Chapter IX: The Rise of the Empire. 1805-1810

"What next?" asked Fouche, the morning after the coronation, as he entered the Emperor's cabinet.

"Breakfast," returned Bonaparte, laconically; "what did you suppose? You didn't think I was going swimming in the Seine, did you?"

"I never think," retorted Fouche.

"That's evident," said Napoleon. "Is the arch-treasurer of my empire up yet? The Empress is going shopping, and wants an appropriation."

"He is, Your Majesty," said Fouche, looking at his memorandum-book. "He rose at 7:30, dressed as usual, parted his hair on the left-hand side, and breakfasted at eight. At 8:15 he read the Moniteur, and sneezed twice while perusing the second column of the fourth page--"

"What is the meaning of these petty details?" cried the Emperor, impatiently.

"I merely wished to show Your Majesty that as the Sherlock Holmes of this administration I am doing my duty. There isn't a man in France who is not being shadowed in your behalf," returned the minister of police.

The Emperor looked out of the window; then, turning to Fouche, he said, the stern, impatient look fading into softness, "Pardon my irritability, Fouche. You are a genius, and I appreciate you, though I may not always show it. I didn't sleep well last night, and in consequence I am not unduly amiable this morning."

"Your Majesty is not ill, I trust?" said Fouche, with a show of anxiety.

"No," replied the Emperor. "The fact is, old man, I--ah--I forgot to take the crown off when I went to bed."

Thus began that wonderful reign which forms so many dazzling pages in modern history. Bonaparte's first act after providing lucrative positions for his family was to write another letter, couched in language of a most fraternal nature, to the King of England, asking for peace.

"Dear Cousin George," he wrote, "you have probably read in the newspapers by this time that I'm working under a new alias, and I hope you will like it as well as I do. It's great fun, but there is one feature of it all that I don't like. I hate to be fighting with my new cousins all the time, and particularly with you whom I have always loved deeply, though secretly. Now, my dear George, let me ask you what's the use of a prolonged fight? You've waxed fat in ten years, and so have I. We've painted the earth red between us. Why can't we be satisfied? Why should our relations continue to be strained? I've got some personal relations I'd like to have strained, but I can attend to them myself. Let us have peace. I don't want too big a piece. Give me enough, and you can have the rest. Let us restore the entente cordiale and go about our business without any further scrapping. 'Let dogs delight to bark and bite,' as your illustrious poet hath it, 'for 'tis their nature to.'