Betsy and the Emperor (9781439115879) by Staton Rabin Page B

sorry, Your Majesty,” Marchand said, fetching a towel. “But you did not hold still. I warned you.”
    â€œYou blame me for my own wound?” Bonaparte said in a pique. He turned toward me. “Never let a Frenchman cut your hair, Betsy!”
    â€œI will try to remember that, sir,” I said, really having no idea what he was talking about.
    Watching a man get his hair cut was not my idea of an exciting way to spend an afternoon. But since I’d returned from school, I had lots of time on my handsand little to do with it. According to my father, my education was now complete. “No girl should stay in school past the age of fourteen” was his motto. When my mother suggested that additional years of schooling might benefit me, my father flew into a rage. “What are we training Betsy for?” he boomed. “Governor-general of India?!”
    As always, my mother surrendered.
    I can’t say I was disappointed at not returning to Hawthorne. And I daresay they would not be disappointed at not seeing me. But I felt I’d only exchanged one prison for another. What on earth was there for a girl to do on this miserable rock? I could dig up yams with the slaves. Learn sewing and other drivel from my mother. Listen to Jane’s whining. Or watch the former emperor of France get his hair cut. It was not difficult to choose.
    Marchand patted the emperor’s neck as delicately as a baby’s bottom. “There now, Sire,” his valet soothed. “The bleeding has stopped.”
    â€œNo thanks to you!” the emperor grumbled. He brushed some fine, dark hairs off his shoulders. Marchand handed him a looking glass so he could see the results of his labors. The emperor turned his head from side to side.
    â€œ Petit Tondu, ” he said, looking critically at his reflection.
    â€œSir?” I said, wondering what he meant.
    â€œLittle Crop-Head,” he translated. “That’s what the boys called me at the academy. It was not intended as a compliment.”
    â€œThey called me ‘The Colonies.’ When I was at school.”
    Bonaparte ran his hand through his shorn locks and looked at me quizzically.
    â€œBecause I was always in rebellion, as the Americans rebelled against the English,” I explained. The emperor smiled and hopped off the chair.
    â€œ Viens. Come,” he said, sweeping out of the room. I did not know where he was leading me, but neither did I particularly care. I followed.
    We arrived in another room of the Pavilion. It was rather damp and chilly and filled with unpacked boxes. He had been right to compare it to the Russian winter.
    â€œI will show you my autobiography,” Bonaparte said, approaching a large wooden crate filled with straw that was labeled SÈVRES; TUILERIES . He knelt and pulled straw out of the box rapidly, like an eager child unwrapping Christmas presents.
    The object he pulled from the box was enveloped in old, yellowing copies of French newspapers. He unwrapped it. It was nothing but a china plate with a picture on it. He showed it to me pridefully.
    â€œI thought you were going to show me your autobiography?” I said.
    â€œExactement!” Bonaparte said. He lifted some more plates out of the box, leaving such a pile of straw scattered about that I felt I was in a pig barn. “These Sèvres plates from the Tuileries were made for me. They tell the story of my life.”
    Intrigued, I looked carefully at the first plate.
    â€œShall you help me to unwrap them?”
    I nodded and reached into the box.
    â€œOf course, they are not in correct order of time,” he said, unwrapping plates as he spoke. He showed me their pictures.
    â€œHere is the Battle of Austerlitz. The greatest victory of my career! You were four years old at the time, mademoiselle.”
    â€œAgainst whom?” I asked.
    â€œRussia and Austria,” he replied. He showed me another plate that depicted rearing