"He has made himself the head of a singular nation," said Bartolomeo,
taking Lucien's hand and pressing it. "But you have both recognized me
in misfortune, and I am yours, henceforth, for life or death. You may
dispose as you will of the Piombos."

With these words his Corsican brow unbent, and he looked about him in
satisfaction.

"You are not badly off here," he said, smiling, as if he meant to
lodge there himself. "You are all in red, like a cardinal."

"Your success depends upon yourself; you can have a palace, also,"
said Bonaparte, watching his compatriot with a keen eye. "It will
often happen that I shall need some faithful friend in whom I can
confide."

A sigh of joy heaved the vast chest of the Corsican, who held out his
hand to the First Consul, saying:--

"The Corsican is in you still."

Bonaparte smiled. He looked in silence at the man who brought, as it
were, a waft of air from his own land,--from that isle where he had
been so miraculously saved from the hatred of the "English party"; the
land he was never to see again. He made a sign to his brother, who
then took Piombo away. Lucien inquired with interest as to the
financial condition of the former protector of their family. Piombo
took him to a window and showed him his wife and Ginevra, seated on a
heap of stones.