Sparrows were chirping noisily among the brambles in the ditches. The sky was pale green in the east. A crescent moon still hung low in the sky, forgotten, just above the black fields.
The sergeant attempted to give a military salute, but Napoleon, with a magnanimous gesture, opened his arms and embraced him.
The sergeant mounted his horse. Napoleon watched the rider’s silhouette until it disappeared completely over the other side of the hill, then looked once more at the far horizon, where the dawn mists were beginning to lift.
So, he was back in France!
It is a strange thing but, whether from fatigue or because there was no one to witness it, he could not summon up the surge of emotion he should have felt on such a historic occasion. Nevertheless, this emotional sterility only made him all the more fiercely and implacably determined.
He pissed pensively against a fence post, carefully straightened his clothes, which had been crumpled by the early-morning ride, and strode down toward the plain.
IV. WATERMELONS & CANTALOUPES FROM PROVENCE
IN PARIS, spring was already well on the way. All over the city, the buds on the plane trees and chestnut trees were bursting out into soft green tufts.
On such a glorious day, the Impasse-des-Chevaliers-du-Temple looked almost like a country lane. Only the first half of it was paved; the end was lost among the grass and brambles of a vacant lot that looked like a big garden run wild.
On the edge of this meadow, already humming with bees, the last house in the street stood alone. A sign was painted in large letters on its front walclass="underline"
IMPORTERS OF WATERMELONS & CANTALOUPES FROM PROVENCE
An empty cart rested, shafts up, against the wall near the door.
Not many people could have come there, for the arrival of a stranger on that late afternoon created considerable excitement among a few hens dozing on the old cart.
As he got nearer to the house, the visitor, who was somewhat shortsighted, finally noticed with a start that above the sign painted on the wall were a few words in smaller letters:
Widow Truchaut & Partners
He stood still and, head down, appeared to be deep in thought. Or was he just catching his breath? Although he had no luggage, his crumpled coat and dusty boots seemed to indicate that he had undergone a long, tiring journey.
He looked intently all about him; then, after a moment’s hesitation, went up the four steps that led to the door of the house.
The door was ajar. Through the gap wafted the smell of ripe fruit — as mellow as a memory of summers past.
The visitor banged loudly on the door twice with his closed fist. After a moment’s silence he heard the shuffle of slippers on the flagstones. Then the door opened wide, revealing a woman with a bright, happy face. She was about forty, tall and rather ungainly, though not ugly — more exactly, she still had a certain youth and vigor which, combined with an air of kindness, took the place of beauty.
She looked at the stranger, slightly puzzled.
“I… I’ve just come back from a long trip and I was hoping to find Second Lieutenant Truchaut here, but I’ve only just noticed outside the, er, the sign that…”
“Ah yes, sir. My poor Truchaut! He passed away nearly two years ago, the dear man!” The widow spoke with a broad Provençal accent. “Were you a friend of his? Are you an army man, too?”
“I didn’t know him personally, but we had friends in common, old comrades from the Grande Armée. But I haven’t introduced myself: Lieutenant Lenormand, artillery.”
“Come in, do come in. We mustn’t stand on the doorstep like this. Have you been traveling long? Ah, my dear Truchaut, the poor dear man, how happy he would have been to see you! Nowadays, you know, there are not many left who’ve remained faithful to the Emperor and proud to have served him! Actually, they’d rather hide the fact in their eagerness to chase a cushy job here, a pension there… But Truchaut, now he was true to the end, a wonderful man! He always wore his cross — they buried it with him. ‘I’d rather starve,’ he always used to say, ‘than desert the Emperor.’ He really believed that the Emperor would return. There were a few of them, real fanatics who never gave up, but what good people! Talking of starving — I can tell you, that’s just what happened to him, or near enough. Selling pumpkins won’t keep a man, specially in times like these which are so difficult for people who refuse to knuckle under. Besides, to be frank, he wasn’t cut out for business. And of course, he had to devote himself to his real mission in life, as he used to call it. Politics took up all his time and energy. It was the same for his friends. You’ll meet them, I’ll introduce you. There’s the medical officer, Dr. Lambert-Laruelle, Sergeant Maurice, and the others. They’re always at the café, Les Trois Boules. To look at them, you’d think they were men of leisure playing their usual game of cards. Between you and me, I think they were plotting something. But I’m a woman and a soldier’s wife. I know better than to poke my nose where it’s not wanted. Truchaut wasn’t one to talk, and I certainly wouldn’t have tried to worm information out of him. When he came home from Les Trois Boules looking worried, I wouldn’t have dared speak to him about the business and bother him with my petty worries about monthly bills, settlement dates, and so on. Although, heaven knows there were times when it would have been such a relief to confide in him and tell him all my business problems. You see, I’m the one who looks after the business. It’s just a small concern that I began from nothing: my cousins are farmers in Avignon. They send their fruit to Paris and we try to sell it where we can. In theory, it should work, but what can I do, there’s no one but me to run the whole thing; I had no experience, and I can’t really cope on my own. And that’s not taking into account the kids and everything else that has to be done. Truchaut wasn’t cut out to be a greengrocer: he was a gifted man, a man of ideas, a thinker, a politician if you like. And what a speaker! You should have heard him sometimes in the evening. Sometimes when I’d finished my work, I’d go and seek him out at Les Trois Boules. Oh, you should’ve heard him, you should’ve seen him! It was wonderful! ‘Be careful, Truchaut,’ they used to say, ‘not so loud, that’s enough, you never know who’s listening!’ They told him to shut up, but at the same time they wanted to keep on listening to him, and anyway, he was not easily intimidated. Shut up indeed! Bold as you like, he would shout all the louder, and we sat there listening to him — we would have listened to him all night. Of course, after all that, when we were back home, how could I start talking shop! I wouldn’t have dared, I couldn’t have done it, and that’s that! However much I said to myself, This time there’s no getting out of it, I must talk to him about Bongrain’s bill and the shipment that went bad in transit… I just couldn’t, because I knew he was a man with a mission. Sadly, he’s dead now, and his friends aren’t young anymore. Besides, they never had the same vitality as my dear Truchaut, and now that he’s gone, they’ve really lost heart, my business is practically ruined, and the Emperor is still on his godforsaken island. Ah, dear me! But life goes on just the same… Get off there!” With one sweep of her arm, she brushed a brown hen off the table, where it had been picking at a stray vegetable peeling. “But here I am talking my head off and I haven’t even asked you to sit down. What am I thinking of? Make yourself at home. You must be thirsty. There’s nothing left in the house, but even when there’s nothing in the house, there’s still a cool jug of rosé in the cellar. I’ll fetch it for you.”
She went down to the cellar.
Napoleon sank down onto a stool and looked about him. The room was cool and spacious, with a high ceiling, which made it seem very bare. The floor was paved with cracked, uneven blue flagstones, and the only furniture in the room was a long wooden table, a few stools, and a cupboard. In one corner some iron trunks were piled up beside two or three crates and a big cane basket. In the darkest corner, two dozen cantaloupes lined up on the floor smelled of sun and summer. Various pieces of phantom furniture were outlined in white against the gray of the bare walls: rectangles of different sizes suggested vanished wardrobes, invisible dressers, and there was even the oval shape of what must have been a large mirror. All that had no doubt been seized by the bailiffs and then disappeared under the auctioneer’s hammer.