-ViCTORpi SARDOU 
 
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III, Library 
 
 31 
 
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MADAME SANS-GENE 
 
 (“MADAME DON’T-CARE”) 
 
 FOUNDED ON THE PLAY BY 
 
 VlCTORlEN SARDOU AND EMILE MOREAU 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY 
 
 Isaac George Reed, Jr. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 OPTIMUS PRINTING COMPANY, 
 4S, 47, 49 AND 51 ROSE St. 
 
Copyright, 1856, 
 
 BY 
 
 Optimus Printing CkK 
 
 Madame Sana-Gene. 
 
PUBLISHERS’ NOTICE 
 
 The career of Napoleon Bonaparte has hitherto 
 1 been treated as an historical narrative. In this book 
 Messrs. Sardou and Moreau have woven the facts 
 of history into a drama of most intense interest. 
 Here is shown the many-sided character of the 
 First Napoleon, — as the adventurer, the lover, the 
 warrior, the Emperor ; — together with the thrilling 
 events transpiring on the eve of that great revolu- 
 tion upon the waves of which he was carried to the 
 summit of the mountain of fame. The immortal 
 and inimitable Catherine Upscher, who, because of 
 her free and easy manners, and because she cares 
 for nothing and fears nothing, has been nick-named 
 Madame Sans-GSne,'* lends to this historical 
 romance an air of refreshing comedy and bright- 
 ; ness that fully accounts for the many friendly 
 ' criticisms which recommend this book as a study 
 s., of Napoleon and his times. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ®HAFT. PAGE 
 
 I. The Ball and the Fricassee 5 
 
 II. The Magician and the Prediction— the Man with a Star 10 
 
 III. Royalty’s Last Night and Catherine’s Wedding Gift 18 
 
 IV. Catherine and a Chevalier du Poignard— the Republican 
 
 and the Aristocrat 22 
 
 V. The Man Inside the Bedroom and the Man Outside 32 
 
 VI. Little Henriot, or Man’s Love and Woman’s Gratitude 36 
 
 VII. The Tenant of the Hotel de Metz 44 
 
 Till. The Little Days of a Great Man— Napoleon when he was 
 
 Young and Poor 47 
 
 IX. The Handsome Sergeant and Her Brother 50 
 
 X. The Oath Under the i^oplars— the Involuntary Enlistment. . . 65 
 
 XI. The Confidence of Madame Sans-Gene and why she did not 
 
 Present her Laundry Bill .... 71 
 
 XII. The Post-Chaise— the Fruit Shop— the Lady of St. Cyr— 
 
 Napoleon’s First Defeat 82 
 
 XIII. The Siege of Verdun— on the March— the Forsaken— the 
 
 Arrival of the Volunteers 96 
 
 XIV. Brunswick’s Messenger — Beaurepaire’s Oath — Leonard's 
 
 Mission— the Emigrants’ Camp 110 
 
 XV. Catherine’s Night Alarm— a Hero’s End 117 
 
 XVI. On the Edge of the Unknown— Napoleon Bonaparte’s At- 
 tempt at Suicide and Why it Failed— his Second Defeat. . . 138 
 
 XVII. Jemmapes— the Nuptial Mass— a “Married and Settled” 
 
 Woman’s Unexpected Appearance as a “Bride” ; 132 
 
 XVin. A Debt of Gratitude— the Eve of Battle— the War Song and 
 
 the Victory 145 
 
 XIX. The Star of Destiny Rises— and the Man of Destiny Falls in 
 
 Love 16£ 
 
 XX. “Yeyette” — Josephine as Girl — Wife— Widow — Adventur- 
 ess and as Napoleon’s Idol 169 
 
 XXI. Madame Bonaparte and an Interview with Barras— a W Oman 
 
 Asks for Advice and Takes It 178 
 
 XXII, How a Great Man Married and was Deceived— the Truth 
 
 Concerning Josephine— the Sword from the Pyramids 182 
 
 XXIII. Madame La Marechale takes a Dancing Lesson and— a 
 
 Thunderbolt Falls 193 
 
 XXIV. The Secret Society of La Rue Bourg L’Abbe— the Plan of 
 Leonidas— Lefebvre tries to Understand— the Entry into 
 
 Berlin 204 
 
 XXV. The Promotion of Henriot — the Parole of a Prussian— the 
 Loves of Napoleon and the Secret of Josephine— Monsieur 
 
 Le Due de Dantzig. 209 
 
 XXVI. The Salon of an Empress and the Revenge of Catherine 
 
 Sans-Gene 221 
 
 XXVII. The Russian Alliance— the Austrian Alliance— the Divorce. . 228 
 
 XXVIII. Lefebvre Conquers Napoleon— the Flaming Heart 233 
 
 XXIX. The Archduchess— the Imperial Wedding— Napoleon’s Jeal- 
 ousy — Fouche’s Disgrace — Catherine s New Hat 239 
 
 XXX. The Faith of the Laundress— the Mamelukes of Napoleon— 
 
 The Debt of the Ceutiniere is Cancelled 244 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE 
 
 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 THE LAUNDRESS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE BALL AKD THE FRICASSEE. 
 
 In the Kue de Bondy lamps, lighted but smoking, 
 showed the way to a popular ball, known as The 
 Waux-Hall.” 
 
 This fantastically named affair was directed by an 
 artist of “The Theater of Arts,” Citizen Joly. 
 
 The time was during the great days of July, 1792, 
 when Louis XVI. was still called king, but his head, 
 which had in reality been doomed to the axe since 
 June 20, rested uneasily on his shoulders. 
 
 It was a time of Revolution. Revolution was in 
 the very air. Revolution thundered through the 
 streets. 
 
 Three men, Robespierre, Marat and Barbaroux, 
 had held a secret conclave, in which, though they 
 had not agreed in the choice of a chief, a dictator, a 
 “Friend of the People,” they had determined to 
 make a decisive attack on the royal family, who were 
 practically prisoners in the palace of the Tuileries. 
 
6 
 
 MADAME SANS-QENE. 
 
 Meanwhile Paris waited for the troops from Mar- 
 seilles to give the signal for revolt. 
 
 And meantime the Prussian king and the Austrian 
 emperor prepared to throw themselves on France, 
 which they regarded as an easy prey — a nation already 
 self-overthrown. The Prince of Brunswick, general- 
 issimo of the royal and imperial armies, had issued 
 from Coblenz a manifesto threatening Paris with 
 dire vengeance if it dared to offer violence or outrage 
 to “their majesties King Louis XVI. or the Queen 
 Marie Antoinette,” but Paris merely defied the prince 
 and organized the uprising of the tenth of August. 
 
