 George IV and Mrs. Fitzherbert, Vol. 2 of Famous Affinities of History. In the last decade of the eighteenth century, England was, perhaps, the most brilliant nation of the world. Other countries had been humbled by the splendid armies of France, and were destined to be still further humbled by the emperor who came from Corsica. France had begun to seize the scepter of power, yet to this picture there was another side, fearful want and grievous poverty, and the horrors of the revolution. Russia was too far away, and was still considered too barbarous for a brilliant court to flourish there. Prussia had the prestige that Frederick the Great won for her, but she was still a comparatively small state. Italy was in a condition of political chaos. The banks of the Rhine were running blood where the Austrian armies faced the gallant Frenchmen under the leadership of Moho. But England, in spite of the loss of her American colonies, was rich and prosperous, and her invincible fleets were extending her empire over the seven seas. At no time in modern England has the court at London seen so much real splendour or such fine manners. The royalist Emigre, who fled from France, brought with them names and pedigrees that were older than the Crusades, and many of them were received with the frankest, freest English hospitality. If here and there some marquee or baron of ancient blood was perforce content to teach music to the daughters of tradesmen in suburban schools, nevertheless they were better off than they had been in France, harried by the savage gazehounds of the guillotine. Afterward, in the days of the restoration, when they came back to their estates, they had probably learned more than one lesson from the bulldogs of merry England, who had little tact, perhaps, but who were at any rate kindly and willing to share their goods with pinched and poverty-stricken foreigners. The court, then, as has been said, was brilliant with notables from continental countries, and with the historic wealth of the peerage of England. Only one cloud overspread it, and that was the mental condition of the king. We have been accustomed to think of George III as a dull creature, almost always hovering on the verge of that insanity which finally swept him into a dark obscurity. But Thackeray's picture of him is absurdly untrue to the actual facts. George III was by no means a dullard, nor was he a sort of beefy country squire who roved about the palace gardens with his unattractive spouse. Obstinate enough he was, and ready for a combat with the rulers of the continent, or with his self-willed sons, but he was a man of brains and power, and Lord Rosbury has rightly described him as the most striking constitutional figure of his time. Had he retained his reason, and had his erratic and self-seeking son not succeeded him during his own lifetime, Great Britain might very possibly have entered upon other ways than those which opened to her after the downfall of Napoleon. The real centre of fashionable England, however, was not George III, but rather his son, subsequently George IV, who was made Prince of Wales three days after his birth, and who became Prince Regent during the insanity of the king. He was the leader of the social world, the fit companion of Beau Brummel, and of a choice circle of rakes and fox-hunters who drank pottledeep. Some called him the first gentleman of Europe, others who knew him better, described him as one who never kept his word to man or woman, and who lacked the most elementary virtues. Yet it was his good luck during the first years of his regency to be popular as few English kings have ever been. To his people he typified Old England against revolutionary France, and his youths and gaiety made many like him. He drank and gambled, he kept packs of hounds and strings of horses, he ran deeply into debt that he might patronise the sports of that uproarious day. He was a gallant Corinthian, a haunter of dens where there were prize-fights and cop-fights, and there was hardly a doubtful resort in London where his face was not familiar. He was much given to gallantry, not so much as it seemed for wantonness, but from sheer love of mirth and chivalry. For a time, with his chosen friends, such as Fox and Sheridan, he ventured into reckless intrigues that recalled the amour of his predecessor Charles II. He had by no means the wit and courage of Charles, and indeed the house of Hanover lacked the outward show of chivalry which made the stewards shine with external splendour. But he was good-looking and stalwart, and when he had half a dozen robust comrades by his side he could assume a very manly appearance. Such was George IV in his regency and in his prime. He made that period famous for its card-playing, its deep drinking, and for the dissolute conduct of its courteous and nobleman, no less than for the gallantry of its soldiers and its momentous victories on sea and land. It came, however, to be seen that his true achievements were in reality only escapades, that his wit was only folly, and his so-called sensibility was but sham. He invented buckles, striped waistcoats, and flamboyant collars, but he knew nothing of the principles of kingship, or the laws by which a state is governed. The fact that he had promiscuous affairs with women appealed at first to the popular sense of the Romantic. It was not long, however, before these episodes were trampled down into the mire of vulgar scandal. One of the first of them began when he sent a letter signed Florizel to a young actress, Perdita Robinson. Mrs. Robinson, whose maiden name was Mary Darby, and who was the original of famous portraits by Gainsborough and Reynolds, was a woman of beauty, talent, and temperament. George, wishing in every way to be romantic, insisted upon clandestine meetings on the Thames at Cume, with all the stage trappings of the popular novels, cloaks, veils, faces hidden, and armed watchers to warn her of approaching danger. Poor Perdita took this nonsense so seriously that she gave up her natural vocation for the stage, and forsook her husband, believing that the prince would never weary of her. He did weary of her very soon, and with the brutality of a man of such a type, turned her away with the promise of some money, after which he cut her in the park and refused to speak to her again. As for the money, he may have meant to pay it, but Perdita had a long struggle before she succeeded in getting it. It may be assumed that the prince had to borrow it, and that this obligation formed part of the debts which Parliament paid for him. It is not necessary to number the other women whose heads he turned. They are too many for remembrance here, and they have no special significance. Save one, who, as is generally believed, became his wife, so far as the church could make her so. An act of 1772 had made it illegal for any member of the English royal family to marry without the permission of the king. A marriage contracted without the king's consent might be lawful in the eyes of the church, but the children born of it could not inherit any claim to the throne. It may be remarked here that this withholding of permission was strictly enforced. Thus William IV, who succeeded George IV, was married before his accession to the throne to Mrs. Jordan, Dorothy Bland. Afterward he lawfully married a woman of royal birth, who was known as Queen Adelaide. There is an interesting story which tells how Queen Victoria came to be born, because her father, the Duke of Kent, was practically forced to give up a Morganatic union which he greatly preferred to a marriage arranged for him by Parliament. Except the Duke of Cambridge, the Duke of Kent was the only royal duke who was likely to have children in the regular line. The only daughter of George IV had died in childhood. The Duke of Cumberland was, for various reasons, ineligible. The Duke of Clarence, later King William IV, was almost too old, and therefore to ensure the accession the Duke of Kent was begged to marry a young and attractive woman, a princess of the House of Saxe-Coburg, who was ready for the honour. It was greatly to the Duke's credit that he showed deep and sincere feeling in this matter. As he said himself, in effect, This French lady has stood by me in hard times and in good times too. Why should I cast her off? She has been more than a wife to me. And what do I care for your plans in Parliament? Send over for one of the stewards. There are better men than the last lot of our ferrets that you have had. In the end, however, he was wearied out and was persuaded to marry. But he insisted that a generous sum should be settled on the lady who had been so long his true companion, and to whom, no doubt, he gave many a wistful thought in his new but unfamiliar quarters in Kensington Palace, which was assigned as his residence. Again, the second Duke of Cambridge, who died only a few years ago, greatly desired to marry a lady who was not a royal rank, though of fine breeding and of good birth. He besought his young cousin as head of the family to grant him this privilege of marriage, but Queen Victoria stubbornly refused. The Duke was married according to the rites of the church, but he could not make his wife a duchess. The Queen never quite forgave him for his partial defiance of her wishes, though the Duke's wife, she was usually spoken of as Mrs. Fitzgeorge, was received almost everywhere, and two of her sons hold high rank in the British army and navy, respectively. The one real love story in the life of George IV is that which tells of his marriage with a lady who might well have been the wife of any king. This was Maria Anne Smythe, better known as Mrs. Fitzherbert, who was six years older than the young prince when she first met him in company with a body of gentlemen and ladies in 1784. Maria Fitzherbert's face was one which always displayed its best advantages. Her eyes were peculiarly languishing, and as she had already been twice a widow and was six years his