The last dinner was sadder than the ones that preceded it, and more serious. The Emperor talked ceaselessly, seeking no replies, and speaking on various topics, passing from one to the other without transition. He explained the necessity of clearing undergrowth from the forests, and raising sheep. He commented on the reports that partisans were bringing from France, where royalists were arousing the people’s hatred with their haughtiness and abuse. He quoted newspaper articles and spoke of Marie-Louise.
At last the time came for the Polish family to leave. The weather was sultry, the clouds black; a mackerel sky, swollen with rain. The coach bounced along from Marciana Alta to Marciana Marina, from the mountain to the sea, and the horses were nervous. The sound of squeaking wheels and the clip-clop of the hoofs rang out, amplified by the deceptive, heavy calm that comes before a storm. After a quarter of a league, the Emperor said his goodbyes and handed out presents: to Marie, he offered the envelope containing her jewels, which he did not wish her to part with. She was not to open it until later on. Then he gave a trinket-box to Emilie, and toys and sweets to little Alexandre, who, alarmed by the distant thunder, was huddled in the depths of the berlin. Napoleon then returned to the hermitage, leaving a cavalry squadron as an escort. He was in his tent when the rain lashed the canvas, filling it with pockets of water. The storm burst, the thunder grew more intense and came ever closer, while flashes of lightning cast a blue glow on the tiles of the chapel. Napoleon grew worried: his lips trembled and he wrung his hands. Would Marie be able to embark without putting herself in danger? Would the brig be smashed to pieces on the reefs, so numerous all along the coast? The Emperor became furious as he imagined the disaster. He slipped on his frock-coat, put on his hat and called to his servants. Once again he happened upon Octave, who was playing cards in the chapel with some guards, by a faint night-light. Following orders, Octave straddled a mule - less swift than a horse, but safer - and set off in search of news, his vision blurred with rain and a lashing wind. He hurtled along in the darkness, skirting the wall and the densely packed trees, down the narrow path with which he was by now so familiar, to Marciana Marina. He couldn’t see the ship’s lights. Could the ship have cast off already? Where was she? And what about her passengers? The captain of the port, dragged from his bed, informed him: ‘They’ve gone, Monsieur.’
‘But where to? On the brig? In a storm like that?’
‘No, they couldn’t board, Monsieur, but before the clouds broke I gave signals to warn the boat to make for Cape Vita and anchor at Porto Longone. The bay is sheltered, Monsieur, in Porto Longone.’
‘And the passengers?’
‘It’s just that the sailing boat was turning over her anchors...’
‘I understand! What about the passengers?’
‘They were caught in the gale, weren’t they? It even put out their torches, but they left anyway, for Porto Longone. They may even have reached the ship by now, but I can’t tell you about that, Monsieur.’
His clothes drenched, his hat dripping with water, Octave retraced his steps and informed the Emperor, who was impatiently striking the chairs in the chapel with his whip. Then Octave called to a lieutenant of the lancers: ‘Round up ten men, we’re going!’
Thunder, lightning, a deluge, panicking horses, the road slipping beneath them in the downpour, they rode for the rest of the night and arrived at dawn, exhausted, mud-caked, by the bay of Porto Longone. The hurricane had not subsided, but Marie’s ship was already bound for Naples.
Five
IN HELL
‘Shepherds, shepherds, the wolf is wrong
Only when he is the weaker:
Shall he live a hermit’s life?’
