Napoleon's Exile (20 page)

The delegates climbed towards the parade ground. Following in the wake of Generals Drouot and Dalesme, both in full dress, came a colonel of the Polish lancers in heavy scarlet cloth, collapsing with the heat, and a stoical Austrian major dressed entirely in white. Octave brought up the rear with Campbell, who was discreetly holding his nose. Monsieur Pons followed them, head lowered, dawdling like a carthorse resigned to being led to the knacker's yard. Beneath the plane trees in the square, the group turned towards the town hall, where those worthies who had already been alerted were waiting by a small flight of steps. These gentlemen introduced themselves at the invitation of the Mayor, Monsieur Traditi, and the delegates were led inside, up a very cramped staircase and onto the first floor, where they passed into a drawing-room, its shutters lowered to keep out at least the worst of the heat. The local authorities stood because there were not enough chairs for them all, while Drouot showed them the official documents that placed the island under the Emperor's rule. Then General Dalesme read aloud the letter sent by the Emperor himself:

Dear General,

I have sacrificed my rights to the interests of the fatherland, and I have reserved to myself the sovereignty and the ownership of the island of Elba, as agreed by all the Powers. Please inform the inhabitants of this new state of affairs, and of the fact that I have chosen their island for my sojourn, in consideration of the mildness of their customs and their climate. Tell them they will be the constant object of my keenest inte rests ...

The Sub-prefect, the Mayor, his deputy and Monsieur Pons de l'Hérault had listened with pursed lips, but no obvious sign of effusion, reluctance or objection. Stunned by the news, they knew that their lives, which until then had been idle and free of any real turmoil, were about to be turned on their heads. Drouot mopped his brow and the back of his neck with a lace handkerchief that he drew from the embroidered sleeve of his Imperial general's uniform. He spoke to break a painful silence.

‘Gentlemen, what is the current state of mind of your inhabitants?'

‘Not very favourable to His Majesty,' ventured Monsieur Pons in a hoarse, deep voice.

‘They will have to submit to the French provisional government,' the Austrian major replied crisply.

‘I hope we won't need to fight,' said the Polish colonel, reaching for the pommel of his sword.

‘Fight? No, no!' gasped Monsieur Traditi, rolling eyes that were wide with alarm.

‘The Emperor must come ashore tomorrow,' explained Campbell.

‘Make sure there is applause for him,' continued Drouot.

‘We'll try.' The Mayor was trembling.

‘Generate some enthusiasm!' Drouot ordered.

‘What?' said the Sub-prefect, who thought he had misunderstood, and didn't see how one could generate enthusiasm in a rebellious population.

‘General Drouot,' Octave broke in, ‘expects you to supply a reception worthy of His Majesty. You have until tomorrow afternoon to prepare it.'

‘Twenty-four hours?'

‘It can be done.'

He was thinking of the Count of Sémallé. There was a man knew how to play the game - within only a few hours he had managed to launch a movement to give the impression that the people of Paris were demanding the return of Louis XVIII, when most of them were in fact unaware of his existence - Octave had learned much from him.

In the confusion and the embarrassing silence that followed his trenchant statement, Octave suggested he speak to the worthies of the island, because he was, he claimed, quite skilled at swaying opinions; he also knew that southerners were quick to move from one extreme to the other. In the meantime, the authorities of the island would go on board the
Undaunted
to greet their new prince.

As everyone else dispersed, Monsieur Pons de l'Hérault and Octave were left alone in the drawing-room. Monsieur Pons waved away some irritating flies, dropped his heavy jacket and slumped on to a chair, unfolding a fan.

‘Do as I do,' he suggested. ‘You must be boiling in that get-up.' At ten o'clock in the morning it was already as hot as a baker's oven.

*

‘It has a strange taste,' said Octave with a grimace.

‘They call it vermouth. It's the national drink, herbs macerated in the white wine of the island.'

