The Death of Napoleon

by Simon Leys

  He climbed the ladder and stepped out onto the deck.

  Nigger-Nicholas, who was waiting there for him, was literally dancing with delight. With the triumphant expression of an artist unveiling his masterpiece, and a wide sweeping gesture that took in the whole stretch of the horizon, he showed him the dawn breaking over the ocean.

  It was indeed an extraordinary sight.

  The sky was divided between night and dawn—blue-black from the west to the zenith, pearl-white in the east—and was completely filled with the most fantastic cloud architecture one could possibly imagine. The night breeze had erected huge unfinished palaces, colonnades, towers, and glaciers, and then had abandoned this heavenly chaos in solemn stillness, to be a pedestal for the dawn. The highest crest of a windblown cumulus was already brushed with yellow, the first beam of daylight against the roof of fading night, whereas the lower regions of the clouds were still sunk in darkness, where one could vaguely make out deep gorges, shadowy peaks, rows of cliffs and blue chasms, nocturnal snowfields, and wide expanses of purple lava. The entire sky was caught in an interrupted surge of energy, frozen in motionless chaos. Above the smooth, translucent sea, everything was in a state of suspense, waiting for the sun.

  Nigger-Nicholas, who was eagerly watching for the cabin hand’s reaction, was not disappointed. Under the spell of that extravagant splendor, so unexpectedly presented to him, Napoleon was momentarily made one with Eugène, reconciled with himself by the impact of an ecstasy that obliterated both his dream of glory and his present humiliating condition.

  Nigger-Nicholas was usually quite indifferent to sunrises. However, he felt very pleased with the success of his initiative, and above all, he was proud of his own perspicacity. He had been able to pick out Napoleon from the common sailors, for whom he had nothing but contempt; from the beginning, he had guessed that this was a different breed of man—almost his equal. And now his diagnosis had been fully confirmed: the cabin hand had obviously not been brought up on the same diet of lard and moldy biscuit as those ignorant sailors.

  Delighted with his own sagacity, Nigger-Nicholas did not even wait till the end of the show. He went down into the galley to prepare the breakfast coffee.

  The sun had set all the clouds ablaze with light. As the smell of coffee rose from the galley, the morning watch came on deck; with great splashing of water and banging of buckets, the sailors began to swab the decks.

  . . . The flamboyant mysteries of dawn had faded into the banality of plain day. The sky, which had earlier dominated everything with its overwhelming grandeur, was once more pale and distant, occupying its usual place in one half of the scenery, the other being filled by the monotonous sea, which sullenly rocked the Hermann-Augustus Stoeffer. The clouds which, by the end of the night, had climbed to the top of the sky had now scattered. The brightly painted giants of the dawn had shrunk and almost disappeared; all that remained of them were little white puffs straggling across the line of the horizon like grazing sheep.

  The sky was clear; the breeze had died down. The Hermann-Augustus Stoeffer rolled heavily on the oily swell. A slack halyard drummed obstinately against the mast.

  The heat began to rise. The new day had already grown stale: it had turned into an ordinary day at sea, blue and flat like any other.

  Napoleon was carrying the breakfast tray to the officers’ mess room. He suddenly felt weak. He had been wounded by the dawn and his burden seemed so heavy. Nigger-Nicholas’s complicity had breached his defenses.

  He wanted to be free of his debt to the cook. While polishing the brass in the captain’s cabin, he stole two cigars, intending to present them to Nigger-Nicholas. But he immediately felt ashamed of his action. Had he already sunk so low, he who used to grant licenses for entire tobacco shops with one stroke of the pen?

  II. WATERLOO REVISITED

  ON A COLD SPRING MORNING, out at sea off Bordeaux, a small lugger came alongside, bringing a message from the shipowners to the captain of the Hermann-Augustus Stoeffer.

  The news quickly spread among the crew: the brig was to bypass Bordeaux and sail directly to Antwerp. The sailors, who were looking forward to going ashore, were disappointed at the thought that their voyage was going to last at least another week.

