None of the particulars of the dreadful occurrence were secret from anybody, and I can aver that the accounts given me that day all agreed. Palhen, one of the conspirators, had taken every means to frighten Paul with a plot he alleged to have been hatched by the Empress and her children for the purpose of seizing the throne. Paul's habitually suspicious mind incited him only too strongly to credit these false confidences, which enraged him to the degree of ordering his wife and the Grand Dukes to be shut up in the fortress. Palhen declined to obey without the Emperor's signed authority. Paul gave his signature, and Palhen at once went to Alexander with the document. "You see," he said, "that your father is mad, and that you are all lost unless we forestall him by locking him up first." Alexander, though believing his life and his family's in jeopardy, did nothing but consent through silence to this idea, which seemed merely to propose putting a lunatic out of harm's way. But Palhen and his accomplices thought it necessary to go further. Five of the conspirators undertook the assassination, one of them being Plato Zuboff, a former pet of Catherine, whom Paul had loaded with favours after recalling him from exile. The five penetrated into Paul's sleeping apartment after he had gone to bed. The two guards at the door defended it valiantly, but their resistance was fruitless, and one of them was killed. At the sight of the infuriated men rushing in upon him, Paul rose from his couch. As he was very powerful he made a long fight against his murderers, who finally managed to strangle him in an armchair. The unhappy man's last words were, "You, too, Zuboff! I thought you were my friend!"

It seems that chance had contributed in every way to the success of the plot. A regiment of soldiers had been brought to surround the palace, and the Colonel, far from being in the counsels of the conspirators, fully believed that an attempt upon the Emperor's life was to be frustrated. A portion of the regiment went through the garden to post themselves under Paul's window. Unfortunately, the marching of the soldiers did not awaken him; nor did the noise of a flock of crows, which were in the habit of sleeping on the roof, and which burst out cawing. Had it been otherwise, the ill-fated ruler would have had time to reach a secret staircase next to his room, by which he could have descended to that of one Mme. Narischkin, in whom he had full confidence. Having got thus far, nothing would have been easier for him than to make off in a little boat always moored on the canal beside the palace. Besides, the distrust he harboured against his wife had caused him to double-lock the door dividing his apartments from the Empress's. When he tried to escape through that door it was too late, the assassins having taken the precaution to withdraw the key. To crown all, Kutaisoff, his faithful valet, the very day the murder was committed received a letter revealing the conspiracy; but this man had for some time been neglecting most of his duties, and did not open his letters punctually. Kutaisoff left the letter disclosing the conspiracy on the table. On opening the missive next day the unhappy man fell into such a desperate state that he nearly died of it. The same was the case with the Colonel who had placed his troops about the palace. This young officer, Talesin by name, learning of the crime that had been perpetrated, felt such grief at his deception that he went home with a raging fever, which nearly put an end to him. I believe, in fact, that he did not long survive the blow, all innocent that he was. But what I am sure of is that Alexander I. went to see him every day during his illness, and interdicted some firing exercises too near the patient's house.

Although the various impediments I have mentioned might have interfered with Paul's killing, it must be concluded that the contrivers of the scheme never doubted its issue. For all St. Petersburg knew that on the night of the event a handsome young man in the plot named S——ky drew out his watch at midnight among a passably large company, saying: "It must all be over by this time." Paul was dead, indeed; his body was forthwith embalmed, and for six weeks he lay on a bed of state, his face uncovered and showing scarcely a trace of decay, owing to the fact that it was plastered with rouge. The Empress Maria, his widow, went to kneel in prayer every day at the bed. She took her two youngest sons, Nicholas and Michael, such small children that Nicholas one day asked her, "Why is papa always asleep?"

The trick employed to make Alexander I. consent to his father's deposal—for he took no other view of the case—was a fact vouched for to me by Count Strogonoff, one of the wisest and most upright men I have ever known, and the best informed of all as to happenings at the Russian court. He doubted the less how easy it had been to induce Paul to sign the order for his wife's and children's imprisonment, as he was aware by what fearful suspicions the mind of that poor Prince was haunted. The very evening before the assassination there was a grand court concert, at which the whole royal family was present. During a moment's private conversation with Count Strogonoff, the Emperor said to him: "No doubt you think me the happiest of men, my friend. At last I am living in this palace of St. Michael, which I have had built and finely fitted out according to my own tastes. I have my family about me here for the first time. My wife is still good looking, my eldest son is handsome, too, and my daughters are charming. There they are, all of them, opposite me; but when I look at them I see my murderers in them all." Count Strogonoff exclaimed, recoiling, horror-struck: "Some one is lying to Your Majesty! This is an infamous slander!" Paul stared at him with haggard eyes, and then, pressing his hand, declared, "What I have just told you is the truth."

