What had the
Bonapartes done? Nothing--nothing. Everything had slipped away from them.
Not one of them was like the Emperor. His own legitimate son was dead.
None of the others had the Master's blood, fire, daring in his veins. The
thought grew on me, and I used to imagine myself his son. I loved his
memory, all he did, all he was, better than any son could do. It had been
my whole life, thinking of him and the Empire, while I brushed the
Prince's clothes or combed his hair. Why should such tastes be given to a
valet? Some one somewhere was to blame, dear Cure. I really did not
conceive or plan imposture. I was only playing a comedian's part in front
of the Louis Quinze, till I heard Parpon sing a verse of 'Vive Napoleon!'
Then it all rushed on me, captured me--and the rest you know."
The Cure could not trust himself to speak yet.
"I had not thought to go so far when I began. It was mostly a whim. But
the idea gradually possessed me, and at last it seemed to me that I was a
real Napoleon. I used to wake from the dream for a moment, and I tried to
stop, but something in my blood drove me on--inevitably. You were all
good to me; you nearly all believed in me.
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