The Hundred Days

I

At that time Angelina Pietri was living among the anonymous lower servants of the Imperial court. She came from a respected and honored Corsican family. Angelina’s widowed father had been a poor fisherman and had died when she was just fifteen years old. Many young people, both boys and girls, were leaving Corsica in those days; they were going to France, where the greatest of all Corsicans ruled — the Emperor Napoleon.

In Paris lived an aunt of Angelina’s, Véronique Casimir. The First Laundress at the Imperial court, she was childless, kindhearted, and a mistress of the art of fortune-telling with cards. Tales were told back in Ajaccio that she prophesied the outcome of battles for the great Emperor himself.

A friend of her father’s, old Benito, brought Angelina to Marseilles in his little sailing vessel. He paid for her trip to Paris and escorted the girl to the mail coach. Gravely and sadly, he took leave of her; and, speaking so loudly that all the other passengers could hear, he said: “You will pass along sincere greetings from old Benito Croce. I knew his late father well. If he asks you why I haven’t come to Paris myself, tell him I’m too old. Were I younger, I would have gone long ago to join his fight and conquer the world. My son has enlisted in his army in my stead. They surely know each other; he is serving with the Twenty-Sixth — a magnificent regiment! All right, then. Go with God and don’t forget to relay everything I’ve told you.”

This was the personal message that old Croce had for the Emperor.

Angelina was quite unable to deliver this message. The Emperor was unapproachable. But she dreamed of him. His portrait hung in all the rooms, the same portrait she had seen in rooms all across Corsica. It depicted the Emperor after a victorious battle, seated on a snow-white steed while reviewing the decimated ranks. His horse shimmered and his red eyes gleamed. He held his right hand outstretched, pointing somewhere into the inscrutable distance. He looked magnificent: both near and remote, kindly and at the same time terrible.

Angelina was under the command of Véronique Casimir. She thus belonged to the section of thirty-six male and female servants charged with washing the laundry of the ladies and gentlemen of the court and keeping the bathrooms in order.

She washed the sky-blue, pink, and white silk blouses, the cambric handkerchiefs, the collars and cuffs, the delicate linen of the beds in which the ladies and gentlemen slept, and the costly stockings in which they walked. Early mornings, in the gray steam of the laundry room amid tubs and kettles, she scrubbed and wrung out the clothes, forcefully beat the damp, rolled-up bundles with a wooden stave, unrolled them, and draped them over the countless ropes that were strung up densely yet in an orderly fashion across the room, forming a peculiar grid, a second and more delicate ceiling of ropes.

In the afternoon dried masses of wrinkled garments lay on the wide table, awaiting their resurrection. Then, just as she had learned to do at home, Angelina would take a mouthful of water and spray it from her bulging cheeks onto the silk, linen, and cambric. After this, she used her strong arms to brandish the smoothing-iron, hot coals glowing from within. To test its heat, she placed a moistened finger on the iron’s surface and listened as it sizzled. She began to press — the coarse linen first, then the delicate silk, next the cambric, and lastly the pleated collars and cuffs. And it seemed to her that the more industriously she worked, the closer she was to the ladies and gentlemen of the court and to the Emperor himself. This very shirt that she was ironing might be worn tomorrow by the Emperor. She rubbed his dazzling white breeches with a special type of greasy, insoluble chalk and through her zealous efforts they shimmered like freshly fallen snow.

There were days when Véronique Casimir appeared suddenly, at an unusual hour and wearing an unusual outfit. When this happened, the young laundresses would fall abruptly silent in the midst of a song, for they knew that Véronique had just read the cards for someone of prominence. She wore her heavy black silk gown and around her neck a present from the Empress Josephine, a massive golden chain bearing a vivid green jade amulet. She would stand there, in the steam of the washroom, before her white-clad young girls — portly, ponderous, and solemn, a true dark priestess of the great Emperor. What ominous events might she have just been prophesying? The fate of what corner of the world had she just foretold?

Twice a week Angelina was obliged to attend to the palace bathrooms. Her first stop was the Emperor’s bathroom. She could see the fresh marks of his moist feet upon the floor. She could detect the scent of his body in the damp towels, and she would stay for a long time in that spot, bewildered and forgetful of her task. But sometimes she would gather the nerve to clutch a towel against her heart, pressing a fleeting, stolen kiss upon the linen and blushing even though she was all alone. She adored even the slightest evidence of the Emperor’s presence. She was anxious that she might accidentally meet the Emperor. However, when she left the bathroom, she felt bitter disappointment within her heart, as though he himself had broken a promise to meet her there. She was devastated yet at the same time euphoric.

One day a handkerchief fell into her hands, one of the simple soldier’s handkerchiefs that the Emperor sometimes used, the same type that everyone in his army used. It was a large square of coarse linen: a wide red border surrounded a sky-blue center that depicted a map; on it were noted in red all the sites of the Emperor’s battles. It was the map of the simple Imperial soldier.

Angelina regarded this handkerchief with reverence. It bore the greenish tobacco stains of the Emperor’s snuff. She imagined him again on his white horse, as he appeared in his portraits, with his right arm outstretched toward some faraway point.

With all the love of her foolishly impassioned young heart, she began to wash the handkerchief. It seemed to contain a special message from the Emperor. In the evening it lay freshly pressed before her, and she ran her fine, young, red fingers over it affectionately. She hid it under her clothes at her breast, and as she felt the wonderful fabric at her heart, she began to believe that it was hers to keep. It was rare to find things of this type in the Imperial laundry. It had not entered the laundry in the usual way, but had come to Angelina on its own; as a greeting, perhaps a message — who knew? Anyway, it was probably already wrinkled at her breast and in a condition quite unfit to be returned. Maybe she could return it the next day, or the day after, or whenever the opportunity arose — although each article was counted. Little Angelina was quite anxious.

She stood there as always at eight o’clock on the dot and took her place among the militarily precise rows of servant men and women to await the stern Véronique, laundry bundle in her outspread arms just like all the others; there were twenty-six pieces — she carried the twenty-seventh upon her heart.

Véronique Casimir began to count: twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three. . She held a long, narrow ledger in one hand and in the other a lorgnette of the type owned by the finer classes.

She raised the glasses. “A piece is missing, Angelina!” she said.

Angelina did not move.

“A piece is missing!” Véronique repeated.

Angelina imagined herself being undressed and searched. Lackeys felt her body with lustful hands. They found the handkerchief. Then they drove her, naked, from the palace, from the city, from the country.

She was still silent.

“Answer, Angelina!” ordered Véronique Casimir.

At this moment, little Angelina Pietri felt great strength, and she said quietly yet firmly: “There were only twenty-six pieces!”

For the first time in her life, she was lying.

That night, in her bedroom in which two other servant girls also slept, Angelina waited until the candle was extinguished. Then she undressed and laid the Emperor’s handkerchief over her pillow. That night, for the first time in her young life, she did not sleep a wink. She gave herself up to a euphoric wakefulness, which was even sweeter and more peaceful than a good night’s sleep. .

II

Each day, each hour might bring a miracle: that Angelina would see the Emperor. Upon consideration, though, it would not really be such a miracle but rather an event destined to happen — as a matter of course. On Sundays she accompanied her aunt Véronique to visit numerous friends. These were women of quality, of a special standing. Their husbands were minor court or state officials: a sergeant-major of the Gendarmerie, the porter of the Elysée, an Imperial forester, an agent of the Police Ministry, a clerk at the Town Hall, the provost of the military prison, a Revenue Office sequestrator. As certain as all these women were of their own social prominence, there was not one who would dare dispute the mysterious importance of Véronique Casimir. Each household she visited believed it was welcoming an intimate of both earthly and heavenly powers. With a splendid magnanimity, Véronique doled out advice and prophecies. The advice was revealed to be valuable and most of the prophecies came true. For how could it be otherwise? She even knew the results of the Emperor’s battles in advance!

Sometimes she also read the cards for Angelina — not on Sundays, but on Fridays between eleven and twelve o’clock at night. Angelina would sit across from her aunt at the long table in the dining hall, her meager elbows resting on the surface. Her embarrassed red hands moved helplessly over her flaming face or fingered the black corset and white apron that comprised an Imperial laundress’s uniform; curiosity and awe filled her heart. Along the walls and beneath the ceiling of the spacious hall, eerie shadows engaged in frenzied undulation. These shadows were not chased away but rather strengthened and intensified by two wax candles on the table to the right and left of the outspread cards. It was known that Véronique, following some secret magic formula, had mixed some incense into the wax. The room was fully transformed; no longer was it the great dining hall where everyone ate on a daily basis, but rather a cavernous tomb in which the shadows of those buried along the walls were flitting about.

For the young Angelina, the cards always said the same thing: at her feet lay a handsome bearded man in uniform. A child, a boy, appeared from the already dissipating mists of the near future. But death was waiting in the less transparent background, and, strangely enough, it had something to do with a bloody war. Money — or sudden fortune — was nowhere to be seen; neither was there any indication of illness. An enigmatic glimpse of fame was revealed, but even Véronique’s sharp eyes could not focus it. Midnight struck finally, in a thin and hollow voice. The hushed commands of the changing guard and the muffled clatter of arms being presented could be heard outside. Véronique rose, packed up her cards and, with Angelina leading, left holding a flickering candle in each hand. “Good night, child,” she said. Angelina curtsied, and her aunt kissed her on the forehead, candlesticks in both outstretched arms.

Little Angelina was bitterly disappointed by the ever-unchanging voice of the cards. Every Friday she awaited a new tone; she suspected what it would be but did not dare admit it. A certain type of gossip often ruled the conversation among the servants, and although Angelina did not fully comprehend she got the gist of it. She often heard the lackeys and servants say: “Congratulations, Pierre! Your Caroline disappeared last night!” Or: “Good morning, dear friend. Are you going to take her back, or are you going to duel the little guy?” And she saw by the shameless and open, yet secret-concealing smiles of the men that they were referring to love affairs, and she guessed that these were the Emperor’s love affairs. She knew this Caroline, as well as Babette, Catherine, and Arlette. How arrogantly they now began to bustle about among the rest of the servants, their ordinary uniforms appearing magically transformed! Was the mighty one so petty at times that he lusted for maids? Yet was he not so great that everything in the world was his? The mountains, the valleys, and the rivers belonged to him, as did the Kings and their countries, their crowns, their daughters, their wives, the highest-ranking generals, and the common soldiers. Everything, all of it, belonged to him — the magnificent and the mundane, the great and the simple. Why not the maids too? It would be euphoria to be his maiden, to be humiliated by him, to be worshipped by him! Angelina’s little heart fluttered and flitted like a caged bird. Her blood surged restlessly, lustfully. She could no longer resist the wondrous impulse to view herself in each of the many mirrors that were hung in the magnificent bathrooms. This compulsion came over her simply enough. It began with a timid mistrust of her own beauty and an unbridled recognition of the other girls’ physical perfection. She learned to compare her throat, her breasts, her hands and feet, with the throats, breasts, hands and feet of the others. She began, during the night, to case a furtive glance at their bodies, first with admiration and then with envy. One day, a day of special significance in the simple life of little Angelina Pietri, one of the ladies of the court left her bath later than usual. Angelina saw her naked. She was startled at this proud, carefree nudity. She even forgot to curtsy. She was paralyzed by a terrifying admiration. It was as if the woman were not really naked, but enveloped in some sort of fully transparent beauty. Although her body was exposed to Angelina’s eyes, it was far away and certainly unreachable. And if she had ventured to lay a finger on it, it would probably have felt like stone. The woman smiled pleasantly.

“You may get started, child!” she said.

Angelina blushed and paled in the same moment. She was suddenly incensed as she had never been before. For the first time she felt completely humiliated. This pretty woman had the right to call her “child,” but at that moment, Angelina felt that the ordinarily kindly term was disdainful. She felt condemned to permanent insignificance.

The lady-in-waiting came and covered her naked mistress with a blue cloak. Angelina was left alone.

For the first time, she detected lustful and at the same time hateful scents in the bathroom. For the first time she looked with interest at the yellow, emerald-green, and ruby-red flasks of perfume, the soaps, the sponges, the almond milk, and the Indian salves. She slowly scooped the milky water from the bath and began to clean with rage and purpose, exhaling forcefully upon the mirror as though she were flinging some evil incantation against the glass — and then she wiped it vigorously as if to crush it. Her young face shone back at her pleasantly. Yes, for the first time she found herself attractive and after a while even beautiful. She was a red-haired, freckled girl, with a forehead that was too high — one could even say too proud were it not littered with freckles. Her eyes were far too small, of a grayish color. Her full lips formed a delicate downward arc. In her chin nestled a dimple. Too bad, thought Angelina, that it was marred by a freckle and rendered nearly invisible.

A senseless desire to study her body gripped her. She stripped off her apron and dress. Her neck was petite and taut, her helpless young shoulders looked to her to be well proportioned and perfect, her breasts too small. Anyhow, there were ways to get rid of freckles. She was determined to be attractive without realizing that she already was.

Every day after that memorable occasion, she studied her awakening body anew. Standing before the mirror she held adoring, silent conversation with her reflection, with her face, her lips, her eyes, her eyebrows. Someone told her to use a certain salve to combat her freckles, but she thought no more about it; even her minor defects had already won her over. She was devout and pious, and she knew that she was sinning. She even took herself to confession.

One day, however, she finally gave in to the mirror in the Imperial bathroom. She had resisted it for some time, out of a combination of fear and awe. Now, though, it compelled her with double strength. Abruptly, she stepped before it, ripped off her apron and opened her collar. Her long white apron strings dragged along the ground. Suddenly, the door behind her opened. In the mirror, she watched as the Emperor’s servant entered. She had no time to fix her apron and dress.

“Where is the box?” asked the servant. “Haven’t you seen the snuff box?” His sullen eyes darted about the room. Angelina froze, offering no reply. She stood there, still facing the mirror. In the reflection, she saw the servant nearing. He was already at her back. “Turn around!” he ordered.

She clapped both hands to her uncovered neck and turned toward the man. Her apron strings were still dragging on the ground.

“What have you been doing here? What are you hiding there?” he asked.

“Nothing, nothing!” she panted.

Her eyes darted to the right and left, trying to escape from the servant’s large figure and broad face.

