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Authors: Patrick Rambaud
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to speak; the captain took this as an opportunity to force the barrel of his pistol down his throat. Then he pulled the trigger. As the major-domo collapsed, spewing blood, they heard voices shouting âFire!â Thick grey smoke was seeping in from the landing, spreading across the floor.
âTake what you can and get out!â
âWe should have cut the wick, sir â¦â
âYou could have thought of that, Martinon!â
âI didnât have any orders.â
Mme Aurore, her actors and the dressed-up dragoons, one of whom had hitched up his soutane and tucked it into his belt, rushed in a panic to the stairs; they couldnât see the steps any more.
âYou too!â the captain said to the juvenile lead, who was on all fours in the reception room, his face in the low, dense smoke.
âThe man you have murdered â¦â
âExecuted!â
âFell on our Joan of Arc armour and flattened it.â
âIf you want to burn like Joan of Arc, thatâs your affair!â
âNo, no, Iâm coming.â
They caught up with the others on the half-landing; the smoke was up to their waists and the Great Vialatoux almost lost his balance.
âHang onto the banister!â
âIâve trodden on something soft.â
DâHerbigny bent down, groped around in the smoke, felt a body at his fingertips, sat it up; it was Maillard, as asphyxiated now as he was drunk and weighing a ton; he grabbed him by the collar and dragged him down the stairs. The rest followed, choking in a cloud of smoke, their eyes stinging; they covered their noses and mouths with their clothes, a handkerchief or a scarf. Paulin had come out of the countâs bedroom, struggling with the portmanteau and pushing Catherine and Ornella in front of him, wrapped in tablecloths, rubbing their eyes and coughing themselves hoarse. âQuick!â dâHerbigny told his men and they tore down the stairs, suffocating, not even thinking to be afraid; on the ground floor he saw flames curling under a door that was cracking as it burnt. âQuick! Quick!â he repeated and they rushed towards the hall door but outside on the steps the chained dogs lunged at them, trying to bite. Suddenly bursting from the back of the building, the fire was already catching the long curtains. The captain laid Maillard down on the flagstones, shot one of the dogs withhis second pistol, then had no time to reload â anyway, what with? As for Martinon and Bonet, those imbeciles had mislaid their weapons when they were getting dressed up. Paulin, kneeling next to Maillard, reported, âThis oneâs dead, sir.â
âHe wonât be causing a stir in any more henhouses, bloody idiot!â
The captain picked up the body by an arm and shoved it at the other guard dog, which sank its teeth into it as if it was a quarter of beef.
âMake a dash for it!â dâHerbigny commanded the fugitives, who ran to the avenue, where the rest of the troop were having trouble quieting their horses as they pranced and jostled, terrified by the spreading fires.
*
Sebastian waited, his pencil in the air. The secretaries never knew if the Emperor was going to want to dictate just one or several letters at a time, so they were always ready to take notes, in pencil; in either case, His Majestyâs quick, rushed delivery gave them no chance of taking down entire sentences in a clear hand. So Baron Fain, following his colleague Ménévalâs lead, had devised something like a code of practice: it was a matter of catching the key words as they spilled forth, using them as aides-memoires with which to reconstruct a coherent text and then copying this out in ink, polishing the language in the process and adding the customary civilities. At first Sebastian had dreaded the exercise, the risk that he might misrepresent Napoleonâs thoughts, but Fain had reassured him, âHis Majesty never re-reads what he
âTake what you can and get out!â
âWe should have cut the wick, sir â¦â
âYou could have thought of that, Martinon!â
âI didnât have any orders.â
Mme Aurore, her actors and the dressed-up dragoons, one of whom had hitched up his soutane and tucked it into his belt, rushed in a panic to the stairs; they couldnât see the steps any more.
âYou too!â the captain said to the juvenile lead, who was on all fours in the reception room, his face in the low, dense smoke.
âThe man you have murdered â¦â
âExecuted!â
âFell on our Joan of Arc armour and flattened it.â
âIf you want to burn like Joan of Arc, thatâs your affair!â
âNo, no, Iâm coming.â
They caught up with the others on the half-landing; the smoke was up to their waists and the Great Vialatoux almost lost his balance.
âHang onto the banister!â
âIâve trodden on something soft.â
DâHerbigny bent down, groped around in the smoke, felt a body at his fingertips, sat it up; it was Maillard, as asphyxiated now as he was drunk and weighing a ton; he grabbed him by the collar and dragged him down the stairs. The rest followed, choking in a cloud of smoke, their eyes stinging; they covered their noses and mouths with their clothes, a handkerchief or a scarf. Paulin had come out of the countâs bedroom, struggling with the portmanteau and pushing Catherine and Ornella in front of him, wrapped in tablecloths, rubbing their eyes and coughing themselves hoarse. âQuick!â dâHerbigny told his men and they tore down the stairs, suffocating, not even thinking to be afraid; on the ground floor he saw flames curling under a door that was cracking as it burnt. âQuick! Quick!â he repeated and they rushed towards the hall door but outside on the steps the chained dogs lunged at them, trying to bite. Suddenly bursting from the back of the building, the fire was already catching the long curtains. The captain laid Maillard down on the flagstones, shot one of the dogs withhis second pistol, then had no time to reload â anyway, what with? As for Martinon and Bonet, those imbeciles had mislaid their weapons when they were getting dressed up. Paulin, kneeling next to Maillard, reported, âThis oneâs dead, sir.â
âHe wonât be causing a stir in any more henhouses, bloody idiot!â
The captain picked up the body by an arm and shoved it at the other guard dog, which sank its teeth into it as if it was a quarter of beef.
âMake a dash for it!â dâHerbigny commanded the fugitives, who ran to the avenue, where the rest of the troop were having trouble quieting their horses as they pranced and jostled, terrified by the spreading fires.
*
Sebastian waited, his pencil in the air. The secretaries never knew if the Emperor was going to want to dictate just one or several letters at a time, so they were always ready to take notes, in pencil; in either case, His Majestyâs quick, rushed delivery gave them no chance of taking down entire sentences in a clear hand. So Baron Fain, following his colleague Ménévalâs lead, had devised something like a code of practice: it was a matter of catching the key words as they spilled forth, using them as aides-memoires with which to reconstruct a coherent text and then copying this out in ink, polishing the language in the process and adding the customary civilities. At first Sebastian had dreaded the exercise, the risk that he might misrepresent Napoleonâs thoughts, but Fain had reassured him, âHis Majesty never re-reads what he
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