“The 20th of June, Your Majesty,” cried an officer next to the carriage.
The nagging pain in the small of his back grew stronger and the Emperor leaned back. He did not know whether he had asked incorrectly or whether the man outside had misunderstood him. “The 20th of June!” It was on the 20th of March that he had come to this capital, just like his pain and related to it, his old superstition returned and terrified him. On the 20th! What a date! His son had been born on the 20th, the Duke of Enghien had been executed at his order on the 20th, and he had returned home for the first time on the 20th! Yes, today was the 20th of June! It was three months, exactly three months! Then — Oh, he remembered very clearly — it was an ominous evening, a cold and spiteful drizzle fell from the heavens, but the people of France, the people of the Emperor, warmed the city with their very breath. They cried: “Long live the Emperor!” Torches and lanterns seemed to be as bright and eternal as the stars that were stubbornly denied by the heavens and the melody of the “Marseillaise” that rose up to him seemed powerful enough to send the clouds fleeing from the sky. A thousand pale bare hands reached out for the Emperor and each hand was like a face; it had been necessary for him to shut his eyes at such sheer triumph, light, and devotion. Now even the windows were black in Paris; it was a fine summer night, calm and silvery blue. The acacias’ scent was overpoweringly strong. The stars glittered doubly bright since the streets were unlit. Pleasant was the night now that he, the Emperor, was defeated! It had been grim then, on the night of his triumph! Cruel was the inscrutable God who so spitefully mocked the Emperor Napoleon!
When the coach stopped, there were no cheering cries — only a hatefully peaceful, a terrifyingly peaceful summer night. The Emperor heard the shriek of a screech owl coming from deep within the palace park. So great was his back pain, it was almost as if he himself had howled as the steps were let down and he prepared to descend. He noticed his old friend, the Minister Caulaincourt. The good man was waiting alone on the white stone steps under the silver-blue glow of the night sky. Behind him was the golden reflection of the light that streamed out of the windows of the Elysée. The Emperor recognized him immediately. He embraced him. It seemed that the Minister had been waiting an eternity there on the steps, waiting alone for the unhappy and pitifully defeated Emperor. The Minister had decided to receive the returning Emperor with one clearly consoling phrase: “Your Majesty,” he had wanted to say, “it is not over yet!” But as the Emperor stepped out of the coach this oft-practiced phrase died upon Caulaincourt’s tongue. When the Emperor embraced him, Caulaincourt began to weep hard and fast, tears that fell audibly upon the thick dust that had collected for days on the shoulders of the Emperor’s cloak. His tears were like candle wax dripping on the Emperor’s shoulders. The Emperor released himself quickly from the embrace, hurried through the door and to the stairs. As if to reward the loyalty of this Minister, whom at this moment he loved more than any of those who had been with him on the battlefield, he explained rapidly and humbly why the battle had been lost. Yet at the same time, he realized what a miserable and melancholy favor he was granting his friend — and he suddenly fell silent.
“What do you say?” he asked when they were in his room.
“I say, Your Majesty,” replied the Minister, and he tried to make his voice loud and clear, and to halt the tears that were already mounting in his eyes and choking his throat, “that it would have been better if you had not returned.”
“I have no soldiers,” said the Emperor. “I have no guns. I offered myself to Death. It rejected me.” He was lying on the sofa. He raised himself suddenly, sat up with a foolish deceptive hope that seemed to promise deliverance. “A bath!” he ordered. “A hot bath!” He stretched his arms. “A bath! And hurry!” he repeated. Water, he thought, boiling hot water! — he could think of nothing else. All at once he believed that hot steaming water had the ability to solve all puzzles, to purify the mind, and to cleanse the heart.
As he entered the bathroom, followed by his Minister Caulaincourt, the first sight that met his eyes was his loyal servant standing at attention beside the steaming water, as if on guard over the treacherous element that might perhaps betray the Emperor — as a general and his own wife had betrayed him. Through the second door, which led from the bathroom to the servants’ corridor, he saw one of the female attendants leaving at that very moment. He suddenly felt an obligation to say a kind word to her, probably one of the lowest members of his household, a word of farewell perhaps. He gave his servant the signal to bring her back. She turned and stood before him. Then she fell down and began to sob loudly. She did not even cover her face. She remained on her knees and lifted her face up toward him, tears streaming down from her eyes, creating a hot wet veil. The Emperor bent down slightly toward her. He recognized her. He looked at her meager freckled face and remembered her from the evening in the park, and at the same time he could see once again the visage of her son, the little drummer boy.
“Stand up!” he ordered. She rose obediently. He ran his hand quickly and gently over her cap. “You have a little son, right? Where is he?” asked the Emperor.
“He was with you in the field,” said Angelina. Through the warm wet veil of her tears she looked at him with fearless clear eyes, and her voice was equally clear and ringing.
“Go now, my child,” said the Emperor. As she remained motionless, he repeated: “Go! Just go!” Gripping her gently by the shoulders, he spun her around. She went.
“She will be told,” the Emperor ordered, “that her son has fallen and that I myself have buried him. Tomorrow she will be paid five thousand.” Turning to his servant, he added: “You’ll take care of it personally!” He allowed himself to be undressed and stepped into the bath. He had thought he would be able to remain alone in the hot water that he so loved and in which he felt cozily at home, but then his brother Joseph and the War Minister entered. He let them approach the bath and told them about the battle, becoming foolishly agitated, which he realized was pointless but could not control, and making accusations against Marshal Ney. Arrogance and shame filled him as he sat there naked in the water. Through the steam he could perceive their faces growing hazy, and he gestured with his bare arms, slapping at the water with his hand so it sprayed out of the tub high and wide and sprinkled the uniforms of the nearby men. The men did not move. Suddenly he once again had the feeling that all was lost and his excitement evaporated. He stopped speaking, leaned back, and from the midst of the hot water felt a great chill. He asked, so as not to reveal that he had suddenly become weak and helpless and yet admitting it after alclass="underline" What should he do?
He knew at that moment, however, that his future depended not upon himself or on others but had been dictated long before by some terrifyingly unknowable, all-powerful decree. Oh! He had believed that as usual the bath would bring him strength and comfort. For the first time, however, he found himself helpless. Weary as he was from misfortune and numerous sleepless nights, his large eyes, which remained open and awake only on account of his immeasurable sorrow, saw clearly for the first time — despite the steam wafting through the room from the hot water — signs of weakness in the faces of his brother and his friend. Whatever they tell me, he thought, will be utter nonsense. They can only advise someone of their own kind. I obeyed special laws when I was great and strong; I must also obey special laws now that I am helpless and defeated. What do they know of me? They don’t understand me! They don’t! They understand me as little as the planets understand the sun that grants them life and around which they orbit! For the first time in his life the ever-alert Emperor had tired eyes; and for the first time he felt that one could see further and more clearly with tired unhappy eyes than with fresh sharp ones. Once again he thought of old Job and the Holy Father and the friends who had come to console him over his defeat, and like Job he rose and stepped naked before his friends. Only for a moment did they glimpse the naked Emperor, with his sallow, creased belly, the chubby thighs that always seemed so powerful and muscular in those snow-white Imperial breeches, the short strong neck, the rounded back, the small feet and dainty toes. This lasted for just a moment before the servant came and wrapped the short body in a great wide white flannel towel. The Emperor’s bare feet left distinct wet marks on the floor with each step.