Bonaparte smiled. “Yes, beautiful in the eyes of those to whom glory seems more precious than diamonds and pearls,” he said, stepping to the table from which he took a small morocco casket. “See,” he said, opening it, “it is a gold medal which the city of Milan has caused to be struck in my honor, and on which it confers upon me the title of ‘The Italian.’”
“Give it to me,” exclaimed Josephine, joyfully—“give it to me, my ‘Italian!’ Let me wear this precious trinket which public favor has bestowed upon you.”
“Public favor,” he said, musingly—“public favor, it is light as zephyr, as fickle as the seasons, it passes away like the latter, and when the north wind moves it, it will disappear.” [Footnote: Le Normand, vol. i., p. 261.]
He was silent, but proceeded after a short pause in a less excited manner.
“As to my deeds,” he said, “the pen of history will trace them for our grandchildren. Either I shall have lived for a century, or I shall earn for all my great exploits nothing but silence and oblivion. Who is able to calculate the whims and predilections of history?” [Footnote: Ibid., vol. i, p. 262.]
He paused again, and became absorbed in his reflections.
Josephine did not venture to arouse him from his musing. She fixed her eyes upon the large gold medal, and tried to decipher the inscription.
Bonaparte suddenly raised his head again, and turned his gloomy eyes toward Josephine. “I suppose you know,” he said, “that I have always greatly distinguished the Duke of Litalba among all Milanese, and that I have openly courted his friendship?”
“You have always manifested the greatest kindness for him,” said Josephine, “and he is gratefully devoted to you for what you have done for him.”
“Gratefully!” exclaimed Bonaparte, sarcastically. “There is no gratitude on earth, and the Duke of Litalba is as ungrateful as the rest of mankind. I called him my friend. Do you know how he has paid me for it, and what he has said of me behind my back?”