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An Evening with Toupouzian May
6, 1821: Longwood House, The Isle of Saint Helena Antomarcci, the Great Man’s personal physician, feels for a pulse…counts the seconds between ragged sighs. Louis Marchand, Chief Valet, stands opposite, clasping the napkin he has been using to lovingly wipe his Master’s fevered brow. Henri Bertrand, former Grand Marshall of the Royal Palace and veteran of the glorious Egypt Campaign is seated, his face turned away, his expression sorrowful while Fanny, his wife, and their children kneel, weeping, at the foot of the bed. And the Comte Charles-Tristan de Montholon, aristocrat, dashing courtier, man of romance, counselor to Those Who Rule … he is also present. He is dressed in full military attire, draped in medals and gold braid befitting his status as a Major General. He stands near Marchand, his expression grim, his right arm extended towards his dying leader, as though imploring him not to go. Fifteen seconds pass since the last breath…then thirty…then sixty. A final expiration. The Emperor’s eyes spring open, unseeing. Antomarcci gently closes them. The Lion of Europe is no more. May 6, 2___: Maison Toupouzian, Chicago, IL “Josephine,” I imagined myself saying even as I sought — rather futilely — to disguise my inability to look away from the very charming outward extending impressions made by nipples striving to burst through the restraints of both brassiere and white silk blouse, “while we are waiting for the good doctor to return home, I wonder … why don’t we just enjoy another small sip of one of those wonderful specialty liqueurs he keeps? I mean… of course, only if you’ll have one too …” In my reference to the “good doctor,” I had in mind, of course, my long-time commercial acquaintance Dr. Toupouzian … physician, business adventurer, amateur historian, raconteur and collector of rare antiquities. I had come to know him during my days as Agent de Transport Speciale with the Carrier Nationale. Indeed it was through my own considerable exertion of influence — if I may be modestly allowed to say so — that it was arranged for Toupouzian to effect a number of shipments of “medical instruments” to a group of practitioners of his acquaintance working in the remoter quadrants of Armenia. I suppose it was owing to the great success of the charitable enterprise, and the fact that he found in me a fellow disciple of Sybaris, that we remained friends over the years and through his various marriages, each to a wife younger and more … ah … delectable than the last. So it was he had commanded during a recent phone conversation “You are coming to my house for the eating of dinner on next Thursday. Is May 6th.” “I am?” asked I. “Yah. You know why? Because is big day for all Frenchies … but especially for you Montholon … and so we must be having celebration. You know, of course, what is Big Day?” I acknowledged that I did not (Toupouzian, it may be said, is fond of little triumphs borne of knowing what others will assuredly not know). “Is day of the Expiration Imperiale.” “I do not receive your meaning,” said I. “Montholon, you are disappointing me. How you are not knowing this? You, with the ancestor…” “Ah!” I exclaimed. “Of course! I knew this, but I forgot. The Expiration Imperiale! The death of Napoleon. My ancestor was there, you know…” “This is something I know,” said Toupouzian, “because you are telling me often. And now from my researches I am learning this guy, Le Comte de Montholon, was very important fellow. Think of it Montholon, your ancestor was maybe holding spittoon for catching imperial vomits on this very day! Yah. This guy was very important…more, I think, than even you are knowing. But Montholon, listen to me. Also I have made an acquisition that will be (heh, heh) — how I am saying this — of exceeding interest to you … in particular to you, Montholon, my friend … so that is why I am thinking we must be having celebration.” For just a fraction of a second I thought to plead “prior engagement” as, indeed, the first Thursday evening of each month is normally reserved for my exercise with the charming and effervescent Denise … but I realized, of course, this would never do. “Acquisition?” I enquired. “Don’t keep me in the dark. What is it?” “Heh, heh. You know I am not telling you this, Montholon. Is big surprise. So…I am seeing you next Thursday.” And with that, he was gone. Obviously, his newest acquisition would be some historical curiosity relating to Napoleon or, at least, the Napoleonic era, but what, I could not guess. I will say, however, that my curiosity was pricked as it has always been the case that Toupouzian’s finds are of a rare and intriguing character, as for instance, when he came recently into possession of a pair of jewel bedecked pince-nez believed to have been the