I am firmly persuaded that Alexander knew nothing of the attempt to be made upon his father's life. If all the facts I was acquainted with at the time were not enough, I have conviction from proof afforded by that Prince's well-known character. Alexander I. had a noble, magnanimous heart; not only was he always God-fearing, but he was so honest that even in politics was he never known to resort to guile or deceit. Very well, then—on hearing that Paul was no more his despair was so intense that no one who went near him could doubt his innocence of the murder. The wiliest of men could not have summoned up all the tears he shed. In the first hours of his grief he refused to be Emperor, and I know for certain that his wife Elisabeth threw herself on her knees before him, imploring him to take the reins of government. He then went to his mother, the Empress, who called to him as soon as she set eyes upon him from afar: "Go away! Go away! I see you all covered with your father's blood!" Alexander raised his tearful eyes to Heaven and said, in accents coming from the soul, "I take God to witness, mother, that I did not order this awful crime to be done!" These few words bore such a thorough stamp of truth that the Empress consented to listen to him, and when she learned how the conspirators had cheated her son in the carrying out of their enterprise, she fell at his feet with, "Then I bow to my Emperor!" Alexander lifted her up, knelt before her in turn, took her in his arms and bestowed every mark of respect and affection upon her. Nor did he ever give the lie to this affection. So long as he lived never did the Emperor Alexander refuse his mother anything, and his respect toward her was so great that he insisted on maintaining all the honours of court etiquette for her. Thus she always took precedence before the Empress Elisabeth.

Paul's death occasioned none of the upheavals which too often follow upon the departure of a ruler. All those who had participated in his favour continued to keep the emoluments they owed to his patronage. His valet Kutaisoff, that barber whom he made so rich, whom he had decorated with the highest orders in Russia, remained peacefully in the enjoyment of his master's benefactions. If there was no change in the lot of Paul's friends, it was otherwise with his victims. Exiles were called back, and their property was restored to them; justice was done to all who had been sacrificed to caprices without number. In fact, a golden era began for Russia. It was impossible to deny this at witnessing the love, the regard and the enthusiasm of the Russians for their new Emperor. That enthusiasm was so strong that all esteemed it the greatest thing to have seen, to have met Alexander. If he went walking in the Summer Garden of an evening, or if he passed along the streets of St. Petersburg, the crowd would press about him and call down blessings upon him, while he, the most benevolent of princes, would answer all these demonstrations with perfect graciousness. I was unable to go to Moscow for his coronation, but some people who were there told me that nothing was ever more moving or more beautiful. The transports of popular gladness vented themselves all over the city and in the church. When Alexander placed the diamond crown on the Empress Elisabeth's head, radiant with beauty, they formed such a lovely pair as to evoke unbounded acclaim.

In the midst of the universal elation I was myself fortunate enough to meet the Emperor on one of the St. Petersburg quays a few days after my arrival. He was on horseback, and although Paul's regulations had of course been abolished, I had my carriage stopped for the pleasure of seeing Alexander pass. He rode up to me at once, asked me how I liked Moscow, and whether the roads had given me any trouble. I replied that I regretted having been unable to stay long enough in that glorious city to see all its splendours; as for the roads, I acknowledged they were abominable. He agreed with me, saying he hoped to have them mended. Then, after paying me a thousand compliments, he left me.

Next day Count Strogonoff came to me on the Emperor's behalf, with a command to paint him at half length, and also on horseback. No sooner was this news spread than numbers of court people rushed to my house, asking for a copy of either portrait, they cared not which, so long as they had one of Alexander. At any other time of my life this would have been an opportunity to make a fortune, but alas! my physical condition, to say nothing of the mental sufferings still besetting me, prohibited me from taking advantage of it. Feeling unfit to work at a full-length picture, I did a pastel bust-portrait of the Emperor, and one of the Empress; these I intended to enlarge at Dresden or Berlin, in case I should be obliged to leave St. Petersburg. It was not long, in fact, before my ailments became unbearable; the doctor I consulted ordered me to take the waters at Carlsbad.

I cannot describe the regrets I experienced at leaving St. Petersburg, where I had spent such happy years. It was not without an aching heart that I bade my daughter good-by, bitter though it was to see her estranged from me, to see her completely under the thumb of a clique headed by the vile governess whom I would accuse of everything evil. A few days prior to my departure my son-in-law remarked that he did not conceive how I could quit St. Petersburg at the moment most favourable to my fortune. "You will admit," I answered, "that my heart must be very sick. The reason you can easily guess."

Other separations I likewise found most painful. The Princesses Kurakin and Dolgoruki, that excellent Count Strogonoff, who had given me so many proofs of friendship—that was what I regretted far more than the fortune I was renouncing. I remember how the dear Count came to see me as soon as he heard I was going. He was so perturbed that he walked up and down the studio where I was painting, muttering to himself, "No, no; she won't go away; it is impossible!" My daughter, who was present, thought he was turning mad. To all the kindly proffered demonstrations of attachment I could not answer except by a promise to return to St. Petersburg. And such was then my firm intention.

