opened the procession, and the tails, heads, bodies and legs of the
luckless quadrupeds could be seen behind the glittering glass panels
heaped together in wild disorder[8].

[Footnote 8: Mémoires of the Marchioness de Créqui, vol. viii, p. 10.]

After this public canine funeral celebration of the one and indivisible
republic, the gilded state-coaches could not be consistently used for
any human and less mournful occasion, and hence it was that the consular
procession to the Tuileries was so deficient in carriages, and that
public hacks on which the numbers were defaced had to be employed.

With the entry of Bonaparte into the Tuileries the revolution was at an
end. He laid his victorious sword across the gory, yawning chasm which
had drunk the blood of both aristocrats and democrats; and of that sword
he made a bridge over which society might pass from one century to the
other, and from the republic to the empire.

As Bonaparte was walking with Josephine and Hortense through the Diana
Gallery on the morning after their entry into the Tuileries, and was
with them admiring the statuary he had caused to be placed there, both
of the ladies possessing much artistic taste, he paused in front of the
statue of the younger Brutus, which stood close to the statue of Julius
Caesar. He gazed long and earnestly at both of the grave, solemn faces;
but, suddenly, as though just awaking from a deep dream, he sharply
raised his head, and, laying his hand with an abrupt movement upon
Josephine's shoulder, as he looked up at the statue of Brutus with
blazing, almost menacing glances, said in a voice that made the hearts
of both the ladies bound within their bosoms: