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BOY LIFE OF NAPOLEON
Afterwards Emperor Of The French
_Adapted And Extended For American Boys And Girls From The French Of_
Madame Eugénie Foa
Author Of "Little Princes And Princesses Young Warriors,"
"Little Robinson," Etc.
Illustrated By Vesper L George
1895
PREFACE.
The name of Madame Eugenie Foa has been a familiar one in French homes
for more than a generation. Forty years ago she was the most popular
writer of historical stories and sketches, especially designed for the
boys and girls of France. Her tone is pure, her morals are high, her
teachings are direct and effective. She has, besides, historical
accuracy and dramatic action; and her twenty books for children have
found welcome and entrance into the most exclusive of French homes. The
publishers of this American adaptation take pleasure in introducing
Madame Foa's work to American boys and girls, and in this Napoleonic
renaissance are particularly favored in being able to reproduce her
excellent story of the boy Napoleon.
The French original has been adapted and enlarged in the light of recent
research, and all possible sources have been drawn upon to make a
complete and rounded story of Napoleon's boyhood upon the basis
furnished by Madame Foa's sketch. If this glimpse of the boy Napoleon
shall lead young readers to the study of the later career of this
marvellous man, unbiased by partisanship, and swayed neither by hatred
nor hero worship, the publishers will feel that this presentation of the
opening chapters of his life will not have been in vain.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER ONE.
_In Napoleon's Grotto_
CHAPTER TWO.
_The Canon's Pears_
CHAPTER THREE.
_The Accusation_
CHAPTER FOUR.
_Bread and Water_
CHAPTER FIVE
_A Wrong Righted_
CHAPTER SIX.
_The Battle with the Shepherd Boys_
CHAPTER SEVEN.
_Good-bye to Corsica_
CHAPTER EIGHT.
_At the Preparatory School_
CHAPTER NINE.
_The Lonely School-Boy_
CHAPTER TEN.
_In Napoleon's Garden_
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
_Friends and Foes_ CHAPTER TWELVE.
_The Great Snow-tall Fight at Brienne School_
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
_Recommended for Promotion_
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
_Napoleon goes to Parts_
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
_A Trouble over Pocket Money_
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
_Lieutenant Puss-in-Boots_
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
_Dark Days_
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
_By the Wall of the Soldiers' Home_
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
_The Little Corporal_
CHAPTER TWENTY.
"_Long Live the Emperor!_"
THE BOY LIFE OF NAPOLEON.
CHAPTER ONE.
IN NAPOLEON'S GROTTO.
On a certain August day, in the year 1776, two little girls were
strolling hand in hand along the pleasant promenade that leads from the
queer little town of Ajaccio out into the open country.
The town of Ajaccio is on the western side of the beautiful island of
Corsica, in the Mediterranean Sea. Back of it rise the great mountains,
white with snowy tops; below it sparkles the Mediterranean, bluest of
blue water. There are trees everywhere; there are flowers all about; the
air is fragrant with the odor of fruit and foliage; and it was through
this scented air, and amid these beautiful flowers, that these two
little girls were wandering idly, picking here and there to add to their
big bouquets, that August day so many years ago.
Every now and then the little girls would stop their flower-picking to
cool off; for, though the August sun was hot, the western breezes came
fresh across the wide Gulf of Ajaccio, down to whose shores ran broad
and beautiful avenues of chestnut-trees, through which one could catch a
glimpse, like a beautiful picture, of the little island of Sanguinarie,
three miles away from shore.
As they came out from the shadow of the chestnut-trees, one of the
little girls suddenly caught her companion's arm, and, pointing at an
opening in a pile of rocks that overlooked the sea, she said,--
"Oh, what is this, Eliza?--an oven?"
"An oven, silly! Why, what do you mean?" Eliza answered. "Who would
build an oven here, tell me?"
"But it opens like an oven," her friend declared. "See, it has a great
mouth, as if to swallow one. Perhaps some of the black elves live there,
that Nurse Camilla told us of. Do you think so, Eliza?"
"What a baby you are, Panoria!" Eliza replied, with the superior air of
one who knows all about things. "That is no oven; nor is it a black
elf's house. It is Napoleon's grotto."
"Napoleon's!" cried Panoria. "And who gave it to him, then? Your great
uncle, the Canon Lucien?"
"No one gave it to him, child," Eliza replied. "Napoleon found it in the
rocks, and teased Uncle Joey Fesch to fix it up for him. Uncle Joey did
so, and Napoleon comes here so often now that we call it Napoleon's
grotto."
"Does he come here all alone?" asked Panoria.
"Alone? Of course," answered Eliza. "Why should he not? He is big
enough."
"No; I mean does he not let any of you come here with him?"
"That he will not!" replied Eliza. "Napoleon is such an odd boy! He will
have no one but Uncle Joey Fesch come into his grotto, and that is only
when he wishes Uncle Joey to teach him the primer. Brother Joseph tried
to come in here one day, and Napoleon beat him and bit him, until Joseph
was glad to run out, and has never since gone into the grotto."
"What if we should go in there, Eliza?" queried Panoria.
"Oh, never think of it!" cried Eliza. "Napoleon would never forgive us,
and his nails are sharp."
"And what does he do in his grotto?" asked the inquisitive Panoria.
"Oh, he talks to himself," Eliza replied.
"My! but that is foolish," cried Panoria; "and stupid too."
"Then, so are you to say so," Eliza retorted. "I tell you what is true.
My brother Napoleon comes here every day. He stays in his grotto for
hours. He talks to himself. I know what I am saying for I have come here
lots and lots of times just to listen. But I do not let him see me, or
he would drive me away."
