The Catholic bulletin. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1911-1995, 1913-12-20
NapOIeOn'S Christmas

On that evening, ever since 10 o'clock
Napoleon has been alone, busy at
work in his study, at the Tuilleries
palace. The spacious room is almost
in darkness. Here and there, in the
shadow, a few gilt ornaments are
seen; the frame of an invisible paint
ing the bronze lion heads on the arms
of a chair, a heavy tassel hanging
from drapery. Under their metallic
shades the wax candles of two can
delabra shed light upon the large
table covered with maps, thick regis
tiers bound in green morocco and
stamped with the letter N. and the
Imperial crown. 1t is now nearly two
hours that the master has been en-
crossed in his work, bending over his
maps and the lists of his armies, his
formidable forehead crossed by lock
of black hair, his brow heavy with
thoughts, heavy as the world he
dreams to conquer.
The map of Asia is now before his
eyes; and the Emperor's hand, nerv-
Gus, charming, almost feminine, fol-
lows with it's forefnger yonder across
Persia, the road that leads to Hindoo-
stan.
The midas! Yes, and by land? Why
not? Since his navy has been de-
feated and destroyed the conqueror
has no other way to reach the palm
trees and the fabulous forests of Asia,
followed by his golden eagles, spark
ling among the steel bayonets. There
he will strike at the very heart of
England; her colonial empire, her
treasury. He has already attained the
magnitude of Caesar and Charlie
magne; he now longs for that of
Alexander. And his dream does not
surprise him. He knows the East; he
has left behind him an immortal
legend. The Nile has, seen him, a
slender young general with long hair,
mounted upon a camel. Now, on the
banks of the Gauges the elephant of
Pozus will be required to bear the
heavy emperor on his gray coat. He
knows how to draw near him the ma
tions, fanaticize them. Then he will
"uOOS UlO11AC 1dCSS
are surmounted by turbans of white
muslin; on his staff he will number
rajahs dazzling with their jewels, and
he will interrogate the monstrous
idols which raise their ten arms above
their diamond mitres. Long ago, in
Egypt, resting his hands upon the hilt
of his sword, he stood before the fiat
nosed Sphinx, but the monster did not
reveal it's secret!
Emperor of Europe! Sultan of Asia!
These are the only titles to be carved
on the marble of his mausoleum.
An obstacle! that immense Russia!
But, as he has not been able to hold
the f1eeting friendship of Alexander,
he must conquer him. And the small
imperial hands turns feverishly the
leaves of the green registers, the
lists which tell him, to a man, the eff
fective force of the enormous army
which is, already, forming it's masses
toward the Niemen Yes, he will van
quish the autocrat of the North and
drag him, a vassal czar, followed by
the hordes of his wild horsemen, to
the conquest of the East
Emperor of Europe! Sultan of
Asia! This undertaking is not above
his ambition nor his genius. This
prodigous empire, when once estab-
lished, shall not run the risk of being,
some day, divided among his lieuten-
ants like that of the Macedonia; on
the Goth of March son has been born
to Napoleon, an heir to his glory and
omnipotence; and the lips of the en-
peror relax into beautiful smile at
the thought of the child who sleeps
near him in the silent palace.
Suddenly he raises his head in sur.
prise. In this study so tightly closed
with it's heavy curtains drawn, whence
arises this strange murmur? 1t seems
as if the large golden bees embroid-
cred on the silk hangings had all at
once begun to hum. The emperor
listens more attentively and now in
that strange rumor he recognizes the
vibrations of the bronze Eyes!
Christmas! the midnight Mass!" 1t
was, in truth, the bells of all the
churches in Paris, celebrating the
birth of Jesus; the same bells that
Bonaparte had restored to their tow.
ers and steeples, when as consul and
pacificator he had brought a reconcilia
ton in France between hostile broth.
ers. How many times have these bells
been set in motion in his honor, an.
nouncing glorious TIE Deum! Only
few months ago they rang a full
peal for the birth of the king of Rome,
and on that memorable day when
Heaven granted son to the hero,
they seemed to be in compact with
him to acknowledge the legitimacy of
his work and to promise it's duration.
Today, however, just as joyful and
triumphantly as on the day when they
raised their voices for Austerlitz and
Wagram, they ring in the cold, clear
night for the humble Child, the foster
son of the carpenter, born so very
long ago on the straw in a stable,
while mysterious voices sang in the
spaces of the starry armament: "Glory
to God! and peace to men!"
The emperor listens to the Christ
mas bells. He thinks of his humble
childhood; he remembers the mid
night Mass of his uncle, the archdea-
con in the Cathedral of Ajaccio, fol
lowed after Mass by the return of the
numerous family to the old home, wit
ness of poverty so proudly borne;
and the matronly beauty of his moth.
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