‘Fight? No, no!’ gasped Monsieur Traditi, rolling eyes that were wide with alarm.
‘The Emperor must come ashore tomorrow,’ explained Campbell.
‘Make sure there is applause for him,’ continued Drouot.
‘We’ll try.’ The Mayor was trembling.
‘Generate some enthusiasm!’ Drouot ordered.
‘What?’ said the Sub-prefect, who thought he had misunderstood, and didn’t see how one could generate enthusiasm in a rebellious population.
‘General Drouot,’ Octave broke in, ‘expects you to supply a reception worthy of His Majesty. You have until tomorrow afternoon to prepare it.’
‘Twenty-four hours?’
‘It can be done.’
He was thinking of the Count of Sémallé. There was a man knew how to play the game - within only a few hours he had managed to launch a movement to give the impression that the people of Paris were demanding the return of Louis XVIII, when most of them were in fact unaware of his existence - Octave had learned much from him.
In the confusion and the embarrassing silence that followed his trenchant statement, Octave suggested he speak to the worthies of the island, because he was, he claimed, quite skilled at swaying opinions; he also knew that southerners were quick to move from one extreme to the other. In the meantime, the authorities of the island would go on board the Undaunted to greet their new prince.
As everyone else dispersed, Monsieur Pons de l’Hérault and Octave were left alone in the drawing-room. Monsieur Pons waved away some irritating flies, dropped his heavy jacket and slumped on to a chair, unfolding a fan.
‘Do as I do,’ he suggested. ‘You must be boiling in that get-up.’ At ten o’clock in the morning it was already as hot as a baker’s oven.
*
‘It has a strange taste,’ said Octave with a grimace.
‘They call it vermouth. It’s the national drink, herbs macerated in the white wine of the island.’
Monsieur Pons had taken Octave to the Buono Gusto café. Dug like a cave into the ramparts, it provided shelter from the violent sun. By an arrangement of open doors, the landlord had cleverly engineered a through-draught - although the fetid smells of the street drifted in along with any supposed freshness. Octave set his terracotta cup on the table; sweat trickled down his forehead and into his eyes, his skin was damp and his drenched shirt clung to his back.
‘You know’ - Monsieur Pons was describing the Elban mentality - ‘there aren’t as many Elbans in the world as there are Italians. The people of Milan bear no resemblance to the people of Naples, who are utterly unlike the people of Rome. It’s the same thing here. The people of Portoferraio are witty but envious, while the inhabitants of Porto Longone, in the south, are both ignorant and superstitious. In Rio, in Marciana, they’re conceited but very energetic.’
‘I suppose the mayors and priests have the same characteristics as the people they administer.’
‘I would say so.’
‘But are they malleable? How can we win them over in a single day?’
‘By playing on their weaknesses. For months, the agents of London have presented a warlike and bloody Napoleon. Now we must reverse that image, show them a man who is going to improve their wretched condition, we must use the terms that your Emperor used in his letter to General Dalesme. Tell them he prefers Elba to Corsica, the place of his birth, or to Parma.’
‘Is there a printing-works in Portoferraio?’
‘We’re not savages!’
‘Could we get some posters printed overnight?’
‘The printer is a cousin of Traditi, the Mayor.’
‘Fine, but that’s not enough ...’
‘Another drop of vermouth?’
‘No, thanks, I’m worried I might fall asleep.’
The young waitress diverted him, however, by bringing some grey bread and a sheep’s cheese that smelled off. ‘Thanks, Gianna,’ said Monsieur Pons. She had swarthy, copper-coloured skin, and raven curls that fell over her eyes; a white corset hugged her waist and emphasized her breasts, and as she departed her skirt swayed with her hips. Monsieur Pons was amused to see Octave watching her retreating figure: ‘If you are so interested in the customs of the people of Elba, I’ll ask Gianna to put you up in her family’s house tonight.’
Octave was oblivious to the other man’s mockery. ‘An excellent idea.’
Monsieur Pons returned to the matter in hand. ‘We will establish the text of the posters in a moment with Dalesme. He’ll have to sign it. He’s the Governor.’
