Joseph Roth - The Hundred Days

In the meantime, night was falling, and the Emperor had still not arrived. The lanterns in front of the palace were lit. Streetlamps at every corner flared. They battled against fog, dampness, and the wind.

The people waited and waited. Finally, they heard the orderly trot of military horses’ hooves. They knew it was the Thirteenth Dragoons. At the head of the squadron rode the Colonel, sabre shining a narrow flash in the gloom of the night. The Colonel cried: “Make way for the Emperor!” As he sat high upon his chestnut steed, which was barely visible in the darkness, his wide, pale face with its great black mustache over the heads of the thronging crowd, unsheathed weapon in his raised hand, repeating from time to time his cry “Make way for the Emperor!” and occasionally lit by the yellowish glint of the flickering streetlamps, he reminded the crowd of the militant and supposedly cruel guardian angel that was alleged to personally accompany the Emperor, for it seemed to the people that the Emperor, at this hour, was issuing orders even to his own guardian angel. .

Soon his dragoon-escorted coach came into view, the rumble of its hurried wheels inaudible over the trampling of the horses’ hooves.

It stopped at the palace.

As the Emperor left the carriage, many pale, open hands reached for him. At that moment, entranced by the imploring hands, he lost his will and consciousness. These loving white hands that stretched toward him seemed to him more terrible than if they had belonged to armed enemies. Each hand was like a loving, yearning pale face. The love that streamed toward the Emperor from these bright, outstretched hands was like an intense and dangerous plea. What were the hands demanding? What did they want from him? These hands were praying, demanding, and compelling all at once; hands raised as if to the gods.

He shut his eyes and could feel the hands lifting him and carrying him along on unsteady shoulders up the palace steps. He heard the familiar voice of his friend General Lavalette: “It is you! It’s you! It’s you — my Emperor!” From the voice and the breath on his face he realized that his friend was in front of him, climbing the steps backward. The Emperor opened his eyes — and saw the open arms of his friend Lavalette and the white silhouette of his face.

This startled him, so he closed his eyes again. As if sleeping or unconscious, he was carried, led and supported along to his old room. Both frightened and happy, he seated himself at his writing table with a fearful joy in his heart.

He saw some of his old friends in the room as if through a fog. From the direction of the street, on the other side of the shut windows, he heard the boisterous shouts of the people, the whinnying of horses, the clinking of weapons, the high-pitched ring of spurs, and, from the hall behind the high white door opposite his seat, the murmuring and whispering of many voices; from time to time he seemed to recognize one of them. He was aware of everything that was going on; it seemed clear and immediate yet vague and distant, and all of it instilled in him both happiness and a feeling of awe. He felt that he was finally home and was at the same time being rescued from some kind of storm. Slowly he forced himself to pay attention; he commanded his eyes to notice and his ears to listen. He sat, perfectly still, at the writing table. The cries from just outside the windows were intended for him alone. It was for his sake that so many voices were murmuring and whispering in the hall beyond the closed door. Suddenly it seemed to him that he was looking at all of his countless thousands of friends throughout the entire great land of France, who were standing and waiting for him. Throughout the whole country millions cried, as hundreds were doing here: “Long live the Emperor!” In all the rooms of the palace they were whispering, chattering, and talking about him. He would have enjoyed allowing himself some leisure to think about himself from a stranger’s perspective. But, behind his back, he could hear the ruthlessly steady ticking of the clock on the mantel. Time was passing; the clock began to strike the hour in a thin and sorrowful tone. It was eleven, one hour before midnight. The Emperor stood up.

He approached the window. From all the towers of the city the bells chimed the eleventh hour. He loved the bells. He had loved them since childhood. He had little regard for churches and stood at a loss and sometimes even timidly before the Cross, but he loved the bells. They stirred his heart. Their chiming voices made him solemn. They seemed to be announcing more than just the hour and celebration of worship. They were the tongues of Heaven. What inhabitant of earth could comprehend their golden language? Every hour they rang out devoutly, and they alone knew which was the decisive hour. He remained at the window and listened eagerly to the fading echoes. Then he turned abruptly. He went to the door and yanked it open. He stood at the threshold and allowed his gaze to sweep across the faces of those who had assembled. They were all present; he recognized every last one, never having forgotten, since he himself created them. There were Régis de Cambacérès, Duke of Parma; the Dukes of Bassano, Rovigno and Gaeta, Thibaudeau, Decrès, Daru, and Davout. He glanced back into the room — there were his friends Caulaincourt and Exelmans and the naive young Fleury de Chaboulon. Yes, he still had friends. Some had betrayed him on occasion. Was he a god, who should scorn and punish? He was but a man. They, however, took him for a god. As from a god they demanded anger and revenge; as from a god they also expected forgiveness. But he had no time left to act like a god and become angry, punish, and forgive. He had no time. More clearly than the shouts of the crowd outside his windows and the racket made by his dragoons in the gardens and house, he could hear the soft but ruthless ticking of the clock on the mantel behind him. He had no time left to punish. He only had time to forgive and allow himself to be loved, to bestow and to give: favors, titles, and posts, all the pathetic presents an Emperor may give. Generosity requires less time than ire. He was generous.

The bells struck midnight. Time was flying, time was running out. The cabinet! The government! The Emperor needed a government! Can one govern without ministers and without friends? The ministers whom one appoints to oversee others must themselves be overseen! The friends one trusts, they themselves become distrustful and awaken distrust! Those who today cheer before the windows and turn night into day are fickle! The God in whom one puts one’s trust is unknown and unseen. The Emperor has now assembled his cabinet. Names! Names! Decrès will be in charge of the Navy and Caulaincourt the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; Mollieu in charge of the Treasury and Gaudin overseeing Finances; Carnot will, he hopes, be the Minister of the Interior; Cambacérès the Lord Chancellor. Names! Names! From the towers strikes one, then two, and before long it will be daybreak. . Who will oversee the police?

The Emperor needed police and not just a guardian angel. The Emperor remembered his old Police Minister. His name was Fouché. The Emperor could easily order the arrest of this hated man, even his death. Fouché had betrayed him. He knew all the secrets in the land and all the Emperor’s friends and enemies. He could betray and protect — and both at the same time. Yes, all of the Emperor’s trusted friends had mentioned this man’s name. He was clever, they said, and loyal to the powerful. Was the Emperor not mighty? Could anyone dare doubt his power or be allowed to see his anxiety? Was there a man in the country whom the Emperor should fear?

“Get me Fouché!” ordered the Emperor. “And leave me alone!”