“In Paris.”
“Go find him and bring him here.”
Roland was in the habit of obeying without reply; he took his hat and went toward the door.
“Send Bourrienne to me,” said the First Consul, just as Roland passed into the secretary’s room.
Five minutes later Bourrienne appeared.
“Sit down there, Bourrienne,” said the First Consul, “and write.”
Bourrienne sat down, arranged his paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and waited.
“Ready?” asked the First Consul, sitting down upon the writing table, which was another of his habits; a habit that reduced his secretary to despair, for Bonaparte never ceased swinging himself back and forth all the time he dictated—a motion that shook the table as much as if it had been in the middle of the ocean with a heaving sea.
“I’m ready,” replied Bourrienne, who had ended by forcing himself to endure, with more or less patience, all Bonaparte’s eccentricities.
“Then write.” And he dictated: