On the second floor of the Kaidao Sai Mansion, there is a secluded small room where the air seems to have frozen ti. Every flicker of light, every ray of glow, every tiny echo amplifies thoughts of solitude and tornt.
Louis Bonaparte sits in a slightly worn but still splendid armchair, with an old unfolded map on the table before him. His fingers wander unconsciously among the mountains and rivers on the map, yet his eyes fail to capture any geographical outline, only the intertwined shadows of past glory and present distress.
The fire in the fireplace occasionally leaps, casting a silhouette of his face, a distinct outline yet elusive in its inner emotions. Is it unwillingness? Acceptance? Or deep anxiety over an unknown fate?
Yes, he bears a proud surna that once reverberated across Europe.
In the blurred mories of childhood, whenever this surna resounded in the skies over Paris, it was t with deafening cheers and nurous hats thrown into the air in celebration of Bonaparte.
When Sunday arrived, as the old Imperial Guard marched down the avenue of Carrousel Square during the parade, the square was filled with thunderous cries of "Long live the Emperor," with Napoleon standing on the platform, accompanied by two Imperial Marshals—Mourel and Jean Lannes.
Napoleon would sotis step down from the platform and move to the center of the parade formation, engaging in cordial conversations with soldiers and officers.
In almost every corps’ ranks, he could call out the nas of several soldiers, seriously calling their nas, knowing which battles to discuss with them. After the parade, he would ticulously inspect the soldiers’ uniforms, boots, and even a needle for cleaning the gunpowder vent.
And the soldiers would take the opportunity to submit petitions to him. So hoped the Emperor would provide pensions for the mothers of fallen comrades, others wished the governnt would adopt soldiers’ war orphans, or wanted wrongful cases redressed with honesty.
The rousing music and the grand scenes of orderly marching were not only Napoleon’s favorites but also a leisure pasti for many Parisians on Sundays.
Parades always attracted a large crowd. All the palace and residential windows, narrow alley and side corridor windows were adorned with beauties. Spectators crowded by the roadsides at entrances and exits, noisy and hard to satisfy.
Many love-struck young ladies from wealthy families would use binoculars during the two-hour parade, scrutinizing every detail as the Emperor reviewed troops on horseback.
Although experts might see Napoleon’s horseback riding style as akin to a "butcher slaughtering pigs," in the diaries and publications of these ladies and madams, it was always described as "he possesses unmatched grace, composure, and supre dignity."
Indeed, not only did the madams and young ladies think so, even those Parisian youths skilled in horseback riding shared this view.
Because every ti the parade ended, the recruiting officers would find more Parisian youths, who usually preferred to pay for substitutes, volunteering for military service.
For these young n eager to make their mark, nothing was more thrilling than the tattered military flag embroidered with "Golden Eagle and Golden Crown," as they longed to share in the glory guided by this banner.
No attire in the world could be more handso than the old Imperial Guard’s parade uniform. When they saw the handso, towering soldiers in the front rows bask in all of Paris’s cheers, they eagerly wanted to beco one of them.
Of course, not every soldier was so tall and handso. To create a good outward image, the handso, tall soldiers were arranged in the first line, while the limping, short, less attractive ones were hidden in the rear ranks.
[British satirical cartoon "A new cody in Paris, King of Ro, Napoleon’s son, inspects troops"]
Yet, no matter what, the soldiers and youths at that ti all revered Napoleon.
"Could I be greeted with equal welcoming? How would they see ? I... I will stand with Louis Philippe, I failed him."
Louis lowered his head, covering his face with both hands. His breathing was heavy, so heavy that even through a wall one could feel the tension and suppression in his heart.
Knock knock knock.
A knock echoed in the room. Louis lifted his head and saw a neatly dressed Cavalry Colonel standing outside the door.
His stern face showed no emotion, rely asking, "Duke of Orleans... No, has that person arrived?"
The Cavalry Colonel remarked upon hearing this: "Not Duke of Orleans, nor that person, Your Excellency. You should address him as King."
Louis choked, unable to utter the word.
Seeing him like this, the Cavalry Colonel did not press him further. He simply stated, "Your Excellency, soone wants to see you, Sir Arthur Hastings from Britain, who claims to be an old acquaintance."
Upon hearing Arthur’s na, Louis stood up involuntarily, but soon felt this seem to betray a weakness deep within his heart. He swiftly sat back down, feigning calmness as he ordered, "Sir Hastings is an old friend of mine, let him co up."
The Colonel said no more, pressing a hand to his chest as he left the room.
Soon after, there was the sound of crisp, strong footsteps outside the door, footsteps he had heard many tis at Scotland Yard. Yet it was the first ti he realized how comforting footsteps could be.
User Comments
0 comments from readers