Final Draft

“Then the general was beside me, mounted on his burly bay charger, and I struggled to my feet, though my leg hurt terribly. He hauled me up behind him, on the quivering back of that strong, proud horse, and I thought I might scream with pain as he jarred my leg. The general wrapped my arm around him and kept a firm hand on the reins as he coaxed his horse into a steady canter.” The elderly man, Jasson, paced like a caged lion, limping heavily on the right side. Several spellbound youngsters in knee pants and bare footed sat in a cluster on the ground of the hut. Suddenly, the man spun left and surveyed them majestically, then continued on.

“I could feel myself slipping, but every time the man in front of me reached back and by pure will kept me in place. My vision began to swim and I knew I was close to losing consciousness. My leg felt sodden, heavy, and when I reached to touch it my hand came away coated in blood. I felt sick. I could feel the break, and it made my stomach flip back and forth.” Again the man stopped, his dark eyes burning a hole into the crowd. One young boy was slowly moving forward with each passing minute, and Jasson held a smile behind tightly clamped lips. “I don’t know how long we rode, but when he finally pulled up at the field hospital I was woozy with blood loss and babbling incoherently. Though the general was no larger than I, he was a great deal more powerful and he lifted me down from the bay and carried me into the large white tent. A doctor was with him at once, and motioned us over to an unoccupied cot, where the general laid me down. I don’t know what happened after that, but when I woke, my leg was afire again and I believe I moaned for a time before dropping back off to sleep. I do not know how long I slept, but the next thing I remember, the general was standing over me. I saluted as I lay on my back, squinting as I peered up at him. He helped me to sit, and handed me a tray of food. I don’t know what it was, but it was hot and I was grateful. He proceeded to tell me that, while I had lain comatose, he and others had signed surrender, thus ending the revolution, and we were going home.”

Jasson’s long, steel grey hair swung about as he moved his large, slender hands expressively. “The trip home was a long one, complicated by the fact that I could not move about as others could. When we came into port, I had wasted away to virtually nothing, and my now healed leg was little more than a stick. So I retired from the army and returned here.” A smile appeared on the deeply lined face, and he chuckled a bit. “Now I am little more than a storyteller. I cannot work; my leg will not support it. I cannot marry; I am old and tired, with nothing that would attract a wife. So I find solace in memories, and you youngsters.” His brown eyes rested again on the smaller boy, the one who was inching forward. The man that had paced and roared like a lion was now little more than a shell, the life that was the story now spent. “So, young Rabullione,” he said quietly, using the people’s pet name for Napoleon, “Will you leave me in peace now? The rest of you as well.” He added as an afterthought. The boys nodded vigorously, and all but the one he named ran off.
Napoleon di Buenoparte reluctantly got to his feet and started off, looking longingly back several times. Finally, he broke into a steady jog, forcing his numb legs up the slight slope to the castle, where his mother stood at the window with his father, all billowing skirts and rigid posture. She watched sadly as her young son danced and fenced with imaginary opponents, yelling wordlessly as he ran and twisted through tight corners and long hallways, pretending at the battles that old Jasson told him of.


Jasson limped to the door, his eyes sad as he strained to see the boy in the fading light. He watched until Napoleon vanished into the house. Then he stumbled to his chair and sank into it. His right leg stuck out awkwardly. Sighing, he raked his long, slender fingers through his hair. Then he settled back, closing his eyes in exhaustion as he rubbed his aching thigh. Suddenly, the door creaked and the fading sunlight lit a patch of his dirt floor. He opened his eyes and staggered to his feet. ‘Come in, Carlo, come in.’ Jasson said, his eyes quickly losing their tired cast. Carlo Buenoparte glared at him. ‘How many times must I tell you?’ He snarled. Jasson eyed him warily. Carlo continued, ‘You aren’t to fill his head with your extravagant war stories!’ His eyes were frantic. ‘It’s bad enough he’s attending a military academy.’ He ranted, his words tripping over each other as they fought to be heard first. ‘I daren’t overrule his mother on that, but my son is not a soldier!’ Carlo glared, his chest heaving, as Jasson watched him. Spinning on his heel, he stalked towards the door. Stopping, he flung one last command over his shoulder. ‘And don’t call me Carlo.’