"Is he in there now?" inquired Panoria with curiosity.
"I suppose so; he always is," replied Eliza.
"Let us hide and listen, then," suggested Panoria. "I should like to
know what he can say when he talks to himself. Boys are bad enough,
anyway; but a boy who just talks to himself must be crazy."
Eliza was hardly ready to agree to her little friend's theory, so she
said, "Wait here, Panoria, and I will go and peep into the grotto to see
if Napoleon is there."
"Yes, do so," assented Panoria; "and I will run down to that garden and
pick more flowers. See, there are many there."
"Oh, no, you must not," Eliza objected; "that is my uncle the Canon
Lucien's garden."
"Well, and is your uncle the canon's garden more sacred than any one
else's garden?" questioned Panoria flippantly.
"What a goosie you are to ask that! Of course it is," declared Eliza.
"But why?" Panoria persisted.
"Why?" echoed Eliza; "just because it is. It is the garden of my great
uncle the Canon Lucien; that is why."
"It is, because it is! That is nothing," Panoria protested. "If I could
not give a better reason"--"It is not my reason, Panoria," Eliza broke
in. "It is Mamma Letitia's; therefore it must be right."
"Well, I don't care," Panoria declared; "even if it is your mamma's, it
is--but how is it your mamma's?" she asked, changing protest to inquiry.
"Why, we hear it whenever we do anything," replied Eliza. "If they
wish to stop our play, they say, 'Stop! you will give your uncle the
headache.' If we handle anything we should not, they say, 'Hands off!
that belongs to your uncle the canon.' If we ask for a peach, they tell
us, 'No! it is from the garden of your uncle the canon.' If they give us
a hug or a kiss, when we have done well, they say, 'Oh, your uncle the
canon will be so pleased with you!' Was I not right? Is not our uncle
the canon beyond all others?"
"Yes; to worry one," declared Panoria rebelliously. "But why? Is it
because he is canon of the cathedral here at Ajaccio that they are all
so afraid of him?"
"Afraid of him!" exclaimed Eliza indignantly. "Who is afraid of him? We
are not. But, you see, Papa Charles is not rich enough to do for us what
he would like. If he could but have the great estates in this island
which are his by right, he would be rich enough to do everything for us.
But some bad people have taken the land; and even though Papa Charles is
a count, he is not rich enough to send us all to school; so our uncle,
the Canon Lucien, teaches us many lessons. He is not cross, let me tell
you, Panoria; but he is--well, a little severe."
"What, then, does he whip you?" asked Panoria.
"No, he does not; but if he says we should be whipped, then Mamma
Letitia hands us over to Nurse Mina Saveria; and she, I promise you,
does not let us off from the whipping."
All this Eliza admitted as if with vivid recollections of the vigor of
Nurse Saveria's arm.
Panoria glanced toward the grotto amid the rocks.
"Does he--Napoleon--ever get whipped?" she asked.
"Indeed he does not," Eliza grumbled; "or not as often as the rest of
us," she added. "And when he is whipped he does not even cry. You should
hear Joseph, though. Joseph is the boy to cry; and so is Lucien. I'd be
ashamed to cry as they do. Why, if you touch those boys just with your
little finger, they go running to Mamma Letitia, crying that we've
scratched the skin off."
Panoria had her idea of such "cry-babies" of boys; but Napoleon
interested her most.
"But, Eliza," she said, "what does he say--Napoleon--when he talks to
himself in his grotto over there?"
"You shall hear," Eliza replied. "Let me go and peep in, to see if he is
there. But no; hush! See, here he comes! Come; we will hide behind the
lilac-bush, and hear what Napoleon says."
"But will not your nurse, Saveria, come to look for us?" asked Panoria,
who had not forgotten Eliza's reference to the nurse's heavy hand.
"Why, no; Saveria will be busy for an hour yet, picking fruit for our
table from my uncle the canon's garden. We have time," Eliza explained.
So the two little girls hid themselves behind the lilac-bushes that
grew beside the rocks in which was the little cave which they called
Napoleon's grotto. The bush concealed them from view; two pairs of
wide-open black eyes peering curiously between the lilac-leaves were
the only signs of the mischievous young eavesdroppers.
The boy who was walking thoughtfully toward the grotto did not notice
the little girls. He was about seven years old. In fact, he was seven
that very day. For he was born in the big, bare house in Ajaccio, which
was his home, on the fifteenth of August, 1776.
He was an odd-looking boy. He was almost elf-like in appearance. His
head was big, his body small, his arms and legs were thin and spindling.
His long, dark hair fell about his face; his dress was careless and
disordered; his stockings had tumbled down over his shoes, and he looked
much like an untidy boy. But one scarcely noticed the dress of this boy.
It was his face that held the attention.
It was an Italian face; for this boy's ancestors had come, not so many
generations before, from the Tuscan town of Sarzana, on the Gulf of
Genoa--the very town from which "the brave Lord of Luna," of whom you
may read in Macaulay's splendid poem of "Horatius," came to the sack
of Rome. Save for his odd appearance, with his big head and his little
body, there was nothing to particularly distinguish the boy Napoleon
Bonaparte from other children of his own age.
Now and then, indeed, his face would show all the shifting emotions
of ambition, passion, and determination; and his eyes, though not
beautiful, had in them a piercing and commanding gleam that, with a
glance, could influence and attract his companions.
Whatever happened, these wonderful eyes--even in the boy--never lost the
power of control which they gave to their owner over those about him.
With a look through those eyes, Napoleon would appear to conceal his own
thoughts and learn those of others. They could flash in anger if need
be, or smile in approval; but, before their fixed and piercing glance,
even the boldest and most inquisitive of other eyes lowered their lids.
