Brune and Murat--The return to Villers-Cotterets--L'hôtel de
l'Épée--Princess Pauline--The chase--The chief forester's
permission--My father takes to his bed never to rise
again--Delirium--The goldheaded cane--Death.
He next day Murat and Brune lunched with us. Luncheon was served in
a room on the first floor; from the window of this room Montmartre
could be seen, and I remember that I was watching a huge kite floating
gracefully in the air above some windmills, when my father called me
to him, put Brune's sword between my legs, Murat's hat on my head, and
made me gallop round the table. "Do not ever forget, my child," he said
to me, "how to-day you have ridden round that table on Brune's sword,
and had Murat's hat on your head, also that you were kissed yesterday
by Madame de Montesson, widow of the duc d'Orléans, the regent's
grandson."
See, my father, how well I have remembered all the incidents you bade
me recollect. And since I came to years of discretion my memories of
you have lived in me like a sacred lamp, illuminating everything and
every person you ever laid a finger on, although time has destroyed
those things, and death has taken away those persons.
Moreover, I paid my tribute of respect to the memory of both these men,
to the one at Avignon and to the other at Pizzo, when, ten years later,
they were both assassinated, within two months of each other.
Alas! who would have foretold that the child of three years old who
capered so gaily round them was one day to recount their death, to see
the place where they were killed, and to put his fingers in the very
hole made by the bullets which pierced their bodies and indented the
wall behind?
What dark and bloody secrets the mysterious future hides from us! When
they are unfolded, may men realise that it is by the good providence of
God they were kept in ignorance of them until the appointed time!
One last word about that luncheon.... My father had consulted
Corvisart, and, although Corvisart did his best to reassure him,
my father knew he was a dying man. My father had tried to get an
interview with the emperor,--for Bonaparte, the general of the Army of
the Interior, had become the Emperor Napoleon,--and the emperor had
declined to see my father. He had then fallen back on his two friends,
Brune and Murat, who had just become marshals of the Empire. He found
Brune as cordial as ever, but Murat very cool towards him. This
luncheon was for the purpose of commending my mother and me to Brune
and Murat; my mother, so soon to become a widow, and I an orphan; for,
when my father died, his allowance would die with him, and we should be
left without means.
They both promised to do all they could, should this come about.
My father embraced Brune, shook Murat by the hand and left Paris the
next day with death both in his body and in his heart.
We left Paris, but the return journey is no clearer to me than our
going. Only a few things remain in my memory: they slumbered in my
childhood and youth, and then burst forth into bright flame during
manhood.
To what place we returned I cannot remember; I think, however, it must
have been to Villers-Cotterets. I recollect that about the 3rd October
we were staying in the famous hôtel de _l'Écu_, in the rue de Soissons,
of which my grandfather was proprietor at the time of his daughter's
marriage. As this crown was the crown of France, as the crown of France
bore three _fleurs de lis_ and as these flowers had ceased to be used
since 1792, l'hôtel de _l'Écu_ became l'hôtel de _l'Épée,_ and was kept
by a M. Picot, who was called Picot de l'Épée to distinguish him from
two other Picots, one called Picot de None, and the other Picot the
lawyer.
I shall have occasion to refer again to the latter two, who were
closely connected with my early life.
I remember that towards the end of October a cab drew up at the main
entrance, to take my father and me away.
I was always highly delighted when my father took me on his excursions.
On this occasion we crossed the park, and I remember that it was late
October, because of the dead leaves which flew about like flocks of
birds.
We reached a gate, and my father had forgotten the key. We were already
three-quarters of a league from the house, and therefore too far away
to go back for it; so my father got down, took _the gate_ in his arms,
shook it violently, and caused the stone in which the bolt of the lock
was secured, to become detached from the post that held it.
We continued our drive, and in about half an hour's time we reached the
château of Montgobert. The livery of the servants there was green, and
not red, like that of Madame de Montesson. As at Madame de Montesson's
mansion, we walked through a suite of rooms until we reached a boudoir
hung with cashmere. A woman reclined on a sofa, a young and beautiful
woman, very young and very beautiful; indeed, so beautiful that even I,
a child, noticed it.
This lady was Pauline Bonaparte, who was born in Ajaccio in 1790,
became the widow of General Leclerc in 1802, married Prince
Aldobrandini Borghèse in 1803, and separated from her husband in 1804.
She appeared a delightful creature to my young imagination, so slight,
so gracious, so pure; she wore tiny embroidered slippers, given her, no
doubt, by Cinderella's fairy godmother. When my father entered the room
she did not rise up, but only raised her head and held out her hand.
My father wished to sit on a chair by her side, but she made him sit
at her feet, which she rested on his knees, the toes of her slippers
playing with his coat buttons. Her feet, her hands, her dainty slim
figure, white and plump, and that Hercules of a mulatto, still handsome
and powerful-looking in spite of his sufferings, made the most charming
picture you could imagine.
I laughed as I looked at them, and the princess called me to her and
gave me a tortoiseshell bonbon box, inlaid all over with gold.
I was greatly surprised to see her empty out the bonbons that were
inside before she gave me the box. My father made some remark to her,
and she bent down towards his ear, whispered a few words and they both
began to laugh. As she bent down, the princess's white and pink cheek
brushed against my father's dusky one, making his skin look darker and
hers more white. They were both superb.
Perhaps childish eyes--full of astonishment at everything they
see--lent a glamour to the scene, but I feel certain that, were I a
painter, I could make a lovely picture of those two beings.
