The Man of Destiny | Page 9

minutes after I catch him; for I tell you that if ever--
NAPOLEON (shouting furiously for the innkeeper). Giuseppe! (To the
Lieutenant, out of all patience.) Hold your tongue, sir, if you can.
LIEUTENANT. I warn you it's no use to try to put the blame on me.
(Plaintively.) How was I to know the sort of fellow he was? (He takes a
chair from between the sideboard and the outer door; places it near the
table; and sits down.) If you only knew how hungry and tired I am,
you'd have more consideration.
GIUSEPPE (returning). What is it, excellency?
NAPOLEON (struggling with his temper). Take this--this officer. Feed
him; and put him to bed, if necessary. When he is in his right mind
again, find out what has happened to him and bring me word. (To the
Lieutenant.) Consider yourself under arrest, sir.
LIEUTENANT (with sulky stiffness). I was prepared for that. It takes a
gentleman to understand a gentleman. (He throws his sword on the
table. Giuieppe takes it up and politely offers it to Napoleon, who
throws it violently on the couch.)
GIUSEPPE (with sympathetic concern). Have you been attacked by the
Austrians, lieutenant? Dear, dear, dear!
LIEUTENANT (contemptuously). Attacked! I could have broken his
back between my finger and thumb. I wish I had, now. No: it was by
appealing to the better side of my nature: that's what I can't get over. He
said he'd never met a man he liked so much as me. He put his
handkerchief round my neck because a gnat bit me, and my stock was
chafing it. Look! (He pulls a handkerchief from his stock. Giuseppe
takes it and examines it.)
GIUSEPPE (to Napoleon). A lady's handkerchief, excellency. (He
smells it.) Perfumed!

NAPOLEON. Eh? (He takes it and looks at it attentively.) Hm! (He
smells it.) Ha! (He walks thoughtfully across the room, looking at the
handkerchief, which he finally sticks in the breast of his coat.)
LIEUTENANT. Good enough for him, anyhow. I noticed that he had a
woman's hands when he touched my neck, with his coaxing, fawning
ways, the mean, effeminate little hound. (Lowering his voice with
thrilling intensity.) But mark my words, General. If ever--
THE LADY'S VOICE (outside, as before). Giuseppe!
LIEUTENANT (petrified). What was that?
GIUSEPPE. Only a lady upstairs, lieutenant, calling me.
LIEUTENANT. Lady!
VOICE. Giuseppe, Giuseppe: where ARE you?
LIEUTENANT (murderously). Give me that sword. (He strides to the
couch; snatches the sword; and draws it.)
GIUSEPPE (rushing forward and seizing his right arm.) What are you
thinking of, lieutenant? It's a lady: don't you hear that it's a woman's
voice?
LIEUTENANT. It's HIS voice, I tell you. Let me go. (He breaks away,
and rushes to the inner door. It opens in his face; and the Strange Lady
steps in. She is a very attractive lady, tall and extraordinarily graceful,
with a delicately intelligent, apprehensive, questioning face--perception
in the brow, sensitiveness in the nostrils, character in the chin: all keen,
refined, and original. She is very feminine, but by no means weak: the
lithe, tender figure is hung on a strong frame: the hands and feet, neck
and shoulders, are no fragile ornaments, but of full size in proportion to
her stature, which considerably exceeds that of Napoleon and the
innkeeper, and leaves her at no disadvantage with the lieutenant. Only
her elegance and radiant charm keep the secret of her size and strength.
She is not, judging by her dress, an admirer of the latest fashions of the
Directory; or perhaps she uses up her old dresses for travelling. At all
events she wears no jacket with extravagant lappels, no Greco-Tallien
sham chiton, nothing, indeed, that the Princesse de Lamballe might not
have worn. Her dress of flowered silk is long waisted, with a Watteau
pleat behind, but with the paniers reduced to mere rudiments, as she is
too tall for them. It is cut low in the neck, where it is eked out by a
creamy fichu. She is fair, with golden brown hair and grey eyes.
She enters with the self-possession of a woman accustomed to the

privileges of rank and beauty. The innkeeper, who has excellent natural
manners, is highly appreciative of her. Napoleon, on whom her eyes
first fall, is instantly smitten self-conscious. His color deepens: he
becomes stiffer and less at ease than before. She perceives this instantly,
and, not to embarrass him, turns in an infinitely well bred manner to
pay the respect of a glance to the other gentleman, who is staring at her
dress, as at the earth's final masterpiece of treacherous dissimulation,
with feelings altogether inexpressible and indescribable. As she looks
at him, she becomes deadly pale. There is no mistaking her expression:
a revelation of some fatal error utterly unexpected, has