Napoleon's Police

by Michele McGrath

  “That must be so heavy,” Eugénie whispered and it did look as if Joséphine was walking with difficulty towards the altar. She paused before her throne, five steps beneath the Emperor’s massive gold and green seat.

  Then came the moment we were waiting for. The Emperor’s procession entered, with the marshals and his brothers carrying his regalia. He, too, wore white embroidered silk and a long red, ermine-trimmed robe, which was carried by four men whom I did not recognise. On his head he wore a wreath of laurel leaves made of pure gold. Carefully he mounted the steps to the altar, pausing before his throne on the right of the altar and turned to face the waiting people.

  “Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Eugénie whispered to me as we all waited to see what would happen next.

  “Who?”

  “Joséphine of course.”

  I looked at her. Beautiful was not the word I would have used because she is not truly a lovely woman. Even when she was young, she would not have been able to compare with Eugénie. Now the mother of grown up children, faint lines could be seen on her face, if you looked at her carefully. It was said she was very skilled in the use of cosmetics to mask the signs of ageing. I would not call her beautiful but serene. A little smile played upon her lips.

  “She looks happy,” I replied, “and I am glad for her.”

  “I hope I look as lovely as her when I’m her age,” Eugénie murmured.

  “You are prettier now. Let’s hope you won’t need so much make up,” I said. The woman sitting before me turned and made a face at me for speaking more loudly than I intended.

  The regalia had been laid upon the altar. The Pope rose and the imperial couple turned for his blessing. Afterwards he anointed them with chrism. Mass started. After the Alleluia, the Pope blessed the crowns and the other regalia before returning to his seat. Napoléon went up to the altar and took off his laurel wreath. He picked up the largest of the two crowns. He turned around, held the crown over himself for a moment and then very deliberately placed it on his head. The crowd rippled with movement and there was a tiny noise of conversation.

  “He’s crowned himself!” Berthe Fournier hissed, “I thought the Pope was supposed to crown him?”

  “Shut up, woman,” Fournier said, as the slight sounds ceased.

  “Perhaps he wants to show the world he’s independent of the Pope,” I breathed and Fournier nodded. It would be just like Napoléon, a man who had carved out his own destiny.

  Napoléon returned to the altar, took off his crown and replaced it with the laurel wreath. He picked up the small crown which had caused so much trouble and turned around, waiting expectantly. The Empress walked in front of him. She knelt down on a prie-dieu and bowed her head. The Emperor held up her crown and touched it to his own head. He poised it over hers while he said something which was hard to understand.

  “What did he say?” I asked softly.

  “He said that he was crowning Joséphine as his wife, not in her own right,” Lefebvre, who has excellent ears, murmured.

  “He wouldn’t want to give her too much power or delusions of grandeur,” said Berthe. “Just like a man.”

  Then came the moment I had been waiting for. Very carefully Napoléon placed the small crown on Joséphine’s head, smiling as he did so. He took her hand and led her to her throne, waiting while she seated herself. I looked at Lefebvre and Fournier, who were both grinning. I could not help breathing a sigh of relief. There she was, the Empress Joséphine with her crown safely on her head.

  I don’t remember much of the ceremony that followed. Napoléon had a chain put around his neck and was given a ring, an orb, a sceptre and an ermine collar. A sword, flashing with diamonds was buckled to his waist. I tried to keep my mind on what was happening but tiredness and relief tugged at my eyelids. The music for the service, the Vivat and the Te Deum had been especially written by an Italian, or so we were told. It was lovely but it only made me sleepier. I remember also some girls bearing candles. Once the mass was finished, the Pope left the altar while Napoléon took the oath of office.

  “I swear to maintain the integrity of the territory of the Republic, to respect and enforce respect for the Concordat and freedom of religion, equality of rights, political and civil liberty, the irrevocability of the sale of national lands; not to raise any tax except in virtue of the law; to maintain the institution of Legion of Honour and to govern in the sole interest, happiness and glory of the French people.”

  Those are the words he said, according to the Moniteur next day. I remember thinking at the moment that I hoped he would keep some of them. Then at least the gains of the Republic would not have been thrown away by this man’s vanity. Only time would tell.

  Various titles were announced afterwards. Fortunately the man who read them out had a louder voice than the Emperor. Most of the old names were honoured, two of Napoléon’s brothers, Caulaincourt, Berthier, Duroc and several others. I listened but I did not catch Fouché’s name. Perhaps I missed it. I must have started to doze because I came to myself with Lefebvre shaking me.

  “You were going to fall off your seat,” he hissed. “Stand up. The great man’s leaving.”

  I got to my feet, swaying. The trumpets blew, the Emperor and Empress walked down the aisle to the cheers of the crowd waiting outside. Cannons roared in the distance. Although I knew they were only a salute, I could not help the cold shiver that ran down my back at the sound. I have heard too many guns fired in anger to listen to their voices again without fear.

