LITMIR.BIZ

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God! My God! Save the Empress. (she kneels at the back, as do all the ladies)

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      (resuming his station) That’s all the same! None of all this will prevent us from having a little Emperor.

      BERTHIER:

      What are you saying?

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      I say, my Marshall, that the child will live or my name’s not Michel Lambert, that’s all!

      BERTHIER:

      You are crazy!

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      Excuse me, my Marshall, I am known in the regiment to enjoy a wit as lucid as it is penetrating, as penetrating as it is—

      BERTHIER:

      You’re mad, I tell you. Shut up.

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      I’m shutting up, my Marshall. (aside) But not thinking any less. We will have a little Emperor!

      (At this point a cannon shot is heard. The women get up and everyone listens with the greatest anxiety, Berthier is with Michel Lambert near the door.)

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      (to Berthier) Pardon, excuse me, my Marshall! I don’t know if my ears deceive me, but it seems to me I just heard a cannon shot?

      BERTHIER:

      Indeed! (second cannon shot)

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      Another one! Ah! Ah! It would appear that old Michel spoke the truth, and that the imperial eaglet has just been born.

      BERTHIER:

      (agitated) Listen! (third cannon shot)

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      Number three! Just ninety-eight to go, and the count will be correct.

      BERTHIER:

      And not to receive any news! (cannon shot)

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      There, my Marshall. That makes four.

      (Everyone listens. The door opens and the usher appears.)

      USHER:

      (announcing) The Baron de Rheinfeld, envoy from the court of Austria. (Rheinfeld enters and bows) The Abbé Orsini, envoy from His Holiness.

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      (aside) Come on, good! Kings and Jesuits. Indeed, all can lend a hand. (cannon shot) Five! There it goes.

      (The Abbé enters and everyone bows; the Abbé seems to bless them.)

      ABBÉ ORSINI:

      May the peace of the Lord be with you, my brothers.

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      And may the Devil from hell confound you, good father!

      (Cannon shot. Everyone again lends their attention to the exterior noise; Michel Lambert counts on his fingers. Baron de Rheinfeld and Abbé Orsini are talking.)

      BARON DE RHEINFELD:

      Well, Abbé? What do you think of all this?

      ABBÉ ORSINI:

      I think! First of all, I think we must be prudent, and that we are alone in our opinion here.

      BARON DE RHEINFELD:

      (shaking) Huh?

      ABBÉ ORSINI:

      That’s the cannon from the Invalides! It won’t thunder long. Twenty-one guns, no more. I prayed for that all night. (cannon shot)

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      (continuing to count each shot as it comes) Eight!

      ALL:

      (repeating) Eight.

      BARON DE RHEINFELD:

      Why, look here, Abbé, look here! One cannot say whether that cannon is announcing life or death? (cannon shot) Decidedly it’s irritating.

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      Here, there is dancing down there! It cannot be said it is the effect of French cannons on Prussians, Russians and other dogs of that species. (cannon shot) Ten! It’s long in coming! but that’s all right! It’s going to come!

      ABBÉ ORSINI:

      Ah, Baron! What joy I will experience to see that man’s pride take a fall.

      BARON DE RHEINFELD:

      Today, perhaps, goodbye to his dynasty, if it pleases Heaven to send him a girl instead. (another cannon shot) Ten more and it will be all over.

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      Another Ninety and Long Live France.

      ABBÉ ORSINI:

      The French people are fascinated by the constant luck of Bonaparte, and will turn against him when they see fortune abandons him; when all hope of a dynasty becomes illusory. (cannon shot) After today, Baron, let’s try to profit by the general discontent, by sowing hate of the sovereign among the people and scorn for his authority. Our fortunes depend on the success of our negotiations. Think of it carefully, Baron.

      BARON DE RHEINFELD:

      I am thinking of it.

      ABBÉ ORSINI:

      The reward of your services will be the Chamberlain’s key.

      BARON DE RHEINFELD:

      And yours, a Cardinal’s hat.

      ABBÉ ORSINI:

      A Cardinal. That’s what I’ll be. (cannon shot; The Abbé shudders)

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      Cursed Italian. He has a shifty, pettifogging air about him. He gives me the impression of a devil. (cannon shot) Fifteen. Ah! Ah! It’s warming up.

      BARON DE RHEINFELD:

      Abbé!

      ABBÉ ORSINI:

      What do you want?

      BARON DE RHEINFELD:

      Suppose our foresight was false?

      ABBÉ ORSINI:

      What do you mean?

      BARON DE RHEINFELD:

      If, instead of a girl— (cannon shot)

      ABBÉ ORSINI:

      Impossible! Heaven doesn’t wish it. Hasn’t Bonaparte dared to proclaim everywhere that he will give to his future offspring the title of King of Rome!

      BARON DE RHEINFELD:

      The King of Rome! (cannon shot)

      ALL:

      Seventeen.

      ABBÉ ORSINI:

      (continuing) That title belongs to our Saint Peter, the Pope! So it’s an assassination of his temporal power and God won’t permit it.

      BARON DE RHEINFELD:

      You reassure me. (cannon shot) Ah, indeed, that will never end!

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      Eighteen.

      ALL:

      Eighteen!

      MICHEL LAMBERT:

      Eighteen. Eighteen. (cannon shot)

      ALL:

      (anxiously) Nineteen.

      ABBÉ ORSINI:

      Well, Baron, what’s the matter with you? You are pale as a dead man!

      BARON

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