Napoleon's Exile by Patrick Rambaud Read Free Book Online Page B

chapel to be burned on a gigantic pyre; the 1,800 colours captured during the wars of the Revolution and the Empire were on no account to fall into the hands of the enemy - not the flags themselves, nor the metal of the staffs, nor even the ashes, which would be consigned to the river in the morning.
    *
    Octave woke before dawn. Curled up on the sofa, he had slept little and badly. Now he sat up with a stupid expression, his wig perched at an angle. Morin had filled two baskets with the white cockades that he had kept in his wood-chest, and he was pinning them to their hats. La Grange was busy loading his pistols. ‘Hurry up,’ he said to Octave, ‘we’re off’
    â€˜Already?’
    â€˜It’s six o’clock.’
    â€˜A quick wash and I’ll be with you . . .’
    â€˜No time. We must surprise the rabble at the crack of dawn.’
    Outside, the army had disappeared. Octave crossed the Place de Grève, flanked by the two royalists. Bah, he said to himself, I’ll jot down a few names, and make a note of any about-turns and hesitations. That’ll be useful to the Emperor, who likes weak people. They’re more manageable than hotheads.
    The three men walked through the main porch of the Hôtel de Ville (the National Guards on sentry duty didn’t even think of stopping them - you don’t check people who walk with such a determined stride) and climbed the large stone staircase on the right, which led to the single upper storey. A bald clerk, dressed in black, raised his hands to block their way: ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen! Where are you going?’
    They did not reply; Octave pushed the clerk aside with his cane, like a walker bending back a branch in his way.
    â€˜Messieurs!’ cried the man, gawping and staggering in their wake.
    A second clerk tried to obstruct their path by pressing himself against both wings of a large door:
    â€˜No one comes in here, this is the Prefect’s office!’
    â€˜But he’s the man we’ve come to see,’ said La Grange.
    â€˜Our of the question!’
    â€˜I beg to differ,’ said Octave, catching the man by the lapels.
    â€˜The Prefect is not in his office!’
    â€˜Where is he?’
    â€˜He’s at the Ministry of the Interior, where the mayors of the
arrondissements
are meeting at this very moment.’
    â€˜Who is taking his place?’
    â€˜The Secretary-General...’
    â€˜Go and get him.’
    â€˜I’m sorry?’
    â€˜We urgently need to speak to him.’
    â€˜Who’s that making such a racket?’ said a stocky, short-legged individual emerging from a corridor?
    â€˜Monsieur Walknaer,’ mumbled the clerk, ‘these gentlemen wanted to meet the Prefect...’
    â€˜Are you the Secretary-General?’ asked La Grange.
    â€˜Precisely so,’ said Monsieur Walknaer, alarmed by the intrusion and the appearance of these unshaven visitors.
    La Grange moved to stand in front of the Secretary-General, parting his frock-coat so that the latter could see the handles of the pistols sticking out of his belt: ‘How can the Prefect absent himself under such circumstances? It’s insane!’
    â€˜Monsieur de Chabrol is in a meeting...’
    â€˜In any case, he is no longer the Prefect of the Seine, he has been replaced.’
    â€˜By whom?’
    â€˜By Monsieur Morin here, who has come to take his post and occupy his office. Ha! Let us in! No? If you are not willing to serve your new Prefect, I can have you replaced as well.’
    â€˜I didn’t say I was refusing...’
    â€˜A fine idea, if I may say so, and much the better for you: the allied sovereigns have just recognized Louis XVIII as King of France.’
    â€˜I didn’t know
    â€˜Of course, you were here, either shut away or asleep! Here are the proclamations, and some white cockades which you will immediately distribute to your staff.’
    Morin held one of his