“A marshal of France.”
“And afterward?”
“Afterward? I should say that was enough.”
“And then you would be one of twelve, and not a unity of your own.”
“Let me be simply your friend. Let me always thresh out the truth with you, and then I’ll warrant I shall be out of the crowd.”
“That may be enough for you, Roland, but it is not enough for me,” persisted Bonaparte. Then, as Roland said nothing, he continued, “I have no more sisters, Roland, it is true; but I have dreamed that you might be something more to me than a brother.” Then, as Roland still said nothing, he went on: “I know a young girl, Roland, a charming child, whom I love as a daughter. She is just seventeen. You are twenty-six, and a brigadier-general de facto. Before the end of the campaign you will be general of division. Well, Roland, when the campaign is over, we will return together to Paris, and you shall marry her—”
“General,” interrupted Roland, “I think I see Bourrienne looking for you.”
And in fact the First Consul’s secretary was already within two feet of the friends.
“Is that you, Bourrienne?” asked Bonaparte, somewhat impatiently.
“Yes, general, a courier from France.”