Mrs. Balcombe at once understood the situation, for at the moment of the figure's appearance she had heard a smothered laugh that she recognized as Napoleon's. Advancing to the white figure, she turned back the covering, and underneath appeared the black face of a little slave, grinning from ear to ear.
"What brought you here?" asked Mrs. Balcombe sternly.
"To frighten Miss Betsy;" and the black girl pointed toward Napoleon, who had now come forward to see what effect his trick had had upon his young neighbor.
This little ghost scene had a wider effect than Napoleon intended, for it put the idea of playing ghost into the heads of other servants. One of the Balcombe slaves had lately run away and could not be found. The family suspected that he was hiding not far off, because every night pigs, poultry, bread, and other provisions were stolen in quantities, by whom nobody could tell. After a while Napoleon began to complain of thefts, but when the various black servants were questioned they all said that the thief must be a ghostly white figure that they saw skipping around the valley from rock to rock. That they believed what they said was shown by the alarm they showed, for none of them would go out alone by night.
"I believe that it really and truly is old Huff's ghost," insisted Betsy.
"You can't believe such a foolish thing; indeed, I should think you would know better after what happened the other evening, when you allowed yourself to be terrified by a little black girl," said her mother reprovingly. She added, "You look pale, Betsy. What is the trouble?"
"I can't help it. I may be foolish," responded poor Betsy, "but for nights and nights I have been afraid to close my eyes."
"All on account of the ghost," thought Mrs. Balcombe, wishing that Betsy were less nervous.
Mr. Balcombe and some friends now undertook to catch the thief, feeling sure that he would prove to be a substantial individual. After long watching, one night they saw a figure move stealthily across the valley toward the house. They called upon it to stop, but when it neither obeyed nor answered, they felt obliged to shoot. A loud scream followed the report of the gun, and when they came upon the fallen figure they discovered the runaway slave Alley. He was badly hurt, although not fatally, and they did what they could for him. The next morning the whole party went to the cave to which Alley directed them. Napoleon accompanied them and was much interested in what he saw.
It reminded him of the catacombs of Paris, he exclaimed, as he looked about at the heaps of bones which the slave had placed in neatly arranged piles after he had gorged himself with food.
As Betsy grew to know Napoleon better, she sometimes observed in his conversation and manner a sadness that she had not noticed earlier. This slight melancholy was especially evident when the conversation touched on Josephine or the little King of Rome. Often Napoleon gazed intently at Mrs. Balcombe, explaining as he did so that it was because she reminded him strongly of Josephine. He loved to talk of Josephine, especially with Madame Bertrand, who was a native of Martinique and was said also to be a distant relative of the Empress.
One day, for example, Madame Bertrand, in Betsy's presence, brought out a miniature of Josephine. The Emperor seemed deeply moved as he gazed at it.
"It is the most perfect likeness of her that I have ever seen."
"It is for you, sir," said Madame Bertrand simply.
Thanking her warmly, Napoleon added, "I will keep it until my death."
On this occasion the Emperor was especially inclined to talk about his first wife, and Betsy, hearing him, wondered that he had been willing to separate himself from her.
"Josephine," he said, "was the most feminine woman I have ever known—all charm and sweetness and grace.Era la dama la piu graziosa in Francia." Then he continued: "Josephine was the goddess of the toilet. All fashions came from her. Besides this she was humane and always thoughtful of others. She was the best of women. Although the English and the Bourbons allow that I did some good, yet they generally qualify it by saying that it was chiefly through the instrumentality of Josephine. But the fact is that she never interfered in politics. Great as my veneration was for her, I could not bear to have it thought that she in any way ruled my public actions."
Napoleon's praises of Josephine continued to flow on.
"She was the greatest patroness of the arts known in France for years; but though I loved to attend to her whims, yet I always acted to please the nation, and whenever I obtained a fine statue or valuable picture I sent it to the Museum for the people's benefit. Josephine was grace personified. She never acted inelegantly during the whole time we lived together. Her toilet was perfection, and she resisted the inroads of time, to all appearances, by exquisite taste."
Napoleon spoke with deep emotion, "She was the best of women!"
Then, as if in answer to Betsy's unspoken question, he said:
"It was only political motives that led me to give her up. Nothing else would have separated me from a wife so tenderly loved. Thank God, she died without witnessing my last misfortune!"
From Josephine Napoleon turned to Maria Louisa, his second wife, the mother of his son, of whom he spoke tenderly and affectionately:
"She was an amiable and good wife. She would have followed me here, but they would not let her."
Napoleon next called Betsy's attention to one or two portraits of Maria Louisa, but Betsy, though she made no criticism, thought then, as she had thought at other times when studying the face of Maria Louisa, that the Austrian Princess was at a disadvantage when contrasted with the members of Napoleon's family, all of whom were handsome and looked intellectual.
This conversation about Josephine and Maria Louisa was interrupted by the arrival of a visitor, Count Piontkowski, lately arrived from Europe. He was a Pole who had fought under Napoleon, and his love for his fallen leader had led him to follow into exile.
Napoleon himself had no clear remembrance of the Pole as an individual, and he was therefore the more deeply gratified by the spirit of devotion that had induced Piontkowski to make the long voyage to St. Helena for the sake of being near his old commander.
The long interview with the newcomer undoubtedly brought before Napoleon's mind many sad memories, and when he returned to them Betsy and the others noticed that he was in unusually low spirits. As he looked again at the portraits of Josephine and Maria Louisa he grew more and more dejected, and at last, excusing himself, he went to bed much earlier than usual, leaving the rest of the party under the influence of his melancholy.
