be Emperor of Europe and Lawgiver of Mankind. Their delusions were his truth; their hungers were his heart's desire. Whatever they wanted to believe about themselves, Bonaparte helped them believe it, in exchange for control over their lives.
Little Napoleon, the lad called himself. Half of Bonaparte's nephews had been named Napoleon, in an effort to curry favor, but only this one had the effrontery to use the name in court. Bonaparte wasn't quite sure if this meant that Little Napoleon was bolder than the others, or simply too stupid to realize how dangerous it was to dare to use the Emperor's own name, as if to assert one's claim to succeed him. Seeing him now, marching in here like a mechanical soldier - as if he had some secret military accomplishment that no one knew about but which entitled him to strut about playing the general - Bonaparte wanted to laugh in his face and expose in front of all the world Little Napoleon's dreams of sitting on the throne, ruling the world, surpassing his uncle's accomplishments. Bonaparte wanted to look him in the eye and say, "You couldn't even fill my pisspot, you vainglorious mountebank."
Instead he said, "What good wind blows you here, my little Napoleon?"
"Your gout," said the lad.
Oh, no. Another cure. Cures found by fools usually did more harm than good. But the gout was a curse, and... let's see what he has.
"An Englishman," said Little Napoleon. "Or, to speak more accurately, an American. My spies have watched him - "
"Your spies? These are different spies from the spies I pay?"
"The spies you assigned to me for supervision, Uncle."
"Ah, those spies. They do still remember they work for me, don't they?"
"Remember it so well that instead of simply following orders and watching for enemies, they have also watched for someone who might help you."
"Englishmen in Europe are all spies. Someday after some notable achievement when I'm very very popular I will round them all up and guillotine them. Monsieur Guillotin - now that was a useful fellow. Has he invented anything else lately?"
"He's working on a steam-powered wagon, Uncle."
"They already exist. We vall them locomotives, and we're laying track all over Europe."
"Ah, but he is working on one that doesn't have to run on rails."
"Why not a steam-powered balloon? I can't understand why that has never worked. The engine would propel the craft, and the steam, instead of being wastefully discharged into the atmosphere, would fill the balloon and keep the craft aloft."
"I believe the problem, Uncle, is that if you carry enough fuel to travel more than twenty or thirty feet, the whole thing weighs too much to get off the ground."
~That's why inventors exist, isn't it? To solve problems like that. Any fool could come up with the basic idea - I came up with it, didn't I? And when it comes to such matters I'm plainly a fool, as most men are." Bonaparte had long since learned that such modest remarks always got repeated by onlookers in the court and did much to endear him to the people. "It's Monsieur Guillotin's job to... well, never mind, the machine that bears his name is enough of a contribution to mankind. Swift, sure, and painless executions - a boon to the unworthiest of humans. A very Christian invention, showing kindness to the least of Jesus' brethren." The priests would repeat that one, and from the pulpit, too.
"About this Calvin Miller," said Little Napoleon.
"And my gout."
"I've seen him drain a swollen limb just by standing on the street staring at a beggar's pussing wound."
"A pussing wound isn't the gout."
"The beggar had his trousers ripped open to show the wound, and this American stood there looking for all the world as if he were dozing off, and then suddenly the skin erupted with pus and all of it drained out, and then the wound closed without a single stitch. Neither he nor any man touched the leg. It was quite a demonstration of remarkable healing powers."
"You saw this yourself?"
"With my own eyes. But only the once. I can hardly go about secretly, Uncle. I look too much like your esteemed self."
No doubt Little Napoleon imagined that this was flattery. Instead it sent a faint wave of nausea through Bonaparte. But he let nothing show in his face.
"You now have this healer under arrest?"
"Of course; waiting for your pleasure."
"Let him sweat."
Little Napoleon cocked his head a moment, studying Bonaparte, probably trying to figure out