The Death of Napoleon

by Simon Leys

  It must be Louis, Napoleon thought, remembering what the sergeant had said. But who on earth was Louis? A warder or another prisoner? A tramp, a drunk? Or perhaps it wasn’t a man at all but some large animal, an ox, who knows? In this state of uncertainty, he decided to keep quiet, and without making a sound he lay down on the wooden bed. He did not take off his clothes but merely loosened his cravat. He covered himself with the rough blanket and, lying flat on his back, waited for sleep to come.

  Sleep did not come. His body was nearly collapsing with fatigue, but his mind, as effervescent as ever, was still burning brightly like a forgotten chandelier in a ruined house.

  With his eyes wide open he tried to penetrate the darkness of the hut. Turning his head slightly, he noticed that the dull white of the square window was now more pronounced. Perhaps the moon had risen, or was it frost?

  His mind worked feverishly. The hotel bill —what was the stupid place called again? Something to do with Luxembourgeois?—he would pay the hotel bill, and the fine, and anything else he had to. He did not have much money left, but that was not the real problem. What terrified him was the fact that they would want to check his identity, and his rather crudely forged papers would never stand up to any kind of close inspection. What a fate! He had straddled oceans and scaled mountains, only to slip in a puddle of water or stumble over a molehill.

  At that moment, Louis seemed to stir again on his straw.

  . . . What a fate! To sink within sight of the harbor; to end his epic struggle here in this . . . this Belgian rabbit hutch, beside a . . . beside this . . . but who the devil was this Louis? His mysterious neighbor had gone to sleep again without emitting any sounds that could identify him. No matter, he would see who this creature was in the morning—and besides, why should this ridiculous companion be of any concern to him? . . . Sleep claimed him at last.

  WHEN HE OPENED his eyes again, the gray light that comes before dawn was filling the shed. Sitting up, he was astonished to see that the door was open. The room was much smaller than he had imagined. A heap of gardening tools draped in cobwebs and a big garden umbrella dotted with pigeon droppings occupied one corner. In the other was a straw litter with a faded red horse blanket lying across it. The ceiling was made of badly joined boards that formed a loft, where cooing pigeons could be heard pattering about on their tiny, soft feet.

  Napoleon got up cautiously. His limbs were numb. The cold air made him shiver. He was unsure whether to go out. Wasn’t this open door some sort of a trap?

  Just as he had finally decided to try his luck, a person who obviously had been waiting for this signal to make his entrance suddenly burst into the hut.

  It was the sergeant. His face was transfigured. He seemed to be overcome by such intense excitement that it was hard to recognize the nondescript official of the previous evening.

  He rushed toward Napoleon, dropped down on one knee, and seizing his hand he kissed it, saying in a voice choked with emotion: “Sire! Sire! You’ve come back at last!”

  After quickly hiding his initial surprise, the Emperor, now very much in control of himself, graciously placed a hand on the gendarme’s shoulder and raised him to his feet again.

  For a long while the two men stood facing each other in silence. The pigeons could still be heard quietly walking about above their heads.

  Breathtaking encounter! Unforgettable moment! Indescribable emotion!

  How many times had Napoleon imagined situations like this in his dreams of returning to France! In actual fact, the only real surprise was to discover how similar this scene was to everything he had already imagined, so similar that he almost had the feeling of living through it for the second time.

  In a hurried whisper, the sergeant apologized profusely: last night he had had to lodge his Emperor in a most unworthy fashion, but it had been the only way to ensure his safety and protect him from any indiscreet curiosity on the part of the other gendarmes. He had sent them to patrol the Fleurus highway before dawn, so the two of them were alone for the moment. However, there was not a minute to lose.

  He led Napoleon back into the empty guardhouse, got him to gulp down a big bowl of coffee, and slipped some bread, two hard-boiled eggs, and a piece of cheese into the pocket of his overcoat for the journey. “I’m going to take some shortcuts to get you across the border. I’ll leave you on the road to Valenciennes, and when I come back I’ll explain to my men that I took you to Charleroi police station myself. As for your file which came from Brussels, there’ll be no further action on that—I just have to dispose of the report of your arrest. Here are your papers. Now, let’s make a start as soon as possible.”

