I was ecstatic, and propelled into a new frenzy of industry, more determined than ever to overcome the new obstacles engendered by my great-aunt’s lawsuit.
But Peter was soon oppressed with business at the office, which cut severely into his time available to give me assistance. Moreover, once the trial began, the matter became increasingly intricate and grim. Peter’s clever strategy of proving Great-Auntie Clark hypocritical and malicious was stricken by the amount of support she had from the population of good society in Baltimore, especially from friends of Hattie’s family. In addition, there were simply too many points of the chronology that could not be cleared up sufficiently to the public eye.
“Then there is the entire episode of spying on this baron that her lawyer has mentioned,” said Peter one evening during the trial.
“But that can be explained! To find the correct conclusions about Poe’s death—”
“Anything can be explained—but can it be understood? Even Hattie, for all that she loves you, wants to understand this, and is pained that she does not. You talk of seeking the conclusions about Poe’s death, but what are they? Here lies the difference between success and insanity. To make out your case, you must adapt your argument to the understanding of the dullest man of the twelve in that box.”
At length, as the case against me worsened, it became clear that Peter was correct. I could not win. However hard I labored, I could not save Glen Eliza. I could not win Hattie back. I could not accomplish any of this without a solution to Poe’s death—without showing that in all of this I had found the truth that I had sought for so long.
I knew what I must do. I’d use the one persuasive story of Poe’s demise that had come out of this ordeal: the Baron Dupin’s. It was my last hope. It had been kept in my memory, and now I wrote it out, word for word, in the form of an address I would make to the court…
I present to you, Your Honor and Gentlemen of the Jury, the truth about this man’s death and my life. The narrative has not been told before….
I could see immediately that this would do it. Indeed, the more I read what I’d scribbled into my memorandum book, the more the Baron’s story seemed possible—then plausible—likely! I knew it could not be trusted, that it had been manipulated and fashioned for the hearing and satisfaction of the public; I knew, too, that it would now be believed. All that follows will be the plain truth. I would speak fictions, out and out fables, probably lies. Yet I would be believed again, respected again, as my father would want. And I must tell you this story because I am the one nearest the truth. (Duponte, if only Duponte were here.) Or, rather, the only one still living.
33
DECEMBER SAW SOMETHING new and familiar in France. Louis-Napoleon, president of the Republic, decided to replace his prefect of police, Monsieur Delacourt, with Charlemagne de Maupas. He would serve as a stronger ally. “I need some men to help me cross this ditch,” Louis-Napoleon reportedly told de Maupas. “Will you be one of them?”
That was a sign.
So were the new secret policemen assigned by Louis-Napoleon to monitor both the prefecture and the palace of the government.
President Louis-Napoleon assembled a team to carry out his coup. On the first of the month, he gave each member half a million francs. Early the next morning, de Maupas, the prefect, and his police arrested the eighty legislators who Louis-Napoleon feared could most effectively oppose him. They were held in the prison at Mazas. They would not have been legislators anymore, in any event, for what Louis-Napoleon did next was to dissolve the assembly, meanwhile seizing printing presses and sending his army to kill the leaders of the Red Republicans as soon as they showed themselves in the streets. Other opponents, mostly those of fine old French families, were immediately exiled from the country.
It was all rather quick.
Louis-Napoleon declared France an empire again. It was remembered that Louis-Napoleon as a boy was reported to have pleaded with his uncle, the first emperor of France, not to go off to Waterloo, at which the emperor commented: “He will be a good soul, and perhaps the hope of my race.”
On my way to the courthouse each morning I read more news of the political affairs in France. It was said that Jérôme Napoleon Bonaparte of Baltimore (called “Bo”), cousin of the new emperor—the man I had met flanked by two costume swords, the man never acknowledged by his now deceased uncle Napoleon Bonaparte because of his American mother—was to travel to Paris and meet with Emperor Napoleon III to repair the lengthy breach.
