APPENDIX.

No. I. BUONAPARTE'S LETTER TO GENERAL PAOLI.

[See p. 9.]

General,

I was born when our country was perishing. Thirty thousand Frenchmen, vomited on our coasts, drowning the throne of liberty in streams of blood—such was the odious spectacle which first presented itself to my sight.

The cries of the dying, the groans of the oppressed, the tears of despair, were the companions of my infancy.

You quitted our island, and with you disappeared the hope of happiness. Slavery was the reward of our submission; weighed down under the triple chain of the soldier, the legislator, and the collector of imposts, our countrymen live despised—despised by those who have the forces of the administration in their hands. Is not this the severest of suffering for those who have the slightest elevation of sentiment? Can the wretched Peruvian, groaning under the tortures of the rapacious Spaniard, experience a vexation more galling?

The traitors to our country—the wretches whom the thirst of sordid gain has corrupted—to justify themselves, have circulated calumnies against the national government, and against you in particular. Writers, adopting them as truths, transmit them to posterity.

While reading them, my blood has boiled with indignation; and at length I have resolved to disperse these delusions, the offspring of ignorance. An early study of the French language, long observation, and documents drawn from the portfolios of the patriots, have led me to promise myself some success.

I wish to compare your government of our country with the present one. I wish to brand with infamy the men who have betrayed the common cause. I wish to summon before the tribunal of public opinion the men now in power—to set forth their vexatious proceedings, expose their secret intrigues, and if possible, interest the present minister[659] in the deplorable situation we are now in.

If my fortune had permitted me to live in the capital, I should doubtless have found out other means of making known the wrongs of my country: but, obliged to serve in the army, I find myself compelled to resort to this, the only means of publicity; for, as to private memorials, they would either not reach those for whom they were intended, or, stifled by the clamour of interested individuals, they would only occasion the ruin of the author.

Still young, my undertaking may be a rash one; but a love of truth, my native land, and fellow-countrymen—that enthusiasm, with which the prospect of an amelioration in our state always inspires me, will be my support. If you, general, condescend to approve of a labour, of which your deeds will form so large a portion—if you condescend to encourage the efforts of a young man, whom you have known from the hour of his birth, and whose parents were always attached to the good cause, I shall dare to augur favourably of my success.

I at one time indulged a hope, that I should have been able to go to London, to express to you in person the sentiments you have given birth to in my bosom, and to converse together on the misfortunes of our country; but the distance is an obstacle. The day, perhaps, will arrive, when I shall be able to overcome it.

Whatever may be the success of my work, I am sensible that it will raise against me the whole host of French employés, who misgovern our island, and against whom my attack is directed. But what imports their enmity, when the interest of our country is at stake! I shall be loaded with their abuse; and, when the bolt falls, I shall descend into my own bosom, call to memory the legitimacy of my motives, and from that moment defy it.

Permit me, general, to offer you the homage of my family. And, ah! why should I not say, of my countrymen? They sigh at the recollection of a time when they had hoped for liberty. My mother, Madame Letitia, charges me especially to recall to your memory the years long since past at Corté.

I am, with respect, General, Your very humble, and very obedient Servant, Napoleon Buonaparte, Officer in the Regiment of La Fère.

Auxonne-en-Bourgoyne, } 12th June, 1789. }

No. II. LETTER OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE TO M. MATTEO BUTTAFUOCO, DEPUTY FROM CORSICA TO THE NATIONAL ASSEMBLY.

[See p. 10.]

Sir,

From Bonifacio to Cape Corso, from Ajaccio to Bastia, there is one chorus of imprecations against you. Your friends keep out of sight, your relations disown you, and even the man of reflection, who does not allow himself to be swayed by popular opinion, is, for once, led away by the general effervescence.

But what have you done? What are the crimes to justify such universal indignation, such complete desertion? This, sir, is what I wish to inquire into, in the course of a little discussion with you.

The history of your life, since the time at least when you appeared on the stage of public affairs, is well known. Its principal features are drawn in letters of blood. Still, however, there are details comparatively unknown. In these I may be mistaken; but I reckon upon your indulgence, and hope for information from you.

After having entered the service of France, you returned to see your relations: you found the tyrants vanquished, the national government established, and the Corsicans, entirely governed by noble sentiments, vying with each other in daily sacrifices for the prosperity of the state. You did not allow yourself to be seduced by the general enthusiasm; far from that, you looked with nothing but pity on the nonsensical stuff about country, liberty, independence, and constitution, which had got into the heads of our meanest peasants. Deep reflection had taught you to set a proper value on those artificial sentiments, the maintenance of which is a general evil. In fact, the peasant must be taught to mind his work, and not play the hero, if it is wished that he should not starve, that he should bring up his family, and pay respect to authority. As to those who are called, by their rank and fortune, to occupy stations of power, they cannot long remain such dupes as to sacrifice their comforts and consideration in society for a mere chimera, or stoop to pay court to a cobbler, that they may at last play the part of Brutus. Still, as it was necessary for your designs that you should gain the favour of Paoli, you had to dissemble;—M. Paoli being the centre of all the movements of the political body. We shall admit that he had talent—even a certain degree of genius; he had, in a short time, placed the affairs of the island on a good footing; he had founded a university, in which, for the first time, perhaps, since the creation, the sciences which are useful for the developement of reason were taught among our mountains. He had established a foundery for cannon, powder-mills, and fortifications, which increased the means of defence; he had formed harbours, which, while they encouraged commerce, improved agriculture; he had created a navy, which protected our communication with other countries, while it injured our enemies. All these establishments, in their infancy, were a mere presage of what he one day might have done. Union, peace, and liberty, seemed the precursors of national prosperity, had not a government, ill-organized, and placed on an unsound basis, afforded still surer indications of the misfortunes which were to happen, and of the total ruin into which every thing was to fall.

M. Paoli had dreamed of being a Solon, but had been unsuccessful in his imitation. He had placed every thing in the hands of the people or their representatives, so that it was impossible even to exist without pleasing them. A strange error which places under the control of a brutal and mercenary plebeian, the man who alone, by his education, his illustrious birth, and his fortune, is formed for governing. In the long run, so palpable a dereliction of reason cannot fail to bring on the ruin and dissolution of the body-politic, after having exposed it to every species of suffering.

You succeeded to your wish. M. Paoli, constantly surrounded by enthusiastic and hot-headed persons, never imagined that there could be any other passion than the devotion to liberty and independence. Finding that you had some knowledge of France, he did not trouble himself to do more than take your own word for your moral principles. He got you appointed to treat at Versailles respecting the accommodation which was negotiating under the mediation of the cabinet. M. de Choiseul saw you, and knew you; minds of a certain stamp are speedily appreciated. In a short time, in place of being the representative of a free people, you transformed yourself into the clerk of a minister; you communicated to him the instructions, the plans, the secrets of the Cabinet of Corsica.

This conduct, which is considered here as base and atrocious, appears to me quite natural; but this is because, in all sorts of affairs, we should understand one another, and reason with coolness.

The prude censures the coquette, and is laughed at by her in return; this, in a few words, is your history. The man of principle judges you harshly, but you do not believe that there is a man of principle. The common people, who are always led away by virtuous demagogues, cannot be appreciated by you, who do not believe in virtue. You cannot be condemned but by your own principles, like a criminal by the laws; but those who know the refinement of your principles, find nothing in your conduct but what is very simple. This brings us back, then, to what we have already said, that, in all sorts of affairs, the first thing requisite is to understand one another, and then argue coolly. You are also protected by a sort of sub-defence, not less effectual, for you do not aspire to the reputation of a Cato or a Catinat. It is sufficient for you to resemble a certain class; and, among this certain class, it is agreed that he who may get money, and does not profit by the opportunity, is a ninny; for money procures all the pleasures of sense, and the pleasures of sense are the only pleasures. Now, M. de Choiseul, who was very liberal, made it impossible for you to resist him—particularly as your ridiculous country paid you for your services, according to her laughable custom, by the honour of serving her.

The treaty of Compiégne being concluded, M. de Chauvelin and twenty-four battalions landed on our shores. M. de Choiseul, to whom the celerity of the expedition was most important, had uneasiness on the subject, which, in his confidential communications, he could not disguise from you. You suggested that he should send you there with a few millions. As Philip took cities with his Mule, you promised to make every thing yield to him without opposition. No sooner said than done—and there you are, recrossing the sea, throwing off the mask, and, with money and your commission in your hand, opening negotiations with those whom you thought would be most easily gained over.

Never imagining that a Corsican could prefer himself to his country, the Cabinet of Corsica had intrusted you with her interests. Never dreaming, for your part, that any man would not prefer money and himself to his country, you sold yourself and hoped to buy every body. Profound moralist as you were, you knew how much the enthusiasm of each individual was worth; some pounds of gold, more or less, formed, in your eyes, all the shades which diversify character.

You are mistaken, however:—the weak-minded were certainly shaken, but they were terrified by the horrible idea of mangling the bosom of their country. They thought they saw their fathers, their brothers, their friends, who perished in defending her, raise their heads from the tomb to load them with curses. These ridiculous prejudices were strong enough to stop you in your career; you lamented having to do with a people so childish in its notions. But, sir, this refinement of sentiment is not bestowed on the multitude; and, therefore, they live in poverty and wretchedness; while a man who has got proper notions, if circumstances favour him ever so little, knows the way to rise very speedily. This is pretty exactly the moral of your story.

When you made your report of the obstacles which prevented you from realizing your promises, you proposed that the Royal Corsican regiment should be bought. You hoped that its example would enlighten our too simple and honest peasants, and accustom them to things to which they felt so much repugnance. But what happened? Did not Rossi, Marengo, and some other madmen, inflame the minds of the regiment to such a pitch, that the officers in a body protested, by an authentic writing, that they would throw up their commissions, sooner than violate their oaths, or their duties, which were still more sacred?