When the second New Year came around, Napoleon was in less than his usual good spirits. It was not to Betsy, however, but to Dr. O'Meara that he said in reply to the physician's "Happy New Year":
"Perhaps the next one will find me better situated. Perhaps I shall be dead, which will be better still. Worse than this cannot be."
It was not the Emperor's habit to show his sadness for any great length of time. On this second New Year's the sisters were to go over to Longwood to carry their New Year greeting and to dine with Madame Bertrand.
When they first arrived at the house Betsy was disappointed that Napoleon was nowhere in sight and she wondered that no message or present came from him, for she knew that the French made a special festival of New Year's and recalled the generosity of the Emperor just a year before.
Still there was much to see and enjoy in Madame Bertrand's apartment, and she and Jane were examining with admiration the presents of Madame Bertrand and her family, when Napoleon himself entered the room. In each hand he was carefully carrying a beautiful Sèvres cup. As the girls drew near to look at them, they saw that on one was a portrait of Napoleon himself, representing him in Turkish costume, and on the other the figure of an Egyptian woman drawing water.
"Here, Mdlles. Betsee and Jane," he exclaimed, "are two cups for you. Accept them as a mark of the friendship I entertain for you both and for your kindness to Madame Bertrand."
Charmed with his beautiful presents, the girls thanked Napoleon warmly. Betsy, indeed, was so delighted with her cup that she would not let it go out of her hands, and when at last the time for her departure came she wrapped it in many folds of cotton to carry it home—at considerable risk even then, as the journey was made on horseback.
Betsy was a keen observer, and although she was fond of paying Napoleon back in his own coin when he teased her, she appreciated the depth of his feelings in his more serious moments.
One beautiful day, when she went over to Longwood, she was impressed by the brilliancy of the atmosphere, which is, indeed, one of the charms of St. Helena. Standing on the rocks she watched the waves breaking and sparkling at their base and noted the sea beyond, glistening like a sheet of quicksilver. With her spirits especially buoyant under the influence of the wonderful day, she went up to St. Denis, one of the Emperor's suite.
"Where is the Emperor?" she asked gayly. "I want to see him."
The Frenchman shook his head so gravely that for the moment the smile left Betsy's face and she wondered if any misfortune had happened. After a moment of silence, St. Denis replied:
"The Emperor is watching theConqueror, which is now coming in." TheConquerorwas the vessel bearing the flag of Admiral Pamplin, who was to succeed Admiral Malcom. "You will find the Emperor," continued St. Denis, "near Madame Bertrand's, but he is in no mood for badinage to-day."
If the Frenchman had meant to keep Betsy away from Napoleon, he was not successful. In spite of his warning Betsy went on toward the cottage. As soon as she saw the Emperor, she herself came under the influence of his mood. He was standing on a cliff with General Bertrand, looking out toward sea, where theConquerorwas still but a speck on the horizon. Betsy was impressed by the intense melancholy of the exiled Emperor's expression, as he stood there stern and silent. His eyes were bent sadly upon the vessel as it came in, beating up proudly to windward.
For some time not a word was uttered by any of the three. Even the talkative Betsy was silent. At last Napoleon spoke:
"They manage the vessel beautifully; the English are certainly kings upon the sea," he said. Then his melancholy tone changed to one of sarcasm. "I wonder what they think of our beautiful island! They cannot be much elated by the sight of my gigantic walls."
At this moment Betsy did not venture a retort, as was generally the case when Napoleon railed at her beloved St. Helena. Betsy was alive to all the beauties of the place, while Napoleon, naturally, saw only its faults. When Betsy defended the island and waxed eloquent over its beauties, sometimes he would simply laugh at her impertinence, while at others, pinching her ear in his favorite fashion, he would say:
"Mees Betsee, how can you possibly dare to have an opinion on the subject?"
This glimpse of Napoleon, sadly watching theConqueror, was not the only occasion when Betsy had an opportunity to see the more serious side of the man whom she admired. Although she was only a young girl, she was able sometimes by her intelligent questions to draw from him an explanation of much discussed things in his past. There was, for example, the oft-repeated story that Napoleon had sanctioned the butchery of Turkish troops at Jaffa and the poisoning of the sick in the hospitals.
If the Emperor was vexed with Betsy for touching on forbidden ground, he did not show his feeling, but entered into an explanation that his young neighbor was able long afterwards to repeat in his own words. "Before leaving Jaffa," said Napoleon, "and when many of the sick had been embarked, I was informed that there were some in the hospital severely wounded, dangerously ill, and unfit to be moved at any risk. I desired my medical men to hold a consultation as to what steps had best be taken with regard to the unfortunate sufferers and to send in their opinions to me. The result of this consultation was that seven-eighths of the soldiers were considered past recovery, and that in all probability few would be alive at the expiration of twenty hours."
Betsy listened attentively, as Napoleon showed how difficult it was to decide whether it was not more cruel to leave these helpless men to the mercy of the Turks than to end their misery by a dose of opium: "I should have desired such a relief for myself under the same circumstances and I considered it would be an act of mercy to anticipate their fate by only a few hours. My physician did not enter into my views of the case, and disapproved of the proposal, saying it was his business to cure, not to kill. Accordingly I left a rear-guard to protect these unhappy men from the enemy. They remained until Nature had paid her last debt and released the expiring soldiers from their agony."