When I had quite decided to depart I asked for an audience with the Empress, which was immediately granted, and on presenting myself I found the Emperor there, too. I testified my liveliest and sincerest regrets to Their Majesties, telling them my health compelled me to take the waters at Carlsbad, recommended to me for stoppages. To this the Emperor affably replied: "Do not go so far in search of a remedy. I will give you the Empress's horse, and after riding it for some time you will be cured." I thanked the Emperor a hundred times for the offer, but confessed that I did not know how to ride. "Well," he resumed, "I will give you a riding-master to take you out." I cannot say how touched I was by such kindness, and on taking leave of Their Majesties I sought in vain for terms strong enough to express my gratitude.

A few days after this interview I met the Empress walking in the Summer Garden. I was with my daughter and M. de Rivière. Her Majesty stepped up to me, saying: "Do not leave us, I beg of you, Mme. Lebrun. Remain here and take care of your health. I cannot bear to have you go." I assured her it was my desire and my purpose to return to St. Petersburg for the pleasure of seeing her again. God knows I spoke the truth, but I have, none the less, often been assailed with the fear that my refusal to stay in Russia may have appeared as ingratitude to Their Majesties, and that they may not have quite forgiven me.

On crossing the Russian border I burst into tears. I wanted to retrace my journey, and I vowed I would come back to those who had for so long heaped tokens of friendship and devotion upon me, and whose memory is ever in my heart. But one must believe in fate, for I never again saw the country which I still look upon as a second motherland.

CHAPTER XIV
Homeward Bound

FIRST STATION, NARVA — THE CATARACT — RIGA — HARDSHIPS OF TRAVEL A HUNDRED YEARS AGO — OBDURATE CUSTOM-HOUSE OFFICIALS — A SUMMONS TO POTSDAM — THE LOVELIEST AND SWEETEST OF QUEENS — HER UGLY CHILDREN — AN AMBITIOUS COOK — THE JOURNEY CONTINUED — "REMEMBER YOUR JEWEL-CASE" — MODELLING IN DIRT FOR A PASTIME — LIKEWISE SEWING — HOME AGAIN.

I left St. Petersburg sad, sick and alone in my carriage, having been unable to keep my Russian maid. I had nobody but a very old man who wanted to go to Prussia, and whom I had given a servant's place through pity, which I had cause to regret, because he got so drunk at every stage that he had to be carried back to the box. M. de Rivière, escorting me in his calash, was of no great assistance to me, especially after crossing the Russian frontier and entering the sandy district, for his postilions, from whom he did not know how to exact obedience, were continually taking side roads, while I followed the main road.

My first stop I made at Narva, a well-fortified but ugly, ill-paved little town. The road leading there is entrancing; it is edged with pretty houses and English gardens; in the distance is the sea, covered with ships, which makes this route extremely picturesque. The women of Narva wear the dress of ancient times. They are good-looking, for the people of Livonia in general are splendid. Nearly all the heads of the old men reminded me of Raphael's heads of Christ, and the young men, their long hair falling on their shoulders, might have been models to that great painter.

The day after my arrival I went to visit a magnificent cataract at some distance from the town. A huge mass of water—you cannot tell where it comes from—forms a torrent so rapid and powerful that in its course it runs up enormous rocks, from which it tumbles noisily down to rush up other rocks. The multitudinous cascades thus shooting after each other in succession, and swallowing each other up, produce a terrifying din. While I was occupied in sketching this beautiful horror some of the inhabitants of Narva who were watching me told me of a dreadful thing they had witnessed. The waters of the cataract, swollen by great rains, had carried away some of the bank, and with it a house that was the home of a family. The cries of distress of the unfortunates were heard, and their frightful plight was seen, but no aid could be given them, since it was impossible to steer a boat in the torrent. The heartrending spectacle was finally followed by one far more shocking, when the house and the unhappy family were engulfed, and disappeared before the eyes of those who were now narrating the catastrophe, and who were still quite affected by it.

Arriving at Riga, I found that this town, like Narva, was neither handsome nor well-paved, but it is known to be a great commercial place and has a fine harbour. Most of the men are habited like Turks or Poles, and all women not of the populace put a gauze veil over their heads when they go out. I scarcely had time to make other observations, as I was hastening to reach Mittau, where I still hoped to find the royal family. But to my annoyance I arrived too late and did not meet them, so that I made but a short stay in this town, where I had only gone for the sake of seeing our Princes.

I had taken the post from St. Petersburg, but at Riga we met the Grand Duchess of Baden, who was on her way to the Empress, her daughter, and who left not a horse on our route. I was obliged to hire horses at livery-stables, and the coachman, instead of putting me down for the night at the posthouses, took me to wretched cabins where there were no beds and nothing to eat, so that in most cases I spent the night in my carriage. As for food, the soup I got was made without meat, but with carrots and bad butter. If I had a fowl killed it was so lean and so tough that M. de Rivière and I were unable to cut it. And we barely had time to finish these miserable meals, in so great haste were the liverymen to resume the journey. We drove through such deep sand that the horses went at a walk. It was frightfully hot. In order to get air I was obliged to leave all my windows open, and both postilions smoked incessantly; the vile odour of their pipes sickened me so that I preferred to walk most of the time they smoked, although I was up to my ankles in sand. Fortunately, no robbers are ever met with on these roads. True, I noticed wolves on the neighbouring heights, but apparently they were afraid of us, for they always fled when we drew near, and so did the poor stags, which I frequently saw crossing the road, when alarmed by M. de Rivière's calash.