You thus found yourself reduced to stand alone as an example to others. Without being disconcerted, at the head of a few friends and a French detachment, you threw yourself into Vescovato; but the terrible Clement[660] unkennelled you from thence. You retired upon Bastia with your companions in adventure. This little affair was not much to your credit; your house, and those of your associates, were burnt. But, in a place of safety, you laughed at these impotent efforts.

People here charge you with having endeavoured to arm the Royal Corsicans against their brethren. They also wish to impeach your courage, from the small resistance you made at Vescovato. There is little foundation for these accusations; for the first was an immediate consequence of your projects, indeed one of your means of executing them; and, as we have already proved that your conduct was perfectly simple and natural, this incidental charge goes for nothing. As to your want of courage, I do not see how this is settled by the action of Vescovato: You did not go there with the serious purpose of fighting, but for the sake of encouraging, by your example, those who were wavering in the opposite party. And after all, what right has any one to require that you should have run the risk of losing the fruits of two years' good conduct, by being shot like a common soldier? But you must have felt a good deal, say some folk, on seeing your own house, and those of your friends, become a prey to the flames. Good God! when will narrow-minded people give over trying to judge of every thing? Your letting your house be burnt, put M. de Choiseul under the necessity of indemnifying you. Experience proved the accuracy of your calculations; you received much more than the value of what you lost. To be sure you are accused of having kept all to yourself, and of having given nothing but a trifle to the poor creatures whom you had seduced. In order to justify your having acted in this way, it is only necessary to inquire if you could do it with perfect safety. Now, the poor people who were so dependent on your protection, were neither in a condition to demand restitution, nor even to understand very clearly the injustice which was done them. They could not become malecontents, and rebel against your authority; being held in detestation by their countrymen, their return to their former sentiments could no longer be held as sincere. It was then very natural that, when a few thousand crowns thus came in your way, you should not let them out of your hands;—to have done so, would have been cheating yourself.

The French, beaten in spite of their gold, their commissions, the discipline of their numerous battalions, the activity of their squadrons, the skill of their artillerymen,—defeated at La Penta, Vescovato, Loretto, San Nicolai, Borgo Barbaggio, Oletta,—intrenched themselves, excessively disheartened. Winter, the time of their repose, was for you, sir, a period of the greatest labour; and if you could not triumph over the obstinacy of prejudices so deeply rooted in the minds of the people, you found means to seduce some of their chiefs, whom you succeeded, though with some difficulty, in bringing to a right way of thinking. This, along with the thirty battalions whom M. de Vaux brought with him the following spring, forced Corsica to yield to the yoke, and drove Paoli and the greatest fanatics into banishment.

One portion of the patriots had died in the defence of their independence, another had fled from a land of proscription, and which, from that time, was a hideous den of tyrants. But a great number could neither die nor take flight; they became the objects of persecution. Minds, whom it had been found impossible to corrupt, were of such a stamp, that the empire of the French could only be established on their total destruction. Alas! this plan was but too punctually executed. Some perished, victims of crimes unjustly imputed to them; others, betrayed by their own hospitality, and by their own confidence, expiated on the scaffold the sighs and tears into which they had been surprised by dissimulation. A great number, crowded by Narbonne-Fridzelar into the town of Toulon, poisoned by unwholesome food, tortured by their chains, and sinking under the most barbarous treatment, lived a short time in their misery, merely to see death slowly approaching. O God, witness of their innocence, why didst thou not become their avenger?

In the midst of this general calamity, in the midst of the groans and lamentations of this unfortunate people, you, however, began to enjoy the fruit of your labours—honours, dignities, pensions, all were showered upon you. Your prosperity would have advanced still more rapidly, had not Du Barri overthrown M. de Choiseul, and deprived you of a protector, who duly appreciated your services. This blow did not discourage you: you turned your attention to the bureaux; you merely felt the necessity of greater assiduity. This flattered the persons in office, your services were so notorious. All your wishes were granted. Not content with the lake of Biguglia, you demanded a part of the lands of many communities. Why, it is said, did you wish to deprive them of these lands? I ask, in my turn, what regard ought you to have for a nation by whom you knew yourself to be detested?

Your favourite project was, to divide the island among ten Barons. How! not satisfied with having assisted in forging the chains with which your country was bound, you wished still further to subject her to the absurd feudal government! But I commend you for having done as much harm to the Corsicans as you possibly could. You were at war with them; and, in war, to do evil for one's own advantage, is a first principle.

But let us pass over all these paltry matters—let us come to the present moment, and conclude a letter, which, from its frightful length, cannot fail to fatigue you.

The state of affairs in France prognosticated extraordinary events. You became alarmed for the effect of them in Corsica. The same madness with which we were possessed before the war, began, to your great scandal, to infect that amiable people. You comprehended the consequences; for, if noble sentiments were to gain an ascendency in public opinion, you would become no better than a traitor, instead of being a man of prudence and good sense. What was still worse, if ever noble sentiments were again to stir the blood of our ardent countrymen, and if ever a national government were to be the result of such sentiments, what would become of you? Your own conscience then began to terrify you. Restless, however, and unhappy as you were, you did not yield to your conscience. You resolved to risk every thing for every thing—but you played your game skilfully. You married, to strengthen your interest. A respectable man, who, relying on your word, had given his sister to your nephew, found himself abused. Your nephew, whose patrimony you had swallowed up in order to increase an inheritance which was to have been his own, was reduced to poverty, with a numerous family.

Having arranged your domestic affairs, you cast your eyes over the country. You saw it smoking with the blood of its martyrs, heaped with numerous victims, and, at every step, inspiring only ideas of vengeance. But you saw the ruffian soldier, the insolent pettifogger, the greedy tax-gatherer, lord it without contradiction; and the Corsican, groaning under the weight of triple chains, neither daring to think of what he was, nor to reflect on what he still might be. You said to yourself, in the joy of your heart, "Things go on well, and the only thing is to keep them so." And straightway you leagued yourself with the soldier, the pettifogger, and the tax-gatherer. The only point now to be attended to was, to procure deputies who should be animated by congenial sentiments; for, as to yourself, you could never suppose that a nation which was your enemy would choose you for her representative. But you necessarily changed your opinion, when the letters of convocation, by an absurdity which was perhaps the result of design, determined that the deputy from the nobility should be appointed by an assembly composed of only twenty-two persons. All that was necessary was to obtain twelve votes. Your associates in the higher council laboured with activity. Threats, promises, caresses, money, all were put in action. You succeeded. Your friends were not so successful among the Commons. The first president failed; and two men of exalted ideas—the one the son, the brother, the nephew, of the most zealous defenders of the common cause—the other a person who had seen Sionville and Narbonne, and whose mind was full of the horrid actions he had seen, while he lamented his own want of power to oppose them;—these two men were proclaimed deputies, and their appointment satisfied the wishes of the nation. The secret chagrin, the suppressed rage, which were every where caused by your appointment, form the best eulogy on the skill of your manœuvres, and the influence of your league.

When you arrived at Versailles, you were a zealous Royalist. When you now arrived at Paris, you must have seen with much concern, that the government, which it was wished to organize upon so many ruins, was the same with that which, in our country, had been drowned in so much blood.

The efforts of the unprincipled were powerless; the new constitution being admired by all Europe, and having become an object of interest to every thinking being, there remained for you but one resource. This was, to make it be believed that this constitution was not adapted to our island; although it was exactly the same with that which had produced such good effects, and which it cost so much blood to deprive us of.

All the delegates of the former administration, who naturally entered into your cabal, served you with the zeal arising from personal interest. Memorials were written, the object of which was to prove how advantageous for us was the existing government, and to demonstrate that any change would be contrary to the wish of the nation. At this time the city of Ajaccio obtained some knowledge of what was going on. This city roused herself, formed her national guard, organized her committee. This unexpected incident alarmed you—the fermentation spread in all directions. You persuaded the ministers, over whom you had gained some ascendency in relation to the affairs of Corsica, that it was of importance to send thither your father-in-law, M. Gaffory, with a command; and immediately we saw M. Gaffory, a worthy precursor of M. Narbonne, endeavouring, at the head of his troops, to maintain by force that tyranny which his late father, of glorious memory, had resisted and confounded by his genius. Innumerable blunders left no room for concealing your father-in-law's mediocrity of talent; he possessed no other art but that of making himself enemies. The people rallied against him on every side. In this imminent danger you lifted up your eyes, and saw Narbonne! Narbonne, profiting by a moment of favour, had laid the plan of establishing firmly, in an island which he had wasted with unheard-of cruelty, the despotism which oppressed it. You laid your heads together; the plan was determined on; five thousand men received orders; commissions for increasing by a battalion the provincial regiment were prepared. Narbonne set out. This poor nation, unarmed and disheartened, without hope and without resource, is delivered into the hands of her executioner.

