After several broken axletrees and changes of carriage, the travellers entered Paris before midnight on 17 December in a sad-looking post-chaise with big wheels.
They came in on the Meaux road. Even though their carriage was closed, they blocked their noses as they passed the huge open-air dump where the capital’s rubbish ended up. Near the cursed spot where the Montfaucon gallows stood, they drove past fallow land and fields, market gardens and farms which proclaimed their size by the brightness of their lanterns. They turned to the left, down rue du faubourg Saint-Laurent, then Saint-Martin, reached the quadruple row of limes of the grand boulevards that had replaced the old city wall and dashed through narrow, chaotic, weakly lit thoroughfares, deserted at that hour, the shopkeepers’ stalls cleared away. Then – finally – ahead of them was the Tuileries, the Imperial palace. The postilion turned in under the porch of the Pavillon de l’Horloge and pulled up in front of the sentries guarding the peristyle. Caulaincourt emerged first, unbuttoning his coat and showing the gold braid of his uniform. As the sentries stood aside to make way for these visitors in fur-lined coats and fur caps, the twelve strokes of midnight rang out.
Caulaincourt, the Emperor and Sebastian climbed the double staircase leading to the vestibule of the palace. They strode along the arcades of a covered gallery and knocked on a door at the end, which led to the Empress’s apartments – apartments that were once the Queen’s and were then commandeered by the Committee of Public Safety, who filled them with furniture from Versailles and the Trianon, and an armada of secretaries. There was no answer. Caulaincourt hammered on the door with his fists. They heard footsteps. A Swiss guard with dishevelled grey hair and bleary eyes opened the double door a crack. He was in his nightshirt, like his wife who was looking over his shoulder, intrigued; she was holding a lantern. In the pool of light it cast, she gazed fearfully at the grand equerry’s clothes and dirty beard. Once again he showed the braid of his uniform, which was hidden by his fur-lined coat. The Swiss still looked suspicious.
‘I am the Duke of Vicenza, Grand Equerry to His Majesty.’
In the adjacent rooms, skirts rustled on the parquet and two of the Empress’s lady’s maids joined the strange group. The Emperor took off his fur cap and undid his Polish cloak. At last they recognized him, with bewilderment first, then joy. There were tears in the Swiss guard’s eyes. The Emperor dismissed his attendants, saying, ‘Good night, Caulaincourt. You must need some rest.’
The door closed again. The grand equerry and the secretary, both dressed like Cossacks, found themselves in the shadowy gallery, standing with their big boots on its polished floor.
‘Do you know where to go?’
‘No, Your Grace.’
‘Follow me.’
They retraced their steps and met a valet in the green livery of the court who asked, ‘Is it true what they’re saying?’
‘What are they saying?’
‘That His Majesty has returned.’
‘Rumours travel, I see.’
‘So, is it true?’
‘Come,’ Caulaincourt said to the valet. ‘I need you.’
The grand equerry pushed Sebastian into the post-chaise and the valet climbed up next to the postilion; they were going to Arch-Chancellor Cambacérès’s house in rue Saint-Dominique, on the other side of the Seine, to tell him the Emperor had returned. The carriage sped over the new stone bridge in front of the Tuileries and under the porch of the former Roquelaure house, which had been bought and restored, by Cambacérès, who liked to throw lavish and cheerless dinners there. Above the gate, flanked by gothic columns, his title had been inscribed in enormous letters: Residence of His Serene Highness the Duke of Parma. The gate opened onto a paved courtyard, there was a staircase at each wing of the mansion; yellow lamps lit the windows of the salons. As Caulaincourt and Sebastian jumped down from the carriage, one of Cambacérès’s valets tried to stop them but the servant from the Tuileries explained their business to his colleagues and they were permitted entry. In the large drawing room, bewigged gentlemen from another age, dressed in velvet and satin, rose from their whist tables, their eyes bulging. ‘Who let these vagabonds in?’ demanded one of them, fixing a pincenez on his nose.
