Volume 4 — BOOK XI[336] (continued 2)

Murat did not pursue the Viceroy to the Adige; he hesitated between the Allies and the French, according to the chances which Bonaparte seemed to be winning or losing.

In the fields of Brienne, where Napoleon was educated by the old Monarchy, he gave, in the latter's honour, the last and most admirable of his blood-stained tourneys[454]. Favoured by the Carbonari, Joachim at one time wished to declare himself the liberator of Italy, at another hoped to divide her between himself and Bonaparte become victorious. One morning, a courier brought to Naples the news of the entry of the Russians into Paris. Madame Murat was still in bed and Madame Récamier was talking with her, seated at her pillow; an enormous pile of letters and newspapers was laid upon the bed. Among the latter was my pamphlet, De Bonaparte and des Bourbons. The Queen exclaimed:

"Ah, here is a work by M. de Chateaubriand; we will read it together."

And she went on opening her letters.

Madame Récamier took the pamphlet and, after casting her eyes over it at random, placed it back on the bed and said to the Queen:

"Madame, you shall read it alone, I am obliged to return home."

Napoleon was relegated to Elba; the Allies, with rare cleverness, had placed him on the coast of Italy. Murat learnt that they were trying at the Congress of Vienna to despoil him of the States which he had nevertheless bought so dear; he came to a secret understanding with his brother-in-law, who had become his neighbour. One is always surprised that the Napoleons should have relations: who knows the name of Arrhidæus[455], the brother of Alexander? In the course of the year 1814, the King and Queen of Naples gave an entertainment at Pompeii; an excavation was conducted to the sound of music: the ruins which Caroline and Joachim had dug up did not apprize them of their own ruin; on the last borders of prosperity we hear but the last strains of the dream that passes away.

At the time of the Peace of Paris, Murat formed part of the Alliance, the Milanese having been handed back to Austria: the Neapolitans retired within the Roman Legations. Murat, perplexed, having changed his interest, sallied forth from the Legations and marched with forty thousand men towards Upper Italy to make a diversion in favour of Napoleon[456]. At Parma, he refused the conditions which the affrighted Austrians offered him once more: to each of us comes a critical moment; ill chosen or well, it decides our future. The Baron de Frimont[457] forced back Murat's troops, took the offensive and drove them before him fighting to Macerata[458]. The Neapolitans left the ranks; their King and general returned to Naples[459], accompanied by four lancers. He went to his wife and said:

"Madame, I have not been able to die."

*

The next day, a boat took him in the direction of the island of Ischia; he joined at sea a smack carrying a few officers of his staff, and set sail with them for France.

Murat's flight.

Madame Murat, left behind alone, displayed admirable presence of mind. The Austrians were on the point of appearing: in the passing from one authority to another, an interval of anarchy might have been filled with disorders. The Regent did not precipitate her retreat; she allowed the German soldier to occupy the town and had her galleries lighted up at night. The people, seeing the lights from the outside, thinking that the Queen was still there, remained quiet. Meantime Caroline left by a secret stair-case and went on board ship. Seated on the poop, she saw gleaming on the bank the illuminated, but deserted palace from which she was departing, an image of the dazzling dream which she had had during her sleep in the realm of the fairies.

Caroline met the frigate which was bringing Ferdinand[460] back. The ship of the fugitive Queen fired a salute, the ship of the recalled King did not return it: Prosperity does not recognise her sister Adversity. Thus do illusions, faded for the one, begin anew for the other; thus do the fickle destinies of humanity pass each other in the winds and on the billows: smiling or baleful, one and the same abyss bears them or engulfs them.

Murat was achieving his career elsewhere. On the 25th of May 1815, at ten o'clock at night, he landed in the Golfe Juan, where his brother-in-law had landed. Fortune made Joachim play the parody of Napoleon. The latter did not believe in the strength of misfortune, nor in the succour which it brings to great minds: he forbade the dethroned King the approach to Paris; he consigned to the lazar-house this man stricken with the plague of the conquered; he shut him up in a country-house called Plaisance, near Toulon. He would have done better to show less dread of a contagion with which he had himself been seized: who knows what a soldier like Murat might have altered in the Battle of Waterloo?

The King of Naples, in his trouble, wrote to Fouché on the 19th of June 1815:

"I shall reply to those who accuse me of commencing hostilities too soon that it was done at the Emperor's formal demand and that, for three months, he did not cease to reassure me as to his sentiments by accrediting ministers to me and writing to me that he relied on me and would never abandon me. It is only when people saw that I had lost, together with the throne, the means of continuing the powerful diversion which had lasted three months that they tried to mislead public opinion by insinuating that I acted on my own behalf and without the Emperor's knowledge."

There existed a generous and beautiful woman; when she arrived in Paris, Madame Récamier received her and would not abandon her in times of misfortune. Among the papers which she has left behind were found two letters from Murat written in the month of June 1819; they are useful to the study of history:

Letters from Murat.