Suddenly she spied the box. It lay, elegant and silver, on a small table next to the bath. She stretched out her arm and said: “There, there!”

“You must confess at once what you’ve done!” said the man in a hushed voice that had a stronger, more threatening tone than if he had shouted. “Confess, confess, confess,” repeated his monotonous voice as he came ever closer and closer to Angelina. He was tiptoeing, and his soft steps were even more menacing than his whisper.

Finally, he stood directly before Angelina. “The Emperor is still here,” he whispered, his breath hissing. “I’m just now shaving him. Quietly, quietly, don’t scream! Speak, quickly!” He reached out toward her. It looked as if he were about to rip off her dress.

Don’t scream, she thought. Don’t scream! But a shrill, deafening scream nonetheless escaped from her heart. At that moment she sprang in the direction of the curtain at her left, which seemed to promise some means of escape. She did not know not what she was doing and brushed against the toilet table, knocking over glasses and flasks and sending them crashing to the floor, where they shattered loudly.

The servant retreated to the door through which he had entered and disappeared. Through the closed door came the angry ring of a mighty voice. She could not understand the words, but to whom the voice belonged she could well guess. It was the scolding voice of the Emperor. Then all was quiet. She held her breath. Her heart fluttered. She conquered her panic, bent down, and began with quiet, nimble fingers, to retrieve the shards. Then she waited motionless. She heard nothing more. She went to the door that led to the corridor, cautiously pushed down the white handle, and stepped into the hall. At that moment she heard the faint clinking of spurs. She trembled. The Emperor was heading her way! She stood there stiff, paralyzed, her bunched-up apron holding the fragments of bottles and flasks, but did not see the Emperor although her eyes were wide open. She only knew that for one eternal moment there had been a glint of white and a jingling of silver. She could recall nothing else. Her little head was empty and desolate.

She ran, she dashed, lost her way in the corridors, finally found the staircase, bounded down the steps and reached freedom.

III

Nothing came of her transgressions and she considered herself lucky. She offered up her fervent prayers that Heaven might forgive her sins. At night she kissed the crucifix that hung over her bed, held it against her heart, and lay down reassured. But before falling asleep, she pulled out the handkerchief that she had hidden between the bolster and coverlet and pressed it too against her bosom. The cross pacified her, but the handkerchief made her happy.

One evening at laundry inspection, when all thirty-six of the laundresses were lined up with military precision, Véronique Casimir said: “Angelina delivers first. Come here, Angelina. Someone awaits you.”

Behind the door, in the poorly lit corridor, stood a strange lackey whom she had never before seen, wearing a blue outfit. He was slighter and more delicate looking than the other male servants she knew. He wore a fine gold-lace edging on his collar and lapels on his coat. He looked like a dark blue, delicately gilded, very solemn shadow.

“I beg that you follow me, Mademoiselle!” he said. It was the first time anyone had used the word “Mademoiselle” and such a polite form of address. Her courage evaporated with each step she took. The alien feeling grew with the corridor’s every bend. They entered the garden and by and by came to an unfamiliar corner. Barely a couple of minutes had elapsed, but Angelina felt like she had been following the lackey for hours. They re-entered the palace, through an unfamiliar door. Angelina had never seen this entrance or the staircase they next ascended. With a firm grasp on the banister, she trod upon the narrow strip of white stone that the dark-red carpet left uncovered. The carpet seemed ominous; she only trusted the narrow stone margin. They entered a spacious room. A thick green drape fell over the door in heavy silken pleats. Two armchairs stood near a small table. On the table were bottles and glasses, and cold meats and cheese on porcelain dishes bearing the Imperial crest. The lackey pushed up a chair and said: “Sit down, Mademoiselle.” He then decanted some golden wine into a crystal glass. After that he disappeared behind the portière, dainty, slight, and dark blue. Heavy yet silent, the green folds came together behind him.

Angelina sat stiffly in the wide, soft fauteuil, the golden wine glass before her. Glassy eyed, she gazed at the large windows, the solemn paintings on the walls (which seemed to her nothing more than colored blotches surrounded by gilt frames), the great crystal chandelier in the middle above the table, and the heavy silver candelabra in all four corners of the room. From the burning candles came the scent of wax and violets. To her left was a broad bed, half hidden by light-brown curtains studded with golden bees. She sat there rigidly erect and tried in vain to think.

All was familiar, yet all was foreign. Maybe she had dreamed all this before; maybe someone was coming to kill her. Or perhaps someone was only seeking to punish her. A dozen bizarre tales, ones she had heard at home as a child, filled her imagination. She grew flushed. The warmth, the scent, the candlelight, and her own fears; all these things dazed her. She wished to get up and open a window. She wanted to go and extinguish the candles. They were so bright, they practically roared. Angelina thought that she would be content to sit there if only it were dark. Quite black, as it now was in her bedroom. But she dared not move.

Gradually she became tired. She leaned back and felt the soft embrace of the arms and back of the chair as a new, even greater danger. She leaned forward again and grabbed for the glass. Her hand trembled. She drank, leaned back again, took another sip, and yet another. It was wine, yet seemed to be more than mere wine. It was sweet and bitter, comforting and dangerous — promising. It was the drink of sin. She tried to straighten up a little more so as to replace the glass on the table. She could not. Too late, she thought, too late, and had more to drink.

She sat there, empty glass in hand. Already, she felt more at home. The room felt less alien now. She ventured, with a bold resolution, to stand up, as she had decided to take at least one walk around the chamber. She stopped before the first painting; it was the Emperor, a huge portrait that reached to the floor. One had to lift one’s head to see his face. His boots were the first thing to greet the eyes, then his breeches, next his coat, and finally, as if in the clouds high above, his face.

Little Angelina did not go any further. She fled back to the comfortable danger of the armchair. She was trembling, afraid she would drop the glass she held in her hand, so she replaced it with great care on the table. A powerful and terrifying, yet wonderful, premonition overcame her, a fierce and dangerous foreboding that came from without, seemingly emanating from the wine, streaming from the Emperor’s portrait, the bed in the corner, and the overwhelming scent of the candles.

The portière’s heavy green ripples caught her eye, and with every passing moment she swore she saw them moving. Now she listened and believed she heard voices. Then it seemed the curtains had parted and the Emperor had appeared, looking like his portrait, his head invisible, just below the ceiling; he was large and growing ever larger. She leaned forward, poured herself a fresh glass and sipped it. Then, timidly and reverently, she replaced it on the table.

She now believed she knew why she had been brought here. A sweet fear filled her, and she lustfully surrendered to it — dreamy, childlike, and proud. She drank another sip. She leaned back, clinging desperately to the glass with her reddish young hands. Her gaze swept from the walls to the candles, from the candles to the windows, and always back to the portière. She noticed that one of the candles in the corner was starting to sag from the high heat and she wished to get up and right it, but dared not. With a maid-servant’s dutiful ear, she listened in horror to the soft and regular drip of the wax on to the carpet. Her childlike pride died and her lustful fear was overtaken by another, a quite ordinary fear, that of a servant who has neglected her duty. In any case, she was unable to stand. In order to avoid seeing the candle, she closed her eyes.

She fell asleep straight away, holding the glass perfectly upright in her foolish hands, on her still lap. Confusing snippets of dreams floated through her mind. Her lips were slightly open, and her smile was tinged with fear. Her respiration was faint; even in sleep she dared not breathe.

She awoke to the first summer’s chirping of the birds. The June morning streamed triumphantly through all the high, wide windows, dampened a bit by the greenery of the trees in the park. Angelina’s conscientious eyes immediately sought the drooping candle. A small, bent lump of wax was all that remained of it. On the beautiful carpet, however, was the disastrous rest of the candle — a small dried pond of yellow wax. In the air was a cold blue fog from the long since extinguished candles.

Angelina felt helpless and forlorn. She thought no more of the portière. She wished to be far away, in her house in Ajaccio, amid the beloved nets, the rocky shore, the golden, silver, and steel-blue fish, the scent of the algae and the mussels. She was still holding the wine glass in her hand. She put it on the table and rose.

Suddenly there came the noise of voices and footsteps. A door was flung open, the portière was ripped aside brusquely, and there stood the Emperor. His hair was tousled, a couple of buttons of his vest were open, and in the early morning light he looked ragged, older, and more diminutive than he must actually have been. Angelina jerked ridiculously to her knees with a thud, as though someone had pushed her down. She lowered her head and could see nothing except his Imperial black boots upon the red carpet.

She heard someone enter silently behind the Emperor, spied a blue shoe and a gold buckle, and she guessed it was the blue lackey from yesterday.

“Idiot!” roared the Emperor’s voice and then: “Let her out!”

When she raised her head, the Emperor was gone. Before the green curtain stood the slender blue lackey.

“Come, Mademoiselle,” he said.

He left her standing in the garden. Somewhere, a tower was striking six. Work began at six-thirty. Ashamed, confused, and dazed, she ran along the broad avenue. Up ahead glimmered the servants’ wing. She was the first of all the maids to report to the laundry.

Since that remarkable night, little Angelina’s heart was limp and injured. She tried in vain to convince herself that she had only dreamed the incident. All the particulars lingered in her memory, mercilessly clear, the cruel outline of each one filled in with meticulous details. They stubbornly forbade Angelina from regarding them as dreams and shadows. That night persecuted her doggedly. She could still detect the warm scent of burning wax and violets. She could still taste the cool sharp golden sweetness of the wine. She could yet feel the sudden, painful blow of shame. Her awakening, prescient blood knew that she had been scorned. With a numb hatred little Angelina began to despise the great ladies, those she believed would never have been rejected, even by the Emperor. Her newly aroused vanity faded and died, after briefly flowering, in shame, disgrace, and hatred. She no longer looked at her face; all the mirrors in the world were suddenly reflectionless. At night she prayed only fleetingly and gave the crucifix but a quick glance. The Emperor’s handkerchief lay hidden at the bottom of her wooden box.

One Sunday, when she was accompanying her aunt on her round of visits, they came to the Provost’s house. There she met his nephew, the magnificent Sergeant-Major Sosthène, whose heart she inflamed from the very first moment.

Nothing distinguished him from most of the other sergeant-majors in the Imperial cavalry. Tall, vibrant, brave, twice wounded and decorated, he was much like the rest of his comrades. When Angelina was only a few steps away from him, she saw him as a world unto himself — a world of sabres, spurs, boots, and woven braid, a world of blue and red. Even his face was a part of his uniform. He was a being composed not of limbs and organs like all other human beings, but rather of colors. Next to him, little Angelina had, in order to converse with him, to cast an upward gaze along his front, as though he were a colorful mountain, and it took quite a while for her to spot the peak, a mighty blue-black mustache with a frightening sheen, and over this two gaping, black, crater-like nostrils.

He left her feeling apathetic — and she only gave the appearance of being interested — when he told tales about his battles and the foreign lands in which he had fought, lived, and loved. Favorably, but not without criticism, he discussed the Emperor’s strategies. It would not have taken much for the Emperor to have lost this battle or been killed in that one, or at the very least been taken prisoner. Those people, including the Provost, who had only seen the Imperial Army on parade, had no idea of the importance of chance and luck in battle. Perhaps it was only a coincidence that the Colonel of the Sergeant-Major’s regiment had not become Emperor. “Only God can know,” said the Provost’s wife.

“There’s no God!” said the Sergeant-Major firmly. Equally decisively, and with the gallant and noisy bow of an armed beast, he invited Angelina and her aunt to dine with him.

They dined at a fine inn on baked sole, beef with coarse salt, sweet carrots, and tender baby onions — a soldier’s meal. The Sergeant-Major rapped on the floor thrice with his sabre, and the waiter brought a sharp Rhineland wine. There too the Sergeant-Major had tamed the Germans, and with every gulp he voiced his recollections. To finish, they drank coffee and several cognacs. At that point Aunt Véronique declared that her work awaited. “One moment,” said the Sergeant-Major, “I will escort you, Madame.” He hunched over and Aunt Véronique straightened up; thus he could reach her arm with his mighty fist, grab it, and lead her clinking all the way to the door. He offered a military salute and returned, a beaming mountain, to Angelina.

That evening, she learned a good bit about the world — a carriage ride, a fair that was bright as day on account of countless lanterns, another cognac and, finally, a little red-golden room, a bottle of champagne, and love on a cramped sofa no larger than a roomy cradle. Angelina’s head hung dazed and confused over the arm, causing painful pressure on her neck. She felt that her body parts were in scattered disarray, much like her clothes were at that moment. A colorful, strange mountain was embracing her with all its might and was about to crush her completely.

She finally emerged from the room to a graying morning sky. In the carriage, as she began to put her hair and clothes in order, she eventually convinced herself that none of her body parts were missing. The Sergeant-Major’s whiskers brushed against her face and neck a few more times as they stood before the palace. He let go of her and ordered her to wave. She obeyed and she watched him wave back. She scurried up the familiar staircase to her room. Her roommates were still asleep. She did not pray before bed, for the first time in her life.

With a dark awareness that life was very difficult and quite unintelligible, a dangerous and extraordinary burden, she sank into a deep slumber.

IV

So it came to pass that Véronique Casimir’s prophecy was fulfilled — a bearded man in uniform lay at Angelina’s feet. He waited for her every morning at the servants’ entrance after her work was done. He stood there, ever punctual, large, and colorful. Long before she reached him, Angelina could see him, gloriously gaudy, through the park fence and the green of the trees. The first silvery stars were already glimmering in the clear sky, and the shining dragoon’s helmet with its mighty curved rib and black horsetail seemed almost to reach them. It was not out of longing that Angelina ran toward him — but fear and anxious impatience. He waited motionless, like a multicolored rock, until she reached him. She was not bold enough to look up to his top, to his towering, dazzling zenith. Her sky-blue bonnet reached only up to the pommel of his sabre and his lowest vest button. With a powerful arm, and without needing to bend at all, he lifted her up to his face level and, as her legs dangled helplessly in mid-air, his mustache rubbed against her forehead, her closed eyes, and her freckled cheeks, like a soft brush. She floated breathlessly between heaven and earth for what felt like an eternity. At last he let her slip dizzily back to the ground again. She staggered along at his right hip, while his sabre rattled at his left. His spurs jingled menacingly and his boots crunched lightly but sharply. Thus they headed off to the evening’s leisure.

