But to resume. We went on with our game, and his gayety gave me more and more confidence. We were still playing when the sound of carriage-wheels was heard, and presently General Hullin was announced. Bonaparte pushed away the chess-table roughly, rose, and went into the adjoining gallery. There he remained all the rest of the evening, with Murat, Hullin, and Savary. We saw no more of him, and yet I went to my room feeling more easy. I could not believe but that Bonaparte must be moved by the fact of having such a victim in his hands. I hoped the prince would ask to see him; and in fact he did so, adding, “If the First Consul would consent to see me, he would do me justice, for he would know that I have done my duty.” My idea was that Bonaparte would go to Vincennes, and publicly grant the prince pardon in person. If he were not going to act thus, why should he have quoted those lines from “Alzire”?
That night, that terrible night, passed. Early in the morning I went down to the drawing-room, and there I found Savary. He was deadly pale, and I must do him the justice to say that his face betrayed great agitation. He spoke to me with trembling lips, but his words were quite insignificant. I did not question him; for persons of his kind will always say what they want to say without being asked, although they never give answers.
Mme. Bonaparte came in, looked at me very sadly, and, as she took her seat, said to Savary, “Well—so it is done?” “Yes, madame,” he answered. “He died this morning, and, I am bound to acknowledge, with great courage.” I was struck dumb with horror.
Mme. Bonaparte asked for details. They have all been made known since. The prince was taken to one of the trenches of the château. Being offered a handkerchief to bind his eyes with, he rejected it with dignity, and, addressing the gendarmes, said, “You are Frenchmen: at least you will do me the service not to miss your aim.” He placed in Savary’s hands a ring, a lock of hair, and a letter for Mme. de Rohan; and all these Savary showed to Mme. Bonaparte. The letter was open; it was brief and tender. I do not know whether these last wishes of the unfortunate prince were carried out.
“After his death,” said Savary, “the gendarmes were told that they might take his clothes, his watch, and the money he had in his pocket; but not one of them would touch anything. People may say what they like, but one can not see a man like that die as coolly as one can see others. I feel it hard to get over it.”
Presently Eugène de Beauharnais made his appearance. He was too young to have recollections of the past, and in his eyes the Duc d’Enghien was simply a conspirator against the life of his master. Then came certain generals, whose names I will not set down here; and they approved of the deed so loudly that Mme. Bonaparte thought it necessary to apologize for her own dejection, by repeating over and over again the unmeaning sentence, “I am a woman, you know, and I confess I could cry.”
In the course of the morning a number of visitors came to the Tuileries. Among them were the Consuls, the Ministers, and Louis Bonaparte and his wife. Louis preserved a sullen silence, which seemed to imply disapprobation. Mme. Louis was so frightened that she did not dare to feel, and seemed to be asking what she ought to think. Women, even more than men, were subjugated by the magic of that sacramental phrase of Bonaparte’s—“My policy.” With those words he crushed one’s thoughts, feelings, and even impressions; and, when he uttered them, no one in the palace, especially no woman, would have dared to ask him what he meant.
My husband also came during the morning, and his presence relieved me from the terrible oppression from which I was suffering. He, like myself, was grieved and downcast. How grateful I was to him for not lecturing me upon the absolute necessity of our appearing perfectly composed under the circumstances! We sympathized in every feeling. He told me that the general sentiment in Paris was one of disgust, and that the heads of the Jacobin party said, “He belongs to us now.” He added the following words, which I have frequently recalled to mind since: “The Consul has taken a line which will force him into laying aside the useful, in order to efface this recollection, and into dazzling us by the extraordinary and the unexpected.” He also said to Mme. Bonaparte: “There is one important piece of advice which you ought to give the First Consul. It is that he should not lose a moment in restoring public confidence. Opinion is apt to be precipitate in Paris. He ought at least to prove to the people that the event which has just occurred is not due to the development of a cruel disposition, but to reasons whose force I am not called upon to determine, and which ought to make him very circumspect.”
Mme. Bonaparte fully appreciated the advice of M. de Rémusat, and immediately repeated his words to her husband. He seemed well disposed to listen to her, and answered briefly, “That is quite true.” On rejoining Mme. Bonaparte before dinner, I found her in the gallery, with her daughter and M. de Caulaincourt, who had just arrived. He had superintended the arrest of the prince, but had not accompanied him to Paris. I recoiled at the sight of him. “And you, too,” said he, addressing me, so that all could hear him, “you are going to detest me! And yet I am only unfortunate; but that I am in no small degree, for the Consul has disgraced me by this act. Such is the reward of my devotion to him. I have been shamefully deceived, and I am now ruined.” He shed tears while speaking, and I could not but pity him.
Mme. Bonaparte assured me afterward that he had spoken in the same way to the First Consul, and I was myself a witness to his maintenance of a severe and angry bearing toward Bonaparte, who made many advances to him, but for a long time in vain. The First Consul laid out his plans before him, but found him cold and uninterested; then he made him brilliant offers, by way of amends, which were at first rejected. Perhaps they ought to have been always refused.