O unhappy countrymen! Of what odious treachery were you to be the victims! You would not perceive it till it was too late. How were you, without arms, to resist ten thousand men? You would yourself have signed the act of your degradation; hope would have been extinguished; and days of uninterrupted misfortune would have succeeded. Emancipated France would have looked upon you with contempt; afflicted Italy with indignation; and Europe, astonished at this unexampled degree of degradation, would have effaced from her annals the traits which do honour to your character. But your deputies from the Commons penetrated the design, and informed you of it in time. A king, whose only wish was the happiness of his people, being well informed on the subject by M. La Fayette, that steady friend of liberty, dissipated the intrigues of a perfidious minister, who was certainly impelled by the desire of vengeance to do you injury. Ajaccio showed resolution in her address, in which was described with such energy the miserable state to which you were reduced by the most oppressive of governments. Bastia, till then stupified as it were, awoke at the sound of danger, and took up arms with that resolution for which she has been always distinguished. Arena came from Paris to Boulogne, full of those sentiments which lead men to the boldest enterprises. With arms in one hand, and the decrees of the National Assembly in the other, he made the public enemies tremble. Achilles Meurate, the conqueror of Caprana, who had carried desolation as far as Genoa, and who, to be a Turenne, wanted nothing but opportunity and a more extensive field, reminded his companions in glory, that this was the time to acquire additional fame,—that their country in danger had need, not of intrigues, which he knew nothing about, but of fire and sword. At the sound of so general an explosion, Gaffory returned to the insignificance from which he had been brought, so mal-à-propos, by intrigues;—he trembled in the fortress of Certe. Narbonne fled from Lyons, to hide in Rome his shame, and his infernal projects. A few days afterwards Corsica is united to France, Paoli recalled; and in an instant the prospect changes, and opens to your view a course of events which you could not have dared to hope for.

I beg your pardon, sir; I took up my pen to defend you; but my heart revolts against so uniform a system of treason and atrocity. What! did you, a son of the same country, never feel any thing for her? What! did your heart experience no emotion at the sight of the rocks, the trees, the houses, the spots which were the scenes of your infant amusements? When you came into the world, your country nourished you with her fruits; when you came to the years of reason, she placed her hopes in you; she honoured you with her confidence; she said to you, "My son, you see the wretched state to which I am reduced by the injustice of men;—through my native vigour, I am recovering a degree of strength which promises me a speedy and infallible recovery; but I am again threatened! Fly, my son, hasten to Versailles; inform the great king of every thing, dissipate his suspicions, request his friendship."

Well! a little gold made you betray her confidence; and forthwith, for a little gold, you were seen, like a parricide, tearing open her bosom. Ah, sir, I am far from wishing you ill; but there is an avenging conscience! Your countrymen, to whom you are an object of horror, will enlighten France as to your character. The wealth, the pensions, the fruits of your treasons, will be taken from you. In the decrepitude of old age and poverty, in the frightful solitude of wickedness, you will live long enough to become a prey to the torments of conscience. The father will point you out to his son, the master to his pupil, saying, "Young people, learn to respect your country, virtue, fidelity, and humanity."

And you, respectable and unhappy woman, whose youth, beauty, and innocence were vilely prostituted, does your pure and chaste heart beat under a hand so criminal? In those moments in which nature gives the alarm to love, when, withdrawn from the chimeras of life, unmingled pleasures succeed each other with rapidity, when the mind, expanded by the fire of sentiment, enjoys only the pleasure of causing enjoyment, and feels only the pleasure of exciting feeling,—in those moments you press to your heart, you become identified with that cold and selfish man, who has never deviated from his character, and who, in the course of sixty years, has never known any thing but the care of his own interest, an instinctive love of destruction, the most infamous avarice, the base pleasures of sense! By and by, the glare of honours, the trappings of riches, will disappear; you will be loaded with general contempt. Will you seek, in the bosom of him who is the author of your woes, a consolation indispensable to your gentle and affectionate mind? Will you endeavour to find in his eyes tears to mingle with yours? Will your failing hand, placed on his bosom, seek to find an agitation like that in your own? Alas, if you surprise him in tears, they will be those of remorse; if his bosom heave, it will be with the convulsions of the wretch who dies abhorring nature, himself, and the hand that guides him.

O Lameth! O Robespierre! O Pétion! O Volney! O Mirabeau! O Barnave! O Bailly! O La Fayette! this is the man who dares to seat himself by your side! Dropping with the blood of his brethren, stained by every sort of vice, he presents himself with confidence in the dress of a general, the reward of his crimes! He dares to call himself the representative of the nation—he who sold her—and you suffer it! He dares to raise his eyes, and listen to your discourse, and you suffer it! Is it the voice of the people that sent him? He never had more than the voice of twelve nobles. Ajaccio, Bastia, and most of the districts, have done that to his effigy which they would have been very glad to do to his person.

But you, who are induced, by the error of the moment, or perhaps temporary abuses, to oppose any fresh changes, will you tolerate a traitor? a man who, under the cool exterior of a man of sense, conceals the avidity of a lacquey? I cannot imagine it. You will be the first to drive him away with ignominy, as soon as you are aware of the string of atrocities of which he has been the author.

I have the honour, &c. Buonaparte. From my closet at Milleli, 23d January, 1790

No. III. THE SUPPER OF BEAUCAIRE. July 29, 1793.

[See p. 14.]

I happened to be at Beaucaire on the last day of the fair, and by chance had for my companions at supper two merchants from Marseilles, a citizen of Nimes, and a manufacturer from Montpelier.

After the first few minutes of mutual survey, they discovered that I came from Avignon, and was in the army. The attention of my companions, which, all the week, had been fixed on the details of that traffic which is the parent of wealth, was at this moment turned to the issue of those passing events, upon which the security of all wealth so much depends. They endeavoured to come at my opinion, in order that, by comparing it with their own, they might be enabled to form probable conjectures respecting that future, which affected us so differently. The two citizens of Marseilles, in particular, appeared to be perplexed in spirit. The evacuation of Avignon had taught them to doubt of every thing. They manifested but one great solicitude as to their future fate. Confidence soon made us talkative, and our conversation ran in nearly the following terms:—

Nimois.—Is Cartaux's army strong? It is said to have lost a great many men in the attack; but if it be true that it has been repulsed, why have the Marseillese evacuated Avignon?

Militaire.—The army was four thousand strong when it assaulted Avignon; it now amounts to six thousand, and within four days will reach ten thousand men. It lost five men killed and eleven wounded. It has never been repulsed, since it never made a formal attack; the troops only manœuvred about the place, in order to ascertain where an attempt to force the gates, by means of petards, might be made to the best advantage; a few cannon were fired, to try the courage of the garrison, and it was then necessary to draw back to the camp, to combine the attack for the following night. The Marseillese were three thousand six hundred men; they had a heavier and more numerous artillery, and yet they have been obliged to recross the Durance. This surprises you; but it is only veteran troops who can endure the uncertain events of a siege. We were masters of the Rhone, of Villeneuve, and of the open country; we had intercepted all their communications. They were under the necessity of evacuating the town, were pursued by our cavalry, and lost many prisoners, with two guns.

Marseillese.—This is a very different story from what we have been told. I do not dispute what you say, since you were present; but you must confess, that, after all this, they can do you no good. Our army is at Aix. Three good generals are come in place of the former ones: at Marseilles they are raising fresh battalions; we have a new train of artillery, several twenty-four pounders; in a few days, we shall be in a position to retake Avignon, or at worst we shall remain masters of the Durance.

Militaire.—Such is the story you have been told, to entice you to the brink of the abyss, which is deepening every moment, and which perhaps will engulf the finest town of France—the one which has deserved most of the patriots. But you were also told, that you should traverse France—that you should give the ton to the Republic—and yet your very first steps have been checks. You were told that Avignon could resist for a long time a force of twenty thousand men—and yet a single column, without a battering train, gained possession of it in four-and-twenty hours. You were told that the south had risen—and you found yourselves alone! You were told that the Nimes cavalry were about to crush the Allobroges—and yet the Allobroges were already at Saint-Esprit, and at Villeneuve. You were told that four thousand Lyonese were marching to your assistance—and yet the Lyonese were negotiating an accommodation for themselves. Acknowledge, then, that you have been deceived—open your eyes to the want of skill among your leaders, and put no faith in their calculations. Of all counsellors, self-love is the most dangerous. You are naturally impetuous: they are leading you to your destruction, by the self-same means which have ruined so many nations—by inflaming your vanity. You possess considerable wealth, and a large population—these they exaggerate. You have rendered signal services to the cause of liberty—of these they remind you, without, at the same time, pointing out to you, that the genius of the republic was at that time with you, that it has now abandoned you.

Your army, you say, is at Aix with a large train of artillery, and skilful generals; well, do what it may, I tell you it will be beaten. You had three thousand six hundred men—a full half is dispersed. Marseilles, and a few refugees from the department, may offer you four thousand: that is the utmost. You will then have between five and six thousand troops, without unity, without order, without discipline.

You have, you say, good generals. I do not know them, and shall not, therefore, dispute their abilities; but they will be absorbed in details, they will not be seconded by the subalterns, they will be unable to do any thing to maintain the reputation they may possess; for it would require at least two months to get their army into tolerable discipline; and in four days Cartaux will have passed the Durance—and with what soldiers? Why, with the excellent light troop of the Allobroges, the old regiment of Burgundy, and the brave battalion of the Cote d'Or (which has been a hundred times victorious in battle,) and six or seven other corps, all disciplined soldiers, encouraged by their successes on the frontiers, and against your army! You have some twenty-four pounders, and eighteen pounders, and you fancy yourselves impregnable. In this you but follow the vulgar opinion; but military men will tell you, and fatal experience is about to convince you, that good four-pounders and eight-pounders are preferable on many accounts to pieces of heavy calibre! You have cannoneers of the new levy—your adversaries have gunners from regiments of the line, the best masters of their art in all Europe!

What will your army do if it concentrates itself at Aix? It is lost. It is an axiom in the military art, that the army which remains in its intrenchments is beaten: experience and theory agree upon this point; and the walls of Aix are not equal to the worst field-intrenchment, especially if you bear in mind their extent, and the houses which skirt them on the exterior within pistol-shot. Be you well assured then that this course, which to you appears the best, is the very worst. Besides, what means will you possess of supplying the town, in so short a time, with every kind of provisions? Will your army offer battle? Why, it is the weaker in numbers—it has no cavalry—its artillery is less adapted for the field—it would be broken, and from that moment defeated without resource, for the cavalry would prevent it from rallying.

