awaiting the moment when Napoleon and his entourage would burst through the double-doors at the northern end of the hall. Just then, the door across the hall opened, and Raymond appeared. D’Aurien was about to raise his hands in exasperation at Raymond’s lateness, but he thankfully overcame this urge. A fellow officer, Raymond was dressed identical to d’Aurien. He, too, wore the dark blue coat with scarlet epaulettes, the steel cuirass, and the white breeches tucked into knee-high black boots. At such a constricted and weighty moment, it was refreshing to see a familiar face in Raymond, despite the anxiety he had caused.
The two locked eyes, straightened their bodies, squared off with one another. Then, they began to march slowly toward the center of the room. With each step, they grew closer and closer. Finally, they stood together, each staring into the other’s eyes, the tips of their noses only a short ten inches apart. It was their task to stand there in this manner, beneath the chandelier, until they received the signal. D’Aurien would then turn right and Raymond left, and the two would march, side-by-side, to heave open the fourth set of double-doors. The signal was to be easy enough. The instant they heard the third set of double-doors open—through which they could expect Napoleon to follow shortly thereafter—they would make their ninety degree turn and create a fourth portal for their emperor’s holy procession. This had been rehearsed every day for the last six days, and all involved were confident that the timing was impeccable.
As ordered, d’Aurien continued to stare into Raymond’s eyes. His eyes were brown. For all of the years d’Aurien had known his comrade Raymond, it was not until the second dress rehearsal that d’Aurien had noticed that he had brown eyes. He watched him blink. He continued to watch. He blinked again. Where was Napoleon already? D’Aurien felt the urge to avert his gaze and look around the room a little. It was hard to just look at Raymond like this, so close up. Granted, he should have been used to it by now, after all of the rehearsals. But, for whatever reason, it wasn’t getting any easier. Raymond’s face was old and creased. There were creases and wrinkles everywhere, around his eyes, on his forehead, even on his chin. His moustache looked like one of the dilapidated brooms he would order disobedient cadets to sweep the floors of the barracks with. His lips were pale and chapped. He also had a few large moles with hair growing out of them. Throughout his long military career, d’Aurien had thought that Raymond was a rather handsome and distinguished-looking man. In fact, d’Aurien recalled that, shortly after he and his wife were married, he had mentioned once to his wife that he thought Raymond was a good-looking fellow. D’Aurien had kept this view only until the last week, when he had the chance—or rather, was forced—to be within a foot of nothing but Raymond’s face for several minutes at a time. It would be difficult for him to think of Raymond as handsome again. Still, despite these new realizations, d’Aurien continued to regard Raymond as a lionhearted officer and a treasured friend, and looked forward to working with him on the upcoming campaign in the West Indies.
The instructions were to look at nothing but Raymond’s face until the doors opened. But he just couldn’t go on staring at Raymond like this. And besides, he was an officer, and these instructions were given to him by a mere scout-grenadier in the Jeune Garde. So d’Aurien permitted himself to let his eyes discreetly wander, even as he felt the sting of Raymond’s censorious glare.
The room was actually rather plain for a great palace hall. On the ceiling, there were no frescoes of fanciful cherubim or sculptures of pagan gods made of gold and marble. This ceiling was simply white. The room did have chandeliers, but even these were modest, a far cry from the glittering, light-scattering crystal chandeliers that d’Aurien had just last week marveled at while strolling the Château de Versailles. These were, instead, medieval chandeliers, which fell about halfway down the room on bronze chains. They were made of wood, carved in the shape of a cross, with a candle on each end and one in the center. D’Aurien knew these chandeliers well from the many rehearsals and dress rehearsals. All three were dilapidated. The one to his left was missing nearly half its candles. But the chandelier to his right was truly an eyesore. The top part of the cross had broken off, and the wood was rotting. The wood was shrinking and crumbling. It was cracking into cubical pieces, and even had white and green fungus growing on it toward the bottom. D’Aurien had realized right away that this was a case of dry rot. Why had Napoleon still not done anything about this? But still, d’Aurien smiled to himself, for these cross-shaped chandeliers took him back to his youth at the Jesuit school in Rouen. How much they reminded him of those rickety overhead candelabras in the dining hall at Lycée Pierre-Corneille.
