"How those fools are gaping!" growled Schluter. "Idle and lazy as
usual; they like to complain and lament, but they never think of
doing anything. If only each one would take up a single stone from
the pavement and throw it as a greeting at the tyrant's iron head,
all this distress and wretchedness would be at an end. But no one
thinks of that, and I should not wonder if those fellows, instead of
cursing him, should enthusiastically cheer him."
The shouts drew nearer at this moment, as the crowd rushed from the
lower part of the street, their acclamations growing constantly more
deafening. French lancers galloped up to keep the people back, and
several carriages, preceded by a plain calash, came in view. A
negro, dressed in a richly-embroidered livery, sat on the box by the
side of the coachman; two plainly-dressed gentlemen occupied the
inside of the carriage.
"That is he!" growled Schluter. "The Evil One brings him hither--he
is his best friend. Yes, that is he, and he looks pale, grave, and
incensed, as though he would like to wither by a single glance the
whole miserable rabble staring at him."
"That is he!" shouted the people. "Long live Napoleon! Long live the
emperor!"
Napoleon gazed coldly arid impassively upon the crowd, whose cheers
came to him as a sound to which he had long been accustomed, and
which was by no means agreeable.
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