Young bloods

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.