senior, she had the advantage over a less experienced lover. Likewise, she was a Catholic, and so by another act of Parliament any marriage with her would be illegal. Yet just because of all these different objections the prince was doubly drawn to her, and was willing to sacrifice even the throne if he could but win her. His father the king called him into the royal presence, and said, George, it is time that you should settle down and ensure the succession to the throne. Sir, replied the prince, I prefer to resign the succession and let my brother have it, and that I should live as a private English gentleman. Mrs. Fitzherbert was not the sort of woman to give herself up readily to a morganatic connection. Moreover, she soon came to love Prince George too well to entangle him in a doubtful alliance with one of another faith than his. Not long after he first met her the prince, who was always given to private theatricals, sent messengers riding in hot haste to her house, to tell her that he had stabbed himself, that he begged to see her, and that unless she came he would repeat the act. The lady yielded and hurried to Carlton House, the prince's residence, but she was prudent enough to take with her the Duchess of Devonshire, who was a reigning beauty of the court. The scene which followed was theatrical rather than impressive. The prince was found in his sleeping chamber, pale and with his ruffles bloodstained. He played the part of a youthful and love-stricken wooer, vowing that he would marry the woman of his heart or stab himself again. In the presence of his messengers, who with the Duchess were witnesses, he formally took the lady as his wife, while Lady Devonshire's wedding-ring sealed the truth. The prince also acknowledged it in a document. Mrs. Fitzherbert was, in fact, a woman of sound sense. Shortly after this scene of melodramatic intensity her wits came back to her, and she recognised that she had merely gone through a meaningless farce. So she sent back the prince's document and the ring, and hastened to the continent where he could not reach her, although his detectives followed her steps for a year. At the last she yielded, however, and came home to marry the prince in such fashion as she could, a marriage of love and surely one of morality, though not of parliamentary law. The ceremony was performed, quote, in her own drawing-room in her house in London, in the presence of the officiating Protestant clergyman and two of her own nearest relatives, end quote. Such is the serious statement of Lord Staten, who was Mrs. Fitzherbert's cousin and confidant. The truth of it was never denied, and Mrs. Fitzherbert was always treated with respect and even regarded as a person of great distinction. Nevertheless, on more than one occasion the prince had his friends in Parliament deny the marriage in order that his debts might be paid and new allowances issued to him by the Treasury. George certainly felt himself a husband. Like any other married prince, he set himself to build a palace for his country home. While in search of some suitable spot, he chanced to visit the pretty fishing village of Brighton, to see his uncle, the Duke of Cumberland. Darkless he found it an attractive place, yet this may have been not so much because of its view of the sea, as for the reason that Mrs. Fitzherbert had previously lived there. However, in 1784 the prince sent down his chief cook to make arrangements for the next royal visit. The cook engaged a house on the spot where the pavilion now stands, and from that time Brighton began to be an extremely fashionable place. The court doctors, giving advice that was agreeable, recommended their royal patient to take sea-bathing at Brighton. At once the place sprang into popularity. At first the gentry were crowded into lodging-houses, and the accommodations were primitive to a degree. But soon handsome villas arose on every side, hotels appeared, places of amusement were opened. The prince himself began to build a tasteless but showy structure, partly Chinese and partly Indian in style, on the fashionable promenade of the steam. During his life with Mrs. Fitzherbert at Brighton, the prince held what was practically a court. Hundreds of the aristocracy came down from London and made their temporary dwellings there, while thousands, who were by no means of the court, made the place what is now popularly called London by the Sea. There were the Duke de Chartres of France, statesmen and rakes like Fox, Sheridan and the Earl of Barrymore, a very beautiful woman named Mrs. Couch, a favourite singer at the opera, to whom the prince gave at one time jewels worth ten thousand pounds, and a sister of the Earl of Barrymore who was as notorious as her brother. She often took the president's chair at a club which George's friends had organised and which she had christened the Hellfire Club. Such persons were not the only visitors at Brighton. Men of much more serious demeanour came down to visit the prince, and brought with them quieter society. Nevertheless, for a considerable time the place was most noted for its wild scenes of revelry into which George frequently entered, though his home life with Mrs. Fitzherbert at the pavilion was a decorous one. No one felt any doubt as to the marriage of the two persons, who seemed so much like a prince and a princess. Some of the people of the place addressed Mrs. Fitzherbert as Mrs. Prince. The old king and his wife, however, much deplored their son's relation with her. This was partly due to the fact that Mrs. Fitzherbert was a Catholic, and that she had received a number of French nuns who had been driven out of France at the time of the revolution. But no less displeasure was caused by the prince's racing and dicing which swelled his debts to almost a million pounds, so that Parliament and indeed the sober part of England were set against him. Of course his marriage to Mrs. Fitzherbert had no legal status, nor is there any reason for believing that she ever became a mother. She had no children by her former two husbands, and Lord Starten testified positively that she never had either son or daughter by Prince George. Nevertheless, more than one American claimant has risen to advance some utterly visionary claim to the English throne by reason of alleged dissent from Prince George and Mrs. Fitzherbert. Neither William IV nor Queen Victoria ever spent much time at Brighton. In King William's case it was explained that the dampness of the pavilion did not suit him, and as to Queen Victoria it was said that she disliked the fact that buildings had been erected so as to cut off the view of the sea. It is quite likely, however, that the Queen objected to the associations of the place, and did not care to be reminded of the time when her uncle had lived there so long in a morganatic state of marriage. At length the time came when the King, Parliament, and the people at large insisted that the Prince of Wales should make a legal marriage, and a wife was selected for him in the person of Caroline, daughter of the Duke of Brunswick. This marriage took place exactly ten years after his wedding with the beautiful and gentle-mannered Mrs. Fitzherbert. With the latter he had known many days and hours of happiness. With Princess Caroline he had no happiness at all. Prince George met her at the pier to greet her. It is said that as he took her hand he kissed her, and then suddenly recoiling he whispered to one of his friends, For God's sake, George, give me a glass of brandy! Such an utterance was more brutal and barbaric than anything his bride could have conceived of, though it is probable, fortunately, that she did not understand him by reason of her ignorance of English. We need not go through the unhappy story of this unsympathetic, neglected, rebellious wife. Her life with the Prince soon became one of open warfare, but instead of leaving England she remained to set the kingdom in an uproar. As soon as his father died and he became king, George sued her for divorce. Half the people sided with the Queen, while the rest regarded her as a vulgar creature who made love to her attendance and brought dishonour on the English throne. It was a sorry, sordid contrast between the young Prince George, who had posed as a sort of cavalier, and this now furious grey old man wrangling with his furious German wife. Well, might he look back to the time when he met Perditor in the moonlight on the Thames, or when he played the part of Florazelle, or, better still, when he enjoyed the sincere and disinterested love of the gentlewoman who was his wife in all but legal status. She took a house within sight of Westminster Abbey so that she might make hag-like screeches to the mob and to the king as he passed by. Presently, in August 1821, only a month after the coronation, she died, and her body was taken back to Brunswick for burial. George George himself reigned for nine years longer. When he died in 1830, his executor was the Duke of Wellington. The Duke, in examining the late King's private papers, found that he had kept, with the greatest care, every letter written to him by his morganatic wife. During his last illness she had sent him an affectionate missive which it is said George read eagerly. Mrs. Fitzherbert wished the Duke to give up her letters, but he would do so only in return for those which he had written to her. It was finally decided that it would be best to burn both his and hers. This work was carried out in Mrs. Fitzherbert's own house by the Lady, the Duke, and the Earl of Albemarle. Of George it may be said that he has left as memories behind him only three things that will be remembered. The first is the pavilion at Brighton, with its absurdly oriental decorations, its minarets and flimsy towers. The second is the buckle which he invented and which Zachary has immortalised with his biting satire. The last is the story of his marriage to Maria Fitzherbert, and of the influence exercised upon him by the affection of a good