Jasson chuckled softly, and Carlo whirled back around, furious. Jasson stared at him, a bemused expression on his face. ‘Have things really changed that much, Carlo?’ He said softly. Napoleon’s father started forward, then halted, a confused expression on his face. ‘Have you really forgotten, Carlo?’ Jasson continued, ‘Do you really believe that Napoleon is not a soldier?’ Carlo’s shoulders slumped, and he sank into the chair across from Jasson’s. Jasson settled into his own chair and studied the younger man. ‘Let me refresh your memory, shall I?’ Jasson said. His blue eyes took on a dreamy cast as he thought back. He spoke softly, confidently, as Carlo’s fury disintegrated into sorrow and pain as the story unfolded. This story had a different cast, a softer glow to it, and Jasson leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes, and told his story.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he sighed, and opened his eyes again. ‘Carlo, my old friend, you are fighting to stop what has to be.’ Tears glistened in his eyes, but he composed himself and continued talking in short, rapid bursts. ‘He is the one. Why are you keeping him from his destiny?’ Carlo buried his head in his hands. ‘I just don’t know anymore.’ He said, finally giving voice to the doubts and uncertainties that had plagued him since his son had been born. ‘He has brothers, bigger, stronger, smarter, and more controlled. How am I to know it’s not one of them?’ Jasson shook his head. ‘You know, Carlo. Your heart knows, but your head refuses to acknowledge it.’ Carlo sighed. ‘Why is it him? He’s so small, Jasson.’ He replied, using the older man’s name for the first time. Jasson staggered to his feet again and poured water for the both of them. ‘My friend,’ he replied, ‘it is not the size of the dog of the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog.’

Carlo didn’t smile. ‘You and your sayings.’ He mumbled as Jasson sat down again. Absently, he reached for the water and drank, wiping his upper lip as he set the cup down again. Jasson mirrored him, studying his friend’s face. ‘What are you afraid of, Carlo?’ He said softly, almost to himself. Carlo ignored him, taking another drink from his cup. Jasson was insistent. ‘Well? Where’s the monster?’ Carlo glared at him. ‘You’re not my doctor, don’t try to fix me.’ He snarled, his fury slowly returning. He drained the rest of his drink in silence, then rose. ‘I thank you for your hospitality.’ He said coolly, in a voice devoid of emotion. Then he turned and walked out, leaving Jasson sitting and staring after him, shadowed with doubt as his friend walked up the hill his son had run up so gaily that same evening.

Carlo strode up the hill, breathing heavily as his softening body protested. Frowning, he forced himself onwards, using his anger as fuel for his body. He stumbled through the door, his face a bright cherry red. His wife looked up in alarm from just inside the parlor door, but quickly relaxed. ‘My goodness, Carlo!’ She exclaimed. ‘No need to frighten me out of my wits!’ This did nothing to improve her husband’s mood, and he grumbled something unintelligible and vanished up the stairs to their rooms. Maria stared after him, surprise blatantly written on her face. ‘What’s gotten into him?’ she mused aloud, her voice low as she turned back to her book. ‘Who?’ A young voice piped up. Maria jumped, then turned to face her son. ‘Napoleon!’ she said sharply. The boy’s face fell instantly. ‘Yes Mother.’ He said softly, and slunk away, chastened. She did not call after him, though her heart ached. It was a hard thing, being the disciplinarian, but the boy’s father was far to free with him. Sighing, she set her book on the side table and lifted her skirts to avoid tripping as she climbed the stairs.