In my state of health such hardships were bound to tell upon me. A few days, in fact, were enough to break me down to such a degree that not to succumb altogether it needed all my courage and my lively determination not to interrupt the journey. I became so weak and ill that I had to drag myself to my carriage, where I remained motionless, bereft even of the ability to think. The only sensation I had was a sharp pain in the right side, caused by rheumatism, and intensified with every jolt. This pain was so unbearable that one day, when we were driving on a road under repair and full of stones, I fainted away in the carriage.

A part of my torture ended at Koenigsberg. There I took the post as far as Berlin, where I arrived about the end of July, 1801, at ten in the evening. But though I needed rest so badly, I was first to undergo the ordeal of the custom-house. I was made to enter a large, dark vault, where I waited a full two hours. The customs officers then said they wanted to hold my carriage, so as to examine it at night, which would have compelled me to walk to the inn in the pouring rain. I argued with these men in French, and they answered me in German. It was enough to drive one to distraction. They would not even allow me to take out a nightcap and a little vial containing an antispasmodic, of which I certainly would stand in great need after such a trial. I was so hoarse from shouting at the barbarians that I could not speak. At last I obtained permission to leave the custom-house in my carriage, and I went to the "City of Paris" inn with a customs officer, a real demon and dead drunk into the bargain. He opened my luggage and turned everything pell-mell, appropriating a piece of embroidered Indian stuff given me by Mme. Du Barry on my departure from Paris. As I did not wish my "Sibyl" or the studies I had made of the Emperor and Empress of Russia to be unrolled, my carriage was put under seal, and at last I was able to get to bed. Early next day I sent for M. Ranspach, my banker, who settled all my difficulties with the custom-house.

Three days sufficed to rest me from the fatigues of my journey, and I was feeling much better when the Queen of Prussia, who was then absent from Berlin, was kind enough to request my presence at Potsdam, where she desired me to do her portrait. I went. But my pen is incapable of rendering the impression which the first sight of that Princess made upon me. The beauty of her heavenly face, that expressed benevolence and goodness, and whose features were so regular and delicate, the loveliness of her figure, neck, and arms, the exquisite freshness of her complexion—all was enchanting beyond anything imaginable. She was in deep mourning, and wore a coronet of black jet, which, far from being to her disadvantage, brought out the dazzling whiteness of her skin. One must have seen the Queen of Prussia in order to understand how bewitched I was when I first beheld her.

She made an appointment for the first sitting. "I cannot," she said, "give it to you before noon, because the King reviews the troops at ten every morning and likes me to attend." She wanted to lodge me in the palace, but, knowing that this must inconvenience one of her ladies, I declined with thanks and took quarters in a neighbouring hotel, where I was very badly off in every way.

My stay at Potsdam was nevertheless a veritable delight to me, for the more I saw of that charming Queen the more was I sensible to the privilege of being in her company. She seemed to wish to see the studies I had made of the Emperor Alexander and the Empress Elizabeth; I promptly brought them to her, as well as my "Sibyl," which I had stretched. I cannot say how graciously she praised this picture. She was so friendly and so kind that the feeling she inspired was altogether one of affection. I look back with pleasure upon all the marks of favour that Her Majesty showered upon me, even in the slightest matters. For instance: I was in the habit of taking coffee of a morning, and in my hotel it was always atrocious. Somehow I told the Queen about this, and the next day she sent me some that was excellent. Another time, when I complimented her on her bracelets, which were in the antique style, she at once removed them from her arms and put them on mine. This gift was more welcome to me than a fortune would have been; from that day forth those bracelets have travelled with me everywhere. She was also obliging enough to give me a box at the theatre quite near hers. From this place of vantage I enjoyed, above all, looking at Her Majesty, whose lovely face was like that of a sixteen-year-old girl. During one of our sittings the Queen sent for her children. To my great surprise I found that they were ugly. In showing them to me she said, "They are not pretty." I confess I had not the courage to deny it. I contented myself with replying that their faces had a great deal of character.

Besides the two pastels I made of Her Majesty, I did two others of Prince Ferdinand's family. One of the young princesses, Louise, who had married Prince Radziwill, was pretty and very genial. For some time I had a delightful correspondence with her; I count her as one of the people one can never forget. Her husband was a thorough musician. I remember a surprise he caused me arising solely from a difference in national customs. During my sojourn at Berlin I was taken to a grand public concert, and was amazed to the last degree, upon entering the hall, to see Prince Radziwill performing on the harp! Such a thing would be impossible with us. Never could an amateur, especially a prince, play before any one but his own social circle, and certainly not before people who paid. I suppose in Prussia it was quite usual.

