Part 18

King Jerome's marriage with the young Princess Catherine of Würtemberg added to the animation of the already brilliant court. The annulment of the young Prince's marriage with Miss Paterson had caused Napoleon much difficulty. When this marriage had been contracted at Baltimore, December 8, 1803, he had been only First Consul, and Jerome, a simple naval officer, was in no way under the control of the decree of the Senate, which was later to determine the civil conditions of the new Imperial family. But in his haste to marry the young and beautiful American girl, Jerome, who was but nineteen years old, had neglected, in spite of the advice of the French Consul, to demand the permission of his mother, Madame Letitia Bonaparte. This omission had not prevented the Bishop of Baltimore from celebrating the marriage. Napoleon, however, regarded it as null and void. It was not till February 22, 1805, that he obtained his mother's protest, and the 21st of the next March, by an Imperial decree, he annulled the marriage which displeased him, by his own authority. Yet, in the eyes of religion, this union still existed. The Emperor asked the Pope to pronounce it null, but Pius VII. gave the request a formal refusal, writing in June, 1805: "It is beyond our power in the present state of things, to pronounce it null. If we should usurp an authority we do not possess, we should render ourselves guilty of an abuse abominable before the throne of God; and Your Majesty himself, in his justice, would blame us for pronouncing a sentence contrary to the testimony of our conscience, and to the invariable principles of the church.... That is why we earnestly hope that Your Majesty will be convinced that the desire with which we are always animated to second his designs, so far as depends on us, particularly in a matter so closely concerning his august person, has been rendered idle by the absolute absence of power, and we entreat him to receive this sincere declaration as testimony of our really paternal affection." This was the beginning of the quarrel between the Pope and the Emperor. Pius VII. would not yield; but Napoleon found greater servility in the metropolitan officialty of Paris; and October 6, 1806, he secured a sentence pronouncing the nullity of his brother Jerome's marriage with Miss Paterson.

The King of Würtemberg, in the hope that a close alliance with the Imperial family would strengthen his throne, and procure him accession of land and power, had prepared to give to the Emperor's young brother the hand of his daughter, Princess Catherine. As soon as the King had formed this decision, he would not listen to a word of criticism from his family, who were already accustomed never to discuss his ideas. The King of Würtemberg was a real giant. He was so stout that a broad, deep hollow had to be cut out of his dining-table; for otherwise he would not have been able to reach his plate. He was fond of riding, but it was not easy to find a horse strong enough to carry his enormous weight. The horse had to be gradually accustomed to it, and to accomplish this, the equerry who had to prepare the royal steed used to wear a band full of lead, to which he would add new pieces every day, until he was as heavy as the King. This monarch, who was highly respected, though greatly feared, by ids subjects, had some eccentricities. Thus he demanded that his wife should be up and fully dressed by seven in the morning; and insisted that at whatever hour of the day or evening it should please him to enter her apartment, he should find her ready to accompany him wherever he might want to go. The Queen, who was his second wife,--Princess Catherine was a child by his first marriage,--was a daughter of the King of England, and consequently she was averse to seeing her step-daughter marry the brother of England's greatest enemy; but she took good care not to make any objections. The King of Würtemberg was severe to his family and to his subjects, but he was well educated, intelligent, and energetic. Napoleon set great store by him, and regarded him as a loyal and faithful ally.

Jerome, who had been made King of Westphalia by the treaty of Tilsitt, was the youngest of the Emperor's brothers. He was born at Ajaccio, November 15, 1784, and was not yet twenty-three when he married Princess Catherine of Würtemberg, who was nearly two years older than he, having been born February 2, 1783. This Princess had much charm; she was tall, handsome, her expression was noble and kindly; she inspired every one with sympathy and respect. She was a woman remarkable for intelligence, virtue, and affection. She was to be a model wife and mother. She it was who, in 1814, refused to get a divorce and to abandon an unfortunate husband, a dethroned king. She it was who wrote to her father this admirable letter, without fear of his anger: "Having been forced, by reasons of state to marry the King, my husband, it has been granted me by fate to be the happiest woman in the world. I feel for my husband love, tenderness, esteem, combined; at this painful moment would the best of desire to destroy my domestic happiness, the only sort left to me? I venture to tell you, my clear father, you and, all the family, that you do not know the King, my husband. A time will come, I hope, when you will be convinced that you have misjudged him and then you will always find him and me the most respectful and most loving children." She was the courageous woman, the faithful wife, the devoted mother, of whom Napoleon said at Saint Helena: "Princess Catherine of Würtemberg has with her own hands written her name in history."

