Napoleon's Exile by Patrick Rambaud Page B

.”’
    The Emperor held out his hand, took the letter, recognized Pasquier’s handwriting and shrugged his shoulders.
    â€˜It’s not the first time people have wanted to “approach” me, as this chap Pasquier writes so cautiously. Do you remember that old clown in the Tuileries who was hauled out from behind the curtains of my study?’
    â€˜Ah yes, sire, he had got past the patrols and the sentries ...’
    â€˜He claimed he had found his father’s soul in the lights of the palace!’
    â€˜A lunatic, we sent him to Charenton, sire. But we are dealing with lunatics no longer.’
    â€˜The bankers’ money is dreadful in a different way, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Many people are betraying us. Even Pasquier adds at the end of his letter that we shouldn’t even turn to him.’
    â€˜Let’s see. He who warns does not betray.’
    *
    Octave would never forget 4 April. It was a Monday. He had spent the night doing Chauvin’s job. His work consisted of placing a plate with two glasses covered by a napkin, a silver sugar bowl with a shell-shaped lid, a small spoon and a jug full of water on the chest of drawers in the Emperor’s bedroom. Apart from that, Octave had to be available at all times. He had seen officers going gloomily in and out of the study; he had heard the sound of voices, but had been unable to make out what they were discussing, or what orders were being given. He had already warned Bassano of Maubreuil’s murderous plans, but the Duke was convinced that the Emperor was in no immediate danger. Octave would talk to him again in the morning so that they could put their heads together and weigh up the threat, which was confirmed by Pasquier’s letter.
    As soon as Napoleon was safely shut up in his bedroom, Octave had taken off his livery to avoid creasing it, and lain down on a sofa, still wearing his waistcoat. The Mameluke Roustan also laid his velvet turban and his curved sabre on a chair, and pushed his trestle bed against the door. Fat, flirtatious, foolish, usually this child of Tiflis - a sultan’s slave before becoming General Bonaparte’s lapdog in Egypt – talked tirelessly about the lottery office that the Emperor had just bestowed upon him, but on this occasion he spared Octave this tale by quickly going to sleep. Alas, the chap started snoring; he snored in changing rhythms, and the night was an ordeal, the kind that stirred discordant thoughts in a maddening half-sleep that tugged reality out of shape. Was Maubreuil telling the truth? He was famous in Paris for his boasting, after all. If his word was to be trusted, though, why was Sémallé's royalist Committee now supporting the idea of a murder it had not dreamed of two days ago? Talleyrand must have something to do with it. And what about the Count of Artois? There were connections there, because Maubreuil had used the royalist network in Fontainebleau. Why had Octave not had a note to warn him? Who was he to believe? By his night light, everything blurred and then came into perspective.
    Hubert, the polite and cultured valet, relieved Octave at dawn. Finally able to leave that uncomfortable antechamber, Octave passed through the line of grenadiers who ensured the safety of the Imperial apartments, and set off down the corridors, rubbing the small of his back. He encountered more soldiers and over-excited servants; patrols of soldiers were circulating in the courtyard intoning battle-hymns to the sound of fifes, or shouting, ‘To Paris! To Paris!’ to maintain the spirit of excitement that precedes a battle. When Octave reached the door, a young wardrobe attendant was waiting for him with a cloth bag that he held out.
    â€˜It’s for you, sir.’
    â€˜For me?’ asked Octave, surprised.
    â€˜Yes, yes.’
    â€˜Are you sure?’
    â€˜Damn right!’
    â€˜So you know me?’
    â€˜Course I do, you’re Chauvin’s