The Emperor, shorn of the philosophical robe in which he had been conventionally arrayed for three centuries, shivers now in the cold air of reality.
So far from his having immersed himself in profound and pious contemplation, below the current of the world's events, his thoughts, on the contrary, never were for a moment diverted from the political surface of the times.

He read nothing but despatches; he wrote or dictated interminable ones in reply, as dull and prolix as any which ever came from his pen.

He manifested a succession of emotions at the course of contemporary affairs, as intense and as varied, as if the world still rested in his palm.

He was, in truth, essentially a man of action.

He had neither the taste nor talents which make a man great in retirement.