straw-bottomed chair.

Massarel met him, took the chair, placed it on the ground, put
the white image upon it, fell back a few steps and called out, in
sonorous voice:

"Tyrant! Tyrant! Here do you fall! Fall in the dust and in the
mire. An expiring country groans under your feet. Destiny has
called you the Avenger. Defeat and shame cling to you. You fall
conquered, a prisoner to the Prussians, and upon the ruins of the
crumbling Empire the young and radiant Republic arises, picking
up your broken sword."

He awaited applause. But there was no voice, no sound. The
bewildered peasants remained silent. And the bust, with its
pointed mustaches extending beyond the cheeks on each side, the
bust, so motionless and well groomed as to be fit for a
hairdressers sign, seemed to be looking at M. Massarel with a
plaster smile, a smile ineffaceable and mocking.

They remained thus face to face, Napoleon on the chair, the
doctor in front of him about three steps away. Suddenly the
Commander grew angry. What was to be done? What was there that
would move this people, and bring about a definite victory in
opinion? His hand happened to rest on his hip and to come in
contact there with the butt end of his revolver, under his red
sash. No inspiration, no further word would come. But he drew his
pistol, advanced two steps, and, taking aim, fired at the late
monarch. The ball entered the forehead, leaving a little, black
hole, like a spot, nothing more. There was no effect. Then he