Napoleon's Exile by Patrick Rambaud

and demoralised, and Napoleon hoped to inspire them with his mere presence.
    Maret’s smile concealed his faith. He endured his master’s dangerous whims and furies without flinching; if he had a doubt or a criticism he voiced it when the two of them were alone, never in a meeting (unlike the more brutal Caulaincourt), and because he appeared never to disown the Emperor he was seen by everyone else as a servile cretin. He didn’t care. He had been skilful enough to manufacture the absolute trust of the Emperor and maintain it both by his attitude and his manoeuvres. He sometimes dictated letters to the pretty Duchess of Bassano, for example, in which she confided in him her jealousy of the Emperor: he was too fond of the Duke, and the Duke was too fond of him. Napoleon, who always read his entourage’s correspondence, was delighted by such devotion – and upon returning from his morning inspection, at which he had received great acclaim, he was therefore neither surprised nor angry to find the Secretary of State sitting in his chair of gilded wood. The Emperor threw his hat on the ground, shook his frock-coat into Constant’s waiting hands, and appeared in the green uniform of the chasseurs of the Guard, the modest garb that his soldiers revered. He opened a snuffbox, stuffed a pinch into his nose and sneezed. Maret held out the letter he had brought.
    â€˜Sire, we have just received a dispatch from the Duke of Vicenza.’
    â€˜What does he say?’
    â€˜He has had difficulties meeting the Tsar.’
    â€˜But he got there?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Go on.’
    â€˜The allies refuse to negotiate with Your Majesty.’
    â€˜Go on.’
    â€˜The Senate has confirmed a provisional government around Talleyrand ...’
    â€˜The Senate! A government! Has Caulaincourt given us the names of these pygmies?’
    â€˜Beurnonville, Jaucourt, Dalberg, the Abbé de Montesquiou ...’
    â€˜Coglioni!’
    â€˜The Prefect of Police is said to have joined them . . .’
    â€˜Him too? Already?’
    â€˜But Pasquier owes his job to me; you will recall that he allowed me to win at billiards to support his nomination from your Majesty.’
    â€˜Pass on a message to him, ask him for some details, and his reply may enlighten us.’
    â€˜The Duke of Vicenza adds: “I am rejected, I have not seen a friendly face.”’
    Appalled and concerned, the Emperor took out his lorgnette, picked up the piece of paper that Maret was holding and skimmed it quickly, before crumpling it into a ball and dropping it on the floor. He paced back and forth with his hands behind his back, deliberately tipped over his snuffbox and went and stood by a window to gaze out at the motionless fir trees.
    â€˜A blow struck at Paris could have a terrific effect.’
    â€˜Sire?’
    â€˜Can you imagine those traitors, oozing hatred, if I were to return to the Tuileries?’
    For a moment the Emperor enjoyed the exaggerated sense of panic, and then pursued a train of thought that he had begun with Berthier at dawn.
    â€˜The Tsar and the King of Prussia are wondering what I’ve got up my sleeve. They suspect me, and they are right to do so. They have just lost more than ten thousand men in the ditches of Paris. They’re tired now, and basking in a false sense of security. Their generals are pampering themselves, they’ve taken over our town-houses, and their marauders are getting lost in our streets, which they know no better than they know our language. How many of them are there, inside and outside, and where are they? How are the Parisians reacting? Who’s taking charge of this chaos?’
    â€˜We can find out something about that, sire. One of my men, how can I put it? Trustworthy, that’s it, trustworthy and attached to the Empire ...’
    â€˜Your spy, go on, don’t shy away from it.’
    â€˜Well, sire, my spy, then, my spy is on