‘On the Emperor’s service,’ Caulaincourt stated in a loud voice.
‘Really, who are you?’ asked a marquess in a striped waistcoat.
‘Announce me to the Arch-Chancellor,’ Caulaincourt told the valet from the Tuileries, who set off down the marble hall towards Cambacérès’s office, with his colleague showing him the way.
‘This is madness!’ protested one of the guests. ‘You have got the wrong era, gentlemen. This building was a home to scurvy dogs once, but that was during the Revolution!’
‘I am the Duke of Vicenza.’
‘You?’
‘In that garb?’
‘With that lousy beard?’
‘And that savage’s cap?’
‘The Chancellor awaits Your Grace,’ announced the valet coming back into the salon.
‘Is it really true?’ one of the men asked Sebastian, who remained behind when the grand equerry left to report to Cambacérès and make arrangements for the following day.
‘Where is the Emperor?’ asked another.
‘Has he suffered some misfortune?’
‘We have been worried since yesterday morning …’
‘We read the last bulletin in the Monitor with horror!’
‘Will there be no army left?’
‘Why is the Duke in Paris without His Majesty?’
‘Speak, young man, speak!’
‘Set our minds at rest!’
‘The Emperor is in Paris,’ said Sebastian, falling into a gilt armchair.
Seven
HEROES
A NEW ARMY WAS making for Leipzig in 1813, where it was preparing to face the coalition of Russians and Prussians. Europe was in ferment against the Empire. Sweden had rejoined England, Austria was wavering, inflammatory pamphlets were circulating in Germany. Napoleon had raised troops, authorizing the early conscription of the very young, the recall of disbanded contingents and the formerly exempt, the enrolment of sailors into the infantry, and the recall of whole divisions from Spain even though the English were sending Wellington reinforcements. All men under thirty were mobilized, except Sebastian Roque, who was well out of it. As Vice-Director of the library at the Hôtel Carnavalet, he devoted his perspicacity and penmanship to the service of Imperial censorship. He approved plays, arranged productions, adapted or cut texts and granted permissions to theatre companies and playwrights. He had a box at the Opéra, a gig with a driver, a generous annuity from the Emperor, which he supplemented with the diamonds from Moscow. He was, in short, the happiest and most serene of men in a tumultuous time.
In the Tuileries gardens that spring, Sebastian climbed the steps of the Feuillants’ terrace and entered the portico of the Véry restaurant. He straightened his clothes in front of the long mirrors, checking the shine of his riding boots and the hang of his fashionable cinnamon-bronze kerseymere frock coat. He’d barely reached the foot of the staircase lined with orange trees in tubs when a maître d’hôtel greeted him. ‘The young ladies are here already, Monsieur le vice-directeur.’
‘In my usual room?’
‘Naturally.’
Sebastian gave him his gloves, knobbed stick and hat and hurried to join the actresses he had invited to supper.
The private room was decorated in the style of Herculaneum, with half-columns, imitation Roman balustrades, gilt candelabras and a granite table; the vases of flowers were reflected in the mirrors. ‘Dear friends,’ he said, seating himself between the chic young girls, ‘forgive me. I was detained by Baron de Pommereul.’
Still wearing their ribboned straw hats, the actresses narrowed their eyes, batted their eyelashes, and pushed back their curls as waiters brought oysters and pickled fish, and a sommelier (the word had just been coined) poured the wine.
‘Did you kn
ow that they have seventeen kinds of white wine at Véry’s?’
‘We’ve never been here before.’
‘Oh, well, now you can tell people you have.’
‘Where did you get that scar on your cheek, Monsieur le vice-directeur?’ the more inquisitive of the two asked.
‘A wound in the Emperor’s service.’
‘Did you fight?’
‘In Russia.’
‘Were you in Moscow?’
‘Oh, yes, and I can assure you that the menus there were not like Véry’s! No chicken galantines or champagne truffles.’