 Still, the city kept on enjoying itself; for Paris is 
 a volcano with two craters — one of passion and one of 
 pleasure. 
 
 Men armed themselves in the suburbs; they talked , 
 noisily in clubs; cartridges were distributed to the 
 national guard, but, all the same, men and women 
 enjoyed themselves and danced. 
 
 On the still fresh ruins of the grim Bastille, now 
 demolished forever, some wag had placed a placard, 
 “One can dance here.” And sometimes they did 
 dance there. It was one way of showing that the 
 ancient regime had forever disappeared. 
 
 The revolution was accomplished amid song and 
 dance — the Marseillaise and the Carmagnole. 
 
 Scores of balls were taking place every night, and 
 one of the gayest and most popular was the Waux- 
 Hall. 
 
 The dancing, like the dressing, at these balls was 
 a mixture of the old and the new. The minuet the 
 gavotte and the pavane were mingled with the ri- 
 gaudon, the trenitz, the monaco, and that favorite 
 of favorites, the fricassee. 
 
 On the large floor of the Waux-Hall, one night in 
 the last week of July, there was a vast crowd, and 
 everybody was enjoying himself or herself hugely. 
 
MADAME 8AN8-QENE. 
 
 7 
 
 The women were gayly attired, active and mostly 
 young. The men were vigorous. The costumes 
 were various. Short breeches, with wig, French coat 
 and stockings, were in evidence, alongside of the 
 long trousers introduced with the revolution. (It 
 may be remarked here, en passant^ that the now 
 famous term sanS’CitlloUes^n^QA to designate ‘‘the 
 patriots,” simply me‘>ns that they did not wear the 
 ordinary covering of the legs.) 
 
 There were many uniforms at the ball. For num- 
 bers of the National Guards were present, who were 
 ready at the lirst drum call to begin the overture of 
 revolution by a dance, not at the Waux-Hall, but the 
 Tuileries — a dance around the throne. 
 
 And among these uniforms, moving proudly and 
 showing himself to advantage, was a tall, muscular 
 young man, in face both strong and gentle, and 
 wearing, like a fop, the showy costume of the French 
 guard, with the red and blue cockade of the city of 
 Paris. A silver braid on his sleeve denoted his rank. 
 He had been a sergeant in the city militia before the 
 disbanding of the French guards. 
 
 He passed twice or thrice before a girl, pretty and 
 buxom, with clear blue eyes, who was not dancing at 
 the time. The handsome guardsman looked wist- 
 fully at, but hesitated to approach her, though his 
 comrades encouraged him. She eyed him scornfully. 
 
 “Go on, Lefebvre,” said one of his companions to 
 the guardsman; “the place is not impregnable.” 
 
 “Perhaps,” laughed another of his companions, 
 “she has herself opened a breach ere this.” 
 
 “And,” cried a third, “if you don’t attempt it, I 
 will myself.” 
 
 “You can see, Lefebvre,” said the man who had 
 first spoken, “that it is you she is looking at. Ask 
 her to dance the fricassee with you.” 
 
 Lefebvre was silent. He seemed afraid to address 
 
MADAME SAN8-0ENE. 
 
 the fresh young woman, who, though she was by no 
 means icy, was not one whit abashed. 
 
 ^‘Do you really think I have a chance, Berna- 
 dotte?” said Lefebvre, finally, to the last speaker. 
 “Well, by heaven, a French soldier never retreats 
 from an enemy or a pretty woman. Ma foi! I will 
 make the attack.” 
 
 And, leaving his companions. Sergeant Lefebvre 
 advanced to the pretty girl, whose eyes began to flash 
 angrily, for she had heard the remarks about her. 
 She stood, bracing herself ready to receive him in 
 fine fashion. 
 
 “Listen,” she said to a girl standing beside her, 
 “you will hear me teach those impertinent guards 
 whether or no I have really made an opening for 
 them.” And she rose quickly, eyes flashing, hands 
 on her hips, tongue ready, prepared for action. 
 
 '! The sergeant, on his part, thought deeds would 
 count more than words. So, extending his arms, he 
 seized the young woman by the waist, and, attempt- 
 ing to kiss her neck, said : 
 
 “Mademoiselle, will you dance the fricassee?” 
 
 The sergeant had been quick, but the girl was 
 quicker. She freed herself from the sergeant’s half- 
 embrace, and stretching out her hand in the direction 
 of his cheek, slapped it heartily, saying merrily, as 
 well as almost furiously, “Take that, my boy! 
 ThaV% your fricassee.” 
 
 The sergeant fell hack, rubbed his cheek vigor- 
 ously, then absolutely blushed; finally, politely 
 lifting his three-cornered hat, said, with a gallant 
 air: “Mademoiselle, I humbly ask your pardon.” 
 
 “Oh,” said the girl, her anger gone, “there’s no 
 offense, my lad ; I have merely given you a lesson. 
 Another time you’ll know with whom you are deal- 
 ing.” Then, turning to the women round her, she 
 said, iotio voce: “ He’s not so bad — that guardsman.” 
 
MADAME 8ANS-GENE, 
 
 9 
 
 Bernadotte meantime (who had been jealous of 
 Lefebvre when he took his advice and approached 
 the pretty girl, but had smiled when he saw him 
 slapped) now took his arm, exclaiming: ‘‘Come with 
 us; nobody wants to dance with you, you see, Le- 
 febvre. Perhaps,” he continued, with a look at the 
 girl, ‘^perhaps, after all, mademoiselle does not know 
 how to dance the fricassee.” 
 
 Up spoke the girl quickly: ‘‘What’s that you say? 
 I can dance the fricassee, and I will, when I choose, 
 but not with you” (looking at Bernadotte); “but” 
 (glancing at Lefebvre) “if your comrade were to ask 
 me, like a gentleman, I should be glad to dance a 
 measure with him. There is no ill-feeling between 
 ns, is there, sergeant?” she asked, turning to Lefeb- 
 vre, and extending her hand. 
 
 “Ill-feeling!” exclaimed Lefebvre; “Surely not. 
 Yet I again ask your pardon, mademoiselle, though 
 it was more my companions’ fault, and Bernadotte’s 
 there, than my own. I got simply what I deserved.” 
 
 The girl interrupted him. 
 
 “By your accent,” she said, “you must be an 
 Alsatian.” 
 
 “I am a native of the Upper-Khine — at Euifach,” 
 replied Lefebvre. 
 
 del! what luck!” ejaculated the girl; “I am 
 from St. Amarin.” 
 
