The Emperor and his Double
By Ambrose Pratt and Frank Renar
()
About this ebook
Read more from Ambrose Pratt
First Person Paramount Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsFirst Person Paramount Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Living Mummy Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Daughter of the Bush Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Veiled Man Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Remittance Man Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsFranks: Duellist Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Lore of the Lyrebird Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThree Years with Thunderbolt Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Mysterious Investment Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Outlaws of Weddin Range Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Counterstroke Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsFirst Person Paramount Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsKing of The Rocks Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Living Mummy Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHer Assigned Husband Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Related to The Emperor and his Double
Related ebooks
False Evidence Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsFalse Evidence Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsLoreila - Echoes from the Past Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsOld Wine Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsMr. Grex of Monte Carlo Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBefore and After: Book 1 Afterwards Trilogy Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Teeth of the Tiger Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Adventures of Solomon Kane Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsCheckmate Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsMr. Grex of Monte Carlo Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsRed Shadows Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Magic in this Other World is Too Far Behind! Volume 3 Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5With My Last Breath Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Solomon Kane Mythos Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Solomon Kane: The Collection: (Bauer Classics) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Crocodile Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsSolomon Kane (Serapis Classics) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsCnut - The Bone Age Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Ostrekoff Jewels Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Prophecy of Revelation 12 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsLeopold Orso and The Case of the Bloody Tree: The Sublime Electricity. The Prequel Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Bars of Iron Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsErnest Maltravers — Volume 09 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Daemon Device Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Broken Bards of Paris Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsIn the Rockies with Kit Carson Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsCelestis Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Receding Brow Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Teeth of the Tiger (Annotated) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Wolf Pack Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Classics For You
The Silmarillion Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Confederacy of Dunces Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Things They Carried Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Flowers for Algernon Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Fellowship Of The Ring: Being the First Part of The Lord of the Rings Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Wuthering Heights (with an Introduction by Mary Augusta Ward) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Poisonwood Bible: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Rebecca Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Little Women (Seasons Edition -- Winter) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Learn French! Apprends l'Anglais! THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY: In French and English Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Farewell to Arms Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Old Man and the Sea: The Hemingway Library Edition Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Master & Margarita Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Odyssey: (The Stephen Mitchell Translation) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Animal Farm: A Fairy Story Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Master and Margarita Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Princess Bride: S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Mythos Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Sense and Sensibility (Centaur Classics) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Jungle: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Republic by Plato Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Quiet American Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Iliad: The Fitzgerald Translation Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5For Whom the Bell Tolls: The Hemingway Library Edition Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Canterbury Tales Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Ulysses: With linked Table of Contents Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Grapes of Wrath Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Titus Groan Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Persuasion Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Related categories
Reviews for The Emperor and his Double
0 ratings0 reviews
Book preview
The Emperor and his Double - Ambrose Pratt
Ambrose Pratt, Frank Renar
The Emperor and his Double
Published by Good Press, 2022
goodpress@okpublishing.info
EAN 4066338090188
Table of Contents
INCIDENT I.—THE DOUBLE MEETS NAPOLEON.
INCIDENT II.—THE DOUBLE SERVES THE FIRST CONSUL.
INCIDENT III.—PAOLO PROVES HIS COURAGE.
INCIDENT IV.—THE DOUBLE SPEAKS—CITIZENESS ISMENEY.
INCIDENT V.—THE DOUBLE AND THE SPY.
INCIDENT VI.—ETTENHEIM.
INCIDENT VII.—NAPOLEON PRAYS.
INCIDENT VIII.—NAPOLEON IN LOVE.
INCIDENT IX.—THE UNMASKING OF THE DOUBLE.
INCIDENT X.—THE EMPEROR PURSUES THE DOUBLE.
INCIDENT XI.—NAPOLEON POISONS HIMSELF.
INCIDENT XII.—A GAME AT DICE.
INCIDENT XIII.—NAPOLEON BETRAYED.
INCIDENT XIV.—THE EMPEROR'S LAST HOPE.
INCIDENT XV.—WATERLOO.
INCIDENT XVI.—THE WHITE TERROR.
INCIDENT XVII.—ON THE BELLEROPHON.
INCIDENT XVIII.—FINALE.
THE END.
"
INCIDENT I.—THE DOUBLE MEETS NAPOLEON.
Table of Contents
Seize that man!
Seize that man!