‘Yes, and we should stress the fact that the Emperor has chosen the island of Elba, but we’ll also have to put word about.’
That’s easy, my dear man. In a small town like this, news spreads like wildfire. Look, those two men over by the barrels, forcing down some chestnut cake (our speciality) for politeness’ sake. They’ve just arrived from Piombino.’
‘Italians?’
‘From Turin. They have taken a room in Mademoiselle Sauvage’s inn.’
‘You know everything!’
‘There’s only one inn in Portoferraio.’
*
Anxious not to displease his host, who kept wickedly refilling his cup, Octave ended up drinking two jugs of aromatic wine, so that the back of his neck prickled, and his legs felt like lead when he rose from the table. Returning to the town hall, dazzled by the sun and alcohol, failing even to notice the stench of the streets, he walked unsteadily, stumbling slightly, but refused to take his companion’s arm. However, Octave’s somnolent state didn’t stop him writing the first version of a proclamation that Monsieur Pons considered lively and precise - although for form’s sake it had to be approved by the worthies. The dignitaries in question had earlier departed, concerned and hesitant, to visit the Emperor aboard the English frigate. They reappeared in a state of excitement. Napoleon had wooed them by speaking unctuously of the misfortunes of France and the good fortune of their island - so beautiful, so calm, so industrious - which he promised would increase under his benevolent protection. Thus aroused, they read what Octave had written, adding a few inflated words here and there, and amending some turns of phrase to give a clearer sense of the submission of the island authorities.
General Dalesme did not wish to sign. He was still the Governor, certainly, but henceforth he was dependent on the goodwill of Paris, a city to which he would shortly have to return; the Sub-prefect, Balbiani, was happy to sign in his superior’s stead, and the Mayor hurried to his cousin’s printing-works with the proclamation that would be posted up on every wall during the night:
To the inhabitants of Portoferraio
The happiest event that could ever bring fame to the history of the island of Elba has taken place this day! Our august sovereign, the Emperor Napoleon, has arrived among us. Our wishes are accomplished: the happiness of the island of Elba is assured.
Listen to the first words that he deigned to address to us, speaking of the functionaries who represent you: ‘I will be a good father to you, be good sons to me.’ They will be engraved for ever in our grateful hearts.
Let us unite around his holy person, let us vie with one another in zeal and loyalty to serve him. It will be the sweetest satisfaction for his paternal heart. And in this way we will make ourselves worthy of the favour that Providence has pleased to bestow upon us.
The Sub-prefect:
Louis Balbiani
The Sub-prefect was delighted by what he thought of as his prose (those who put their names to a document often imagine that they have written it themselves), but Octave still had his doubts about the usefulness of the posters, and the dignitaries set about reassuring him. Certainly, the people of Elba had wanted to kill Napoleon only the previous day - because they dreaded his reputation as a warrior - but he had come unarmed, so his image had changed, and the local people were saying as much to one another at this very moment, prattling on their front doorsteps or in the café. They now hoped that Napoleon’s fame would enric
h them, there was no doubt about that, and seductive rumours of this kind would spread very quickly around the island.
‘But will the population of Portoferraio alone, even in a state of jubilation, be able to give an impression of a large crowd?’ Octave asked. ‘We need shouting and cheering along His Majesty’s route, between the mole and the church where the Vicar-General will chant a Te Deum.’
The Sub-prefect immediately dispatched letters to the villages, instructing the Mayors to come to the capital with as many local people - wine-growers, sailors - as they could muster. Meanwhile General Dalesme departed to inspect the uniforms of his troops and mobilize the National Guard. The deputy followed the instructions of Octave (whom he treated with deference because he represented the new authority of the Emperor), and gave a simple, cheerful text to the town crier, who set off to declaim the news that was already spreading from the harbour to the hills.
Leaving preparations for ceremonies in the municipality to the others, Monsieur Pons de l’Hérault pushed Octave outside: he would see with his own eyes the good humour of the island’s inhabitants, he would see how the rumour had softened them, how easy they were to persuade, how swift to enthusiasm. In a courtyard they encountered some stout fellows who were busy lugging up various items of furniture to adorn the town hall, where the Emperor would be spending the first part of his stay.
