Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 4

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The Marquis de Las Cases, who professed a leaning to letters, hunched his thick shoulders over the rail and stared at the rocky islet. “Have we been Crossing the Styx all these months?” he asked his companions. “Surely this is hell which now faces us!” He grinned with appreciation of his own wit and said to his son Emmanuel, who stood as always behind him: “Make a note of that, my boy. I think it’s quite good.”

The Bertrands, the Montholons and the mercurial Gourgaud were as much appalled as he was by the prospect but his remark was allowed to drop without comment. None of them liked Las Cases and wondered why the emperor had included him in his party. Madame Bertrand whispered to her husband, “Conceited little man!” Gourgaud rubbed his chin with nervous fingers and indulged in speculations as to the slim possibility of escaping from this volcanic prison house.

Madame Montholon was the only one who heard the light footfall on the deck behind them and turned to see the emperor approaching. She indulged in a fleeting but intimate smile over her plump shoulder. This was a habit which annoyed Napoleon very much, because of the implications which might be drawn from it. There had been too much sly whispering about them on the long voyage.

Curiosity had finally taken the upper hand. He could wait no longer to see this obscure island about which they had speculated so much. His valet Marchand had seen to it that he wore nothing but white, except, of course, for the low shoes of black leather. The southeast trades, which bombarded the island, ruffled his no longer abundant stock of hair. He took a few steps only toward the rail, his eyes fixed on James Roads with a rigid intentness.

The roadstead was filled with ships. There were the frigates which had accompanied the Northumberland, all flying the flag of the Royal Navy, their masts bare, their decks filled with busy figures in white. There were in addition a few deep-sea trading vessels and quite a large number of fishing craft. The Man of Destiny’s eyes smoldered as he took in this display of sea strength. If it had not been for the British Navy he might have accomplished all his objectives many years before. Had he been able to protect his armies in crossing the Channel, he would have sent them over from Boulogne without any hesitation, knowing how weak the land defenses of the obdurate island had been at the time. Why had it been impossible to find better commanders than the incompetent and overly cautious French admirals? Jeanne d’Arc was born to save France in the Hundred Years’ War. Why could not another Madame de Clisson have been sent to inspire his sailors to fight as well as his soldiers fought on land?

Back of the hulls and masts of the shipping loomed up the mountainous line of St. Helena. An appalling sight! No gentle, warm Elba this; where, had he controlled his ambition, he could have spent the rest of his life in ease and with a certain degree of dignity. The gamble of the Hundred Days had been a costly one!

A furious anger boiled up inside him. He, emperor of a victorious France, the master of Europe, who had moreover placed himself voluntarily in British hands, was he to be treated as a prisoner of war? How could he have anticipated they would display their perfidy so glaringly?

How could civilized people exist on this volcanic islet? There was something mysterious, something fearsome and blood-chilling about the high-piled and tortured rocks which jutted up straight from the sea.

“France! Fickle France!” he said to himself. “How long will you allow this to go on? I found your throne vacant and still filled with the stench of the stupid Bourbons and the filthy wigs they wore! I raised it to a glory such as the world had never seen. France, France, let the world know that Napoleon is your true head! Demand his release!”

The members of his party waited for him to speak. He seemed calm enough on the surface. Finally he raised the telescope which hung around his shoulders on a twisted cord of white velvet. With uncertain fingers he adjusted the sights to the harbor of Jamestown pressed in between two towering walls of black rock.

After several moments of observation, he lowered the glass.

“There’s a quay behind that iron arch,” he said in a low tone. “It is filled with people. They are waiting for a sight of the man who might have been their master. I suspect they think I’ll be taken ashore in chains.” He dropped the glass. “I shall refuse to go until nightfall. They are not going to exhibit me like a trained bear!” He stepped back a pace. “Bertrand, tell that admiral fellow what I’ve decided. We’ll go ashore by the light of the moon.”

Gourgaud, who always found it hard to curb his feelings, took it on himself to make a comment. “Does the moon ever deign to shine on this ghostly pile of slag from the furnaces of Satan?”