La Fontaine, The Wolf and the Shepherds,
Tenth book, fable V
In November, life on the island changed. The Guard’s bugles, which rang out in the fortresses, still woke Portoferraio, and in the evening the rubbish-collector’s trumpet, outside every door, brought the day to a close. But everything softened once Princess Pauline had been definitively installed on the island. The life of the people of Elba became less military. A Paris fashion-designer opened a trinket shop near the harbour and it prospered, because there was a succession of parties. There was dancing at the Mulini Palace, in the drawing-rooms and the public squares newly lit by new street lights. ‘His Majesty is devoting himself to the decoration of the town, as well as road-building and defence,’ Octave wrote in his notebooks. ‘Princess Pauline is setting the tone. On a little square, half-way up the slope, the church of St Francis was used as a store of food and clothing for the garrison, and now the Empress has decided to turn it into a theatre. As we are not rich, because the salt-works and the vines bring in little revenue, and more particularly because the King of France is not paying the two million promised in income by the Treaty of Fontainebleau, the Emperor has listened to good old Peyrusse, who has wonderfully imaginative ways of saving money. The treasurer has invented a company of purchasers, appropriately named the ‘Academy of the Fortunate", which allows the Elbans to buy a box or a seat in the theatre for life. This dodge will have to finance the works, because they are going to cost a fortune, just think: four tiers of galleries! An artist has come from Piedmont to paint the curtain, and he has already presented his designs: they will show Apollo instructing some shepherds; feature for feature the god will resemble His Majesty, who really is giving agricultural advice to the peasants he has met on his walks. The other morning the Emperor told one of them what to do to ensure that his radishes were neither tasteless nor too peppery, for he draws his gardening knowledge from assiduous reading of La Maison Rustique...’
There were picnics in the countryside, fruit-picking, farandoles, outings in boats full of oranges and cool water, masked balls. Pauline also persuaded the prettier Elban girls and young officers to perform light comedies with her. The Guard band gave concerts. Each day at noon, children marched on to the parade ground alongside grenadiers, grave-faced with wooden swords and paper hats, to the applause of the tourists.
Octave filled his notebooks with accounts of these anodyne festivities, but anxiety lurked behind that carefree façade: Napoleon’s adversaries were relentlessly conspiring against his life. Since contact with the Continent had never been fully severed, messages reached Octave’s ears, and foreign visitors became a marvellous substitute for newspapers. Lord Douglas, Lord Ebrington, Nordic princes and noble Prussians brought the Emperor confidential messages about the latest events. Others issued warnings. Some Bavarians claimed to know of a German league that was planning Napoleon’s execution. Others confided that a group of fanatical monks, who had journeyed from Rome dressed as innocent bourgeois, were waiting for the right moment to stab the Emperor to death. Poggi, the Chief of Police, had learned of the presence of agents of the Great Duke of Tuscany, but spies were swarming on the island in a thousand different disguises. Octave reflected with a smile that they were gleaning only distorted and unusable scraps of gossip; amateurs spying on each other, while he alone controlled the real informer of Talleyrand and the Bourbons, Signor Forli, whom he showered with reassuring and fabricated confidences.
Nonetheless, there were still many very serious threats, so Octave had helped Poggi to reinforce security, as discreetly as possible in order to preserve that climate of deliberate nonchalance for the eyes of the outside world. Monsieur Seno, who owned fisheries, had been appointed as a batman, and now accompanied the Emperor everywhere he went, carrying two loaded pistols. When the Emperor travelled, gendarmes were posted along his route, and five cheveau-légers, armed with muskets, followed his coach. Vigilance was never relaxed now, even at the Mulini Palace. The guests at Napoleon’s official dinners were the first to notice.
Such a dinner took place one Sunday evening in November. The guests were the regular visitors to the Imperial table: officers, traders, owners of salt-works or tuna-fish pounds, town councillors who sometimes brought their daughters along in outrageously costly muslin dresses
. They showed cards bearing Bertrand’s signature and passed through a double row of light-cavalrymen, whose bare sabre gleamed in the torchlight, and into the drawing-room. The chamberlain arranged them around the table, where they sat slightly stiff, exchanging meaningless formulas in an undertone. On Monsieur Pons’s arm was his wife, who was not fond of parties, but who attended out of politeness, not once opening her mouth because of her southern accent, which she considered too singsong and inappropriate for this kind of soirée.
‘I can’t see His Majesty,’ Pons said to Cambronne.
‘He’s over there,’ the General replied, pointing to an open double-door.
The Emperor was sitting at his table in the adjacent library. Next to him sat Madame Mère, her cheeks painted heavily with rouge. The room was more easily observed from the garden outside, where Pons noticed sentries pacing about; he could also make out Octave’s broad-brimmed hat.