  The Pope and the other dignitaries left, followed slowly by the rest of us. The ancient cathedral did not have enough doors to accommodate the thousands of people who were trying to pass through them all at once. It was a long time before we reached the outside world. Then at last we were in the fresh cold air. Snow was falling. We walked through the flakes which glittered as if they, too, were diamonds. As I looked upwards, an astonishing site met my eyes.

  “What’s that?” I gasped. Looking at a small light that seemed to be floating in the sky above the city.

  “It’s a balloon with lights on it,” Lefebvre said. “I read in the paper that they intended to send one up at the moment when the Emperor was crowned.”

  “Heavens! It’s in the shape of a crown!”

  “It must be huge. What a wonderful sight,” Berthe whispered. “I have never seen such a thing before.”

  “Is there anyone in it?” François asked in an awed voice.

  “Who would go up in that? They’d have to be mad.”

  I watched the balloon fade into the distance, with strange feelings. I was sick of crowns. I never wanted to see another one.

  “So they are both crowned,” Eugénie said. “We will not see a day like this again in our lifetimes.”

  “Let us hope so,” I murmured. One coronation was more than enough for me. It had been a test of our endurance, sitting for hours crammed in by all the world. The colours and the ceremonial could not compensate me for the discomfort. Yet, when Eugénie asked me if I was glad I had been there, I replied that I was, especially with my friends around me. It was a day when history had been made and we had all played our part.

  Amidst all the glitter and the gold, the music, the incense and the prayers, I knew the moment I would always remember most clearly. I saw again the white, drawn faces of the three Princesses and the sweet smile of the Empress, as the Emperor tenderly placed her crown upon her head. That moment will stay with me for the rest of my life, whatever else I forget about the ceremony.

  “Without all of you the coronation would not have happened, for Joséphine at least,” Berthe said, smiling at us.

  “No. She looked so happy. May she continue to be,” Eugénie said.

  “I hope so too,” I replied, thinking of all the jealousies and hatred within the imperial family which I had seen demonstrated during the investigation. Empress or no, I felt sorry for Joséphine. “Let her enjoy today and many days to come.”

  Duval at Waterloo />
  Michèle McGrath

  In memory of my beloved great-aunt

  Nora McGrath (Big Non)

  For her laughter, her scones and her toffee roast potatoes!

  Duval at Waterloo

  Chapter 1

  “You want to leave the Police?” Laurent didn’t bother to keep the glee out of his voice as he read my resignation letter. His stubby fingers clutched the paper, as if it were his dearest possession.

  I stared at him, noting the yellowish skin and the lines of strain that were newly carved into his forehead. Even Laurent had found it hard to move with the times. The new white rosette, tied tightly to his coat, filled me with disgust. Laurent had openly transferred his allegiance to our new rulers as quickly as possible. Perhaps he hoped his fervency would make them overlook his shortcomings and previous loyalties, but I thought that even they could not be so blind.

  My own lapel was deliberately bare. Threads dangled from my coat to mark the place where, until some months ago, I had worn the tricolour rosette of the Empire. There were many like me in Paris. The old order changed, but we had not embraced the new. I realised now I never would. My life had become more and more difficult, ever since Napoleon was exiled to Elba and the King’s men had taken over. Months of infighting and incompetent leadership had eaten away at the Police and the other divisions of government. Royal favourites, with no experience of administration, issued conflicting orders and caused chaos, almost on a daily basis. Witch-hunts for old Jacobins and Napoleon’s supporters left a sour taste. Witch-hunts were nothing new, of course; they happened during both the Republic and the Empire and truth had often been perverted before. What was new, however, was the fervour with which they were carried out and an open contempt for justice which set my teeth on edge. The King’s men wanted to set the clock back and forget everything that had happened since 1789. If they succeeded, they would wipe out the better part of my life and work.

  Resignation seemed the simplest and safest course.

  I was by no means an ardent supporter of the Emperor, but Napoleon understood how to govern a large and rambling country. His successors did not. I would no longer be an instrument of their folly and their desire to return France to a different age. Saying so, however, would undoubtedly put me in gaol for treason. Laurent would jump at the chance to condemn me; he has hated me for years. I was sick of the sight of him too and I hoped passionately I would never see him again after today.

  Laurent stared at me and started to tap his fingers on the table, as he waited for me to answer.

  “Yes,” I replied, looking over his head at the grimy window which no one ever cleaned. Dust motes floated in the hazy sunshine that fought its way through the dirt. I watched them idly, while I waited for the next question; anything to stop my thoughts appearing on my face.

  “What will you do instead?” Laurent asked, putting the letter down and looking at me hard.

  “I’m going back to Grenoble. My father has sent for me.” I’d brought my sister’s letter with me, in case Laurent did not believe my reasons. Not that I expected him to question me thoroughly. He wanted me out of his life and no threat to him any longer.

  In that tawdry office I saw a sudden vision of the snow-capped Belledonne Mountains in the evening sun. I had not seen them for a very long time, ever since I ran away from home as a boy.

  My face must have changed inadvertently, because Laurent snapped, “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, I was just thinking of my home.”

