(1807.)
AFTER the battle of Eylau, both armies were forced to come to a halt,
in consequence of the confusion produced by a thaw, and both went into
winter quarters. Our troops were in cantonments near Marienwerder, and
the Emperor established himself in a country-house near Osterode.
The Empress had returned to Paris at the end of January. She was out of
spirits, vaguely anxious, and not overpleased with those members of the
Court who had accompanied her to Mayence. Besides this, she was in a
state of nervousness, as she always was during the Emperor’s absence,
for she dreaded his disapproval of her actions. She was most gracious,
and showed all her former friendship for me. It was said by some members
of the Court that her low spirits were partly caused by tender feelings
which she entertained toward a certain young equerry, then absent with
the Emperor. I never inquired into the truth of this story, nor did she
ever mention it to me; but, on the contrary, she was distressed by the
stories she was told by some Polish ladies then in Paris, concerning the
Emperor and a young countrywoman of theirs. Her affection for her
husband was always dashed with the dread of divorce; and, of all her
feelings, this was, I believe, the strongest. She would occasionally
introduce a few words on the subject in her letters to Bonaparte, but he
never made the least reply to them.
She tried to conform to the Emperor’s wishes. She gave and accepted
invitations, and could at any time find relief from her cares in the
delight of displaying a magnificent dress. She behaved to her
sisters-in-law coldly, but with prudence; she received a great number of
persons, and always graciously, and she never said a word that was not
studiously insignificant.
I once suggested to her that she might divert her mind by going to the
theatre; but she told me that she did not derive enough amusement from
the plays to go _incognito_, and that she could not venture to go
publicly. “Why, madame?” I asked her. “I think the applause you would
receive would be pleasing to the Emperor.” “You do not know him, then,”
was her reply. “If I was received with much cordiality, I am sure he
would be jealous of any little triumph which he would not have shared.
When I am applauded he likes to take part in my success; and I should
only mortify him by seeking any when he can not be present.”
The uneasiness of the Empress Josephine was increased by any appearance
of mutual understanding between several persons about her; she always
imagined they were conspiring to injure her. Bonaparte had infected her
with his habitual suspicion. She felt no fear of Mme. Joseph Bonaparte,
who, although at that time Queen of Naples, was residing quietly at the
Luxembourg Palace, being reluctant to exchange her peaceful life for
that of a sovereign. The two Princes—one the Arch-Chancellor, the other
the Arch-Treasurer of the Empire—were timorous and reserved; they paid
her an assiduous court, and inspired her with no distrust.
Princess Borghese, who combined constant ill health with a life of
intrigue, joined in no political schemes, excepting such as were common
to the whole family. But the Grand Duchess of Berg caused her
sister-in-law constant jealousy and apprehension. She lived in great
splendor at the Elysée-Bourbon Palace. Her beauty was set off by the
most exquisite dress; her pretensions were great, her manners affable
when she thought it prudent, and more than affable to men whom she
wished to fascinate. She was unscrupulous when intent on injuring, and
she hated the Empress, yet never lost her self-control. Of such a woman
Josephine might well be afraid. At this time, as I have said, Caroline
was desirous of obtaining the crown of Poland, and she endeavored to
make friends among the influential members of the Government who might
be useful to her. General Junot, Governor of Paris, became one of her
ardent admirers, and, either from a reciprocal feeling or from
interested motives, she contrived to make his tender sentiments serve
her purpose; so that the Governor of Paris, in his reports to the
Emperor—a certain branch of police being in his charge—always gave
favorable accounts of the Grand Duchess of Berg.
Another intimacy, in which there was no question of love, but which was
of great use to her, was that between Fouché and herself. Fouché was on
bad terms with M. de Talleyrand, who was no favorite of Mme. Murat’s.
She wanted to secure her present position, and especially to elevate her
husband in spite of himself. She hinted to the Minister of Police that
M. de Talleyrand would contrive to have him removed, and she tried to
gain his affection by a number of other little confidential
communications. This intimacy gave daily recurring distress to the poor
frightened Empress, who narrowly watched all her words and actions.
Parisian society concerned itself little with these Court secrets, and
took no interest in the members of the Court circle. We had the
appearance of being, and we were in fact, merely a living puppet-show,
set up to surround the Emperor with what seemed to him necessary state.
The conviction that no one had any influence over him led people to
concern themselves little with his surroundings. Every one knew
beforehand that his will only would finally determine all things.
