the country, they call out, not like the drunkard, for brandy, but in the
same spirit they say--"Ah, if you would again see France flourishing and
happy, let us once more have our croix d'honneur, our epaulettes, our
voluntary contributions, our Murillos, our Velasquez, our spoils from
Venice, and our increased territories to rule over." This is the
language of the Buonapartiste every where, and at all seasons; and the
mass of the nation is wonderfully disposed to participate in the
sentiment. The empire was the Aeneid of the nation, and Napoleon the
only hero they now believe in. You may satisfy yourself of this easily.
Every cafe will give evidence of it, every society bears its testimony to
it, and even the most wretched Vaudeville, however, trivial the interest
--however meagre the story, and poor the diction, let the emperor but
have his "role"--let him be as laconic as possible, carry his hands
behind his back, wear the well-known low cocked-hat, and the "redingote
gris"--the success is certain--every sentence he utters is applauded, and
not a single allusion to the Pyramids, the sun of Austerlitz, l'honneur,
et al vieille garde, but is sure to bring down thunders of acclamation.
But I am forgetting myself, and perhaps my reader too; the conversation
of the old gen-d'arme accidentally led me into reflections like these,
and he was well calculated, in many ways, to call them forth. His
devoted attachment--his personal love of the emperor--of which he gave me
some touching instances, was admirably illustrated by an incident, which
I am inclined to tell, and hope it may amuse the reader as much as it did
myself on hearing it.

When Napoleon had taken possession of the papal dominions, as he
virtually did, and carried off the pope, Pius VI, to Paris, this old
soldier, then a musketeer in the garde, formed part of the company that
mounted guard over the holy father. During the earlier months of the
holy father's confinement he was at liberty to leave his apartments at