Bonaparte understood the art of holding his audience in suspense, and keeping them in breathless attention, quite as well as an improvisator of the Place of St. Mark or of Toledo Street.  His stories were always full of the highest dramatic action and thrilling effect; and it was his greatest triumph when he saw his hearers turn pale, and when Josephine, shuddering, clung anxiously to him, as if seeking from the soldier’s hand protection against the fearful ghosts he had evoked.

After the marvellous stories came grave scientific conversations with men of learning, whom Bonaparte had invited for the sake of deriving from their intercourse both interest and instruction.  Among these were the renowned mathematicians Maria Fontana, Monge, and Berthelet; and the famous astronomer Oriani, whom Bonaparte, through a very flattering autographic note, had invited to Montebello.

But Oriani, little accustomed to society and to conversation with any one but learned men, was very reluctant to come to Montebello, and would gladly have avoided it had he not been afraid of exciting the wrath of the great warrior.  Bonaparte, surrounded by his generals, his staff-officers and adjutants, was in the large and splendidly-illumined drawing-room when Oriani made his appearance.

The savant, timid and embarrassed, remained near the door, and dared not advance a single step farther on this brilliant floor, where the lights of the chandeliers were reflected, and which filled the savant with more bewilderment than the star-bespangled firmament.

But Bonaparte’s keen eye understood at once his newly-arrived guest; he advanced eagerly toward him, and as Oriani, stammering and embarrassed, was endeavoring to say something, but grew silent in the midst of his speech, the former smilingly asked: 

“What troubles you so much?  You are among your friends; we honor science, and I willingly bow to it.”

“Ah, general,” sighed Oriani, sorrowfully, “this magnificence dazzles me.”

Bonaparte shrugged his shoulders.  “What!” said he, looking around with a contemptuous glance on the mirrors and rich tapestries which adorned the walls, and on the glittering chandeliers, the embroidered uniforms of the generals, and the costly toilets of the ladies—­“what, do you call this magnificence?  Can these miserable splendors blind the man who every night contemplates the far more lofty and impressive glories of the skies?”

The savant, recalled by these warning words of Bonaparte to the consciousness of his own dignity, soon recovered his quiet demeanor and conversed long and gladly with the general, who never grew tired of putting questions to him, and of gaining from him information.