The actress studied Sebastian’s failings as they encouraged him to talk. To get parts at the Théâtre-Français – for he could cast plays as well as scripting them now – they indulged his conceited tendencies. He was not fooled, but the game amused him and he had his part to play as well. Even if they fluffed their lines, he would still give them what they dreamed of, without demanding anything in return: they were pretty and it was enough that he be seen walking back through the gardens with them on his arm. Tongues would wag. He wanted to make a reputation, for it to be his name that people brought up in salons and at court.
‘Over there,’ he said between oysters, ‘the cold killed fewer people than hunger. Close to His Majesty we managed to survive, but most of the men had nothing to eat except their horses.’
‘How dreadful!’ said one of the girls, who couldn’t care less.
‘I have reason to believe that there were even cases of cannibalism.’
‘No?’
‘I didn’t see it first-hand, but it can’t be ruled out.’
‘They ate the horses, you were saying …’
‘The horses started to become scarce. They were dying of thirst.’
‘Didn’t they drink melted snow?’
‘We didn’t always take them out of harness in the evenings; they needed water but where are you going to find that in the dark? How can you guess where a frozen stream is? Even if we found one, we had to break the ice with an iron bar, collect the water in a pot, bring it back without getting lost.’
The supper passed in this fashion, Sebastian lightening or darkening his tale as his inspiration or the curiosity of his audience dictated. They took their time over the slices of sturgeon on skewers, the cucumbers stuffed with marrow and partridge fillets in rings; glass in hand, they talked of the fire of Moscow, the famine, the cold, the epidemics, the Cossacks and the sound of the cannon.
Sebastian was escorting the young ladies back to their homes in his gig when the driver knocked a pedestrian in crumpled clothes against a corner post. Out of curiosity, Sebastian looked at the individual, shuddered and ordered the carriage to stop for a moment; he jumped down, taking his leave of the actresses. ‘My postilion will drive you back. Come tomorrow morning to Carnavalet, rue Sainte-Catherine, ask for Vice-Director Roque. Your business will be seen to.’
Without troubling about his boots in that muddy street with its overflowing drains, he bent over the fallen man.
‘Monsieur Roque?’
‘Paulin, is that really you?’
‘Alas, yes, it is me.’
‘Why alas? Is Captain d’Herbigny dead? Have you no job? If that’s it I’ll take you on in my service, in memory of so many memories.’
‘No, no, the captain is alive, but it would have been better if he’d stayed in the Russian snow.’
‘Explain yourself.’
‘We live near here.’
‘You’re frightening me with your riddles!’
Near the Marché des Innocents, they turned into an alleyway and climbed the four floors of a building that was shored up by wooden struts as broad as tree trunks. The stairs were steep and smelled of urine and soap. Paulin puffed and panted as he hobbled up; finally he pushed open a door without a lock and ushered Sebastian into a low, dark, tiled room, which opened onto the well of a small courtyard. In an armchair Sebastian could make out a vague silhouette. When the servant lit some candles, he saw d’Herbigny lying prostrate, his cross pinned to the lapel of a dressing gown; the captain had a leather nose, fixed, milky eyes, wrinkles and white hair.
‘Sir!’ Paulin said in a very loud voice. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
‘Can’t he hear anymore?’ asked Sebastian, a lump in his throat.
‘Oh yes, but he can’t see. And I think he left his brain out there.’
‘I’m not deaf, you poor sap!’ the captain said suddenly, getting to his feet.
He held his riding whip in front of him like a white cane, took three steps, bumped into the table and swore.
‘It’s Sebastian Roque, Captain.’
