‘Sire, we have just received a dispatch from the Duke of Vicenza.’
‘What does he say?’
‘He has had difficulties meeting the Tsar.’
‘But he got there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go on.’
‘The allies refuse to negotiate with Your Majesty.’
‘Go on.’
‘The Senate has confirmed a provisional government around Talleyrand ...’
‘The Senate! A government! Has Caulaincourt given us the names of these pygmies?’
‘Beurnonville, Jaucourt, Dalberg, the Abbé de Montesquiou ...’
‘Coglioni!’
‘The Prefect of Police is said to have joined them . . .’
‘Him too? Already?’
‘But Pasquier owes his job to me; you will recall that he allowed me to win at billiards to support his nomination from your Majesty.’
‘Pass on a message to him, ask him for some details, and his reply may enlighten us.’
‘The Duke of Vicenza adds: “I am rejected, I have not seen a friendly face.”’
Appalled and concerned, the Emperor took out his lorgnette, picked up the piece of paper that Maret was holding and skimmed it quickly, before crumpling it into a ball and dropping it on the floor. He paced back and forth with his hands behind his back, deliberately tipped over his snuffbox and went and stood by a window to gaze out at the motionless fir trees.
‘A blow struck at Paris could have a terrific effect.’
‘Sire?’
‘Can you imagine those traitors, oozing hatred, if I were to return to the Tuileries?’
For a moment the Emperor enjoyed the exaggerated sense of panic, and then pursued a train of thought that he had begun with Berthier at dawn.
‘The Tsar and the King of Prussia are wondering what I’ve got up my sleeve. They suspect me, and they are right to do so. They have just lost more than ten thousand men in the ditches of Paris. They’re tired now, and basking in a false sense of security. Their generals are pampering themselves, they’ve taken over our town-houses, and their marauders are getting lost in our streets, which they know no better than they know our language. How many of them are there, inside and outside, and where are they? How are the Parisians reacting? Who’s taking charge of this chaos?’
‘We can find out something about that, sire. One of my men, how can I put it? Trustworthy, that’s it, trustworthy and attached to the Empire ...’
‘Your spy, go on, don’t shy away from it.’
‘Well, sire, my spy, then, my spy is on his way from the capital. Last night he crossed enemy lines and he knows all about them. I have just received him at the Chancellery.’
‘Why isn’t he here? What were you waiting for?’
‘Your permission.’
‘What a buffoon you are!’
And the Emperor gave Maret’s cheek a resounding but affectionate slap.
*
Musket at slope arms, a grenadier whose bearskin made him appear even taller than he was in reality accompanied a green-suited valet. They passed along the buildings that lined the cobbled courtyard until they reached the guard room at the corner of the railings that surrounded the Palace of Fontainebleau.
‘So what’s this cousin like?’ asked the valet, slightly concerned.
‘You don’t know your own cousin, Monsieur Chauvin?’
‘I have several of them. Cousins, that is.’
‘This one here has come from Paris, that’s all I know, and you’re to go and see him. He gave your name.’
Octave was waiting on the bench in the guard room. After reporting to the Duke of Bassano on what he had seen over the past few days, he had presented himself at the main entrance to the palace, on foot, without luggage, as though he had just come from Paris on a series of backroads; he had asked to see the valet Chauvin, passing himself off as his cousin as the royalists had suggested. During that exhausting night, he had had time to prepare his story, and looked so innocent that the soldiers were happy to believe him. The search had revealed nothing, but Octave realized he had left behind his cane, his favourite weapon, while being transformed into a provincial at the home of the Count of Sémallé. It made him downcast, and his morose expression gave his character a touch of authenticity, since he was in fact about to inform Chauvin of the severe illness of his wife, who had stayed behind in the suburbs: it was sufficient reason to risk arrest or capture by foreign soldiers.
The soldiers formed a circle around Octave, sitting backwards on chairs and with their elbows resting on the arms; a sergeant puffed clouds of tobacco smoke from his clay pipe as he talked about Cossacks, whom he called ‘the ruthless ones’.
‘So are you trying to tell me they didn’t do any looting, those demons of hell?’
