PREFACE GOOD reader, I'll not burden you with a long preface; nobody likes a long preface. This is a story of the Empire. Follow with me, then, the French eagles, from the towers of Saragossa to the Kremlin's gilded dome at Moscow, in that stirring epoch which, as even the Prince de Metternich was forced to admit, can receive no more fitting appellation than "The Age Napoleon." If when you have finished you feel that you have derived some pleasure and some profit from my labor, I shall say, like Gaspard in my story, “That will be nice. I would like that"—and so, good-bye. PROLOGUE The Post-house Of Burgos Is this the man of thousand thrones, IN the month of January, 1809, a dozen chasseurs of the French army were gathered around a log-fire near a post-house. This post-house of Burgos was a small stone structure, one story high, and had upon either side, in the rear, a long wooden barn, forming a wing. Through the half-open door of one of these barns might be seen a couple of rough traveling carriages; one of which, freshly covered with mud, and with a broken wheel, showed that it had lately been in service. In the other barn, the one nearer the fire where the chasseurs had gathered, were a number of horses; some standing ready saddled and bridled; others being rubbed down by the grooms, while one in particular, a splendid bay animal whose saddle-cloths were stamped with an N surmounted by an imperial crown, was being led slowly up and down the narrow paved court between the post-house and the barn. In the door of the post-house stood a large man, dark and swarthy, with long black hair and beard. On his head he wore a broad, soft hat, around his waist a wide, red sash, and a dark red cloak hung from his |