The habitual movement of the muscles of his neck was more decided and more frequent than formerly.  I shall not attempt to describe what were my feelings during this ceremony, when I again saw, after a long separation, the friend of my youth, who had become master of Europe, and was now on the point of sinking beneath the efforts of his enemies.  There was something melancholy in this solemn and impressive ceremony.  I have rarely witnessed such profound silence in so numerous an assembly.  At length Napoleon, in a voice as firm and sonorous as when he used to harangue his troops in Italy or in Egypt, but without that air of confidence which then beamed on his countenance, delivered to the assembled officers an address which was published in all the journals of the time.  At the commencement of this address he said, “I set out this night to take the command of the army.  On quitting the capital I confidently leave behind me my wife and my son, in whom so many hopes are centred.”  I listened attentively to Napoleon’s address, and, though he delivered it firmly, he either felt or feigned emotion.  Whether or not the emotion was sincere on his part, it was shared by many present; and for my own part I confess that my feelings were deeply moved when he uttered the words, “I leave you my wife and my son.”  At that moment my eyes were fixed on the young Prince, and the interest with which he inspired me was equally unconnected with the splendour which surrounded and the misfortunes which threatened him.  I beheld in the interesting child not the King of Rome but the son of my old friend.  All day long afterwards I could not help feeling depressed while comparing the farewell scene of the morning with the day on which we took possession of the Tuileries.  How many centuries seemed the fourteen years which separated the two events.

It may be worth while to remind those who are curious in comparing dates that Napoleon, the successor of Louis XVI., and who had become the nephew of that monarch by his marriage with the niece of Marie Antoinette, took leave of the National Guard of Paris on the anniversary of the fatal 21st of January, after twenty-five years of successive terror, fear, hope, glory, and misfortune.

Meanwhile, a Congress was opened at Chatillon-sur-Seine, at which were assembled the Duke of Vicenza on the part of France, Lords Aderdeen and Cathcart and Sir Charles Stewart as the representatives of England, Count Razumowsky on the part of Russia, Count Stadion for Austria, and Count Humboldt for Prussia.  Before the opening of the Congress, the Duke of Vicenza, in conformity with the Emperor’s orders, demanded an armistice, which is almost invariably granted during negotiations for peace; but it was now too late:  the Allies had long since determined not to listen to any such demand.  They therefore answered the Duke of Vicenza’s application by requiring that the propositions for peace should be immediately signed.  But these were not the propositions of Frankfort.  The Allies established as their bases the limits of the old French monarchy.  They conceived themselves authorised in so doing by their success and by their situation.