 “My countrywoman,” said the man. 
 
 “My countryman,” said the woman. “Strange,” 
 she continued, “how people do come across each 
 other.” , 
 
 “And you are called?” asked the man. 
 
 “Catherine,” said the woman; “ Catherine Unscher 
 —laundress — Rue Royal, corner of Rue Orties-Haint- 
 Honore.” 
 
 “ While I am Lefebvre, ex-sergeant of the guards,” 
 said the man; “now in the militia.” 
 
10 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-GENE. 
 
 Tres bien!^^ spoke up the laundress; ‘Mater on, 
 countryman, we will learn more about each other; 
 hut just now the fricassee calls us, sergeant.” 
 
 And, without further ado, taking his hand she 
 led him among the maze of dancers. 
 
 While the two danced, a pale, wan-faced young 
 man, with long hair worn over dog-like eyes, quiet 
 and subtle in bearing, with a coat like a cassock, ex- 
 claimed: “What! Catherine among the guards!” 
 
 Sergeant Bernadette overheard this remark. “Do 
 you know this Catherine?” he asked. 
 
 “ Yes, I assure you!” replied the pale-faced youth; 
 “she is my laundress. A good girl, and a virtuous, 
 with an open heart and a sharp tongue. Through- 
 out the quarter she is known to every one as Madame 
 Don’t Care — Madame Sans Gene—and she has earned 
 the title by her bold words and decided ways.” 
 
 The orchestra now grew louder. The dancers 
 grew more lively, and all chance for conversation 
 was lost in the wild tumult of the fricassee. 
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 THE MAGICIAJSr AND THE PKEDICTION — THE MAN 
 WITH A STAK. 
 
 When the dance was ended Sergeant Lefebvre led 
 his countrywoman to her place. There was peace 
 between them. They talked like old friends, they 
 walked arm in arm, like young lovers. 
 
 Lefebvre to insure the continuance of good humor 
 proposed refreshments. 
 
 “ Agreed,” replied Catherine. “ I do not stand on 
 ceremony. You look like a good sort of fellow, and 
 assuredly I shall not refuse your politeness, especially 
 as the fricassee makes one thirsty. Let us sit down 
 here,” taking seats at one of the tables. Lefebvre 
 
MADAME SANS-QENE. 
 
 11 
 
 was charmed at the turn things were taking. He 
 hesitated a moment, however, before seating himself. 
 
 ‘‘What’s the matter with you?” asked Catherine, 
 quite brusquely. 
 
 “Look you,” answered her escort, looking around 
 him at his companions, and speaking with some em- 
 barrassment, “it is this: we guardsmen and militia- 
 men do not like to act churlishly — like Switzers.” 
 
 “Oh,” said she, “I understand — your comrades — 
 you wish to ask them to join us. A¥ell, do so, if 
 you will, or do you want me to call them?” 
 
 And, without waiting for his reply, she mounted 
 a green wooden bench near the table, and arranging 
 her pretty hands around her pretty mouth, like a 
 speaking trumpet, she called to the three guardsmen 
 who stood a little distance off, amusing themselves 
 at the actions of the couple. 
 
 “Oho! lads,” she cried, “come over here. Don’t 
 be afraid! We won’t eat you. Besides, if you only 
 watch us drinking, without drinking yourselves, you 
 will get the blues.” 
 
 The three guardsmen responded gayly to the 
 friendly invitation — all but Bernadotte, who lin- 
 gered behind. 
 
 “What! you’re surely not going?” said one of the 
 other two to Bernadotte. 
 
 “No, but I want to talk with yonder citizen,” was 
 the reply, with a glance toward the young man 
 already alluded to, with the long frock and the 
 dog-like eyes. 
 
 Bernadotte spoke rather crossly. He was in reality 
 somewhat jealous already of Lefebvre’s success with 
 .the pretty laundress. 
 
 Catherine had caught Bernadette’s glance at the 
 wan-faced young man. 
 
 “Oh, he’s not in the way,” she said; “I know him 
 and he knows me. Is it not so. Citizen Fouche?” 
 
12 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 The party thus addressed came forward to the 
 table where Catherine and Lefebvre were seated — 
 the latter having ordered warm wines and pastry — 
 and said, as he saluted them: Since Mademoiselle 
 Catherine desires, I come gladly. For I love to find 
 myself among the brave defenders of our city.” 
 
 Then the four guardsmen and Fouche sat down, 
 and, having filled their glasses, they drank together. 
 But Catherine and Lefebvre, among other quiet gal- 
 lantries, drank, without being noticed, from the 
 same glass. 
 
 Then Lefebvre, growing bolder, tried to kiss her, 
 but Catherine drew back. ‘‘No kiss, my country- 
 man — at least, not yet. I will laugh with you, dance 
 with you, drink with you, but no more.” 
 
 Fouche, noticing this little episode, said laughingly 
 to Lefebvre: “One would scarcely look for such 
 modesty in a washerw^oman. But in such matters 
 she is not very yielding — our Mademoiselle Sans 
 Gene.” 
 
 “Come, Citizen Fouche,’’ cried Catherine quickly; 
 “ you know me well — I have done your laundry work — 
 in the three months since you came from Nantes, 
 has any one the right to say anything against me?” 
 
 “No,” answered Fouche, “no one — nothing.” 
 
 “Right,” said Catherine. “Mark me, friends,” 
 she continued, “I am always ready to play like this; 
 to dance a fricassee now and then. I will even drink 
 with good lads like these; but no one in Paris can 
 boast that he has ever crossed the threshold of my 
 room. My workshop is open to the world; but to 
 my bedchamt)er there is only one man who shall 
 ever have the key.” 
 
 “And who may be that lucky man?” asked Ser- 
 geant Lefebvre, twirling his mustache. 
 
 ‘^My husband,” answered Catherine haughtily; 
 then clicking her glass against Lefebvre’s she asked 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 13 
 
 laughingly: ‘^and in that case, countryman, what 
 would you have to say?” 
 
 ‘‘ Say,” replied Lefebvre, still twirling his mustache, 
 ‘‘I should say that it were not such a bad thing for 
 him. To your health, but not to his, mam’selle,” 
 he added. 
 
 ‘^ISir, to yours,” said Catherine, draining her glass; 
 ^^and here’s to the fulfillment of your wishes,” she 
 added meaningly. 
 
 Then they all drank gayly, laughing over this last 
 sally. 
 
 And while thus engaged a singular sight presented 
 itself. A strange figure with a pointed cap, and a 
 long black robe, spangled with stars of silver, and 
 crescents of a bluish hue, and comets with long tails, 
 moved among the tables like a specter. 
 
