“The Grenadier Gobain has committed suicide from love: he was in other respects an excellent soldier. This is the second incident of the same nature that has occurred in the corps within a month.
“The first Consul directs it to be inserted in the order-book of the Guard:—
“That a soldier ought to know how to vanquish the pangs and melancholy of the passions; that there is as much true courage in bearing up against mental sufferings with constancy, as in remaining firm on the wall of a battery.
“To give ourselves up to grief without resistance, or to kill ourselves to escape affliction, is to abandon the field of battle before the victory is gained.”
[9]. There is, however, one of these proofs which I am now at liberty to disclose. While walking in the stern-gallery with the Emperor, at the usual hour, he drew from under his waistcoat, still conversing on a totally different subject, a species of girdle, which he handed to me, saying, “Take care of that for me;” without interrupting him, I placed it under my own waistcoat. The Emperor told me, soon after, that it contained a diamond necklace, worth two hundred thousand francs, which Queen Hortensia forced him to accept on his leaving Malmaison. After our arrival at St. Helena I frequently spoke of returning the necklace, but never received any reply. Having ventured to mention the subject again when we were at Longwood, Napoleon drily asked, “Does it annoy you?”—“No, Sire,” was my answer;—“Keep it then,” said he. From wearing the girdle so long, the necklace became as it were identified with my person; and I thought so little about it that it was not till some days after my being torn from Longwood, and by the merest accident, it recurred to my memory; when I shuddered at the idea of depriving the Emperor of such a resource. For how would it be possible now to make restitution? I was in the most rigorous confinement, surrounded by gaolers and sentinels, so that all communication was impracticable. I vainly endeavoured to contrive a plan; time pressed; only a few days were left, and nothing could be more distressing than thus to quit the island. In this predicament, I resolved to run all risks. An Englishman, to whom I had often spoken, came to the prison on a particular errand—and it was under the eyes of the Governor himself, or one of his most confidential agents whom he brought, that I ventured to communicate my wishes.
“I think you are a man of principle,” said I, “and I am going to put it to the test;—though with nothing injurious or contrary to your honour—merely a rich deposit to be restored to Napoleon. If you accept the charge, my son will put it into your pocket.”
He answered only by slackening his pace; my son, whom I had prepared for the scene, followed him, and the necklace was transferred into this man’s possession, almost in sight of the military attendants. Before quitting the island, I had the inexpressible satisfaction of knowing that the necklace had reached the hands of the Emperor. How gratifying to the heart are the recollection and recital of such a trait on the part of an enemy, and under such circumstances!
[10]. This paragraph was in such a state in the manuscript as to excite doubts; and I was on the point of suppressing it: I must therefore state my reasons for its insertion. What is my object? chiefly to leave materials behind me. When I indicate how these were collected, and say that I obtained them from a mere conversation—that I may have disfigured them in thus suddenly seizing their sense—when I admit their probable inaccuracy, and place the reader in the way of rectifying my errors—have I not sufficiently fulfilled my object and duty?
[11]. Verified at the Royal Library: the manuscript being really there, and the play itself printed.
[12]. Also verified at the Royal Library, where the account of the sacking of Rome is deposited, but by Jacopo Buonaparte, and not Niccolo. Jacopo was a contemporary and an eye-witness of the event: his manuscript was printed for the first time at Cologne, in 1756; and the volume actually contains a genealogy of the Buonapartes, which is carried back to a very remote period, and describes them as one of the most illustrious houses of Tuscany.