Napoleon had done wonders, and was himself amazed at his good fortune. He felt that henceforth he was in possession of that indefinable power which is mightier than any other, and is called prestige.

Edgar Quinet says in his Revolution: "Napoleon has recorded that his high ambition came to him at Arcole, but he does not say why. I think I know the reason. Other victories, such as those of Montenotte, Lodi, Lonato, Castiglione, had been more complete. Why is it, then, that only at Arcole his star first appeared to him? It is because he had never been in such desperate straits. The invincible Army of Italy was about to lose the fruits of all its victories! And what would become of his fame, which eclipsed everything? It would be a mere ephemeral glory, with no substance, no future! To retreat would have been to lose, with Italy, much more than the result of so many prodigies; it would have meant his ruin. He would have flashed before the world for a moment, to sink into oblivion. Fortune would have smiled upon him merely in order to destroy him.

Such might have been his thoughts, November 14, 1796. That day everything seemed lost, prestige, confidence, glory, the Consulate, the Empire. The next day all had changed. It was at this moment that Napoleon must have thought himself the creature of destiny; he must have felt, after recrossing the Adige at Ronco, that nothing was impossible for a man who thus changed and ruled by a glance the course of events; that he was the man who was needed, the master of fate. Henceforth, where could his ambition halt? Where could he set a limit to his plans? The feeling of the fatality of his power was born and grew up at the same moment as that of his ruin, and universal dominion appeared before him in the reeds of Arcole."

Bonaparte had triumphed, and yet he was sad. His face was gloomy, and his talk betrayed his melancholy thoughts. In fact, men of great ambition are usually haunted by a sort of melancholy when once their ambition is gratified. The emptiness of human things is such that the draught which fills the cup of glory seems tasteless even to those who quaff it. The feeling of the shortness of life, of the uncertainty of hope, fills human conquerors with this gloomy spirit. The shadow of death floats over all their great feats. Besides, great efforts, gigantic struggles, are followed by hours of moral and physical exhaustion.

However brilliant the victory, military glory has its sad side, and the sight of the battle-field depresses the most eager. The cries of the wounded and dying, which the conquerors as well as the conquered hear in the silence of the night, arouse a melancholy echo. Napoleon, for all his stoicism and impassibility on the battle-field, had afterwards moments of tenderness.

He said at Saint Helena that once he was passing over a battle-field in Italy, on which the bodies of the dead were still lying. "In the moonlight and the unbroken quiet, suddenly there sprang out from under the cloak of a corpse, a dog which ran towards us and then returned at once, uttering doleful cries; he licked his master's face a few times and then sprang at us again. He was asking aid and seeking vengeance."

The Emperor went on: "Was it my state of mind, the place, the hour, the act itself? whatever it was, I can truly say that never has anything on the battle-field made such an impression on me. I stopped involuntarily to gaze at this spectacle. 'This man,' I thought, 'has friends, in the camp, perhaps, in his company, and here he lies abandoned by all except his dog. What a lesson nature gives us by means of this animal! ... What is man? How mysterious are his impressions!' I had without emotion given the orders which were to decide the fate of the army; I had watched dry-eyed the execution of the movements which were to cause death to a great many of us; and here I was moved and deeply touched by this dog's howling... What is certain is that at that moment I would have been very gentle to a suppliant foe, and I understood clearly how Achilles restored Hector's body when Priam wept."

Never, perhaps, did Bonaparte's disposition to revery and melancholy show itself more clearly than after Arcole. He wrote to Carnot from Verona, November 19, 1796:

"Never was a battle-field more hotly contested than that of Arcole. I have scarcely any generals left. Their devotion and courage are unprecedented. General Lannes entered the action while still suffering from his wound, and was wounded besides twice after the first day. At three in the afternoon he was lying down in great pain, when he heard that I was taking a position at the head of the column. He sprang from his bed, and joined me on the bridge of Arcole, when a new wound felled him to the ground unconscious. I assure you the victory required all that."

The same day Bonaparte wrote to Clarke: "Your nephew, Elliot, was killed on the battle-field of Arcole. This young man had learned to know war. He has often marched at the head of our columns... He died gloriously in front of the enemy. He did not suffer a moment. What reasonable man would not desire such a death? Who, in our uncertain life, would not deem himself happy to leave in that way a world which is often contemptible? Who is there of us who has not a hundred times regretted that he could not thus escape the stings of calumny, of envy, and of all the odious passions which seem alone to rule men's conduct?"

