‘Remember, Colonel, that we will have to install a kitchen in this shed, at the back, and build a stable under a canopy.’
‘I haven’t brought anything to write with,’ said Campbell.
‘Then engrave it on your brain! Look, there are three shutters missing. Allow for three lanterns, and a torch, outside. And some curtains, the rails are up already. And then shovels and tongs for the fires in the hearth.’
‘Fires?’ queried the Englishman, dazed by the heat.
‘Up in the mountains it gets cold in the evenings, Monsieur, as cold as it is in your hovels in London.’
*
‘Monday, 25 August. I barely have the strength to keep this diary on a regular basis. For weeks, the summer has been exhausting me. A scorching wind from the south-east is bringing us a heat-wave from the African deserts. At night, it often rains, and the drops are hot. I was even caught in one of those sudden heavy showers: water poured and streamed, becoming a raging torrent whose current dragged me several yards. I went down to Gianna s, on Via del Gran Bastione; she’s playing at being a lady with dresses brought on boats from Naples. I’d bought skirts and stockings from some sailors who were selling them at auction in the port, and was looking forward to watching her try them on, but I wasn’t the only one, and Gianna didn’t open the door to me; she was too busy with a lieutenant-commander. I had to take shelter for part of the night, not far away, in the shed that’s used for the Imperial coaches, with my soaking silk laces, drenched to the bone.’
In his notebooks, Octave stuck strictly to the facts. No one reading them would learn anything of his thoughts. He recorded events, never appraising them or delivering a judgement, so that his scribblings, were they to be seen by malevolent eyes, could never be used against him or against the Emperor. Octave reported, for example, that His Majesty was ordering books from Venice or Genoa, that he was having them rebound in Livorno; or that in his unfinished villa in San Martino, which was being built out of a farm and a barn, he was arranging souvenirs of Marie-Louise, knick-knacks and portraits, that he had torn the engravings from a book about Egypt to mount them on the walls too, that one of the rooms was decorated with hieroglyphics and painted palm groves. It wasn’t very interesting, perhaps, but it was innocent.
Octave also recorded the movements of the staff. Hubert had gone back to France, to be by his wife’s bedside, and Monsieur Marchand had come to replace him. Marchand had given Napoleon news of the Empress, facts gleaned from his mother, who was a governess to the King of Rome. Marie-Louise’s doctor, he said, claimed that the air of Elba would be harmful to her, and that the Austrians had even refused to let her travel to Parma, which was too close. And what about the King of Rome? The Emperor of Austria had apparently scooped him up in his arms, at Rambouillet, but the boy had said, ‘He isn’t handsome, grandpapa!’ - a piece of gossip that had delighted Napoleon, even while he understood his chances of seeing his son and the Empress again were rapidly fading away.
In a few lines, Octave had also recorded news of Princess Pauline, who had visited Portoferraio. She had stayed for only one night before embarking for Naples where, it was said, she had gone to negotiate an alliance with Murat, in an attempt to reconcile her brother and his impetuous brother-in-law. Octave contented himself with repeating the rumour, although without giving it the slightest foundation. Did he know any more than that? He had seen the Princess Pauline giving her brother a handful of diamonds, but had no idea whether their purpose was to finance the model farm in San Marino, or whether Napoleon was hoping to grow wheat on the island’s stony ground. The Emperor dispersed his secrets. What he said to Drouot he didn’t repeat to Bertrand, Cambronne was kept in the dark about his confidences to Bertrand, and so on. Each man collected discrete confidences that he was never able to link up with anything else. In his writings, Octave sorted, refined, held things back. His horror or his criticisms were left to the imagination. The installation of Madame Mére on the island in a house rented from Monsieur Vantini, a hundred yards down from the Mulini Palace, seemed to leave him cold, and he recorded not a word of the Emperor’s outpourings on the subject. Octave did not greatly care for the crabby old lady in black, who expressed herself only in Italian, ate Italian food, surrounded herself with Italian servants and wanted to install Corsicans in the best positions in the kingdom, even going so far as to squander on them part of the million and a half francs that she kept in a little box - until the Emperor became angry because he needed the money himself. Madame Mère grew resigned, and Octave wrote this about her: ‘She rarely leaves her house, she spends her days with music and embroidery, goes up to the Mulini Palace on Sundays for dinner, and often in the evenings to play revers with her son - and lose small sums, because he cheats.’
