Joseph Roth - The Hundred Days

Since the Emperor’s return, she had been waiting for him to call on her. Now she was no longer consulting the cards about the Emperor’s fate, but about her own, that is to say, whether he had forgotten her during his absence. “No!” said the cards.

Nevertheless, she was surprised and practically in a fright when he did send for her. She was standing in the expansive washroom, surrounded by her staff, at the time when she normally gathered her workers around her, awaiting the servants with the laundry baskets, and she held in her hand the list upon which her various commissions, orders, reprimands, and warnings were noted. She left immediately and headed for her room. She had a half-staircase to ascend. Her short, fat legs bounded up two steps at a time. She hurried into her room, to her little oval mirror between the two candlesticks on the table, lit the candles, donned a freshly starched cap, sat down, and began with her strong little fingers to powder her sallow and very fleshy face. She sprinkled a few droplets of lavender upon her breast, from the sacred flask that the first Empress, her lady Josephine, had given her, and rose, content and fragrant and quite splendid, in a delicate white cloud of powder. From her case she removed her card packs with a determined, abrupt, practically warlike grip, like a soldier retrieving his weapon when called to sudden conflict. Now she was ready.

After many long months she stood before her Emperor. He sat at his table with his colorfully dizzying maps, which she had already seen a few times previously, immediately before his great campaigns, when she enjoyed the favor of being summoned and consulted. She attempted to perform a curtsy as ladies did in the presence of the Emperor. Spreading her skirts with both hands, she placed one foot back, stretched the other in front, attempted to glide a step forward in this difficult position, and then bend one knee slightly. After she believed she had accomplished all of this gracefully, she remained still, fat and stiff, eyes lowered modestly. The windows were open. The late summer evening’s gold-green dusk filtered into the room and competed with the restless little deep-yellow flames of the three candles. One could hear both the soft breath of the wind and the loud, industrious chirping of the crickets.

“Come here!” the Emperor ordered. She hurried over, waddling quickly to his table, fat, dignified, and servile. How she had longed for this moment! She tingled with reverence in the presence of the Emperor and at the sight of the confusing maps that were scattered across his writing table. She also felt her own importance, a shiver for herself and for the ennobled and exalted significance of her tool, the cards. She trembled at the thought that her cards were no less important, perhaps even more important, than the Emperor’s maps. It was satisfying to think that the greatest emperor in the world had as little power to grasp the secret of her cards as she, Véronique, had to read his geographical secrets. At this hour she was called upon perhaps to determine the fate of the world, which was normally the Emperor’s domain. And thus she stood there, as much in awe of herself as of the Emperor. She kept her gaze lowered. It fell upon her ample bosom and could not go any lower, although she wished to look at the floor in humble pride, but also embarrassment. Through her sunken eyelids she felt the mocking, smiling stare of the Emperor. She held her arms straight down like a soldier, but her hands could reach no lower than her wide hips. She liked, but also required, smooth tables, with nothing upon them, and she wanted to ask the Emperor to clear off his distracting maps, but she dared not.

“So, let’s begin,” said the Emperor.

It was noticeably darker in the room. A macabre kind of illumination emanated from the sparse candles and strengthened old Véronique’s courage and faith in her prophetic abilities. She now ventured to lift her eyes. Her gaze was met with the waxen face of the Emperor, a frozen smile on his mouth — a ghastly smile. Then she began confidently to lay out her greasy playing cards, disregarding the fact that she was placing them atop the Emperor’s maps. She tried to forget that she stood before the mightiest Emperor of all and told herself that she was in the service of the otherworld. She whispered: “Take three please, Your Majesty.” The Emperor took three cards. The smooth, dark blue card backs reflected the unsteady candle flames.

“What lies before me,” she murmured, “what flies before me; what gives me concern, what things I spurn; what makes me glad, what makes me sad.” She shuffled quickly with her short but nimble fingers, the speed of which had often astounded the Emperor. “Take six cards, Your Majesty,” she said. And the Emperor took six cards. He thought of his first wife, the dead Josephine, and those evenings when, although she knew little of this art, Josephine had attempted to read her own fate and that of the Emperor, the fate of the country and the world, as she laid out Véronique Casimir’s greasy cards with her long and slender, beloved fingers. He thought no more of the cards. He was lost in sweet memories of his dead wife. He smiled. He did not hear as Véronique murmured: “Spades to the right will cause a fright; clubs to the left, of power bereft; diamonds are near, danger is here; hearts are away, love won’t stay; the queen of clubs is above, she’s past, she’s past; eight of clubs, eight of clubs. .” She broke off suddenly. She quickly gathered the cards together. She glanced at the Emperor. He bore a distant look, one that seemed to pierce her massive body and see out into the world beyond, perhaps even into the grave where the body of his Josephine was now withering and decaying. Véronique remained silent, her left hand pressing the cards fervently against her bosom.

The Emperor locked his eyes on her, a mocking smile on his lips. “Well, Véronique,” he inquired, “good or bad?”

“Good, good, Your Majesty!” she said hurriedly. “There are many years ahead for Your Majesty, many years!”

The Emperor opened a drawer. Inside were little pillars of gold pieces, neat, shimmering columns of gold. From one of these columns he removed ten coins. They were genuine napoleons. “Here, as a keepsake,” said the Emperor.

The door was opened. Madame Véronique left hurriedly, walking backward, frantically trying to restrain her panting. When she sensed the open door at her back, her escape, she again performed her clumsy and comical curtsy. Then she was outside and facing the closed door. She curtsied a third time before the closed door, then she waddled, dignified yet hurriedly, down the stairs. On the penultimate step she had to stop. She felt faint for the first time in her life. The banister that she thought would save her seemed to be receding. She fell down suddenly and heavily with a clumsy thud. Two guards picked her up. They carried her into the park. When she awoke and saw the soldiers, she righted herself and said: “God help us all. . and him especially!”

Then she hurried past them and into the great servants’ dining hall. It was late. Dinner was already being served.

The night that the Emperor left Paris to head for battle, the sky over the city was deep blue and star filled. In the street in front of the park were the curious and enthusiastic. The servants had gathered at a respectful distance from the Imperial carriage. The Emperor emerged swiftly from the palace door, earlier than had been planned. His staff was still in the midst of packing papers, maps, and field-glasses into the coach. A lackey sprinted up, burning torch in hand. The night was clear enough, offering a gentle, silvery-blue light, so the smoky, reddish flame of the torch seemed unnecessary, even a bit terrifying. It was only the product of a very strict household routine, a harmless device. At this moment, however, it seemed to be trying to harshly interrupt the night’s starry tranquility. The trees whispered amicably. A few bats flitted silently above the people’s heads, through the rays of light coming from the windows. It was rather still, despite the bustling of the servants, who spoke in low voices, and the restlessness of the horses. The still of the night was mightier than these noises. But the torch was a loud, even improper, incursion; one could clearly hear the crackle of its flame and smell the burning resin, which was like the scent of danger itself. The Emperor seemed tired. He had been working right up until the very moment of departure. The assembled servants were still as he approached. All turned their eyes to him. In the silvery-blue sheen of the night his face looked rather pale to them. They were also thinking about the collapse of the card-reader Véronique.