Jerome's marriage was an event of great ceremony. It was first celebrated, by proxy, at Stuttgart, the Princess's brother representing the bridegroom. The Emperor sent presents to his future sister-in-law, among other things a set of diamonds worth three hundred thousand francs. A detachment from the Emperor's household and many of the Empress's ladies of the bedchamber went to the frontiers to meet the Princess. She reached the Castle of Raincy, August 20, 1807, and there saw her betrothed for the first time, and the 21st, Napoleon received her at the Tuileries on the first step of the great staircase. As she bowed before him, he folded her in his arms, then he presented her to the Empress, before the whole court and the deputies of the new kingdom of Westphalia, who had been summoned to Paris to be present at the marriage of their young sovereign with a Princess belonging to one of the oldest and most illustrious families of Germany.

Saturday, August 22, the signature of the marriage contract and the civil wedding took place at the Tuileries, in the Gallery of Diana, in presence of the Emperor, the Empress, the ladies and officers of their households and the great personages of the Empire. M. Regnault de Saint-Jean d'Angély, Secretary of State of the Imperial family, read the marriage- contract, which was then signed by the Emperor, the Empress, the young couple, the Princes and Princesses, the Prince Primate of the Confederation of the Rhine, the Prince's high dignitaries of the Empire, and the witnesses of the marriage. The witnesses were, for the court of France: Prince Borghese, Prince Murat, Grand Duke of Berg, and Marshal Berthier, Prince of Neufchâtel; for the court of Würtemberg: the Prince of Baden; the Prince of Nassau; and the Count of Winzingerode, the Minister of Würtemberg. Prince Cambacérès, Arch-chancellor of the Empire, then received the consent of the couple and pronounced the formula of the civil marriage.

The next day, Sunday, August 23, 1807, at eight in the evening, the religious marriage was celebrated in the chapel of the Tuileries, the galleries being filled with the diplomatic bodies, the foreign princes and noblemen and invited guests. The procession was brilliant. On entering the chapel, Napoleon gave his hand to the Princess Catherine, and Jerome his to the Empress. The Prince Primate of the Confederation of the Rhines, Archbishop of Regensburg, Sovereign Prince of that city, of Aschaftenburg, of Frankfort, etc., surrounded by his clergy and his court, stood at the chapel door. He gave holy water to the Emperor and the Empress, who at once went to their praying-chairs; then he gave the nuptial blessing to the young couple, while the canopy was held by the Bishop of Ghent and the Abbé of Boulogne, the Emperor's Almoners. After the ceremony, they all went back from the chapel to the grand apartments, where followed a concert, a ballet, and a reception in the Hall of the Marshals. Twice Napoleon appeared on the balcony, showing the newly married pair the vast throng filling the garden of the Tuileries. Unfortunately, a sudden storm prevented the display of fireworks.

While the thunder was roaring and the rain pouring down, the Empress, at her young brother-in-law's marriage, was the prey to sad reflections. She thought of the deserted American wife, who, far away, was weeping, while her husband, the father of her children was joyfully leading another wife to the altar. Josephine doubtless thought that soon perhaps her lot would he the same as that of the unhappy Miss Paterson; that she would he sacrificed, abandoned, repudiated in the very same way.

