Chapter XIII: Introduction (2)

Talleyrand, though in disgrace as a minister, and as the holder of one of the highest posts at Court, had not forfeited the Emperor’s confidence. The latter would send for him every now and then, and freely disclose the secret of the question or the circumstance on which he desired his advice. These consultations went on to the end, even at those times when the Emperor was talking of sending M. de Talleyrand to Vincennes. In return, M. de Talleyrand would enter into his views, and advise him with perfect frankness; and so this strange intercourse was carried on as if nothing had happened between them.

State policy and the greatness of his own position afforded certain privileges and consolations to M. de Talleyrand which were beyond the reach of a chamberlain or a lady-in-waiting. Those who are in close contact with absolute power do not foresee that the day must come when their feelings will clash with their interests, and some of their duties with others. They forget that there are principles of government which must be guarded by constitutional guarantees. They yield to the natural desire to be “somebodies” in the state, to serve the established authority; they do not study the nature and conditions of that authority. So long as it exacts nothing against their conscience, they serve it in the sphere to which it has appointed them. But the hour comes when, without exacting anything new from them, it carries extravagance, violence, and injustice to such a height that it becomes hard to obey it, even in things of no moment; they remain, nevertheless, bound to obedience, while in their inmost soul they are full of indignation and of pain. Then comes actual desire for its fall. It may be said that their course is simple; let them resign. But they are afraid of giving rise to rumor and scandal, of being neither understood nor approved by public opinion. Moreover, no contract binds the servants of the state to the conduct of the chief of the state. Having no rights, they would seem to have no duties. They are powerless for prevention, and are, therefore, not afraid of having to expiate errors. Thus people thought in the reign of Louis XIV., and thus they still think in a great part of Europe; it was thus they thought under Napoleon, and perhaps they will be of the same opinion again. So shameful and wretched a thing is absolute power! It paralyzes both the honest scruples and the real duties of honest men.

IV

Traces of these convictions, or at least of their germ, may be discerned in the correspondence of M. and Madame de Rémusat, and all things contributed to confirm them. Direct communication with the Emperor became more and more infrequent, and his charm of manner, though still powerful, failed to weaken the impression made by his policy. The divorce of the Empress restored to Madame de Rémusat, in great part, her freedom of judgment and the disposal of her time. She attached herself to the Empress Josephine in her disgrace, a proceeding not calculated to raise her in the estimation of the Court. Her husband soon after retired from the post of Keeper of the Wardrobe, under circumstances which are detailed in these Memoirs, and the coolness increased. I use the word “coolness” advisedly, because in certain pamphlets written against my father it was alleged that his family had been guilty of grave offenses, at which the Emperor was much incensed. That this was quite untrue is amply proved by the fact that although M. de Rémusat resigned the post of Keeper of the Wardrobe, he continued to be Chamberlain and Supervisor of Theatres. He merely gave up the most troublesome and most onerous of his offices. No doubt those habits of intimacy and confidence which arise in common every-day life were weakened by his relinquishment of that post; but, on the other hand, he gained greater freedom and more frequent intercourse, both with his family and with society, and, as they were no longer restricted to the drawing-rooms of the Tuileries and St. Cloud, both husband and wife were enabled to bring more clear-sightedness and independence of judgment to bear upon the policy of their sovereign. Before the final disasters, aided by the advice and predictions of M. de Talleyrand, they foresaw the fall of the Empire, and were enabled to choose between the possible solutions of the problem then in course of working out. There was no hope that the Emperor would be satisfied with a peace more humiliating to himself than to France, and indeed Europe was no longer in the humor to gratify him even to that extent.

The public mind turned naturally toward the return of the Bourbons, notwithstanding certain drawbacks, which were but dimly apprehended. The _salons_ of Paris, without being actually Royalist, were anti-revolutionary. At this epoch the plan of making the Bonapartes heads of the Conservative and Catholic party had not yet been invented. To bring back the Bourbons was a very momentous resolution, and it was not adopted without struggles, anxieties, and apprehensions of all sorts. My father regarded the painful recollection which he always retained of the attitude of his family in 1814—a family so simple, so honorable, and so unpretending—as a useful political lesson, one which contributed, as much as his own reflections, to lead him to believe that simplicity and straightforwardness are the truest policy. He records in the following words his own observations on the state of feeling that prevailed at the fall of the Empire:

