It cannot be denied that if, from the 18th Brumaire to the epoch when Bonaparte began the campaign, innumerable improvements had been made in the internal affairs of France, foreign affairs could not be seen with the same satisfaction.  Italy had been lost, and from the frontiers of Provence the Austrian camp fires were seen.  Bonaparte was not ignorant of the difficulties of his position, and it was even on account of these very difficulties that, whatever might be the result of his hardy enterprise, he wished to escape from it as quickly as possible.  He cherished no illusions, and often said all must be staked to gain all.

The army which the First Consul was preparing to attack was numerous, well disciplined, and victorious.

His, with the exception of a very small number of troops, was composed of conscripts; but these conscripts were commanded by officers whose ardour was unparalleled.  Bonaparte’s fortune was now to depend on the winning or losing of a battle.  A battle lost would have dispelled all the dreams of his imagination, and with them would have vanished all his immense schemes for the future of France.  He saw the danger, but was not intimidated by it; and trusting to his accustomed good fortune, and to the courage and fidelity of his troops, he said, “I have, it is true, many conscripts in my army, but they are Frenchmen.  Four years ago did I not with a feeble army drive before me hordes of Sardinians and Austrians, and scour the face of Italy?  We shall do so again.  The sun which now shines on us is the same that shone at Arcola and Lodi.  I rely on Massena.  I hope he will hold out in Genoa.  But should famine oblige him to surrender, I will retake Genoa in the plains of the Scrivia.  With what pleasure shall I then return to my dear France!  Ma belle France.”

At this moment, when a possible, nay, a probable chance, might for ever have blasted his ambitious hopes, he for the first time spoke of France as his.  Considering the circumstances in which we then stood, this use of the possessive pronoun “my” describes more forcibly than anything that can be said the flashes of divination which crossed Bonaparte’s brain when he was wrapped up in his chimerical ideas of glory and fortune.

In this favourable disposition of mind the First Consul arrived at Martigny on the 20th of May.  Martigny is a convent of Bernardins, situated in a valley where the rays of the sun scarcely ever penetrate.  The army was in full march to the Great St. Bernard.  In this gloomy solitude did Bonaparte wait three days, expecting the fort of Bard, situated beyond the mountain and covering the road to Yvree, to surrender.  The town was carried on the 21st of May, and on the third day he learned that the fort still held out, and that there were no indications of its surrender.  He launched into complaints against the commander of the siege, and said, “I am weary of staying in this convent; those fools will never take Bard; I must go myself and see what can be done.  They cannot even settle so contemptible an affair without me!” He immediately gave orders for our departure.