 20

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There was a sequel to these disturbing rides which came about through the presence in the garden of the Las Cases’ son. He had been summoned to check in his notes on statements Napoleon had made the previous day. His manner became more diffident than usual when he saw Betsy sitting completely at her ease beside the chair of the once dreaded conqueror. Napoleon observed this and he smiled with something of the air of a tomcat which sees a rat’s whiskers twitching in the shrubbery.

“Mon enfant,” he said to the son and heir of the Las Cases family, “have you nothing to say to Mam’selle Betsee?”

The boy stammered, keeping his eyes on the ground, “Good morning, mam’selle.”

“Good morning, M’sieur Emmanuel,” said Betsy.

“Allons donc, how very formal.” The Napoleonic smile was broadening. “It is much too formal. It seems to me quite within the bounds of probability, Betsee, that this young man will some day be your husband. I cannot see a better prospect for either of you.”

Betsy was shocked into crying: “That boy! Oh, no, sire, never that!”

The senior Las Cases was heard expostulating indignantly over the idea. As for the boy, he turned scarlet and an expression took possession of his face which could only be described as stricken. He gave one unhappy glance at Betsy and then turned and ran from the garden. They could hear him stumbling up the wooden steps which led to the hot little garret where he spent most of his time.

“I must protest, Your Imperial Highness,” said the marquis. “When arrangements are made for Emmanuel’s marriage, it will be with full regard for his illustrious descent. There has never been a mésalliance in our family for over seven hundred years.”

Napoleon seemed to be enjoying himself. “Mésalliance?” he repeated the word with a certain relish. “Come, my dear Marquis, is that not a little strong? Have you not heard there is a certain, shall we say, secret, about Mam’selle Betsee’s descent?”

“Please, sire,” protested Betsy, “I would rather not have that discussed.”

Las Cases sat in a sprawling attitude in his chair, his face black with offended dignity. With an angry hand he brushed grains of snuff from the knees of his nankeen trousers.

“I have arrangements in mind for my son,” he declared.

“It seems to me I have detected in the manner of our youthful Emmanuel,” said Napoleon, “a definite trace of admiration for our charming Betsee.”

“My son will be guided in such matters solely by my wishes and commands. We are in concurrence on all points.”

Smiling broadly, the great man rose to his feet. He was looking more than usually distinguished and commanding, the Eagle as he had appeared in his heyday. For the first time he had discarded the white piqué breeches and had donned a pair made of swanskin which fitted him perfectly. His coat was equally new, a handsomely fitted garment of chestnut brown with silver buttons. Reaching for his snuffbox on the deal table, he turned to Betsy.

“Come, ma petite,” he said. “I feel the need of a stroll through the gardens. The work,” nodding to Las Cases, “will resume at the usual time tomorrow.”

Napoleon had nothing to say for several moments, as they slowly climbed the winding path through the shady banyan trees, the tall lacos, the myrtles. “If you belonged to a French family,” he remarked, finally, “your future would have been settled long ago. Ah, what a precise people the French are, particularly in the upper-middle classes. The vaunted aristocracy of our friend back there places him at the very bottom of the hereditary titled class and so no more than a fraction above the middle. How bitterly offended he would be if he heard me say that! Eh bien, for you the papers would have been drawn up, the marriage settlements and the dowry down in full detail. Every contingency provided for.” He glanced with an amused pucker of his lips at his companion. “I get the impression, little baggage, that you have a lack of esteem for the scion of this titled family about which the good marquis boasts so much. Have you thoughts of your own on the subject?”

Betsy indulged in a low laugh. “No, sire! Of course not. That may be the French way but it’s not the English. Why even our Jane is not considered old enough yet for any serious matrimonial plans. Of course,” she added, after a quick glance in his direction, “I know when men are looking at me with what one might call interest. There is, for instance, one of the officers of the 53rd. He’s a widower but he’s young and he’s really rather handsome.”

