And so it was. Long gone was that first day of spring, the day when the Emperor had returned to reign once more over his land, his palace, and his servants. Barely a week later, new and unfamiliar servants, workmen, laundry attendants, and barbers had begun to appear. Each of them bore the honest face and trustworthy eyes that are the most important qualities of a spy. Discord, mistrust, lies, and treachery soon began to take their toll. Former confidantes trusted each other no more and old friends kept a suspicious eye on each other. So it was in the palace, so it was across the whole land.
Among the Emperor’s servants at the time, there were precious few who were honest and fearless. Among this number was Angelina. She was silent, for what did she have to contribute? She lived a more isolated life than before. She even felt disconnected from her aunt, recalling the months during which Véronique had been invisible and inaccessible. Angelina was both silent and aloof. Her son no longer belonged to her, she had left Wokurka, she loved only the great Emperor, she had lost herself, her sins burdened her, she had lived in confusion, weak and foolish, and had sacrificed herself unthinkingly. She was lost. She belonged to the great Emperor. He, however, knew nothing of her. She was tiny and insignificant, more insignificant then one of the flies that buzzed through the Emperor’s room, a barely noticeable nuisance. A barely noticeable nuisance, but whatever the case, she loved him. Her heart was young, hot, and tender. Sometimes, when she was gazing with adoration at one of his many portraits, she felt like one of the tiny flies that crawled deliberately, even fervently, like herself but insignificant and repulsive, along the picture.
Her heart commanded her to remain close to his gracious presence, lowly and ignored as she was. To live in the golden shadow that only he of all the people in the world could cast upon his servants was bliss. To watch his every visible move with love and fervent devotion without even being noticed was pure happiness. In his presence one could be insignificant and proud. His shadow was golden and more radiant than the light of any others. One served him but he was unaware. To be in his service was pride itself.
All over people were speaking of war. They feared it. The Emperor brought war! He seemed too great for peace. He went forth not like a man but blew through the land like a mighty wind. People were now beginning to hate him. Bared swords seemed to precede him on every path he trod, while the Imperial eagle circled over his head. Whenever he celebrated a holiday his cannon boomed in the towns and villages. Angelina loved his swords, his eagle, and the booming cannons of his celebrations. And as she loved him, she also loved war. His enemies were also her enemies. She wanted his greatness to increase and her smallness to become still more insignificant. She alone longed for war, which all others feared. She had relinquished her son long ago. When she said farewell to him in the great, mercilessly shadeless barracks yard, surrounded by strange women and soldiers, her heart was enveloped in stone and iron. Her eyes were hard and dry and she saw her poor little son as though through a sheer transparent veil of frozen tears. She wept only on the evening that she watched the Emperor leave after the lackey had stamped out the torch. A sudden terror mounted in her, clamped her heart, and lodged in her throat. She fell to her knees and began praying.
A few days later, as the bells announced the Emperor’s first victory, she entered a church for the first time in years. It was the little Church of Saint Julien, in which her son had been baptized. She was alone. Nobody was praying for the Emperor and his soldiers, except for the bells, high above in the belfry, but even they chimed only because they had been ordered to. It was late in the evening. Under the golden shimmer of the pleasant wax candles, kneeling before the eternal light of the cheery ruby-red lamp, with the deep boom of the golden-voiced bells causing the black pews and the bright little altar to shiver, surrounded by the breathing, holy solitude of the empty yet living space, Angelina began to recite the long-unspoken words of the “Our Father” and the “Hail Mary.” She prayed, sinfully, a prisoner of her great love, for the death of all the Emperor’s enemies. She imagined with a sinful blood lust thousands of mutilated bodies — the bodies of Englishmen, Prussians, and Russians; colorful uniforms riddled with bullet holes from which blood trickled; split skulls; oozing brains and glassy eyes. Over all these horrors galloped the Emperor on his snow-white horse, sword raised, and the completely unharmed Frenchmen thundered after him over endless fields strewn with enemy corpses in all directions. These images made Angelina happy and she prayed still more ardently. In a special prayer she wished the most horrible of all deaths upon the Empress Marie Louise, and she could clearly see the Empress dying, surrounded by all the terrifying monsters prematurely borne out of hell, tortured by the spectral visions that were a product of her evil conscience and cursed by Napoleon’s son who stood angry and vengeful at her deathbed.
Angelina crossed herself, thanked the Lord with a full heart for all the troubles he inflicted upon the Emperor’s enemies, and then left. The bells were still tolling to announce the victory. In the streets she encountered only bright and happy faces. Light and fluffy cloudlets were floating under the darkening sky like cheery and triumphant little banners. Silver shimmered the first stars, the stars of the Emperor: all the stars in the heavens were now his stars. The damp broadsides freshly pasted to the walls announced victory, the victory of the Emperor over the entire world.
Angelina ran to the palace. It was a long way from the Church of Saint Julien to the Elysée, but she made it back quickly and happily; the road itself seemed to be rising up to meet her. The frenzied cheering of the crowds that had gathered in front of the news bulletins on the walls and were greeting the Emperor’s victory gave wings to her steps. She was propelled by their cheers and happy in the belief that her prayers had assisted the Emperor.
Alas! She knew not the great Emperor was at that moment wandering, defeated, dejected, and helpless yet still magnificent, among the dead remnants of his last great army. It was the very hour at which Paris was celebrating his victory. On the battlefield of Waterloo, however, the dying moaned, the wounded screamed, and the beaten were fleeing.
Book Three. The Downfall
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