Free Napoleon's Exile by Patrick Rambaud Page A

between the chandeliers. Inside it, about fifteen nymphs struck poses; they let the transparent veils covering the curves of their shoulders slip, each revealing a pink or brown nipple. At this spectacle, the drunks hammered their heels and clapped, and it seemed as though the shaking floor was about to collapse. The girls, with practised smiles, emerged from the chariot, which had come to rest among the tables; they swayed their hips, darted the tips of their tongues between their painted lips, and sat down simpering on the knees of the most decorated men. One of them put her arms around Octave’s neck and, through the general hubbub, whispered some unexpected words in her suburban accent.
    â€˜What’re you doing with these rats?’
    â€˜I’m working, Rosine,’ said Octave.
    â€˜Like me?’
    â€˜Regimes change, but you and I stay the same.’
    â€˜Sure!’
    The time for conversation had passed, and Rosine wrapped her arms around Octave so as not to attract the attention of the General, who was himself encumbered by a plump little naiad. Octave asked:
    â€˜Can you help me?’
    â€˜If you protect me, as you once did from the cops, then sure. Do you want more information about my regulars?’
    â€˜I’d like you to take my spare key.’
    â€˜And put it where exactly? As you can see, I’m wearing nothing but bracelets.’
    â€˜I’ll hide it under this cushion, and you can pick it up once this heap of savages have rolled under the tablecloths. You go to my place before dawn, through the antique shop, through the wardrobe door that you’re familiar with, then open the trunk and take out a brown bag. It’s for you.’
    â€˜What’s in it?’
    â€˜Gold.’
    â€˜For me, you say?’
    â€˜I don’t want anyone to steal it from me, I’d rather give it to you. I’ve got to leave tonight, and I won’t be able to go back to the rue Saint-Sauveur, do you understand?’
    â€˜I don’t, but why me?’
    â€˜Because I’ve met you, Rosine, and I owe you that at least.’
    â€˜Is there a lot of it, this gold of yours?’
    â€˜Enough for you to set yourself up.’
    â€˜Open a dress shop?’
    They were interrupted by Semanow’s return.
    *
    Framed on either side by lancers, like a prisoner, Octave trotted quickly along the quays on a Prussian mare. Semanow led the troop and set its speed. To reach the Versailles road, on the left bank, the horsemen turned at the Pont de la Concorde. The public baths - which offered tubs at 230 sous - were illuminated. The imposing wooden construction floated on the water, with orange-trees in pots arranged around the terrace Silhouettes were outlined against torches, amidst a cacophony of laughter and songs.
    On the other side of the Seine, Semanow’s troop continued on its way, guided by the lights of the allied camps. Too large to be lodged in the central districts, the armies were bivouacked on the edge of the city, spilling out into the countryside. Enterprising soldiers had converted arbours into cosy tents. Some Cossacks had built huts by supporting bales of straw between their crossed lances; elsewhere, men from a Berlin infantry regiment lounged about in the grass around their cauldrons of soup.
    The war had not touched the west of the city, no splintered shutters hung from the windows, no shrubs had been mown down by case shot as they had in Belleville. On the contrary, in every village, farmers and bourgeois mingled with soldiers to celebrate the peace. They had rigged up tables on barrels, sheep-fat crackled on the spits, and young peasant girls danced with hussars. Semanow stopped his men on the edge of a large village and said to Octave, ‘I shall leave you now, but don’t dismount, you’ll be setting off again straight away.’
    He entrusted his companion and his pass to an Austrian officer. Octave changed escorts at every village,