Uncle Bernac: A Memory of the EmpireDoyle, Arthur Conan
History
Uncle Bernac: A Memory of the Empire
Doyle, Arthur Conan
France -- History -- Consulate and First Empire, 1799-1815 -- Fiction
He did not appear to be addressing us, but rather to be expressing his
thoughts aloud, while allowing them to run to the most fantastic and
extravagant lengths. This it was which he called Ossianising, because
it recalled to him the wild vague dreams of the Gaelic Ossian, whose
poems had always had a fascination for him. De Meneval has told me that
for an hour at a time he has sometimes talked in this strain of the most
intimate thoughts and aspirations of his heart, while his courtiers have
stood round in silence waiting for the instant when he would return once
more to his practical and incisive self.
'The great ruler,' said he, 'must have the power of religion behind him
as well as the power of the sword. It is more important to command the
souls than the bodies of men. The Sultan, for example, is the head of
the faith as well as of the army. So were some of the Roman Emperors.
My position must be incomplete until this is accomplished. At the
present instant there are thirty departments in France where the Pope is
more powerful than I am. It is only by universal dominion that peace
can be assured in the world. When there is only one authority in
Europe, seated at Paris, and when all the kings are so many lieutenants
who hold their crowns from the central power of France, it is then that
the reign of peace will be established. Many powers of equal strength
must always lead to struggles until one becomes predominant. Her
central position, her wealth and her history, all mark France out as
being the power which will control and regulate the others. Germany is
divided. Russia is barbarous. England is insular. France only
remains.'
I began to understand as I listened to him that my friends in England
had not been so far wrong when they had declared that as long as he
lived--this little thirty-six year old artilleryman--there could not
possibly be any peace in the world. He drank some coffee which Constant
had placed upon the small round table at his elbow. Then he leaned back
in his chair once more, still staring moodily at the red glow of the
fire, with his chin sunk upon his chest.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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