Notwithstanding his preference for her, I have seen him in love two or

three times, and it was on these occasions that he exhibited the full

measure of the despotism of his character. How irritated he became at

the least obstacle! How roughly he put aside the jealous remonstrances

of his wife! “It is your place,” he said, “to submit to all my fancies,

and you ought to think it quite natural that I should allow myself

amusements of this kind. I have a right to answer all your complaints by

an eternal I. I am a person apart; I will not be dictated to by any

one.” But he soon began to desire to exercise over the object of his

passing preference an authority equal to that by which he silenced his

wife. Astonished that any one should have any ascendancy over him, he

speedily became angry with the audacious individual, and he would

abruptly get rid of the object of his brief passion, having let the

public into the transparent secret of his success.

The intellect of Bonaparte was most remarkable. It would be difficult, I

think, to find among men a more powerful or comprehensive mind. It owed

nothing to education; for, in reality, he was ignorant, reading but

little, and that hurriedly. But he quickly seized upon the little he

learned, and his imagination developed it so extensively that he might

easily have passed for a well-educated man.

His intellectual capacity seemed to be vast, from the number of subjects

he could take in and classify without fatigue. With him one idea gave

birth to a thousand, and a word would lift his conversation into

elevated regions of fancy, in which exact logic did not indeed keep him

company, but in which his intellect never failed to shine.

It was always a great pleasure to me to hear him talk, or rather to hear

him hold forth, for his conversation was composed generally of long

monologues; not that he objected to replies when he was in a good humor,

but, for many reasons, it was not always easy to answer him. His Court,

which for a long time was entirely military, listened to his least word

with the respect that is paid to the word of command; and afterward it

became so numerous that any individual undertaking to refute him, or to

carry on a dialogue with him, felt like an actor before an audience. I

have said that he spoke badly, but his language was generally animated

and brilliant; his grammatical inaccuracies sometimes lent his sentences

an unexpected strength, very suitable to the originality of his ideas.

He required no interlocutor to warm him up. He would dash into a

subject, and go on for a long time, careful to notice, however, whether

he was followed, and pleased with those who comprehended and applauded

him. Formerly, to know how to listen to him was a sure and easy way of

pleasing him. Like an actor who becomes excited by the effect he

produces, Bonaparte enjoyed the admiration he watched for closely in the

faces of his audience. I remember well how, because he interested me

very much when he spoke, and I listened to him with pleasure, he

proclaimed me a woman of intellect, although at that time I had not

addressed two consecutive sentences to him.

He was very fond of talking about himself, and criticised himself on

certain points, just as another person might have done. Rather than fail

to make the most out of his own character, he would not have hesitated

to subject it to the most searching analysis. He used often to say that

a real politician knows how to calculate even the smallest profits that

he can make out of his defects; and M. de Talleyrand carried that

reflection even further. I once heard him say, “That devil of a man

deceives one on all points. His very passions mislead, for he manages to

dissemble them even when they really exist.” I can recall an incident

which will show how, when he found it useful, he could pass from the

most complete calm to the most violent anger.

A little while before our last rupture with England, a rumor was spread

that war was about to recommence, and that the ambassador, Lord

Whitworth, was preparing to leave Paris. Once a month the First Consul

was in the habit of receiving, in Mme. Bonaparte’s apartments, the

ambassadors and their wives. This reception was held in great pomp. The

foreigners were ushered into a drawing-room, and when they were all

there the First Consul would appear, accompanied by his wife. Both were

attended by a prefect and a lady of the palace. To each of them the

ambassadors and their wives were introduced by name. Mme. Bonaparte

would take a seat; the First Consul would keep up the conversation for a

longer or a shorter time, according to his convenience, and then

withdraw with a slight bow. A few days before the breach of the peace,

the Corps Diplomatique had met as usual at the Tuileries. While they

were waiting, I went to Mme. Bonaparte’s apartment, and entered the

dressing-room, where she was finishing her toilet.

The First Consul was sitting on the floor, playing with little Napoleon,

the eldest son of his brother Louis. He presently began to criticise his

wife’s dress, and also mine, giving us his opinion on every detail of

our costume. He seemed to be in the best possible humor. I remarked

this, and said to him that, judging by appearances, the letters the

ambassadors would have to write, after the approaching audience, would

breathe nothing but peace and concord. Bonaparte laughed, and went on

playing with his little nephew.

By-and-by he was told that the company had arrived. Then he rose

quickly, the gayety vanished from his face, and I was struck by the

severe expression that suddenly replaced it: he seemed to grow pale at

will, his features contracted; and all this in less time than it takes

me to describe it. “Let us go, mesdames,” said he, in a troubled voice;

and then he walked on quickly, entered the drawing-room, and, without

bowing to any one, advanced to the English ambassador. To him he began

to complain bitterly of the proceedings of his Government. His anger

seemed to increase every minute; it soon reached a height which

terrified the assembly; the hardest words, the most violent threats,

were poured forth by his trembling lips. No one dared to move. Mme.

Bonaparte and I looked at each other, dumb with astonishment, and every

one trembled. The impassibility of the Englishman was even disconcerted,

and it was with difficulty he could find words to answer.

Another anecdote which sounds strange, but is very characteristic,

proves how completely he could command himself when he chose to do so.

When he was traveling, or even during a campaign, he never failed to

indulge in gallantries which he regarded as a short respite from

business or battles. His brother-in-law Murat, and his grand-marshal

Duroc, were charged with the task of procuring him the means of

gratifying his passing fancies. On the occasion of his first entry into

Poland, Murat, who had preceded him to Warsaw, was ordered to find for

the Emperor, who would shortly arrive, a young and pretty mistress, and

to select her from among the nobility. He acquitted himself cleverly of

this commission, and induced a noble young Polish lady, who was married

to an old man, to comply with the Emperor’s wishes. No one knows what

means he employed, or what were his promises; but at last the lady

consented to go in the evening to the castle near Warsaw, where the

Emperor was lodged.

The fair one arrived rather late at her destination. She has herself

narrated this adventure, and she acknowledges, what we can readily

believe, that she arrived agitated and trembling.

The Emperor was in his cabinet. The lady’s arrival was announced to him;

but, without disturbing himself, he ordered her to be conducted to her

apartment, and offered supper and a bath, adding that afterward she

might retire to rest if she chose. Then he quietly went on writing until

a late hour at night.

At last, his business being finished, he proceeded to the apartment

where he had been so long waited for, and presented himself with all the

manner of a master who disdains useless preliminaries. Without losing a

moment, he began a singular conversation on the political situation of

Poland, questioning the young lady as if she had been a police agent,

and demanding some very circumstantial information respecting the great

Polish nobles who were then in Warsaw. He inquired particularly into

their opinions and their present interests, and prolonged this

extraordinary interrogatory for a long time. The astonishment of a woman

twenty years of age, who was not prepared for such a cross-examination,

may be imagined. She answered him as well as she could, and only when

she could tell him no more did he seem to remember that Murat had

promised, in his name, an interview of a more tender nature.

This extraordinary wooing did not, however, prevent the young Polish

lady from becoming attached to the Emperor, for their _liaison_ was

prolonged during several campaigns. Afterward the fair Pole came to

Paris, where a son was born, who became the object of the hopes of

Poland, the rallying point of Polish dreams of independence.

I saw his mother when she was presented at the Imperial Court, where she

at first excited the jealousy of Mme. Bonaparte; but after the divorce

she became the intimate friend of the repudiated Empress at Malmaison,

whither she often brought her son. It is said that she was faithful to

the Emperor in his misfortunes, and that she visited him more than once

at the Isle of Elba. He found her again in France when he made his last

and fatal appearance there. But, after his second fall (I do not know at

what time she became a widow), she married again, and she died in Paris

this year (1818). I had these details from M. de Talleyrand.

I will now resume my sketch. Bonaparte carried selfishness so far that

it was not easy to move him about anything that did not concern himself.

He was, however, occasionally surprised, as it were, into impulses of

tenderness; but they were very fugitive, and always ended in ill humor.

It was not uncommon to see him moved even to the point of shedding a few

tears; they seemed to arise from nervous irritation, of which they

became the crisis. “I have,” he said, “very unmanageable nerves, and at

these times, if my blood did not always flow slowly, I think I should be

very likely to go mad.” I know, indeed, from Corvisart, that his pulse

beat more slowly than is usual for a man’s. Bonaparte never felt what is

commonly called giddiness, and he always said that the expression, “My

head is going round,” conveyed no meaning to him. It was not only from

the ease with which he yielded to all his impulses that he often used

language which was painful and distressing to those whom he addressed,

but also because he felt a secret pleasure in exciting fear, and in

harassing the more or less trembling individuals before him. He held

that uncertainty stimulates zeal, and therefore he rarely displayed

satisfaction with either persons or things. Admirably served, always

obeyed on the moment, he would still find fault, and keep everybody in

the palace in dread of his displeasure about some small detail. If the

easy flow of his conversation had established for the time a sense of

ease, he would suddenly imagine that it might be abused, and by a hard

and imperious word put the person whom he had welcomed and encouraged in

his or her place—that is to say, in fear. He hated repose for himself

and grudged it to others. When M. de Rémusat had arranged one of those

magnificent fêtes where all the arts were laid under contribution for

his pleasure, I was never asked whether the Emperor was pleased, but

whether he had grumbled more or less. His service was the severest of

toil. He has been heard to say, in one of those moments when the

strength of conviction appeared to weigh upon him, “The truly happy man

is he who hides from me in the country, and when I die the world will

utter a great ‘_Ouf!_’”

I have said that Bonaparte was incapable of generosity; and yet his

gifts were immense, and the rewards he bestowed gigantic. But, when he

paid for a service, he made it plain that he expected to buy another,

and a vague uneasiness as to the conditions of the bargain always

remained. There was also a good deal of caprice in his gifts, so that

they rarely excited gratitude. Moreover, he required that the money he

distributed should all be expended, and he rather liked people to

contract debts, because it kept them in a state of dependence. His wife

gave him complete satisfaction in the latter particular, and he would

never put her affairs in order, so that he might keep the power of

making her uneasy in his hands. At one time he settled a considerable

revenue on M. de Rémusat, that we might keep what is called open house,

and receive a great many foreigners. We were very exact in the first

expenses demanded by a great establishment. A little while after, I had

the misfortune to lose my mother, and was forced to close my house. The

Emperor then rescinded all his gifts, on the ground that we could not

keep the engagement we had made, and he left us in what was really a

position of embarrassment, caused entirely by his fugitive and

burdensome gifts. I pause here. If I carry out the plan I have formed,

my memory, carefully consulted, will furnish me by degrees with other

anecdotes which will complete this sketch. What I have already written

will suffice to convey an idea of the character of him with whom

circumstances connected the best years of my life.

BONAPARTE’S MOTHER

Mme. Bonaparte (_née_ Ramolini) was married in 1767 to Charles

Bonaparte, who belonged to one of the noble families of Corsica. It is

said that there had been a _liaison_ between her and M. de Marbeuf,

governor of the island; and some went so far as to allege that Napoleon

was the son of M. de Marbeuf. It is certain that he always showed

kindness to the family of Marbeuf. However that may have been, the

governor had Napoleon Bonaparte included among the number of noble

children who were to be sent from Corsica to France, to be educated at a

military school. He was placed at that of Brienne.

The English having become masters of Corsica in 1790, Mme. Bonaparte, a

rich widow, retired to Marseilles with her other children. Their

education had been much neglected, and, if we are to accept the

recollections of the Marseillais as evidence, her daughters had not been

brought up under the strict rule of a scrupulous morality. The Emperor,

indeed, never pardoned the town of Marseilles for having been aware of

the position his family occupied at that period, and the disparaging

anecdotes of them imprudently repeated by certain Provençals seriously

militated against the interests of the whole of Provence.