“Policy alone reconciled my family to the Restoration. My father
never for a moment regarded his own acquiescence otherwise than
as an absolute necessity, of which he voluntarily accepted the
consequences. It would have been foolish to conceal the nature
of those consequences, or to have endeavored to avoid them
altogether; but they might have been more firmly resisted, or at
least some effort might have been made to reduce their
proportions. My mother, as a woman, was influenced by the
sentimental aspect of Bourbonism, and allowed herself to be
carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment. In every great
political movement there is a fascination, unless one is
preserved from it by party spirit; and this sympathy, combined
with the national taste for declamation, has a large share in
the absurdities which accompany every change of government. My
mother was, however, disgusted from the first by the
exaggeration of sentiment, of opinion, and of ridiculous
language, that prevailed. The humiliating and insolent side of
the Restoration, as indeed of every restoration, is what shocks
me the most; but, if the Royalists had not gone too far, a great
deal would have been overlooked. The things of this kind which
sensible folk will endure are surprising. I still feel grateful
to my father because, in the very first days of the Monarchy, he
somewhat sharply rebuked a person who was advocating in our
_salon_ the extreme doctrines of Legitimacy. Nevertheless, we
had to accept this Legitimacy under a more politic form. The
word itself was, I believe, sanctioned by M. de Talleyrand, and
thence ensued an inevitable train of consequences which speedily
developed themselves.”

This is not merely an historical judgment of my father’s; at that time he was beginning, notwithstanding his youth, to think for himself, and to guide, or at least to influence, the political opinions of his parents. As I shall soon be in a position to publish the reminiscences of his youth, I will not dwell upon them here. I must, however, mention him in connection with the memoirs of his mother, as he had more to do with them than might be supposed.

I have not hitherto alluded to one of the most characteristic traits of her whose life I have undertaken to narrate. She was a tender, careful, and admirable mother. Her son Charles, born on the 24th Ventose, year 5 (March 14, 1797), cheered her from his childhood with the hopes which he afterward realized, and, as he grew in years and intelligence, aroused in her intellectual tastes similar to his own. Her second son, Albert, was born five years later than Charles, and died in 1830. His faculties were never completely developed; he remained a child until the end. She had tender compassion for him, and lavished upon him care so unceasing and devoted that it was admirable even in a mother. But her great love was for her first-born, and never was filial or maternal affection founded on more striking resemblance in mind and character. Her letters are full of her maternal tenderness. The following is addressed to her beloved son, when he was just sixteen. I think it will convey a favorable impression of both, and throw a light on the history of their after lives:

VICHY, _July 25, 1813_.

“I have been suffering from a severe sore throat for the last
few days, and time has hung heavily, my child; to-day I feel a
little better, and I am going to amuse myself by writing to you.
Besides, you have been scolding me for my silence, and
reproaching me too often with your four letters. I will no
longer be behindhand with you, and this letter, I think, will
entitle me to scold you in my turn, if an opportunity offers. My
dear boy, I follow you step by step in all your studies, and I
see you are full of work during this month of July, which I am
passing so monotonously. I know pretty well, too, all you say
and do on Thursdays and Sundays. Madame de Grasse tells me of
your little talks, and amuses me with it all. For instance, she
told me that the other day you had praised me to her, and said
that when you and I talk together you are sometimes tempted to
think me too clever. But you need not be checked by any fear of
that, for you, my dear child, have at least as much wit as I. I
tell you so frankly, because that gift, although an advantage,
needs many other things to support it, and therefore you may
take my words rather as warning than as praise. If my
conversation with you often takes a serious turn, you must
impute it to the fact that I am your mother, and have not
relinquished that _rôle_; to my discovery of some wise thoughts
in my own head, and wanting to put them into yours; and to my
desire to make good use of the quickly passing time that will
soon bear you far from me. When I need no longer advise and warn
you, we shall talk together quite at our ease, interchanging our
reflections, our remarks, and our opinions on everything and
everybody quite frankly, without fear of vexing one another; in
fact, with all that sincere and intimate friendship which, I
believe, may perfectly well exist between a mother and a son.
There are not so many years between us as to prevent me from
sympathizing with your youth, or sharing some of your feelings.
Women’s shoulders wear young heads for a long time, and in the
head of a mother one side is always just the same age as her
child’s.