6 June 1815.

"I have lost the fairest existence for France's sake; I have fought for the Emperor; it is for his cause that my wife and my children are in captivity. The country is in danger, I offer my services; they put off accepting them. I know not if I am free or a prisoner. I must needs be involved in the Emperor's ruin if he falls, and they deprive me of the means of serving him and serving my own cause. I ask their reasons; they reply obscurely and I am unable clearly to establish my position. At one time I cannot go to Paris, where my presence would injure the Emperor, and I must not join the army, where my presence would too much attract the attention of the soldiers. What am I to do? Wait: that is what they reply. On the other hand, I am told that I am not forgiven for having abandoned the Emperor last year, whereas letters from Paris said, when I was recently fighting for France, 'Every one here is delighted with the King.' The Emperor wrote to me, I rely on you, do you rely on me, I shall never abandon you.' King Joseph wrote to me, 'The Emperor orders me to write to you to move rapidly upon the Alps.' And when, on arriving, I display generous sentiments and offer to fight for France, I am sent into the Alps. Not a word of consolation is addressed to one who never did him any other wrong than to rely too greatly on generous sentiments which he never entertained for me.

"My friend, I come to ask you to inform me of the opinion of France and the army regarding me. A man must know how to endure all and my courage will make me rise superior to every misfortune. All is lost save honour; I have lost the throne, but I have preserved all my glory; I have been abandoned by my soldiers, who were victorious in every fight, but I have never been beaten. The desertion of twenty thousand men placed me at the mercy of my enemies; a fisher's bark saved me from captivity, and a merchant ship cast me in three days on the coasts of France."

"Near Toulon, 18 June 1815.

"I have just received your letter. I cannot describe to you the different sensations which it made me experience. I have been able for a moment to forget my misfortunes. I am occupied only with my friend, whose noble and generous soul comes to console me and show me its sorrow. Reassure yourself: all is lost, but honour remains; my glory will survive all my misfortunes, and my courage will be able to make me rise superior to all the rigours of my destiny: have no fear on that score. I have lost my throne and family unmoved; but ingratitude has revolted me. I have lost all for France, for her Emperor, by his order, and to-day he makes it a crime in me to have done so. He refuses me permission to fight and revenge myself, and I am not free to choose my own retreat: can you conceive all my unhappiness? What can I do? What decision can I take? I am a Frenchman and a father: as a Frenchman, I must serve my country; as a father, I must go to share my children's lot: honour lays upon me the duty of fighting and nature tells me that I must belong to my children. Which am I to obey? Cannot I satisfy both? Shall I be allowed to listen to either? Already the Emperor refuses me armies; and will Austria grant me the means to go to join my children? Shall I ask them of her, I who have never been willing to treat with her ministers? There is my situation: give me advice. I shall await your reply, the Duc d'Otrante's and Lucien's, before taking a determination. Consult opinion well as to what it is thought right for me to do, for I am free in the choice of my retreat; they are returning to the past and making it a crime in me to have, by order, lost my throne, when my family is languishing in captivity. Advise me; listen to the voice of honour, to that of nature, and, as an impartial judge, have the courage to write to me what I am to do. I shall await your reply on the road between Marseilles and Lyons."

Putting aside the personal vanities and the illusions which issue from the throne, even from a throne on which one has been seated but for a moment, these letters show us the idea which Murat entertained of his brother-in-law.

Bonaparte lost the Empire a second time; Murat was a shelterless vagrant on the same sands which have since beheld the roamings of the Duchesse de Berry. Some smugglers consented, on the 22nd of August 1815, to put him and three others across to Corsica. A tempest greeted him: the felucca which plies between Bastia and Toulon took him on board. Scarce had he left his shore-boat, when she split. Landing at Bastia on the 25th of August, he hastened to hide himself in the village of Vescovato, at old Colonna-Ceccaldi's[461]. Two hundred officers joined him with General Franceschetti[462]. He marched on Ajaccio: Bonaparte's maternal town alone still cared for her son; of all his Empire, Napoleon owned only his cradle. The garrison of the citadel saluted Murat and wished to proclaim him King of Corsica: he refused; he thought only the sceptre of the Two Sicilies equal to his greatness. His aide-de-camp Macirone[463] brought him from Paris the decision of Austria, by virtue of which he was to give up the title of King and retire at will to Bohemia or Moldavia:

"It is too late," replied Joachim; "my dear Macirone, the die is cast."

On the 28th of September, Murat sailed for Italy; seven bottoms were laden with his two hundred and fifty followers: he had scorned to have for his kingdom the narrow mother-land of the immense man; full of hope, led away by the example of a fortune higher than his own, he set out from the island whence Napoleon had issued to take possession of the world: it is not the same spots, but similar geniuses, that produce the same destinies.

A storm dispersed the flotilla; Murat was cast ashore, on the 8th of October, in the Gulf of Santa Eufemia, almost at the moment when Bonaparte was approaching the Rock of St. Helena[464].

