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no more。〃
Rain！ Heavy； thudding rain！
V
The roses bloom at Malmaison。 And not only roses。 Tulips； myrtles；
geraniums； camelias； rhododendrons； dahlias； double hyacinths。 All the
year through； under glass； under the sky； flowers bud； expand； die； and
give way to others； always others。 From distant countries they have been
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brought； and taught to live in the cool temperateness of France。 There is
the ‘Bonapartea' from Peru； the ‘Napoleone Imperiale'； the ‘Josephinia
Imperatrix'； a pearl…white flower； purple…shadowed； the calix pricked out
with crimson points。 Malmaison wears its flowers as a lady wears her
gems； flauntingly； assertively。 Malmaison decks herself to hide the
hollow within。
The glass…houses grow and grow； and every year fling up hotter
reflections to the sailing sun。
The cost runs into millions； but a woman must have something to
console herself for a broken heart。 One can play backgammon and
patience； and then patience and backgammon； and stake gold napoleons on
each game won。 Sport truly！ It is an unruly spirit which could ask better。
With her jewels； her laces； her shawls； her two hundred and twenty dresses；
her fichus； her veils； her pictures； her busts； her birds。 It is absurd that
she cannot be happy。 The Emperor smarts under the thought of her
ingratitude。 What could he do more？ And yet she spends； spends as
never before。 It is ridiculous。 Can she not enjoy life at a smaller figure？
Was ever monarch plagued with so extravagant an ex…wife。 She owes her
chocolate…merchant； her candle…merchant； her sweetmeat purveyor； her
grocer； her butcher； her poulterer； her architect； and the shopkeeper who
sells her rouge； her perfumer； her dressmaker； her merchant of shoes。 She
owes for fans； plants； engravings； and chairs。 She owes masons and
carpenters； vintners； lingeres。 The lady's affairs are in sad confusion。
And why？ Why？
Can a river flow when the spring is dry？
Night。 The Empress sits alone； and the clock ticks； one after one。
The clock nicks off the edges of her life。 She is chipped like an old bit of
china； she is frayed like a garment of last year's wearing。 She is soft；
crinkled； like a fading rose。 And each minute flows by brushing against
her； shearing off another and another petal。 The Empress crushes her
breasts with her hands and weeps。 And the tall clouds sail over
Malmaison like a procession of stately ships bound for the moon。
Scarlet； clear…blue； purple epauletted with gold。 It is a parade of
soldiers sweeping up the avenue。 Eight horses； eight Imperial harnesses；
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four caparisoned postilions； a carriage with the Emperor's arms on the
panels。 Ho； Porter； pop out your eyes； and no wonder。 Where else under
the Heavens could you see such splendour！
They sit on a stone seat。 The little man in the green coat of a Colonel
of Chasseurs； and the lady； beautiful as a satin seed…pod； and as pale。 The
house has memories。 The satin seed…pod holds his germs of Empire。 We
will stay here； under the blue sky and the turreted white clouds。 She draws
him； he feels her faded loveliness urge him to replenish it。 Her soft
transparent texture woos his nervous fingering。 He speaks to her of debts；
of resignation； of her children； and his； he promises that she shall see the
King of Rome； he says some harsh things and some pleasant。 But she is
there； close to him； rose toned to amber； white shot with violet； pungent to
his nostrils as embalmed rose…leaves in a twilit room。
Suddenly the Emperor calls his carriage and rolls away across the
looping Seine。
VI
Crystal…blue brightness over the glass…houses。 Crystal…blue streaks
and ripples over the lake。 A macaw on a gilded perch screams； they have
forgotten to take out his dinner。 The windows shake。 Boom！ Boom！
It is the rumbling of Prussian cannon beyond Pecq。 Roses bloom at
Malmaison。 Roses！ Roses！ Swimming above their leaves； rotting
beneath them。 Fallen flowers strew the unraked walks。 Fallen flowers for
a fallen Emperor！ The General in charge of him draws back and watches。
Snatches of music snarling； sneering music of bagpipes。 They say a
Scotch regiment is besieging Saint…Denis。 The Emperor wipes his face；
or is it his eyes。 His tired eyes which see nowhere the grace they long for。
Josephine！ Somebody asks him a question； he does not answer； somebody
else does that。 There are voices； but one voice he does not hear； and yet he
hears it all the time。 Josephine！ The Emperor puts up his hand to
screen his face。 The white light of a bright cloud spears sharply through
the linden…trees。 ‘Vive l'Empereur！' There are troops passing beyond the
wall； troops which sing and call。 Boom！ A pink rose is jarred off its
stem and falls at the Emperor's feet。
〃Very well。 I go。〃 Where！ Does it matter？ There is no sword to
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clatter。 Nothing but soft brushing gravel and a gate which shuts with a
click。
〃Quick； fellow； don't spare your horses。〃
A whip cracks； wheels turn； why burn one's eyes following a fleck of
dust。
VII
Over the slate roof tall clouds； like ships of the line； pass along the sky。
The glass…houses glitter splotchily； for many of their lights are broken。
Roses bloom； fiery cinders quenching under damp weeds。 Wreckage and
misery； and a trailing of petty deeds smearing over old recollections。
The musty rooms are empty and their shutters are closed； only in the
gallery there is a stuffed black swan； covered with dust。 Wh