But the two central figures claimed all my attention.  Was ever such a contrast set up before a multitude till then?  Napoleon in military uniform—­a long-bodied, short-legged man, fiercely moustached, old, wrinkled, with eyes half closed, and such a deep, crafty, scheming expression about them!—­Napoleon, bowing ever so gently to the loud plaudits, and watching everything and everybody with his cat eyes from under his depressed hat brim, as if to discover any sign that those cheers were not heartfelt and cordial.

Abdul Aziz, absolute lord of the Ottoman empire—­clad in dark green European clothes, almost without ornament or insignia of rank; a red Turkish fez on his head; a short, stout, dark man, black-bearded, black-eyed, stupid, unprepossessing—­a man whose whole appearance somehow suggested that if he only had a cleaver in his hand and a white apron on, one would not be at all surprised to hear him say:  “A mutton roast today, or will you have a nice porterhouse steak?”

Napoleon iii, the representative of the highest modern civilization, progress, and refinement; Abdul-Aziz, the representative of a people by nature and training filthy, brutish, ignorant, unprogressive, superstitious—­and a government whose Three Graces are Tyranny, Rapacity, Blood.  Here in brilliant Paris, under this majestic Arch of Triumph, the First Century greets the Nineteenth!

Napoleon iii., Emperor of France!  Surrounded by shouting thousands, by military pomp, by the splendors of his capital city, and companioned by kings and princes—­this is the man who was sneered at and reviled and called Bastard—­yet who was dreaming of a crown and an empire all the while; who was driven into exile—­but carried his dreams with him; who associated with the common herd in America and ran foot races for a wager—­but still sat upon a throne in fancy; who braved every danger to go to his dying mother—­and grieved that she could not be spared to see him cast aside his plebeian vestments for the purple of royalty; who kept his faithful watch and walked his weary beat a common policeman of London—­but dreamed the while of a coming night when he should tread the long-drawn corridors of the Tuileries; who made the miserable fiasco of Strasbourg; saw his poor, shabby eagle, forgetful of its lesson, refuse to perch upon his shoulder; delivered his carefully prepared, sententious burst of eloquence upon unsympathetic ears; found himself a prisoner, the butt of small wits, a mark for the pitiless ridicule of all the world —­yet went on dreaming of coronations and splendid pageants as before; who lay a forgotten captive in the dungeons of Ham—­and still schemed and planned and pondered over future glory and future power; President of France at last! a coup d’etat, and surrounded by applauding armies, welcomed by the thunders of cannon, he mounts a throne and waves before an astounded world the sceptre of a mighty empire!  Who talks of the marvels of fiction?  Who speaks of the wonders of romance?  Who prates of the tame achievements of Aladdin and the Magii of Arabia?