A few minutes later Angelina returned as her duties prescribed. She saw the tracks of the Imperial feet and as she scrubbed the floor she felt she was defiling and insulting the Emperor’s footprints because she was forced to erase them. The servant, who was still organizing the bottles, soaps, and towels, approached her and said very gently: “I have something bad to tell you. Do you hear me? Something very bad!”
“Tell me,” she replied.
“Your son — ” he began. .
“He’s dead,” she said quite calmly.
“Yes. And the Emperor himself buried him.”
Angelina leaned against the wall. She was silent for a moment and then she said: “He was my son. He loved the Emperor. Just as I love him.”
“You will be given five thousand gold pieces,” said the servant.
“I don’t need them. Keep them,” replied Angelina. “Go!” she said “Don’t disturb me! I must work!”
Once she was alone she fell down to her knees, made the sign of the cross, and tried unsuccessfully to pray. She remained for a long time like this, on her knees, brush in hand. She looked as if she were attending to the floor but her mind was on Heaven, her dead child, and the Emperor.
Her heart was heavy; her eyes remained dry. She mourned her son, but also envied him. He was dead, dead! But he was buried by the Emperor’s hand.
IV
The next morning at ten o’clock the ministers assembled in the Emperor’s palace. The generals and the high officials of the Empire awaited him in the corridor. They stood motionless, arranged in two rows looking respectful and reverent, anxious and sorrowful. In reality, however, most of them were more fearful for their own fates than the fate of the country and the Emperor; and some were even inspired more by curiosity than by sorrow. Still others were concerned for the effects that all of this would have upon their reputations and the living they had earned since the Emperor’s return. They stood there solemnly, convinced that they alone were the critically important, the agents of destiny itself. Fouché was already waiting in the chamber. His face was even more pale and sallow than usual. He bowed his long gaunt head very low as the Emperor entered. But the Emperor did not look. He felt nonetheless both the veiled glance of his Minister of Police and the frank, ruthless eyes of old Carnot. The Emperor had no need to look at them all; he had known each one for years. He already knew what they were thinking and what they would say. He sat down.
“The meeting is now open,” he began with a calm voice. “I have returned,” he continued, “so as to halt the calamity that is about to overtake us. But for some time I will need absolute powers.”
They all lowered their gaze. Fouché alone fixed his light eyes unwaveringly on the Emperor. The whole time he was writing, note after little note, one after another without stopping, God only knew to whom, in plain sight of the Emperor. The Minister of Police wrote without even looking at the paper. He kept his gaze focused on the Emperor as if his untiringly scribbling hand had its own eyes. Now the Emperor stood. “I see,” he said, “that you want me to abdicate?”
“It is so, Your Majesty,” replied one of the ministers.
The Emperor had known it. He posed each question so as to confirm the answers he had long expected. Nonetheless he said — and it was as if a stranger were speaking through him: “The enemy is in our country. Come what may, I am a man of the people and of the soldiers. One word from me and all the representatives are done. I can still arm one hundred and thirty thousand men. The English and Prussians are weary. They may have won, but they are depleted. And the Austrians and Russians are far off!” All the ministers were silent. Once more, for the last time, they all perceived the sublime tone of the Imperial voice. They listened to him, but only to his voice itself, to the ring of his words, not to their meaning. The Emperor himself was well aware that he was speaking in vain. He broke off suddenly. Every word was useless. He was no longer interested in fighting for his throne. For the first time in his life since he had become powerful, he felt the bliss that renunciation brings. In the midst of his speech he was overcome by the grace of humility. He suddenly felt the blessing of defeat and a very, very secret satisfaction that he could on a whim order the dismissal or imprisonment — even the beheading or shooting — of these very ministers to whom he was speaking, these parliamentarians who were poised to overthrow him. If he wanted. .!
But he did not want. It was a blissful feeling, one he was experiencing for the first time, to be capable of something and not wish to do it. Throughout his entire endlessly rich and full life he had always desired and wished for more than any earthly inhabitant could be granted. Now, for the first time and in his very hour of disgrace and defeat, he had great power but did not want it. It was a euphoric feeling. It was as if he held a sharpened sword in his hand, one that made him happy precisely because it remained unused. He who had always believed that one must strike, and with precision, was now experiencing his first foreboding of the happiness that comes from weakness and is a gift of humility. For the first time in his strong and proud life, he knew of the nobility of the weak, the defeated, and the abdicated. For the first time in his life he felt the desire to be a servant not a master. For the first time in his life he felt he had much to atone for because he had sinned so greatly. And it seemed to him that to save his soul he had to open the hand holding the honed sword, so it would fall harmless and humble as he himself was at this moment.
Yet there still breathed another within him, namely the old Emperor Napoleon, and it was he who now began to speak to the ministers again. He could have a new army in two weeks; he could certainly defeat the enemy, so said the Napoleon of old. But he already knew that he would not be able to convince the deputies as he might the ministers. He hated the lawyers, and he well knew he could oust them, but he hated them too much to use force against them. In any event he who had always been violent no longer desired violence. He had used enough force! He wanted to abdicate. He no longer wanted to be Emperor. Occasionally out of the distance yet ever clearer he believed he could hear a call, sorrow’s seductive call. The voice became gradually louder and even more distinct than the shouts of “Long live the Emperor!” from the people outside the palace. For they were still shouting before the windows: “Long live the Emperor!” Poor friends, he thought, they love me, and I love them as well; they have died for me and they live for me, but I was unable to die for them. They want to see me mighty, so great is their love for me! I, however, I now love powerlessness. It is impotence that I love! I was for so long miserable in my might: I will be insignificant and happy!