I longed to question him further, but did not dare to do so.
“You will go back there some day, Monsieur Maurice,” I said hesitatingly, “when—when—”
“When I am free, little Gretchen? Ah! who can tell? Besides the old place is no longer mine. They have taken it from me, and given it to a stranger.”
“Taken it from you, Monsieur Maurice!” I exclaimed indignantly.
“Ay; but—who knows? We see strange changes. Where a king reigns to-day, an emperor, or a mob, may rule to-morrow.”
He spoke more to himself than to me, but I had some dim understanding, nevertheless, of what he meant.
He had by this time drawn the cliff, and the strip of sand, and the waste of sea beyond; and now he was blotting in some boats and figures—figures of men wading through the surf and dragging the boats in shore; and other figures making for the steps. Last of all, close under the cliff, in advance of all the rest, he drew a tiny man standing alone—a tiny man scarce an eighth of an inch in height, struck out with three or four touches of the pen, and yet so full of character that one knew at a glance he was the leader of the others. I saw the outstretched arm in act of command—I recognised the well-known cocked hat—the general outline of a figure already familiar to me in a hundred prints, and I exclaimed, almost involuntarily:—
“Bonaparte!”
Monsieur Maurice started; shot a quick, half apprehensive glance at me; crumpled the drawing up in his hand, and flung it into the fire.
“Oh, Monsieur Maurice!” I cried, “what have you done?”