Of his seven praams, only two were left to him, including his own. Landing with some thirty men, he tried to stir up the population of the coast; the inhabitants fired on his band. The two praams stood out to sea; Murat was betrayed. He ran to a stranded boat, tried to float it; the boat would not move. Surrounded and captured, Murat, insulted by the same mob that once used to shout itself hoarse with "Long live King Joachim!" was taken to Pizzo Castle. Upon him and his companions were seized insensate proclamations: they showed with what dreams men delude themselves to their last hour.

Unruffled in his prison, Murat said:

"I shall have only my Kingdom of Naples; my cousin Ferdinand will keep the second Sicily."

Death of Murat.

And at that moment a military commission was condemning Murat to death. When he heard his sentence, his firmness deserted him for a few instants; he shed tears and exclaimed:

"I am Joachim King of the Two Sicilies!"

He forgot that Louis XVI. had been King of France, the Duc d'Enghien grandson of the Grand Condé, and Napoleon arbiter of Europe: Death reckons as nothing what we may have been.

A priest is always a priest, say and do what we will; he comes and restores its failing strength to an intrepid heart. On the 13th of October 1815, Murat, after writing to his wife, was taken to a room in Pizzo Castle, renewing in his romantic person the brilliant or tragic adventures of the middle ages. Twelve soldiers, who perhaps had served under him, awaited him, drawn up in two lines. Murat saw them load their muskets, refused to let his eyes be bandaged, and himself, as an experienced captain, chose the post where the bullets could best hit him.

When aim had been taken at him, at the moment of the fire, he said:

"Men, spare the face; aim at my heart!"

He fell, holding in his hands the portraits of his wife and of his children: those portraits used before to adorn the hilt of his sword[465]. It was but one affair the more which the gallant man had settled with life.

The different manners of death of Napoleon and Murat preserve the characters of their lives.

Murat, so magnificent, was buried without state at Pizzo, in one of those Christian churches in whose charitable bosom all ashes are mercifully received.

*

Madame Récamier, returning to France, passed through Rome at the moment when the Pope returned[466]. In another portion of these Memoirs, you accompanied Pius VII., set at liberty at Fontainebleau, to the gates of St Peter's[467]. Joachim, still alive, was about to disappear, and Pius VII. was reappearing. Behind them, Napoleon was struck; the conqueror's hand let the King fall and raised the Pontiff.

Pope Pius VII.

Pius VII. was received with shouts which shook the ruins of the city of ruins. The horses were taken from his carriage and the crowd drew him to the steps of the Church of the Apostles. The Holy Father saw nothing, heard nothing; rapt in mind, his thought was far from the earth; only his hand rose over the people from the tender habit of blessing. He entered the basilica to the sound of trumpets, to the singing of the Te Deum, to the acclamations of the Swiss of the religion of William Tell. The thuribles wafted perfumes to him which he did not inhale; he would not be carried on the sedia gestatoria under the shadow of the canopy and the palms; he walked like a shipwrecked man fulfilling his vow to Our Lady of Succour, and charged by Christ with a mission which was to renew the face of the earth. He was clad in a white robe; his hair, which had remained black in spite of misfortune and years, formed a contrast with the anchorite's pallor. On arriving at the Tomb of the Apostles, he prostrated himself: he remained, without movement and as though dead, plunged in the depths of the counsels of Providence. The emotion was profound; Protestants who witnessed the scene wept scalding tears.

What a subject for meditation! An infirm, decrepit priest, strengthless, defenseless, taken from the Quirinal, carried captive to the heart of Gaul; a martyr, who awaited naught save his tomb, delivered from the hands of Napoleon, who pressed the globe, resuming the empire of an indestructible world, when the walls of a prison beyond the seas were being prepared for that formidable gaoler of the nations and the kings!

Pius VII. outlived the Emperor; he saw the master-pieces, the faithful friends which had accompanied him in his exile, brought back to the Vatican. On his return from persecution, the septuagenarian Pontiff, prostrate beneath the cupola of St. Peter's, displayed at the same time all the weakness of man and the grandeur of God.

On descending the Savoy Alps, Madame Récamier, at Pont-de-Beauvoisin, found the White Flag and the white cockade. The Corpus Christi processions, passing through the villages, seemed to have come back with the Most Christian King. In Lyons, the traveller arrived in the midst of a Restoration festival. The enthusiasm was unfeigned. At the head of the rejoicings stood Alexis de Noailles[468] and Colonel Clary, Joseph Bonaparte's brother-in-law. All that is told to-day of the coldness and gloom with which the Legitimacy was received at the First Restoration is a shameless falsehood. Joy was general in the different sections of opinion, even among the Conventionals, even among the Imperialists, excepting the soldiers: their noble pride suffered from those reverses. Nowadays, when the weight of military government is no longer felt, when vanities are aroused, it is necessary to deny the facts, because they do not accord with the theories of the moment. It suits the purpose of a system that the nation should have received the Bourbons with abhorrence and that the Restoration should have been a time of oppression and misery. This leads to melancholy reflections on human nature. If the Bourbons had the inclination and the strength to oppress, they might have looked forward to a long retention of the throne. Bonaparte's violence and injustice, dangerous to his power though they appeared, in reality served him: men are appalled by iniquities, but manufacture a great idea out of them; they are disposed to regard as a superior being one who places himself above the laws.

