The peers and deputies summoned for the 8th of June—Abduction of the
regalia by the royalists—Author obtains a ticket of admission to
the gallery of the Chamber of Deputies, to witness the
ceremony—Grenadiers of the Old Guard—Enthusiasm of the military,
and comparative quiescence of the other ranks—Entrance of Napoleon
into the Chamber—Sketch of his appearance and that of _Madame
Mère_—Administration of the oath of allegiance—The Duke of Otranto
and Count Thibaudeau—The imperial speech and its ineffective
delivery.
The days rolled on, and in their train brought summer and the month of
June, on the 8th of which the peers and deputies of the legislative body
were summoned to attend collectively at two o’clock in the Chamber of
Deputies, to receive the emperor, and take the oath of fidelity to him
and to the constitution, in the midst of all the splendor which the
brilliant metropolis of France could supply. The abduction of the
regalia by some friends of King Louis, when they ran away to Ghent, had
left Napoleon without any crown wherewith to gratify the vanity of a
people at all times devoted to every species of spectacle; he had only a
button and loop of brilliants which fastened up his Spanish hat, over
the sides whereof an immense plumage hung nodding. But this was such a
scene, and such an occasion, that a wreath of laurel would have become
the brow of Napoleon far better than all the diamonds in the
universe!—The whole of the imperial family were to be present.
The number of persons who could be admitted as spectators into the
gallery was necessarily very limited: and in a great metropolis where
every body is devoted to show, the difficulty of procuring admission
would, I conceived, be of course proportionably great. It may be well
imagined that I was indefatigable in seeking to obtain tickets, as this
spectacle was calculated to throw every thing besides that I had
witnessed in Paris completely into the back-ground;—and what tended
still more to whet the edge of my curiosity, was the reflection that it
would, in all probability, be the last opportunity I should have of
deliberately viewing the emperor, whose departure from Paris to join the
army was immediately contemplated.
I therefore made interest with every body I knew; I even wrote to the
authorities; and, in short, left no means whatever untried which
suggested themselves to me. At length, when I began to think my chance
but a very poor one, on the day actually preceding the ceremony, to my
unspeakable gratification, I received a note from the chamberlain,
enclosing an admission for _one_ person _debout_, which the difficulty I
had every where encountered led me to esteem a great favour. I did not
think that, at my age, I could possibly be so anxious about any thing;
but I believe there are few persons who will not admit that the
excitement was great, occasioned by the prospect of contemplating, for a
length of time and in a convenient situation, the bodily presence of a
man to whom posterity is likely to award greater honours than can be
conceded to him by the prejudices of the present race.
The programme announced that all Napoleon’s marshals and generals,
together with the veterans of his staff and the male branches of his
family, were to be grouped around him; as were likewise several of those
statesmen whose talents had helped originally to raise him to the
throne, and whose treachery afterwards succeeded in hurling him a second
time from it. The peers and deputies, in their several ranks and
costumes, were each, individually and distinctly, on that day to swear
new allegiance to their emperor, and a lasting obedience to the
constitution.
The solemnity of Napoleon’s inauguration, and that of his promulgating
the new constitution at the Champ de Mars, made by far the greatest
impression on my mind of all the remarkable public or private
occurrences I had ever witnessed. The intense interest—the incalculable
importance, not only to France but to the world, of those two great
events, generated reflections within me more weighty and profound than
any I had hitherto entertained: whilst the variety of glittering
dresses, the novelty and the ever-changing nature of the objects around
me, combined to cheat me almost into a belief that I had migrated to
fairy-land, and in fact to prevent me from _fixing_ my regards on any
thing.
The first of those days was the more interesting to France—the second to
Europe at large. Though totally unparalleled in all their bearings, and
dissimilar from every other historical incident ancient or modern, yet
these solemnities seem to have been considered by most who have written
upon the subject as little more than ordinary historic transactions.
Were I to give my feelings full play in reciting their effect on myself,
I should at this calmer moment be perhaps set down as a visionary or
enthusiast. I shall, therefore, confine myself to simple narrative.
