In this hour the Emperor knew that he had lost the battle of Waterloo. The sun was briefly hiding behind an angry purple wall of clouds, before setting. On this evening it disappeared more quickly than usual. Nobody, however, was paying any mind to the sun. All the men on the battlefield, both friend and enemy, had their attention fixed on the Emperor’s Guards. Steadily and deliberately, the Emperor’s Guards marched ahead with a sublime rhythm, over ground that had been soaked by the rain and clung tenaciously to their boots at every squishing step they took. From the hill against which they were advancing, the enemy fired incessantly. The bullets felled the Emperor’s grenadiers, those terrors of the enemy, the chosen of the French people, the brothers of the Emperor and his sons.
They resembled one another like brothers.
Those who saw them marching forth believed they were watching 20,000 brothers, 20,000 brothers begotten of the same father. They were as alike as 20,000 swords forged in the same workshop. They had all grown up on the same battlefield, in the golden, bloody, and deadly shadow of the Emperor. The mightiest of their brothers, however, who had breathed upon, touched, or kissed a hundred times each one of these 20,000 foot soldiers and 4,000 horsemen, was not Napoleon but a far mightier Emperor than he, namely the Emperor Death. They were not afraid of his hollow eyes. They marched toward the crushing embrace of his ever-receptive bony arms with steady confidence, as brother goes toward brother. They loved Death just as he loved them. Their love for Death made them all alike. And because they all resembled each other so closely, the appearance was given that as soon as one fell he rose right up again, whereas in reality it was only one of his brothers who stepped into his place. The appearance was thus created that the advancing line consisted always of the same men. The enemy soldiers fired just to relieve the holy terror that awakened within them again and again as soon as the smoke had cleared and they saw the unwavering steps of the very same men. Soon, however, one could notice that their square was growing ever smaller. And briefly the enemy was struck with an even greater dread, for the Emperor’s grenadiers thus accomplished a greater miracle than the typical one of legends and fairytales, in which one is immortal. The grenadiers of the Emperor were not immune to death, rather they were consecrated to death. And since they had realized now that they were hopelessly outnumbered by the enemy, they were no longer marching toward the enemy but toward their familiar brother, Death. But to show their other great brother, their earthly brother, that they loved him even in their last hour, they shouted with roaring voices, from mighty throats, which were stronger than the jaws of the cannon because it was loyalty itself that issued from their throats: “Long live the Emperor!” And so powerful was this cry that it drowned out the foolish and senseless rumble of the cannon. The loudest cries came from those who had just been struck. They shouted not only out of loyalty but also Death: “Long live the Emperor!”
Thus it was Death himself who spoke louder than the cannon.
When the Emperor heard the cries and saw that all of his 20,000 brothers on foot and his 4,000 brothers on horseback — even the horses themselves were his siblings at that moment — were lost, he too was gripped by an irresistible longing for death. He mingled with them, was now at their head, now on one of their flanks, then at their rear, then again at their head, and finally back in their midst. His back ached, his face was jaundiced and he was panting. When he heard his Guards shouting, “Long live the Emperor!” he drew his sword, lifted it toward the sky like a steely, imploring sixth finger, and cried through the tumult in a hoarse voice: “Death to the Emperor! Death to the Emperor!” But Death heeded neither his imploring sword nor his cry. For the first time in his proud life the Emperor began to pray, breathlessly, with a wide-open mouth and throat from which no sound would issue, as he galloped back and forth. He prayed and not to God, whom he knew not, but to Death, his brother; for of all otherworldly powers, this was the only one he had seen and often felt. “Oh Death! Sweet kindly Death!” he prayed breathlessly and soundlessly. “I await thee, come! My days are fulfilled, as are the days of my brothers. Come soon, while the Sun is still in the heavens! I too was once a sun. It must not sink before me! Forgive me this foolish vanity! I have displayed much vanity, but I have had wisdom and virtues too. I have known it alclass="underline" power and superiority, virtue, goodness, sin, arrogance, and error! I have lived, Brother Death! I have lived and had enough! Come and get me before our sister, the Sun, sets!”
