'You have not at your age become a practical man,' said the Emperor.
'You will understand then. I dare say that I thought as you do at the
time when the stupid Parisians were saying what a misalliance the widow
of the famous General de Beauharnais was making by marrying the unknown
Buonaparte. It was a beautiful dream! There are nine inns in a single
day's journey between Milan and Mantua, and I wrote a letter to my wife
from each of them. Nine letters in a day--but one becomes
disillusioned, monsieur. One learns to accept things as they are.'
I could not but think what a beautiful young man he must have been
before he had learned to accept things as they are. The glamour, the
romance--what a bald dead thing is life without it! His own face had
clouded over as if that old life had perhaps had a charm which the
Emperor's crown had never given. It may be that those nine letters
written in one day at wayside inns had brought him more true joy than
all the treaties by which he had torn provinces from his neighbours.
But the sentiment passed from his face, and he came back in his sudden
concise fashion to my own affairs.
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