As I have been led to speak of General Moreau, I will recall the fatal circumstances by which he was impelled to tarnish his fame. Madame Bonaparte had married him to Mademoiselle Hulot, her friend, and like herself a creole of the Isle de France. This young person, sweet, amiable, and full of the qualities which make a good wife and mother, loved her husband passionately; she was proud of that glorious name which surrounded her with respect and honors. But, unfortunately, she had the greatest deference for her mother, who was very ambitious, and desired nothing less than to behold her daughter seated on a throne. Her empire over Madame Moreau soon included the general himself, who, ruled by her counsels, became sombre, dreamy, melancholy, and lost forever that tranquillity of mind which had distinguished him. From that time the general's house was open to plots and intrigues; all the malcontents, and there were many of them, met each other there; from that time the general undertook to disapprove all the acts of the First Consul; he opposed the re-establishment of public worship, he called the institution of the Legion of Honor a piece of childish and ridiculous mummery. These grave imprudences, and plenty of others, soon reached, as may readily be believed, the ears of the First Consul, who at first refused to credit them; but how could he remain deaf to insinuations that daily returned with increased force, and were doubtless envenomed by malice?

Now, while the imprudent speeches of the general were contributing to ruin him in the mind of the First Consul, his mother-in-law, with dangerous obstinacy, encouraged him in his opposition, persuaded, as she said, that the future would do justice to the present. She was not aware how truly she spoke. The general rushed headlong into the abyss which opened in front of him. How altogether contrary was his conduct to his character! He had a decided aversion for the English; he detested the Chouans and all that pertained to the old nobility. Besides, a man like General Moreau, after having served his country so gloriously, was not made to carry arms against her. But he was misled, and he misled himself in thinking that he was fit to play a great political role. He was ruined by the flattery of a party which raised as many enmities as it could against the First Consul by exciting the jealousy of his former companions in arms.

I have seen more than one token of affection given by the First Consul to General Moreau. During one of the latter's visits to the Tuileries, and while he was conversing with the First Consul, General Carnot came in from Versailles with a pair of very elaborately wrought pistols, presented to the First Consul by the manufactory of Versailles. To take these two beautiful weapons from the hands of General Carnot, to examine them a moment, and then offer them to General Moreau, saying: "Keep them; they could not come more apropos,"—all that was done quicker than I can write it. The general could not have been more flattered by this proof of friendship, and he warmly thanked the First Consul.

The name and the trial of General Moreau remind me of the story of a brave officer who found himself compromised in this unhappy affair, and barely extricated himself from it, after several years of disgrace, by dint of the courage with which he ventured to expose himself to the Emperor's wrath. The authenticity of the details I am going to give can be attested, at need, by living persons whom I shall have occasion to name in my recital, and whose testimony no reader would dream of rejecting.

General Moreau's disgrace at first extended to all who were connected with him: the affection and devotion borne him by the army men, whether officers or soldiers, who had served under him, was well known. His aides-de-camp were arrested, even those who were not in Paris.

One of these, Colonel Delélée, had been several months at Besançon on furlough, reposing from his campaigns in the bosom of his family, along with a young wife to whom he had not long been married, but occupying himself very little with political affairs, a good deal with his pleasures, and not at all with conspiracies. The comrade and brother in arms of Colonels Guilleminot, Hugo,1 and Foy,2 all three of whom afterward became generals, he spent joyous evenings with them in garrison and agreeable ones at home. All at once Colonel Delélée was arrested, thrown into a post-chaise, and it was only when they were rolling at a gallop on the road to Paris that he learned from the officer of gendarmerie, who accompanied him, that General Moreau had conspired, and that in his capacity as aide-de-camp of the General he was included among the conspirators.

On arriving at Paris, the Colonel was put into close custody, at La Force, I think. His wife, justly alarmed, hastened in pursuit of him; but it was not until after a great many days that she obtained permission to communicate with the prisoner, and even then she could do so only by signs. She would remain in the court of the prison, while he would show himself for some moments, and pass his hand through the bars of his window.

However, the rigor of these orders was abated for the Colonel's son, a little child of three or four years. His father obtained the favor of embracing him. He came every morning in his mother's arms, and a turnkey would take him to the prisoner. In presence of this troublesome witness the poor little fellow would play his part with all the cunning of a consummate dissimulator. He would pretend to be lame, and complain that there were grains of sand in his shoe that hurt him. The Colonel, turning his back on the jailer, would take the child on his knee to rid him of what troubled him, and find in the shoe a note from his wife, apprising him in very few words of the progress of the legal inquiry, and what he had to hope or fear on his own account.