‘If they had broken down the doors in the fine districts, word would have got around in the city.’
‘I passed by in their wake, not far from the Marne. It wasn’t a pretty sight, not pretty at all, the charred bodies of the farmers, lying twisted in the ashes.’
Monsieur Chauvin and his grenadier appeared in the open doorway. Octave rose to his feet and held out his hand to the valet, palm down to give him a good view of the Negro’s-head stone given to him by Sémallé, which he wore on his ring finger. At the sight of it, the valet immediately began to play his part.
‘Your visit catches me off guard!’
‘Alas!’ said Octave, putting his arms around Chauvin, ‘I bring you grievous news ...’
‘What is it?’
‘Your wife ...’
‘My wife?’ said the valet, apparently alarmed.
‘Marie is very unwell.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘Serious enough to justify a journey to Paris, in spite of the danger.’
‘It is not the danger that holds me back, heavens above! But I cannot abandon His Majesty!’ cried Chauvin, pretending to be virtuous.
The soldiers, moved to pity, let the two alleged cousins move to the courtyard unchaperoned. Once the two were on their own, walking side by side towards the palace, their conversation changed register.
‘We knew you wanted to go back to Paris,’ said Octave, ‘so I’ve come to take your place, if that’s possible.’
‘I can arrange it with Monsieur Constant, the first valet. It will be his decision.’
‘Can you persuade him?’
‘Perhaps by tugging at his heartstrings,’ said Chauvin with a chuckle.
‘Tell me, weren’t you at all concerned when I told you of your wife’s imaginary illness?’
‘I’m not married.’
‘Neither am I,’ said Octave. ‘I am entirely devoted to our cause.’
‘Is it true that the King is returning to Paris?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘You’re afraid so?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You just said you were afraid so.’
‘You misheard me, Chauvin, I was using a form of shorthand: yes, I think that Louis XVIII will finally take the throne, thanks to the support of the allies, who have given me a pass that I will in turn give to you, it’s in your name.’
‘Didn’t the soldiers search your?’
‘Yes, but they were looking for a weapon, a pistol, a knife, a dagger, not a folded sheet of paper. I slipped it into the top of my hat at the last Austrian checkpoint.’
As they climbed the the horseshoe steps in the middle of the Renaissance façade of Fontainebleau, an aide-de-camp in a pair of maroon trousers drew alongside them and asked Octave: ‘Are you the gentleman who has just come from the capital?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please follow me.’
*
Octave had already seen the Emperor, but only from a distance and as part of a crowd. That had been on the Place du Carrousel, when Napoleon had been swaggering on his horse in front of the lined-up battalions of his Guard. Now here he was, standing right in front of Octave, still talking to t
he Duke of Bassano and Major General Berthier, as though the summoned visitor did not exist. Octave felt silly in his ill-cut clothes, hat awkwardly clutched in his hands.
Napoleon’s head was lowered, and his chin spilled in rolls over his cravat. He was a rotund little man, with his hands held under the turnbacks of his colonel’s uniform. The gold fringes of his epaulettes trembled every time he twitched; his white waistcoat, one button of which was undone, tended to creak under the pressure of a belly that spilled from the top of his breeches. His face was round, his complexion bilious; his thinning hair flopped across his forehead; his nose and mouth, set in his fat face, were surprisingly fine. When he looked up, Octave felt as if the Emperor was casting a spell over him: his eyes were as blue as the Mediterranean, they had a magnetic, sorcerous quality. He spoke quickly, swallowing his words.
‘Were you in Paris yesterday evening? How are the occupying forces behaving?’
Octave was paralysed, stupid as a greenhorn.
‘This chap of yours is a useless great lump!’ the Emperor said to Maret.
‘He hasn’t slept, sire.’
‘Neither have I.’
‘It’s the first time he has the honour of finding himself in Your Majesty’s presence ...’
‘Do I frighten you, my boy?’
Getting over his unease, Octave managed to stammer in a monotone, ‘Not as much as you frighten our enemies, sire.’
‘Tell me about them.’