Of course this eye-power, as we might call it, grew as the boy grew; but
even as a little fellow in his Corsican home, this attraction asserted
itself, as many a playfellow and foeman could testify, from Joey Fesch,
his boy-uncle, to whom he was much attached, to Joseph his older
brother, with whom he was always quarrelling, and Giacommetta, the
little black-eyed girl, about whom the boys of Ajaccio teased him.
The little girls behind the lilac-bush watched the boy curiously.
"Why does he walk like that?" asked Panoria, as she noted Napoleon's
advance. He came slowly, his eyes fixed on the sea, his hands clasped
behind his back.
"Our uncle the canon," whispered Eliza; "he walks just that way, and
Napoleon copies him."
"My, he looks about fifty!" said Panoria. "What do you suppose he is
thinking about?"
"Not about us, be sure," Eliza declared.
"I believe he's dreaming," said mischievous Panoria; "let us scream out,
and see if we can frighten him."
"Silly! you can't frighten Napoleon," Eliza asserted, clapping a hand
over her companion's mouth. "But he could frighten you. I have tried
it."
Napoleon stood a moment looking seaward, and tossed back his long hair,
as if to bathe his forehead in the cooling breezes. Then entering the
grotto, he flung himself on its rocky floor, and, leaning his head upon
his hand, seemed as lost in meditation as any gray old hermit of the
hills, all unconscious of the four black eyes which, filled with
curiosity and fun, were watching him from behind the lilac-bush.
[Illustration: _At Napoleon's Grotto_]
"Here, at least," the boy said, speaking aloud, as if he wished the
broad sea to share his thoughts, "here I am master, here I am alone;
here no one can command or control me. I am seven years old to-day.
One is not a man at seven; that I know. But neither is one a child when
he has my desires. Our uncle, the Canon Lucien, tells me that Spartan
boys were taken away from the women when they were seven years old, and
trained by men. I wish I were a Spartan. There are too many here to say
what I may and may not do,--Mamma Letitia, our uncle the canon, Papa
Charles, Nurse Saveria, Nurse Camilla, to say nothing of my boy-uncle
Fesch, my brother Joseph, and sister Eliza; Uncle Joey Fesch is but four
years older than I, my brother Joseph is but a year older, and Eliza is
a year younger! Even little Pauline has her word to put in against me.
Bah! why should they? If now I were but the master at home, as I am
here"--
"Well, hermit! and what if you were the master?" cried Eliza from the
lilac-bush.
The two girls had kept silence as long as they could; and now, to keep
Panoria from speaking out, Eliza had interrupted with her question.
With that, they both ran into the grotto.
Napoleon was silent a moment, as if protesting against this invasion of
his privacy. Then he said,--"If I were the master, Eliza, I would make
you both do penance for listening at doors;" for it especially mortified
this boy to be overheard talking to himself.
"But here are no doors, Napoleon!" cried Eliza, whirling about in the
grotto.
"So much the worse, then," Napoleon returned hotly. "When there are no
doors, one should be even more careful about intruding."
"Pho! hear the little lord," teased Eliza. "One would think he was the
Emperor what's his name, or the Grand Turk."
Napoleon was about to respond still more sharply, when just then a
shrill voice rang through the grotto.
"Eliza; Panoria! Panoria; Eliza!" the call came. "Where are you,
runaways? Where are you hidden?"
"Here we are, Saveria," Eliza cried in reply, but making no move to
retire.
Napoleon would have put the girls out, but the next moment a tall and
stout young woman appeared at the entrance of the grotto. She was
dressed in black, with a black shawl draped over her high hair, and held
by a silver pin. On her arm she carried a large basket filled with
fine fruit,--pears, grapes, and figs. "So here you are, in Napoleon's
grotto!" exclaimed Saveria the nurse, dropping with her basket on the
ground. "Why did you run from me, naughty ones?"
Napoleon noted the basket's luscious contents.
"Oh, a pear! Give me a pear, Saveria!" he cried, springing toward the
nurse, and thrusting a hand into the basket.
But Nurse Saveria hastily drew away the basket.
"Why, child, child! what are you doing?" she exclaimed. "These are your
uncle the canon's."
Napoleon withdrew his hand as sharply as if a bee amid the fruit had
stung him.
"Ah, is it so?" he cried; but Panoria, not having before her eyes the
fear of the Bonapartes' bugbear, "their uncle the canon," laughed
loudly.
"What funny people you all are!" she exclaimed. "One needs but to cry,
'Your uncle the canon,' and down you all tumble like a house of cards.
What! is Saveria, too, afraid of him?"
"No more than I am," said Napoleon stoutly.
"No more than you!" laughed Panoria. "Why, Napoleon, you did not dare to
even touch the pears of your uncle the canon."
"Because I did not wish to, Panoria," replied Napoleon.
"Did not dare to," corrected Panoria.
"Did not wish to," insisted Napoleon.
"Well, wish it! I dare you to wish it!" cried Panoria, while Eliza
looked on horrified at her little friend's suggestion.
By this time Saveria had led the children from the grotto, and, walking
on ahead, was returning toward their home. She did not hear Panoria's
"dare."
"You may dare me," Napoleon replied to the challenge of Panoria; "but if
I do not wish it, you gain nothing by daring me."
"Ho! you are afraid, little boy!" cried Panoria.
"I afraid?" and Napoleon turned his piercing glance upon the little
girl, so that she quailed before it.
But Panoria was an obstinate child, and she returned to the charge.
"But if you did wish it, would you do it, Napoleon?" she asked. "Of
course," the boy replied.