Suddenly we heard the sound of a horn out in the park.
"What is that?" asked my father.
"Oh!" the princess replied, "it is the people of Montbreton out
hunting."
"Ah! see," said my father, "the hunt is coming near; the brute is
running down this avenue, Princess, do come and look."
"Not I, my dear General," she said. "I am comfortable, and I do not
want to disturb myself; it tires me to walk. You may carry me to the
window, if you like."
My father picked her up in his arms, as a nurse takes up a baby, and
carried her to the window.
He held her there quite ten minutes. The animal would not break cover.
At last it passed down the avenue, with both hounds and men after it.
The princess waved her handkerchief to the hunters, and they responded
by raising their hats.
Then my father laid her on the couch again, and resumed his seat by her
side.
I do not know what happened behind me. I was completely taken up with
watching the stag, which was escaping down the avenue from both hounds
and hunters. That scene interested me far more than did the princess.
I remember no more of her beyond the waving of her white hand and her
white handkerchief.
I have never seen her since, but she left so vivid an impression upon
me that day that I can see her now.
I do not recollect in the least whether we remained on at Montgobert or
returned the same day to Villers-Cotterets.
But I remember that my father soon after became weaker; he went out
less often, he more rarely rode on horseback, he kept to his room
for longer periods and he took me on his knees in a sadder mood. But
these reminiscences only return to me in flashes, like objects seen by
lightning on a dark night.
Some days before his death my father received permission to hunt. It
came from Alexandre Berthier, marshal of the Empire, master of hounds
to the Crown. Alexandre Berthier was an old enemy of my father. I quite
believe it was he who had reported him as standing looking on at the
siege of Mantua. Moreover, he had been a precious time in granting this
permission, which was available from Vendémiaire the 1st to the 15th of
Ventôse--in other words, from the 23rd of September to the 6th March.
My father received it on the 24th February, and he died on the 26th.
This is a copy of the letter of leave from M. Deviolaine, Inspector of
Forests:--
"Just as I am starting for the forest I have received an
order from M. Collard to permit General Dumas to hunt and
shoot. I hasten to send it to him with all good wishes, and
my sincere hopes that his state of health will permit him to
make use of it.
"Our sincere regards to Madame Dumas. DEVIOLAINE.
"_Feb 24, 1806._"
Even supposing my father had been well, the matter had been so
arranged that he only received on February 24th a leave which expired
on the 6th March. Thus, a dozen days of hunting were granted him.
My father flung both letter and order down on the table. My mother put
them into her portfolio, where, forty-four years later, I came across
them, enclosed one within the other.
The same evening my father tried to forget his sufferings by a ride on
horseback; but the conqueror was vanquished at last, and he was obliged
to return in half an hour's time. He went at once to bed, never again
to rise from it.
My mother went for the doctor, leaving my father alone under a
neighbour's care--a most excellent woman--Madame Darcourt, of whom I
shall have occasion to speak. My father fell into a short access of
delirium and despair.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "Oh, my God, my God, must a general, who at
thirty-five years of age was at the head of three armies, die in his
bed, like a coward, at forty! What have I done that Thou shouldst
condemn one so young to leave wife and children?"
Then, after a few minutes of quietness, he began:
"See, dear Madame Darcourt, this cane saved my life in the prisons of
Brindisi, when those Neapolitan ruffians tried to assassinate me. Look
to it that it never leaves me, let it be buried with me! My boy will
not know the price I set on it, and it would only be lost before he is
old enough to use it."
And Madame Darcourt, who saw that he was still somewhat delirious,
replied, in order to soothe him, that it should be done as he wished.
"See," my father said,--"the head is gold."
"Certainly it is," she replied.
"Well, then, as I cannot leave my children sufficiently well off to
deprive them of the money that knob might fetch--little though it may
be--take the cane to Duguet's, the goldsmith's opposite, who will melt
it down into a nugget,--then let him bring the nugget to me directly he
has done it."
Madame Darcourt was about to venture a remark, but he entreated her so
insistently to do what he asked, that she consented, and took the cane
to Duguet.
She returned immediately, as she only had to run across the street.
"Well?" my father asked.
"All right, you shall have your nugget at six o'clock to-morrow evening,
General."
"To-morrow at six in the evening," repeated my father. "That will do;
it is probable I shall not be dead by then."
Next day Duguet brought the nugget over, and the dying man gave it to
my mother: he was exceedingly weak by then, but his mind was perfectly
clear, and he was able to hear what was said to him and to talk.
At ten at night, feeling death near at hand, he asked for Abbé Grégoire.
Abbé Grégoire was not only a good priest, he was an excellent friend of
my father.
It was not a confession that the dying man wanted to make, for in all
his life my father had not done a single bad action with which he
could reproach himself; maybe in the depths of his heart he harboured
feelings of hatred towards Berthier and Napoleon. But how could the
last hours of a dying man concern these men at the pinnacle of fame and
fortune? Moreover, all feelings of hatred were forgotten in the two
hours before his death, which were spent in trying to comfort those he
was to leave alone in the world, when he had departed from it.
Once, he asked to see me; but, as they were preparing to fetch me
from my cousin's, where I had been sent, he forbade them. "No," he
said,--"poor child, he is asleep, do not disturb him."
Finally, after bidding farewell to Madame Darcourt and the abbé, he
turned towards my mother and, keeping his last breath for her, he died
in her arms as midnight struck.