ner; such is not your position in any sense: grand Dieu! you are
free as air."

Pius smiled, and looked him full in the face. He seemed to feel how
enormous was the exigence of that despotic character, which
requires--and all such natures do the like--not only obedience, but
submission, absolute submission, and that, too, wearing the air of
devotion to their will.

"Yes," continued Bonaparte with increasing energy, "you are free,
perfectly free: you may return to Rome; the road is open to you; no one
detains you."

Pius sighed, slightly raised his right hand, and looked upward without
uttering a word; then slowly inclining his head downward, seemed to look
attentively at a golden cross which hung from his neck. Bonaparte
continued speaking, but his steps became slow, and at the same time he
gave a marked degree of mildness to his tone, and of courtesy to his
expression.

"Holy father," said he, "if the gravity of your character did not forbid
me, I would say that you are somewhat ungrateful. You do not seem to
retain a sufficient recollection of the services which France has
rendered to you. If I am not much mistaken the conclave of Venice, which
elected you, appeared to have taken its inspiration from my Italian
campaign, and from some words which I let fall with regard to you. It
can not be said that Austria behaved well to you; far from it; and I was
really sorry for it. If my memory does not deceive me, you were obliged
to return to Rome by sea, as you could not have ventured to cross the
Austrian territories."

He stopped short, as if waiting for a reply from his silent guest. Pius,
however, but slightly inclined his head, and then sunk back into a sort
of apathy, which seemed inconsistent with even listening; while
Bonaparte, putting his foot on the rim of a stool, pushed it near the
Pope's chair, and thus continued, "It was, in good truth, as a Catholic
that such an incident gave me pain; for though I have never had time to
study theology, I have great confidence in the power of the church: it
has a prodigious vitality. Voltaire did it some damage in his time, but
I shall let loose upon him some unfrocked Oratorians: you'll be pleased,
if I mistake not, at the result. Now see, you and I may do many things
in common by-and-by, if you wish it." Then with an air at once juvenile
and careless, he continued, "For my part I do not see--I am weary of
conjecturing--what objection you can have to establish your see