His leave seemed never to end; apparently he had much influence in his regiment. Equally evident was the fact that his need for Angelina’s love was a long way from being satiated. He could, as he had hinted a few times, get himself transferred to a cavalry regiment in Paris. The mere thought of it filled Angelina with genuine terror. She dared not ask when he would be leaving. When he reiterated that he could serve just as well in Paris as in Lyons or Grenoble, she realized that he was waiting for her endorsement and encouragement. She accepted and submitted to him with the same resignation as one gives in to fate. He fell upon her regularly every evening at the same time like a colorful, clattering avalanche. Although broken and exhausted, the very fact that she could rise again with her body in one piece seemed to be blessing enough. Clearly, this man had been destined for her from the dawn of time. Even the cards had foretold it.

High over her head, so that she could hardly understand him, he prattled away tirelessly. She heard rumbling noises, little claps of thunder, and when sometimes he sneezed it sounded like a cloudburst. It was only when she sat across from him at the table that she could actually understand what he was saying, although she could not fully comprehend its meaning. Spellbound but not without rancor, as one can sometimes be entranced by something odious and ugly, little Angelina watched the grotesque movements of the mighty masculine mouth that seemed to be chewing while he spoke, the large red lower lip and the mustache that swept continuously through the empty air. The Sergeant-Major spoke lofty words, but to Angelina their ponderous tedium caused them to fall flat. Still, she did not dare look away from his face.

Although she felt that he alone was the cause of her worst sins, it seemed to be an even greater sin to resist and not obey him. She was therefore completely at a loss. She felt that henceforth she was without the power to choose between virtue and sin, condemned to sway back and forth between two kinds of sin. She realized that since this mighty man had forced himself upon her, she had abandoned her old and comforting habit of attending church, out of fear that — helpless and stained as she believed herself to be — she might infuriate God through her presence alone. She longed to return to the forever-vanished days of her childhood purity.

One evening on their way home, when they were already near the palace, the Sergeant-Major raised a finger, pointed toward the palace and said: “He’s had much luck. Perhaps more luck than he deserves.”

It was already late in the evening and the streets were so still that Angelina could hear his words clearly, although they rumbled quite far over her head. At first she did not understand what the Sergeant-Major meant. However, she felt immediate disgust, and even before she figured out to whom he was referring, she began to hate him — and only on account of this single remark.

“Who’s had luck?” she asked in her thin, timid voice.

“Him, naturally, Bonaparte!” It was unusual for someone to refer to the Emperor with this name and Angelina’s hatred of the Sergeant-Major increased.

“The Emperor?” she asked.

“Yes, him naturally!” said the Sergeant-Major.

“You serve in his army!” Angelina replied. She managed these words only with great effort. Her voice was trembling.

“In his army,” said the Sergeant-Major (and he intoned the word “his” spitefully), “many serve who dislike him. But you wouldn’t understand such things, little one!”

They had arrived at the fence, and suspicion was awakened in Angelina — for the first time in her young life, suspicion! — that the Sergeant-Major had stopped speaking of the Emperor only because he feared someone would overhear him.

He lifted her up as he always did at their parting, but not with one arm as at their greeting; for the guards were no longer watching and it was apparently not worth wasting his strength when there were no witnesses. So he raised her with both arms, kissed her noisily on both cheeks, with a sound that echoed into the silent night and set her down to the ground with a jerk, less gently than when they met. When she was safely on earth again, he said: “Tomorrow we will celebrate my departure. The day after tomorrow my leave ends and can’t be extended. The day after tomorrow I must report for duty. Will you be sorry?”

“Yes, I’ll be sorry,” murmured Angelina.

For the first time since her relationship with the Sergeant-Major had begun, she ran cheerfully up the steps and for the first time in weeks she slept gently, without nightmares. The next morning she awoke just as cheerfully as she had fallen asleep. The last day of her agonizing affair had dawned and she felt like a child on the evening before a happy holiday. In the evening, when the Sergeant-Major appeared at the gate punctual and shimmering as always, she ran to meet him almost happily. For the first time she felt sort of thankful toward this colossus and was in fact somewhat ashamed before him. For the first time also she did not shudder at the mustache that brushed gently against her face.

Later, however, when they entered a café named “The Everlasting Joy,” her chipper mood evaporated. To celebrate his farewell, Sergeant-Major Sosthène had invited many of his comrades — non-commissioned officers, two provosts, and some officials. By the time he and Angelina entered, most of them were already assembled. They crowded around the metal-topped counter. Behind it bustled the proprietor, in a green apron and white shirt, with a ruddy bloated face and a cheery black mustache that shone with the same gleam as his eyes. All turned to face the newcomers, as if by command, and cried: “Long live Sosthène!” Mighty and magnificent Sosthène remained at the threshold, open door at his back, for he thought given the circumstances it would be inappropriate for him to close it himself. At his right hip, looking far less impressive than the sabre at his left, clung Angelina. He raised his hand, letting Angelina’s arm drop as he did so, leaving her feeling that he was completely abandoning her in the hour of his triumph, and he thundered: “I’m here, comrades!”

At the same moment, an accordion in the corner began to play one of the customary military marches.

They all began to eat right away — quickly, intently, and silently. They ate tremendous mouthfuls with great appetite, drank down voluminous glasses full, and watched their plates zealously. Angelina did not wish to look at the others, but something made her keep looking and every time she saw one of the guests devour a large forkful, she took ever smaller and daintier forkfuls. This farewell evening was going to drag on forever, she thought, and the jovial men gathered here were all her fiancés, so it mattered not whether Sergeant-Major Sosthène’s leave ended the next morning. She was betrothed to all his friends and was at their mercy.

Once all the beef had been devoured, a Corporal of artillery got to his feet, rapped on his glass, and began a speech.

He spoke of all of Sergeant-Major Sosthène’s heroic deeds and made it sound as if the Emperor had Sergeant-Major Sosthène to thank for all his victories.

After the Corporal was done, the Sergeant-Major stood and confirmed, with only minor corrections, the Corporal’s words. Everyone applauded him.

When midnight struck most of the participants were drunk and no longer had their wits about them. And they began to talk about the Emperor.

The first to speak was Sergeant-Major Sosthène. “Each of us sitting here,” he said, “could have had the same luck.” But in reality, he meant that only he, Sergeant-Major Sosthène Levadour, could have had the same luck and no one else.

“Each of us,” repeated the Corporal who had given the oratory on the Sergeant-Major.

“He’s a lucky guy!” said one of the provosts taking part in the festivities, a gray-haired fellow with a shriveled-up face.

“He’s a fox!” said another.

“He’s thoughtless and unscrupulous,” began a third. “Think about it, my comrades, think how easily he betrayed the people and their freedom.”

“The French people!” interjected a fourth.

“He has betrayed the liberty of the people,” said Sergeant-Major Sosthène, “yes indeed, that he has! I must say that, even though I’m one of his soldiers, a soldier in our glorious army.”

“Certainly, we have abundant glory,” the Corporal of the artillery proclaimed. “And it is quite true that without him we wouldn’t have seen the world and it wouldn’t have trembled before us. Nevertheless, I must say. .”

The Provost finished the Corporal’s sentence: “Nevertheless, I must say that we have him to thank for everything, our Little Corporal.”

The company did not entirely agree with him. It remained quiet for some time after these words. Sergeant-Major Sosthène alone, being even more intoxicated than the others, spoke with a bitter tone and a tone that was no longer reliable: “As far as I, myself, and fellows of my type are concerned, we should have conquered the world anyhow. Right, my comrades?”

He looked from one to the next, lips still grinning beneath his moist and disheveled mustache, black eyes glowing spitefully from a warm and ruddy face. Nobody answered him. They all occupied themselves with something or another. One lifted his glass to the light and studied it for possible dust. Another polished his fork with the tablecloth. A third wore a vacant smile, as though he had not been listening to the conversation for hours. A fourth drank the rest of his wine with a conspicuous slowness, as if trying to taste each and every drop with his tongue. Despite his drunkenness, Sergeant-Major Sosthène noticed that the whole group had abandoned him. He propped both his giant fists on the table and stood, seeming to be supporting himself on his arms not his legs. And he said, with a glance at Angelina at his side: “Comrades! What’s the General without us? What’s an Emperor without soldiers? Who’s greater: the Emperor or the army? Who’s greater, I ask? Who’s greater, I ask?”

But no answer came.

“I say this,” continued Sosthène. “The army is greater! Long live the army!”

Angelina had been sitting still the entire time. A powerful fear and a great, previously unknown shame had gripped her chest. She felt that the shame and fear had a tight hold on her heart, compressing it from both sides at the same time like a pair of iron clamps. She had no idea from whence this shame and fright came. She felt defiled in this company and also guilty for listening to them without contradiction. Suddenly she was also filled with hatred and fury toward all the men at the table and especially against Sergeant-Major Sosthène. She wanted to call for help. With great effort she lifted her hand from her lap — her small, young, reddish hand — and grabbed her glass. She drank a little and all at once she imagined herself again in the grand chamber, near the heavy, undulating green portière, sitting before the crystal decanter. She could even see the Emperor’s portrait on the wall. She suddenly felt free, strong, and bold. A powerful, exhilarating, and intimately familiar force washed over her. She stood up. A joyful hatred hardened her heart. And an unfamiliar, kindly spirit imbued her with brave words.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she said, “for slandering the Emperor. You would be nothing — less than nothing, without him. Not only would you not have seen the world — you wouldn’t have ventured even a mile out of your villages or towns. Without the Emperor you’d have no swords, no helmets, and no braid; not even the money to buy the wine you’re drinking. You only stood with him in battle because he led you. If any one of you has shown bravery you’ve only Napoleon to thank for that too. He alone gave you courage and then medals for your service, medals you don’t deserve. That’s why I say you should be ashamed of yourselves!”

She sat down again. She saw as if from a great distance (although he was sitting at her side) Sergeant-Major Sosthène reach for the carafe and refill his glass. She saw the hands that she knew so well, his stubby-fingered, fleshy, hairy, muscular hands — she saw them both although the Sergeant-Major only stretched one toward the decanter — and she remembered with deep horror and profound shame how these shameless, depraved, hairy tools were used to fondling her flesh, her breasts, her arms, and her thighs.

A great anguish seemed suddenly to have spread around the table. It seemed to everyone that the candles were burning away at a more quick and hurried pace, the tallow disappearing more rapidly, the whole room growing much darker. Nobody felt able to converse with anyone else. It was a pathetic and failed celebration — without a doubt. All were silent.

But just when the spirits of the guests were about to become irretrievably squashed by the gloom, the door flew open and together with the fresh evening breeze that caused the candles to flicker, and, as though carried in with it, Véronique Casimir stormed into the room. She came as if riding, wearing unusually festive clothes — in full armor, that is to say, with bare shoulders and heaving bosom, wearing the light-gray silk gown that was rumored to be a personal gift from the Empress Josephine and which she sported only on special occasions. Between her unnaturally white breasts, from which emanated a delicate cloud of flour-colored powder, hung a heavy and solid piece of jade surrounded by glittering diamonds — a gift from the Empress Josephine and doubtless a magical stone of the first degree. The door remained open for some time, and the stream of fresh night air continued to fan the golden candle flames. The proprietor quickly placed another armchair at the head end of the table. Before they could decide what this gleaming vision portended, Véronique sat down. “I see,” she began with the certain voice of a professional seer, “that you have been arguing. Peace must prevail among you.”

Her pale, fleshy fingers tapped loquaciously upon the white tablecloth, each individual finger a voiceless tongue. A delicate cloud of white powder wafted from her wide face. Behind the cloud the guests could see her black eyes glowing. All were quiet. Véronique was a confidante of the Imperial House. She had prophesied battles, victories and defeats with the cards. She had been a confidante of the Empress and, who knew, perhaps even a confidante of the Emperor himself.

She well knew what the men were thinking. Her primary concern was the prospective marriage of her niece to Sergeant-Major Sosthène. She knew that Angelina, just like all the women in France, loved the Emperor not Sergeant-Major Sosthène — for every woman in the entire land (and perhaps even in the entire world) loved the Emperor at that time and not their own men. When people spoke maliciously about the Emperor, it seemed to Véronique as senseless as if one were to take a stand against some institution of nature. For the moment, her main concern was Angelina’s happiness. Even if Sergeant-Major Sosthène did belong to those Jacobins, he still could marry Angelina eventually.

Still, it upset Véronique Casimir to hear the Emperor slandered. This was not such a rare occurrence at the time; it was even common among the Imperial servants, in many regiments, and among unhappy non-commissioned officers. Indeed, long ago, when the Emperor was still known as Bonaparte, even Véronique Casimir had been tempted, sometimes even while in confidential conversation with the Emperor’s own wife, to let slip strong words against the great one. Recalling this only made her more resolute against those who now dared say anything against the Emperor.

She resolved to deal with these blasphemers on a later occasion, but not to let them see this for the time being. Soon she noticed, however, that the men were gesturing to each other by all kinds of silent and impudent signs that they must have thought were secret and undecipherable to her. Only Sergeant-Major Sosthène sat, gigantic and unmoving, next to little Angelina, and seemingly without comprehension of his friends’ behavior. He offered Véronique Casimir some wine. She drank delicately, cautiously, stretching her little finger when she raised the glass, so that her rings glittered in the candlelight. She took tiny sips from her glass, setting it down after each one, and watched the men’s conspiracy with a spiteful shrewdness. She listened with open and doubly sharpened ears. And suddenly she hear the Corporal whisper to a sergeant-major: “It makes him weak. We are better in bed. .”

Véronique Casimir knew instantly of what they were speaking. Ah! She was familiar with all the hushed rumors and stories about the fleeting and shameless haste of the Emperor’s lovemaking. Maid-servants and laundresses had experienced this brand of love-making, as had ladies of the court and the Empress herself. Yet all of these women, the superior and the inferior, were grateful to the Emperor for his hasty, careless, and indifferent embrace. They never forgot that he was a god and that it is in the nature of gods to love quickly. In those days women could speak the Emperor’s name only with hatred, fear, or love, as though the women who gave themselves to his embrace felt during that brief minute all the passion of the entire world — hatred, fear, and love. Véronique Casimir knew that for these women there was passion stronger than pleasure and that was ambition. True they were not sated when they emerged from the Emperor’s room, but they were uplifted and ennobled. He dismissed them quickly and disappeared just as fast. They left his presence feeling an infinite hunger and a permanent desire to return to him. He possessed all the characteristics of the gods: he was mighty, terrible in his anger, and brief in his grace. The gods are fleeting.

