Time, woman’s enemy, had been halted in its track; the rolling hours, the creeping weeks, the murderously slow and boring months, had been only a bad dream. Their mirrors lied no more. Once again, they revealed the true images of youth. And with victorious steps, on feet more joyously winged than those of youth — for their feet were revived and had awakened to a second youth — the ladies entered their carriages and headed toward the palace amid cheers from the thronging, waiting crowds.

They waited in the gardens before the palace, clamoring at the gates. In every arriving minister and general they saw another of the Emperor’s emissaries. Besides these exalted persons, there came also the lesser staff of the Emperor — the old cooks and coachmen and bakers and laundresses, grooms and riding-masters, tailors and cobblers, masons and upholsterers, lackeys and maids. And they began to prepare the palace for the Emperor so he would find it just as he had left it, with no reminders of the King who had fled. The exalted ladies and gentlemen joined the lowly servants in this work. In fact, the ladies of the Imperial court worked even more zealously than the servants. Disregarding their dignity and the damage to their delicate clothing or their carefully cultivated fingernails, they scratched, clawed, and peeled from the walls the tapestries and the white lilies of the King with vindictiveness, fury, impatience, and enthusiasm. Under the King’s tapestries were the old and familiar symbols of the Emperor — countless golden bees with widespread, glassy, and delicately veined little wings and black-striped hind ends, Imperial insects, industrious manufacturers of sweetness. Soldiers carried in the Imperial eagles of shiny, golden brass and placed them in every corner, so that at the very moment of his arrival, the Emperor would know that his soldiers were awaiting him — even those who had not been able to be at his side upon his entrance.

In the meantime, night was falling, and the Emperor had still not arrived. The lanterns in front of the palace were lit. Streetlamps at every corner flared. They battled against fog, dampness, and the wind.

The people waited and waited. Finally, they heard the orderly trot of military horses’ hooves. They knew it was the Thirteenth Dragoons. At the head of the squadron rode the Colonel, sabre shining a narrow flash in the gloom of the night. The Colonel cried: “Make way for the Emperor!” As he sat high upon his chestnut steed, which was barely visible in the darkness, his wide, pale face with its great black mustache over the heads of the thronging crowd, unsheathed weapon in his raised hand, repeating from time to time his cry “Make way for the Emperor!” and occasionally lit by the yellowish glint of the flickering streetlamps, he reminded the crowd of the militant and supposedly cruel guardian angel that was alleged to personally accompany the Emperor, for it seemed to the people that the Emperor, at this hour, was issuing orders even to his own guardian angel . . .

Soon his dragoon-escorted coach came into view, the rumble of its hurried wheels inaudible over the trampling of the horses’ hooves.

It stopped at the palace.

As the Emperor left the carriage, many pale, open hands reached for him. At that moment, entranced by the imploring hands, he lost his will and consciousness. These loving white hands that stretched toward him seemed to him more terrible than if they had belonged to armed enemies. Each hand was like a loving, yearning pale face. The love that streamed toward the Emperor from these bright, outstretched hands was like an intense and dangerous plea. What were the hands demanding? What did they want from him? These hands were praying, demanding, and compelling all at once; hands raised as if to the gods.

He shut his eyes and could feel the hands lifting him and carrying him along on unsteady shoulders up the palace steps. He heard the familiar voice of his friend General Lavalette: “It is you! It’s you! It’s you — my Emperor!” From the voice and the breath on his face he realized that his friend was in front of him, climbing the steps backward. The Emperor opened his eyes — and saw the open arms of his friend Lavalette and the white silhouette of his face.

This startled him, so he closed his eyes again. As if sleeping or unconscious, he was carried, led and supported along to his old room. Both frightened and happy, he seated himself at his writing table with a fearful joy in his heart.

He saw some of his old friends in the room as if through a fog.