As his auditors did not look convinced of the correctness of his views, Napoleon turned to Dr. O'Meara, who was of the party.
"I ask you, O'Meara, to place yourself in the situation of one of these men. Were it demanded of you which fate you would select, either to be left to suffer the tortures of those miscreants or to have opium administered to you, which fate would you rather choose? If my own son—and I believe I love my son as well as any father loves his child—were in a similar situation, I should advise it to be done. If so situated myself I should insist upon it, if I had sense enough and strength to demand it."
Without waiting for comment from the others, Napoleon added that if he had been capable of secretly poisoning his soldiers or of the barbarity ascribed to him of driving his carriage over the mutilated bodies of the wounded, his troops would never have fought under him with the enthusiasm and reverence they uniformly displayed. "No, no, I should have been shot long ago. Even my wounded would have tried to pull a trigger to despatch me."
The Emperor spoke so earnestly that no one could doubt he meant what he said. Even though they believed that the Turkish prisoners had been treated with great cruelty, his hearers saw that ambition or a feeling of necessity had been the impelling motive of the officers who sanctioned or ordered the cruelty.
Napoleon's conversations with Betsy were of course carried on largely in French, and but for the little girl's fluency in this language she would probably have seen much less of the great man. Napoleon himself made a real effort to learn English. Not only did he study with Las Cases, but he tried to practise the language with Betsy and her sister. In conversation, however, he never became very proficient, his pronunciation was droll, and he was inclined to translate things very literally. Betsy was less patient than her sister with Napoleon's English. By his expressed desire she and Jane were always to correct his mistakes, yet often, in the midst of his efforts, she would run off without deigning to help him.
"Ah, Mdlle. Betsee," he would then cry in French, "you are a stupid little creature; when will you become wise?"
Although Napoleon persevered with his English lessons with Las Cases, he never proceeded much further than to read the newspapers. English books presented many difficulties, and yet much of the literature that came his way was in this language. Here again Betsy was able to make herself very useful by translating books or newspapers for him, and sometimes she went further and gave him in condensed form the contents of a great many pages. Even after he went to Longwood, when Betsy went over there to call on Madame Bertrand, Napoleon would summon her to help him understand some newly arrived English book.
From Napoleon's own admission to one of his own suite, after he had been in St. Helena a year or two, we can judge that his progress in English had not been very rapid. One morning, after the arrival of a number of French books, he said:
"What a pleasure I have enjoyed! I can read forty pages of French in the time that it would require to read two of English."
The Emperor enjoyed talking with Betsy, for the little girl was a great reader herself, and he had the faculty of drawing from her whatever information she had on a given subject. Occasionally she thoughtlessly questioned Napoleon on topics that she might better have avoided.
One Sunday, for example, at Madame Bertrand's, he found the girls poring over a book.
"What are you doing?" he asked abruptly.
"Learning the collect," replied Betsy. "My father is always very angry if I do not know it." Then she added, not very courteously, "I suppose you never learned a collect or anything religious in your life, for I know that you do not believe in the existence of a God."
"You have been told an untruth," replied Napoleon impatiently, evidently displeased with Betsy. "When you are wiser you will understand that no one can doubt the existence of a God."
"But you believe in predestination?"
"Whatever a man's destiny calls him to do, that he must fulfil," was the Emperor's response.
Young though she was, Betsy understood the seriousness that underlay the superficial gayety most in evidence when Napoleon met her. She decided that he was not the cold, calculating man that most people thought him, but rather a man of deep feeling, capable of strong attachments.
One day, not long after he had left The Briars, a lady approached Betsy, who was in the grounds outside the house.
As she dismounted from her horse Betsy had recognized her as a French woman of high position, whose husband was one of the diplomatists then at St. Helena.
"Will you be so good," she said almost timidly to the little girl, "as to show me the part of the cottage occupied by the Emperor?"
"With pleasure," responded Betsy, leading the way to the Pavilion. The lady looked about her with great interest.
"Look!" said Betsy, pointing to the spot where the marquee had stood. "Look at this crown in the turf!"
The lady gazed for some minutes at this empty symbol of the power once held by the Emperor. The thoughts that it brought up overpowered her. Losing all self-control, she sank to her knees, sobbing hysterically. Forgetful of Betsy, she continued to weep so bitterly that the little girl started for the cottage that she might get her mother, or some one else of the household, to bring restoratives.
"Stop, stop!" cried the lady, as if realizing her purpose. "Do not call any one. I shall be myself in a moment." Then, in a voice still filled with emotion, she added, "Please do me the favor of never mentioning this to any one. All French people feel as I do. They all treasure Napoleon's memory as I do, and would willingly die for him."
Betsy gave the required promise and waited patiently until the lady had recovered her self-possession. Then the latter asked innumerable questions of the little girl about the life of Napoleon and his suite at The Briars.
Several times the visitor repeated, "How happy it must have made you to be with the Emperor!"
When she rode away after her long interview, she put a thick veil over her face to hide the fact that she had been weeping.
Betsy was true to her word, and although her family, one after another, asked her why the visitor had made so long a stay, she merely replied that she had been interested in the Pavilion. But the scene made a deep impression on the little girl, as showing the remarkable hold of Napoleon on the hearts of those who had been his subjects. Moreover she judged, and truly too, that a man for whom such deep feeling was shown must himself have been of a kind and sympathetic nature.
It is true that she did not need the testimony of any outsider to assure her of Napoleon's amiability. She was well acquainted with his general kindliness; she knew of many of his gracious acts, and the charm of his manner toward all young people had made a deep impression upon her.