 Bernadette recognized this specter at once, and 
 located him. “Look,” he cried, “ it is Fortunatus, 
 the magician.” Then he cried out loudly: “Who 
 wants to have his fortune told?” 
 
 Every ball in those days had its sorcerer, its card- 
 reader, its fortune-teller, who revealed the past and 
 foretold the future for five sous. In such an excited 
 political period as this, proceeding the tenth of Au- 
 gust, when the old order of things was giving way to 
 the now with fairy-like rapidity, naturally everybody 
 believed in the unbelievable, everybody had faith in the 
 marvelous. Cagliostro with his glass, Mesmer with his 
 trough, had overturned the heads of the aristocrats, 
 while the people had confidence in the soothsayers of 
 the crossroads, and the astrologers of the taverns. 
 As for Catherine, the laundress, she was now burning 
 to know the future, for it seemed to her that this 
 meeting to-night with the handsome sergeant was 
 destined to alter her whole life. She was about to 
 ask Lefebvre to call Fortunatus, and question him, 
 when the sorcerer himself turned to answer some 
 
14 
 
 MADAME QANS-QEME, 
 
 question proposed by a group of three men seated at 
 a table opposite. 
 
 Let us first hear what he has to say to them,” she 
 whispered. 
 
 “ Ah !” said Bernadette, lookii^ at the group op- 
 posite; know one of them. He is a Burgundian 
 called Andoche Junot.” 
 
 I know another,” said Lefebvre; ‘^he is an aristo- 
 crat called Pierre de Marmont. He too is a Bur- 
 gundian.” 
 
 ‘‘But the third one,” said Fouche, “that lean 
 young man with the deep-set eyes, and the dark 
 complexion? I am sure I have seen him before. Who 
 is he? where have I seen him?” 
 
 “Perhaps in my workroom,” said the laundress, 
 with the least bit of a blush. “He is an artillery 
 officer, who has laid down his commission — he ex- 
 pects another appointment I believe — he lives near 
 me — in the Rue Royal-Saint-Eoche, at the Hotel des 
 Patriotes.” 
 
 “Ah! then he is a Corsican,” cried Fouche. “All 
 the Corsicans live at that hotel. He is an odd 
 man, this client of yours — I remember his name now. 
 It’s a strange one — Berna — Buna — Bina — Bona -” 
 
 “Bonaparte,” said Catherine. 
 
 “Yes, that’s it — Bonaparte — Timoleon Bonaparte 
 — is it not?” 
 
 “No; Napoleon Bonaparte,” said Catherine. “He 
 is a wise youth, and a rather sad one,” she contin- 
 ued; “who impresses every man he meets.” 
 
 “Well,” muttered Fouche, “if ever he becomes 
 anybody, or gets anything, he ought to change his 
 name. But listen ! the sorcerer Fortunatus is speak- 
 ing. What can he be saying to them?” 
 
 The four guardsmen at once grew silent and lis- 
 tened with all their ears, at one table, to what was 
 said to the group of three at the table opposite. As 
 
MADAME SANS-QENE. 
 
 15 
 
 for Catherine, she became visibly affected by the 
 presence of the sorcerer, and said earnestly, though 
 in a whisper, to Lefebvre: I wish he would prophesy 
 good luck for Bonaparte. He is such a good young 
 man; he is not rich yet; he supports four brothers 
 and his sisters. Besides,” she continued, assuming a 
 mercantile manner, “he owes me for several wash- 
 ings, and I have never yet been able even to present 
 his bill.” 
 
 Fbrtunatus meanwhile was balancing his pointed 
 hat, and gravely reading the outstretched hand of 
 the young man whom Bernadotte had called Junot. 
 
 “Thy career shall be bright and well rounded,” he 
 said, in a deep, low voice. “Thou shalt be a great 
 man’s friend — thou shalt triumph with him glori- 
 ously — thy head shalt bear a ducal crown — thou shalt 
 triumph in the South.” 
 
 “Bravo!” cried Junot, “thou art consoling to a 
 soldier. But, after all my good fortune, how shall I 
 die?” he asked. 
 
 “Thou shalt die mad,” answered the sorcerer in 
 his hollow tones. 
 
 “ The devil !” cried the second of the three at the 
 table, the one whom Lefebvre had called Marmont. 
 “Shall I go mad, too?” 
 
 “No,” answered the soothsayer; “thou shalt live 
 for thy own shame and thy country’s ruin. After a 
 life of glory, thou shalt desert thy master, betray 
 thy country, and become a Judas.” 
 
 Marmont sneered. “Thou flatterest me, false 
 prophet,” he cried to the fortune-teller. Then 
 looking toward Bonaparte he asked the magician to 
 foretell his destiny. 
 
 But Bonaparte drew away his hand and said 
 proudly: “I have no wish to be told the future, for 
 I know it.” He spoke with an accent of profound 
 conviction. Then, turning to his friends, he pointed 
 
16 
 
 MADAME SAN^GEEE. 
 
 to the stars, visible at one point through the tent- 
 like covering of the dance-hall, above the wall that 
 enclosed it. ‘‘Do you see that star up there?’' he 
 cried in a resounding voice. “No? you see it not. 
 But I see it — that is enough for me — that is my star.” 
 
 The sorcerer moved on, and, as Catherine beckoned 
 to him, he approached her group. “Profit by yeur 
 youth,” he said abruptly to two of the guardsmen^ 
 “for your days are numbered.” 
 
 “But where are we to die?” asked one of the 
 young men, who afterward was shot down by the 
 Swiss guards, a martyr to liberty. 
 
 “On the steps of a palace,” was the reply. 
 
 “What greatness!” exclaimed Bernadette, “death 
 in a tragedy and in a palace — can I not share it?” 
 
 “No,” answered the sorcerer, “thou shalt die in 
 peace. Thou shalt mount a throne, disown thy flag, 
 war with thy former companions in arms, and lie in a 
 foreign grave, beside an icy sea.” 
 
 “What then is left for me?” asked Lefebvre of 
 the fortune-teller. 
 
 “You shall marry the woman you love,” answered 
 Portunatus; “you shall lead a mighty army, and 
 your name shall be a synonym for faith and courage.” 
 
 Lefebvre smiled proudly. But now Catherine, 
 the laundress, never before abashed, asked of Fortu- 
 natus timidly : “I — sir magician — what shall become 
 of me?” 
 
 “As for you, mademoiselle,” said the amateur 
 fortune-teller, smiling kindly on the almost trem- 
 bling girl, “you shall marry the man you love.” 
 
