He entered his carriage. “He’s Job! He’s Job!” rang in his ears.
“He’s the Emperor Job!” the wheels repeated.
The Emperor Job continued toward Paris.
III
He sat alone in the carriage. His back hurt horribly. The carriage sped along the smooth highway. It cut through the night, whose silvery blue luster and sweet summer scents of grass and dew were wafted in on both sides through the open carriage windows. The Emperor had long since overtaken his retreating soldiers. The pathetic clink of the defeated weapons could no longer be heard far and wide. All that was audible was the steady rapid hoof beats of the horses on stones, dirt, and wooden bridges, and the dreary rumbling of the wheels. Occasionally they seemed to speak. They repeated now and then: “He’s Job! He’s Job! He’s Job!” Then they fell silent once more, as if they remembered that they were mere carriage wheels and had no right to take on a human voice. Because of his severe back pain the Emperor reclined. But as he lay practically prostrate upon the cushions a new and different pain suddenly awakened, stabbing like a dagger through his heart, lasting only a second before darting from his chest and transforming into a delicate saw that began slowly and finely to slice through his intestines. The Emperor sat upright again. He looked through the windows of his carriage, left and right. This summer night was endless. Paris seemed further away than ever. As quickly as they were moving, it seemed to the Emperor that the horses were gradually slowing and he leaned out the window and shouted: “Faster, faster!” Down came the whip like the crack of a shot awakening a long, solemn sharp echo in the still of the night. The wheels began anew their rumbling chant: “He’s Job!” And the old familiar pain returned to the Emperor’s back.
He thought of old Job. He no longer had any clear idea of those biblical stories. He had never wished to conjure one of the downtrodden servants of God in his imagination. If ever he had made a fleeting attempt to conceive a vague notion of one of them, he saw him basically in the form and effeminate costume of a priest. Yes, a priest! And at that moment, for the first time, he could see old Job quite clearly; he even recalled having once met him, immeasurably long years ago. Years that were as wide as oceans. And they were red, like oceans of blood. The Emperor had once seen old Job himself; he was the kind and fragile poor old man whom people called “the holy father” and whom he, the Emperor, had once brought from the Holy City of Rome so the old man could anoint him. The Emperor now saw the pathetic old man again. Job seemed to be sitting opposite him in the back seat, just as humbly as once he had sat in one of the armchairs at the Imperial palace. With his patient old eyes he stared into the bold impatient ones of the Emperor. And sharp and clear-sighted as were the Emperor’s eyes, he knew that the humble and frail old man could see more than he himself, the Emperor. Yes this old man was Job, thought Napoleon. And for a moment he was comforted by that thought. Then it seemed that the old man was trying to whisper something, leaning over so as to be better understood, and repeating: “You too are Job! One day we will all be Job!” Yes, so it is. The Emperor nodded.
Just then the rapid hoof beats drummed loudly upon a wooden bridge and the Emperor awoke. He looked out the window. The horizon seemed to be brightened by the lights of the nearby great city, his city of Paris, where his throne stood, and he thought no more of old Job. The wheels also seemed to have forgotten him for they now sang a different tune — “On to Paris! On to Paris! On to Paris!” Now everything will be fine again, thought the Emperor. Now I will reveal and punish the traitors. Now I will discipline the lawyers, gather my soldiers, and defeat my enemies. I am still the Emperor Napoleon! My throne still stands! My eagle still circles! A few minutes later, however, as they got closer and closer to the capital, he grew anxious again. He could still see his soaring eagle, but it was being chased and was soon overtaken by numerous black ravens that flew more swiftly than he. Surrounded by crows the Imperial eagle hovered.
What was a throne? Indeed, he the Emperor, who had erected so many and demolished so many, knew very well that it was just a piece of furniture, fragile enough to be smashed by accident. What was an empty throne, a throne without an heir? What was an Emperor without a son? Oh, if only his son still lived in this city! For whom else except his son should he reveal the traitors, scold the lawyers, round up his soldiers, and crush his enemies? For his vain and foolish brothers? For the lowly family from which he had sprung but that in reality sprang from him, as though he were the begetter and not the begotten? For his weak and traitorous friends? For the women who had succumbed to him, as was their nature, and who might just as easily have offered themselves to his fine grenadiers? For those children whom he had perhaps fathered with careless passion? For the army? Yes, perhaps for it alone! Yet he himself had allowed its destruction only a few hours ago! There was no army! His son and heir was far away and powerless! Only the throne remained in the city of Paris, an empty throne, nothing but an armchair of wood and velvet and gold! Worms were already eating through the wood. Moths were already gnawing holes in the velvet. Only the gold survived, the most permanent and deceptive of all materials, the devil’s confidante!
All at once the horses’ pace seemed too swift, the rolling of the wheels too hurried, and he wanted to order that the carriage be driven more slowly. He was suddenly overcome by a fear of Paris and of the empty throne, of the traitors and the lawyers. He needed a little more time to think things over but the city was nearing rapidly, increasingly fast as though it were approaching him so as to meet him halfway, with its teary face and its spectral throne. He wanted to shout: “Slow down! Go slowly!” But they had already reached the first lanes; he could already sense the proximity of the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. He wanted to ask what time it was, for he was puzzled at the darkness of the streets; it seemed to be well past midnight. According to his calculations, however, it could hardly be so late. All the shops were already closed. All the houses were lifeless. Their windows grinned with an empty darkness. He leaned out of the carriage window but could not tell who was now riding alongside. He had wished to ask what time it was, but it came out as: “What day is it?”