‘Sire, I expected nothing less than to find you at the gates of Moscow,’ said de Bausset.
Napoleon gave a smile, looked up distractedly and glanced to his right. An adjutant glided forward with a gold snuff-box, which he offered up. Napoleon took it.
‘Yes, it’s all worked out well for you,’ he said, bringing the open snuff-box up to his nose. ‘You and your wanderlust. In three days’ time you’ll get your first sight of Moscow. I’m sure you weren’t expecting to see the Asiatic capital. It’ll be a nice trip for you.’
De Bausset bowed in appreciation of this sympathetic interest in his wanderlust (though this was the first he had heard of it).
‘Well now, what have we here?’ said Napoleon, observing that all the courtiers were staring at the object hidden under the cloth. De Bausset, practised courtier that he was, performed a nifty backward two-step, half-twisting but not once turning his back, and in one movement whipped off the cover and proclaimed, ‘A present to your Majesty from the Empress.’
It was a brightly coloured portrait, painted by Gérard, of the son born to Napoleon and the daughter of the Austrian Emperor, the little boy known for some reason as the King of Rome.
He was a very pretty child with curly hair and eyes like those of Christ in the Sistine Madonna, and he had been portrayed playing cup and ball. The ball represented the earth and the stick in his other hand was meant as a sceptre.
Although the painter’s message (with the so-called King of Rome skewering the earth on a sceptre) was not altogether clear, the allegory seemed to strike Napoleon in the same way that it had struck everyone who had seen it in Paris, as something perfectly understandable and most appealing.
‘The King of Rome!’ he exclaimed, with an elegant gesture towards the portrait. ‘Admirable!’ He had an Italian’s knack of changing his facial expression at will, and by the time he had walked over to the portrait his air was one of contemplative tenderness. He could sense the moment; whatever he might say or do now would be history in the making, and it occurred to him that the best thing to do, with him at the height of his power, enough for his child to be playing cup and ball with the earth itself, would be to go for the opposite extreme and put on a show of fatherly affection at it simplest. His eyes were misty with emotion as he moved closer, looked round for a chair (one was under him in a flash), and sat down facing the portrait. One gesture from him and everybody tiptoed out, leaving the great man alone with his feelings.
After sitting there for a while and reaching out, for no particular reason, to feel the rough texture of a highlight in the painting, he got to his feet and recalled de Bausset and the officer on duty. He gave orders for the portrait to be taken outside and placed in front of his tent so that the old guard stationed near him should not miss the pleasure of seeing the King of Rome, son and heir of their adored Emperor.
And sure enough, as expected, while he sat breakfasting with M. de Bausset, who had joined him by gracious invitation, they could hear the officers and men of the old guard cheering with delight as they dashed up to look at the portrait.
‘Long live the Emperor! Long live the king of Rome! Long live the Emperor!’ came the rapturous cries.
After breakfast, in the presence of de Bausset, Napoleon dictated his order of the day to the army.
‘Short and sweet!’ was Napoleon’s assessment of it when he had read through the text of his proclamation, which had been written down at one go and needed no corrections. It ran as follows:
Soldiers! The battle you have been longing for is upon us. Victory depends on you. It is essential for us; it will give us all that we need: comfortable quarters and a speedy return home. Behave as you did at Austerlitz, Friedland, Vitebsk and Smolensk. May posterity long recall with pride your achievements this day! And may it be said of each one of you: he was there at the great battle before Moscow!
‘Before Moscow,’ Napoleon repeated, and inviting M. de Bausset, the devotee of travel, to go with him on his ride, he left the tent and walked over to the horses that stood waiting ready saddled.
‘Your Majesty is too kind,’ was de Bausset’s response to the invitation. He was dead on his feet, he was not a good rider and he was frightened of horses.
But Napoleon nodded to the traveller, and de Bausset had no option but to mount. The moment Napoleon came out of the tent the cheering of the guards gathered round his son’s portrait was redoubled. Napoleon gave a frown.
‘Take him away,’ he said, pointing to the portrait with a stylish, magnificent gesture. ‘It is too early for him to look upon the battlefield.’
De Bausset lowered his eyelids and bowed his head with a deep sigh. It was his way of showing how well he understood the Emperor’s words and how much he appreciated them.
CHAPTER 27
