My Heart Laid Bare (27 page)

And Abraham Licht, for all his vigor and optimism, wasn't so young as he'd been even a short year before.

Then, abruptly, after a breakfast of skimming rapidly through the usual New York papers and reading, for example, of the lavish wedding of Miss Vivien Gould, granddaughter of the infamous Gould, to Lord Decies of His Majesty's Seventh Hussars at Saint Bartholomew's Church on Fifth Avenue, how could he be satisfied with the meager millions he'd earned?—“It's preposterous for me to think that I'm a wealthy man, set beside these people.” For the Goulds were so rich, their empire so enormous, it was noted without comment in the papers that two hundred twenty-five seamstresses had labored on the bride's trousseau for more than a year; the wedding cake alone had cost $1,000, decorated with electric lights and tiny sugar cupids bearing the Decies coat of arms; the bride's father presented her with a diamond coronet estimated at $1.5 million; and other gifts from such members of the gilded set as the Pierpont Morgans, Lord and Lady Ashburton, Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish, the Duke of Connaught, the Astors, the Vanderbilts, and numerous others, were of similar value. “No, Abraham Licht is a pauper by comparison,” he mused, “—he hardly exists, in fact. And what shall he do about it, at the age of fifty-two?”

So that day and for days following he might be caught up in a fever of planning: he'd hire more employees, wooing them away from their “legitimate” firms; he'd begin a fresh campaign in Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina and remote, mysterious Georgia where blood descendants of Emanuel Auguste surely dwelt, awaiting discovery. (“The farther South, the greater the fools”—so Abraham had been assured.) Restless, he'd summon Manhattan's most prestigious architect to his home to discuss the Italianate villa he hoped to build on the corner of Park and East Sixty-sixth, but a stone's throw from the Vanderbilt mansion.

And one day soon, if all proceeded smoothly, and Abraham Licht and his family ascended to the highest echelons of New York society, he would march as proudly up the aisle of Saint Bartholomew's as had Mr. George
Gould, with a far lovelier daughter on his arm to be given away in holy matrimony to a lord, or a count, or a duke—“If not a prince.”

By the end of the summer of 1913, however, Abraham was forced to conclude that the Society for the Reclamation & Restoration of E. Auguste Napoléon Bonaparte had become too successful; and would have to be curtailed soon or abandoned entirely. (For Abraham
could not
trust his employees, in precise proportion as they were sharp, canny young men not unlike himself at their age. Also, he'd begun to discover disturbing news items in the papers having to do with rumors of an “international scandal” involving an illegitimate son of a Hapsburg duke, an illegitimate daughter of the late King Edward VII, several great-grandchildren of Napoléon Bonaparte and, most tantalizing to inhabitants of New York State, a direct descendant of the Dauphin, King Louis XVII, who had, according to legend, escaped France and hidden himself away in the wilds of the Chautauqua Mountains north of Mount Chattaroy.)

“How Americans, priding themselves on their democracy, yearn for ‘royal blood'! It's to be pitied, more than condemned.”

Yet such rumors were alarming, obviously.

It seemed necessary, therefore, to call a special meeting of the Society's shareholders, in the Sixth Regiment Armory in Philadelphia, soon after Labor Day. Several thousand heirs of Emanuel Auguste crowded into the building after having identified themselves at the closely guarded doors and paying an admission fee of $5, to help underwrite the expense of renting the armory. (In truth, the armory had been made available to the Society for a token $100, by way of a Philadelphia broker who'd invested $4,600 in the inheritance. So the evening's “gate” was in excess of $15,000—an uplifting figure.) The atmosphere was expectant and as highly charged as a Wagnerian opera, since members had been alerted that they would at last be introduced to their president, François-Leon Claudel;
and informed of the latest, somewhat disturbing news regarding the Parisian lawsuit; and, as a bonus, would be presented with
a full-blooded descendant of Emanuel Auguste
, who'd arrived in the States only the previous week.

