To the Citizen Gohier, President of the Executive Directory of the
French Republic—
“Is that right?” she asked.
“Perfectly! As he won’t wear this title of President much longer, we won’t cavil at it.”
“Don’t you mean to make him something?”
“I’ll make him anything he pleases, if he does exactly what I want. Now go on, my dear.”
Josephine picked up her pen again and wrote:
Come, my dear Gohier, with your wife, and breakfast with us
to-morrow at eight o’clock. Don’t fail, for I have some very
interesting things to tell you.
Adieu, my dear Gohier! With the sincerest friendship,
Yours, LA PAGERIE-BONAPARTE.
“I wrote to-morrow,” exclaimed Josephine. “Shall I date it the 17th Brumaire?”
“You won’t be wrong,” said Bonaparte; “there’s midnight striking.”
In fact, another day had fallen into the gulf of time; the clock chimed twelve. Bonaparte listened gravely and dreamily. Twenty-four hours only separated him from the solemn day for which he had been scheming for a month, and of which he had dreamed for years.