. . yet I cannot see him!

The Emperor took a couple of steps back. It was late afternoon, and the twilight seeped through the open window and crept slowly up the walls. The dark clothes of the Imperial son merged with it imperceptibly. Only his sweet and distant face continued to shine with a pale luminosity.

 

VII

On the table was an hourglass of polished beryl. Through its narrow neck, filling the bottom bulb, flowed a relentless stream of soft yellowish sand. It seemed only to be a slow trickle, yet the bottom appeared to fill quickly. Thus the Emperor had his enemy, Time, constantly before his eyes. He often amused himself with the childish game of tipping the glass before the sand had finished its journey. He believed in the mysterious significance of dates, days, and hours. He had returned on March 20. His son had been born on March 20. And it was on March 20 that he had one of his guileless enemies executed — the Duke of Enghien. The Emperor had an excellent memory — but so did the dead. How long until the dead took their revenge?

The Emperor heard the hours passing even when speaking to his ministers, friends, or advisors, and also when outside, before the windows, the frenzied crowd was issuing its shouts. The patient, measured, uniform voice of the clock was stronger than the roaring of the masses. And he loved it more than the voice of the people. The people were fickle friends, but Time was a loyal enemy. Those hateful cries still rang in his ears, the ones he had heard when he departed the country ten months earlier, vanquished and powerless. Every jubilant shout from this crowd was a painful reminder of each of the hateful cries of the other crowd.

Oh! He still had to rally those who were unsteady in their faith, to make the liars believe they were not lying to him and to show love to those he did not love. He envied his enemy, the lethargic old king who had fled with his arrival. The King had ruled in God’s name and through the strength of his ancestors alone had kept the peace. He, however, the Emperor, had to make war. He was only the general of his soldiers.

 

VIII

It was a mild morning in April. The Emperor left the palace. He rode through the city on his white horse, wrapped in his gray military cloak, wearing his martial yet delicate boots of soft kid leather on which his gallant silver spurs shimmered menacingly, black hat on lowered head, which from time to time he unexpectedly lifted as though he were suddenly coming out of deep meditation. He paced his animal. It drummed with its hooves softly and evenly upon the stones. As those who watched the Emperor ride by heard the patter of the horse’s hooves, they had the feeling they were listening to the hypnotic, measured call of threatening war drums. They remained still, removed their hats, and shouted “Long live the Emperor!” — moved, unsettled, and also certainly shocked at the sight of him.