not seem disposed to follow this advice without some plausible reason, the First Consul added, “You must know, then, that I learn from Caesar all that passes in your house.  You do not speak very ill of me yourself, nor does any one venture to do so in your presence.  You play your rubber and go to bed.  But no sooner are you gone than your wife, who never liked me, and most of those who visit at your house, indulge in the most violent attacks upon me.  I receive a bulletin from Caesar Faucher every day when he visits at your house; this is the way in which he requites you for your kindness, and for the asylum you afforded his brother.—­[Constantine Rancher had been condemned in contumacy for the forgery of a public document.—­Bourrienne.]—­But enough; you see I know all—­farewell;” and he left me.

The grave having closed over these two brothers,—­[The Fauchers were twin brothers, distinguished in the war of the Revolution, and made brigadier-generals at the same time on the field of battle.  After the Cent Jours they refused to recognise the Bourbons, and were shot by sentence of court-martial at Bordeaux. (Bouillet)]—­I shall merely state that they wrote me a letter the evening preceding their execution, in which they begged me to forgive their conduct towards me.  The following is an extract from this letter: 

In our dungeon we hear our sentence of death being cried in the streets.  To-morrow we shall walk to the scaffold; but we will meet death with such calmness and courage as shall make our executioners blush.  We are sixty years old, therefore our lives will only be shortened by a brief apace.  During our lives we have shared in common, illness, grief, pleasure, danger, and good fortune.  We both entered the world on the same day, and on the same day we shall both depart from it.  As to you, sir....

I suppress what relates to myself.

The hour of the grand levee arrived just as the singular interview which I have described terminated.  I remained a short time to look at this phantasmagoria.  Duroc was there.  As soon as he saw me he came up, and taking me into the recess of a window told me that Moreau’s guilt was evident, and that he was about to be put on his trial.  I made some observations on the subject, and in particular asked whether there were sufficient proofs of his guilt to justify his condemnation?  “They should be cautious,” said I; “it is no joke to accuse the conqueror of Hohenlinden.”  Duroc’s answer satisfied me that he at least had no doubt on the subject.  “Besides,” added he, “when such a general as Moreau has been between two gendarmes he is lost, and is good for nothing more.  He will only inspire pity.”  In vain I tried to refute this assertion so entirely contrary to facts, and to convince Duroc that Moreau would never be damaged by calling him “brigand,” as was the phrase then, without proofs.  Duroc persisted in his opinion.  As if a political crime ever sullied the honour of any one!  The result has proved that I judged rightly.