The boy glanced up at his teacher, and a little smile parted his thin lips. "No, Monsieur Pichegru, I was considering how we might drive the French troops out of Corsica."
"From Corsica!" exclaimed the master. "Corsica belongs to France, and you are a French cadet."
The boy shook his head solemnly. "Corsica should be free," he answered. "We are more Italian than French. I hate your barbarous words, my tongue trips over them. If I had my way no Frenchman would be left in the island."
"Then it's well you don't have your way, Bonaparte," said Monsieur Pichegru, laughing.
Suddenly the boy's brow clouded and his eyes grew serious. "You think I shan't have my way then? You don't know me, no one knows me. Wait until I grow up—then you shall see."
The master was used to this boy's strange fancies, and now he simply shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, well, we'll wait and see, but you must learn to curb your temper if you ever expect to do great things in the world."
"Why?" said the boy. "Must a general curb his temper? It's his part to give orders, not to take them, and that, sir, is the part I mean to play."
Again the master shrugged his shoulders, and the same quizzical smile his face always wore when watching this boy lighted his eyes.
"At least we are agreed on one thing, Bonaparte; we both of us know the most glorious profession in the world is that of the soldier. Ah, that I might some day be a captain of artillery!"