‘You have not at your age become a practical man,’ said the Emperor.  ’You will understand then.  I dare say that I thought as you do at the time when the stupid Parisians were saying what a misalliance the widow of the famous General de Beauharnais was making by marrying the unknown Buonaparte.  It was a beautiful dream!  There are nine inns in a single day’s journey between Milan and Mantua, and I wrote a letter to my wife from each of them.  Nine letters in a day—­but one becomes disillusioned, monsieur.  One learns to accept things as they are.’

I could not but think what a beautiful young man he must have been before he had learned to accept things as they are.  The glamour, the romance—­what a bald dead thing is life without it!  His own face had clouded over as if that old life had perhaps had a charm which the Emperor’s crown had never given.  It may be that those nine letters written in one day at wayside inns had brought him more true joy than all the treaties by which he had torn provinces from his neighbours.  But the sentiment passed from his face, and he came back in his sudden concise fashion to my own affairs.

‘Eugenie de Choiseul is the niece of the Duc de Choiseul, is she not?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘You are affianced!’

‘Yes, Sire.’

He shook his head impatiently.

‘If you wish to advance yourself in my Court, Monsieur de Laval,’ said he,’ you must commit such matters to my care.  Is it likely that I can look with indifference upon a marriage between emigres—­an alliance between my enemies?’

‘But she shares my opinions, Sire.’

’Ta, ta, ta, at her age one has no opinions.  She has the emigre blood in her veins, and it will come out.  Your marriage shall be my care, Monsieur de Laval.  And I wish you to come to the Pont de Briques that you may be presented to the Empress.  What is it, Constant?’

’There is a lady outside who desires to see your Majesty.  Shall I tell her to come later?’

‘A lady!’ cried the Emperor smiling.  ’We do not see many faces in the camp which have not a moustache upon them.  Who is she?  What does she want?’

‘Her name, Sire, is Mademoiselle Sibylle Bernac.’

‘What!’ cried Napoleon.  ’It must be the daughter of old Bernac of Grosbois.  By the way, Monsieur de Laval, he is your uncle upon your mother’s side, is he not?’

I may have flushed with shame as I acknowledged it, for the Emperor read my feelings.

’Well, well, he has not a very savoury trade, it is true, and yet I can assure you that it is one which is very necessary to me.  By the way, this uncle of yours, as I understand, holds the estates which should have descended to you, does he not?’

‘Yes, Sire.’

His blue eyes flashed suspicion at me.

’I trust that you are not joining my service merely in the hope of having them restored to you.’