The Empress had another cause of grief. At the Pyrenees her daughter Hortense had become reconciled with Louis, and was soon to be the mother of the child afterwards known as Napoleon III. But in a few weeks the incongeniality of their dispositions, for a moment forgotten in their common grief, asserted itself anew. On their return to Paris, at the end of August, the discord between the King and the Queen of Holland was as violent as ever. The King, more uneasy and suspicious than ever before, wanted to carry his wife to Holland, but the Queen had an aversion to the country where she had suffered so much, and to its fatal climate. She feared that if she should return there she might lose her second son like the first. Her health was wretched; she feared that her lungs were affected. In France she felt that the Emperor protected her from her husband's anger. Holland seemed to her a gloomy, damp, melancholy prison, of which the King, her husband, would be the jailor. Louis Bonaparte was furious at his wife's resistance, all the more that he was obliged to hide his feelings. Napoleon, who held his family, like his Empire, in absolute control, gave Louis, as well as his other brothers, orders which they had to obey without a word or a murmur. The King of Holland returned to his kingdom alone, his wife stayed in France, but in the gloomiest spirits, with mind and body disordered, disenchanted about all human things. "From that time," she said later, "I understood that my misfortunes were beyond cure; I looked upon my life as destroyed; I conceived a horror of grandeur, of a throne; I often cursed what so many called my good fortune; I felt lost to all enjoyment of life, shorn of all Illusions, nearly dead to everything going on about me." Under other conditions, the Empress would have been delighted to have her daughter with her, but she found her so dejected, so morose, and so unhappy, that her presence was quite as much a grief as a comfort for her. These were the feelings of the Empress of the French and of the Queen, of Holland when they went to Fontainebleau with the court at the end of September, 1807. There the Emperor lived more splendidly than ever, surrounding himself with all the pomp and majesty of monarchy.

XXV.

THE COURT AT FONTAINEBLEAU.

The court arrived at the Palace of Fontainebleau September 21, 1807, and stayed there until November 15. Napoleon felt the need of displaying unprecedented luxury. He wanted to have the Diplomatic Corps send to foreign powers the account of magnificent festivities. This splendid palace, with its proud memories of the old French monarchy, was a residence that pleased him. He liked to be surrounded by great persons, whether foreigners or Frenchmen, who rivalled one another in flattery, zeal, and homage towards him. In his opinion, festivities and battles added to the glory of the throne. Desiring to be in everything first, he was very anxious for his court to be esteemed the most brilliant in Europe.

There were various types among the guests at Fontainebleau. There was Napoleon's mother, rather Italian than French by birth, and in face and accent. She recalled the characters of antiquity, unspoiled by prosperity, austere in her life, simple in her taste, rigidly economical, less from avarice than a distrust of the continuance of her son's good fortune. There was the beautiful Princess Borghese, Duchess of Guastalla, more elegant, more fashionable, more attractive than ever; then Madame Murat, rich in freshness and brilliancy, not satisfied with being a French Princess and Grand Duchess of Berg, but yearning to be a Queen; the Queen of Holland, on the other hand, in despair at having ascended the throne, and plunged in a deep melancholy in marked contrast with the splendors surrounding her in spite of herself. Then Joseph Bonaparte's wife, the Queen of Naples, whose tastes were modest, and who preferred Paris to her Italian kingdom. There were many Princes and great lords in the crowd of courtiers, the satellites of the Imperial sun. In the Gallery of Henry II. were to be distinguished a cluster of German Princes: the Grand Duke of Würzburg,--who did not seem to sigh for his Grand Duchy of Tuscany, finding ample consolation in singing Italian pieces, for music was his passion; the Prince Primate of the Confederation of the Rhine, Archbishop of Regensburg, Sovereign Prince of that city and of Frankfort, who, in spite of his position in the church, joined the Emperor's hunt; Prince William of Prussia, who hoped by his devotion to alleviate the troubles of his country, and to modify the demands of the hero of Jena; the Prince of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, conspicuous for his formal German politeness; the young Prince of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. brother of the Queen of Prussia, less interested in the patriotic grievances of his sister, than in his assiduous court to the Empress Josephine, whose respectful platonic lover he was; the Prince of Baden, who, although the brother-in-law of the Emperor of Russia, the King of Bavaria, and the King of Sweden, was proud to have married a Mademoiselle de Beauharnais, daughter of a simple Senator of the Empire, with but one regret--that his wife did not love him enough; Jerome, the young and brilliant King of Westphalia, apparently forgetful of Elisabeth Paterson, and full of mad love for his new wife, Princess Catherine of Würtemberg.

