‘Why?’ Letizia asked.‘What difference would that make? It was all there in the documents.’
‘Of course it was, Mother,’ Napoleon replied.
‘Then why demand that we send someone? Do they think we can really afford the time and money to do that?’
‘Of course not. They’re hoping we’ll have to sit tight in Corsica and the case can be delayed long enough for everyone to forget about it.’
Letizia sat back in her chair. ‘Then what can we do?’
‘I can go to Paris; force them to get on with the compensation process and not leave until it’s done.’
Letizia stared at him for a moment before she nodded. ‘I wish I could come with you, but there’s your brothers and sisters.They need me here . . . When will you go?’
‘As soon as possible.’ He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘Then it can all be sorted out, and you’ll have everything that’s owed to you.’
Chapter 41
It was late autumn when Napoleon reached Paris. Uncle Luciano had provided him with enough money to survive in the capital until the new year, if necessary. But Napoleon hoped to have resolved matters by that time and return to the army, since his period of leave would have expired. He would have spent fifteen months away from his regiment and he did not imagine that he would be able to abuse the army’s patience for much longer.
Conscious of the need to make sure that his meagre funds lasted as long as possible, Napoleon took a room in one of the cheapest hotels he could find: a grime-streaked antique on the river, close to Notre-Dame. If the cold wind blew in the wrong direction the rank odour of the river filled every room in the Pays Normande, even the small chamber up in the attic where Lieutenant Buona Parte eked out his days between pursuing his business at the Treasury offices and strolling around the centre of the city, arms clasped behind his back and head down, deep in thought.
Napoleon found a small subscription library close to the hotel where he could choose from amongst a diverse range of novels, plays and philosophy. Monsieur Cardin’s library occupied the ground floor of a building that was otherwise given over to a company employing seamstresses who worked on gowns for affluent customers. Monsieur Cardin was a thin, spare man who dressed in old clothes and wore a wig from which all the powder had disappeared years ago so that it now had the appearance of mattress stuffing. His wire-rimmed spectacles were thick and made his dark brown eyes look like tiny dots of ink. The neglect of his appearance was due to his obsession, his one true love - the books that lined every wall of his premises. As the young artillery officer’s eyes scanned along the rows of books he felt a giddy joy in being exposed to the most eclectic range of writers he could imagine. At present he was most interested in Monsieur Cardin’s recent acquisitions in the section devoted to political philosophy, particularly a new work, little more than a pamphlet, with the terse title ‘A New Order’, and Napoleon had started to read the introduction.
The capital had been flooded with pamphlets since King Louis had first announced that he was summoning the first parliament for nearly two hundred years. France was being crushed under the burden of a corrupt and outdated system of government that gave every advantage to the aristocrats, and squeezed the very last sou out of the purses of the poor. Some kind of reform was desperately needed but the aristocrats and the Church refused to relinquish their privileges, and the King - surrounded on every side by sycophantic nobles - refused to implement the reforms that the vast majority of his people were crying out for. Their voice was heard in the angry crowds that gathered in all the cities, and in the vast outpouring of political tracts that filled the bookshops and libraries. Most of these publications were little more than cant, and Napoleon turned to this latest pamphlet with few expectations of learning anything worthwhile. At first the dry style nearly put him off, but within a few sentences the author boldly stated that the era of kings was over. Such were the advances in the sciences, education, philosophy and social relations that the very concept of monarchy was an anachronism that no state that considered itself civilised should tolerate.
This was a position that went beyond Napoleon’s own thinking. He had only recently concluded that many of the Royal Houses in Europe were so corrupt that they needed to be swept away and replaced by something more efficient, honest and fair. But Napoleon had conceived of these replacements in terms of a more enlightened system of monarchy. The idea that monarchy itself was the problem struck his imagination like a thunderbolt.
He took the slim book over to a table by a window and sat down to read more by the light coming through the filth-streaked glass. At the end of the introduction came the author’s credit: ‘By Citizen Schiller, in the spirit of liberty, brotherhood and equality’.
