of men wading through the surf and dragging the boats in shore; and other
figures making for the steps. Last of all, close under the cliff, in
advance of all the rest, he drew a tiny man standing alone--a tiny man
scarce an eighth of an inch in height, struck out with three or four
touches of the pen, and yet so full of character that one knew at a glance
he was the leader of the others. I saw the outstretched arm in act of
command--I recognised the well-known cocked hat--the general outline of a
figure already familiar to me in a hundred prints, and I exclaimed, almost
involuntarily:--

"Bonaparte!"

Monsieur Maurice started; shot a quick, half apprehensive glance at me;
crumpled the drawing up in his hand, and flung it into the fire.

"Oh, Monsieur Maurice!" I cried, "what have you done?"

"It was a mere scrawl," he said impatiently.

"No, no--it was beautiful. I would have given anything for it!"

Monsieur Maurice laughed, and patted me on the cheek.

"Nonsense, petite, nonsense!" he said. "It was only fit for the fire. I
will make you a better drawing, if you remind me of it, to-morrow."

When I told this to my father--and I used to prattle to him a good deal
about Monsieur Maurice at supper, in those days--he tugged at his
moustache, and shook his head, and looked very grave indeed.