Another thing that she noticed convinced Betsy of the softer qualities of Napoleon's nature. This was the firm devotion of the little band of Frenchmen and French women who had followed him to St. Helena. They had made great sacrifices in sharing the exile of Napoleon. There was so little to hope for, in the way of reward for this devotion, that no reasonable person could doubt their disinterestedness.
"Who danced the best at the Governor's ball?" Napoleon asked Betsy one day.
"Mrs. Wilks, the Governor's lady."
This was before the arrival of Sir Hudson Lowe.
"What sort of dances are in fashion there?"
"Quadrilles, country dances. Mr. C. brought them to St. Helena."
"Oh, he is a great dandy!"
"Yes; he will sit with his feet above his head an hour before dressing, the more readily to squeeze them into tight shoes. He wore an epaulette nearly down to his elbow, and his sword hilt was embroidered with golden oak leaves. The same embroidery confined his stockings, on each knee, like the order of the garter. When he first arrived he was disgusted that St. Helena ladies knew only kitchen dances and reels, and finally he drilled quadrilles and other new dances into them."
Betsy's description of the young dandy amused Napoleon. "Bring him to Longwood some day," he said.
A pass was obtained for the young man and Napoleon received him most politely. "I hear from Mees Betsee that you are a great dandy,—and what a fine coat!"
The young man, who had been in some fear of the Emperor, felt better.
"You are more fortunate than myself," continued Napoleon, "for I have to wear my coat turned." Although this was true, it was only because there was no cloth his shade of green on the island.
On the whole Napoleon liked the young dandy, especially as he spoke French fluently.
But Napoleon was not always glad, or even willing, to receive visitors. In fact, after the first few months on the island, he practically refused to allow strangers to be presented to him, unless there was some special reason for his seeing them.
One day, when Napoleon was still at The Briars, the girls were walking with him down Pomegranate Walk, which led to the garden, when he heard strangers' voices. He did not wish to meet them, and began to run away, but, unluckily, when he reached the garden gate he found it locked. Napoleon was not likely to turn aside from anything he had undertaken to do, and as the voices drew nearer, too impatient to wait, he insisted on jumping over the gate fence. There was a prickly pear on top, the thorns of which caught him so that at first he could not extricate himself. Then he had to descend rather ignominiously on the garden side, before the strangers appeared. The thorns had really done considerable damage, and it took no little skill on Dr. O'Meara's part to extract them.
To Betsy's friends Napoleon was apt to be more obliging than to others, and tourists, many of whom stayed over at St. Helena on their way to or from Africa or India, frequently sought her services to effect an introduction.
"Sir," said Betsy to Napoleon one day, "may I present a lady to you? She is just here from India. Her husband has high rank."
Napoleon was not fond of women visitors, but he gave his consent to Betsy's request.
At the appointed time the lady from India appeared, gowned in crimson velvet bordered with pearls. Her black hair was braided and adorned with pearls, and butterflies of diamonds and emeralds and rubies. She was one of the plainest women Betsy had ever seen, and she was fearful of the impression she would make on Napoleon.
After Napoleon had asked the usual questions, "Are you married?" and "How many children have you?" he looked closely at her to see what compliment he could best pay her.
At length, after a pause that might have embarrassed a less complacent woman, he said politely, "Madame, you have the most luxuriant hair."
That the lady from India had fine hair was so evident a fact, that she need not have been so exceedingly pleased by Napoleon's compliment. Yet she was so overcome by it that when she returned to England she sent letters to the newspapers speaking of the Emperor's great admiration for her.
Napoleon, in reality, did not at all like this visitor, and when she had gone he said severely to the young girl:
"You shall introduce me to no more ladies." His tone was so unusually severe that Betsy did not dare confess what really was the case, that she had brought Mrs. S. to see Napoleon merely to tease him, knowing that it was positively disagreeable to him to meet very plain women.
Betsy one day came to him full of excitement over a traveller whom she had just seen.
"Oh, he is extraordinary; queerer than any one I have ever met here. His long black beard reaches to his waist, and he wears a regular mandarin's dress."
"An Englishman dressed like a Chinaman?"
"Yes! You know he has been there so long, and he has done the most wonderful things! Why, he has even travelled to Thibet and talked to the Grand Lama."
The Emperor's interest was aroused.
"I have always wished to hear something about the Grand Lama," he said, "especially about the way he is worshipped, for I believe that much I have read is fabulous. I should like to see this traveller."
"I knew you would," cried Betsy, "and he is anxious to see you, too. He was a prisoner of war once in France, and he says you treated him very kindly; so he has brought you some presents, and if—"
"Yes, and if he can get a pass—"
The sentence was left unfinished. But Mr. Manning obtained a pass to see the Emperor and presented him with a number of curious things that he had collected in his travels.
"The Lama," he said in answer to a question, "when I saw him, was a very intelligent boy of seven, and I went through the same form of worship as the others who were introduced into his presence."
"Were you not afraid of being seized as a spy?" asked Napoleon.
The traveller hesitated, as if not quite pleased by the question. Then, with a laugh, he pointed to his dress and beard, as if they were a sufficient answer.
"Did you pass for an Englishman?" persisted the Emperor. "The shape of your nose is too good for a Tartar."
"No," replied Mr. Manning; "I was generally taken for a Hindoo." The bystanders, looking at his fine eyes and regular features, could easily understand that in the rôle of a Hindoo he must certainly have been successful.