“Madame de Grasse told me also that you want to amuse yourself
during these holidays by writing some of your notions on various
subjects. I think you are right. It will be interesting for you
to read them again in a few years. Your father would say I want
to make you a scribbler like myself—for he does not stand on
ceremony with me—but I do not care. There can be no harm in
setting down one’s thoughts in writing for one’s self alone, and
I think both taste and style may be formed in this way. It is
just because your father is lazy, and only writes one letter a
week; true, it is a very pleasant one, but still that is not
much. . . . But there! I must not run on about him.

“During my retirement I thought I should like to draw your
portrait, and if I had not had a sore throat, I would have tried
to do so. While I was thinking it over, I found that in order
not to be insipid, and, indeed, to be correct, I should have to
point out a few faults, and I do believe the hard words have
stuck in my throat and given me quinsy. While planning this
portrait, I assure you I took you to pieces very carefully, and
I found many good qualities well developed, a few just beginning
to bud, and then some slight congestions which hinder certain
others from exhibiting themselves. I beg your pardon for using a
medical expression; it is because I am in a place where nothing
but congestions and the way to get rid of them is talked about.
I will explain all this some day when I am in the vein, but
to-day I will touch only on one point—your behavior to others.
You are polite—more so, indeed, than is customary at your age:
you have a pleasant manner in addressing people, and you are a
good listener. Do not let this last quality slip. Madame de
Sévigné says that an appreciative silence is a mark of superior
sense in young people. ‘But, mother, what are you driving at?
You promised to point out a fault, and hitherto I see nothing
like one. A father’s blow turns aside. Let us come to the fact,
my dear mother.’ So I will, my son, in one moment; you forget
that I have a sore throat, and can only speak slowly. Well,
then, you are polite. When you are _asked_ to do something which
will gratify those you love, you consent willingly; but, when an
opportunity of so doing is merely pointed out to you, natural
indolence and a certain love of self make you hesitate; and,
when left to yourself, you do not seek such opportunities, for
fear of the trouble they might entail. Can you understand these
subtle distinctions? While you are still partly under my
authority, I can influence and guide you: but you will soon have
to answer for yourself, and I should wish you to think a little
about other people, notwithstanding the claims of your own
youth, which are naturally engrossing. I am not sure that I have
expressed my self clearly. As my ideas have to find their way
through a headache and all my bandages, and for the last four
days I have not sharpened my wits by contact with those of
Albert, the quinsy may possibly have got into my discourse.

“You must make the best of it. At any rate, it is a fact that
you have polished manners, in other words, you are kind.
Kindness is the politeness of the heart. But enough.

* * * * *

“Your little brother makes a good figure at the village dances.
He has become quite a rustic. In the morning he fishes and takes
long walks about the country. He understands more about trees
and agriculture than you do. In the evening he shines among our
big Auvergne shepherdesses, to whom he shows off all those
little airs and graces which you know so well.

“Adieu, my dear son; I leave off because I have come to the end
of my paper. Writing all this to you relieves me a little of my
_ennui_, but I must not quite overwhelm you by pouring out too
much at a time. My respects to Griffon, and best compliments to
M. Leclerc.”

In this confidential strain the mother and the son carried on their correspondence. One year later, in 1814, the son left school, destined to fulfil all the promise of his childhood, and to hold thenceforth a more important place in the life and occupations of his parents. His influence soon began to tell on theirs, the more so that there existed no absolute divergence in their opinions. But he was more positive and bolder than his parents, because he was not fettered by the ties of old memories and old affection. He felt no regret for the Emperor, and, although deeply moved by the sufferings of the French army, he witnessed the fall of the Empire, if not with joy, at least with indifference. To him, as to most talented young men of his time, it came as an emancipation. He eagerly embraced the first notions of constitutional order, which made their reappearance with the Bourbons. But he was struck by the ridiculous side of Royalist society. Many of the revived fashions and phrases seemed to him to be mere foolery; he was disgusted by the abuse lavished upon the Emperor and the men of the Empire, but neither his parents nor he, although still a little suspicious of the new order of things, was seriously opposed to it. Neither the personal vexations which resulted from it, such as the deprivation of employment, the necessity of selling to great disadvantage a library which was the delight of my grandfather, and which lives in the recollection of lovers of books, nor a thousand other annoyances, could prevent their experiencing a sense of relief. They almost verified a celebrated saying of the Emperor, who, when at the zenith of his power, once asked those surrounding him what would be said after his death. They all hastened to answer in phrases of compliment or of flattery. But he interrupted them by exclaiming, “What! you are at a loss to know what people will say? They will say ‘Ouf!’”