Carlo sat by the window, one leg stretched out on the rest of the bench seat, the other bent as a brace for his arms. He didn’t turn as she entered, seeming not to notice. Instead, he kept his eyes on the horizon. As Maria watched, astounded, a single tear traced slowly down his cheek, pausing in the lines around his mouth before falling from his jaw to his lapel. Concern filled her face as she stood in the doorway, unsure. She had never seen her husband cry before.

Carlo rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head, like a man awakening from a truly deep sleep. Then he caught sight of his wife and turned his head away again. ‘I am ashamed.’ He said quietly, his deep voice filling the once silent room. He gestured to the chair near the window seat. ‘Sit. We need to talk.’ Maria sank carefully into the padded wicker chair he pointed to, folding her hands in her lap nervously. Carlo continued to stare out the window as he started to talk. ‘Look outside.’ He said, gesturing languidly. ‘Tell me, my dear, what do you see?’ Maria leaned forward, uncertain. There were rolling fields and small herds of cattle and horses, but nothing of particular importance, and she said as much. She felt, rather than saw, Carlo’s eyebrow’s shoot up into his receding hairline. ‘Not important.’ It was a statement, an incredulous repetition, as though making sure he had heard her right. ‘The animals and crops that clothe and feed us are not important. The people that tend the fields and cattle are not important.’ Carlo kept his tone measured, even pleasant, but his cheek twitched dangerously. Maria backtracked quickly. ‘I thought you saw something truly incredible and interesting, is all.’ She said quickly, hoping to make amends.

Carlo smiled grimly. ‘Interesting. Incredible. Important.’ He repeated her slowly, giving her time to consider the meaning of each. He nodded towards the scenic landscape below them. ‘You see that down there? Do you see those people? You are right. I saw something important, incredible, and interesting. Everything that goes on down there is all of those things. I want our son to be part of it.’ Finally, Maria saw where it was going. ‘You don’t want him to be a soldier, is that it?’ She said shortly. No beating around the bush for her. She shook her head as he nodded firmly. ‘Carlo, Carlo.’ She said softly. ‘What happened to your free spirited, strong headed ideas? What happened to the man I used to know?’ 
Carlo didn’t respond, and his wife’s voice rose in pitch and volume. ‘Coward.’ She spat. ‘If you really cared for him, you would let him follow his destiny.’ Glowering venomously, she continued, ‘He will finish his education here, and then it is my wish that he attend the Ércole Royale Militaire in Paris. Am I understood?’

Carlo could feel his resolve hardening as Maria attempted to shock him into quiet acquiescence. His eyes filled with fire as he met her eyes for the first time. She was taken aback by the fury she saw there. ‘You call me a coward,’ Carlo said, his voice dangerously cool, ‘but you refuse to acknowledge your own fears.’ Maria flung her head up, prideful spite matching his cold fury. ‘I fear nothing.’ She said disdainfully, and rose out of her seat. He rose with her, towering menacingly over her. She fought the urge to quail, forcing herself to stand tall and proud. ‘Nothing?’ He said, his dark eyes dangerous. Maria shook her head defiantly. ‘Nothing.’ Carlo smiled an almost crazy, demonic, and shook his head. ‘Not even love?’ He inquired softly, pulling her against him. Maria could feel her heart hammering in her ribs, her mind clamoring for her to get out. She laid the palms of her hands against his broad chest and pushed, fighting desperately against the panicked scream that was welling in her throat. ‘Can you honestly tell me that you are not afraid?’ Carlo said, and was surprisingly gratified to see his wife shake her head violently. He released her, and she stumbled backwards.

Shaking his head, he sighed. ‘You should know me well enough by now to know that I would never, could never hurt you.’ He said quietly, his voice betraying the hurt in his heart. He turned from her, heard her stifled sobs as she fled from the room, then sat again on the window seat. To his surprise, Maria came flying out the front door and made for the stables. He stood, suddenly worried, as she hurried back out with her black mare. Swearing, he threw on riding clothes and raced out into the fading light as she galloped off. Carlo ran for the stables, yelling for his horse. In moments, he was mounted and the sky was beginning to cloud. Pulling his hat low over his ears, he heeled his stallion and bent low over the grey neck as they shot off after Maria.

