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:

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.