The widowed Mme. Bonaparte established herself at Paris on her son’s

attainment of power. She lived a retired life, amassing as much money as

possible; she meddled in no public matters, and neither had nor wished

to have any influence. Her son overawed her, as he did all the rest of

the world. She was a woman of very ordinary intelligence, who,

notwithstanding the rank in which events placed her, never did anything

worthy of praise. After the fall of the Empire she retired to Rome,

where she lived with her brother, Cardinal Fesch. It is said that he, in

the first Italian campaign, showed himself eager to profit by the

opportunity of founding his fortune which then presented itself. He

acquired, received, or even took, it is said, a considerable quantity of

pictures, statues, and valuable articles, which have since served to

decorate his various residences. When he afterward became a Cardinal and

Archbishop of Lyons, he devoted himself wholly to the duties of his two

great offices, and in the end he acquired a most honorable reputation

among the clergy. He often opposed the Emperor while his disputes with

the Pope were pending, and was not one of the least obstacles to the

execution of Bonaparte’s wishes on the occasion of the futile attempt to

hold a council at Paris. Either for political reasons or from religious

motives, he made some opposition to the divorce; at least, the Empress

Josephine believed him to have done so. I shall go more into details on

this subject hereafter. The Cardinal has, since his retirement to Rome,

preserved the unvarying favor of the Sovereign Pontiff.

JOSEPH BONAPARTE

Joseph Bonaparte was born in 1768. He has a handsome face, is fond of

the society of women, and has always been remarkable for having gentler

manners than any of his brothers. Like them, however, he affects astute

duplicity. His ambition, although less developed than that of Napoleon,

has nevertheless come out under certain circumstances, and he has always

shown capacity enough to be master of the situations in which he has

been placed, difficult though they have often been. In 1805 Bonaparte

wished to make Joseph, King of Italy, requiring him, however, to

renounce all claim to the succession to the throne of France. This

Joseph refused to do. He always adhered tenaciously to what he called

his rights, and believed himself destined to give the French repose from

the turmoil in which they were kept by the over-activity of his brother.

He understood better than Napoleon how to carry a point by fair means,

but he failed to inspire confidence. He is amiable in domestic life; but

he did not exhibit much ability, either on the throne of Naples or on

that of Spain. It is true he was permitted to reign only as if he were

Napoleon’s lieutenant, and in neither country did he inspire personal

esteem or arouse animosity.

His wife, the daughter of a Marseilles merchant named Clary, is the

simplest and the best woman in the world. Plain, common-looking, timid,

and silent, she attracted no attention, either at the Emperor’s Court,

or when she successively wore those two crowns which she has apparently

lost without regret. There are two daughters by this marriage. The

family is now established in America. The sister of Mme. Bonaparte was

married to General Bernadotte, now King of Sweden. She, who was not a

commonplace person, had before her marriage been very much in love with

Napoleon, and appears to have always preserved the memory of that

feeling. It has been supposed that her hardly extinguished passion

caused her obstinate refusal to leave France. She lives in Paris at

present, where she leads a very retired life.

LUCIEN BONAPARTE

Lucien Bonaparte has a great deal of ability. He displayed a taste for

the arts and for certain kinds of literature at an early age. As a

deputy from Corsica, some of his speeches in the Council of the Five

Hundred were remarked at the time; among others, that which he made on

the 22d of September, 1798, the anniversary of the foundation of the

Republic. He there defined the oath that each member of the Council

ought to take—to watch over the constitution and liberty, and to

execrate any Frenchman who should endeavor to reëstablish royalty. On

General Jourdan’s expressing some fears relative to the rumors that the

Council was menaced with a speedy overthrow, Lucien reminded them of the

existence of a decree which pronounced outlawry on all who should attack

the inviolability of the national representation. It is probable that

all the time he had a secret understanding with his brother, and was

awaiting like him the approach of the hour when they might lay the

foundation for the elevation of their family. There were, however, some

constitutional ideas in Lucien’s head; and, perhaps, if he had been able

to preserve any influence over his brother, he might have opposed the

indefinite growth of arbitrary power. He succeeded in sending

information to Napoleon in Egypt of the state of affairs in France; and,

having thus hastened his brother’s return, he aided him effectually, as

is well known, in the revolution of the 18th Brumaire, 1799.

Lucien afterward became Minister of the Interior, then Ambassador to

Spain, and in both capacities he gave offense to the First Consul.

Bonaparte did not like to remember services which had been rendered to

him, and Lucien was in the habit of reminding him of them in an

aggressive manner during their frequent altercations.

While he was in Spain he became very intimate with the Prince of the

Peace, and assisted to arrange the treaty of Badajoz, which on that

occasion saved Portugal from invasion.

He received a sum which has been estimated at five hundred millions of

francs as a reward for his services. This was paid partly in money, and

partly in diamonds. At this time he also formed a project of marriage

between Bonaparte and an Infanta of Spain; but Napoleon, either from

affection for his wife, or from fear of exciting the suspicions of the

republicans, with whom he was still keeping on terms, rejected the idea

of his marriage, which was to have been concluded through the agency of

the Prince of the Peace.

In 1795 Lucien Bonaparte, who was then keeper of the military stores

near Toulon, had married the daughter of an innkeeper, who bore him two

daughters, and who died a few years later. The elder of these two girls

was in after years recalled to France by the Emperor, who, when he saw

his affairs going badly in Spain, wished to treat for peace with the

Prince of the Asturias, and to make him marry this daughter of Lucien’s.

But the young girl, who was placed under her grandmother’s care, too

frankly imparted in her letters to her father the impression she

received of her uncle’s Court; she ridiculed the most important

personages, and her letters, having been opened, so irritated the

Emperor that he sent her back to Italy.

In 1803 Lucien, now a widower and entirely devoted to a life of

pleasure, to which I might indeed give a harsher name, fell suddenly in

love with Mme. Jouberthon, the wife of a stock-broker. Her husband was

promptly sent to Saint Domingo, where he died, and then this beautiful

and clever woman managed to make Lucien marry her, despite the

opposition of the First Consul. An open rupture took place between the

two brothers on that occasion. Lucien left France in the spring of 1804,

and established himself at Rome.

It is well known that since then he has devoted himself to the interests

of the Pope, and has adroitly secured his protection; so much so that

even now, although he was recalled to Paris at the period of the fatal

enterprise of 1815, he was permitted to return, after the second

restoration of the King, to the Roman States, and live quietly with

those members of his family who had retired thither. Lucien was born in

1775.

LOUIS BONAPARTE

Louis Bonaparte, born in 1778, is a man concerning whom opinions have

differed widely. His assumption of a stricter morality than that of

other members of his family, his odd opinions—based, however, on daring

theories rather than on solid principles—have deceived the world, and

made for him a reputation apart from that of his brothers. With much

less talent than either Napoleon or Lucien, he has a touch of romance in

his imagination, which he manages to combine with complete hardness of

heart. Habitual ill health blighted his youth, and has added to the

harsh melancholy of his disposition. I do not know whether, had he been

left to himself, the ambition so natural to all his family would have

been developed in him; but he has, at least, shown upon several

occasions that he considered himself entitled to profit by the chances

which circumstances have thrown in his way. He has been applauded for

wishing to govern Holland in the interests of the country, in spite of

his brother’s projects, and his abdication, although it was due to a

whim rather than to generous feeling, has certainly done him honor. It

is, after all, the best action of his life.

Louis Bonaparte is essentially egotistical and suspicious. In the course

of these Memoirs he will become better known. Bonaparte said of him one

day, “His feigned virtues give me almost as much trouble as Lucien’s

vices.” He has retired to Rome since the downfall of his family.

MADAME JOSEPHINE BONAPARTE AND HER FAMILY

The Marquis de Beauharnais, father of the general who was the first

husband of Mme. Bonaparte, having been employed in a military capacity

at Martinique, became attached to an aunt of Mme. Bonaparte’s, with whom

he returned to France, and whom he married in his old age.

This aunt brought her niece, Josephine de la Pagerie, to France. She had

her educated, and made use of her ascendency over her aged husband to

marry her niece, at the age of fifteen years, to young Beauharnais, her

stepson. Although he married her against his inclination, there is no

doubt that at one time he was much attached to his wife; for I have seen

very loving letters written by him to her when he was in garrison, and

she preserved them with great care. Of this marriage were born Eugène

and Hortense. When the Revolution began, I think that Beauharnais’s love

for his wife had cooled. At the commencement of the Terror M. de

Beauharnais was still commanding the French armies, and had no longer

any relations with his wife.

I do not know under what circumstances she became acquainted with

certain deputies of the Convention, but she had some influence with

them; and, as she was kind-hearted and obliging, she used it to do as

much good to as many people as possible. From that time her reputation

for good conduct was very much damaged; but her kindness, her grace, and

the sweetness of her manners could not be disputed. She served my

father’s interests more than once with Barrère and Tallien, and owed to

this my mother’s friendship. In 1793 chance placed her in a village on

the outskirts of Paris, where, like her, we were passing the summer. Our

near neighborhood led to some intimacy. I remember that Hortense, who

was three or four years younger than I, used to visit me in my room,

and, while amusing herself by examining my little trinkets, she would

tell me that all her ambition for the future was to be the owner of a

similar treasure. Unhappy woman! She has since been laden with gold and

diamonds, and how has she not groaned under the crushing weight of the

royal diadem!

In those evil days when every one was forced to seek a place of safety

from the persecution by which all classes of society were beset, we lost

sight of Mme. de Beauharnais. Her husband, being suspected by the

Jacobins, had been thrown into prison in Paris, and condemned to death

by the Revolutionary Tribunal. She also was imprisoned, but escaped the

guillotine, which preyed on all without distinction. Being a friend of

the beautiful Mme. Tallien, she was introduced into the society of the

Directory, and was especially favored by Barras. Mme. de Beauharnais had

very little fortune, and her taste for dress and luxury rendered her

dependent on those who could help her to indulge it. Without being

precisely pretty, she possessed many personal charms. Her features were

delicate, her expression was sweet; her mouth was very small, and

concealed her bad teeth; her complexion was rather dark, but with the

help of red and white skillfully applied she remedied that defect; her

figure was perfect; her limbs were flexible and delicate; her movements

were easy and elegant. La Fontaine’s line could never have been more

fitly applied than to her:

“Et la grâce, plus belle encore que la beauté.”

She dressed with perfect taste, enhancing the beauty of what she wore;

and, with these advantages and the constant care bestowed upon her

attire, she contrived to avoid being eclipsed by the youth and beauty of

many of the women by whom she was surrounded. To all this, as I have

already said, she added extreme kindness of heart, a remarkably even

temper, and great readiness to forget any wrong that had been done to

her.

She was not a person of remarkable intellect. A Creole, and frivolous,

her education had been a good deal neglected; but she recognized her

deficiencies, and never made blunders in conversation. She possessed

true natural tact; she readily found pleasant things to say; her memory

was good—a useful quality for those in high position. Unhappily, she

was deficient in depth of feeling and elevation of mind. She preferred

to charm her husband by her beauty, rather than the influence of certain

virtues. She carried complaisance to excess for his sake, and kept her

hold on him by concessions which, perhaps, contributed to increase the

contempt with which he habitually regarded women. She might have taught

him some useful lessons; but she feared him, and allowed him to dictate

to her in everything. She was changeable, easy to move and easy to

appease, incapable of prolonged emotion, of sustained attention, of

serious reflection; and, although her greatness did not turn her head,

neither did it educate her. The bent of her character led her to console

the unhappy; but she could only dwell on the troubles of

individuals—she did not think of the woes of France. The genius of

Bonaparte overawed her: she only criticised him in what concerned

herself personally; in everything else she respected what he called “the

force of his destiny.” He exerted an evil influence over her, for he

inspired her with contempt for morality, and with a large share of his

own characteristic suspicion; and he taught her the art of lying, which

each of them practiced with skill and effect.

It is said that she was the prize of his command of the army of Italy;

she has often assured me that at that time Bonaparte was really in love

with her. She hesitated between him, General Hoche, and M. de

Caulaincourt, who also loved her. Bonaparte prevailed. I know that my

mother, then living in retirement in the country, was much surprised on

learning that the widow of M. de Beauharnais was about to marry a man so

little known as Bonaparte.

