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