Madame de Staël, who arrived in Paris before Madame Récamier, had written to her several times; only the following note reached her:

"Paris, 20 May 1814.

"I am ashamed to be in Paris without you, dear angel of my life: tell me your plans. Would you like me to go before you to Coppet, where I am going to stay for four months? After so many sufferings, my sweetest prospect is yourself, and my heart is for ever devoted to you. One word as to your departure and arrival. I await that note to know what I shall do. I am writing to you to Rome, Naples, etc."

Madame de Genlis.

Madame de Genlis, who had never had any relations with Madame Récamier, was eager to become better acquainted with her. I find a passage expressing a wish which, had it been realized, would have spared the reader my story:

"11 October.

"Here, madame, is the book which I had the honour to promise you. I have marked the things which I should like you to read....

"Come, madame, to tell me your story 'in these words,' as they do in the novels. Then I will afterwards ask you to write it in the form of recollections, which will be full of interest, because, in your earliest youth, you were cast, with a bewitching face and a mind full of shrewdness and penetration, into the midst of those whirlpools of errors and follies; because you have seen everything; and because, having preserved, during those stormy times, your religious sentiment, a pure soul, a stainless life, an impressionable and loyal heart, possessing neither envy nor hateful passions, you will depict everything in the truest colours. You are one of the phenomena of these days, and certainly the most amiable.

"You shall show me your 'Recollections;' my old experience will offer some advice, and you will write a useful and delightful work. Do not come and answer, 'I am not capable,' etc., etc. I will permit you no commonplaces; they are unworthy of your intelligence. You can cast back your eyes over the past without remorse: this is, at all times, the fairest of our privileges; in the days in which we live, it is an inestimable one. Avail yourself of it for the instruction of the young person[469] whom you are bringing up; it will be the greatest boon you can show her.

"Adieu, madame, permit me to tell you that I love you and that I embrace you with all my heart."

*

Now that Madame Récamier has returned to Paris[470], I will go back for some time to my first guides. The Queen of Naples, uneasy about the resolutions of the Congress of Vienna, wrote to Madame Récamier to find her a man who would be capable of handling her interests in Vienna. Madame Récamier applied to Benjamin Constant and asked him to draw up a memorandum. This circumstance had the most unfortunate influence upon the author of the memorandum; a stormy sentiment was the result of an interview. Under the empire of this sentiment, Benjamin Constant, already a violent Anti-Bonapartist, as is manifest in the Esprit de conquête[471], allowed opinions to overflow the course of which was soon changed by events. Thence arose a reputation for political fickleness baleful to statesmen.

Madame Récamier, while admiring Bonaparte, had remained true to her hatred against the oppressor of our liberties and the enemy of Madame de Staël. As for what concerned herself, she did not give it a thought and she made light of her exile. The letters which Benjamin Constant wrote to her at this time will serve as a study, if not of the human heart, at least of the human head: there we see all that could be made of a passion by an ironical and romantic, serious and poetical intelligence. Rousseau is not more genuine, but he mingles with his imaginary loves a sincere melancholy and a real reverie.

*

Meanwhile, Bonaparte had landed at Cannes; the perturbation due to his approach was beginning to make itself felt. Benjamin Constant wrote Madame Récamier this note:

"Forgive me if I avail myself of circumstances to trouble you; but the opportunity is too favourable. My fate will be decided in four or five days surely; for, though you used to like not to think so, in order to have to show me less interest, I am certainly, with Marmont, Chateaubriand and Lainé, one of the four most compromised men in France. It is, therefore, certain that, if we do not triumph, I shall in a week be either an outlaw or a fugitive, or in a cell or shot. Grant me then, during the two or three days which will precede the battle, as much of your time and as many of your hours as you can. If I die, you will be glad to have done me this kindness and you would be sorry to have afflicted me. My feeling for you is my life; one sign of indifference hurts me more than, four days hence, my sentence of death could do. And, when I feel that danger is a means of obtaining a sign of interest from you, I derive from it nothing but joy.

"Were you pleased with my article, and have you heard what people say of it?"

Benjamin Constant was right, he was as much compromised as I: attached to Bernadotte, he had served against Napoleon; he had published his work De l'esprit de conquête, in which he handled the "tyrant" more roughly than I handled him in my pamphlet De Bonaparte et des Bourbons. He crowned his perils by talking in the newspapers.

On the 19th of March, at the moment when Bonaparte was at the gates of the Capital, he had the firmness to affix his signature to an article in the Journal des Débats ending with this phrase:

"I shall not, like a wretched turn-coat, go creeping from one power to the other, covering infamy with sophisms and stammering out profane words to redeem a shameful life."