Napoleon stood in the doorway, watching as first his mother, then his father rode at a frantic pace. Tears began to course down his face as thunder rumbled in the sky and the first drops of rain began to fall. Clenching his jaw, he grabbed his coat and hat and ran on short eight-year-old legs to the stables. He ordered his pony to be readied, and the stable master thought twice about arguing after seeing the stubborn, tearful look on the youngster’s face. Mounting in the ever-intensifying rain, he heeled the nervous pony into a gallop. The chestnut took off, extending his fine head and slender neck as the reins smacked against his soaked neck. Napoleon’s coat tails flapped in the air as he hunched over the shoulders and the galloped up the hill.

Maria urged her mare onwards, soaked to the skin, her hair in tangles and her dress ripped by branches and brambles and they galloped into the forest. Tears on her cheeks blended with the lashing rain, and she huddled over the mare’s shoulders, miserable and crying. As they slowed to a walk, hard hoof beats behind them made her whirl in fear. Carlo pulled his stallion to a stop beside her; pulled her off and into his arms. She cried quietly against his broad, comforting chest, shivering uncontrollably as he held her and stroked her hair. He took the reins from her trembling hands and pulled her up behind him, the broad back of the grey stallion easily taking the extra weight. He started off, keeping the mare in a pony grip beside his leg. Maria collapsed against his back, her arms clasped around his waist as she gasped and shook.

Napoleon found them like that, his pony streaked with sweat and his coat dripping water. Pulling up, he rode beside them, both of them too tired to do anything but pant, sides heaving, until they felt vaguely human/horse again. Carlo glared. ‘My son,’ He said quietly, ‘You have used him too hard.’ That was all he said for the remainder of the ride back, until Maria was put to bed. Then he stayed, sitting in the wicker chair she had occupied earlier, looking down at her. ‘You have my word.’ He said softly. Leaning down, he kissed her forehead softly. With a gentle hand, he smoothed her tangled locks back from her face. Sitting there, he was struck by a cold and terrible fear that she might never wake again. He shoved his chair back roughly and went to the window seat; sat and watched the rain lash against the glass panes.

When Carlo woke, the rain had stopped, the sky was beginning to light, and he had a crick in his neck from slumping against the wall of the window seat. Stretching, he turned and watched the steady rise and fall of Maria’s breathing. He rose quietly and pulled on a fresh shirt and pants before settling back down in the chair to wait. Time passed, day turned to night and night to day, and still she didn’t wake. Carlo refused all but the slightest amount of food, staying vigilant by her side as she slowly wasted away.

Finally, after two monotonous days of Carlos hovering at his wife’s side, Maria stirred. Carlo dropped to his knees beside the bed. ‘Thank you, lord.’ He said quietly, turning his face upwards for a moment. Then he took his wife’s small hand between his two large ones, rubbing gently as she slowly came out of the blackness. When she finally opened her eyes, he smiled shakily at her, then frowned as they closed again. ‘Come on, Maria.’ He urged softly. ‘Come back to me.’ Napoleon, hearing his father’s soft pleading, came to stand in the doorway. Before he could enter, Carlo snapped at him, ‘Bring some cool cloths.’ Startled, Napoleon backed out without protest and fled to the kitchen. He returned, panting, a bucket of water and strips torn from and old petticoat in his hands. He set the bucket down beside the bed, sloshing, but his father was too absorbed to notice.

Carlo grabbed a cloth strip as Maria moaned a bit and dipped it in the water, wringing it until it was merely damp. Then he laid it over her head and reached for another, feverishly layering them on until there were none more. Then he turned on his son, eyes blazing with life and hope for the first time since Maria had become sick. ‘I’ll get fresh sheets.’ He rasped. ‘You get more water.’ He raced to cupboard where the bedclothes were kept and flung it open, digging through the mess of bedding until he found sheets. Then he returned and stripped the sweat soaked and grimy sheets from his wife’s body, replacing them quickly with clean ones as his son raced through the door, his father’s enthusiasm and fierce hope catching on. Carlo sat heavily. ‘Good.’ He said. Then, clearing his throat, he said, ‘Now fetch me Jasson.’