The conversation between the two—the Emperor and the traveller—lasted for some time.
"Travellers," said Napoleon, "are privileged to tell marvellous stories, but I hope you are not doing this in describing to me all the wonders of Thibet."
Then he continued his questions, asking much about the Lama, and the customs and religion of his people. His queries showed that he already possessed a fund of information about this strange country, and Mr. Manning finally said, "You have as much information on Thibet as I have myself."
Napoleon accepted the compliment, but the many questions that he continued to ask, especially concerning the Chinese and their language and habits, showed that he was quite willing to admit Mr. Manning's greater knowledge of the Orient.
When the unusually long interview had ended, Napoleon turned to Betsy with an expression in which sadness was mingled with satisfaction.
"This conversation," he cried, "has given me more pleasure than anything I have experienced for many long months."
Betsy, realizing the Emperor's capacity for finding entertainment in hearing about the small things that made up the life of St. Helena, always gratified him by describing the little festivities in which she took part, or even the larger affairs of which she knew only by what others told her. Like all places garrisoned by British regiments, there was always much going on, as the phrase is, on the island, and the gossip of the place, usually harmless enough in itself, never failed to entertain him.
Sometimes he tried to draw from the little girl information that for one reason or another she did not care to give him—sometimes merely to tease him, sometimes because she feared that what she said might disturb him.
"So you have been calling on Lady Lowe at Plantation House," he said, after one of her visits to the wife of the Governor. "Tell me, does she ask about your visits to Longwood?"
"There, that is just the kind of thing she asks me. I am sure to be questioned what we say and do in your presence;" and beyond this Betsy would give Napoleon little satisfaction.
"Who is the most beautiful woman on the island?" he asked on another occasion.
"Madame Bertrand," replied Betsy, never at a loss for an answer, "is more beautiful than any one I have ever seen. Every one else seems insignificant beside her. Why, when my father saw her on theNorthumberlandhe was very much struck by her. Her features may not be strictly beautiful, but her expression is intellectual. Besides, her bearing is so queenlike and dignified!"
"But don't you think Madame Montholon pretty?"
"No," responded Betsy unhesitatingly, in spite of the fact that she had much regard for Madame Montholon.
"Marchand," cried Napoleon, apparently changing the subject, "bring me my snuffbox,—you know which."
The faithful Marchand obeyed, and when he returned Napoleon took the snuffbox from his hands to show the girls—for Jane was with Betsy—a miniature on the lid.
It was a portrait of Madame Montholon, taken many years earlier.
"Yes, it is like her," Betsy admitted, "and beautiful, too."
"She was just like that when she was young," responded the Emperor.
Although Napoleon was fond of teasing Betsy, whenever he found that he could serve her in any way he never failed to show himself a true friend.
Once Dr. O'Meara came upon Betsy alone in the garden with tears in her eyes. To his inquiry as to the cause of her sorrow, she pouted, and at first hesitated in her reply. On second thoughts she exclaimed, "It is too mean! Just because I didn't do my lessons yesterday, to keep me home from the races!"
"Were you warned?"
"Oh, yes, but I did not expect to be punished."
"Probably this isn't the first time, and your parents are bound to make you remember."
"Oh, it is my father, and it's the meanest thing! He has lent Tom to somebody. My pony is not in the stable. Who could have been so mean as to borrow the only pony that I can ride? All the others have ridden off, and there is no way for me to go."
Dr. O'Meara listened sympathetically. Probably he did not exactly understand the situation or he would hardly have encouraged a young girl to disobey her parents. It was quite natural that to Betsy, the lover of gayety, her punishment seemed greater than she deserved. Every one that she knew was going to the races, for the Deadwood races, instituted by John Rous, were made a kind of festival by the people of the island. Since every one she knew had gone to Deadwood, there was no horse at hand that she could borrow. For the moment Napoleon's little neighbor was troubled by no sense of duty; the only question was how to reach Deadwood.
Dr. O'Meara, after Betsy had poured out her soul to him, rode on towards Longwood at a rapid pace. Not long afterwards her heart leaped with joy when she saw Dr. O'Meara winding down the mountain, followed by a slave with a superb gray horse. At once she recognized Mameluke, one of Napoleon's stable, and, as the horses drew nearer, she saw that above his crimson saddlecloth Mameluke wore a lady's saddle. Even before Dr. O'Meara spoke, she understood what his quick return meant.
"Here, Miss Betsy, cheer up," he cried when he drew near the little girl. "This horse is for you. When the Emperor heard of your disappointment, he ordered the quietest horse in his stable to be sent to you."
Regardless of consequences to herself, pleased by the good-natured attention of the Emperor, light-hearted Betsy on Mameluke went to the races. Perhaps she would have hesitated had she known that her father, rather than she herself, was to be the sufferer by her heedless act, for afterwards it gave her great pain to learn that Mr. Balcombe had been severely reprimanded by Governor Lowe for having committed a breach of discipline in letting his daughter borrow a horse belonging to the Longwood establishment.
But for the time Betsy had the fun of the races, and the next day she went over to Longwood to thank Napoleon.
"Aha, Mees Betsee," he said after their first greeting, "perhaps you do not know that I too saw the races."
"But I did not see you there."
"Ah, where were your eyes? You were not thinking of me; but they were amusing."
After a little more teasing, Betsy learned that Napoleon had seen the Deadwood races from an upper window of General Gorgaud's house.
"You were so amused," he added, "that you forgot to be afraid. I have told your father you should never be encouraged in foolish fears."