Benjamin Constant wrote to her who inspired him with these noble sentiments:

"I am glad that my article has appeared; at least none can now doubt my sincerity. Here is a note which some one wrote to me after reading it: if I were to receive a similar one from somebody else, I should be gay upon the scaffold."

Madame Récamier always reproached herself for having unintentionally exercised so great an influence over an honourable destiny. Nothing, in fact, is more distressing than to inspire those fickle characters with those energetic resolutions which they are incapable of keeping. On the 20th of March, Benjamin Constant belied his article of the 19th. After driving a little distance away from town, he returned to Paris and allowed himself to be caught by Bonaparte's seductions. Appointed a State councillor[472], he obliterated his generous pages by working at the draft of the Additional Act.

From that time forward, he bore a secret wound at his heart; he no longer with assurance broached the thought of posterity; his spoilt and saddened life contributed in no small degree to his death. God preserve us from triumphing over the miseries from which the loftiest natures are not exempt! Heaven does not give us talents without attaching infirmities to them: expiations offered to foolishness and envy. The weaknesses of a superior man are the black victims which antiquity sacrificed to the infernal gods, and still they never allow themselves to be disarmed.

*

Madame de Krüdener.

Madame Récamier spent the Hundred Days in France, where Queen Hortense invited her to stay; the Queen of Naples, on the other hand, offered her an asylum in Italy. The Hundred Days passed. Madame de Krüdener accompanied the Allies, who arrived once more in Paris. She had fallen from novel-writing into mysticism; she wielded a great empire over the mind of the Tsar of Russia.

Madame de Krüdener lodged in a house in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The garden of this house extended as far as the Champs-Élysées. Alexander used to arrive incognito by a gate of the garden, and politico-religious conversations would end with fervent prayers. Madame de Krüdener invited me to one of these celestial incantations: I, the man of every illusion, have a hatred of unreason, a loathing for the nebulous and a scorn for hocus-pocus; we are none of us perfect. The scene bored me; the more I tried to pray, the more I felt the dryness of my soul. I could find nothing to say to God, and the devil incited me to laugh. I had liked Madame de Krüdener better when, surrounded with flowers and still inhabiting this paltry earth, she was writing Valérie. Only, I used to consider that my old friend M. Michaud, so oddly mixed up in this idyll, had not enough of the shepherd about him, notwithstanding his name. Madame de Krüdener, become a seraph, strove to surround herself with angels; the proof is contained in this charming note from Benjamin Constant to Madame Récamier:

"Thursday.

"I am a little embarrassed in fulfilling a commission which Madame de Krüdener has just given me. She entreats you to come looking as little beautiful as you can. She says that you dazzle everybody and that, for that reason, all minds are troubled and all attention becomes impossible. You cannot lay aside your charmingness; but do not enhance it. I could add many things about your beauty on this occasion, but I have not the courage. One can be ingenious on the charm which pleases, but not on that which kills. I shall see you presently; you have told me five o'clock, but you will not come in till six, and I shall not be able to say a word to you. I shall try, however, to be amiable for this once again."

Did not the Duke of Wellington also lay claim to the honour of attracting a glance from Juliet? One of his notes, which I transcribe, is curious only because of the signature:

"Paris, 13 January.

"I confess, madame, that I do not much regret that business will prevent me from calling on you after dinner, because, every time I see you, I leave you more impressed with your charms and less disposed to give my attention to politics!!!

"I will call on you to-morrow on my return from the Abbé Sicard's, in case you should be in, and in spite of the effect which those dangerous visits produce on me.

"Your most faithful servant,

"Wellington."

On his return from Waterloo, entering Madame Récamier's drawing-room, the Duke of Wellington exclaimed:

"I have beaten him soundly!"

In a French heart, his success would have made him lose the victory, had he ever been able to lay claim to it.

End of Madame de Staël.

It was at a sad time for the glory of France that I met Madame Récamier again; it was at the time of the death of Madame de Staël. Returning to Paris after the Hundred Days, the author of Delphine had fallen ill again; I had met her at her house and at Madame la Duchesse de Duras'. Gradually, her condition growing worse, she was obliged to keep her bed. One morning, I went to her in the Rue Royale; the shutters of her windows were two-thirds closed; the bed, pushed towards the wall at the back of the room, left only a space on the left; the curtains, drawn back on metal rods, formed two columns at the head of the bed. Madame de Staël, half sitting up, was propped up by pillows. I approached and, when my eyes had grown a little accustomed to the darkness, I distinguished the patient. A burning fever fired her cheeks. Her bright glance met me in the dimness, and she said to me:

"Good morning, my dear Francis[473]. I suffer, but that does not prevent me from loving you."

