—­[The Duchesse d’Abrantes, speaking of the personal characteristics of Bonaparte in youth and manhood, says, “Saveria told me that Napoleon was never a pretty boy, as Joseph was, for example:  his head always appeared too large for his body, a defect common to the Bonaparte family.  When Napoleon grew up, the peculiar charm of his countenance lay in his eye, especially in the mild expression it assumed in his moments of kindness.  His anger, to be sure, was frightful, and though I am no coward, I never could look at him in his fits of rage without shuddering.  Though his smile was captivating, yet the expression of his month when disdainful or angry could scarcely be seen without terror.  But that forehead which seemed formed to bear the crowns of a whole world; those hands, of which the most coquettish women might have been vain, and whose white skin covered muscles of iron; in short, of all that personal beauty which distinguished Napoleon as a young man, no traces were discernible in the boy.  Saveria spoke truly when she said, that of all the children of Signora Laetitia, the Emperor was the one from whom future greatness was least to be prognosticated” (vol. i. p. 10, edit. 1883)]—­

Generally speaking, Bonaparte was not much liked by his comrades at Brienne.  He was not social with them, and rarely took part in their amusements.  His country’s recent submission to France always caused in his mind a painful feeling, which estranged him from his schoolfellows.  I, however, was almost his constant companion.  During play-hours he used to withdraw to the library, where he-read with deep interest works of history, particularly Polybius and Plutarch.  He was also fond of Arrianus, but did not care much for Quintus Gurtius.  I often went off to play with my comrades, and left him by himself in the library.

The temper of the young Corsican was not improved by the teasing he frequently experienced from his comrades, who were fond of ridiculing him about his Christian name Napoleon and his country.  He often said to me, “I will do these French all the mischief I can;” and when I tried to pacify him he would say, “But you do not ridicule me; you like me.”

Father Patrauld, our mathematical professor, was much attached to Bonaparte.  He was justly proud of him as a pupil.  The other professors, in whose classes he was not distinguished, took little notice of him.  He had no taste for the study of languages, polite literature, or the arts.  As there were no indications of his ever becoming a scholar, the pedants of the establishment were inclined to think him stupid.  His superior intelligence was, however, sufficiently perceptible, even through the reserve under which it was veiled.  If the monks to whom the superintendence of the establishment was confided had understood the organisation of his mind, if they had engaged more able mathematical professors, or if we had had any incitement to the study of chemistry,