“A widower! And quite handsome!” The cheeks of the former emperor flamed with one of his frequent rages. “You, Mam’selle Impudence, are saying this to annoy me. You know I would never consent to have you marry an English officer! Any English officer. They are not soldiers. Now in the French Army an officer serves in the ranks and is promoted when he shows courage and merit. But the English!—the officers have rich fathers who buy commissions for them. Consider, ma petite. Buying the right to take command of soldiers!”

“Sire,” asked Betsy, who knew that he had stepped from his military academy into a junior commission, “how long did you serve in the ranks?”

There was a moment of silence while Napoleon watched her with suspicious eyes. “I am trying to explain that the French system is a good one. But the English way! Bah, those officers know no more about war than an army mule.”

“According to all reports,” commented Betsy, “they did rather well at Waterloo.”

There was a long silence and then Napoleon began to speak in ominous tones. “Betsee, I have given the strictest orders that no one is to mention in my hearing the name of that battle—that fatal last battle.”

He began to speak then in an almost oratorical tone, gesturing with both hands. It sounded as though he were reciting the account of the battle as it was to appear in his reminiscences. “That badly bungled battle where my staff men failed to carry out orders. Where they doddered and delayed. Where everything went wrong. Where even my luck in weather failed me. Before that the heavens opened when I needed rain to prevent armies from combining against me. When I wanted fair weather so I could attack, the skies smiled. But on this day of all days, this terrible, fateful day, it rained all morning, soaking the ground so I could not move my artillery until nearly noon. With good weather, I could have beaten Wellington,” pronouncing the name as though it were spelled Vilainton, “before the Prussians arrived. Ah, that sluggard, that slow-footed misinterpreter of orders, that Grouchy! And that sunken Ohain Road which my scouts had not noticed, cutting right across the English front where it checked the charge of the guards which would have won the battle for me!

“That battle is always in my mind! Waterloo, Waterloo! Where I was beaten by that fat-witted Wellington—no, that is not fair. He was a stouter and stronger general than the others I had faced. But only by such a combination of catastrophes could he have beaten me.” He paused and glared at Betsy. “Have you not been aware that I forbid any mention of that day?”

“Yes, sire.”

“You knew?” angrily.

“Yes, sire, I knew.”

“And yet you speak to me in this way?”

“Yes, sire.” The girl paused for a moment. “I’m too young to understand about things of this kind but I am finding that when I like someone very much—and I like you very much, sire—there are times when I want to say things or do things to hurt them. Perhaps you feel the same way when you take me on those dreadful drives and then try to make me confess I am frightened.”

“Ah, ah!” said Napoleon, with a nod.

“I am frightened when we drive so near the edge. I want to scream. You see, I’m afraid of heights. I get dizzy and ill. Do you enjoy torturing me in that way?”

“No, Betsee, I feel sorry for you. Perhaps it is as you say. Although I am unable to understand how a child of your years can discover such things for herself.” He was speaking in a puzzled tone. “I believe now I have always been hardest on those I like best. I loved Josephine very much and yet I would get into furious rages with her. My oldest friend in the army was Junot and I had a great affection for the blockhead. But I enjoyed finding fault with him. I never made him a marshal although he wanted it more than anything in the world. Then there was Lucien, the best of my brothers—he was an orator, at any rate, and a wise politician—I could hardly bring myself to be civil to him. He was the only one of my brothers that I refused to make a king!”

“I am delivering an oration, it seems,” he went on, leaning over to give her cheek a most affectionate pat. “But what you said started me thinking. We had better reach an agreement, you and I. I want you always with me when I go for drives but they will be at a sensible pace. I will give Archambault orders to keep away from the edges. How pleased he will be about that! And you, my bambine, will never again distress me by bringing up memories of that dreadful day.”

Betsy looked up with a trace of tears in her eyes. “No, sire, oh, no! Never, never will I mention it again.”