I sauntered from the room alone, to wander through the other apartments, where objects of art and curiosities of every kind were profusely scattered. The marbles of Greece and Rome, the strange carvings of Egypt, the rich vases of Sevres were there, amid cabinet pictures of the rarest and most costly kind. Those delicious landscapes of the time of Louis the Fifteenth, where every charm of nature and art was conveyed upon the canvas: the cool arbors of Versailles, with their terraced promenades and hissing fountains,—the subjects which Vanloo loved to paint, and which that voluptuous Court loved to contemplate,—the long alleys of shady green, where gay groups were strolling in the mellow softness of an autumn sunset; those proud dames whose sweeping garments brushed the velvet turf, and at whose sides, uncovered, walked the chivalry of France,—how did they live again in the bright pencil of Moucheron! and how did they carry one in fancy to the great days of the Monarchy! Strange place for them, too,—the boudoir of her whose husband had uprooted the ancient dynasty they commemorated, had erased from the list of kings that proudest of all the royal stocks in Europe. Was it the narrow-minded glory of the Usurper, that loved to look upon the greatness he had humbled, that brought them there? or was it rather the wellspring of that proud hope just rising in his heart, that he was to be successor of those great kings whose history formed the annals of Europe itself?
As I wandered on, captivated in every sense by the charm of what to me was a scene in fairyland, I came suddenly before a picture of Josephine, surrounded by the ladies of her Court. It was by Isabey, and had all the delicate beauty and transparent finish of that delightful painter. Beside it was another portrait by the same artist; and I started back in amazement at the resemblance. Never had color better caught the rich tint of a Southern complexion; the liquid softness of eye, the full and sparkling intelligence of ready wit and bright fancy, all beamed in that lovely face. It needed not the golden letters in the frame which called it “La Rose de Provence.” I sat down before it unconsciously, delighted that I might gaze on such beauty unconstrained. The white hand leaned on a balustrade, and seemed almost as if stretching from the very canvas. I could have knelt and kissed it. That was the very look she wore the hour I saw her first,—it had never left my thoughts day or night. The half-rising blush, the slightly averted head, the mingled look of impatience and kindness,—all were there; and so entranced had I become, that I feared each instant lest the vision would depart, and leave me dark and desolate. The silence of the room was almost unbroken. A distant murmur of voices, the tones of a harp, were all I heard; and I sat, I know not how long, thus wrapped in ecstasy.
A tall screen of Chinese fabric separated the part of the room I occupied from the rest, and left me free to contemplate alone those charms which each moment grew stronger upon me. An hour might perhaps have thus elapsed, when suddenly I heard the sound of voices approaching, but in a different direction from that of the salons. They were raised above the ordinary tone of speaking, and one in particular sounded in a strange accent of mingled passion and sarcasm which I shall never forget. The door of the room was flung open before I could rise from my chair; and two persons entered, neither of whom could I see from my position behind the screen.
“I ask you, again and again, Is the treaty of Amiens a treaty, or is it not?” said a harsh, imperious tone I at once recognized as that of the First Consol, while his voice actually trembled with anger.
“My Lord Whitworth observed, if I mistake not,” replied a measured and soft accent, where a certain courtier-like unction prevailed, “that the withdrawal of the British troops from Malta would follow, on our making a similar step as regards our forces in Switzerland and Piedmont.”
“What right have they to make such a condition? They never complained of the occupation of Switzerland at the time of the treaty. I will not hear of such a stipulation. I tell you. Monsieur de Talleyrand, I 'd rather see the English in the Faubourg St. Antoine than in the Island of Malta. Why should we treat with England as a Continental power? Of India, if she will; and as to Egypt, I told my lord that sooner or later it must belong to France.”
“A frankness he has reason to be thankful for,” observed M. de Talleyrand, in a voice of sarcastic slyness.
“Que voulez-vous?” replied Bonaparte, in a raised tone. “They want a war, and they shall have it. What matter the cause?—such treaties of peace as these had better be covered with black crape.” Then dropping his voice to a half-whisper, he added: “You must see him to-morrow; explain how the attacks of the English press have irritated me; how deeply wounded I must feel at such a license permitted under the very eyes of a friendly government,—plots against my life encouraged, assassination countenanced! Repeat, that Sebastiani's mission to Egypt is merely commercial; that although prepared for war, our wish, the wish of France, is peace; that the armaments in Holland are destined for the Colonies. Show yourself disposed to treat, but not to make advances. Reject the word ultimatum, if he employ it; the phrase implies a parley between a superior and an inferior. This is no longer the France that remembers an English commissary at Dunkirk. If he do not use the word, then remark on its absence; say, these are not times for longer anxiety,—that we must know, at last, to what we are to look; tell him the Bourbons are not still on the throne here; let him feel with whom he has to deal.”
“And if he demand his passport,” gravely observed Talleyrand, “you can be in the country for a day; at Plombiferes,—at St. Cloud.”
A low, subdued laugh followed these words, and they walked forward towards the salons, still conversing, but in a whispered tone.