the ground. We glance hastily at the passing pictures. The victory at Dresden is more than balanced by the disasters at Kulm and Leipzig. The campaign of 1813 is fatal to Napoleon, who still trusts to his star.
So we pass on to the last scenes of the panorama.
It is a Sunday in January, 1814. Napoleon is in Paris, intending in a few days to go to the front. He and the Empress are holding a reception at the Tuileries, and there is a brilliant throng in the great salon. All eyes are on the Emperor and Empress as they enter the apartment. Napoleon holds by the hand a fair-haired boy of three, the little King of Rome. The child wears the uniform of the National Guard of Paris. Courtiers, crowding around the group, bow and smile. But as he scans their faces with his keen eye, Napoleon reads who are his enemies, who his friends. There are many officers of the National Guard present, and it is to them perhaps that the Emperor especially addresses himself.
"Gentlemen," he cries, "I am about to set out for the army. I intrust to you what I