woman. End of George IV and Mrs. Fitzherbert. Charlotte Corday and Adam Luxe Volume 2 of Famous Affinities of History This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Famous Affinities of History by Lyndon Orr. Volume 2 Charlotte Corday and Adam Luxe Perhaps some readers will consider this story inconsistent with those that have preceded it. Yet, as it is little known to most readers, and as it is perhaps unique in the history of romantic love, I cannot forbear relating it, for I believe that it is full of curious interest and pathetic power. All those who have written of the French Revolution have paused in their chronicle of blood and flame to tell the episode of the peasant royalist Charlotte Corday, but in telling it they have often omitted the one part of the story that is personal and not political. The tragic record of this French girl and her self-sacrifice has been told a thousand times by writers in many languages, yet almost all of them have neglected the brief romance which followed her daring deed and which was consummated after her death upon the guillotine. It is worth a while to speak first of Charlotte herself and of the man she slew, and then to tell that other tale which ought always to be entwined with her great deed of daring. Charlotte Corday, Marianne Charlotte Corday-Darmont, was a native of Normandy and was descended, as her name implies, from noble ancestors. Her forefathers indeed had been statesmen, civil rulers, and soldiers, and among them was numbered the famous poet Corday, whom the French rank with Shakespeare. But a century or more of vicissitudes had reduced her branch of the family almost to the position of peasants, a fact which partly justifies the name that some give her when they call her the gendarme d'arc of the Revolution. She did not, however, spend her girlish years amid the fields and woods tending her sheep, as did the other gendarme, but she was placed in charge of the sisters in a convent, and from them she received such education as she had. She was a lonely child, and her thoughts turned inward, brooding over many things. After she had left the convent she was sent to live with an aunt. Here she devoted herself to reading over and over the few books which the house contained. These consisted largely of the deistic writers, especially Voltaire, and to some extent they destroyed her convent faith, though it is not likely that she understood them very fully. More to her taste was a copy of Plutarch's Lives. These famous stories fascinated her. They told her of battle and siege, of intrigue and heroism, and of that romantic love of country which led men to throw away their lives for the sake of a whole people. Brutus and Regulus were her heroes. To die for the many seemed to her the most glorious end that any one could seek. When she thought of it she thrilled with a sort of ecstasy, and alonged with all the passion of her nature that such a glorious fate might be her own. Charlotte had nearly come to womanhood at the time when the French Revolution first broke out. Royalist, though she had been in her sympathies, she felt the justice of the people's cause. She had seen the suffering of the peasantry, the brutality of the tax-gatherers, and all the oppression of the old regime. But what she hoped for was a democracy of order and equality and peace. Could the King reign as a constitutional monarch rather than as a despot? This was all for which she cared. In Normandy where she lived were many of those moderate Republicans known as gyrondists, who felt asheeded and who hoped for the same peaceful end to the great outbreak. On the other hand, in Paris the party of the mountain, as it was called, ruled with a savage violence that soon was to culminate in the reign of terror. Already the guillotine ran ret with noble blood. Already the King had bowed his head to the fatal knife. Already the threat had gone forth that a mere breath of suspicion or a pointed finger might be enough to lead men and women to a gory death. In her quiet home near Cannes, Charles Corday heard as from afar the story of this dreadful Saturnalia of assassination which was making Paris a city of bloody mist. Men and women of the gyrondist party came to tell her of the hideous deeds that were perpetrated there. All these horrors gradually wove themselves in the young girl's imagination around the sinister and repulsive figure of Jean-Paul Marat. She knew nothing of his associates, Danton and Robespierre. It was a Marat alone that she saw the monster who sent innocent thousands to their graves and who reveled like some archfiend in murder and gruesome death. In his earlier years Marat had been a very different figure, an accomplished physician, the friend of nobles, a man of science and original thought, so that he was nearly elected to the Academy of Sciences. His studies in electricity gained for him the admiration of Benjamin Franklin and the praise of Goethe, but when he turned to politics he left all this career behind him. He plunged into the very mire of ret republicanism and even there he was for a time so much hated that he sought refuge in London to save his life. On his return he was hunted by his enemies so that his only place of refuge was in the Suez and drains of Paris. A woman, one Simon Everard, helped him to escape his pursuers. In the Suez however he contracted a dreadful skin disease from which he never afterward recovered and which was extremely painful as well as shocking to behold. It is small wonder that the stories about Marat circulated through the provinces made him seem more devil than a man. His vindictiveness against the Girondists brought all of this straight home to Charlotte Corday and led her to dream of acting the part of Brutus so that she might free her country from this hideous tyrant. In January 1793 King Louis XVI met his death upon the scaffold and the Queen was thrust into a foul prison. This was a signal for activity among the Girondists enormally and especially at Caen where Charlotte was present at their meetings and heard their fervent oratory. There was a plot to march on Paris yet in some instinctive way she felt that such a scheme must fail. It was then that she definitely formed the plan of going herself alone to the French capital to seek out the hideous Marat and to kill him with her own hands. To this end she made application for a passport allowing her to visit Paris. The passport still exists and it gives us an official description of the girl. It reads, Allow Célestine Marie Corday to pass. She is 24 years of age, five feet and one inch in height, hair and eyebrows, chestnut collar, eyes gray, forehead high, mouth medium size, chin dimpled and an oval face. Apart from this verbal description we have two portraits painted while she was in prison. Both of them make the description of the passport seem faint and pale. The real Charlotte had a wealth of chestnut hair which fell about her face and neck in glorious abundance. Her great gray eyes spoke eloquently of truth and courage. Her mouth was firm yet winsome and her form combined both strength and grace. Such as the girl who, on reaching Paris, wrote to Marat in these words, Citizen I've just arrived from Cannes. Your love for your native place doubtless makes you wish to learn the events which have occurred in that part of the Republic. I shall call at your residence in about an hour. Be so good as to receive me and give me a brief interview. I will put you in such condition as to run their great service to France. This letter failed to gain her admission and so did another which she wrote soon after. The fact is that Marat was grievously ill. His disease had reached a point where the pain could be a sewage only by hot water and he spent the greater part of his time wrapped in a blanket and lying in a large tub. A third time, however, the persistent girl called at his house and insisted that she must see him, saying that she was herself in danger from the enemies of the Republic. Through an open door Marat heard her mellow voice and gave orders that she should be admitted. As she entered she gazed for a moment upon the blank figure rolling in the tub, the red-like face and the shifting eyes. Then she approached him, concealing in the bosom of her dress a long carving-knife which she had purchased for two francs. In answer to Marat's questionary look she told him that there was much excitement at Cannes and that the Girondists were plotting there. To this Marat answered in his harsh voice, all these men you mention shall be guillotined in the next few days. As he spoke Charlotte fleshed out the terrible knife and with all her strength she plunged it into his left side where it pierced a lung in a portion of his heart. Marat, with a blood gushing from his mouth, cried out, Help darling! His cry was meant for one of the two women in the house. Both heard it for they were in the next room and both of them rushed in and succeeded in pinning Charlotte Corday, who indeed made only a slight effort to escape. Troops was summoned, she was taken to the prison de la Baye, and soon after she was arraigned before the revolutionary tribunal. Placed in a dock she glanced about her with an air of pride as of one who gloried in the act which she had just performed. A written charge was read. She was asked what she had to say. Lifting her head with a look of infinite satisfaction she answered in a ringing voice, Nothing except that I succeeded. A lawyer was assigned for her defence. He pleaded for her earnestly declaring that she must be regarded as insane, but those clear, calm eyes and that gentle face made her sanity a matter of little doubt. She showed her quick wit in the answers which she gave to the rough prosecutor Fouquet Tainville, who tried to make her confess that she had accomplices. Who prompted you to do this deed? Roar, Tainville. I needed no prompting. My own heart was sufficient. In what then had Marat wronged you? He was a savage beast who was going to