"Oh, it is easy to brag," said Panoria; "but when your great man, your
uncle the canon, is around, you are no braver, I'll be bound, than
little Pauline, or even Eliza here."
By this time Eliza, too, had grown brave; and she said stoutly to her
friend, "What! I am not brave, you say? You shall see."
Then as Saveria, turning, bade them hurry on, Eliza caught Panoria's
hand, and ran toward the nurse; but as she did so, she said to Panoria,
boastingly and rashly,--
"Come into our house! If I do not eat some of those very pears out
of that very basket of our uncle the canon's, then you may call me a
coward, Panoria!"
"Would you then dare?" cried Panoria. "I'll not believe it unless I see
you."
Eliza was "in for it" now. "Then you shall see me!" she declared. "Come
to my house. Mamma Letitia is away visiting, and I shall have the best
chance. I promise you; you shall see."
"Hurry, then," said Panoria. "It is better than braving the black elves,
this that you are to do, Eliza. For truly I think your uncle the canon
must be an ogre."
"You shall see," Eliza declared again; and, running after Nurse Saveria,
they were soon in the narrow street in which, standing across the way
from a little park, was the big, bare, yellowish-gray, four-story house
in which lived the Bonaparte family, always hard pushed for money, and
having but few of the fine things which so large a house seemed to call
for. Indeed, they would have had scarcely anything to live on had it not
been for this same important relative, "our uncle, the Canon Lucien,"
who spent much of his yearly salary of fifteen hundred dollars upon this
family of his nephew, "Papa Charles," one of whom was now about to make
a raid upon his picked and particular pears.
CHAPTER TWO.
THE CANON'S PEARS,
When the little girls had left him, Napoleon remained for some moments
standing in the mouth of his grotto. His hands were clasped behind his
back, his head was bent, his eyes were fixed upon the sea.
This, as I have told you, was a favorite attitude of the little boy,
copied from his uncle the canon; it remained his favorite attitude
through life, as almost any picture of this remarkable man will convince
you.
The boy was always thoughtful. But this day he was especially so. For he
knew that it was his birthday; and while not so much notice was taken of
children's birthdays when Napoleon was a boy as is now the custom, still
a birthday _was_ a birthday.
So the day set the little fellow to thinking; and, young as he was, he
had yet much to remember.
He felt that he ought to be as rich and important as the other boys
whom he knew round about Ajaccio There were Andrew Pozzo and Charles
Abbatucci, for example. They had everything they wished, their fathers
were rich and powerful; and they made fun of him, calling him "little
frowsy head," and "down at the heel," just because his mother could not
always look after his clothes, and keep him neat and clean.
Napoleon could not see why they should be better off than was he. His
father, Charles Bonaparte, was, he had heard them say at home, a count,
but of what good was it to be a count, or a duke, if one had not palaces
and treasure to show for it?
Napoleon knew that the big and bare four-story house in which he lived
was by no means a palace; and so far from having any treasures to spend,
he knew, instead, that if it were not for the help of their uncle, the
Canon Lucien, they would often go hungry in the big house on the little
park.
But there was one consolation. If he was badly off, so, too, were many
other boys and girls in that Mediterranean island. For when Napoleon
Bonaparte was a boy, there was much trouble in Corsica. That rocky,
sea-washed, forest-crowned island of mountains and valleys, queer
customs and brave people, had been in rebellion, against its
masters--first, the republic of Genoa, and then against France.
[Illustration: House In Which Napoleon Was Born]
[Illustration: The Mother of Napoleon]
[Illustration: The Father of Napoleon]
[Illustration: Room In Which Napoleon Was Born]
Napoleon's father, Charles Bonaparte, had been a Corsican politician and
patriot, a follower of the great Corsican leader, Paoli, who had spent
many years of a glorious life in trying to lead his fellow-Corsicans to
liberty and self-government. But the attempt had been a failure; and
three months before the baby Napoleon was born, Charles Bonaparte had,
with other Corsican leaders, given up the struggle. He submitted to the
French power, took the oath of allegiance, and became a French citizen.
And thus it came to pass that little Napoleon Bonaparte, though an
Italian by blood and family, was really by birth a French citizen.
Still, all that did not help him much, if, indeed, he thought anything
about it as he stood in his grotto looking out to sea. He was thinking
of other things,--of how he would like to be great and strong and rich,
so that he could be a leader of other boys, rather than be teased by
them; for little Napoleon Bonaparte did not take kindly to being teased,
but would get very angry at his tormentors, and would bite and scratch
and fight like any little savage. He had, as a child, what is known as
an ungovernable temper, although he was able to keep it under control
until the moment came when he could both say and do to his own
satisfaction. He loved his father and mother; he loved his brothers and
sisters; he loved his uncle, the Canon Lucien; he loved, more than all
his other playmates and companions, his boy-uncle, fat, twelve-year-old
Joey Fesch, who had taught him his letters, and been his admirer and
follower from babyhood.
But though he loved them all, he loved his own way best; and he was
bound to have it, however much his father might talk, his mother chide,
or his uncle the canon correct him. So, as he stood in the grotto,
remembering that on that day he was seven years old, he determined to
let all his family see that he knew what he wished to become and do.
He would show them, he declared, that he was a little boy, a baby, no
longer; they should know that he was a boy who would be a man long
before other boys grew up, and would then show his family that they had
never really understood him.
At last he turned away and walked slowly toward home. The Bonaparte
house was, as I have told you, a big, bare, four-story, yellow-gray
house. It stood on a little narrow street, now called, after Napoleon's
mother, Letitia Place, in the town of Ajaccio. The street was not over
eight or ten feet wide; but opposite to the house was a little park that
allowed the Bonapartes to get both light and air--something that would
otherwise be hard to obtain in a street only ten feet wide.
