From the direction of the street, on the other side of the shut windows, he heard the boisterous shouts of the people, the whinnying of horses, the clinking of weapons, the high-pitched ring of spurs, and, from the hall behind the high white door opposite his seat, the murmuring and whispering of many voices; from time to time he seemed to recognize one of them. He was aware of everything that was going on; it seemed clear and immediate yet vague and distant, and all of it instilled in him both happiness and a feeling of awe. He felt that he was finally home and was at the same time being rescued from some kind of storm. Slowly he forced himself to pay attention; he commanded his eyes to notice and his ears to listen. He sat, perfectly still, at the writing table. The cries from just outside the windows were intended for him alone. It was for his sake that so many voices were murmuring and whispering in the hall beyond the closed door. Suddenly it seemed to him that he was looking at all of his countless thousands of friends throughout the entire great land of France, who were standing and waiting for him. Throughout the whole country millions cried, as hundreds were doing here: “Long live the Emperor!” In all the rooms of the palace they were whispering, chattering, and talking about him. He would have enjoyed allowing himself some leisure to think about himself from a stranger’s perspective. But, behind his back, he could hear the ruthlessly steady ticking of the clock on the mantel. Time was passing; the clock began to strike the hour in a thin and sorrowful tone. It was eleven, one hour before midnight. The Emperor stood up.

He approached the window. From all the towers of the city the bells chimed the eleventh hour. He loved the bells. He had loved them since childhood. He had little regard for churches and stood at a loss and sometimes even timidly before the Cross, but he loved the bells. They stirred his heart. Their chiming voices made him solemn. They seemed to be announcing more than just the hour and celebration of worship. They were the tongues of Heaven. What inhabitant of earth could comprehend their golden language? Every hour they rang out devoutly, and they alone knew which was the decisive hour. He remained at the window and listened eagerly to the fading echoes. Then he turned abruptly. He went to the door and yanked it open. He stood at the threshold and allowed his gaze to sweep across the faces of those who had assembled. They were all present; he recognized every last one, never having forgotten, since he himself created them. There were Régis de Cambacérès, Duke of Parma; the Dukes of Bassano, Rovigno and Gaeta, Thibaudeau, Decrès, Daru, and Davout. He glanced back into the room — there were his friends Caulaincourt and Exelmans and the naive young Fleury de Chaboulon.