joy, die every death. In stature he
was short, stout, square of shoulder and deep of chest. He had a
columnar neck and carried his head with the poise of a man born to
command.

The scholar's stoop and the abiding melancholy of the supposed man of
genius were conspicuous by their absence. His smile was infectious, and
he was always ready to romp and play. "He has never grown up: he is just
a child," once said his mother in sad complaint, after her son had well
passed his fortieth milestone.

The leading traits in the life of Balzac were his ability to abandon
himself to the task in hand, his infinite good-nature, his capacity for
frolic and fun, and his passion to be famous and to be loved.

Napoleon never took things very seriously. It will be remembered that
even at Saint Helena, when in the mood, he played jokes on his guards,
and never forgot his good old habit of stopping the affairs of State to
pinch the ears of any pretty miss, be she princess or chambermaid, who
traveled without an escort.

Upon a statuette of Napoleon, Balzac in his youth once wrote this: "What
he began with the sword I will finish with the pen."

Only once did Balzac see Napoleon, probably at that last review at the
Carrousel, and he describes the scene thus in one of his novels: "At
last, at last! there he was, surrounded with so much love, enthusiasm,
devotion, prayer--for whom the sun had driven every cloud from the sky.
He sat motionless on his horse, six feet in advance of the dazzling
escort that followed him. An old grenadier cried: 'My God, yes, it was
always so--under fire at Wagram--among the dead in the Moskowa he was
quiet as a lamb, yes, that is he!' Napoleon rode that little white mare,
so gentle and under such perfect control. Let others ride plunging
chargers and waste their energy and the strength of their mount in
pirouettes for the admiration of the bystanders--Napoleon and his little
white horse were always quiet when all around there was confusion. And
the hand that ruled the Empire stroked the mane of the little white
mare, so docile that a girl of ten would have been at home on her back.
That is he--under fire at Wagram, with shells bursting all around--he
strokes the mane of his quiet horse--that is he!"

And right here may be a good place to quote that other tribute to the
Corsican, by a man who was best qualified to give it--the Iron Duke
Wellington: "It is very true that I have said that I considered
Napoleon'