property of Marie de Guise, the 16th Century Regent of Scotland who was much heralded in her time for her beauty but who suffered, it would appear from the power of the lenses, from exceeding near-sightedness. In any case, to be sure, it would be a pleasant evening … dinner, excellent wine, expensive cigars. Moreover (I felt myself flush with anticipation), visiting Toupouzian at his own house also meant enjoying the company of the owner of the afore-mentioned nipples … nipples, which I had no doubt were perched delectably on the tips of breasts resembling nothing (I surmised) so much as succulent and tasty golden pears. These would be among the particular attributes of Toupouzian’s much younger Parisian-born wife … the luscious and delightful Josephine. Not, I confess, that I had ever seen them nor, in numerous visits to Toupouzian’s house had been given reason to believe I would. But is not optimism in a man a virtue? Does not hope spring eternal? Might she not suddenly recognize in me the very qualities that one as beautiful as she would desire in … ah … an homme d’affaires? “But of course, Monty,” she replied as she moved languidly from the couch where we two, while awaiting the much belated arrival of our host, had already been seated for quite some time — all the while sampling Toupouzian’s fine liqueur collection and engaging in pleasant discourse. I watched her hips sway hypnotically as she crossed the room to retrieve our drinks … and my addled brain filled with thoughts of milky half-moons above a calm sea. “Here’s a very special liqueur made from pears …I theenk you will really like ziz one,” she breathed, handing me a large bell shaped glass half filled with a delightfully fragrant and slightly amber fluid. Her breast massaged my arm as she slid back on the couch beside me. I felt dizzy. “Oh, I am sure would like them both,” I replied …. “What? Are you being naughty?” I could see that the quantity of alcohol we had consumed was affecting her as it was myself. I was encouraged. She was smiling. Smoldering, dark eyes took mine captive. “You would like both of what? What is it you are talking about?” “Pears,” said I. “I am talking about pears…how much I, uh, like pears.” My left arm, of its own accord began to creep about her shoulders. I was powerless to stop it. She leaned into me. I could feel her breath on my face … she smelled faintly of forbidden fruit blossoms. A serpent had been unleashed in Dr. Toupouzian’s Garden of Eden and it was lifting its head in anticipation of delectable evil. I was overcome. Casting both sense and caution to the winds, my right hand found it’s way to her… Alas (and luckily, one might add), only in my fevered imagination for at exactly that moment, the great bronzed door to Toupouzian’s State Parkway domicile was heard to crash open, thus heralding my host’s arrival … and the ringing down of the curtain on the fanciful drama playing in my head. “Montholon,” he fairly roared upon entering the parlor where Josephine and I were seated — as, indeed, we had been since my arrival — in opposing gilded chairs dating from the reign of Louis XVIII, ”Is very nice for seeing you! I hope you are not waiting long!” “Non,” Josephine replied, rising from her seat to greet her husband by briefly draping her lovely form around his ample plumptitude, “It did not seem long…though Monsieur Montholon was very eager to see you. In fact, he came thirty minutes early…but we had a nice talk, didn’t we, Monsieur, while we waited?” “Actually,” thought I to myself, “No … we did not,” for Josephine’s idea of conversation had proven to be exuberant praise of her husband’s many accomplishments which I, of course, was expected to replicate with laudatory comments of my own … a task made difficult by the necessity of responding appropriately while striving to maintain all my powers of concentration on the imagined ravishment at hand. “A delightful discussion,” I replied,“and certainly one you would have enjoyed Toupouzian, for clearly, you are Josephine’s favorite topic.” “Heh, heh.” Toupouzian chucked modestly, the broad space between his front teeth appearing in the opening between his graying mustache and beard. Yes, he knew he was Josephine’s favorite topic. So it is with the rich. They know they are deserving. And am I not? Am I not descended of nobility? Do I not also deserve riches … to be adored by beautiful women? Josephine gazed fondly at Toupouzian. What did she see when she did so … his great nose, or a new fur coat? “And you, Monsieur Montholon?” Josephine enquired, “I am sure you are someone’s favorite topic too, Non?” Oho? And what was this? A cleverly disguised test of my…uh…powers of discretion? Might dalliance yet be a possibility? I knew, of course, the only possible answer to her question. “Ah,” said I, “I never speak of affairs of the heart. I am,” I