When I questioned her as to what Bonaparte was like in his youth, she

told me that he was then dreamy, silent, and awkward in the society of

women, but passionate and fascinating, although rather an odd person in

every way. She charged the campaign in Egypt with having changed his

temper, and developed that petty despotism from which she afterward

suffered so much.

I have seen letters from Napoleon to Mme. Bonaparte, written at the time

of the first Italian campaign. She accompanied him to Italy, but he

sometimes left her with the rearguard of the army, until a victory had

secured the safety of the road. These epistles are very singular. The

writing is almost illegible; they are ill spelt; the style is strange

and confused. But there is in them such a tone of passionate feeling;

the expressions are so animated, and at the same time so poetical; they

breathe a love so different from mere “amours,” that there is no woman

who would not have prized such letters. They formed a striking contrast

with the graceful, elegant, and measured style of those of M. de

Beauharnais. How strange it must have been for a woman to find herself

one of the moving powers of the triumphant march of an army, at a time

when politics alone governed the actions of men! On the eve of one of

his greatest battles, Bonaparte wrote: “I am far from you! It seems to

me that I am surrounded by the blackest night; I need the lurid light of

the thunderbolts which we are about to hurl upon our enemies to dispel

the darkness into which your absence has thrown me. Josephine, you wept

when I parted from you—you wept! At that thought all my being trembles.

But calm yourself: Wurmser shall pay dearly for the tears I have seen

you shed.” And on the morrow Wurmser was beaten.

The enthusiasm with which General Bonaparte was received in beautiful

Italy, the magnificence of the _fêtes_, the fame of his victories, the

wealth which every officer might acquire there, the unbounded luxury in

which she lived, accustomed Mme. Bonaparte from that time forth to all

the pomp with which she was afterward surrounded; and she acknowledged

that nothing in her life ever equaled the emotions of that time, when

love came (or seemed to come) daily, to lay at her feet a new conquest

over a people enraptured with their conqueror. It is, however, plain

from these letters that Mme. Bonaparte, in the midst of this life of

triumph, of victory, and of license, gave some cause for uneasiness to

her victorious husband. His letters, sometimes sullen and sometimes

menacing, reveal the torments of jealousy; and they abound in melancholy

reflections, which betray his weariness of the fleeting delusions of

life. It may have been that these misunderstandings, which outraged the

first very keen feelings Bonaparte had ever experienced, had a bad

effect upon him, and hardened him by degrees. Perhaps he would have been

a better man if he had been more and better loved.

When, on his return from this brilliant campaign, the conquering general

was obliged to exile himself to Egypt, to escape from the growing

suspicion of the Directory, Mme. Bonaparte’s position became precarious

and difficult. Her husband entertained serious doubts of her, and these

were prompted by Joseph and Lucien, who dreaded the powerful influence

that she might exercise through her son, who had accompanied Bonaparte.

Her extravagant tastes led her into reckless expense, and she was

harassed by debts and duns.

Before leaving France, Bonaparte had directed her to purchase an estate;

and as she wished to live in the neighborhood of Saint Germain, where

her daughter was being educated, she selected Malmaison. There we met

her again, when we were residing for some months at the château of one

of our friends, at a short distance from Malmaison. Mme. Bonaparte, who

was naturally unreserved, and even indiscreet, had no sooner met my

mother again than she talked to her very freely about her absent

husband, about her brothers-in-law—in fact, about a host of people who

were utter strangers to us. Bonaparte was supposed to be almost lost to

France, and his wife was neglected. My mother took pity on her; we

showed her some attention, which she never forgot. At that time I was

seventeen years of age, and I had been married one year.

It was at Malmaison that Mme. Bonaparte showed us an immense quantity of

pearls, diamonds, and cameos, which at that time constituted the

contents of her jewel-case. Even at that time it might have figured in a

story of the “Arabian Nights,” and it was destined to receive immense

accessions. Invaded and grateful Italy had contributed to these riches,

and the Pope also, as a mark of his appreciation of the respect with

which the conqueror treated him by denying himself the pleasure of

planting his flag upon the walls of Rome. The reception-rooms at

Malmaison were sumptuously decorated with pictures, statues, and

mosaics, the spoils of Italy, and each of the generals who figured in

the Italian campaign exhibited booty of the same kind.

Although she was surrounded with all these treasures, Mme. Bonaparte was

often without money to meet her every-day expenses; and, to get out of

this difficulty, she trafficked in her influence with the people in

power at the time, and compromised herself by entering into imprudent

relations. Dreadfully embarrassed, on worse terms than ever with her

brothers-in-law, supplying too much reason for their accusations against

her, and no longer counting on the return of her husband, she was

strongly tempted to give her daughter in marriage to the son of Rewbell,

a member of the Directory; but Mlle. de Beauharnais would not consent,

and her opposition put an end to a project whose execution would

doubtless have been highly displeasing to Bonaparte.

Presently a rumor of Bonaparte’s arrival at Fréjus arose. He came back

with his mind full of the evil reports that Lucien had repeated to him

in his letters. His wife, on hearing of his disembarkation, set out to

join him; she missed him, had to retrace her steps, and returned to the

house in the Rue Chantereine some hours after his arrival there. She

descended from her carriage in haste, followed by her son and daughter,

and ran up the stairs leading to his room; but what was her surprise to

find the door locked! She called to Bonaparte, and begged him to open

it. He replied through the door that it should never again be opened for

her. Then she wept, fell on her knees, implored him for her sake and

that of her two children; but all was profound silence around her, and

several hours of the night passed over her in this dreadful suspense. At

last, however, moved by her sobs and her perseverance, Bonaparte opened

the door at about four o’clock in the morning, and appeared, as Mme.

Bonaparte herself told me, with a stern countenance, which, however,

betrayed that he too had been weeping. He bitterly reproached her with

her conduct, her forgetfulness of him, all the real or imaginary sins of

which Lucien had accused her, and concluded by announcing an eternal

separation. Then turning to Eugène de Beauharnais, who was at that time

about twenty years old—“As for you,” he said, “you shall not bear the

burden of your mother’s faults. You shall be always my son; I will keep

you with me.”

“No, no, General,” replied Eugène: “I must share the ill fortune of my

mother, and from this moment I say farewell to you.”

These words shook Bonaparte’s resolution. He opened his arms to Eugène,

weeping; his wife and Hortense knelt at his feet and embraced his knees;

and, soon after, all was forgiven. In the explanation that ensued, Mme.

Bonaparte succeeded in clearing herself from the accusations of her

brother-in-law; and Bonaparte, then burning to avenge her, sent for

Lucien at seven o’clock in the morning, and had him, without any

forewarning, ushered into the room where the husband and wife, entirely

reconciled, occupied the same bed.

From that time Bonaparte desired his wife to break with Mme. Tallien and

all the society of the Directory. The 18th Brumaire completely severed

her connection with those individuals. She told me that on the eve of

that important day she observed, with great surprise, that Bonaparte had

loaded two pistols and placed them beside his bed. On her questioning

him, he replied that a certain event might happen in the night which

would render such a precaution necessary. Then, without another word, he

lay down, and slept soundly until the next morning.

When he became Consul, the gentle and gracious qualities of his wife,

which attracted many persons to his Court whom his natural rudeness

would have otherwise kept away, were of great service to him. To

Josephine he intrusted the measures to be taken for the return of the

_émigrés_. Nearly all the “erasures” passed through the hands of Mme.

Bonaparte; she was the first link that united the French nobility to the

Consular Government. We shall learn more of this in the course of these

Memoirs.

Eugène de Beauharnais, born in 1780, passed through all the phases of a

sometimes stormy and sometimes brilliant life, without ever forfeiting

his title to general esteem. Prince Eugène, sometimes in camp with his

father, sometimes in all the leisure and luxury of his mother’s house,

was, to speak correctly, educated nowhere. His natural instinct led

toward what is right; the schooling of Bonaparte formed but did not

pervert him; the lessons taught him by events—all these were his

instructors. Mme. Bonaparte was incapable of giving sound advice; and

therefore her son, who loved her sincerely, perceived very early in his

career that it was useless to consult her.

Prince Eugène did not lack personal attractions. His figure was

graceful; he was skilled in all bodily exercises; and he inherited from

his father that fine manner of the old French gentleman, in which,

perhaps, M. de Beauharnais himself gave him his earliest lessons. To

these advantages he added simplicity and kindheartedness; he was neither

vain nor presumptuous; he was sincere without being indiscreet, and

could be silent when silence was necessary. Prince Eugène had not much

natural talent; his imagination was not vivid, and his feelings were not

keen. He was always obedient to his stepfather; and, although he

appreciated him exactly, and was not mistaken with regard to him, he

never hesitated to observe the strictest fidelity to him, even when it

was against his own interests. Never once was he surprised into showing

any sign of discontent, either when the Emperor, while loading his own

family with honors, seemed to forget him, or when his mother was

repudiated. At the time of the divorce Eugène maintained a very

dignified attitude.

Eugène, as colonel of a regiment, was beloved by his soldiers. In Italy

he was held in high honor. The sovereigns of Europe esteemed him, and

the world was well pleased that his fortunes have survived those of his

family. He had the good fortune to marry a charming princess, who never

ceased to love him, and whom he rendered happy. He possessed in

perfection those qualities which make the happiness of home life—sweet

temper, and that natural cheerfulness which rises above every ill, and

was perhaps due to the fact that he was never profoundly moved by

anything. When, however, that kind of indifference toward the interests

of other people is also displayed in one’s own personal troubles, it may

fairly be called philosophy.

Hortense, Prince Eugène’s younger sister (she was born in 1783), was, I

think, the most unhappy person of our time, and the least formed by

nature to be so. Cruelly slandered by the Bonapartes, who hated her,

included in the accusations which the public delighted to bring against

all who belonged to that family, she was not strong enough to contend

against such a combination of ills, and to defy the calumnies that

blighted her life.

Mme. Louis Bonaparte, like her mother and brother, was not remarkable

for intellect; but, like them, she possessed tact and good feeling, and

she was more high-minded and imaginative than they. Left to herself in

her youth, she escaped the contagion of the dangerous example of evil.

At Mme. Campan’s select and elegant boarding-school she acquired

accomplishments rather than education. While she was young, a brilliant

complexion, beautiful hair, and a fine figure rendered her agreeable to

look upon; but she lost her teeth early, and illness and sorrow altered

her features. Her natural instincts were good; but, being absolutely

ignorant of the world and the usages of society, and entirely given up

to ideal notions drawn from a sphere which she had created for herself,

she was unable to rule her life by those social laws which do not indeed

preserve the virtue of women, but which procure them support when they

are accused, without which it is impossible to pass through the world,

and which the approbation of conscience can not replace. It is not

sufficient to lead a good life in order to appear virtuous; women must

also obey those rules which society has made. Mme. Louis, who was placed

in circumstances of extreme difficulty, never had a guide; she

understood her mother, and could not venture to place any confidence in

her. As she held firmly to the principles, or rather to the sentiments,

her imagination had created, she was at first very much surprised at the

lapses from morality in which she detected the women by whom she was

surrounded, and was still more surprised when she found that these

faults were not always the result of love. Her marriage cast her on the

mercy of the most tyrannical of husbands; she became the resigned and

dejected victim of ceaseless and unremitting persecution, and sank under

the weight of her sorrow. She yielded to it without daring to complain,

and it was not until she was on the point of death that the truth became

known. I knew Mme. Louis Bonaparte very intimately, and was acquainted

with all the secrets of her domestic life. I have always believed her to

be the purest, as she was the most unfortunate, of women.

Her only consolation was in her tender love for her brother; she

rejoiced in his happiness, his success, his amiable temper. How many

times have I heard her say, “I only live in Eugène’s life!”