Ségur, the Captain of the Guard, examined in startled amazement this miraculous presentment of two men, so perfectly resembling each other that he was unable to detect the minutest point of difference between them. He occupied a moment in endeavoring to collect himself, to assure himself that this was not an illusion; another in vainly attempting to determine which of the orders he had received it was his duty to obey. His indecision drew upon him a rebuke. The man who stood slightly to his left hand frowned, and pointed to the other.
Obey your orders, sir!
he commanded, in clear, incisive tones.
Ah, that voice. Ségur would have known it among ten thousand. It had rung in his ears at Rivion; he had heard it addressed to the soldiers of Italy, and its magic charm had sent a thrill into the blood of thousands and carried an army mad with enthusiasm to victory against unnumbered odds. With a salute he sprang forward to obey, to arrest the impudent imposter who had dared to personate his general, when, with a like commanding gesture, the other pointed sternly and opened his lips to speak.
Obey your orders, sir,
he said, in low, contemptuous tones.
Ségur fell back dazed, bewildered, turning foolishly from one to the other, and muttering first General
to one and then General
to the other. Even the voices of the two were indistinguishable.
For the first time the chief actors in this drama, as if moved by a simultaneous impulse, turned and looked steadily at each other, one to frown in angry amazement at the extraordinary semblance to himself, the other to smile in contented self-gratulation.
Who are you?
demanded the man on the left.
Who are you?
responded the other, like an echo.
What do you want with me?
What do you want with me?
Perhaps this is a plot to murder me,
cried suddenly the man on the left, putting his hand up to his forehead, as if overcome with a sudden fear. Ségur observe how he imitates me; watch this man carefully. Come closer, Ségur.
Napoleon's aide-de-camp, as if re-assured by this quick-spoken order, gave a sigh of relief, and approached with determination the other man, giving, at the same time a sign to two attendant Mamelukes to assist him. He had almost placed a hand upon the shoulder of the other man when he was confronted by the same order, hissed this time, rather than spoken, and still seemingly in the First Consul's voice.
This is a plot to murder me, Ségur. Watch this man carefully.
The soldiers fell back mystified, but Ségur showed himself a man of resource.
Ali, Roustan,
he said quickly, approach. There is a plot against the General—against his life, perhaps. Do you, Ali, watch this one, and you, Roustan, that one, and whose shall make a threatening gesture, that one immediately arrest.
The two Mamelukes approached to within a yard of the Consul and the other, and stood mutely at attention. The man on the left had listened to this order from the captain of the guard as if pondering on its efficacy, but when a soldier approached he appeared to be overcome by the indignity offered him. He stamped his foot upon the floor in sudden passion.
Fall back!
he cried indignantly.
Like an echo came a similar order from the other man, Fall back!
The two Mamelukes retired to the other side of the room, their stoic Eastern faces showing no sign of bewilderment. But Ségur bit his lip with disappointment at the failure of his plan.
Retire out of hearing,
was the next order from the man on the left.
Ségur saluted, but did not immediately obey. He looked enquiringly towards the man on the right, for he had now two masters.
Retire,
said the man on the right, with a curious smile.
When he could speak without being overheard the man on the left approached his companion, and said in a lone tone, full of warning and command. Now speak, sir. Who are you? What do you want with me?
The other shrugged his shoulders and glanced expressively at the Mamelukes, who were watching them intently from across the room.
I wish to speak with you alone,
he muttered.
The First Consul considered, and the shadow of his thoughts fell upon his face, and marked his features with a frown, while for an almost inappreciable instant his lips quivered with anxiety; then, in a breath, all was calm. The frown faded from his forehead; the sensitive lips smoothed themselves into a firm, decisive line; and the deep, impenetrable eyes looked forth, cold, emotionless, and calculating upon the difficulty that confronted him. A hundred thoughts and speculations flitted across his mind in a moment, chief among which was the fear that this duplicate of himself was an emissary sent by his foes to assassinate him, and so mar the destiny of France, a destiny inseparably linked with his. Militating against this fear, however, a fear inspired by no personal cowardice, but rather by the watchfulness of unsleeping ambition, were ranked the sublime self-consciousness of power, the innate foreshadowings of his fate, the grand belief in himself which always marked the character of Napoleon Buonaparte. A subtle instinct taught the other man some of the speculations which induced the First Consul to hesitate; he felt that Napoleon could not submit himself to ridicule, for Napoleon was not only the first man in Europe, by the kindness of Fortune, but an Emperor by disposition—serene, wrapped in a dignity cold and sublime, which surrounded him with an invincible barrier of reserve. Hitherto the man had addressed Napoleon with an impudent assurance, but now, grown servile, he paid him even more than the deference due to his rank, while his voice was insinuating and reverential, almost wheedling.