Meanwhile, the sovereigns who were either related or allied to the
Emperor sent deputations to Poland, to congratulate him on his
victories. From Naples, Amsterdam, and Milan came envoys to Warsaw,
offering homage from the various states. The kingdom of Naples was
disquieted by disturbances in Calabria only, but this was enough to keep
it in agitation. The new King, a lover of pleasure, did not carry out
with sufficient firmness the plan which the Emperor had laid down for
the kingdoms he had called into existence. The Emperor also found fault
with his brother Louis; but those reproaches did honor to the latter.
Louis’s domestic affairs became every day more deplorable. Mme. Louis,
who had enjoyed some liberty at Mayence, no doubt found it hard to
return to the dreary bondage in which she was held by her husband; and
the depression, which she did not sufficiently conceal, embittered him,
perhaps, still more. The division between them increased until they
lived apart in the palace—she in retirement with two or three of her
ladies, and he immersed in affairs, and making no secret of his
dissatisfaction with his wife. He would not allow the Dutch to impute
all the blame of the notorious domestic troubles to him. Who can say to
what such a position of affairs might have led, but for the common
misfortune which shortly fell upon the unhappy pair, and which drew them
together in a common sorrow?
Toward the end of the winter an order from the Emperor reached Paris, to
the effect that the newspapers were to remind persons distinguished
either in art or science that the decree, dated from Aix-la-Chapelle,
24th Fructidor, year 12, concerning the decennial prizes, was to come
into effect at the expiration of one year and eight months from the then
date. This decree promised considerable rewards to every author of an
important work, of any kind whatsoever. The prizes were to be assigned
at intervals of ten years, dating from the 18th Brumaire, and the jury
which was to allot them was to consist of members of the Institute. This
project has real greatness in it; we shall see, hereafter, how it fell
to pieces in consequence of a fit of ill humor on the part of the
Emperor.
In March the Vice-Queen of Italy gave birth to a daughter, and the
Empress was much pleased at being grandmother to a little princess
related to all the greatest powers in Europe.
During the suspension of war on both sides, from the inclemency of the
season, the Emperor took every means to insure that in the spring his
army should be more formidable than ever. The kingdoms of Italy and
Naples had to furnish further contingents. Men born under the smiling
skies of those beautiful lands were suddenly transported to the wild
banks of the Vistula; and they might wonder at the change, until others
were seen marching from Cadiz, to perish beneath the walls of Moscow,
thus affording a proof of the courage and strength of which men are
capable, and also of what can be done by the strength of the human will.
The army was reorganized; our newspapers were filled with columns of
promotions, and it is curious, among these military decrees, to come
upon one dated, like the rest, from Osterode, appointing bishops to
vacant sees both in France and in Italy.
But, notwithstanding our victories, or perhaps because of them, our army
had suffered considerable loss. The extreme humidity of the climate
caused sickness among the troops. Russia was evidently about to make an
immense effort. The Emperor felt that this campaign must be decisive;
and, not feeling satisfied that the numerous troops furnished to him
were sufficient to insure victory, he put his own power and our
submission to the test. After having, at the end of December, 1806,
levied the conscription for 1807, he demanded from the Senate in April
the levy for 1808. The Prince of Neufchâtel’s report, which was
published in the “Moniteur,” announced that during the year the army had
been augmented by one hundred and sixty thousand men, levied by the
conscriptions of 1806 and 1807; sixteen thousand men were non-combatants
either from sickness or superannuation, and, without troubling himself
with calculations, which it was too certain no one would venture to
make, because it was our system to conceal our losses, he put down the
“casualties” of the campaign at fourteen thousand men. As our army had
been increased by only a hundred and thirty thousand efficient soldiers,
prudence required that the eighty thousand men of the conscription of
1808 should be raised, and drilled, each in his own department. “Were
this delayed,” said the report, “the men would have to march at once to
the seat of war; but, by making the levy six months in advance, they
will acquire strength and knowledge, and will be better able to defend
themselves.”
State Councilor Regnault de St. Jean d’Angely, who was the bearer of the
Imperial message to the Senate, paused when he came to this portion of
the report, and called the attention of the Senators to the paternal
goodness of the Emperor, who would not allow the new conscripts to brave
the dangers of war without some previous preparation. The Emperor’s
letter announced that the whole of Europe was again in arms—that two
hundred thousand recruits had been raised in England; and declared his
own desire for peace, on condition that the English were not prompted by
passion to seek their own prosperity in our abasement.
