A little girl of nine years, belonging to a rich and much respected family of Constantinople, was carried off by pirates one day as she was walking outside the city with a maid-servant. The pirates transported their two captives to Anatolia and sold them. The little girl, who promised to be charming some day, fell into the hands of a rich merchant of Brusa, the most severe, rigid, and intractable man in the city. Nevertheless, the artless graces of the child affected his savage temper; he had the greatest respect for her, made a distinction between her and his other slaves, and employed her in none but easy tasks, such as caring for flowers, etc. A European who was lodging with him offered to take charge of her education, and her owner consented all the more willingly because she had gained his heart, and he wished to marry her as soon as she should be old enough. But the European had conceived the same idea, and as he was young, good-looking, full of intelligence, and very rich, he easily succeeded in winning the young slave, who escaped one fine day from her master's house and, like a new Héloïse, followed her Abelard to Kutaya, where they remained in hiding for six months.

She was then ten years old; her preceptor, who daily loved her better, took her to Constantinople and confided her to the care of a Greek bishop, whom he instructed to make a good Christian of her. From there he started for Vienna to seek the consent of his family and his government to make her his wife.

Two years slipped by: the poor girl received no tidings of her future husband. The bishop was dead, and his heirs had abandoned Marie (the baptismal name of the converted Mahometan), and she, having neither aid nor protector, was in constant danger of being discovered by some relative, some friend of her family, and it is known that the Turks never pardon a change of religion. Tormented by a thousand anxieties, tired of the profound obscurity of her retreat, she took the bold resolution of rejoining her benefactor. The dangers of the journey did not deter her. She left Constantinople alone and on foot; and, on arriving at the Austrian capital, she learned that her husband had been dead more than a year.

It is easy to understand the despair into which the poor child must now have been plunged. What could she do? What would become of her? She determined to return to her family. She went to Trieste and found that city in a frightful condition. It had just received a French garrison, but the troubles inseparable from war were not yet over. Little Marie entered a Greek convent to await a favorable moment for returning to Constantinople. There she was seen by a young sub-lieutenant of infantry, named Dartois, who fell violently in love with her, and married her at the end of a year.

The happiness enjoyed by Madame Dartois did not persuade her to relinquish her scheme of going to see her family. Having become a Frenchwoman, she hoped that this title would induce her relatives to pardon her. Her husband's regiment having been ordered away from Trieste, she seized this occasion to renew her entreaties for his permission to go to Constantinople. He consented, but not without laying before her all the dangers and risks to which this journey would expose her. At last she set out, and a few days after her arrival, when she was about to make her advances to her family, she recognized in the street, through her veil, the merchant of Brusa, her first master, who was searching for her all over Constantinople, and who had sworn to kill her should he discover her.

This terrible encounter alarmed her to such a degree that for three years she lived in continual anxiety, hardly daring to stir out of doors even for her most urgent affairs, and always dreading to see the ferocious Anatolian once more. From time to time she received letters from her husband, who acquainted her with the movements of the French armies and his own advancement; in the later ones he implored her to return to France, hoping soon to be able to rejoin her there.

Having lost all hope of being reconciled to her family, Madame Dartois concluded to do as her husband wished, and although the war between Russia and the Turks made the roads insecure, she left Constantinople in July, 1809.

After crossing Hungary and passing through the Austrian camps, Madame Dartois turned toward Vienna, where she had the grief of learning, at Gratz, that her husband had been mortally wounded at the battle of Wagram. He was in that city; she was taken to him, and he breathed his last in her arms.

She mourned her husband for a long time. But it was soon necessary to consider the future; the little money she had left on her departure from Constantinople had scarcely sufficed for the expenses of her journey. M. Dartois had left nothing behind him; several persons advised the poor woman to go to Schönbrunn and seek assistance from His Majesty. A superior officer gave her a letter of recommendation to M. Jaubert, the Emperor's interpreting secretary.

Madame Dartois arrived just as His Majesty was preparing to leave Schönbrunn. She addressed herself to M. Jaubert, the Duc de Bassano, General Lebrun, and several others, who took a keen interest in her misfortunes. The Emperor, apprised by the Duc de Bassano of the deplorable condition in which this lady found herself, instantly issued a special decree by which Madame Dartois became entitled to an annual pension of sixteen hundred francs, the first year to be paid her in advance. When the Duc de Bassano came to tell the widow what His Majesty had done for her, she fell at his knees and bedewed them with her tears.

The Emperor's birthday was celebrated at Vienna with much splendor. All the inhabitants felt obliged to illuminate their windows, and that produced a truly remarkable sight. There were no lanterns, but nearly all the windows being double-sashed, lamps and candles had been arranged very artistically between the two glasses, and the effect was charming. The Austrians seemed as gay as our soldiers; they would not have fêted their own Emperor with as much eagerness. There was doubtless something forced at the bottom of this unaccustomed mirth, but appearances betrayed nothing of it.

