L’Homme pâle, le long des pelouses fleuries, Chemine, en habit noir, et le cigare aux dents: L’Homme pâle repense aux fleurs des Tuileries —Et parfois son œil terne a des regards ardents . . . ! Car l’Empereur est saoûl de ses vingt ans d’orgie! Il s’était dit: «Je vais souffler la Liberté Bien délicatement, ainsi qu’une bougie!» La Liberté revit! Il se sent éreinté! Il est pris.—Oh! quel nom sur ses lèvres muettes Tressaille? Quel regret incapable le mord? On ne le saura pas. L’Empereur a l’œil mort. Il repense peut-être au Compère en lunettes . . . —Et regarde filer de son cigare en feu, Comme aux soirs de Saint-Cloud, un fin nuage bleu.
The Pale Man, along the flowery lawns, Walks, in a black suit, and a cigar in his teeth: The Pale Man thinks back to the flowers of the Tuileries —And sometimes his dull eye has ardent glances . . . ! For the Emperor is drunk from his twenty years of orgy! He had said to himself: "I am going to blow out Liberty Very delicately, like a candle!" Liberty lives again! He feels exhausted! He is caught.—Oh! what name on his mute lips Quivers? What incapable regret bites him? We will never know. The Emperor has a dead eye. He thinks back perhaps to the Compère in glasses . . . —And watches slip from his burning cigar, As on the evenings of Saint-Cloud, a fine blue cloud.
Poésies