Monsieur Pons had taken Octave to the Buono Gusto café. Dug like a cave into the ramparts, it provided shelter from the violent sun. By an arrangement of open doors, the landlord had cleverly engineered a through-draught - although the fetid smells of the street drifted in along with any supposed freshness. Octave set his terracotta cup on the table; sweat trickled down his forehead and into his eyes, his skin was damp and his drenched shirt clung to his back.

‘You know' - Monsieur Pons was describing the Elban mentality - ‘there aren't as many Elbans in the world as there are Italians. The people of Milan bear no resemblance to the people of Naples, who are utterly unlike the people of Rome. It's the same thing here. The people of Portoferraio are witty but envious, while the inhabitants of Porto Longone, in the south, are both ignorant and superstitious. In Rio, in Marciana, they're conceited but very energetic.'

‘I suppose the mayors and priests have the same characteristics as the people they administer.'

‘I would say so.'

‘But are they malleable? How can we win them over in a single day?'

‘By playing on their weaknesses. For months, the agents of London have presented a warlike and bloody Napoleon. Now we must reverse that image, show them a man who is going to improve their wretched condition, we must use the terms that your Emperor used in his letter to General Dalesme. Tell them he prefers Elba to Corsica, the place of his birth, or to Parma.'

‘Is there a printing-works in Portoferraio?'

‘We're not savages!'

‘Could we get some posters printed overnight?'

‘The printer is a cousin of Traditi, the Mayor.'

‘Fine, but that's not enough ...'

‘Another drop of vermouth?'

‘No, thanks, I'm worried I might fall asleep.'

The young waitress diverted him, however, by bringing some grey bread and a sheep's cheese that smelled off. ‘Thanks, Gianna,' said Monsieur Pons. She had swarthy, copper-coloured skin, and raven curls that fell over her eyes; a white corset hugged her waist and emphasized her breasts, and as she departed her skirt swayed with her hips. Monsieur Pons was amused to see Octave watching her retreating figure: ‘If you are so interested in the customs of the people of Elba, I'll ask Gianna to put you up in her family's house tonight.'

Octave was oblivious to the other man's mockery. ‘An excellent idea.'

Monsieur Pons returned to the matter in hand. ‘We will establish the text of the posters in a moment with Dalesme. He'll have to sign it. He's the Governor.'

‘Yes, and we should stress the fact that the Emperor has
chosen
the island of Elba, but we'll also have to put word about.'

That's easy, my dear man. In a small town like this, news spreads like wildfire. Look, those two men over by the barrels, forcing down some chestnut cake (our speciality) for politeness' sake. They've just arrived from Piombino.'

‘Italians?'

‘From Turin. They have taken a room in Mademoiselle Sauvage's inn.'

‘You know everything!'

‘There's only one inn in Portoferraio.'

*

Anxious not to displease his host, who kept wickedly refilling his cup, Octave ended up drinking two jugs of aromatic wine, so that the back of his neck prickled, and his legs felt like lead when he rose from the table. Returning to the town hall, dazzled by the sun and alcohol, failing even to notice the stench of the streets, he walked unsteadily, stumbling slightly, but refused to take his companion's arm. However, Octave's somnolent state didn't stop him writing the first version of a proclamation that Monsieur Pons considered lively and precise - although for form's sake it had to be approved by the worthies. The dignitaries in question had earlier departed, concerned and hesitant, to visit the Emperor aboard the English frigate. They reappeared in a state of excitement. Napoleon had wooed them by speaking unctuously of the misfortunes of France and the good fortune of their island - so beautiful, so calm, so industrious - which he promised would increase under his benevolent protection. Thus aroused, they read what Octave had written, adding a few inflated words here and there, and amending some turns of phrase to give a clearer sense of the submission of the island authorities.

General Dalesme did not wish to sign. He was still the Governor, certainly, but henceforth he was dependent on the goodwill of Paris, a city to which he would shortly have to return; the Sub-prefect, Balbiani, was happy to sign in his superior's stead, and the Mayor hurried to his cousin's printing-works with the proclamation that would be posted up on every wall during the night:

To the inhabitants of Portoferraio

The happiest event that could ever bring fame to the history of the island of Elba has taken place this day! Our august sovereign, the Emperor Napoleon, has arrived among us. Our wishes are accomplished: the happiness of the island of Elba is assured.