At last, after several months of captivity, sentence having been passed on the conspirators, Colonel Delélée, against whom no accusation had been brought, was not absolved, as he had a right to expect, but struck off the army rolls, and arbitrarily sent away under surveillance, and forbidden to come within forty leagues of Paris. At first he was also enjoined not to return to Besançon, and it was not until he had been out of prison for a year that he was permitted to live there.

Young and full of courage, the Colonel beheld, from the depths of his retreat, his friends and comrades making their way and gaining name, rank, and glory on the field of battle. He saw himself condemned to inaction and obscurity. He spent his days in following on the maps the triumphant march of those armies in which he felt that he deserved to resume his rank. A thousand requests were addressed by him and by his friends to the chief of the Empire, that he would permit him to go merely as a volunteer, to join his former comrades, were it with a knapsack on his back. His prayers were rejected. The Emperor's will was inflexible, and to every new application he answered: "Let him wait."

The inhabitants of Besançon, who considered Colonel Delélée their compatriot, interested themselves keenly in the misfortune of this brave officer. An occasion presented itself to recommend him anew to the clemency, or rather to the justice, of the Emperor, and they profited by it.

This was, I think, on the return from the campaign of Prussia and Poland. Deputations were coming from all parts of France, charged to congratulate the Emperor on his new victories. Colonel Delélée was unanimously elected a member of the deputation from Doubs, of which the mayor and the prefect of Besançon formed part, and which was presided over by the worthy Marshal M——.

An occasion, then, is at last offered to Colonel Delélée to have the long interdict raised which has weighed upon his head and kept his sword idle! He will speak to the Emperor; he will complain, respectfully but with dignity, of the motiveless disgrace in which he has been detained so long. He will render heartfelt thanks to the generous affection of his fellow-citizens, whose suffrages will, he hopes, plead in his favor with His Majesty.

The Besançon deputies, on their arrival in Paris, have themselves presented to the different ministers. The minister of police takes the president of the deputation aside, and asks him what signifies the presence among the deputies of a man publicly known to be in disgrace, and the sight of whom cannot fail to be disagreeable to the chief of the Empire.

On issuing from this private interview, Marshal M—— enters, pale and terrified, the apartment of Colonel Delélée.

"All is lost, my friend! I see, by the looks of things at the bureau, that they are still ill-disposed toward you. If the Emperor sees you amongst us, he will take that for an express intention to go against his orders, and he will be furious."

"Ah well, what can I do about that?"

"But, to avoid compromising the department, the deputation, to avoid compromising yourself, you might well, perhaps—"

The Marshal hesitates.

"I should do well?" asks the Colonel.

"Perhaps by withdrawing without making any scandal—"

Here the Colonel interrupted the president of the deputation.

"Marsha!, permit me to refuse this counsel. I did not come so far in order to recoil, like a child, before the first obstacle. I am tired of a disgrace I have not deserved; still more tired of my idleness. Whether the Emperor is angry or is appeased, he will see me; let him have me shot if he likes, I do not cling to a life such as I have led for the last four years. However, Marshal, I will submit to what shall be decided by my colleagues, the deputies of Basançon."

These latter did not disapprove the Colonel's resolution, and he went with them to the Tuileries on the day of the formal reception of all the deputations of the Empire.

Every hall in the Tuileries was encumbered by a crowd in richly embroidered coats and brilliant uniforms. The military household of the Emperor, his civil family, the generals present in Paris, the diplomatic corps, the ministers and chiefs of the different administrations, the deputies of the departments with their prefects and their mayors, decorated with tricolored scarfs; all were assembled in innumerable groups, and were awaiting the arrival of His Majesty, talking meanwhile in undertones.

In one of these groups was seen a tall officer, dressed in a very simple uniform and of a fashion which dated several years back. He did not wear either on his neck or on his breast the decoration which at that time no officer of his grade was without. It was Colonel Delélée. The president of the deputation of which he formed part, seemed embarrassed and almost afflicted. The former comrades of the Colonel hardly dared to recognize him. The most adventurous gave him a little nod from a distance, which expressed both anxiety and pity. The most prudent did not look at him at all.

As for him, he remained impassive and resolute.

At last a folding door flew open, and an usher cried:

"The Emperor, gentlemen."

The groups broke up; people ranged themselves in two rows. The Colonel placed himself in the first rank.

His Majesty began his turn around the salon. He addressed remarks to the president of each deputation, and said to every one of them some flattering words. Arriving in front of the deputation of Doubs, the Emperor, after having said a few words to the brave marshal who conducted it, was about to pass on to others, when his eyes fell upon an officer whom he had never seen. He stopped in surprise, and addressed his familiar question to the deputy:

"Who are you?"

