Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 26

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The morning after the episode of the swords, Betsy did not put in an appearance. Napoleon kept an ear open for her customary and cheerful “It’s me!” at the gate and seemed disappointed that nothing happened to break the monotony of dictation. Finally he said to Las Cases, “Ou est Mam’selle Betsee?”

The marquis grunted. “I do not know, sire. But I do know it is a great relief not to have her here.”

As the morning wore on, it occurred to the emperor that an unnatural silence reigned in the gardens of the Briars. He had been fully aware that the Balcombe family possessed among other pets a newborn family of pups. From the first he had heard shrill barking as they followed Betsy about the grounds. Often he had encountered her with one of the pups in her arms; always the same one, he believed.

“What do you call that animal?” he had asked her on one such encounter.

“I call him Snooky, sire.”

“Hmm! An odd name.”

“But it suits him. You see, in London—”

“That dreadful city!”

“It’s a wonderful city, sire. You’ve never been there.”

Napoleon happened to be in a grumpy mood. “The world,” he declared, “is full of splendid cities—Paris, Rome, Vienna, Venice, Cairo, Moscow. They are all quite different, and they are all greater than London. When I was planning to invade England, back in 1808, I made no provision for the safeguarding of London. If it had been necessary to destroy it for military reasons, it would have been wiped out. It’s a dismal place, full of fog and smoke.”

“Just as you say, sire,” commented Betsy cheerfully. “And now that you’ve disposed of London, may I point out that the people of that city are very lively and amusing and have unusual names for things? They call your head a ‘snook.’ When the pups were born, this little fellow had a much larger head than the others, and so I called him Snooky.”

Napoleon studied the dog with a critical eye. “He has a rueful countenance, like Don Quixote.”

“But you must make allowances for the poor little fellow. After all, he’s just an English dog.”

“I dislike him intensely. He bears a strong resemblance to one the empress had when we were married.”

“The Empress Josephine?”

Napoleon nodded. “She called the noisy beast Fortuné. I told her once she seemed to care more for the little pest than she did for me.”

At eleven o’clock on this particular morning, when Betsy had so unaccountably absented herself, one of the pups began to bark mournfully from the direction of the house, a steady Moo-roo! Moo’roo! Napoleon said to himself: “It’s that lugubrious one. Now I am sure there is something wrong.” He got to his feet, motioned to Las Cases to indicate that dictation was ended for the time being, and walked over to the main house. The dog doing the howling, he found, was Betsy’s special pet. Seated beside one of the cellar windows, with head pointing up toward the skies, the pup was venting his unhappiness in sound.

“Betsee!” called Napoleon.

Her face appeared promptly at the cellar window. She attempted to smile, but it was a complete failure.

“Ma petite, what are you doing down there?”

With some difficulty, she managed to open the window. In the better light thus provided, he saw that she had been crying.

“I am being punished, sire.”

“For what? Have you been guilty of some serious offense?”

“It’s because of what I did last night,” she replied, blinking back her tears. “Someone told Papa I tried to kill you and Baron Gourgaud with your sword. Papa was very angry and wouldn’t pay any attention to what I said. I must stay here all day.”

The almost habitual sternness of Napoleon’s face was replaced by an expression of compassion. “My poor child!” he said. “This is all wrong. It was a joke and I was more at fault than you.” He nodded his head with a return to his accustomed severity. “I suspect the hand of the good marquis in this. Last evening I gave him an account of the way you dealt with that great swashbuckler. I am sure he could not wait to tell your father. It must be most uncomfortable down there.”

“Yes, sire. All the wine is stored here and the sweet smell of it is making me sick.”

“Are you not being allowed any light?”

The child’s woebegone face was shaken in denial. “No, sire. And it’s terribly dark. I’m afraid to move.” She strove to get closer to the wall. “I think Old Huff must stay here during the daytime. I hear sounds of rustling.”

Napoleon knelt down on one knee and stared into the dark recesses of the cellar.

“Betsee, you told me you didn’t believe in ghosts?”

“No, sire,” she responded, with a catch in her voice. “I don’t believe in them. But just the same, I’m afraid of them!”

“Come, come, you are too brave to have such ideas. But I don’t think you should be kept in this damp place. It will make you ill. Have you anything to sit on?”

She shook her head. “There’s a three-legged stool somewhere. But I’m afraid to look for it.”

“Has your father gone into town?”

Betsy nodded. “I must stay here until he comes back.”

“Then I shall speak to Madame your mother. It will be hard for me to make myself understood. I have not been improving in my English, have I? Still something must be done. Please be brave while I am gone. And stay where you are.”

He was back in a short time, followed by Mantee carrying a chair. This was placed at the window and Napoleon seated himself in it.

“Have you had any trouble? Has Old ’Uff been up to any tricks?” He gave a short laugh. “Madame your mother is as sensible as she is charming. She grasped what I was attempting to tell her. She feels, ma petite, that you must have been partly at fault and so must be punished. She does not think she should countermand your father’s decision but she is reducing your term of detention to one more hour. So, my small one, we must make the best of it, you and I. I shall sit here and keep you company. Old ’Uff will be on his best behavior. It stands to reason that the spirit of a crazy old schoolteacher won’t stand up to the winner of sixty battles.”

“No. Oh, no. I won’t be afraid with you here.”

“To keep your mind off your troubles, we must talk. What would you like to talk about?”

“Something very interesting, sire.”

“Of course. You select the topic.”

“Then tell me how you met your wife. Your first wife, sire. The Empress Josephine. I have thought about her so much.”

“It is known to all,” began Napoleon, “that a man cannot achieve great and unusual things without having a perspective on himself. Everyone has faults, even the greatest of men; and if they are truly great they realize their faults. It is as though a man is able to watch himself and say, Ma foi, this thing I am doing is wrong. I must correct this habit. I must be as hard on myself as on others.

“In this respect, my Betsee, I have been a great man. I have always been able to watch myself in action and to decide when I am right and when I am wrong. It is not a pleasant thing to have the gift for seeing oneself. It is so often hurtful to the pride.

“Conceive of me, Betsee, when I first emerged from obscurity. To others I seemed an insignificant fellow. In the first place, I am not of commanding stature. You would not say I was tall, would you?”

“No, sire. You are not exactly tall.”

There was a brief pause.

“When one is not exactly tall,” he resumed finally, “it is unfortunate if he is at the same time thin. I was thin. I was dark and sallow and my hair was lank. I looked undernourished. No one knew this better than I did myself—”