She declined to marry Rewbell’s son, and this reasonable refusal was the

result of one of the errors of her imagination. From her earliest youth

she had persuaded herself that a woman, if she would be virtuous and

happy, should marry no man unless she loved him passionately. Afterward,

when her mother wished her to marry the Comte de Mun, now a peer of

France, she again refused to obey her.

M. de Mun had emigrated; Mme. Bonaparte obtained permission for his

return. He came back to a considerable fortune, and asked for the hand

of Mlle. de Beauharnais in marriage. Bonaparte, then First Consul, had

little liking for this union. Mme. Bonaparte would, however, have had

her own way about it, only for the obstinate resistance of her daughter.

Some one said before her that M. de Mun had been, while in Germany, in

love with Mme. de Staël. That celebrated woman was in the imagination of

the young girl a sort of monster, whom it was impossible to know without

scandal and without taint. M. de Mun became odious to her, and thus he

missed a great match and the terrible downfall that was to ensue. It was

a strange accident of destiny, thus to have missed being a prince,

perhaps a king, and then dethroned.

A little while after, Duroc, then one of the Consul’s aides-de-camp, and

in high favor with him, fell in love with Hortense. She was not

insensible to his passion, and thought she had at length found that

other half of her being which she sought for. Bonaparte was in favor of

the marriage; but this time Mme. Bonaparte was inflexible. “My

daughter,” she said, “must marry a gentleman or a Bonaparte.” Then Louis

was proposed. He had no liking for Hortense, he detested the Beauharnais

family, and despised his sister-in-law: but, as he was taciturn, he was

supposed to be amiable; as he was severe in his judgments, he was

supposed to be a good man. Mme. Louis has since told me that when she

first heard of this arrangement she suffered terribly. Not only was she

forbidden to think of the man she loved, but she was also to be given to

another, whom she instinctively distrusted. However, as this marriage

was in accordance with her mother’s wishes, as it would cement the

family ties, and might advance her brother’s interests, she yielded

herself a submissive victim; nay, she did even more. Her imagination was

full of the duties imposed on her; she determined to make every sort of

sacrifice to the wishes of a husband whom she had the misfortune not to

love. Too sincere and too reserved to feign sentiments she did not feel,

she was gentle, submissive, full of deference, and more anxious perhaps

to please him than if she had loved him. The false and suspicious

disposition of Louis Bonaparte led him to regard the gentle deference of

his wife as affectation and coquetry. “She practices on me,” he said,

“to deceive me.” He believed that her conduct was dictated by the

counsels of her experienced mother; he repelled the efforts she made to

please him, and treated her with rude contempt. Nor was this all. He

actually divulged to Mme. Louis all the accusations which had been

brought against her mother, and, after having gone as far in that

direction as he could go, he signified his pleasure that confidential

relations between his wife and her mother should cease. He added, “You

are now a Bonaparte. Our interests should be yours; those of your own

family no longer concern you.” He accompanied this cruel notification

with insulting threats, and a coarse expression of his disdainful

opinion of women; he enumerated the precautions he meant to take in

order, as he said, to escape the common fate of all husbands, and

declared that he would not be the dupe either of her attempts to escape

his vigilance or of the tricks of pretended docility by which she might

hope to win him over.

The effect of such a declaration upon a young woman full of fancies may

easily be conceived. She conducted herself, however, as an obedient

wife, and for many years only her sadness and her failing health

betrayed her sufferings. Her husband, who was hard and capricious, and,

like all the Bonapartes, selfish—worn and embittered besides by a

painful disease which he had contracted during the Egyptian

campaign—set no limit to his exactions. As he was afraid of his

brother, while at the same time he wanted to keep his wife away from

Saint Cloud, he ordered her to say it was by her own wish that she

seldom went thither, and forbade her to remain there a single night, no

matter how much her mother might press her to do so. Mme. Louis became

pregnant very soon after her marriage. The Bonapartes and Mme. Murat,

who were displeased at this marriage, because, as Joseph’s children were

girls, they foresaw that a son of Louis, who would also be a grandson of

Mme. Bonaparte, would be the object of natural interest, spread the

outrageous report that this pregnancy was the result of an intimacy

between the First Consul and his step-daughter, with the connivance of

Josephine herself. The public was quite ready to believe this scandalous

falsehood, and Mme. Murat repeated it to Louis, who, whether he believed

it or not, made it a pretext for every kind of conjugal tyranny. The

narrative of his cruelty to his wife would lead me too far at present; I

shall return to the subject hereafter. Her servants were employed as

spies upon her; the most trifling notes addressed to or written by her

were opened; every friendship was prohibited; Louis was jealous even of

Eugène. Scenes of violence were frequent; nothing was spared her.

Bonaparte was not slow to perceive this state of affairs, but he was

grateful to Mme. Louis for her silence, which put him at his ease, and

exempted him from the necessity of interference. He, who never esteemed

women, always professed positive veneration for Hortense, and the manner

in which he spoke of and acted toward her is a formal contradiction of

the accusations which were brought against her. In her presence his

language was always careful and decent. He often appealed to her to

arbitrate between his wife and himself, and he took rebukes from her

that he would not have listened to patiently from any one else.

“Hortense,” he said more than once, “forces me to believe in virtue.”

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

(1802-1803.)

NOTWITHSTANDING the date of the year in which I undertake this

narrative, I shall not seek to excuse the motives which led my husband

to attach himself to the person of Bonaparte, but shall simply explain

them. In political matters justifications are worth nothing. Certain

persons, having returned to France only three years ago, or having taken

no part in public affairs before that epoch, have pronounced a sort of

anathema against those among our fellow citizens who for twenty years

have not held completely aloof from passing events. If it be represented

to them that nobody pretends to pronounce whether they were right or

wrong to indulge in their long sleep, and that they are merely asked to

remain equally neutral on a similar question, they reject such a

proposition with all the strength of their present position of vantage;

they deal out unsparing and most ungenerous blame, for there is now no

risk in undertaking the duties on which they pride themselves. And yet,

when a revolution is in progress, who can flatter himself that he has

always adopted the right course? Who among us has not been influenced by

circumstances? Who, indeed, can venture to throw the first stone,

without fear lest it recoil upon himself? Citizens of the same country,

all more or less hurt by the blows they have given and received, ought

to spare each other—they are more closely bound together than they

think; and when a Frenchman mercilessly runs down another Frenchman, let

him take care—he is putting weapons to use against them both into the

hands of the foreigner.

Not the least evil of troubled times is that bitter spirit of criticism

which produces mistrust, and perhaps contempt, of what is called public

opinion. The tumult of passion enables every one to defy it. Men live

for the most part so much outside of themselves, that they have few

opportunities of consulting their conscience. In peaceful times, and for

common ordinary actions, the judgments of the world replace it well

enough; but how is it possible to submit to them, when they are ready to

deal death to those who would bow to them? It is safest, then, to rely

on that conscience which one can never question with impunity. Neither

my husband’s conscience nor my own reproaches him or me. The entire loss

of his fortune, the experience of facts, the march of events, a moderate

and legitimate desire for easier circumstances, led M. de Rémusat to

seek a place of some kind in 1802. To profit by the repose that

Bonaparte had given to France, and to rely on the hopes he inspired,

was, no doubt, to deceive ourselves, but we did so in common with all

the rest of the world.

Unerring prevision is given to very few; and if, after his second

marriage, Bonaparte had maintained peace, and had employed that portion

of his army which he did not disband to line our frontiers, who is there

that would have dared to doubt the duration of his power and the

strength of his rights? At that time both his power and his rights

seemed to have acquired the force of legitimacy. Bonaparte reigned over

France with the consent of France. That fact only blind hatred or

foolish pride can now attempt to deny. He reigned for our misfortune and

for our glory: the alliance of those two words is, in the present state

of society, more natural than it seems, at least when military glory is

in question. When he became Consul, people breathed freely. At first he

won public confidence; when, afterward, causes of disquiet arose, the

country was already committed to him. At last he frightened all the

minds who had believed in him, and led true citizens to desire his fall,

even at the risk of loss to themselves. This is the history of M. de

Rémusat and myself; there is nothing humiliating in it. We too were

relieved and confident when the country had breathing space, and

afterward we desired its deliverance before all things.

No one will ever know what I suffered during the later years of

Bonaparte’s tyranny. It would be impossible for me to describe the

absolute sincerity with which I longed for the return of the King, who

would, as I firmly believed, restore peace and liberty to us. I foresaw

all my personal losses; and M. de Rémusat foresaw them even more clearly

than I did. That which we desired would ruin the fortune of our

children. But the loss of that fortune, which we could have preserved

only by the sacrifice of our convictions, did not cost us a regret. The

ills of France cried too loud then—shame to those who would not listen

to them! We served Bonaparte, we even loved and admired him; and it

costs me nothing to make this avowal. It seems to me it is never painful

to avow a genuine feeling. I am not at all embarrassed because the

opinions I held at one time are opposed to those which I held at

another; I am not incapable of being mistaken. I know what I have felt,

and I have always felt it sincerely; that is sufficient for God, for my

son, for my friends, for myself.

My present task is, however, a difficult one, for I must go back in

search of a number of impressions which were strong and vivid when I

received them, but which now, like ruined buildings devastated by fire,

have no longer any connection one with another.

At the commencement of these Memoirs I shall pass as briefly as possible

over all that is merely personal to ourselves, up to the time of our

introduction to the Court of Bonaparte; afterward I shall perhaps revert

to still earlier recollections. A woman can not be expected to relate

the political life of Bonaparte. If he was so reserved with those who

surrounded him that persons in the next room to him were often ignorant

of events which they would indeed learn by going into Paris, but could

only comprehend fully by transporting themselves out of France, how much

more impossible would it have been for me, young as I was when I made my

entry into Saint Cloud, and during the first years that I lived there,

to do more than seize upon isolated facts at long intervals of time? I

shall record what I saw, or thought I saw, and will do my best to make

my narrative as accurate as it is sincere.

I was twenty-two years old when I became lady-in-waiting to Mme.

Bonaparte. I was married at sixteen years of age, and had previously

been perfectly happy in a quiet life, full of home affections. The

convulsions of the Revolution, the execution of my father in 1794, the

loss of our fortune, and my mother’s love of retirement, kept me out of

the gay world, of which I knew and desired to know nothing. I was

suddenly taken from this peaceful solitude to act a part upon the stage

of history; and, without having passed through the intermediate stage of

society, I was much affected by so abrupt a transition, and my character

has never lost the impression it then received. I dearly loved my

husband and my mother, and in their society I had been accustomed to

follow the impulses of my feelings. In the Bonaparte household I

interested myself only in what moved me strongly. I never in my life

could occupy myself with the trifles of what is called the great world.

My mother had brought me up most carefully; my education was finished

under the superintendence of my husband, who was a highly cultivated

man, and older than I by sixteen years. I was naturally grave, a

tendency which in women is always allied to enthusiasm. Thus, during the

early part of my residence with Mme. Bonaparte and her husband, I was

full of the sentiments which I considered due to them. Their well-known

characters, and what I have already related of their domestic life,

rendered this a sure preparation for many mistakes, and certainly I did

not fail to make them.

I have already mentioned our friendship with Mme. Bonaparte during the

expedition to Egypt. After that we lost sight of her, until the time

when my mother, having arranged a marriage for my sister with a relative

of ours, who had returned secretly, but was still included in the list

of the proscribed, addressed herself to Mme. Bonaparte in order to

obtain his “erasure.” The matter was readily arranged. Mme. Bonaparte,

who was then endeavoring, with much tact and kindness, to win over

persons of a certain class who still held aloof from her husband, begged

that my mother and M. de Rémusat would visit her one evening, in order

to return thanks to the First Consul. It was not possible to refuse, and

accordingly, one evening, shortly after Bonaparte had taken up his abode

there, we went to the Tuileries. His wife told me afterward that on the

first night of their sojourn in the palace, he said to her, laughing,

“Come, little Creole, get into the bed of your masters.”