Americans were entranced with these stories from Paris, perhaps because the coup seemed so different from any upheaval that could take place here. My interest was slightly more narrow or, rather, more pertinent.
I wrote several cards to the various Bonaparte homes, hoping to find out that Jérôme Napoleon Bonaparte had not yet left for Paris and would speak with me, even though I presumed he would not remember our brief meeting at the dress ball with Monsieur Montor. I had questions. Though they might not do me any good in particular, I wanted the answers anyway.
Meanwhile, many onlookers came to court to see the continuation of my earlier humiliations. It seemed unfortunate to them, I suppose, that my previous appearances in the press had been inconclusive and had not reached an appropriate climax. Fortunately, many spectators were eventually driven away by the tedium of the technical matters that filled most of the opening days of the trial. It was around this time that I was surprised to receive a note with the Bonaparte seal, assigning me a time to come to one of their residences.
It was a larger house than the one I had seen the rogues in; it was more secluded, surrounded by wild trees and uncultivated grassy hills. I was ushered inside by a very willing servant, and on the grand stairway met at least two other servants (it was a long stairway), whose shared trait was their nervousness undertaking some task or another. The mansion was grand and in no way subdued or timid in its grandeur—showing the most marvelous chandeliers and gold-bordered tapestries, which always kept the eye looking up.
I was surprised to find seated in a massive chair burnished with silver not Jérôme Napoleon Bonaparte—the leading male of the Baltimore branch of the family—but his mother, Elizabeth Patterson Bonaparte. As a young girl she had captured the heart of Napoleon’s brother and was married to him for two years before Napoleon, through various machinations, including calling in the pope to annul it, ended the relationship. Though she was not now costumed as a queen, as the first time I’d met her, the regal attitude remained.
This matron, now in her sixties, had bare arms with the most luminous bracelets, too many to count, spiraling up and down her wrists. Upon her head she wore a black velvet bonnet from which orange feathers jutted out, giving her a frightening and wild aspect. Several tables of jewels and garish garments surrounded her. On the other side of her chambers, a girl I took to be a servant rocked in a chair like an invalid.
“Madame Bonaparte.” I bowed, feeling for a moment that I should lean down on one knee. “You would not remember meeting me, but I was at a ball where you were dressed as a queen and I was not in a costume.”
“You are right, young man. I do not remember meeting you. But it was I who answered your card.”
“And Monsieur Bonaparte, your son…?”
“Bo is already on his way to meet the new emperor of France,” she said, as though it were the most pedestrian reason for a tour abroad.
“I understand. I have read in the papers of the prospects for such a meeting. Perhaps monsieur could be kindly informed that I should be most obliged to arrange an interview upon his return.”
She nodded but seemed to forget the request as soon as I had spoken it. “I would not quarrel with an attorney,” she said, “but I wonder that you should have time to be here when you are quite occupied each day at court, Mr. Clark.”
I was surprised that she knew anything of my situation, though I reminded myself of the interest taken by the press. Still, though my claim to sanity and my life’s fort
une was hanging in the balance, for a woman whose son was reported by the newspapers as journeying to meet an emperor, my troubles seemed rather trifling business. I sat in a particular armchair as instructed. I surveyed the rest of the room and noticed a bright red parasol, gleaming as brilliantly as her jewels, leaning against the side of a large chest. Underneath was a mostly dried puddle of water, indicating its recent use. In my mind, I saw again the scene before me at the Baron’s doomed lecture hall, and the indistinct lady under a bejeweled red parasol.
Had it been she?
I realized, with a sudden chill, why this woman must have come to the lecture. As a witness not to the Baron’s revelations on Poe’s death, but to the revelation of a new death.
I thought I had understood most of the history of events when I’d read of the recent tales of power and death in Paris in the newspapers. Louis-Napoleon, when told of Duponte’s re-emergence in Paris, a re-emergence I had stimulated, thought back to the legends of the analyst’s abilities. He and the leaders of his plan for a secret coup must have believed Duponte could jeopardize it, could ratiocinate and expose their goals of a coup too early. Napoleon had ordered Duponte eliminated at about the time we were leaving for Baltimore. It was meant to be an easy task for one of the men of abandoned character known to the police, with whom they sometimes made mutually advantageous arrangements.
