long quiet evenings, her
boy seated on a cushion at her feet, she would speak to him of his great
uncle, and of his heroic deeds, and of his country, of France that had
discarded them, to be able to return to which was, however, her most
ardent wish, and would continue to be while life lasted. She would then
inspire the boy's soul with the description of the great battles which
his uncle had won in Italy, on the Nile, on the Rhine, and on the
Danube; and the quiet, pale boy, with the dark, thoughtful eyes, would
listen in breathless suspense, his weak, slender body quivering with
emotion when his mother told him how dearly his uncle had loved France,
and that all his great and glorious deeds had been done for the honor
and renown of France alone.

One day, while he was sitting before her, pale and trembling with
agitation, his mother pointed to David's splendid painting, representing
Napoleon on the heights of the Alps, the genial conception of which
painting is due to Napoleon's own suggestions.

"Paint me tranquilly seated on a wild horse," Napoleon had said to
David, and David had so painted him--on a rearing steed, on the summit
of a rock which bears the inscription "Hannibal" and "Caesar." The
emperor's countenance is calm, his large eyes full of a mysterious
brilliancy, his hair fluttering in the wind, the whole expression
thoughtful and earnest; the rider heedless of the rearing steed, which
he holds firmly in check with the reins.

A beautiful copy of this great painting hung in the parlor of the
duchess; and to this she now pointed while narrating the history of the
emperor's passage over the Great St. Bernard with an army, a feat never
before performed except by Hannibal and Caesar, and perhaps never to be
performed again.

As she concluded her narrative, an almost angry expression flitted
across the young prince's countenance. Rising from his seat, and holding
himself perfectly erect, he exclaimed: "Oh, mamma, I shall also cross
the Alps some day, as the emperor did!"

And while thus speaking, a glowing color suffused his face; his lips
trembled, and the feverish beating of his heart was quite audible.

Hortense turned in some anxiety to her friend Louise de Cochelet, and
begged her in a low voice to soothe the child with the recital of some
merry narrative. As Louise looked around the room thoughtfully and
searchingly, a cup that stood on the mantel-piece arrested her gaze. She
hastened to the mantel,