In Berlin I made the acquaintance of the Baroness de Krudener, so well known for her cleverness and her rhapsodical notions. Her renown as an author was already established, but she had not yet gained the reputation of a religious prophet that made her so famous in the North. She and her husband treated me with great civility. I can say the same for Mme. de Souza, the Portuguese Ambassadress, whose portrait I painted at the time.

On first arriving at Berlin I called upon the French Ambassador, General Bournonville, for I was at last beginning to consider a return to Paris. My friends, and particularly my brother, urgently suggested I should do so. They had easily had my name taken off the list of exiles, so that I was reëstablished as a Frenchwoman, which, in spite of all, I had ever remained in my heart. Although General Bournonville was the first republican ambassador I visited, I had already seen others. Toward the end of my stay at St. Petersburg General Duroc and M. de Châteaugiron appeared at Alexander's court as envoys of Bonaparte, and I remember hearing the Empress Elisabeth saying to the Emperor, "When are we to receive the citizens?" M. de Châteaugiron called upon me. I was as polite as in me lay, but that tricoloured cockade affected me unspeakably. A few days later they both dined at Princess Galitzin's. At table I found myself next to General Duroc, who was said to have been one of Napoleon's intimates. He addressed not a single word to me, and I did likewise with him. The dinner I speak of gave rise to a rather amusing incident. The Princess's cook, wholly ignorant of the French Revolution, naturally took these gentlemen for ambassadors from the King of France. Wishing to honour them, after much reflection he bethought himself that the lily was the emblem of France, and accordingly arranged his truffles and fillets and sweetmeats in that pattern. This so took the guests aback that the Princess, fearing no doubt she was suspected of a bad joke, called up the cook, and asked him what all the lilies meant. Said the worthy soul with an air of proud satisfaction, "I wanted to show Your Excellency that I knew the proper thing to do on great occasions."

A few days before I said farewell to Berlin the Director-General of the Academy of Painting most courteously came to me in person with my diploma as a member of said Academy. The many tokens of good-will heaped upon me at the Prussian capital and court would assuredly have kept me longer had my plans not been definitely fixed. Hence, being resolved to go, I bade good-by to that dear, kind, lovely young Queen, all unwitting, alas! how few years after I was to be shocked with the news of her death.

From Berlin I went to Dresden, and then on to Brunswick, where I spent a few days with the Rivière family. Between Brunswick and Weimar my postilion lost the way, and we were stuck for hours in the heaviest soil. I remember that as a truce to my impatience—and more particularly to my appetite—I gathered up some of that wretched earth and tried to model a head with it; I really achieved something that looked like a face. Though furnished with letters for the court at Weimar, I did not present them, but after a day's rest proceeded to Gotha. Here I met an old friend I had known in Paris, Baron Grimm, who very civilly attended to all my wants for the journey, which I did not again interrupt until I reached Frankfort. We were obliged to wait at Frankfort six days, during which I was very much bored. To pass the time I mended my old shirts, and the Lord knows what sort of sewing that was! On reaching Paris I engaged a chambermaid, who remarked, when she saw my mending, "Any one can see that Madame has been in a savage country, for this is sewn like the devil." I laughed and informed her that it was my own handiwork. The poor girl, quite embarrassed, was eager to take back what she had said, but I reassured her by acknowledging that I had never been an adept with the needle.

I will not attempt to describe my feelings at setting foot on the soil of France, from which I had been absent twelve years. I was stirred by terror, grief and joy in turn. I mourned the friends who had died on the scaffold; but I was to see those again who still lived. This France, that I was entering once more, had been the scene of horrible crimes. But this France was my country!

CHAPTER XV
Old Friends and New

PARIS AFTER THE REVOLUTION — RENEWING OLD ACQUAINTANCES AND FORMING NEW TIES — RIVAL BEAUTIES: MME. RÉCAMIER AND MME. TALLIEN — MME. CAMPAN — AN ENGLISHWOMAN'S SLIP OF THE TONGUE — SOME DISTINGUISHED FOREIGNERS.

On my arrival in Paris at our house in the Rue Gros Chenet, M. Lebrun, my brother, my sister-in-law, and her daughter were awaiting me when I alighted from my carriage; they were all weeping for joy, and I, too, was deeply moved. I found the staircase lined with flowers, and my apartment in complete readiness. The hangings and curtains of my bedroom were in green cloth, the curtains edged with yellow watered silk. M. Lebrun had had a crown of gilt stars put over the bedstead, the furniture was all convenient and in good taste, and I felt altogether comfortably installed. Although M. Lebrun made me pay dearly enough for all this, I nevertheless appreciated the pains he had taken to make my place of abode agreeable.