These insignificant details could only have excited a historian, but Octave left out the main thing: boredom. They were all idle, that devoted little colony from France, who were given miniature tasks to do. They passed the time, they withered away and yawned - apart from the treasurer, Peyrusse, who kept his accounts with exasperating equanimity. The daily walks and the inspection of the building-sites became as monotonous as the soirées held by the Emperor, to which he invited the dignitaries and their wives so that he could demonstrate to them the importance of the breeding of silkworms, or boast of the exploits of his guards, who were reluctantly widening the roads and planting vegetables. When the clock struck nine, the Emperor would dismiss his guests by approaching the piano and, with the tip of his index finger, playing notes that were always the same: CC GG AA G, FF EE DD C. At this signal the guests would rise and rustle out into the night.
Napoleon appeared content with this routine, even imposing his own timetable upon himself, a typical day unfolding thus: rising at three o’clock in the morning, he read in his library (works of geography and Pluto’s life of Galba, which began with a warning to princes: undisciplined troops are dangerous — perhaps recalling his grenadiers who had been left behind in France, ill-treated by the new powers, certainly prepared to mutiny if the opportunity presented itself); after that, imagining Louis XVIII suffering the same terrible fate as Romanus, who was slaughtered by his own legionaries, Napoleon would go for a walk, smiling at his kitchen garden, plucking a tomato or worrying about the size of his courgettes. He would retire to bed again at about eight o’clock, and sleep until lunch - usually served in the countryside on a table-cloth thrown on the grass - before a quick siesta under an apricot tree or one of the fig trees whose branches hung down to the ground. It was during one of these trips that the Emperor and Monsieur Pons de l’Hérault were reconciled.
*
At the bottom of his blossoming garden in Rio Marina, Monsieur Pons had a small shed where he often meditated on republican or moralistic tracts. He read to his two young daughters, Hermine and Pauline: in this instance, the text in question was a passage from Fénelon’s book Télémaque, in which the author set out the nature of the ideal king in the simplest possible terms. Accustomed to his sermons, for he took charge of their education, the children listened to their father without moving from their stools, fanning themselves in the heat.
‘Telemachus and his guide, on a Syrian ship ...’
‘What’s Syrian?’
‘Syria is a country in the East. So, they’re on their way to Crete, a happy island where King Minos, famed for the wisdom of his laws, reigned long ago. The guide, who already knows this island, tells Telemachus what happens if you have a good government. I shall read: “There is never any call for the repression of excess and flabbiness, for they are unknown in Crete. Everyone works there, and no one thinks of enriching himself. . .”’
‘So it isn’t like the island of Elba, then, Papa?’
‘You are right, Hermine, it isn’t at all like the island of Elba. I shall continue: “Everyone things that he receives enough pay for his work in a sweet and ordered life, where peace is enjoyed, and an abundance of all that is truly necessary for life. . .”’
&nb
sp; He read until he reached the passage in which Fénelon expatiates upon the virtues of a king: ‘“He must have nothing more than anyone else, beyond that which is necessary, or to help him to perform his painful duties, or to win the people’s respect for the one who must sustain the laws” ...’
‘What’s sustain?’
‘Have them respected. “The king must be more sober, more hostile to softness, more exempt from extravagance and arrogance than anyone else. . .”’
‘Are you alluding to our Emperor?’
Pons gave a start. Octave was standing against the door of the cabin, enjoying the lesson.
‘We’re studying Fénelon, Monsieur Sénécal.’
‘I’ve read him. We brought that very same book from Fontainebleau.’
‘I wouldn’t have believed it.’
‘Why? Because he speaks of wisdom? The Emperor will confirm as much himself. He awaits you.’
‘You mean I have to go to Portoferraio right now?’
‘No, he’s here, on your terrace.’
‘Really! To extort money from me, or put me in prison?’
‘Perhaps to make you hear reason.’
‘Reason? Ah, that lovely word. He had only to accept my resignation.’
