They knew this image from the thousands of portraits that hung in their rooms and the rooms of their friends, decorated the edges of the plates from which they ate each day, the cups from which they drank, and the metallic handles of the knives with which they sliced their bread. It was an intimate, familiar, yes, quite familiar picture of the great Emperor in his gray cloak and his black hat on his white horse. That was the reason they were often startled when they saw it come to life — the living Emperor, the living horse, the genuine cloak, the actual hat.

He rode considerably ahead of his retinue; the magnificently uniformed generals and ministers followed at a respectful distance.

The cheery early sunlight was filtering through the fresh, light-green crowns of the trees along the edges of the avenues and in the gardens of Paris. The people did not wish to believe the sinister rumors that came from many corners of the country. For days now there had been talk of revolts against the Emperor by those still loyal to the King. It was also said that the powerful ones of the world had decided to destroy the Emperor and France along with him. Fortified and terrible, the enemy waited at all the borders of the land. The Empress was in Vienna at the house of her father, the Austrian Emperor. She did not come home; they would not let her return to France. The Emperor’s son was also being held captive in Vienna. Death was lying in wait at all the French frontiers. Yet on this bright day the people were willing to forget about the sinister rumors, the war waiting at the frontiers and lurking death. They preferred to believe the happy news that the papers printed. And when they saw the Emperor riding through the city, looking just as they had always imagined him, mighty and serene, clever and great and bold, the Lord of Battles, riding in the young spring of the Parisian streets, it seemed obvious to them that the heavens were on their side, the Emperor’s side, and they released themselves to the comforting melody of this joyous day and their joyful hearts.

The Emperor was riding to Saint-Germain, as it was Parade Day. The Emperor halted. He removed his hat. He saluted the assembled people of Saint-Germain, the workers and soldiers. He knew that the simple folk liked his smooth black hair and the smooth curl that fell over his forehead of its own will and yet obediently. He looked perfectly poor and simple to those poor and simple people when he appeared before them bareheaded. The sun was nearing its zenith and beat hotly upon his uncovered head. He did not move. He forced his horse and himself to uphold that statuesque stillness, the powerful effects of which he had known for years. From the midst of the crowd, in which flamed hundreds of women’s red scarves, came the familiar sour and greasy odor of sweat, the unpleasant smell of the poor on holiday, the scent of their jubilant excitement. Emotion gripped the Emperor. He sat, hat in hand. He did not love the people. He distrusted their enthusiasm and their smell. But he smiled anyway from his white horse, the rigid sweetheart of the crowd, an Emperor and a monument.

In rigid squares stood the soldiers, his old soldiers. How alike they looked, the sergeants, the corporals, and the privates, all of whom death had spared and who had been reabsorbed into the harsh poverty of peasant life. One name after another occurred to the Emperor.