The Emperor was issuing an order. If Octave had never known a more disconcerting situation, he had faced more dangerous ones, had dodged dagger thrusts and whistling bullets. He took a deep breath and choked down his saliva.
‘I saw them in our streets, sire. They have not been sowing disorder. For the time being, they are taking advantage of their conquest, singing, going to see things, distracting themselves and drinking in the salons of the Palais-Royal.’
‘Let them dull their senses! We’ll wake them up. How many foreigners do you think there are within the walls of Paris?’
‘About forty thousand, sire, according to the royalists who are collaborating with the Russian governor. They are also holding the hills of Montmartre and Belleville with cannon.’
‘And between the Seine and the shores of the Essonne?’
‘I took that route at night, part of it blindfolded, past Juvisy, but I saw the lights of their camps, I heard their columns marching. On this side, there are at least twice as many enemy troops as there are in Paris.’
‘That makes sense, doesn’t it, Berthier?’
‘Yes, sire. They’re concentrated to the south, directly opposite our own front.’
The Emperor mumbled as he thought to himself, and cast an eye over the maps with his lorgnette.
‘How many are there right now, Berthier?’
‘A hundred and eighty thousand, three times as many as we would be if we regrouped our scattered regiments ...’
‘Forty thousand in Paris, twice as many ahead of us, that would leave about sixty thousand on the right bank of the Seine and in the east.’
‘Probably.’
‘Definitely! If we attack in the south, as they expect us to, will the Parisians rise up behind them?’
He looked at Octave, who replied, ‘The workers in the suburbs are grumbling, and the occupying forces won’t dare go to their districts, but they have no weapons.’
‘Why not? And what about the artillery park in the Champs-de-Mars? Haven’t the muskets and the ammunition been distributed?’
‘I don’t know, sire. The young people from the university got shells instead of roundshot, roundshot instead of shells, and then, when they opened them up, they found that the cartridges were full of clay or coal. . .’
‘So we may expect nothing from them?’
‘No, but possibly from elsewhere. Some Russian officers, very surprised at having been able to invade the city so quickly, assured me that the allies had only enough ammunition left for sixteen hours ...’
‘I knew it! The partisans in the Vosges and Lorraine are still sabotaging their communications, and the armies on the right bank are cut off from the ones on the left. Let’s head east, along their line of retreat.’
Berthier anxiously studied the maps over the Emperor’s shoulder. As far as Octave was concerned, the interview was at an end, and Maret pushed him into the antechamber.
‘You haven’t met His Majesty. You were simply questioned: that is perfectly normal, because you have come here from Paris. And you have said nothing out of the ordinary. Reassure Chauvin, cajole him, I want to know how that sly dog communicates with the outside world. And untangle the plans of the conspirators you have left behind, in short, stick with the routine that you know by heart.’
*
The staff had their sleeping quarters in the dark and stuffy outbuildings in the east wing of the palace. A quartermaster had added a bed, or rather a bed base, to one of the partitioned cells, which became Octave’s bedroom. Exhausted, he had slumped upon it without taking his shirt off, and had dozed there until evening. He was just slipping on his ugly boots when Chauvin came in, quivering with excitement.
‘That was easy,’ the delighted valet announced, ‘I’d have to say that we’re living through unusual times here in Fontainebleau.’
He had been granted permission to return to Paris and the bedside of his invented wife. He had asked to pass through enemy lines in the garb of a rustic, the get-up that the messengers had been using for two days. Chauvin was in a hurry, but first he had to clothe and train his replacement, having very convincingly vouched for him.
‘Tonight,’ he told Octave, ‘I’ve been given permission to take you to a tailor in town. He will adjust one of my suits to your measurements, a few little touches so that you will be able to wear the regulation livery by tomorrow.’
‘Isn’t there a tailor at the palace?’
‘Hell’s bells, we’re at war, not on holiday! The sooner you’re ready, the sooner I’ll be able to leave.’
‘You won’t really be safe in Paris.’
‘Ah, but I’m not actually going to go there, I plan to head down to Orléans, where I have relatives.’
‘Our friends will be worried, they’ll have to be told that I’ve managed to meet up with you, that I’m going to take your job ...’