‘You see,’ said Monsieur Pons, ‘the bourgeoisie are providing their most comfortable armchairs for the imperial buttocks.’
Octave didn’t spot the irony, or the fact that the phrase did not include the speaker among the Emperor’s loyal subjects.
Evening fell. The town, which had a moment before been slumped beneath the sun, was suddenly filled with movement. Crowding on street corners and beneath trees, noisy groups commented on the day’s events. Carpenters hammered together platforms and pavilions. Half-closed shutters opened to let in the warmth of the night, revealing the members of the bourgeoisie in their homes, brushing down their evening wear. Women were making garlands together, men hurrying about the place, carrying parcels of candles under their arms; Monsieur Pons’s own wife was busy working with some seamstresses to make the new flag, the design for which Drouot had given them that morning.
Monsieur Pons brought Octave back to the Buono Gusto - now full of chattering people - with a view to handing him over to Gianna’s family for the night. The two men crammed themselves behind a table, at the back near the barrels, elbow to elbow with drunken sailors who were jawing away in their Tuscan dialect. Never mind the noise - Octave was starving, and wolfed down a plateful of marinated tuna, a dish that dries the throat, and drank cup after cup of a local wine, clearer than the one he had had that morning, with no herbs floating in it. After the sixth cup he grew homesick, Monsieur Pons could tell from his distant gaze. After the seventh he started talking about himself. His mentor took advantage of the fact to reverse their roles and begin questioning him.
‘I saw you drafting the first version of the poster, at the town hall, all in one go, and one thing surprised me ...’
‘Tell me?’ said Octave, filling the empty jug from the barrel.
‘It was a phrase. A phrase you put in Napoleon’s mouth, yet one which he did subsequently utter to the Sub-prefect, aboard the English frigate, when neither of us was present.’
‘Which one would that be?’
‘“I will be a good father to you, be good sons to me ...”’
‘Yes?’
‘Had he said that before, to anyone else?’
‘I don’t know, it just came to me quite naturally.’
‘What?’
‘Quite naturally, I tell you! What do you expect me to have him say? To your cannon! Fire!’
Octave laughed, started choking and downed another glass.
‘Where do you get this talent from, Monsieur Sénécal?’
‘It isn’t a talent, it’s a habit. I have learned to second-guess him. You know, you have to keep second-guessing him all the time - all the time, I tell you - you get used to it, it’s exhausting but you get used to it, you become familiar with his turns of phrase, his manner, it’s not that hard when you’re with him all the time.’
‘Yes, you have that good fortune ...’
‘Good fortune? I don’t know about that. Good fortune if you like, but I would say - well, I would say that the closer you are to him the less existence you have yourself.’
‘Really!’
‘Don’t you think so?’
‘I’m prepared to believe you. Explain it to me.’
‘I wasn’t so important before, perhaps, but I was freer, I had my own life. I strolled around Paris, I opened my eyes and ears, and jotted down anything abnormal. I drew up reports, I knew some nice girls and they helped me out, or rather we helped each other out - and well, now that I’m near him I no longer have a personality. That’s what he wants. He likes to surround himself with puppets. And within only a few weeks I’ve become a perfect puppet myself. Oh, he’s good at that all right, he orders you about without a word, and you’re trapped, however cunning you may think you are. Your Sub-prefect is a puppet already, and the Mayor, after a single conversation, do you understand? And everyone else here, all puppets!’
Octave’s speech was beginning to slur, and he knocked his cup over twice, but he carried on drinking. Monsieur Pons waved to Gianna, who was walking by with plates of dried meat.
After negotiating with the waitress and the landlord of the Buono Gusto to find a bed for Octave, he returned to his pied-à-terre in Portoferraio, where he’d lived full-time since the English blockade had stopped his barges from carrying ore to Piombino. He could see no reason, he reflected, why Napoleon shouldn’t let him resume his activities, and start extracting iron again, but that meant submitting to the Emperor. Contradictory thoughts waged war within him at that prospect: he had let Octave babble away to himself about his misfortunes, while he dwelt on his own.