  For safety’s sake, the sergeant asked Napoleon to walk in front of his horse while they were on the highway, in the fashion a gendarme usually leads a prisoner.

  Then they took a track across country with Napoleon up behind the sergeant on the same horse. They covered a good two leagues at a brisk pace, following low-lying roads, taking shortcuts across pastures where the cows took little notice of them, passing plowed fields, and avoiding the few villages by constantly keeping under the cover of the thick woods which dotted the countryside.

  The sergeant pulled his horse to a halt at the top of a hill crowned with poplars. From the place where they stood, a cart track consisting of two ruts overgrown with grass wound its lazy way around the curve of the hill and descended toward the plain. In the haze of early dawn, a vast plain spread out in front of them; far away in the distance, one could vaguely see the blue shape of one or two large towns with their steeples and belfries.

  The sergeant jumped down from his horse and helped Napoleon dismount. The horse was exhausted and steaming. It snorted loudly, then began to graze along the slope.

  Dawn was turning into day.

  “Sire, you are now in France!”

  Napoleon let his eyes wander for a moment over this soft gray expanse. There was not the slightest breath of wind. He felt warmer now after the ride. Then he turned toward his guide, who was respectfully standing two paces behind him.

  There were a thousand things the sergeant wanted to say, but his throat went dry. Never, even in his wildest dreams, had he ever imagined that one day he could have a private conversation like this with his Emperor, but now he felt those indescribable moments whirling away from him before he had had the chance to express the emotion that filled his heart.

  And what of Napoleon? To tell the truth, at that moment his mind was occupied, much against his will, with a thought so futile that he himself was irritated by it: Who on earth was Louis? Resisting this stupid obsession, inappropriate to the solemnity of the occasion, he finally asked, “What is your name, my good man?”

  “Bommel. Bommel, Justin. Ex-company sergeant-major in the 1st Infantry Regiment of the Départements du Nord. I was at Waterloo . . . well, almost . . .” he added, stumbling over the last words. If he had not been at Waterloo, it was certainly through no fault of his own. The recruits from the north had been mobilized at the last moment and arrived too late to take part in the action. Napoleon knows all that, and many other things besides. He can read this simple fellow’s face like an open book: it tells of a lifetime of frustrated hopes and dogged loyalty. This man is truly one of the faithful. Napoleon commits his name to memory; one day, he will be able to show his appreciation.

  Bommel has an inspiration that suddenly loosens his tongue. “In Paris you could get in touch with my friend Second Lieutenant Truchaut, who lives in the Impasse-des-Chevaliers-du-Temple. He’s absolutely loyal to the cause. He ekes out a meager living on his half-pension; in the eyes of the local bourgeois, he’s just a poor devil, not worthy of any particular attention. For this very reason, you would be quite safe with him. He will certainly be able to offer you accommodation. And besides, he knows all the veterans of the Imperial Army in Paris . . .”

  He stops short, suddenly frightened by his own audacity. Since when did the Eagle need the help of sparrows to build his eyrie? Wasn’t
it impudent and ridiculous to imagine for one moment that Napoleon would need to rely on the likes of Bommels and Truchauts? Overcome by the sense of his own unworthiness, the poor man has already forgotten that if the Emperor had managed to escape complete disaster in Belgium, it was entirely due to him! Napoleon, however, has made a more accurate assessment of the situation and, far from being offended by the gendarme’s naïve concern, has carefully taken note of Second Lieutenant Truchaut’s name and address.

  There was no time to waste; they now had to go their separate ways.

  Sparrows were chirping noisily among the brambles in the ditches. The sky was pale green in the east. A crescent moon still hung low in the sky, forgotten, just above the black fields.

  The sergeant attempted to give a military salute, but Napoleon, with a magnanimous gesture, opened his arms and embraced him.

  The sergeant mounted his horse. Napoleon watched the rider’s silhouette until it disappeared completely over the other side of the hill, then looked once more at the far horizon, where the dawn mists were beginning to lift.

  So, he was back in France!