So Véronique raised her glass with a hurried gesture, swallowed down the rest with a single manly gulp, and said with the hard military voice she used to give orders to her staff: “Gentlemen!” This form of address broke up the men’s brazen whispers. Everyone looked up. “Gentlemen!” she repeated. She remained seated, but her face projected such superiority she appeared to be standing. “You don’t seem,” she continued, “used to taking the presence of ladies into consideration. In any event, you should understand that I belong to the Imperial court and so does my niece.” She said “court” and not “household.” “The commentary that you are so timidly whispering to each other is perhaps suitable to your barracks, although I know that even there they aren’t customary. I leave you, gentlemen! I bid you a pleasant evening. And you, Sergeant-Major Sosthène, be sure to bring the little one home punctually. I will be waiting for her. Come speak to me,” she said to Angelina. “Good night!” And before they knew it, she galloped out just as suddenly as she had come in — again leaving the door open behind her for a while, as the wind made the ends of the tablecloth dance and caused the candles to flicker.

All was quiet. For a few moments all felt that they had been scolded by a superior. They looked rather pathetic in their colorful uniforms.

Angelina now felt herself poor, abandoned, and betrayed. She longed for those kind native shores, for her father’s house in Corsica and her poor but happy childhood. All at once, she realized she had given the strange, multicolored mountain something he did not deserve. It seemed to her that up to that very moment she had been living outside of her own body, as if she had given it away like some ordinary thing. She foresaw the great and strict law Nature had delineated for women and understood she had violated it. Relentless, sublime, and beautiful, it commanded girls to belong to their beloved and repel those they did not love. She thought of the room with the wavy green curtain and the Emperor’s portrait on the wall. Suddenly, she was able to shed her shame, and it was as though she had already recovered from her grave sin. She felt now that she could only love the one who was for her — and this love alone, her ability and readiness to love him, was something so great that sin, misdemeanor, error, and shame no longer had any import.

She finally raised her eyes and now, for the first time, they were proud and indifferent. And thus she was able to see that the colorful mountain by her side was so stiff and silent only because he had lost his senses. It was evidently his own special type of inebriation. It was more terrifying than the loud and more common type. The Sergeant-Major sat there unmoving, his small black eyes wide open and gawking. He was more petrified than drunk. Little Angelina nudged his stony-blue sleeve. Sosthène did not budge. She looked at the others. They took no notice of her. Some of them had risen and were playing dice or cards at another table. One of the provosts, the Corporal, and two sergeant-majors were whispering stories to each other and after each one, all four broke into foolish giggles. Angelina rose. She left the table without a word, taking gentle steps. Not even the proprietor noticed her.

She stood outside looking up at the sky. She had forgotten to check the time in the restaurant. It seemed to be far past midnight, and she gazed at the stars in a sudden, fond recollection of those long-gone childhood nights when she had sailed out to sea with her father and the old man had looked to the heavens to determine the time. This night there were only a few stars visible. Between the black clouds, which despite their ponderous heaviness were chasing across the sky at a surprising speed, here and there an occasional silver prick flashed and then disappeared. The wind blew sharply, seeming to come from several different directions at once. The streets were empty and the late lanterns were lonely, flickering unsteadily and unhappily. Now a pale flash of lightning lit up the houses and was followed by the far off rumble of roaming thunder. Little Angelina was frightened. She wrapped her cloak more tightly around her body. Although she did not know in what direction the route she picked would lead her, she decided to push forward without worrying. When she finally reached a corner from which she thought the lamplight of a nearby main street was visible, the first heavy raindrops were starting to fall, and at the next moment a close and dazzling flash of lightning split the clouds. Angelina walked ever more quickly. By the time she reached a wide and better-lit avenue, the rain was pouring down violently, so she sheltered herself in the doorway of a large house. Light was streaming from its windows and gilding the pouring rain. Fine carriages were waiting in front of the building. Angelina found this doorway to be quite pleasant. She found herself immediately taking pleasure in everything before her: the rain, the lightning, the carriages, the fine house, and the gracious doorway. A great joyfulness filled her and made everything around her seem pleasing, even the lightning, thunder, and rain.

It must have already been quite late. A liveried porter descended the steps, opened both wings of the colossal front door, and cast an imperious glance at Angelina. All the coachmen suddenly awoke, as if they had been called, crept from inside their vehicles, stood at the carriage doors, and let down the steps. Angelina continued merrily along the street, in the direction her heart led her. She took measured steps, neither slow nor quick, even though her coat, her dress, and her shoes were wet.

By the time she spied the palace, the rain had eased and the morning was growing noticeably stronger. The sentry was asleep in his guardhouse and did not see her. For the first time since she began working in Paris, she passed without apprehension through the narrow gateway that opened smoothly, silently, and practically hospitably. She climbed the steps. All was calm and peaceful. The misty morning was beaming through the high narrow windows at the staircase landings, and out of the distance came the tentative first song of the awakening birds.

Angelina took from her box the Emperor’s handkerchief, which she had not looked at in a long time, pressed it against her heart and then her cheek, undressed herself, and slept quickly and easily, with the colorful handkerchief under her nightgown, near her happy heart. .

V

All across the land and the world, women loved the Emperor. But to Angelina it seemed that to love the Emperor was a special and mysterious art; she felt betrothed to him, the most exalted lord of all time. He lived within her always. Even as great as he was, there was room enough for him in her little heart; it had grown to absorb the entirety of his splendid majesty. .

She forgot Sergeant-Major Sosthène very quickly, though. He sometimes resurfaced in her memory like a huge shadow emerging from a repressed dream. Anyway, it had been weeks since she had heard from him: no wonder, for the Emperor was readying a new campaign and his regiments changed their positions every week. Few soldiers wrote to their sweethearts and wives during that time.

A day arrived on which something remarkable happened to Angelina, something terrifying, upsetting, and completely incomprehensible. As she was swinging her open smoothing-iron with vigor to incite the charcoal embers, it suddenly flew from her hand, as if ripped away by some unseen force. She watched it crash against the wall, striking it with its pointed end, and then fall to the floor with the coal glowing red in its mouth. Then she felt that she herself was falling into a profound and immeasurable blackness.

She awoke in her bed. Véronique Casimir had been summoned. The kindly, trustworthy woman was now sitting beside Angelina. Angelina came to with clear memory of the iron and the strange force that had pulled it from her grip. “So it is this far along!” she heard Véronique Casimir say. These were the first words she heard upon her return to the world.

This proclamation frightened her. “What is so far along?” she asked.

And gently and calmly, Véronique replied: “You’re having a baby, Angelina. I will make sure that Monsieur Levadour is notified. Have no fear. We’ll fetch him for sure.”

“A child?” asked Angelina. “Why?”

“It is God’s will,” said Véronique softly, casting her gaze to the ceiling and then crossing herself. “We’ll get him,” she repeated.

“We’ll get who?” asked Angelina.

“Why, Sergeant-Major Sosthène Levadour, naturally!” replied Véronique.

“What do we want with him?” Angelina asked.

“We want you to have a husband,” said Véronique.

“I don’t need a husband,” said Angelina, and she thought about the nightly attacks that she had endured on the small plush red sofa, with the hard bolster pressing into her neck.

“Certainly you need a husband!” replied Véronique. “Above all you need a man to be father to your child.”

“I don’t want a child,” said Angelina. “I don’t need a child or a husband!”

“You need them both!” Véronique insisted quietly.

Angelina shut her eyes in the hopes that it would help her avoid seeing the great terror that now seemed to be sitting on Véronique’s armchair by the bedside. But under her closed eyelids, she saw it in even clearer detail. It took the colossal form of Sergeant-Major Sosthène, who had suddenly changed from a shadow into an actual being again, even though he must have by now been off in some distant garrison and perhaps — hopefully so — determined not to know Angelina anymore. What was the use? She was to have a baby, and it was the Sergeant-Major’s child. The colossus was inside her and stirring within her. She was too weak to rip him from her feeble body. She decided to open her eyes again, for the danger seemed to be getting ever closer and larger. But she had no strength to accomplish even this.

This lasted only a few minutes. Véronique now bore a solemn expression, which brought Angelina even more trepidation. It felt like a dangerous yet extremely serene Sunday. She did not hear all of Véronique’s words, but she was sure that what was being said with the intent to comfort was actually what she feared most. She was very tired; it felt like the events of the day and of the previous weeks were in the distant past and had been played out in another, previous life. Now a new life lay before her, totally unfamiliar and very dangerous. She closed her eyes and waited for her aunt to leave, so that sleep might come over her. But sleep did not come. Instead a great mildness filled her, a great compassion for herself, her aunt, and even for Sergeant-Major Sosthène. She dreamed with wakeful eyes of a vast battlefield, one of the Emperor’s battlefields. Red hot bullets flew through the air; there was a roaring and rumbling, flaring and thundering on all sides. She could not visualize the Emperor himself, but she had a great longing to see him. She called his name: “Napoleon!” she cried. “Napoleon!” But her voice died, meek and toneless in the mighty ruckus. She found herself far away from those who were fighting and yet she was also in their midst. Suddenly she saw Sergeant-Major Sosthène beside her, wobbling on his saddle. Just then, he fell from his horse. He raised both arms to the sky and cried: “Angelina!” But she did not care about him. She felt only that in a moment he would die — and even though she was ashamed of it, she wished with all her might for his death.

She awoke, remembered the dream, and was even more ashamed. But, at the same time, an unfamiliar feeling of elation, at once warm and cool, streamed through her. She was no longer afraid.

VI

Seven months later she bore a son in the house of the Corsican midwife Barbara Pocci, a good friend of Véronique Casimir. Angelina rested safely, happy and without fear, in the broad, well-padded bed in which for years unmarried mothers had been bearing children. From the bed she could see many familiar things that inspired nostalgia and reminded her of Corsica and her childhood. A small, brightly colored wooden statue of Saint Christopher stood smiling and lonely on a fragile, high-legged table in the midwife’s room. The same statue had been in Angelina’s house in Ajaccio. On the neighboring commode shone a fat-bellied bottle, containing a miniature sailing ship carved with much detail during the leisure hours of the midwife’s brother, a worthy sailor; it was one of the customary works of seafaring men. There was a similar commode in Angelina’s house in Ajaccio as well and also such a ship in a bottle. Over the door, instead of a curtain, hung one of the tightly spun nets that fishermen employed to catch small creatures. Although they had probably long since left their native isle, a familiar bittersweet odor still wafted from all these pleasant objects. It was scent of algae and sea air, of mother-of-pearl shells and brownish-black sea urchins. One could practically visualize dark blue storm clouds hovering over the sullen waves of a stormy sea.

One day Véronique Casimir brought paper, quill, and ink to the bed and said: “I have his address.”

Angelina understood that she meant Sergeant-Major Sosthène. She made one last meager attempt to avoid the unavoidable and asked: “Whose address?”

“Sosthène’s address,” answered Véronique. “Now you must write to him.”

“I have nothing to say to him,” Angelina insisted.

“You must! I command you!” Véronique replied. “Here, write!” She laid a sheet of paper on the bedspread, dipped the quill in the inkwell, stepped menacingly close to the bedside, and held the plume so imperiously before her niece’s face that Angelina had to obey. She wrote:

“Dear Sir: My aunt, Mademoiselle Véronique Casimir, begs me to inform you that I gave birth to a child two days ago. It is a boy. I send you greetings, Angelina Pietri.”

Véronique took the paper, read it, shook her head and said: “Good. I will add the rest. He won’t get away from me!”

She knew where to reach him. The Emperor had just won a great battle, and the troops were still in Austria. Véronique knew not only Sergeant-Major Levadour’s address but was also acquainted with the wife of the colonel who led his regiment.

Two weeks later, Sergeant-Major Sosthène Levadour actually showed up. He had been given leave, special leave, and he decided to use it in a special way. The Emperor’s great victory — and the fact that he had not only taken part in a noteworthy battle but also was himself the deciding factor (he assumed) of this Imperial victory — only made him more arrogant, more colorful, and colossal. He was a giant in the low-ceilinged room where Angelina and her child were staying. He greeted her with his usual dashing but severe affection, lifting her into the air with both hands, and in this room she felt she was being dangled at an even higher altitude than on the evenings during the previous summer, that the smell of his mustache was even more potent and that it swept across her cheeks even more intensely and roughly. Then he put her down again before him, took a step back and then two large steps forward, reached the bed where his son lay, and bent over him. The little one whimpered pathetically. Sosthène lifted the wrapped bundle high. It seemed quite insignificant in his arms. He asked: “What’s his name? What’ve you called him?”

“Antoine Pascal,” said Angelina, “after my father.”

“Glad to hear it, glad to hear it!” thundered Sosthène. “He’ll be a soldier, he has a soldier’s blood.” And he laid the white bundle down diagonally on the bed.

He squeezed himself into the narrow red upholstered armchair, jerked it around the room a bit, and realized it would be difficult to free his massive figure again from the chair arms clamping him in. He felt both somewhat unsettled and a little embarrassed about it, and, because just at that moment he had something critical to say, he grew angry and his face turned purple. It looked like a colorful crown for his colorful uniform. For a time he searched for an appropriate start, thought of the amicably threatening letters that Véronique Casimir had written him and the fact that he would now, because of this pitiful little bundle, have to marry a red-haired, freckled girl. For a moment his slow and dull brain was lit by a slight spark of insight into fate, guilt, and sin. The meager stirring of his vacant heart that followed, however, only increased his wrath. At that moment he would have been willing to believe in God if only to be angry with Him and have somewhere to place all the blame. However, he did not believe in the unseen God so he doled out his wrath only upon that which he could see.