Citizen Schiller - Napoleon fixed his eyes on the words. A citizen, not a subject. What would it be like to live in a world where men lived in freedom and equality? Where natural ability, not hereditary affluence, determined an individual’s prospects. All the petty slights and torments that Napoleon had endured at the hands of the aristocrats over the years at Brienne, the Royal Military School of Paris and the officers’ mess in Valence rushed into his mind like a great black wave. He felt engulfed by the shame of being treated as a social inferior. Citizen Schiller . . . Why not Citizen Buona Parte one day, when he could slough off the skin of his origins and be judged by what lay beneath? He read on through the morning, until he turned the last page, and then stared out of the window into the cold grey world of the grimy street outside.
‘A thought-provoking read, isn’t it?’
Napoleon turned and saw that Monsieur Cardin had left the small desk on the podium that allowed him to survey the library and was standing a few paces away, shelving some books that had been returned. The old man’s eyes glinted behind his lenses as he smiled.
‘This Schiller writes from the brain as well as the heart,’ Napoleon agreed. ‘I like that.’
‘Yes, it’s a rare quality when the two facets work side by side and don’t contradict each other.’
‘Still,’ Napoleon reflected, ‘it is one thing to write about such a future in abstract terms. The real trick is to make it happen. I wonder if this man has thought it through, this Citizen Schiller, if that is his real name.’
‘It isn’t.’ Monsieur Cardin flashed a quick smile. ‘Do you think a man who openly espoused the contents of that pamphlet would be free from persecution under our present system?’
‘A pity. I should like to have discussed this further with him.’
‘Why don’t you?’ Monsieur Cardin said quietly.
Napoleon looked at him, then glanced round the library.There were a handful of other customers reading or browsing through the stock, but none close enough to overhear. His turned his attention back to Monsieur Cardin. ‘You know him?’
‘I have met him, and I know where he will be speaking the day after tomorrow.’
Napoleon’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘You said that you would like to discuss the pamphlet with him.’ Monsieur Cardin shrugged. ‘He is visiting the capital for a few days. I thought you might be interested.’
Napoleon was at once suspicious.Was this some kind of test of his loyalty? In which case the best course would be to play the role expected of him. ‘I am a King’s officer. I could inform the authorities about this. Indeed, I could be a police informer, for all you know.’
Monsieur Cardin chuckled. ‘Lieutenant Buona Parte, you’re barely more than a boy. You’re no spy. I’ve watched you come in here almost every day for the last three weeks. You read nothing but radical political texts and I have enjoyed the few words we have exchanged over that time. I think I am a good judge of character and I can tell that you are a kindred spirit politically. On that basis, no, I don’t think you would inform on me. Besides, what is there to inform about? It’s a small meeting, little more than a debating society where ideas are exchanged. I admit that the authorities m
ight disapprove, but that’s all. As long as these things are kept behind closed doors and pose no threat, they can be tolerated. So, are you interested in meeting Schiller?’
Napoleon picked up the pamphlet as he considered the offer. It would be foolhardy for so junior an officer, at the very start of his career, to be seen attending a radical meeting, no matter how few people it might attract. The army would take a dim view of it and any prospect of a glittering career would disappear for ever.
‘No. I can’t take the risk.’ Napoleon rose up and straightened his uniform coat. ‘I must go, Monsieur. I have an appointment I can’t afford to miss.’
‘I’m sure,’ the other man smiled. ‘But if you should change your mind, come back at eight in the evening, the day after tomorrow.’
Napoleon turned to leave the shop, conscious that he was being watched all the way to the door. Outside he drew a deep breath and quickly strode away from the library. At first he resolved never to return there, never to see nor speak to Jean Cardin again. It was not wise to be seen with the man. Then a chill of anxiety traced its way up his spine. Suppose the library was already under surveillance. Suppose that he had been seen going into the library on a regular basis over recent weeks. Maybe he was already on a list somewhere as a suspected radical. Maybe he was being watched even now.
