The credit of Talleyrand had never stood so high as at this time. He had been of great use to the Emperor in Poland, and had ably carried out the negotiations for the Treaty of Tilsit. By way of recompense, on the 9 August, the Emperor made him vice-grand-elector. This great dignity of the Empire gave Talleyrand the right to replace Joseph on all occasions of ceremony, but at the same time he was forced to give up the portfolio of Foreign Affairs, as being beneath the dignity of his new rank. The emoluments of his new office, added to his salary as grand chamberlain and the revenues of his principality of Benevento, gave him an income of half a million francs. At the same time his personal fortune was estimated at fully six millions. Every treaty that he had concluded had brought him enormous gratifications.

On the 15 August the fête of the Emperor was celebrated with great magnificence. In the morning a Te Deum was chanted at Notre-Dame. In the evening there was a banquet at the Tuileries, followed by a concert and a ballet. The salons of the Château were filled with all the dignitaries of the Empire, in full evening dress. The Emperor appeared on the balcony, holding the hand of Joséphine, and was cheered by an immense crowd in the illuminated Gardens below.

A week later was celebrated the marriage of Jérôme with the young Princesse Catherine of Würtemberg. The Pope had firmly refused to grant the Emperor’s petition for an annulment of the Patterson marriage, but the French ecclesiastical authorities proved more amenable, and in October 1806 the marriage was declared null and void.

Jérôme, who was the youngest, and also the most worthless of the Bonapartes, had just received from his brother the crown of Westphalia. The princesse, who was nearly two years older than her husband, was a woman of much charm. She was tall and beautiful; affable in her manners, and of superior intelligence.

After a marriage by procuration at Stuttgart, Catherine came to Paris. She arrived at the Tuileries on the 21 August; the contract was signed the next day in the Galerie de Diane; and was followed on the 23 August by the religious ceremony, which was performed in the chapel by the Archbishop of Ratisbon, the Prince-Primate of the Confederation of the Rhine. Thus was carried out the third part of the Emperor’s plan for alliances with the royal families of Europe. This marriage also proved quite a happy one. Catherine was devoted to Jérôme, notwithstanding his many notorious infidelities, and refused to abandon him after the fall of the Empire.

At the end of this month the King and Queen of Holland returned from their visit to the baths in the Pyrenees. Hortense had been joined by Louis at Cauterêts in June, and they had once more resumed their life in common. At the time of their arrival at Saint-Cloud they seemed to be on very good terms with each other, but still sad over their loss. Hortense was very thin, and already suffering from the beginning of her grossesse. At the baths she had met the secretary of Madame Mère, Monsieur Decazès, who had just lost his wife, and the fact that they were both in mourning had been a bond of sympathy between them. Reports of their intimacy had reached Paris, and Caroline did not hesitate to retail the scandal to her brother on his return, even going so far as to insinuate that the interesting condition of Hortense was due to the handsome young secretary. It did not take much to revive the suspicions of the jealous Louis, and discord once more reigned in the royal household. Louis naturally wished to take his wife and son with him on his return to Holland, but the Empress, alarmed at her daughter’s appearance, called a consultation of physicians, who unanimously decided that it would be dangerous for Hortense in her condition to return for the winter to the cold, damp climate of the Low Countries. The Emperor therefore ordered that Hortense and her son should remain in Paris. Louis submitted with apparent reluctance to his brother’s command and departed alone for The Hague.

Hortense, who had previously endured without complaint the unjust suspicions of Louis, was this time mortally offended, and conceived a profound hatred for her husband. When she found that he had believed her capable of an intrigue galante at a moment when she was thinking only of death, in the depths of her despair over the loss of her favorite child, she resolved never to live with him again.

For the first time in his life the Emperor now decided to take a real vacation of eight weeks, and the Court was ordered to assemble on the 21 September at Fontainebleau. This historic château was always a favorite place of residence for Napoleon, and now that the Tuileries and Saint-Cloud have disappeared it is the only royal palace with which his name is identified.

In the autumn of 1807, Napoleon was at the zenith of his glory. He never yet had known defeat: at Austerlitz, Jena and Friedland he had conquered the three greatest nations of the Continent. To the democratic days of the earlier period of the Empire had succeeded an aristocratic régime. The Emperor posed as a new Charlemagne, the chief of a family of sovereigns. To him the kings of Bavaria, Würtemberg, Holland, Saxony, Naples and Westphalia owed their royal crowns. The reigning princes of the Confederation of the Rhine were his vassals. From the Baltic to the Pyrenees, from the Channel to the Adriatic, his will was law.

