Or maybe the people no longer obeyed him either! To think, he had only left them on their own for a brief while. For a few short months they had ceased to feel his taming, alluring glance, the firm yet flattering touch of his hand, the threatening and tender, the harsh and seductive tones of his voice. No, they certainly had not forgotten him — could anyone forget a man of his kind? — but they had lost touch with him. They had lived without him, many of them even turning against him and falling into league with his royal enemies. They had grown accustomed to living without him.

He sat there, alone amid a frequently changing selection of acquaintances and friends. Soon his brothers, sisters, and mother came. Time passed. It grew brighter and warmer, and the spring of Paris became vigorous and magnificent. It seemed practically like summer. The blackbirds warbled in the Tuileries gardens, and the lilacs had already begun to emit their deliberate, strong fragrance. On many an evening the Emperor could hear the nightingale’s song as he walked alone through the garden, hands behind his back, gaze lowered toward the gravel pathway. Spring had arrived. At such times he realized that all his life he had been aware of the ever-changing seasons in the same way that he had been used to taking notice of favorable or unfavorable opportunities, of precisely followed or completely misunderstood orders, of agreeable or objectionable situations, of Nature’s benevolent or malevolent moods. The earth was a terrain, the sky a friend or enemy, the hill an observation point, the valley a trap, the brook an obstacle, the mountain a shelter, the forest an ambush, the night a respite, the morning an offensive, daytime a battle, and evening a victory or a defeat. It had been that simple. Years ago! thought the Emperor.

He returned home. He wanted to see the painting of his son. In gloomy times he longed for his child more than his own mother. Abnormal as he was, the product of a caprice of Nature, it was as if he had perverted its laws, and he was no longer the child of his race, but had in truth become the father of his forefathers. His ancestors lived through his name. And Nature was vengeful — he knew that! Since it had allowed him to endow his forefathers with glory, it was bound to keep him apart from his own offspring. My child! thought the Emperor. He thought of his son with the tenderness of a father, of a mother, and also that of a child. My unhappy child! he thought. He is my son — is he also my heir? Is Nature so benevolent that she will bring forth my mirror image? I have fathered him; he was born to me. I want to see him.

He looked upon the picture, at the chubby-cheeked face of the King of Rome. He was a good, round child, like thousands of others, healthy and innocent. His soft eyes gazed out with devotion into the still unknown, terrible, beautiful, and dangerous world. He is my blood! thought the Emperor. There will be nothing left to conquer, but he will be able to preserve what he has. I have good advice for him .