noted, bowing slightly for emphasis, “a courtier … not a barbarian.” Yes, a courtier. Surely, a man of the 21st Century but also … a fact of inheritance not to be trifled with … the direct descendent five times removed of the handsome and aristocratic Comte Charles-Tristan de Montholon. It was said of him that women fainted when he passed. Now, while I do not wish to seem presumptuous, yet I hope I may be allowed to note — in all modesty — that I myself have observed the close resemblance between his chiseled features (as represented in likenesses created during his lifetime) and my own. True, it has been said of him that his principle objective in life was the pursuit of pleasure (not, certainly a bad thing), but he was more than merely a rake. It was he, after all, who became the Emperor’s closest confidant while on St. Helena; he who became the guardian of the Emperor’s private stock of wine; he, who in the Emperor’s declining days took all his meals with him; he who stayed with Him unto his last breath and lastly, it was he who was called upon to open and read the Great Man’s last Will and Testament. Was this, then, not a man of significance? Thus, it may be argued that I am a man of pedigree. It is for that very reason that I hope I may be excused if I confess frankly that I cannot help but oftentimes feel I deserve more from life than I receive. Alas, it has been my great misfortune that the Montholon treasure — reputed once to very considerable — has not passed through the generations and across the ocean to me. So it is that I have had to work in positions beneath my station. So it is that I must struggle against financial hardship and, in consequence, find it difficult to fully engage myself — as does one such as Toupouzian — in the enjoyments of the world. Toupouzian’s trumpet-like voice sliced through my momentary reflection. “Come, come,” he said, gesturing to Josephine and myself to follow him, “Is time for eating. I am starving! So if you please…. to the dining room!” “But what of the acquisition?” I enquired. “Ah, Montholon, always so impatient!” He gestured carelessly toward what I supposed to be an antique bottle situated on a charming waist-high credenza with a glass top. The bottle was large, deep amber in color and, in its shape presented a bust of Napoleon Bonaparte. “Is there, Montholon. That bottle.” “Oh,” said I. “That’s the acquisition? A collector’s bottle? How …ah… interesting,” I said, but in truth, I felt greatly let down. A bottle in the likeness of Napoleon? Was this a treasure sought by a man such as Toupouzian … he who, to my certain knowledge, once expended untold sums in pursuit of the mummified remains of an Incan Princess excavated from her resting place high in the Peruvian Andes? “Well,” I asked out of courtesy rather than any powerful sense of curiosity, “Shouldn’t we look at it?” “Later, Montholon, is not time yet” he replied, and taking my elbow, guided me from the room. We entered the lavishly furnished dining room, at the center of which was situated a long, highly polished antique mahogany table with settings for three, Toupouzian on the end and Josephine and I to be seated opposite each other on the corners. Toupouzian escorted Josephine to her seat. As I took my own, I noted that given the width of the table, unless both parties (that is to say Josephine and myself) slid well down in our chairs, there would be no opportunity for footsie. I smiled at her. She raised her eyebrows (what did that mean?) and smiled her brilliant smile at me. I was jelly. The three of us at table, Toupouzian called out to his chef, “Cosimo, we are ready for eating!” Immediately, an exceedingly handsome young man burst through the door from the kitchen. Solemn in demeanor, he was clad for the occasion in a splendid emerald green embroidered jacket and black silk breeches, presumably reminiscent of the sort of costume Napoleon’s own chef might have been required to wear (ah, Toupouzian, thought I … are there no limits to your pursuit of amusement)? Placing upon the table the covered silver tray he had carried into the hall, he raised the lid so that we might admire the artful presentation of our dinner, then bowed with great obsequiousness to each of the three of us and gravely announced, “Hi have za pleasure to serving of your hanners the foods what is the most favorite of His Majesty, the Hemperor Napoleon …is dish what is hinvented after za great victory over za Austrians near Turin in June 1800 and what za Emperor is heating from zat time after all za fightings ever! Is … ta ta ta ta…Chicken Marengo!” “Bravo!” cried Josephine, laughing and applauding enthusiastically, her wonderful frontal area bouncing up and down in a manner one could only find … ah … captivating. “Splendid, splendid!” I cried. Turning then my attention to Cosimo, I exclaimed, “Ah! Chicken