As the thought occurred to Napoleon he had a terrible urge to stop right there in the street and nervously glance back to see if he was being followed. He fought the urge and instead walked further on, until he came to a bakery.The window was filled with baskets of bread and trays of pastries. He went inside and pretended to look over the wares as other shoppers queued to make their orders. His head was tilted down towards the tarts as he stared out into the street beneath his brow. A handful of people were coming from the same direction that he had been walking and he scrutinised them closely, discounting an old man with a young laughing woman on his arm and three young urchins chasing a hoop along the gutter.Then his eyes turned to a sallow-faced young man a few years older than himself in a nondescript brown coat and black tricorn hat pulled low over his forehead. The kind of man you would find in any street in Paris.
Without once looking at Napoleon, or even glancing in the window of the bakery, the man walked by. Napoleon sighed with relief. He was being foolish, hopelessly paranoid, he decided.What possible interest could the Paris police take in the political opinions of a lowly artillery officer? He bought a meat pie and left the bakery, wandering back to his hotel through the narrow streets.
He paused a short distance from the dingy entrance to the Pays Normande and surveyed the street.There were only a few people passing by and no sign of anyone following him or keeping an eye on the hotel. Napoleon felt some of the tension drain from his body as he emerged into the open and made his way into the hotel and up to the attic.
In the privacy and security of his small room his earlier anxiety seemed quite unreal and he laughed at himself.All the same, when he left the hotel that night to find a cheap evening meal, he could not resist looking up and down the street before he set off.
Chapter 42
The next morning Napoleon rose at dawn. He had an appointment with a junior official in the Treasury at noon and had to ensure that the details of the dispute were firmly fixed in his mind. He pulled the satchel from under his bed and once again read through his father’s copy of the contract that he had entered into with the French Government for the subsidy on the mulberry plantation. Napoleon made notes in a small book as he read through the paperwork. At length he was satisfied that he had mastered the details and could use them in support of the arguments he had prepared. Carefully sliding all the documents and his notebook back into the satchel, Napoleon fetched some cold water to wash himself and then dressed in his best uniform jacket. He combed out his lank shoulder-length hair and tied it into a neat tail with a small ribbon before easing his hat on to his head. Pleased with the reflection in the mirror, he picked up his satchel and set off for the Treasury offices on the Place Merignon.
A small arch opened into a dim courtyard. On the far side a few steps led up to the main entrance hall, which was packed with men waiting for their appointed time to meet with various clerks and senior officials. Napoleon gave his name to the clerk on the small desk to one side of the staircase and then took a seat to wait for his time. He was nearly an hour early, since he had no wish to lose his opportunity to present his family’s claim if the preceding appointments were completed more quickly than expected. As he waited he studied the people around him: a cross section of French society - everyone from modest shopkeepers to affluent merchants. Well, almost everyone, he thought. There were no aristocrats. They must be far too grand to have to deal with Treasury officials.
The hubbub was pierced by snatches of conversation, which Napoleon could make out and while there were a few other people making claims for compensation, the majority of the talk was about the latest round of tax rises demanded by the government. The mood was close to simmering outrage, and the fuggy atmosphere of the waiting room reminded Napoleon of a sultry summer day when a storm is waiting to break. Every so often a clerk would appear at the gallery at the top of the staircase, a sea of faces would rise to look up at him in hope, and he’d call out their name.
The time for Napoleon’s appointment came and went, and he could no longer bear to sit down on the hard wooden seat. Tucking his satchel securely under his arm, he squeezed through the crowd towards the entrance to the building and leaned against a pillar just inside the door where he could breathe fresh air, yet still hear his summons. Outside the sky was grey and a light drizzle had begun. Beyond the arch people hurried by, heads shrunk into their collars against the cold and damp.
‘Buona Parte! Monsieur Buona Parte!’
Napoleon spun round.The clerk in the gallery was calling out his name. Napoleon thrust his way through the crowd towards the stairs and forced himself to climb them one at a time as he made his way up to the clerk.