Accordingly the command had gone forth that the Court was to amuse itself at Fontainebleau: pleasure was the order of the day. Never before had Europe witnessed such a gathering of kings and princes. The Emperor and Empress arrived on the 21 September, and within a few days there appeared; the Queen of Holland, the Queen of Naples, the King and Queen of Westphalia, the Grand-Duke of Berg (Murat) and his wife, Madame Mère, the Princesse Pauline, Prince Charles of Baden and his wife, the Prince-Primate, the Duke of Würzburg, and too many others to mention. The Emperor had also commanded the presence of Talleyrand, Berthier, Champagny, and Maret; all of the grand officers of the imperial household, the ministers of the Kingdom of Italy, and several of the marshals.

This visit of the Court to Fontainebleau is one of the most interesting episodes of life under the Empire and well deserves a chapter to itself. The Emperor never again consecrated so long a period of time solely to pleasure, and his Court was never more brilliant. Here for the first and last time there was a renewal of the life of the Ancien Régime, as it was in the days of the Grand Monarque: here came to the surface the same interests, passions, intrigues, weaknesses, treacheries—in a word, it was a real Court! It would require the pen of a Saint-Simon faithfully to depict the scene, with all its changing lights and shadows, to seize its full spirit, and make it live again. It furnishes the theme of one of the most interesting stories in the memoirs of Madame de Rémusat:

“At this time, Napoleon, oblivious of the past, certain of the future, was proceeding with a firm step, anticipating no obstacle, or at least certain that he could easily overcome any found in his path. It seemed to him, it seemed to every one, that he could not fall except by an event so unlooked for, so strange, and so catastrophic, that a mass of interests in favor of order and repose were solemnly engaged in his conservation. In fact, master or friend of all the kings of the Continent, ally of many by treaties or foreign marriages, sure of Europe by the new partitions he had made, having upon the most remote frontiers important garrisons which insured the execution of his will, absolute depository of all the resources of France, rich with an immense treasury, in the flower of his age, admired, feared, and above all scrupulously obeyed, it seemed as though he had overcome all obstacles.”

Such is the picture which Madame de Rémusat draws of the Emperor at the age of thirty-eight, in this autumn of 1807, and she remarks:

“Let us suppose that some one, ignorant of the past, had suddenly been thrown into Fontainebleau at this time,—it is certain that, blinded by the magnificence displayed in this royal habitation; struck by the air of authority of the master, and the obsequious reverence of the great personages who surrounded him,—this stranger would have seen, or thought that he saw, a sovereign peaceably seated upon the greatest throne in the world, with all the united rights of power and legitimacy.”

As soon as the invited guests arrived at the Château they were informed of the program drawn up by the Emperor for their entertainment. The different evenings of the week were to be passed in the apartments of the various great personages. One evening the Emperor would receive, and there would be music, followed by games. Twice a week there was to be a theatrical performance; on other nights, balls to be given by the Princesses Pauline and Caroline; and finally, an assembly and play in the rooms of the Empress. The princes and ministers, in turn, were to give dinners and invite all of the guests in rotation; the grand marshal and the lady of honor were to do the same, each having a table for twenty-five persons every day; and finally there was to be another table for all who were not invited elsewhere. Even the kings and princes could not dine with the Emperor except by special invitation. On certain days there was a hunt, which the guests followed on horseback, or in very elegant calèches which were provided. The Emperor liked the chase more for the exercise it gave him than for the thing itself. He often abandoned the pursuit of the stag, and wandered through the forest, lost in revery. He was a good, but very reckless horseman, and always rode small Arabians specially trained for his service.

The Emperor employed his vacation in working as usual. He rose at seven o’clock, breakfasted alone, and, the days that he did not hunt, remained in his cabinet until five or six. The ministers and secretaries came from Paris with their despatch-boxes exactly the same as though he were at Saint-Cloud. He never took account of time or distance, either for himself or any one else.

While the Emperor was occupied in his cabinet, Joséphine, always elegantly dressed, breakfasted with her daughter and her ladies, and later received in her salon the visits of the guests at the palace. She never liked to be alone, and had no taste for any kind of work. At four o’clock the Empress dismissed her callers, and went to her room for the rites of the evening toilette, always with her an important function. Quite frequently during the week the Emperor came for his wife between five and six, and they went for a drive together before dinner. They dined at six, and afterwards went to the entertainment arranged for that evening.

The great officials who had the privilege of the entrée could present themselves at the apartment of the Empress. They knocked at the door, were announced by the chamberlain on duty, and admitted by command of the Emperor. If it were a woman, she took her seat in silence; if a man, he remained standing at the side of the room. The Emperor promenaded back and forth, his hands behind his back, his head bent forward, generally absorbed in his thoughts. Occasionally he asked a question and received a brief reply. Of real conversation, there was none. Every one stood in such awe of the Emperor that he feared to make any remarks. At the assemblies it was the same. Everybody around the Emperor was bored, and he was equally bored himself. One day he said to Talleyrand: “It is a singular thing: I have brought together a crowd of people at Fontainebleau; I have wanted them to be amused; I have arranged all their entertainments, yet their faces are all long, and every one has the air of being tired and depressed.” “The trouble is,” replied Talleyrand, “that you cannot regulate pleasure by the beat of the drum. Here, as in the army, you have always the air of saying to each one of us, Allons, messieurs et mesdames, en avant marche!”