Later that night, when the last sailors were leaving, braying and merry, Gianna, who had the strength of a peasant girl, helped Octave to his feet. He was swaying and mumbling to himself, and took out a gold coin and threw it on the wine-stained table. The landlord whisked it away in a flash: ‘Piace molto, il denaro del nostro sovranno, è tutto d’oro...’ Octave, eyes glazed, struggled to keep his balance. He could see two Giannas, now, and attributed this to an excess of drink. But no, the waitress had called her sister to help her, and they were incredibly alike, except that Luisa had coloured ribbons tied in her hair. The two girls dragged the drunk by the wrists, guiding him through the door.
As he breathed in the contaminated air of the Piazza Gran Bastione, Octave imagined that he was in Paris, emerging from a certain little restaurant by the tollgate, where the dustmen carted the city’s refuse into the countryside and left it to rot beneath the open sky. It was there that Octave used to meet some of the ladies of the night who acted as spies for him - and he was so befogged he genuinely believed that the two Elban girls plied the same trade. When he freed a hand to rest it on Luisa’s brown shoulder, however, he got a resounding slap and heard the two sisters chuckling. Letting them guide him, Octave stumbled on the steps, missed one, found himself first on his knees and then on all fours, clutched at a girl’s ankle and received a kick from a heel to his cheek - not a hard kick, more of a playful one. He rolled aside, bumped his elbow, and felt himself being lifted and carried like a soft-legged puppet.
The two girls carried Octave into a dark lair where he could see nothing, but was aware of the sound of clearing throats, a dry cough, breathing. It smelled like a den of wild animals. Gianna stripped him of his frock-coat, his waistcoat and his shirt. Luisa deposited him on a kind of straw-stuffed sofa, before pulling off his boots and everything else. Next, he heard the sisters removing their corsets in the dark, heard the slide of their short skirts, their quiet laughter. And he went to sleep with his mouth open.
*
At noon the next day, 4 May, the flag
of the new kingdom was raised over the Forte Stella: it showed three bees, stitched on to a white background cut from a sail. (The Imperial bees had actually been part of the old coat of arms of Cosimo de’ Medici, Elba’s first benefactor, who had fortified the island against the Barbary pirates.) A single cannon-shot saluted the flag, followed by 200 more along the length of the ramparts, with salvoes fired from the Undaunted in reply.
This was the signal.
Napoleon climbed down the ladder into the barge, which was bedecked with carpets. To his colonel’s uniform he had pinned the orange ribbon of the Iron Crown, and the silver embroidered plaque of the large eagle of the Légion d’honneur, which caught the sun like a mirror. Manning the yards, red-jacketed English sailors hailed the approaching Emperor, their cheers adding to the general din: blanks fired by the cannon, the peals of bells, shouts and cries from the town, music from everywhere. A multitude of barks and tartans, their bowsprits garlanded with banners and pennants, hid the water of the harbour almost completely. The sailors waved their hats on the ends of their oars and yelled, women in brightly coloured dresses hurled handfuls of flowers that floated in the water, a choir sang Apollo exiled from heaven comes to dwell in Thessaly ... Some girls, wasp-waisted in their traditional corsets, struck little drums with their bracelets, and flautists did their best with various musical scores. By now, the Emperor was standing so he could clearly be seen, deafened but heroic amid the heat and the noise; he had fixed his Elban cockade to his cocked hat, which he held under his arm.
The barge drew alongside the jetty of Ponte del Gallo where the Mayor, the Vicar-General and a line of dignitaries stood in silk breeches and pale frock-coats. The moment he stepped upon the landing stage, the Emperor’s heart leapt briefly at the sight of this enthusiastic crowd. His new subjects were bellowing at the tops of their voices, like a tribe of Iroquois, or a band of hysterics who had escaped en masse from their asylum.
Mayor Traditi held the keys of Portoferraio on a silver platter. The Emperor looked at them. A fly was dancing about on them, and the mayor leaned slightly over his platter to shoo it away. It flew on to the Emperor’s sleeve, and walked about on his epaulette throughout the ceremony.
Napoleon's Exile Page 16
