Authors: Patrick Rambaud
‘Boats,’ Monsieur Seno said at that moment.
The Emperor wiped away his tears of mirth with the back of his sleeve and looked towards the high sea. Three frigates lay at anchor off the coast.
‘Bertrand! Your spy-glass.’
The Count handed Napoleon his telescope.
‘French vessels. Call Cambronne, Drouot, Monsieur Poggi and Monsieur Sénécal. They are to be at the Mulini Palace in an hour.’
*
Because of the three French warships cruising round the island, the Emperor doubled the garrisons of the forts and put them on alert: lookouts worked day and night in relays to train their glasses on the intruders. In a single morning, some grenadiers set about demolishing the hovels that clung to the ramparts, where they blocked the loopholes and obstructed the cannon. The gunners were exercising all out, frantically firing red-hot shot into the sea. Dressed as a sailor on a vessel that was supposed to be carrying salt to the neighbouring islands, Octave observed the ships at close quarters. He learned little from the officer of the watch, with whom he had a brief exchange, except that the French were going to sail to Italy, and were ensuring the safety of traders in the Mediterranean; there were dark mutterings of pirates.
On the third night, Octave patrolled the ragged coastline with a group of gendarmes. He visited abandoned shacks on the headlands, questioned shore-dwellers, and reassured himself that no one had clandestinely disembarked on the deserted beaches or the creeks. Then, as the moon, round and glowing, appeared between two black and hurried clouds, one of the gendarmes took Octave’s arm, drawing his attention to a triangle of white canvas advancing across the water. It was a medium-sized fishing vessel, which appeared to be coming from Genoa and was approaching the shore. The clouds covered the moon once more, but the gendarme had the practised eye of an old poacher: he had caught plenty of rabbits in these parts, and could see in the dark like a cat. Octave and his crew said not another word, but crouched motionless behind the rosemary bushes.
A boat was dispatched from the vessel, and as it reached the shore a tall, bare-headed man climbed out, with a bag over his shoulder. The oarsmen silently waved him goodbye, before setting off once more for their ship. The solitary figure walked through the darkness, guided by the streetlights shining in Portoferraio, cursing as he trod in a muddy puddle. Octave and his gendarmes waited for the sailors to reach their vessel and for the ship to set sail, before leaping to their feet and sprinting across the sand, guns levelled, to surround the suspect - who made no attempt to resist, and spoke in French: Tve come from Paris to see the Emperor.’
‘And you come ashore like a smuggler?’ asked Octave.
‘I have a special mission.’
‘Search him!’
Octave took the man’s bag.
‘What are you carrying?’
‘Dispatches from Paris and Rome for General Cambronne, General Drouot. . .’
One of the gendarmes lit a lantern. Octave checked his fob watch - it was three o’clock in the morning - and inspected the open bag, which appeared to contain sealed letters.
Meanwhile a fat gendarme patted down the relaxed and confident stranger himself, checking likely hiding places. ‘There are no weapons, Monsieur Sénécal,’ he confirmed.
‘What about this?’ said Octave, pulling a long object from one of his pockets.
‘That’s my pipe.’
It was indeed a meerschaum pipe, in a case decorated with Napoleon’s profile. The stranger smiled.
‘You can find objects with the Emperor’s image on them all over France, absolutely everywhere. His picture’s on plates, on tobacco tins, and even flat-irons. At the Palais-Royal last month someone etched
Vive l’Empereur!
on a shop mirror with a diamond, and within a few days others had added
Yes, yes, yes...’
‘Follow us.’
‘I am delighted to, gentlemen.’
For caution’s sake, the man’s hands were tied behind his back with a belt, before he was led towards the rocks where a customs boat was moored.
The group climbed aboard and headed towards the harbour. ‘On foot,’ Octave said to his prisoner, ‘it would have taken you hours, there are ravines and collapsed paths, and you’d have fallen or got lost.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Your name?’
‘Marceau.’
‘A soldier? You look like one.’
‘I was. I was a commander at Jemmapes, and that’s not exactly yesterday.’
‘Republican?’
‘Republican officer, monsieur. Before that, I was a pastry chef.’
‘You say you’ve come from Paris?’