The procession of the emperor from the Tuileries to the Chambers, though
short, was to have been of the most imposing character. But, much as I
wished to see it, I found that by such an attempt I might lose my place
in the gallery of the Chamber, and, consequently, the view of the
inauguration scene.—At 11 o’clock, therefore, I brought my family to a
house on the Quay, for which I had previously paid dearly; and where
having placed them at a window, I repaired myself to the Chamber of
Deputies, in company of a French colonel, who had been introduced to us
by Colonel Gowen, and who kindly undertook to be my usher, and to point
out to me the most celebrated warriors and generals of the guard and
army, who in groups promenaded the courts and gardens of the
senate-house, awaiting the appointed hour for parading to receive the
emperor. This gentleman introduced me to several officers and persons of
rank; and though at that moment war, attended by all its horrors, was
deemed inevitable, I was addressed with a courtesy and gentlemanly
frankness which, under similar circumstances, would in any other
country, I fear, have been wanting. They spoke without reserve of the
tremendous struggle about to be commenced; but not a man of them
appeared to me to have a single doubt of triumphing; and had my own
country been neutral or uninterested, I certainly should have preferred
the brilliance of Napoleon’s despotism to the contracted, glimmering
tyranny of his continental enemies. But I knew that Great Britain _was_
implicated. Napoleon and England might coalesce for a moment; but I felt
that the ascendency of the former was considered as incompatible with
the power of the latter, and I was chilled by the reflection, which in
some degree abated my relish for the striking scene before me.
Among other individuals of note to whom I was presented by the colonel,
was Labedoyere, who was destined so soon to atone with the forfeiture of
his life for his fidelity to his first patron. I had heard then nothing
particular of this man, and consequently took but little notice of him.
There was not one whom I remarked more than Ney, then prince of Moskwa.
“That,” said the colonel, as he pointed him out to me, “is the greatest
_sabreur_ in Europe:” and Ney’s rough, manly, sun-burnt countenance,
well set off by his muscular, warlike figure, confirmed the character.
“There,” continued my informant, pointing to a civilian in full dress,
“is one of the truest partisans the emperor has in France—Count
Thibaudeau, though at one time doubted.” I had previously remarked the
person to whom my attention was thus directed, as one not formed of
common materials, and had occasion soon after to observe him still more
particularly.
So many of the objects of that day have been sketched in various
publications, that I shall not endeavour to give any thing in the shape
of a list of them, but content myself with the mention of those which
struck me most forcibly at the moment.
Whoever was in Paris during the Hundred Days must have seen the old
guard of Napoleon. Such a body of soldiers (all appearing as if cast in
the same mould) I believe never was collected! Their Herculean vigour,
more than the height of their persons, was remarkable; and their dark,
deep-furrowed visages, (enveloped in mustaches and surmounted by the
bear’s skin of their lofty caps, glittering with ornaments,) combined,
together with their arms, their clothes, and more particularly their
steadiness, to exhibit to me the most perfect model of real soldiers.
Their looks, though the very emblem of gravity and determination, were
totally devoid of ferocity; and I could fancy the grenadiers of the old
guard to be _heroes_, uniting the qualities of fidelity, of valour, and
of generosity: their whole appearance indeed was most attractive.
The cavalry had dismounted, and were sitting around on the steps and
parapets of the edifice, mostly employed in sharpening their sabres with
small hones; and the whole seemed to me as if actuated only by an ardent
wish to proceed to action. One officer asked me in English, rather more
freely than the rest, if I knew the British commander (Lord Wellington)?
I said I did.—“Well,” replied he, “we shall have a brush with him before
_quinze jours_ are over!” and turned away with an expression strongly
indicative of contempt. I believe Lord Wellington did not quite
anticipate the short time that would be given him by his opponents. My
observations and introductions were however at length interrupted by the
first cannon, which announced that the emperor had commenced his passage
from the Tuileries. All was in immediate bustle; the drums beat, the
trumpets sounded, the deputies and officials flocked into their halls,
the cuirassiers were mounted, the old guard and grenadiers in line, the
officers at their stations;—and in less than five minutes the mingled
and motley crowd was arranged in order so regular and so silently
assumed, that it was almost impossible to suppose they had ever been in
confusion. The different bands struck up: they had received orders
respecting the airs that should be played as the emperor approached,
which they began to practise; and the whole scene, almost in a moment,
wore an aspect entirely new.
The firing of cannon continued: the emperor had advanced along the
quays, and passed over that very spot where the last French monarch had,
twenty years before, been immolated by his subjects. The word
enthusiasm, strong as its meaning is generally held to be in France,
failed, on this occasion, to express _as much_ as the military seemed to
feel. The citizens who thronged around did not, it is true, appear to
partake in this sentiment to any thing like a corresponding extent.
