Joseph Roth - The Hundred Days

“He’s coming!” Wokurka reiterated. And although at that moment he knew that he had lost Angelina, he said for a third time, with happiness gleaming on his face and joy ringing in his voice: “He’s coming! It’s definite!”

That evening Véronique Casimir did not come by. The residents of the house, the neighbors, and also strangers came and inquired after her. She did not come. Midwife Pocci’s door also remained closed.

“Is it really true that he’s coming?” Angelina asked.

“He comes tomorrow, definitely tomorrow,” said Wokurka.

They ate silently. They felt both happy and unhappy at the same time, relieved and unsettled, fortunate and unfortunate. And yet neither could say why they felt these conflicting feelings.

They lay down but could not get to sleep. Each of them remained awake, hoping and believing that the other was asleep.

When dawn’s light arrived, Angelina got up quietly. She thought that she had not awakened Wokurka. But he had never actually fallen asleep. He watched her get up. He saw her hastily wash and dress. She came back to bed and kissed him, but he did not move. From behind his half-closed eyelids he saw her go and he knew she did not mean to come back.

He did not move. He was dead. He had once lost a leg for the Emperor; now he was losing a woman for the Emperor.

Six weeks later he learned from Barbara Pocci that Angelina was back in the Imperial palace. He immediately made his way to her. He waited outside the gate and she came to meet him. “Good day,” she said. “It’s nice that you want to see me again!” She was wearing the livery of the Imperial servants, the dark-blue dress, white apron, and blue cap. She looked both beautiful and foreign.

He said: “I have come, Angelina, to ask you once more whether you will go with me!”

“No!” she replied firmly, as if she had never told him she would go in the first place.

It began to rain lightly, then more heavily. It was a good, warm, almost summer-like rain. He watched as her clothes got wet, heard the rain pounding harder and harder, looked at her as she stood there, lost. He knew that they had nothing more to say to each other.

“Adieu, Angelina,” he said. “If you need me — I’m not going home, I’m going to wait until you need me again.”

They shook hands. Both hands were wet and there was no warmth in either. It seemed that they were not actually shaking hands but exchanging rain. Angelina watched him hobble away with concerted and cautious effort and disappear into the torrent.

XIII

A palpable excitement descended upon the land. An even greater yet entirely different kind of excitement ruled within the palace, among both the ladies and gentlemen of the Emperor and among the servants. All the prominent events that were occurring in the world, and the even more substantial ones that were now in preparation had been caused and incited by the Emperor Napoleon himself. He was great and impetuous, but the world preferred to stay small and cautious, as it was. The Emperor’s servants knew nothing of the terror that he was spreading around the world. They knew only the terror he inspired within his own house. Certainly they were of lesser importance to the Emperor than the kings, his enemies. But the servants lived near him, heard his voice on a daily basis, felt his gracious or scolding gaze upon them, heard his affectionate praise or furious curses. Thus they, in contrast to the rest of the world, felt the significance of his every occasional glance, good mood, or malicious word. The world was already arming itself for war, out of fear for his might and his rash behavior. The servants of the court, however, were preparing for the Emperor’s move from the Tuileries to the Elysée. His decision to move appeared to the men and women of the court more significant than the war for which the countries of the world were already beginning to prepare. If Véronique Casimir, now restored to her old rank and former dignity, had not foretold the war’s proximity with her cards, the men and women of the Imperial household would have given no thought whatsoever to the world at large, to danger, to life and death. But despite the prophecies of Véronique Casimir, and although doom was already spreading its somber wings over the Emperor’s house, his servants could not feel it coming and continued to sense disaster nearing only with the Emperor’s wrath or receding with his mirth. They began to prepare with genuine enthusiasm for the move. They postulated all kinds of hypothetical reasons for the Emperor’s decision. The evening before the move to the other palace, twelve hours before the Emperor’s departure, they gathered in the hall for a detailed inspection by Véronique Casimir. Twelve coaches were already waiting below for the servants and baggage. For the last time — and they had no idea that it was the last time — they took their meal in the great dining hall. They spoke of nothing but the move. One proclaimed he knew for certain that the Emperor was moving because his wife was arriving from Vienna in two days and would not feel safe enough in the Tuileries. Another asserted that was wrong, that the Emperor was without doubt only giving the appearance of moving, with the intention of misleading the informants of the treacherous Minister of Police, whom he hated. A third insisted that he knew the truth; he had information from the Emperor’s valet himself that Napoleon had no intention of living in either palace, but wanted to go to Malmaison once and for all, to ensconce himself in the memory of his first wife. Others contradicted the first, second, and third. Véronique Casimir, at the head of the long table, called for silence. She forbade everyone to indulge in such idle talk; one never knew who was safe and who was treacherous, considering the infiltration of Fouché’s spies in many places.

And so it was. Long gone was that first day of spring, the day when the Emperor had returned to reign once more over his land, his palace, and his servants. Barely a week later, new and unfamiliar servants, workmen, laundry attendants, and barbers had begun to appear. Each of them bore the honest face and trustworthy eyes that are the most important qualities of a spy. Discord, mistrust, lies, and treachery soon began to take their toll. Former confidantes trusted each other no more and old friends kept a suspicious eye on each other. So it was in the palace, so it was across the whole land.

Among the Emperor’s servants at the time, there were precious few who were honest and fearless. Among this number was Angelina. She was silent, for what did she have to contribute? She lived a more isolated life than before. She even felt disconnected from her aunt, recalling the months during which Véronique had been invisible and inaccessible. Angelina was both silent and aloof. Her son no longer belonged to her, she had left Wokurka, she loved only the great Emperor, she had lost herself, her sins burdened her, she had lived in confusion, weak and foolish, and had sacrificed herself unthinkingly. She was lost. She belonged to the great Emperor. He, however, knew nothing of her. She was tiny and insignificant, more insignificant then one of the flies that buzzed through the Emperor’s room, a barely noticeable nuisance. A barely noticeable nuisance, but whatever the case, she loved him. Her heart was young, hot, and tender. Sometimes, when she was gazing with adoration at one of his many portraits, she felt like one of the tiny flies that crawled deliberately, even fervently, like herself but insignificant and repulsive, along the picture.

Her heart commanded her to remain close to his gracious presence, lowly and ignored as she was. To live in the golden shadow that only he of all the people in the world could cast upon his servants was bliss. To watch his every visible move with love and fervent devotion without even being noticed was pure happiness. In his presence one could be insignificant and proud. His shadow was golden and more radiant than the light of any others. One served him but he was unaware. To be in his service was pride itself.