Physical suffering added to the melancholy which was stamped on Bonaparte's pale face. He was still tormented by a skin disease which he had caught at the siege of Toulon, when he seized a rammer from the hands of an artilleryman who was afflicted with the itch, and himself loaded the cannon ten or twelve times. The poison disturbed his nervous organization and infected his whole system.

At about the time of Arcole, he suffered from the first attacks of another ailment, which sixteen years later was to diminish his activity and give him real alarm. Yvan, who was his surgeon until 1814, told General de Segur, that in 1796 and 1797 he could only put an end to Napoleon's attacks by plunging him, there being no bath-tub, into the first barrel of water that he could lay his hands on.

In spite of wonderful triumphs, the conqueror of Arcole was suffering in mind and body. At certain moments he doubted Josephine's love, and this doubt was anguish. November 24, 1796, he wrote from Verona to his beloved wife: "Soon, my dear one, I hope to be in your arms. I love you madly. I am writing to Paris by this courier. All is well. Wurmser was defeated yesterday under Mantua. Your husband needs only Josephine's love to make him perfectly happy."

Then he left Verona, without sending her word, to spend forty-eight hours with her at Milan. To his surprise and disappointment, she was not there. Then he wrote to her, seeing himself deprived of this longed-for meeting which he had hoped would be the most welcome prize of victory:

"I reached Milan, rushed to your rooms, having thrown up everything to see you, to press you to my heart -- you were not there; you are travelling about from one town to another, amusing yourself with balls: you go away from me when I arrive; you care no more for your dear Napoleon. A caprice made you love me; inconstancy makes you indifferent. I am accustomed to danger, and know the cure for the fatigues and evils of life. My unhappiness is inconceivable; I had no reason to expect it. I shall be here until the 9th [Frimaire]. Don't put yourself out; pursue your pleasure; happiness is made for you. The whole world is too happy if it can please you, and your husband alone is very, very unhappy."

When Bonaparte was thus lamenting, Josephine was at Genoa, where she had thought it her duty to accept an invitation from the city.

"She was received," says Sir Walter Scott, "with studied magnificence by those in that ancient state who adhered to the French interest, and where, to the scandal of the rigid Catholics, the company continued assembled, at a ball given by M. de Serva, till a late hour on Friday morning, despite the presence of a senator having in his pocket, but not venturing to enforce, a decree of the senate for the better observation of the fast day upon the occasion."

Another letter from Bonaparte to Josephine, November 28: "I have received the despatches forwarded by Berthier from Genoa. I see clearly that you didn't have time to write to me. In all your pleasures and amusements, you would have done wrong to sacrifice anything for me. Berthier has been kind enough to show me the letter you wrote to him. I have no intention of interfering with your plans, or with the pleasure-parties that are offered to you; I am not worth the trouble, and the happiness or misery of a man whom you do not love has no right to interest you.

For me, to love you alone, to make you happy, to do nothing that can annoy you, that is the lot and aim of my life. Be happy, make me no reproaches, do not trouble yourself about the happiness of a man who lives only in your life, and knows no other pleasures and joys than yours. When I ask of you a love like mine, I am wrong. Why expect lace to weigh as much as gold? When I sacrifice to you all my desires, all my thoughts, every moment of my life, I yield to the power which your charms, your character, and your whole person exercise over my unhappy heart. It is my misfortune that nature has denied me qualities that might fascinate you; but what I deserve to receive from Josephine is respect and esteem, for I love her madly and I love her alone."

This passionately eloquent letter concludes with this outbreak of affection:

"Good by, you adorable woman; good by, Josephine! Fate may crowd every sorrow and suffering upon my heart, if only it will give happy and bright days to Josephine. Who deserves them better than she? When there is no longer any doubt possible that she has ceased to love me, I shall hide my crushing grief, and be satisfied to be able to be of some use to her, of some service. I open my letter to send you a kiss... Oh, Josephine, Josephine!"

A few days later they met at Milan, and Bonaparte's agitated heart tasted a few moments of comparative peace. Lavalette, who was his aide-de-camp at that time, describes him at headquarters in Milan after Arcole: "I presented myself before the commander-in-chief, who was living in the Serbelloni palace, on a day of reception. The drawing-room was full of officers of all degrees, and of the high officials of the country. His manner was pleasant, but his glance was so haughty and piercing that I felt myself turn pale when he spoke to me. I stammered out my name and a few words of gratitude which he listened to in silence, with his eyes fixed on me and a severe expression which thoroughly confused me. At last he said: 'Come back at six o'clock and get the scarf.' This scarf, which was the distinguishing mark of the commander-in-chief's aides, was of white and red silk, and was worn on the left arm."