We found Bonaparte in the great drawing-room on the ground floor; he was

seated on a sofa. Beside him I saw General Moreau, with whom he appeared

to be in close conversation. At that period they were still trying to

get on together. A very amiable speech of Bonaparte’s, of a graceful

kind unusual with him, was much talked of. He had had a superb pair of

pistols made, with the names of all Moreau’s battles engraved on the

handles in gold letters. “You must excuse their not being more richly

ornamented,” said Bonaparte, presenting them to him; “the names of your

victories took up all the space.”

There were in the drawing-room, ministers, generals, and ladies. Among

the latter, almost all young and pretty, were Mme. Louis Bonaparte; Mme.

Murat, who was recently married, and who struck me as very charming; and

Mme. Marat, who was paying her wedding visit, and was at that time

perfectly beautiful. Mme. Bonaparte received her company with perfect

grace; she was dressed tastefully in a revived antique style which was

the fashion of the day. Artists had at that time a good deal of

influence on the customs of society.

Bonaparte rose when we courtesied to him, and after a few vague words

reseated himself, and took no more notice of the ladies who were in the

room. I confess that, on this occasion, I was less occupied with him

than with the luxury, the elegance, and the magnificence on which my

eyes rested for the first time.

From that time forth we made occasional visits to the Tuileries; and

after a while it was suggested to us, and we took to the idea, that M.

de Rémusat might fill some post, which would restore us to the comfort

of which the loss of our fortune had deprived us. M. de Rémusat, having

been a magistrate before the Revolution, would have preferred occupation

of a legal character. He would not grieve me by separating me from my

mother and taking me away from Paris, and therefore he was disposed to

ask for a place in the Council of State, and to avoid prefectures. But

then we really knew nothing of the structure and composition of the

Government. My mother had mentioned our position to Mme. Bonaparte, who

had taken a liking to me, and was also pleased with my husband’s

manners, and it occurred to her that she might place us near herself.

Just at this time my sister, who had not married the cousin whom I have

mentioned, married M. de Nansouty, a general of brigade, the nephew of

Mme. de Montesson, and a man very much esteemed in the army and in

society. This marriage strengthened our connection with the Consular

Government, and a month afterward Mme. Bonaparte told my mother that she

hoped before long M. de Rémusat would be made a Prefect of the Palace. I

will pass over in silence the sentiments with which this news was

received in the family. For my own part, I was exceedingly frightened.

M. de Rémusat was resigned rather than pleased; and, as he is a

particularly conscientious man, he applied himself to all the minute

details of his new occupation immediately after his nomination, which

soon followed. Shortly afterward I received the following letter from

General Duroc, Governor of the Palace:

“MADAME: The First Consul has nominated you to attend upon Mme.

Bonaparte, in doing the honors of the palace. His personal

knowledge of your character and of your principles satisfies him

that you will acquit yourself of this duty with the politeness

which distinguishes French ladies, and with dignity such as the

Government requires. I am happy to have been made the medium of

announcing to you this mark of his esteem and confidence.

“Receive, madame, my respectful homage.”

Thus did we find ourselves installed at this singular Court. Although

Bonaparte would have been angry if any one had seemed to doubt the

sincerity of his utterances, which were at this period entirely

republican, he introduced some novelty into his manner of life every

day, which tended to give the place of his abode more and more

resemblance to the palace of a sovereign. He liked display, provided it

did not interfere with his own particular habits; therefore he laid the

weight of ceremonial on those who surrounded him. He believed also that

the French are attracted by the glitter of external pomp. He was very

simple in his own attire, but he required his officers to wear

magnificent uniforms. He had already established a marked distance

between himself and the two other Consuls; and just as, although he used

the preamble, “By order of the Consuls,” etc., in the acts of

government, his own signature only was placed at the end, so he held his

court alone, either at the Tuileries or at Saint Cloud; he received the

ambassadors with the ceremonial used by kings, and always appeared in

public attended by a numerous guard, while he allowed his colleagues

only two grenadiers before their carriages; and finally he began to give

his wife rank in the state.

At first we found ourselves in a somewhat difficult position, which,

nevertheless, had its advantages. Military glory and the rights it

confers were all-in-all to the generals and aides-de-camp who surrounded

Bonaparte. They seemed to think that every distinction belonged

exclusively to them. The Consul, however, who liked conquest of all

kinds, and whose design was to gain over to himself all classes of

society, made his Court pleasant to persons belonging to other

professions. Besides this, M. de Rémusat, who was a man of intellect, of

remarkable learning, and superior to his colleagues in conversational

powers, was soon distinguished by his master, who was quick at

discovering qualities which might be useful to himself. Bonaparte was

glad that persons in his service should know, for his purposes, things

of which he was ignorant. He found that my husband knew all about

certain customs which he wanted to reëstablish, and was a safe authority

on matters of etiquette and the habits of good society. He briefly

indicated his projects, was at once understood, and as promptly obeyed.

This unusual manner of pleasing him at first gave some offense to the

military men. They foresaw that they would no longer be the only persons

in favor, and that they would be required to alter the rough manners

which did well enough for camps and fields of battle; therefore our

presence displeased them. For my own part, although I was so young, I

had more ease of manner than their wives. Most of my companions were

ignorant of the world, timid and silent, and they were either shy or

frightened in the presence of the First Consul. As for me, I was, as I

have already said, very quick and lively, easily moved by novelty, fond

of intellectual pleasures, interested in observing so many persons, all

unknown to me; and I found favor with my new sovereign, because, as I

have said elsewhere, I took pleasure in listening to him. And then, Mme.

Bonaparte liked me, because she herself had chosen me; she was pleased

that she had been able to attach a person of good family to herself, and

that through the medium of my mother, whom she respected highly. She

trusted me, and I was attached to her, so that before long she confided

all her secrets to me, and I received them with discretion. Although I

might have been her daughter, I was often able to give her good advice,

because the habits of a secluded and strict life make one take a serious

view of things. My husband and I were soon placed in so prominent a

position that we had to secure forgiveness for it. We obtained that

position almost entirely by preserving our simple ways, by keeping

within the bounds of politeness, and by avoiding everything which might

lead to the suspicion that we wanted to trade on the favor we were in.

M. de Rémusat lived in a simple and kindly fashion in the midst of this

warlike Court. As for me, I was fortunate enough to hold my own without

offense, and I put forward no pretension distasteful to other women. The

greater number of my companions were much handsomer than I—some of them

were very beautiful; and they were all superbly dressed. My face, which

had no beauty but that of youth, and the habitual simplicity of my

attire, satisfied them that in several ways they were superior to me;

and it soon seemed as if we had made a tacit compact that they should

charm the eyes of the First Consul when we were in his presence, and

that I should endeavor, as far as lay in my power, to interest his mind.

As I have already said, to do that one had only to be a good listener.

Political ideas rarely enter into the head of a woman at twenty-two. I

was at that time quite without any kind of party spirit. I never

reasoned on the greater or less right which Bonaparte had to the power

of which every one declared that he made a good use. M. de Rémusat, who

believed in him, as did nearly the whole of France, was full of the

hopes which at that time seemed to be well founded. All classes,

outraged and disgusted by the horrors of the Revolution, and grateful to

the Consular Government which preserved us from the Jacobite reaction,

looked upon its coming into power as a new era for the country. The

trials of liberty that had been made over and over again had inspired a

very natural, though not very reasonable, aversion to it; for, in truth,

liberty always disappeared when its name was used merely to vary

successive species of tyranny. Generally speaking, nobody in France

wanted anything except quiet, the right to free exercise of the

intellect, the cultivation of private virtues, and the reparation by

degrees of those losses of fortune which were common to all. When I

remember all the dreams which I cherished at that time, the recollection

makes me sick at heart. I regret those fancies, as one regrets the

bright thoughts of the springtime of life—of that time when, to use a

simile familiar to Bonaparte himself, _one looks at all things through a

gilded veil which makes them bright and sparkling_. “_Little by

little_,” said he, “_this veil thickens as we advance in life, until all

is nearly black_.” Alas! he himself soon stained with blood that gilded

veil through which France had gladly contemplated him.

It was in the autumn of 1802 that I established myself for the first

time at Saint Cloud, where the First Consul then was. There were four

ladies, and we each passed a week in succession in attendance on Mme.

Bonaparte. The service, as it was called, of the prefects of the palace,

of the generals of the guard, and of the aides-de-camp, was conducted in

the same way. Duroc, the Governor of the Palace, lived at Saint Cloud;

he kept the household in perfect order; we dined with him. The First

Consul took his meals alone with his wife. Twice a week he invited some

members of the Government; once a month he gave a great dinner to a

hundred guests at the Tuileries, in the Gallery of Diana; after these

dinners he received every one who held an important post or rank, either

military or civil, and also foreigners of note. During the winter of

1803 we were still at peace with England. A great number of English

people came to Paris, and as we were not accustomed to seeing them, they

excited great curiosity.

At these brilliant receptions there was a great display of luxury.

Bonaparte liked women to dress well, and, either from policy or from

taste, he encouraged his wife and sisters to do so. Mme. Bonaparte and

Mmes. Bacciochi and Murat (Mme. Leclerc, afterward Princess Pauline, was

at Saint Domingo in 1802) were always magnificently attired. Costumes

were given to the different corps; the uniforms were rich; and this

pomp, coming as it did after a period in which the affectation of

squalor had been combined with that of extravagant _civisme_, seemed to

be an additional guarantee against the return of that fatal _régime_

which was still remembered with dread.

Bonaparte’s costume at this period is worthy of record. On ordinary days

he wore one of the uniforms of his guard; but he had decreed, for

himself and his two colleagues, that on all occasions of grand

ceremonial each should wear a red coat, made in winter in velvet, in

summer of some other material, and embroidered in gold. The two Consuls,

Cambacérès and Le Brun, elderly, powdered, and well set up, wore this

gorgeous coat, with lace, ruffles, and a sword, after the old fashion of

full dress, but Bonaparte, who detested all such adornments, got rid of

them as much as possible. His hair was cut short, smoothed down, and

generally ill arranged. With his crimson-and-gold coat he would wear a

black cravat, a lace frill to his shirt, but no sleeve ruffles.

Sometimes he wore a white vest embroidered in silver, but more

frequently his uniform waistcoat, his uniform sword, breeches, silk

stockings, and boots. This extraordinary costume and his small stature

gave him the oddest possible appearance, which, however, no one ventured

to ridicule. When he became Emperor, he wore a richly laced coat, with a

short cloak and a plumed hat; and this costume became him very well. He

also wore a magnificent collar of the Order of the Legion of Honor, in

diamonds, on state occasions; but on ordinary occasions he wore only the

silver cross.

On the eve of his coronation, the marshals he had newly created a few

months before came to pay him a visit, all gorgeously arrayed. The

splendor of their costume, in contrast with his simple uniform, made him

smile. I was standing at a little distance from him, and as he saw that

I smiled also, he said to me, in a low tone, “It is not every one who

has the right to be plainly dressed.” Presently the marshals of the army

began disputing among themselves about the great question of precedence.

Their pretensions were very well founded, and each enumerated his

victories. Bonaparte, while listening to them, again glanced at me. “I

think,” said I, “you must have stamped your foot on France, and said,

‘Let all the vanities arise from the soil.’” “That is true,” he replied;

“but it is fortunate that the French are to be ruled through their

vanity.”

During the first months of my sojourn at Saint Cloud in the winter, and

at Paris, my life was very pleasant. In the morning at eight o’clock

Bonaparte left his wife’s room and went to his study. When we were in

Paris he again went down to her apartments to breakfast; at Saint Cloud

he breakfasted alone, generally on the terrace. While at breakfast he

received artists and actors, and talked to them freely and pleasantly.

Afterward he devoted himself to public affairs until six o’clock. Mme.

Bonaparte remained at home during the morning, receiving an immense

number of visitors, chiefly women. Among these would be some whose

husbands belonged to the Government, and some (these were called _de

l’ancien régime_) who did not wish to have, or to appear to have,

relations with the First Consul, but who solicited, through his wife,

“erasures” or restitutions. Mme. Bonaparte received them all with

perfect grace. She promised everything, and sent every one away well

pleased. The petitions were put aside and lost sometimes, but then they

brought fresh ones, and she seemed never tired of listening.