In the Gallery of Henry II. was also to be seen Murat, who, after his triumphal entry into Warsaw, thought of nothing but crowns, anxiously wondering whether he was to be King of Poland, or of Portugal, of Spain, or of Naples. There were the high dignitaries of the Empire, the foreign ambassadors, the marshals, the ministers; M. de Talleyrand with his enormous salary, his high position as Grand Chamberlain and Vice-Elector, his title of Prince of Benevento, always sparkling with the cold, sceptical, politely contemptuous wit that distinguished those who belonged to the old régime--Talleyrand, who, in the Emperor's closet possibly spoke to him with a certain freedom, but in the Gallery of Henry II. resembled the other courtiers and kept a profound silence as his master drew near. Then the Count of Ségur, Grand Master of Ceremonies, as attractive in the court of Napoleon as he had been in that of Catherine II. as ambassador of Louis XVI.; Marshal Berthier, Grand Master of the Horse, Vice-Constable, Sovereign Prince of Neufchâtel, as devoted to Madame Visconti as if he were a youth of twenty; Count Tolstoi, the brilliant ambassador of the Emperor Alexander; M. de Metternich, the fascinating and skilful Austrian Ambassador, conspicuous by Ms admiration for Princess Murat.

When the Emperor entered, all eyes were turned towards him alone; about him centred all interest, all intrigues, all ambitions. He appeared as the dispenser of fortune, the arbiter of destiny, the exceptional being on whom depended individuals, kingdoms, empires. He filled it all with his presence; every one seemed to live only for and by the Emperor. A smile, a word, the slightest mark of attention on his part, seemed a precious reward, a marked honor, As soon as he entered, a quiver of admiration and of terror seemed to run through the air. Every one bowed like a horse who sniffs the approach of his master; they almost prostrated themselves before him. Any one to whom he spoke, stammered, feared to reply, turned pale and red; and he, rejoicing in their embarrassment, gloried in the wide gulf he had set between himself and all other human beings. Even foreigners seemed to be his subjects. Whatever their position, whatever their coat-of-arms, by his side they were vulgar supernumeraries. His power appeared to be limitless, like his genius; and believing everything possible, looking upon himself as a prodigy, a living miracle, he exulted proudly and majestically in his glory.

Under the second Empire, what were called the series of Compiègne and of Fontainebleau were much less ceremonious than under the first. All the guests of Napoleon III. breakfasted and dined at his table,--in the morning in frock-coat, in the evening in black coat and knee breeches; no uniforms were to be seen. Women appeared at breakfast in morning dress; they wore no especial dress at the hunt. Before dinner the Empress used to receive a few specially invited guests to drink tea. All day the Emperor left the company perfectly free. In the evening there was dancing to the music of a piano like a hand-organ, of which a chamberlain turned the handle. The Emperor was treated with great deference, but no one feared him, because his words were always marked by great affability. Napoleon I., on the other hand, was perhaps more feared than admired. Those who were charged with organizing his entertainments were perfectly happy if he was silent; for he almost never gave a word of praise and often criticised. It was a conspicuous and rare honor, even for Princes, to dine with him. There were besides at Fontainebleau, in 1807, several distinct tables: those of the Princes and Princesses of the Imperial family, who often gave grand dinners; that of the Grand Marshal of the Palace, with twenty-five places; that of the Empress's Maid of Honor, with the same number; and, finally, a last table for all those who had received no special invitation. The Princesses paid the cost--of installing themselves there out of their own purses, while under Napoleon III., at Fontainebleau, or at Compiègne, all the expenses were defrayed by the Emperor. Under the first Empire only those holding high official position were invited to the Imperial, residences; under the second, many were invited who were famous only for their elegance. Under Napoleon I., where everything was formal, scarcely anything but tragedy was played at the court; under Napoleon III., lighter plays were often given. The hunts were very simple under the second Emperor and very magnificent under the first, In 1807 Napoleon had ordered that women who went to the coursing should wear a special costume; that of the Empress and of all the ladies of her household was of amaranthine velvet, embroidered with gold, and a cap with white feathers; that of the Princesses, blue for the Queen of Holland, pink for the Princess Murat, lilac for the Princess Borghese, all adorned with silver embroidery. The Emperor and all his guests wore the same hunting-dress for coursing: a green coat with gold, buttons and lace, breeches of white cassimere, Hessian boots without tops; for shooting, a green coat, with no other ornament than white buttons, on which were carved hunting emblems. Under the first Empire, etiquette was most rigid; under the second, it hardly existed. At every moment of day and evening, Napoleon I. wore a twofold air as commander-in-chief and sovereign; Napoleon III. was like a man of the world receiving his friends in his own castle.