He thought with bitterness of the various and fleeting women he had possessed as a dragoon might, and it seemed to him that Angelina could not compare with a single one of them so far as beauty went. And Sergeant-Major Sosthène grew even more angry and bitter. Of the sergeant-majors in his regiment, only one was married, a certain Renard, who was over fifty years old, thus his foolish deed had occurred so long ago that it could hardly be called ridiculous anymore. He, however, Sergeant-Major Sosthène Levadour, could still advance his career and even become a colonel. A man such as he had to have money for himself, in order to live and entertain others. Besides, in Bohemia, he had just met a fine woman, a widowed mill owner who was provocatively unruly and highly sought after by men; she was obedient to love, like a dog, but also violent as a battle. What a woman! He compared her to Angelina, who was now sitting across from him on the bed, child at her side, with lowered eyes and a pale and sorrowful little face bearing freckles even more clearly evident than they had been during the summer. Oh what misery, great Sosthène!

“I will marry you!” he said finally.

“What for?” asked Angelina without lifting her eyes, as though speaking to an invisible someone at her feet.

Sergeant-Major Sosthène did not comprehend at first. He only felt vaguely that his noble intentions were being rejected and his true wishes accepted. He was somewhat insulted — and at the same time relieved.

“I won’t marry you!” Angelina said.

He stared at her. She was incomprehensible, dangerous, yet seemingly offering him escape. Before he had feared the whole vile burden of this pending marriage, but now it struck him as an insult that she would not agree to go through with it. Before he had been thinking of the Bohemian widow with a lustful nostalgia, but Angelina suddenly seemed desirable. He was greatly astonished by this heretofore unknown and unprecedented complication of his emotions. A horrible suspicion awoke in him, and although this suspicion hurt him much, he held on to it with all his might, for it at least helped explain the bizarre feelings that were now stirring in him.

“So you have betrayed me?” he asked.

“I have betrayed you!” she lied. “He’s not your son!” The words sounded strange to her ears, as if another woman sitting beside her had spoken them.

“Aha!” said Sosthène after a long while.

Then he pressed both of his sturdy fists on the arms of the chair that was holding him prisoner and freed himself with a powerful jerk. He retrieved his helmet, which lay next to him on the floor like a magical gleaming black-maned animal, and put it back on his head. Now he reached the ceiling. He stood there larger than ever, enlarged not only by pride but also by contempt. Angelina sat, tiny and pitiful yet bold, on the edge of the bed.

“Tell me the truth!” thundered Sosthène.

“I’m speaking the truth!” said Angelina.

She looked up at him. She covered a great distance with her eyes in order to do so, and somehow her feet were exhausted from the mountain climbing of her gaze. The thought that he would now (but never again) lift her up and kiss her made her happy.

Suddenly he turned around, reached the doorway with one of his prodigious strides, measured its height, found it too low, ducked a little, and without looking back, slammed it violently.

Angelina then heard him speak a few rancorous words to the midwife outside. She bent over the now screaming child and babbled words that were unintelligible even to her but that brightened her mood. “You are mine,” she said, “he is not, be still, you are mine, you belong to me. .”

So spoke she to her child, softly and at length.

That very day, Sergeant-Major Sosthène set off to rejoin his regiment in Bohemia without even having seen his friends in Paris. When he caught up with his regiment it was already on its march back to France. He soon told his comrades that he had a fine son. He was a magnificent little fellow who, although barely three weeks old, looked and behaved like a soldier. Further, Sergeant-Major Sosthène added that thanks to his cleverness, he would not have to marry the child’s mother.

VII

Angelina thought of the Emperor constantly. But even he, unique and powerful, had ceased to be a living being whose every breath brought happiness, whose voice and glance brought joy, and whose wet footprints on bathroom tiles had inspired humble adoration. He truly had become the great Emperor of the paintings. He was now himself like a copy of his own portraits, yes, and even more remote than they. He was far from the people of France. From the battlefield he hurried to deliberations and from these back to his battles. His negotiations were as inconceivable as his victories. He had long since ceased being the hero of the common man. They no longer understood him. It was as if the power that emanated from him had enveloped him in a transparent but impregnable sphere of ice. He lived within this sphere in some kind of noble isolation, terrible and solemn. He sent away the Empress and married the daughter of a great foreign emperor in a distant country, as though there were not enough women in his own land. And just as he ordered certain wares from the countries he controlled, so had he once sent for the Pope to come from Rome; in the same way he now sent for the daughter of a foreign emperor. Just as he ordered the cannon to thunder in many parts of the world, so now he ordered the bells of Paris and all of France to toll. Just as he commanded his soldiers to fight his battles, he commanded them to celebrate his festivals. And just as he had once challenged God, so now he commanded prayer to Him. The Emperor’s common subjects could feel his violent impatience, and they saw that he could act in ways both grand and small, foolish and wise, good and evil, just as they did. But so much grander were both his virtues and flaws, that they could not understand him.

Angelina alone loved him, although she numbered among the lowliest of his subjects. So much did she love him that she sometimes cherished the foolish wish to see the Great One made small and defeated, driven from all lands to a humiliating homecoming in Corsica. Then he would be almost as base as she, without the luster that he continually bestowed anew upon his own portraits.

In accordance with the rules that regulated life for those in the Imperial service, Angelina returned to work three months after her confinement. Spring was already flowing like a great strong river through the rejuvenated city. Full and proud glistened the candles of the chestnut trees along the sides of the streets. Angelina came across many mothers with children; even the poorly clothed mothers, even the pale and sickly children, smiled with illuminated faces. At each of these encounters, Angelina wished to turn back, to have just one more peek at her boy. When she stood before the gate, where barely a year earlier the multicolored mountain with the fluttering helmet plume had waited for her every evening, she stood still for a while as if contemplating a momentous decision. She could still go back and see her son and be a little later in arriving to work. In the palace garden, the thrushes were raising a joyful ruckus, and they were answered by equally overwhelming scents coming from the park — from the air itself — the voices of the acacias, lilacs, and elderberries. White as a Sunday gleamed the vests of the sentries, and the dark green of their coats was reminiscent of lush meadows. The unmoving guard looked at her. She thought she recognized the man and that he also recognized her. Within his glassy official stare gleamed a tiny spark, as if the glass were smiling, and Angelina nodded at him. This fleeting glimmer in the soldier’s glassy eyes gave her courage; and she walked with swift steps toward the gate, as if afraid of losing it again.

From then on she worked only in the washroom. Loyal and industrious as always, she wielded her smoothing-iron with a powerful swing, spritzed water from her filled cheeks and pursed lips upon the silk, linen, and cambric, used the wooden stave with a learned hand and carefully pressed the shirts, collars, and pleated cuffs. When she thought about her son, she was both happy and sad. By Wednesday, no, even by Tuesday, the next Sunday already seemed almost as near as the coming evening. Monday, however, one day after her visit to Pocci’s house, was the most melancholy day of the week — and Saturday the brightest. On Saturday evenings, after inspection in the great hall, she packed everything together, both useful and useless. She packed salves and powders, serviettes, milk, cream and bread, strands of red coral beads to ward off the evil eye, buttercup root to prevent convulsions, and an herbal infusion that she was told would prevent pox.

She set out at seven o’clock in the morning. On the way she was overtaken by the fear that she would find her son ailing. She stopped for a while, powerless to put one foot before the other, shattered, as if her frightening vision were already a horrible reality. Then, confidence once more gave wings to her steps. When she finally stood in Barbara’s room leaning over her child, she began to weep bitterly. Her hot tears fell rapidly upon the boy’s smiling face. She lifted him up, walked with him around the room, and spoke nonsensical phrases to him. Only the measure by which her little son grew bigger and stronger and changed, made her note the unstoppable course of the months and years. It was as if previously she had lived according to the mindset that time did not advance but rolled, so to speak, in a circle.

Her hopes were fulfilled, and the little one looked not one bit like Sergeant-Major Sosthène but rather like his mother. He had reddish hair and freckles, was thin, strong, and agile. He was her son, no doubt! Yet almost from the beginning she felt he was slipping away from her and becoming more and more a stranger to her from one Sunday to the next. In fact, sometimes she believed that he allowed her affection only out of childish shyness and that he sold every kiss to her for a present. He was her son, red-haired and saturated with freckles; she had only to glance at him, and it was as if she were looking at herself in the mirror. But sometimes that reflection vanished, evaporated, or suddenly transformed. There were Sundays when she did not find the boy at home. He was off running around with his friends (whom she hated) in places unknown, and she had trouble finding him; when she did locate him, he soon escaped once more from her tenderness and care.

When he was seven, the boy was gripped by an intense passion for all things military — as was common for many children at the time. He hung around the barracks, befriended the guards, drilled with his comrades, stole and collected battle pictures and portraits of the Emperor, soon made his way to the barrack yards, ate out of the bowls of the good-humored soldiers, learned military songs, bugle-blowing, drumming, and even musket-handling. When one day he spied one of the little drummer boys, of whom there were many in the Imperial Army, he decided to become a drummer himself. He knew that he was a soldier’s son and understood all that was spoken between his mother, the midwife Pocci, and Véronique Casimir on those Sunday visits. And he had a very definite and clear idea of what his unknown father was like.

So one day, the boy decided to spend the night in the barracks of the Twenty-Second Infantry Regiment, strengthened in his decision by a sympathetic but somewhat tipsy Sergeant-Major. He received many frightening caresses but thought they must be a part of the military life. He was only found two weeks later thanks to the inquiries of the influential Véronique Casimir. By now the boy was officially a soldier in the Emperor’s army, and on Sundays Angelina went to the barracks of the Twenty-Second Infantry Regiment to visit him.

The first time, she came back bewildered, frightened, and affronted. Her son reminded her now (even though he still resembled her) of Sergeant-Major Sosthène. She could barely see his freckled face — the huge shako with its steep slope practically hid it; his excessively wide uniform jacket flapped about the boy’s narrow hips; his pants were too long; and his boots horrendously large. She saw that her son was lost forever. At home, she looked at herself in the mirror, for the first time in many years searching for signs of time’s passage and for beauty and youth, as she had done in the old days. She found the eternal and solitary comfort that Nature has granted to women; she began to wait for new miracles.

The miracle revealed itself on the next Sunday afternoon, as she was leaving the barracks of the Twenty-Second. Before her stood a man in the uniform of a Commissariat official, and this uniform seemed to block her way. When she raised her head, she saw a blond-haired, smiling, mustachioed face, which was familiar yet unpleasant. At a complete loss, she smiled at him. The man stood motionless. “Mademoiselle Angelina,” he said and saluted. She recognized him at once from his voice. It was the gallant Corporal of the artillery who had attended Sergeant-Major Sosthène’s farewell celebration. “Where did you come from?”

“I have been visiting my son,” Angelina said.

“And your husband? My dear comrade? What is he up to?”

“I’m not married. He’s not my husband. I have only my son,” she replied.

“I too,” began the former Corporal, as if recognizing that his fate was similar to hers, “I too have seen changes. .” and he gestured at his uniform. “I am now with the Commissariat. I’ve had enough of his campaigns” — and at the word “his” he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, as if the Emperor were standing behind him. “I have a serious injury to my leg, nothing but misfortune! Nothing but misfortune! I got out at the right time. I can await the outcome in peace. Oh, I remember, Mademoiselle, your great anger that time at the party! You must now admit that you were not completely right. You certainly know what’s happening.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” whispered Angelina. “I only know that the rest of this regiment is waiting at the ready there.” She pointed at the barracks. “And I’m anxious for my son,” she added.

“Rightfully so,” said the Commissariat official. “We’re beaten! The enemy will be in Paris in two days. The Emperor comes tomorrow. I’m not worrying about that. I’ve served him loyally for years. Now I’m waiting to see what the great ones will decide. I’m a philosopher, Mademoiselle.”

Although Angelina found the former corporal’s voice, smile, and words disagreeable, she nodded when he was done speaking but she had no idea why. This encounter distressed and cheered her at the same time. Although she was looking down she could feel the man’s kind and caressing gaze. That, as he had said, he was a philosopher and had been injured, that the Emperor was coming the next day, France was beaten, the enemy would be in Paris in two days, and the “great ones” were going to decide something — all this unnerved her as greatly as his kind and penetrating eyes.

He suggested that they “go somewhere.” She was not surprised at his suggestion. She had in fact expected it and maybe even hoped for it. At this point she was in no mood to return to the palace and her roommates. Nor did she ask where he was taking her. Instead, she began to walk at his side. After a few steps he took her arm. A slight ripple, somewhat spine-chilling yet also somewhat soothing, came from his taut muscles. It was a compelling masculine tremor; she felt it in her arm and then through her entire body. It offended her yet also comforted her. It seemed to her that she existed in two separate parts. There were really two Angelinas: one proud and filled with disdain for the man at her side and the other helpless and grateful to him for the nameless kind of escape he offered. She was silent while he talked of politics, of the world, of the difficulties and errors of the Emperor. He led her through the city for what seemed like a very long time. Someone else was thinking for her, someone else had selected a destination for her. It was humiliating yet pleasant. She felt so alone, so betrayed. The man was a stranger, but he promised some kind of refuge, an escape at any rate. She could not go home, even though she was tired. It was a pleasurable exhaustion. The autumn day was cool. Menacing violet clouds drifted low over the rooftops and at the street corners the wind was blowing from all directions at once. Sometimes her foot landed on a crisp yellow leaf that had fluttered out of some garden. It crunched under her step with a dry and dead sound that seemed more like trampled bones than trampled leaves. Darkness fell very quickly; the Commissariat official had long since ceased speaking.

They entered a colorful, light-filled inn at Vanves, packed with non-commissioned officers, maid-servants, and accordions. It had been a long time since Angelina drank so much and so hastily. She sat on the soft red upholstered seat next to the man. The seat itself was soft, but the same-colored back was deceptively hard, a wooden board that only looked comfortable. To protect Angelina’s back from this inhospitable board, the Commissariat official stretched his right arm out and laid it around her neck. With his left hand he poured more wine into their glasses. He bent his friendly pink-faced, blond-haired head toward hers. She felt it coming nearer through a thin blue-gray fog. She was shy but she did not recoil. She kissed his soft, sweet mustache. It seemed to last an eternity. She opened her eyes. It struck her that she did not even know the man’s name. If only she knew his name, everything would be orderly and natural, justifiable before God and the world. So she asked: “What is your name?”

“Charles,” he replied.

“Good,” said Angelina. And now she felt that everything was in order and in good standing.