V

It was difficult to attend to personal interests in those days; one could hardly help being diverted from them, and engrossed solely by the spectacle of France and Europe. Curiosity would naturally outweigh ambition in a family such as we are depicting. My grandfather did nevertheless think of entering the administration, and once more revived his project, hitherto doomed to disappointment, of gaining admittance to the Council of State; but he was as supine about it as before. Had he entered the administration, he would only have been following the example of the majority of the former officials of the Empire, for the Bonapartist Opposition did not come into existence until the latter days of the Monarchy. The members of the Imperial family lived in constant and friendly intercourse with the new _régime_, or rather with the reinstated old _régime_. The Empress Josephine was treated with great respect, and the Emperor Alexander frequently visited her at Malmaison. She wished to take up a dignified and fitting position, and she confided to her lady-in-waiting that she thought of asking the title of High Constable for her son Eugène, showing thereby that she scarcely understood the spirit of the Restoration. Queen Hortense, who afterward became the bitter enemy of the Bourbons, and was concerned in numerous conspiracies, obtained the Duchy of Saint Leu, for which she intended to return thanks in person to Louis XVIII. All projects of this kind had, however, to be abandoned; for the Empress Josephine was suddenly carried off by malignant sore throat in March, 1814, and the last link that bound my kinsfolk to the Bonaparte family was sundered for ever.

The Bourbons seemed to make a point of annoying and depressing those very persons whom their Government should have endeavored to conciliate, and by slow degrees a belief gained ground that their reign would be of short duration, and that France, just then more in love with equality than with liberty, would demand to be placed once more under the yoke which had seemed to be shattered; in fact, that the days of Imperial splendor and misery would return. It was, therefore, with less amazement than might be supposed that my grandfather learned one day from a friend that the Emperor had escaped from Elba and landed at Cannes. Historical events seem more astounding to those who read of them than to eye-witnesses. Those who knew Bonaparte could readily believe him capable of again putting France and Frenchmen in peril for the sake of a selfish scheme. His return was, however, a tremendous event, and every one had to think not only of the political future, but also of his own. Even those who, like M. de Rémusat, had not publicly taken any political side, and who only wanted to be left in repose and obscurity, had everything to lose, and were bound to provide against eventualities. The general suspense did not last long; even before the Emperor’s entry into Paris, M. Réal came to announce to M. de Rémusat that he was sentenced to exile together with twelve or fifteen others, among whom was M. Pasquier.

An event still more serious than exile, and which left a deeper trace in my father’s memory, occurred between the first news of the return of Napoleon and his arrival at the Tuileries. On the day after that on which the landing was publicly announced, Mme. de Nansouty hurried to her sister’s house, full of dismay at all that she had been told of the persecution to which the opponents of the vindictive and all-powerful Emperor were about to be exposed. She told my grandparents that a rigorous inquisition by the police was to be put in action; that M. Pasquier apprehended molestation, and that everything in the house which could give rise to suspicion must be got rid of. My grandmother, who might not otherwise have thought of danger, remembered with alarm that a manuscript highly calculated to compromise her husband, her sister, her brother-in-law, and her friends, was in the house. For many years, probably from her first appearance at Court, she had been in the habit of taking notes daily of the events and conversations which came under her notice, while her memory of them was fresh. She had recorded nearly everything she saw and heard, at Paris, at St. Cloud, and at Malmaison. For twelve years she had transferred, not only events and circumstances, but studies of character and disposition, to the pages of her journal. This journal was kept in the form of a correspondence. It consisted of a series of letters, written from Court to a friend from whom nothing was concealed. The author well knew all the value of these fictitious letters, which recalled her whole life, with its most precious and most painful recollections. Ought she to risk, for what would appear to others only literary or sentimental selfishness, the peace, the liberty, nay, even the life of those she loved? No one was aware of the existence of this manuscript, except her husband and Mme. Chéron, the wife of the Prefect of that name, a very old and attached friend. Her thoughts turned to this lady, who had once before taken charge of the dangerous manuscript, and she hastened to seek her. Unfortunately Mme. Chéron was from home, and not likely to return for a considerable time. What was to be done? My grandmother came back, greatly distressed, and, without further reflection or delay, threw her manuscripts into the fire. My father came into the room just as she was burning the last sheets, somewhat cautiously, lest the flame should reach too high. He was then seventeen, and has often described the scene to me—the remembrance of it was most painful to him. He thought at first that his mother was merely destroying a copy of the memoirs, which he had never read, and that the precious original manuscript was safely concealed. He threw the last sheets into the fire with his own hand, attaching but little importance to the action. “Few deeds,” he used to say, “after I learned all the truth, have I ever so bitterly regretted.”

