ne, he goes on board an English
frigate. After seventy days' sail he is landed on the small basaltic
island of St. Helena in the southern Atlantic, where he is doomed to
pass the last six years of his eventful life. Here also his grave is
digged under the willows in the valley.

Nineteen years after Napoleon's death the simple grave under the willows
was uncovered, the coffins of wood, lead, and sheet-iron were opened in
the presence of several who had shared his long imprisonment, the
remains were taken on board a French frigate amid the roar of guns and
flags waving half-mast high, the coffin was landed at Cherbourg in
Normandy, and the conqueror of Europe once more made his entry into
Paris with military pomp and ceremony, in which all France took part.
Drawn by sixteen horses in funereal trappings and followed by veterans
of Napoleon's campaigns, the hearse, adorned with imperial splendour,
was escorted by soldiers under the triumphal arch of the Place de
l'Etoile and through the Champs Elysees to the Hotel des Invalides,
where the coffin was deposited in the Finnish sarcophagus. Thus was
fulfilled the last wish of the conqueror of the world: "I desire that my
remains may rest on the banks of the Seine."

PARIS TO ROME

The stranger leaves Paris with regret, and is consoled only by the
thought that he is on his way to sunny Italy. The train carries him
eastwards, and he looks through the window at the hills and plains of
Champagne, the home of sparkling wine. Around him spread tilled fields,
villages, and farmhouses. Where the soil is not suitable for vines,
wheat, or beet, it provides pasture for large flocks. Men are seen at
work everywhere, and the traveller realises that France is so prosperous
because all its small proprietors, peasants, and townspeople are so
industrious and so thrifty. Now the frontier is reached. The great
fortress of Belfort is the last French town passed, and a little later
we are in Alsace.

Another frontier is crossed, that between Germany and Switzerland, and
the train halts at the fine town of Bale, traversed by the mighty Rhine.
Coming from the Lake of Constance, the clear waters of the river glide
under the bridges of Bale, and turn at right angles northwards between
the Vosges and the Black Forest.

From Bale we go on south-westwards to Geneva. Along a narrow valley the
railway follows the river Birs, which falls into the Rhine, and winds in
curves along the mountain flanks,