“You see, I never recognized you before, you traitor. I didn’t realize the whole truth — that we are all reincarnations of our past selves. How could I guess that it was you who betrayed the Revolution and then betrayed me to the Allies and the Bourbons? If I’d killed you the first time I would have saved myself. This time I’ll make sure you’re out of the way. I recognize you now. Doctor Rand, is it? I know your real name — Talleyrand!”
The doctor glanced toward the door. Hadn’t the nurse looked in and out again just then, before he could stop her? That meant she was calling help. Yes, now he could hear footsteps and sounds in the outer office. She had summoned the police. But they couldn’t stop him; this wasn’t Waterloo, this time there wouldn’t be any Waterloo.
Doctor Rand turned and said, “Mr. Throng!” — but it was too late. He aimed carefully and felt his finger move along the trigger.
He closed his eyes, started to squeeze and pull. Everything was squeezing and pulling and Josephine was dead, Talleyrand must die, he would raise a new army and they’d come out of the grave for him, the Marshals of France: Lannes, Bessières, Davout, Marmont — all of them. Squeeze and pull — now!
Then he fired and Talleyrand was lying on the floor and there was shouting. A man in a blue uniform ran into the room and he had a gun too — he was the Enemy.
Squeeze and pull, run for the window, it was jammed, the glass splintered all around him, trapped, the Old Guard dies but never surrenders, aim and fire now, this is Waterloo after all, jump, black and falling — Vive l’Empereur...
The man who looked like Napoleon lay on the sidewalk. He was quite dead by the time Doctor Rand got downstairs.
Doctor Rand felt lucky that he had got off with only a flesh wound in the shoulder. Thank goodness the nurse had got the police in time!
He stared down at poor Mr. Throng and shook his head. A classical example of megalomania. It was almost a comic strip cliché — the man who thought he was Napoleon. Poor Throng, with his theories of reincarnation, his pitiful misinterpretation of coincidence!
Doctor Rand turned as the homicide men arrived. They were talking to the patrolman who had burst into the office and fired the shot which had saved his life and sent Mr. Throng tumbling out of the window.
He walked up to the patrolman and held out his hand. “Thanks,” he said. “If you hadn’t got him in time—”
“That’s my job,” said the patrolman. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“Well, I appreciate it, Mr.—”
“Wellington,” said the patrolman. “Wellington’s the name.”