Napoleon raced down the hill, stumbling and nearly falling several times. He staggered to a stop just outside the closed door of the shack and pounded on it as hard as he dared. ‘Jasson!’ He cried, his boyish voice carrying thinly over the pounding. Jasson limped irritably to the door. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’ He called shortly. ‘Yes, Napoleon?’ He said as he opened the door. ‘My f-f-father wishes t-to speak with you.’ The boy struggled to speak as he panted, but when Jasson grabbed his coat he straightened, ready to go. ‘We will walk, youngster.’ Jasson said with a chuckle. I doubt even you could run that hill twice, and I cannot even once.’ Napoleon nearly danced with impatience as Jasson limped slowly up the hill, but he forced his pace to remain even and sedate.

Up in the room, Carlo paced by the window, his eyes increasingly frantic as he watched for his son. He nearly expired on the spot when a rough hand lit upon his shoulder, whirling so fast he nearly tipped over onto his face. Jasson, though crippled, caught him with ease. ‘Steady, Carlo.’ He said quietly. ‘Get a hold of yourself.’ Carlo was breathing heavily, sweat running down his face in rivulets. ‘Can you help her?’ He pleaded desperately. ‘Sit down before you fall down.’ Jasson said sharply, reinforcing his command by forcibly pushing the smaller man into a chair. ‘I don’t know yet.’ Assured that Carlo would stay put, he limped heavily to the bed where Maria lay, deathly pale. ‘Who put these cloths on her?’ He inquired, his voice dangerous. ‘Father did.’ Replied Napoleon. Jasson shook his head slowly. ‘Fool.’ He said quietly. ‘That might have killed her.’

Carlo looked up, startled, but Jasson ignored him. ‘Fire. Build a fire in the hearth. Now!’ He snapped, as Napoleon hesitated. The boy moved to the fireplace, loading the logs there with tinder and lighting it with the flint and steel near the small pile of logs. ‘Get more logs.’ Jasson instructed. ‘Build it up until you can hardly stand it.’ Napoleon looked startled, but obeyed. As the heat got worse and worse, Carlo moved to open the window, but Jasson stopped him with a fierce shake of his head. ‘If you can’t stand it, get out.’ He said coldly. Carlo glared at him, but opened the door and walked out, shutting it behind him. Napoleon was breathing heavily, and without asking permission he stripped his shirt off. Now he wore only sweat soaked, filthy breeches, and still he loaded logs onto the fire. ‘Enough.’ Jasson said finally, and Napoleon collapsed gratefully onto the floor closest the door.

Jasson layered still more sheets onto Maria; she had sweated clean through the others. The heat was so bad that her lips cracked and bled and she tossed feverishly. Slowly, over several hours, the heat began to disintegrate. Napoleon had fallen asleep by the door, and Jasson wrapped him in a clean sheet as the room slowly cooled. Maria was cooling with the room, and Jasson hoped she would stay that way. He glanced out the window and was shocked to see the sun beginning to rise again. Sighing, he stripped the sweaty, grimy, smoke-laden sheets off the inert woman on the bed and heaped them by the door before gently laying a few cool new ones over her. Then, he lifted the sleeping boy and carried him out to where Carlo sat, in an out-of-place chair near the door.

Carlo rose to greet them, and though they couldn’t have known, he was almost afraid. Jasson looked dangerous, his beard and hair smelling of smoke and coated in soot, his clothes hanging limply off his bedraggled frame. Napoleon, shirtless, darkened by smoke, clad only in breeches that were now nearly in tatters. Jasson broke the spell with a tired smile, and handed Napoleon off to his father. ‘She sleeps.’ He said hoarsely, and coughed. ‘Gods,’ He sighed, running a grimy hand through even grimier hair, ‘I need a drink.’ Carlo smiled back, despite himself, and led him to the kitchen after laying Napoleon on his own bed.

