Arcola and Lodi. I rely
on Massena. I hope he will hold out in Genoa. But should famine oblige
him to surrender, I will retake Genoa in the plains of the Scrivia. With
what pleasure shall I then return to my dear France! Ma belle France."

At this moment, when a possible, nay, a probable chance, might for ever
have blasted his ambitious hopes, he for the first time spoke of France
as his. Considering the circumstances in which we then stood, this use
of the possessive pronoun "my" describes more forcibly than anything that
can be said the flashes of divination which crossed Bonaparte's brain
when he was wrapped up in his chimerical ideas of glory and fortune.

In this favourable disposition of mind the First Consul arrived at
Martigny on the 20th of May. Martigny is a convent of Bernardins,
situated in a valley where the rays of the sun scarcely ever penetrate.
The army was in full march to the Great St. Bernard. In this gloomy
solitude did Bonaparte wait three days, expecting the fort of Bard,
situated beyond the mountain and covering the road to Yvree, to
surrender. The town was carried on the 21st of May, and on the third day
he learned that the fort still held out, and that there were no
indications of its surrender. He launched into complaints against the
commander of the siege, and said, "I am weary of staying in this convent;
those fools will never take Bard; I must go myself and see what can be
done. They cannot even settle so contemptible an affair without me!"
He immediately gave orders for our departure.

The grand idea of the invasion of Italy by crossing Mont St. Bernard
emanated exclusively from the First Consul. This miraculous achievement
justly excited the admiration of the world. The incredible difficulties
it presented did not daunt the courage of Bonaparte's troops. His
generals, accustomed as they had been to brave fatigue and danger,
regarded without concern the gigantic enterprise of the modern Hannibal.

A convent or hospice, which had been established on the mountain for the
purpose of affording assistance to solitary travellers, sufficiently
bespeaks the dangers of these stormy regions. But the St. Bernard was
now to be crossed, not by solitary travellers, but by an army. Cavalry,
baggage, limbers, and artillery were now to wend their way along those
narrow paths where the goat-herd cautiously picks his footsteps. On the
one hand masses of snow, suspended above our heads, every moment
threat