Letters полностью

Thus it occurred, as all biographies of the Bonapartes attest, that on the morning of May 5, 1821 (by coincidence the day, though not the hour, of Napoleon’s death on St. Helena), a “well-dressed Napoleonic stranger” invaded the Palazzo Rinuccini, made his way by sheer authority of mien past guards and attendants into the presence of Letizia Ramolino Bonaparte, “Madame Mère,” and (as his equally elegant companion, unmentioned in the chronicles, stood by, dabbing at his tears with a fine linen handkerchief) bowed and kissed that matron’s hand, touched a crucifix to her lips, and assured her that her famous son was “free from his sufferings, and happy”; that she would one day surely see him again; and that by mid-century the nations of the world would be racked by such civil strife and conflagration as to make St. Helena seem a paradise.

He bows again and leaves. Devoted son and good Roman Catholic that he is, Jean Lafitte embraces him outside the palace, begs his pardon for having doubted his motives, and declares that scene to have been the noblest he has ever been witness to (his words, Andrew notes, would apply as well to a loyal Bonapartist as to Bonaparte). An attendant overtakes them with a gift of gold Napoleons from Mme Mère. Andrew at once bestows it upon Lafitte for the trouble and expense of this diversion, reserving only two coins: one he gives the servant, in exchange for information concerning the whereabouts of his lady’s spiritual advisor, Mme Kleinmüller, with whom he has business. They are informed with a smile that that worthy has been exposed (by Pauline) and dismissed from the household as a fraud: she was not even Swiss! But she is said to be living in the northern outskirts of the city, at an address near the Villa Ada, and to be awaiting the arrival from Geneva of her wealthy American lover, whose influence she hopes will restore her to favor in the Palazzo Rinuccini.

To Lafitte, Andrew declares that he must deal alone with this woman who so egregiously imposed upon Mme Mère, to his own detriment, for so long — though his guardian may if he wishes not only accompany him to the Via Chiana but surround the address with Baratarians to assure his not “escaping.” The proposition involves a calculated risk: that Lafitte might be, as Mme Kleinmüller reportedly was, in the service of Metternich. But Jean declares himself satisfied with “the baron’s” honor: he will of course escort him to the house and back to their ship, but the interview will be as private and as lengthy as monsieur desires. He even offers a knife, which Andrew accepts only when Lafitte assures him, with a small smile, that he carries others, and a pistol as well.

They find the quarter, the street, the number, an unimpressive pensione, and are told by the landlord that no Mme Kleinmüller lives there, only a vedova spagnuola of the highest respectability. Would he be so gracious, Andrew inquires, as to deliver to that same widow a note of his respects? He presents it for Lafitte’s inspection, declaring it to be “in the family cipher”: it reads VS DRYEJRI G.G. Lafitte shrugs. Very well, thinks Andrew: if he is in Betsy Patterson Bonaparte’s pay, he is at least not privy to her cipher. With a tip of one gold Napoleon for his trouble, the landlord goes off with the message. Andrew winks, shakes Lafitte’s hand, taps the dagger in his waistcoat, and steps quickly inside the house, “praying to the Muse of Imposture” that Jean will not follow.

For all my assurances, that he was welcome to follow me & cet., were merest bluff, he now acknowledges. Had he lay’d eyes upon “G.G.” of the familiar flourish, he had surely known her face at once, as off Tobago I had finally known her hand. And knowing her, he would have known me, and all been lost. But he stopt there on the threshold, even as a cry of female joy was heard upstairs. I winkt again, closed the door betwixt us, was directed above by Signor the concierge, & was met at the door of her chamber by VS (& Betsy Bonaparte’s) DRYEJRI G.G.: Consuelo del Consulado.

An alarmed, handsome forty, “C.C.” draws back — she had expected either Betsy’s footman or Mme B. herself, come down at last from Geneva. Then in an instant she sees through Andrew’s disguise and dashes with a cry to her dressing table.