Nine months had now passed since I had tendered my resignation to the First Consul.  The business of my office had become too great for me, and my health was so much endangered by over-application that my physician, M. Corvisart, who had for a long time impressed upon me the necessity of relaxation, now formally warned me that I should not long hold out under the fatigue I underwent.  Corvisart had no doubt spoken to the same effect to the First Consul, for the latter said to me one day, in a tone which betrayed but little feeling, “Why, Corvisart says you have not a year to live.”  This was certainly no very welcome compliment in the mouth of an old college friend, yet I must confess that the doctor risked little by the prediction.

I had resolved, in fact, to follow the advice of Corvisart; my family were urgent in their entreaties that I would do so, but I always put off the decisive step.  I was loath to give up a friendship which had subsisted so long, and which had been only once disturbed:  on that occasion when Joseph thought proper to play the spy upon me at the table of Fouche.  I remembered also the reception I had met with from the conqueror of Italy; and I experienced, moreover, no slight pain at the thought of quitting one from whom I had received so many proofs of confidence, and to whom I had been attached from early boyhood.  These considerations constantly triumphed over the disgust to which I was subjected by a number of circumstances, and by the increasing vexations occasioned by the conflict between my private sentiments and the nature of the duties I had to perform.

I was thus kept in a state of perplexity, from which some unforeseen circumstance alone could extricate me.  Such a circumstance at length occurred, and the following is the history of my first rupture with Napoleon: 

On the 27th of February 1802, at ten at night, Bonaparte dictated to me a despatch of considerable importance and urgency, for M. de Talleyrand, requesting the Minister for Foreign Affairs to come to the Tuileries next morning at an appointed hour.  According to custom, I put the letter into the hands of the office messenger that it might be forwarded to its destination.

This was Saturday.  The following day, Sunday, M. de Talleyrand came as if for an audience about mid-day.  The First Consul immediately began to confer with him on the subject of the letter sent the previous evening, and was astonished to learn that the Minister had not received it until the morning.  He immediately rang for the messenger, and ordered me to be sent for.  Being in a very. bad humour, he pulled the bell with so much fury that he struck his hand violently against the angle of the chimney-piece.  I hurried to his presence.  “Why,” he said, addressing me hastily, “why was not my letter delivered yesterday evening?”—­“I do not know:  I put it at once into the hands of the person whose duty it was to see that it was