“I say this,” continued Sosthène. “The army is greater! Long live the army!”
Angelina had been sitting still the entire time. A powerful fear and a great, previously unknown shame had gripped her chest. She felt that the shame and fear had a tight hold on her heart, compressing it from both sides at the same time like a pair of iron clamps. She had no idea from whence this shame and fright came. She felt defiled in this company and also guilty for listening to them without contradiction. Suddenly she was also filled with hatred and fury toward all the men at the table and especially against Sergeant-Major Sosthène. She wanted to call for help. With great effort she lifted her hand from her lap — her small, young, reddish hand — and grabbed her glass. She drank a little and all at once she imagined herself again in the grand chamber, near the heavy, undulating green portière, sitting before the crystal decanter. She could even see the Emperor’s portrait on the wall. She suddenly felt free, strong, and bold. A powerful, exhilarating, and intimately familiar force washed over her. She stood up. A joyful hatred hardened her heart. And an unfamiliar, kindly spirit imbued her with brave words.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she said, “for slandering the Emperor. You would be nothing — less than nothing, without him. Not only would you not have seen the world — you wouldn’t have ventured even a mile out of your villages or towns. Without the Emperor you’d have no swords, no helmets, and no braid; not even the money to buy the wine you’re drinking. You only stood with him in battle because he led you. If any one of you has shown bravery you’ve only Napoleon to thank for that too. He alone gave you courage and then medals for your service, medals you don’t deserve. That’s why I say you should be ashamed of yourselves!”
She sat down again. She saw as if from a great distance (although he was sitting at her side) Sergeant-Major Sosthène reach for the carafe and refill his glass. She saw the hands that she knew so well, his stubby-fingered, fleshy, hairy, muscular hands — she saw them both although the Sergeant-Major only stretched one toward the decanter — and she remembered with deep horror and profound shame how these shameless, depraved, hairy tools were used to fondling her flesh, her breasts, her arms, and her thighs.
A great anguish seemed suddenly to have spread around the table. It seemed to everyone that the candles were burning away at a more quick and hurried pace, the tallow disappearing more rapidly, the whole room growing much darker. Nobody felt able to converse with anyone else. It was a pathetic and failed celebration — without a doubt. All were silent.
But just when the spirits of the guests were about to become irretrievably squashed by the gloom, the door flew open and together with the fresh evening breeze that caused the candles to flicker, and, as though carried in with it, Véronique Casimir stormed into the room. She came as if riding, wearing unusually festive clothes — in full armor, that is to say, with bare shoulders and heaving bosom, wearing the light-gray silk gown that was rumored to be a personal gift from the Empress Josephine and which she sported only on special occasions. Between her unnaturally white breasts, from which emanated a delicate cloud of flour-colored powder, hung a heavy and solid piece of jade surrounded by glittering diamonds — a gift from the Empress Josephine and doubtless a magical stone of the first degree. The door remained open for some time, and the stream of fresh night air continued to fan the golden candle flames. The proprietor quickly placed another armchair at the head end of the table. Before they could decide what this gleaming vision portended, Véronique sat down. “I see,” she began with the certain voice of a professional seer, “that you have been arguing. Peace must prevail among you.”
Her pale, fleshy fingers tapped loquaciously upon the white tablecloth, each individual finger a voiceless tongue. A delicate cloud of white powder wafted from her wide face. Behind the cloud the guests could see her black eyes glowing. All were quiet. Véronique was a confidante of the Imperial House. She had prophesied battles, victories and defeats with the cards. She had been a confidante of the Empress and, who knew, perhaps even a confidante of the Emperor himself.
She well knew what the men were thinking. Her primary concern was the prospective marriage of her niece to Sergeant-Major Sosthène. She knew that Angelina, just like all the women in France, loved the Emperor not Sergeant-Major Sosthène — for every woman in the entire land (and perhaps even in the entire world) loved the Emperor at that time and not their own men. When people spoke maliciously about the Emperor, it seemed to Véronique as senseless as if one were to take a stand against some institution of nature. For the moment, her main concern was Angelina’s happiness. Even if Sergeant-Major Sosthène did belong to those Jacobins, he still could marry Angelina eventually.
Still, it upset Véronique Casimir to hear the Emperor slandered. This was not such a rare occurrence at the time; it was even common among the Imperial servants, in many regiments, and among unhappy non-commissioned officers. Indeed, long ago, when the Emperor was still known as Bonaparte, even Véronique Casimir had been tempted, sometimes even while in confidential conversation with the Emperor’s own wife, to let slip strong words against the great one. Recalling this only made her more resolute against those who now dared say anything against the Emperor.
She resolved to deal with these blasphemers on a later occasion, but not to let them see this for the time being. Soon she noticed, however, that the men were gesturing to each other by all kinds of silent and impudent signs that they must have thought were secret and undecipherable to her. Only Sergeant-Major Sosthène sat, gigantic and unmoving, next to little Angelina, and seemingly without comprehension of his friends’ behavior. He offered Véronique Casimir some wine. She drank delicately, cautiously, stretching her little finger when she raised the glass, so that her rings glittered in the candlelight. She took tiny sips from her glass, setting it down after each one, and watched the men’s conspiracy with a spiteful shrewdness. She listened with open and doubly sharpened ears. And suddenly she hear the Corporal whisper to a sergeant-major: “It makes him weak. We are better in bed. .”
Véronique Casimir knew instantly of what they were speaking. Ah! She was familiar with all the hushed rumors and stories about the fleeting and shameless haste of the Emperor’s lovemaking. Maid-servants and laundresses had experienced this brand of love-making, as had ladies of the court and the Empress herself. Yet all of these women, the superior and the inferior, were grateful to the Emperor for his hasty, careless, and indifferent embrace. They never forgot that he was a god and that it is in the nature of gods to love quickly. In those days women could speak the Emperor’s name only with hatred, fear, or love, as though the women who gave themselves to his embrace felt during that brief minute all the passion of the entire world — hatred, fear, and love. Véronique Casimir knew that for these women there was passion stronger than pleasure and that was ambition. True they were not sated when they emerged from the Emperor’s room, but they were uplifted and ennobled. He dismissed them quickly and disappeared just as fast. They left his presence feeling an infinite hunger and a permanent desire to return to him. He possessed all the characteristics of the gods: he was mighty, terrible in his anger, and brief in his grace. The gods are fleeting.
So Véronique raised her glass with a hurried gesture, swallowed down the rest with a single manly gulp, and said with the hard military voice she used to give orders to her staff: “Gentlemen!” This form of address broke up the men’s brazen whispers. Everyone looked up. “Gentlemen!” she repeated. She remained seated, but her face projected such superiority she appeared to be standing. “You don’t seem,” she continued, “used to taking the presence of ladies into consideration. In any event, you should understand that I belong to the Imperial court and so does my niece.” She said “court” and not “household.” “The commentary that you are so timidly whispering to each other is perhaps suitable to your barracks, although I know that even there they aren’t customary. I leave you, gentlemen! I bid you a pleasant evening. And you, Sergeant-Major Sosthène, be sure to bring the little one home punctually. I will be waiting for her. Come speak to me,” she said to Angelina. “Good night!” And before they knew it, she galloped out just as suddenly as she had come in — again leaving the door open behind her for a while, as the wind made the ends of the tablecloth dance and caused the candles to flicker.