He placed no trust in men until they were prepared to die for him — thus he made them into soldiers. So that he might be certain of their affection, he taught them to obey him. In order for him to be certain of them, they had to die. He wished to bring happiness to the world, and he became its plague. Yet he was loved even for his weak ways. For when he showed himself to be weak, the people realized he was one of their own kind, and they loved him because they felt a connection to him. And when he showed himself to be strong, they also loved him for that very reason, because he seemed not to be one of them. Those who did not love him hated him or feared him. He was both firm and fickle, true and treacherous, bold and shy, exalted and modest.

And now he was standing at the gates of Paris.

The orders that the King had introduced were discarded, in some instances out of fear and in others out of elation.

The colors of the King and his royal house had been white. Those who had acknowledged him wore white bows on their jackets.

But, as if by accident, hundreds had suddenly lost their white bows. Now they lay, rejected and disgraced butterflies, in the black muck of the streets.

The flower of the King and his royal house had been the virginally pure lily. Now, hundreds of lilies, of silk and cloth, lay discarded, disowned, and disgraced in the black muck of the streets.

The colors of the approaching Emperor, however, were blue, white, and red; blue as the sky and the distant future; white as the snow and death; and red as blood and freedom.

Suddenly, thousands of people appeared in the streets of the city wearing blue-white-red bows in their buttonholes and on their hats.

And instead of the proud, virginal lily, they wore the most unassuming of all flowers, the violet.

The violet is a humble and sturdy flower. It embodies the virtues of the anonymous masses. Nearly unrecognized, it blooms in the shadows of imposing trees, and with a modest yet dignified precocity it is the first of all the flowers to greet the spring. And its dark-blue sheen is equally reminiscent of the morning mist before daybreak and the evening mist before nightfall. It was the Emperor’s flower. He was known as the “Father of the Violet.”

Thousands of people could be seen streaming from the outskirts of Paris toward the center of the city, toward the palace, all of them adorned with violets. It was one day before the start of spring, an unfriendly day, a sullen welcome for spring. The violet, however, the bravest of all flowers, was already blooming in the woods outside the gates of Paris. It was as though these people from the suburbs were carrying the spirit of spring into the city of stone, toward the palace of stone. The freshly plucked bouquets of violets shone a radiant blue at the ends of the sticks held aloft by the men, between the warm and swelling breasts of the women, on the hats and caps that were being waved high in the air, in the joyful hands of the workers and craftsmen, on the swords of the officers, on the drums of the old percussionists and the silver cornets of the old trumpeters. At the front of some of the groups marched the drummers of the old Imperial Army. They rapped out old battle melodies on their old calfskin drums, let their drumsticks fly through the air and caught them again, like slender homing pigeons, in fatherly hands held open in welcome. Heading up other groups, or contained within their midst, marched the ancient trumpeters of the old army, who from time to time set their instruments upon their lips and blew the old battle calls of the Emperor, the simple, melancholy calls to death and triumph, each of which reminded a soldier of his own pledge to die for the Emperor and also of the last sigh of a beloved wife before he left her to lay down for the Emperor. In the midst of all the people, raised upon shoulders, were the Emperor’s old officers. They swayed, or rather were swayed, above the surging heads of the crowd like living, human banners. They had their swords drawn. On the sword tips fluttered their hats, like little black flags decorated with the tricolored cockades of the Emperor and the people of France. And from time to time, as if compelled to release the oppressive longing that had quickly built up in their hearts once again, the men and women cried out: “Long live France! Long live the Emperor! Long live the people! Long live the Father of the Violet! Long live liberty! Long live the Emperor!” And once more: “Long live the Emperor!” Often, some enthusiast from within the center of the crowd would begin to sing. He sang the old songs of the old soldiers, from battles of days past, the songs that celebrate man’s farewell to life, his prayer before death, the sung confession of the soldier lacking the time for final exoneration. They were songs proclaiming love of both life and death. They were tunes in which one could hear undertones of marching regiments and clattering muskets. Suddenly someone struck up a song that had not been heard for a long time, the “Marseillaise” — and all the many thousands joined in singing it.