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,
four caparisoned postilions, a carriage with the Emperors 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
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