The Senate passed the required decree, and voted an address of
congratulation and thanks to the Emperor. He must have smiled on
receiving it.
The minds of men who wield absolute power need to be very generous, in
order to resist the temptation to despise the human species—a
temptation which is only too well justified by the submission that is
accorded to them. When Bonaparte beheld a whole nation giving him its
life-blood and its treasure in order to satisfy his insatiable ambition,
when educated men of that nation consented to veil his acts of invasion
on the human will in plausible phrases, how could he fail to regard the
whole world as a vast field, open to the first person who would
undertake to occupy and till it? Heroic greatness of soul alone could
have discerned that the adulatory words and the blind obedience of the
citizens who were isolated by the tyranny of his institutions, and then
decimated at his command, were dictated by constraint only.
And yet, although Bonaparte had none of those generous feelings,
reasonable observation might have shown him that the alert obedience
with which the French marched to the battle-field was but a misdirection
of that national spirit which a great Revolution had aroused in a great
people. The cry of liberty had awakened generous enthusiasm, but the
confusion that ensued had rendered men afraid to complete their work.
The Emperor skillfully seized on this moment of hesitation, and turned
it to his own advantage. For the last thirty years the French character
has been so developed that the bulk of our citizens of every class have
been possessed by the desire to live, or, if to live were impossible, by
the desire to die, for some particular object. Bonaparte did not,
however, invariably mistake the bent of the genius of the people whom he
had undertaken to rule, but he felt within himself the strength to
control it, and he directed it, or rather misdirected it, to his own
advantage.
It was becoming hard to serve him; feelings which seemed instinctively
to warn us of what was to come were not to be repressed. Many were the
sad reflections of my husband and myself—I remember them well—in the
midst of the splendor and luxury of a position for which we were no
doubt envied. As I have said, our means were small when we joined the
First Consul’s Court. His gifts, which were sold rather than freely
bestowed, had surrounded us with luxury on which he insisted. I was
still young, and I found myself enabled to gratify the tastes of youth
and to enjoy the pleasures of a brilliant position. I had a beautiful
house; I had fine diamonds; every day I might vary my elegant dress; a
chosen circle of friends dined at my table; every theatre was open to
me; there was no fête given in Paris to which I was not invited; and yet
even then an inexplicable cloud hung over me. Often on our return from a
splendid entertainment at the Tuileries, and while still wearing our
garb of state—or shall I say, of servitude?—my husband and I would
seriously discuss all that was passing around us. A secret anxiety as to
the future, an ever-growing distrust of our master, oppressed us both.
Without distinctly knowing what we dreaded, we were aware that there was
something to dread. “I am unfitted,” my husband used to say, “for the
narrow and idle life of a Court.” “I can not admire,” I would say to
him, “that which costs so much blood and misery.” We were weary of
military glory, and shocked at the fierce severity it often inspires in
those who have gained it; and perhaps the repugnance we felt for it was
a presentiment of the price which Bonaparte was to make France pay for
the greatness that he forced upon her.
To these painful feelings was added the fear of being unable to feel any
affection for him whom we must still continue to serve. This was one of
my secret troubles. I clung with the enthusiasm of youth and imagination
to the admiration for the Emperor that I desired to retain; I sincerely
tried to deceive myself with regard to him; I eagerly recalled cases
when he had acted up to my hopes. The struggle was painful and vain, but
I suffered more after I had relinquished it. In 1814 numbers of people
wondered at my ardent desire for the fall of the founder of our fortune,
and for the return of those who would ruin it; they accused us of
ingratitude in so promptly forsaking the cause of the Emperor, and
honored us with their surprise because of the patience with which we
endured our heavy loss. They were unable to read our hearts; they were
ignorant of the impressions that had been made on us long before. The
return of the King ruined us, but it set our hearts and minds at
liberty. It promised a future in which our child might freely yield to
the noble inspirations of his youth. “My son,” said his father, “will
perhaps be poor, but he will not be shackled and hampered as we have
been.” It is not sufficiently known in the world—that is, in the
regulated and factitious society of a great city—that there is
happiness in a position which allows of the complete development of
one’s feelings and of freedom in all one’s thoughts.
