“That’s you all over, Brune.  You have been able to remain a good, loyal fellow.  He did not give you a kingdom, he did not encircle your brow with a band of iron which men call a crown and which drives one mad; he did not place you between your conscience and your family.  So I must leave France, begin my vagabond life again, and say farewell to Toulon, which recalls so many memories to me!  See, Brune,” continued Murat, leaning on the arm of the marshal, “are not the pines yonder as fine as any at the Villa Pamfili, the palms as imposing as any at Cairo, the mountains as grand as any range in the Tyrol?  Look to your left, is not Cape Gien something like Castellamare and Sorrento—­leaving out Vesuvius?  And see, Saint-Mandrier at the farthest point of the gulf, is it not like my rock of Capri, which Lamarque juggled away so cleverly from that idiot of a Sir Hudson Lowe?  My God! and I must leave all this!  Is there no way of remaining on this little corner of French ground—­tell me, Brune!”

“You’ll break my heart, sire!” answered the marshal.

“Well, we’ll say no more about it.  What news?”

“The Emperor has left Paris to join the army.  They must be fighting now.”

“Fighting now and I not there!  Oh, I feel I could have been of use to him on this battlefield.  How I would have gloried in charging those miserable Prussians and dastardly English!  Brune, give me a passport, I’ll go at full speed, I’ll reach the army, I will make myself known to some colonel, I shall say, ‘Give me your regiment.’  I’ll charge at its head, and if the Emperor does not clasp my hand to-night, I’ll blow my brains out, I swear I will.  Do what I ask, Brune, and however it may end, my eternal gratitude will be yours!”

“I cannot, sire.”

“Well, well, say no more about it.”

“And your Majesty is going to leave France?”

“I don’t know.  Obey your orders, marshal, and if you come across me again, have me arrested.  That’s another way of doing something for me.  Life is a heavy burden nowadays.  He who will relieve me of it will be welcome....  Good-bye, Brune.”

He held out his hand to the marshal, who tried to kiss it; but Murat opened his arms, the two old comrades held each other fast for a moment, with swelling hearts and eyes full of tears; then at last they parted.  Brune remounted his horse, Murat picked up his stick again, and the two men went away in opposite directions, one to meet his death by assassination at Avignon, the other to be shot at Pizzo.  Meanwhile, like Richard iii, Napoleon was bartering his crown against a horse at Waterloo.

After the interview that has just been related, Murat took refuge with his nephew, who was called Bonafoux, and who was captain of a frigate; but this retreat could only be temporary, for the relationship would inevitably awake the suspicions of the authorities.  In consequence, Bonafoux set about finding a more secret place of refuge for his uncle.  He hit on one of his friends, an avocat, a man famed for his integrity, and that very evening Bonafoux went to see him.