He was passionately fond of strawberries; but they caused him long and frequent vomitings. His mother, alarmed by this, expressly forbade his being allowed to eat them in future, and expressed her wish that every precaution should be taken to keep out of his sight a fruit that disagreed with him so badly. But little Napoleon, not disgusted by the dangerous effects of the berries, was greatly astonished at no longer seeing his favorite dish. He was patient for a while, but one day he came to his nurse, and very seriously asked for explanations on the subject, which the good woman did not know how to give him. She was so fond of him that she spoiled him; he knew her weakness, and often abused it. In the present instance, for example, he grew angry and said to his nurse, in a tone which produced, at least, as much effect on her as the Emperor or the King of Holland could have done: "I will have some berries. Give me some at once." The poor nurse, while trying to quiet him, said that she would willingly do so, but if anything happened, she was afraid he would tell the Queen how he got the strawberries. "Is that all?" briskly responded Napoleon. "Oh! don't be afraid, I promise not to say a word." The nurse yielded. The strawberries produced their usual effect, and the Queen entered while the Prince was undergoing the penalty of his gluttony. He could not deny that he had eaten the forbidden fruit: the proof was there. The irritated Queen wished to know who had disobeyed her; she begged and threatened the child, who kept answering, with the greatest coolness: "I have promised not to tell;" and, notwithstanding her control over him, she could not wrest from him the name of the guilty party. 1

The young Napoleon loved his uncle greatly; with him he showed a patience, a tranquillity very remote from his character. The Emperor would often take him on his knee at breakfast, and amuse himself by making him eat lentils one by one. The color would mount to the pretty face of the child; his whole expression would betray spite and impatience; but His Majesty could prolong this play without fearing that the child would become angry, which he certainly would not have failed to do with any one else.

Had he then, at this tender age, the feeling of his uncle's superiority over all who surrounded him? King Louis, his father, who gave him new playthings every day, chose such as best pleased his taste; the child preferred those he received from his uncle; and when his father said: "But see, Napoleon, they are ugly; mine are prettier." "No," replied the child, "they are very nice: my uncle gave them to me."

One morning when he came to see His Majesty, he crossed a salon in which, among other great personages, was Prince Murat, at that epoch, I think, Grand Duke of Berg. The child was going straight across the room without saluting any one, when the Prince stopped him, and said: "Are you not going to bid me good day?" "No," replied the Napoleon, freeing himself from the arms of the Grand Duke, "no, not before my uncle, the Emperor."

At the close of a review, which had taken place in the court of the Tuileries and on the Place du Carrousel, the Emperor, after coming up to his apartments, threw his hat on one armchair and his sword on another. Little Napoleon came in, took his uncle's sword, put the belt of it about his neck, and the hat on his head, and then paced gravely along, whistling a march, behind the Emperor and Empress. His Majesty turned round, perceived him, and embracing him, exclaimed: "Ah! the pretty picture!" Ingenious in seizing every occasion to please her husband, the Empress sent for M. Gérard, and commissioned a portrait of the young prince in this costume. The picture was taken to Saint-Cloud the very day that the Empress learned the death of this cherished child.

He was hardly three years old when, seeing his shoemaker's bill paid with five-franc pieces, be made a great outcry, because, said he, he did not want to have them give away the portrait of mon oncle Bibiche. This name of Bibiche, given to His Majesty by the young prince, arose from the Empress having placed in the park of Saint-Cloud some gazelles which were very wild with all the inhabitants of the palace, excepting the Emperor, who made them eat snuff out of his box, and thus induced them to follow him. He enjoyed giving them the snuff by the hands of little Napoleon, whom he would afterwards set astride of one of them. The child never called these pretty animals anything but bibiche, a name which he found it amusing to give to his uncle also. This charming child, adored by is father and mother, exercised on both an almost magical influence in bringing them together. He would take the hand of his father, who would allow this angel of peace to lead him toward Queen Hortense; then he would say: "Kiss her, papa, I beg you;" and his joy would display itself in keen and noisy transports when he had thus succeeded in reconciling two beings whom he loved with equal tenderness.

How could a character so amiable fail to make this angel cherished by all who knew him? How could The Emperor, who liked all children, fail to be passionately fond of this one, even if he had not been is nephew and the grandson of that good Josephine whom he never, for a single instant, ceased to love? At the age of seven, when that terrible malady, the croup, tore him from his afflicted family, he evinced the most excellent tendencies and gave the greatest hopes. His proud and lofty character, while rendering him susceptible to the noblest impressions, was far from excluding obedience and docility. Injustice revolted him; but he readily yielded to good advice and prudent remonstrance. The first-born of the new dynasty, he should have won, as in fact he did win, all the solicitude and tenderness of its chief. Malignity and envy, which always seek to blacken and sully all that is grand, gave caluminious explanations of this almost fatherly attachment; but wise and sincere men saw nothing in this adoptive affection but what might have been looked for, the desire and expectation of transmitting an immense power and the finest name in the universe to an heir, indirect it is true, but of the imperial blood, and who, brought up under the eyes and by the care of the Emperor, would have been to him all that a son might be. The death of the young Napoleon, coming like a presage of misfortune in the midst of his greatest glory, deranged all the plans the monarch had conceived, and determined him to concentrate his hopes of an heir in his direct line. It was then that there sprang to being in his mind the idea of a divorce which did not take place until two years later, but about which people were talking with bated breath during the journey of Fontainebleau. The Empress easily divined the fatal result which the death of her grandson must have upon her, and from this period that terrible idea became rooted in her mind and empoisoned her existence. To her this premature death was an inconsolable grief. She shut herself up for three days, weeping bitterly, seeing no one but her women, and taking scarcely any nourishment. She seemed to fear any diversion from her sorrow, for she surrounded herself with a sort of avidity with all that might remind her of an irremediable affliction. She obtained from Queen Hortense, but not without difficulty, the hair of the young prince, which the unfortunate mother had religiously preserved. The Empress had it framed on a background of black velvet, and always kept it near her. I have often seen it at Malmaison, and never without keen emotion.

But how shall I essay to paint the grief of Queen Hortense, as perfect a mother as she was an affectionate daughter? She never left her son for a single moment during his sickness, he died in her arms, and the Queen, determined to remain beside his inanimate body, passed her arms through those of her armchair, so that she could not be removed from this heartrending sight. At last, nature succumbing to a grief so keen, the wretched mother fainted, and that moment was seized for carrying her to her own apartment, still seated in the armchair which she had not quitted, and which her arms convulsively embraced. On regaining consciousness, the Queen uttered piercing cries. Her strained and tearless eyes, her livid lips, caused fears for her life. Nothing could make her weep. At last a chamberlain thought of sending her the body of the young prince and laying it upon her knees. This sight produced such an effect that her tears gushed abundantly, and saved her. With what kisses did she not cover those cold and adored remains! 2

All France shared the sorrow of the Queen of Holland.