He sat on the edge of the table in his favorite attitude—hunched-up shoulders, folded arms. His hair was cut too short now for the dark lock, but even without it I saw her glance at him now and then in a puzzled fashion, as if she weighed some familiar memory.
But it was one of the peasants who voiced it—the old man carrying away the remains of the stew muttered among the shadows to his wife:
"C'est Napoleon."
Mademoiselle caught her breath. "Oui, Gaston." Then to me, in English: "Do you see it?"
"Yes. We called him that at school."
"Bonaparte?"
"Yes."
She was thin and dark no longer—illumined, the color staining her cheeks. "Oh, if he were here—to save France!"
I protested. "An emperor against an emperor?"
"He was a great democrat—he loved the common people. For a little while power spoiled him—but he loved the people. And the Bourbons did not love them—Louis laughed at them—and lost his head. And Napoleon never laughed. He loved France—if he had lived he would have saved us."