Buonaparte himself, while at St. Helena, referred to the story frequently; and never hesitated to admit that it originated in the following occurrence.  He sent, he said, the night before the march was to commerce, for Desgenettes, the chief of the medical staff, and proposed to him, under such circumstances as have been described, the propriety of giving opium, in mortal doses, to seven men, adding that, had his son been in their situation, he would have thought it his duty, as a father, to treat him in the same method; and that, most certainly, had he himself been in that situation, and capable of understanding it, he would have considered the deadly cup as the best boon that friendship could offer him.  M. Desgenettes, however, (said the ex-Emperor) did not consider himself as entitled to interfere in any such method with the lives of his fellow men:  the patients were abandoned; and, at least, one of the number fell alive into the hands of Sir Sidney Smith, and recovered.

Such is Napoleon’s narrative; and it is confirmed in all particulars of importance, save two, by De Bourienne.  That writer states distinctly that he was present when Napoleon, Berthier and the usual suite, examined the hospital—­heard the discussion which followed, and the order given for administering mortal potions to the hopeless patients—­in number sixty.  He does not assert that he saw the poison administered, but says he has no doubt the order was executed; and concludes with defending the measure by arguments similar to those already quoted from the lips of his master.

Whether the opium was really administered or not—­that the audacious proposal to that effect was made by Napoleon, we have his own admission; and every reader must form his opinion—­as to the degree of guilt which attaches to the fact of having meditated and designed the deed in question, under the circumstances above detailed.  That Buonaparte, accustomed to witness slaughter in every form, was in general but a callous calculator when the loss of human life was to be considered, no one can doubt.  That his motives, on this occasion, were cruel, no human being, who considers either the temper or the situation of the man, will ever believe.  He doubtless designed, by shortening those men’s lives, to do them the best service in his power.  The presumption of thus daring to sport with the laws of God and man, when expedience seemed to recommend such interference, was quite in the character of the young General:  cruelty was not; least of all, cruelty to his own soldiery—­the very beings on whose affection all his greatness depended.