Tired and thirsty from his walk through the sunshine of the hot August
afternoon, the boy started for the dining-room for a drink of water. As
he opened the door in his quick, impetuous way, he heard a noise as of
some one startled and fleeing. The swinging sash of the long French
window opposite him shut with a bang, and Napoleon had a glimpse of a
bit of white skirt, caught for an instant on the window-fastening.
"Ah, ha! it was not a bird, then, that fluttering," he said. "It was a
girl. One of my sisters. Now, which one, I wonder? and why did she run?
I do not care to catch her. It is no sport playing with girls."
So little curiosity did he have in the matter, that he did not follow on
the track of the fugitive, nor even go to the window to look out; but,
walking up to the sideboard, he opened it to take the water-pitcher and
get a drink.
As he did so, he started. There stood the basket of fruit which Saveria
had filled so carefully with fruit for his uncle the canon. But now the
basket was only half filled. Who had taken the fruit?
He clapped his hands together in surprise; for the fruit of his uncle
the canon was something no one in the house dared to touch. Punishment
swift and sure would descend upon the culprit.
"But, look!" he said half-aloud; "who has dared to touch the fruit of
my uncle the canon? Touch it? My faith! they have taken half of it. Ah,
that skirt! Could it have been--it must have been one of my sisters. But
which one?"
As he stood thus wondering, his eyes still fixed upon the rifled basket
of fruit, he heard behind him a voice that tried to be harsh and stern,
calling his name.
"Napoleon!" cried the new-comer, "what are you doing at the sideboard?
and why have you opened it? You know we have forbidden you to take
anything to eat before mealtime. What have you done?"
It was the voice of his uncle, the Canon Lucien. Napoleon, turning at
the question, met the glance of his uncle fastened upon him. The Canon
Lucien Bonaparte was a funny looking, fat little man, as bald as he
was good-natured,--and that was _very_ bald,--and with a smooth,
ordinary-appearing face, only remarkable for the same sharp, eagle-like
look that marked his nephew Napoleon when he, too, became a man.
Napoleon looked at his uncle the canon with indignation and denial on
his face. "Why, my uncle, I have taken nothing!" he declared.
Then suddenly he remembered how he had been discovered by his uncle
standing before the half-emptied basket of fruit. Could it be that the
old gentleman suspected him of pilfering? Would he dare accuse him of
the crime?
At the thought his face flushed red and hot. For you must know, boys and
girls, that sometimes the fear of being suspected of a misdeed, even
when one is absolutely innocent, brings to the face the flush that is
considered a sign of guilt, and thus people are misunderstood and
wrongfully accused. When one is high-spirited this is more liable to
occur. It was so, at this moment, with the little Napoleon. His confused
air, his flushed face, even his look of indignant denial, joined as
evidence against him so strongly that his uncle the canon said sharply,
"Come, you, Napoleon! do not lie to me now."
At that remark all the boy's pride was on fire.
[Illustration: "'I never lie uncle, you know I never lie!' said
Napoleon"]
"I never lie, uncle; you know I never lie!" he cried hotly.
But Uncle Lucien was so certain of the boy's guilt that he mistook his
pride for impudence. And yet he was such a good-natured old fellow, and
loved his nieces and nephews so dearly, that he tried to soften and
belittle the theft of his precious fruit.
"No harm is done," he said, "if you but tell me what you have done. The
fruit can be replaced, and I will say nothing, though you know you are
forbidden to meddle with my fruit. But I do not love to see you doing
wrong. I will not tolerate a lie. I do not know just what you have done;
but if you will tell me the truth, I will--of course I will--pardon you.
Why did you take my fruit?"
"I took nothing, uncle," the boy declared. "It was"--then he stopped.
Suppose it had been taken by one of his sisters, or by Panoria, their
guest? The flutter of the departing skirt, as he came into the room,
assured him it was one of these. But which one? And why should he accuse
the little girls? It was not manly, and he wished to be a man.
More than this, he was angry to think that he had been suspected,
more angry yet to think he had been accused by good Uncle Lucien, and
furiously angry to think that his word was doubted; so he said nothing
further.
"Ah, so! It was--you, then," the canon said, shaking his head in
sorrowful belief.
"No; I did not say so!" exclaimed Napoleon. "It was not I."
"Take care, take care, my son," the canon said, very nearly losing his
temper over what he considered Napoleon's insincerity. "You cannot
deceive me. See! look at yourself in the glass. Your face betrays you.
It is red with shame."
"Then is my color a liar, uncle; but I am not," Napoleon insisted.
"What were you doing here, all alone?" asked his uncle.
"I was thirsty," replied the nephew. "I did but come for a drink of
water."
"That perhaps is so," said Uncle Lucien. "There is no harm in that. You
came for a drink of water; but, how was it after that,--eh, my friend?"
"That is all, uncle," replied Napoleon.
"And the water? Have you taken a drink of it, yet?"
"No, uncle; not yet."
The canon again shook his head doubtingly.
"See, then," he declared, "you came for a drink of water. You took no
drink; the sideboard stands open; my fruit has disappeared. Napoleon,
this is not right. You have done a wrong. Come, tell me the truth. If it
is not as you say, if you have lied to me, much as I love you, I will
have you punished. It is wicked in you, and I will not be merciful."
As the canon said this with raised voice and warning finger,
Napoleon's father, "Papa Charles," entered the room. With him
came Napoleon's brother Joseph, two years older than he, and his
twelve-year-old uncle-Joey Fesch. Joey was Mamma Letitia's half-brother,
a Swiss-Corsican boy. He was, as I have told you, Napoleon's firm
supporter.
