Great preparations had been going on for four or five days in the delightful gardens of Trianon. But on the eve of the fête the sky had been cloudy; many toilets for which people had been in a hurry were prudently put by; but the next day, a fine blue sky having reassured everybody, they set off for Trianon in spite of souvenirs of the storm which had dispersed the spectators at the fête of Saint-Cloud. Nevertheless, at three o'clock, a copious shower created a momentary fear lest the evening should end badly. Pluie du soir faisant son devoir (the afternoon rain doing its duty), as the proverb says. It happened, on the contrary, that this mishap merely embellished the fête, by cooling the burning August atmosphere and laying the incommodious dust. At six o'clock the sun had reappeared, and the summer of 1811 had not a milder or more agreeable evening.

All the architectural lines of the Grand Trianon were ornamented with different-colored lanterns; in the gallery might be seen six hundred women dazzling with youth and rich attire. The Empress addressed gracious words to several of them, and they were generally enchanted with the affability and amiable manners of a young princess who had lived in France only fifteen months.

At this fête, as at all those of the Empire, there was no lack of poets to chant the praises of those to whom it referred. There was a theatre, and they played a piece written for the occasion, the author of which, M. Alissan de Chazet, I perfectly remember, but whose title I have forgotten. At the close of the piece, the principal artists of the opera executed a ballet which was thought very pretty. The performance over, Their Majesties began their promenade in the park of the Little Trianon. The Emperor, hat in hand, gave his arm to the Empress, and was followed by the entire court. They went, in the first place, to the Isle of Love. All the enchantments of fairyland, all its magic spells, were there united. The temple, rising in the middle of the lake, was magnificently illuminated, and the water reflected its blazing columns. A multitude of elegant barques furrowed in all directions this lake, which seemed on fire, and were manned by a swarm of loves who appeared to be playing in the shrouds. Musicians hidden on board executed melodious airs, and this harmony, at once sweet and mysterious, which seemed to issue from the bosom of the waves, added still more to the magic of the picture and the charm of the illusion. To this spectacle succeeded scenes of another description; rural scenes; a Flemish tableau, with its good jolly faces and its rustic unrestraint; groups of inhabitants of each French province, which made it appear as if all parts of the Empire had been invited to this fête. In a word, the most diverse spectacles attracted the gaze of Their Majesties by turns. On arriving at the salon of Polyhymnia, they were received by a charming choir, who sang, if I remember, the music of M. Paër and the words of the same M. Alissan de Chazet. At last, after a magnificent supper, which was served in the great gallery, Their Majesties withdrew. It was one o'clock in the morning.

There was but one opinion in this immense assembly concerning the grace and perfect dignity of Marie-Louise. This young princess was, in fact, charming, with singularities rather than defects in her character. I recall certain traits of her domestic life which will not be devoid of interest for the reader.

Marie-Louise said little to the men in her service. Whether this were a custom imported from the Austrian court, or a fear of compromising herself by her foreign accent before persons of inferior condition, or, in fine, timidity or unconcern, very few of those persons have had any words of hers to recollect. I heard her steward say that in three years she never once spoke to him.

The ladies of her household agreed in saying that in private she was kind and gentle. She had very little love for Madame de Montesquiou. It was a mistake; for there were no assiduous cares, attentions, kindnesses which Madame de Montesquiou did not bestow upon the King of Rome. The Emperor was the only one who appreciated that excellent lady, so admirable in every way. As a man, he rated highly the dignity, perfect propriety, and extreme discretion of Madame de Montesquiou. As a father, he was infinitely grateful for the cares she lavished on his son. Every one explained in his own way the coolness displayed toward this lady by the young Empress. Rumors more or less frivolous got into circulation concerning it. The ladies of the palace frequently occupied their leisure moments with this topic. Here is what seems to me the most credible explanation and the most in conformity with the naïve simplicity of Marie-Louise. For lady of honor the Empress had Madame the Duchesse de Montebello, a charming woman, perfectly well conducted. The latter, they said, was afraid of having a rival in the heart of her august friend; and, as a matter of fact, the one she had most to dread was certainly Madame de Montesquiou, for this lady united all the qualities which please and make one beloved. Born of an illustrious family, she had received a distinguished education. To the manners of the best society she joined a solid and enlightened piety. Never had calumny dared to attack her conduct, which was both noble and well regulated. Not that she was not accused of being somewhat haughty, but this haughtiness was tempered by so cordial a politeness and a kindliness so gracious that one could easily believe it proceeded merely from dignity. She took the tenderest and most assiduous care of the King of Rome, and certainly she whom the most generous devotion afterwards induced to tear herself from her country, her friends, and her family, in order to follow the fortunes of a child all of whose expectations had just been annihilated, had a right to extreme gratitude on the part of the Empress.

Madame de Montebello was accustomed to rise very late. In the morning, when the Emperor was absent, Marie-Louise used to go and chat with her in her chamber, and so as to avoid passing through the salon where the ladies of the palace descended, she would enter the apartment of her lady of honor through a very dark clothes-room, — which greatly wounded those ladies. I heard Josephine say that it was wrong in Madame de Montebello to acquaint the young Empress with several scandalous adventures, true or false, attributed to one of those ladies; that a young wife, simple and pure like Marie-Louise, ought not to know anything about such things, and that this circumstance was the cause of her coldness toward the ladies in her service, who, on their side, did not like her, and who made their sentiments known to their friends and kindred.

Josephine tenderly loved Madame de Montesquiou. As they could not see each other, they wrote: the correspondence lasted until the death of Josephine.

