The Egyptian campaign was of little service to France, but to Napoleon it was most useful. It gave strange, mysterious quality to his glory, and placed him on an equality with the men who most impress the popular imagination; with Alexander, Caesar, and Mahomet. Napoleon also had the gift of keeping his successes prominent, and letting his defeats sink out of sight. When he returned from Syria, after a serious check, he made the authorities of Cairo receive him with as much distinction as if he had taken Saint Jean d'Acre. He effaced the memory of the naval defeat of Aboukir by winning on land a victory called by the same name. Egypt is remote; the French at home noticed only the more brilliant points of the expedition, and all the failures sunk out of sight in a success which was thought to be decisive, though it was really only ephemeral.

Bonaparte staked everything on one throw by leaving his army. If he had been captured by the English cruisers, he would have been severely blamed by the public, and all their accusations would perhaps have crushed in the egg the imperial eagle, to use the poet's phrase. If great men would cease to be infatuated about themselves and would honestly analyze their glory, they would see that they often owe more to chance than to skill; that they won when they ought to have lost, and lost when they should have gained; and that the applause of the multitude accompanies success rather than merit.

Of all Napoleon's conceptions, the campaign in France was doubtless the finest, but it was a failure. His Egyptian expedition, according to his greatest admirers, was badly planned, and yet it proved a stepping-stone to the throne. When men of strong character succeed, they explain their blunders which have turned out well by saying that they had confidence in their star, and never doubted the result. This fatalism has no real foundation. How many of these pretended stars vanish from the sky of politics! These men are in fact gamblers who excuse their love of adventure with the first pretext that occurs to them, to atone for their audacity and impress the popular spirit. For our part, we have little faith in this sort of fatalism, of which the inventors are the first victims.

The whole Egyptian campaign was made up of rashness and risks. It was only by a miracle that the invaders were able to arrive there without being scattered by the English fleet, against which they could have done nothing. Another miracle was Bonaparte's return to France without meeting the enemy's cruisers. Very often on this long and perilous voyage he narrowly escaped capture. And what would his two frigates and two despatch-boats have done against the English fleet? The four old-fashioned Venetian crafts were slow sailers that would have been overhauled in a few hours, and would have been powerless against the finest ships in the world. Bonaparte's only chance lay in not meeting the English ships, and they were active on the Egyptian coast, and, indeed, throughout the Mediterranean.

The wind at first drove the four vessels to the left of Alexandria, in sight of the Cyrenaic coast, a hundred leagues from Sidney Smith. Then they sailed to the northwest and were detained twenty-four days off that and and uninhabited coast, where no one suspected their presence. Bonaparte ordered Admiral Gantheaume to hug the African shore in order that he might tarry in case of an attack by the English, and then with a handful of men and the petty sum of seventeen thousand francs, which was the sole treasure he brought from Egypt, he would make his way to Tunis or Oran, and there again take shipping.

September 15, the wind changed and blew fresh from the southwest, and they availed themselves of it. September 19, they were running between Cape Bon and Sicily, a dangerous place, because it was always full of English ships. Fortunately they arrived there at nightfall; had they got there earlier, the enemy would have seen them; later, it would have been too dark to risk pushing on. The four ships thus favored by fate continued on their way, and after seeing in the darkness the lights of an English cruiser, were out of sight at sunrise the next morning. A favorable wind brought them off Ajaccio.

Was Corsica still in possession of the French? Bonaparte did not know; and if he were to land there, he might be captured. He hesitated, and one of the despatch-boats hailed a fishing-smack and ascertained that Corsica still belonged to France. The fishermen could not say whether Provence was free or invaded by the Austrians, so Bonaparte decided to land in Corsica and find out the state of affairs. At that moment a ship sailed out of the harbor of Ajaceio; when it heard that Bonaparte was so near, it saluted him with all its guns, and hastened back to carry the news to the people of the town. At once there was firing of cannon, and soldiers, citizens, workmen, and peasants hastened to the water's edge; the sea was covered with boats that had put forth to meet the famous Corsican.

In one of these boats was an old woman, dressed in black, who stretched out her arms to the great man, rapturously exclaiming, "Caro figlio!" It was his nurse.

Without stopping for quarantine, which was relaxed in his case, he landed and visited the house in which he was born; and as if he were already a sovereign, he administered justice and freed prisoners.

For the next few days contrary, winds prevailed. For nine days Bonaparte was compelled to linger in Corsica, in continual fear lest the English should get wind of his presence. At last, October 7, the wind was fair, and he decided to sail for the coast of Provence, in spite of every obstacle; so they heaved and set forth, the Muiron being towed to sea by a boatful of sturdy rowers.

