All was quiet. For a few moments all felt that they had been scolded by a superior. They looked rather pathetic in their colorful uniforms.
Angelina now felt herself poor, abandoned, and betrayed. She longed for those kind native shores, for her father’s house in Corsica and her poor but happy childhood. All at once, she realized she had given the strange, multicolored mountain something he did not deserve. It seemed to her that up to that very moment she had been living outside of her own body, as if she had given it away like some ordinary thing. She foresaw the great and strict law Nature had delineated for women and understood she had violated it. Relentless, sublime, and beautiful, it commanded girls to belong to their beloved and repel those they did not love. She thought of the room with the wavy green curtain and the Emperor’s portrait on the wall. Suddenly, she was able to shed her shame, and it was as though she had already recovered from her grave sin. She felt now that she could only love the one who was for her — and this love alone, her ability and readiness to love him, was something so great that sin, misdemeanor, error, and shame no longer had any import.
She finally raised her eyes and now, for the first time, they were proud and indifferent. And thus she was able to see that the colorful mountain by her side was so stiff and silent only because he had lost his senses. It was evidently his own special type of inebriation. It was more terrifying than the loud and more common type. The Sergeant-Major sat there unmoving, his small black eyes wide open and gawking. He was more petrified than drunk. Little Angelina nudged his stony-blue sleeve. Sosthène did not budge. She looked at the others. They took no notice of her. Some of them had risen and were playing dice or cards at another table. One of the provosts, the Corporal, and two sergeant-majors were whispering stories to each other and after each one, all four broke into foolish giggles. Angelina rose. She left the table without a word, taking gentle steps. Not even the proprietor noticed her.
She stood outside looking up at the sky. She had forgotten to check the time in the restaurant. It seemed to be far past midnight, and she gazed at the stars in a sudden, fond recollection of those long-gone childhood nights when she had sailed out to sea with her father and the old man had looked to the heavens to determine the time. This night there were only a few stars visible. Between the black clouds, which despite their ponderous heaviness were chasing across the sky at a surprising speed, here and there an occasional silver prick flashed and then disappeared. The wind blew sharply, seeming to come from several different directions at once. The streets were empty and the late lanterns were lonely, flickering unsteadily and unhappily. Now a pale flash of lightning lit up the houses and was followed by the far off rumble of roaming thunder. Little Angelina was frightened. She wrapped her cloak more tightly around her body. Although she did not know in what direction the route she picked would lead her, she decided to push forward without worrying. When she finally reached a corner from which she thought the lamplight of a nearby main street was visible, the first heavy raindrops were starting to fall, and at the next moment a close and dazzling flash of lightning split the clouds. Angelina walked ever more quickly. By the time she reached a wide and better-lit avenue, the rain was pouring down violently, so she sheltered herself in the doorway of a large house. Light was streaming from its windows and gilding the pouring rain. Fine carriages were waiting in front of the building. Angelina found this doorway to be quite pleasant. She found herself immediately taking pleasure in everything before her: the rain, the lightning, the carriages, the fine house, and the gracious doorway. A great joyfulness filled her and made everything around her seem pleasing, even the lightning, thunder, and rain.
It must have already been quite late. A liveried porter descended the steps, opened both wings of the colossal front door, and cast an imperious glance at Angelina. All the coachmen suddenly awoke, as if they had been called, crept from inside their vehicles, stood at the carriage doors, and let down the steps. Angelina continued merrily along the street, in the direction her heart led her. She took measured steps, neither slow nor quick, even though her coat, her dress, and her shoes were wet.
By the time she spied the palace, the rain had eased and the morning was growing noticeably stronger. The sentry was asleep in his guardhouse and did not see her. For the first time since she began working in Paris, she passed without apprehension through the narrow gateway that opened smoothly, silently, and practically hospitably. She climbed the steps. All was calm and peaceful. The misty morning was beaming through the high narrow windows at the staircase landings, and out of the distance came the tentative first song of the awakening birds.
Angelina took from her box the Emperor’s handkerchief, which she had not looked at in a long time, pressed it against her heart and then her cheek, undressed herself, and slept quickly and easily, with the colorful handkerchief under her nightgown, near her happy heart. .
V
All across the land and the world, women loved the Emperor. But to Angelina it seemed that to love the Emperor was a special and mysterious art; she felt betrothed to him, the most exalted lord of all time. He lived within her always. Even as great as he was, there was room enough for him in her little heart; it had grown to absorb the entirety of his splendid majesty. .
She forgot Sergeant-Major Sosthène very quickly, though. He sometimes resurfaced in her memory like a huge shadow emerging from a repressed dream. Anyway, it had been weeks since she had heard from him: no wonder, for the Emperor was readying a new campaign and his regiments changed their positions every week. Few soldiers wrote to their sweethearts and wives during that time.
A day arrived on which something remarkable happened to Angelina, something terrifying, upsetting, and completely incomprehensible. As she was swinging her open smoothing-iron with vigor to incite the charcoal embers, it suddenly flew from her hand, as if ripped away by some unseen force. She watched it crash against the wall, striking it with its pointed end, and then fall to the floor with the coal glowing red in its mouth. Then she felt that she herself was falling into a profound and immeasurable blackness.
She awoke in her bed. Véronique Casimir had been summoned. The kindly, trustworthy woman was now sitting beside Angelina. Angelina came to with clear memory of the iron and the strange force that had pulled it from her grip. “So it is this far along!” she heard Véronique Casimir say. These were the first words she heard upon her return to the world.
This proclamation frightened her. “What is so far along?” she asked.
And gently and calmly, Véronique replied: “You’re having a baby, Angelina. I will make sure that Monsieur Levadour is notified. Have no fear. We’ll fetch him for sure.”
“A child?” asked Angelina. “Why?”