I crave a private audience, sire. Do not compel me to again make your Majesty a mock before your servants.
Napoleon smiled—a slow scornful smile. Such a mock would demand a terrible penalty, sir,
he answered, calmly.
Who shall decide between us?
whispered the other. Your servants have failed to discover in me an imposter. Who should be more successful, sire—your enemies?
Napoleon hesitated, sending a searching look into eyes that constantly evaded him.
Who is your master?
he answered, coldly.
Yourself, sire.
Who sent you hither?
Myself, sire.
To assassinate me?
To serve you, sire?
Speak, then.
When we are alone. Is the Conqueror of Italy afraid?
The First Consul walked backwards a few steps, until the space of several feet intervened between them.
Ségur, approach,
he called out in commanding tones.
The First Consul's double looked keenly into Napoleon's face, but read nothing reassuring there, and he immediately prepared to resume his desperate role.
Ségur saluted and hesitatingly approached, but stopped upon observing that he had as yet received no command from his second master, Napoleon's double.
Ségur, approach,
rang out the First Consul's voice, proceeding this time from the lips of his double.
The soldier saluted again and sprang briskly forward, stopping six feet from his masters, and saluting again, each one gravely in turn.
Retire with your men into my chamber,
said Napoleon, curtly.
Retire,
repeated also the First Consul's double.
The aide-de-camp saluted, and, beckoning to his men, filed past the two and disappeared behind some curtains to the left.
The First Consul turned sharply upon the imposter. Now, sir, speak,
he commanded, sternly.
Are we alone, sir?
questioned the other.
Speak,
repeated Napoleon.
Can we be seen or overheard, sire?
persisted the other, suspiciously.
We are alone, sir,
said the First Consul, impatiently. Speak!
Those curtains move; they move,
cried the imposter in an excited whisper. Napoleon glanced over his shoulder, but as he did so he became aware that the other had moved a few noiseless, catlike steps nearer, and, turning, he beheld his double within a yard of him, glaring with wild eyes into his face, a hand plunged into the lapel of his coat, as if to secure a concealed weapon; his whole body in the attitude of one prepared to spring.
Napoleon met his eyes with the gaze of one used to subduing multitudes by the power of a glance alone, while a sneer wreathed his lips. Assassin!
he hissed rather than spoke.
The imposter glared at him like an animal at bay, but cowed by the marvellous regard of those fathomless eyes, bent so fearlessly upon him, his own glance first wavered, then fell, and presently he stepped back, abashed and subdued.
You mistake me, sire,
he muttered.
Ségur,
cried Napoleon, aloud.
Instantly the door opened, and, the curtains being pushed aside, the soldier entered the room.
The little farce is now at an end,
said Napoleon. You will kindly take charge of this fellow.
Ségur saluted, and approached the Consul's double, who now he was surprised to discover, appeared to have entirely abandoned the assurance which had enabled him for a while to sustain so well the role of First Consul of France.
Permit me, citizen,
said Ségur, grimly placing a Mameluke on each side of the imposter.
Your orders, General?
he asked, turning to Napoleon.
Wrap a cloak around him, and take him in a closed carriage to Bicêtre,
said Napoleon.
The mention of the dungeon had an extraordinary effect upon the prisoner. He burst from the soldiers, and threw himself upon his knees before the First Consul. The dungeon? Not the dungeon,
he cried, imploringly.
To Bicêtre,
repeated Napoleon, sternly; and, turning his back, moved towards the door of his chamber.
Have mercy on me, brother,
cried the prisoner in a loud, resonant voice, laying marked emphasis upon the word brother.
Napoleon, startled by the word, turned immediately—a strange look on his face. What is that?
he cried.
The prisoner replied in an outlandish tongue, of which neither Ségur nor, of course, the Mamelukes could make anything, although they perceived that Napoleon, while answering little, understood it perfectly. This tongue was Corsican, and the prisoner had said, Napoleon, I am thy brother, the son of thy father.
The First Consul stared at the prisoner as if seeking to penetrate his soul, but was met by eyes that gazed unwaveringly into his with every assurance of truth that eyes may give. Indeed, it is as I say,
said the prisoner, I am thy brother.
