daughter of a fishwoman, and the wife of a tribune,
a ci-devant barber. In another room, the Bavarian
Minister Cetto was conferring with the spy Mehee de
la Touche; but observed at a distance by Fouche’s
secretary, Desmarets, the son of a tailor at Fontainebleau,
and for years a known spy. When I was just going
to retire, the handsome Madame Gillot, and her sister,
Madame de Soubray, joined me. You have perhaps
known them in England, where, before their marriage,
they resided for five years with their parents, the
Marquis and Marquise de Courtin; and were often admired
by the loungers in Bond Street. The one married
for money, Gillot, a ci-devant drummer in the French
Guard, but who, since the Revolution, has, as a general;
made a large fortune; and the other united herself
to a ci-devant Abbe, from love; but both are now divorced
from their husbands, who passed them without any notice
while they were chatting with me. I was handing
Madame Gillot to her carriage, when, from the staircase,
Madame de Soubray called to us not to quit her, as
she was pursued by a man whom she detested, and wished
to avoid. We had hardly turned round, when Mehee
offered her his arm, and she exclaimed with indignation,
“How dare you, infamous wretch, approach me,
when I have forbidden you ever to speak to me?
Had you been reduced to become a highwayman, or a
housebreaker, I might have pitied your infamy; but
a spy is a villain who aggravates guilt by cowardice
and baseness, and can inspire no noble soul with any
other sentiment but abhorrence, and the most sovereign
contempt.” Without being disconcerted,
Mehee silently returned to the company, amidst bursts
of laughter from fifty servants, and as many masters,
waiting for their carriages. M. de Cetto was
among the latter, but, though we all fixed our eyes
steadfastly upon him, no alteration could be seen
on his diplomatic countenance: his face must surely
be made of brass or his heart of marble.
LETTER VI.
Paris, August, 1805.
My Lord:—The day on which Madame
Napoleon Bonaparte was elected an Empress of the French,
by the constitutional authorities of her husband’s
Empire, was, contradictory as it may seem, one of the
most uncomfortable in her life. After the show
and ceremony of the audience and of the drawing-room
were over, she passed it entirely in tears, in her
library, where her husband shut her up and confined
her.
The discipline of the Court of St. Cloud is as singular
as its composition is unique. It is, by the
regulation of Napoleon, entirely military. From
the Empress to her lowest chambermaid, from the Emperor’s
first aide-de-camp down to his youngest page, any slight
offence or negligence is punished with confinement,
either public or private. In the former case
the culprits are shut up in their own apartments, but
in the latter they are ordered into one of the small
rooms, constructed in the dark galleries at the Tuileries
and St. Cloud, near the kitchens, where they are guarded
day and night by sentries, who answer for their persons,
and that nobody visits them.