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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.