"I wish you had been really there!"
"Ah, gayety is not for me." Napoleon's face became grave.
Betsy, noticing this, added quickly, "But you are coming to my birthday fête."
"Surely! It will not be far away at Rous Cottage."
The day of the birthday was bright and fair, and as large numbers of guests had assembled, Rous Cottage, which had been chosen for this picnic fête, was named for the gallant flag officer of theNorthumberland, whom Napoleon admired and called "a very brave man."
In the earlier part of the celebration, Betsy, flying among her friends, was too much absorbed to notice that Napoleon had not come, but when she missed him she began to look eagerly in the direction in which she might expect to see him appear. He had said he would come to the party, and Betsy expected him to keep his promise, though it was an unheard-of thing for him to mingle in a gay crowd.
After a while she was delighted to see him in the distance, riding along the hills. Soon she saw that he was no longer riding. His horse was at a standstill. What could this mean? Presently a messenger from the Emperor appeared to say that he would content himself by looking on.
The young hostess was not satisfied with this. Rushing off to the hill where Napoleon waited, she stood before him.
"This is not keeping your promise. You said you would come, indeed you did, and you should not disappoint me on my birthday."
Napoleon smiled at his young friend, but he spoke with decision:
"No; I won't come down to be stared at by a crowd who wish to gratify their curiosity by a sight of me."
Betsy begged and pleaded, using every effort to make him change his mind, but he was firm. Nothing could change him.
A friend in England had sent Betsy a huge birthday cake, ornamented with a large eagle. That she should have had a cake decorated with this imperial emblem occasioned much comment on the island. In fact, in the eyes of some, Mr. Balcombe and his family were under more or less of a cloud on account of their open admiration for the illustrious prisoner of St. Helena. When Betsy found that her words made no impression on Napoleon, she left him for a few moments, only to return with a slice of the cake.
"You must eat this thick slice," she said, holding it out to him. "It is the least you can do for getting us into this disgrace. Some people think it almost treason when they see the eagle on the cake."
Napoleon ate the cake with evident appreciation. Then he pinched Betsy's ear in his usual familiar fashion, saying as he did so, "Saucy simpleton!" As he galloped away Betsy could not help smiling, as she heard him singing, or rather trying to sing in his most unmusical voice, "Vive, Henri Quatre."
Sometimes, without intending to hurt Napoleon's feelings, heedless Betsy must often have come near wounding him. One day, for example, she showed him a toy that had lately come to St. Helena from Europe. It represented a toy emperor climbing a ladder, each rung of which was a country. When he reached the top he sat for an instant astride the world, and then went headlong down the other side, until he landed at last on St. Helena.
Napoleon himself did not reprove Betsy for her rudeness, but Mr. Balcombe was disturbed and angry when he heard of it. Betsy, he decided, was altogether too fond of playing foolish tricks, and he resolved to teach her a lesson that she could not forget.
Calling her to him, after he had expressed his displeasure for what she had done, "Betsy," he said in his severest tone, "you are to spend the night in the cellar, and every night for a week you shall sleep there. You must be taught respect for your elders. It is to punish you for your rudeness to Napoleon that I am resolved to punish you in this way."
Poor Betsy shivered at her father's words. Bold though she was in the face of danger by day, darkness always had great terrors for her, and to spend the night underground was a punishment she felt she could hardly bear. Her protests, however, were useless. Her father locked her in the dark cellar and left her there. Betsy's experiences that night were terrible. Rats made the cellar their home, and, as they jumped about in the darkness, they tumbled the bottles of wine about, making a terrible noise. Betsy was so frightened that to defend herself from them she picked up bottle after bottle to hurl against them. At last they were driven away, but there was no sleep for Betsy on the bed that had been prepared for her. At dawn a faint light came through the windows, just enough to show her what havoc she had made. Broken bottles lay about her everywhere and in every direction ran rivulets of wine.
At last she fell into a heavy stupor, and in this condition a slave, who had been sent with her breakfast, found her. Alarmed at the sight of Betsy, apparently half dead, the slave ran to summon Mr. Balcombe. When he hurried to the cellar, Mr. Balcombe was naturally shocked by what he saw. He had not thought of rats, and he was only too thankful that Betsy had escaped serious injury. He not only did not reprove her for the destruction of the claret, but forgave her for her offence against Napoleon.
As to Napoleon, "It was too great a punishment," he said, "for so little an offence." Then he laughed heartily as the lively Betsy, now quite herself again, gave a vivid account of her battle with the rats. "Ah, the rats!" he added; "a big one jumped out of my hat one day, as I was about to put it on. It startled me."
Some time after this adventure in the cellar, Mr. Balcombe again had occasion to punish Betsy and again he thought of the cellar.
"No, not the cellar!" remonstrated Napoleon. But Mr. Balcombe was obdurate. He had decided that Betsy should have a week's imprisonment there, staying by day but released at night that she might sleep in her own room.
So Betsy went daily to her cell. She managed to vary the monotony of her prison life by sitting close to the grating of the open window, and while she sat there, the picture of dejection, Napoleon, approaching the window, daily expressed a half-mocking sympathy with her. For a time Betsy maintained an appearance of dignity and injured innocence, but in the end the Emperor, by mimicking her doleful expression, usually succeeded in making her laugh.
"Sewing!" he exclaimed in surprise, when he visited Betsy on the third day of her imprisonment.
"Yes," responded Betsy; "I am making a dress for myself."