Expect, then, to see the war carried into the Marseilles territory. There a tolerably powerful party is for the Republic; this will be the moment for the struggle; the junction will be made; and your city, the centre of the commerce of the Levant, the entrepôt of the south of Europe, is lost! Recollect the recent example of Lisle,[661] and the barbarous laws of war.

What infatuation has all at once possessed your townsmen? What fatal blindness is leading them to their ruin? How can they fancy themselves powerful enough to oppose the whole Republic? Even should they compel this army to fall back upon Avignon, can they doubt that, in a few days, fresh troops would come to supply the place of the former? The Republic, which gives the law to Europe, will she receive it from Marseilles?

United with Bourdeaux, Lyons, Montpellier, Nimes, Grenoble, the Jura, the Eure, the Calvados, you undertook a revolution. You had a probability of success: those who spurred you on might be ill-intentioned men; but you were an imposing mass of strength. On the contrary, now that Lyons, Nimes, Montpellier, Bourdeaux, the Jura, the Eure, Grenoble, Caen, have accepted the constitution;—now that Avignon, Tarascon, Arles, have submitted, acknowledge that in obstinacy there is folly. The fact is, that you are under the influence of individuals who, having no property of their own to look after, are involving you in their ruin.

Your army will be composed of the best-conditioned, the richest portion of your city; for the Sans-Culottes could but be too easily turned against you. You are about, then, to risk the élite of your youthful population, young men accustomed to hold the commercial balance of the Mediterranean, and enrich you by their economy and their speculations, against veteran soldiers a hundred times stained with the blood of the desperate aristocrat or the ferocious Prussian.

Let poor countries fight to the last extremity. The inhabitant of the Vivarais, of the Cevennes, of Corsica, exposes himself without fear to the issue of a battle; if he gains it, he has obtained his object; if he is beaten, he finds himself as before, in the condition to make peace, and in the same position. But you!—lose but a battle, and the fruits of a thousand years of industry, of economy, of prosperity, become the prey of the soldier.

Marseillese.—You get on a great rate, and you alarm me. I agree with you that our situation is critical. It is perhaps true, that we do not sufficiently consider the position in which we now stand; but you cannot but acknowledge that we have still immense resources to oppose you. You have persuaded me that we could not resist at Aix: your observation as to the want of subsistence is perhaps unanswerable, as applied to a siege of long duration; but do you imagine that all Provence can, for a long period, witness with indifference the blockade of Aix? It will rise spontaneously; and your army, hemmed in on all sides, will be but too happy to repass the Durance.

Militaire.—Ah! how little you know of the spirit of men, and of the times, to talk thus! Everywhere there are two parties. The moment you are besieged, the Sectionary party will be put down in all the country places. The example of Tarascon, Saint-Remy, Organ, Arles, should convince you of this; a score of dragoons have sufficed to restore the old authorities, and put the new ones to flight.

Henceforward, in your department, any powerful movement in your favour is impossible. It might have taken place when the army was on the other side the Durance, and you were unbroken. At Toulon, the active spirits are much divided; and there the Sectionaries have not the same superiority as at Marseilles; they must therefore remain in the city to keep down their adversary. As for the department of the Lower Alps, nearly the whole of it, as you know, has accepted the constitution.

Marseillese.—We shall attack Cartaux in our mountains, where his cavalry will be of no service to him.

Militaire.—As if an army engaged in protecting a town could choose the point of attack. Besides, it is a fallacy to suppose there are any mountains near Marseilles sufficiently inaccessible to render cavalry ineffective: your hills are just steep enough to render the use of artillery more difficult, and to give a great advantage to your enemy; for it is in a country intersected by rivers that the skilful artilleryman, by the rapidity of his movements, the exactness in serving his pieces, and the accuracy of his elevations, is the most sure of having the superiority.

Marseillese.—You fancy us, then, to be without resources: Is it then possible, that it can be the destiny of a town who resisted the Romans, and preserved a portion of its laws under the despots who succeeded them, to become the prey of a handful of brigands? What! the Allobroge, laden with the spoils of Lisle, shall he give law to Marseilles? What! Dubois du Crancé, and Albitte, shall they rule over us uncontrolled? Those men, steeped in blood, whom the miseries of the times have placed at the head of affairs, shall they be our absolute masters? Sad, indeed, is the prospect you set before us! Our property, under different pretences, would be invaded; at every instant we should be the victims of a soldiery, whom plunder unites under the same banner: our best citizens would be imprisoned, and perish by violence. The Club would again rear its monstrous head to execute its infernal projects! Nothing can be worse than this; better to expose ourselves to the chance of warfare, than become victims without alternative!

Militaire.—Such is civil war! men revile one another—detest one another—kill one another, without knowing one another! The Allobroges! what do you suppose them to be? Africans? inhabitants of Siberia? Oh, not at all! They are your countrymen,—the men of Provence, of Dauphiny, of Savoy. Some people fancy them to be barbarians, because the name they have taken sounds oddly. If your own troops were to be called the Phocœan phalanx, every species of fable would be accredited respecting them.

You have reminded me of one fact, the assault of Lisle. I do not justify it, but will explain to you how it happened. The inhabitants killed the trumpeter who was sent to them; they resisted without the slightest chance of success; the town was taken by assault; the soldiers entered it amidst fire and slaughter: it was impossible to restrain them, and fury did the rest.

Those soldiers whom you call brigands, are our best troops, and most disciplined battalions: their reputation is above calumny.

Dubois-Crancé and Albitte, constant friends of the people, have never deviated from the right line. Certainly they are "wicked men" in the eyes of the bad: but Condorcet, Brissot, Barbaroux, were also "wicked men," so long as they remained uncontaminated. It will ever be the fate of the good to be ill-spoken of by the worthless. You imagine they show you no mercy; on the contrary, they are treating you like wayward children. Do you think, if they had been otherwise disposed, that the merchants of Marseilles would have been suffered to withdraw the goods which they had at Beaucaire? They could have sequestered them till the war was over. They were unwilling to do so; and, thanks to them, you can now return quietly to your homes.

You call Cartaux an assassin. Well! let me tell you, that that general takes the greatest pains to preserve order and discipline; witness his conduct at St. Esprit and at Avignon. He ordered a sergeant to prison because he had violated the asylum of a citizen who concealed one of your soldiers. In the eyes of the general, this sergeant was culpable for having entered, without direct orders, a private dwelling. Some people of Avignon were punished for pointing out a house as belonging to an aristocrat. A prosecution is now going on against a soldier, on a charge of theft. On the contrary, your army killed, assassinated more than thirty persons, violated the asylums of families, and filled the prisons with citizens, on the vague pretence that they were brigands.

Do not be in alarm about the army. It esteems Marseilles, because it knows that no town has made so many sacrifices for the public good. You have eighteen thousand men on the frontier; and you have not spared yourselves under any circumstances. Shake off, then, the yoke of the few aristocrats who govern you; return to sounder principles, and you will have no truer friend than the army.

Marseillese.—Ah! your army! It has greatly degenerated from the army of 1789. That army would not take up arms against the nation. Yours should imitate so worthy an example, and not turn their arms against their fellow-citizens.

Militaire.—With such principles, La Vendée would now have planted the white flag on the again reared walls of the Bastile, and the Camp of Jalès been dominant at Marseilles.

Marseillese.—La Vendée is anxious for a king—a counter-revolution: the war of La Vendée, of the camp of Jalès, is that of fanaticism, of despotism. Ours, on the contrary, is that of true Republicans, friends of the laws, of order; enemies of anarchy and of bad men. Is not ours the tri-coloured flag? and what interest could we have in wishing for slavery?

Militaire.—I well know that the people of Marseilles differ widely from those of La Vendée as to the subject of counter-revolution. The people of La Vendée are robust and healthy: the people of Marseilles weak and sickly. They stand in need of honey, to induce them to swallow the pill: to establish among them the new doctrine, they must be deceived. But after four years of revolution, after so many plots, and counterplots, and conspiracies, all the perversity of human nature has been developed under all its different aspects, and bad men have perfected their subtlety. You have, you say, the tri-coloured flag? Paoli also hoisted it in Corsica to have time to deceive the people, to crush the true friends of liberty, to entice his countrymen to join him in his ambitious and criminal projects; he hoisted the tri-coloured flag, and he nevertheless fired upon the vessels of the Republic, and drove our troops from the fortresses; he disarmed all the detachments he could surprise; he collected forces to drive the garrison from the island; he plundered the magazines, selling at a low price every thing found within them, to secure money to carry on his revolt; he confiscated the property of the wealthiest families, because they were attached to the unity of the Republic; he got himself appointed generalissimo, and he declared all those who should continue in our armies enemies of their country. Before this, he had caused the failure of the expedition to Sardinia; and yet he had the shamelessness to call himself the friend of France and a good Republican; and he deceived the Convention still, after all. He acted, in short, in such a way, that when at length he was unmasked by his own letters found at Calvi,—it was too late,—the fleets of our enemies intercepted all intercourse with the island.

It is no longer to words that we must trust. We must analyse deeds; and in appreciating yours, it is easy, you must acknowledge, to show you to be counter-revolutionary. Take my advice, people of Marseilles: shake off the yoke of the handful of wretches who are leading you to a counter-revolution; restore your constituted authorities; accept the constitution; liberate the representatives; let them go to Paris and intercede for you: you have been misled—it is no new thing for the people to be so—by a few conspirators and intriguers. In all ages, the flexibility and ignorance of the multitude have been the causes of most civil wars.