destroy the remains of France in the fires of civil war. But whom did you expect to benefit? Insinuated the prosecutor. I have killed one man to save a hundred thousand. What? Did you imagine that you had murdered all the Marat? No, but this one being dead, the rest will perhaps take warning. Thus her directness baffled all the efforts of the prosecution to trap her into portraying any of her friends. The court, however, sentenced her to death. She was then immured in the conagerie. This dramatic court scene was the beginning of that strange, brief romance to which one can scarcely find a parallel. At the time there lived in Paris a young German named Adam Luxe. The continual talk about Charlotte Corday had filled him with curiosity regarding this young girl who had been so daring and so patriotic. She was denounced on every hand as a murderous with the face of a medusa and the muscles of a Vulcan. Street songs about her were dint into the ears of Adam Luxe. As a student of human nature he was anxious to see this terrible creature. He forced his way to the front of the crowded benches in the courtroom and took a stand behind a young artist who was finishing a beautiful sketch. From that moment until the end of the trial the eyes of Adam Luxe were fastened on the prisoner. What a contrast to the picture he had imagined. A mass of regal chestnut hair crowned with the white cap of a Norman peasant girl, grey eyes, very sad and serious, but looking serenely forth from under long dark lashes. Lips slightly curved with an expression of quiet humour, a face the colour of the sun and wind, a bust indicative of perfect health, the chin of a Caesar, and the whole expression one of almost divine self-sacrifice. Such were the features that the painter was swiftly putting upon his canvas, but behind them Adam Luxe discerned the soul for which he gladly sacrificed both his liberty and his life. He forgot his surroundings and seemed to see only that beautiful, pure face, and to hear only the exquisite cadences of the wonderful voice. When Charles was led forth by a file of soldiers, Adam staggered from the scene and made his way his bestie-mite to his lodgings. There he lay prostrate, his whole soul filled with the love of her who had in an instant won the adoration of his heart. Once, and only once again, when the last scene opened on the tragedy, did he behold the heroine of his dreams. On the 17th of July Charlotte Corday was taken from her prison to the gloomy guillotine. It was to an evening and nature had given a setting fit for such an end. Blue black thunder clouds rolled in huge masses across the sky until their base appeared to rest on the very summit of the guillotine. Distant thunder rolled and grumbled beyond the river. Great drops of rain fell upon the soldiers' drums. Young, beautiful, unconscious of any wrong, Charlotte Corday's took beneath the shadow of the knife. At the supreme moment a sudden ray from the setting sun broke through the cloud-rack and fell upon her slender figure until she glowed in the eyes of the startled spectators like a statue cut in burnished bronze. Thus, illumined as it were by a light from heaven itself, she bowed herself beneath the knife and paid the penalty of a noble, if misdirected, impulse. As the blade fell, her lips quivered with her last and only plea. My duty is enough. The rest is nothing. Adam Lux rushed from the scene a man transformed. He bore, graven upon his heart, neither the mob of tossing rat caps, nor the glare of the sunset, nor the blood-stained guillotine, but that last look from those brilliant eyes. The sight almost deprived him of his reason. The self-sacrifice of the only woman he had ever loved, even though she had never so much as seen him, impelled him with a sort of fury to his own destruction. He wrote a bitter denunciation of the judges, of the officers, and of all who had been followers of Mara. This document he printed and scattered copies of it through every quarter in pairs. The last sentences are as follows. The guillotine is no longer a disgrace. It has become a sacred altar from which every taint has been removed by the innocent blood shed there on the seventeenth of July. Forgive me, my divine Charlotte, if I find it impossible at the last moment to show the courage and the gentleness that were yours. I glory because you are superior to me, for it is right that she who is endured should be higher and more glorious than her adorer. This pamphlet, spread broadcast among the people, was soon reported to the leaders of the rebel. Adam Lux was arrested for treason against the Republic, but even these men had no desire to make a martyr of this hot-headed youth. They would stop his mouth without taking his life. Therefore he was tried and speedily found guilty, but an offer was made him that he might have passports that would allow him to return to Germany if only he would sign a retraction of his printed words. Little did the judges understand the fiery heart of the man they had to deal with. To die on the same scaffold as the woman whom he had idealized was to him the crowning triumph of his romantic love. He gave a prompt and insolent refusal to their offer. He swore that if released he would denounce his darling's murderers with a still greater passion. In anger the tribunal sentenced him to death. Only then he smiled and thanked his judges cautiously, and soon after went blightly to the guillotine like a bright groom to his marriage feast. Adam Lux, spirit courtship, had been carried on silently all through that terrible cross-examination of Charlotte Corday. His heart was betrothed to hers in that single gleam of the setting sun when she bowed beneath the knife. One may believe that these two souls were finally united when the same knife fell suddenly upon his neck, and when his lifeblood sprinkled the altar that was still stained with hers. End of Charlotte Corday and Adam Lux. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Famous Affinities of History by Lyndon Orr. Volume 2. Napoleon and Marie Boveska. There are four women who may be said to have deeply influenced the life of Napoleon. These four are the only ones who need to be taken into account by the student of his imperial career. The great emperor was susceptible to feminine charms at all times, but just as it used to be said of him that his smile never rose above his eyes, so it might as truly be said that in most instances the throbbing of his heart did not affect his actions. Women to him were the creatures of the moment, although he might seem to care for them, and to show his affection in extravagant ways, as in his affair with Manuel de George, the beautiful but rather tiresome actress. As for Madame de Stael, she bored him to distraction by her assumption of wisdom. That was not the kind of woman that Napoleon cared for. He preferred that a woman should be womanly, and not a sort of owl to sit and talk with him about the theory of government. When it came to married women, they interested him only because of the children they might bear to grow up as recruits for his insatiate armies. At the public balls, given at the Tuileries, he would walk about the gorgeous drawing-rooms, and when a lady was presented to him, he would snap out sharply. How many children have you? If she were able to answer that she had several, the emperor would look pleased and would pay her some compliment. But if she said that she had none, he would turn upon her sharply and say, then go home and have some. Of the four women who influenced his life, first must come Josephine, because she secured him his earliest chance of advancement. She met him through Baras, with whom she was said to be rather intimate. The young soldier was fascinated by her, the more because she was older than he, and possessed all the practiced arts of the Creole and the woman of the world. When she married him, she brought him as her dowry, the command of the army of Italy, where in a few months he made the tricolor, born by ragged troops, triumphant over the splendidly equipped hosts of Austria. She was his first love, and his knowledge of her perfidy gave him the greatest shock and horror of his whole life. Yet she might have held him to the end, if she had borne an heir to the imperial throne. It was her failure to do so that led Napoleon to divorce Josephine, and marry the thick-lipped Marie Louise of Austria. There were times later, when he showed signs of regret and said, I have had no luck since I gave up Josephine. Marie Louise was of importance for a time, the short time when she entertained her husband, and delighted him by giving birth to the little king of Rome. Yet in the end she was but an episode fleeing from her husband in his misfortune, becoming the mistress of Count Niepurg, and letting her son, Leglant, die in a land that was far from France. Napoleon's sister, Pauline Bonaparte, was the third woman who comes to mind when we contemplate the great Corsican's career. She, too, is an episode. During the period of his ascendancy, she plagued him with her wanton ways, her sauciness, and trickery. It was amusing to throw him into one of his violent rages. But Pauline was true at heart, and when her great brother was sent to Elba, she followed him, devotedly, and gave him all her store of jewels, including the famous Borgessi diamonds, perhaps the most superb of all gems known to the Western world. She would gladly have followed him, also, to St. Helena, had she been permitted. Remaining behind, she did everything possible in conspiring to secure his freedom. But, after all, Pauline and Marie Louise count for comparatively little. Josephine's fate was interwoven with Napoleon's, and with his Corsican superstition he often said so. The fourth woman, of whom I am writing here, may be said to have almost equal Josephine in her influence on the emperor, as well as in the pathos of her life story. On New Year's Day of 1807, Napoleon, who was then almost Emperor of Europe, passed through