Light from the upstairs window fell on the garden, and Octave asked one of the sentries, ‘Has the Princess not come down for dinner?’
‘She is unwell, Monsieur Sénécal.’
‘What’s wrong with her this evening?’
‘She has the vapours as usual.’
‘Go and get me the list of guests. Your officer must have kept the cards . . .’
‘If it’s an order . . .’
‘It is.’
The grenadier departed. Octave stood by the half-open French door, able to view the Emperor from behind, chatting as he chewed on his game fricassée.
‘I’ve had some good news, I must tell you ...’
Napoleon rose to his feet, napkin knotted around his neck, and - after swallowing down a nice mouthful of rabbit in sauce - moved into the drawing-room, whereupon the guests automatically rose to their feet, each in turn. The Emperor motioned to them to sit down and continued, circling behind his guests, who no longer dared to eat, and simply stared at the food cooling on their plates.
‘We’re about to solve the wheat problem. The island, as you know, takes in only two months’ worth of stores per annum, and has to import grain, which is costing our treasury dearly. This will have to stop: we must strive for self-sufficiency. This week I met a man from Genoa, and I am going to give him the land on the island of Pianosa to colonize with at least a hundred families from the Continent. In return for that concession he will grow wheat and that, by my calculations, should provide five additional months in the granaries ...’
No one stirred. The guests had come to listen to His Majesty, and didn’t risk giving their own opinion unless the Emperor specifically requested it.
‘We must also buy some olive trees to replace the fig trees. We have too many of the latter, and they are damaging the vines. Pons?’
‘Sire?’ The administrator rose from his chair, fork in hand.
‘You will go to the mainland and address this problem, returning with nurseries of olive and mulberry trees.’
‘As Your Majesty wishes ...’
‘Stand where you are, since you are standing already, and tell us what you heard the other night on the rampart.’
‘Well,’ said Monsieur Pons, clearing his throat, ‘there I was walking on the rampart, just beneath the windows of my apartment in Portoferraio. Down below, as you know, there is a sentry post, and the soldiers talk to one another, and voices rise. A corporal from Marseille was talking about our return to France.’
‘Listen carefully to this, Campbell,’ said the Emperor with a laugh. ‘You’ll be able to tell them in London!’
‘Oh, sire ...’
‘None of your airs and graces, now, Colonel. Go on, Pons.’
‘The corporal was saying to the others, who were heatedly encouraging him: ‘We are leaving for Malta in our flotilla, we’ll take galleys there, and disembark at the mouth of the Danube. Constantinople will turn a blind eye. Afterwards, the Greeks will join us, we’ll enter Belgrade, the Hungarians will come and swell our ranks, then the Poles, we’ll take Vienna - and after that it’s easy, we know the road from Vienna to Paris by heart!"’
‘My soldiers have a vivid imagination, don’t they?’ joked the Emperor, sitting back down beside his mother.
‘Our men have a lyrical spirit,’ acknowledged Cambronne, whose undertaker’s face failed to evince much enthusiasm.
‘They’re getting bored,’ added Drouot, cutting up a cold rabbit-leg.
‘Ah!’ the Emperor resumed. ‘People rebuke me for abandoning the fatherland. Perhaps they’re right. . .’
*
The Inconstant dropped anchor in the roads. She was a square-sailed two-master, painted yellow and grey, and all that the allies had allowed the exile by way of a fleet. She had eighteen guns, but was used for freight; she would sail to Genoa or Civitavecchia, where she took on livestock, trees, visitors and message-carriers. Octave was standing on the jetty, watching the first launches leaving the ship, when Signor Forli, the jovial olive-oil merchant, gripped him by the shoulders.
‘Hey! Anyone would think you were a policeman — you’ve got the right posture for it, the way you thrust your chest out, the way you carry your cane. Haven’t you got anything for me today?’
‘I’m waiting for some acorns.’
‘Acorns?’
‘The Emperor has ordered them from the Black Forest, he wants to plant some oak trees.’
‘My word! Oaks take a long time to grow!’
‘He’s in no hurry.’
‘Who knows what the future holds? I can’t imagine him staying on our island for ever.’