Whether it was that they felt it not, or that they were conscious of
acting only a subordinate part in the pageant, (which unquestionably
bore too much of a military character,) I do not know.
I proceeded without delay to the stairs which led to my _loge_, as noted
on my admission ticket. This _loge_, however, it turned out to be no
easy matter to find. My heart began to sink; I inquired of every body;
some did not understand, others looked contemptuously; nobody would pay
the least attention to my solicitations. Thus I seemed likely, after
all, to lose the benefit of my exertions. Meanwhile, every new discharge
of cannon seemed as if announcing, not only the emperor’s approach, but
my seclusion from the chamber; and I was getting fast into a state of
angry hopelessness when an officer of the guard, who saw that I was a
foreigner, addressed me in English. I explained to him my embarrassments
and fears, and showed him my ticket. He told me I was on the wrong side,
and was so good as to send a soldier with me to the door of the box. I
rapped, and was instantly admitted. There were two rows of chairs, and
accommodation for three persons to stand behind. I was one of the
latter; and it was impossible to be better situated for hearing and
seeing every thing. My _loge_ exactly faced the throne; and in the next
sat the emperor’s mother, and all the females, with their attendants. I
knew nobody: I saw no English there: there was one person in full-dress,
who was said to be _un chevalier Ecosse_, and who having distinguished
himself and announced his nation by making an abominable noise about
something or other, was very properly sent out. We sat in silent
expectation of the emperor’s arrival, which was to be announced by the
cessation of the repeated salutes of artillery. The moments were
counted: the peers and deputies were seated in their places, all in
full-dress—the former occupying the front benches, and the deputies
ranged behind them. Servants of the chamber, in the most splendid
liveries that can be conceived, were seen busy at all the side doors:
the front door was underneath our _loge_; it was therefore impossible
for me to see the effect of the first appearance of the emperor, who at
length, followed by a numerous retinue, crossed the chamber—not
majestically, but with rather hurried steps: having slightly raised his
hat, he seated himself abruptly on the throne, and wrapping himself in
his purple cloak, sat silent.
The scene was altogether most interesting; but there was no time for
contemplation. The whole assembly immediately rose; and if a judgment
might be formed from the outward expression of their feelings, it would
be inferred that Napoleon was enthroned in the heart of almost every
peer and deputy who that day received him. A loud, continued, and
unanimous burst of enthusiastic congratulation proceeded from every
quarter: it echoed throughout the whole chamber, and had all the
attributes of sincerity. One circumstance I particularly remarked: the
old cry of “_Vive_ l’Empereur,” was discontinued, and, as if the
spectators’ hearts were too full to utter more, they limited themselves
to a single word,—“_l’Empereur! l’Empereur!_” alone bursting from the
whole assembly. I found afterwards that there was a meaning in this:
inasmuch as the ceremony was not a mere greeting—it was an
_inauguration_ of the emperor. It was this solemnity which in fact
_recreated_ his title after his formal abdication, and the assembly thus
noted the distinction.
Meanwhile Napoleon sat apparently unmoved: he occasionally touched his
hat, but spake not. I stood immediately in front of, and looking down
on, the throne; and being in the back row, could use my opera-glass
without observation. Napoleon was at that moment, all circumstances
considered, the most interesting personage in existence. His dress,
although very rich, was scarcely royal: he was not, as a king should be
by prescription, covered with jewels: he had no crown, and wore the same
dress exactly as he afterward did on his visit to the Champ de Mars;
namely, a black Spanish hat, fastened up in front with a diamond loop
and button; heavy plumes of ostrich feathers, which hung nodding over
his forehead; and rather a short but very full cloak of purple velvet,
embroidered with golden bees. The dimensions of his person were thus
concealed; but his stature, which had attained about the middle height,
seemed lower on account of his square-built form and his high,
ungraceful shoulders: he was, in fact, by no means a majestic figure. I
watched his eye; it was that of a hawk, and struck me as being
peculiarly brilliant. Without moving his head, or a single muscle of his
countenance, his eye was every where, and seemed omniscient: an almost
imperceptible transition moved it from place to place, as if by magic;
and it was fixed steadily upon one object before a spectator could
observe its withdrawal from another.
