Brilliant as a dream was the coronation in the great cathedral of Notre Dame. Paris never witnessed a civic and military display more splendid. The Church, the State, princes foreign and native, grandees old and new, blazed forth in the utmost that wealth and pride and vanity could display. In a coach heavy with gold Napoleon and Josephine rode, amid soldiers, to the church where the Pope had long awaited their coming; and when the great Corsican had been conducted through the proper forms, had prayed, had sworn, had been oiled and blessed, he proudly took the crown out of the Pope’s hands, crowned himself, and then crowned the kneeling Josephine (December, 1804). His mother was not there, she was in Rome with the revolted Lucien; but when the artist David painted the picture of the coronation, Napoleon, with his never failing eye for effect, had Madame Letitia put in. Just as he wished for his mother on this the great day of his life, he did not forget his father. “Joseph, what would father have said!” One who had lifted himself from a cottage to the White House in these United States drew all hearts to himself when, after having taken the oath of office, he turned to his old mother and kissed her. Not far distant from the same creditable feeling was Napoleon’s regret for his father. Mother Letitia could not be persuaded to leave Rome and the insurgent Lucien; but the old nurse journeyed from Corsica to see her nursling crowned. Napoleon hugged and kissed the old woman, lavished every attention upon her, and kept her in Paris a couple of months. When she returned to Ajaccio, she was laden with gifts. Nor could Brienne be overlooked in these sunny days of triumph and of happiness. The Emperor must return to the school grounds of his boyhood, view the old familiar scenes, talk of old times with such former acquaintances as might still be there. Behold him, then, soon after his coronation, arriving at the château of Brienne, at six in the evening, where Madame de Brienne and Madame Loménie await him at the foot of the steps. He spends the night at the château, whose kind mistress had so often made him welcome in the forlorn days of his youth. He walks about the place, pointing out every spot familiar to him when at school. He visits the field of La Rothière, a favorite strolling place of his youth. He is so affable, so animated, so interested, that his movements seem to say, See where I started from, and where I have arrived. “And what has become of Mother Marguerite, the peasant woman who used to sell milk, eggs, and bread to the boys?” Mother Marguerite is still living, still to be found at the thatched cottage in the woods. By all means, the Emperor must quit the fine circle at the château and visit the old peasant in the hut. A man so gifted with eye to effect could never miss a point like that. So the horse is saddled and brought; the Emperor mounts and rides; and at the cottage in the wood his Majesty alights and enters.