From that moment forth, all was over; the Ogre of Corsica⁠—the usurper⁠—the tyrant⁠—the monster who was the lover of his own sisters⁠—the actor who took lessons of Talma⁠—the poisoner of Jaffa⁠—the tiger⁠—Bonaparte⁠—all this vanished, and gave place in his mind to a vague and brilliant radiance in which shone, at an inaccessible height, the pale marble phantom of Caesar. The Emperor had been for his father only the well-beloved captain whom one admires, for whom one sacrifices one’s self; he was something more to Marius. He was the predestined constructor of the French group, succeeding the Roman group in the domination of the universe. He was a prodigious architect, of a destruction, the continuer of Charlemagne, of Louis XI , of Henry IV , of Richelieu, of Louis XIV , and of the Committee of Public Safety, having his spots, no doubt, his faults, his crimes even, being a man, that is to say; but august in his faults, brilliant in his spots, powerful in his crime.