In his relations with Duroc, Berthier, Lannes, La Salle, Rapp, Méneval, Eugène Beauharnais, we find the same traits. The indulgence with which he treated those he liked, the pains he took to keep them in good humor, his care not to wound their feelings, and his caressing way of coaxing them out of their occasional sulks, shows a phase of Napoleon’s own character which is usually overlooked.
He had many boyish ways which never left him. He would hum a song and whistle a tune to the last. During moments of abstraction he fell to whittling his desk or chair, sat upon a table and swung his leg back and forth, or softly whistled or hummed some favorite air. During the great disaster at Leipsic, when all had been done and all had failed, Napoleon, in a kind of daze, stood in the street and whistled “Malbrook has gone to the wars.”
He was fond of playing pranks. He tried to drive a four-in-hand at Malmaison, struck a gate-post, and got thrown headlong to the ground, narrowly escaping fatal injuries to himself and Josephine. He would disguise himself, and go about Paris to hear the people talk, coming back delighted if he had provoked angry rebuke by some criticism of his on Napoleon. He would throw off his coat at Malmaison, and romp and play like a schoolboy. After dinner, if the weather was fine, he would call out, “Let’s play barriers!” and off would go his coat, and in a moment he would be racing about the grounds.
One afternoon while amusing himself in this way, two rough-looking men were seen near the gate, loitering and gazing at the romping group. The ladies saw fit to become frightened, and to make the usual hysterical outcry. Gallant young officers sprung forward to drive off the intruders, as gallant young officers should. But it turned out that one of the men was a maimed veteran of the wars, come with his brother, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the beloved form of his general—Napoleon. Having seen, having heard, the First Consul put his arm around Josephine, drew her toward the two men, gave them gracious welcome, introduced them to his wife, and sent them under Eugène’s escort to the house to drink his health in a glass of wine. So promptly was the thing done, so naturally, so warmly, so tactfully, that the one-armed soldier was melted to tears.
In his rude horse-play, Napoleon taught his gazelle to chase the ladies of the court, and when the animal caught and tore a dress, or caught and pinched a leg, his delight was precisely that of the mischievous, slightly malicious boy. In playing barriers he cheated, as he did at all games, and violated all the rules. When he was unbent, when he was at Malmaison, he could take a joke as well as any. One very rough piece of horse-play he took a good deal more placidly than many a private citizen would have done. Passing through a gallery at Malmaison, he stopped to examine some engravings which were lying upon a table. Young Isabey happening to come into the gallery behind Napoleon, and seeing the back of the stooping figure, took it to be Eugène Beauharnais. Slipping up softly, Isabey gave a jump, and leaped upon Napoleon’s shoulders, astraddle of his neck. Napoleon recovered from the shock, threw Isabey to the ground, asking, “What does this mean?”
“I thought it was Eugène,” cried Isabey.
“Well, suppose it was Eugène—must you needs break his shoulder bones?” Without further rebuke Napoleon walked out of the gallery. Through the folly of Isabey, the secret leaked out, and there was just enough of the ludicrous about it to embarrass both the actors, and Isabey went to play leap-frog elsewhere.
Napoleon was fond of children, knew how to talk to them, play with them, and win their confidence. The man never lived who knew better than he the route to the heart of a soldier, a peasant, or an ambitious boy. With these he could ever use exactly the right word, look, smile, and deed. He was familiar with his friends, joked them, put his arms around them, and walked with them leaning upon them: he never joked with men like Fouché, Talleyrand, Bernadotte, Moreau, and St. Cyr. These men he used, but understood and disliked.
Fat women he could not endure, and a pregnant woman showing herself when she should have been in seclusion, excited his disgust. One of the pictures he most liked to gaze upon was that of a tall, slender woman, robed in white, and walking beneath the shade of noble trees.
A fastidious, exacting busybody, he was forever on the lookout for violations of good taste on the part of the ladies of his court. He detested the low dresses which exposed the bosom to the vulgar gaze; and if he saw some one dressed in peculiarly unbecoming style, he was rude enough to give words to his irritation. “Dear me! are you never going to change that gown?” This was very, very impolite, but the costume was one which he abhorred, and the wearer had inflicted it upon him “more than twenty times.”