One Sunday, when she was accompanying her aunt on her round of visits, they came to the Provost’s house. There she met his nephew, the magnificent Sergeant-Major Sosthène, whose heart she inflamed from the very first moment.
Nothing distinguished him from most of the other sergeant-majors in the Imperial cavalry. Tall, vibrant, brave, twice wounded and decorated, he was much like the rest of his comrades. When Angelina was only a few steps away from him, she saw him as a world unto himself — a world of sabres, spurs, boots, and woven braid, a world of blue and red. Even his face was a part of his uniform. He was a being composed not of limbs and organs like all other human beings, but rather of colors. Next to him, little Angelina had, in order to converse with him, to cast an upward gaze along his front, as though he were a colorful mountain, and it took quite a while for her to spot the peak, a mighty blue-black mustache with a frightening sheen, and over this two gaping, black, crater-like nostrils.
He left her feeling apathetic — and she only gave the appearance of being interested — when he told tales about his battles and the foreign lands in which he had fought, lived, and loved. Favorably, but not without criticism, he discussed the Emperor’s strategies. It would not have taken much for the Emperor to have lost this battle or been killed in that one, or at the very least been taken prisoner. Those people, including the Provost, who had only seen the Imperial Army on parade, had no idea of the importance of chance and luck in battle. Perhaps it was only a coincidence that the Colonel of the Sergeant-Major’s regiment had not become Emperor. “Only God can know,” said the Provost’s wife.
“There’s no God!” said the Sergeant-Major firmly. Equally decisively, and with the gallant and noisy bow of an armed beast, he invited Angelina and her aunt to dine with him.
They dined at a fine inn on baked sole, beef with coarse salt, sweet carrots, and tender baby onions — a soldier’s meal. The Sergeant-Major rapped on the floor thrice with his sabre, and the waiter brought a sharp Rhineland wine. There too the Sergeant-Major had tamed the Germans, and with every gulp he voiced his recollections. To finish, they drank coffee and several cognacs. At that point Aunt Véronique declared that her work awaited. “One moment,” said the Sergeant-Major, “I will escort you, Madame.” He hunched over and Aunt Véronique straightened up; thus he could reach her arm with his mighty fist, grab it, and lead her clinking all the way to the door. He offered a military salute and returned, a beaming mountain, to Angelina.
That evening, she learned a good bit about the world — a carriage ride, a fair that was bright as day on account of countless lanterns, another cognac and, finally, a little red-golden room, a bottle of champagne, and love on a cramped sofa no larger than a roomy cradle. Angelina’s head hung dazed and confused over the arm, causing painful pressure on her neck. She felt that her body parts were in scattered disarray, much like her clothes were at that moment. A colorful, strange mountain was embracing her with all its might and was about to crush her completely.
She finally emerged from the room to a graying morning sky. In the carriage, as she began to put her hair and clothes in order, she eventually convinced herself that none of her body parts were missing. The Sergeant-Major’s whiskers brushed against her face and neck a few more times as they stood before the palace. He let go of her and ordered her to wave. She obeyed and she watched him wave back. She scurried up the familiar staircase to her room. Her roommates were still asleep. She did not pray before bed, for the first time in her life.
With a dark awareness that life was very difficult and quite unintelligible, a dangerous and extraordinary burden, she sank into a deep slumber.
IV
So it came to pass that Véronique Casimir’s prophecy was fulfilled — a bearded man in uniform lay at Angelina’s feet. He waited for her every morning at the servants’ entrance after her work was done. He stood there, ever punctual, large, and colorful. Long before she reached him, Angelina could see him, gloriously gaudy, through the park fence and the green of the trees. The first silvery stars were already glimmering in the clear sky, and the shining dragoon’s helmet with its mighty curved rib and black horsetail seemed almost to reach them. It was not out of longing that Angelina ran toward him — but fear and anxious impatience. He waited motionless, like a multicolored rock, until she reached him. She was not bold enough to look up to his top, to his towering, dazzling zenith. Her sky-blue bonnet reached only up to the pommel of his sabre and his lowest vest button. With a powerful arm, and without needing to bend at all, he lifted her up to his face level and, as her legs dangled helplessly in mid-air, his mustache rubbed against her forehead, her closed eyes, and her freckled cheeks, like a soft brush. She floated breathlessly between heaven and earth for what felt like an eternity. At last he let her slip dizzily back to the ground again. She staggered along at his right hip, while his sabre rattled at his left. His spurs jingled menacingly and his boots crunched lightly but sharply. Thus they headed off to the evening’s leisure.
His leave seemed never to end; apparently he had much influence in his regiment. Equally evident was the fact that his need for Angelina’s love was a long way from being satiated. He could, as he had hinted a few times, get himself transferred to a cavalry regiment in Paris. The mere thought of it filled Angelina with genuine terror. She dared not ask when he would be leaving. When he reiterated that he could serve just as well in Paris as in Lyons or Grenoble, she realized that he was waiting for her endorsement and encouragement. She accepted and submitted to him with the same resignation as one gives in to fate. He fell upon her regularly every evening at the same time like a colorful, clattering avalanche. Although broken and exhausted, the very fact that she could rise again with her body in one piece seemed to be blessing enough. Clearly, this man had been destined for her from the dawn of time. Even the cards had foretold it.
High over her head, so that she could hardly understand him, he prattled away tirelessly. She heard rumbling noises, little claps of thunder, and when sometimes he sneezed it sounded like a cloudburst. It was only when she sat across from him at the table that she could actually understand what he was saying, although she could not fully comprehend its meaning. Spellbound but not without rancor, as one can sometimes be entranced by something odious and ugly, little Angelina watched the grotesque movements of the mighty masculine mouth that seemed to be chewing while he spoke, the large red lower lip and the mustache that swept continuously through the empty air. The Sergeant-Major spoke lofty words, but to Angelina their ponderous tedium caused them to fall flat. Still, she did not dare look away from his face.
Although she felt that he alone was the cause of her worst sins, it seemed to be an even greater sin to resist and not obey him. She was therefore completely at a loss. She felt that henceforth she was without the power to choose between virtue and sin, condemned to sway back and forth between two kinds of sin. She realized that since this mighty man had forced himself upon her, she had abandoned her old and comforting habit of attending church, out of fear that — helpless and stained as she believed herself to be — she might infuriate God through her presence alone. She longed to return to the forever-vanished days of her childhood purity.