From the very first, the author and her son so deeply lamented what they had done—for they learned almost immediately that the sacrifice was uncalled for—that for years they could not speak of it between themselves or to my grandfather. The latter bore his exile with much philosophy. He was not forbidden to dwell in France, but only in Paris and its neighborhood, and it was decided that they should all await the passing of the storm in Languedoc, where he possessed an estate which he had bought back from the heirs of M. de Bastard, his wife’s grandfather, and which had long been neglected. The family removed, therefore, to Laffitte, where my father afterward passed so many years, now in the midst of political agitation, again in quiet study. In after days he again came thither from exile; for the sufferings of good citizens from absolute power were not to be restricted to the year 1815, and Napoleons have returned to France from a greater distance than the Isle of Elba.

My grandfather started for Laffitte on March 13th, and his family joined him there a few days afterward. At Laffitte they passed the three months of that reign, shorter but still more fatal than the first, which has been called “The Hundred Days.” There my father entered upon his literary career, not as yet producing original works, but translating Pope, Cicero, and Tacitus. His only original writings were his songs. The family lived quietly, unitedly, and almost happily, waiting the end of a tragedy of which they foresaw the _dénouement_, and at Laffitte they received the news of Waterloo. They heard at the same time of the abdication of Napoleon, and that M. de Rémusat was appointed Prefect of Haute-Garonne, by a decree of July 12, 1815. This appointment was quite to the taste of my grandfather, for it placed him once more in office, without involving him in the parade of a court; but it was less pleasing to his wife, who regretted Paris and her old friends there, and who dreaded the disturbances at Toulouse, at that time a prey to the violence of southern Royalism—“the White Terror,” as it was then called.

The new Prefect immediately set out for Toulouse, and was greeted on his arrival with the news that General Ramel, notwithstanding that he had hoisted the white flag on the Capitol, had been assassinated. Such are the injustice and violence of party spirit, even when victorious; nay, especially when victorious!

But, however interesting this episode of our national troubles may be, it is not necessary to dwell on them here. The principal personage in these Memoirs is not the Prefect, but Mme. de Rémusat. My grandmother, anxious about the course of events, and perhaps afraid of the vehemence of her son’s opinions, which were little suited to his father’s official position, sent him back to Paris, to his great satisfaction.

Then ensued a correspondence between them which will make both of them known to us, and will perhaps depict the writer of these Memoirs more clearly than do the Memoirs themselves.

As, however, the latter work only is in question at present, it is not necessary to give in detail the history of the period subsequent to 1815. The administration of the department, which commenced under such gloomy auspices, was, for a period of nineteen months, extremely difficult. While the son, mixing in very Liberal society in Paris, adopted the opinions of advanced constitutional Royalism, which did little more than tolerate the Bourbons, the father, amid totally different surroundings, underwent a similar mental process, and placed himself by word and deed in the front rank of those officials of the King’s Government who were the least Royalist and the most Liberal. He was a just and moderate man, a lover of law, neither an aristocrat nor a bigot. The people of Toulouse were all that he was not; nevertheless he was successful there, and left behind him a kindly memory, which lapsed as the men of his time disappeared, but of which my father has more than once found traces. These early days of constitutional liberty, even in a province which did not afterward put its theories boldly in practice, are curious to contemplate.

