After half an hour's futile expectation, Roustan glided through the little door of the private room into the hall, and, with a very important air, whispered to the listening officers that the emperor had gone to bed immediately, and had scarcely touched the pillows ere he sunk into a deep sleep.
Yes, the Emperor Napoleon was sleeping, and his generals glided on tiptoe out of the hall and discussed outside the measures which they must now adopt on their own account to rescue the luckless fragment of the army from the island of Lobau, and make arrangements for building new bridges.
Yes, the Emperor Napoleon was sleeping! He slept all through the night, through the broad light of the next day--slept when his whole staff had gone to Lobau--slept when bodies of his infuriated guards rushed into the castle and, unheeding the emperor's presence, plundered the cellars and storerooms[B]--slept when, in the afternoon of that day, his marshals and generals returned to Castle Ebersdorf, in order at last to receive the emperor's commands.
They would not, could not believe that the commander-in-chief was still sleeping It seemed perfectly impossible that he, the illustrious strong-brained Caesar, could permit himself to be subjugated by the common petty need of human nature in these hours when every second's delay might decide the destiny of many thousands.

This sleep could be no natural one; perhaps the emperor, exhausted by fatigue and mental excitement, had fallen into a stupor; perhaps he was sleeping never to wake again.

They must see him, they must convince themselves.

They called Roustan and asked him to take them to the emperor's couch.
He did not refuse, he only entreated them to step lightly, to hold their breath, in order not to wake the emperor; then gliding before them to the room, he drew back the _portieres_ of the chamber.

The officers followed, stealing along on tiptoe, and gazed curiously, anxiously, into the quiet, curtained room.