  As for Napoleon, he was positively thunderstruck. Just when he was finally about to reach port, a mundane decision made by some vulgar shopkeeper, based on the price of molasses or indigo, suddenly barred his way. However, he soon regained his composure. The invisible hand that had unfailingly guided him to this point would surely be able to ward off this unexpected blow. New arrangements were certainly being made at this very moment, he thought, to ensure that the connection would be reestablished in Antwerp.

  Alas! He was still unaware of the full extent of his misfortune!

  A nasty nor’easter blew continuously during the last leg of the journey, forcing the brig to beat all the way. The weather was cold, all hands were constantly on deck, and the sailors were exhausted and soaked to the skin.

  The Hermann-Augustus Stoeffer, which was a mediocre sailer to windward, took no less than ten days to reach the mouth of the river Scheldt, and for Napoleon these ten days proved more grueling than the whole of the ten months that had elapsed since his escape. Too long under pressure, his physical resistance suddenly gave way. His old stomach pains started up again, and for more than forty-eight hours he was unable to take any solid food.

  The mouth of the river was marked by flat mudbanks whose blurry lines were barely visible on the horizon. The featureless landscape was drowned in intermittent rain squalls. The brig had to sail, now close to one bank, then to the other, following the invisible course of the main channel. Its meanders were known only to the pilot—a red-haired native who wore corduroy and wooden clogs like a farmer.

  All through the months, Napoleon had waited with such fervent longing for this moment when he would finally see land again. His heart sank in disbelief as he stared at the gloomy banks, shrouded in gray, which bore no resemblance to anything he had imagined in his dreams of returning to France. Approaching this foreign shore, he felt as though he was beginning a new exile.

  As the brig continued farther inland toward the port, the river became progressively narrower. One could now see the banks in more detail: muddy farms whose black thatch showed above the dikes, a red-brick church, forlorn windmills. This low, sodden countryside looked like some shapeless Patagonia lying in the desolation of an antipodean wasteland.

  Napoleon’s consternation increased as he watched the landscape slowly unfolding. Overwhelming fatigue paralyzed his limbs. He felt old, sick, and lonely. Taking advantage of this immense weariness, the voice of cowardly, cynical Eugène whispered inside him, tempting him with words of abdication and surrender.

  The brig came alongside the wharf.

  His senses dulled by rain and exhaustion, he did not even recognize the Napoleon Basin, which he had personally inaugurated ten years earlier. In the meantime, it had been renamed Wilhelm Basin, in honor of some king of Holland.

  It took him no time at all to pack his bag. He left on board most of his possessions—oilskins, sea boots, etc.—which would be of no further use and would only add weight to his luggage.

  He went ashore. Incapable of rational thought, all he could do was to repeat to himself the last instructions he had received ten months earlier. He knew them by heart, as they had been the mainstay of his hopes all through the long days at sea.

  The wharf was deserted. No sign of a top hat. Not even a barrel.

  He waited for a long time, pacing up and down.

  From time to time, a lone passerby would walk along the quay. He gave a start each time anyone appeared. Standing in a conspicuous spot, he would anxiously scrutinize the face of every newcomer in the hope of discovering some secret sign of identification. But the dock-worker, hurrying home, did not even look up as he approached. And the ragged old woman picking out peelings from between the cobblestones with her hook was so a
bsorbed by her work that she did not pay him the slightest attention.

  A rain squall drove him to take shelter in an open shed. The cold was beginning to go right through him. He stood there, lost and dejected, like a kite cut adrift from its line and dumped by the wind at the back of some vacant lot, hidden from view.

  He had finally lost the only thread that had guided him back since his escape! A single grain of sand had derailed that wonderfully precise machine, which would still continue to turn, but would turn blindly and to no purpose. Napoleon was left to his own resources; from now on, he would have to struggle alone, groping in the dark to find his own way back toward the glorious dawn of his future.

  BEFORE MAKING any new plans, he had to find shelter for the next few days.

  As he did not have the energy to walk very far, he entered the first private hotel he came to, in a narrow street that wound around the foot of the cathedral.

  In the hallway, there were aspidistras in highly polished brass pots; a red carpet led to the stairs. These signs of bourgeois prosperity made him apprehensive about the bill, but it was too late to retreat.

