Napoleon's Exile by Patrick Rambaud Page B

tugging at his heartstrings,’ said Chauvin with a chuckle.
    â€˜Tell me, weren’t you at all concerned when I told you of your wife’s imaginary illness?’
    â€˜I’m not married.’
    â€˜Neither am I,’ said Octave. ‘I am entirely devoted to our cause.’
    â€˜Is it true that the King is returning to Paris?’
    â€˜I’m afraid so.’
    â€˜You’re afraid so?’
    â€˜I’m sorry?’
    â€˜You just said you were afraid so.’
    â€˜You misheard me, Chauvin, I was using a form of shorthand: yes,
I think
that Louis XVIII will finally take the throne, thanks to the support of the allies, who have given me a pass that I will in turn give to you, it’s in your name.’
    â€˜Didn’t the soldiers search your?’
    â€˜Yes, but they were looking for a weapon, a pistol, a knife, a dagger, not a folded sheet of paper. I slipped it into the top of my hat at the last Austrian checkpoint.’
    As they climbed the the horseshoe steps in the middle of the Renaissance façade of Fontainebleau, an aide-de-camp in a pair of maroon trousers drew alongside them and asked Octave: ‘Are you the gentleman who has just come from the capital?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Please follow me.’
    *
    Octave had already seen the Emperor, but only from a distance and as part of a crowd. That had been on the Place du Carrousel, when Napoleon had been swaggering on his horse in front of the lined-up battalions of his Guard. Now here he was, standing right in front of Octave, still talking to the Duke of Bassano and Major General Berthier, as though the summoned visitor did not exist. Octave felt silly in his ill-cut clothes, hat awkwardly clutched in his hands.
    Napoleon’s head was lowered, and his chin spilled in rolls over his cravat. He was a rotund little man, with his hands held under the turnbacks of his colonel’s uniform. The gold fringes of his epaulettes trembled every time he twitched; his white waistcoat, one button of which was undone, tended to creak under the pressure of a belly that spilled from the top of his breeches. His face was round, his complexion bilious; his thinning hair flopped across his forehead; his nose and mouth, set in his fat face, were surprisingly fine. When he looked up, Octave felt as if the Emperor was casting a spell over him: his eyes were as blue as the Mediterranean, they had a magnetic, sorcerous quality. He spoke quickly, swallowing his words.
    â€˜Were you in Paris yesterday evening? How are the occupying forces behaving?’
    Octave was paralysed, stupid as a greenhorn.
    â€˜This chap of yours is a useless great lump!’ the Emperor said to Maret.
    â€˜He hasn’t slept, sire.’
    â€˜Neither have I.’
    â€˜It’s the first time he has the honour of finding himself in Your Majesty’s presence ...’
    â€˜Do I frighten you, my boy?’
    Getting over his unease, Octave managed to stammer in a monotone, ‘Not as much as you frighten our enemies, sire.’
    â€˜Tell me about them.’
    The Emperor was issuing an order. If Octave had never known a more disconcerting situation, he had faced more dangerous ones, had dodged dagger thrusts and whistling bullets. He took a deep breath and choked down his saliva.
    â€˜I saw them in our streets, sire. They have not been sowing disorder. For the time being, they are taking advantage of their conquest, singing, going to see things, distracting themselves and drinking in the salons of the Palais-Royal.’
    â€˜Let them dull their senses! We’ll wake them up. How many foreigners do you think there are within the walls of Paris?’
    â€˜About forty thousand, sire, according to the royalists who are collaborating with the Russian governor. They are also holding the hills of Montmartre and Belleville with cannon.’
    â€˜And between the Seine and the shores of the Essonne?’
    â€˜I took that