Joseph Roth - The Hundred Days

So, as he was, bareheaded, the Emperor left the room. He wanted to go to the park, to feel the soft rain. All around the house, lights were already burning. The Emperor walked quickly, almost angrily. He strode through the harsh brightness of the halls, head lowered as he passed the guards. He entered the park, walked up and down, hands behind his back, to and fro along the same short and wide avenue, listening to the busy conversation between the rain and the leaves.

Suddenly, to his right, from amid the dense darkness of the trees, he heard a strange and suspicious sound. He knew that there were men who wished to kill him. The thought flashed through his mind that it would be a ridiculous end for an Emperor such as he — in a peaceful park, in the midst of this ridiculous rain, a wretched assassination, a wretched death. He walked between the trees across the soaked ground and headed in the direction from which the noise seemed to have come, when to his consternation and amusement he spotted a woman a few steps ahead. Her white bonnet shimmered. “Over here!” called the Emperor. “Over here!” he called again when the woman did not move. Now she approached. She stood face to face with the Emperor, hardly two strides away from him. She was without doubt a servant woman. Probably, thought the Emperor, she has just left a man’s company. The same old story! They amused him, these everyday common stories.

“Why are you crying?” asked the Emperor. “And what are you doing here?”

The woman did not reply. She lowered her head.

“Answer!” ordered the Emperor. “Come closer!” The woman stepped close to him. Now he could see her. She was certainly one of his serving maids.

The woman fell to her knees, onto the damp earth. She kept her head lowered. Her hair nearly touched the tops of his bootlegs. He bent down toward her. Finally, she spoke.

“The Emperor,” she said. And a few moments later: “Napoleon! My Emperor!”

“Stand up!” ordered the Emperor. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

She must have detected impatience and menace in his voice. She rose. “Tell me!” ordered the Emperor. He grabbed her arm and led her into the avenue. He stopped, let go of her, and ordered once more: “Tell me!”

Now he saw from the reflection that fell upon the windows along the avenue that the woman was young.

“I’ll have you punished!” said the Emperor, at the same time caressing her wet face with his hand. “Who are you?”

“Angelina Pietri,” said the woman.

“From Corsica?” asked the Emperor — the name was familiar.

“Ajaccio,” whispered the woman.

“Run! Quickly!” ordered the Emperor.

The woman turned, lifted her skirts with both hands, ran across the stones, and vanished around the corner.

He continued onward, slowly. Ajaccio, he thought. Angelina Pietri from Ajaccio.

He changed his clothes. He was going to the opera. He arrived in the middle of the second act. He stood upright in the box, hat on his head. A brilliant strip of his dazzling snow-white riding breeches shimmered above the deep-red velvet of the balustrade. The audience stood and stared at the box where he sat, as the orchestra played the “Marseillaise.”

“Long live the Emperor!” called one of the actors from the stage. The whole house echoed this.

He waved and left the box. On the staircase he turned to his adjutant and said: “Note this: Angelina Pietri from Ajaccio.”

He forgot the name again instantly. He thought only of Ajaccio.

He needed weapons, soldiers, and a grand parade.

For the benefit of the representatives of the people, whom he disdained, for his soldiers, whom he loved, for the priests of the faith (in which he did not believe) and for the people of Paris, whose love he feared, he intended to show himself as the protector of the country and of freedom. For a few hours on this day all the workshops in which preparations were being made were idle. The forges and ironworks were shut. However, the millers, bakers, butchers, and distillers were busy preparing for the celebration. For this day the soldiers were to don the new uniforms that had been made for the war.

The master of ceremonies developed a plan for a grandiose and drawn-out display.

The celebration took place on June 1. The day was one of the warmest since the Emperor’s return. It was a hot and ripe summer’s day. It was a strange heat, unknown this time of year. The year seemed hasty to reach maturity. The lilacs were already past their peak. The cockchafers had quickly disappeared. The great chestnut leaves had reached their full size and achieved their deep-green color. In the woods the strawberries had long since been ripening. Thunderstorms occurred frequently and with midsummer’s intensity. The sun blazed; its brilliance was savage. Even on calm, cloudless days the swallows dived very low, practically touching the cobbles in the streets, as they did in other years only before impending rain. Here and there could be heard whispers, both open and hushed, of coming disaster. The newspapers of the land promised peace, but in all the villages and all the towns new recruits were drafted and old soldiers were recalled into the army. And not without dread did the people hear the armorers hammering away busily. They listened with horror as the butchers told of the magnitude of the government’s order, and they watched the menacing zeal of the soldiers drilling on the parade ground. And on this festive day they were curious, indeed, but also distrustful.

Soon the celebration began on the great festival ground. Representing each regiment there were officers, both commissioned and non-commissioned, and privates. Two hundred men bore the shining Imperial eagles of brass and gold; here stood the dignitaries of the Légion d’Honneur and the Councillors of State, there the university professors, the city judges, members of the city council, the cardinals, the bishops, the Imperial Guard, and the Garde Nationale. The sabres and bayonets of forty-five thousand troops glinted. Hundreds of cannon thundered. In every direction there were people, a solid wall of people, a vast and anonymous mass, curious, pitiable, and full of zeal. The sun burned ever stronger over the wide, shadeless plaza. From time to time a harsh word of command was heard, a short drum roll, the blare of a trumpet, the clanging rattle of arms, the dull thud of guns on the ground. The people waited. And ever more fierce burned the sun.

Then they heard the Emperor coming. He arrived in a gilded carriage drawn by eight horses, the white plumes on their heads swaying arrogantly, proud silver flames; on both sides rode his marshals. His pages were dressed in green, red, and gold. Dragoons and mounted grenadiers followed behind. The Emperor arrived. He was hardly recognizable in his mother-of-pearl-colored cloak, breeches of white satin, and white-feathered black velour hat. He was barely recognized in the presence of his white-clad brother. He mounted the tribune, a massive, high throne. On either side of him stood his brothers and below him were chancellors, ministers, and marshals. So magnificent were they all that they too were hardly recognizable.

He felt as lonely as ever. Had anyone recognized him? He stood there, alone on his raised throne, under a blue sky, under a hot sun, high above the people and soldiers, between the wide, blue, calm, and enigmatic heavens and his audience, which was equally vast and mysterious.

He began to speak. He was confident of the power of his voice. But today even his own voice seemed strange to him. “We do not want the King,” he cried, “as our enemies do. Faced with the choice between war and humiliation, we choose war. .”

A few days earlier, when he had jotted down these words, they had seemed to him very simple and natural. He knew the French. Honor was their god, disgrace their devil. They were the best soldiers in the world, for they served the Goddess of Honor, the warrior’s most unrelenting mistress. But as for the Emperor himself, what god did he obey?