At that time, Bonaparte had eight aides-de-camp. Murat, who had just been promoted to the post of general, was no longer one of them. The first was Colonel Junot, who was as remarkable for his bravery and energy as for his ready wit.

"While constructing one of the first batteries at Toulon against the English," we read in the Memorial of Saint Helena, "Napoleon called for a sergeant or corporal who knew how to write. A young soldier stepped out of the ranks and resting the paper on the breastwork wrote at his dictation. As soon as the letter was finished, a shot covered it with earth. 'Good!' said the writer; 'I shan't need any sand.' This jest and the calmness with which it was uttered attracted Napoleon's attention and made the sergeant's fortune. He was Junot, afterwards Duke of Abrantes, General of Hussars, Commander in Portugal, Governor-General of Illyria."

The second aide was Marmont, later the Duke of Ragusa, a colonel of artillery, a descendant of an old and respected family of Burgundy. Marmont, who had received an excellent education, was distinguished for an intense love of glory, an unbounded ambition, and enthusiastic devotion to his chief. Later, the Duke of Ragusa thus described in his Memoirs this part of his life:

"We were all very young, from our commander down to the humblest of his officers; our ambition was noble and pure; no trace of envy, no base passion, ever entered our hearts; a genuine friendship held us together, and our mutual attachment amounted to devotion. Our perfect confidence in the future, and our certainty about our destinies, inspired that philosophical spirit which contributes materially to happiness, and our invariable harmony made us a most united family. Finally, the variety of our occupations and our pleasures, the constant demand upon our physical and mental qualities, lent to our life an interest and fulness which were most extraordinary."

Less brilliant than Junot and Marmont, but of a solid character, was the third aide-de-camp, Duroc, later Grand Marshal to the Palace, and Napoleon's most trusted friend. He was killed by a cannon-ball at Wurtschen; his death left on Bonaparte's spirit so deep an impression that, when he was about to embark upon the Bellerophon in 1815, the Emperor asked permission to live as a private citizen in England under the name of Colonel Duroc.

The fourth aide-de-camp was the young Lemerrois, who was scarcely seventeen years old and already covered with wounds.

The fifth was Sulkowski, a Pole, an adventurous, chivalrous, and romantic character. He spoke every European language. After having fought for the freedom of Poland, and having been wounded at the siege of Warsaw, he entered the French army, and was greeted by Napoleon's soldiers as a fellow-countryman.

The sixth aide-de-camp was the brother of the commander-in-chief, Louis Bonaparte, scarcely seventeen years old, who was entrusted with the most dangerous duties. These he performed with a zeal and heartiness that showed how well he supported the burden of a great name. The future King of Holland had a gentle nature, his manners were simple, his character was serious, he was prone to revery, and remarkably cool in the hour of danger. At the battle of Arcole his courage and devotion had been of service in saving his brother's life. "Louis loved glory," said Napoleon at Saint Helena; "perhaps he loved me more."

The seventh aide-de-camp was Croissier, a brave and skilful cavalry officer who had just taken the place of the young Elliot, who had met a glorious death at Arcole.

The eighth and last was Lavalette, later Postmaster-General, who was condemned to death and confined in the Conciergerie at the second restoration, and only saved from execution by the devotion of his wife, who, to secure his escape, visited him in prison and sent him out dressed in her clothes.

Bonaparte's staff was already a sort of military court, of exceptional charm on account of its young and martial air. "The commander-in-chief," Lavalette says elsewhere, "was then happy in his wife's society. Madame Bonaparte was charming, and all the cares of the chief command, all the duties of government, could not prevent her husband from giving himself up to domestic happiness. It was during this short sojourn at Milan that the young painter Gros made the first portrait that exists of the general. He represented him on the bridge of Lodi at the moment when, flag in band, he flung himself before his men to urge them on. The artist could never get the general to sit. Madame Bonaparte took her husband on her lap, after breakfast, and held him for a few minutes. I was present at these sittings; the age of the happy couple, the artist's modesty and his enthusiasm for the hero, excused this familiarity."

Gros, thus painting Bonaparte's portrait at Milan, after the battle of Arcole, might make a good subject of a picture of one of our modern artists.