“You have disturbed me!” said the Emperor.
“I beg forgiveness, your Majesty.”
“I forgive you. But you have wrecked the most beautiful battle. I can win. I can chase them to the borders. I need no more soldiers than are available to me now. I can win!”
“It is too late, your Majesty. You will be forbidden from remaining here. You will be in danger when the enemy arrives. The ministers cannot safeguard your life. You must leave!”
It was suddenly very hot in the room so the Emperor himself opened one of the windows, and with boundless force came the people’s thundering cry: “Long live the Emperor!”
He did not turn. With his back toward the Minister, as his ears inhaled the loving, beloved, boisterous cry of the crowd, he said aloud: “So I must go! In spite of everything, I must go!”
VIII
It was a warm, golden summer. It seemed to be the last, radiant tribute of the country, of the French soil and the French sky. The French soil and the French sky were saying: “You will never again see a French summer, Emperor Napoleon! Take the memory of this one, the most beautiful we can offer you.”
He was no longer an Emperor, he was a prisoner in the chateau of his first wife, the dead Empress Josephine. Her daughter Hortense lived there. She frequently reminded him of her dead, beloved, now doubly beloved mother. The way she tilted her neck, cut her food, or leaned back, the very distinct way she had of smiling when one said something she did not understand and did not care to understand — she had learned all these mannerisms from her mother and that was why the Emperor loved her. At the same time he was actually a little, just a tiny bit jealous of himself; he wanted his wife, the Empress Josephine, to remain the sole woman he had ever loved, just as he had been the sole Emperor of the French people.
Ah, but there was nothing left for him to do but give in to his memories of this woman. “I used to walk here with her,” he would say in this or that avenue, as if it were the only avenue along which he had walked with her. “Look here,” he gestured to Minister Carnot, not realizing that he had now passed the spot and was heading in a different direction, “here, as I have been wanting to tell you, was where my son visited her. She kissed him. What a woman. She embraced the child, the child of another woman, and it was really on account of this child that she had ceased to be Empress. Listen to me, Carnot!”
“Yes, your Majesty,” said the Minister.
This Minister had been a lifelong enemy of the Emperor. He had called the Emperor a betrayer of freedom; yes, a hardened, blunt heart was Carnot’s distinguishing feature. Now, however, on this golden evening, while they walked along, as he listened to the Emperor confiding his reminiscences with their fond distortion of the truth, confessing his errors and concerns, Carnot began for the first time slowly but surely to recognize that there were other laws governing the world, other laws than those to which he himself subscribed, other laws than those of strong conviction and conscience, loyalty and treason. “Your Majesty,” he said with the blunt candor of an old Jacobin, “when I hear you speak in this way, I ask myself why I had convinced myself for so long that I must consider you a traitor. Today, although sadly it is too late, I take you for the most loyal man in the world!”
“For that it is never too late,” said the Emperor softly.
A servant approached. He announced the Countess Walewska. It seemed so long since the Emperor had last seen her. She stood there holding her child — his child — by the hand. She wore a black dress and her face was partly veiled. He was startled by this sight for a second and hesitated, having the impression she had come to his funeral, that he was already a corpse. Perhaps she noticed his alarm, for she came toward him and bent over his hand. He took her arm and led her to the room that he had once furnished for himself for the sole purpose of consoling the Empress Josephine and making her believe he would be staying there often. He gave the boy his hand, smiled, and stood silently for some time facing the woman. He pointed at the sofa a couple of times but she remained standing. “I wanted to see you again,” she said. Not long ago her face had been just as sleek and delicate as when they had first met. Now it appeared gaunt and haggard. How quickly women changed, especially lovers and the afflicted! Her white, narrow cheeks had once been covered with a delicate silvery blonde fuzz — sweet moss in which his lips had delighted. Now those same cheeks were naked, bare, and sunken. Her lips were but a thin, severe slit.
“I have to beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty,” said this sparse mouth.
“Not at all, not at all; why, what for?” cried the Emperor.
“Well,” said the Countess, “that is why I have come. I must tell you. I must tell you,” she continued.
“Please do so!” said the Emperor almost impatiently. He already knew everything she wanted to tell him.
She was silent, startled at his impatience. She had already thought everything out carefully, but now all the words had vanished completely from her mind. She could not even bring herself to cry.
The Emperor approached her, gently laid his hands upon her arms, brought his wide, light eyes close to her face, and said: “You wanted to confess that you have not always loved me. I have known it for a long time already. You had love only for Poland, your homeland. You accepted my love to make Poland free. Only then did you learn to love the Emperor a little bit. Am I right? Is this what you wanted to tell me?”
“That is not all,” she said.
“What else?”
“I love you now, Your Majesty!” She replied and raised her face, almost defiantly. “I love you now, you alone, not Poland, not the Emperor. And wherever you go, I will follow.”
The Emperor stepped back. He was silent for some time, then spoke in the clear, hard voice with which he normally addressed his soldiers: “Go, Countess! There is little room by my side. Please go. I still love you. I will never forget you. I still love you.”
He watched her walk out proudly and firmly, the sleek, vigorous, strong legs he had loved, with their sturdy step that swayed her whole body and made her delicate, frail shoulders look strong, erect, and royal.
He realized that he had been hard on her. But she was the only woman he knew who understood him and loved his hardness. And she probably also understood that he could not remain with her any longer. He listened for a while. He heard her sobbing outside, behind the door. He heard the consoling voice of his daughter Hortense.
A great impatience gripped him. He did not want to stay any longer. His law had been fulfilled, and he was already hurrying toward new horizons. He sent for his brother and his friends — Bassano, Flahaut, and La Valette. “I wish to go!” he cried. “Where is the ship waiting? Where are the passports? Where am I going? I want to go, I want to leave!”
“The enemy is here,” General Lavalette answered quite calmly. “The Prussians are in Bourget.”
“And the English?”
“None have been seen,” replied the General.
The Emperor suddenly left the room. The four men looked at one another in silent consternation. Before any of them could speak, he had returned with his sword, booted and spurred, in the uniform of the gardes-chasseurs.
“I will stop them!” he cried so loudly that the chandelier clinked. “Get the horses saddled! I will stop them! I can; the French soldiers can! Go and tell the gentlemen that I want the authority to stop the Prussians. I no longer need a crown. I am no longer Emperor. All I need is one division! I am a division commander!”
Then he was silent. They all stood stiff and dumb. Only the chandelier trembled and clinked. From outside came strains of the tune being sung by marching soldiers. They heard clearly the officer’s command to halt and the abrupt side of boots. The soldiers faced the palace and cried: “Long live the Emperor!”