 Then Lefebvre looked at Catherine, and uncon- 
 sciously Catherine looked at Lefebvre. 
 
 “And you shall be a duchess,” added the sorcerer, 
 still smiling. 
 
 “Then I must hurry and become a duke,” cried 
 Lefebvre merrily yet meaningly. “There, magi- 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 17 
 
 cian,” he said, trying to impede the progress of For- 
 tunatns, ‘‘stop and complete your prophecy. Tell 
 me if I shall marry Catherine here, and that when 
 man and wife we shall become duke and duchess.” 
 
 He really seemed anxious to have the fortune-teller 
 prophesy in detail as he wished, and even Catherine 
 seemed to be not indilferent. But Fortunatus, still 
 smiling kindly on the couj)le, passed on and vanished 
 in the crowd. 
 
 Fouche looked after him. “After all,” he said, 
 “the magician has little imagination — at least, not 
 enough left for me. He predicted for me nothing. 
 Am I then to be nobody?” 
 
 “You!” said Catherine, “why, you look like a 
 curate already. What would you like to be?” 
 
 “Oh, I am at present an enemy of tyrants,” an- 
 swered Fouche, “but I would really like to be Min- 
 ister of Police.” 
 
 “You will get there,” said Catherine, with a 
 meaning look and a laugh. “You are the devil to 
 find out what is going on.” 
 
 “Yes,” retorted Fouche, “1 shall be Minister of 
 Police when you are a duchess.” He smiled as he 
 spoke, and the smile seemed in itself a prophecy. 
 
 By this time the ball was over. The party arose, 
 laughing at the memory of the magician and his 
 magic. 
 
 Lefebvre offered Catherine his arm to escort her 
 to her workroom, and in front of the couple walked 
 homeward the three friends, Junot, Marmont and 
 Napoleon Bonaparte — the latter a little apart from 
 his companions, silent and grave. 
 
 But ever and anon he raised his eyes heavenAvard 
 as if seeking among its shining hosts to see his star — - 
 the star of destiny — his star alone. 
 
18 
 
 MADAME SAN8-GENE. 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 royalty’s last night and Catherine’s wed- 
 
 DING GIFT. 
 
 Th'e tenth of Angust fell on a Friday, and the 
 weather had been fine. At midnight the moon shed 
 its luster on the town. Paris had been sleeping for 
 some time past with hand on sword and one eye 
 open, ready to rise at the very first alarm. The city 
 was a furnace — the revolution boiled — the Marseilles 
 troops had arrived, singing the Marseillaise. 
 
 Meanwhile the nobles barricaded the palaces, and 
 established in the Tuileries a garrison of Swiss guards. 
 They were called by the citizens the Chevaliers dii 
 Poignard, in allusion to an incident at a banquet in 
 October when the national cockade had been trampled 
 under foot. 
 
 The revolution was really born on the tenth day, 
 or ninth night, of August. It was a ‘‘spontaneous” 
 uprising of a people’. No one man directed it — not 
 Marat, who was in his cave; not Dan ton, who was 
 asleep with Camille Desmoulins; not Eobespierre, 
 who lived apart; not Barbaroux, who declined to lead 
 the Marseillaise; not Santerre, who only figured in 
 the fight when it was half over. 
 
 August tenth saw a nameless, headless insurrection 
 — a battle without a commander — yet with a mob for 
 general, and with a nation for heroes. 
 
 The movement began directly after midnight on 
 the starlit night of the ninth of August. The tocsin 
 gave the signal, and, by the dramatic retribution of 
 Providence, the same big bell, that of the clock of St. 
 Germain-d’Auxerrois, which had chimed for the 
 massacre of St. Bartholomew and the downfall of the 
 Huguenots, now sounded the death-knell of mon- 
 archy. 
 
MADAME 8ANS-0ENE, 
 
 19 
 
 Mademoiselle Sans-G^ne heard the bell, the tocsin, 
 and the call to arms. 
 
 She was among the firsh to put her pretty face and 
 nose out of the window, to see what was going on. 
 Dressed in a dainty but scanty petticoat, a thin lact 
 covering over her fair bosom and beating heart, and 
 a love of a little nightcap on her head, she looked 
 and listened. 
 
 And then she thought, not so much, it must be 
 confessed, about the crisis in the affairs of her coun- 
 try as the crisis in the affairs of her heart. For 
 already, since the fricassee at the Waux-Hall ball, 
 the handsome Sergeant Lefebvre, as he became con- 
 vinced that there was no other way to obtain her, 
 had asked the fair laundress to become his wife, and 
 she had coyly, but satisfactorily, consented. 
 
 ^‘We have not much to begin housekeeping on,” 
 said she. ‘‘True I have my laundry — but then there 
 are my bad debts.” 
 
 “And I have my commission and my soldier’s pay,” 
 said he; “but then my pay is often in arrears.” 
 
 “Never mind,” said she; “we are young, we love, 
 and we have the future. And then the sorcerer the 
 other night prophesied that I should be a duchess.” 
 
 “While I — ” said he, “did he not prophesy that I 
 was to be a duke?” 
 
 “ Yes,” laughed Catherine; “and he said you should 
 marry the woman you love.” 
 
 “Well, let me make sure of at least, at once,” 
 urged Lefebvre. 
 
 “Oh, how impatient you men are,” said Catherine. 
 “We women cannot marry at once, we must prepare.” 
 
 “ ne vois pas la necessite^^^ laughed the hand- 
 some sergeant. “But at any rate let us fix a date 
 for our wedding.” 
 
 “Well,” answered Catherine, “when the tyrant 
 falls. How will that suit you?” 
 
20 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-0ENE. 
 
 ‘^Admirably!” cried Lefebvre, “both as a man and 
 a patriot. I hate tyrants — look at this.” 
 
 And he showed her his arm tattooed with two 
 swords crossed with a grenade in flames, and the 
 legend: “Death to tyrants!” 
 
 Catherine admired the tattooing — it was really a 
 work of art — she would have touched it, patted it 
 and the arm. 
 
 But Lefebvre drew back, “Don’t touch it — it is 
 fresh,” he cried. “It must dry — but in a few days 
 you shall see, on this very arm, something finer than 
 even this.” 
 
 “What?” asked the laundress as curiously as 
 tenderly. 
 
 “My wedding gift,” mysteriously replied the ex- 
 sergeant. 
 
 No more was said on the subject just then, but 
 they drank gayly together, and then parted quickly. 
 That is to say, Catherine having been escorted by 
 her lover from the tavern to her bedroom, darted 
 into the latter, and closed the door in her lover’s 
 face. 
 
