"Whether I say it or not, my good de Marmont," rejoined Clyffurde with his good-humoured smile, "you will anyhow--within the next few months--days, perhaps--bury our friendship beneath the ashes of your patriotism. No one, believe me," he added more earnestly, "has a greater admiration for the genius of Napoleon than I have; his love of France is sublime, his desire for her glory superb. But underlying his love of country, there is the love of self, the mad desire to rule, to conquer, to humiliate. It led him to Moscow and thence to Elba, it has brought him back to France. It will lead him once again to the Capitol, no doubt, but as surely too it will lead him on to the Tarpeian Rock whence he will be hurled down this time, not only bruised, but shattered, a fallen hero--and you will--a broken idol, for posterity to deal with in after time as it lists." "And England would like to be the one to give the hero the final push," said de Marmont, not without a sneer. "The people of England, my friend, hate and fear Bonaparte as they have never hated and feared any one before in the whole course of their history--and tell me, have we not cause enough to hate him? For fifteen years has he not tried to ruin us, to bring us to our knees? tried to throttle our commerce? break our might upon the sea? He wanted to make a slave of Britain, and Britain proved unconquerable. Believe me, we hate your hero less than he hates us." He had spoken with a good deal of earnestness, but now he added more lightly, as if in answer to de Marmont's glowering look: "At the same time," he said, "I doubt if there is a single English gentleman living at the present moment--let alone the army--who would refuse ungrudging admiration to Napoleon himself and to his genius. But as a nation England has her interests to safeguard. She has suffered enough--and through him--in her commerce and her prosperity in the past twenty years--she must have peace now at any cost." "Ah! I know," sighed the other, "a nation of shopkeepers. . . ." "Yes. We are that, I suppose. We are shopkeepers . . . most of us. . . ." "I didn't mean to use the word in any derogatory sense," protested Victor de Marmont with the ready politeness peculiar to his race. "Why, even you . . ." "I don't see why you should say 'even you,'" broke in Clyffurde quietly. "I am a shopkeeper--nothing more. . . . I buy goods and sell them again. . . . I buy the gloves which our friend M. Dumoulin manufactures at Grenoble and sell them to any London draper who chooses to buy them . . . a very mean and ungentlemanly occupation, is it not?" He spoke French with perfect fluency, and only with the merest suspicion of a drawl in the intonation of the vowels, which suggested rather than proclaimed his nationality; and just now there was not the slightest tone of bitterness apparent in his deep-toned and mellow voice. Once more his friend would have protested, but he put up a restraining hand.