We dined at six in Paris; at Saint Cloud we went out to drive at that

hour—the Consul alone in a _calèche_ with his wife, we in other

carriages. Bonaparte’s brother and sisters and Eugène de Beauharnais

might come to dine with him whenever they wished to do so. Sometimes

Mme. Louis came; but she never slept at Saint Cloud. The jealousy of

Louis Bonaparte, and his extreme suspicion, had already made her shy and

melancholy. Once or twice a week the little Napoleon (who afterward died

in Holland) was sent to Saint Cloud. Bonaparte seemed to love that

child; he built hopes for the future upon him. Perhaps it was only on

account of those hopes that he noticed him; for M. de Talleyrand has

told me that, when the news of his nephew’s death reached Berlin,

Bonaparte, who was about to appear in public, was so little affected

that M. de Talleyrand said, “You forget that a death has occurred in

your family, and that you ought to look serious.” “I do not amuse

myself,” replied Bonaparte, “by thinking of dead people.”

It would be curious to compare this frank utterance with the fine speech

of M. de Fontanes, who, having to deliver an address upon the depositing

of the Prussian flags in great pomp at the Invalides, dwelt pathetically

upon the majestic grief of a conqueror who turned from the splendor of

his victories to shed tears over the death of a child.

After the Consul had dined, we were told we might go upstairs again. The

conversation was prolonged, according as he was in a good or a bad

humor. He would go away after a while, and in general we did not see him

again. He returned to work, gave some particular audience or received

one of the ministers, and retired early. Mme. Bonaparte played at cards

in the evening. Between ten and eleven o’clock she would be told,

“Madame, the First Consul has gone to his room,” and then she would

dismiss us for the night.

She and every one about her were very reserved respecting public

affairs. Duroc, Maret (then Secretary of State), and the private

secretaries were all impenetrable. Most of the soldiers, to avoid

talking, as I believe, abstained from thinking; in that kind of life

there was not much wear and tear of the mind.

On my arrival at Court, I was quite ignorant of the more or less dread

that Bonaparte inspired in those who had known him for some time, and I

was less embarrassed in his presence than the others; and I did not

think myself bound to adopt the system of monosyllables religiously, and

perhaps prudently, adopted by all the household. This, however, exposed

me to ridicule in a way of which I was unconscious at first, which

afterward amused me, but which in the end I had to avoid.

One evening Bonaparte was praising the ability of the elder M. Portalis,

who was then working at the Civil Code, and M. de Rémusat said M.

Portalis had profited by the study of Montesquieu in particular, adding

that he had read and learned Montesquieu as one learns the catechism.

Bonaparte, turning to one of my companions, said to her, laughing, “I

would bet something that you do not know what this Montesquieu is.”

“Pardon me,” she replied, “everybody has read ‘Le Temple de Gnide.’” At

this Bonaparte went off into a fit of laughter, and I could not help

smiling. He looked at me and said, “And you, madame?” I replied simply

that I was not acquainted with “Le Temple de Gnide,” but had read

“Considérations sur les Romains,” and that I thought neither the one nor

the other work was the catechism to which M. de Rémusat alluded.

“_Diable!_” said Bonaparte, “you are a _savante_!” This epithet

disconcerted me, for I felt that it would stick. A minute after, Mme.

Bonaparte began to talk of a tragedy (I do not know what it was) which

was then being performed. On this the First Consul passed the living

authors in review, and spoke of Ducis, whose style he did not admire. He

deplored the mediocrity of our tragic poets, and said that, above

everything in the world, he should like to recompense the author of a

fine tragedy. I ventured to say that Ducis had spoilt the “Othello” of

Shakespeare. This long English name coming from my lips produced a

sensation among our silent and attentive audience in epaulettes.

Bonaparte did not altogether like anything English being praised. We

argued the point awhile. All I said was very commonplace; but I had

named Shakespeare, I had held my own against the Consul, I had praised

an English author. What audacity! what a prodigy of erudition! I was

obliged to keep silence for several days after, or at least only to take

part in idle talk, in order to efface the effect of my unlucky and

easily gained reputation for cleverness.

When I left the palace and went back to my mother’s house, I associated

there with many amiable women and distinguished men, whose conversation

was most interesting; and I smiled to myself at the difference between

their society and that of Bonaparte’s Court.

One good effect of our almost habitual silence was, that it kept us from

gossip. The women had no chance of indulging in coquetry; the men were

incessantly occupied in their duties; and Bonaparte, who did not yet

venture to indulge all his fancies, and who felt that the appearance of

regularity would be useful to him, lived in a way which deceived me as

to his morality. He appeared to love his wife very much; she seemed to

be all in all to him. Nevertheless, I discovered ere long that she had

troubles of a nature which surprised me. She was of an exceedingly

jealous disposition. It was a very great misfortune for her that she had

no children by her second husband; he sometimes expressed his annoyance,

and then she trembled for her future. The family of the First Consul,

who were always bitter against the Beauharnais, made the most of this

misfortune. From these causes quarrels arose. Sometimes I found Mme.

Bonaparte in tears, and then she would complain bitterly of her

brothers-in-law, of Mme. Murat, and of Murat, who kept up their own

influence by exciting the Consul to passing fancies, and promoting his

secret intrigues, I begged her to keep quiet. I could see that if

Bonaparte loved his wife, it was because her habitual gentleness gave

him repose, and that she would lose her power if she troubled or

disturbed him. However, during my first years at Court, the slight

differences which arose between them always ended in satisfactory

explanations and in redoubled tenderness.

After 1802 I never saw General Moreau at Bonaparte’s Court; they were

already estranged. Moreau’s mother-in-law and wife were schemers, and

Bonaparte could not endure a spirit of intrigue in women. Moreover, on

one occasion the mother of Mme. Moreau, being at Malmaison, had ventured

to jest about the suspected scandalous intimacy between Bonaparte and

his young sister Caroline, then newly married. The Consul had not

forgiven these remarks, for which he had severely censured both the

mother and the daughter. Moreau complained, and was sharply questioned

about his own attitude. He lived in retirement, among people who kept

him in a state of constant irritation; and Murat, who was the chief of

an active secret police, spied out causes of offense which were wholly

unimportant, and continually carried malicious reports to the Tuileries.

This multiplication of the police was one of the evils of Bonaparte’s

government, and was the result of his suspicious disposition. The agents

acted as spies upon each other, denounced each other, endeavored to make

themselves necessary, and kept alive Bonaparte’s habitual mistrust.

After the affair of the infernal machine, of which M. de Talleyrand

availed himself to procure the dismissal of Fouché, the police had been

put into the hands of Regnier, the chief judge. Bonaparte thought that

his suppressing the Ministry of Police, which was a revolutionary

invention, would look like liberalism and moderation. He soon repented

of this step, and replaced the regular ministry by a multitude of spies,

whom he continued to employ even after he had reinstated Fouché. His

Prefect of Police, Murat, Duroc, Savary (who then commanded the

_gend’armerie d’élite_), Maret (who had also a secret police, at the

head of which was M. de Sémonville), and I don’t know how many others,

did the work of the suppressed ministry.

Fouché, who possessed in perfection the art of making himself necessary,

soon crept back secretly into the favor of the First Consul, and

succeeded in getting himself made minister a second time. The badly

conducted trial of General Moreau aided him in that attempt, as will be

seen by what follows.

At this time Cambecérès and Le Brun, Second and Third Consuls, took very

little part in the administration of the Government. The latter, who was

an old man, gave Bonaparte no concern. The former, a distinguished

magistrate, who was of great weight in all questions within the province

of the Council of State, took part only in the discussion of certain

laws. Bonaparte profited by his knowledge, and relied with good reason

on the ridicule which his petty vanity excited to diminish his

importance. Cambacérès, charmed with the distinctions conferred on him,

paraded them with childish pleasure, which was humored and laughed at.

His self-conceit on certain points frequently secured his safety.

At the time of which I speak, M. de Talleyrand had vast influence. Every

great political question passed through his hands. Not only did he

regulate foreign affairs at that period, and principally determine the

new State constitutions to be given to Germany—a task which laid the

foundations of his immense fortune—but he had long conferences with

Bonaparte every day, and urged him to measures for the establishment of

his power on the basis of reparation and reconstruction. At that time I

am certain that measures for the restoration of monarchy were frequently

discussed between them. M. de Talleyrand always remained unalterably

convinced that monarchical government only was suitable to France;

while, for his own part, it would have enabled him to resume all his

former habits of life, and replaced him on familiar ground. Both the

advantages and the abuses proper to courts would offer him chances of

acquiring power and influence. I did not know M. de Talleyrand, and all

I had heard of him had prejudiced me strongly against him. I was,

however, struck by the elegance of his manners, which presented so

strong a contrast to the rude bearing of the military men by whom I was

surrounded. He preserved among them the indelible characteristics of a

_grand seigneur_. He overawed by his disdainful silence, by his

patronizing politeness, from which no one could escape. M. de

Talleyrand, who was the most artificial of beings, contrived to make a

sort of natural character for himself out of a number of habits

deliberately adopted; he adhered to them under all circumstances, as

though they had really constituted his true nature. His habitually light

manner of treating the most momentous matters was almost always useful

to himself, but it frequently injured the effect of his actions.

For several years I had no acquaintance with him—I distrusted him

vaguely; but it amused me to hear him talk, and see him act with ease

peculiar to himself, and which lent infinite grace to all those ways of

his, which in any other man would be regarded as sheer affectation.

The winter of this year (1803) was very brilliant. Bonaparte desired

that fêtes should be given, and he also occupied himself with the

restoration of the theatres. He confided the carrying out of the latter

design to his Prefects of the Palace. M. de Rémusat was intrusted with

the charge of the Comédie Française; a number of pieces which had been

prohibited by Republican policy were put upon the stage. By degrees all

the former habits of social life were resumed. This was a clever way of

enticing back those who had been familiar with that social life, and of

reuniting the ties that bind civilized men together. This system was

skilfully carried out. Hostile opinions became weaker daily. The

Royalists, who had been baffled on the 18th Fructidor, continued to hope

that Bonaparte, after having reëstablished order, would include the

return of the house of Bourbon among his restorations. They deceived

themselves on this point indeed, but at least they might thank him for

the reëstablishment of order; and they looked forward to a decisive

blow, which, by disposing of his person and suddenly rendering vacant a

place which henceforth no one but he could fill, would make it evident

that only the legitimate sovereign could be his natural successor. This

secret idea of a party which is generally confident in what it hopes,

and always imprudent in what it attempts, led to renewed secret

correspondences with our princes, to attempts by the _émigrés_, and to

movements in La Vendée; and all these proceedings Bonaparte watched in

silence.

On the other hand, those who were enamored of federal government

observed with uneasiness that the consular authority tended toward a

centralization which was by degrees reviving the idea of royalty. These

malcontents were almost of the same mind as the few individuals who,

notwithstanding the errors into which the cause of liberty had led some

of its partisans, were forced by their consciences to acknowledge that

the French Revolution was a movement of public utility, and who feared

that Bonaparte might succeed in paralyzing its action. Now and then a

few words were said on this subject, which, although very moderate in

tone, showed that the Royalists were not the only antagonists the secret

projects of Bonaparte would meet with. Then there were the

ultra-Jacobins to be kept within bounds, and also the military, who,

full of their pretensions, were astonished that any rights except their

own should be recognized. The state of opinion among all these different

parties was accurately reported to Bonaparte, who steered his way among

them prudently. He went on steadily toward a goal, which at that time

few people even guessed at. He kept attention fixed upon a portion of

his policy which he enveloped in mystery. He could at will attract or

divert attention, and alternately excite the approbation of the one or

the other party—disturb or reassure them as he found it necessary; now

exciting wonder, and then hope. He regarded the French as fickle

children ready to be amused by a new plaything at the expense of their

own dearest interests. His position as First Consul was advantageous to

him, because, being so undefined, it excited less uneasiness among a

certain class of people. At a later period the positive rank of Emperor

deprived him of that advantage; then, after having let France into his

secret, he had no other means left whereby to efface the impression from

the country, but that fatal lure of military glory which he displayed

before her. From this cause arose his never-ending wars, his

interminable conquests; for he felt we must be occupied at all hazards.

