Yes, he knew his Police Minister — dangerous, skeptical, old, and unchanging, a man who had never been young and had never believed in anything. A scrawny, brilliant spider who had woven webs and destroyed them; tenacious, patient, and without passion. This most doubtful of men, this faithless priest, was received by the Emperor in the stance in which millions of his followers were used to seeing him. As he stood there, arms crossed, he not only felt it himself but also made this hated man feel the faith of the millions of followers who revered and loved the Emperor with his folded arms. The Emperor waited for the Minister like a statue of himself.

The Minister was now standing before him in the room, head bowed. The Emperor did not move. It was as if the Minister had not bowed his head as one does before the great ones but rather as one does when one is hiding one’s face or searching for something on the ground. The Emperor thought of the broken crucifix, which he was covering with his left boot and would certainly have hidden from anyone, not only the glare of this policeman. It seemed to the Emperor undignified to move from his place yet also undignified to be concealing something.

“Look at me!” he ordered, injecting his voice with its old, victorious ring. The Minister lifted his head. He had a wizened face and eyes of indeterminable color, somewhere between pale and dark, which endeavored in vain to stay wide open, to counter the compulsion of the eyelids, which kept drooping on their own, although he seemed constantly to be trying to keep them up. His Imperial uniform was immaculate and proper, but, as though to indicate the unusual hour of night at which its wearer found himself requested, it was not completely closed. As if by accident, a button on his vest had been left undone. The Emperor was to notice this defect, and he did. “Finish dressing!” he said. The Minister smiled and closed the button.

“Your Majesty,” began the Minister, “I am your servant!”

“A faithful servant!” said the Emperor.

“One of your truest!” replied the Minister.

“That has not been particularly noticeable,” said the Emperor softly, “in the last ten months.”

“But in the last two,” answered the Minister, “I have been preparing myself for the joy of seeing Your Majesty here now. For the last two months.”

The Minister spoke slowly and faintly. He neither raised nor lowered his voice. The words crept out of his small mouth like plump, well-fed shadows, robust enough to be audible but mindful not to seem as vigorous as the Emperor’s words. He kept his long, slightly bent hands calmly and respectfully at his sides. It was as if he were also paying homage with his hands.

“I’ve decided,” said the Emperor, “to bury the past. Do you hear, Fouché? The past! It is not very pleasant.”

“It is not pleasant, Your Majesty.”

He grows trusting, thought the Emperor.

“There will be much to do, Fouché,” he said. “These people mustn’t be given time. We must anticipate them. Incidentally, is there any news from Vienna?”

“Bad news, Majesty,” said the Minister. “The Imperial Minister for Foreign Affairs, Monsieur Talleyrand, has spoiled everything. He serves the enemies of Your Majesty better than he has ever served Your Majesty. I have never — as Your Majesty will recall — taken him for sincere.