On the feast of St. Joseph, Princess Borghese and Princess Caroline gave
a little fête in honor of the Empress. A large party was invited. A
comedy or vaudeville was acted, full of verses in honor of the Emperor
and in praise of Josephine. The two Princesses represented
shepherdesses, and looked exquisitely lovely. General Junot took the
part of a soldier just returned from the army, and in love with one of
the young girls. The position seemed to suit them perfectly, whether on
the stage or elsewhere. But Bonaparte’s two sisters, although
Princesses, sang out of tune; and, as each could detect this in the
other, she ridiculed her sister’s performance. Both my sister and I took
part in the piece. I was greatly amused at the rehearsals by the mutual
spitefulness of the two sisters, who had little love for each other, and
the vexation of the author and the composer. Both thought a good deal of
the production; they were annoyed at hearing their verses and songs
badly rendered; they dared not complain, and, when they ventured on
timid remonstrance, every one hastened to silence them.
The play was ill performed. The Empress cared little for the insincere
homage of her sisters-in-law, and remembered that on this same stage, a
few years before, she had seen her own children, young, gay, and loving,
touch even Bonaparte’s heart by offering him flowers. She told me that
during the whole evening this recollection had been present with her.
She was now away from her husband, anxious about him, uneasy about
herself, far from her son and daughter. Ever since the day she ascended
the throne she had regretted her happier past.
On the occasion of her fête-day the Emperor wrote affectionately to her:
“I dislike very much being so far away from you. The chill of the
climate seems to lay hold of my heart. We are all longing for Paris,
that Paris which one regrets in every place, and for whose sake we are
always in pursuit of glory, and after all, Josephine, only that we may
be applauded on our return by the crowd at the Opéra. When spring comes,
I hope to beat the Russians thoroughly, and then, mesdames, we will go
home, and you shall crown us with laurel.”
During the winter the siege of Dantzic was begun. Bonaparte took it into
his head to give some glory (as he called it) to Savary. The military
reputation of the latter did not stand very high with the army; but he
was useful to the Emperor in other ways, and covetous of reward. The
Emperor foresaw that some day he would be obliged to give him a
decoration, in order to be able to use him as occasion might arise; so
he chose to say that Savary had obtained an advantage of some kind over
the Russians, and bestowed on him the grand cordon of the Legion of
Honor. Military men disapproved, but Bonaparte cared as little for them
as for others, and to bestow reward independently of merit or desert was
a favorite exercise of his independence.
He seldom left his headquarters at Osterode, except for the purpose of
inspecting the various cantonments. He issued decrees on a great number
of subjects. He wrote a letter to M. de Champagny, the Minister of the
Interior, which was mentioned in the “Moniteur,” ordering him to
announce to the Institute that a statue would be presented to it in
honor of D’Alembert, the French mathematician, who, more than any other,
had contributed to the advancement of science.
The bulletins contained statements of the position of the army only, and
of the Emperor’s health, which continued to be excellent. He often rode
forty leagues in a day. He continued to make numerous promotions in his
army, which were published in the “Moniteur” indiscriminately, and under
the same date with the appointment of certain bishops.
The Empress of Austria’s death occurred at this time. She was only
thirty-four years of age. She left four sons and five daughters. The
Princes of Bavaria and Baden, and some others belonging to the
Confederation of the Rhine, were staying with the army and paying court
to the Emperor. When the day’s work was over, he attended concerts,
given for him by Paër the musician, whom he had met at Berlin, and whom
he engaged in his service and brought back with him to Paris. M. de
Talleyrand’s society was no doubt a great resource to the Emperor, but
he frequently left him, in order to pass some days in great state at
Warsaw, where he conversed with the nobles, and kept up the hopes which
it was thought desirable they should not abandon. It was at Warsaw that
M. de Talleyrand negotiated on the Emperor’s behalf with ambassadors
from the Porte and from Persia. Bonaparte permitted them to witness some
manœuvres by a part of his army. At Warsaw also a suspension of arms
between France and Sweden was signed.
The difficulty about the _Monseigneur_ having been settled, Cardinal
Maury was admitted to the Institute, and delivered a panegyric on the
Abbé de Radovilliers as the usual reception speech. An immense crowd was
present, but the Cardinal disappointed public expectation. His discourse
was long and tedious, and it was justly inferred that his abilities were
absolutely worn out. His pastorals and some Lenten sermons which he
preached subsequently confirm that impression.