And now we can see that from this cause, too, arose the obligation

imposed on him to push his destiny to its limits, and to refuse peace

either at Dresden or even at Châtillon. For Bonaparte knew that he must

infallibly be lost, from that day on which his compulsory quietude

should give us time to reflect upon him and upon ourselves.

At the end of 1802, or the beginning of 1803, there appeared in the

“Moniteur” a dialogue between a Frenchman, enthusiastic on the subject

of the English constitution, and a so-called reasonable Englishman, who,

after having shown that there is, strictly speaking, no constitution in

England, but only institutions, all more or less adapted to the position

of the country and to the character of its inhabitants, endeavors to

prove that these institutions could not be adopted by the French without

giving rise to many evils. By these and similar means, Bonaparte

endeavored to control that desire for liberty which always springs up

anew in the minds of the French people.

About the close of 1802 we heard at Paris of the death of General

Leclerc, of yellow fever, at Saint Domingo. In the month of January his

pretty young widow returned to France. She was then in bad health, and

dressed in deep, somber mourning; but still I thought her the most

charming person I had ever seen. Bonaparte strongly exhorted her to

conduct herself better than she had done before she went out to Saint

Domingo; and she promised everything, but soon broke her word.

The death of General Leclerc gave rise to a little difficulty, and the

settling of this tended toward that revival of former customs which was

preparing the way for monarchy. Bonaparte and Mme. Bonaparte put on

mourning, and we received orders to do likewise. This was significant

enough; but it was not all. The ambassadors were to pay a visit at the

Tuileries, to condole with the Consul and his wife on their loss, and it

was represented to them that politeness required them to wear mourning

on the occasion. They met to deliberate, and, as there was not time for

them to obtain instructions from their several courts, they resolved to

accept the intimation they had received, thus following the custom usual

in such cases. Since September, 1802, an ambassador from England, Lord

Whitworth, had replaced the _chargé d’affaires_. There was hope of a

lasting peace; intercourse between England and France increased daily;

but, notwithstanding this, persons who were a little better informed

than the crown foresaw causes of dissension between the two Governments.

There had been a discussion in the English Parliament about the part

which the French Government had taken in the matter of the new Swiss

constitution, and the “Moniteur,” which was entirely official, published

articles complaining of certain measures which were taken in London

against Frenchmen. Appearances were, however, extremely favorable; all

Paris, and especially the Tuileries, seemed to be given up to _fêtes_

and pleasures. Domestic life at the château was all peace, when suddenly

the First Consul’s taking a fancy to a young and beautiful actress, of

the Théâtre Français, threw Mme. Bonaparte into great distress, and gave

rise to bitter quarrels.

Two remarkable actresses (Mlles. Duchesnois and Georges) had made their

_début_ in tragedy almost at the same time. The one was very plain, but

her genius speedily gained popularity; the other was not so talented,

but was extremely beautiful. The Parisian public sided warmly with one

or the other, but in general the success of talent was greater than that

of beauty. Bonaparte, on the contrary, was charmed with the latter; and

Mme. Bonaparte soon learned, through the spying of her servants, that

Mlle. Georges had on several occasions been introduced into a little

back room in the château. This discovery caused her extreme distress;

she told me of it with great emotion, and shed more tears than I thought

such a temporary affair called for. I represented to her that gentleness

and patience were the only remedies for a grief which time would

certainly cure; and it was during the conversations we had on this

subject that she gave me a notion of her husband which I would not

otherwise have formed. According to her account, he had no moral

principles whatever, and only concealed his vicious inclinations at that

time because he feared they might harm him; but, when he could give

himself up to them without any risk, he would abandon himself to the

most shameful passions. Had he not seduced his own sisters one after the

other? Did he not hold that his position entitled him to gratify all his

inclinations? And, besides, his brothers were practicing on his weakness

to induce him to relinquish all relations with his wife. As the result

of their schemes she foresaw the much-dreaded divorce, which had already

been mooted. “It is a great misfortune for me,” she added, “that I have

not borne a son to Bonaparte. That gives their hatred a weapon which

they can always use against me.” “But, madame,” I said, “it appears to

me that your daughter’s child almost repairs that misfortune; the First

Consul loves him, and will, perhaps, in the end adopt him.” “Alas!”

replied she, “that is the object of my dearest wishes; but the jealous

and sullen disposition of Louis Bonaparte leads him to oppose it. His

family have maliciously repeated to him the insulting rumors concerning

my daughter’s conduct and the paternity of her son. Slander has declared

the child to be Bonaparte’s, and that is sufficient to make Louis refuse

his consent to the adoption. You see how he keeps away from us, and now

my daughter is obliged to be on her guard in everything. Moreover,

independently of the good reasons I have for not enduring Bonaparte’s

infidelities, they always mean that I shall have a thousand other

annoyances to submit to.”

This was quite true. I observed that from the moment the First Consul

paid attention to another woman—whether it was that his despotic temper

led him to expect that his wife should approve this indication of his

absolute independence in all things, of whether nature had bestowed upon

him so limited a faculty of loving that it was all absorbed by the

person preferred at the time, and that he had not a particle of feeling

left to bestow upon another—he became harsh, violent, and pitiless to

his wife. Whenever he had a mistress, he let her know it, and showed a

sort of savage surprise that she did not approve of his indulging in

pleasures which, as he would demonstrate, so to speak, mathematically,

were both allowable and necessary for him. “I am not an ordinary man,”

he would say, “and the laws of morals and of custom were never made for

me.” Such speeches as these aroused the anger of Mme. Bonaparte, and she

replied to them by tears and complaints, which her husband resented with

the utmost violence. After a while his new fancy would vanish suddenly,

and his tenderness for his wife revive. Then he was moved by her grief,

and would lavish caresses upon her as unmeasured as his wrath had been;

and, as she was very placable and gentle, she was easily appeased.

While the storm lasted, however, my position was rendered embarrassing

by the strange confidences of which I was the recipient, and at times by

proceedings in which I was obliged to take part. I remember one

occurrence in particular, during the winter of 1803, at which, and the

absurd panic into which it threw me, I have often laughed since.

Bonaparte was in the habit of occupying the same room with his wife; she

had cleverly persuaded him that doing so tended to insure his personal

safety. “I told him,” she said, “that as I was a very light sleeper if

any nocturnal attempt against him was made, I should be there to call

for help in a moment.” In the evening she never retired until Bonaparte

had gone to bed. But when Mlle. Georges was in the ascendant, as she

used to visit the château very late, he did not on those occasions go to

his wife’s room until an advanced hour of the night. One evening Mme.

Bonaparte, who was more than usually jealous and suspicious, kept me

with her, and eagerly talked of her troubles. It was one o’clock in the

morning; we were alone in her boudoir, and profound silence reigned in

the Tuileries. All at once she rose. “I can not bear it any longer,” she

said. “Mlle. Georges is certainly with him; I will surprise them.” I was

alarmed by this sudden resolution, and said all I could to dissuade her

from acting on it, but in vain. “Follow me,” she said; “let us go up

together.” Then I represented to her that such an act, very improper

even on her part, would be intolerable on mine; and that, in case of her

making the discovery which she expected, I should certainly be one too

many at the scene which must ensue. She would listen to nothing; she

reproached me with abandoning her in her distress, and she begged me so

earnestly to accompany her, that, nothwithstanding my repugnance, I

yielded, saying to myself that our expedition would end in nothing, as

no doubt precautions had been taken to prevent a surprise.

Silently we ascended the back staircase leading to Bonaparte’s room;

Mme. Bonaparte, who was much excited, going first, while I followed

slowly, feeling very much ashamed of the part I was being made to play.

On our way we heard a slight noise. Mme. Bonaparte turned to me and

said, “Perhaps that is Rutsan, Bonaparte’s Mameluke, who keeps the door.

The wretch is quite capable of killing us both.” On hearing this, I was

seized with such terror that I could not listen further, and, forgetting

that I was leaving Mme. Bonaparte in utter darkness, I ran back as

quickly as I could to the boudoir, candle in hand. She followed me a few

minutes after, astonished at my sudden flight. When she saw my terrified

face, she began to laugh, which set me off laughing also, and we

renounced our enterprise. I left her, telling her I thought the fright

she had given me a very good thing for her, and that I was very glad I

had yielded to it.

Mme. Bonaparte’s jealousy affected her sweet temper so much that it

could not long be a secret to anybody. I was in the embarrassing

position of a confidant without influence over the person who confided

in me, and I could not but appear to be mixed up in the quarrels which I

witnessed. Bonaparte thought that one woman must enter eagerly into the

feelings of another, and he showed some annoyance at my being made aware

of the facts of his private life.

Meantime, the ugly actress grew in favor with the public of Paris, and

the handsome one was frequently received with hisses. M. de Rémusat

endeavored to divide patronage equally between the two; but whatever he

did for the one or for the other was received with equal

dissatisfaction, either by the First Consul or by the public.

These petty affairs gave us a good deal of annoyance. Bonaparte, without

confiding the secret of his interest in the fair actress to M. de

Rémusat, complained to my husband, saying that he would not object to my

being his wife’s confidant, provided I would only give her good advice.

My husband represented me as a sensible person, brought up with a great

regard for propriety, and who would be most unlikely to encourage Mme.

Bonaparte’s jealous fancies. The First Consul, who was still well

disposed toward us, accepted this view of my conduct; but thence arose

another annoyance. He called upon me to interfere in his conjugal

quarrels, and wanted to avail himself of what he called my good sense

against the foolish jealousy of which he was wearied. As I never could

conceal my real sentiments, I answered quite sincerely, when he told me

how weary he was of all these scenes, that I pitied Mme. Bonaparte very

much, whether she suffered with or without cause, and that he, above all

persons, ought to excuse her; but, at the same time, I admitted that I

thought it undignified on her part to endeavor to prove the infidelity

which she suspected by employing her servants as spies on her husband.

The First Consul did not fail to tell his wife that I blamed her in this

respect, and then I was involved in endless explanations between the

husband and the wife, into which I imported all the ardor natural to my

age, and also the devotion and attachment which I felt for both of them.

We went through a constant succession of scenes, whose details have now

faded from my memory, and in which Bonaparte would be at one time,

imperious, harsh, excessively suspicious, and at another, suddenly

moved, tender, almost gentle, atoning with a good grace for the faults

he acknowledged but did not renounce.

I remember one day, in order to avoid an awkward _tête-à-tête_ with Mme.

Bonaparte, he made me remain to dinner. His wife was just then very

angry, because he had declared that henceforth he would have a separate

apartment, and he insisted that I should give my opinion on this point.

I was quite unprepared to answer him, and I knew that Mme. Bonaparte

would not readily forgive me if I did not decide in her favor. I tried

to evade a reply; but Bonaparte, who enjoyed my embarrassment, insisted.

I could find no other way out of the difficulty than by saying that I

thought anything which might make people think the First Consul was

altering his manner of living would give rise to injurious reports, and

that the least change in the arrangements of the château would

inevitably be talked about. Bonaparte laughed, and, pinching my ear,

said, “Ah! you are a woman, and you all back each other.”

Nevertheless, he carried out his resolution, and from that time forth

occupied a separate apartment. His manner toward his wife, however,

became more affectionate after this breeze, and she, on her side, was

less suspicious of him. She adopted the advice which I constantly urged

upon her, to treat such unworthy rivalry with disdain. “It would be

quite time enough to fret,” I said, “if the Consul chose one of the

women in your own society; that would be a real grief, and for me a

serious annoyance.” Two years afterward my prediction was only too fully

realized, especially as regarded myself.