the little town of Bronya in Poland, riding with his cavalry to Warsaw, the ancient capital of the Polish kingdom. He seemed a very demagogue of battle. True, he had had to abandon his long cherished design of invading and overrunning England, and Nelson had shattered his fleets and practically driven his flag from the sea. But the naval disaster of Trafalgar had speedily been followed by the triumph of Austerlitz, the greatest and most brilliant of all Napoleon's victories, which left Austria and Russia humbled to the very ground before him. Then Prussia had dared to defy the overbearing conqueror and had put into the field against him her armies trained by Frederick the Great, but these he had shattered almost at a stroke, winning in one day the decisive battles of Gena in Arshtat. He had stabled his horses in the royal palace of the Hohenzollerns and had pursued the remnant of the Prussian forces to the Russian border. As he marched into the Polish provinces the people swarmed by thousands to meet him and hail him as their country's savior. They believed down to the very last that Bonaparte would make the Poles once more a free and independent nation and rescue them from the tyranny of Russia. Napoleon played upon this feeling in every manner known to his artful mind. He used it to alarm the Tsar. He used it to intimidate the emperor of Austria, but more especially did he use it among the Poles themselves to win for his armies thousands upon thousands of gallant soldiers who believed that in fighting for Napoleon they were fighting for the final independence of their native land. Therefore, with the intensity of patriotism, which is a passion among the Poles, every man and every woman gazed at Napoleon with something like adoration, for was not he the mighty warrior who had in his gift what all desired? Soldiers of every rank swarmed to his standards. Princes and nobles flocked about him. Those who stayed at home repeated wonderful stories of his victories and prayed for him and fed the flame which spread through all the country. It was felt that no sacrifice was too great to win his favor, that to him as a deity everything that he desired should be yielded up since he was to restore the liberty of Poland. And hence, when the carriage of the emperor dashed into Bronya, surrounded by Polish lancers and French curoissiers, the enormous crowd surged forward and blocked the way so that their hero could not pass because of their cheers and cries and supplications. In the midst of it all there came a voice of peculiar sweetness from the thickest portion of the crowd. Please let me pass, said the voice, let me see him if only for a moment. The populace rolled backward and through the lane which they made a beautiful girl with dark blue eyes that flamed and streaming hair that had become loosened about her radiant face was confronting the emperor. Carried away by her enthusiasm she cried, Thrice, welcome to Poland. We can do or say nothing to express our joy in the country which you will surely deliver from its tyrant. The emperor bowed and, with a smile, handed a great bouquet of roses to the girl for her beauty and her enthusiasm had made a deep impression on him. Take it, said he, as a proof of my admiration. I trust that I may have the pleasure of meeting you at Warsaw and of hearing your thanks from those beautiful lips. In a moment more the trumpets rang out shrilly, the horsemen closed up beside the imperial carriage, and it rolled away amid the tumultuous shouting of the populace. The girl who had so attracted Napoleon's attention was Marie Boveska, descended from an ancient though impoverished family in Poland. When she was only fifteen she was courted by one of the wealthiest men in Poland, the Count Boveska. He was three or four times her age, yet her dark blue eyes, her massive golden hair, and the exquisite grace of her figure led him to plead that she might become his wife. She had accepted him, but the marriage was that of a mere child, and her interest still centered upon her country, and took the form of patriotism rather than that of wifehood and maternity. It was for this reason that the young Countess had visited Bronya. She was now eighteen years of age and still had the sort of romantic feeling which led her to think that she would keep in some secret hiding place the bouquet which the greatest man alive had given her. But Napoleon was not the sort of man to forget anything that had given him either pleasure or the reverse. He who, at the height of his cares, could recall instantly how many cannon were in each seaport of France, and could make out an accurate list of all his military stores. He who would call by name every soldier in his guard, with the full remembrance of the battles each man had fought in, and the honors that he had won, he was not likely to forget so lovely a face as the one which had gleamed with peculiar radiance through the crowd at Bronya. On reaching Warsaw he asked one or two well-informed persons about this beautiful stranger, only a few hours had passed before Prince Poniatowski, accompanied by other nobles, called upon her at her home. I am directed, madam, said he, by order of the Emperor of France, to bid you to be present at a ball that is to be given in his honor tomorrow evening. Madame Boewewska was startled, and her face grew hot with blushes. Did the Emperor remember her escapade at Bronya? If so, how had he discovered her? Why should he seek her out, and do her such an honor? That, madam, is his Imperial Majesty's affair, Poniatowski told her. I merely obey his instructions, and ask your presence at the ball. Perhaps heaven has marked you out to be the means of saving our unhappy country. In this way, by playing on her patriotism, Poniatowski almost persuaded her, and yet something held her back. She trembled, though she was greatly fascinated, and finally she refused. Scarcely had the envoy left her. However, when a great company of nobles entered in groups and begged her to humor the Emperor, finally her own husband joined in their entreaties, and actually commanded her to go. So, at last, she was compelled to yield. It was by no means the frank and radiant girl, who was now preparing again to meet the Emperor. She knew not why, and yet her heart was full of trepidation and nervous fright, the cause of which she could not guess, yet which made her task a severe ordeal. She dressed herself in white satin, with no adornment save, a wreath of foliage in her hair. As she entered the ballroom, she was welcomed by hundreds whom she had never seen before, but who were of the highest nobility of Poland. Murmers of admiration followed her, and finally Poniatowski came to her and complimented her, besides bringing her a message that the Emperor desired her to dance with him. I am very sorry, she said, with a quiver of the lips, but I really cannot dance. Be kind enough to ask the Emperor to excuse me. But at that very moment she felt some strange magnetic influence, and without looking up, she could feel that Napoleon himself was standing by her as she sat with blanched face and downcast eyes, not daring to look up at him. White upon white is a mistake, madam, said the Emperor, in his gentlest tones. Then, stooping low, he whispered, I had expected a far different reception. She neither smiled nor met his eyes. He stood there for a moment, and then passed on, leaving her to return to her home with a heavy heart. The young Countess felt that she had acted wrongly, and yet there was an instinct, an instinct that she could not conquer. In the gray of the morning, while she was still tossing feverishly, her maid knocked at the door and brought her a hastily scribbled note. It ran as follows. I saw none but you, I admired none but you, I desire only you. Answer at once, and calm the impatient ardor of N. These passionate words burned from her eyes the veil that had hidden the truth from her. What before had been mere blind instinct became an actual verity. Why had she at first rushed forth into the very streets to hail the possible deliverer of her country, and then why had she shrunk from him when he sought to honor her? It was all clear enough now. This bedside missive meant that he had intended her dishonor, and that he had looked upon her simply as a possible mistress. At once she crushed the note angrily in her hand. There is no answer at all, said she, bursting into bitter tears at the very thought that he should dare to treat her in this way. But on the following morning, when she awoke, her maid was standing beside her with a second letter from Napoleon. She refused to open it and placed it in a packet with the first letter and ordered that both of them should be returned to the emperor. She shrank from speaking to her husband of what had happened, and there was no one else in whom she dared confide. All through that day there came hundreds of visitors, either a princely rank, or men who had won fame by their gallantry and courage. They all begged to see her, but to them all she sent one answer, that she was ill and could see no one. After a time her husband burst into her room and insisted that she should see them. Why, exclaimed he, you are insulting the greatest men and the noblest women of Poland. More than that, there are some of the most distinguished Frenchmen sitting at your doorstep, as it were. There is Duroc, grand marshal of France, and in refusing to see him, you are insulting the great emperor on whom depends everything that our country longs for. Napoleon has invited you to a state dinner, and you have given him no answer whatever. I order you to rise at once, and receive these ladies and gentlemen who have done you so much honour. She could not refuse. Presently she appeared in her drawing-room, where she was at once surrounded by an immense throng of her own countrymen and countrywomen who made no pretense of misunderstanding the situation, to them what was one woman's honour when compared with the freedom and