Jasson sat, his weak legs welcoming the chance to rest, as Carlo poured them both beers. ‘Cheers,’ He said, half-heartedly raising his glass. Carlo nodded in return, then opened his mouth as if to speak. ‘She’ll live.’ Jasson said, correctly guessing the question about to be asked. ‘She may never be as strong as she was, but she’ll live.’ Carlo sighed in relief, his face relaxing just the barest margin. ‘For now, she’ll sleep for a day more, maybe two.’ Jasson continued, ‘but when she wakes, feed her light food until she strengthens a bit. Then she may eat like normal, but caution her against over exerting herself.’ Jasson gave the instructions nonchalantly, and when he finished he drained his beer. Setting the glass loudly on the table, he rose with a nod. ‘See you around, maybe, eh?’ He said quietly.

Carlo nodded, then spoke as Jasson turned to go. ‘He admires you, you know.’ He said conversationally. Jasson stopped, but gave no other sign that he had heard or understood. ‘Rabullione?’ He said lightly, feigning surprise. ‘Why would he?’ Carlo shook his head. ‘I think you know, Jasson. Your heart knows, but your head refuses to acknowledge.’ Jasson started, hearing his own words on the lips of another, then shrugged and walked out. Carlo watched him go, a rueful smile curving over his mouth. Then he drained his own beer and rose, leaving the two glasses where they were as he made his way up the stairs again. He looked in on his son before stretching out on the window seat of his room, allotting his wife the entirety of the bed space. His eyes remained open. He had much to consider.