The Emperor knew of the friendly relations that existed between Octave and Monsieur Pons, and had on several occasions sent Octave to Rio to soften the character of the mine administrator, but fruitlessly. Today he had made the journey himself and he really was waiting on the terrace, in the blue uniform and white lapels of the Elban National Guard - to show he was the master of this island, its inhabitants and its resources. On the coast road, Monsieur Pons could see Bertrand, Campbell, the treasurer Peyrusse, some lancers, horses and the carts carrying the tents and comestibles required for a lunch; Napoleon also stared towards the Italian coast, but saw a multitude of sails dancing by the port of Piombino. Without looking at Pons, he said: ‘Are you going to let me have those two hundred thousand francs?’
‘No.’
‘Ah! So you’ve still got them.’
‘But of course ...’
‘I was afraid you might have sent them to Paris.’
‘The chancellor of the Légion d’Honneur is aware of your demand. I wrote to ask his advice.’
‘You will wait a long time, Monsieur Pons.’
‘He’s a friend of mine, he’ll answer me.’
‘He won’t.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘It’s already sorted out. Your friend Lacépède is no longer chancellor.’
Pons was thrown, and Napoleon took advantage of the fact.
‘The Abbé de Pradt is replacing him. Have you heard of that traitor, who is up to something with Talleyrand? He’s wished me dead since I dismissed him from his embassy in Poland. An incompetent! Did you know that he boasted of having hastened the victory of the foreign armies? Do you want to give the money from our mines to the royalists you have always fought against? The ancien régime has returned, Monsieur Pons, as though neither of us had ever existed.’
The administrator thoughtfully wiped his glasses.
‘Fetch your horse from the stable and come with me.’
Monsieur Pons obeyed mechanically, joining the outing to the countryside, trotting beside Octave. He was torn in two. Did his principles still apply? The allied sovereigns had formed a league against the Emperor, and given France to the Bourbons, ousting the man they still saw as the representative of the Revolution, the man who had terrified them so. The kings had never treated Napoleon as an equal, but rather as a parvenu, a gaudy representative of the middle classes, the accomplice of regicides. Whom should he serve? The Bourbons? Anything but that. The coaches stopped by the only real forest on the island, where the road narrowed to a path.
‘Give me your cane, Monsieur Sénécal,’ said the Emperor. ‘I wish to climb on to that high plateau. Come with me, Pons, you can tell me about the landscape.’
Leaning on Octave’s cane, which had broken many a neck and crushed a good few skulls on behalf of his cause, Napoleon was in a state of delight. He identified each variety of tree, he leaned forward to breathe in the scent of the plants whose virtues he listed. At the top, in a jaunty mood, he considered the panorama and then, looking at a pile of carved stones, he observed to Pons, ‘They’re the remains of a Roman temple, I was told ...’
‘Whoever told you was exaggerating, sire, it was only a tower built in the Middle Ages by the inhabitants of Rio. It was from here that they watched the Barbary pirates.’
‘Whatever the truth of it, stones wear down as men do, isn’t that right? What will remain of us, monsieur? A pile of stones? A legend if we’re lucky? Certainly not the reality of what we were. Was Tiberius as monstrous as Suetonius claims? Suetonius was a viper, an aristocrat jealous of power, and there you have it. The image of Tiberius has been fixed for eternity by a jealous man. Whom do we trust? No one, you see, no one is safe from the blows of fate ... Pons?
‘Sire?’
‘What do we see there, on the horizon?’
‘The Gulf of Spezia, and then, following the ridges, you reach Genoa, and here are the Livorno roads, there, at the tip of my finger...’
‘Filled with fishing boats, yes, at least a thousand of them. They look like butterflies. This place is divine, you could plant a garden here.’ (Napoleon pointed to a corner of bare ground.) ‘Next to it I would place a tank, in that grove, and a covered path under the trees down to the sea, with little farms down below, and cattle ...’ (He sat down on a pile of broken stones.) ‘Ah, Pons! See how busy my mind is, spending money that I haven’t got.’
As Pons said nothing, the two men walked towards the clearing where the valets had thrown the tablecloth for their meal. The Emperor grew bucolic and quoted Latin poets, but also spoke of more practical matters such as his farming projects, the fields of wheat on the little island of Pianosa where no one lived now but wild horses, the revival of coral-fishing ... Everyone noticed that he was speaking only to the administrator, who was dazzled by such familiarity. Because of his many acts of disobedience Monsieur Pons had fully expected to see his iron mines confiscated; instead, the Emperor was offering him - and only him - a glass of pink champagne. The Emperor even let him share his own cup of mocha: ‘Let us drink to the health of our island!’ Monsieur Pons was oblivious to the fact that the Emperor knew how to woo the most recalcitrant people if his menaces failed. Smiles and acts of kindness had often been more effective than cannon and Monsieur Pons duly succumbed to this offensive. The very next day he gave Peyrusse the 200,000 francs that he had been keeping for the Légion d’honneur.
