x in the opera
house in Paris. He sat back where nobody could see him. It was his way
not to be seen--except on business.

The man was thirty-one years, four months, and sixteen days of age. He
had already done something. If he had not equalled the work of
Alexander at the corresponding age, he had at least surpassed Caesar;
for Caesar at thirty was still a comparatively unknown roue in Rome.

The figure in the opera box was slender and trim. He who sat there was
only five feet, four and a half inches high; but his head was fine,
heavy, symmetrical. His features twitched when he was disturbed, but
were beautiful when he smiled. To a profound observer he looked
dangerous. He had the faculty of making his face signify nothing at
all. He had been begotten an insular Italian, but was born a
Frenchman. His wife, a Creole, more than six years older than he, was
in the box with him. She sat at the front, and was seen by thousands.
She _wished_ to be seen; and when the pit shouted in the direction of
the box she smiled a little smile, with a puckered mouth--for her
teeth were not good.

The birthplace of this man had been oddly set on the map of the world,
for the meridian of Discovery and the parallel of Conquest intersect
at the birthplace of NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. The birthlines of Caesar and
Columbus--drawn, the one due west from Rome, the other due south from
Genoa--cross each other within a few miles of Ajaccio! It is a
circumstance that might well incline one to astrology.

About the birth of great men cycles of fiction grow. Friends and
enemies alike invent significant circumstances. The traducers of
Napoleon have said that he was illegitimate--that his father was the
French marshal Marboeuf. They also say, on better grounds, that the
marriage of Letitia Ramolino to Carlo di Buonaparte was not solemnized
until 1767--that the first two children were therefore born out of
wedlock. On the other hand, the idol-worshippers would fain have
Napoleon born as a god or Titan. Premature pangs seize the mother at
church. She hurries home, barely reaching her apartment when the
heroic babe is delivered, without an accoucheur, on a piece of
tapestry inwrought with an effigy of Achilles! This probably occurred.
It was the 15th of August, 1769.

Thus, as it were before the Corsican saw the light of day in this
world, dispute began about him. It has been continued for a hundred
and twenty-eight years. Whatever else he succeeded in do