Bonaparte paused, and a slight blush stole over his face. The young lover of twenty-eight had triumphed for a moment over the stern, calculating general, and the general was ashamed of it.
“This is no time to think of such things,” he said, almost indignantly. “Seal the letters now, and dispatch a messenger to Paris. Ah, Paris! Would to God I were again there in my little house in the Rue Chantereine, alone and happy with Josephine! But in order to get there, I must first make peace here—peace with Austria, with the Emperor of Germany. Ah, I am afraid Germany will not be much elated by this treaty of peace which her emperor is going to conclude, and by which she may lose some of her most splendid fortresses on the Rhine.”
“And the Republic of Venice, general?”
“The Republic of Venice is about to disappear,” exclaimed Bonaparte, frowning. “Venice has rendered herself unworthy of the name of a republic—she is about to disappear.”
“General, the delegates of the republic were all day yesterday in your anteroom, vainly waiting for an audience.”
“They will have to wait to-day likewise until I return from the conference which is to decide about war or peace. In either case, woe unto the Venetians! Tell them, Bourrienne, to wait until I return. And now, my carriage. I cannot let the Austrian plenipotentiaries wait any longer for my ultimatum.”
CHAPTER VIII. THE TREATY OF CAMPO FORMIO.
The Austrian plenipotentiaries were at the large Alberga of Udine, waiting for General Bonaparte. Every thing was prepared for his reception; the table was set, and the cooks were only looking for the arrival of the French chieftain in order to serve up the magnificent dejeuner with which to-day’s conference was to begin.