Listen to the first words that he deigned to address to us, speaking of the functionaries who represent you: ‘I will be a good father to you, be good sons to me.' They will be engraved for ever in our grateful hearts.

Let us unite around his holy person, let us vie with one another in zeal and loyalty to serve him. It will be the sweetest satisfaction for his paternal heart. And in this way we will make ourselves worthy of the favour that Providence has pleased to bestow upon us.

The Sub-prefect:

Louis Balbiani

The Sub-prefect was delighted by what he thought of as his prose (those who put their names to a document often imagine that they have written it themselves), but Octave still had his doubts about the usefulness of the posters, and the dignitaries set about reassuring him. Certainly, the people of Elba had wanted to kill Napoleon only the previous day - because they dreaded his reputation as a warrior - but he had come unarmed, so his image had changed, and the local people were saying as much to one another at this very moment, prattling on their front doorsteps or in the café. They now hoped that Napoleon's fame would enrich them, there was no doubt about that, and seductive rumours of this kind would spread very quickly around the island.

‘But will the population of Portoferraio alone, even in a state of jubilation, be able to give an impression of a large crowd?' Octave asked. ‘We need shouting and cheering along His Majesty's route, between the mole and the church where the Vicar-General will chant a Te Deum.'

The Sub-prefect immediately dispatched letters to the villages, instructing the Mayors to come to the capital with as many local people - wine-growers, sailors - as they could muster. Meanwhile General Dalesme departed to inspect the uniforms of his troops and mobilize the National Guard. The deputy followed the instructions of Octave (whom he treated with deference because he represented the new authority of the Emperor), and gave a simple, cheerful text to the town crier, who set off to declaim the news that was already spreading from the harbour to the hills.

Leaving preparations for ceremonies in the municipality to the others, Monsieur Pons de l'Hérault pushed Octave outside: he would see with his own eyes the good humour of the island's inhabitants, he would see how the rumour had softened them, how easy they were to persuade, how swift to enthusiasm. In a courtyard they encountered some stout fellows who were busy lugging up various items of furniture to adorn the town hall, where the Emperor would be spending the first part of his stay.

‘You see,' said Monsieur Pons, ‘the bourgeoisie are providing their most comfortable armchairs for the imperial buttocks.'

Octave didn't spot the irony, or the fact that the phrase did not include the speaker among the Emperor's loyal subjects.

Evening fell. The town, which had a moment before been slumped beneath the sun, was suddenly filled with movement. Crowding on street corners and beneath trees, noisy groups commented on the day's events. Carpenters hammered together platforms and pavilions. Half-closed shutters opened to let in the warmth of the night, revealing the members of the bourgeoisie in their homes, brushing down their evening wear. Women were making garlands together, men hurrying about the place, carrying parcels of candles under their arms; Monsieur Pons's own wife was busy working with some seamstresses to make the new flag, the design for which Drouot had given them that morning.

Monsieur Pons brought Octave back to the Buono Gusto - now full of chattering people - with a view to handing him over to Gianna's family for the night. The two men crammed themselves behind a table, at the back near the barrels, elbow to elbow with drunken sailors who were jawing away in their Tuscan dialect. Never mind the noise - Octave was starving, and wolfed down a plateful of marinated tuna, a dish that dries the throat, and drank cup after cup of a local wine, clearer than the one he had had that morning, with no herbs floating in it. After the sixth cup he grew homesick, Monsieur Pons could tell from his distant gaze. After the seventh he started talking about himself. His mentor took advantage of the fact to reverse their roles and begin questioning him.

‘I saw you drafting the first version of the poster, at the town hall, all in one go, and one thing surprised me ...'

‘Tell me?' said Octave, filling the empty jug from the barrel.

‘It was a phrase. A phrase you put in Napoleon's mouth, yet one which he did subsequently utter to the Sub-prefect, aboard the English frigate, when neither of us was present.'

‘Which one would that be?'

‘“I will be a good father to you, be good sons to me ...”'