The Emperor wished two plays given each week, which must always be different. In addition to these performances, by the Comédie-Française, there were representations of Italian opera. The plays were always tragedies, often Corneille, sometimes Racine, but rarely Voltaire, whom Napoleon did not like. The whole Court was bored to death by these interminable tragedies, and yawned or dozed. There was never any applause, and the play was received in cold silence. The Emperor himself either slept, or was buried in thought. For the opera, the best Italian singers had been engaged, at large salaries, but they were listened to without a sign of interest.

The fêtes and spectacles were nominally in charge of M. de Talleyrand, the grand chamberlain, but the real work was done by the first chamberlain, M. de Rémusat, to whom Talleyrand said one day: “I am sorry for you, for you must amuse the unamusable!” The dreamy, discontented disposition which the Emperor displayed on all occasions cast a sombre veil over all the assemblies and balls at Fontainebleau.

About eight o’clock the Court in gala costume assembled in the apartment where the entertainment was to be given that evening. While awaiting the arrival of Their Majesties there was no conversation. The Empress came first, gracefully traversed the salon, took her place, and then, like the others, awaited in silence the entry of the Emperor. Finally he came, and took his seat beside her. He watched the dancing with a bored look, which was not conducive to pleasure, and naturally no one enjoyed the evening. He soon took his departure, and almost immediately the assembly broke up.

While the Court was at Fontainebleau the Emperor had an affaire with a beautiful young woman named Gazzani. Talleyrand had found her in Italy, and had persuaded the Emperor to give her a place in his household as reader for the Empress, while her husband was made a receiver general. She was tall, beautifully formed, with magnificent dark eyes, and a very attractive face. In a Court where there were many lovely women, she was generally considered the most beautiful of all. She had a very sweet, submissive disposition, and yielded to the desires of the Emperor from a kind of conviction that it was her duty not to resist him. At the same time she displayed the greatest devotion for the Empress, who closed her eyes to this little episode. As a result, this liaison was of brief duration, and attracted very little attention.

Another love affair which caused much talk, but was also very brief, was the sudden passion which the new King of Westphalia conceived for the charming young Duchesse of Baden. Jérôme had not even waited until his honeymoon was over before beginning a violent flirtation, and Catherine was very jealous. Stéphanie, who had not yet learned to appreciate her husband, was gay and frivolous and naturally coquette. Jérôme danced with her at all the balls, while Catherine, who had inherited from her father a tendency to corpulence and did not dance, was forced to look sadly on. Finally, one evening when Jérôme had been more than usually attentive to Stéphanie, Catherine suddenly burst into tears, and fell from her chair in a dead faint. The ball was interrupted, and she was carried into an adjoining salon. The Emperor addressed a few sharp words to his brother: Jérôme rushed after his wife, threw himself on his knees by her side, and with a thousand caresses endeavored to restore her to consciousness. A few minutes later the young couple retired to their apartment.

The following day, Napoleon commanded Joséphine to have a plain talk with her lively cousin, and bring her to reason. Stéphanie took the reproof in good part, and both of the young people were too much afraid of the Emperor to renew what had been after all an innocent flirtation.

At this time, the Emperor no longer showed his partiality for Stéphanie. He seemed to have forgotten entirely the rules prescribed for her as his adopted daughter before her marriage, and only accorded her the rank and precedence of a princesse of the Confederation of the Rhine, which placed her below the queens and the imperial princesses. From that time on, Stéphanie was a model of decorum in her conduct. She showed no regret on leaving for Baden with her husband, and this seems to have been the beginning of the perfect accord which afterwards united them.

In the meantime Hortense was living in the greatest possible seclusion. Her health was very delicate, and the memory of her lost child was always with her. The Emperor displayed for her much affection and esteem. At the bottom of his heart he undoubtedly had more love for her than for his brother, but the family spirit was too strong for him to take any active part in their quarrels. He had consented to her remaining in Paris until after her confinement, but he continued to speak of her return to Holland. For her part, Hortense was equally firm in her determination never to return to this bleak country where she had experienced so much trouble and sorrow. She said to the Emperor: “My reputation is tarnished, my health is lost, I look for no more happiness in life; banish me from your Court if you wish; shut me up in a convent; I desire neither throne nor fortune. Give peace to my mother, distinction to Eugène who deserves it, but let me live tranquil and alone.”