Bonaparte must have had his fill of strong emotions. The nearer he came to port, the more his danger grew. In a few hours, in a few minutes, he might be in the hands of the English; everything depended on the wind. Once on French soil, nothing could mar his future; but if he should fail to reach it, if after abandoning his army in Egypt he should be captured by the English, what would not his enemies say about his wild adventure?

On one side ridicule, on the other omnipotence; to be branded as an adventurer, or to be glorified as a hero. This hardy gambler, who was forever playing at high stakes with fate, and so far had always won, liked these extreme crises, which fed his ardent imagination and fearless nature. During a whole day, October 7, they sailed along smoothly; already Bonaparte and his companions could see the mountains of Provence, and were congratulating themselves on landing in a few hours, when suddenly a lookout called down from aloft that he saw many sails, six leagues off, lit up by the sunset. Evidently they were the enemy's ships; and they all thought themselves lost.

Gantheaume declared that Bonaparte's only chance was to jump into the boat that was towing the Huiron and to return to Ajaccio; but he quickly answered the admiral: "Do you think I could consent to run away like a criminal when fortune deserts me? I am not destined to be captured and killed here... Your advice might be of use as a last resource, after exchanging a few shots, when there is absolutely no other means of escaping."

It was his fatalism that gave the hero of the Pyramids this imperturbability, and his instinct did not deceive him. Suddenly he restored confidence to the whole crew; he bade them notice that it was the sunset that lit up the enemy's ships on the horizon, and that it left Muiron and the Carriere in darkness.

"We see them, and they don't see us; so take courage!" Does it not seem as if the winds obeyed him and blew as he commanded, and that the sun, too, obeyed him when it lit up the English fleet and hid in darkness the ship that bore the future Caesar?

"Away with fears and cowardly counsels! Crowd on sail!" shouted Bonaparte. "All hands aloft! Head northwest!"

The whole crew recovered confidence. They made for the nearest anchorage, and the next morning, October 9, at nine o'clock, entered the bay of Saint Raphael, eight hundred metres from the village of that name, and half a league from Frejus, after a voyage of forty-four days.

Was Bonaparte going to submit to the quarantine? He pretended that he was, but it was only a feint. The quarantine station was about a half a mile from Frejus. An officer of the Muiron went ashore in a small boat to announce Bonaparte's arrival, and his intention to go into quarantine; but no sooner was the officer seen, than the wildest excitement broke out on the shore, which was soon covered with a dense throng.

The people of Frejus hastened into their boats, crying, "Long live Bonaparte!" and sailed out to the frigate on which he was. "No quarantine for you!" they shouted. "We had rather have the plague than the Austrians! No quarantine for our protector, for the hero who has come to defend Provence." Bonaparte went ashore, and a white horse was brought to him; he got on its back, and entered Frejus amid the cheers of the populace.

He stayed there only four hours, and then pushed on, enjoying one long triumph. At Aix, at Avignon, at Valence, he was received with indescribable enthusiasm. At Lyons he spent a day. A huge crowd gathered under his windows, calling upon him to show himself. In the evening he went to the theatre, and hid in the back of the box, making Duroc sit in front.

"Bonaparte, Bonaparte!" shouted the excited audience, and so hotly, that he was forced to show himself: at the moment he appeared the wildest applause broke out. At midnight he started again, and instead of going through Macon, as was expected, he took the road by the Bourbonnais, in a post-chaise which pushed on swiftly night and day.

Paris had already received word by the telegraph of his landing. Within a fortnight information had been received of Massena's victory in Switzerland; of Brune's in Holland; of Bonaparte's at Aboukir; and of his arrival in France, and the joy universal. The bells were rung in every town and village through which he passed. At night bonfires were lit along the road. In the Paris theatres the actors announced the good news from the stage, and the plays were interrupted by cries and cheers and patriotic songs.

In the Council of the Ancients, Lucien Bonaparte, though the youngest member, was elected President. When the news came that the hero of the Pyramids was returning, there were Republicans and patriots who were beside themselves with pleasure. It was when dining at the Luxembourg with Gobier, the President of the Directory, October 10, that Josephine heard that her husband had landed. She noticed that the news caused her host more surprise than pleasure.

"Mr. President," she said, "do not be afraid that Bonaparte is coming with any intentions unfavorable to liberty. But you must unite to prevent his falling into bad company. I shall go to meet him. I must not on any account let any of his brothers, who hate me, see him first. Besides," she added, turning a look to Gohier's wife, "I need not fear calumny, when Bonaparte hears that you have been my most intimate friend; and he will be both pleased and grateful when he hears how well I have been treated here during his absence."

Thus reassuring herself, Josephine at once left Paris to meet her husband; but since she took the road through Burgundy, and he the one through the Bourbonnais, she failed to meet him on the way, and he was back in Paris first.