independence of their nation. She was overwhelmed by arguments and entreaties. She was even accused of being disloyal to the cause of Poland if she refused her consent. One of the strangest documents of that period was a letter sent to her and signed by the noblest men in Poland. It contained a powerful appeal to her patriotism. One remarkable passage even quotes the Bible to point out her line of duty. A portion of this letter ran as follows. Did Esther, think you, give herself to Ahasuerus out of the fullness of her love for him? So great was the terror with which he inspired her that she fainted at the sight of him. We may therefore conclude that affection had but little to do with her resolve. She sacrificed her own inclinations to the salvation of her country, and that salvation it was her glory to achieve. May we be enabled to say the same of you, to your glory and our own happiness. After this letter came others from Napoleon himself, full of the most humble pleading. It was not wholly distasteful thus to have the conqueror of the world seek her out and offer her his adoration any more than it was distasteful to think that the revival of her own nation depended on her single will. M. Frederic Masson, whose minute studies regarding everything relating to Napoleon have won him a seat in the French Academy, writes of Marie Bewefske at this time. Every force was now brought into play against her. Her country, her friends, her religion, the old and the New Testaments, all urged her to yield. They all combined for the ruin of a simple and inexperienced girl of 18 who had no parents, whose husband even thrust her into temptation, and whose friends thought that her downfall would be her glory. Amid all these powerful influences she consented to attend the dinner. To her gratification Napoleon treated her with distant courtesy, and in fact with a certain coldness. I heard that M. Bewefske was indisposed. I trust that she has recovered, was all the greeting that he gave her when they met. Everyone else with whom she spoke overwhelmed her with flattery and with continued urging, but the Emperor himself for a time acted as if she had displeased him. This was consummate art, for as soon as she was relieved of her fears she began to regret that she had thrown her power away. During the dinner she let her eyes wander to those of the Emperor almost in supplication. He, the subtlest of men, knew that he had won. His marvellous eyes met hers, and drew her attention to him as by an electric current. And when the ladies left the great dining-room, Napoleon sought her out and whispered in her ear a few words of ardent love. It was too little to alarm her seriously now. It was enough to make her feel that magnetism which Napoleon knew so well how to evoke and exercise. Again, everyone crowded about her with congratulations. Some said, he never even saw any of us. His eyes were all for you. They flashed fire as he looked at you. You have conquered his heart, others said, and you can do what you like with him. The salvation of Poland is in your hands. The company broke up at an early hour, but Madame Boveska was asked to remain. When she was alone, General Dirac, one of the Emperor's favorite officers, in most trusted lieutenants, entered and placed a letter from Napoleon in her lap. He tried to tell her as tactfully as possible how much harm she was doing by refusing the imperial request. She was deeply affected, and presently, when Dirac left her, she opened the letter which he had given her and read it. It was worded thus. There are times when all splendors become oppressive, as I feel but too deeply at the present moment. How can I satisfy the desires of a heart that yearns to cast itself at your feet, when its impulses are checked at every point by considerations of the highest moment? Oh, if you would, you alone might overcome the obstacles that keep us apart. My friend Dirac will make all easy for you. Oh, come, come, your every wish shall be gratified. Your country will be dearer to me when you take petty on my poor heart. N. Every chance of escape seemed to be closed. She had Napoleon's own word that he would free Poland in return for her self-sacrifice. Moreover, her powers of resistance had been so weakened that, like many women, she temporized. She decided that she would meet the Emperor alone. She would tell him that she did not love him, and yet would plead with him to save her beloved country. As she sat there, every tick of the clock stirred her to a new excitement. At last there came a knock upon the door. A cloak was thrown about her from behind, a heavy veil was drooped about her golden hair, and she was led, by whom she knew not, to the street where a finely appointed carriage was waiting for her. No sooner had she entered it than she was driven rapidly through the darkness to the beautifully carved entrance of a palace. Half led, half carried, she was taken up the steps to a door which was eagerly opened by someone within. There were warmth, and light, and color, and the scent of flowers as she was placed in a comfortable armchair. Her wrappings were taken from her. The door was closed behind her, and then, as she looked up, she found herself in the presence of Napoleon, who was kneeling at her feet and uttering soothing words. Wisely, the Emperor used no violence. He merely argued with her. He told her over and over his love for her, and finally he declared that for her sake he would make Poland once again a strong and splendid kingdom. Several hours passed. In the early morning, before daylight, there came a knock at the door. Already, said Napoleon, well, my plaintive dove, go home and rest. You must not fear the eagle. In time you will come to love him, and in all things you shall command him. Then he led her to the door, but said that he would not open it unless she promised to see him the next day, a promise which she gave them more readily because he had treated her with such respect. On the following morning her faithful maid came to her bedside with the cluster of beautiful violets, a letter, and several daintily made Morocco cases. When these were opened, there leaped out strings and necklaces of exquisite diamonds, blazing in the morning sunlight. Madam Boveska seized the jewels and flung them across the room with an order that they should be taken back at once to the imperial giver. But the letter, which was in the same romantic strain as the others, she retained. On that same evening there was another dinner given to the emperor by the nobles, and Marie Boveska attended it, but of course without the diamonds, which she had returned, nor did she wear the flowers which had accompanied the diamonds. When Napoleon met her, he frowned upon her and made her tremble with the cold glances that shot from his eyes of steel. He scarcely spoke to her throughout the meal, but those who sat beside her were earnest in their pleading. Again she waited until the guests had gone away and with a lighter heart, since she felt that she had nothing to fear. But when she met Napoleon in his private cabinet, alone, his mood was very different from that which he had shown before. Instead of gentleness and consideration, he was the Napoleon of Camps, and not of courts. He greeted her brusquely. I scarcely expected to see you again, said he. Why did you refuse my diamonds and my flowers? Why did you avoid my eyes at dinner? Your coldness is an insult which I shall not brook. Then he raised his voice to that rasping, almost blood-curtling tone, which even his heartiest soldiers dreaded. I will have you know that I mean to conquer you. You shall, yes, I repeat it, you shall love me. I have restored the name of your country. It owes its very existence to me. Then he resorted to a trick which he had played years before in dealing with the Austrians at Campo Formio. See this watch which I am holding in my hand. Just as I dash it to fragments before you, so will I shatter Poland if you drive me to desperation by rejecting my heart and refusing me your own. As he spoke, he hurled the watch against the opposite wall with terrific force dashing it to pieces. In terror Madame Wojewska fainted. When she resumed consciousness there was Napoleon wiping away her tears with the tenderness of a woman and with words of self-reproach. The long siege was over. Napoleon had conquered, and this girl of eighteen gave herself up to his caresses and endearments, thinking that, after all, her love of country was more than her own honor. Her husband as a matter of form put her away from him, though, at heart, he approved what she had done, while the Polish people regarded her as nothing less than a national heroine. To them she was no minister to the vices of an emperor, but rather one who would make him love Poland for her sake and restore its greatness. So far, as concerned his love for her, it was, indeed, almost idolatry. He honored her in every way and spent all the time at his disposal in her company, but his promise to restore Poland he never kept, and gradually she found that he had never meant to keep it. I love your country, he would say, and I am willing to aid in the attempt to uphold its rights, but my first duty is to France. I cannot shed French blood in a foreign cause. By this time, however, Marie Wołewska had learned to love Napoleon for his own sake. She could not resist his ardor, which matched the ardor of the Poles themselves. Moreover, it flattered her to see the greatest soldier in the world, a suppliant for her smiles. For some years she was Napoleon's close companion, spending long hours with him, and finally accompanying him to Paris. She was the mother of Napoleon's only son, who lived to manhood. This son, who bore the name of Aleksandr Florian Deboweski, was born in Poland in 1810, and later was created a count and duke of the Second French Empire. It may be said, parenthetically, that he was a man of great ability. Living down to 1868 he was made much of by Napoleon III, who placed