Napoleon's Exile by Patrick Rambaud Page A

his way from the capital. Last night he crossed enemy lines and he knows all about them. I have just received him at the Chancellery.’
    â€˜Why isn’t he here? What were you waiting for?’
    â€˜Your permission.’
    â€˜What a buffoon you are!’
    And the Emperor gave Maret’s cheek a resounding but affectionate slap.
    *
    Musket at slope arms, a grenadier whose bearskin made him appear even taller than he was in reality accompanied a green-suited valet. They passed along the buildings that lined the cobbled courtyard until they reached the guard room at the corner of the railings that surrounded the Palace of Fontainebleau.
    â€˜So what’s this cousin like?’ asked the valet, slightly concerned.
    â€˜You don’t know your own cousin, Monsieur Chauvin?’
    â€˜I have several of them. Cousins, that is.’
    â€˜This one here has come from Paris, that’s all I know, and you’re to go and see him. He gave your name.’
    Octave was waiting on the bench in the guard room. After reporting to the Duke of Bassano on what he had seen over the past few days, he had presented himself at the main entrance to the palace, on foot, without luggage, as though he had just come from Paris on a series of backroads; he had asked to see the valet Chauvin, passing himself off as his cousin as the royalists had suggested. During that exhausting night, he had had time to prepare his story, and looked so innocent that the soldiers were happy to believe him. The search had revealed nothing, but Octave realized he had left behind his cane, his favourite weapon, while being transformed into a provincial at the home of the Count of Sémallé. It made him downcast, and his morose expression gave his character a touch of authenticity, since he was in fact about to inform Chauvin of the severe illness of his wife, who had stayed behind in the suburbs: it was sufficient reason to risk arrest or capture by foreign soldiers.
    The soldiers formed a circle around Octave, sitting backwards on chairs and with their elbows resting on the arms; a sergeant puffed clouds of tobacco smoke from his clay pipe as he talked about Cossacks, whom he called ‘the ruthless ones’.
    â€˜So are you trying to tell me they didn’t do any looting, those demons of hell?’
    â€˜If they had broken down the doors in the fine districts, word would have got around in the city.’
    â€˜I passed by in their wake, not far from the Marne. It wasn’t a pretty sight, not pretty at all, the charred bodies of the farmers, lying twisted in the ashes.’
    Monsieur Chauvin and his grenadier appeared in the open doorway. Octave rose to his feet and held out his hand to the valet, palm down to give him a good view of the Negro’s-head stone given to him by Sémallé, which he wore on his ring finger. At the sight of it, the valet immediately began to play his part.
    â€˜Your visit catches me off guard!’
    â€˜Alas!’ said Octave, putting his arms around Chauvin, ‘I bring you grievous news ...’
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜Your wife ...’
    â€˜My wife?’ said the valet, apparently alarmed.
    â€˜Marie is very unwell.’
    â€˜Is it serious?’
    â€˜Serious enough to justify a journey to Paris, in spite of the danger.’
    â€˜It is not the danger that holds me back, heavens above! But I cannot abandon His Majesty!’ cried Chauvin, pretending to be virtuous.
    The soldiers, moved to pity, let the two alleged cousins move to the courtyard unchaperoned. Once the two were on their own, walking side by side towards the palace, their conversation changed register.
    â€˜We knew you wanted to go back to Paris,’ said Octave, ‘so I’ve come to take your place, if that’s possible.’
    â€˜I can arrange it with Monsieur Constant, the first valet. It will be his decision.’
    â€˜Can you persuade him?’
    â€˜Perhaps by