The room had no stained glass windows, just three large square windows at the top of the wall, all in bad need of a cleaning. D’Aurien stared at these windows and considered how much more alive this room could look if someone would bother to give these windows a simple cleaning. Even from his distant view, d’Aurien could see that they were covered with grime and dirt. He could only imagine what they looked like up close. It might have been a dozen years since they were last washed. This was yet another problem caused by the Revolution. The change in the hands of power caused many administrative tasks handled by the Old Regime to fall through the cracks under new leadership.
Beneath the two windows were two sizable portraits of generals. D’Aurien did not recognize either of the generals, but could tell from their uniforms that they would have served under Louis XIII and almost certainly fought in the Thirty Years War. He was particularly absorbed by the general on the right. He wore a blue coat trimmed in green, with a broad lace collar. A white sash was draped across his uniform. He clutched a small sword in his right hand, staring out at the viewer with a smile as his horse raced forward across the battlefield. This was a uniform Gustavus Adolphus himself was known to be fond of, specifically the broad lace collar. Rare it was to find a portrait of the Lion of the North without his lace collar on. This general sat upon a Camargue horse, that ancient breed of horse from the Southern region of France. The Camargue was one of the oldest breeds of horse in the world. It was the Camargue which Eleanor of Aquitaine rode on her wedding night to Louis VII. Indeed, the Camargue was the horse which carried Charlemagne on the way to his Coronation on Christmas Day. D’Aurien continued to stare at this general. He let out a long sigh. Why, had he only been born in a different age, had he only been born at a time when no one dared question the sanctity of the king, had he only been born during the reign of Louis XIII, that wondrous father to Louis le Grand, why, he very well could have been this general.
Suddenly, d’Aurien felt his daydream interrupted by the most noxious disturbance. He began to sense Raymond breathing on him. Raymond must have altered the way he was breathing, for d’Aurien could now feel clouds of hot breath washing over his face at regular intervals. Perhaps Raymond had begun breathing out of his mouth rather than through his nose. The breath was putrid. It continued to wash over his face. It did not smell like a specific food which had recently been eaten. Rather, the scent was purely malodorous, reminiscent of nothing but unadulterated noisomeness. He endured this for several minutes. But what was that sound? What was that fanfare and jubilation? What was that knocking on the door? At that instant, d’Aurien fought every impulse in his body not to turn his head to the immediate left.
Napoleon! The doors crashed open, the sound of trumpets filled the room, and eleven new men appeared in the hall. There were the four trumpeters on the wings, six low-ranking soldiers in uniform, and, in the center, Napoleon Bonaparte. He wore silk stockings embroidered in gold with the imperial coronet on the clocks, white velvet boots laced and bedecked in silver, diamond buckles and buttons on his garters. His shirt was of the finest linen, of beautiful cambric, with ruffles and a collar of the most exquisite lace. His cravat was made of delicate black satin, and his black velvet cap was surrounded with a band of glittering diamonds.
He began to process down the aisle, the trumpeters continuing to blast, “Marche vers la Gl
oire,” his entourage in tow. Two senior officers of the Grande Armée were marching in step about twenty paces ahead of Napoleon, approaching the next set of doors to open for His Majesty. Underneath the light of the chandeliers, Napoleon strode in his crimson velvet coat, embroidered on all the seams, the entire jacket sparkling with silver and gemstones. The trumpets blared as this little corporal strut through the hall in his white velvet boots. He walked like the emperor he was, with fierceness, with will, and perhaps most importantly, with just the slightest air of divinity. His feet continued to hit the floor like thunderbolts. Indeed, each step seemed to symbolize a future city or town the French people could be sure their new leader would crush and conquer for their nascent Empire. And yet, despite these powerful, ponderous strides, this group of men somehow appeared to be gliding along the marble floor, as though the sheer grace emanating from the Emperor allowed the entire brigade to transcend the inherent bulkiness of marchlike movements.
Whether he knew it or not, Napoleon was