Another Tale From a Trunk, conclusion

It took just minutes to find the fellow, and he even spoke a few words of English. No doubt our Anglo Saxon cousins from across the channel made the crossing with some regularity in order to have laugh at the old corporal’s expense, and our guide had picked up some of their speech in consequence. Not much, as we quickly learned, but enough to amuse us.

The place was hushed under the great dome of Les Invalides as we approached the marble balustrade which loomed above the cavern in which the sarcophagus lay. All was dead still as we leaned over the smooth polished stone and gazed at the resting place of Napoleon the Great.

There was a structure the size and faintly like the shape of a small house, carved of red porphyry and sitting on top of a granite base. It was a fine piece if work, surrounded by gigantic statues of mourning deities. We watched it in respectful silence for some minutes, aware of the docent’s eye, and knowing that he was expecting due reverence.

Dan and I exchanged a surreptitious glance or two, and I could tell that he was holding something back. I wanted to kick him over the railing into the space below, but forbore, due to the gravity of the scene. This was akin to the tomb of Washington to them, I supposed, and I was loath to sacrilege it with a jest. But I could see Dan growing red with the strain, and knew that it was going to come.

Finally, he looked at our companion, and gesturing to the mass of red below said,

‘Is he - ah - is he dead?”

The fellow jumped backward as if shot. “What? What? L’Emperor - he mort!” He shook his head in bewilderment.

“Now see here,” Dan answered sternly. “We are mere travelers in your country, and aren’t especially fine, I suppose, but if it’s not asking too much, we would like to speak to the Emperor.”

“If he’s not too busy,” I added helpfully. This brought fresh protestations from the guide, and no small wringing of his hands.

“It’s only a word or two I’m asking,” Dan persisted. “If he’s too busy...”

I suggested that we knock on his door and see if we could rouse him. As fortune would have it there was a curved stairway nearby which led directly down to the sarcophagus itself. We raced down the stairs, the fearful guide on our heels. Dan began to rap against the side of the structure, additional guides arrived, joined by uniformed policemen, accompanied by soldiers, and we quickly found ourselves back on the street.

It was sad to leave Paris, just as we were enjoying ourselves so.