The day before the fête, during the parade, a terrible explosion was heard at Schönbrunn, the noise seeming to come from the city. Some minutes later, a gendarme was seen galloping up at full speed. "Oh! oh!" said Colonel Mechnem, laughing, "Vienna must be on fire. A gendarme galloping!" He came to announce a very deplorable event. A company of artillerymen were preparing in the city arsenal some fireworks to celebrate His Majesty's birthday. One of them, in squeezing a bomb, set fire to the fuse; he was frightened and threw it away from him, and it lighted the powder contained in the workshop. Eighteen cannoneers were killed instantly and seven wounded.

About the time of His Majesty's fête, as I went into his cabinet one morning, I found with him M. Charles Sulmetter, commissary-general of the Viennese police. I had already seen him several times; he had begun as first spy of the Emperor, and the trade had been so profitable that he now possessed an income of forty thousand livres. He was born at Strasburg, where he had commenced by being the chief of the smugglers in Alsace; nature having marvellously organized him for that pursuit, as well as for that he afterwards followed. He said so himself when relating his adventures, and he claimed that there is much in common between smugglers and policemen, the great art of a smuggler being to know how to hide, and that of the detective to know how to find.

He inspired such terror in the Viennese that he was worth a whole army corps for keeping them in order. His keen and penetrating glance, his air of resolution and severity, the abruptness of his gait and gestures, a terrible voice, and a vigorous appearance fully justified his reputation. His adventures would be a treasure-trove to some romancer. During the first campaigns in Germany, being entrusted with a message from the French government to one of the most important personages of the Austrian army, he passed over to the enemy disguised as a German jeweller, duly provided with passports, and supplied with a large quantity of diamonds and precious stones. He was betrayed, arrested, and searched. His letter was hidden in the double lining of a gold box: it was found, and the finder was stupid enough to read it aloud in his presence. Tried and condemned to death, he was handed over to the soldiers who were to shoot him; but it was night, and his execution was deferred until the next day. Among his guards he recognized a French deserter; he chatted with him, and promised him plenty of money; he sent for wine, drank with the soldiers, made them drunk, put on one of their uniforms, and escaped with the Frenchman; but, before returning to camp, he found means to communicate with the person to whom the captured letter was addressed, and acquaint him with its contents and what had happened to him.

The army was frequently given countersigns difficult to remember, in order to fix attention more closely. One day the word was Pericles, Persepolis. A captain of the guard, who knew the art of commanding a charge better than he did Greek history and geography, heard it badly and gave it out as perce l'église (pierce the church). There was a good deal of laughing over this quid pro quo. The old captain was by no means disturbed about it, saying that after all he was not so far out of the way.

The secretary of General Andreossy, governor of Vienna, had the unfortunate passion of gaming, and finding that he did not win enough to meet his expenses, he sold himself to the enemy. His correspondence was seized, he admitted his treason, and was condemned to death. At the moment of execution he displayed astonishing coolness: "Come nearer," he said to the soldiers who were to shoot him; "you will take better aim at me so, and I shall have less to suffer."

In one of his excursions around Vienna, the Emperor met a very young conscript who was rejoining his corps; he stopped him and asked his name, his age, his regiment, and his country. "Monsieur," replied the soldier, who did not know him, "my name is Martin, I am seventeen years old, and I come from the Upper Pyrenees." — "You are a Frenchman then?" "Yes, Monsieur." — "Ah! you are a rogue of a Frenchman! . . . Disarm this man, somebody, and hang him." "Yes, f—, I am a Frenchman," repeated the conscript, "and long live the Emperor!" His Majesty laughed a good deal; the conscript was undeceived, congratulated, and ran to rejoin his comrades with the promise of a recompense, a promise which the Emperor was not slow to keep.

Two or three days before his departure from Vienna, the Emperor again ran the risk of being assassinated. This time the blow was to have been struck by a woman.

The Countess M—— attracted the notice of everybody at this period, as much on account of her marvellous beauty as because of the scandal created by her liaison with Lord Paget, the English ambassador. It would not be easy to find expressions which would adequately describe the grace and charm of this lady, to whom Viennese society opened its doors with a sort of repugnance, but who made herself amends for its contempt by receiving in her own house all that was most brilliant in the French army.

An army purveyor took it into his head to procure the acquaintance of this lady for the Emperor, and without informing His Majesty, he made propositions to the Countess through one of his friends, a cavalry officer attached to the military police of the city of Vienna.

