territories to rule over.”  This is the language of the Buonapartiste every where, and at all seasons; and the mass of the nation is wonderfully disposed to participate in the sentiment.  The empire was the Aeneid of the nation, and Napoleon the only hero they now believe in.  You may satisfy yourself of this easily.  Every cafe will give evidence of it, every society bears its testimony to it, and even the most wretched Vaudeville, however, trivial the interest —­however meagre the story, and poor the diction, let the emperor but have his “role”—­let him be as laconic as possible, carry his hands behind his back, wear the well-known low cocked-hat, and the “redingote gris”—­the success is certain—­every sentence he utters is applauded, and not a single allusion to the Pyramids, the sun of Austerlitz, l’honneur, et al vieille garde, but is sure to bring down thunders of acclamation.  But I am forgetting myself, and perhaps my reader too; the conversation of the old gen-d’arme accidentally led me into reflections like these, and he was well calculated, in many ways, to call them forth.  His devoted attachment—­his personal love of the emperor—­of which he gave me some touching instances, was admirably illustrated by an incident, which I am inclined to tell, and hope it may amuse the reader as much as it did myself on hearing it.

When Napoleon had taken possession of the papal dominions, as he virtually did, and carried off the pope, Pius VI, to Paris, this old soldier, then a musketeer in the garde, formed part of the company that mounted guard over the holy father.  During the earlier months of the holy father’s confinement he was at liberty to leave his apartments at any hour he pleased, and cross the court-yard of the palace to the chapel where he performed mass.  At such moments the portion of the Imperial Guard then on duty stood under arms, and received from the august hand of the pope his benediction as he passed.  But one morning a hasty express arrived from the Tuilleries, and the officer on duty communicated his instructions to his party, that the apostolic vicar was not to be permitted to pass, as heretofore, to the chapel, and that a most rigid superintendence was to be exercised over his movements.  My poor companion had his turn for duty on that ill-starred day; he had not been long at his post when the sound of footsteps was heard approaching, and he soon saw the procession which always attended the holy father to his devotions, advancing towards him; he immediately placed himself across the passage, and with his musket in rest barred the exit, declaring, at the same time, that such were his orders.  In vain the priests who formed the cortege addressed themselves to his heart, and spoke to his feelings, and at last finding little success by these methods, explained to him the mortal sin and crime for which eternal damnation itself might not be a too heavy retribution if he persisted in preventing his holiness to pass, and thus be the