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."

Those shepherd boys led a lonely sort of life, and welcomed anything
that was novel. Then, too, they were as tired of their bread, made from
pounded chestnuts, as was Napoleon of Saveria's wheat bread.

So Napoleon found a ready response to his offer.

"Here! I'll do it!"--"and I"--"and I"--"and I"--came the answers, in
such numbers that Napoleon saw that his little stock would soon be
exhausted; and, indeed, he was not overfond of chestnut bread.

So he improved on his idea.

"Piece for piece, I will exchange, as I offered," he announced. "But
there are too many of you. See! he who will give me the biggest slice of
broccio shall have first choice for the bread, and the next biggest, the
next."

This put a different face on the transaction, but it added spice to the
operation; and Napoleon actually succeeded in getting for his stale home
bread, goodly sized pieces of fresh chestnut bread, and enough of the
much-loved broccio, and bunches of luscious grapes, "to boot," to
provide him with a generous meal. But the next day the shepherd boys
rebelled; they told Napoleon that his bread was stale, and not good.
They preferred their chestnut bread.

"But if you will look after our sheep while we go into the town," said
one of them, "we will give you some of our bread."

[Illustration: _"He tossed his dry bread to the shepherd boys"_]

This, however, did not suit Napoleon. "I am not one to tend sheep," he
answered. "Keep your bread. It is not so good that one wishes to eat it
twice; and--here, I pity you for having always to eat that stuff. Take
mine!" With that, he tossed his store of dry bread to the shepherd boys,
and, walking back to town, ran in to visit his foster mother; that is,
the woman who had been his nurse when he was a baby.

Nurse Camilla, as he called her, or sometimes "foster-mamma Camilla,"
was now the widow Ilari; but since her husband had been killed in one of
those terrible family quarrels known as a Corsican _vendetta_, she had
lived in a little house on one of the narrow streets of Ajaccio, not far
from the Bonapartes.

She was very fond of her baby, as she called Napoleon; and when he told
her of his disgrace at home, she said,--

"Bah! the sillies! Do they not know a truth-teller when they see one?
And so they would keep you on bread and water? Not if Nurse Camilla can
prevent it. See, now! here is a plenty to eat, and just what my own boy
likes, does he not? Eat, eat, my son, and never mind the stale bread of
that stingy Saveria."

Then she petted and caressed the boy she so adored; she gave him the
best her house afforded, and sent him away to his own home satisfied and
filled, but especially jubilant, I fear, because he had got the best, as
he termed it, of the home tyranny, and shown how he was able to do for
himself even when he was driven to extremities.

It was this ability to use all the conditions of life for his own
benefit, and to turn even privation and defeat into victory, that gave
to Napoleon, when he became a man, that genius of mastery that made this
neglected boy of Corsica the foremost man of all the world.




CHAPTER FIVE.

A WRONG RIGHTED.

It was the third day of the family's absence from the Bonaparte house.
Napoleon had been at his favorite resort,--the grotto that overlooked
the sea. He had been brooding over his fancied wrongs, as well as his
real ones; he had wished he could be a man to do as he pleased. He would