Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 21

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They returned from their afternoon walk in the most companionable of moods. Betsy had been asking questions about everything that came into her head—except the battle of Waterloo!—and he had answered with long introspective speeches. Finally she found the courage to raise a point which had been most often in her mind. “Sire, you are very unhappy about this separation from your wife and son.”

His mood, which had been pleasant and chatty, changed immediately. He seemed unwilling to make any response. Then, with his usual habit of raising his eyes under lowered brows, he said: “It is the separation from my son which I feel the most. When I was sent to Elba, it was promised me that my wife and son would go too. This pledge was broken. The boy was sent to his grandparents in Vienna. My wife made no efforts to see me. She did not answer my letters. At first I thought they were being kept from her but afterward I did not allow myself that consolation. I became convinced she wanted to have nothing more to do with me. I, who had raised her so high! But my little son! How I longed for him! When my possessions are unpacked, I shall show you a portrait of him. Never in this world has there been a more handsome and manly boy.”

“Have you portraits of the empress?”

He nodded indifferently. “If I display them, it will be for reasons of policy. I cannot show hostility while my son is in their hands.” He was beginning to find it easier to discuss the breach, even to experience some satisfaction in telling about it. “I was quite enamored of the empress when we were first married. She was obedient and good-natured. And attractive in a Germanic way—healthy and bright and with that fine cleanness of complexion. But since my misfortunes started, she has not been loyal. I have tried to convince myself it’s due to pressure from her parents but lately the reports on her conduct at Parma are most disturbing. There’s a German count who controls her household who—well, I can’t discuss that with you, my child. My son, fortunately, is still in Vienna where they call him the Duke of Reichstadt. Such effrontery! I suppose he will be raised to believe himself a Hapsburg and to consider his father an upstart! And through it all my once obedient and loving wife misbehaves herself in Italy with this Count Neipperg—a stiff-necked nonentity with a blind eye!”

“No, Betsee,” he concluded, “I conceal my feelings about her and pretend to know nothing. But I can tell you, as we are such good friends, that I no longer have any affection or respect for her.”

“How old was she when you were married, sire?”

“Eighteen years.”

Betsy drew a deep sigh. “Eighteen! What a wonderful age. I can hardly wait to be eighteen. You know, sire, it is awful to be as young as I am.”

“Ma petite, the years will pass quickly. You will reach this age you think so idyllic before you are aware of it.”

“It’s dreadful to be fourteen, sire. Everyone treats you like a child. You have to obey the rules the grownups make. You mustn’t do this or that. You mustn’t say what’s in your mind. You must go to bed early.”

Napoleon was now smiling again. “Yes, my poor one, I can see how hard your life is. But be of good cheer, Betsee, the years will fly. And you have it in you to make life meet you with gifts in both hands. You happen to have a good brain. And you have courage. As for marriage, you will have plenty of suitors to choose from. There will be a fine young man with a title and great estates who will curl up in your path like a pet dog and beg you to trample on him.”

“But, please, sire, he must not be too young. I won’t be content with any husband unless he’s much older than I am.”

“Now, that is very sensible. A woman’s chief purpose in life is to be a good wife and bring plenty of children into the world. And so husbands should have more experience of life.” He leaned over and tweaked her ear. “But get out of your head all these foolish notions about English colonels who happen to be widowers or, for that matter, young English officers with titles and plenty of money but no brains. You know, I mean to have something to say about your future, little baggage. I will have plans for you.”

He came to a halt and patted Betsy on the cheek. “It has been a most pleasant afternoon.” He turned then and made his way up the steps of the pavilion with a gait which suggested a certain degree of fatigue. Betsy had passed through the gate and was well on her way back through the outer gardens to the main house when she heard his voice, raised to a pitch which suggested excitement.

“Betsee! Betsee!”

She turned and saw that he had come out on the porch and was holding a sheet of paper in one hand. This he waved in her direction.

“I have something to show you. Something most strange.”

She went in through the gate, wondering what could have happened.

“See! I found this envelope under a book on the shelves in my room. It is addressed to a Sir Arthur Wellesley. Was not that the name of the Duke of Wellington?”

“Yes, sire. Weren’t you told that he occupied this house for a few days many years ago?”

Napoleon’s face displayed some disbelief over this information. “Here? In this house? What a coincidence! What a very strange coincidence!” He walked to the table under the banyan trees and took his usual chair. “Betsee, this passes belief. How did it come about?”

“It was many years ago,” explained the girl. “It was in—now, let me see. I was four years old at the time. It must have been 1805. He was returning from India. There was trouble over the drowning of some sailors and his ship was held over. He was sent to stay with us.”

Napoleon fell into a silence, his face a picture of intense preoccupation. It was some time before he turned his head again in the direction of his companion. “Betsee, this is one of the curious twists in life which fate provides. I have encountered so many of them in my time. Do you remember anything about what happened?”

“Very little, sire. I remember how kind he was. And I remember his nose above everything. It was one of the kind that my friend Private Knock would call a conky nose.”

Napoleon smiled. “A conky nose? Now why? And who is your friend Private Knock?”

“An English soldier. He was on sentry go at our gate on the morning you rode over to Longwood. We had a talk.”

“How long was Wellington here?”

“Only three days, I think.”

Napoleon lapsed again into an introspective mood. “Sir Arthur Wellesley! How quickly they loaded him with honors after that. Looking back, it could be said that his real career was just beginning when he was your guest. Strange, strange!”

After a further silence he turned to the girl. His eyes, which had reflected nothing but melancholy over this sudden contact with the past, had lighted up. They seemed to glow. “Mon Dieu, is the hand of fate to be seen in this? He left this island to enter on a new phase of his career. His greatest work was ahead of him. Is history going to repeat itself? Will a new life begin here for me? Why not? Why not, indeed, my child? The people of France are not happy without kings. Strong kings. This huge specimen of degeneration they have now will not satisfy them. This Bourbon monstrosity! Do you know that he weighs something like three hundred pounds? Do you know that he eats and drinks enough for a whole company of hussars? No, this Louis the Eighteenth is not capable of reviving the French spirit. The Russian armies will retire, the Prussians and Austrians will disband their forces. And then France, with only England to contend with, will demand my release. Am I wrong in reading some such turn of fate in the finding of this envelope?”

But after a further spell of silence, this exhilaration of mood left him. He frowned and sighed deeply. Finally he began to speak in a low voice, as though he had forgotten her presence.

“No! I must not expect such miracles. This curious tie between the Englishman and me has no favorable significance. It was at the beginning of his career that Wellington stayed in this little house. But it’s at the end of mine that I come here. I am a prisoner on a forgotten island, with nothing ahead of me but death, and nothing left but the lees of glory in the wine glass!”