*
Octave was violently awoken by a series of explosions. Gunfire, he thought immediately, getting up and parting the curtains to see Elbans running in the street. ‘Whassa goin’ on?’ Gianna asked him, in that groggy voice that people sometimes have when they’re dragged prematurely from sleep. ‘Gunfire.’ Octave quickly dressed, his face anxious, and when Gianna said to him, ‘You goin'?’ his reply was emphatic: ‘Yes, I’m going. I’ve got to know.’ She threw the blanket over her face, bothered by the bright light, and sighed; Octave stroked her hair and left the room, depositing some gold coins on a pedestal table.
Downstairs, he passed through the Buono Gusto café, which the landlord arranged as a dormitory each night for travellers who had not found lodgings elsewhere. Octave stepped over some rolled-up mattresses and over some late sleepers and out into the Via Gran Bastione. The people gathered there were animated but not frenzied, chatting quite cheerfully about a rumour that was going around. Octave was mingling with a group of people, hoping to learn more, when he spotted the deputy mayor.
‘Who were they shooting at?’
‘No one, Monsieur Sénécal.’
‘I’m not deaf!’
‘Some tearaways lit firecrackers.’
‘Why?’
‘To celebrate, I think. An unfiagged brig has dropped anchor in the bay.’
&n
bsp; ‘So?’
‘The customs men have gone aboard.’
‘As usual.’
‘Not exactly, Monsieur Sénécal.’
‘What have the customs men found that’s so unusual?’
‘The Empress and the King of Rome, that’s what, and our island is preparing to salute the event. As we speak!’
Octave stood gawping. He couldn’t believe it. The previous week, he knew, the Emperor had dispatched one of his Guard captains to Aix-les-Bains. The husband of one of Marie-Louise’s ladies-in-waiting, he was to reach the Empress through her, and persuade her to set sail for Elba - but how could he have achieved his goal so quickly, without a hitch? Nonetheless, some customs men had talked to the Neapolitan sailors on the brig: among their passengers were a fair-haired young woman and a little boy of four or five who talked about his ‘Emperor Papa’.
Octave walked beneath the trees to the town hall, passing through clusters of chattering people, each repeating the news and amplifying it with a thousand invented details. Count Bertrand was in his apartment, in his uniform, very alarmed.
‘A plague upon the gossips, and upon this island!’
‘How would one go about stopping them, your grace?’
‘I don’t know, and that’s what’s irritating me.’
‘Can’t you deny it?’
‘No.’
‘Because it’s true?’
‘Not that either.’
‘But the customs men didn’t make it up ...’
‘No.’
‘And it’s not about the Empress?’
‘No, no, and thrice no!’
‘Then what is it, your grace?’
‘Madame Walewska.’
Octave had not heard these details before, but Bertrand was obliged to tell him now so he could help him defuse the false news — without revealing the truth. In Fontainebleau, while the Empire was collapsing, only Marie Walewska had come to give Napoleon her support. Shaken by events, he had not received her; she had waited a whole night, on a sofa in a corridor, but that was not the end: in early August, her brother Teodor had come incognito to Elba to prepare the way for another visit. Then, just a few days ago, the Emperor had travelled to the hermitage of the Madonna, above Marciana Alta where he’d found a home for his mother; Portoferraio was blazing hot and airless, and the mountain seemed to provide a milder climate for the old lady. Sheltering behind that excuse, Napoleon was in fact waiting for his young Polish mistress. He had even sent her a letter in his own hand, which ended ‘one hundred tender things’. It had all remained secret. On no account: was anyone to know anything about the journey. The Emperor kept a close eye on the morals of his subjects, fulminated against cohabitation, drove his officers to marry Elban girls and refused to receive unmarried couples at the Mulini Palace. Since that was the case, how could he officially receive his mistress?
Napoleon's Exile Page 20