‘Via Burgundy, Lyons, Avignon, Marseille, Toulon, where Marshal Masséna gave me a letter, and Nice, and Genoa, and here I am.’
‘How long from Paris to Nice?’
‘I will give the details of my journey to the Emperor. I have orders to.’
‘From whom?’
‘I will tell the Emperor. I am not armed, and that should be enough for you.’
Octave asked no more questions until they reached the Mulini Palace, where Napoleon, who was awake at that time of day, was standing on the terrace singing ‘If the king had given me Paris’ and contemplating the sea that crashed against the rocks and the fortifications.
*
His Majesty received the messenger alone. The man had been appointed by Italian patriots - who had once formed a rebel government in Turin and who were now scattered around the peninsula - and their French correspondents, close to the old Imperial court. The first wanted a King of Italy, the second were preparing for a return to the Tuileries.
The Emperor sat in his study and examined the grey-haired, battle-scarred officer, and he, standing almost to attention before him, had ready replies to each of Napoleon’s questions.
‘What are people doing in France?’
‘Waiting for you.’
‘What are they saying?’
‘That you will return.’
‘With which army?’
‘You don’t need one.’
‘Why not?’
‘Doesn’t Your Majesty know what’s happening in France?’
‘I know they’re doing lots of stupid things.’
‘All parties agree: things can’t go on in their current state for another six months. People are discussing it freely in the cafés and the esplanades.’
‘I abdicated.’
‘No one is concerned in the slightest about your abdication.’
‘Come now!’
‘Show your face and you’ll have an army.’
‘By what miracle?’
‘I have travelled through France, everyone is complaining, and they’re waiting for you everywhere.’
‘Even in the South?’
‘Even there. They thought quails were going to tumble ready-roasted into their mouths, they’re disenchanted now. That’s the South for you.’
‘What are they saying about the King?’
‘That he’s a good man, but his ministers are asses and rogues. They’re complaining that only traitors and noblemen are given a decent welcome at the court: there isn’t a village where they’re not ready, at the first signal, to overturn the apple-cart.’
‘How long did it take you to get to Nice?’
‘Twenty days, sire. I was ordered to stick my nose in everywhere, and I assure you there are very few inns, taverns, wine-shops or billiard-halls that I have not been into. I only ever took the diligence with me from one town to the next.’
‘I’m getting old,’ said the Emperor. ‘I need to rest.’
‘Old, sire? You’re the same age as me. Come and deliver us from this evil crew of aristocrats, who have started making so much noise, and who are talking of re-establishing feudal laws. The priests have even started calling for tithes.’
‘Pamphlets?’
‘They’re pouring in from all over the place.’
‘Have you brought me any?’
‘I have a few in my wallet, but they’re a bit ragged, and they don’t all sing your praises . . .’
‘I’m happy to read the pros and cons.’
‘You’ve left it a bit late. You should have listened to everyone when you were in a position of strength.’
‘Have you read Chateaubriand?’ asked the Emperor, to avoid explaining his behaviour over the past few years.
‘Chateaubriand?’ echoed Marceau. ‘Far from loyal, and he’s got it in for you.’
‘He’s a genius: the purists don’t like him, but he carries you along.’
‘I should like, sire, to be able to carry you along as his style does.’
‘Fine. Go and rest. We’ll give you ten thousand francs.’
‘Sire, one doesn’t come to the island of Elba for money, unless one has been sent to betray you.’
Octave was summoned and attended to the messenger, lending him the room in the Mulini Palace that he himself shared with Monsieur Marchand, the first valet (when Octave did not sleep in town with Gianna, ‘on a mission', as he put it). Alone at his window as dawn broke, Napoleon considered the information he’d gleaned over the previous two months - brought to him by travellers or sailors whose tongues were loosened after a few glasses at the Buono Gusto (on whom Octave gave him daily reports), as well as the comments from well-known visitors and articles, however biased, from the foreign newspapers that were translated for him. Piecing everything together, Napoleon was able to form a fairly accurate opinion of France, and pondered it as he looked through the window, admiring the flowers in his little garden.