Chauvin didn’t reply, he was too busy wrapping one of his embroidered frock-coats in paper, and consulting his watch.
Without any unnecessary chatter, they left the palace in plain clothes, via a side door that led out to the forest. They followed the park wall towards the town that stretched along the road. As they walked, Chauvin delivered his instructions in a few brief sentences.
‘In the morning, a cup of orange-flower tea that you will bring on a silver-gilt tray ... The main thing is that you should keep your ears open at all times. We servants listen to everything, we see everything, and no one notices us, we are pieces of furniture, the masters feel they can go on talking in confidence.’
Octave had already recited stories of his emigrant past to Chauvin, and pretended this was the first time he had ever heard of flunkeys picking up on echoes, whims and secrets. (In fact, he had known it from birth: his father had been valet to a duke under Louis XVI, a publican after the Revolution, and an informer to the Committee of General Security. Before Thermidor, because he had good instincts or good sources, he had turned himself in to the very same Jacobin that he had served as an agent, saving his own head just as Robespierre was losing his. After that he had served the police of the Directory, then the police of the Consulate, before dying in his bed, his liver ravaged by endless carafes of wine. Octave had learned everything he knew in his father’s tavern. The former domestic servants of the nobility frequented it, and exchanged useful information. It was there, in his youth, that Octave had met Monsieur Nicolas, known as the Owl because he roamed Paris at night with his blue cloak and his picklock’s stick. He too had survived all this political upheaval, and was al
lowed to publish forthright essays in return for precise reports on the nightlife of the city, high and low, which he delivered under false names. When Octave first befriended him, Monsieur Nicolas was working in the office that kept watch on the correspondence of emigrants and foreigners. He had initiated Octave into his trade, its mischiefs, its hidden pleasures, its risks; he had also taught him grammar and a love of language, which was how the young man had found himself working for the Journal de I’Empire, where he wrote literary articles, copied out Plutarch, shamelessly distorting him for the edification of the public: Brutus no longer stabbed Caesar, Nero showered his mother with gifts and titles rather than having her throat slit for conspiring against him; under the Empire, even Antiquity had to serve as a model. Octave’s zeal, his ironic talent, had attracted the attention of the Duke of Bassano, who took an interest in the press. He had set up the Bulletin de I’Assemblée Nationale, which published the ultra-official Moniteur. They talked together and the Duke recruited Octave when he worked out that he must, by virtue of his job, have considerable knowledge of royalist circles ...)
Octave and Chauvin reached the town of Fontainebleau. Before crossing the main street, they let the cavalry squadrons pass. They were coming from the east, thousands of armed men in uniforms so dirty it was hard to see quite what they were - although they were definitely the Guard, because Chauvin recognized General Sebastiani among the officers. The soldiers were flooding into Fontainebleau, filling the squares, which had been turned into improvised camps. The citizens locked themselves up in their houses and only crept out furtively if they absolutely had to; even if they were on your side, hungry soldiers could rob you, empty your attic and your cellar, and chop your linen chest to smithereens to feed the fires in the street.
‘Here we are,’ said Chauvin, gesturing with his chin to a shuttered shop. A wooden silhouette of a boot swung over the window. Octave was rather surprised, since the sign seemed rather unusual for a tailor, but he allowed himself to be guided by Chauvin. Passing through a door next to the shop, Chauvin led him upstairs. He knocked, with a warning: ‘Remember: three knocks, a pause, two more knocks.’ They heard footsteps and the clatter of several bolts. A smell of cabbage steamed from a pot hanging from the trammel. Sitting on stools, with their backs towards them, two women were cutting up vegetables and throwing them into the soup; a rabbit that would shortly be eaten nibbled at the peelings. The host, a sly-looking little man in a waistcoat, with hunting gaiters laced up to his knees, listened to Chauvin as he outlined the situation to him. Then he grunted, the younger of the women stood up, and Chauvin held out his livery which he had just unwrapped, and which Octave was to try on. It was an almost perfect fit - just the sleeves were slightly too long. The nimble-fingered girl pulled back the fabric and stuck pins in the armholes.
Napoleon's Exile Page 7