The light of that liberty illumined all that the Empire had left in darkness. Opinions, ideas, hatred, passions, came to life. The Government of the Bourbons was represented by a married priest, M. de Talleyrand, and a regicide Jacobin, M. Fouché; but even they could not oppose the reactionary tendency of the time, and the Liberal policy did not triumph until the accession of MM. Decazes, Pasquier, Molé, and Royer-Collard to the ministry, and the passing of the famous decree of the 5th of September. The new policy was of course advantageous to those who had practiced it beforehand, and there could be no ill will toward the Prefect on account of the failure of the Liberal party in the elections of Haute-Garonne. So soon as the ministry was firmly established, and as M. Lainé had succeeded M. de Vaublanc, my grandfather was appointed Prefect of Lille. My father records in a letter already quoted the effect of these events on the mind of Mme. de Rémusat:

“The nomination of my father to Lille brought my mother back
into the midst of the great stir of public opinion, which was
soon to declare itself as it had not done since 1789. Her
intelligence, her reason all her feelings and all her
convictions, were about to make a great step in advance. The
Empire, after awakening her interest in public affairs and
enabling her to understand them, subsequently directed her mind
toward a high moral aim, by inspiring her with a horror of
tyranny. Hence came her desire for a government of order,
founded on law, reason, and the spirit of the nation; hence a
certain leaning toward the forms of the English constitution.
Her stay at Toulouse and the reaction of 1815 gave her such a
knowledge of social realities as she could never have acquired
in the _salons_ of Paris, enlightening her as to the results and
the causes of the Revolution, and the needs and sentiments of
the nation. She understood, in a general way, on which side lay
true help, strength, life, and right. She learned that a new
France had been called into existence, and what it was, and that
it was for and by this new France that government must be
carried on.”

VI

My grandmother’s stay at Lille was occasionally varied by visits to her son in Paris. The pleasures of society were but a prelude to the literary success that he achieved a few months later; and indeed he was already practicing composition in his frequent letters to his mother on politics and literature. Mme. de Rémusat had more leisure at Lille than in Paris, and, although her health was still delicate, she indulged her taste for intellectual pursuits. Hitherto she had written nothing but the Memoirs that she had afterward destroyed, and a few short tales and essays. In the leisure of a country life she now attempted a romance in the form of letters, called “Les Lettres Espagñols, ou l’Ambitieux.” While she was working at this with ardor and success, the posthumous work of Mme. de Staël, “Considérations sur la Revolution Française,” came out in 1818, and made a great impression on her. Now that sixty years have elapsed, it is difficult for us to realize the extraordinary effect of Mme. de Staël’s eloquent dissertation on the principles of the Revolution. The opinions of the author, then quite novel, are now merely noble truisms obvious to all. But in the days that immediately followed the Empire they were something more. Everything was then new, and the younger generation, who had undergone twenty years of tyranny, had to learn over again that which their fathers had known so well in 1789.

My grandmother was especially struck by the eloquent pages in which the author gives somewhat declamatory expression to her hatred of Napoleon. Mme. de Rémusat felt a certain sympathy with the author’s sentiments, but she could not forget that at one time she had thought differently. People who are fond of writing are easily tempted into explaining their conduct and feelings on paper. She conceived a strong desire to arrange all her reminiscences, to describe the Empire as she had seen it, and how she had at first loved and admired, next condemned and dreaded, afterward suspected and hated, and finally renounced it. The Memoirs she had destroyed in 1815 would have been the most accurate exposition of this succession of events, situations, and feelings. It was vain to think of rewriting them, but it was possible, with the help of a good memory and an upright intention, to compose others which should be equally sincere. Full of this project, she wrote to her son (May 27, 1818):

“I have taken up a new notion. You must know that I wake every
morning at six o’clock, and that I write regularly from that
hour until half-past nine. Well, I was sitting up with the
manuscript of my ‘Lettres Espagñols’ all scattered about me,
when certain chapters of Mme. de Staël’s book came into my head.
I flung my romance aside, and took up a clean sheet of paper,
bitten with the idea that I must write about Bonaparte. On I
went, describing the death of the Duke d’Enghien and that
dreadful week I spent at Malmaison; and, as I am an emotional
person, I seemed to be living all through that time over again.
Words and events came back of themselves; between yesterday and
to-day I have written twenty pages, and am somewhat agitated in
consequence.”