Exposition and Rising Action

“Then the general was beside me, mounted on his burly bay charger, and I struggled to my feet, though my leg hurt terribly. He hauled me up behind him, on the quivering back of that strong, proud horse, and I thought I might scream with pain as he jarred my leg. The general wrapped my arm around him and kept a firm hand on the reins as he coaxed his horse into a steady canter.” The elderly man, Jasson, paced like a caged lion, limping heavily on the right side. Several spellbound youngsters in knee pants and bare footed sat in a cluster on the ground of the hut. Suddenly, the man spun left and surveyed them majestically, then continued on.
“I could feel myself slipping, but every time the man in front of me reached back and by pure will kept me in place. My vision began to swim and I knew I was close to losing consciousness. My leg felt sodden, heavy, and when I reached to touch it my hand came away coated in blood. I felt sick. I could feel the break, and it made my stomach flip back and forth.” Again the man stopped, his dark eyes burning a hole into the crowd. One young boy was slowly moving forward with each passing minute, and Jasson held a smile behind tightly clamped lips. “I don’t know how long we rode, but when he finally pulled up at the field hospital I was woozy with blood loss and babbling incoherently. Though the general was no larger than I, he was a great deal more powerful and he lifted me down from the bay and carried me into the large white tent. A doctor was with him at once, and motioned us over to an unoccupied cot, where the general laid me down. I don’t know what happened after that, but when I woke, my leg was afire again and I believe I moaned for a time before dropping back off to sleep. I do not know how long I slept, but the next thing I remember, the general was standing over me. I saluted as I lay on my back, squinting as I peered up at him. He helped me to sit, and handed me a tray of food. I don’t know what it was, but it was hot and I was grateful. He proceeded to tell me that, while I had lain comatose, he and others had signed surrender, thus ending the revolution, and we were going home.”
Jasson’s long, steel grey hair swung about as he moved his large, slender hands expressively. “The trip home was a long one, complicated by the fact that I could not move about as others could. When we came into port, I had wasted away to virtually nothing, and my now healed leg was little more than a stick. So I retired from the army and returned here.” A smile appeared on the deeply lined face, and he chuckled a bit. “Now I am little more than a storyteller. I cannot work; my leg will not support it. I cannot marry; I am old and tired, with nothing that would attract a wife. So I find solace in memories, and you youngsters.” His brown eyes rested again on the smaller boy, the one who was inching forward. The man that had paced and roared like a lion was now little more than a shell, the life that was the story now spent. “So, young Rabullione,” he said quietly, using the people’s pet name for Napoleon, “Will you leave me in peace now? The rest of you as well.” He added as an afterthought. The boys nodded vigorously, and all but the one he named ran off.
Napoleon di Buenoparte reluctantly got to his feet and started off, looking longingly back several times. Finally, he broke into a steady jog, forcing his numb legs up the slight slope to the castle, where his mother stood at the window with his father, all billowing skirts and rigid posture. She watched sadly as her young son danced and fenced with imaginary opponents, yelling wordlessly as he ran and twisted through tight corners and long hallways, pretending at the battles that old Jasson told him of.
Jasson limped to the door, his eyes sad as he strained to see the boy in the fading light. He watched until Napoleon vanished into the house. Then he stumbled to his chair and sank into it. His right leg stuck out awkwardly. Sighing, he raked his long, slender fingers through his hair. Then he settled back, closing his eyes in exhaustion as he rubbed his aching thigh. Suddenly, the door creaked and the fading sunlight lit a patch of his dirt floor. He opened his eyes and staggered to his feet. ‘Come in, Carlo, come in.’ Jasson said, his eyes quickly losing their tired cast. Carlo Buenoparte glared at him. ‘How many times must I tell you?’ He snarled. Jasson eyed him warily. Carlo continued, ‘You aren’t to fill his head with your extravagant war stories!’ His eyes were frantic. ‘It’s bad enough he’s attending a military academy.’ He ranted, his words tripping over each other as they fought to be heard first. ‘I daren’t overrule his mother on that, but my son is not a soldier!’ Carlo glared, his chest heaving, as Jasson watched him. Spinning on his heel, he stalked towards the door. Stopping, he flung one last command over his shoulder. ‘And don’t call me Carlo.’