From September 21 to November 15, 1807, the great general had commanded that there should be amusement in the Palace of Fontainebleau. Pleasure was ordered, but it does not come at call. The Emperor, accustomed to have his every wish obeyed, was surprised to see that not every face was radiant. "Strange," he said, "I have gathered a good many people here at Fontainebleau; I want them to amuse themselves, I have arranged their pleasures, yet every one seems tired and sad." The Italian songs, even when sung by the best singers, in costume and with all the scenery, produced but a feeble impression. The tragedies seemed to induce slumber. The little balls, or, more exactly, the little hops in the apartment of the Maid of Honor, Madame de la Rochefoucauld, were very dull. Sometimes little games were played there; they gave a flash of gaiety, but as soon as the Emperor appeared, every one assumed a serious, composed air. Might one not say once more what La Bruyère said when speaking of the court of Louis XIV.: "Who would believe that this eagerness for shows, that meals, hunts, ballets, tilting-matches, crowned so many anxieties, pains, and diverse interests, so many fears and hopes, so many lively passions, and serious affairs?" A palace is not built for ease. All its formalities hang heavy on every guest; the whole of every day is spent in playing a part.

Amid all these empty pleasures and hollow joys there was no lack of sorrow. It was there that the wretched Queen Hortense, spitting blood, mourning the past and dreading the future, said to Napoleon: "My reputation is tainted, my health ruined, I expect no more happiness in life; banish me from your court; if you wish, lock me up in a convent, I desire neither throne nor fortune. Give peace to my mother, glory to Eugene, who deserves it, but let me live a calm and solitary life." She had been happier as an unknown schoolgirl at Madame Campan's, just as her mother, the Empress of the French and the Queen of Italy, must have often sighed for the island of Martinique, where she would have preferred the splash of the waves to the courtiers' murmur of obsequious flattery. Napoleon, himself, at the height of human glory, had lost the peace of heart which he enjoyed in his boyhood, and never found again.

The Empress Josephine naturally held the highest place in this brilliant court of Fontainebleau, and was the object of untiring homage; few, however, suspected the anxieties that tormented her, so calm happy did she appear, with a kind word and a gracious smile for every one.

M. de Metternich, the Austrian Ambassador who was then at Fontainebleau, took pains to ascertain the causes of her secret sorrow, and sent the details to his government. He wrote to von Stadion: "In many of my previous reports I have had the honor of speaking to Your Excellency about the long current rumors regarding the approaching divorce of the Emperor. After circulating vaguely in the last two months, they have become the subject of general and public discussion. It is true of these rumors, as of all not stamped out at their birth, that they rest on some foundation of truth, or they would be promptly silenced, if they were not directly tolerated." Then the clear-sighted ambassador reported in the same despatch what he had learned, thanks to his relations with persons to whom the Empress had made revelations: "Since his return from the army, the Emperor's bearing towards his wife has been cold and embarrassed. He no longer lives in the same apartment with her, and many of his daily habits have undergone a change. Rumors of the Empress's divorce began at that moment to assume a more serious form; when they reached her ears she simply waited for some direct information, without letting the Emperor see the slightest anxiety."

