There were some whom he remembered well and whom he could have called out. His heart was silent. He was ashamed. They loved him, and he was ashamed that they loved him because he could feel only sympathy for them. He sat on his sunlit and doubly luminous white horse, his head uncovered, hemmed and pressed by the jubilation. Inside the squares the old soldiers now began to beat their drums. How well they drummed! Now he waved his hat, and loosening the reins a bit and easing the pressure of his knees so that the horse understood and started to frisk, the Emperor began to speak — and it seemed to the people in the crowd as if the drums that they had just heard at this point were bestowed with a human voice, an Imperial voice. “My comrades,” began the Emperor, “connoisseurs of my battles and my victories, witnesses to my fortunes and misfortunes . . .”

The white horse perked its ears and gently pawed with its front hoof in time with the Emperor’s words.

The sun stood at its zenith and glowed, youthful and mild.

The Emperor put on his hat and dismounted.

 

IX

He approached the crowd. Their adoration hit him with their every breath, it shone from their faces as brightly as the sun from the heavens, and he suddenly felt that he had always been one of them. At that moment the Emperor saw himself as his devotees saw him, on thousands of pictures on plates, knives, and walls; already a legend, yet still living.

During his long months in exile, he had missed these people. They were the people of France; he knew them. They were ready to love or hate in an instant. They were solemn and derisive, easily inspired but difficult to persuade, proud in squalor, generous in good fortune, devout and thoughtless in victory, bitter and vengeful in defeat, playful and childlike in peace, merciless and irresistible in battle, easily disappointed, trusting and distrusting at the same time, forgetful and quickly appeased by the right word, always ready for thrills, yet ever loving of moderation. These were the people of Gaul, the French people, and the Emperor liked them.

He no longer felt mistrust. They surrounded him. They shouted at him “Long live the Emperor!” as he stood in their midst, and it was as if they wished to prove to him that even when he stood among them, they could not forget he was their Emperor. He was their child and their Emperor.

He embraced one of the older non-commissioned officers. The man had a somber, sallow, bold, and bony face, a long, flowing, thick, and neatly combed graying mustache, and he towered a full head above the Emperor. During their embrace it looked as though the Emperor was under the protection of the thin, bony soldier. The man leaned forward clumsily, a bit comically, hindered by his own awkward height and the corpulent shortness of His Majesty, and allowed himself to receive a kiss on the right cheek. The Emperor tasted the smell of his sallow skin, the sharp vinegar that the man had rubbed on his freshly shaved cheeks, the tiny beads of sweat that dripped from his forehead, and also the tobacco on his breath. There was an intimate familiarity to the entire crowd. Yes, this was the odor of the people from whom the soldiers had sprung, the wonderful soldiers of the country of France; this was the very scent of loyalty, the loyalty of the soldiers — sweat, tobacco, blood, and vinegar. When he embraced one of them, he embraced all of them, the whole of his great army, all its dead and all its living descendants. And the people who saw the short, chubby Emperor in the protective arms of the tall, thin soldier felt as if they too were being embraced by the Emperor, as if they themselves held him. Tears filled the spectators’ eyes, and with hoarse voices they cried out: “Long live the Emperor!” but the lustful desire to cry stifled their cheering throats. The Emperor relaxed his arms. The man took three steps backward. The old soldier stiffened. Under his bushy, bristling eyebrows his small black eyes lit up with the dangerous yet obedient fire of loyalty.

“Where have you fought?” asked the Emperor.

“At Jena, Austerlitz, Eylau, and Moscow, my Emperor!” replied the sergeant.

“What is your name?”

“Lavernoile, Pierre Antoine!” thundered the soldier.

“I thank you,” cried the Emperor loudly enough so that all could hear him. “I thank you, Lieutenant Pierre Antoine Lavernoile!”

The newly minted lieutenant stiffened again.