One day Madame de Montesquiou received an order from the Emperor to take the little King to Bagatelle. Josephine was there. She had obtained the favor of seeing this infant whose birth had occasioned festivities all over Europe. It is known how disinterested was Josephine's love for Bonaparte, and how she viewed whatever might augment, and above all consolidate his fortune. Even into the prayers she offered for herself after the signal disgrace of the divorce, there entered the sincere desire that he might be happy in his family life, and that his new spouse might give him that child, that first-born of his dynasty, of which she had been unable to make him the father. This woman of angelic goodness, who fell into a prolonged swoon on learning the sentence of her repudiation, and who, since that day, led a sorrowful life in the brilliant solitude of Malmaison; this devoted wife who had shared for fifteen years all the fortune of her husband, and who had contributed so powerfully to his elevation,— had not been the last to rejoice over the birth of the King of Rome. She used to say that the desire to leave posterity, and to be represented after our death by beings who owe to us their life and the rank they occupy in the world, was a sentiment profoundly graven in the heart of man; that this natural desire, which she had herself experienced so vividly as wife and mother, this desire of having children who will survive and continue us upon the earth, increased still further when we could transmit a lofty fortune to them; that in the position of Napoleon, the founder of a vast empire, it was impossible that he should long resist a sentiment which lies at the bottom of all hearts, and that, if it is true that it increases in proportion to the heritage one can leave his children, no one should experience it more strongly than Napoleon, because no one had yet possessed so formidable a power on earth; that the course of nature having made her sterility hopeless, she should be the first to immolate the feelings of her heart to the welfare of the State and the personal happiness of Napoleon: sad but powerful reasons which policy had invoked in favor of the divorce, and which the glamour of her devotion induced this excellent princess to believe herself entirely convinced by.

The royal infant was presented to her. I know nothing in the world more touching than the joy of this excellent woman on beholding Napoleon's son. Her eyes as she first gazed upon him were filled with tears; then she took him in her arms and pressed him to her heart with unutterable tenderness. Here there were neither indiscreet witnesses to enjoy a disrespectful curiosity while watching ironically the sentiments of Josephine, nor that ridiculous etiquette which chilled the expression of her affectionate heart. It was a scene of private life; Josephine lent herself to it with all her soul. By the way in which she caressed this child, you would have thought it was a common baby, and not, as the flatterers said, the son of the Cæsars; not the son of a great man, whose cradle had just been surrounded by so many honors, and who was a king when he came into the world. Josephine bathed him with tears, and spoke to him in that infantine language by which a mother knows how to make herself understood and loved by her new-born babe. At last it was necessary to separate them. The interview had been short, but how well it had been employed by the loving heart of Josephine! It was then one could estimate by her joy the sincerity of her sacrifice, and fathom its extent by the depth of her stifled sighs. Madame de Montesquiou's visits were renewed only at long intervals. Josephine was deeply grieved by this. But the child was growing; an indiscreet word lisped by him, a childish souvenir, the slightest thing, might give umbrage to Marie-Louise, who dreaded Josephine. The Emperor wished to spare himself this contrariety which might disturb his domestic happiness. Hence he ordered that the visits should become less frequent; in the end they were altogether stopped. I heard Josephine say that the birth of the King of Rome paid her for all her sacrifices. Never was a woman's devotion more disinterested or more complete.

Immediately after his birth, the King of Rome had been confided to a nurse of a healthy and robust constitution, selected from the common people. This woman could neither leave the palace nor receive any man; the most rigid precautions had been taken in this respect. She took the airings needful for her health in a carriage, and even then she was accompanied by several women.

This is how Marie-Louise was accustomed to behave toward her son: in the morning, about nine o'clock, the King was carried to his mother's room. She would take him in her arms, caress him a few minutes, then return him to his nurse, and begin to read the newspapers. When the child got tired, the governess would take him away. At four o'clock it was the mother's turn to visit her son. Marie-Louise would go down into the King's apartments, taking with her a little scrap of embroidery at which she worked without paying it much attention. Twenty minutes later, some one would come to tell her that M. Isabey or M. Prudhon had arrived for the drawing or painting lesson. Then the Empress would go back to her own rooms.

Thus elapsed the first months that followed the birth of the King of Rome. In the intervals between fêtes, the Emperor busied himself with decrees, reviews, monuments, projects, taking few relaxations, laboring much, indefatigable in all employments, yet not seeming to have anything wherewith to occupy his powerful mind, and made happy in his privacy by a young wife by whom he was tenderly beloved. The Empress led a very simple life; that sufficed for her character. Josephine had needed more movement; hence her life was more exterior, more animated, more fashionable. That did not prevent her from being very well adapted to the ways of family life, very affectionate and cordial with her husband, whom she also knew how to make happy in her own way.

One day when Bonaparte came back very much fatigued from hunting, he sent to ask Marie-Louise to come and see him. She came. The Emperor took her in his arms and gave her a hearty kiss on the cheek. Marie-Louise took her handkerchief and wiped it off. "Well, Louise," said the Emperor, "so I disgust thee." "No," replied the Empress; "I have a habit of wiping myself like that; I do the same with the King of Rome." The Emperor seemed dissatisfied. Josephine had been very different: she loved to receive the caresses of her husband, and even sought them. It sometimes happened that the Emperor would say to his young wife: "Louise, sleep in my room." "It is too warm there," the Empress would reply. And, as a matter of fact, she could not endure warmth, and Napoleon's apartments were always heated. She had also an extreme repugnance for odors. Nothing but vinegar or sugar could be burned in her room.