  His room, crowded with elephantine furniture adorned with antimacassars and lace, was small and smelled of wax polish. Once alone, he began to count his money. All he had was his seaman’s pay. It was a modest sum, but it should be enough to meet the expenses of the journey to Paris. However, before setting out on his final and decisive venture, he needed first of all to regain his strength. At the risk of making serious inroads into his capital, he decided to rest for a day or two in these quiet surroundings.

  For the next twenty-four hours, he scarcely left his room. At this crucial turning point in his destiny, he needed time to reflect as much as he needed rest.

  Yet it was almost impossible for him to collect his thoughts. There was some important festival going on in the town. What were they celebrating? He intended to find out about it from the maid who cleaned his room, but then he forgot to ask her. What did it matter anyway?

  Breaking away from the processions that must have been marching down the boulevards, small groups of people wearing grotesque masks sometimes wandered into the narrow street, dancing and laughing down below his window. The blare of brass bands could be heard in gusts now and then.

  Then, on Sunday afternoon, there was a carillon concert in the cathedral. The bell tower, whose massive walls plunged the entire little street into perpetual gloom, blocked the horizon of Napoleon’s window like a dark cliff. For three whole hours, his room was taken over by the bells. It was terrifying. The big bells boomed and roared mercilessly, while the smaller bells spilled out tinkling cascades of sounds. His room, the boardinghouse, the entire street shook under the pounding of those enormous ringing hammers. Deafened and stupefied, Napoleon sat on his bed, staring dumbly at the hydrangeas on the wallpaper, while his skull seemed to disintegrate under this barrage of bronze.

  Finally, that same evening, members of an Artists and Writers Association came for a meal of mussels in the banqueting room on the first floor. But by then the drinking songs no longer had any effect on Napoleon: he had at last slipped into a dreamless sleep.

  ON THE MORNING of the second day, the weather cleared up. It was still quite cold, but the sky was full of blue patches through which the sun splashed pools of light against walls and roofs.

  Napoleon was feeling better already. He paid his bill and boarded the coach for Brussels.

  Once on the road, in spite of the jolting of the old carriage, he felt a surge of new energy at the very thought that he was traveling south and that each turn of the wheels was taking him a little closer to Paris. Between brief showers, there were long intervals of sunshine during which the countryside looked green and bright. The gentle lines of the fields, woods, and meadows had a soothing effect on his mind, pushing away the nightmarish memories of his journey; the funereal river at his arrival and the long limbo at sea, where his very soul was almost destroyed, seemed now remote and unreal. With their bells tinkling gaily, the four horses pulled the coach along at a brisk pace. The wheels thundered over the round cobblestones, while the passengers watched leaning rows of poplars whisk past.

  Once in Brussels, feeling thirsty, he went to the Hôtel de la Poste for something to drink before making any decision about the next stage of his journey. While paying for his coffee—a sour-tasting beverage which unfortunately was already reawakening his old ulcer—he suddenly saw a brightly colored notice stuck on the mirror behind the counter. It was written in English, being obviously intended for British tourists. Although Napoleon knew nothing of that language, the meaning was not hard to guess.

  VISIT WATERLOO & THE BATTLEFIELD!

  Special coaches. Interesting prices for groups! Take your inscription here!

  “What can I do for you, sir?” asked the woman behind the counter, putting down a tankard that she had just washed. “Ah yes, Waterloo. Certainly, sir. We have a group booking for tomorrow morning. The coach leaves from the front of the hotel at a quarter past nine. If you would like to join it, we can still book you a seat. One florin sixty-five return, drinks not included; but for a supplement of forty cents, you can have lunch at the Caillou Inn, and a qualified guide will take you around the battlefield . . . Shall I make a booking for you, sir? Would you like to leave a deposit?”

  Napoleon dropped a half-florin on the counter.

  The woman tried to book him for the guided tour and the lunch, but he firmly refused to be talked into extra expense. His stay in Brussels and the excursion to Waterloo were an unexpected outlay that had to be offset by a stricter economy. The next morning, all he took with him were two bread rolls wrapped in newspaper. These modest provisions should last him for the day.