"Sire, I am Colonel Delélée, formerly first aide-de-camp of General Moreau."

These words were uttered in a steady voice which resounded through the profound silence commanded by the presence of the sovereign.

The Emperor drew back a step, and fixed both eyes upon the Colonel. The latter did not flinch before this glance, but he bowed slightly.

Marshal M—— was as pale as a dead man.

The Emperor resumed: "What do you come to ask for here?"

"What I have asked for years, Sire; that Your Majesty would deign to tell me of what I am guilty, or else restore me to my rank."

Among those who were near enough to hear these questions and answers, there were not many who could breathe freely.

At last a smile parted the Emperor's tightly closed lips. He lifted a finger to his mouth as he approached the Colonel, and said to him in an almost friendly tone:

"People have complained a little of that; but don't say any more about it."

And he went on his way. He had hardly gone ten steps beyond the group formed by the deputies of Basançon, when he came back, and stopping opposite the Colonel:

"Mr. Minister of War," said His Majesty, "take the name of this officer, and take care to remind me of it. He is tired of doing nothing; we will give him some occupation."

As soon as the audience was over, it was who should get to the Colonel quickest. They surrounded him, they congratulated him, they embraced him, they tore him away from each other. All of his former companions wanted to take him away with them. His hand could not grasp all the hands extended to him. General S——, who only the day before had still further increased the alarms of Marshal M—— by expressing his astonishment that any one should have the audacity to come and brave the Emperor in this way, stretched his arm above the shoulders of those who were pressing around the Colonel, and shaking hands with him in the most cordial way in the world: "Delélée," he cried," don't forget that I expect you to breakfast to-morrow."

Two days after this court scene, Delélée received his appointment as chief of staff of the army of Portugal, commanded by the Duc d'Abrantès. His equipments were soon ready, and at the moment of departing he had a final audience of the Emperor, who said to him: "Colonel, I know it is needless to urge you to make up for lost time. Before long, I hope, we shall be quite content with each other." On coming out from this last audience, the brave Delélée said that all he lacked now to make him happy was a good occasion to have himself cut to pieces for a man who knew so well how to close the wounds of a long disgrace. Such was the empire that His Majesty exercised over men's minds.

The Colonel had soon crossed the Pyrenees; he went through Spain and was received by Junot with open arms. The army of Portugal had had much to suffer during the two years it had been fighting against the population and against the English with unequal forces. They were badly supplied with provisions, the soldiers ill clothed and not well shod. The new chief of staff did all in his power to remedy this disorder, and the soldiers began to be sensible of his presence, when he fell sick from overwork and fatigue, and died before having, to use the Emperor's expression, made up for lost time.

I have said elsewhere that on every conspiracy against the life of the First Consul, all the persons of his household were naturally subjected to close surveillance. Their least proceedings were watched; they were followed when outside the château; their conduct was inspected in its most minute details. At the time when the Pichegru plot was discovered, there was only one keeper of the portfolio, named Landoire, and his place was therefore one of the most difficult, because he could never go away from a little dark corridor on which the door of the cabinet opened, and he ate his meals running, and almost on the sly. Luckily for Landoire, they gave him a second; and on this occasion Augel, one of the palace porters, was designated by the First Consul to go and establish himself at the barrier des Bons-Hommes, during Pichegru's trial, in order to reconnoitre and observe domestics of the house as they came and went about their service, nobody being allowed to leave Paris without permission. Augel's reports pleased the First Consul. He had him summoned, seemed satisfied with his answers and his intelligence, and appointed him as substitute for Landoire in keeping the portfolio. Thus the task of the latter became easier by half. Augel went on the Russian campaign, in 1802 [1812], and died on the return, when he was only a few leagues from Paris, in consequence of the fatigues and privations which we shared with the army.

However, it was not merely the servants attached to the household of the First Consul who found themselves subjected to this régime of surveillance. From the time he became Emperor, he established, among the concierges of all the imperial palaces, a register on which people from outside, and strangers who came to visit any one within, were obliged to inscribe their names and that of the persons they came to see. Every evening this register was carried to the grand marshal of the palace, or in his absence to the governor; and the Emperor often consulted it. He once read there a name which, in his capacity as husband, he had his reasons, and perhaps even reason, for suspecting. His Majesty had previously ordered the absence of this person; hence, on meeting this unlucky name again on the concierge's book, he was beside himself with rage, believing that both sides had dared to disobey his orders. Information was sought for on the spot, and it turned out, very luckily, that the suspected visitor was merely a very insignificant person, whose only fault was that of bearing a name justly compromised.