There will be much to do, truly! A steady hand will be required to carry out all the tasks . . .”

Fouché kept his hands at his sides, half closed, as if hiding something in them. The rather lengthy gold-embroidered palms on his sleeves seemed to purposely conceal his wrists. Only the long, eager fingers were visible. Traitor’s fingers, thought the Emperor. Fingers made for spinning malicious little tales at a writing-table. These hands have no muscles. I will not make him my Foreign Minister!

While he was pondering, the Emperor had unintentionally lifted his foot off the crucifix fragments. He wanted to go to the window. He thought he saw Fouché stealing a glimpse at the cross from under his sagging eyelids, and he felt embarrassed. He took a quick step forward, lifted his chin and said in a loud and commanding voice, so as to bring the meeting to a rapid end: “I appoint you my Minister!”

The Minister did not budge. Only the lid of his right eye rose a bit above the pupil, as though he were just waking. It seemed his eye was listening but not his ear.

In a voice that seemed to the Minister rather casually unceremonious, the Emperor continued: “You will head the Ministry of Police, which you have previously overseen in such a meritorious fashion.”

At that moment, the interested eyelid fell back over the pupil. It veiled a slight green gleam.

The Minister did not move. He is pondering, thought the Emperor, and he is pondering too long.

Finally Fouché bowed. From a rather dry throat came his words: “It gives me sincere pleasure to be permitted to serve Your Majesty once again.”

“Au revoir, Duke of Otranto,” said the Emperor.

Fouché rose up from his bow. He stood rigidly for a little while, gazing wide-eyed with astonishment in the direction of the Emperor’s boots, between which lay the shimmering bits of the crucifix.

Then he left.

He strode through the hall, occasionally offering a half-hearted greeting to an acquaintance without lifting his head. His steps were silent. He walked gently in light shoes, as though in stockinged feet, down the stone steps, past the crouching, lying, and snoring dragoons, into the garden, past the whinnying and pawing horses, past the half-lit rooms and not yet fully closed doors. He moved carefully among the strewn harnesses and leather gear. When he stood before the gate he whistled softly. His secretary appeared. “Good morning, Gaillard,” he said. “We’re policemen again. He can only make war and not politics! In three months I will be more than him!” He indicated with his finger backward over his shoulder toward the palace.

“It already looks like an army camp,” said Gaillard.

“It already looks like war,” replied the Minister.

“Yes,” said Gaillard. “But a lost one.”

Side by side, like brothers, they went down the street into the late-night mist, completely at home in it, and soon completely enveloped by it.

VI

Time was inexorable, appearing to the Emperor to pass more rapidly than ever before in his life. Sometimes he had the humiliating feeling that it no longer obeyed him as it had years ago. Years ago! he said to himself and started to calculate, then caught himself at it, thinking and counting like an old man. Previously he alone had ordained and directed the course of the hours. It was he who shaped and filled them, it was his might and name that they proclaimed in many corners of the world. These days, perhaps the people still obeyed him, but time was fleeing from him, melting away and vanishing whenever he attempted to grasp it.