My Dearest Lucile
This is possibly the last time I will ever be able to write to you. A letter, I know, is a poor way to express my uttermost feelings towards you, however I am faced with little choice. First of all, I wish to tell you that I am forever sorry for all the harm that has been brought about by my people and me. I can only imagine the hardships you have had to face these past few years. Truly, if it was in my power to change the way of the world, I hope you know that I would never hesitate to do so. I fear that soon I will have to atone for my sins, however I must abide by the will of God and face judgement. All I know is, if I am soon to meet the Angels in heaven, I find the thought of any of them being more beautiful, more kind and more wonderful than I have known you to be, absolute folly. My only regret is that I shall never again lay my eyes on your heavenly face. Please do not morn my loss, if my destiny is to perish on the battlefield of Waterloo, then so be it. There is no reason why you should not find the happiness you deserve, in someone else’s company. Just know that I loved you. From the moment you stepped into the hall and caught my gaze, know that loved you more than life itself.
With all the love that I possess,
Henry Havelock Cornell
I was standing in the office of the Great Arthur Wellesley. Having previously been ecstatic at the thought that I might finally be returning home to London, and finally departing from this god-forsaken country, war-torn country. Spain, however, unfortunately was going to cling on to me for a while longer.
Unbelievable. After believing that the whole thing was over, I could scarcely believe what Wellington was telling me. Napoleon, banished to the Island of Corsica, had returned. Impossible.
‘Arthur’, I said, ‘Surely he does not wish to challenge us further? This entire conflict has been dragged on for years now; lives have been lost, cities have been destroyed- surely the loss of Portugal and Spain, as well has his defeat at the hands of the Russian army, is enough for him?
Lord Wellington looked up from the mélange of maps he had previously been peering over and surveyed me as I questioned him. Doing this always made me anxious, for I always felt as if he was able to rip the barriers of my mind and know exactly what I was feeling.
‘Henry’, he said. ‘I do not believe you are so naive that you don’t believe Bonaparte is about to give up his national pride? His people still chant that silly ‘Vivre Empereur’ nonsense, for pity’s sake. I’m afraid he has decided to have another stab at conquest, and I’m afraid that with the support he has, he might well be able to win a Victory, unless we gain the support of the Prussians.’
‘Where do you plan to face him, Arthur?’
‘Here’. He gestured to the map on his desk, then tapped his index finger on a particular destination:
Waterloo.
That night, a ball was held in honour of the Duke of Wellington, and his heroic endeavors on the battlefield. I was reluctant to go but it was my duty. My duty as Colonel Henry Havelock Cornell, and officer and a gentleman who was expected to appear at social events such as these. To not appear would spark suspicion and discontent.
It was at the ball where I first met her.
As the doors opened, all time seemed to pause. All noise ceased. Everything and everyone else vanished. There was only her. Her face. Her eyes. Her essence. The angelic white dress she bore seemed to reflect beams of heavenly light. That moment I felt my life was complete. There was no war. There was no politics. There was no evil. There was only her.
I could have sworn that hours had passed before the doorman announced her name- ‘Mademoiselle Lucille Lassard’.
A French lady. I had never seen one before. After meeting numerous French men on the battlefield, I’d assumed that the female Frogs were as foul as the males. I definitely hadn’t pictured the angel in front of me.
That night I danced with her. I laughed with her. We shared a night of paralyzing passion. She was mine. My Angel. My Juliet. My Everything.
Then the days went by and I had to depart. For Waterloo. Bonaparte was waiting and he was going to do all in his power to make sure I never saw my Lucile again. Up until the last battle, I wrote to her every day. I told her everything. That I longed to return to her. That Bonaparte had grown exceedingly in strength. That the Prussians were going to support us however they had their own problems against Bonaparte’s forces, and risked not reaching us in time.
As the weeks went by and our forces gathered, I wrote one last letter to Lucile. I poorly attempted to pour my heart out to her. As Napoléon Bonaparte’s forces marched against ours at Waterloo, I had only one thought. Well, not so much a thought, more a prayer. I prayed for the day when I would once again hold my beloved Lucile in my arms, whether it be in this world, or the next.