Jasson chuckled softly, and Carlo whirled back around, furious. Jasson stared at him, a bemused expression on his face. ‘Have things really changed that much, Carlo?’ He said softly. Napoleon’s father started forward, then halted, a confused expression on his face. ‘Have you really forgotten, Carlo?’ Jasson continued, ‘Do you really believe that Napoleon is not a soldier?’ Carlo’s shoulders slumped, and he sank into the chair across from Jasson’s. Jasson settled into his own chair and studied the younger man. ‘Let me refresh your memory, shall I?’ Jasson said. His blue eyes took on a dreamy cast as he thought back. He spoke softly, confidently, as Carlo’s fury disintegrated into sorrow and pain as the story unfolded. This story had a different cast, a softer glow to it, and Jasson leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes, and told his story.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he sighed, and opened his eyes again. ‘Carlo, my old friend, you are fighting to stop what has to be.’ Tears glistened in his eyes, but he composed himself and continued talking in short, rapid bursts. ‘He is the one. Why are you keeping him from his destiny?’ Carlo buried his head in his hands. ‘I just don’t know anymore.’ He said, finally giving voice to the doubts and uncertainties that had plagued him since his son had been born. ‘He has brothers, bigger, stronger, smarter, and more controlled. How am I to know it’s not one of them?’ Jasson shook his head. ‘You know, Carlo. Your heart knows, but your head refuses to acknowledge it.’ Carlo sighed. ‘Why is it him? He’s so small, Jasson.’ He replied, using the older man’s name for the first time. Jasson staggered to his feet again and poured water for the both of them. ‘My friend,’ he replied, ‘it is not the size of the dog of the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog.’
Carlo didn’t smile. ‘You and your sayings.’ He mumbled as Jasson sat down again. Absently, he reached for the water and drank, wiping his upper lip as he set the cup down again. Jasson mirrored him, studying his friend’s face. ‘What are you afraid of, Carlo?’ He said softly, almost to himself. Carlo ignored him, taking another drink from his cup. Jasson was insistent. ‘Well? Where’s the monster?’ Carlo glared at him. ‘You’re not my doctor, don’t try to fix me.’ He snarled, his fury slowly returning. He drained the rest of his drink in silence, then rose. ‘I thank you for your hospitality.’ He said coolly, in a voice devoid of emotion. Then he turned and walked out, leaving Jasson sitting and staring after him, shadowed with doubt as his friend walked up the hill his son had run up so gaily that same evening.
Carlo strode up the hill, breathing heavily as his softening body protested. Frowning, he forced himself onwards, using his anger as fuel for his body. He stumbled through the door, his face a bright cherry red. His wife looked up in alarm from just inside the parlor door, but quickly relaxed. ‘My goodness, Carlo!’ She exclaimed. ‘No need to frighten me out of my wits!’ This did nothing to improve her husband’s mood, and he grumbled something unintelligible and vanished up the stairs to their rooms. Maria stared after him, surprise blatantly written on her face. ‘What’s gotten into him?’ she mused aloud, her voice low as she turned back to her book. ‘Who?’ A young voice piped up. Maria jumped, then turned to face her son. ‘Napoleon!’ she said sharply. The boy’s face fell instantly. ‘Yes Mother.’ He said softly, and slunk away, chastened. She did not call after him, though her heart ached. It was a hard thing, being the disciplinarian, but the boy’s father was far to free with him. Sighing, she set her book on the side table and lifted her skirts to avoid tripping as she climbed the stairs.
Carlo sat by the window, one leg stretched out on the rest of the bench seat, the other bent as a brace for his arms. He didn’t turn as she entered, seeming not to notice. Instead, he kept his eyes on the horizon. As Maria watched, astounded, a single tear traced slowly down his cheek, pausing in the lines around his mouth before falling from his jaw to his lapel. Concern filled her face as she stood in the doorway, unsure. She had never seen her husband cry before.
Carlo rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head, like a man awakening from a truly deep sleep. Then he caught sight of his wife and turned his head away again. ‘I am ashamed.’ He said quietly, his deep voice filling the once silent room. He gestured to the chair near the window seat. ‘Sit. We need to talk.’ Maria sank carefully into the padded wicker chair he pointed to, folding her hands in her lap nervously. Carlo continued to stare out the window as he started to talk. ‘Look outside.’ He said, gesturing languidly. ‘Tell me, my dear, what do you see?’ Maria leaned forward, uncertain. There were rolling fields and small herds of cattle and horses, but nothing of particular importance, and she said as much. She felt, rather than saw, Carlo’s eyebrow’s shoot up into his receding hairline. ‘Not important.’ It was a statement, an incredulous repetition, as though making sure he had heard her right. ‘The animals and crops that clothe and feed us are not important. The people that tend the fields and cattle are not important.’ Carlo kept his tone measured, even pleasant, but his cheek twitched dangerously. Maria backtracked quickly. ‘I thought you saw something truly incredible and interesting, is all.’ She said quickly, hoping to make amends.
Carlo smiled grimly. ‘Interesting. Incredible. Important.’ He repeated her slowly, giving her time to consider the meaning of each. He nodded towards the scenic landscape below them. ‘You see that down there? Do you see those people? You are right. I saw something important, incredible, and interesting. Everything that goes on down there is all of those things. I want our son to be part of it.’ Finally, Maria saw where it was going. ‘You don’t want him to be a soldier, is that it?’ She said shortly. No beating around the bush for her. She shook her head as he nodded firmly. ‘Carlo, Carlo.’ She said softly. ‘What happened to your free spirited, strong headed ideas? What happened to the man I used to know?’
Carlo didn’t respond, and his wife’s voice rose in pitch and volume. ‘Coward.’ She spat. ‘If you really cared for him, you would let him follow his destiny.’ Glowering, she rose. ‘He will finish his education here, and then it is my wish that he attend the Ércole Royale Militaire in Paris. Am I understood?’