“Yes, yes,” she said, but no longer believed him.
Upon arriving at the house, they saw all its residents — who were craftsmen, coachmen, and lackeys — standing at the door. Something extraordinary had happened: the midwife Pocci had returned and with her Véronique Casimir. They had both refused to give out any information, but had only asked after Angelina and proclaimed quite generally and solemnly that they came back because “a whole new era was dawning.”
Véronique Casimir had not changed, nor had Barbara Pocci. Where both women had been living for so long, nobody dared ask. Both were recognizable at first glance and had returned wholly unchanged: the midwife Pocci was still trustworthy yet menacing, bony, and gaunt, and Mademoiselle Casimir was still plump yet nimble.
“You mustn’t do it,” she said to the shoemaker. “You’ll lose your right to a pension if you go and the Emperor returns. And sure as my name is Véronique Casimir, sure as I have predicted, as all the world knows, the Emperor’s battles, both victories and defeats, now I predict that he’s coming back soon, and nothing can stop it.”
Véronique Casimir did not say any of this lightly. She proved it too. She proved it in the presence of all the residents of the house, of neighbors in the quarter who had been either invited or compelled to come and in the presence of many strangers, all of whom had gathered — rapt, credulous, and hopeful — in the cobbler’s room and even filled the passage or sometimes had to wait in the street outside. She proved it through the irrefutable cards. She repeated it every evening: “The Emperor is preparing for his departure. Eleven hundred men are accompanying him. They have anticipated many dangers, but all these dangers are dispersing and evaporating as the Emperor approaches. All doors are opened for him. The people are cheering him. He has won, he has won! He comes, he comes!”
“And then?” the cobbler Wokurka would sometimes inquire. “What will happen then?”
“That I cannot see,” answered Véronique Casimir. And she collected her cards together and bustled out through a street crowded with awe-struck believers.
XII
One evening — spring had long since announced its arrival, but had quickly been chased away again by winter’s merciless rebirth — Angelina heard the wooden leg of the returning Wokurka rapping more hurriedly, nimbly, and loudly upon the cobbles in front of the house than ever before.
He arrived out of breath. It was hailing outside. There were wet little hailstones on his shoulders and water ran down from his single boot to form a large black puddle on the floor. He did not remove his cap. He remained standing in the doorway and said: “Angelina, things are happening! He comes tomorrow! The King is on the run!”
She stood up. She had been sitting on a stool peeling potatoes and they fell to the floor with a series of thuds. “He’s coming?” she repeated. “Tomorrow? And the King flees?”
“He’s coming!” Wokurka reiterated. And although at that moment he knew that he had lost Angelina, he said for a third time, with happiness gleaming on his face and joy ringing in his voice: “He’s coming! It’s definite!”
That evening Véronique Casimir did not come by. The residents of the house, the neighbors, and also strangers came and inquired after her. She did not come. Midwife Pocci’s door also remained closed.
“Is it really true that he’s coming?” Angelina asked.
“He comes tomorrow, definitely tomorrow,” said Wokurka.
They ate silently. They felt both happy and unhappy at the same time, relieved and unsettled, fortunate and unfortunate. And yet neither could say why they felt these conflicting feelings.
They lay down but could not get to sleep. Each of them remained awake, hoping and believing that the other was asleep.
When dawn’s light arrived, Angelina got up quietly. She thought that she had not awakened Wokurka. But he had never actually fallen asleep. He watched her get up. He saw her hastily wash and dress. She came back to bed and kissed him, but he did not move. From behind his half-closed eyelids he saw her go and he knew she did not mean to come back.
He did not move. He was dead. He had once lost a leg for the Emperor; now he was losing a woman for the Emperor.
Six weeks later he learned from Barbara Pocci that Angelina was back in the Imperial palace. He immediately made his way to her. He waited outside the gate and she came to meet him. “Good day,” she said. “It’s nice that you want to see me again!” She was wearing the livery of the Imperial servants, the dark-blue dress, white apron, and blue cap. She looked both beautiful and foreign.
He said: “I have come, Angelina, to ask you once more whether you will go with me!”
“No!” she replied firmly, as if she had never told him she would go in the first place.
It began to rain lightly, then more heavily. It was a good, warm, almost summer-like rain. He watched as her clothes got wet, heard the rain pounding harder and harder, looked at her as she stood there, lost. He knew that they had nothing more to say to each other.
“Adieu, Angelina,” he said. “If you need me — I’m not going home, I’m going to wait until you need me again.”
They shook hands. Both hands were wet and there was no warmth in either. It seemed that they were not actually shaking hands but exchanging rain. Angelina watched him hobble away with concerted and cautious effort and disappear into the torrent.
XIII
A palpable excitement descended upon the land. An even greater yet entirely different kind of excitement ruled within the palace, among both the ladies and gentlemen of the Emperor and among the servants. All the prominent events that were occurring in the world, and the even more substantial ones that were now in preparation had been caused and incited by the Emperor Napoleon himself. He was great and impetuous, but the world preferred to stay small and cautious, as it was. The Emperor’s servants knew nothing of the terror that he was spreading around the world. They knew only the terror he inspired within his own house. Certainly they were of lesser importance to the Emperor than the kings, his enemies. But the servants lived near him, heard his voice on a daily basis, felt his gracious or scolding gaze upon them, heard his affectionate praise or furious curses. Thus they, in contrast to the rest of the world, felt the significance of his every occasional glance, good mood, or malicious word. The world was already arming itself for war, out of fear for his might and his rash behavior. The servants of the court, however, were preparing for the Emperor’s move from the Tuileries to the Elysée. His decision to move appeared to the men and women of the court more significant than the war for which the countries of the world were already beginning to prepare. If Véronique Casimir, now restored to her old rank and former dignity, had not foretold the war’s proximity with her cards, the men and women of the Imperial household would have given no thought whatsoever to the world at large, to danger, to life and death. But despite the prophecies of Véronique Casimir, and although doom was already spreading its somber wings over the Emperor’s house, his servants could not feel it coming and continued to sense disaster nearing only with the Emperor’s wrath or receding with his mirth. They began to prepare with genuine enthusiasm for the move. They postulated all kinds of hypothetical reasons for the Emperor’s decision. The evening before the move to the other palace, twelve hours before the Emperor’s departure, they gathered in the hall for a detailed inspection by Véronique Casimir. Twelve coaches were already waiting below for the servants and baggage. For the last time — and they had no idea that it was the last time — they took their meal in the great dining hall. They spoke of nothing but the move. One proclaimed he knew for certain that the Emperor was moving because his wife was arriving from Vienna in two days and would not feel safe enough in the Tuileries. Another asserted that was wrong, that the Emperor was without doubt only giving the appearance of moving, with the intention of misleading the informants of the treacherous Minister of Police, whom he hated. A third insisted that he knew the truth; he had information from the Emperor’s valet himself that Napoleon had no intention of living in either palace, but wanted to go to Malmaison once and for all, to ensconce himself in the memory of his first wife. Others contradicted the first, second, and third. Véronique Casimir, at the head of the long table, called for silence. She forbade everyone to indulge in such idle talk; one never knew who was safe and who was treacherous, considering the infiltration of Fouché’s spies in many places.