She spent the night with Commissariat official Charles Rouiffic. At this point she discovered, to her slight horror, that he seemed to have the ability to change himself from hour to hour — and at even shorter intervals. To start, when he removed his coat, he was a second Charles, a Charles in a vest and shirt; when he removed his vest, he was a third man, more strange than the second; and when he leaned over her and started to caress her, he was a third man who had become terrifyingly strange. After several hours he woke her, fresh, cheery, mustache brushed and pomaded, and his face looking like a little round and pink sunlit morning cloud. He was already fully dressed, and his sword hung faithfully at his hip as though it had never left his side. Now he was a fourth man, even more strange than the others.

During the day she forgot about him, and if he now and then did enter her thoughts she was soon able to chase his image out of her mind. She was ashamed — he was a stranger, and yet she needed him. That she needed a stranger only deepened her shame. But the hour was rapidly nearing when she had promised to meet him again. As she grew closer to him, he became ever clearer and more familiar, and finally he was a real person.

All this happened to Angelina in the last days before the great confusion in the land. So perhaps the state of bewilderment in which she found herself was down to the all-encompassing terror that was passing over the land like an evil, low-hanging storm cloud. Before the actual thunder of the enemy cannon was audible in Paris, it seemed to all that they could already hear the first echoes of enemy gunfire. Before it was known that the Emperor was truly defeated and was fleeing to the capital with the remnants of his army, everyone had a foreboding that he had lost and was retreating. This premonition was more terrible than the actual certainty a few days later. Evil forebodings bewilder the simple hearts of men, but evil certainty only worries and weakens them.

Angelina was no exception. She was bewildered amid the general bewilderment and terrified amid the general terror.

One day Charles, the Commissariat official, disappeared. For some days his presence at a specific place and at a definite time had been a humiliating but certain refuge. Now Angelina waited in vain. She sat in the little tavern, accordion music playing loudly, under the gaze of the staff who knew her and seemed themselves to be waiting on the appearance of Commissariat official Charles Rouiffic. All around her they were already gossiping about the misfortune of the Emperor, the misfortune of France. Angelina finally left.

VIII

Many people in France at that time in 1814 were living in a state of chaos and distress. The enemy arrived. He came as enemies invariably do, with the full hellish retinue of the victor — vindictiveness, despotism, and a lust for spreading pointless misery. Numerous and very diverse were the enemies of France, but they all spread the same terror and they all promulgated sorrow and disaster through the same methods. Greater still than the confusion in the country and in the city of Paris was the confusion at the Imperial court. It was even stronger among the lower-level servants than among the high officials who were in the Emperor’s service. For the simple and lowly are always the first to feel disaster’s approach and also the first to suffer. The simple and the lowly are innocent of the faults and errors, the sins and fates of the great ones. Yet they suffer more than the famous ones. Storms destroy poor weak huts but they sweep past the strong stone houses.

Two days before the Emperor left the city and the country, the lesser ones began to leave him. All their simple hearts were concerned with was fear for their lives, fear of an unknown and thus terrifying danger. They fled aimlessly in all different directions. The servant men and women took refuge with friends who were also serving the Emperor, but in other palaces, as though those who had not shared a roof with the great Emperor were less exposed to danger and as though their daily proximity to him would implicate them in some type of crime for which they might have to suffer. Meanwhile, the servants in these other palaces also left, equally lost, aimless, and foolish. Véronique Casimir left as well. She who was once so magnificent could be seen packing a significant amount of luggage and driving away in a spacious coach in which even her figure, formerly so heavy with dignity, appeared at that moment to have shrunk.

Angelina took a sorrowful leave of her. She remained alone in the enemy palace. New servants appeared, dressed in unfamiliar royal uniforms. Day after day she waited for some sign from her son. There was no more work, no smoothing-iron to brandish, no cambric, no silk. There were only new and enemy faces. Perhaps her son was dead too. She recalled the hour of his birth — so long ago — the snowflakes were falling gently and pleasantly outside her window. She remembered his first smile, his first babbling, and that happy Sunday when she saw him take his first steps on his own. . and then that dreadful Sunday, much later, when she first noticed that he had become a stranger to her and was his father’s son. The child she had borne and fed at her breast was long since lost. The little drummer was even more alien to her than Sergeant-Major Sosthène.

Three days after the good-natured but cold-hearted King returned, a new head of staff appeared among the court servants, Véronique Casimir’s successor. Scrawny and hard, ugly and haggard, she was reminiscent of an icicle. But as she wore white lilies in her hair, upon her chest and at her waist, she was also reminiscent of a cemetery.

This new head of staff told Angelina that she must leave the King’s palace.

So Angelina sought the only woman she really knew, the midwife Pocci. Her poor little woven straw box, which she had carried so cheerfully with her into Paris, grew more massive and heavy. Soon she was hardly able to drag herself along, so she put her burden down at pavement’s edge and sat on it. She believed that all her distress and utter desolation was due solely to the exhaustion of her feet. As she sat there, however, she felt after a moment an uneasiness even greater than her fatigue. Strange dangers seemed to be closing in and were already lurking at the next corner. When she looked up she saw menacing clouds blowing by close over the rooftops. From a nearby street came the confused shouts of the rejoicing people who were cheering for the King and cursing the defeated Emperor. The crowd neared and she could clearly hear it cry: “Long live the King!” Tears came to her eyes. She was afraid to be seen weeping; it could put her in grave danger. The noise faded. Angelina now continued along with slow, measured, and deliberate steps. She was alone, afraid, and beaten — just like the Emperor, she thought. This thought lightened her deep despair. She believed herself to be walking so hopelessly through the streets for him, for the Emperor. He was also invisibly treading the most agonizing of paths. Who knew, maybe it was not true that he had been exiled; he could still be living in his capital, disguised as a common soldier for example, and she could encounter him and converse with him on various subjects.

Dusk was falling as she stood before the house and looked up at the familiar window. It was dark, so perhaps the midwife Pocci had also left. Angelina waited a while, afraid that she was right, but with a trembling hope that someone would emerge from the house and let her in. At the same time, however, she feared that person would be the Polish shoemaker who worked during the day in the dark passage outside his door. She had known him for two years already but was still afraid of him. She had feared him from the first moment she saw him. With his wooden leg, which made an eerie noise on the tiles of the hallway and on the cobbles in front of the house; with his ashen-colored and exotic Polish Legion lancer’s mustache; with his hard, foreign accent, which ground the words instead of enunciating them; with the ill-tempered demeanor of a barbarous soldier; and with his leather-blackened hands; with all of this, he inspired Angelina with a vague but serious fear. She kept forgetting his foreign name and had reservations about pronouncing it. This made the cobbler seem even more sinister.

But she was wrong. His name was no more difficult to pronounce — for the cobbler was named Jan Wokurka, and his name was painted in clear red letters on a black board upon the front door — than his character was grim, not to mention menacing or sinister. Everything about him was quiet and gentle, except his clattering wooden leg. He was a volunteer Legionnaire, had participated in the Emperor’s losing campaign, and after being injured had journeyed to Paris, where he felt he could count upon his pension and where, in addition, he would be able to work at his profession with a better prospect of earning a living than in his native village. He succeeded in obtaining both pension and profit. Still, he longed for his homeland. He was quite lonely. For although he enjoyed talking at length and in detail to all his neighbors, most of them could not understand him. He understood everything that was said to him, so he thought that the people understood him also. But as soon as the neighbors left his company, he was always struck with the bitter certainty that they found him incomprehensible. Thus it was that after each conversation all was silent and his loneliness and homesickness grew, while his left hip hurt more than before and even his leg, which was probably buried somewhere on the Oder, ached.

He was therefore determined to save money and return to Poland. He was just waiting for a “round sum,” as he put it. But as soon as he secured that amount, he felt sorry and delayed his departure. In addition, despite his disability, he wished to find a wife to love him — and since he had been shy even as an unscathed man, he was now completely disheartened. His longing for a woman grew even stronger. He brushed his bold mustache, attempted to cultivate a military gleam within his light, good-humored eyes, and fell in love quickly and sincerely.

He liked Angelina because of her shy face and demeanor. But he only inspired fear in her. Even when she was standing lost and lonely, looking up at the window, she feared the cobbler more than the night that was relentlessly falling. There was still no light in the midwife Pocci’s room. She went over anyway and entered the house. The cobbler was hammering away happily as usual. He soon spotted her. When he noticed her crate, he got up, his wooden leg taking astonishingly long strides, and with amazing speed he was at her side and had taken hold of the box. The full light of his three-candled lantern flashed through the large dangling cobbler’s globe, casting illumination into the shadowy passageway and onto his own face. He hobbled down the three steps leading to his room, laid the box down, and was back in the hall with admirable speed. Angelina had tried to get a hold of the box but he was too quick. Wokurka took her hand and spoke rapidly and therefore with even less clarity than usual: “They’re all gone! Madame Pocci this morning. Madame Casimir was here until yesterday evening. All quite afraid. Not me. Come, Mademoiselle!” He let go of her hand but grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her toward the steps. Angelina went down. She needed to be with her box.

She sank immediately into the only armchair, next to the table. The cobbler Wokurka steered her left, right, and forward, as if he thought he could thus make her seat more comfortable. When he felt he had achieved that goal, he went to the hearth, blew on the glimmering coals, and began to heat some red wine with water. Now and again he glanced over at Angelina. When it looked as if her eyes were shut, joy swiftly filled him and he blew happily upon the glowing coals.

But Angelina’s eyes were not actually closed. She was watching the cobbler’s actions and taking note of all the objects in the little room. The large glass ball was swaying very gently in front of the strange lantern, whose copper decorations made it look like a glass bird cage. It was like a cage in which three flickering candle flames were imprisoned. A dark-green curtain that must have hidden Wokurka’s bed awakened in Angelina a remote memory of that dream-like night ten years earlier — although it seemed more like a hundred years ago — and the heavy creases of the mighty Imperial portière. Yes, and at the moment when the cobbler placed a cup of hot fragrant red wine in front of her, she thought of the crystal decanter from long ago. The cup bore an image of the Emperor framed with a green laurel wreath, the well-known, familiar, and proud picture that reminded her of the large portrait on the wall of that mysterious room. Everything now seemed to her just as unreal as it had been then. All that she saw here, the miserable imprisoned candles, the wretched curtain, the cheap wine, the gaudy mini-portrait of the Emperor: everything seemed to be somehow connected with the expensive and exalted objects that she had found in the Imperial chamber. Perhaps they were the same objects, dilapidated and deteriorated over the course of the many, many years and through the misfortune that had befallen their lord and master.

The cobbler Wokurka stood opposite her. He was supporting himself with one hand on the edge of the table and looking at her silently. His head, with its full combed-back gray-blond hair, almost touched the dangling globe and was given a surreal glow by its odd light. “Drink!” said Wokurka finally. The gentle urging of his voice, along with the warm and seductive scent that wafted from the cup, led her to lean forward and take a gulp. It warmed her heart and she was able to look up into the cobbler’s large gray eyes. They were completely different eyes from the ones she thought she had known for so long. There was no hungry lust in them after all, only a smiling light. And his prodigious mustache was no longer terrifying, but hung over the man’s unseen mouth like a hairy, protective apron.

“Drink up,” said the hidden mouth. “It’ll do you good.” She drank with delighted zeal and leaned back again.

The cobbler Wokurka turned around and pulled back the green curtain. His bed was in fact there. He sat down so that his wooden leg stuck out and almost touched the edge of the table, but even the wooden leg no longer frightened Angelina.

“Yes,” began Wokurka, “they’ve all fled from the King as from a plague. I don’t understand what they’re so scared of, but I’m well aware of what terror can do. It can even confuse the minds of the normally sensible. Madame Pocci, for example, was a sensible woman. God only knows where she’s gone. Mademoiselle Casimir, your aunt, whom I know well, even read the cards for some of the biggest names. She knew the future, but apparently not the present. And so you’ve been left alone, dear Mademoiselle.”

He waited a while. As Angelina did not offer a response, he continued: “I fear that you don’t understand me so well. I know I don’t speak completely clearly.”

This time, however, Angelina understood him perfectly. She said: “Oh yes, I do understand you completely.”

“Since you’re all alone now, dear Mademoiselle,” he continued, “please do stay here for the time being. I won’t be in your way. Don’t worry about what tomorrow brings, Mademoiselle. The world changes quickly these days. A half year ago, who would have predicted this? The Emperor was mighty and I was his soldier. I too loved him. But, as you see, we small ones pay dearly for our love of the great ones.” As he spoke, a quite opportune comparison came to him, and he said: “I’ve lost my leg, for example, and you’ve lost your job. And they were futile sacrifices. We lowly ones should not allow our lives to be dictated by the great ones. When they win we suffer and when they lose we suffer still more. Right, Mademoiselle?”

“Yes,” she said, “you’re right.”

He grabbed the wine bottle, which was on a little shelf above the head of his bed, took a generous swig, replaced the bottle, and waited a few moments. He seemed to be waiting for the courage that the gulp would arouse within his chest. As soon as he felt it, he spoke almost playfully, his bushy mustache wiggling peculiarly and divulging that his unseen mouth was bearing a smile.

“I’ve known you for a long time, Mademoiselle Angelina, and I know of your life.” He paused briefly, breathed deeply, and continued softly: “I also know the father of your child, Monsieur Levadour. And I told your aunt that you were right not to marry him.”

“Do you know if my son is still alive? Where he is?” asked Angelina.

“I don’t know,” said Wokurka. “But I will head out early in the morning to look for him. I have good friends in practically all the barracks of Paris.” He was lying, but was glad she trusted him.

“I thank you,” Angelina said. In fact she felt immeasurable gratitude mounting within her heart, as if she had returned home after wandering about for so long, home to her father’s house. Her eyes closed and she fell asleep where she was. Wokurka lifted her out of the chair, laid her down on the bed, drew the curtain closed and, content for the first time since he had lost his leg and homesickness had begun to torture him, sat down in the narrow armchair next to the curtain. The candles in his lantern died out, one after another, with a peaceful flickering. From far-away streets he heard the shouts of the tireless loyalists, who were cheering the King and cursing the Emperor. The cobbler Wokurka, however, found himself on a happy island, disconnected from the changing fortunes of the world. What did the Emperor matter to him? What difference did it make to him that the King had returned? Why should he concern himself with the people causing a tumult outside? He was dreaming that he would soon be returning home, with the woman who was sleeping on the other side of the curtain. It mattered no more about round sums. Any sum was quite enough. He could hear Angelina’s soft breathing from behind the curtain. She had come to him of her own volition! With that, he fell asleep where he sat, joyfully determined to find Angelina’s son early the next morning.

