Part 10 (1/2)

It took some time to write this letter; for, with Napoleon, letter-writing was always a detested task.

When he had written and directed it, he felt better. We always do feel relieved, you know, if we speak out or write down our feelings. Then he read a chapter in Plutarch about Alexander the Great. This set him to thinking and planning how he would win a battle if he should ever become a leader and commander. He had a notion that he knew just what he would do; and, to prove that his plan was good, he threw himself on the garden walk, and gathering a lot of pebbles, he began to set them in array, as if they were soldiers, and to make all the moves and marches and counter-marches of a furious battle. He indicated the generals and chief officers in this army of stone by the larger pebbles; and you may be sure that the largest pebble of all represented the commander-in-chief --and that was Napoleon himself.

As he marshalled his pebble army, under the lead of his generals and officers, s.h.i.+fting some, advancing others, rearranging certain of them in squares, and ma.s.sing others as if to resist an attack, Napoleon was conscious of a snickering sort of laugh from somewhere above him.

He looked up, and caught sight of a mocking face looking down at him from the top of the hedge that bordered his garden.

”Ho, ho! Straw-nose!” the spy cried out; ”and what is the baby doing?

Is it playing with the pretty pebbles? Is it making mud-pies? It was a sweet child, so it was.”

Napoleon flushed with anger, enraged both at the intrusion and the teasing.

”Pig! imbecile!” he cried; ”get down from my hedge, or I will make you!”

”Ho! hear the infant!” came back the taunting answer. ”He will make me--this pretty Corsican baby who plays with pebbles. He will make me!

That is good! I laugh; I--Oh, help! help! the Corsican has killed me!”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”_'Get down from my hedge' cried Napoleon_”]

For a moment Napoleon thought indeed he had; for a moment, too, I am afraid, he did not care. For so enraged was he at the boy's insults and actions, that he had caught up his biggest pebble, which happened to be Napoleon the general, and flung it at the intruder. It struck him squarely between the eyes, and so stunned him that he fell back from the hedge, and lay, first howling, and then terribly quiet, in the s.p.a.ce outside Napoleon's garden. At once there was a hue and cry; Napoleon was summoned from his retreat, and dragged before his teacher.

”Ah, miserable one!” cried the master. ”And is it you again? You have perhaps killed your fellow-student. You will yet end in the Bastille, or on the block. Take him away, until we see what shall be the result of the last ill-doing of this wicked one.”

”When one plays the spy and the bully one must expect retribution,” said Napoleon loftily. ”This Bouquet is a rascal who will be more likely to end in the Bastille than I, who did but defend my own.”

This language, of course, did not help matters; so into the school-cage, or punishment ”lock-up” for the school-boy offenders, young Napoleon was at once hurried, without an opportunity for explanation or protest.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

FRIENDS AND FOES.

Napoleon, the prisoner in the school ”lock-up,” raged for a while like a caged lion. Then he calmed down into the sulks, returned to his determination to run away, concluded again that he would go to sea, thought of his family and his duties once more, and at last concluded to take his punishment without a word, though he knew that the boy who had mocked him into anger deserved the punishment fully as much as did he who had been the insulted one.

”But then,” he reasoned, ”he paid well for his taunts and teasing. I wonder how he is now?”

His schoolmate, the English boy, Lawley, was on duty outside the ”lock-up” door, as a sort of monitor.

”Say, you Lawley!” Napoleon called out, ”and how is that brute of a Bouquet?”

”None the better for seeing you, little one,” replied the good-natured English boy, who had that love of fair play that is supposed to belong to all Englishmen, and, therefore, felt that young Bonaparte was suffering unjustly. Then he added:

”Bouquet will no doubt die, and then what will you do?”

”I will plead self-defence, my friend,” said Napoleon. ”Did not you tell me that an English judge did once declare that a man's home was his castle, which he was pledged to defend from invasion and a.s.sault. What else is my garden? That brute of a Bouquet came spying about my castle, and I did but defend myself. Is it not so?”

”It may be so to you, young Bonaparte,” Lawley replied; ”but not to your judges. No, little one, you're in for it now; they'll make you smart for this, whatever happens to old Bouquet.”