. . .
He looked very benign as he quoted these verses in the pulpit on Sunday
morning, with a half smile, as of pleased meditation. He was lost to the
people before him, and when he began to speak, it was as in soliloquy.
He was talking to a vague audience, into that space where a man's eyes
look when he is searching his own mind, discovering it to himself. The
instability of earthly power, the putting down of the great, their exile
and chastening, and their restoration in their own persons, or in the
persons of their descendants--this was his subject. He brought the
application down to their own rude, simple life, then returned with
it to a higher plane.
At last, as if the memories of France, "beloved and incomparable,"
overcame him, he dwelt upon the bitter glory of the Revolution. Then,
with a sudden flush, he spoke of Napoleon. At that name the church
became still, and the dullest habitant listened intently. Napoleon was
in the air--a curious sequence to the song that was sung on the night of
Valmond's arrival, when a phrase was put in the mouths of the parish,
which gave birth to a personal reality. "Vive Napoleon!" had been on
every lip this week, and it was an easy step from a phrase to a man.
The Cure spoke with pensive dignity of Napoleon's past career, his work
for France, his too proud ambition, behind which was his great love of
country; and how, for chastening, God turned upon him violently and
tossed him like a ball into the wide land of exile, from which he came
out no more.
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