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CHAPTER XV.
THE QUESTION PRESENTS ITSELF
It was one o'clock in the afternoon.
Bonaparte had again become gloomy.
The gleams of sunshine on such countenances as these last very short
time.
He had gone back to his private room, had seated himself before the
fire, with his feet on the hobs, motionless, and no one any longer
approached him except Roquet.
What was he thinking of?
The twistings of the viper cannot be foreseen.
What this man achieved on this infamous day I have told at length in
another book. See "Napoleon the Little."
From time to time Roquet entered and informed him of what was going on.
Bonaparte listened in silence, deep in thought, marble in which a
torrent of lava boiled.
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