Marseillese.—Ah! sir, who is to bring the good about? Can it be the refugees who arrive on all sides from the department? They are interested in acting with desperation. Can it be those who at this moment govern us? Are not they in the same situation? Can it be the people? One portion of them knows nothing of its real position; it is blinded and fanaticized; the other portion is disarmed, suspected, humbled. I see, therefore, with deep affliction, miseries without remedy.

Militaire.—At last you are brought to reason. Why should not a like change be effected in the minds of a large portion of your fellow-citizens, who are deluded and sincere? In that case, Albitte, who can have no other wish than to spare French blood, will send you some honest and able man; matters will be arranged; and without a moment's delay, the army will march under the walls of Perpignan, to make the Spaniard dance the Carmagnole; and Marseilles will continue to be the centre of gravity to liberty. The only thing necessary will be to tear a few leaves out of its history.

This happy prognostic put us all in excellent humour. The citizens of Marseilles, with great readiness, treated us to some bottles of champagne, which dispelled all our doubts and anxieties. We retired to rest at two in the morning, having agreed to meet again at breakfast; where my new acquaintance had still many doubts to suggest, and I many interesting truths to impart.

July 29, 1793.

No. IV. LETTERS OF NAPOLEON TO JOSEPHINE.

[See p. 166.]

[In the first Edition of this Work, Sir Walter Scott introduced, by way of foot notes, a few translations from the Letters of Napoleon and Josephine during the campaign of 1796, published in 1824 by Mr. Tennant. But the larger collection of those letters, edited by Josephine's daughter, the Duchess of St. Leu, had not then appeared. We now reprint the versions which Sir Walter thought fit to give; and append to them some specimens of the native style and orthography of the correspondence.]

(1.) NAPOLEON TO JOSEPHINE.

(Translation.)

"Port Maurice, the 14th Germinal, (April 4,) 1796.

"I have received all thy letters: but not one of them has affected me so much as thy last. Dost thou think, my adorable love, of writing to me in such terms? Dost thou imagine, then, that my position is not already cruel enough, without an increase of my sorrows, and an overthrow of my soul? What a style! what sentiments dost thou describe. They are of fire—they burn my poor heart. My only Josephine!—far from thee there is no joy;—far from thee the world is a desert, where I remain an isolated being, without enjoying the sweets of confidence. Thou hast deprived me of more than my soul; thou art the only thought of my life. If I am tired of the troubles of business—if I dread the result—if mankind disgust me—if I am ready to curse this life—I place my hand upon my heart—there thy portrait beats—I look at it, and love becomes to me absolute happiness; all is smiling, save the time when I am separated from my beloved.

"By what is it that thou hast been able to captivate all my faculties, and to concentrate in thyself my moral existence? It is a magic, my sweet love, which will finish only with my life. To live for Josephine—there is the history of my life. I am trying to reach thee—I am dying to be near thee. Fool that I am, I do not perceive that I increase the distance between us. What lands, what countries separate us! What a time before you read these weak expressions of a troubled soul in which you reign! Ah! my adorable wife! I know not what fate awaits me, but if it keep me much longer from thee, it will be insupportable—my courage will not go so far. There was a time when I was proud of my courage; and sometimes, when contemplating on the ills that man could do me, on the fate which destiny could reserve for me, I fixed my eyes steadfastly on the most unheard-of misfortunes without a frown, without alarm. But now, the idea that my Josephine may be unwell, the idea that she may be ill, and, above all, the cruel, the fatal thought, that she may love me less, withers my soul, stops my blood, renders me sad, cast down, and leaves me not even the courage of fury and despair. Formerly I used often to say to myself, men cannot hurt him who can die without regret; but now, to die without being loved by thee, to die without that certainty, is the torment of hell; it is the lively and striking image of absolute annihilation—I feel as if I were stifled. My incomparable companion, thou whom fate has destined to make along with me the painful journey of life, the day on which I shall cease to possess thy heart will be the day on which parched nature will be to me without warmth or vegetation.

"I stop, my sweet love, my soul is sad—my body is fatigued—my head is giddy—men disgust me—I ought to hate them—they separate me from my beloved.

"I am at Port Maurice, near Oneille; to-morrow I shall be at Albenga; the two armies are in motion—We are endeavouring to deceive each other—Victory to the most skilful! I am pretty well satisfied with Beaulieu—If he alarm me much, he is a better man than his predecessor. I shall beat him I hope in good style. Do not be uneasy—love me as your eyes—but that is not enough—as yourself, more than yourself, than your thought, your mind, your sight, your all. Sweet love, forgive me—I am sinking. Nature is weak for him who feels strongly, for him whom you love!!"

(2.)

"Albenga, 16th Germinal, (April 6.)

"[It is one hour after midnight. They have just brought me a letter. It is sad—my soul is affected by it: It is the death of Chauvet. He was commissary-in-chief of the army. You have seen him sometimes with Barras. My love, I feel the want of consolation that is to be obtained by writing to thee—to thee alone!—Chauvet is dead! He was attached to me. He has rendered essential services to his country. His last words were, that he was setting off to join me. Soul of my existence! write to me by every courier, otherwise I cannot live. I am here very much occupied; Beaulieu moves his army. We are in sight. I am a little fatigued; I am every day on horseback. Adieu, adieu, adieu. I am going to sleep. Sleep consoles me—it places me at thy side. But alas! on waking, I find myself three hundred leagues from thee!"

(3.)

"Albenga, 18 Germinal, (April 8.)

"My brother [Joseph] is here. He has heard of my marriage with pleasure. He is most anxious to know thee. I am trying to decide him to go to Paris. His wife has been brought to bed of a girl. He sends you a present of a box of Genoese sugar-plums. You will receive some oranges, perfumes, and orange-flower water, which I send you. Junot and Murat present you their respects."]

(4.)

"Headquarters, Carru, April 24.

"To my Sweet Love,

"My brother [Joseph] will give you this letter. I have the warmest regard for him. I hope he will obtain yours. He merits it. Nature has endowed him with a character, gentle, equal, and unchangeably good. He is made up of good qualities. I have written to Barras, that he may be appointed consul in some part of Italy. He wishes to live with his little wife, far away from the great whirlwind, and from great affairs. I recommend him to thee.

"Junot carries to Paris twenty-two standards. You must return with him. Should he come without thee—misfortune without remedy, grief without consolation, endless sufferings!—My adorable love, he will see thee—he will breathe in thy temple—perhaps even thou wilt accord him the rare and invaluable favour of a kiss on thy cheek. And I—I shall be alone, and far, very far away. But thou art coming, art thou not? Take wings!—come! come! but travel gently—the road is long, bad, fatiguing. If you were to be overturned, or to be taken ill! If the fatigue * * *. Go gently, my adorable love: but be often and rapidly with me in your thoughts.

"I have received a letter from Hortense. She is altogether lovely. I am going to write to her. I love her dearly, and I will soon send her the perfumes she wishes to have.

"I do not know whether you want money, for you have never spoken to me of these matters. If you do, speak to my brother, who has 200 Louis of mine.—N. B."

(5.)

tortone midi le 27 prarial.

A Josephine

Ma vie est un cochemar perpetuel un presentiment funeste m empeche de respirer. je ne vis plus j'ai perdu plus que la vie plus que le bonheur plus que le repos je suis presque sans espoir. je t expedie un courrier. il ne restera que 4 heure a paris et puis m aportera ta reponse—ecris moi 10 pages cela seul peut me consoler un peu—tu es malade, tu m aime, je t ai affligé, tu es grosse et je te ne vois pas! cett idée me confond. j'ai tant de tord avec toi que je ne sais comment les expier je t accuse de rester a paris et tu y etois malade—pardonne moi ma bonne amie l amour que tu m a inspiré m a ote la raison je ne la retrouverai jamais l'on ne guerit pas de ce mal la. mes presentimens sont si funestes que je me bornerois a te voir te presser 2 heures contre mon cœur et mourir ensemble! qu est ce qui a soin de toi. j'imagine que tu a fait appeller hortense j aime mille fois plus cet aimable enfant depuis que je pense qu'elle peut te consoler un peu quand a moi point de consolation point de repos, point d espoir jusqu 'a ce que j' ai reçu le courrier que je t expedie et que par une longue lettre tu m explique ce que c est que maladie et jusqu' a quel point elle doit etre serieuse—si elle est dangereuse, je t en previens je pars de suite pour paris. mon arrivé vaudra ta maladie. J'ai ete toujours heureux. jamais mon sort n a resiste a ma volonte et aujourdhui je suis frappe dans ce qui me touche uniquement. Josephine comment peut tu rester tant de tems sans m ecrire—ta derniere lettre laconique est du 3 du mois encore est elle affligante pour moi je l ai cependant toujours dans ma poche—ton portrait et tes lettres sont sans cesse devant mes yeux.

je ne suis rien sans toi je concois a peine comment j ai existe sans te connoitre ah! Josephine si tu eusse connu mon cœur serois tu rester depuis le 29 au 16 pour partir? aurois tu prete l oreil a des amis perfides qui vouloient peutetre te tenir eloignée de moi? je l avoue* tout le monde, j en veux a tout ce qui t entourre je te calculois partie depuis le 5 et le 15 arrivé a Milan.

josephine si tu m 'aime si tu crois que tout depend de ta conservation, ménage toi, je n ose pas te dire de ne pas entreprendre un voyage si long et dans les chaleurs a moins si tu es dans le cas de fair la route va a petites journées ecris moi a toutes les couchés et expedie moi d avance tes lettres.