‘Buona Parte?’
‘Yes.’
‘Follow me.’
The clerk led him down a narrow corridor at the far end of the gallery. At the end of the corridor Napoleon was shown into a small room, just large enough for a desk and two chairs. The walls were covered with shelving on which bound files lay in neat stacks. One file lay open on the desk and glancing over the contents was a thin man of advanced years with grizzled strands of hair on his scalp. A pair of glasses had been eased up to rest on top of his head.
‘Sit down,’ he instructed without looking up.
Napoleon took the other chair and, opening the satchel, pulled out his papers.
‘Quiet, if you please. I’m trying to concentrate.’
Napoleon stilled himself and waited for the official to complete his reading. At length, the man closed the file, leaned back, pulled his glasses down to the bridge of his nose and blinked at Napoleon.
‘Monsieur Buona Parte? I had thought you were somewhat older.’ He ran his finger down the notes on the cover of the file. ‘You work at the court in Ajaccio?’
‘That was my father, Carlos,’ Napoleon explained. ‘He died a few years ago. I am his son, Napoleon Buona Parte. I am pursuing his claim for compensation.’
‘You’ve come all the way from Corsica to deal with this?’
Napoleon nodded.
‘Well, I’m afraid I have not yet located all the documents relevant to your claim.’
Napoleon bit back on his frustration and anger. ‘That’s not good enough. I want you to send someone to look for them now.’
‘I can’t do that. My clerks are extremely busy. Finding these documents will have to wait until there’s a man free to carry out the task.’
‘When will that be?’
‘I can’t say. It might be weeks, or months.’
‘That’s not acceptable. I can’t afford to wait here that long.’
‘That is your choice, Monsieur Buona Parte. But if you fail to pursue your
claim in person you can hardly blame the Treasury for not prioritising your request. I suggest you come back in, say, two weeks.’
‘Two weeks?’ Napoleon glared at him. ‘My family are already in debt. And it’s growing all the time, thanks to the Treasury. I demand that you do something about it right now.’
The official stared back at him, coldly. ‘You can demand what you like. I will task one of my clerks to search for this record, when there is time. But I will not be dictated to by some provincial upstart in my office. Now, Monsieur Buona Parte, if you don’t mind I have other pressing business to attend to. I suggest you make another appointment to see me in two weeks. I might have some news for you then.’
‘And if you haven’t?’
‘Then I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait a little longer.’
Napoleon stood up, snatched the contract back and stuffed the papers into his satchel. ‘This is an outrage. I shall complain through the highest possible channels.’
‘Please do. Now, good day to you, sir.’
Napoleon did not reply, but turned away and stormed out of the room, back along the corridor, down the hall and out into the street where the rain had turned into a steady downpour that hissed off the cobblestones. He turned in the direction of his hotel and, tucking the satchel under his arm, he strode off, a scowl of bitter anger and frustration etched into his face.
A short distance behind him a figure detached itself from the crowd watching a street puppeteer and set off after the young artillery officer.
Chapter 43
By the time evening came, Napoleon had calmed down, but the sense of outrage still smouldered deep inside. As he emerged from his hotel to go for his evening walk and find somewhere to eat he discovered that the rain had at last stopped and the air had a clean, crisp feel to it. Thin strips of silvery cloud half veiled a bright moon. Around him the wet street gleamed in the dull glow of light shining from windows. He clasped his hands behind his back and set off, heading for the heart of the city. His appetite had deserted him, so he walked for long hours, past the fine buildings and monuments of the capital, until late in the evening he found himself amongst the crowds wandering along the colonnade of the Palais-Royal. It was a favourite spot for the young of Paris to congregate to drink and flirt, and perhaps, if the mood took them, to fight.The shadowy colonnade that ran alongside the Palais was also the preserve of a more sensual pastime and as Napoleon strode past he ignored the advances of the prostitutes sitting on the steps or leaning against the pillars.
Young Bloods Page 27