Napoleon's Exile by Patrick Rambaud

to escape the worrying noises of war, Chauvin left a number of recommendations.
    â€˜You will start your service at midday, in place of Monsieur Hubert, who will have been keeping watch in the antechamber throughout the night. You have only to carry out the orders of Monsieur Constant. The Emperor’s timetables are not currently as regular as they have been in the past, you will have to be prepared for anything, at all times. You’ll get used to it, and you will no longer need to know to the last minute how the tyrant’s normal days are organized. Things are breaking down, my friend, everything’s breaking down ...’
    The two men’s footsteps echoed down the corridor as they passed beneath ceilings with coffers of gilded wood that framed bucolic and irrelevant mythological scenes. The entrances leading into the ceremonial rooms were closed with dark velvet doors and, among the unlit candelabras, in the pale daylight, groups of officers and servants spoke in muffled voices. Caulaincourt had returned from Paris, they were saying, he had spent a long time last night talking to His Majesty, that was all they knew, but they were absolutely sure that the offensive would be launched within three days - as Chauvin would hurry to confirm with shoemaker Boiron.
    â€˜Monsieur de Maubreuil is going to need to have his ambush prepared as soon as possible,’ he said to Octave.
    â€˜It’s no longer anything to do with you, Chauvin.’
    â€˜Are you up to the task?’
    â€˜I’m dealing with this man Maubreuil.’
    As they passed a high window opened by some curious members of staff, they heard delirious cries: ‘Long live the Emperor! To Paris! Down with the traitors!’ Over the heads and shoulders of the soldiers and valets, in the courtyard of the White Horse, they saw grenadiers and chasseurs in bearskins standing at attention: they were presenting arms and shouting enthusiastically, grey with dust and soil from their shoes to their wool epaulettes, but clean-shaven, chins pressed into their horsecloth ties. Napoleon was passing them in review, his hat in his hand to salute them, and they wept with joy as they called, ‘To Paris! To Paris!’ before setting off in perfect columns, their feet striking the cobbles to the sound of the drums. The Old Guard was in the town, and had detached two battalions to serve the Palace.
    â€˜That’s not going to make your work any easier,’ Chauvin murmured into Octave’s ear. ‘Will the Marquis de Maubreuil be able to kill the usurper if he’s surrounded by all these people?’
    â€˜He’s got his uniform.’
    â€˜That’s true,’ Chauvin agreed, failing to reflect that Maubreuil would be the only person wearing a clean, new uniform, and that this would render him conspicuous and suspect, but Chauvin’s thoughts were focused entirely on his escape. When he left by one of the staff entrances, he whispered faintly,
‘Vive le roi
...’ and winked. Octave crossed his arms and sighed as he saw him trotting down the road; he would happily have strangled that pest, had his disappearance not risked alerting shoemaker Boiron, Maubreuil and the members of the Committee.
    *
    The Emperor was dining in the heavily gilded salon of his aides-de-camp. His appetite tended to reflect his mood, and on this particular evening he was hungry. The loyal Dunan, son of a cook to the Prince de Condé, who had served aristocrats in the past, was setting down covered silver platters on a pedestal table with a napkin thrown over it as a tablecloth. Napoleon lifted the lids, poked his fingers into the various dishes, and swallowed down partridge crépinettes and macaroni under a layer of parmesan. Between mouthfuls he wiped his hands on his white breeches, and chatted and joked as though he was sure of sending the foreigners packing to the border. The members of his entourage were more serious, and stood