Marengo!” (this was an effort I put forth with as much enthusiasm as I could muster for, in truth, I do not care greatly for the dish, especially when, as in this case, crayfish were encircling the pile of chicken in the middle of the tray as though in preparation for an assault) “Such a presentation, Cosimo! Truly, it’s…breathtaking…” Cosimo began ladling the concoction to our dishes. Its oddly congealing presence on my plate put me momentarily in mind of an earlier Toupouzian dinner in which the main course had been — of all rare delicacies — pigeon pie … this in an effort to share with his guests the gustatory experience of Ethiopia, from which blighted nation he had just returned after an archeological expedition. It was too much for some of the assemblage. Indeed, I distinctly recall one rather famous lawyer (Geld, I believe, may have been his name) seated at the far end of this same table who passed the entire dinner shoving morsels of pigeon about on his plate while variously moaning and commenting to his neighbors as to his inability to dine on anything that had once been covered with feathers. Toupouzian broke in, “You were already knowing the story of how Chicken Marengo was invented, Montholon?” “Hmm … well,” said I, “I think I knew … but I may have forgotten. But now, of course, I remember. Yes, it was at the Battle of Marengo, I believe. Against the Austrians…” “And for the wine…” said Toupouzian handily dismissing what he clearly felt to be my substandard contribution to the discussion, “…also the Emperor’s favorite.” He held a glass into which he had poured a small amount to the light so that we might appreciate its vibrant red color, “Vin de Constantia … is from South Africa. Is very rare, Montholon. Even I have am having only this one bottle…just for this occasion. And do you know what? Is only wine Napoleon is drinking whole time he is at St. Helena. So now, tonight we are drinking same wine. Cosimo, please you are doing the honors.” He gave the glass to Cosimo who, with great ceremony and range of facial expression eventually managed to pronounce the beverage suitable for drinking. This done, Toupouzian filled our own glasses. “You know, Montholon,” he said, “your ancestor is having very special relationship with the Emperor …” “Yes… absolutely,” said I. “By all accounts, my ancestor loved the Emperor…and was beloved and greatly trusted by him. Indeed, such was their affection for one another that a daughter born to Le Comte’s wife during the time she resided at St. Helena was, in fact, named after the Emperor … little Napoleone…” “Ooh isn’t that nice?” commented Josephine, “And did she look like za Emperor, too?” She snickered … though in a way I found utterly disarming … and added, “I zought that is why all za women were at St. Helena…to keep Napoleon happy…” “Well,” said I, “they were there with there husbands…” “Oh, zen,” she said, “I am sure I am mistaken. If zey were all married, zere would certainly be no …how do you say…hankie pankie.” I had to think about this. “If they were married, there would be no hankie-pankie.” These were her words, yes, but the tone … the tone …of her lovely voice made it abundantly clear that, in her mind, the condition of being married presented no barrier to the conduct of “hankie-pankie.” I had, I was certain, received her meaning. Her marriage to Toupouzian was no barrier to … to us? Ah! But how to let her know we were simpatico? I was about to purse my lips at her … subtly of course … when Toupouzian’s trumpet-like voice summoned me back to his … ah … presentation. “Montholon …Montholon, you are knowing, of course, that your ancestor is wine steward for Napoleon? Nobody is getting near this wine to serve Napoleon but the Comte Charles-Tristan de Montholon.” “Yes,” said I, “I know that… but what of it, Toupouzian? It was just one of his many duties as a senior officer at Longwood House.” “Of course, of course … And so now, before we are drinking this fine wine, we are having special toast …” My cue, thought I, and fairly leaped to my feet, it being my intention to propose an eloquent toast of my own both to Napoleon (for giving cause to this lovely evening by expiring) and, of course — by way of thanking my gracious host — to Toupouzian himself. But Toupouzian would not have this. “Montholon…please be sitting back down. I am making toast.” “Ah,” said I, “of course.” “And now we are raising glasses, please.” We did so. “As I am saying,” Toupouzian continued, “on this very day that Napoleon is expiring, we are drinking toast to your ancestor (I suddenly noticed that Cosimo, who was standing just to the left and behind Toupouzian seemed to be swaying) … Le Comte Charles-Tristan de Montholon for the clever and loyal service he is providing to his true master as officer of the household and chief wine steward at