Vernon County censor. [volume] (Viroqua, Wis.) 1865-1955, 1914-03-18
CHAPTER XVIII.
Summoned.

Summoned.
On the morning OF May 8, 1910. the
sun shone gaily in London. It filtered
in intricate patterns through the cur
tains which shaded the upper windows
OF house in Carlton gardens. and the
breeze lifted the lace, and sunlight
and breeze together touched the bent
head of a young man who sat at a
writing-table. A lock OF hair had es-
capped on his forehead and the air
touched 1t, lifted it, as if to say: BE
hold the Napoleonic curl! See how he
is like his uncIe."
But the pen ran busily, regardless of
the garrulous breeze; there was much
to do for a Woodworking prince who
found time to be the hero of ball
rooms, the center Of a London season,
and yet could manipulate his agents
throughout the garrisons of France,
and plan and execute revolution. 1t
was the year when the body of NapoIe-
on the First was brought from st.
Helena TO Paris, and Louis Bonaparte
had resolved, in that steady mind
which never lost its grip on the reason
of being of his existence, that with
the ashes OF the emperor his family
should come back to France. For
months the network had been spread,
was Tightening, and now the memory
which held its friendships securely al
ways, took thought of a Frenchman
living in Virginia. AS soon as his let
ter was finished to his father-the pen
few across the lines:
THE sword of Austerlitz must not
be in an enemy's hands, he wrote to
his father. ut must stay where il
may again be lifted in the day of dan
tiers were apt to be slightly oratorical:
it was moreover the fashion of the day
to write so.
He raised his head and stared into
the street IL was enough to decide
his expedition for this summer that
General Bertrand, well-meaning, and
illjudging, had given to Louis Phil
lipe the arms of the emperor, to be
placed in the Inyalides. Every mem
Der of the Bonaparte family was
aroused, and to the heir it was trum-
pet call He could hardly wait to go to
France, to reclaim that insulted sword.
He wrote on, finished the letter to the
exiled king, his father a gloomy and
lonely old man whom the son did not
forget through years spent away from
him.
Then he drew out a fresh sheet of
paper. and his faint smile cleaned;
for the thought of this adherent in
Virginia was pleasant to him.
"Chevalier Francois Beaupre," he
headed the letter, and began below,
"My friend and Marshal of Some Day"
He considered a moment and wrote |
quickly as if the words boiled to the |
pen. The baton awaits you. Come. |
make an expedition within three |
months, and l need you and your faith |
in me. Our stars must shine togeth- |
er to give full light. So. mon ami, join !
me here at the earliest, that the en-
peror's words may come true.
LOUIS BoNAPARTE."
Across the water, in Virginia, two !
years had made few changes. On the !
June day when the princes letter lay |
in the post office of Norfolk the last of |
the roses were showing pink and red |
over the gardens in sudden breeze. |
The leaves of the trees that arched the |
road that led to Roanoke house were |
sappy green, just lately fully spread, |
and glorious with freshness. Their /
shadows, dancing on the white pike. |
were sharp cut against the brightness.
And through the light-pierced cave of /
shade a man travelled on horseback |
from one plantation to another, a man
who rode as Virginian rides, yet with
a military air for all that. He patted |
the beasts neck with soothing word,
and smiled as Aquarelle plunged at the
waving of a bough, at fox that ran
across the road But if an observer
had been there he might have seen
that the mans thought was not with
horse or journey. Francois Beaupre,
riding out to give French lesson to
Miss Hampton at Roanoke house, as
he had been doing for four years. all
as he was of the letter
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