ABSTRACT

The diligence from Grenoble to Paris halts at Nemours to change horses. Excited groups of people; placards on the walls; newspapers. Yesterday young General Bonaparte dealt the Republic the finishing stroke, kicked the Directory out of office, and proclaimed himself Consul. The diligence lumbers on its way, unmercifully grinding these premature dreams under its wheels. The lad has hardly a look to spare for the landscape, hardly a word to exchange with his travelling companions. Two cavalry officers rein in their mounts and laugh so heartily that the plumes on their shakos are set aquivering. Instead of loafing about on the Corso, instead of strutting up and down dragging his sabre along the pavement and making sheep's-eyes at the women, he should be with his company which is engaged in pushing back the Austrians behind the Mincio. There is nothing so dangerous for a person of romantic disposition as to become intimate with the ideal.