The house in the Rue Gros Chenet was separated by a garden from a house facing the Rue de Cléry, which also belonged to M. Lebrun. In this second house was a great room where very fine concerts were given. I was taken there the evening of my arrival, and as soon as I entered the place everybody turned in my direction, the audience clapping their hands, the musicians rapping on their violins with their bows. I was so touched by this flattering testimony that I gave way to tears. I call to mind that Mme. Tallien was at this concert, radiant with beauty.

My first visitor, next day, was Greuze, whom I found unchanged. You would even have said that he had never undressed his hair, for the same locks waved at each side of his head—just as before my departure. I was grateful for his attention, and very glad to see him again. After Greuze came my good friend, Mme. de Bonneuil, as pretty as ever; the dear creature was preserved in a truly wonderful manner. She told me that her daughter, Mme. Regnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angély, was to give a ball the following night, and that I must come unfailingly. I answered that I had no ball dress, and then showed her that famous piece of Indian stuff given me by Mme. Du Barry, which had gone through such great adventures since being in my possession. Mme. de Bonneuil declared it admirable, and sent it to Mme. Germain, the celebrated dressmaker, who immediately made me a fashionable gown, which she brought me that very evening. So I went to Mme. Regnault de Saint-Jean-d'Angély's ball, and I saw the handsomest women of the period, first among them Mme. Regnault herself, and next Mme. Visconti, so remarkable for her beauty of both figure and face. While amusing myself with looking over all these lovely ladies, some one sitting in front of me turned round. She was so exquisite that I could not help exclaiming, "Oh, how beautiful you are!" It was Mme. Jouberthon, then portionless, who afterward married Lucien Bonaparte. I also saw a number of French generals at this ball. Macdonald, Marmont and several others were pointed out to me. In fact, this was a new society.

A few days after my return Mme. Bonaparte called upon me one morning. She spoke of the balls at which we had been together before the Revolution; she was most cordial, and even invited me to dinner at the First Consul's. However, the date of this dinner was never mentioned.

My friend Robert soon paid me a visit, and so did the Brongniarts, and Ménageot. I was very deeply touched with the joy testified by the friends and acquaintances who crowded to see me every day. But the pleasure of greeting them all was bitterly mingled with sorrow at learning of many deaths I was ignorant of, for not an individual came who had not lost a mother, a husband, or some relation.

And I had another trial to undergo, worse than all the rest. Good manners demanded a visit to my odious stepfather. He still lived at Neuilly, in a small house bought by my father, where I had often been in my early youth. Everything in the place reminded me of my poor mother and my happy days with her. I found her workbasket just as she had left it. In short, the visit was the more sad for me as I was mournfully inclined. Going to Neuilly, I for the first time recrossed the Louis XV. square, where I still seemed to see the blood of a host of noble victims. My brother, who was with me, reproached himself for not having made our carriage take a different route, since I was suffering beyond belief. At this very day I never pass that square without calling up the horrors it has witnessed—I cannot control my imagination.

The first time I went to the play the house looked exceedingly dull to me. Accustomed as I had been, in France and abroad, to see every one powdered, those dark heads and those men in dark clothes made a melancholy picture. You would have thought the audience had assembled to go to a funeral.

In general, Paris had a less lively appearance to me. The streets seemed so narrow that I was tempted to believe double rows of houses had been built. This was no doubt due to my recent impressions of St. Petersburg and Berlin, where the streets, for the most part, are very wide. But what displeased me far more was still to see "liberty, fraternity or death" written on the walls. These words, sanctified by the Terror, aroused the saddest thoughts in me touching the past, and inspired me with some fears for the future.

I was taken to see a great review by the First Consul in the square of the Louvre. I stood at a window in the museum, and recollect that I refused to acknowledge the tiny man I saw to be Bonaparte; the Duke de Crillon, who was beside me, had all the difficulty in the world to convince me. Here, as in the case of Catherine II., I had depicted such a famous man in the shape of a giant. Not long after my arrival Bonaparte's brothers came to view my works; they were very civil toward me, and said the most flattering things. Lucien, especially, inspected my "Sibyl" quite minutely, and proffered me a thousand praises on account of it.

My first visits were to my good old friends, the Marquise de Grollier, Mme. de Verdun and the Countess d'Andlau, whose two daughters I saw at the same time, Mme. de Rosambeau and Mme. d'Orglande, both worthy of their mother in mind and good looks. I likewise went to see Mme. de Ségur. I found her lonely and dejected; her husband had no post, and they were living in straitened circumstances. Later, when I came back from London, Bonaparte made the Count de Ségur Master of Ceremonies, which gave them an easy life. I remember how, about this time, going to see the Countess Ségur toward eight in the evening, and finding her alone, she said to me: "You would scarcely believe I have had twenty people to dinner. They all went after the coffee." I was, indeed, rather surprised, because before the Revolution most of the guests you had to dinner would remain with you until evening, which I thought much more proper than the new method.

