ds would
gather round his standard, and so marching on to Paris, the Napoleonic
faith would be revived, and he would come into his own. It is possible
that these stories might have been traced to Parpon, but he had covered
up his trail so well that no one followed him.

On that Sunday night, young men and old flocked into Valmond's chambers
at the Louis Quinze, shook hands with him, addressing him as "Your
Excellency" or "Your Highness." He maintained towards them a mysterious
yet kindly reserve, singularly effective. They inspected the martial
furnishing of the room: the drum, the pair of rifles, the pistols, in
the corner, the sabres crossed on the wall, the gold-handled sword that
lay upon the table, and the picture of Napoleon on a white horse against
the wall. Tobacco and wine were set upon a side table, and every man as
he passed out took a glass of wine and enough tobacco for his pipe, and
said: "Of grace, your health, monseigneur!"

There were those who scoffed, who from natural habit disbelieved, and
nodded knowingly, and whispered in each other's ears; but these were in
the minority; and all the women and children declared for this new "Man
of Destiny." And when some foolish body asked him for a lock of his
hair, and old Madame Degardy (crazy Joan, as she was called) followed,
offering him a pinch of snuff, and a lad appeared with a bunch of
violets from Madame Chalice, the dissentients were cast in shadow, and
had no longer courage to doubt.

Madame Chalice had been merely whimsical in sending these violets, which
her gardener had brought her that very morning.

"It will help along the pretty farce," she had said to herself; and then
she sat her down to read Napoleon's letters to Josephine, and to wonder
that a woman could have been faithless and vile with such a man. Her
blood raced indignantly in her veins as she thought of it. She admired
intellect, supremacy, the gifts of temperament, deeds of war and
adventure beyond all. As yet her brain was stronger than her feelings;
there had been no breakers of emotion in her life. A wife, she had no
child; the mother in her was spent upon her husband, whose devotion,
honour, name, and goodness were dear to her. Yet--yet she had a world of
her own; and reading Napoleon's impassioned letters to his wife,
written with how great homage! in the flow of the tide washing to famous
battle-fields, an exultation of ambition inspired her, and the genius of
her distinguish