Ah, bah! I know my family,
cried Napoleon at last, in Corsican; but even as he spoke the memory of an old scandal, in which his father's name had been involved, gave him a doubt.
The prisoner looked up at him calmly, almost indifferently. I have proofs,
he said.
Proofs,
echoed Napoleon. Show me your proofs.
For a moment the bold intruder on the household of the Dictator of France faltered. The magnets of those steely eyes which confronted his seemed to be about to draw the truth out of his soul. He felt that if he opened his lips to speak, a rush of naked words would come clamoring forth to betray the murder he had contemplated. The thought of the confessional came to his superstitious mind, and of the terrible threats of the Church against those, who, before the Father Confessor, should dare to utter lies. In the presence of Napoleon he felt as though he were kneeling on a priedieu in the gloomy crypt of a Corsican church. Perhaps those terrible eyes, which had sealed his dagger to his sheath a moment since, had the power also to unseal the secrets of his soul, and to force from him the tale of his murderous daring. If he spoke, would he tell of the hate which had been instilled into his heart day by day, month by month by his mother? Of the mad plan he had conceived of murdering the Man of Destiny, and taking his place before the world?
Speak, I pray you,
Napoleon spoke more softly. He was touched by the face of this stranger, with its weird resemblance to his own.
Gulping down a breath, which seemed as if it would choke him, the prisoner at last commenced, and with the sound of his words grew braver. There is no better staff for the liar's courage than the sound of his own voice.
My name,
he said, is Paolo Gracci. Your father—our father—before he married with your mother, Letitia Rammolino, won to his love Luccia Gracci. Had you heard?
Napoleon started. It is not meet, man,
he said coldly, to recall this old gossip. The Gracci was a wanton. My father is dead. To your own story, sir!
It is my story, if I may crave your patience. The gossip of Ajaccio, which you have heard, was not true. Luccia Gracci was no flighty wanderer from one love to another. To Charles Buonaparte she gave as well as her love her life. You have heard her name—alas, so have thousands in Ajaccio, in Corte, in Atala, and on the Isles Sanguinaires—as the name of a woman whose lightly-given love amused for a month, the youth Carlo Buonaparte, to be transferred with the first chance to the lucrative embraces of Marboeuf's officer. But you heard lies. Luccia did not leave Corsica with Colonel Perard. Who said so lied, be it even our father. But I do not believe it was he. His people, though, it may have been—the wretched upstarts—little aristocrats of Tuscany, who wanted blood and money as wedding portions of the bride of their son, and refused to permit his marriage with a Gracci. Blood? We true Corsicans could have given them enough of that, and might ere this have given it, were I true to the vendetta I have——
Sir, you do not proceed.
Pardon, anger carried me away. Luccia Gracci was my mother. She did not leave Charles Buonaparte for another, but for the grave. Betrayed by him, she crept back to her nurse, my foster mother, Adelina Ferrara, whose little vineyard rested on a slope of the Gracci Isle, chief of the Isles of Blood, which glow red in the setting sun seen from Ajaccio. Blood! Money! Charles Buonaparte obeyed his parents to betray a noble name—and defied them to marry neither blood nor money in his fat match with the Rammolino wench——
My mother!
The note of warning in the words made Paolo shiver, as one who had come recklessly to the sheer edge of a precipice. Muttering an apology, he went on with his story. Luccia Gracci was of noble blood, the last of a great line. There were Graccis in Corsica, tradition tells, when Nero was in Rome. The Isles Sanguinaires were peopled then with the Gracci's slaves. The successive waves of conquest of Saracen, Italian, and Frenchmen did not kill out that Corsican brood.
"Luccia was the last of the line. That she was accounted noble the devotion of the Ferraras showed. The orphan of peasants would not have been reared and sheltered, even after she had been stained by the love of Buonaparte. The last of the Graccis alone could command that devotion on the island which bore the name of her great ancestors. Luccia did not go to Marseilles with Perard; she crept to hide her misery, and perhaps to plan her revenge (for she was a Corsican) back to the little island where she had been nurtured; whose grey olives had looked bright and silvern to her a month before; whose now mournful purple grapes had shone glad and lustrous to her bridal eyes; whose thickets had seen the birth of her love, and now offered her the hope of death. When a