There is neither space nor need to recapitulate here the life of Murat. Italy, Russia, Germany, Austria, Egypt, had felt the tread of his all-shattering squadrons, whose onset no horse or foot of continental Europe had ever been able to withstand. The Dictator of Europe had given him his sister for a wife. Naples had been proud to own him for her king. Glory, wealth, splendour had been his, and he could have kept them—I think it is safe to say that he could have kept them, had he been able to stand firm. But he had not the strength, even when he joined the Coalition in 1814. While he was still fighting Eugène he could not resist the temptation to intrigue with the viceroy, who, of course, instantly saw to it that the allies were notified of the fact. In those stormy days nobody trusted his neighbour, nor did any one blame his neighbour particularly for trying to keep his political balance in any way that he could; so that Murat’s inconsistency, let us call it, was not held against him afterwards. The Bourbons were not popular, either, and Ferdinand, that perfect product of the hapless, helpless race, was generally detested. It must be said for the Bourbons that their sins are, as a rule, of the negative sort, and cruelty is not one of them. Ferdinand, however, besides being a spineless king, was a brute and a coward, which, again, are not Bourbon traits. Joachim Murat’s position was always a difficult one, to be sure. Although King of Naples, he was, in Napoleon’s time, only a king at his imperial brother-in-law’s pleasure, and regarded by the latter as a little more than a Pro-Consul, elevated to a throne in order to carry out his master’s wishes. At the same time he was conscientious enough to attempt the task of being a real king—and a good one. He loved the _flaire_ of kingship, but he did recognize some of his responsibilities towards his subjects, and continued, while Napoleon’s back was turned, to govern fairly well. The Neapolitans loved show and noise and ceremony, and they liked the handsome, dashing, open-handed cavalryman. The country was rich too. In those days, even if the peasants lived like cattle, at least they had plenty to eat and drink, and even now those times are spoken of as a bankrupt speaks of the fat years behind him. “Era una schiuma d’oro” (“It was a froth of gold”), said one old man to me, some years ago, “before this Government of robbers took possession of it!” Of all Napoleon’s kinglings, Bernadotte alone contrived to keep his crown, and that may very well have been because Napoleon did not choose him, but only acceded to the popular demand when he let him reign.