 “You cannot enter here,” she cried, “until you 
 are my husband.” 
 
 “And that will be when the tyrant falls,” re- 
 sponded Lefebvre. “Death to tyrants.” 
 
 But tyrants take some time to die. And it was 
 therefore quite natural that, alike as a patriot and a 
 woman, Catherine Sans-G^ne, laundress, had been 
 waiting impatiently for such an uprising as was tak- 
 ing place this morning of the tenth of August. 
 
 The tocsin, the bell, the chimes of the clock, the 
 drum-beats which meant the end to the king and 
 queen of France, meant the beginning of bliss to one 
 French washerwoman. 
 
 The De Profundis of royalty was her wedding 
 inarch. 
 
MADAME 8ANS-GENE, 
 
 21 
 
 Two of Catherine’s neighbors in their nightdresses 
 stood beside their doors, waiting for developments 
 and news. 
 
 ‘‘What do you know, neighbor?” asked one of 
 them, across the street, of Mademoiselle Sans-Gene. 
 
 “Nothing yet,” she answered, “but I shall know 
 everything soon.” She was thinking of Lefebvre, 
 who would tell her all. 
 
 And even while she thought of him, he came 
 along, breathless with running. He was equipped 
 and armed, but he laid down his gun to embrace his 
 sweetheart. 
 
 “Catherine,” he cried, “ma belle blanchisseur^ how 
 glad I am to see you. It is getting warm, but it 
 will be warmer. Meanwhile remember the watch- 
 word for the day is, ‘Long live the nation.’ ” 
 
 Then he told Catherine and the neighbors the 
 situation. 
 
 An attempt had been made to assassinate M. 
 Petion, the mayor of Paris. 
 
 The people had seized the tyrant for a hostage — 
 the king’s palace was a fortress. The Swiss guards 
 and the Chevaliers du Poignard were armed to the 
 teeth, and were sworn to kill patriots. Mandat, 
 commander of the National Guards, had betrayed the 
 people, and had been shot by some one in the crowd. 
 
 Then, winding his arms around the blushing but 
 willing Catherine, Lefebvre exclaimed: 
 
 “Nothing can now stop the march of the people. 
 To-night we will win, and to-morrow we will marry. 
 Ah! see, I have your wedding gift already.” 
 
 And baring the arm he showed a second tattooing — > 
 two hearts aflame, with the legend underneath : “ To 
 Catherine — for life.” 
 
 “Ah!” cried Catherine, looking at it, “it is 
 finer than the other,” and she clung around his neck. 
 The prudish laundress had melted into the loving 
 
22 
 
 MADAME 8AWS-GENE. 
 
 woman. ‘‘Oh, my own, my handsome Lefebvre,” 
 she murmured, “how I love thee!” 
 
 But at this moment distant shots boomed through 
 the heavy air, and there was a roar of cannon. 
 
 “I must away, my Catherine,” her lover cried, 
 embracing her. “Duty calls; but becalm, I shall re- 
 turn victorious.” 
 
 He seized his gun, he kissed and clasped his girly 
 then rushed away in the direction of the Tuileries. 
 
 Louis XVI. had sought refuge in the National 
 Assembly, which had been discussing and advocating 
 the abolition of negro slavery and the slave trade — 
 an appropriate subject for the time. While the der 
 bate was going on, the ill-fated monarch, it is re- 
 corded, calmly munched a peach — oblivious of, or 
 indifferent to, the tragedy around him. 
 
 It had been a great day! The night before had 
 been a great night. The last day of tyranny — the 
 last night of royalty. Catherine Sans-Gene, washer- 
 woman, had received from her betrothed husband, 
 ex-Sergeant Lefebvre, her wedding gift, and the 
 Marseillaise, chanting their immortal hymn, had sal- 
 lied forth to destroy the last stronghold of feudalism. 
 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 CATHERINE AND A CHEVALIER DU POIGNARD — 
 THE REPUBLICAN AND THE ARISTOCRAT. 
 
 The cannon roared till noon around the Tuileries. 
 Many were the mutations of fortune during the 
 memorable day. M. Petion, mayor of Paris, had 
 been sent, under guard, to his own residence, to be 
 kept a prisoner there till the insurrection was over. 
 Mandat had been replaced as commander of the 
 National Guard by Santerre. The arsenal had been 
 
MADAME 8ANS-0ENE. 
 
 23 
 
 forced and arms distributed. Louis XVI., accom- 
 panied by his faithful Swiss guards, left the Tuileries 
 and demanded safety of the National Assembly. 
 These loyal Swiss guards had expected to fight a 
 mob^ instead of which they found that they had to 
 face a people. 
 
 Perhaps blood might have been spared that day 
 had not, by some sad mistake, a trouble arisen be- 
 tween the Swiss guards, who were really well in ten- 
 tioned, but not so well informed, and the multitude 
 — a trouble which became a massacre. A friend of 
 Danton, one Westerman, an Alsatian, commanded 
 the Marseilles and the Breton troops, and took part 
 in the emeute. The Swiss fought bravely, but were 
 repulsed and killed, and when the trouble terminated 
 the palace was in the hands of the people, and the 
 king was a prisoner. 
 
 Catherine, a little before noonday, sallied forth, 
 hoping to meet her brave lover. She was not afraid. 
 Was she not engaged to be married to a soldier — • 
 and a hero of the people? Besides she wanted to see 
 if the tyrant would not yield without further delay, 
 so that she could get married. 
 
 As for the chance of meeting her lover, fighting, 
 and black with powder, the idea positively charmed 
 her — made her glad — and bold. Was she not to be 
 a soldier’s Avife? Even now, she felt she ought to 
 be near him, handing him cartridges, loading his 
 musket, herself firing a musket with him, if need 
 be. Already she felt a warrior. She smelt powder — 
 she sought to share the dangers of her lover — she 
 began to feel jealous of his glory. It never occurred 
 to her that he might fall, or that she might be struck 
 by a bullet from the Swiss. No, she believed in the 
 prophet of the ball. She was to marry Lefebvre, 
 and play duchess to her duke. But when the real 
 trouble, already alluded to, with the Swiss began, 
 
34 
 
 MADAME SANS-QENE. 
 
 she was driven back by the crowd, despite her efforts, 
 and pushed along the Eue Saint-Honore. When she 
 thus unwillingly reached her laundry, she was in a 
 rage of grief as well as mortification. For she now 
 began to fear that perhaps things might not go all 
 one way, and that, despite the fact that he was a 
 hero and her lover, Lefebvre might be wounded, ay, 
 perchance at this moment — how her heart beat — 
 dead. ^ 
 
 She rushed into her room, and waited anxiously 
 for such news as might come along. She heard the 
 cannon, and she cheered the cannoneers. But still 
 no Lefebvre came. Had he rushed in then she her- 
 self would have asked him to be married at once. 
 