The cavalry officer believed himself to be speaking on behalf of the Emperor, and he said to the Countess, in perfectly good faith, that His Majesty had the greatest desire to see her at Schönbrunn. He gave this invitation one morning for that evening, which seemed a trifle abrupt to the Countess, who would not decide at once, but asked for a day to think about it, adding that she would require indefeasible proofs that the Emperor really had a hand in the matter. The officer protested his own sincerity, promised moreover to give every proof she could demand, and made an appointment with her for the evening. Having given an account of his negotiation to the purveyor, the latter gave the necessary orders for a carriage to be ready at the time indicated by the Countess to the cavalry officer. At the hour appointed, the officer returned to her house, expecting to fetch her back with him, but she begged him to return the following day, saying that she had not yet decided, and must have the night for still further reflection. The observations made by the officer induced her to accept, however, but only for the next day, and she gave him her word of honor to be ready at the hour when he should come to find her.

The carriage, therefore, was sent away, with orders to return the following day at the same hour. This time, the envoy of the purveyor found the Countess very well inclined. She received him gayly, even with alacrity, and made him notice that she had put all her affairs in order, as if she were contemplating some long journey; then, after looking him full in the face for some moments, she said, thee-ing and thou-ing him: "Thou canst return in an hour, I will be ready; I will go to see him, thou mayst count upon it. Yesterday I had business to arrange, but to-day I am at liberty. If thou art a good Austrian, thou wilt prove it to me; thou knowest what harm he has done to our country! Eh! well, this evening our country will be avenged! Come and get me, don't fail!"

The cavalry officer, frightened by such a confidence, would not bear the responsibility of it. He came to the castle and told the whole. The Emperor richly rewarded him, made him promise, in his own interest, not to see the Countess again, and expressly forbade him to let the affair go any further. All these dangers did not produce the least alteration in his temper; he was accustomed to say: "What have I to fear? I cannot be assassinated; I shall die nowhere but on the field of battle." And even on the battle-field he took no precautions whatever. At Essling, for example, he exposed himself like a chief of battalion who wishes to become a colonel: bullets killed men beside, behind, in front of him; he never budged. This went so far that a frightened general exclaimed: "Sire, if Your Majesty does not withdraw I shall be obliged to have you taken away by my grenadiers." Judge by that whether the Emperor dreamed of taking precautions for himself! But the signs of exasperation manifested by the inhabitants of Vienna made him watch over the safety of his troops; he had expressly forbidden the soldiers to leave their cantonments in the evening. His Majesty was alarmed for them.

The castle of Schönbrunn was the rendezvous of all the illustrious savants of Germany. Not a new work was brought out, not a curious invention made its appearance, but the Emperor at once gave orders to have their authors presented to him. It was thus that M. Maelzel, the famous mechanician who invented the metronome, was admitted to the honor of offering to His Majesty several pieces of his invention. The Emperor admired the artificial legs intended to replace, better and more commodiously than wooden ones, those that had been torn away by ball. He commissioned him to construct a car to convey the wounded from the field of battle. This car was to be made in such a way that, on being folded up, it could easily take in behind the mounted men in the train of the army, such as surgeons, aides, employees, etc. M. Maelzel had also constructed an automaton known all over Europe as the chess-player. He brought it to Schönbrunn to show it to His Majesty, and set it up in the apartment of Prince de Neufchâtel. The Emperor went there, and I followed him with several other persons. The automaton was seated in front of a table on which a chess-board was arranged for a game. His Majesty took a chair, and sitting down opposite the automaton, said, laughing: "Come on, comrade; here's to us two." The automaton saluted and made a sign with the hand to the Emperor, as if to bid him begin. The game opened, the Emperor made two or three moves, and intentionally a false one. The automaton bowed, took up the piece and put it back in its place. His Majesty cheated a second time; the automaton saluted again, but confiscated the piece. "That is right," said His Majesty, and cheated the third time. Then the automaton shook its head, and passing its hand over the chess board, it upset the whole game.

The Emperor complimented the mechanician highly. As he left the apartment, accompanied by Prince de Neufchâtel, we found in the antechamber two young girls who presented the Prince, on behalf of their mother, with a basket of magnificent fruit. As the Prince received them with an air of familiarity, the Emperor, curious to know who they were, approached and questioned them, but they did not understand French. Some one then told His Majesty that these two pretty girls were the daughters of a good woman whose life had been saved by Marshal Berthier in 1805. He was riding alone on horseback, the cold was horrible, and the ground covered with snow. He saw a woman lying at the foot of a tree, apparently in a dying condition. She was nearly frozen. The Marshal took her in his arms, placed her on his horse, covered her with his cloak, and brought her back in this way to her daughters, who were at home, crying over her absence. He went away without having made himself known, but they recognized him at the time Vienna was taken, and every week the two sisters came to see their benefactor, bringing him baskets of fruit or flowers in token of their gratitude.