Josephine was sorely stricken, and her sufferings were all the more intense because she had to hide them from every one, especially from her husband, and they made a marked contrast, by the irony of fate, with the pleasures and amusements that surrounded her. She was too clear-sighted and intelligent to proceed to question the Emperor. She feared light and dreaded the truth. She hesitated before the abyss that awaited her, and shuddered before the Emperor's glance. She suffered on the throne, as if it were an instrument of torture. It was then that Fouché took some steps which doubled her anguish. The incident is thus recounted, by Prince Metternich in the despatch already cited: "One day the Minister of Police visited her at Fontainebleau. and after a short preamble, told her that the public good, and, above all, the strengthening of the existing dynasty requiring that the Emperor should have children, she ought to ask the Senate to join with her in demanding of the Emperor a sacrifice most painful to his heart. The Empress, who was prepared for the question, asked Fouché, with great coolness, if he took this step by the Emperors orders. 'No,' he replied: 'I speak to Your Majesty as a minister charged with a general supervision, as a private citizen, as a subject devoted to his country's glory,' 'In that case I have nothing to say to you,' interrupted the Empress; 'I regard my union with the Emperor as written in the book of Fate, I shall never discuss the matter with any one but him, and never will do anything but what he orders,'" Josephine, when she mentioned this conversation to her confidant, M. de Lavalette, who had married a Mademoiselle de Beauharnais, said to him in great perplexity; "Is it not clear that Fouché was sent by the Emperor and that my fate is settled? Alas! To leave the throne is nothing to me. Who knows better than I do how many tears I have shed there? But to lose at the same time the man to whom I have given my best love, that sacrifice is beyond my strength."

But to return to Prince Metternich's despatch: "Many days passed without incident, when suddenly the Emperor began to share again the Empress's apartment and took a favorable moment to ask why she had been so sad for some days. The Empress then told him of her interview with Fouché. The Emperor confirmed his statement that he had never given him any such orders. He added that she ought to know him well enough to be sure that he had no need of any go-between to manage matters with her, and made her promise to report to him anything further she might hear about the matter." Josephine was not at all comforted. Napoleon's explanation was very embarrassed, and who could think that so crafty and ambitious a man as Fouché could assume the responsibility of such a negotiation if he supposed that thereby he exposed himself to his master's wrath?

The Minister of Police did not confine himself to mere spoken words. A few days after his interview with the Empress, he wrote to her a long letter on large paper, in which he set forth all the arguments he had already brought forward, to urge upon her the spontaneous sacrifice which would be the more meritorious, the more painful it was. Josephine, who received this letter in the evening, summoned M. de Rémusat at midnight to show it to him. "What shall I do," she asked, "to ward off this storm?" "Madame," replied the First Chamberlain, "my advice is to go this very moment to the Emperor, if he has not gone to bed, or else the very first thing to-morrow morning. Remember, you must seem to have consulted no one. Make him read this letter; watch him as closely as you can; but, whatever happens, show that you hate these roundabout methods, and tell him again that you will never listen to anything but a direct order from him."

The Empress did as he said, Napoleon, to use a common expression, was "cornered." He pretended to be much surprised, and very angry; promised "to comb Fouché's head," and even added that if she desired he would take away his portfolio; and to calm her he went so far as to write to the Minister of Police this letter, dated Fontainebleau, November 5, 1807:--

"MONSIEUR FOUCHÉ: In the last fortnight I have heard of your foolish actions; it is time for you to put an end to them, and to stop interfering, directly or indirectly, in a matter which in no way concerns you; that is my wish."

Fouché was not at all disturbed by his master's reproach. He was at heart convinced that he had not displeased him; he kept his portfolio, and was sure that the divorce, though postponed, was irrevocably decided on by the Emperor. Josephine had no more illusions. It was in vain that Napoleon spoke to her kindly, and tried to console her with kisses and even tears, --for Napoleon used to cry sometimes,--after Fouché had made his overtures she had no more peace of mind. The end of the stay at Fontainebleau was very gloomy. All became tired of this life of empty show, of the perpetual constraint, of the pleasures which by dint of repetition became dull and monotonous. Every one longed for home, to escape from this master's glances; for his presence inspired an admiration tempered with dread. The women had spent vast sums in their dress. The men had indulged in ambitious plans almost always futile. The German princelings had suffered in their lordly pride and German patriotism by having to bow their heads before the formidable man whose humble vassals they were, and these men, vain of their coat-of-arms, had not seen without a secret spite the crushing superiority of a poor Corsican gentleman. This great conqueror himself was not happy in all his splendor. Although he was no longer in love with his wife, it was not without sadness that he had seen her uneasiness and grief. Anxiety about the condition of Spain, which was so fatal to him, cast a cloud on his brow. When hunting in the forest, he was often seen to lose himself in thought and to let his horse wander as he pleased. At the theatrical performances it was noticed that, absorbed and distracted, he appeared to think less of the play than of his vast plans.