The death of her little grandson, Napoleon, on the 5th of May, was a
severe blow to the Empress. The child, after a few days’ illness, died
of croup. The despair of the Queen of Holland surpassed description. She
clung to the body of her son, and had to be removed by force. Louis
Bonaparte, who was terrified as well as grieved at the state of his
wife, treated her with great tenderness, and their loss brought about a
sincere, though only temporary, reconciliation between them. At
intervals the Queen became completely delirious, shrieking, calling on
her son, and invoking death; and she was unable to recognize those who
approached her. When reason partly returned, she remained buried in
profound silence, and was indifferent to all around. At times, however,
she would gently thank her husband for his care, in a manner which
showed her deep regret that such a misfortune had been needed to change
their mutual feelings. On one of these occasions, Louis, true to his
strange and jealous temper, while standing beside his wife’s bed, and
promising her that in future he would do all he could to make her happy,
insisted on her confessing the faults he imagined she had committed.
“Confide your errors to me,” he said; “I will forgive them all. We are
about to begin a new life which will for ever efface the past.” With all
the solemnity of grief, and in the hope of death, the Queen assured him
that, ready as she was to appear before the throne of God, she had not
even the semblance of a guilty thought of which to accuse herself. The
King, still unconvinced, asked her to swear this; but, even after she
had taken an oath of her truth, he could not believe her, but
recommenced his importunities, until his wife, exhausted by her grief,
by the answers she had made, and by this dreadful persecution, felt
herself about to faint, and said: “Leave me in peace; I shall not escape
from you. We will resume the subject to-morrow.” And with these words
she again lost consciousness.
When the young Prince’s death was made known in Paris, a courier was
dispatched to the Emperor, Mme. Murat started for the Hague, and a few
days later the Empress went to Brussels, whither Louis himself brought
his wife and their surviving little son, in order to place them under
the care of the Empress. He seemed to be in great grief, and to be very
anxious about Queen Hortense, who remained in a state approaching
delirium. It was settled that, after a few days’ repose at Malmaison,
she was to pass several months in the Pyrenees, where her husband would
subsequently join her. After staying one day at the palace of Lacken,
near Brussels, the King returned to Holland, and the Empress, her
daughter, the latter’s second son, thenceforth of necessity called
Napoleon, and the Grand Duchess of Berg, who was ill calculated to
console two persons whom she so greatly disliked, came back to Paris. M.
de Rémusat, who was in attendance on the Empress on this melancholy
journey, told me on his return of the attention with which Louis had
treated his wife, and that he had observed that Mme. Murat was
displeased by it.
Mme. Louis Bonaparte remained at Malmaison for a fortnight in profound
retirement and deep dejection. Toward the end of May she left for
Cauterets. She was indifferent to all things, tearless, sleepless,
speechless. She would press the hand of any one who spoke to her, and
every day, at the hour of her son’s death, she had a violent hysterical
attack. I never beheld grief so painful to witness. She was pale,
motionless, her eyes rigidly fixed—one could not but weep on
approaching her; then she would utter these few words: “Why do you weep?
He is dead—I know it well; but I do not suffer. I assure you I feel
nothing.”
During her journey to the south, a tremendous storm roused her from this
state of lethargy. There had been a storm on the day that her son died.
When the thunder roared this time, she listened to it attentively; as it
increased in violence, she was seized with a terrible nervous attack,
followed by a flood of tears; and from that instant she regained the
power of feeling and of suffering, and gave herself up to a profound
grief which never completely subsided. Although I can not continue her
history without anticipating dates, I will nevertheless conclude this
episode in her life at once. She took up her abode among the mountains
with a small suite, and tried to escape from herself by continually
walking, so as to exhaust her strength. In a state of constant painful
excitement, she wandered through the valleys of the Pyrenees, or climbed
the rocks, attempting the most difficult ascents, and seemed, I have
been told by others, as if only bent on wearing herself out.
At Cauterets she met by chance with M. Decazes, who was then young,
unknown to fame, and, like the Queen, in deep grief. He had lost his
young wife, and was in bad health. These two met and understood each
other’s grief. It is extremely probable that Mme. Louis, who was too
unhappy to restrict herself to the conventionalities of her rank, and
refused to receive unsympathetic persons, was more accessible to a man
suffering from a sorrow like her own. M. Decazes was young and handsome;
the idle sojourners at a watering-place and the inconsiderate tongue of
scandal pretended there was something more than friendship in this. The
Queen was too much absorbed in her sorrow to take notice of anything
that was going on around her. Her only companions were young friends
devoted to her, anxious about her health, and eager to procure her the
least alleviation. Meanwhile letters were written to Paris full of
gossip about the Queen and M. Decazes.