But Death did not come for the Emperor. He watched the sun set. He heard his wounded soldiers groaning. The enemy granted him a brief respite, time enough for him to walk helpless, ailing, and at odds with treacherous Death among the deceased and wounded. A soldier led his horse by the bridle and his adjutant hobbled along behind it. He could not yet grasp that all was lost, everything was destroyed, and he alone still lived. Only two days ago one of his generals had betrayed him. Another had acted foolishly and a third carelessly. But the Emperor quarreled only with the greatest of all generals, the greatest of his brothers — with Death. At the same time, in a strange voice that may once — so long ago! — have been his but that now did not seem to be his, he cried out to the soldiers who were retreating all around him and fleeing past him like so many flitting ghosts: “Halt! Halt! Wait! Wait!” But they did not listen. They continued along on their way and disappeared into the night. Maybe they had not even heard him. Maybe he had only imagined shouting and had in reality said nothing.
A soldier accompanied him with a lantern, and the Emperor signaled to him to bring it ever closer. For over and over he believed that he could recognize this dead man or that wounded one at his feet. Ah, he knew them all better at this hour than the living, scattering soldiers knew him! He gestured once again to the man with the lamp and bent over a tiny, remarkably tiny corpse. It was one of the little drummers of the Imperial Army. Blood was still trickling slowly from the corners of his childish mouth and congealing before the Emperor’s eyes. The Emperor bent lower and then kneeled down. The soldier lowered the lamp to give the Emperor some light. Upon the poor scrawny body of the dead boy lay his instrument, the drum. He still clutched a drumstick in his right hand, but the other hand had fallen into the black muck in which his body lay half-immersed. His uniform was spattered with long-since dried mud. His shako had rolled away from his head. The dead little boy had a pale and thin face saturated with freckles. The hair above the boyish forehead was reddish, like a glowing little flame. His small bright blue eyes were open and glassy. He had no visible wounds on his body. Only out of his mouth did blood ooze, slowly but steadily. The hooves of a horse must have knocked him over and killed him. The Emperor examined the little body very closely. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the trickling blood from the corners of the corpse’s mouth. He opened the boy’s vest. A red and blue handkerchief, folded four times, laid upon the little one’s breast. The Emperor unfolded it. Ah, he knew it well! It was one of the hundreds of thousands of handkerchiefs that he had once ordered manufactured for his soldiers when he was General Bonaparte, along with the pocket knives and the drinking cups. Ah, he knew it well, this handkerchief! On a blue background within red borders, it contained a map with blue, white, and red circles to denote the places where he had fought his battles.
This boy — who could hardly have been fourteen years old — was thus probably the son of one of his oldest soldiers. The Emperor spread the handkerchief across his knees. Half of Europe, the Mediterranean, and Egypt were shown on it. How many battles had followed these! Never again, thought the Emperor, will French soldiers receive such handkerchiefs! Never again will I be able to mark new battles! Let then this last one be included here! He demanded writing implements. They were handed to him. Then he dipped the quill into the silver inkwell, stretched the handkerchiefs across his knees and drew a firm line toward the north, to the point at which the red border already began. On this spot he drew in a large black cross. Then he carefully placed the handkerchief over the boy’s drum, looked into his face once more and suddenly remembered a radiant, sunny morning on which he had spoken to this youth, imagining the bright ring of that boyish voice in his ears and ordered that the pockets of the dead be searched. They found a crumpled note signed “Your mother, Angelina.” In this note, the mother had told him he should definitely expect her in his barracks on the following Sunday at four o’clock in the afternoon. The Emperor carefully folded the note and gave it to the adjutant. “Inquire!” he said, “and give me your report!” Then he rose. “Quickly,” he ordered, “bury the boy!”