She held out her hand, which I pressed and kissed. As I raised my head, I saw on the opposite side of the bed, against the wall, something which rose up white and thin: it was M. de Rocca, with an emaciated countenance, hollow cheeks, bloodshot eyes and a sallow complexion; he was dying. I had never seen him, and I never saw him again. He did not open his mouth; he bowed as he passed before me; the sound of his footsteps was inaudible: he went away like a shadow. Stopping for a moment at the door, "the vaporous idol twitching its fingers" turned back towards the bed to wave adieu to Madame de Staël. Those two ghosts looking at one another in silence, one erect and pale, the other seated and coloured with a blood ready to flow down again and to congeal at the heart, made one shudder.

A few days afterwards, Madame de Staël changed her lodging. She invited me to dine with her, in the Rue Neuve-des-Mathurins: I went; she was not in the drawing-room and was unable even to come in to dinner; but she did not know that the fatal hour was so nigh. We sat down to table. I found myself sitting by Madame Récamier. It was twelve years since I had met her, and then I had seen her for but a moment. I did not look at her, she did not look at me: we did not exchange a word. When, towards the end of dinner, she timidly addressed a few words to me on Madame de Staël's illness, I turned my head a little and raised my eyes. I should fear to profane to-day through the mouth of my years a sentiment which preserves all its youth in my memory and whose charm increases as life withdraws. I separate my old days to discover behind those days celestial apparitions, to hear from the bottom of the abyss the harmonies of a happier region.

Madame de Staël died[474]. The last note which she wrote to Madame de Duras was traced in big crazy letters, like a child's. It contained an affectionate word for "Francis." The talent which expires impresses one more painfully than the individual who dies: it is a general desolation that strikes society; every one at the same moment suffers the same loss.

With Madame de Staël disappeared a considerable portion of the time in which I had lived: many of those breaches which the fall of a superior intelligence forms in a century never close up again. Her death made on me a particular impression, with which was mingled a sort of mysterious astonishment: it was at that illustrious woman's that I had first met Madame Récamier and, after long days of separation, Madame de Staël brought together again two travelling persons who had become almost strangers to one another: she left them, at a funeral banquet, her memory and the example of her immortal attachment.

I went to see Madame Récamier in the Rue Basse-du-Rempart and, afterwards, in the Rue d'Anjou. When one has rejoined his destiny, he believes himself never to have left it: life, according to the opinion of Pythagoras, is only a reminiscence. Who does not, in the course of his days, recollect some little circumstances indifferent to all, except to him who recalls them? Belonging to the house in the Rue d'Anjou was a garden; in that garden, a bower of lime-trees, between whose leaves I saw a moonbeam when I waited for Madame Récamier: does it not seem to me as though that beam were mine and as though, if I went to look for it in the same place, I should find it? I scarce remember the sun which I have seen shine on many fore-heads.

*

The Abbaye-aux-Bois.

It was at that time that I was obliged to sell the Vallée-aux-Loups, which Madame Récamier had hired, in half shares with M. de Montmorency. More and more tried by fortune, Madame Récamier soon retired to the Abbaye-aux-Bois[475]. The Duchesse d'Abrantès speaks as follows of that abode:

"The Abbaye-aux-Bois, with all its dependencies, its beautiful gardens, its extensive cloisters, in which played young girls of all ages, with careless looks and frolicsome words, was known only as a saintly abode to which a family could safely entrust its hope; even then, it was known only to the mothers who had an interest beyond its high walls. But, once Sister Marie had closed the little gate surmounted by an attic, the boundary of the saintly domain, one crossed the great court-yard which separates the convent from the street, not only as neutral, but as foreign ground.

"To-day this is no longer so: the name of the Abbaye-aux-Bois has become popular; its renown is general and familiar to all classes. The woman who goes there for the first time and says to her footmen, 'To the Abbaye-aux-Bois' is sure not to be asked by them in which direction they have to drive....

"Whence did it, in so short a time, derive so positive a renown, so wide-spread an illustriousness? Do you see two little windows, right up at the top, in the lofts, there, above the large windows of the great stair-case? That is one of the small rooms of the house. Well, nevertheless, the fame of the Abbaye-aux-Bois took birth within its confines, came down from there, and became popular. And how could it but become popular, when all classes of society knew that, in that little room, dwelt a being who led a life disinherited of all joy and who, nevertheless, found words of consolation for every sorrow, magic words to alleviate every pain, succour for every misfortune?

"When, from the recesses of his prison, Coudert[476] caught a glimpse of the scaffold, whose pity was it that he invoked? 'Go to Madame Récamier,' he said to his brother[477] 'tell her that I am innocent before God... she will understand that evidence...' and Coudert was saved. Madame Récamier joined in her generous action a man gifted with both talent and kindness: M. Ballanche seconded her endeavours, and the scaffold devoured one victim the less.