At the same time Mme. de Ségur invited me to a large musical party at which all the notables of the day came together. Here I had occasion to observe another innovation, which seemed to me no better than the first. I was astonished, when I entered the room, to find all the men on one side and all the women on the other—like hostile forces, you would have said. Not a man came over to our side excepting the master of the house, the Count de Ségur, impelled by his old habits of gallantry to pay the ladies a few compliments. Mme. de Canisy was announced, a very handsome woman, with the figure of a painter's model. And then we lost our only knight, for the Count went to lay himself at the feet of this beauty, and did not leave her the whole evening.

One woman there was who rivalled Mme. Récamier in respect of beauty. This was Mme. Tallien. Besides her great beauty, she had great goodness of heart; in the Revolution a host of victims condemned to death owed their lives to the influence she exercised upon Tallien. The rescued ones called her "Our Lady of Good Help." She received me most graciously. Later, after marrying the Prince de Chimay, she inhabited a palatial house at the end of the Rue de Babylone, where she and her husband diverted themselves with giving plays. They both acted very well. She invited me to see one of these pieces, and came to several of my evening parties. I had the felicity, too, at this time, of knowing Ducis, whose admirable character equalled his rare talent. The ease and simplicity of all his ways contrasted so well with the splendid imagination with which Heaven had gifted him that I have never known a more lovable man than this excellent Ducis. The sole regret of his friends was that they were unable to induce him to settle in Paris. But he disliked the city, and the author of "Œdipus" and "Othello" demanded shepherds and pastures to make his life agreeably consistent. The solitary mode of existence he rejoiced in caused me a surprise, or rather a fright, which I shall never forget.

After my return from London I went to see him at Versailles, whither, as I was aware, he had retired. It was in the evening; I knocked at his door, and it was opened to me by Mme. Peyre, the architect's widow, candle in hand. I thought she had died long ago, and I uttered a scream. While I tried to collect my wits she related how she had lately been married to Ducis. At last I understood, and composed myself. She led me to her husband, whom I found alone in a little room on the top floor of the house, buried in books and manuscripts. Nothing in this abode seemed to me either pastoral or pleasant, but by the aid of his imagination Ducis turned this attic, which he called his "lookout," into a place of delight.

I met Mme. Campan again with much pleasure. She was then playing a somewhat important part in what was soon to become the reigning family. One day she asked me to dinner at Saint Germain, where her boarding-school was established. At table I sat near Mme. Murat, Napoleon's sister, but we were so placed that I could see only her profile, particularly as she did not turn her head in my direction. In the evening the young ladies of the school gave us a performance of "Esther," in which Mlle. Augué, who afterward married Marshal Ney, enacted the leading rôle very well. Bonaparte was one of the spectators. He was seated in the first row, and I posted myself in the second, in a corner, but near enough to observe him conveniently. Though I was in a dark spot, Mme. Campan came to tell me, between two acts, that he had guessed who I was.

I was glad to notice a bust of Marie Antoinette in Mme. Campan's room. I felt grateful to her because of this, and she confided to me that Bonaparte approved of it, which I thought very proper on his part. It is true that at this period there seemed no need for him to have any fears relating either to the past or the future. His victories evoked enthusiasm from the French, and even from foreigners. He had many admirers among the English especially, and I recall one day, when I went to dine with the Duchess of Gordon, she showed me Bonaparte's portrait, saying in French, "There is my zero." As she pronounced French very badly, I understood that she meant "hero," and we both laughed heartily over my explanation of "zero."

The large number of strangers I knew in Paris, and the desire to dispel an unconquerable melancholy, prompted me to give some evening parties. Princess Dolgoruki was anxious to meet the Abbé Delille. So I requested his presence at supper with several other people worthy of listening to him. Though this charming poet had gone blind, he had nevertheless kept his cheerfulness of disposition. He recited some of his beautiful lines to us, and we were all enchanted by them. On another occasion I arranged a supper at which all the great personages of the day were present, and among the ambassadors was M. de Metternich. Then I gave a ball, to which Mme. Hamelin, M. de Trénis, and other renowned dancers came. Mme. Hamelin was regarded as the best dancer in Paris society. Certainly she was exquisitely graceful and fleet of foot. I remember how, at this ball, Mme. Dimidoff danced the Russian waltz so entrancingly that we stood on our chairs to watch her.

Having a suitable room in my house on the Rue Gros Chenet, I conceived the idea of putting in a stage and giving plays. The spectators included all persons of distinction.

In all these gatherings I aimed at paying back the Russians and Germans in Paris a few of the favours they had so thoughtfully and amiably rendered me in their own country. Almost every day I saw Princess Dolgoruki, who had been such an angel to me in St. Petersburg. She enjoyed being in Paris very well. One evening I found the Viscount de Ségur at her house. I had often seen him before the Revolution; he was then young and fashionable, and made a thousand conquests through his personal graces. When I saw him again at the Princess's his face was expressionless and wrinkled; he wore a wig with symmetrical curls at each side, leaving his forehead bald. Another twelve years and the wig aged him so that I could barely recognise him excepting by his voice. Princess Dolgoruki came to see me the day of her presentation to Bonaparte. I asked her what she thought of the First Consul's court. "It is not a court," she replied, "but a power." The thing must of course have appeared to her in that light, being accustomed to the court of St. Petersburg, which is so large and brilliant, whereas at the Tuileries she found few women and a prodigious number of military men of all grades.