Yet even at this moment, powerful as was the spell in which Napoleon’s
presence bound the spectator, my attention was drawn aside by another
object which seemed to me to afford much scope for contemplation: this
was the emperor’s mother. I stood, as I have already said, in the next
_loge_ of the gallery to that occupied by the imperial family. The
dutiful and affectionate regard of Napoleon to his mother is universally
authenticated: and as his nature was not framed either to form or
perpetuate mere attachments of course, it was natural to conclude that
this lady’s character had something about it _worthy_ of affection. I
was therefore curious to trace, as far as possible, the impressions made
upon her by the passing scene.
Madame Mère (as she was then called) was a very fine old lady,
apparently about sixty, but looking strong and in good health. She was
not, and I believe never had been, a beauty; but was, nevertheless,
well-looking, and possessed a cheerful, _comfortable_ countenance. I
liked her appearance: it was plain and unassuming, and I set my mind to
the task of scrutinising her probable sensations on that important day.
Let us for a moment consider the situation of that mother, who, whilst
in an humble sphere of life, and struggling with many difficulties, had
born, nursed, and reared a son, who, at an early age, and solely by his
own superior talents, became ruler of one of the fairest portions of the
civilised creation; to whom kings and princes crouched and submitted,
and transferred their territories and their subjects, at his will and
pleasure; to whom the whole world, except England, had cringed; whom one
great emperor had flattered and fawned on, handing over to him a
favourite daughter even whilst the conqueror’s true wife was still
living; and whom the same bewildered emperor had afterwards assisted in
rousing all Europe to overthrow; thus dethroning his daughter,
disinheriting his grandson, and exposing himself to the contempt and
derision of the universe,—only that he might have the gratification of
enslaving six millions of the Italian people! The mother of Napoleon had
seen all this; and had, no doubt, felt bitterly that reverse of fortune
whereby her son had been expelled and driven into exile, after his long
dream of grandeur and almost resistless influence. What then must be the
sensations of that mother at the scene we are describing! when she
beheld the same son again hailed emperor of the French, restored to
power and to his friends by the universal assent of a great nation, and
the firm attachment of victorious armies! He remounted his throne before
her eyes once more, and, without the shedding of one drop of blood, was
again called to exercise those functions of royalty from which he had
been a few months before excluded.
It was under these impressions that I eagerly watched the countenance of
that delighted lady: but her features did not appear to me sufficiently
marked to give full scope to the indication of her feeling. I could
judge, in fact, nothing from any other feature except her eye, to which,
when I could catch it, I looked for information. At first I could see
only her profile; but as she frequently turned round, her emotions were
from time to time obvious: a tear occasionally moistened her cheek, but
it evidently proceeded from a happy rather than a painful feeling—it was
the tear of parental ecstasy. I could perceive no lofty sensations of
gratified ambition; no towering pride; no vain and empty arrogance, as
she viewed underneath her the peers and representatives of her son’s
dominions. In fact, I could perceive nothing in the deportment of Madame
Mère that was not calculated to excite respect for her as a woman, and
admiration of her as the person who had brought into the world a man for
many years the most successful of his species.
From observation of this interesting lady I was called off by the scene
which followed. After the emperor had been awhile seated, (his brothers
and the public functionaries around him, as expressed in a printed
programme,) the oath was administered to the peers and deputies
individually, so that each was distinctly marked by name; and what I
considered most fortunate was, that a French gentleman, who sat
immediately before me (I believe some public officer), was assiduous in
giving the two ladies who accompanied him, not only the name of each
peer or deputy, as he took the oath, but also some description of him. I
took advantage of this incident, and in a little tablet copied down the
names of such as I had heard spoken of as remarkable persons, and
particularly the generals and marshals.
Their manner of administering and taking the oath was very different
from ours.[45] The French had, from the period of the revolution, very
justly conceived that an oath of any description would not be one atom
more binding on the party if taken upon a book than if trust were
reposed in their mere word of honour. On the present occasion, each
person, as his name was called over, arose, and holding out his right
arm to its extent, (the palm of the hand uppermost,) deliberately
pronounced, “_Je jure fidélité à l’Empereur, et obédience à la
Constitution_.” The reader will easily believe that it was a source of
the utmost interest to watch the countenances of these dignitaries of
France while they were engaged in performing this important ceremonial.