"It might almost be described as a marvel offered to the study of the human mind, that little cell in which a woman of more than European reputation came to seek repose and a decent asylum. The world is generally inclined to forget those who no longer invite it to their banquets; it did not forget her who, formerly, in the midst of her joys, lent an even more willing ear to a complaint than to the accents of pleasure. Not only was the little room on the third floor of the Abbaye-aux-Bois the constant object of the errands of Madame Récamier's friends, but, as though a fairy's magic wand had relieved the steepness of the ascent, the same strangers who used to ask as a favour to be admitted to the elegant mansion on the Chaussée d'Antin continued to beg the same boon. For them it was a sight really as remarkable as any rarity in Paris to see, within a space of ten feet by twenty, all opinions united under one banner, marching in peace and almost hand in hand. The Vicomte de Chateaubriand told Benjamin Constant of the unknown marvels of America. Mathieu de Montmorency, with the urbanity personal to himself, the chivalrous politeness of all that bears his name, was as respectfully attentive to Madame Bernadotte[478], who was about to reign in Sweden, as he would have been to the sister[479] of Adelaide of Savoy[480], daughter of Humbert the White-handed[481], that widow of Louis the Fat[482] who married one of his ancestors[483]. And the man of the feudal times had not a single bitter word for the man of our days of liberty.

Society at the Abbaye.

"Seated side by side on the same divan, the duchess of the Faubourg Saint-Germain became polite to the duchess of the Empire; nothing seemed to shock in that unique room. When I saw Madame Récamier again in that room, I had just returned to Paris, after a long absence. I had a service to ask of her, and went to her with confidence. I well knew, through common friends, to how great a measure of strength her courage had risen, but I myself lacked it when I saw her there, under the loft, as peaceful and calm as in the gilded drawing-rooms of the Rue du Mont-Blanc.

"'What!' said I to myself. 'Nothing but sufferings!'

"And my moist eye fixed itself upon her with an expression which she must have understood. Alas, my memories passed back over the years and recaptured the past! Ever beaten by the storm, that woman, whom fame had placed at the very top of the wreath of flowers of the age, had, for the last ten years, seen her life surrounded by sorrows, the shock of which was striking repeated blows at her heart and killing her!...

"When, guided by old memories and a constant attraction, I selected the Abbaye-aux-Bois as my refuge, the little room on the third storey was no longer inhabited by her whom I should have gone to seek there; Madame Récamier at that time occupied a more spacious apartment. It was there that I saw her again. Death had thinned the ranks of the combatants around her, and, of all those political champions, M. de Chateaubriand was almost the only one among her friends who had survived. But for him too the hour struck of hope deceived and royal ingratitude. He was wise; he bade farewell to those false pretenses of happiness, and relinquished the uncertain power of the tribune to grasp one more practical.

"You have already seen that, in this drawing-room at the Abbaye-aux-Bois, there was question of other interests besides literary interests, and that those who suffer may turn towards it a look full of hope, Constantly occupied as I have, for some months, been with all that relates to the family of the Emperor, I have found a few documents which do not seem to be devoid of interest at this moment.

"The Queen of Spain[484] found herself under an absolute necessity to return to France. She wrote to Madame Récamier to beg her to interest herself in the request which she was making to be allowed to come to Paris. M. de Chateaubriand was at that time in office, and the Queen of Spain, knowing the loyalty of his character, had every confidence in the success of her appeal. Nevertheless, the thing was difficult, because there was a law which affected all that unhappy family, even in its most virtuous members. But M. de Chateaubriand had in him that feeling of a noble pity for misfortune, which later made him write those touching words:

Sur le compte des grands je ne suis pas suspect: Leurs malheurs seulement attirent mon respect. Je hais ce Pharaon, que l'éclat environne; Mais s'il tombe, à l'instant j'honore sa couronne; Il devient, à mes yeux, roi par l'adversité; Des pleurs je reconnais l'auguste autorité: Courtisan du malheur, etc., etc.[485]

"M. de Chateaubriand lent an ear to the interests of a person in distress; he examined his duty, which did not lay upon him the fear of dreading a weak woman, and, two days after the request was made, he wrote to Madame Récamier that Madame Joseph Bonaparte might return to France, asking where she was, in order that he might send her, through M. Durand de Moreuil, then our Minister to Brussels[486], permission to come to France under the name of the Comtesse de Villeneuve. He wrote at the same time to M. de Fagel[487].

"I have related this fact with so much the more pleasure as it honours both her who asked and the minister who obliged her: the one through her noble confidence, the other through his noble humanity[488]."

Madame d'Abrantès praises my conduct far too highly: it was not worth even the trouble of remark; but, as she does not tell all there is to tell about the Abbaye-aux-Bois, I will supply what she has forgotten or omitted.

Captain Roger.

Captain Roger[489], another Coudert, had been condemned to death. Madame Récamier had joined me in her pious work of saving him. Benjamin Constant had also interceded on behalf of this companion of Caron's, and had given the condemned man's brother the following letter for Madame Récamier:

"I could not forgive myself, madame, for always importuning you, but it is not my fault if there are incessant condemnations to death. This letter will be delivered to you by the brother of the unhappy Roger, sentenced with Caron[490]. The story is very hateful and very well-known. The name alone will acquaint M. de Chateaubriand with the matter. He is fortunate enough to be at the same time the first talent in the Ministry and the only minister under whom no blood has been spilt. I say no more; I leave the rest to your heart. It is very sad to have to write to you almost exclusively on distressful matters; but you forgive me, I know, and I am sure that you will add one more unfortunate to the long list of those whom you have saved.

