She was therefore very badly off, though her writings were always quite successful enough to provide for her, but she could not be happy without perpetually adopting children: even now she had not only Casimir, who was always like a son to her, but an adopted daughter called Stéphanie Alyon, and another whom she sent back to Germany.
For more than a year she did not dare to pass the Palais Royal or to cross the place Louis XV., too many phantoms seemed to haunt and reproach her for the past.
But time and circumstances were obliterating crimes and injuries by the side of which her faults were as nothing. Though it is satisfactory to think that numbers of the Revolutionists received the punishment due to their deeds, there were others who for some reason or other managed not only to escape but to prosper; and with Fouché in a place of power and authority, what, might one ask, had become of all ideas of justice and retribution?
Mme. de Genlis, finding Paris too dear, moved to Versailles where she lived for a time, during which she had the grief of losing her nephew, César Ducrest, a promising young officer, who was killed by an accident.
She grew tired of Versailles, and returned to Paris, where the First Consul gave her an apartment at the Arsenal and a pension.
A new era of prosperity, though of quite a different kind from the luxury, excitement, and splendour of her earlier life, now began for Mme. de Genlis. She opened a salon which was soon the resort of most of the interesting and influential people of the day. In the society of the Consulate and Empire her early opinions and proceedings were not thought about, and her literary reputation was now great; and besides countless new acquaintances many of her old friends were delighted to welcome her again.
With Talleyrand she had always been on friendly terms.
Napoleon had insisted upon his marrying Mme. Grandt, his mistress, who had always received his guests during the loose society lately prevalent: people said that since he had done so, his salon was not nearly so amusing. She was a pretty but extremely stupid person, always making some mistake. On one occasion the celebrated traveller, M. Denon, was going to dine with them, and Talleyrand told her to be sure to talk to him about his travels, adding—
“You will find his book on the third shelf in the library; look it over.”
Mme. de Talleyrand went to look for the book, but had by this time forgotten the title. Turning over several she came upon “Robinson Crusoe,” thought that must be it, and read it eagerly; in consequence of which, during dinner, she began to ask him about his shipwreck and the desert island, and to inquire after the faithful Friday.