Beethoven did not react. He drank his coffee, still wrapped up in his thoughts. His face and his gestures betrayed tension. His dreams were filled with rage.

‘Herr Beethoven?’

A customer came to Saber’s aid.

‘He’s almost deaf,’ he said in hesitant French, covering his ears with his hands to make himself clear.

‘How can a musician be deaf?’

‘Why not? He could hear before/

‘Yet he’s still composing ...’

‘He hears in his head.’

The Austrian tapped his temple as he said that. He burst into the raucous laughter of a pipe-smoker.

‘No one takes him seriously,’ he added.

‘Don’t say that. He’s a genius, you ... hypocrite!’ retorted Saber vehemently.

The customer beat a retreat, glass in hand, disappearing into the crowd. Saber smiled again and leant towards Beethoven’s ear, raising his voice.

‘Herr Beethoven? I’m Lieutenant Saber. I wanted to tell you—’

The maestro swung round suddenly to face him. His face was covered in scars, the result of smallpox, and his glasses magnified his eyes.

‘Don’t talk to me! Damn you French!’

His cheeks had become purple, emphasising the whiteness of his voluminous, old-fashioned cravat.

‘What’s become of your revolution? You launch your wonderful republican ideas on the world and then you found an empire! Napoleon has betrayed us all!’

‘I want to talk to you about your music ...’

‘Let go!’

But Saber had not touched him. Beethoven hurried to the door, knocking into customers.

The owner leant over his counter to shout: ‘Herr Beethoven! You haven’t paid! It’s not free here for musicians and poets.’

‘I’ll pay for him,’ declared Saber, throwing a handful of kreutzers at the owner.

Disconcerted, he rejoined his friends. When she did not like someone, Luise could be scathing. She looked at him contemptuously.

‘If I may correct you, Beethoven did not dedicate his Third Symphony to Napoleon, but to the revolutionary, Bonaparte. At the time he used to harangue the nobles in the public gardens to tell them that all men are equal, that monarchy was a thing of the past ... As Beethoven is an extraordinarily touchy man, persuaded that all the world is out to get him, he’s always involved in confrontations. He fell dramatically from favour when your Bonaparte became Emperor. He destroyed the title page of his Third Symphony, which is now called the Heroic Symphony, and it is dedicated to one of his patrons, the Prince Lobkowitz. Oh, yes, it’s such a shame that Beethoven ruined your sugary war game.’

CHAPTER 16

IT was hard to persuade Relmyer to come to Schonbrunn. The Hofburg Palace was the official home of the Court, but it was decaying and rather impractical because of its dispersed buildings. Emperor Francis I preferred the Chateau de Schonbrunn. So did Napoleon, and he had installed his headquarters there. To show the Viennese that the little setback at Essling had in no way dented his determination, he regularly reviewed his troops at Schonbrunn, that symbol of Austrian power. Today, as frequently happened, an assorted crowd of people hurried into the gardens to watch the spectacle.

An immense park had been decked out in the French style with flowerbeds, shaped hedges, lines of trees ... Symmetry was the golden rule. A fountain of Neptune, statues and fake Roman ruins paid homage to the fashion for antiquities. Right at the end, on a little hill, a pavilion with columns presided in splendour, an invitation to gaze at the view. This park was not of its time.

Schonbrunn was like a little version of Versailles. The ochre facade suggested appeasement. It was governed by subtle mathematical and architectural rules. The result, harmonious, elegant and aesthetic, was a pleasure to behold. In front of the chateau, several regiments waited. Their white gaiters, breeches and tunics shone in the sun, contrasting with the dark blue of their coats. As the Emperor was not yet there, there was complete stillness.

Lefine was overcome with a fit of the giggles.

‘You would think that time had stopped down there.'

The crowd pressed against the sentries charged with keeping it at a distance. Soldiers mingled with the Austrians, some curious and some sympathetic to the republican or imperial cause. Several women had secured places at the front to charm Napoleon. Were they being seductive? Defiant? Greedy? Did they harbour ambitions? Was it love or fascination? Some were so exquisitely beautiful that the Emperor could not fail to notice them if he were to pass close by.

Margont noticed that Relmyer had a sort of tick. His eyes were moving all the time. They ricocheted from face to face, rarely lingering, never finding repose. He had acted the same way in the streets, but here the mass of people accentuated his behaviour, making it more obvious. He’s looking for him, thought Margont. If Relmyer suddenly saw him here - or thought he saw him, because his memory of his gaoler had altered over the years - how would he react?

A clamour arose. There were shouts, and cries of ‘Long live the Emperor!’ A black berlin arrived, escorted by the chasseurs of the Imperial Guard in their green uniforms, their red pelisses thrown over their shoulders, their sabres unsheathed. There followed an interminable, sumptuous procession of officers of the general staff, the gold embroidery on their blue coats sparkling. The cavalry were distinguished by the originality of their uniform. One of them, a dragoon, wore a dark blue coat and a crested copper helmet in the style of Minerva, decorated with a black plume and banded with sealskin; another, the Mameluke Roustan, wore babouches, red baggy trousers, a short blue jacket and a white turban (his ostentatious presence was a reminder that Napoleon, when he was still Bonaparte, had conquered Egypt, albeit briefly). This river of prancing colour and the frenetic excitement of the public contrasted with the immobile, impassive infantry of the line. The crowd tried to draw nearer, but could not get past the sentries barring its way.

Lefine sounded a sour note: ‘That’s right, long live the Emperor! We won’t be saying that when we receive our pay late.’

Napoleon stepped out of the berlin. Emaciated at the time of the Consulate, he had now become stout. His neck was so short that his round head seemed to perch directly on his torso. In spite of the heat he wore a long grey greatcoat and his black bicorn. He was strikingly short, but radiated energy and an intimidating authority. This contradiction was unsettling. Many Viennese hated him. They had come to gaze at ‘the monster’. Many times they had imagined how they would sneer at the Emperor, taunting him as a dwarf, a bloody tyrant, a jumped-up nobody, an ogre ... but now they were struck dumb. They had counted on seeing ‘the vanquished man of Essling’ and instead they were faced with a leader bubbling over with self-assurance. It had been said that during the battle everything had gone wrong for him. Yet the Emperor smiled, joking with an aide-de-camp. He was behaving like ... like a conqueror! In reality Napoleon was projecting an image and he imbued it with astonishing realism.

A general shouted an order and the soldiers briskly presented arms. Moving stiffly, Napoleon began to walk along the line, his hands behind his back, accompanied by two officers of his general staff and two colonels. Sometimes he would pause in front of an infantryman long enough to pose a question, or to repeat one of his sayings, which the army took up in an endless echo: ‘Soldiers,

I am pleased with you’ (the evening after Austerlitz), ‘War between Europeans is civil war’, ‘Action and speed!’, ‘That can’t be allowed: that’s not French!’ ... Margont could not understand how Napoleon could appear so serene while his world was at risk of collapsing any day now. Such self-control inspired confidence.