They looked in surprise at Uncle Lucien and Napoleon, and would have
inquired as to the meaning of the attitude of the two. But the fact was,
Napoleon had so many such moments of rebellion, that they gave it
no immediate thought; and just then Charles Bonaparte had a serious
political question which he wished to refer to the Canon Lucien.
The two men at once began talking; the two boys saw through the open
window something that engaged their attention, and Napoleon was
unnoticed. But still the little boy stood, too proud to move away, too
angry to speak, and so filled with a sense of the injustice that was
done him, that he remained with downcast eyes, almost rooted to the
spot, while still the sideboard stood open, and the tell-tale basket
stood despoiled within it. The door opened again, and Saveria entered
hastily. She went to the sideboard, took out the basket of fruit,
and then you may be sure there was an exclamation that attracted the
attention of all in the room.
"For mercy's sake!" she cried. "Who has taken the canon's fruit?"
"Ah, yes, who?" echoed Uncle Lucien, wheeling about, and laying his hand
upon Napoleon's shoulder. "Behold, Saveria! here is the culprit. He has
taken my fruit."
Napoleon pushed away his uncle's hand.
"It is not so!" he said; but he grew pale as he spoke. "I have not
touched it."
"But some one has. Hear me, Saveria!" the canon commanded; for in that
house he had quite as much to say as the Father and Mother Bonaparte.
"Call in the other children. We will soon settle this."
All were soon in the room,--the two little girls, Joseph, and Uncle Joey
Fesch, even baby Lucien, who was named for his uncle the canon. The
children made a charming group; but they looked at Napoleon with
curiosity and surprise, wondering into what new trouble he had fallen.
For the solemn manner in which they had been called together, the grave
looks of Papa Charles, of Uncle Lucien, and of Nurse Saveria, led
them all to believe that something really serious had happened in the
Bonaparte household.
CHAPTER THREE.
THE ACCUSATION.
"Now, then, children, listen to me, and answer, he who is the guilty
one," Charles Bonaparte said, facing the group of children. "Who is it
that has taken the fruit from the basket of your uncle the canon?"
Each child declared his or her innocence, though one might imagine that
Eliza's voice was not so outspoken as the others.
"And what do you say, Napoleon?" asked Papa Charles, turning toward the
suspected one.
"I have already said, Papa Charles, that it was not I," Napoleon
answered, this time calmly and coolly; for his composure had returned.
"That is a lie, Napoleon!" exclaimed Nurse Saveria, who, as the trusted
servant of the Bonaparte family, spoke just as she wished, and said
precisely what she meant, while no one questioned her freedom. "That is
a lie, Napoleon, and you know it!" The boy sprang toward the nurse in a
rage, and, lifting his hand threateningly, cried, "Saveria! if you were
not a woman, I would"--and he simply shook his little fist at her, too
angry even to complete his threat.
"How now, Napoleon! what would you do?" his father exclaimed.
But Saveria only laughed scornfully. "It must have been you, Napoleon,"
she said. "I have not left the pantry since I placed the basket of fruit
in this sideboard. No one has come in through the door except you and
your uncle the canon. Who else, then, could have taken the fruit? You
will not say"--and here she laughed again--"that it is your uncle the
canon who has stolen his own fruit?"
"Ah, but I wish it had been I," said Uncle Lucien, smiling sadly; for
it sorely disturbed his good-nature to have such a scene, and to be
a witness of what he believed to be Napoleon's obstinacy and
untruthfulness. "I would surely say so, even if I had to go without my
supper for the disobedient act."
"But," suggested Napoleon, in a broken voice, touched with the shame of
appearing to be a tell-tale, "it is possible for some one to come in
here through the window."
"Bah!" cried Saveria. "Do not be a silly too. No one has come through
the window. You are the thief, Napoleon. You have taken the fruit. Come,
I will punish you doubly--first for thieving, and then for lying."
But as she crossed as if to seize the boy, Napoleon sprang toward his
uncle for refuge.
"Uncle Lucien! I did not do it!" he cried. "They must not punish me!"
"Tell the truth, Napoleon," his father said. "That is better than
lying."
"Yes, tell the truth, Napoleon," repeated his uncle; "only by confession
can you escape punishment."
"Ah, yes; punishment--how does that sound, Napoleon?" whispered Joseph
in his ear. "You had better tell the truth. Saveria's whip hurts."
"And so does my hand, rascal!" cried Napoleon, enraged at the taunts of
his brother. And he sprang upon Joseph, and beat and bit him so sharply
that the elder boy howled for help, and Uncle Joey Fesch was obliged
to pull the brothers apart. For Joseph and Napoleon were forever
quarrelling; and Uncle Joey Fesch was kept busy separating them, or
smoothing over their squabbles.
As Uncle Joey Fesch drew Napoleon away, he said, "Tell them you took the
fruit, and they will pardon you. Is it not so, Uncle Lucien?" he added,
turning to the canon.
"Assuredly, Joey Fesch," the Canon Lucien replied. "Sin confessed is
half forgiven."
But Napoleon only stamped his foot. "Why should I confess?" he cried.
"What should I confess? I should lie if I did so. I will not lie! I tell
you I did not take any of my uncle's fruit!"
"Confess," urged Joseph.
"'Fess," lisped baby Lucien.
"Confess, dear Napoleon," sister Pauline begged.
Only Eliza remained quiet.