The Sixth Regiment Armory was a plain, utilitarian space made attractive by strategically placed posters of Emanuel Auguste as a babe in arms, as a toddler, and as a handsome young man—familiar likenesses, of course; though the enlargement process had coarsened and darkened the images. On stage beside the lectern were an American flag and a peacock-blue flag bearing the royal coat of arms of the Bonaparte family; placed about the stage were floral displays of white lilies, carnations and irises, donated by a Philadelphia funeral director who was also a shareholder of the Society. The crowd, beyond three thousand individuals, consisted primarily of men, with a scattering of women, and exuded an air of excited anticipation mingled with suspicion. For all beneath this high vaulting roof were blood relations, however separated by accidents of birth; yet, each having invested in the Bonaparte fortune, wasn't he in a sense a rival to all the others? Could he, indeed, trust the others?

Reasoning that the murmurous, excitable audience would be grateful for a familiar face, Abraham Licht opened the meeting in the guise of the brisk, affable Marcel Bramier with his signature moustache and pink carnation in the lapel of a conservatively cut sharkskin suit. In a ringing voice Mr. Bramier commanded that the doors to the armory be locked by security guards, since it was 8:06
P.M.
and no more latecomers would be tolerated. This stern measure was greeted with waves of applause from the nervous heirs, many of whom had been waiting since early afternoon for the armory to be opened. In his welcoming address, Mr. Bramier spoke of the Society's history: its ideals, its fidelity to Emanuel Auguste and the loyalty, generosity and high moral courage of its members; he concluded by vowing that no one in the hall would leave that evening without a “heartwarming vision engraved upon his soul.” Thunderous applause followed this poetic declaration. Mr. Bramier then introduced a Mr. Crowe, a founding
member of the Society, tall, deep-chested, with the full-toothed grin of President Teddy Roosevelt in his prime, who spoke with equal vigor of the Society's aims and ideals. (“Crowe” was played by an out-of-work Broadway actor-friend of Abraham's. An interim of some minutes was needed for Abraham to leave the stage, change his costume, makeup, etc., before reappearing in his next, more crucial guise.)

Next, greeted with ecstatic applause, walking with a cane and frowning loftily was the esteemed president of the Society, François-Leon Claudel, upon whom several thousand pairs of eyes avidly fixed. An aristocratic figure, frail with age; filmy-haired; impeccably dressed in a dark suit and gray silk vest; with a stiff, priestly air; hollowed cheeks; tinted spectacles; and, strangely, a skin so dark-complected one might almost have imagined him of an exotic race. Yet all doubts were assuaged when once the applause died away and Claudel began to speak, for it was immediately clear, and reassuring, that by his accent he could be no other than Caucasian.

Claudel differed significantly from the speakers who preceded him by wasting no time in winning over his audience. As he said, there was urgent business at hand—“Time and tide, my friends, wait for no man.” He stirred the membership by affirming their unity in a common cause for justice; all were blood relations, if only to an infinitesimal degree; they were obliged to trust one another as they trusted their closest and dearest family members—though, he had to warn, there were rumors of informants in their midst in the pay of the government of France. “Of course,” Claudel said, an ironic ring to his voice, “—these are but rumors, and not to be fully credited.” Next, the aristocratic gentleman spent several minutes passionately assailing those members of the Society—“Some of whom have the gall to be seated among us, at this very moment”—who were behind on their dues. Poking the air with a forefinger, Claudel chided such slothful and unworthy descendants of the great house of Bonaparte and went on to criticize as well those individuals who'd tried to bribe certain officials of the Society, including that paragon of virtue, whose morals were wholly
above reproach, Marcel Bramier, into allowing them to invest, under assumed names, more than $4,000 in the inheritance. By this time Claudel's aloof manner had given way to the vehemence of an American campground preacher as he paced about the stage crying, “What do you think would happen, my friends, if certain of your greedy comrades invested five thousand—fifty thousand—one million dollars in the inheritance?” He paused dramatically, staring into the sea of rapt, frightened faces. “I will tell you, gentlemen:
there would not be enough money for the honest investors, when the lawsuit is settled.
”

A panicked hush fell over the gathering.

However, François-Leon Claudel assured them, no member of the Society would stoop to bribe-taking so there was no danger in that quarter. “We are not, after all, members of the United States Congress or inhabitants of the White House,” Claudel could not resist adding, to yelps of laughter and vigorous applause.