‘When you plant oak trees, you hope to see them grow.’
‘He’s just pretending.’
‘Are you better informed than I am, Forli?’
‘My friend Cambronne invited me to dinner in the Mulini Palace, on Sunday, and I’m not hard of hearing.
The Emperor is thinking of going to France. He’s been dropping hints to that effect.’
‘It’s just a little joke to annoy Campbell.’
‘Perhaps ... But accidents will happen.’
‘Of what kind?’
‘The Chevalier de Bruslart has just been appointed Governor of Corsica.’
Octave was stunned, but instinctively adopted a stupid expression, which provoked Forli to ask, ‘Didn’t they talk about Bruslart in London?’
‘I vaguely remember something ...’
‘It’s simple. He has an ancient grudge to work off: Bonaparte ordered the shooting of his friend Frotté, the commander of the Norman insurrection, and Chouans like Bruslart don’t forgive such things.’
‘I see.’
‘You should also understand that Bruslart has sent an emissary to Algiers to have a word with the pirates there, I have it from a good source ...’
‘Pirates? What for?’
‘Bonaparte sometimes goes sailing. If he disappeared, in one way or another, we could always blame the Algerine corsairs.’
‘The Emperor hardly ever strays far from the coast.’
‘But he does go to Pianosa. Tell me when he next goes to inspect the island.’
‘So that you can tell the pirates?’
‘No! We know he never sleeps on land, but always aboard the Inconstant.’
‘That’s true.’
‘And that’s where everything becomes possible.’
At that moment some launches drew up alongside the mole with their passengers, including Lieutenant Taillade, who was commanding the brig only because no one else could be found. (It was said that this braggart went and hid in his cabin with the most terrible sea-sickness at the first hint of a squall.) As the oil merchant moved to greet the captain, things began to fall into place for Octave: the two men had an agreement. So His Majesty was no longer safe aboard his own ship? Apparently Taillade, the little squirt, was easily bribed. The crew? Hard to tell: some sailors might be persuaded to betray the Emperor - those press-ganged in the ports along the coast, in the taverns of Genoa or the dives of Capraia, badly paid, alert to the sound of gol
d coins. In addition, Octave couldn’t help thinking about the damaging proximity of Bruslart: the oil merchant was a spy, but the chouan was a man of action. Octave knew him very well. The police had been after him for years, and even at the age of sixty his reputation had not diminished in the slightest. He was small, stocky, hairy as a black bear, and the police imagined they saw him all over the place, but hadn’t been able find him anywhere. He drove the Prefects to distraction: sightings of him had been reported, always too late in each case, at the Auberge de la Poste, in Caen, and then in a traiterie in Bayeux, in Jersey, in Scotland, at the Palais-Royal. He was known to have spent the night with the languid and red-headed Madame de Vaubadon, or with one Demoiselle Banvelle, or with Mademoiselle Berruyer, who was believed to be his wife. He played hide and seek, he teased the cops, he made beignets with acacia-flower water for his lovely lodgers, and moved from manor-house to chateau under multiple identities. One day he was Petit, a Belgian merchant, the next, who knows ...
Some grenadiers were unloading mail for the Mulini Palace from one of the Inconstant’s boats, along with sacks of grain and seed, but Octave made them pile the packages on to their carts and stand near the customs office, at the entrance to the Sea Gate. There he routinely kept an eye on the day’s arrivals - often a good hundred of them, standing in a line - who would be directed towards the Forte Stella, where Cambronne’s department would examine their passports. Some of the visitors would head for the town hall and request an audience with the Emperor.
That morning, to Octave’s eyes, everyone looked like a possible criminal in the pay of the Chouan. Did that chap in his bourgeois clothes carry a stiletto in his waxed boot? Did that woman not hide a blade in the handle of her umbrella? Octave tried to detect any detail that did not match the person; a distinguished-looking sailor immediately aroused suspicion - and why was that fat man sweating? Was he apprehensive, as he prepared to commit his crime? Octave listened to the customs official who was now interviewing the man. Were there forests near Genoa? Did he have an accent? An NCO approached Octave.
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