They missed their opportunity while Duponte was still in Paris, and soon he was leaving with me. Many years later, I heard reports that they had thoroughly raided and torn apart all of Duponte’s rooms while we were on the way to the harbor. Frantic, they planned his elimination at sea, only to find the expulsion of their assassin, the stowaway, one of whose aliases was Rollin. They had lost us to America.
Yet there were Bonapartes in Baltimore; indeed, there was Jérôme Napoleon Bonaparte, who had been denied his birthright. Bo had been waiting his whole life to realign himself with the branch of his family in France, to be royalty. Now came his chance to prove his worth to the heir to the power of their ancestor, to this soon-to-be emperor. The men following the Baron Dupin, the men who killed him under the guidance of the original stowaway, had not come for him at all. Rollin had hidden himself in Baltimore because he knew Duponte might recognize him from that incident on board the ship. I had seen him in my poison-induced haze in prison, where he had been incarcerated briefly for some involvement with a local criminal element. The stowaway Rollin—and his two henchmen—had been here to kill Duponte. For the sake of the future of France.
Except the Baron had made the mistake of disguising himself as his rival. And had been killed in his stead.
That was how I had come to understand the events since encountering the stowaway Rollin at the house of the Bonapartes. But now, meeting this woman, I had to wonder: what had she done in all this?
I turned from the parasol back to its keeper. “You knew the part of the plot your son was designing?”
“Bo?” She let out a chirp of amusement. “He is too busy with his garden and his books for such things. He is a member of the bar but never saw fit to practice. He is a true man of the world. Certainly, he wishes to assume his proper place, to regain our property and our rights as Bonapartes, but he has not the strength of spirit to be a leader.”
“Then who?” I asked. “Who saw to it that you would hunt Duponte to win favor back with Napoleon?”
“I would not expect such a want of courtesy in my home from a strikingly handsome young gentleman as yourself.” But her reprimand seemed light. Indeed, she leisurely passed a glance up and down my body in a way that gave me discomfort. She had been grinning, but now her face became flat and serious as she talked about her son. “Bo…I had endeavored to instill in my son that he was too high in birth to ever marry an American woman. Yet he disgraced himself by doing so. I wished for him in his youth to take the hand of Charlotte Bonaparte, a cousin of his, to return us to the seat of influence, but he refused.”
“You refused the wishes of your parents, too, when a girl,” I noted.
“I did so to be brought under the wings of an eagle!” she said passionately. “Yes, the emperor had dealt with me in a hard fashion, but I long ago forgave him. What did he say of me to Marshal Bertrand before he died? ‘Those whom I have wronged have forgiven me; those whom I have loaded with kindness have forsaken me.’ Ah, Napoleon, I have not let my grandsons forget that their grand-uncle was the Great Emperor!”
She lifted her hands upward and I could now observe more closely a gown that hung behind her. It was the wedding dress she had worn in 1803, in the ceremony in Baltimore that had ignited the world into consternation, that had sent emissaries from America scuttling across an ocean to try to appease the fury of the French leader. I had read about this dress recently when educating myself on the history of these episodes. It was India muslin and lace, and had caused something of a scandal as there was only one garment underneath it. “All the clothes worn by the bride might be put in my pocket,” a Frenchman reported in a letter to Paris.
It hung on the wall in perfectly fossilized condition, seeming, if one were not close enough to see signs of age in the fabric, as though it was quite new, and might be rushed to a church at any moment.
Suddenly there were the sounds of a baby, a rough, brittle cry that grew increasingly loud. Startled, I looked around for its source, as though it were some supernal happening, and found that the young servant girl rocking and swaying in the corner was in fact holding a baby, no more than eight months old. This, it was explained to me, was Charles Joseph Napoleon, the youngest child of Bo and his wife, Susan. Madame Bonaparte was caring for her new grandchild while Bo and his American wife traveled to Paris to beseech the emperor for the long-awaited rights of the Baltimore members of the family.