"Ah, they indeed are cruel—"
Like all Betsy's acquaintances, Napoleon knew that she had no strong love for sewing and the ordinary domestic duties. She was at the age when boyish sports were much more fun than the occupations that older people prescribed for girls.
"But no one required me to sew. I am sewing because I wish to."
The Emperor expressed his surprise at this announcement.
"Yes," continued Betsy; "I did not know what else to do. It is frightfully dull here, so I begged old black Sarah to find me some work, and this is what she brought." Betsy held up the partly made dress with considerable pride.
It is to Betsy's credit that she finished the dress old Sarah had brought her, although her fit of industry did not outlast her week's imprisonment.
"You should keep Mees Betsee's prison livery," said Napoleon to Mrs. Balcombe, "and show it to her occasionally, when you think that she is on the point of doing something foolish that ought to be punished."
"Prison livery" was Napoleon's name for the dress that Betsy had made during her week in the cell.
Betsy, however, was only one of many persons who had disagreeable experiences with the rats of St. Helena. A sleeping slave, for example, had a part of his leg bitten off. One of Count Bertrand's horses in the stable had been severely bitten, and Dr. O'Meara had once had to defend himself from the rodents by hurling his bootjack repeatedly at them. Other tales of fierce rats had been told, and in consequence Betsy, when she thought of her escape from real harm, had good cause for congratulation.
The battle of the rats happened while Napoleon was still living at The Briars, and though Betsy long remembered it, it cannot be said that she altogether profited by the lesson that it should have conveyed to her. Later, when Napoleon was living at Longwood, Betsy, visiting at Madame Bertrand's, occupied herself with practising a song that was a favorite with one of the ladies of the garrison.
Betsy sang and played very well, and Napoleon, hearing the new song, praised the air though he did not understand the words. Now it happened that the song was a monody on the death of the Duc d'Enghien, for whose death Napoleon had been greatly blamed by friends as well as by foes.
"What is the song?" Napoleon asked.
A tactful girl would have devised some answer to spare Napoleon's feelings. But thoughtless Betsy, without a word, turned to the front page of the sheet of music, on which was a picture of a man standing in a ditch, his eyes bandaged and a lantern hanging from his waist, while soldiers were aiming their muskets at him.
"What is it?" asked Napoleon, to whom the picture conveyed no meaning.
"It represents the murder of the Duc d'Enghien," replied Betsy.
Napoleon examined the picture more closely. Then, turning to the young girl:
"What do you know of the Duc d'Enghien?"
"That you are considered the murderer of that illustrious prince," replied Betsy, with great lack of consideration.
"It is true," responded Napoleon, "that I ordered his execution, for he was a conspirator and had landed troops in the pay of the Bourbons to assassinate me. In the face of such a conspiracy, the most politic thing was to put a Bourbon prince to death so that the Bourbons would not again try to take my life. The prisoner was tried for having taken arms against the Republic, and was executed according to law. But he was not shot in a ditch nor at night. All was open and known to the public."
This talk about the Duc d'Enghien led Napoleon to tell Betsy of many thrilling experiences of his own in escaping death at the hands of would-be assassins.
At another time Betsy ran up to Napoleon, crying, "Why is your face so swollen and inflamed?"
"Oh," replied Napoleon, assuming a doleful look, "Dr. O'Meara has just drawn a tooth and I have had much pain."
"What!" exclaimed Betsy in the rôle of mentor. "You to complain of pain—the pain of so trifling an operation, though you have gone through battles innumerable with storms of bullets whizzing, some of which must have touched you. I am ashamed. But give me the tooth, and I will get Mr. Solomon to set it as an ear-ring."
Napoleon, listening to Betsy, was evidently amused by her tone of assumed severity, and laughing heartily, replied: "See how I laugh, even while I suffer. Ah, Mees Betsee, I fear you will never cut your wisdom tooth."
Although Betsy saw more of Napoleon than the other children, they were all fond of him; but it is to be feared that Betsy's example was not the best in the world for her little brothers, who were much younger than she. One day, for example, Napoleon had given little Alexander a pretty box made by Piron, filled with his delicious bonbons.
"When my brother had eaten all his sugar-plums," said Betsy, "and was grieving over his exhausted store, he unluckily chanced to espy a pill-box. He thereupon took some pills from the box and offered them to the Emperor. Napoleon helped himself, thinking they were sugar-plums, and began eating. He soon ejected them with coughing and nausea."
Las Cases, it is needless to say, reported this to Mr. Balcombe, who whipped Alexander soundly. Nobody can deny that the little boy merited the punishment.
A favorite jest of Napoleon was to cry, "Now, Mdlle. Betsee, I hope you have been a good child and learned your lessons."
Then Betsy would redden and toss her head, for, like most girls in their early teens, she wished to be thought older than she was. This habit of teasing was one that Napoleon had found time to indulge in even when he was at the height of his power. He was very fond of children, and some one has said that no case is known in which he refused to grant a favor when a child was asked to be the messenger. He was fond of his nieces and nephews, and devoted to his step-children. Few brothers have ever been kinder to their brothers and sisters than Napoleon to his. When he was only sixteen, he began to take a great interest in the education of his brother Lucien, who was six years younger. When he was a lieutenant in the army, he made real sacrifices for Louis, who was twelve years old. Yet, in spite of his love for them, he teased them just as he teased Betsy. Every one knows how he used to fondle the little King of Rome and carry him around in his arms while he was dictating to his secretaries. One who knew him writes:
"It used to be a real holiday for the Emperor when Queen Hortense came to see her mother, bringing her two children. Napoleon would take them in his arms, caress them, often tease them, and burst into laughter as if he had been of their own age, when, according to his custom, he had smeared their faces with jam or cream."