  The coach left at the appointed time. It was packed, for, besides Napoleon, there were six Englishmen and six English ladies. They set off at a good pace on the road to Charleroi. Although it was only April, the weather was exceptionally warm and sunny.

  The ladies went into raptures over picturesque features of the scenery, while the gentlemen observed the countryside with an air of smug satisfaction, as though they owned it.

  After an hour, the coachman pointed with his whip to a greenish onion dome that capped a brick church and announced: “Waterloo!” whereupon a ripple of excitement spread among the tourists.

  Napoleon was the only one who did not share this lively mood. The sweetness of this pleasant morning in the country made him slightly queasy. He was overcome by a strange feeling of anxiety.

  THE PARTY MAKES a first stop at the village of Waterloo-l’Eglise, to visit the Brasserie de l’Empereur, a large farm that has been turned into an open-air café with a dance floor. On the rough, freshly whitewashed front wall hangs a notice:

  THE EMPEROR SPENT THE NIGHT HERE BEFORE THE BATTLE. VISIT NAPOLEON’S BEDROOM

  Underneath, in smaller letters, is a timetable and a list of admission prices, with reductions for “Groups, Children in the Company of Adults, Servicemen in Uniform & Others.”

  The twelve English tourists rush into the building and up the stairs to see the historic bedroom.

  Napoleon does not follow them. Suddenly he feels faint. The vague malaise that has been upon him all morning at the sight of that smiling countryside where the shadow of a soft gray cloud occasionally caresses the hills abruptly gives way to an overwhelming certainty: he realizes with horror that HE HAS NEVER BEEN IN THIS PLACE BEFORE!

  The English tourists are on their way down.

  Recovering his composure, he, too, enters the farm, crosses the paved hallway, and climbs the narrow staircase leading to the first floor.

  Napoleon’s bedroom is sparsely furnished with the basic items: iron bed, plain wooden table, wooden chair with straw seat, jug and basin on a painted chest of drawers. The paper on the walls has garlands of mauvish flowers.

  He takes the whole room in at a glance.

  The horses are stamping impatiently down below. The coachman is counting his pa
ssengers, ready to set off again.

  He cannot stay any longer. He stares desperately at the unfamiliar room, seeking vainly for some clue; his eyes slide over a blank surface, making no contact. He suddenly feels dizzy, he can hardly stand. He stumbles downstairs, his legs shaking, and finds himself back in the coach, which sets off immediately. On to Mont-Saint-Jean!

  “Mont-Saint-Jean! Everyone out, please!” The coachman reminds his passengers to be back by six o’clock for the return journey.

  The return? Napoleon has no intention of ever going back to Brussels. There is no looking back, his mind is made up. If he can steadfastly confront a second Waterloo—all the more daunting a task on such a beautiful spring day—if he can emerge victorious from this strange trial he has so recklessly set himself, he will immediately make his way to Paris by the old Charleroi road; he will allow nothing to delay him. In his sudden eagerness to rush forward and to engage in the last decisive struggle, he superbly forgets that he has not yet paid his bill at the hotel in Brussels.

  Turning his back on the ludicrous charabanc that has brought him to this crucial encounter with himself, he walks down the other street in the village—the one which the twelve English tourists have not taken. This time, he does not bat an eyelid as he passes by the Café de la Grande Armée, which also boasts a tricolor signboard:

  VISIT NAPOLEON’S BEDROOM! THE EMPEROR SLEPT HERE THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE!

  Special prices for families and school parties! Taste our famous local specialty, cherry beer! Customers’ own food may be eaten on the premises!

  A girl is standing on the doorstep. She is shy and sweet, and asks him in her rather slow Walloon drawl, “Don’t you want to see Napoleon’s bedroom?” There are obviously not many visitors at this time of the year. But the lies of all the museums in the world cannot affect him anymore. He keeps walking, irresistibly drawn on by the softly rising curve of meadows and fields at the other end of the village. From there, the unchanging circle of the plain comes into view, and it is there that he has an appointment with his own destiny!