him in high offices of state, which he filled with distinction. In contrast with the duke de Mourney, who was Napoleon's illegitimate half-brother, Aleksandr Deboweski stood out in brilliant contrast. He would have nothing to do with stock-jobbing and unseemly speculation. I may be poor, he said, though he was not poor, but at least I remember the glory of my father and what is due to his great name. As for Madame Deboweski, she was loyal to the emperor and lacked the greed of many women whom he had made his favourites. Even at Elba, when he was in exile and disgrace, she visited him that she might endeavour to console him. She was his counsellor and friend, as well as his earnestly loved mate. When she died in Paris in 1817, while the dethroned emperor was a prisoner at St. Helena, the word Napoleon was the last upon her lips. End of Napoleon and Marie Bewefska. The story of Pauline Bonaparte, volume 2 of famous affinities of history. This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. Famous affinities of history. Balinten ore. Volume 2. The story of Pauline Bonaparte. It was said of Napoleon long ago that he could govern emperors and kings, but that not even he could rule his relatives. He himself once declared, My family have done me far more harm than I have been able to do them good. It would be an interesting historical study to determine just how far the great soldier's family aided in his downfall by their selfishness, their jealousy, their meanness and their ingratitude. There is something become in thinking of Napoleon as a domestic sort of person. Indeed, it is rather difficult to do so. When we speak his name, we think of the stern warrior hurling his army up bloody slopes and onto bloody victory. He is the man whose steely eyes made his hottest marshal's tremble, or else the wise far-seeing statesman and lawgiver. But decidedly, he is not the household model. We read of his sharp speech of women, of his outrageous manners at the dinner table, and of the thousand or more details which Madame de Remuson has chronicled, and perhaps in part invented, for there has always existed the suspicion that the eminence was that of a woman who had herself sought the imperial favor and had failed to win it. But in fact all these stories relate to the Napoleon of courts and places, and not to the Napoleon of home. In his private life this great man was not merely affectionate and indulgent, but he even showed a certain weakness where his relatives were concerned, so he let them prey upon him almost without end. He had a great deal of the Italian largeness and lavishness of character with his family. When he pet the officer, he nearly staffed himself in order to give his younger brother Louis a military education. He was devotedly fond of children, and they were fond of him, as many anecdotes had asked. His passionate love for Josephine, before he learned of her infidelity, is almost painful to read. And even afterward, when he had been disillusioned and when she was paying for a thousand francs a day to spy upon Napoleon's every action, he still treated her with friendliness and allowed her extravagance to embarrass him. He made his eldest brother Joseph, King of Spain, and Spain proved almost as deadly to him as the Drascha. He made his youngest brother Jerome, King of Westphalia, and Jerome turned the place into a big star, and brought this credit on the very name of Bonaparte. His brother Louis, for whom he had staffed himself, he placed upon the throne of Holland, and Louis promptly devoted himself to his own interests, univining at many things that were imminical to France. He was planning high advancement for his brother Lucia, and Lucia suddenly married this reputable actress and fled with her to England, where he was received with pleasure by the most persistent of all Napoleon's enemies. So much for his brothers, incompetent, ungrateful, or openly his foes, but his three sisters were no less remarkable in the relations which they bore to him. They had been styled as recount courtesans, and they have been contempt together as being utterly void of principle and monsters of ingratitude. Much of this censor was well deserved by all of them, by Caroline, Bailey, and Pauline. But when we look at the facts impartially, we shall find something which makes Pauline stand out alone as infinitely superior to the sisters. Of all other Bonaparte's, she was the only one who showed fidelity and gratitude to the emperor her brother. Even Madame Mia, Napoleon's mother, who beyond all questions transmitted to him his great mental and physical power, did nothing for him. At the height of his splendor, she heard it so Saint-Franç is crumbly remarked, all this is for a time it isn't going to last. Pauline, however, was in one respect different from all her kindred. Napoleon made Elise a princess in her own right, and gave it a grand duchy of Tuscany. He married Caroline to Marshal Merritt, and they became respectively king and queens of Naples. For Pauline, he did very little, less in fact, than for any other member of his family, and yet she alone stood by him to the end. This feather-headed, languishing beautiful, distracting morsel of frivolity, who had the manners of a kitten and the morals of a cat, nevertheless was not wholly unversed to be Napoleon's sister. One has to tell many hard things of her, and yet one almost pardons her because of her underlying devotion to the man who made the name of Bonaparte illustrious forever. Caroline, queen of Naples, urged her husband to turn against his former chief. Elise, souring greedy, threw in her fortunes with the Merritts. Pauline, as we shall see, had the one redeeming trait of gratitude. To those who knew her, she was from girlhood and incarnation of what used to be called femininity. We have today another and a higher definition of womanhood, but to her contemporaries and to many modern writers she has seemed to be the first of all women, woman to the tips of her rosy fingernails, says Levi. Those who saw her were distracted by her loveliness. They say that no one can form any idea of her beauty from her pictures, a veritable masterpiece of creation she had been called. Frédéric Massard declares, she was so much more the typical woman that with her the defects coming to women reached the highest development, while her beauty attained a perfection which may just be called unique. No one speaks of Pauline Bonaparte's character or of her intellect, but wholly of her loveliness and her charm, and it must be added of her utter lack of anything like a moral sense. Even as a child of 13 when the Bonaparte's left Quasica and took up the abode in Marseille, she attracted universal attention by her wonderful eyes, her grace, and also by her utter lack of the quorum which she showed. The Bonaparte girls at this time lived almost on charity. The future emperor was then a captain of artillery and could give them but little out of his scanty pay. Pauline or as they called her in those days, Paulette, were unbecoming heads and shabby gowns and shoes that were full of holes. Nonetheless, she was sought out by several men of note among them Frérain, a commissioner of the convention. He visited Pauline so often as to cause unfavorable comment, but he was in love with her, and she fell in love with him to the extent of her capacity. She used to write to him love letters in Italian, which were certainly not lacking in Adra. Here is the end of one of them. I love you always and most passionately. I love you forever, my beautiful idol, my heart, my appealing lover. I love you, love you, love you. The most loved of lovers, and I swear never to love anyone else. This was interesting in view of the fact that soon afterward, she fell in love with Cheneau, who became a famous marshal. But her love affairs never gave her any serious trouble, and these three sisters, who now began to feel the influence of Napoleon's rise to power, enjoyed themselves as they had never done before. At one tip, they had a beautiful villa, and later a mansion at Milan. By this time, Napoleon had routed to Austrians in Italy, and all France was ringing with his name. What was Napoleon like in her maidenhood? I know, says. She was an extraordinary combination of perfect physical beauty and estranged moral lexity. She was as pretty as you please, but utterly unreasonable. She had no more menace than a schoolgirl, talking incoherently, giggling at everything and nothing, and mimicking the most serious persons of rank. General Richard, who knew her then, tells in his monograph of the private theatricals in which Pauline took part, and of the sport which they had behind the scenes, he says. The Bonaparte girls used laterally to dress us. They pulled out ears and slapped us, but they always kissed and made up later. We used to stay in the girl's room all the time when they were dressing. Napoleon was anxious to see his sisters in some way settled. He proposed to General Mormo to marry Pauline. The girl was then only seventeen, and one might have some faith in her character, but Mormo was shrewd and knew her far too well. The words in which he declined the honor are interesting. I know that she is charming and exquisitely beautiful, yet I have dreams of domestic happiness, of fidelity and of virtue. Such dreams seldom realized, I know, still in the hope of winning them. And then he paused, coughed, and completed what he had to say in a sort of member, but his meaning was wholly clear. He would not accept the offer of Pauline marriage, even though she was the sister of his mighty chief. Then Napoleon turned to General Leclerc, with whom Pauline had for some time flirted, as she had flirted with almost all the officers of Napoleon's staff. Leclerc was only twenty-six. He was rich and of good manners, and rather serious and in poor health. This was not precisely the sort of husband for Pauline, if you look at it in a conventional way, but it served Napoleon's purpose, and it did not in the least