a thing unknown to
history: that Napoleon had a son, born at St. Helena, by a countess
well known in Europe. She had landed, disguised as a sailor, from a
merchant-ship, and had lived in retirement at Longwood for near a year.
After the Emperor died, the thing was discovered, but the governor of
the island made no report of it to the British Government, for the event
would have reflected on himself; and the returned exiles kept the matter
a secret. It was said that the child died at St. Helena. The story
remained in my mind, and I brooded on it.

"Two years ago Prince Lucien died in my arms. When he was gone, I
found that I had been left five hundred thousand francs, a chateau,
and several relics of the Bonapartes, as reward for my services to the
Prince, and, as the will said, in token of the love he had come to bear
me. To these Prince Pierre added a number of mementoes. I went to visit
my parents, whom I had not seen for many years. I found that my mother
was dead, that my father was a drunkard. I left money for my father with
the mayor, and sailed for England. From London I came to New York; from
New York to Quebec. All the time I was restless, unhappy. I had had to
work all my life, now I had nothing to do. I had lived close to great
traditions, now there was no habit of life to keep them alive in me. I
spent money freely, but it gave me no pleasure. I once was a valet to
a great man, now I had the income of a gentleman, and was no gentleman.
Ah, do you not shrink from me, Monsieur le Cure?"

The Cure did not reply, but made a kindly gesture, and Valmond
continued:

"Sick of everything, one day I left Quebec hurriedly. Why I came here I
do not know, save that I had heard it was near the mountains, was quiet,
and I could be at peace. There was something in me which could not
be content in the foolishness of idle life. All the time I kept
thinking--thinking. If I were only a Napoleon, how I would try to do
great things! Ah, my God! I loved the Great Napoleon. What had the
Bonapartes done? Nothing--nothing. Everything had slipped away from
them. Not one of them was like the Emperor. His own legitimate son was
dead. None of the others had the Master's blood, fire, daring in his
veins. The thought grew on me, and I used to imagine myself his son. I
loved his memory, all he did, all he was, better than any son could
do. It had been my whole life, thinking of him and the Empire, while I
brushed the Prince's clothes or