Longwood House…” Cosimo dropped to the floor like a ruined plaster column. Indeed, so precipitously did he fall that Josephine gasped in shock and I jumped from my chair. He lay upon his back, growling and muttering in his native language, his limbs shaking frightfully. Then, with a final great sigh, all movement ceased. We looked down at him, Toupouzian and I standing, Josephine stretched over her corner of the table. “Gracious,” said Josephine, seemingly quite concerned, “Cosimo, are you alright? I hope zat you did not hurt yourself, falling like that, poor dear.” He did not move. “Hmm,” said Toupouzian, nudging Cosimo lightly in the area of the rib cage with his foot, “Maybe wine is not agreeing with him…” “Not agreeing with him?” I commented, assuming (as I felt was expected of me) an active part in the little dumb-show taking place, “Look at him lying there like a stone…. Surely, Toupouzian, he’s dead.” Josephine gasped yet again. “Cosimo! Are you really dead?” Still, no movement. “You know, is very interesting,” said Toupouzian seeming to lose interest in the corpse under foot, “There are many people who are believing that Napoleon’s chief valet … I’m thinking his name was Cipriani … he was Corsican guy like his boss … is dying at St. Helena in same way as Cosimo here … drinking Napoleon’s wine. Is big mystery, hey?” “Why, I should declare it a mystery of exceeding proportion,” said I. “Especially since my ancestor was guardian of Napoleon’s wine. How could such a thing have occurred? I can’t imagine, can you?” Toupouzian gazed at me, his coarse features slowly melting into an expression of vast amusement. “Excellent, Montholon! Excellent question! And we are taking up this question in great detail … but not right now. Now is time for eating. Food is getting cold. Cosimo, please … is alright for you to be getting up now. Thank you very much for the way in which you are dropping dead. Was very dramatic. Was excellent, in fact.” Cosimo rose to brief, though enthusiastic, applause (Josephine’s, I thought, was somewhat more enthusiastic than called for), bowed and turned to take his leave. * * * * * “Myself, Montholon,” said Toupouzian, “I am liking cigar that is producing prodigious clouds of smoke.” Our repast complete, Toupouzian and I had made our way back to the parlor for cigars, brandy (Courvoisier-Napoleon, of course) and, at last, the anticipated presentation of the acquisition. Sadly, from my perspective, Josephine had not joined us. It was necessary, she said, that she engage in consultation with Cosimo relating to an upcoming dinner event for Toupouzian’s literary salon. She would, she promised, attempt to join us a bit later on. Macanudo in my left hand, oversized crystal snifter in my right, I moved to the credenza and bent down for a closer inspection of the bottle Toupouzian had casually pointed out earlier in the evening. Its mouth, hidden within the Emperor’s famous high brimmed headpiece was sealed in such a manner as to suggest it was never intended to be opened though, clearly, the bottle contained a dark liquid which I assumed to be of a distilled nature. Altogether, the object stood perhaps twelve inches high and, at the shoulders, at least as wide. Beneath the great hat, the strong features of the Emperor’s handsome face, eyes, nose, lips, and strong chin were rendered perfectly. “Well,” said I, “It is exquisite in detail and it’s historical but, Toupouzian, I must ask you, does it really compare in its…ah…intrinsic interest … with other items in your collection? Toupouzian joined me at the display. “Heh, heh…Montholon…is very important…very important. Piece is dating from 1802,” he said, “When Napoleon is age 32 and, as First Consul of France is being at height of his powers. One thousand of these bottles are being cast to celebrate coronation, but after Napoleon is sent to St. Helena, is illegal to own one in France. Getting caught with one is for certain a trip to prison … maybe death. So becomes very rare item.” “In fact, maybe only ones left in whole world are pieces that Napoleon is giving as keepsake to each member of the entourage he is taking with him to St. Helena in 1815. Of these, most are showing up much later in museums…but never this one. This one,” Toupouzian patted the bottle for emphasis, “is getting into the hands of Napoleon’s most intractable enemy ever…the Comte D’Artois … are you knowing who is the Comte D’Artois, Montholon?” He gestured at me with his cigar. “You should be knowing this.” “Ah,” said I, “The Comte …uh…who you said…I think I know, but, actually I believe I may have forgotten. Perhaps, Toupouzian, you would be so kind…” A look of satisfaction briefly appeared upon his face. “The Comte D’Artois…that is how he is known before 1824 when he is becoming Charles X, King of France. Is very powerful man. And what is he doing