toutes mes pensées sont concentrées dans ton alcove dans ton lit sur ton cœur ta maladie voyla ce qui m occupe la nuit et le jour—sans apetit, sans someil, sans interet pour l amitie, pour la gloire, pour la patrie, toi, toi et le reste du monde n existe pas plus pour moi que s il etoit anneanti je tiens a l honneur puisque tu y tiens, a la victoire puisque cela te fait plaisir sans quoi j aurois tout quitte pour me rendre a tes pieds.

quelquefois je me dis je m allarme sans raison deja elle est guerie elle part elle est partie, elle est peutetre deja a lion—vaine imagination—tu es dans ton lit souffrante, plus belle, plus interessante plus adorable tu es palle et tes yeux sont plus languissans mais quand sera tu guerie? si un de nous deux devoit etre malade ne doit il pas etre moi, plus robuste et plus courageux jeusse suporte la maladie plus facilement la destinée est cruelle elle me frappe dans toi.

ce qui me console quelque fois c est de penser qu il depend du sort de te rende malade mais qu il ne depend de personne de m obliger a te survivre.

dans ta lettre ma bonne amie aie soin de me dire que tu est convaincue que je t aime au dela de ce qu il est possible d imaginer, que tu es persuade que tous mes instans te sont consacrés que jamais il ne se passe une heure sans penser à toi, que jamais il ne m est venu dans l idée de penser a une autre femme qu elles sont toutes a mes yeux sans grace sans beauté et sans esprit que toi toi toute entière telle que je te vois telle que tu est pouvoit me plaire et absorber toutes les facultes de mon ame que tu en a touché toute l etendue que mon cœur n a point de replis que tu ne voye, point de pensées qui ne te sont subordonnes, que mes forces mes bras mon esprit sont tout a toi, que mon ame est dans ton corps, et que le jour ou tu aurois change ou ou tu cesserois de vivre seroit celui de ma mort, que la nature, la terre n est belle a mes yeux que parceque tu l habite—si tu ne crois pas tout cela si ton ame n'en est pas convaincue penetree, tu m afflige, tu ne m aime pas—il est un fluide magnetique entre les personnes qui s aiment——tu sais bien que jamais je ne pourrois te voir un amant encore moins t en offrir un, lui dechirois le cœur et le voir seroit pour moi la meme chose et puis si je † porter la main sur ta personne sacrée—non je ne l'oserai jamais mais je sorterois d une vie ou ce qui existe de plus vertueuse m auroit trompé.

Mais je suis sur et fier de ton amour—les malheurs sont des epreuves qui nous decellent mutuelment toute la force de notre passion un enfant adorable comme la maman va voir le jour et pourroit passer plusieurs ans dans tes bras—infortuné! je me contenterais d une journèe—Mille baise sur tes yeux, sur tes levres sur ta langue sur ton cœur—adorable femme quelle est ton ascendant je suis bien malade de ta maladie,j ai encore une fiévre brulante! ne garde pas plus de 6 heure le Simple* et qu il retourne de suite me porter la lettre cherie de ma Souveraine.

te souviens tu de ce reve ou j etois tes souliers tes chiffons et je te faisois entrer toute entière dans mon cœur—pourquoi la nature n a-t-elle pas arrange cela comme cela—il y a bien des choses a faire.

N. B.

A la Citoyenne Bonaparte, Rue Chautreine, No. 6 Paris.

(6.)

de Pistoa en toscane le 8 messidor.

A Josephine,

Depuis un mois je n'ai reçu de ma bonne amie que 2 billets de trois lignes chacun—a-t-elle des affaires? celle d'écrire a son bon ami n'est donc pas un besoin pour elle des lors celle d'y penser—vivre sans penser a josephine ce seroit pour ton mari etre mort et ne pas exister—ton image embelit ma pensée et egaye le tableau sinistre et noire de la melancolie et de la douleur——un jour peutetre viendra ou je te verai, car je ne doute pas que tu ne sois encore a paris et bien ce jour la je te montrerai mes poches pleines de lettres que je ne t'ai pas envoyé par qu'elles etoient trop bete, bien c'est le mot. bon dieu dis mois toi qui sais si bien faire aimer les autres sans aimer saurez tu me guerir de l'amour??? je pairai ce remede bien chère tu devois partir le 5 prairal—bon que j'etois je tendois le 13 comme si une jolie femme pouvoit abandoner ses habitudes, ses amis, et Me. tallien et un diné chez baras, et une representation d'une piece nouvelle et fontane* oui fontane* tu aime tout plus que ton mari tu n'a pour lui qu'un peu d'estime et une portion de cette bienveillance dont ton cœur abonde tous les jours †† recapituler tes tord, tes fautes je me bat le flanc pour ne te plus aimer bah n' est* ce* pas que je taime davantage enfin mon incomparable petite mere je vais te dire mon secret. Mocque toi de moi reste a Paris, aie des amans, que tout le monde le sache, n ecris jamais eh! bien je t en aimerai 10 fois davantage—et ce n est pas folie fiévre delire!! et je ne guerirai pas de cela—oh si par dieu j'en guerirai—mais ne vas pas me dire que tu es malade—n entrepend pas de te justifie bon dieu tu es pardonnée je t aime a la folie et jamais mon pauvre cœur ne cessera de donner tout* a* l'*amour* si tu ne m aimois pas mon sort seroit bien byzare. tu ne m'a pas ecrit—tu etois malade—tu n es pas venue. †† n'a pas voulu et puis ta maladie et puis ce petit enfant qui se remuoit si fort qu il te faisoit mal? mais tu as passe lion tu seras le 10 a turin le 12 a milan ou tu m atendira. tu seras en italie et je serois encore loin de toi—adieu, ma bien aimé, un baisé sur ta bouche—un autre sur ton cœur—et un autre sur ton petit enfants.

Nous avons fait la paix avec Rome qui nous donne de l'argent—nous serons demain a livourne et le plutot que je pourrois dans tes bras, a tes pieds, sur ton sein.

A la Citoyenne Bonaparte, Rue chautreinne No. 6 Paris.

No. V. DESCENT OF THE FRENCH IN SOUTH WALES, UNDER GENERAL TATE.

[See p. 199.]

We have found some curious particulars respecting Tate's descent in the Memoirs of Theobald Wolfe Tone, one of the unfortunate and misguided Irish gentlemen who were engaged in the Rebellion 1796, and who, being taken on his return to Ireland with a French expedition, was condemned and executed there. The author, for whom we entertain much compassion, seems to have been a gallant light-hearted Irishman, his head full of scraps of plays, and his heart in a high fever on account of the supposed wrongs which his country had sustained at the hands of Great Britain. His hatred, indeed, had arisen to a pitch which seems to have surprised himself, as appears from the conclusion of the following extracts, which prove that nothing less than the total destruction of Bristol was expected from Tate and his merry-men, who had been industriously picked out as the greatest reprobates of the French army.

We have that sort of opinion of Citizen Wolfe Tone, which leads us to think he would have wept heartily had he been to witness the havoc of which he seems ambitious to be an instrument. The violence of his expressions only shows how civil war and political fury can deform and warp the moral feelings. But we should have liked to have seen Pat's countenance when he learned that the Bande Noire had laid down their arms to a handful of Welsh militia, backed by the appearance of a body of market women, with red cloaks, (such was the fact,) whom they took for the head of a supporting column. Even these attempts at pillage, in which they were supposed so dexterous, were foiled by the exertions of the sons of Owen Glendower. The only blood spilt was that of a French straggler, surprised by a Welsh farmer in the act of storming his hen-roost. The bold Briton knocked the assailant on the head with his flail, and, not knowing whom he had slain, buried him in the dunghill, until he learned by the report of the country that he had slain a French invader, when he was much astonished and delighted with his own valour. Such was the event of the invasion; Mr. Tone will tell us what was expected.

Nov. 1st and 2d, 1796, (Brest.)

Colonel Shee tells me that General Quantin has been dispatched from Flushing with 2000 of the greatest reprobates in the French army, to land in England, and do as much mischief as possible, and that we have 3000 of the same stamp, whom we are also to disgorge on the English coast....

Nov. 24th and 25th.

Colonel Tate, an American officer, has offered his services, and the general has given him the rank of chef-de-brigade, and 1050 men of the Legion Noire, in order to go on a bucaneering party into England. Excepting some little errors in the locality, which, after all, may seem errors to me from my own ignorance, the instructions are incomparably well drawn; they are done, or at least corrected, by the general himself; and if Tate be a dashing fellow, with military talents, he may play the devil in England before he is caught. His object is Liverpool; and I have some reason to think the scheme has resulted from a conversation I had a few days since with Colonel Shee, wherein I told him that, if we were once settled in Ireland, I thought we might make a piratical visit in that quarter; and, in fact, I wish it was we that should have the credit and profit of it. I should like, for example, to pay a visit to Liverpool myself, with some of the gentlemen from Ormond Quay, though I must say the citizens of the Legion Noire are very little behind my countrymen either in appearance or morality, which last has been prodigiously cultivated by three or four campaigns in Bretagne and La Vendée. A thousand of these desperadoes, in their black jackets, will edify John Bull exceedingly, if they get safe into Lancashire.

Nov. 26th.

To-day, by the general's orders, I have made a fair copy of Colonel Tate's instructions, with some alterations from the rough draught of yesterday, particularly with regard to his first destination, which is now fixed to be Bristol. If he arrives safe, it will be very possible to carry it by a coup-de-main, in which case he is to burn it to the ground. I cannot but observe here that I transcribed, with the greatest sang froid, the orders to reduce to ashes the third city of the British dominions, in which there is, perhaps, property to the amount of L.5,000,000.