  He made a noise that sounded like “Pshaw!” Laurent is a Parisian and despises people from the provinces. This attitude is common enough in the Ministry of Police and made working there harder for outsiders like me. I did not expect him to refuse my resignation and he didn’t. The man looked smug, as if one of his dearest wishes had just been granted.

  “Go then and keep out of trouble, if you can. If you don’t, I’ll hear about it soon enough and you needn’t expect me to come running to your aid. Remember that, after today, you have no further authority in Paris, so don’t stick your nose into matters that don’t concern you. Clear your desk and give me your pass.”

  He held out his hand and I gave him the paper that identified me as a police agent. I’d carried it for almost fourteen years, a sad moment; the end of part of my life. Laurent didn’t offer to shake hands with me and I would not have taken his hand if he had. Neither of us are that kind of hypocrite. I walked out of his office with a great weight lifted from my shoulders. The familiar corridor led to the room I worked in since I started at the Ministry. Most of my working life had been spent here, ever since I was invalided out of the army. I never thought I’d leave it this way.

  Only Fournier was working in the room and he already knew all about my decision. He stood up when I came in and embraced me.

  “It went well?” he asked.

  “As you might imagine, but it could have been much worse. At least he didn’t try to have me arrested on some trumped up charge.”

  “Did you really expect him to?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Nor I, but such a thing is dangerous — you know too many secrets. If the stories came out, they would ruin his reputation with our new masters. Better to let you creep away unnoticed. I said he wouldn’t stand in your way, if you remember.”

  I nodded. Fournier and I discussed it last night. I suppose I’d been more pessimistic, since I was the one who needed to face him.

  “What about you? When are you quitting?” I asked. Fournier shares my opinions about the changes in the Ministry and the political situation in France. But, although he grumbles, he has never said he would resign.

  “When I’ve paid my debts and have a little over for a few months’ rent.”

  “Years then.” I grinned. Fournier has always been in debt. He blames his money problems on his poor wife, but he’s too fond of wine and playing cards. He rarely wins.

  He laughed. “I might surprise you. When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “A terrible time to travel anywhere. Why didn’t you wait until later in the year when the roads are better?”

  “I want to be home for Christmas and my sister said it was urgent. She wrote that Father is ailing and needs me to return immediately. She gave me an excuse to leave but I have to get out. You know I nearly thumped Petit last week, when he started to list the virtues of the King and all his cronies. If I stay much longer I might murder someone and then I’ll kiss the ‘widow maker’ for no good cause. I’m going to scarper now before I do something silly. Are you coming to see us off?”

  He nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Got to make sure you’re really out of my hair at last.” The sound of his laughter rang out. As I shut the door behind me, I thought I would never see my workroom again or the people who worked there. I was wrong.

  Fate still had some tricks in store for me. I thought my worse problem at home would be confronting my father. Little did I know that far away on the small island of Elba, plans were being made that would catapult me into the centre of Napoleon’s last and greatest adventure.

  My wife, Eugénie, was at home when I returned. Our belongings were piled in boxes and trunks, waiting for the carrier. The children were playing hide-and-seek among them and Eugénie was trying to cook a meal with one pot and a kettle. Her hair was hanging out of its usual tidy bun and her face was red. In spite of her troubles, she took one glace at my face and ran up to me to give me a hug.

  “Was it awful?”

  “No worse than I expected.”

  “Did he accept your resignation?” I nodded. “Then why are you looking so pale?”

  “Fournier was there. We’ve been together ever since the affair of the ‘Infernal Machine’. I’ll miss the old rogue.”

  “I’ll miss him too. He’s been a real friend to both of us. I must call on him to say goodbye.”

  “No need. He’s coming to see us off tomorrow.”

/>   “Good. But, speaking of friends, Lefebvre was just here.”

  “Was he?”

  “He couldn’t wait for you, so I invited him to have supper with us this evening instead.”

  “Ironic. Lefebvre’s the first person I dined with, the day I arrived in Paris, and now he’ll be the last.”

  “That’s the day he saved your life, wasn’t it?” Eugénie asked and I nodded.

  Memories flooded back. I’d been stupid and walked down a back alley to the river. Three men jumped me and I was losing the fight when Lefebvre arrived and fought on my side. Without him, my life would have ended at twenty and I would never have known Eugénie or the joy of holding my children. That first evening with Lefebvre passed in storytelling and laughter. We sat sipping the wine I had bought to pay a small part of my debt to him.

  This last evening together was the same as the first, fourteen years earlier. The difference was that the stories, this time, were not about our past lives, but rather the cases we had solved together. Lefebvre had once been a famous burglar, by the name of Maître Chagrin or Master of Grief. I’d helped him escape the guillotine and he became my informer and latterly my most trusted assistant. We had plenty to talk about and the air was full of ‘do you remembers’. We talked about finding the ‘Missing Englishman’ and the child of the ‘Italian Countess’. Once we had only a few hours to steal back the Empress’s crown before her coronation. This was our most important case and the one which had brought us both to the attention of the Emperor. It was late when Lefebvre left. He said that he would not see us off on the diligence, the huge stagecoach that travelled to the far corners of France.