The woman took the baby from the nurse and curled her fingers around him tightly. “Here is one of the hopes of our race. And have you ever seen my other grandson? He attended Harvard and now studies at West Point. He is everything that my husband was not. Tall, distinguished, soon to be a soldier of the most capable order.” Madame Bonaparte cooed at the little creature then said, “He would make a very presentable emperor of the French.”
“Only if Louis-Napoleon agrees to return your offspring to the line of succession, madame,” I pointed out.
“The new emperor, Louis-Napoleon, is a rather dull man, on the order of George Washington. He shall need to secure a far stronger ingenuity for the empire to survive.”
“From your family, you mean?” The baby had now begun howling, and Madame Bonaparte returned him to the nurse.
“I am too old to coquette, as was once my only stimuli. I have been tired of killing time, Mr. Clark. To doze away existence. Once I had everything but money. Here, I have nothing but money. I shall not let men of my blood be mere American colonists like my son has mistaken himself for.”
“You did this, then. You agreed to eliminate a man, a genius, because Louis-Napoleon worried he could foresee his plot to overthrow the Republic.”
She shrugged slightly. “We have given money and comfort to travelers from France, under my direction—yes—if that is what you mean. Their orders came from other parties, not from me.”
“And did they accomplish what they were directed to do?”
She waved the nurse out of the room and frowned. “Dolts,” she said. “They mistook one man for another. I understand they were told by the Paris police to expect your presence around this Duponte they were after, yet they saw you waiting around the hotels of this other—this false Baron, this false Duponte. No matter, for what was needed was achieved: no one interfered with Louis-Napoleon’s plans, and now he has ascended.” She examined me closely again and I could feel the acute judgment of her eyes growing.
“Tell me,” she said. “From what we have understood, you brought along these two men of genius in some attempt to find a poet that you fancy. I have heard about this Poe. His talent has mostly been dismissed by America.”
“
Not for long,” I said.
She laughed. “You do have faith. Perhaps you will be interested that I have heard that young poets and writers in Paris are now reading him in great numbers, your Poe. It seems he was like their own Monsieur Balzac—brilliant but luckless, doomed to be a puppet of fate. He will be brought into the European spirit, as all the better American minds are. Yet this is not enough for your Poe-worship, is it, Mr. Clark? My son is not dissimilar from how you must be; he believes books are written primarily for his personal readership.”
“Madame Bonaparte, my motives are not important. This is not about me.”
“But, stay! Think of it, dear Mr. Clark. You have helped by giving us an important task to perform, which has allowed us to prove our loyalty to France. We have ensured a new emperor from this, and he will create an empire in which my family can survive forever! I have spent a lifetime to see to it that my children have their proper inheritance, and would give my life for it now. What about you? You were but a chrysalis and you made the mistake of giving up what your family made you into. Tell me, what did you find?”
I rose from my chair without answering. “I have only one other question, Madame Bonaparte. If they came to know they assassinated the wrong man at the lyceum that night, did they then locate the right one? Has Duponte been killed, too?”
“I have told you,” the woman said slowly, “I only provide comfort. I provide a place to start, you might say, a birthplace for noble plans. Others must decide the rest for themselves.”
I had written and discarded a whole notebook of letters to Auguste Duponte. I detailed for him not only the hard reality—that Poe, apparently, had not modeled his character C. Auguste Dupin from any real person, but rather and remarkably only from imagination. I included not just this, but also the steps of thinking that had led me to reach this conclusion, knowing he would have an interest in the line of reasoning. However, if Duponte was still alive and escaped, I did not know where to address any letters. Not to Paris, not to his former residence, I felt certain. He would not be in this Paris, not in Louis-Napoleon’s Third Empire, where his genius was seen as an enemy to the emperor’s unending ambitions.