Time passes. As if under enchantment, earnest, immovable, silent, stand
the soldiers. Behind the cradle, her eyes and arms raised imploringly
toward heaven, stands the nurse, while the child continues to slumber,
smiling in its sleep.
At the expiration of an hour thus passed, the imperial infant moves,
throws up its little rosy arms, opens its eyes--it is awake!
A cry of triumph escapes the lips of all the soldiers--all arms were
stretched forth to seize him who, an hour before, had been their lord
and emperor.
The child, frightened by the aspect of these rough soldiers, bursts out
into a cry of alarm, and stretches out its little arms toward its nurse.
She takes him in her arms and weeps over him. The frightened child
buries its little face in the bosom of his nurse, and the soldiers
now convey them both to the waiting sledges. The dethroned emperor is
quickly transported to the dethroned regent at Elizabeth's palace, who,
with hot tears, clasps her son to her heart.