Marcus Sedgwick: The Truth is Dead

There was a brief tap at the door, and the elder of the valets crept into the room and, apparently unmoved by the corpulent nudity before him, began to lay out items of clothing for the former Emperor of the French. Napoleon ignored the man, but then was surprised to realize that the old stone was actually speaking to him.

“Your Imperial Majesty, I am to inform you that we have received word that your visitor will be arriving tonight.”

“What? What? So soon?”

“Yes, sir. This evening. Shall it please your majesty to receive the monsieur for dinner?”

Napoleon spoke to the room, not to the man. “Indeed. It shall. It shall please me very much.”

“Very good, sir. And may I inform the footmen and the butler of the gentleman’s name?”

“No,” hissed Napoleon. “You may not.”

“Sir?”

“He has no name here. Do you understand me? No name.”

The old valet nodded. He knew better than to do anything other than back out of the room, still nodding, bowing as low as his old bones would let him.

No name, though in Napoleon’s mind the monsieur had only one name: Salvation.

But as the day passed, it looked unlikely that Monsieur Salvation would arrive that evening, as the weather turned up a petulant storm that threatened to keep all but the largest ships at bay.

Napoleon sulked. He’d lost interest in Elba already. It was a rock in the Mediterranean, of little consequence, not a major trading post as he’d been led to believe. The people might love him but they refused to pay their taxes; his retinue, his Lilliputian court and his guardsmen were costing him a fortune; and there was no sign of his two million francs from “King” Louis. The allies had set up the puppet king to rule in his place; surely the fop wouldn’t have the nerve to go against British orders and not pay Napoleon his money? To think he’d left lands worth a hundred and sixty million francs to come to this crap hole!

In a fug of unhappiness he did what he always did these days and called for his doctor, the treasurer, the grand marshal of the palace, and a pack of cards. They played vingt-et-un all morning. Napoleon cheated terribly, everyone pretended not to notice, he lost anyway, and then sulked even worse.

“Pah!” he exclaimed, turning the elegant card table upside down with one swing of his left riding boot. Three pairs of eyes rolled in their sockets and then watched the retreating back of the “Emperor”, who stole off into the depths of the house.

“He needs a woman,” declared the grand marshal, picking up cards.

“He’s had too many of those,” said the treasurer, thinking of the expense.

“What he needs,” said the doctor, “is a war.”

The other two looked at him, slightly appalled.

“It’s all he knows how to do well,” the doctor said, shrugging to excuse himself. It wasn’t his fault the man was a maniac.

Napoleon’s way led him blind into the domestic quarters of the servants, where he joylessly pinched the bottom of the prettiest chambermaid, who screamed because she knew she was expected to, not because she felt like it, and then he found himself standing in the kitchens. It was mid-morning; there was no one around, but various ingredients for the day’s meals lay at hand: fresh bread from the market, some jugs of milk still warm from whatever fetid cow had been assaulted that morning, some palm-sized fish that from their smell were not as fresh as the fishmonger had claimed, eggs and fruit and vegetables. He smiled, then, hearing someone coming, slipped something into his pocket and stole out into the courtyard, wiping the smile from his face.

He hurried through the rain and into the house by the main entrance, sweeping up the steps.

“Bertrand!” he called. “Bertrand! Where is that man?”

Footmen began scurrying around, and within minutes Napoleon’s most loyal aide, the Comte Henri-Gratien Bertrand, was hurrying down from his room.

“Sir?” he said, brushing his greying hair back over his head with a furtive gesture and tucking his shirt tails in.

Napoleon seemed not to know or care. “Walk with me, Henri,” he said. “My heart is heavy. All this waiting – I cannot bear this inaction! It is death.”

Napoleon threw a brotherly arm round Bertrand’s shoulder, an unfamiliar gesture on his part, but Bertrand knew better than to question anything. They walked around the house twice and then turned into the drawing room, where the doctor and his friends were still playing cards.

“Ah, gentlemen!” Napoleon declared as they came up to watch the game. “Bertrand and I were just discussing this awful weather. I fear it will last all week, but Bertrand assures me it will pass by this evening. What do you think?”

“Oh,” said the treasurer, a dimwit, and even shorter than Napoleon. “Well, I… that is…”

“It may continue,” pronounced the grand marshal with great deliberation, “or then again, it may not.”

The doctor sighed.

“Quite so, quite so,” said Napoleon, “but whatever, this atmosphere has given me dreadful rheum.”

The doctor sighed even louder. “Dreadful what ?” he asked.

“Rheum! My nose. Sniffles and what all. And I have come down without a kerchief. Bertrand, lend me yours, will you?”

“Hmm, yes, of course,” said Bertrand, who, rummaging in his pocket, pulled out not only a crumpled handkerchief, but a small smelly fish that fell neatly onto the middle of the card table.

Napoleon began to make strange strangled snuffling sounds, which is what he did to show he was laughing. The doctor sighed, the grand marshal rolled his eyes, and only Bertrand had the sense to start laughing too.

“Oh, very good, sir,” he said. “Very funny. Indeed.”

It wasn’t quite enough, and Napoleon stomped away again in a worse mood than ever.

“Bloody, bloody hell,” said Bertrand. ‘What are we going to do? That man once ruled half the known world…”

“Perhaps,” said the doctor, as if he knew more than he did, “this mysterious visitor will lift his spirits?”

Bertrand turned to the rain-lashed window. “Perhaps. If he ever gets here.”

“Who is he anyway?”

“I don’t know. Napoleon refers to him only as ‘L’.”

“What kind of bloody name is that?”

Bertrand almost smiled. “It’s the name of someone who doesn’t exist.”

But that evening, the rain suddenly vanished as if by an act of God, and the stars were reflected on the bay, which was as calm as a bird bath. Napoleon stood at his window, gazing out into the darkness, when the elder valet appeared.

“He will be here tonight, sir. But rather late.”

“Very well, very well. Get them to put out a cold supper. Light a fire. And then everyone can go to bed.”

He said it as if he were saying “Go to hell”, but the valet merely bowed, grateful for the rest of the evening off.

Two hours later, the Emperor of Elba sat in near darkness in the long dining room, at one head of the table. Before him a place was set, matched at the far end of the table. Between the two plates lay fifteen feet of cold cuts, jellies, egg dishes, cheeses, breads, wine and water.

He was thinking about his women. His wives, Joséphine and Marie Louise, now both gone; and Marie Walewska, his Polish mistress, perhaps the only one who’d ever really loved him.

There was a tap at the door. A footman opened it without waiting to be called, and then ducked out of sight, leaving a tall caped figure standing in the shadows of the doorway.

Napoleon rose slowly to his feet. “So,” he said. “It is true.” Then a doubt crossed his mind. “I cannot see you there. Come in. Come and sit down.”

The figure moved into the room, automatically closing the door behind him. Napoleon noticed the action. Good! This is a man with a cautious mind, he thought.