The same circumstance which reawakened the recollections of the mother aroused the literary tastes of the son; and while he was publishing an article on Mme. de Staël in the “Archives,” his first appearance in print, he wrote as follows to his mother on the same date, May 27, 1818. Their respective letters crossed on the road:

“‘All honor to the sincere!’ This book, my dear mother, has
renewed my regret that you have burned your Memoirs, and has
made me most anxious that you should retrieve that loss. You
really owe this to yourself, to us, to the interests of truth.
Read up the old almanacs; study the ‘Moniteur’ page by page; get
back your old letters from your friends, and go over them,
especially those to my father. Try to remember not only the
details of events, but your own impressions of them. Try to
resuscitate the views you formerly held, even the illusions you
have lost; recall your very errors. Show how you, with many
other honorable and sensible people, indignant and disgusted
with the horrors of the Revolution, were carried away by natural
aversions, and beguiled by enthusiasm for one man, which was in
reality highly patriotic. Explain how we had all of us become,
as it were, strangers to political life. We had no dread of the
empire of an individual; we went out to meet it. Then show how
this man either became corrupt, or else displayed his true
character as his power increased. Tell how it unfortunately
happened that, as you lost one by one your illusions concerning
him, you became more and more dependent, and how the less you
submitted to him in heart, the more you were obliged to obey him
in fact; how at last, after having believed in the uprightness
of his policy because you were mistaken in himself, your
discovery of his true character led you to a correct view of his
system; and how moral indignation finally brought you by degrees
to what I may call a _political hatred_ of him. This, my dear
mother, is what I entreat of you to do. You see what I mean, do
you not? and you will do it.”

Two days after, on the 30th of May, my grandmother replied as follows:

“Is it not wonderful how perfectly we understand each other? I
am reading the book, and I am as much struck by it as you are. I
regret my poor Memoirs for new reasons, and I take up my pen
again without quite knowing whither it will lead me; for, my
dear child, this task which you have set me, and which of itself
is tempting, is also formidable. I shall, however, set about
reviving my impressions of certain epochs, at first without
order or sequence, just as things come back to me. You may trust
me to set down the very truth. Yesterday, when I was alone and
at my desk, I was trying to recall my first meeting with this
wretched man. A tide of remembrance rushed over me, and that
which you so justly call my _political_ hatred was ready to fade
away and give place to my former illusions.”

A few days later, on the 8th of June, 1818, she dwells on the difficulties of her task:

“Do you know that I need all my courage to do as you tell me? I
am like a person who, having spent ten years at the galleys, is
asked to write an account of how he passed his time. My heart
sinks when I recall old memories. There is pain both in my past
fancies and in my present feelings. You are right in saying I
love truth; but it follows that I can not, like so many others,
recall the past with impunity, and I assure you that, for the
last week, I have risen quite saddened from the desk at which
you and Mme. de Staël have placed me. I could not reveal these
feelings to any one but you. Others would not understand, and
would only laugh at me.”

On the 28th of September and the 8th of October of the same year, she writes to her son:

“If I were a man, I should certainly devote a part of my life to
studying the League; being only a woman, I confine myself to
verbal utterances about you know whom. What a man! what a man!
It terrifies me to retrace it all. It was my misfortune to be
very young when I was placed near him; I did not reflect on what
passed before me; but now that we are both older, I and the
generation to which I belong, my memories move me more than did
events at that time. If you come . . . I think you will find
that I have not lost much time this summer. I have already
written nearly five hundred pages, and I was going to write much
more; the task lengthens as I work at it. Afterward much time
and patience will be required to put all this material in order.
Perhaps I shall never have either one or the other; if so, that
will be your business when I shall be no longer here.”

“Your father,” she writes again, “says that he does not know of any one to whom I could show what I am writing. He declares that no one excels me in ‘the talent for being true’ as he expresses it. So, therefore, I write for nobody in particular. Some day you will find my manuscripts among my effects, and you can do what you like with them.”

On the 8th of October, 1818, she writes: “There is a thought that sometimes troubles me. I say to myself, ‘Suppose some day my son publishes this, what will be said of me?’ Then the fear seizes me that I shall be held to have been malicious, or at least ill-natured, and I rack my brain for something to praise. But this man (Bonaparte) was such a ruthless destroyer of all worth and we were brought so low that I am straitened by the demands of truth, and I grow quite disheartened.”

