The young artillery major dare.  He gave the word and red death mowed wide swaths, and the balls spat against the walls and sang through the windows of the Church of Saint Roche where the mob was centered.  Again and again he fired.  It began at four by the clock, and at six all good people, and bad, had retired to their homes, and Paris was law-abiding.  The Convention named Napoleon, General of the Interior, and the French Revolution became from that moment a thing that was.

* * * * *

Of course, no one in Paris was so much talked of as the young artillery officer.  Josephine was a bit proud that she had met him, and possibly a little sorry that she had treated him so coldly.  He only wished to be polite!

Josephine was an honest woman, but still, she was a woman.  She desired to be well thought of, and to be well thought of by men in power.  Her son Eugene was fifteen, and she had ambitions for him; and to this end she saw the need of keeping in touch with the Powers.  Josephine was a politician and a diplomat, for all women are diplomats.  She arrayed Eugene in his Sunday-best and told him to go to the General of the Interior and explain that his name was Eugene Beauharnais, that his father was the martyred patriot, General Beauharnais, and that this beloved father’s sword was in the archives over which Providence had placed the General of the Interior.  Furthermore, the son should request that the sword of his father be given him so that it might be used in defense of France if need be.

And it was so done.

The whole thing was needlessly melodramatic, and Napoleon laughed.  The poetry of war was to him a joke.  But he stroked the youth’s curls, asked after his mother, and ordered his secretary to go fetch that sword.

So the boy carried the sword home and was very happy, and his mother was very happy and proud of him, and she kissed him on both cheeks and kissed the sword and thought of the erring, yet generous man who once had carried it.  Then she thought it would be but proper for her to go and thank the man who had given the sword back; for had he not stroked her boy’s curls and told him he was a fine young fellow, and asked after his mother!

So the next day she went to call on the man who had so graciously given the sword back.  She was kept waiting a little while in the anteroom, for Napoleon always kept people waiting—­it was a good scheme.  When admitted to the presence, the General of the Interior, in simple corporal’s dress, did not remember her.  Neither did he remember about giving the sword back—­at least he said so.  He was always a trifler with women, though; and it was so delicious to have this tearful widow remove her veil and explain—­for gadzooks! had she not several times allowed the mercury to drop to zero for his benefit?

And so she explained, and gradually it all came back to him—­very slowly and after cross-questioning—­and then he was so glad to see her.  When she went away, he accompanied her to the outer door, bareheaded, and as they walked down the long hallway she noted the fact that he was not so tall as she by three inches.  He shook hands with her as they parted, and said he would call on her when he had gotten a bit over the rush.