  It is a strange thing but, whether from fatigue or because there was no one to witness it, he could not summon up the surge of emotion he should have felt on such a historic occasion. Nevertheless, this emotional sterility only made him all the more fiercely and implacably determined.

  He pissed pensively against a fence post, carefully straightened his clothes, which had been crumpled by the early-morning ride, and strode down toward the plain.

  IV. WATERMELONS & CANTALOUPES FROM PROVENCE

  IN PARIS, spring was already well on the way. All over the city, the buds on the plane trees and chestnut trees were bursting out into soft green tufts.

  On such a glorious day, the Impasse-des-Chevaliers-du-Temple looked almost like a country lane. Only the first half of it was paved; the end was lost among the grass and brambles of a vacant lot that looked like a big garden run wild.

  On the edge of this meadow, already humming with bees, the last house in the street stood alone. A sign was painted in large letters on its front wall:

  IMPORTERS OF WATERMELONS & CANTALOUPES FROM PROVENCE

  An empty cart rested, shafts up, against the wall near the door.

  Not many people could have come there, for the arrival of a stranger on that late afternoon created considerable excitement among a few hens dozing on the old cart.

  As he got nearer to the house, the visitor, who was somewhat shortsighted, finally noticed with a start that above the sign painted on the wall were a few words in smaller letters:

  Widow Truchaut & Partners

  He stood still and, head down, appeared to be deep in thought. Or was he just catching his breath? Although he had no luggage, his crumpled coat and dusty boots seemed to indicate that he had undergone a long, tiring journey.

  He looked intently all about him; then, after a moment’s hesitation, went up the four steps that led to the door of the house.

  The door was ajar. Through the gap wafted the smell of ripe fruit—as mellow as a memory of summers past.

  The visitor banged loudly on the door twice with his closed fist. After a moment’s silence he heard the shuffle of slippers on the flagstones. Then the door opened wide, revealing a woman with a bright, happy face. She was about forty, tall and rather ungainly, though not ugly—more exactly, she still had a certain youth and vigor which, combined with an air of kindness, took the place of beauty.

  She looked at the stranger, slightly puzzled.

  “I . . . I’ve just come back from a long trip and I was hoping to find Second Lieutenant Truchaut here, but I’ve only just noticed outside the, er, the sign that . . .”

  “Ah yes, sir. My poor Truchaut! He passed away nearly two years ago, the dear man!” The widow spoke with a broad Provençal accent. “Were you a friend of his? Are you an army man, too?”

  “I didn’t know him personally, but we had friends in common, old comrades from the Grande Armée. But I haven’t introduced myself: Lieutenant Lenormand, artillery.”

