him to go and ring the Angelus. Tommaso,
whose jealousy was already roused by his
dashing rival in his brilliant uniform, flew into a
passion, and would not stir from the spot; on
which the dragoon took him by the ear, twirled
him round and round, and sent him flying amid
a group of his comrades.

"And is it you, you great booby," said one
of the soldiers, " who ring the Angelus here,
and respond to the curate's paternosters, instead
of being a man and serving the emperor? You
will be in a good position, sapristi, when you
are promoted to be beadle of this wretched
village! Believe us, my lad. Leave your belfry
and come with us. We will give you a handsome
uniform, a long sword, and a fine horse."

"Is it that girl who keeps you here?" said
another of the troop, pointing to Mattea, who
was in a corner of the court-yard, in earnest
conversation with her new admirer. "Is it
that girl who keeps you here? Look at her well,
she doesn't care for you, she likes the soldier.
Look at her!"

During this time, a fat dragoon, whose rations
no doubt did not suffice him, was chasing the
curate's fowls about, and the white hen was vainly
endeavouring to escape from her tormentor.

"Mattea! Go home to your mother directly,"
cried the curé" from the upper window."
Dragoon! Please to let that fowl alone!"

The feeble voice of the curé had not the
power of Napoleon's. The soldier continued
to talk to the girl, and the fat dragoon
continued to chase the white hen. Tommaso
was stroking the croup of a saddle with one
hand whilst the other was playing with a
sword-handle. At last the assiduous dragoon
went to fetch his horse, and sprang on it with
one bound; then giving both hands to Mattea,
he placed her on the saddle behind him, and
without any respect for the curé or his house,
set spurs to the animal and disappeared with
the Italian girl. At the same moment the other
dragoon caught the white hen!

"Mattea! Mattea! Oh! my poor Bianca!
Dragoon! put down that fowl!" cried the poor
curé with a trembling voice.

Tommaso, hearing his master's agitated
exclamations, ran to the rescue of the hen; the
poor fellow, not being able to save his sweet-
heart, did all he could to save Bianca.

Buonaparte left his room and came down to
rejoin the general. The poor man was pale and
trembling.

"What is the matter, monsignor?" said the
general. " What can have agitated you thus?"

"My lord," replied the curé, in a melancholy
tone; " my god-daughter, my dear Mattea, is
taken off by one of your men."

"What! A young girl taken away from the
house of the emperor's uncle! The fellow shall
be punished; he shall be shot this very hour!
Hollo! Brigadier! which of your men has been
guilty of this crime?"

"Let no blood be spilled, I beseech you,
general; let no blood be spilled; but if he be a
good man, let him marry Mattea."

There had been no violence or crime. The
Florentine Helen had suddenly become fascinated,
and had gone off of her own accord with
her Paris, who was a good soldier, and had been
selected to have the cross of the legion of
honour.

"He shall marry her. I will answer for that,"
said the general.

The curé was looking about him in a timid
kind of way, seeking his favourite hen, but
the severity of the general, who had spoken
of shooting Mattea's lover, checked him. He
would not compromise a man's life for the love
of a fowl. Suddenly Tommaso came running
back, holding the cherished Bianca in his arms;
the poor thing was half dead with fright; her
blue eyelids hid her round eyes; and her stiffened
claws could not support her. The curé took
her, opened her beak, and poured a few drops
of wine down her throat; the fowl gradually
recovered, (like a fine lady from hysterics)
and began to flutter her wings. Tommaso
seized the welcome opportunity of speaking to
the curate.

"Sir," said he, "I have lost Mattea; the
soldiers have promised me that I shall one day
be a captain, a colonel, a marshal of France,
and I don't know what besides. I—I—have
enlisted for a dragoon!"

Buonaparte gave the general a sad look, as he
smoothed his fowl's white feathers, and said to
him: " General, I thank my nephew, the
emperor, for his good intentions towards me, but
I prefer remaining the curé of the poor and
unknown little village, where I have been happy
so long. I hesitated for a moment, and you
see, God has punished me. . . . Say to
Letitia that I hope (and believe firmly) she is
still as good and conscientious as she was when
a little girl. . . . Kiss my nephew, the
little Napoleon, for me; may God keep them all
on their thrones! They are good children for
taking thought of their old uncle, but I desire
neither a bishopric nor a cardinal's cloak. . . .
Go, general, if you respect the wishes of your
emperor's uncle, do not come here again."

When an officer received an order from the
emperor, he was obliged to execute the
imperial wish. If Napoleon said, "You are to
take that town," it was necessary to take
it; it was written that it was to be taken; his
prophetic word was one of the thousand causes
of his great success. Now, he had said to
the general: "You will take my uncle, the
curé, from his living, and make him come to
Paris, or take him to Rome; he must be near
me, or near the Pope; it matters not which; he
will do well whichever he chooses, but it must
not be otherwise; he must at least become a
bishop."

The general entreated, supplicated, and, at
last, insisted that the curé should alter his
decision. The brave soldier could not understand
a man's refusing the grand cross of the legion of
honour, a bishopric, the revenues of a diocese,
a cardinal's hat and influence. However,
the good curé remained firm to his resolution;