Free Napoleon's Exile by Patrick Rambaud Page B

from staging-post to staging-post, until he reached the hills of Juvisy and the headquarters of the Count of Pahlen. The 6th Corps of the Army of Bohemia occupied the summit; the enclosures for the horses and the rows of tents were lit by torches tied to flagpoles. Octave was blindfolded before being led across the fields. When an officer untied the blindfold, it was nine o’clock in the morning and Octave recognized the clock-tower of the town of Essonnes.
    As he walked, alone now, on a beaten path, Octave reflected that he was in a curious situation: the royalists were sending him to Fontainebleau to spy on the Emperor, while in Paris he had been spying on the royalists on behalf of the Emperor. An opportunist would take advantage of the chance to spy on both camps, but Octave didn’t feel as though he had a traitor’s soul, and anyway, if the Bourbons did successfully establish themselves, they would still be haunted by the ghost of the Chevalier de Blacé, whose name, showy outfits and life Octave had appropriated. When he met his first French patrol, grenadiers whose greatcoats had faded in the rain, he said in a commanding voice: ‘Take me to Fontainebleau, to the Duke of Bassano.’
    â€˜And why would the Duke wish to see you?’
    â€˜Tell him that Octave Sénécal has come to deliver his report.’

Two

CAGED
    I N THE LONG marble gallery of the Palace of Fontainebleau, a man dressed in black was walking at a measured pace, holding a letter. He had thick eyebrows and a permanent smile on his lips like a rictus, and wore a curly white wig and a high collar to underline his ponderous air. Adjutants, chamberlains in scarlet silk highlighted with silver, quartermasters and various degrees of valet all stopped as he passed and greeted him with a bow. He didn’t reply, he didn’t see them. He was Hugues Bernard Maret, the Duke of Bassano, Secretary of State in charge of civilian affairs, the Emperor’s closest confidant. He alone had permission to enter Napoleon’s ordinary apartment unannounced, and the guard officer, a captain in the voltigueurs, merely held the door open for him. From the antechamber, Maret passed into the study; his master had been bent over his maps since five o’clock in the morning, along with Major General Berthier.
    â€˜His Majesty has left, your grace,’ said the first valet, very tall, very respectful, and still wearing his travelling clothes.
    â€˜I know, Monsieur Constant. How is he this morning?’
    â€˜In fine fettle,’ said the valet before withdrawing.
    Napoleon refused to accept defeat, and Fontainebleau was merely a garrison; he had scorned the big apartments, still closed, for more military accommodation in a mezzanine on the corner of the palace, at the end of the François I gallery. The study overlooked a gloomy clump of fir trees. The maps were scattered higgledy-piggledy on a bare wooden table set on trestles, and some aloe twigs smoked in the incense-burner like an Egyptian statue. Maret took the unsealed letter he held in his hand and threw it in the fire, then consulted the maps, with all their pencilled scribbles, to try to guess his Emperor’s plans.
    After a frenzied outburst of rage two days previously, because he had arrived at night, four hours too late, on the hills beside the capital, he had questioned General Belliard’s retreating cavalrymen and noticed the thousand fires of the enemy camps. Then the Emperor had regained control of himself, and decided to mass the remaining regiments along a river that ran from the left bank of the Seine to the Orlïans road. He had gone to inspect that natural defence and order the fortification of the towns of Essonnes and Corbeil, with their powder mill and flour warehouses. Maret knew that the Emperor was hoping to attack Paris in four days’ time, when Ney and Macdonald had brought their armies back from Champagne; they were exhausted, barefoot