My physiognomical observation was kept fully on the stretch, and was
never, before or since, so sated with materials to work on. The emperor,
meanwhile, sat almost immovable. He did not appear exhilarated: indeed,
on the other hand, I think he was indisposed. His breast heaved at times
very perceptibly; an involuntary convulsed motion agitated his lip; but
never did I see an eye more indefatigable and penetrating! As each man’s
name was called, and the oath administered, its regard was fixed upon
the individual; and nothing could be more curious to the spectator than
to transfer his gaze alternately from the party taking the oath to the
emperor himself. Some of the peers and deputies Napoleon’s eye passed
over with scarcely a look; while others he regarded as though disposed
to penetrate their very souls, and search there for proofs of a
sincerity he considered doubtful. Some seemed to excite a pleasurable,
others a painful sensation within him; though this was difficult to
recognise, inasmuch as his features seldom, and never more than
slightly, changed their expression. The countenances of the members
themselves were more easily read, and afforded in many instances good
clews whereby, if not the real feelings, at least the _tendency_ of the
parties might be deciphered. Some stood boldly up, and loudly, and
without hesitation took the oath; while others, in slow, tremulous
voices, pledged themselves to what they either never meant, or were not
quite certain of their ability to perform; and a few displayed manifest
symptoms of repugnance in their manner:—but the scene was of a nature so
splendid, so generally interesting, that few persons, except those whose
habits had long led them to the study of mankind, or such as might have
some especial interest in the result, would have attended to these
physiognomical indications, which were of course not suffered in any
instance to become prominent.
-----
Footnote 45:
One of the devices to prevent the accumulation of petty larceny, in
the court of Common Pleas of Ireland, was very amusing. Lord Norbury’s
register, Mr. Peter Jackson, complained grievously to his lordship
that he really could not afford to supply the court with Gospels or
Prayer-books, as witnesses, after they had taken their oaths, were in
the constant habit of stealing _the book_! “Peter,” said Lord Norbury,
“if the rascals _read_ the book, it will do them more good than the
petty larceny may do them mischief.”—“Read or not read,” urged Peter,
“they are rogues, that’s plain. I have tied the book fast, but
nevertheless they have contrived to loosen and abstract it.”—“Well,
well!” replied my lord, “if they are not afraid of the _cord, hang_
your Gospel _in chains_, and that perhaps, by reminding the fellows of
the fate of some of their fathers and grandfathers, may make them
behave themselves.” Peter Jackson took the hint: provided a
good-looking, well-bound New Testament, which he secured with a strong
jack-chain that had evidently done duty, and well, before the
_kitchen-fire_, and was made fast to the rail of the jury gallery.
Thus, the holy volume being gibbeted, had free scope to swing about
and clink as much as it chose, to the great terror of witnesses, and
good order of the jurors themselves.
-----
One of the first persons who took the oath was Fouché, Duke of Otranto.
I had been in this nobleman’s office on my first arrival in Paris, had
marked his countenance, and have already given my judgment of him. He
had originally been a monk, (I believe a Jesuit,) and was on all hands
admitted to be a man of the utmost talent, but at the same time without
moral principle;—a man who, in order to attain his ends, would disregard
justice, and set opinion at insolent defiance. But, above all, Fouché’s
reigning character was _duplicity_: in that qualification of a statesman
he had no rival. Napoleon knew him thoroughly; but, circumstanced as he
was, he had (fatally for himself) occasion for such men.
Yet even Fouché I really think was, on this day, off his guard. He was
at the time, there can be little doubt, in actual communication with
some of Napoleon’s enemies; and he certainly appeared, whether or no
from “compunctious visitings of conscience,” to be ill at his ease. I
kept my eye much on him; and it was quite obvious to me that some
powerful train of feeling was working within his breast. On his name
being called, there was nothing either bold, frank, or steady in his
appearance or demeanour. He held out his hand not much higher than his
hip, and, in a tone of voice languid, if not faltering, swore to a
fidelity which he was determined, should he find it convenient, to
renounce. I really think (and my eye and glass were full upon him) that
Fouché, at the moment, _felt_ his own treachery: a slight hectic passed
over his temples, and his tongue seemed to cleave to his mouth. I cannot
account for my impression further than this, but from that instant I set
down the man as a traitor! Napoleon for the first time turned his head
as Fouché tendered his allegiance. I could perceive no marked expression
in the emperor’s countenance, which remained placid and steady; but I
could not help thinking that even that complacent regard (which
certainly indicated no confidence, if it was free from agitation) seemed
to say, “I know you!” The ceremony proceeded; and after awhile the name
was called of a person whom I had before seen—Count Thibaudeau. The
contrast between this gentleman and Fouché was very remarkable. He stood
up quickly, and with great firmness stepped a little forward, and held
his arm _higher_ than his shoulder:—“_Je jure_,” exclaimed Count
Thibaudeau, “_Je jure_,” repeating the words with emphasis, “_fidélité_
à MON Empereur et obédience à la Constitution!” I watched Napoleon’s
look: it was still serene, but a ray of gratification was not absent,
and shot rapidly across his features.—The business at length terminated.
