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