After the emperor, standing among his silent generals, had spoken in a voice which rose louder and louder till it finally echoed like menacing thunder through the hall, he nodded a farewell, by a haughty bend of the head, and returned to his office, whose door he now not merely left ajar, but closed with a loud bang.
With his hands behind his back, an angry expression upon his face, and a frowning brow, the emperor paced up and down his room, absorbed in gloomy thought. Sometimes a flash of indignation illumined his face, and he raised his arm with a threatening gesture, as if, like a second Jupiter, to hurl back into the depths the Titans who dared to rise to his throne.
“To appoint a successor,” he muttered in a fierce, threatening tone, “they dare to think, to busy themselves with that. The ingrates! It is I who gave them fame, honor, titles, wealth; they are already cogitating about my death—my successor! It is a conspiracy which extends throughout the whole army. I know it. I was warned in Spain against the plots of the Carbonari, and the caution has been repeated here. And I must keep silence. I cannot punish the traitors, for that would consign the majority of my generals to the ax of the executioner. But I will give them all a warning example. I will intimidate them, let them have an intimation that I am aware of their treacherous plans.”
He sank down into the armchair which stood before his writing-desk, took a pen-knife and began to mark and cut the arm of the chair with as much zeal and perseverance as if the object in view was to accomplish some useful and urgent task. Then, when the floor was covered with tiny chips, and the black, delicately carved wood of the old-fashioned armchair was marked with white streaks and spots, the emperor hurled the knife down and rose hastily from his seat.