Next, Claudel read a cable from the Society's Parisian barrister to the effect that the meticulously constructed case for the claimants had been undercut by “subversive” elements, probably from within; that the highest judge of the highest court in the country had confided in him, privately, that it would be in the best interests of the Society for the present suit to be dropped and a new suit initiated after 1 January 1914 to insure a court “free and clear of jurist prejudice.” These words were read in a ringing voice, one might have said a Shakespearean voice that revealed how deeply the president of the Society was moved by this development. (There was, midway, a fearful pause during which the old man seemed about to burst into tears, fumbling to extract a handkerchief from his pocket.) Quickly, however, he recovered, to tell the gathering in a voice heavy with irony that such news would delight the
saboteurs
in their midst yet would not, he swore, be a source of despair to
him
; though at his age it wasn't reasonable any longer to expect that he might live to see Emanuel Auguste restored to his lost honor.

“Yet having waited so long we can't object, I suppose, to waiting a few months longer—yes? Do you agree? For Rome, as they say, ‘was not built in a day. And required millennia for its fall.'”

At this point a scattering of individuals spaced through the armory began to applaud zealously, as if inspired; within a few seconds, they were joined by the remainder of the enormous crowd, uncertainly at first, then with more vehemence, so that wave upon wave of applause filled the hall, and cheers, whistles and shouts of “Bravo, our president!” brought tears to a proud old man's eyes.

It was all Claudel could do to quiet the crowd and continue.

Thanking them humbly for their “sacred vote of confidence” and reiterating his statement that a six-month delay in the lawsuit would not be a source of despair to him, even at his age, and should not therefore be a source of despair to any of them; calculating that the suit would “certainly” by settled by the end of 1916 at the latest; and that, with interest compounded daily, the fortune would by that time be somewhere beyond $900 million according to the most recent estimate of the conservative Wall Street accounting firm Price, Waterhouse.

At which point more applause ensued, tumultuous as before.

YOU MUST LEAD
them like sheep—gently. For sheep will stampede.

You must allow them to think that you are one of them, and your fate linked to theirs.

You must honor their profound wish to believe. Even as, with a smiling countenance, you slash their uplifted throats.

THE SURPRISE OF
the evening followed immediately: the appearance of the only “pure-blooded living descendant of Emanuel Auguste Napoléon Bonaparte”—a native-born Moroccan by the name of Jean Joliet Mazare
Napoléon Bonaparte, twenty-five years old, only just arrived on these shores. Would the membership please welcome their privileged visitor, with the spirit that only Americans can summon forth?

So, applause began; individuals at the rear and extreme sides of the vast armory rose to get a clearer view; until at last all were on their feet, more than three thousand eager kinsmen; but, what a surprise, what consternation, when, in a crimson velvet suit with knee breeches and white stockings, and a rakish plumed hat, a gilded dress sword at his side,
a young Negro appeared!
—as assured, insouciant and feckless as if he were not only of royal blood but superior to the Caucasian race itself.

At this point an absolute silence fell over the hall. All who had leapt to their feet to cheer stood paralyzed, staring.

Negro? . . .

Taking no notice of his audience's alarm, a smiling François-Leon Claudel graciously drew the young man forward and introduced him, with the zealous aplomb of P. T. Barnum introducing one of his prized exhibits: “Monsieur Jean Joliet Mazare Napoléon Bonaparte, the purest-blooded of all Emanuel Auguste's descendants!” He embraced the handsome young man with great warmth; as if such behavior, between men, were commonplace to these shores, he kissed the young man smackingly on both cheeks. The Negro's eyes and teeth flashed dazzling white; his skin gleamed and winked as if oiled; in a sweeping gesture of mock humility he whipped his elegant hat from his head and bowed low before his still-silent audience.

How woolly his hair, that fitted his head tight as a cap!

Negro?

Still taking no notice of the paralyzed quiet in the hall, Claudel stood with his arm draped affectionately about young Jean's shoulders and spoke at length of the fact that, according to the most meticulous genealogical charts prepared by the Oxford Authority of Genealogical Research in England, here stood the embodiment of Emanuel Auguste himself; the
lost heir's “pedigreed blood” beat fiercely and proudly in Jean's veins as, to varying degrees, it beat in theirs; and how deserved it was, that young Jean would inherit the title of
prince
in France when the estate was settled.