  “Come in, do come in. We mustn’t stand on the doorstep like this. Have you been traveling long? Ah, my dear Truchaut, the poor dear man, how happy he would have been to see you! Nowadays, you know, there are not many left who’ve remained faithful to the Emperor and proud to have served him! Actually, they’d rather hide the fact in their eagerness to chase a cushy job here, a pension there . . . But Truchaut, now he was true to the end, a wonderful man! He always wore his cross—they buried it with him. ‘I’d rather starve,’ he always used to say, ‘than desert the Emperor.’ He really believed that the Emperor would return. There were a few of them, real fanatics who never gave up, but what good people! Talking of starving—I can tell you, that’s just what happened to him, or near enough. Selling pumpkins won’t keep a man, specially in times like these which are so difficult for people who refuse to knuckle under. Besides, to be frank, he wasn’t cut out for business. And of course, he had to devote himself to his real mission in life, as he used to call it. Politics took up all his time and energy. It was the same for his friends. You’ll meet them, I’ll introduce you. There’s the medical officer, Dr. Lambert-Laruelle, Sergeant Maurice, and the others. They’re always at the café, Les Trois Boules. To look at them, you’d think they were men of leisure playing their usual game of cards. Between you and me, I think they were plotting something. But I’m a woman and a soldier’s wife. I know better than to poke my nose where it’s not wanted. Truchaut wasn’t one to talk, and I certainly wouldn’t have tried to worm information out of him. When he came home from Les Trois Boules looking worried, I wouldn’t have dared speak to him about the business and bother him with my petty worries about monthly bills, settlement dates, and so on. Although, heaven knows there were times when it would have been such a relief to confide in him and tell him all my business problems. You see, I’m the one who looks after the business. It’s just a small concern that I began from nothing: my cousins are farmers in Avignon. They send their fruit to Paris and we try to sell it where we can. In theory, it should work, but what can I do, there’s no one but me to run the whole thing; I had no experience, and I can’t really cope on my own. And that’s not taking into account the kids and everything else that has to be done. Truchaut wasn’t cut out to be a greengrocer: he was a gifted man, a man of ideas, a thinker, a politician if you like. And what a speaker! You should have heard him sometimes in the evening. Sometimes when I’d finished my work, I’d go and seek him out at Les Trois Boules. Oh, you should’ve heard him, you should’ve seen him! It was wonderful! ‘Be careful, Truchaut,’ they used to say, ‘not so loud, that’s enough, you never know who’s listening!’ They told him to shut up, but at the same time they wanted to keep on listening to him, and anyway, he was not easily intimidated. Shut up indeed! Bold as you like, he would shout all the louder, and we sat there listening to him—we would have listened to him all night. Of course, after all that, when we were back home, how could I start talking shop! I wouldn’t have dared, I couldn’t have done it, and that’s that! However much I said to myself, This time there’s no getting out of it, I must talk to him about Bongrain’s bill and the shipment that went bad in transit . . . I just couldn’t, because I knew he was a man with a mission. Sadly, he’s dead now, and his friends aren’t young anymore. Besides, they never had the same vitality as my dear Truchaut, and now that he’s gone, they’ve really lost heart, my business is practically ruined, and the Emperor is still on his godforsaken island. Ah, dear me! But life goes on just the same . . . Get off there!” With one sweep of her arm, she brushed a brown hen off the table, where it had been picking at a stray vegetable peeling. “But here I am talking my head off and I haven’t even asked you to sit down. What am I thinking of? Make yourself at home. You must be thirsty. There’s nothing left in the house, but even when there’s nothing in the house, there’s still a cool jug of rosé in the cellar. I’ll fetch it for you.”

&n
bsp; She went down to the cellar.

  Napoleon sank down onto a stool and looked about him. The room was cool and spacious, with a high ceiling, which made it seem very bare. The floor was paved with cracked, uneven blue flagstones, and the only furniture in the room was a long wooden table, a few stools, and a cupboard. In one corner some iron trunks were piled up beside two or three crates and a big cane basket. In the darkest corner, two dozen cantaloupes lined up on the floor smelled of sun and summer. Various pieces of phantom furniture were outlined in white against the gray of the bare walls: rectangles of different sizes suggested vanished wardrobes, invisible dressers, and there was even the oval shape of what must have been a large mirror. All that had no doubt been seized by the bailiffs and then disappeared under the auctioneer’s hammer.

  Widow Truchaut took up again where she had left off, even before she had emerged from the cellar stairs. She must have been starved of conversation for quite a while. “Then, finally, I had to tell him about the situation we were in, but it was too late. He was already very ill—his liver, his stomach, nothing was functioning properly, not to mention the shrapnel wound in his back that still troubled him. But Truchaut was a fighter by nature; his body had given up long ago, but he had great self-control; it was always mind over matter. What spirit! At heart he was a great idealist, as the medical officer, Dr. Lambert-Laruelle, used to say. He was like a man possessed. But he burned the candle at both ends. And then, when his health finally broke down—fftt—it was all over in a few days. One morning he lay down there on the old sofa”—she pointed toward a whitish horizontal outline on the empty wall—“and never got up again. He was still conscious, but didn’t speak again. Or was he really conscious? I couldn’t be certain. His eyes were wide open but lifeless, as if he wasn’t really seeing anything. It was probably just as well, really. He didn’t even seem to notice when the men came to take all our stuff away. Those ruffians would have snatched the sofa from under him if, in the end, I hadn’t kicked them out so that he could at least die in peace before they looted everything! . . . Ah yes, sir, that’s how he left us, and since then nothing has gone right, but don’t let that stop you from having a drink.”