Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 25

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A canvas marquee had been raised beside the pavilion to give additional accommodation for the emperor’s staff and to allow for a kitchen. His chief chef seemed, however, to prefer the Briars and prepared many of the meals there. It followed that there were frequent community meals which were most pleasant. For perhaps the first time in his life, Napoleon began to display a weakness for rich foods. His color began to improve almost from the day of his arrival but his waistline showed at the same time a tendency to expand.

When the emperor decided to have more assistance in the preparation of his notes, he summoned Gourgaud at once. The latter was happy to accept and moved from town. Somewhat to his dismay, he found himself installed in a corner of the marquee. Doubtless he had expected to be given the rooms occupied by Las Cases and his son.

From the first Gourgaud made it clear that he resented even more than Las Cases the way the younger daughter of the Balcombe family monopolized the time of Napoleon. A lean, dark figure, he stalked disapprovingly about the gardens, his lathlike legs encased in the tightest of breeches.

Once Napoleon whispered a question in Betsy’s ear. “What do you think of the gallant Gourgaud?”

“The gallant Gourgaud,” she whispered back, “makes me think of black spiders.”

“Come, come, ma petite. Surely he is not as bad as that!”

“Well, you see, sire, I have a friend in the 53rd Regiment—”

“Ah, ha!” cried Napoleon. “The truth is coming out. You have a friend in the regiment. One of these brainless young asses with long yellow mustaches. I knew it would come to this sooner or later!”

“No, sire, no! He’s not an officer. He’s just a private.”

“Don’t you know, mam’selle, that young ladies should not speak to privates?”

“But this one is different. He’s nice. And he says such odd things. He says there are only two kinds of people—those for you and those agin you. I saw right from the start that Baron Gourgaud was agin us.”

“This is a form of English humor—allowing that there is such a thing—that I don’t profess to understand,” declared Napoleon. A moment later, however, he indulged in a fleeting grin. “Certes, he is partly right, this great friend of yours. There was a saying in my armies that Gourgaud hated everyone. Even, at times, himself. Now that is good, is it not? That is civilized French humor. He hated himself!”

“There have been Englishmen like that too,” commented Betsy. “They seemed to hate themselves. And it has been talked about. Even in England, sire.” After a moment, she asked, “Is he a good soldier?”

“Um-m, yes. But perhaps not as good as he thinks himself.”

“Does he never smile?”

“Never! He is lugubre, triste. Even affreux.”

“Then why did you select him to come with you? Wouldn’t cheerful people be better? Ma foi—”

“Ma foi, ma foi!” cried Napoleon, bursting into loud laughter. “You are coming to our ways, ma petite. Even to our ways of speech.”

“But it seems strange to me that you brought this very gloomy officer with you.”

“Listen, and never repeat what I tell you. I did not select him. He selected himself and nothing could discourage him from coming. I did my best.” He indulged in even louder laughter. “Ma foi, yes!”

“Is he a woman hater, this lugubre young man?”

“Betsee, you should know better than that. He is a soldier, is he not? Soldiers are never woman haters. On the contrary.”

Gourgaud was taciturn but on occasions he indulged in spells of boasting. On one occasion he was talking to Napoleon in the marquee and was interrupted by the appearance of Betsy’s face between the canvas covers at the entrance. He frowned angrily and drew the rapier which dangled always against his lean shanks.

“You again!” he said. He held up the weapon, to display a red stain on the blade. “Do you see that, mam’selle? The blood of an Englishman. He intruded on me once and we had words. I called him out, mam’selle, and I ran my blade through his heart.”

“Was he a soldier, this Englishman?”

“No, a civilian. A glum fellow, like all the English.”

“So!” said Betsy. “He was a civilian and not used to weapons. It could not have been very hard for you to run him through the heart, my brave soldier!”

Betsy had observed that one of the emperor’s ceremonial swords was lying on the table. Afterward she declared that Napoleon looked at it and winked; and it is not on record that he ever denied either the glance or the wink. At any rate, Betsy intruded herself further into the marquee. When she saw that Gourgaud had replaced his honorably stained sword into the scabbard with a sharp blow of his fist as though to say, “Now you know what I think of the English!” she seized Napoleon’s sword and began to brandish it over her head.

“Put it down!” cried Gourgaud. “You’ll be hurting someone. Perhaps even the emperor!”

Betsy contended later that she glanced at Napoleon and that he, in a quite surreptitious manner, winked again.

“No, gallant Gourgaud!” she cried. “It’s not the emperor I’ll hurt. You!” She began to stalk across the room, swinging the blade above her head with increasing carelessness. “So, M’sieur Eater-of-Frogs, you killed an Englishman, did you? I am going to even the score. I am going to kill you!”

Gourgaud found himself in a serious dilemma. He knew he would become the butt of jokes if he drew his own sword to defend himself against a mere girl. On the other hand he was thoroughly alarmed by the wildness of the passes she was making at him. He began to skip from one side to the other, crying, “Se désister!” Finally he found himself pressed into a corner of the canvas walls and in desperation he made an effort to draw his blade again.

At this point Napoleon winked quite openly. “That’s enough, Betsee. I know you don’t want to hurt my brave officer but your handling of a sword leaves much to be desired. It cannot be called skillful at all. You may do him a mischief without intent. Or—and this we would all deplore—you may wound yourself.”

Gourgaud emerged from his corner with a scowling countenance.

“Sire, have you any further instructions for me?” he demanded in brusque tones.

“None, my dear Gourgaud, none. Except this, perhaps: no more duels, if you please, with Englishmen.”

“Then,” stiffly, “I have your permission to retire?”

“You may retire. Mam’selle Betsee is returning home. You will kindly act as her escort.”

If Gourgaud heard this, he gave no sign. The canvas closed behind him.

Napoleon frowned. “Perhaps we made a mistake in selecting that one for the dictation.”