‘I know! You’ve been talking together. You should know that that cretin Paulin is as chronic a liar as a teeth-puller! No, I’m not still stuck out there, but what I am is in an absolute fury not to be of any use for anything anymore! A cannonball has just carried off Marshal Bessières, I’ve been told, Duroc too. I used to dream of that happening to me! But the rest of us, the menials, when we got to Prussia … Prussia! I know it through the eyes of that blockhead Paulin, those pretty light grey and pink houses, with white curtains at the windows, brown half-timbering, Prussia! Before allying themselves to the Russians, those scoundrels watched us pass like those bewildered monkeys that are shown on our boulevards, and they refused to give us lodgings, not even a bowl of soup; instead they pelted us with snowballs and stones and robbed us!’
‘We reached that country thanks to M. Vialatoux.’
‘The actor from Mme Aurore’s troop?’ asked Sebastian, feeling his heart thump.
‘That’s the one, he’d got us warm clothes at Vilna through a hoax—’
‘The story would take too long!’ interrupted the captain.
‘What about the other actors?’ insisted Sebastian.
‘We only saw him,’ said the captain. ‘And can you imagine, that fool died at Königsberg. Do you know how? You’ll never guess, you’ll die with laughter. Stuffing himself with cakes in a patisserie!’
‘We couldn’t take rich food any more,’ said Paulin. ‘A lot of men died of indigestion.’
‘Cakes!’ cried the captain.
As one might guess, Sebastian was thinking about Mlle Ornella, whom he was still convinced he would chance upon one day, turning a corner, or on stage even. The picture he had of her in his mind was crystal clear, but already her voice was growing indistinct. In one’s memory, it’s the voice that goes first. There was no point questioning the two men further, though; instead, he offered to help financially.
‘No need,’ growled the captain.
‘Then why are you living in this rat hole?’
‘Because I have become a rat, my young friend!’
The captain broke into a forced laugh. Sebastian thought: In Russia we all crossed paths without ever meeting. The adventure overwhelmed us, we were swept along by the current like the ice on the Berezina, we couldn’t bank on anything except luck and egotism …
Sebastian gave his address to Paulin and promised to come back. The servant led him downstairs.
‘Don’t hesitate, Paulin, if I can be of any use …’
‘He doesn’t want anything.’
‘Has he no family?’
‘I am his family, Monsieur Roque.’
‘And the d’Herbigny chateau?’
‘Monsieur refuses to go back to Normandy.’
‘He’d be better off there than in this stinking building.’
‘He says that noises without smells or colours would be too painful.’
‘What will become of his estate?’
‘Monsieur has bequeathed it to me.’
‘Would you be up to running it?’
‘On no, Monsieur Roque, I’d sell it if something terrible happened.’
‘When that day comes, think of me, Paulin. Herbigny is my part of the world too. Anyway, I only say that to comfort you, let’s hope nothing distressing happens …’
‘What else do you wa
nt him to suffer? I’ve stopped him jumping out of the window so many times.’
Sebastian couldn’t think of anything to say and so he left. The following week, as he was inserting some lines of Molière – more animated – into a Racine tragedy, he learnt by a note from Paulin that Captain d’Herbigny had thrown himself out of the window, a little gold cross clenched in his fist. Sebastian Roque, Vice-Director of the Library, scribbled a note to himself on the margin of his copy: Tell Paulin I’ll buy the land and the chateau.
HISTORICAL NOTES
‘Il neigeait.’ Several of my friends, without conferring, suggested this as a title for this novel. It is the leitmotif of a famous poem by Victor Hugo entitled ‘Expiation’, part of his Châtiments [The Punishments], in which he evokes the retreat from Russia. Here is the start, followed by Robert Lowell’s translation:
Il neigeait. On était vaincu par sa conquête.
Pour la première fois l’aigle baissait la tête.
Sombres jours! L’empereur revenait lentement,
Laissant derrière lui brûler Moscou fumant.
Il neigeait. L‘âpre hiver fondait en avalanche.
Après la plaine blanche, une autre plaine blanche.
On ne connaissait plus les chefs ni le drapeau.
Hier la grande armée, et maintenant troupeau.
The Retreat Page 25
