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.