“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.