At the end of the summer King Louis rejoined his wife in the south of
France. It would seem that the sight of the sorrowing mother and of his
only surviving son softened his heart. The interview was affectionate on
both sides, and the married pair, who for long had lived in
estrangement, were once more reconciled. Had Louis returned immediately
to the Hague, it is probable that the reconciliation would have been
lasting; but he accompanied his wife to Paris, and their domestic union
displeased Mme. Murat. I was told by the Empress that at first, on their
return to Paris, her daughter was deeply touched by the grief of her
husband, and said that, through suffering, a new bond had been formed
between them, and that she felt she could forgive the past. But Mme.
Murat—or so the Empress believed on what appeared to be good
grounds—began once more to disturb her brother’s mind. She related to
him, without appearing to believe them herself, the stories told of the
Queen’s meetings with M. Decazes. Less than this would have sufficed to
rekindle Louis’s jealousy and suspicion. I can not now remember whether
he had himself met M. Decazes in the Pyrenees, or whether he had merely
heard him spoken of by his wife; for, as she attached not the least
importance to her acquaintance with him, she often said, before other
persons, how much she had been touched by the similarity of their
sorrows, and how deeply she felt, in her own grief, for the desolation
of the bereaved husband.
The Empress, who was alarmed at the emaciated condition of her daughter,
and who feared for her the fatigue of another journey, as well as the
climate of Holland, entreated the Emperor, who had then returned to
Paris, to persuade Louis to allow his wife to remain in Paris for her
confinement. The Emperor obtained permission for her by commanding Louis
to grant it. The latter, who was angry, embittered, and no doubt ill
pleased at being forced to return alone to the gloomy mists of his
kingdom, and who was beset by his own bad temper, resumed his suspicions
and his ill humor, and once more vented both on his wife. At first she
could hardly believe him to be in earnest; but, when she found herself
again being insulted, when she began to understand that even in her
sorrow she was not respected, and that she had been thought capable of
an intrigue at a time when she had been only longing for death, she fell
into a state of utter dejection. Indifferent to the present, to the
future, to every tie she felt contempt for her husband, which perhaps
she allowed to be too plainly perceptible, and she thought only of how
she might contrive to live apart from him. All this took place in the
autumn of 1807. When I shall have reached that date, I may have more to
say about this unhappy woman.
The Empress shed many tears over the death of her grandson. Besides the
ardent affection she had cherished for this child, who was of a lovable
disposition, her own position was, she felt, endangered by his death.
She had hoped that Louis’s children would make up to the Emperor for her
lack of offspring, and the terrible divorce, which cost her so often
such agonizing dread, seemed after this sad loss once more to threaten
her. She spoke to me at the time of her secret fears, and I had much
difficulty in soothing her.
Even at the present day the impression produced by M. de Fontanes’ fine
speech on this misfortune, into which he contrived to introduce a
remarkable description of Bonaparte’s prosperity, is not yet forgotten.
The Emperor had ordered that the colors taken from the enemy in this
last campaign and the sword of Frederick the Great should be borne in
state to the Invalides. A _Te Deum_ was to be sung, and an oration
delivered in the presence of the great dignitaries, the Ministers, the
Senate, and the pensioners themselves. The ceremony, which took place on
the 17th of May, 1807, was very imposing, and the speech of M. de
Fontanes will perpetuate for us the remembrance of those sacred spoils,
which have since been restored to their former owners. The orator was
admired for aggrandizing his hero, and yet for refraining from insult to
the vanquished, and for reserving his praise for what was really heroic.
It was added that, strictly speaking, his praise might be taken for
advice; and such was the state of submission and fear in those days that
M. de Fontanes was held to have displayed remarkable courage.
In his peroration he described his hero surrounded with the pomp of
victory, but turning from it to weep over a child. But the hero did not
weep. He was at first painfully affected by the boy’s death, then shook
off the feeling as soon as possible. M. de Talleyrand told me afterward
that the very next day after hearing the news the Emperor was conversing
freely and just as usual with those around him, and that when he was
about to grant an audience to some of the great nobles from the Court of
Warsaw, who came to offer their condolence, he (M. de Talleyrand)
thought himself obliged to remind him to assume a serious expression,
and ventured to offer a remark on his apparent indifference, to which
the Emperor replied that “he had no time to amuse himself with feelings
and regrets like other men.”