Napoleon's Exile Read Free Page B

black curls stuck to his forehead. He looked very surprised to see Octave.
    â€˜What are you doing here?’
    â€˜I’ve come to deliver my report.’
    â€˜It’s over, it’s
over!’
    â€˜You’re my official contact with the Duke of Bassano.’
    â€˜I don’t know where he’s hiding, and I’m getting out of the city like everyone else! I’ve bought an estate in Normandy, and I’m retreating to it.’
    â€˜Listen, my lord, I’ve infiltrated a group of royalists ...’
    â€˜Nothing to do with me any more.’
    â€˜I have their names, their addresses, they’re going to meet tomorrow evening. The most active of them, a marquis, is staying with a man called Morin, former secretary to Masséna, and as to the Count of Sémallé . . .’
    â€˜I want nothing to do with him!’
    The Baron put a pile of files down on a sofa and stood in front of Octave. ‘Go and tell all that to the Duke of Rovigo.’
    â€˜I’m not involved with the police,’ said Octave.
    â€˜Tell that to Prefect Pasquier.’
    â€˜The loyalty of civil servants sways with the wind.’
    â€˜You must admit it’s an ill wind for us!’
    Octave took his heavy cane in both hands and addressed the servants who were still feeding the flames while pretending not to hear anything:
    â€˜You two, out!’
    â€˜Hang on a moment!’ said the Baron, ‘since when have you been issuing orders?’
    â€˜Since a minute ago.’
    By what right?’
    â€˜I’m the last person here to represent His Majesty.’
    Baron d’Herbigny gave a hollow laugh.
    â€˜The last person, you’re right!’
    â€˜I’m going to finish what I’ve started.’
    â€˜Bravo! Bravissimo!’ said the Baron, bellowing with laughter until a stout blow in the stomach from Octave’s cane bent him double over a sofa. He regained his breath with difficulty. The office boys had fled, knocking against the shelves as they passed and causing an avalanche of stacks of files. Wheezing, d’Herbigny rose to his feet, but Octave pushed him back into the papers and cushions with the tip of his cane.
    â€˜Imagine the Emperor coming back on a forced march ...’
    â€˜You have too much imagination.’
    â€˜That’s what I’m paid for, my little baron.’
    â€˜Don’t adopt that tone with me!’
    â€˜You’re nothing but a draper’s son!’ said Octave, prodding him with his cane.
    â€˜And you of a valet and a washerwoman.’
    â€˜I make no secret of it, my little baron.’
    *
    It was a clear night. Columns of bare-handed workmen drifted by in silence. Octave learned that they were heading towards the Place Vendôme to ask for weapons from General Hulin, the Governor of Paris; they would get nothing and would fly into a fury, Octave knew it: the reserve muskets had been distributed to the line infantry, because the Empire was suspicious of the suburbs, where unrest is traditionally born. As to the peasants, not all of them had taken the westward road, which was still open. They were camped along the streets in their thousands, in their carts, in stable doorways, and had lit fires on the pavement to keep themselves warm and cook poultry. Octave bought a charred pigeon at twice the going rate, and set off nibbling to the end of the rue Saint-Antoine. Just before the Charonne barrier, he turned into the rue de la Planchette, an avenue lined with low-roofed houses, gardens, railings and little walls on the edge of the fields.
    With the pommel of his cane, Octave knocked at a wooden door. The sound of dragging feet came from inside, and a shrewish-looking woman appeared in the doorway, holding her lantern level with her flabby face.
    â€˜How is he?’ asked Octave.
    â€˜He’s asleep, sir, but he’s breathing well.’
    Octave took the lantern from the old woman. At the rear of the