IX

It took Wokurka two weeks to find the boy. During this time, he hobbled around the city for a few hours each day and visited every barracks he could reach. When he at last found the boy he limped home quickly, his wooden leg practically flying along. “We can see him tomorrow!” he said, looking down, for he was embarrassed to see Angelina’s happiness.

A long time passed before she spoke. It was already growing dark by the time she began to talk, as though she had been ashamed to do so in full daylight.

“Where and when will we see him?”

“At seven o’clock,” he said, “in the evening, after report. The sergeant on duty happens to be my friend.”

The next evening, Angelina saw her son again. His regiment was living in different barracks now, having returned home from the drubbing decimated, defeated, and humiliated. Two non-commissioned officers from the old days were still there. They recognized Angelina and she felt she was meeting familiar and beloved ghosts. They no longer bore the Emperor’s eagle, but the King’s lilies. They were no more the Emperor’s soldiers, but the King’s subjects. Little Pascal too seemed to be filled with gloom and shame. At first he stretched his arms out, but then he let them fall again. And when Angelina began to cry, he seized her hand and kissed it. With his shako on, he was already as tall as she was. But then, in a sudden fit of tenderness and nostalgia, he removed the shako and was only as high as her shoulders. She saw his thick red hair, revealed as if to demonstrate to his mother that he was her son and no other’s. Her tears began to fall even more intensely. She thought of her childhood, of foolishly and senselessly giving away her body, of the odious Sosthène, of the random meeting with the corporal, of the shameful fright of the night in the surreal chamber, of the thick waves of the portière, of her father’s premature death, of her childless and shameless stripping before mirrors — and everything, everything appeared infinitely sorrowful, and worse yet, hopeless and empty. All at once she understood that all the pointless and foolish things that had happened to her had transpired, so to speak, in the Emperor’s gracious shadow. His shadow had gilded her entire aimless fate; now it had gone, his merciful shadow! Only now did she recognize her foolishness as such, and her misfortune became ordinary. She was no longer weeping with emotion at having found her son again, but over an entire dead world, one that she had believed was lost forever. Since the Emperor’s departure, there was nothing left. She knew at once that her love for him was greater and mightier than mere ordinary love. She was not weeping over her son, but over the King’s lilies, the white Bourbon banners that hung at the barracks entrance and over the fall of the Emperor. Yet she could hear and understand what the boy was explaining: his father, Sergeant-Major Sosthène Levadour of the Thirteenth Dragoons, had come to look for his son. He had also asked about Angelina and had said he would come back soon. All this was of no interest to her. She said only: “Yes, he is your father! But I don’t love him! I will visit you again. I love you, my child!” She kissed his red hair, his freckled cheeks, and his small blue eyes.

In the street she took the cobbler Wokurka’s arm. She was still crying. She matched her stride with his limping steps. At times she felt like she should be ashamed at having two whole legs while he had only the one. But she also felt weaker on her healthy legs than this man at her side was on his solitary one and she clutched his arm for support. They walked in this way, arm in arm through the streets, for a very long time. Neither one spoke the whole way. Only upon reaching the door did she realize that he wanted to say something. He was holding her arm firmly. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. The poor light of a forlorn lantern, the only one in the lane, fell on Wokurka’s hollow, worried face. She felt she was seeing him for the first time. The gloomy, oily, and unsteady light of the lantern seemed to clarify his features and all the sorrow residing in his face. In a single moment it became clear to her that he was no longer a threatening stranger but rather a quiet, familiar companion; that he must love her as she had never loved anyone; and that even with his infirmity, he stayed awake long into the night for her sake in the narrow armchair. She lowered her head.

“I have something to say to you,” began Wokurka softly. He waited. She said nothing. “Will you hear me out?” he asked, looking at her. She nodded. “Well,” he began again, “well, I thought I could ask you — ask you — whether you wish to stay with me?”

“Yes!” she said so clearly that she surprised herself.

“Perhaps you didn’t understand me,” he continued, “I asked whether you wish to stay with me. With me?”

“Yes!” she repeated with the same clear voice.

They went inside the house. She lit the candles in the lantern herself, for the first time since she had been living with Wokurka. She busied herself with some pots at the hearth. She felt the man’s steady gaze upon her and avoided looking his way. She thought with fear of the coming night and the love it would bring. She was gripped with sudden horror over the man’s wooden leg as if the thought had just occurred to her that it was not a natural part of his body.

They ate in embarrassed silence, as on all previous evenings, the milk soup with potatoes that Wokurka loved and that eased his homesickness. Then they drank and she noticed that Wokurka poured the wine not from an ordinary bottle, as on previous evenings, but from a crystal carafe. On its front under the curved beak, in the center of its grandiose bulge, this carafe too had a small smooth oval and in this oval was the Emperor Napoleon in his traditional costume, a glass Emperor colored and infused with red wine, a crystalline Napoleon of glass and blood. As the carafe was emptied, the Emperor grew pallid and more remote, truly glass. Angelina felt she was watching his body die bit by bit, his head first, then his shoulders, his torso, legs, and finally his feet. She was transfixed by the oval. She shivered. She wanted to see the carafe filled again.

“Do you have any more wine?” she asked. “It’s a pretty carafe.”

“Yes, an excellent piece,” said Wokurka. “Our Count Chojnicki presented it to me. He equipped us, we Legionnaires, I mean. We were in his castle and he himself drilled with us. The Emperor knew him well. He was killed the day I lost my leg. But yes, I have still got some wine left. I use this carafe only on very special occasions. And this is a special occasion for me, Angelina, isn’t it?”

He was cheerful and agile, rose quickly, refilled the carafe, and poured. His cheeks were pink, his eyes bright, and his mustache seemed to be turning noticeably blonder, as though bushy new hairs were suddenly growing and overtaking the countless prematurely gray ones. He grew talkative and told stories of battles and comrades, mocking his lost leg and saying it had not been as good as the other one anyhow; but at that moment, a severe pain shot through his hip and the half of his leg that still remained. He fell silent. He did not clearly recall everything he had recounted and did not know whether or not Angelina had answered him or even if she had been listening at all, but only felt whenever he glanced at her a tremendous desire for her, a desire that the pain in no way numbed but actually seemed to heighten. He sat, as usual, on the edge of the bed, opposite Angelina. Then he rose suddenly, supporting himself with the edge of the table, and set himself in motion. Angelina rose also. She waited, trembling; she knew what must inevitably happen. It was unavoidable and she wanted only for it to be done with very quickly. She walked to him. His breath smelled of wine and lust, his shining eyes were gentle, his mustache bristled, and he awakened in her great fear, slight repugnance, but also intense compassion. Soon she was lying, eyes closed, and she heard him remove his wooden leg, the soft sound of leather being unbuckled and the faint clinking of metal clasps.

X

She grew accustomed to the nights and the days and the man. By winter’s arrival, she felt at home with him, almost happy. The shorter the days, the more severe was Wokurka’s homesickness. He began to repeat with greater frequency his desire to marry and return to Poland, forget everything, and begin a new life. At home in Poland, in his Gora Lysa, there would be good thick snow by now and a healthy crisp frost. There would be large round loaves of bread with brown-black crusts and people would soon be preparing for Christmas. In this world here it rained even in December and the damp wind blew spitefully. The wind was in league with the restored King and with the enemies of France and Poland; far away was the great Emperor, who alone would have been able to quench Wokurka’s homesickness. But the Emperor himself was most likely even more homesick now than the cobbler Wokurka. The newspapers abused the Emperor on a daily basis, wrote of the great congress in Vienna and lavished praise upon the traitor Talleyrand and the good King who had returned to France and refused to pay Wokurka’s pension. All the mighty ones who had once been Napoleon’s friends betrayed and disowned the Emperor. What remained for the cobbler Wokurka from Gora Lysa to do in this land? Here and there a couple of Poles would visit him, former Legionnaires like himself, career soldiers with no other occupation, who were without pension, bread, or a roof. Although their limbs were intact they were worse off than the cobbler. They roamed through the city as beggars. A few of them dreamed of obtaining money enough to join the captive Emperor; and each of them was convinced that he alone was what the Emperor lacked, that he alone could instruct the Emperor on how to reconquer France, defeat the world anew and resurrect Poland. The simple Jan Wokurka, however, knew that it was all but foolish talk; he had a simple profession, his work made him pensive, patient, and sensible, and his injury kept him from indulging in frivolous dreams. He prepared for his departure. He told Angelina that she must go with him. She would leave her son behind. But was he still her son? Was he not more of a stranger to her with each visit? Oh, of course he was! The boy was a soldier, he had already withstood the fire of battle. He had only one mother, and that was the army. The King of France lived in peace with all the world and there was space enough in the army for a little Pascal Pietri and also chance enough for a peaceful future for the youth.

Thus spoke Wokurka to Angelina. She was thirty years old and she felt she had aged very quickly; each year of her life was filled with so much confusion and agony. She was weary and numb. So when Wokurka spoke of his homeland, she too began to believe that his peculiar country was a safe haven for peace. Poland was far from all evils and troubles. It was as soft as the snow that covered it and was enveloped in a gentle sadness, swaddled in endless white mourning for the lost Emperor. She saw the land as a gentle, white-veiled widow grieving for the Emperor. Gradually there awakened in her also a tender and mild longing for this place. Gradually her motherly affection for her boy faded. Gradually she slipped completely into the cobbler Wokurka’s world. Wokurka celebrated Christmas his way, in accordance with Polish custom. He obtained an enormous Christmas tree, which filled the entire narrow room. He put all his tools away, as well as the stool on which he normally sat in the hall, and even the globe that reminded him of his busy workdays. He gave Angelina a silk shawl, Bohemian glass earrings, and slippers that he had fashioned himself, slippers of white leather. These gifts lightened Angelina’s heart. Wokurka embraced her solemnly, heartily, and thankfully. His face smelled of soap, pipe tobacco, and brandy. He swayed a little but, remarkably, he seemed to find support in his wooden leg. He had a radiant red face and festive eyes. They sat at the table, severely restrained by the branches and candles of the Christmas tree.

“Did you find your son?” asked Wokurka.

“No,” said Angelina, “he was already gone.”

“Pity, pity,” he said. “It would have been nice to have him here.” But he said it only to please Angelina. His mind was on his homeland and the journey they would soon take.

He began to serve food that he had prepared himself. They were the dishes of his native country and his youth. They had the scent of his native village, the genuine fragrance of Gora Lysa. There was a soup of beets and cream, bacon with peas, and white cheese. He had also bought brandy. Nobody drank wine in Gora Lysa. He sang with a hoarse and unsteady voice his native Christmas carols. Tears formed in his festive eyes. He had to break off and start again.

“This is the last Christmas I will celebrate in Paris,” he said when he was done singing. “By this time next year, we’ll be at home!” And he slapped the leather brace of his wooden leg.

As she heard him speak those words Angelina felt a sharp pain, even though she had been prepared for the journey for quite some time already. Never had she dared to set her mind upon a specific week, and a specific day, and a specific hour for their journey. It was all well and good to go with Wokurka to his native country so long as it occurred at some as-yet-undetermined time, one that would be decided by chance. When she heard now that not chance but Wokurka himself would determine the exact time, she was filled with a fear of all that awaited her in that strange, faraway land and a sadness over all that she would be leaving behind. She began to sob so passionately she had to put down the glass that she had been poised to bring to her lips in acknowledgement of his toast to a “happy journey without return.”

“Without return!” This expression awoke in her a rapid string of terrifying thoughts; she would never see her son again, nor the city and street in which she had given birth to him, nor the palace in which she had been young and foolish, happy and miserable, calm and hopelessly flummoxed. She had no grasp of the true distance between France and Wokurka’s homeland; thus it seemed that his homeland was a faraway and hardly reachable wilderness. She crossed her arms on the table, sunk her head into them, and wept bitterly and violently. The smoke from the dying candles on the tree branches, the brandy she had ingested, the memory of her pointless trip to her son in the barracks, a sudden apprehensive affection for the child, her remorse over having promised herself to this man without thinking it through, but also the fact that she was now saddening him with her grief and disappointing him with her fears — all this descended upon her at once, burying her under a mountain of confusion.

Wokurka stroked her brittle reddish hair. He could guess everything she was feeling and knew her despair would deafen her to all his reassurances and promises. There was nothing more he could do except continue the silent conversation between his caressing hand and her red hair. After some time she raised her pale moist face to him.

“I understand, Angelina,” he said. “It’ll pass, believe me, it’ll pass; everything passes.” She began to smile an obedient smile that made her face even sadder. It was a grateful and at the same time reproachful and resigned smile, the pained and exalted glow that lights the faces of the weak who are giving themselves up.

XI

She had already given up. She had begun to make her preparations with the conscientious determination that is equally particular to the strong as it is to those who have finally resigned themselves. It had been decided they would marry in January and set out a month later. It was thus still several weeks until their departure. To Angelina, however, it seemed that Wokurka’s colossal plan decimated the laws of time. As she feared that her determination might falter, she believed there were no days left to waste.

She mulled over what she could leave her son, for she was certain she would never see him again. The cross she had brought with her from her homeland, the handkerchief she had stolen out of foolish love for the Emperor — she could give both to her little Pascal. She imagined what she would say to him: they were trivial, but for her, his mother, they were objects of importance, and she was giving them to him so he would always think of her. Of her, but also of the Emperor.

So she removed the handkerchief from her box, took down the cross she had hung over Wokurka’s bed, and went to the barracks.

Wokurka escorted her. He had fashioned a pair of boots for Angelina’s son, good solid boots that were fitting for a drummer.

They found the boy and went with him to the canteen. He let his mother embrace him, shook hands with Wokurka, accepted his presents, expressing delight at the handkerchief and boots, but regarding the cross, he said: “I don’t need that. Nobody needs that in our regiment!” He gave it back to his mother and said: “You need it, I think!” And he had at that moment the rumbling voice of his father, Sergeant-Major Sosthène.

