unambitious, as if he were not the uncle of
Letitia, and the great-uncle of the young
general who had conquered Italy, saluted the
Pyramids, and made and unmade kings in
Europe. The curé, in the parsonage garden,
was another Alcinous, training his vines around
the five or six elms that grew on the little
domain, and he wore, like the father of Ulysses,
a tattered cloak and mended shoes. All the
noise that his great-nephew was making in the
world, passed over his head, without his hearing
or heeding it.

No one in the neighbourhood suspected who
he was; he had forgotten Corsica to remember
only his parishioners, who were as simple and
ignorant as himself. His gun, which he some-
times took out with him, provided his table
with game; and in his little parlour were rods
for fishing. These amusements, added to the
cultivation of a few flowers, and the collection
of tithes twice a year, were the temporal
occupations of the worthy Buonaparte. As to his
spiritual duties, he never made any innovations,
but read the mass twice a week, and preached
every Sunday after vespers.

There were, however, three objects which
occupied the attention of the good priest
more particularly than his other parishioners;
they were a young girl, a youth, and a tame
white hen. He had baptised and catechised
the girl Mattea, and observed her growing
youth and beauty with innocent pleasure;
her beautiful dark eyes, graceful figure, and
simple artless manners were admired by
all. She was the pride of the village. The
good man was constantly thinking of her
future prospects, and had arranged a suitable
match for her with Tommaso, his sacristan.
He was a tall fine young man, and a
constant guest at the presbytery; he was the
priest's factotum; he worked in the garden,
cooked, served at mass, chanted in the choir,
ornamented the altars, and was chief butler at
home. He was a good fellow, though rather
noisy, and always the first and the most ardent
in the village quarrels.

Such was the suitor whom Buonaparte had
chosen for his young protegée, and Tommaso
loved her devotedly.

The good curate was living peacably and
happily among his flock and the two or three
beings he especially loved, when one day an
unaccustomed sound was heard in the village,
horses' hoofs clattered on the stones, and
the quiet court of the curacy was filled
with a troop of cavalry. One of the emperor's
officers, covered with gold lace, and with a
plume of white feathers in his hat, dismounted,
entered the modest parlour, and presented
himself before the curé. The good man, trembling,
rose, offered him a chair, and stood with hands
crossed meekly on his breast, uncertain what
martyrdom might be in store for him.

"Compose yourself, sir," said the general,
"compose yourself, I beg. Is your name
Buonaparte, and are you the uncle of Napoleon,
emperor of the French, and king of Italy?"

"Yes, sir," murmured the curate, who had a
confused idea of the fortune of his great-nephew,
but who regarded it as one of those far-off
things from which he was separated by several
countries and an immeasurable distance.

"His majesty's mother," continued the
officer.

"Letitia!" interrupted the curé.

"Madame has spoken of you to his
majesty," rejoined the general.

' To little Napoleon?" said the curate.

"To the emperor, sir. It is not suitable
that so near a relative of his majesty, and one
of your excellent character, should languish
unknown in a poor living, while his family is
governing Europe, while your nephew,
reverend sir, is filling the world with his fame.
The emperor has sent me to you; you have
only to speak, you have only to express a wish,
and it shall be executed. What episcopal seat
tempts you? Would you like a bishopric in
France, or in Italy? Will you exchange your
black cassock for a cardinal's purple cloak?
The emperor bears you too much friendship and
respect to refuse you anything."

Now the greatest personage whom the poor
curé had ever seen in his life was the Bishop
of Fiesole, who came to the village once a year
to confirm the little boys and girls. After the
episcopal visit the good man was usually dazzled
and bewildered for a fortnight, by the remembrance
of the fisherman's ring, the golden mitre,
and the lace sleeves.

He hesitated a moment to collect his
thoughts, and then said: " Is all this true, sir?
Is my niece, Letitia, an empress? And to
think that I heard her first confession! It was
a long time ago when she was a little girl!"

The general smiled.

"Allow me, sir," continued the curé, "to
think for a moment; one must reflect a little
before one changes one's position so suddenly."

The general awaited the orders of the pastor,
who left the parlour and went upstairs into a
little room, the window of which looked on the
court.

All was tumult and confusion there; the
general's escort had taken off their horses'
bridles, and the soldiers were smoking and
laughing amongst themselves. Mattea,
concealed in a corner, was considering this novel
sight with astonishment, while Tommaso was
amusing himself by examining the swords
and brilliant uniforms, and the white hen was
running screaming and scared about the horses'
feet.

Mattea's eyes gradually became familiarised
with what she saw, and a dragoon, having
remarked the young girl, approached and
commenced a conversation with her. He was
young, handsome, and gallant; Mattea was a
little coquette, and not at all in love with the
man whom her godfather had destined for her.
What the young dragoon said, we know not;
but it is certain that when Tommaso went to
speak to Mattea, she sent him away, reminding
him that it was twelve o'clock, and time for