Joseph Roth - The Hundred Days

Half an hour later he was inspecting the troops of the Paris garrison one last time before they marched off to war. Although he could still feel his mother’s kisses and tears on his head, it seemed to him that a very long time had elapsed since the moment he had departed from the dark-red room. The soldiers of the Paris garrison were more carefully outfitted for this new campaign than all the other soldiers in the country. Even the recruits had sturdy and well-nourished faces. He gazed happily into the brave, young, obedient eyes of these new recruits and into the experienced, loyal, devoted ones of his hardened old soldiers. Sound were the knapsacks, cloaks, and boots. He examined their boots with extra attention, almost with love. In the campaigns that he typically led, much hinged upon the feet and boots of the troops, nearly as much as on their hands and guns — perhaps more. He was even pleased with the weapons. Their barrels had been freshly greased, and they shimmered gently yet dangerously, dull-blue and reliable. The well-sharpened bayonet points twinkled. The Emperor walked more slowly than usual, almost deliberately, amid the stiffly immobile ranks, here and there tugging at a button to check if it was firmly attached, or pulling on a strap, belt, or cord. He visited the great field kitchen and asked what meat they were preparing. When he was told that they were boiling mutton, he requested a taste. He had not eaten boiled mutton and beans since his last unsuccessful campaign. Borrowing a pewter spoon from a sergeant, putting a bread crust in his mouth with his left hand and a filled spoon with his right, he stood with legs wide apart in full view of his soldiers, who watched with jubilant hearts as he ate. Their eyes gleamed with pride and also with tripled appetite. They were filled with a steadfast veneration of an intensity they had never felt at a field mass or in a church, and a solemn, childlike, and at the same time fatherly affection for their great Emperor. He was mighty but also moving. He had them form a square around him and spoke to them as usual, using once again the same old words that he had so often before put to the test — about the enemies of their country, the allies of the shameful King, about the victories of old, about the eagles and the dead and, lastly, about honor, honor, and more honor. And once again the officers drew their swords. Once again the regiments roared: “Long live the Emperor! Long live freedom! Long live the Emperor!” And once again he held his hat aloft and cried “Long live France!” in a choked-up voice, more sincerely moved than he had been in his mother’s dark salon. He wanted to embrace someone before he left his regiments, so he searched for a suitable candidate. How often he had embraced generals, colonels, sergeants, and even ordinary soldiers. Then he noticed a little drummer boy, one of the adolescent lads of whom there were many in his great army, the sturdy children of his regiments, begotten perhaps from many a father just before a battle, born perhaps in a vendor woman’s trailer in Germany, Italy, Spain, Russia, or Egypt. “Come, little one!” said the Emperor. The boy stepped forward with his drum, hardly having a chance to place both sticks into their loops, and stood motionless before the Emperor, even stiffer than an old soldier. The Emperor lifted both boy and drum. He held the boy up for a few moments, swung him in the air for all to see, then kissed him on both cheeks.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Pascal Pietri,” said the boy with a ringing voice, as a pupil might answer his teacher at school. The Emperor remembered that he had heard this name some days earlier, but could not recall on which occasion.

“Your father lives?”

“Yes sir, Your Majesty,” said the boy. “He’s a sergeant-major in the Thirteenth Dragoons.”

“Make a note,” said the Emperor to his adjutant. “Sergeant-Major Pietri.”

“Pardon me, Your Majesty!” said the boy. “My father’s name is Levadour, Sergeant-Major Levadour!”

The Emperor smiled, and all the nearby officers and soldiers smiled as well.

“Do you know your mother?”

“My mother, Your Majesty, is a washerwoman at court.”

The Emperor suddenly remembered. “Is her name Angelina?”

“Yes sir, Angelina, Your Majesty!”

With that, all the nearby officers and soldiers smiled once again, but quickly grew serious.

“Make a note,” said the Emperor to his adjutant. “The laundress Angelina Pietri.”

His review had lasted a long time. He had purposely drawn it out, for he had not wished to return home with the memory of his mother’s dark room still fresh in his mind. By the time he returned to the palace it was late afternoon and the light was fading; it would be evening in an hour. He was satisfied with the day. It felt to him as if he had seen his mother not that very morning but quite a long time ago. He remembered Angelina Pietri, the little housemaid whom he had seen in the darkness of the park. The memory cheered him, and the name Angelina, her little son who beat the drum in his army, and the brave freshness with which the boy had corrected him about his father’s name nearly moved him. Yes, these were his people, these were his soldiers! More confidently than he had in days, he bent over the maps on his table. He had them, his enemies; he had them just where he wanted them. This time, as so often before. Surely, Parliament and the Police Minister were potentially dangerous, but he could conquer generals and armies. It was a good day.

What day of the week was it today? His old superstitious nature overtook him. He went to the door, thrust it open, and called into the anteroom: “What day is it today?”

“Your Majesty, it is Friday,” answered Marchand, his servant.

He was frightened for a brief second. He did not like Fridays. One had to compensate for Friday, so to speak, and he knew an infallible method. His wife Josephine had often spoken of it. And he even remembered the name of this infallible woman who had so often before foretold the future for the Empress and him. “Is Véronique Casimir still here?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, Your Majesty,” said the servant.

“Get her!” ordered the Emperor.

It seemed to be a good sign that she was in the house. The dead Empress Josephine had brought her. Like everything else associated with Josephine, Véronique Casimir was good. He well remembered the portly old woman. He waited with confidence.

Véronique Casimir remembered Her Majesty the late Empress Josephine, who often appeared in her dreams, gratefully and with reverence. She had once been a mere washerwoman, but since her early youth she had shown an unusual talent for card-reading. When the great Emperor was still consul, Véronique had read in the cards that he was destined to wear a crown. Since then she had received many honors, greater ones (in her mind at least) than had been bestowed upon any of the officials, ministers, or marshals. On occasion, she was permitted to fortune-tell for the Emperor. She was the First Laundress of the Imperial court. Her duty had been to tend to the blue silk blouses and lace handkerchiefs of the first Empress, and the more sturdy white silk blouses and cambric handkerchiefs of the second. She read the future of the Imperial house in the cards and sometimes even in the laundry that was given to her every evening. Thirty-six laundresses and bath attendants were under her strict orders. She loved to enforce military-style discipline, and during the long years of her service she had learned to be taciturn and secretive despite being talkative, even loquacious, by nature.

Before heading to bed every evening, and after parceling out the laundry to the men and women under her, she would seat herself at the large table that was at the time standing, solemn and secluded, in the quiet communal dining room, for she required much space for the several packs of cards with which she worked according to a complex system. Sometimes the servants would gather around her at even that late hour. The long and narrow black ebony table, with its highly polished surface, was somber, eerie, practically a catafalque. Here Véronique Casimir sat and laid out cards. Eventually, midnight struck from various towers. At that point she would stop and wait until the bells were finished ringing. Finally she would sweep all her various packs of cards together, tie them up with a greasy old string, and get up without uttering a word. Nobody ever asked her questions. She rarely discussed the secrets of the supernatural world with which she was so closely familiar.