Among all the amusements that residence in Paris afforded me, I was none the less pursued by innumerable black thoughts, which assailed me even in the midst of pleasures. To put an end to such a painful state of mind, I determined to take a journey. More than once, while I was at Rome, the newspapers had had it that I was at London, but the fact was I had never seen that city. Accordingly, I resolved to go there.

CHAPTER XVI
Unmerry England

LONDON — ITS HISTORIC PILES — AND DULL SUNDAYS — AND TACITURN PEOPLE — PICTURES BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS — HIS MODESTY — HOW TO DRY PICTURES IN A DAMP CLIMATE — THE ARTISTIC VIEW OF A CERTAIN POPULAR BEAUTY — THE PRINCE OF WALES — HIS ALLEGED ATTENTIONS TO MME. LEBRUN — THE AUTHORESS LECTURES AN UNFRIENDLY CRITIC — NEWS OF ONE OF NAPOLEON'S "ATROCIOUS CRIMES."

I started for London on the 15th of April, 1802. I knew not a word of English. True, I was accompanied by an English maid, but the girl had long been serving me badly, and I was obliged to dismiss her very shortly after my arrival in London, because she did nothing but eat bread and butter all day. Luckily I had brought some one besides, a charming person to whom ill-fortune made the home she had found under my roof very precious. This was my faithful Adelaide, who lived with me on the footing of a friend, and whose attentions and counsels have always been most valuable to me.

On disembarking at Dover I was at first somewhat affrighted at the view of a whole population assembled on the shore. But I was reassured when informed that the crowd was simply composed of curious idlers, who were following their usual habits in coming down to see the travellers land.

The sun was going down. I at once hired a three-horse chaise, and made off forthwith, for I was not without apprehensions, seeing I had been told I might very likely encounter highwaymen. I took the precaution of putting my diamonds into my stockings, and was glad I had done so when I perceived two horsemen advancing toward me at a gallop. What capped the climax of my fears was to see them separate, in order—as I imagined—to present themselves at the two windows of my carriage. I confess I was seized with a violent fit of trembling, but that was the worst that happened.

Vast and handsome though London may be, that city affords less food for the artist's interest than Paris or the Italian towns. Not that you do not find a great number of rare works of art in England. But most of them are owned by wealthy private persons, whose country houses and provincial seats they adorn. At the period I mention, London had no picture gallery, that now existing being the result of legacies and gifts to the nation made within a few years. In default of pictures, I went to look at the public edifices. I returned several times to Westminster Abbey, where the tombs of the kings and queens are superb. As they belong to different ages they offer great attractions to artists and fanciers. I admired, among others, the tomb of Mary Stuart, in which the remains of that ill-fated Queen were deposited by her son, James I. I spent much time in that part of the church devoted to the sepulture of the great poets, Milton, Pope, and Chatterton. This last-named is known to have poisoned himself while dying of starvation, and I reflected that the money laid out upon rendering him these posthumous honours might have sufficed, when he was alive, to insure him comfortable days.

St. Paul's Cathedral is also very fine. Its dome is an imitation of that of St. Peter's, at Rome. At the Tower of London I saw a very interesting collection of armour, dating from the various centuries. There is a row of royal figures on horseback, among them Elizabeth, mounted on a courser and ready to review her troops. The London museum contains a collection of minerals, birds, weapons and tools from the South Sea Islands, due to the famous Captain Cook.

The streets of London are wide and clean. Broad side pavements make them very convenient for foot-passengers, and one is the more surprised to witness scenes upon them that ought to be proscribed by civilisation. It is not rare to see boxers fighting and wounding each other to the point of drawing blood. Far from such a spectacle seeming to shock the people looking on, they give them glasses of gin to stimulate their zeal.

Sunday in London is as dismal as the climate. Not a shop is open; there are no plays, nor balls, nor concerts. Universal silence reigns, and as on that day no one is allowed to work nor even to play music without incurring the risk of having his windows broken by the populace, there is no resource for killing time but the public walks. These, indeed, are very well frequented.

The chief amusement of the town is the assembling of good company, called a "rout." Two or three hundred individuals walk up and down the rooms, the women arm-in-arm, for the men usually keep aside. In this crowd one is pushed and jostled without end, so that it becomes very fatiguing. But there is nothing to sit on. At one of these routs I attended, an Englishman I knew in Italy caught sight of me. He came up to me and said, in the midst of the profound silence that reigns at all these parties, "Don't you think these gatherings are enjoyable?" "You enjoy yourselves with what would bore us," I replied. I really did not see what pleasure was to be got out of stifling in such a crowd that you could not even reach your hostess.