"A thousand fond respects.

"B. Constant.

"Paris, 1 March 1823."

When Captain Roger was set at liberty, he hastened to express his gratitude to his benefactress. One evening, after dinner, I was at Madame Récamier's as usual; suddenly appeared this officer. He said to us, in a southern accent:

"But for your intercession, my head would have rolled on the scaffold."

We were stupefied, for we had forgotten our merits; he shouted, red as a turkey-cock:

"You don't remember?... You don't remember?..." In vain we made a thousand excuses for our lack of memory; he went off, striking the spurs of his boots together again and again, as furious at our forgetting our good action as though he had had to reproach us with his death.

About this time, Talma asked Madame Récamier to allow him to meet me at her rooms in order to consult me on some verses in Ducis' Othello, which he was not allowed to speak as they stood. Leaving my dispatches, I hastened to keep the appointment; I spent the evening with the modern Roscius recasting the unlucky lines. He proposed an alteration to me, I proposed another to him; we vied with each other in rhyming; we withdrew to the window-recess or to a corner to turn and re-turn a hemistich. We had much difficulty in agreeing as to the sense and the rhythm. It would have been rather curious to see me, the minister of Louis XVIII., and Talma, the king of the stage, forgetting what we might be, emulating each other in enthusiasm, and sending the censorship and all the grandeurs of the world to the deuce. But, if Richelieu had his dramas performed while letting Gustavus Adolphus[491] loose on Europe, could not I, a humble secretary of State, busy myself with the tragedies of others while seeking the independence of France in Madrid?

Sweet hours at the Abbaye.

Madame la Duchesse d'Abrantès, whose coffin I have saluted in the church at Chaillot, has described only the inhabited abode of Madame Récamier; I will tell of the solitary refuge. A dark corridor separated two small rooms. I maintained that this vestibule was lit up with a gentle light. The bed-room was furnished with a library, a harp, a piano, a portrait of Madame de Staël and a view of Coppet by moonlight; pots of flowers adorned the window-sills. When, quite breathless with clambering up three flights of stairs, I entered the cell at the fall of evening, I was enraptured. The outlook from the windows was over the garden of the Abbaye, in the green clumps of which the nuns moved to and fro and school-girls ran hither and thither. The top of an acacia-tree rose to the level of the eye. Sharp-pointed steeples pierced the sky, and on the horizon appeared the hills of Sèvres. The expiring sun gilded the picture and entered through the open windows. Madame Récamier sat at her piano; the Angelus tolled: the sound of the bell which seemed "to weep the dying day, pianger il giorno che si muore[492]," mingled with the last accents of the Invocation of the Night in Steibelt's[493] Romeo and Juliet. A few birds came to nestle in the raised outer blinds; I joined the silence and solitude from afar, above the noise and tumult of a great city.

God, by giving me those hours of peace, indemnified me for my hours of trouble; I foresaw the coming rest which my faith believes in and my hope invokes. Agitated as I was elsewhere with political occupations, or disgusted with the ingratitude of Courts, peacefulness of heart awaited me in the recesses of that retreat, like the coolness of the woods when one leaves a scorching plain. I recovered my calm beside a woman who spread serenity around her; and yet that serenity was not in any way too even, for it passed through deep affections. Alas, the men whom I used to meet at Madame Récamier's, Mathieu de Montmorency, Camille Jordan, Benjamin Constant, the Duc de Laval, have gone to join Hingant, Joubert, Fontanes, others who were absent from another absent company. Amid those successive friendships have risen young friends, the vernal offshoots of an old forest in which the felling is everlasting. I beg them, I beg M. Ampère, who will read this when I am gone, I ask them all to keep me in their memory: I make over to them the thread of the life the end of which Lachesis is spinning out on my distaff. My inseparable road-fellow, M. Ballanche, has found himself alone at the commencement and at the end of my career; he has witnessed my friendships broken by time as I have witnessed his carried away by the Rhone: rivers always undermine their banks.

The misfortune of my friends has often weighed heavily on me, and I have never shrunk from the sacred burden: the moment of reward has arrived; a serious attachment deigns to help me to support that which the multitude of the bad days adds to their weight. As I draw near my end, it seems to me that all that has been dear to me has been dear to me in Madame Récamier, and that she was the hidden source of my affections. My memories of diverse ages, those of my dreams as well as those of my realities, have become moulded, blended, confounded into a compound of charms and sweet sufferings of which she has become the visible embodiment She regulates my sentiments, in the same way as Heaven has set happiness, order and peace into my duties.

I have followed the fair wanderer along the path which she has trodden so lightly; soon I shall go before her to a new country. As she passes in the midst of these Memoirs, in the windings of the basilica which I hasten to complete, she may come upon the chapel which here I dedicate to her; it will perhaps please her to rest in it: I have placed her image there.