 She closed the shutters of her workroom; she was 
 a prudent woman, and there was no telling what 
 might happen. 
 
 She would have started again to meet Lefebvre, 
 only she feared that she might miss him if he was 
 seeking her. It would be best to wait; he would 
 return by the Kue Eoyal-Saint-Eoche, as soon as he 
 and his comrades had taken the palace — it was a mere 
 matter of time. 
 
 The street was now quiet; her neighbors’ houses 
 were closed; only occasional shots were heard, and 
 occasional fugitives seen — the last defenders of the 
 palace, hunted down though the streets. 
 
 Suddenly she heard three shots in quick succession, 
 and the sound of footsteps in the alleyway, leading 
 to one of the doors of her laundry, on the Eue 
 Saint-Honore. 
 
 Despite of herself the laundress began to tremble. 
 She was only a woman and alone. There’s some 
 one in the alleyway,” she said. “Who can it be?” 
 Then, thinking of Lefebvre, and recovering her 
 bravery, she took down the bar fastening the entrance 
 to the alleyway, and opened the door. 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 25 
 
 She saw a wounded man, holding his hand to his 
 breast. He wore a white uniform, knee breeches 
 and silk stockings; his clothes were blood-stained; he 
 could scarcely drag himself along. She saw at once 
 that, whoever he was, he wasnot a ‘‘patriot” — he was 
 “an enemy to the people” — still he certainly was a 
 wounded man. 
 
 “Who are you? and what do you want here?” she 
 asked firmly. 
 
 “I am a victim,” the man gasped; “they seek me; 
 give me shelter, for heaven’s sake. I am an Aus- 
 trian officer — I am the Count of Neipperg.” He 
 frothed at the mouth — he could say no more, and 
 fell in the alleyway. 
 
 Catherine cried from fright and pity. Then she 
 said : “ Poor boy ! they have settled thee, yes — ” 
 surveying him as he lay, his fine coat and vest stained 
 with blood. “Thou art an aristocrat — thou hast 
 fired on the people — thou art no Frenchman — but 
 an Austrian — but thou art a 
 
 And then, that sweet, good, kindly instinct which 
 is to be found in even the most energetic woman — 
 that “sister of charity” which nestles in the breast 
 of even a warrior-maid — took possession of the laun- 
 dress, heart and soul — and, beside that wounded 
 man, our Catherine knelt, and touching his breast, 
 as gently as though it had been her own Lefebvre’s, 
 she endeavored to ascertain if he still lived. 
 
 “He breathes,” she almost shouted with joy, at 
 last; “he lives, and I can save him — perhaps,” she 
 added. 
 
 First she closed the alley door — as a precaution 
 against interruption — then she went to one of the 
 laundry troughs and filled a large bowl with fresh 
 water, and lastly, returning to the wounded man, 
 she made a compress of some linen lying close at 
 hand. 
 
26 
 
 MADAME SAM8--GEME. 
 
 In her haste she had not, till too late, noticed that 
 she had torn up one of her customer’s shirts for 
 the compress. 
 
 ‘‘A pretty mess I’ve made of it,” she said to her- 
 self. She looked at the mark on the shirt — ‘‘worse 
 luck!” she cried, “it belongs to that poor artillery 
 oflScer, Captain Napoleon Bonaparte — who has none 
 too many — besides, he already owes me a big bill — 
 let it go against the shirt I’ve torn. No, no, that 
 wouldn’t be fair. I’ll get him a new shirt, all the 
 same. I’ll tell him I burned the old one with my 
 iron. But he’s so proud — as proud as poor — perhaps 
 he won’t take it. Ah! he is a man who will never 
 make his laundress rich. He cares so little for 
 clothes — about as little as he cares for women.” 
 
 Here the laundress heaved a gentle sigh. If Le- 
 febvre had but heard it! But she went on with her 
 compress, which she neatly applied to her unexpected 
 visitor’s wounds. 
 
 The sight of this man’s sufferings had transformed 
 Catherine from an Amazon in petticoats into a min- 
 istering angel. She could almost have cursed Avar 
 and warriors, as she saw his wounds, had she not 
 thought of the French tyrant-king and his Austrian 
 woman — Madame Veto-— and of her own particular 
 pet warrior, Lefebvre. 
 
 She looked at the wounded man with renewed 
 attention, as she bathed him with cold water, and 
 bandaged his wounds. “He is young — looks like 
 a girl — but how fine his linen is!” she exclaimed, 
 glancing at his shirt with a professional eye. “ He 
 is a beastly aristocrat.” Then she softly added, 
 “more’s the pity.” 
 
 Under her healing influences the wounded man, 
 recovering his senses, opened his eyes and looked 
 around him, as if searching for something. He saw 
 a woman he had never seen before — a French woman. 
 
MADAME 8ANS-QENE. 
 
 27 
 
 He attempted feebly to arise. His confused fancy 
 converted his benefactress into a dangerous enemy. 
 ‘^Do not kill me,” he begged. 
 
 “Ah!” he continued, looking at her more calmly, 
 “you must be the laundress, Catherine ITpscher, of 
 Saint-Amarin — to seek whom I came here.” 
 
 Catherine, astonished beyond measure, merely 
 nodded assent to her identity. 
 
 “Mademoiselle de Laveline sent me to you,” said 
 the stranger, speaking more firmly. 
 
 “What! Mademoiselle Blanche de Laveline? — did 
 she send you to me?” cried Catherine. “She is the 
 daughter of the Seigneur de Saint-Amarin — she is 
 my protector. She it was who got me this very 
 laundry. You know her, then?” 
 
 “Yes,” answered the stranger, on whom Catherine 
 now looked almost as a friend, “she told me in 
 case of any trouble to seek you. She told me you 
 were good, that you*would aid me in my need. I 
 will explain later.” 
 
 “No need for any explanations,” answered Cath- 
 erine softly, almost tenderly. “You are her friend, 
 and there’s no peril I would not brave for her. You 
 were right to come straight here, mon (She 
 
 called this enemy of the people, this aristocrat, “my 
 friend.”) “You are safer here than anywhere else 
 in Paris to-day. He who would find you here to 
 harm you must do so over my dead body.” 
 