Not long since I visited the palace and the forest of Fontainebleau, in one of those cold but bright autumn days when the half bare trees have a strange appearance, when some leaves are as red as blood, others as yellow as gold, and nature wears all the countless hues which defy the artist's brush. The forest is wonderfully beautiful with its marvellous combination of trees and rocks. All the kings of France since Louis VII. have inhabited this palace. The holy head of Louis IX. appears there with his aureola on his head, In the gallery of Francis I., with its nymphs and fauns, amid garlands, fruits, and emblems, one recalls that King and Charles V. who entered the palace by the glided door, and who took part in the great festival in the forest, when nymphs, fauns, and gods seemed to issue from the trunks of oaks to the sound of tambourines, and a band of maidens flung flowers before the feet of the Spanish court. One recalls, too, Catharine de' Medici with her squadron, of young and brilliant amazons--Catharine de' Medici who In this palace brought forth her two sons, Francis II, and Henry III. At the end of the oval court is a dome of rich and picturesque construction, called the baptistery of Louis XIII, because that king was baptized there. Then there are the apartments of the queen mothers; Catharine de' Medici, Maria de' Medici, Anne of Austria, and those of Pius VII., a captive at Fontainebleau, In the bedroom of the queen mothers an altar was raised where the Vicar of Christ said mass. The hangings of embroidered satin in this room were a wedding-gift from the city of Lyons to Marie Antoinette. The room is a model of luxury and elegance, and is called the Chamber of the Five Maries because it has been inhabited by five sovereigns bearing that name, Maria de' Medici, Maria Theresa, Marie Antoinette, Marie Louise, and Marie Amélie. It was also the Empress Eugénie's chamber.

This marvellously picturesque palace of Fontainebleau is full of interesting reminiscences, but of all the figures it recalls, no figure is more impressive than that of Napoleon. There is much gorgeous furniture in the palace of various sorts, in the style of the renaissance, of Louis XIV., Louis XV., and Louis XVI.; but no piece attracts more attention than the plain mahogany table on which Napoleon signed his abdication. Then how impressive is the bedroom where he spent terrible nights, unable to sleep, and at last seeking in suicide a cure for his despair! Consider the contrast between 1807 and 1814! Meanwhile there had been changes of face, many apostasies. "Ah! Caulaincourt, mankind, mankind!" exclaimed the deserted Emperor. Every one left him, promising him a speedy return, but no one thought of it. Fontainebleau became a desert. If the sound of wheels was heard, it was never of carriages arriving, but only of carriages going away. It was at Fontainebleau that Napoleon's pride triumphed, and there that his pride suffered its cruelest humiliations. What anguish he endured, this man of destiny, in that room where he wrote: "To finish my career by signing a treaty in which I have not been able to stipulate a single general interest, nor even one moral interest, such as the preservation of our colonies, or the maintenance of the Legion of Honor! To sign a treaty by which money is given to me!" What anguish tore his mind and body when, having taken too small a dose of poison, he said between his spasms: "How hard it is to die, and it is so easy on the battle-field! Why didn't I die at Arcis-sur-Aube!" Did he then recall the splendor of his return from Jena, from Friedland, from Tilsitt? Did he remember the crowd of courtiers who resembled priests whose God he was? The only courtiers left were those to whom he had given neither money nor honors, the old soldiers of his guard, with, their gray mustaches, who could not restrain their sobs and tears when, in the Court of the White Horse, he bade them farewell, saying, "I should like to embrace you in my arms, but let me embrace this flag which represents you."

XXVI.