Napoleon's Exile Read Online Free

little house, in a hidden room, a fair-haired man, his shirt open, snored on a mattress. The old woman put some kindling in the stove.
    â€˜Wake him, Jeanne, I’ll take him off your hands.’
    â€˜Will he be able to stand up, Monsieur Octave?’
    â€˜I’ll help him. Find him a coat or a cape.’
    Octave shook the sleeping man’s shoulder. With a start, he opened his eyes and murmured thickly, ‘Oh ... It’s you ...’ He propped himself up on his elbows and, after a moment he said, ‘The other evening...’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜You didn’t say ...’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜If you’d seen the man who attacked me ...’
    â€˜No, sadly, just his back. I turned up just as he was attacking you from behind. He ran off while I was picking up your bags.’
    â€˜Did I look so rich that someone would want to rob me?’
    â€˜You must have been too loose-tongued with the other people at the table. In France, Monsieur de Blacé, there are policemen or rogues everywhere you look. The minute you left that wretched inn, you became their prey.’
    â€˜I never thought. . .’
    â€˜Did you mention London?’
    â€˜I can’t remember.’
    â€˜No doubt you did. And you drew attention to yourself by paying the landlord with your gold coins. That would have done it.’
    Old Jeanne fetched a grey guardsman’s coat, with three red woollen stripes on the sleeve.
    â€˜Put it on, Monsieur de Blacé,’ said Octave.
    â€˜Where are we going?’
    â€˜To see some royalists you mentioned to me the day before yesterday.’
    â€˜I was given their address in London . . .’
    â€˜So you really don’t know anyone in Paris?’
    â€˜No one. You asked me that before.’
    â€˜No relatives, not even distant ones?’
    â€˜None.’
    â€˜What about your family?’
    â€˜I saw my father’s head on the end of a pike ...’
    â€˜I know, you told me that before.’
    â€˜My mother died of tuberculosis in Soho.’
    â€˜So I’m all you’ve got?’
    â€˜For the time being.’
    Blacé pulled on his coat, rubbed the back of his neck and suddenly came to his senses: ‘Where are my clothes and my wig?’
    â€˜With your royalist friends, who are waiting for you.’
    â€˜My letter of recommendation?’
    â€˜They’ve got it.’
    â€˜What about my money? The money I was going to send to their Committee?’
    â€˜In safe hands.’
    â€˜Wasn’t it in safe hands in this house?’
    â€˜Are you suspicious of me?’
    â€˜Not at all, but I don’t even know who you are.’
    â€˜Your saviour.’
    They headed outside. Blacé was still weak, his attacker had hit him hard. Octave supported him as they walked, chatting, along the moonlit avenue.
    â€˜Will we pass by the Tuileries?’
    â€˜It’s on our way,’ replied Octave.
    â€˜That’s where I have my last memories of Paris...’
    â€˜How so?’
    â€˜I was eight years old. It was August, and the people were attacking the Tuileries. The King and his family slipped off through the gardens. My mother and the ladies of the court had locked themselves away with the children in a candle-lit room. I remember a lot of noise, shouting, window-panes broken by cannon-fire. Why were we spared? I can’t remember. Even now I can see buildings on fire, slaughtered Swiss Guards, down by the flowerbeds, in a cloud of flies. The rioters slit eiderdowns open and shook them from the windows like snow ... What’s that noise?’
    â€˜The drums of the National Guard. Our Russian friends can’t be far off. Come over this way, let’s stay out of the centre of the city.’
    They walked along the grassy Quai du Mail as it sloped to the Seine. In the darkness, Octave guided the chevalier, holding him firmly by the arm.
    â€˜Where are we going now?’ asked