I treasured up in my mind the impressions made upon it that day, and in
very few of my forebodings was I eventually mistaken.
The inauguration of the emperor was now complete, and the reflection was
extremely solemn, that all the powers of Europe were armed to overthrow
the business of that morning. Neither peace nor truce was to be made
with Napoleon, who was, on his part, about to try the strength of France
alone against a union of inveterate and inexorable foes. He was now
about to inform his assembled legislators of this decision, and to make
a declaration that should at once rouse the French people generally, and
instil into the legislature a portion of his own energy.
I was all expectation;—the critical moment arrived: the occasion—the
place—the subject, and more especially the effect expected to be
produced—all combined in leading me to anticipate some speech more
impressive than any I had ever heard.
The emperor rose from his throne rather quickly, raised his hat for a
moment, and looked round him with a glance which, though probably meant
to imply confidence, had to me the expression of _scrutiny_. Having done
this, he re-seated himself, and commenced his speech. In language it was
well adapted to the French soldiery; as a proclamation it might be
considered admirable; but to a _legislative_ assembly, it seemed to me
(perhaps erroneously) ill adapted. I did expect, at all events, that it
would be pronounced with that energy which was indicative of the
speaker’s character; but miserably was I disappointed! Napoleon read it
distinctly, but, to my mind, utterly without effect: there was no
adequate ardour—no emphasis—no modulation of voice—no action, to enforce
the sentiment. The delivery was monotonous and unimpressive; nor can I
yet conceive how it was possible such a man could pronounce such a
speech without evincing that warmth of feeling which the words, as well
as the great subject itself, (to say nothing of his own situation,) were
calculated to inspire. The French in general read extremely ill; and
Napoleon’s style of elocution was a very humble specimen even of theirs.
He ran the sentences into each other: in short, seemed to view the whole
thing as a mere matter of course, and to be anxious to _get through_ it.
It put me more in mind of a solicitor reading a marriage-settlement than
any thing else. Here and there, indeed, he appeared somewhat touched by
the text, and most probably _he himself_ felt it all; but he certainly
expressed nothing in a manner that could make _others_ feel it. The
concluding words of the speech—“_This is the moment to conquer or to
perish_,” though pronounced by Napoleon with little more energy than the
preceding parts, (much as if he had been saying, “And your petitioner
will ever pray,”) yet made a strong and visible impression upon the
entire auditory. Two or three of the deputies, I observed, by (to all
appearance) an involuntary movement, put their hands on their
sword-hilts, and whispered those who sat next them; and among the
military officers who were in the assembly there was evidently a very
gallant feeling. I cast my eye at this moment on Fouché: he was looking
upon the ground, seemingly in contemplation, and moved not a muscle.
At the conclusion of his speech Napoleon, whose languid manner had
considerably damped my previous excitement, immediately descended from
the throne, and, in the same state and amidst redoubled applauses,
returned to the palace to make preparations for meeting his parliaments,
and carrying into sudden execution what I have since heard denominated
by English generals the finest military manœuvre of his whole life. Two
things seem to be universally admitted: that the first object of that
train of movements, namely the surprise and division of the allied
troops, was completely successful; and that its second object—the defeat
of those troops in a general engagement, was so near its accomplishment,
that its failure may almost be regarded as miraculous.
I returned home full of reflection. I soon recounted all my impressions
(particularly with respect to Fouché and Napoleon) to my family and two
or three friends who dined with us. I did not hesitate to speak frankly
my opinion of the game playing by the Duke of Otranto; nor did any long
period elapse before my predictions were verified.