interfere with his sister's intrigues. Poor Leclerc, who really loved Pauline cuisine, and gave her still a manner. He was sent to Spain and Portugal, and finally was made commander-in-chief to the French expedition to Haiti, where the famous black-rabber, Toussaint de Louverture, was heading an uprising of the Negros. Napoleon ordered Pauline to accompany her husband. Pauline flatly refused, although she made this in occasion of ordering mountains of pretty close and pyramids of heads, but still she refused to go and board the flagship. Leclerc expostulated and pleaded, but the lovely witch laughed in his face and still persisted that she would never go, word was brought to Napoleon, and he made short work of her resistance. Bring a litter, he said, with one of his dearly glances, or the six grenadiers to thrust her into it, and see that she goes on board for a swiss. And so, screeching like an angry cat, she was carried on board and set sail with her husband and one of her former lovers. She found Haiti and sent to Domingo more agreeable than she had supposed. She was there as sort of queen who could do as she pleased, and have her orders implicitly obeyed. Her dissipation was something frightful, her folly and her vanity were beyond belief. But at the end of two years, both she and her husband fell ill. He was stricken down by the yellow fever, which was decimating the French army. Pauline was suffering from the results of her life in a tropical climate. Leclerc died, the expedition was abandoned, and Pauline brought the generous body back to France. When he was buried, she, still recovering from her fever, had him interred in a costly coffin and paid him the tribute of cutting off her beautiful hair and burying it with him. What a touching tribute to her dead husband, said someone to Napoleon. The emperor smiled so nically as he remarked, Of course she knows that her hair is bound to fall out after her fever, and that it will come in longer and thicker for being cropped. Napoleon, in fact, though he loved Pauline better than his other sisters, or perhaps because he loved her better, was very strict with her. He obliged to wear mourning and to observe some of the proprieties, but it was hard to keep her with him bounds. Presently it became noise about the prince Camillo Baguels was exceedingly intimate with her. The prince was an excellent specimen of the fashionable Italian. He was immensely rich. His palace at Rome was crammed with picturesque statues and every sort of autistic treasure. He was the owner, moreover, of the famous Baguels jewels, the finest collections of diamonds in the world. Napoleon rather sternly insisted upon her marrying Baguels. Fortunately, the prince was very willing to be connected with Napoleon, while Pauline was delighted at the idea of having diamonds that would eclipse all the gems which Josephine possessed. Before, like all the Bonaparte's, she detested her brother's wife, so she would be married and show her diamonds to Josephine. It was a bit of feminine malice, which she could not resist. The marriage took place very quietly at Joseph Bonaparte's house because of the absence of Napoleon, but the newly-made princess was invited to visit Josephine at the Palace of Sir Claude. Here was to be the triumph of her life. She spent many days in planning a toilette which should be absolutely crashing to Josephine. Whatever she wore must be a background for the famous diamonds. Finally, she decided on Green Velvet. When the day came, Pauline stood before a mirror and gazed at herself with diamonds glistening in her hair, shimmering around her neck and fastened so sickly on her Green Velvet gown as to remind one of a moving jewel casket. She actually shed tears of joy. Then she entered her carriage and drove out to Sir Claude. But the great old Josephine, though no longer young, was a woman of great subtlety as well as charm. The story had been told to her of the Green Velvet and therefore she had her drawing rum-redecorated in the most uncompromising blue. It killed the Green Velvet completely. As for the diamonds, she met that maneuver by wearing the single gem of any kind. Her dress was in Indian muslin with a broad hem of gold. Her exquisite simplicity, coupled with the dignity of bearing, made the Princess Pauline is a shower of diamonds and her Green Velvet displayed against the blue seem absolutely valga. Josephine was most generous in her admiration of the baguette gems, and she kissed Pauline on parting. The victory was hers. There was another story of a defeat which Pauline met from another lady, one Madame de Coutard. This was the magnificent ball given to the most fashionable world of Paris. Pauline decided upon going and intended, in her own phrase, to blot out every woman there. She kept the secret of her toilet absolutely, and she entered the ballroom at the psychological moment. When all the guests had just assembled, she appeared in the sight of her the music stopped. Silence fell upon the assemblage and the sort of quiver went through everyone. Her costume was of the finest muslin, bordered with golden palm leaves. Four bands spotted like Leopards' kin were wound around her head, while these in turn were supported by little clusters of golden crepes. She had coped the headdress of a bachante de Louvre, all over her purse with cameos, and just beneath her breasts, she wore a golden band held in place by an engraved gem. Her beautiful wrists, arms and hands were bare. She had, in fact, blotted out her rivals. Nevertheless, Madame de Coutard took her revenge. She went up to Pauline, who was lying on a divan, to set off her loveliness and began gazing at the princess through a double eyeglass. Pauline felt flattered for a moment and then became uneasy. The lady who was looking at her set to a companion in a tone of compassion. What a pity! She really would be lovely if it weren't for that. For what? Returned her escort? Why are you blind? It is so remarkable that you surely must see it. Pauline was beginning to lose her self-composure. She flashed and looked wildly about wondering what was meant. Then she heard Madame Coutard say, why her ears, if her head such ears as those, would cut them off. Pauline gave one great gasp and fainted dead away. As a matter of fact, her ears were not so bad. They were simply very flat and colourless, forming a contrast with the rosy tint of her face. But from that moment, no one could see anything but these ears, and thereafter the princess wore her hair low enough to cover them. This may be seen in the statue of Herbie Canova. It was considered a very daring thing for her to pose for him in the nude, for only a bit of drapery is thrown over her lower limbs. Yet it is true that this statue is absolutely classical in its conception and execution, and its interest is heightened by the fact that its model was what she afterwards styled herself is through the Polyonic bride, a sister of Bonaparte. Pauline detested Josephine and was pleased when Napoleon divorced her, but she also disliked the Austrian outstretched Chesmerie Louise, who was Josephine's successor. On one occasion, at the great court function, she got behind the impress and ran out her tongue at her, in full view of all the nobles and distinguished persons presence. Napoleon's eagle eye flashed upon Pauline and placed up like fire upon eyes. She actually took to her heels, rushed out of the ball, and never visited the court again. It would require much time to tell of her other eccentricities, of her intrigues, which were innumerable, of her quarrel with her husband, and of the minor breaches of the courtroom, with which she startled Paris. One of these was her choice of a huge sneaker to bathe her every morning, when someone ventured to protest she answered naively. What do you call that single man? And she compromised by compelling her black servitor to go out and marry someone at once, so that he might continue his ministrations with propriety. To her, Napoleon showed himself far more severe than this either Carolina or Elise, gave her a marriage trawlery of half a million francs, when she became the princess of Borghese, but after that he was continually checking her extravagances. Yet in 1814, when the downfall came and Napoleon was sent into exile to Elba, Pauline was the only one of all his relatives to visit him and spend her time with him. His wife fell away and went back to her Austrian relatives. Of all the Bonobats, only Pauline and Madame Mère remained faithful to the emperor. Even then, Napoleon refused to pay a pill of hers of 62 francs, while he allowed her only 240 francs for the maintenance of her horses. But she is a generosity of which one would have thought her quieting capable gave to her brother a great part of her fortune. When he escaped from Elba and began the campaign of 1815, she presented him with all the Borghese diamonds. In fact, he had them with him in his carriage to Waterloo, where they were captured by the English. Contrast this with the meanness and the gratitude of her sisters and her brothers, and one may well believe that she was sincerely proud of what it meant to be L'Azur de Bonobat. When he was sent to St. Elena, she was ill in bed and could not accompany him. Nevertheless, she tried to sell all her trinkets, of which she was so proud in order that she might give him help. When he died, she received the news with bitter tears on hearing all the particulars of that long agony. As for herself, she did not long survive. At the age of forty-four, her last moments came. Knowing that she was to die, she sent for Prince Borghese and saw the reconciliation. But after all, she died as she had lived, the queen of trinkets. L'Arenne, the Colifiche, she asked the servant to bring a mirror. She gazed into it with her dying eyes, and then as she sank back, it was with a smile of deep content. I am not afraid to die, she said. I am still beautiful. End of the story of Pauline Bonobat, recording by Ellie August 2009