Paris: The Novel

yet, Father,” one of the class had questioned, “isn’t it true that the emperor Napoléon supported the Church?”
    “As an opportunist, yes. But only to get the support of the faithful who did not realize that, in truth, he believed in nothing and mocked them behind their backs. When Napoléon was in Egypt, he supported the followers of Muhammad. ‘If I had a kingdom of Jews,’ he said, ‘I would rebuild the temple of Solomon.’ If,” the teacher warmed to his theme, “you want proof of the wretched man’s impiety, remember that, when he was to be crowned emperor by the pope—like the pious emperor Charlemagnea thousand years ago—and before a crowd of thousands in Notre Dame, he seized the crown from the hands of the Holy Father and placed it on his head himself.”
    Roland had been gazing at the tomb for a minute or two when he noticed an old man arrive. Like Roland, he advanced to the parapet and stared down at the huge red urn, but there the resemblance between them ended. For the old man was behaving in such a strange manner that Roland soon found the visitor more interesting than the monument.
    He was old, but how old it was hard to tell. His hair was snowy white, and he had a silky walrus mustache. His skin had a translucence that suggested great age. But he was a good six feet tall and he held himself ramrod straight, as though he were on parade. Indeed, Roland realized, the old man was actually standing at attention, arms by his sides, as though the emperor himself were inspecting him. And he was so concentrated on this business that he seemed quite oblivious of anything else.
    It would have been rude to stare, but while he pretended to admire the painted dome above, Roland continued to observe the old man for a good five minutes until, finally, he saw him salute the tomb, and then gravely turn to walk away. As he did so, however, he noticed Roland.
    “Well, boy,” he said sharply, like a sergeant addressing a new recruit, “what are you staring at?”
    “Pardon, monsieur.”
Roland found himself looking into a pair of blue eyes, proud but not unkindly. “I did not mean to be impolite. I noticed you salute.”
    “Certainly, I salute the emperor. So should all those who remember the Glory of France.”
    La Gloire
. Many nations had known glory in their history, but perhaps none had felt it so keenly as the nation of France: for monarchists, the glory of the Sun King; for republicans, the glory of the Revolution; for soldiers and administrators, the glorious victories of the emperor Napoléon.
    “You are a soldier, sir?” Roland dared to inquire.
    “I was. And my father before me. He served in the Old Guard.”
    “Your father knew the emperor?”
    “He did. And so did I. My father survived the Retreat from Moscow. And when the emperor returned for his great final battle and called upon all France to rise to his aid, my father went, and I went with him, though I was hardly older than you. My mother didn’t wish it. She was afraid tolose me. But my father said, ‘Better my son should die than fail to fight for the honor of France.’ So I marched with my father. It was the proudest day of my life.”
    “And you did not die.”
    “No. It was my father who gave his life. At Waterloo, the emperor’s final battle. I was at his side.” The old man paused. “Ever since, on my father’s birthday, I have saluted him, and the emperor, and the honor of France. That’s seventy-two years. And for the last twenty-six years, since this tomb has been here, I have come to Les Invalides to pay my respects.”
    Napoléon might have died in exile on the island of Saint Helena, but his legend had lived on. To his enemies, he remained an upstart and a tyrant. But to many of Europe’s peoples, oppressed under their rigid old monarchies, he remained the republican liberator, the hero of the common man. And to many in France, as well.
    Even King Louis Philippe, to make himself more popular, had felt obliged to bring the emperor’s body home to Paris; and now, with a magnificence unmatched by any French king, his ashes rested in this mighty mausoleum in the heart of France.
    Whatever he thought of the sacrilegious emperor, Roland had to admire the dignity and the nobility of this old soldier, who must be nearly ninety, yet who stood so tall and straight.
    The blue eyes under the bushy eyebrows surveyed Roland carefully.
    “And who might you be, young monsieur?” he asked.
    “My name is Roland de