The canteen was filled with boisterous soldiers. Behind the buffet, on the wall over the étagère with its multicolored bottles, hung a transparent veil covering the Imperial eagle and above that an oversized and quite obvious portrait of the returned King. His good-natured yet indifferent face, his fat droopy cheeks, and his half-shut eyelids seemed even more distant and indistinct than the veiled eagle of gleaming brass. It was as if the King’s portrait were veiling itself while the veil covering the Imperial eagle was but a passing cloud.

At the tables all around soldiers were conversing. Both the sober and the tipsy were talking about the Emperor; the drunken ones even shouted now and again: “Long live the Emperor!” Little Pascal spread out the handkerchief before him and said with an affected deep voice: “Everybody says the Emperor is coming back. We don’t give a damn about the Bourbons!” And he gestured with his little finger at the portrait of the returned King on the wall.

“He won’t come back,” said the cobbler Wokurka. “And I want to say that you, if you like, can come with us, with your mother and I, to my homeland.”

“Why?” asked the boy. “The Emperor’s coming back soon; everyone says so.”

Angelina was silent. She heard the soldiers all around her talking about the Emperor. The Emperor was not dead and forgotten; he was alive in the hearts of the soldiers and they awaited him every day. Only she had stopped waiting for him; she alone would not be allowed to wait any longer.

And she noticed that both the man and her son became strangers as soon as she thought about the Emperor. In fact, her son only seemed close because he had spoken lovingly of the Emperor, so out of fear that she might betray her confusion and would lose her determination to follow Wokurka, she said: “Let’s go,” stood up, kissed her son on the cheeks, on the forehead, and on his red hair, and turned to go before Wokurka even had time to get up.

On the way home he spoke to her, gently and timidly and somewhat uncertain. He told her that the soldiers were wrong. They did not comprehend the intricacies of the political world and therefore believed the Emperor would return. But even if the soldiers were right in their prediction and the Emperor came back, this should not hinder them, Angelina and the cobbler Wokurka, from starting a new life in a distant land, far removed from the confusion caused by the great ones in the world only so that the lowly ones might suffer.

“Yes, yes,” she said, but no longer believed him.

Upon arriving at the house, they saw all its residents — who were craftsmen, coachmen, and lackeys — standing at the door. Something extraordinary had happened: the midwife Pocci had returned and with her Véronique Casimir. They had both refused to give out any information, but had only asked after Angelina and proclaimed quite generally and solemnly that they came back because “a whole new era was dawning.”

Véronique Casimir had not changed, nor had Barbara Pocci. Where both women had been living for so long, nobody dared ask. Both were recognizable at first glance and had returned wholly unchanged: the midwife Pocci was still trustworthy yet menacing, bony, and gaunt, and Mademoiselle Casimir was still plump yet nimble.

“You mustn’t do it,” she said to the shoemaker. “You’ll lose your right to a pension if you go and the Emperor returns. And sure as my name is Véronique Casimir, sure as I have predicted, as all the world knows, the Emperor’s battles, both victories and defeats, now I predict that he’s coming back soon, and nothing can stop it.”

Véronique Casimir did not say any of this lightly. She proved it too. She proved it in the presence of all the residents of the house, of neighbors in the quarter who had been either invited or compelled to come and in the presence of many strangers, all of whom had gathered — rapt, credulous, and hopeful — in the cobbler’s room and even filled the passage or sometimes had to wait in the street outside. She proved it through the irrefutable cards. She repeated it every evening: “The Emperor is preparing for his departure. Eleven hundred men are accompanying him. They have anticipated many dangers, but all these dangers are dispersing and evaporating as the Emperor approaches. All doors are opened for him. The people are cheering him. He has won, he has won! He comes, he comes!”

“And then?” the cobbler Wokurka would sometimes inquire. “What will happen then?”

“That I cannot see,” answered Véronique Casimir. And she collected her cards together and bustled out through a street crowded with awe-struck believers.

XII

One evening — spring had long since announced its arrival, but had quickly been chased away again by winter’s merciless rebirth — Angelina heard the wooden leg of the returning Wokurka rapping more hurriedly, nimbly, and loudly upon the cobbles in front of the house than ever before.

He arrived out of breath. It was hailing outside. There were wet little hailstones on his shoulders and water ran down from his single boot to form a large black puddle on the floor. He did not remove his cap. He remained standing in the doorway and said: “Angelina, things are happening! He comes tomorrow! The King is on the run!”

She stood up. She had been sitting on a stool peeling potatoes and they fell to the floor with a series of thuds. “He’s coming?” she repeated. “Tomorrow? And the King flees?”

“He’s coming!” Wokurka reiterated. And although at that moment he knew that he had lost Angelina, he said for a third time, with happiness gleaming on his face and joy ringing in his voice: “He’s coming! It’s definite!”

That evening Véronique Casimir did not come by. The residents of the house, the neighbors, and also strangers came and inquired after her. She did not come. Midwife Pocci’s door also remained closed.

“Is it really true that he’s coming?” Angelina asked.

“He comes tomorrow, definitely tomorrow,” said Wokurka.

They ate silently. They felt both happy and unhappy at the same time, relieved and unsettled, fortunate and unfortunate. And yet neither could say why they felt these conflicting feelings.

They lay down but could not get to sleep. Each of them remained awake, hoping and believing that the other was asleep.

When dawn’s light arrived, Angelina got up quietly. She thought that she had not awakened Wokurka. But he had never actually fallen asleep. He watched her get up. He saw her hastily wash and dress. She came back to bed and kissed him, but he did not move. From behind his half-closed eyelids he saw her go and he knew she did not mean to come back.

He did not move. He was dead. He had once lost a leg for the Emperor; now he was losing a woman for the Emperor.

Six weeks later he learned from Barbara Pocci that Angelina was back in the Imperial palace. He immediately made his way to her. He waited outside the gate and she came to meet him. “Good day,” she said. “It’s nice that you want to see me again!” She was wearing the livery of the Imperial servants, the dark-blue dress, white apron, and blue cap. She looked both beautiful and foreign.

He said: “I have come, Angelina, to ask you once more whether you will go with me!”

“No!” she replied firmly, as if she had never told him she would go in the first place.

It began to rain lightly, then more heavily. It was a good, warm, almost summer-like rain. He watched as her clothes got wet, heard the rain pounding harder and harder, looked at her as she stood there, lost. He knew that they had nothing more to say to each other.

“Adieu, Angelina,” he said. “If you need me — I’m not going home, I’m going to wait until you need me again.”

They shook hands. Both hands were wet and there was no warmth in either. It seemed that they were not actually shaking hands but exchanging rain. Angelina watched him hobble away with concerted and cautious effort and disappear into the torrent.

XIII

A palpable excitement descended upon the land. An even greater yet entirely different kind of excitement ruled within the palace, among both the ladies and gentlemen of the Emperor and among the servants. All the prominent events that were occurring in the world, and the even more substantial ones that were now in preparation had been caused and incited by the Emperor Napoleon himself. He was great and impetuous, but the world preferred to stay small and cautious, as it was. The Emperor’s servants knew nothing of the terror that he was spreading around the world. They knew only the terror he inspired within his own house. Certainly they were of lesser importance to the Emperor than the kings, his enemies. But the servants lived near him, heard his voice on a daily basis, felt his gracious or scolding gaze upon them, heard his affectionate praise or furious curses. Thus they, in contrast to the rest of the world, felt the significance of his every occasional glance, good mood, or malicious word. The world was already arming itself for war, out of fear for his might and his rash behavior. The servants of the court, however, were preparing for the Emperor’s move from the Tuileries to the Elysée. His decision to move appeared to the men and women of the court more significant than the war for which the countries of the world were already beginning to prepare. If Véronique Casimir, now restored to her old rank and former dignity, had not foretold the war’s proximity with her cards, the men and women of the Imperial household would have given no thought whatsoever to the world at large, to danger, to life and death. But despite the prophecies of Véronique Casimir, and although doom was already spreading its somber wings over the Emperor’s house, his servants could not feel it coming and continued to sense disaster nearing only with the Emperor’s wrath or receding with his mirth. They began to prepare with genuine enthusiasm for the move. They postulated all kinds of hypothetical reasons for the Emperor’s decision. The evening before the move to the other palace, twelve hours before the Emperor’s departure, they gathered in the hall for a detailed inspection by Véronique Casimir. Twelve coaches were already waiting below for the servants and baggage. For the last time — and they had no idea that it was the last time — they took their meal in the great dining hall. They spoke of nothing but the move. One proclaimed he knew for certain that the Emperor was moving because his wife was arriving from Vienna in two days and would not feel safe enough in the Tuileries. Another asserted that was wrong, that the Emperor was without doubt only giving the appearance of moving, with the intention of misleading the informants of the treacherous Minister of Police, whom he hated. A third insisted that he knew the truth; he had information from the Emperor’s valet himself that Napoleon had no intention of living in either palace, but wanted to go to Malmaison once and for all, to ensconce himself in the memory of his first wife. Others contradicted the first, second, and third. Véronique Casimir, at the head of the long table, called for silence. She forbade everyone to indulge in such idle talk; one never knew who was safe and who was treacherous, considering the infiltration of Fouché’s spies in many places.

And so it was. Long gone was that first day of spring, the day when the Emperor had returned to reign once more over his land, his palace, and his servants. Barely a week later, new and unfamiliar servants, workmen, laundry attendants, and barbers had begun to appear. Each of them bore the honest face and trustworthy eyes that are the most important qualities of a spy. Discord, mistrust, lies, and treachery soon began to take their toll. Former confidantes trusted each other no more and old friends kept a suspicious eye on each other. So it was in the palace, so it was across the whole land.

Among the Emperor’s servants at the time, there were precious few who were honest and fearless. Among this number was Angelina. She was silent, for what did she have to contribute? She lived a more isolated life than before. She even felt disconnected from her aunt, recalling the months during which Véronique had been invisible and inaccessible. Angelina was both silent and aloof. Her son no longer belonged to her, she had left Wokurka, she loved only the great Emperor, she had lost herself, her sins burdened her, she had lived in confusion, weak and foolish, and had sacrificed herself unthinkingly. She was lost. She belonged to the great Emperor. He, however, knew nothing of her. She was tiny and insignificant, more insignificant then one of the flies that buzzed through the Emperor’s room, a barely noticeable nuisance. A barely noticeable nuisance, but whatever the case, she loved him. Her heart was young, hot, and tender. Sometimes, when she was gazing with adoration at one of his many portraits, she felt like one of the tiny flies that crawled deliberately, even fervently, like herself but insignificant and repulsive, along the picture.

Her heart commanded her to remain close to his gracious presence, lowly and ignored as she was. To live in the golden shadow that only he of all the people in the world could cast upon his servants was bliss. To watch his every visible move with love and fervent devotion without even being noticed was pure happiness. In his presence one could be insignificant and proud. His shadow was golden and more radiant than the light of any others. One served him but he was unaware. To be in his service was pride itself.

All over people were speaking of war. They feared it. The Emperor brought war! He seemed too great for peace. He went forth not like a man but blew through the land like a mighty wind. People were now beginning to hate him. Bared swords seemed to precede him on every path he trod, while the Imperial eagle circled over his head. Whenever he celebrated a holiday his cannon boomed in the towns and villages. Angelina loved his swords, his eagle, and the booming cannons of his celebrations. And as she loved him, she also loved war. His enemies were also her enemies. She wanted his greatness to increase and her smallness to become still more insignificant. She alone longed for war, which all others feared. She had relinquished her son long ago. When she said farewell to him in the great, mercilessly shadeless barracks yard, surrounded by strange women and soldiers, her heart was enveloped in stone and iron. Her eyes were hard and dry and she saw her poor little son as though through a sheer transparent veil of frozen tears. She wept only on the evening that she watched the Emperor leave after the lackey had stamped out the torch. A sudden terror mounted in her, clamped her heart, and lodged in her throat. She fell to her knees and began praying.

A few days later, as the bells announced the Emperor’s first victory, she entered a church for the first time in years. It was the little Church of Saint Julien, in which her son had been baptized. She was alone. Nobody was praying for the Emperor and his soldiers, except for the bells, high above in the belfry, but even they chimed only because they had been ordered to. It was late in the evening. Under the golden shimmer of the pleasant wax candles, kneeling before the eternal light of the cheery ruby-red lamp, with the deep boom of the golden-voiced bells causing the black pews and the bright little altar to shiver, surrounded by the breathing, holy solitude of the empty yet living space, Angelina began to recite the long-unspoken words of the “Our Father” and the “Hail Mary.” She prayed, sinfully, a prisoner of her great love, for the death of all the Emperor’s enemies. She imagined with a sinful blood lust thousands of mutilated bodies — the bodies of Englishmen, Prussians, and Russians; colorful uniforms riddled with bullet holes from which blood trickled; split skulls; oozing brains and glassy eyes. Over all these horrors galloped the Emperor on his snow-white horse, sword raised, and the completely unharmed Frenchmen thundered after him over endless fields strewn with enemy corpses in all directions. These images made Angelina happy and she prayed still more ardently. In a special prayer she wished the most horrible of all deaths upon the Empress Marie Louise, and she could clearly see the Empress dying, surrounded by all the terrifying monsters prematurely borne out of hell, tortured by the spectral visions that were a product of her evil conscience and cursed by Napoleon’s son who stood angry and vengeful at her deathbed.

Angelina crossed herself, thanked the Lord with a full heart for all the troubles he inflicted upon the Emperor’s enemies, and then left. The bells were still tolling to announce the victory. In the streets she encountered only bright and happy faces. Light and fluffy cloudlets were floating under the darkening sky like cheery and triumphant little banners. Silver shimmered the first stars, the stars of the Emperor: all the stars in the heavens were now his stars. The damp broadsides freshly pasted to the walls announced victory, the victory of the Emperor over the entire world.

Angelina ran to the palace. It was a long way from the Church of Saint Julien to the Elysée, but she made it back quickly and happily; the road itself seemed to be rising up to meet her. The frenzied cheering of the crowds that had gathered in front of the news bulletins on the walls and were greeting the Emperor’s victory gave wings to her steps. She was propelled by their cheers and happy in the belief that her prayers had assisted the Emperor.

Alas! She knew not the great Emperor was at that moment wandering, defeated, dejected, and helpless yet still magnificent, among the dead remnants of his last great army. It was the very hour at which Paris was celebrating his victory. On the battlefield of Waterloo, however, the dying moaned, the wounded screamed, and the beaten were fleeing.