A cry of anger and of malediction was Eugene’s answer; then with flaming eyes and cheeks burning with rage he rushed out, despite the supplications of his affrighted and anxious mother.  Without pausing, without thinking—­conscious only of this, that he must have again his father’s sword, he rushed on.  It was impossible, thought he, that the republic which had deprived his father of the honors due to him, his property, his money—­that now, after his death, she should also take away his sword.

He must have this sword again!  This was Eugene’s firm determination, and this made him bold and resolute.  He rushed into the palace where the general-in-chief, Bonaparte, resided, and with daring vehemence demanded an interview with the general; and, as the door-keeper hesitated, and even tried to push away the bold boy from the door of the drawing-room, Eugene turned about with so much energy, spoke, scolded, and raged so loudly and so freely, that the noise reached even the cabinet where General Bonaparte was.  He opened the door, and in his short, imperious manner asked the cause of this uproar; and when the servant had told him, with a sign of the hand he beckoned the young man to come in.

Eugene de Beauharnais entered the drawing-room with a triumphant smile, and the eye of General Bonaparte was fixed with pleasure on the beautiful, intelligent countenance, on the tall, powerful figure of the fifteen-year-old boy.  In that strange, soft accent which won hearts to Napoleon, he asked Eugene his business.  The young man’s cheeks became pallid, and with tremulous lips and angry looks, the vehement eloquence of youth and suffering, Eugene spoke of the loss he had sustained, and of the pain which had been added to it by despoiling him of the sword of his father, murdered by the republic.

At these last words of Eugene, Bonaparte’s brow was overshadowed, and an appalling look met the face of the brave boy.

“You dare say that the republic has murdered your father?” asked he, in a loud, angry voice.

“I say it, and I say the truth!” exclaimed Eugene, who did not turn away his eyes from the flaming looks of the general.  “Yes, the republic has murdered my father, for it has executed him as a criminal, as a traitor to his country, and he was innocent; he ever was a faithful servant of his country and of the republic.”

“Who told you that it was so?” asked Bonaparte, abruptly.

“My heart and the republic itself tell me that my father was no traitor,” exclaimed Eugene, warmly.  “My mother loved him much, and she regrets him still.  She would not do so had he been a traitor, and then the republic would not have done what it has done—­it would not have returned to my mother the confiscated property of my father, but would, had he been considered guilty, have gladly kept it back.”

The grave countenance of Bonaparte was overspread by a genial smile, and his eyes rested with the expression of innermost sympathy on the son of Josephine.