[Illustration: Bonaparte liked women to dress well,

and, either, from policy or from taste,

he encouraged his wife and sisters to do so.]

CHAPTER II

(1803.)

WITH the exception of this slight disturbance, the winter passed

quietly. The progress of the restoration of order was marked by several

new institutions. The lyceums were organized; the magistrates again wore

official robes, and were also invested with some importance. A

collection of French paintings was placed at the Louvre, and called “the

Museum,” and M. Denon was appointed superintendent. Pensions and rewards

were conferred on men of letters, and M. de Fontanes was frequently

consulted on these points. Bonaparte liked to talk with him, and their

conversations were in general very entertaining. The First Consul amused

himself by attacking the pure and classical taste of M. de Fontanes, who

defended our French _chefs d’œuvre_ with warmth, and thus he gained a

reputation for courage among those present. For there were already

persons at that Court who took so readily to the _rôle_ of the courtier,

that they looked upon any one who ventured to admire “Mérope” or

“Mithridates,” after the master had declared that he cared for neither

of those works, as quite a heroic being.

Bonaparte appeared to derive great amusement from these literary

controversies. At one time he even thought of inviting certain men of

letters to come twice a week to Mme. Bonaparte’s receptions, so that he

might enjoy their conversation. M. de Rémusat, who was acquainted with a

number of distinguished men in Paris, was directed to invite them to the

château. Accordingly, one evening, several academicians and well-known

literary men were invited. Bonaparte was in a good humor that night; he

talked very well, and allowed others to talk; he was agreeable and

animated. I was charmed to see him make himself so agreeable. I was very

anxious that he should make a favorable impression on persons who had

not previously known him, and thus defeat certain prejudices which

prevailed against him. When he chose, he could exhibit keen judgment, as

he did, for instance, in appraising the worth of the old Abbé Morellet’s

intellect. Morellet was a straightforward, positive man, who proceeded

in argument from fact to fact and would never admit the power of the

imagination on the progress of human ideas. Bonaparte delighted in

upsetting this system. Allowing his imagination to take any flight it

wished—and in the Abbé’s presence it carried him far—he broached all

kinds of subjects, gave full flight to his ideas, was highly amused at

the bewilderment of the Abbé, and was really very entertaining.

The next day he spoke with pleasure of the previous evening, and said he

would like to have many such. A similar reception was therefore fixed

for a few days later. Somebody (I forget who) began to talk with much

animation about liberty of thought and speech, and the advantages which

they secure to nations. This led to a discussion considerably less free

than on the former occasion, and the Consul maintained a silence which

seemed to paralyze the company. On the third evening he came in late,

was absent and gloomy, and spoke only a few unconnected sentences. Every

one was silent and constrained; and the next day the First Consul told

us that he saw there was nothing to be made of these men of letters,

nothing to be gained by admitting them to intimacy, and he did not wish

they should be invited again. He could not bear any restraint, and being

obliged to appear affable and in a good humor on a certain day and at a

certain hour was a yoke which he hastened to shake off.

During that winter two distinguished academicians, MM. de la Harpe and

de Saint-Lambert, died. I regretted the latter very much, because I was

exceedingly attached to Mme. d’Houdetot, whose intimate friend he had

been for forty years, and at whose house he died. This delightful old

lady received all the best and most agreeable society of Paris. I was a

constant visitor at her house; there I found the revival of a day which

then seemed lost beyond recall—I mean that in which people conversed in

an agreeable and instructive manner. Mme. d’Houdetot, whose age and

disposition alike kept her aloof from all political parties, enjoyed the

repose that the country was enjoying, and profited by it to collect all

that remained of Parisian good society at her house. They came willingly

to tend and to amuse her old age. To go to her house was a relief from

the restraint under which I lived at the Tuileries, partly from the

example of others and partly from the experience which I was beginning

to acquire.

About this time a rumor rose that war with England was likely to break

out again. Private letters revealing certain enterprises set on foot in

La Vendée were published. In these letters the English Government was

accused of aiding the Vendeans, and George Cadoudal was named in them as

the agent between the English Government and the Chouans. M. André was

also mentioned; it was said he had got into France secretly, after

already having endeavored, before the 18th Fructidor, to assist the

Royalist cause. While this rumor was spreading, the Legislative Assembly

was called together. The report of the state of the Republic which was

laid before it was remarkable, and gave rise to much comment. It

included peace with foreign powers; the _conclusum_ given at Ratisbon

upon the new partition of Germany, and recognized by all the sovereigns;

the constitution accepted by the Swiss; the Concordat; the regulation of

public education; the formation of the Institute; the improved

administration of justice; the amelioration of the finances; the Civil

Code, of which a portion was submitted to the Assembly; various public

works commenced both on our frontiers and in France; plans for Antwerp,

for Mont Cenis, the banks of the Rhine, and the canal de l’Ourcq; the

acquisition of the island of Elba; the possession of Saint Domingo;

several proposals for laws, upon indirect taxation, on the formation of

chambers of commerce, on the exercise of the profession of medicine, and

on manufactures. All this formed a satisfactory statement, and one

honorable to the Government. At the end of the report, however, a few

words were slipped in with reference to the possibility of a rupture

with England, and the necessity for increasing the army. Neither the

Legislative Assembly nor the Tribunate offered any opposition whatever,

and approbation which at that time was really deserved was bestowed upon

so fair a beginning to many great undertakings.

In March, bitter complaints appeared in our newspapers of certain

pamphlets against Bonaparte which were circulated in England. This

sensitiveness to strictures by the English free press was only a

pretext; the occupation of Malta and our intervention in the Government

of Switzerland were the true causes of the rupture. On the 8th of March,

1803, a message from the King of England to the Parliament declared that

important differences between the two Governments had arisen, and

complained of the warlike preparations which were being made in the

ports of Holland. Immediately afterward the scene took place in which

Bonaparte either feigned or allowed himself to exhibit violent anger in

the presence of all the ambassadors. A little later he left Paris for

Saint Cloud.

Notwithstanding his absorption in public affairs, he took care to direct

one of his Prefects of the Palace to write a letter of congratulation

and compliment to the celebrated musician Paisiello on the opera of

“Proserpine,” which had just been given in Paris. The First Consul was

exceedingly anxious to attract the celebrated people of all countries to

France, and he paid them liberally.

Shortly afterward the rupture between France and England took place, and

the English ambassador—before whose house a great crowd had been in the

habit of assembling daily, in order to judge of the state of affairs,

according to the preparations for departure which they could or could

not perceive in the courtyard—left Paris abruptly. M. de Talleyrand

communicated to the Senate a statement of the reasons that rendered war

inevitable. The Senate replied that they could only applaud the combined

moderation and firmness of the First Consul, and sent a deputation to

Saint Cloud to express their gratitude and their devotion. M. de

Vaublanc, when speaking in the Legislative Assembly, exclaimed

enthusiastically, “What chief of a nation has ever shown a greater love

of peace?” If it were possible to separate the history of the

negotiations of the First Consul from that of his exploits, it would

read like the life of a magistrate whose sole endeavor had been the

establishment of peace. The Tribunate expressed a desire that energetic

measures should be taken; and, after these various acts of admiration

and obedience, the session of the Legislative Assembly came to a close.

Then appeared certain violent notes against the English Government,

which soon became numerous, and dealt in detail with the attacks of the

free daily press in London. Bonaparte dictated the substance of these

notes, and M. Maret drew them up. Thus the sovereign of a great empire

entered, so to speak, into a war of words with journalists, and lowered

his own dignity by allowing it to be seen that he was stung by the

criticisms of ephemeral newspapers, whose comments it would have been

far wiser to ignore. It was easy for the English journalists to find out

how hard their remarks hit the First Consul, and a little later the

Emperor of France, and they accordingly redoubled their attacks. How

many times, when we saw him gloomy and out of temper, did Mme. Bonaparte

tell us it was because he had read some article against himself in the

“Courier” or the “Sun”! He tried to wage a pen-and-ink war with the

English press; he subsidized certain journals in London, expended a

great deal of money, and deceived no one either in France or in England.

I have said that he often dictated notes on this subject for the

“Moniteur.” Bonaparte dictated with great ease. He never wrote anything

with his own hand. His handwriting was bad, and as illegible by himself

as by others; his spelling was very defective. He utterly lacked

patience to do anything whatever with his own hands. The extreme

activity of his mind and the habitual prompt obedience rendered to him

prevented him from practicing an occupation in which the mind must

necessarily wait for the action of the body. Those who wrote from his

dictation—first M. Bourrienne, then M. Maret, and Menneval, his private

secretary—had made a sort of shorthand for themselves, in order that

their pens might travel as fast as his thoughts. He dictated while

walking to and fro in his cabinet. When he grew angry, he would use

violent imprecations, which were suppressed in writing, and which had at

least the advantage of giving the writer time to come up with him. He

never repeated anything that he once said, even if it had not been

heard; and this was very hard on the poor secretary, for he remembered

accurately what he had said and detected every omission. One day he read

a tragedy in manuscript, and it interested him sufficiently to inspire

him with a fancy to make some alterations in it. “Take a pen and paper,”

said he to M. de Rémusat, “and write for me.” Hardly giving my husband

time to seat himself at a table, he began to dictate so quickly that M.

de Rémusat, although accustomed to write with great rapidity, was bathed

in perspiration while trying to follow him. Bonaparte perceived his

difficulty, and would stop now and then to say, “Come, try to understand

me, for I will not repeat what I say.” He always derived amusement from

causing any one uneasiness and distress. His great general principle,

which he applied to everything, both small and great, was that there

could be no zeal where there was no disquiet. Fortunately he forgot to

ask for the sheet of observations he had dictated. M. de Rémusat and I

have often tried to read it since, but we have never been able to make

out a word of it.

M. Maret, the Secretary of State, was a man of very ordinary intellect;

indeed, Bonaparte did not dislike mediocrity, because he said he had

enough brains to give those about him what they wanted in that way. M.

Maret rose to high favor in consequence of his great facility in writing

from the First Consul’s dictation. He accustomed himself to follow and

seize upon the first indication of Bonaparte’s idea so faithfully that

he could report it just as it came from the speaker’s brain without

making an observation. His favor with his master was perhaps still more

largely due to the fact that he felt or feigned boundless devotion to

him, and it was displayed by such enthusiastic admiration that Bonaparte

could not help being flattered. So far did M. Maret carry the art of

skillful adulation, that it was positively asserted that when he

traveled with the Emperor he took the trouble to leave with his wife

drafts of letters, which she copied carefully, complaining that her

husband was so exclusively devoted to his master that she could not help

feeling jealous. As all the letters were delivered at the Emperor’s own

quarters while he was traveling, and as he frequently amused himself by

opening them, these clever complainings produced exactly the intended

effect.

When M. Maret was Minister of Foreign Affairs, he took care not to

follow the example of M. de Talleyrand, who used to say that it was,

above all, Bonaparte himself whom it was necessary for that minister to

manage. Maret, on the contrary, fostered all Bonaparte’s passions, and

was surprised that foreign sovereigns should dare to be angry when he

insulted them, or should offer any resistance to their own ruin. He thus

advanced his personal fortune at the expense of Europe, whose just

interests an honest and able minister would have endeavored to protect.

A courier was always in readiness, by whom he might dispatch to any one

of the sovereigns the first angry words that escaped from Bonaparte,

when he heard news which displeased him. His weak complaisance was

sometimes injurious to his master. It caused more than one rupture which

was regretted when the first outbreak of violence had passed, and it

probably contributed to the fall of Bonaparte; for, in the last year of

his reign, while he lingered at Dresden uncertain what to do, Maret

delayed for eight days the retreat it was so important to make, because

he had not the courage to inform the Emperor of the defection of

Bavaria, a piece of intelligence it was most necessary he should learn.

An anecdote of M. de Talleyrand may be related here, as a sample of the

skill with which that astute minister managed Bonaparte, and also of the

completeness of his own ascendancy.