"Napoleon," said the Canon Lucien, who, as head of the Bonaparte
family, and who, especially because he was its main support, was given
leadership in all home affairs, "we waste time with you; for you are but
an obstinate boy. At first I felt sorry for you, and would have excused
you, but now I can do so no longer. See, now; I give you five minutes
by my watch in which to confess your wrong-doing. You ask for my
protection. I am certain of your guilt. But I open a door of escape.
It is the door to pardon; it is confession. Profit by it. See,
again,"--here the canon took out his watch,--"it is now five minutes
before seven. If, when the clock strikes seven, you have not confessed,
Saveria shall give you a whipping. Am I right, brother Charles?"
"You are right, Canon," replied Papa Charles. "If within five minutes by
your watch Napoleon has not confessed, Saveria shall give him the whip."
"The whip is for horses and dogs, but not for boys," Napoleon declared,
upon whom this threat of the whip always had an extraordinary effect. "I
am not a beast."
"The whip is for liars, Napoleon," returned Papa Charles; "for liars and
children who disobey."
"Then, you are cruel to lay it over me; you are cruel and unjust,"
declared the boy. "For I am not a liar; I am not disobedient. I will not
be whipped!"
As he spoke, the boy's eyes flashed defiance. He crossed his arms on his
breast, lifted his head proudly, planted himself sturdily on his feet,
and flung at them all a look of mingled indignation and determination.
Supper was ready; and the family, all save Napoleon, seated themselves
at the table. The five minutes granted him by the canon had run into a
longer time, when little Pauline, distressed at sight of her brother
standing pale and grave in front of the open sideboard and the despoiled
basket of fruit, rose from her chair; approaching him, she whispered,
"Poor boy! they will give you the whip. I am sure of it. Hear me! While
they are not looking, run away. See! the window is open."
"Run away? Not I!" came Napoleon's answer in an indignant whisper. "I am
not afraid."
"But I am," said Pauline. "I do not wish them to whip you. I shall cry.
Run, Napoleon! run away!"
The perspiration stood in beads on the boy's sallow forehead; but he
said nothing. "Ask Uncle Lucien's pardon, Napoleon; ask Papa Charles's
pardon, if you will not run away," Pauline next whispered; "or let me.
Come! may I not do it for you?"
Napoleon's hand dropped upon Pauline's shoulder, as if to keep her back
from such an action; but he said nothing.
"Pauline, leave your brother," Charles Bonaparte said. "He is a stubborn
and undutiful boy. I forbid you to speak to him."
Then turning to his son, he said, "Napoleon, we have given you more than
the time offered you for reflection. Now, sir, come and ask pardon for
your misdeed, and all will be over."
"Yes, come," said Uncle Lucien.
Napoleon remained silent.
"Do you not hear me, Napoleon?" his father said.
"Yes, papa," replied the boy.
"Well?"
Pauline pushed her brother; but he would not move. "Go! do go!" she
said. Instead, Napoleon drew away from her. Uncle Joey Fesch took
Napoleon by the arm, and sought to draw him toward the table. Even
Joseph rose and beckoned him to come. But the boy made no motion toward
the proffered pardon.
"Stupid boy! Obstinate pig!" cried Joseph; "why do you not ask pardon?"
"Because I have done no evil," replied Napoleon. "You are the stupid
one; you are the pig, I say. Did I not tell you I did not touch the
fruit?"
"Still obstinate!" exclaimed "Papa Charles," turning away from his
son. "He does not wish for pardon. He is wicked. Saveria! take this
headstrong boy to the kitchen, and lay the whip upon him well, do you
hear? He has deserved it."
Napoleon fled to the corner, and stood at bay. Uncle Joey Fesch joined
him, as if to protect and defend him. But when big and strong Nurse
Saveria bore down upon them both, Uncle Joey, after an unsuccessful
attempt to drag Napoleon with him, turned from the enemy, and sprang
through the open window.
Then Saveria flung her arms about the little Napoleon, and, in spite of
his kickings and scratchings, bore him from the room, while all laughed
except Pauline. She stuffed her fingers into her ears to shut out the
sound of her brother's cries. But she had no need to do this. No sound
came from the punishment chamber. For not a sound, not a cry, not even a
sigh, escaped from the boy who was bearing an unmerited punishment.
CHAPTER FOUR.
BREAD AND WATER.
You will, no doubt, wonder what Napoleon's mother was doing while her
little son was undergoing his unjust punishment. Perhaps if she had been
at home things would not have turned out so badly with the boy; for
"Mamma Letitia," as the Bonaparte children called their beautiful
mother, had a way about her that none of them could resist. She had much
more will and spirit, she saw things clearer and better, than did "Papa
Charles."
Indeed, Napoleon said when he was a man, recalling the days of his
boyhood in Ajaccio, "I had to be quick when I wished to do anything
naughty, for my Mamma Letitia would always restrain my warlike temper;
she would not put up with my defiance and petulance. Her tenderness was
severe, meting out punishment and reward with equal justice,--merit and
demerit, she took both into account."
So, you see, she would probably have understood that Napoleon spoke the
truth, and that it was some one else who had taken the fruit from the
basket of their uncle the canon. But Mamma Letitia was not at home. She
had gone to Melilli, in the country beyond Ajaccio, to visit her mother
and step-father--the father and mother of her half-brother, "Uncle Joey
Fesch," as the Bonaparte children called him. Melilli was in the midst
of fields and forests and luscious vineyards, and it was a great treat
for the children to go there to visit their grandmother.
Sometimes their mother would take one or two of the children with her;
but on this visit she had gone alone. That very evening her husband was
to join her, and there had been great contention among the children as
to which of them should accompany their father.
