In that cabinet in which Napoleon and I had passed so many busy hours, and where so many great plans had their birth, I was received by the man who had been my prisoner at Hamburg.  The Prussian General immediately reminded me of the circumstance.  “Who could have foreseen,” said he, “that after being your prisoner I should become the protector of your property?  You treated me well at Hamburg, and I have now an opportunity of repaying your kindness.  Heaven knows what will be the result of all this!  One thing, however, is certain, and that is, that the Allies will now make such conditions as will banish all possibility of danger for a long time to come.  The Emperor Alexander does not wish to make the French people expiate too dearly the misfortunes they have caused us.  He attributes them to Napoleon, but Napoleon cannot pay the expenses of the war, and they must be paid by some one.  It was all very well for once, but we cannot pay the expense of coming back a second time.  However,” added he, “you will lose none of your territory; that is a point on which I can give you positive assurance.  The Emperor Alexander has several times repeated in my presence to the King my master, ’I honour the French nation, and I am determined that it shall preserve its old limits.’”

The above are the very words which Blucher addressed to me.  Profiting by the friendly sentiments he expressed towards me I took the opportunity of mentioning the complaints that were everywhere made of the bad discipline of the troops under his command.  “What can I do?” said he.  “I cannot be present everywhere; but I assure you that in future and at your recommendation I will severely punish any misconduct that may come to my knowledge.”

Such was the result of my visit to Blucher; but, in spite of his promises, his troops continued to commit the most revolting excesses.  Thus the Prussian troops have left in the neighbourhood of Paris recollections no less odious than those produced by the conduct of Davoust’s corps in Prussia.—­Of this an instance now occurs to my memory, which I will relate here.  In the spring of 1816, as I was going to Chevreuse, I stopped at the Petit Bicetre to water my horse.  I seated myself for a few minutes near the door of the inn, and a large dog belonging to the innkeeper began to bark and growl at me.  His master, a respectable-looking old man, exclaimed, “Be quiet, Blucher!”—­“How came you to give your dog that name?” said I.—­“Ah, sir! it is the name of a villain who did a great deal of mischief here last year.  There is my house; they have left scarcely anything but the four walls.  They said they came for our good; but let them come back again . . . we will watch them, and spear them like wild boars in the wood.”  The poor man’s house certainly exhibited traces of the most atrocious violence, and he shed tears as he related to me his disasters.