These fragments of her letters indicate the spirit in which the Memoirs of Mme. de Rémusat were written; and it was not that of a literary pastime, nor a pleasure of the imagination. Her motive was neither ambition to be an author, nor the desire to put forward an apology. The love of truth, the political spectacle before her eyes, and the influence of a son who became day by day more strongly confirmed in those Liberal opinions which were destined to be the delight and the honor of his life—these things gave her courage to persevere in her task for more than two years. She understood that noble policy which places the rights of man above the rights of the State. Nor was this all. As often happens to persons deeply engaged in intellectual work, her task became plain and easy, and she led a more active life than at any previous time. In spite of failing health, she constantly traveled from Lille to Paris; she acted the part of Elmire in “Tartuffe” at M. Molé’s house at Champlâtreux; she commenced a work on the Women of the Seventeenth Century, which she afterward expanded into her “Essai sur l’Education des Femmes;” she supplied Dupuytren with material for a panegyric on Corvisart, and she even published a tale in the “Lycée Français.”

In the midst of the happiness which she derived from her quiet life and her busy mind, from her husband’s official and her son’s literary success, her health failed. First came a weakness of the eyes, which, without actually threatening her sight, occasioned her both pain and inconvenience; then followed a general delicacy of the system, in which the stomach was chiefly affected. After alternate changes for the better and the worse, her son brought her to Paris on the 28th of November, 1821, in a suffering condition, which was alarming to those who loved her, but did not appear to the doctors to indicate immediate danger. Broussais, however, took a desponding view of her case, and my father was then first struck by the power of induction to which the discoveries and the errors of that eminent man are alike due. Notwithstanding her illness, she occupied herself on her return to Lille with literary and historical work, and received company, including a great number of political personages. She was still able to feel interested in the fall of the Duke Decazes, and she foresaw that the coming into power of M. de Villèle—that is to say, of the ultras or reactionaries, as they are now called—would render it impossible for her husband to retain the Prefecture of Lille; and, in fact, he was superseded on the 9th of January, 1822. Before this occurred, Mme. de Rémusat was no more. She expired suddenly in the night, December 16, 1821, aged forty-one years.

She bequeathed to her son a lifelong sorrow, and to her friends the memory of a remarkable and charming woman. Not one of those friends is now living; M. Pasquier, M. Molé, M. Guizot, and M. Leclerc have recently passed away. I render her memory the truest homage in my power by the publication of these unfinished Memoirs, which, with the exception of a few chapters, she was unable to read over or correct. The work was to have been divided into five parts, corresponding with five distinct epochs. She completed only three, which treat of the interval between 1802 and 1808; that is to say, from her first appearance at Court to the breaking out of the war in Spain. The unwritten portions would have described the period that elapsed between that war and the divorce (1808-1809), and the five following years, ending with the fall of the Emperor. I am well aware that a work of the nature of this one is calculated to bring down upon both its author and its editor much blame, many insinuations, and a great deal of political animosity. Its apparent contradictions will be held up to observation, rather than the interesting analogy of the opinions of three generations which it sets forth, and the difference in the times. It will be a theme for wonder that any man could be a chamberlain and any woman a lady-in-waiting, and yet that both could be so far from servile, so liberal, so little shocked by the 18th Brumaire, so patriotic, so much fascinated by that man of genius, Bonaparte, and so severe upon his faults, so clear-sighted respecting the majority of the members of the Imperial family, so indulgent or so blind with regard to others who have left an equally fatal impress on our national history. It will, however, be difficult to avoid doing justice to the sincerity, the honesty, and the intelligence of the author, or to read the book without deriving from it an increased aversion to absolute power, a keener perception of its sophistry, and the hollowness of the apparent prosperity with which it dazzles public opinion. These impressions I have especially derived from it, and I desire to retain them. It would have been sufficient preface to this book had I written only those words which my father uttered, sixty years ago, when, on reading Mme. de Staël, he asked his mother to tell him the story of the cruel years of the First Empire: “All honor to the sincere!”

PAUL DE RÉMUSAT.

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[1] The _Vingtième_ was a tax imposed under the _ancien régime_, on land and house property, and which amounted to a twentieth of the revenue.

MEMOIRS OF THE
EMPRESS JOSEPHINE