Sometimes, however, he went too far, even with his young relatives. Once when he had playfully pulled the ears of his nephew, little Achille Murat, the boy protested, "You are a naughty, wicked man," to the great amusement of his uncle.
But if Napoleon was inclined to tease the young people at The Briars, he was also ready to do pleasant things for them. He certainly entered into the feelings of young people. With them he became a child, and an amusing one. Many were the games he played with Betsy and her brothers and sister, not only blindman's buff but puss in the corner and other quieter games.
Betsy was not the only one of the Balcombe family whom Napoleon loved to tease. Jane, the elder sister, was the more dignified and it was therefore easier to embarrass her. Toward the end of her stay at St. Helena, an English surgeon, Dr. Stokoe, was sent to the island. He was much the senior of Jane, but, because the two were seen much together, the gossips of St. Helena thought that he wished to marry her.
Napoleon himself occasionally teased Jane about Dr. Stokoe, and professed to think that Mr. Balcombe was a cruel father, standing in the way of his daughter's happiness. "Why have you refused your daughter to the surgeon of the flagship?" he would ask mischievously, adding, "C'est un brave homme."
Napoleon's capacity for seeing the humorous side of things kept up his spirits wonderfully during his first year or two of exile. Betsy's enjoyment of a joke, even of a practical joke, was perhaps the strongest bond between the Emperor and his little neighbor.
"Come," he would say, "come, Mees Betsee, sit down and sing like our dear departed friend." By this term Napoleon referred to a certain lady who believed herself to be the possessor of a very fine voice. To exhibit her prowess this lady would sit down and sing Italian airs in an affected style. At the end of a performance the lady expected, and received, the Emperor's compliments; but when at last she was away and out of hearing, he roared with laughter as Betsy, at the piano, imitated the lady's affectations.
With his eyes closed he would pretend that he really believed he was listening to the operatic lady, and end by thanking Betsy gravely for the pleasure she had given.
Napoleon himself was a good mimic. He amused the Balcombe family greatly by his imitation of London cockney street cries.
"Mees Jane," he asked one evening, "have you ever heard the London cries?"
"No, sir, never," she replied.
"Then I must let you hear them;" and without waiting further, he began to make a series of shrill sounds. At first it was difficult to distinguish the words, for Napoleon's droll accent could hardly be called good English. His intonation, however, was perfect, and exactly represented the street venders crying their wares.
"You must have been in London, unknown to any one," cried Jane; "for if you haven't been there, I don't see how you could have got those cries so perfectly."
In suggesting that Napoleon might have been in London incognito, Jane was only repeating what then had wide currency—that Napoleon in the height of his power had slipped away from Paris, letting no one know that he was to cross the Channel, to spend a few days in London, studying the English and their ways.
To the inquisitive Jane, however, Napoleon gave no information as to the truth of this belief.
"I was much entertained," he said, "by one of my buffos, who introduced London street cries into a comedy that he got up in Paris."
This mention of the theatre led Napoleon to speak of Talma. "He was the truest actor to nature that ever trod the boards," he said.
"Talma?" repeated Betsy, catching the actor's name. "Oh, I remember; they used to say that you took lessons from him how to sit on the throne."
"I have often heard that myself," responded Napoleon, "and I even mentioned it once to Talma himself as a sign that I was considered to hold myself well on it."
Napoleon often displayed his powers of mimicry, to the great entertainment of the children.
A large ball, given by Sir George Bingham in return for the civilities that had been shown the Fifty-third Regiment, took place not far from Longwood, and practically every one on the island was invited.
"It was the very prettiest affair I ever saw," said Betsy, "and you ought to have seen it."
Glancing at Napoleon, she thought she caught a certain meaning in the smile with which he greeted her remark. "I really believe youwerethere," she exclaimed. "Some one told us you were going to take a peep at us incognito, but I did not see you."
Without deigning to reply, Napoleon began an ungraceful imitation of the saraband, a dance that had been seen at this ball for the first time in St. Helena. The young lady who waltzed in this dance had been very awkward, and Napoleon's imitation of her movements was so perfect that the girls were sure he had really seen her. Moreover he had so many accurate criticisms to make of the people at the ball, and of the ball in all its details, that no doubt was left in their minds that he had been an actual looker-on.
Napoleon thoroughly appreciated the humor of others, and was much amused, for example, by a remark of Madame Bertrand's that he repeated to Betsy.
Madame Bertrand's son, Arthur, was about a month old when Napoleon asked Betsy if she had seen the little fellow, adding, "You must hear the clever way in which Madame Bertrand introduced the baby to me: 'Allow me to present to your Majesty a subject who has dared to enter the gates of Longwood without a pass from Sir Hudson Lowe.'"
Many a time when in the company of Napoleon and the members of his suite, Betsy must have realized that this pleasant intercourse could not last always.
Few people remained indefinitely long at St. Helena,—few people, indeed, besides the natives and the one life prisoner, the Emperor Napoleon. Betsy, however, had no desire to leave her beloved island. She loved its climate and its scenery, and she was happy with the many people who were her friends. It was a gay little place, with numerous officers quartered there with their families,—a much gayer place than it would have been had not the British Government thought it necessary to make it a great military stronghold for the safeguarding of the Emperor,—a much gayer place than it had been before Napoleon's arrival.