Before leaving the supper-table "Papa Charles" announced that their
Uncle Santa's carriage would be at the door in half an hour; that Uncle
Joey Fesch would drive; and that Joseph and Lucien and Eliza--"the good
children," as he called them--should go with him to Melilli to visit
their Grandmother Fesch, and bring back Mamma Letitia. Joseph exulted
loudly; Eliza said nothing; and baby Lucien crowed his delight. But
Pauline slipped out into the pantry where Napoleon stood silent and
still defiant. "I am to stay with you, brother," she said. "Will you be
good to me?"
Napoleon slipped his arm about his little sister's neck; but just then
his father came from the dining-room, and the boy drew up again, haughty
and hard.
"Well, Napoleon," said his father, stopping an instant before the boy,
"I hope you are sorry and subdued. Will you now ask your Uncle Lucien's
pardon?"
[Illustration: _"What! Stubborn still?"_]
Napoleon looked his father full in the face. "I did not take that fruit,
papa," he said.
"What! stubborn still?" his father cried. "See, then; it shall not be
said in my home that an obstinate little fellow like you can rule the
house. Since the whip has not conquered you, we will try what starving
will do. Listen! I am to go to Melilli for Mamma Letitia. Joseph, Eliza,
and Lucien, our three good ones, shall go with me; we shall be gone for
three days. As for you, Napoleon, you shall remain here, and shall have
only bread and water, unless, indeed, before our return you ask pardon
from your uncle the canon."
Pauline looked sadly at Napoleon, and caught his hand. Then she asked
her father, "But he may have a little cheese with his bread, may he not,
papa?"
"Well--yes"--her father yielded. "But only common cheese, Pauline; not
broccio."
Now, broccio was the favorite cheese of the Corsican children, and
Pauline protested.
"Oh, yes, papa! let him have broccio, papa," she said. "Why, broccio is
the best cheese in Corsica!"
"And that is why Napoleon shall not have it," replied her father.
"Broccio is for good boys and girls; and Napoleon is not good."
As he said this he glanced at Napoleon sharply, as if he really hoped
for and expected a word of repentance, a look of entreaty. But Napoleon
said nothing. He looked even more haughty and unyielding than ever; and
his father, with a word of farewell only to Pauline, left the room.
"Poor Napoleon," said Pauline pityingly, as their father closed the
door. "See, I will stay by you. But why will you not ask for pardon?"
"Because pardon is for the guilty, Pauline," Napoleon replied; "and I am
not guilty."
"And will you never ask it?"
"Never," her brother said firmly.
"But, O Napoleon!" cried the little girl, "what if they should always
give you just bread and water and cheese?"
"And if they should, I would not give in," Napoleon answered. "What can
I do? I am not master here."
Pauline gave a great sigh of sympathy. The thought of never having
anything to eat but bread and water and a little cheese was too much for
her courage.
"I could confess anything, rather," she said. "I would ask pardon three
times a day."
"And I would not," said Napoleon. "But then, I am a man."
Just then the three children who were to accompany their father to
Milelli, passed through the pantry, for they had been to bid Nurse
Saveria good-by. Joseph caught the last word.
"A man, are you!" he cried. "Then, why not be a man, and not a baby?"
"Bah, rascal! and who is the greater baby?" his brother responded. "It
is he who cries the loudest when things go wrong; and I never cry."
Joseph said nothing further except, "Good-by, obstinate one!"
"Good-by," lisped baby Lucien.
But Eliza said nothing. She did not even glance at Napoleon as she
passed him; and he simply looked at her, without a word of accusation or
farewell.
The three days passed quietly, though hungrily, for Napoleon. Uncle
Lucien said nothing to influence the boy, though he looked sadly, and
sometimes wistfully, at him; and Pauline tried to sweeten the bread and
water and cheese as much as possible by her sympathy and companionship.
Of this last, however, Napoleon did not wish much. He spent much of the
time in his grotto, brooding over his wrongs, and thinking how he would
act if people tried to treat him thus when he became a man.
The second day he dragged his toy cannon to his grotto, and made believe
he was a Corsican patriot, intrenched in his fortifications, and
holding the whole French army at bay; for though Corsica was a French
possession, the people were still smarting under their wrongs, and hated
their French oppressors, as they termed them. Some years after, when he
was a young man, Napoleon, talking about the home of his boyhood and
the troubles of Corsica, said, "I was born while my country was dying.
Thirty thousand French thrown upon our shores, drowning the throne of
liberty in blood--such was the horrid sight that first met my view.
The cries of the dying, the groans of the oppressed, tears of despair,
surrounded my cradle at my birth."
It was not quite as bad as all that. But Napoleon liked to use big words
and dramatic phrases. It had been, in fact, very much like this before
Napoleon was born. He had heard all the stories of French tyranny and
Corsican courage, and, like a true Corsican, was hot with wrath against
the enslavers of his country, as he called the French. So he found an
especial pleasure in bombarding all France with his toy gun from his
grotto; and as he then felt very bitter indeed because of his treatment
at home, you may be sure the French army was horribly butchered in the
boy's make-believe battle before Napoleon's grotto.
Then he went back for his bread and water.
As he approached the house, he found that he was beginning to rebel at
the bread and water diet.
Bread and water alone, with just a little cheese, begin to grow
monotonous to a healthy boy with a good appetite, after two or three
days.
Suddenly Napoleon had a brilliant idea. "The shepherd boys!" he
exclaimed.
He hurried to the house, took from Saveria the bread she had put aside
for him, and was speedily out of the house again.
This time he took his way to the grazing-lands, where, upon the slopes
of the grand mountains that wall in the town of Ajaccio, the shepherd
boys were tending their scattered herds.
"Who will exchange chestnut bread for the best town bread in Ajaccio?"
he demanded. "I will give piece for piece."