A beautiful copy of this great painting hung in the parlor of the duchess; and to this she now pointed while narrating the history of the emperor’s passage over the Great St. Bernard with an army, a feat never before performed except by Hannibal and Caesar, and perhaps never to be performed again.

As she concluded her narrative, an almost angry expression flitted across the young prince’s countenance.  Rising from his seat, and holding himself perfectly erect, he exclaimed:  “Oh, mamma, I shall also cross the Alps some day, as the emperor did!”

And while thus speaking, a glowing color suffused his face; his lips trembled, and the feverish beating of his heart was quite audible.

Hortense turned in some anxiety to her friend Louise de Cochelet, and begged her in a low voice to soothe the child with the recital of some merry narrative.  As Louise looked around the room thoughtfully and searchingly, a cup that stood on the mantel-piece arrested her gaze.  She hastened to the mantel, took the cup, and returned with it to little Louis Napoleon.

“Mamma has been explaining a very grave picture to you, Louis,” said she; “I will now show you a merry one.  Look at it—­isn’t it charming?”

The prince cast a hasty, absent-minded look at the cup, and nodded gravely.  Louise laughed gayly.

“You see, Louis,” said she, “that this is the exact counterpart of the picture of the Emperor Napoleon, who, while riding over the Alps, encounters on their summit the great spirits of Hannibal and Caesar.  Here is a little Napoleon, who is not climbing up the Alps, but climbing down from his bed, and who, on this occasion, meets a black spirit, in the person of a chimney-sweep.  This is the history of the great and of the little Napoleon; the great meets Hannibal, the little the chimney-sweep.”

“Am I the little Napoleon?” asked the boy, gravely.

“Yes, Louis, you are, and I will now tell you the story of this cup.  One day, when we were all still in Paris, and while your great uncle was still Emperor of France—­one day, you met in your room a little Savoyard who had just crept out of the chimney in his black dress, his black broom in his hand.  You cried out with horror, and were about to run away, but I held you back and told you that these chimney-sweeps were poor boys, and that their parents were so poor that they could not support their children, but were compelled to send them to Paris to earn their bread by creeping into and cleaning our hot and dirty chimneys, with great trouble, and at the risk of their lives.  My story touched you, and you promised me never to be afraid of the little chimney-sweeps again.  A short time afterward, you were awakened early in the morning by a strange noise, your brother still lay asleep at your side, and your nurse was absent from the room.  This noise was made by a chimney-sweep who had just come down the chimney and now stood in your room.  As