I saw the outstretched arm in act of
command--I recognised the well-known cocked hat--the general outline of a
figure already familiar to me in a hundred prints, and I exclaimed, almost
involuntarily:--
"Bonaparte!"
Monsieur Maurice started; shot a quick, half apprehensive glance at me;
crumpled the drawing up in his hand, and flung it into the fire.
"Oh, Monsieur Maurice!" I cried, "what have you done?"
"It was a mere scrawl," he said impatiently.
"No, no--it was beautiful. I would have given anything for it!"
Monsieur Maurice laughed, and patted me on the cheek.
"Nonsense, petite, nonsense!" he said. "It was only fit for the fire. I
will make you a better drawing, if you remind me of it, to-morrow."
When I told this to my father--and I used to prattle to him a good deal
about Monsieur Maurice at supper, in those days--he tugged at his
moustache, and shook his head, and looked very grave indeed.
"The South of France!" he muttered, "the South of France! _Sacre coeur
d'une bombe_! Why, the usurper, when he came from Elba, landed on that
coast somewhere near Cannes!"
"And went to Monsieur Maurice's house, father!" I cried, "and that is why
the King of France has taken Monsieur Maurice's house away from him, and
given it to a stranger! I am sure that's it! I see it all now!"
But my father only shook his head again, and looked still more grave.
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