No. VI. BUONAPARTE'S CAMP LIBRARY.

[See p. 203.]

BIBLIOTHEQUE DU CAMP.

VOL.

Sciences et Arts.

Mondes de Fontenelle,1

Lettres à une Princess d'Allemagne,2

Le Cours de l'Ecole—Normande,6

Aide nécessaire pour l'Artillerie,1

Traité des Fortifications,3

Traité des Feux—d'Artifice,1

Géographie et Voyages.

Géographie de Barclay,12

Voyages de Cook,3

Voyages Française de la Harpe,24

Histoire.

Plutarque,12

Turenne,2

Condé,4

Villars,4

Luxembourg,2

Duguesclin,2

Saxe,3

Mémoires des Maréchaux de France,20

President Henault,4

Chronologie,2

Marlborough,4

Prince Eugene,6

Histoire Philosophique des Indes,12

D'Allemagne,2

Charles XII.,1

Essai sur les Mœurs des Nations,6

Pierre-le-Grand,1

Polybe,6

Justin,2

Arrien,3

Tacite,2

Tite-Live,

Thucydide,2

Vertot,4

Denina,8

Frédéric II.,8

Poésie.

Ossian,1

Tasse,6

Arioste,6

Homère,6

Virgile,4

Henriade,1

Télémaque,2

Les Jardins,1

Les Chefs-d'Œuvre du Théâtre-Français,20

Poésies Légères (choisies,)10

Fontaine,

Romans.

Voltaire,4

Héloise,4

Werther,1

Marmontel,4

Romans Anglais,40

Le Sage,10

Prevost,10

Politique et Morale.

Le Vieux Testament.

Le Nouveau.

Le Coran.

Le Vedam.

Mythologie.

Montesquieu—L'Esprit des Lois.

(In all, about 320 vols.)

No. VII. BUONAPARTE, MEMBER OF THE NATIONAL INSTITUTE, COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF, TO THE PEOPLE OF EGYPT.

[See p. 212.]

Alexandria, July the ____, 6th Year of the Republic, One and Indivisible, the ____ of the Month of Muharrem, the Year of the Hegira 1213.

For a long time the Beys, who govern Egypt, have insulted the French nation, and covered her merchants with injuries: the hour of their chastisement is come.

For too long a time this rabble of slaves, purchased in Caucasus and in Georgia, has tyrannized over the fairest part of the world; but God, on whom every thing depends, has decreed that their empire shall be no more.

People of Egypt! you will be told that I am come to destroy your religion; do not believe it. Reply, that I am come to restore your rights, to punish usurpators; and that I reverence more than the Mameloucs themselves, God, his prophet Mahomet, and the Koran!

Tell them that all men are equal before God. Wisdom, talents, and virtue, are the only things which make a difference between them.

Now, what wisdom, what talents, what virtues, have the Mameloucs, that they should boast the exclusive possession of every thing that can render life agreeable?

If Egypt is their farm, let them show the lease which God has given them of it! But God is just and merciful to the people.

All the Egyptians shall be appointed to all the public situations. The most wise, the most intelligent, and the most virtuous, shall govern; and the people shall be happy.

There were formerly among you great cities, great canals, and a great commerce. What has destroyed them all? What! but the avarice, the injustice, and the tyranny of the Mameloucs.

Cadis, Cheiks, Imans, Tchorbadgis! tell the people that we are the friends of the true Mussulmans. Is it not we, who have destroyed the Pope; who said that it was necessary to make war on Mussulmans? Is it not we, who have destroyed the Knights of Malta, because these madmen believed that it was the good pleasure of God, that they should make war on Mussulmans? Is it not we, who have been in all ages the friends of the Grand Signior, (on whose desires be the blessings of God!) and the enemy of his enemies? And, on the contrary, have not the Mameloucs always revolted against the authority of the Grand Signior, which they refuse to recognize at this moment?

Thrice happy those who shall be with us! they shall prosper in their fortune and their rank. Happy those who shall be neutral! they shall have time to know us thoroughly, and they will range themselves on our side.

But woe, woe, woe, to those who shall take up arms in favour of the Mameloucs, and combat against us! There shall be no hope for them: they shall all perish.

(Signed) Buonaparte. A true copy. (Signed) Berthier.

No. VIII. HISTORICAL NOTES ON THE EIGHTEENTH BRUMAIRE.[662]

[See p. 266.]

The following facts, which have never been made public, but with which we have been favoured from an authentic channel, throw particular light on the troubled period during which Napoleon assumed the supreme power—the risks which he ran of being anticipated in his aim, or of altogether missing it.

In the end of July, 1799, when all those discontents were fermenting, which afterwards led to the Revolution of the 18th Brumaire.

General Augereau, with one of the most celebrated veterans of the Republican army, attended by a deputation of six persons, amongst whom were Salicetti and other members of Convention, came on a mission to General Bernadotte, their minister at war, at an early hour in the morning.

Their object was to call the minister's attention to a general report, which announced that there was to be a speedy alteration of the constitution and existing order of things. They accused Barras, Siêyes, and Fouché, as being the authors of these intrigues. It was generally believed, they said, that one of the directors (Barras) was for restoring the Bourbons; another (Siêyes is probably meant) was for electing the Duke of Brunswick. The deputation made Bernadotte acquainted with their purpose of fulminating a decree of arrest against the two official persons. Having first inquired what proofs they could produce in support of their allegations, and being informed that they had no positive proof to offer, the minister informed them that he would not participate in the proposed act of illegal violence. "I require your word of honour," he said, "that you will desist from this project. It is the only mode to ensure my silence on the subject." One of the deputation, whom the minister had reason to regard as a man of the most exemplary loyalty, and with whom he had had connexions in military service, replied to him, "Our intention was to have placed you in possession of great power, being well persuaded that you would not abuse it. Since you do not see the matter as we do, the affair is at an end. We give up our scheme. Let the affair be buried in complete oblivion." In less than two months afterwards, Buonaparte's arrival gave a new turn to the state of affairs.

He landed, as is well known, at Frejus, after having abandoned his army, and broke the quarantine laws. When this intelligence reached Bernadotte, he intimated to the Directory, that there was not an instant to lose in having him brought before a council of war. General Debel was instructed to make this communication to a member of the Directory, who was one of his friends. Colonel St. Martin, of the artillery, spoke to this director to the same purpose. His answer was, "We are not strong enough." On its being said that Bernadotte was of opinion that Buonaparte should be proceeded against according to the principles of military discipline, and that the opportunity which occurred should be laid hold of, the director replied, "Let us wait."

Buonaparte arrived at Paris. All the generals went to visit him. A public dinner to him was proposed, and a list for that purpose handed about. When it was presented to Bernadotte by two members of the Council of Five Hundred, he said to them, "I would advise you to put off this dinner till he account satisfactorily for having abandoned his army."[663]

More than twelve days had elapsed before Bernadotte saw Buonaparte. At the request of Joseph, his brother-in-law, and of Madame Leclerc, Buonaparte's sister, Bernadotte at length went to visit him. The conversation turned upon Egypt. Buonaparte having begun to talk of public affairs, Bernadotte allowed him to enlarge on the necessity of a change in the government; and at last, perceiving that Buonaparte, aware of the awkwardness of his situation, was exaggerating the unfavourable circumstances in the situation of France,—"But, general," said Bernadotte, "the Russians are beaten in Switzerland, and have retired into Bohemia; a line of defence is maintained between the Alps and the Ligurian Apennines; we are in possession of Genoa; Holland is saved—the Russian army that was there is destroyed, and the English army has retired to England:—15,000 insurgents have just been dispersed in the department of the Upper Garonne, and constrained to take refuge in Spain:—at this moment we are busied in raising two hundred auxiliary battalions of 1000 men each, and 40,000 cavalry; and in three months at most, we shall not know what to do with this multitude of torrents. Indeed, if you had been able to bring the army of Egypt with you, the veterans who compose it would have been very useful in forming our new corps. Though we should look upon this army as lost, unless it return by virtue of a treaty, I do not despair of the safety of the Republic, and I am convinced she will withstand her enemies both at home and abroad." While pronouncing the words enemies at home, Bernadotte unintentionally looked in the face of Buonaparte, whose confusion was evident. Madame Buonaparte changed the conversation, and Bernadotte soon after took leave.

Some days afterwards, M. R——, formerly chief secretary to the minister of war, begged General Bernadotte to introduce him to Buonaparte. The general carried him along with him. After the usual compliments, they began to talk of the situation of France. Buonaparte spoke much of the great excitement of feeling among the republicans, and particularly in the "club du manège." Bernadotte said in answer, "When an impulse is once given, it is not easily stopped. This you have often experienced. After having impressed on the army of Italy a movement of patriotic enthusiasm, you could not repress this feeling when you judged it proper to do so. The same thing happens now. A number of individuals, and your own brothers principally, have formed the club you speak of. I have never belonged to it. I was too busy, and had too many duties to perform as minister, to be able to attend it. You have alleged that I have favoured these meetings. This is not correct. I have indeed supported many respectable persons who belonged to this club, because their views were honest, and they hoped to give prevalence to a spirit of moderation and prudence, which is generally thrown aside by ambitious men. Salicetti, a particular friend and secret confidant of your brothers, was one of the directors of that meeting. It has been believed by observers, and is believed still, that the state of excitement which you complain of, has originated in the instructions received by Salicetti."

Here Buonaparte lost temper, and declared that he would rather live in the woods, than continue to exist in the midst of a society which gave him no security.

"What security do you want?" answered General Bernadotte. Madame Buonaparte, fearing that the conversation would become too warm, changed the subject, addressing herself to M. R——, who was known to her. General Bernadotte did not persist in his questions, and, after some general conversation, he withdrew.

