After he had gone a short way, he could see a hazy light between the tree trunks. Soon he arrived at a wide clearing where a last pallor of day still lingered. In front of him stretched an overgrown lawn in the shape of an amphitheater on top of which he could see the vague outline of a building, its dark mass dotted with only two or three lights. Taking a shortcut across the lawn, where the dew-laden grass soon soaked his shoes and the bottoms of his trousers, he made his way toward the building.
When he was up close, he saw that it was a pretentious construction, a sort of small château, built very high, with ornate moldings that resembled cake decorations, and with a long, low, ramshackle annex on one side, like a shed. The general effect was one of dilapidation.
The lights were on in the shed, and from one of the open windows came the clink of cutlery, suggesting the presence of a large number of people at dinner. A stale odor of cooking floated in the air; it smelled like a camp kitchen.
Napoleon hesitated to go farther. He stood in the shade of an elm on the edge of the lawn near a bench. He sat down, shivering on contact with the stone, which was wet with dew.
The noise of the cutlery ceased. There was a sound of footsteps and chairs being moved. The door of the shed opened and in the rectangle of light a silhouette appeared, draped in a long, flowing dustcoat like the concierge at the entrance gate and wearing the same type of cloth skull cap. This person breathed in the evening air for a moment and then stood aside, allowing a single file of about twenty people to pass by; they were dressed in a strange assortment of cast-off clothing.
Once out in the open air, this procession broke up. Like monks meditating in a cloister, some stood pensively in the middle of the terrace in front of the house; others, plunged in solitary thought, began to walk up and down the main path, every man alone, some staring at the ground, some gazing at the stars. The strange brotherhood slowly dispersed through the park; two of its members passed in front of Napoleon without seeing him, but in the shadows Napoleon himself began to tremble violently as he recognized their clothing at last. The key to the mystery came to him in a flash — and this normally fearless man felt himself for a moment transfixed with terror. Was it really possible that the medical officer had planned to trap him like this? Was he really capable of such a dreadful scheme?
One of the walkers came and sat on the same bench as Napoleon but did not look at him. Like his companions, he was wearing some sort of shabby fancy dress, improvised from bits and pieces, a patched-up mixture of cheap finery and rags which attempted to reproduce the classical dress of Napoleon in the field, as it was always pictured in the popular imagination: gray frock coat, white waistcoat and trousers, grand cordon around his neck, riding boots; a wooden sword completed the outfit. As for the famous little hat, it was made of thick paper, fairly carefully sewn and stuck together, and daubed with India ink.
Napoleon stared at him, hypnotized: under the grotesque disguise, a frightful thing to behold, the pale face bore the stamp of pensive nobility; the thin lips indicated inflexible resolve; under the paper hat, the staring eyes, accentuated by a drooping lock of hair, probed the depths of the night. It was as if, through the years, the relentless effort of thought — or rather of the single obsession that had taken the place of bygone thoughts — had succeeded in slowly modifying the features of his physical exterior to make it conform to the strict likeness of the Emperor. This miserable wreck presented an image of his model a thousand times more faithful, more worthy, and more convincing than the unlikely bald fruiterer who, seated beside him, was examining him with such amazement.
Other napoleons came and went around him; in the middle of the lawn, where a patch of white mist now hovered, one of them peered into the shadows through a cardboard telescope; another spread an old newspaper on the stone balustrade, as if it were a staff map. There were some who sat astride rusty garden chairs, lost in thought. And despite the forlorn parade of their borrowed garb, despite even the incongruous movements and bizarre postures — there was one of the company who only moved about by hopping, following the complicated layout of an imaginary game of hopscotch, and there was a short fat man who spun around on his heel like a top, with arms outstretched and coattails flying in the wind — all their faces showed a kind of solemn melancholy, a pensive seriousness, which was oddly impressive.
A bell rang. Like schoolboys at the end of recess, they formed ranks and filed back to the house, where one of the ubiquitous guards in a greatcoat was waiting for them under the lamp on the terrace.
Napoleon clenched his teeth and crouched in the shadow of the elm. He waited for a long while without moving.
Now indivisible from the darkness, the garden was once more silent and still.
He got up at last; his legs were stiff, his clothes were now quite damp.
Turning his back to the house, he crept along the lawn under the cover of the tall trees, then took the path in the direction from which he had come.
His eyes were now accustomed to the dark. From time to time he stopped for a moment to listen; but each time, all he could hear was the slight sound of the wind stirring the leaves.
At last the entrance gate came into view. When he saw the patch of light which the streetlamp cast on the high pillars of the gate, he felt like the sailor who, in the depths of the night, suddenly catches sight of the first light on the shore.
Slowly, silently, he drew near to the little door. He felt for the bolt: it had been padlocked!
He looked up. From the inside, the surface of the gate was nothing but smooth, slightly shiny sheet metal, surmounted by iron spikes which pointed at the stars.
To both left and right, the high walls bristling with pieces of broken glass made climbing impossible.
Twenty paces away, there stood a little gatekeeper’s lodge, half submerged under wistaria; its only window was dimly lit by the glow of a candle.
He made up his mind immediately — and anyway, he had no choice. No longer trying to muffle the sound of his footsteps, and feigning confidence, he walked straight toward the lodge and banged on the window. He had already made up his story, which he would tell quite coolly: he had come to discuss food supplies with the director of the institution, Dr. Quinton. The name of this alienist, in charge of a mental hospital in the suburbs, had just come to his mind in a flash; though he had never met him personally, he had often heard the medical officer mention him as an old schoolmate and frequent partner at billiards. Napoleon’s prodigious memory had registered and stored this bit of information months ago, and now his sudden predicament instantly triggered the connection.
… But he did not even have to tell his tale; no doubt, his face and appearance were enough to suggest the healthy vulgarity of a tradesman — or had the concierge received specific instructions? — the fact remains that the latter scarcely glanced at him as he shuffled sleepily out of his lodge and, without showing the least curiosity, unbolted the little door and with complete indifference returned him to the indifference of the world outside.
VII. UBI VICTORIA?
AS THE GATE SHUT behind him, he found himself back in the empty street, under a street-lamp where moths flew round and round in the light.
He had some difficulty working out where he was in this unfamiliar part of town. He tried different streets and got lost. When at last he arrived in the neighborhood of the Impasse-des-Chevaliers-du-Temple, it was nearly midnight.