One evening on their way home, when they were already near the palace, the Sergeant-Major raised a finger, pointed toward the palace and said: “He’s had much luck. Perhaps more luck than he deserves.”
It was already late in the evening and the streets were so still that Angelina could hear his words clearly, although they rumbled quite far over her head. At first she did not understand what the Sergeant-Major meant. However, she felt immediate disgust, and even before she figured out to whom he was referring, she began to hate him — and only on account of this single remark.
“Who’s had luck?” she asked in her thin, timid voice.
“Him, naturally, Bonaparte!” It was unusual for someone to refer to the Emperor with this name and Angelina’s hatred of the Sergeant-Major increased.
“The Emperor?” she asked.
“Yes, him naturally!” said the Sergeant-Major.
“You serve in his army!” Angelina replied. She managed these words only with great effort. Her voice was trembling.
“In his army,” said the Sergeant-Major (and he intoned the word “his” spitefully), “many serve who dislike him. But you wouldn’t understand such things, little one!”
They had arrived at the fence, and suspicion was awakened in Angelina — for the first time in her young life, suspicion! — that the Sergeant-Major had stopped speaking of the Emperor only because he feared someone would overhear him.
He lifted her up as he always did at their parting, but not with one arm as at their greeting; for the guards were no longer watching and it was apparently not worth wasting his strength when there were no witnesses. So he raised her with both arms, kissed her noisily on both cheeks, with a sound that echoed into the silent night and set her down to the ground with a jerk, less gently than when they met. When she was safely on earth again, he said: “Tomorrow we will celebrate my departure. The day after tomorrow my leave ends and can’t be extended. The day after tomorrow I must report for duty. Will you be sorry?”
“Yes, I’ll be sorry,” murmured Angelina.
For the first time since her relationship with the Sergeant-Major had begun, she ran cheerfully up the steps and for the first time in weeks she slept gently, without nightmares. The next morning she awoke just as cheerfully as she had fallen asleep. The last day of her agonizing affair had dawned and she felt like a child on the evening before a happy holiday. In the evening, when the Sergeant-Major appeared at the gate punctual and shimmering as always, she ran to meet him almost happily. For the first time she felt sort of thankful toward this colossus and was in fact somewhat ashamed before him. For the first time also she did not shudder at the mustache that brushed gently against her face.
Later, however, when they entered a café named “The Everlasting Joy,” her chipper mood evaporated. To celebrate his farewell, Sergeant-Major Sosthène had invited many of his comrades — non-commissioned officers, two provosts, and some officials. By the time he and Angelina entered, most of them were already assembled. They crowded around the metal-topped counter. Behind it bustled the proprietor, in a green apron and white shirt, with a ruddy bloated face and a cheery black mustache that shone with the same gleam as his eyes. All turned to face the newcomers, as if by command, and cried: “Long live Sosthène!” Mighty and magnificent Sosthène remained at the threshold, open door at his back, for he thought given the circumstances it would be inappropriate for him to close it himself. At his right hip, looking far less impressive than the sabre at his left, clung Angelina. He raised his hand, letting Angelina’s arm drop as he did so, leaving her feeling that he was completely abandoning her in the hour of his triumph, and he thundered: “I’m here, comrades!”
At the same moment, an accordion in the corner began to play one of the customary military marches.
They all began to eat right away — quickly, intently, and silently. They ate tremendous mouthfuls with great appetite, drank down voluminous glasses full, and watched their plates zealously. Angelina did not wish to look at the others, but something made her keep looking and every time she saw one of the guests devour a large forkful, she took ever smaller and daintier forkfuls. This farewell evening was going to drag on forever, she thought, and the jovial men gathered here were all her fiancés, so it mattered not whether Sergeant-Major Sosthène’s leave ended the next morning. She was betrothed to all his friends and was at their mercy.
Once all the beef had been devoured, a Corporal of artillery got to his feet, rapped on his glass, and began a speech.
He spoke of all of Sergeant-Major Sosthène’s heroic deeds and made it sound as if the Emperor had Sergeant-Major Sosthène to thank for all his victories.
After the Corporal was done, the Sergeant-Major stood and confirmed, with only minor corrections, the Corporal’s words. Everyone applauded him.
When midnight struck most of the participants were drunk and no longer had their wits about them. And they began to talk about the Emperor.
The first to speak was Sergeant-Major Sosthène. “Each of us sitting here,” he said, “could have had the same luck.” But in reality, he meant that only he, Sergeant-Major Sosthène Levadour, could have had the same luck and no one else.
“Each of us,” repeated the Corporal who had given the oratory on the Sergeant-Major.
“He’s a lucky guy!” said one of the provosts taking part in the festivities, a gray-haired fellow with a shriveled-up face.
“He’s a fox!” said another.
“He’s thoughtless and unscrupulous,” began a third. “Think about it, my comrades, think how easily he betrayed the people and their freedom.”
“The French people!” interjected a fourth.
“He has betrayed the liberty of the people,” said Sergeant-Major Sosthène, “yes indeed, that he has! I must say that, even though I’m one of his soldiers, a soldier in our glorious army.”
“Certainly, we have abundant glory,” the Corporal of the artillery proclaimed. “And it is quite true that without him we wouldn’t have seen the world and it wouldn’t have trembled before us. Nevertheless, I must say. .”
The Provost finished the Corporal’s sentence: “Nevertheless, I must say that we have him to thank for everything, our Little Corporal.”
The company did not entirely agree with him. It remained quiet for some time after these words. Sergeant-Major Sosthène alone, being even more intoxicated than the others, spoke with a bitter tone and a tone that was no longer reliable: “As far as I, myself, and fellows of my type are concerned, we should have conquered the world anyhow. Right, my comrades?”
He looked from one to the next, lips still grinning beneath his moist and disheveled mustache, black eyes glowing spitefully from a warm and ruddy face. Nobody answered him. They all occupied themselves with something or another. One lifted his glass to the light and studied it for possible dust. Another polished his fork with the tablecloth. A third wore a vacant smile, as though he had not been listening to the conversation for hours. A fourth drank the rest of his wine with a conspicuous slowness, as if trying to taste each and every drop with his tongue. Despite his drunkenness, Sergeant-Major Sosthène noticed that the whole group had abandoned him. He propped both his giant fists on the table and stood, seeming to be supporting himself on his arms not his legs. And he said, with a glance at Angelina at his side: “Comrades! What’s the General without us? What’s an Emperor without soldiers? Who’s greater: the Emperor or the army? Who’s greater, I ask? Who’s greater, I ask?”
But no answer came.