A few days afterwards, Joseph had a large party at Morfontaine. Buonaparte, meeting General Bernadotte coming out of the Théâtre Française, inquired if he was to be of the party on the following day. Being answered in the affirmative—"Will you," said he, "give me my coffee to-morrow morning? I have occasion to pass near your house, and shall be very glad to stop with you for a few moments." Next morning, Buonaparte and his wife arrived; Louis followed them a moment afterwards. Buonaparte made himself very agreeable.[664] In the evening there was some conversation between Regnault de St. Jean d'Angely, Joseph, and Lucien. Buonaparte conversed with Bernadotte, who saw, from his embarrassed air, and frequent fits of absence, that his mind was deeply occupied. He had no longer any doubt that it was Buonaparte's determined purpose to save himself, by the overthrow of the constitution, from the danger with which he was threatened in consequence of his leaving Egypt, abandoning his army, and violating the quarantine laws. He resolved to oppose it by every means in his power. On his return to Paris, he happened, accidentally, to be in a house belonging to a fellow-countryman and friend of Moreau's. That general having inquired if he had been at the party at Morfontaine, and if he had spoken with Buonaparte, and Bernadotte having told him he had, Moreau said, "That is the man who has done the greatest harm to the Republic."—"And," added Bernadotte, "who is preparing the greatest."—"We shall prevent him," replied Moreau. The two generals shook hands, and promised to stand by each other in resisting the deserter from Egypt. So they called him in presence of a number of persons, among whom was the ex-minister, Petiet.

The Directory, it is true, did not enjoy the public esteem. Siêyes stood first in reputation among the five members, but he was looked upon as being timid and vindictive. He was believed to be disposed to call the Duke of Brunswick to the throne of France. Barras was suspected by some persons of being in treaty with the Comte Lille. Gohier, Moulines, and Roger Ducos, were very respectable men, but considered to be unfit for the government of a great nation. Gohier, however, was known to be one of the first lawyers of that period, to be of incorruptible integrity, and an ardent lover of his country.

When Siêyes obtained a place in the Directory, he had desired to have General Bernadotte for war-minister. Some confidential relations between them, and a certain degree of deference which Bernadotte paid to Siêyes, in consequence of his great celebrity, had flattered his self-love. Buonaparte's two brothers, Joseph and Lucien, thinking they should find in Bernadotte a ready instrument for the execution of the plans of their brother, whom they believed to be on the point of landing in France, agreed with Siêyes in bringing Bernadotte into the ministry. Gohier, Moulines, and Roger Ducos joined the Buonapartes and Siêyes; Barras alone inclined towards Dubois-Crancé; but he yielded with a good grace to the opinion of his colleagues.

The proposal was made to Bernadotte at a dinner at Joseph's, in the rue du Rocher. Joubert, one of the party, who had recently formed an intimacy with the candidate for the place of minister, was chosen by the Buonapartes to propose it to him. The proposal was refused, and the remonstrances of Joubert had no effect on the resolution of Bernadotte, which at that time appeared immovable. The Buonapartes, who were the prime movers of all the changes which took place, and enjoyed the distribution of all the great posts, were astonished when they heard General Joubert's report. They got several members of the council to endeavour to induce Bernadotte to accept. Their attempts were vain. Every solicitation was followed by a most obstinate refusal. But what could not be done by Bernadotte's friends and partisans, duped by the apparent friendship of the Buonapartes for him, was accomplished by his wife and sister-in-law. After many days spent in entreaties, Bernadotte yielded, and received the porte-feuille from the hands of General Millet-Moreau, who then had the charge of that department. The Buonapartes were not slow in showing a desire to exercise a direct influence in the war department. Many of their creatures were raised, by the new minister, to higher situations; but the number of fresh applications continually made to him, convinced him that they considered him as holding his place merely to serve their purposes, and prepare the way for their elevation.

The minister, who went regularly at five o'clock in the morning to the office of the war-department, where he had to repair heavy disasters, recruit the army, put a stop to dilapidations, organise two hundred battalions of a thousand men each, bring back to their corps 80,000 men, who had, in the course of a few years, absented themselves without permission, and accomplish an extraordinary levy of 40,000 horse, did not return to his house, in the rue Cisalpine, till between five and six in the evening. Joseph and his wife were almost always there. Joseph sometimes turned the conversation on the incapacity of the Directory, the difficulty of things remaining as they were, and the necessity of new-modelling the administration.

Bernadotte, on the contrary, thought that if the five directors were reduced to three, one of whom should go out of office every three years, the constitution would go on very well. He found in that form of government the creation of a patrician order exclusively charged with the government of the state. The Roman republic was his model, and he saw in the constitution of the year four a great analogy to the consular privileges and the rights of senators. By the 135th article of that constitution, no one could aspire to become a Director, without having been first a member of one of the two councils, a minister of state, &c. As that condition was already fulfilled in his case, it was natural that he should incline towards the preservation of a form of government which placed him on an equality with kings, and gave him the hopes of seeing many kings tributary to, or at least protected by, the Republic. These discussions sometimes became rather unreserved, and it was at such a time that Joseph intimated to Bernadotte, in a sort of half-confidence, the possibility of his brother's speedy return. The minister had sufficient presence of mind to conceal his indignation; but his surprise was so visible that Joseph was alarmed by it. He endeavoured to diminish the impression which his communication had produced. He said, "That what he had advanced was merely a simple conjecture on his part, which might become a probability—perhaps, even (added he) a reality; for he has conquered Egypt—his business is at an end—he has nothing more to do in that quarter."—"Conquered!" replied Bernadotte—"Say rather, invaded. This conquest, if you will call it so, is far from being secure. It has given new life to the coalition, which was extinct; it has given us all Europe for our enemies; and rendered the very existence of the Republic doubtful. Besides, your brother has no authority to quit the army. He knows the military laws, and I do not think that he would be inclined, or would dare, to render himself liable to punishment under them. Such a desertion would be too serious a matter; and he is too well aware of its consequences." Joseph went away a few moments afterwards; and this conversation having proved to him that Bernadotte did not concur in his opinions, it became an object to produce a breach between him (Bernadotte) and Siêyes.

Bernadotte retired from the ministry, and Buonaparte arrived about three weeks afterwards. Not being able to doubt that the Directors themselves were either dupes of Buonaparte's ambition, or his accomplices, and that they were meditating with him the overthrow of the established order of things, General Bernadotte persevered in offering his counsels and services to those members of the government, or of the Legislative Body, who might have opposed those designs. But the factions and the intriguing went on at a more rapid pace; and every day Buonaparte increased his party by the accession of some distinguished personage.

On the 16th Brumaire, at five o'clock, Bernadotte went to General Buonaparte's where he was invited to dinner. General Jourdan was of the party. He arrived after they had sat down to table. The conversation was entirely on military subjects; and Bernadotte undertook to refute the maxims which Buonaparte was laying down relative to the system of war by invasion. Bernadotte concluded nearly in these words:—"There is more trouble in preserving than in invading;" alluding to the conquest of Egypt. The company rose and went to the drawing-room. Immediately afterwards there arrived several very distinguished members of the council, and a good many men of letters; Volney and Talleyrand were of the number. The conversation was general, and turned on the affairs of the west of France. Buonaparte, raising his voice a little, and addressing somebody near him, said—"Ah! you see a Chouan in General Bernadotte." The general, in answering him, could not refrain from smiling. "Don't contradict yourself," said he; "it was but the other day that you complained of my favouring the inconvenient enthusiasm of the friends of the Republic, and now you tell me that I protect the Chouans. This is very inconsistent." The company continued to increase every minute; and, the apartments not being very spacious, Bernadotte went away.

Many persons have thought that the answers given by Bernadotte to Buonaparte on this occasion, had retarded for twenty-four hours the movement which had been prepared. Others, on the contrary, have alleged that, the 17th being a Friday, Buonaparte, naturally superstitious, had deferred the execution of the project till the 18th.

On the 17th Brumaire, between eleven and twelve at night, Joseph Buonaparte, returning to his house in the rue du Rocher by the way of the rue Cisalpine, called at the house of Bernadotte. He, being in bed, sent to request Joseph to return next day. He did so before seven o'clock in the morning of the 18th. He told Bernadotte that his brother desired to speak with him; that the measures to be taken had been discussed the evening before, and that they wished to inform him of them. They both went immediately to Buonaparte's house in the rue de la Victoire. The court, the vestibule, and the apartments, were filled with generals and officers of rank. Many of the officers had the air of persons in a state of excitation from wine. Bernadotte was shown into a small room; Joseph did not go in. Buonaparte was sitting at breakfast with one of his aides-de-camp, who, as far as can be remembered, was Lemmarois. General Lefebvre, afterwards Duke of Dantzic, then commanding the 17th military division, of which Paris was the headquarters, was standing. Bernadotte, seeing him in that attitude, did not doubt that he was detained a prisoner. He immediately took a chair, sat down, and made a sign to Lefebvre to do the same. Lefebvre hesitated, but a glance from Buonaparte reassured him. He sat down respectfully, looking at Buonaparte. The latter, addressing himself to Bernadotte, said, with embarrassment,—"Why, you are not in uniform!" On Bernadotte answering—"I am not on duty," Buonaparte replied—"You shall be immediately."—"I do not think so," said Bernadotte. Buonaparte rose, took Bernadotte by the hand, and carried him into an adjoining room. "This Directory governs ill," said he; "it would destroy the Republic if we did not take care. The Council of Ancients has named me commandant of Paris, of the national guard, and of all the troops in the division. Go and put on your uniform, and join me at the Tuileries, where I am now going."