with this little piece? He is thinking it is such a prized possession, so valuable, Montholon, he is trying — without success — for over 20 years to keep it secret from Bonapartist fanatics. At first, is locking in special vault in Palace of the Tuilleries, then, in 1830, at time he is getting kicked out of France himself, is taking with him to England. Goes from there to Prague … and finally is winding up in Slovenia where is known for certain that in 1836 — on his deathbed — he is giving bottle to his protector, the Count Coronini Comburg zu Graffenburg of Ljubljana.” “Ah, but Montholon, Count Coronini is just big piece of blubber festooned with braid and medals. Once he is realizing magnitude of what he has been given, is afraid he is maybe being killed over stupid piece of glass. So what is he doing? Heh, heh. He is doing smart thing. He is making it easy for piece to be stolen and, in no time, is gone. Where is going? Who knows? Rumors are placing everywhere … Russia (stolen by agents of Czar), Colombia (what aren’t they stealing?), Mexico, U.S. But, Montholon, evidence is strong that piece is whole time back in France. Why? Because is object of great pursuit by Nazis occupying France during Second War. Adolph supposedly is knowing of this piece… is wanting for his mantle at Eagle’s Nest.” “Toupouzian,” said I, unable to contain myself any longer, “My head is spinning! All this fuss over a glass likeness of Napoleon? What am I missing? I am standing before the very piece. I see a dark brown bottle … a nicely executed effigy of the Emperor Napoleon to be sure … but worthy of nearly two hundred years of intrigue? An artifact sought by world-class tyrants? Why, Toupouzian? What is it after all?” We stood side by side, silently gazing at the artifact before us. Toupouzian savored the bouquet of his brandy, took a small sip, puffed his cigar, smiled broadly. He was pleased, I should say, in extremis. Then, reaching to his left, he pushed a switch that I had not previously noted on the side of the credenza. Slowly, light began to seep upward through the bottle illuminating it from within. It seemed to glow. And then, to my utter amazement, a form …something in the bottle … began slowly to materialize. Without realizing it, my nose was nearly to the glass. Very gradually… I could make out what appeared to be a small platform within the container … then, something resting upon the platform … something round, perhaps, and elongated in shape. “What is it Toupouzian?” I asked. “What am I seeing?” “It looks rather like … like a sausage?” “Toupouzian!” I cried out, “Is that what I think it is?” Toupouzian was serene. “Yes, Montholon. What you are seeing was indeed property of the Emperor. Was used to produce one legitimate son … only by second wife, Marie-Louise, by the way … and scores of offspring that are not counting.” “I am,” said I, “Truly at a loss for words.” I could only stammer, “Who? Why?” Toupouzian waved his cigar grandly. He was happy. “Who? Who, as I am saying, Montholon, is the Comte D’Artois … brother to Louis XVIII who is King after Second Bourbon restoration of 1814. Louis is old and sick and having no succession. D’Artois is knowing he will be King … that is, he will be King if the person he is hating and fearing most in the whole world is not is coming back to France from St. Helena like he is doing from Elba and almost ruining everything for the royals.” “So what is D’Artois doing about it? He’s thinking, Montholon, how to be killing Napoleon … the Usurper. This is not easy thing to do. He’s trying for 15 years … once or twice is almost working … but close is what? Nothing.” “Then, in June 1815, Napoleon is losing at Waterloo. A few months later English are sending him to St. Helena with small group of servants and aides. D’Artois is smart guy. He is seeing his big chance to get rid of his enemy forever… if he is finding secret agent to be part of Usurper’s entourage. But who?” “And then, voila! he is realizing he has got person with perfect qualifications for job …guy who was kicked out of Napoleon’s army for incompetence but, because he is connected by marriage to the old aristocracy, gets promoted to General after the First Restoration. And what is he doing in new position to distinguish himself? Why, of course, he is amassing fortune by stealing the pay that is belonging to his soldiers. ’Aha! My man!’ cries D’Artois and extends offer that is much too good for refusing … jail forever … or find way to go to St. Helena with the Usurper, become trusted insider …and launch plan for slowly and quietly killing him.” “And guess what. Plan is working. Napoleon is being ever so carefully poisoned with his own wine right under noses of the both the English … and the Frenchies. Was the work, Montholon, of a master, maybe greatest double agent of whole 19th Century. And