“So we ride tomorrow!” the Emperor ordered.
IX
But no! They did not ride on the next day. Barely had the men left the room, before the Emperor realized that he would not be permitted to have even one division. He unfastened his sword and flung it onto the table. He called for his servant. He asked that his boots and uniform be taken off. He felt ridiculous. He had displayed the élan of a little boy. Alas, it had been no more than a dream, an old and vain dream; no, he who had lost a great battle as Emperor could not win a small one as a colonel or general. He realized this and was silent as he was told that he was forbidden to defend the city. Paris awaited the enemy — he had known it for a long time, although they continued to shout outside: “Long live the Emperor!” Paris was already waiting for them — the enemy and the King. The shouts outside no longer had a true ring, but rather a historical one. They were like shouts in a theatre. They were no longer meant for him, the living Napoleon, but rather for the dead, the immortal one.
All that remained was to say farewell and then go far away, wherever the wind might blow, whether that wind was merciful or spiteful. He was prepared to let himself be carried forth and was even awaiting it with longing. He offered no more than a quick farewell to his brother, Josephine’s daughter, and his friends. Now all that was left was the most difficult farewell, taking leave of his mother!
For this last farewell he selected the darkest room in the house, the library. His mother’s eyes had long been weak and light-sensitive. She arrived, supported by two ladies in waiting and followed by the Emperor’s servant. She was wearing a black dress and wore no jewelry. As she entered, the room seemed to grow even darker. Even though she was walking with support, she seemed so tall and strong. She appeared to be so powerful, even though her face was thin, pale, and drawn, that the entire room was saturated with the somber breath of her gloomy dignity. Everything fell under her shadow. It looked as if she had come not to take leave of a living son but to bury a dead one. The room was already darkened on account of the dark-green curtains having been drawn, but now the room grew even more noticeably dark. Even the delicate golden brown of the book spines along the walls was muted. Only the pale face of his mother glimmered, only her large dark short-sighted eyes glowed. She motioned and the servant disappeared. The ladies in waiting followed. The Emperor himself supported his mother. It was hardly five steps to the wide dark armchair, but he wished that distance would grow ever greater. He hesitated at every step; he was even weaker than his mother, his knees wobbled and his arm trembled. She clung to his right arm and he felt for her left hand and kissed it with each stride. It was a large strong hand with long firm fingers bearing tiny wrinkles at their tips and shockingly white nails, and it sprang from a bony yet muscular wrist with thick blue veins on the bottom. How often had this hand scolded or caressed, even caressing as it scolded? He was a small child once again; gone were the stormy, bloody, terror-inspiring years of his fame. The sight of this motherly hand alone made him young and small. It was only now that he was truly abdicating, every time, every single time he brought his lips to his mother’s hand once again. As he gently set her down into the armchair, his elbow briefly touched her full breast and a pleasant shiver ran up his arms and to his heart; he quivered slightly. It was a blissful tremble, equally as delightful as those he had experienced as a child of his mother’s breast.
She seemed to tower above him and he felt quite small as he pushed a chair near her armchair. He would rather have been perched on a stool at her kind feet. He was now sitting opposite her, their knees practically touching, and she seemed to grow ever taller, prouder, and more noble in her armchair, while the Emperor made himself ever smaller, sinking lower into his chair until his head touched his breast. “Look at me,” his mother said in her strong, deep voice and she stretched out her hand and placed her fingers under her son’s chin as a signal for him to lift it. He obeyed and raised his head for a second, but let it drop down again at once, his shoulders trembling. His mother opened her arms and he fell forward, his head landing in her lap. Her fingers began to stroke his smooth hair, slowly at first, then ever quicker and more vigorously. Her fingers combed his hair, feeling with maternal delight as she tousled it and then smoothed it down again, stroked his hair, bent over, and kissed her son’s head. The whole time, she grasped him firmly by the shoulders, as if worried he would escape from her. He had no desire to leave, he only wanted to lay forever in his mother’s kindly lap, upon her black dress. Her hands roamed over his head, ten kind motherly fingers, while from above, her mouth spoke some words in the native tongue of his homeland. He did not catch their meaning clearly, and neither did he want to, for it was enough just to hear the old familiar sound of her voice, the language of his mother, his mother tongue. Often, so very often, he mused, I should have lain like this, with my head in my mother’s lap. Why had he sat in so many saddles, why had he ridden through so many lands? His mother’s lap was welcoming, so welcoming was his mother’s lap; saddles and battlefields were evil, so evil — and so were thrones. Crowns hurt; for a son’s head was meant to be in his mother’s lap. Out of this lap he had emerged, so long ago, forty-six years ago. He had ruled the world; if only he could die now just as he lay at that very moment, ending in his mother’s lap what had begun there. On his account, on the Emperor’s account, many thousands had died, many thousands of sons who otherwise would have been able, as he did now, to rest their heads in their mothers’ laps. He did not move. He lay there very still. His mother was startled. Suddenly she said: “Get up, get up, Nabulio!” “Nabulio,” she said, as she had called him when he was a boy. He obeyed and rose quickly. His eyes were quite dry and glistened brightly as though filled with frozen tears.
“I will go,” his mother said. “But I will not leave you, my child! I will follow you all over, most handsome and beloved of my children!”
“I go alone, Mother,” said the Emperor, firm and loud. Then, fearing he had been too harsh, he added: “You may be certain, mother, I’ll be back, we will see each other again.” He was lying and they both knew it, mother and son.
She rose, went to the door, looked around once more, put her arms around the Emperor’s neck, and kissed him on the forehead. The door opened, she went out and the Emperor followed her to the staircase but she did not turn around once the ladies in waiting met her. As he watched her going down the stairs, with her strong, erect posture, grand shoulders, and deliberate steps, he cried out: “Adieu, Mother!”
She paused, turned at the penultimate step, and said: “Adieu, my son!”
He turned quickly and entered the dead Empress’s room, the room with the sky-blue ceiling and stood in front of the wide bed for a long time. It was nearly as comforting as his mother’s lap. Only these two things could bring him joy: his mother’s lap and his beloved’s bed — and perhaps a third thing that he had not yet experienced, but would one day know, the embrace of Death, his good old brother. Night was ending and the morning was already dawning when he went to his room, removed his uniform, donned a brown coat, a round hat, and blue breeches, fastened his sword and exited the palace through a rear door. There were people waiting outside before the main gate, crying relentlessly, untiringly: “Long live the Emperor!” He stood there for a moment. The crowd thundered, the insistent cry of a persistent people. A barouche was waiting at the main gate so the people believed that the Emperor was coming out that way. The chirping of the nocturnal crickets grew ever weaker as the day broke with triumphant power. The first birds were already chirping. As if fleeing the sun, the Emperor hastily entered his coach. He did not look out. He drew the curtains and cried: “Forward!” in a firm voice. And they departed.