In Vienna, at the beginning of autumn, the allies had formed a congress to divide up Europe among their nations; they seemed to be spending their time on trivialities, they gave dances, galas, hunts, but the real work was being done behind the scenes: treaties, promises, deals, threats, lies, verbal agreements, alliances forged and broken. Everyone was taking advantage of the negotiations to increase their influence over their territories. Napoleon knew the kings were dismantling his Empire, but he also knew that this would lead to future wars and quarrels among his adversaries. Did Tsar Alexander want the Duchy of Warsaw; would he try to consolidate a vassal Poland? Austria dreaded this new state when, in Saxony, Prussia was already threatening its borders. England, for its part, was interested in strengthening Prussia as a bulwark against Russia. The powers were lining up in rival clans. Talleyrand, who had been invited as a spectator because he reluctantly found himself in the losers’ camp, played the disinterested witness while at the same time stirring up discord. His sly talent was practised with pleasure, even if France had nothing to say; it had no army now.
France has no army now,’ Napoleon repeated to himself - but the soldiers who’d returned to civilian life, the prisoners of war who’d been repatriated, all dreamed of his return. The Emperor learned that in the Ain region, working-class gangs were roaming the villages shouting his name and braying Bonapartist chants. That in Rennes a play called
The Return of the Lily
had been booed and whistled. That St Napoleon’s Day had been celebrated in the Vosges. That in Auxerre, some enthusiasts had walked through the streets with a mannequin of the King in women’s skirts. An architect from Calais, commissioned to build a column commemorating the landing of Louis XVIII, had received an anonymous letter: Tut some trundle-wheels on your column, and it can follow your fat king into exile!’ The garrison soldiers waited dejectedly, keeping tricolour cockades hidden in the bottom of their haversacks. If the marquises who had been appointed as officers forced them to shout ‘Long live the King!', they added in an undertone the words: ‘of Rome'. When playing cards, they called not the king but the ‘pig’ of spades or clubs. Often, in the barracks, trumpets played ‘He will return'. And in the evening, the old soldiers of the Grande Armée raised their glasses to the Absent One.
*
‘Sunday i January 1815. I’m opening a new notebook for the New Year, which was, for reasons of economy, celebrated modestly in the Mulini Palace. What we have at present in our coffers will only last us a year. The Emperor is whittling away at the military funds, has sold his plough horses, cut wages by half, and got rid of the post boat to save 4,200 francs. Despite the priests’ sermons, taxes aren’t coming in as well as they might be, and he has even had to send the gendarmes to some recalcitrant villages. The grenadiers who have chosen to go back to France have a fine certificate to hang on their walls but not a penny in their pockets, and they are being replaced by mercenaries, Hungarians, Tyroleans who’ve come to offer their services, and large numbers of French officers fleeing the royal army: soon we will have more officers than soldiers. The men of the Corsican battalion are deserting, and the Elbans only ever don their uniforms for the Sunday parade, and spend the week in the fields.’
Then Octave finally jotted down some personal observations, as though he were no longer concerned about malicious glances that might fall upon his notebooks. Thus, on Thursday 5 January, after writing: ‘
Yesterday we paid a visit to the forts because vigilance never relaxes now, even though the three French ships disappeared a long time ago’
, he added: ‘
The more worried the Emperor is in private, the more impulsive he is in public. He is concealing his anxiety behind exaggerated bonhomie, or practical jokes unworthy of his proper rank. As Colonel Campbell brought him the
Morning Chronicle,
an English periodical unfavourable to the Bourbons, His Majesty adopted a cynical pose, scorning the paper and saying, ‘From now on I want to live as a justice of the peace, Sir Neil. Nothing interests me now as much as my little house, my cattle and my mules.’ As soon as he has an audience, his personality changes. As he puts it, this island is a drum, and you need only strike it to make the sound you wish to hear. On his last outing to the farm of San Martino, because a group of tourists was watching him from a nearby hill, he started running around the vines after some chickens that had escaped from their pen; he knew that the visitors, startled by this unexpected and far from Imperial spectacle, would later tell stories about the Ogre being toothless, and in no fit state to govern an Empire. In the middle of a stroll, out he gets from his barouche, pounces on a ditch full of water, sits down, splashes about, gets back on his feet and asks to travel along the coast in a boat. He does not complain his boots are damp until the evening. Some people think he is going mad, but as soon as he is back in the small circle of his confidants, at the Mulini, he is serious and often irritable.’