who is this master? Is your ancestor, Montholon…the great Comte Charles-Tristan. Think of it. He is making himself the trusted consort of both a hated king and the hated usurper. He is committing the perfect crime … is still a big topic of argument today with the Frenchies claiming it never happened. But is happening, Montholon, and the arsenic still in Napoleon’s own hair samples is proving. You should be proud.” My ancestor … a double agent? A turd …if such a crude expression may be excused … in the imperial punch bowl? Could it be true? I should be proud? I would have to consider the ramifications of this new perspective on the meaning of my ancestor’s life. I confess to having experienced certain ambivalent feelings inspired by Toupouzian’s rousing words. That is to say, I did rather feel myself flushing with pride. After all, if one did not dwell upon the deed, but rather upon the magnitude of the accomplishment, why then, it struck me, that in the performance of his Grand Oeuvre my ancestor was really quite without peer. And, yet, there was … how shall I describe it … a certain niggling discomfort associated with contemplation of how the … ah … the instrument in the bottle, which presumably my ancestor presented to the Comte D’Artois, got there. Better, I thought, not to proceed with this line of inquiry. Instead, I wondered aloud as to why D’Artois would desire to have in his possession such an unusual keepsake. Clearly, Toupouzian had given this question considerable thought. “Is wanting for many possible reasons, Montholon,” he replied. “Jealousy maybe (remember, Napoleon is making lots of children, D’Artois is having only two)… hatred for sure … celebration of his great triumph over his enemy. Toupouzian shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he is just wanting to see whose is longer.” Did Toupouzian have something here? Was that all it was? Has anything changed? Is it not indeed the truth that the history of strife upon our planet is but the fruit of the boundless vanity of the rich, greedy and powerful? “Ah, you are still here, Monsieur.” The lovely Josephine swept into the parlor from her consultation with Cosimo. She appeared flushed, her lovely thick dark hair tousled. In fact I should say she seemed rather flustered (had they argued over the menu I wondered … or could it possibly be the effect my own presence had on her). “I waz afraid you would be already gone and just wanted to zay good-bye. It was very nice to zee you again…” Ah? She was afraid I would be gone and wanted to say good-bye? Clearly, a spark had passed between us. Had she not smiled at me in a certain way, raised her eyebrows at dinner and spoken to me in code? Yes, I thought, I would have to get Toupouzian to invite me to visit again, and soon. “The pleasure,” said I emulating what I considered might be my ancestor’s posture under similar circumstances, “as always, was entirely mine.” We shook hands. Hers was warm and soft, a delight to hold. I did not wish to let it go. A short tugging match ensued as she sought to extract it from my grasp. Toupouzian escorted me to his mammoth front door. “Toupouzian,” I said as I prepared to leave, “I wonder… if may I be so bold as to enquire how the … uh…” “Sarcophagus,” he supplied … “Ah, thank you,” said I … “Yes, the sarcophagus… how it came into your possession?” He sighed and smiled in the way he has always done when he is feeling great satisfaction with himself. “Heh, heh. This is a long and complicated story, Montholon. Is not enough time for telling now.” “No, not now. Certainly not now,” said I, “but soon, perhaps? I should really like to know. Indeed, I feel I must. After all, Toupouzian, isn’t it true that it is only owing to my ancestor’s … ah … achievement that the piece even exists?” The immediate change in my host’s expression … the sudden turning down of lips and brow clearly signaled the necessity of a rapid recalibration of my strategy for securing a near-future return invitation, namely to one more appropriately Toupouzian centered. “It must have been an extraordinary adventure,” I said, shaking my head. “I can only imagine. Oh, I know, Toupouzian, you will make light of it … but I have no doubt that your pursuit of this artifact — what is, for you, I realize, just another interesting item for your collection — had you in places few of us might ever hope to see and in contact with people who, I am certain, live well beyond the pale of normal existence.” My words had the desired brightening effect. “You know, Montholon,” said Toupouzian his smile returning, “I am just thinking, maybe I am having little dinner party towards end of next week…maybe is being next Friday…” “And I am invited?” asked I. “If you would like to be coming,” said Toupouzian. “Ah,”
said I, “Of course.”
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