 The wounded man became excited at her earnest 
 words, but Catherine calmed him. “Lie still,” she 
 said, “dismiss all fear; no one will kill you.” Then 
 adopting an almost motherly tone she added: “Mad- 
 emoiselle Blanche will be content to trust you to my 
 care, although 1 am a patriot.” 
 
 She uttered the last sentence proudly, but she re- 
 proved herself, in a manner, for her pride. “It is 
 thrown away,” she said to herself; “he is only an 
 
28 
 
 MADAME SAJSrS-GENE. 
 
 Austrian, and an Austrian don’t even know the 
 meaning of the word patriot. There are no patriots 
 among them — they are all subjects, all slaves.” The 
 little laundress was just then a thorough Parisian, 
 despising the rest of the world. Then taking the 
 wounded man’s hand she pressed it lightly. “You 
 are with a friend,” she said. 
 
 The Count Neipperg fainted away from excess of 
 joy, then, coming to, he smiled happily, and with 
 his still cold and blood-stained hand, pressed Cather- 
 ine’s warmly. 
 
 Tears welled in Catherine’s eyes. She was deeply 
 affected, but she mastered her feelings. She looked 
 at the grateful sufferer. ^ 
 
 “If I could but carry him to bed,” she thought; 
 “he would lie more comfortably, but I am not strong 
 enough to carry him, and he cannot help himself. 
 Oh, if Lefebvre were only here to help me. Why 
 does he not come! Mo7i Dieu! can it be?” 
 
 She would not even finish her terrible thought to 
 herself. She would not even think that possibly at 
 this very moment her lover might be lying wounded, 
 like this man — but unlike this man, with no Cather- 
 ine beside him. 
 
 But she grew cold with fright. “How terrible is 
 war,” she cried ; but soon her native energy and hope- 
 fulness came to her rescue. “Bah!” she thought, 
 “ my big Lefebvre is not like this little aristocrat. He 
 is a man, not a boy. And besides, he is a perfect 
 receptacle for bullets. Why, I dare say he would 
 take half a dozen into him without a whimper. He is 
 not cut out of the same stuff as this young sprig, 
 who has dared to defend Madame Veto, and who has 
 fired on the people. Bad luck to him ! 
 
 “No, I won’t wish him any harm,” thought Ma- 
 demoiselle Sans-Gene; “he couldn’t help being a fool. 
 And then he is a friend of Mademoiselle Blanche. It 
 
MADAME SANS-GEim 
 
 is impossible to leave him here and thns — he will die. 
 But he must live. Perhaps the little fellow is be- 
 trothed to Mademoiselle Blanche.” Here the laun- 
 dress laughed. ‘‘It would be funny,” she reflected, 
 “if I should help her to marry when she promised 
 to help along my marriage at any time by giving me 
 a dowry. Well, one good turn deserves another. 
 At any rate I must save this young man, but how on 
 earth can I carry him into the house? Why don’t 
 Lefebvre come?” 
 
 And she looked around as if expecting him — in 
 vain. 
 
 Suddenly she blushed, though there were none to 
 see her, the Austrian’s eyes being at that moment 
 closed. 
 
 “Perhaps it’s just as well, all round, that Lefebvre 
 has not come — just yet. He’s as jealous as a tiger, 
 and what wouldn’t he say, or do, if he saw me with 
 this man?” so she thought. “Not that he would 
 blame me too much for nursing a wounded aristocrat. 
 He wouldn’t like it, of course, but when he knew all, 
 and that this Austrian was a friend of my best friend 
 it would be all right. Besides, a French soldier has 
 no foe after a fight. But he wouldn’t like me to be 
 playing nurse to this man, dressing his wounds — and 
 then he might wonder how on earth this little fellow 
 knew where I lived. Of course I could answer all 
 his questions, but nevertheless, on the whole,” she 
 confessed to herself, “I would rather Lefebvre didn’t 
 see me now — so I must carry my Austrian into the 
 house alone.” 
 
 But the Austrian though little was heavy, and be- 
 coming unconscious became heavier. Catherine tried 
 to lift him but could not. 
 
 At that moment some one knocked at the street 
 door. Catherine, now as pale as the wounded man, 
 found herself trembling. 
 
30 
 
 MADAME SAN8-GENE. 
 
 ‘‘Who can it be?” she wondered. “My laundry is 
 closed, besides, who would want washing done on 
 such a day?” 
 
 The sound of muskets was heard on the stones. 
 There were more knocks at the door. Voices were 
 heard. 
 
 Some one shouted: “He is safe by this time.” 
 
 Others shouted: “He is hidden here. 
 
 “Alas! they are still seeking him,” thought Cath- 
 erine, and she shuddered. Her eyes filled with pity 
 as she looked upon the unconscious sufferer at her side. 
 
 There seemed to be two sets of opposing voices in 
 the crowd outside; the shuffling of feet became no- 
 ticeable. Some one cried : “Force the door.” 
 
 “Oh, how shall I save him?” almost groaned 
 Catherine. Finally, shaking the man, who now 
 seemed to be dying, she said to him : “ Come, citizen ; 
 come monsieur, courage; try to stand up— try to 
 walk.” 
 
 The Austrian opened his eyes, then closed them 
 again. “I cannot walk,” he said, in a stifled voice. 
 “ Let me die!” 
 
 Catherine felt like growling. “Oh, he wants to 
 die now, does he? Have a little energy, sir,” she 
 said; ‘^ciel! remember, monsieur, your friend, Made- 
 moiselle de Laveline, never sent you to me to die — 
 you must live — -I must keep you alive for her, at any 
 rate. So get up — so — ah! — that’s the way— up — 
 up — you see it is not so very hard after all, only a 
 little will-power, you see?” 
 
 No, he did not see, nor did Catherine see either. 
 
 The Austrian staggered like a drunken man. It 
 took more than the laundress’ strength to support 
 him. Meanwhile the noise without increased. The 
 cries, the threats, the oaths redoubled, then the 
 crowd beat at the door with their bayonets, and 
 made the building shake. 
 
MADAME SAMB-GEMR 
 
 31 
 
 Suddenly a well-known voice brought the blood 
 into Catherine’s veins, the blush of love into her 
 cheeks. She heard Lefebvre cry to the crowd: 
 ‘‘That door, citizens, shall be opened for you, but by 
 me — let me pass. Catherine, it is I — have no fear; 
 come, open the door,” he called to her in his manliest, 
 tenderest, but firmest tones. 
 
 “I am coming, Lefebvre,” answered Catherine, 
 yet she came not. 
 
 “I can hear her,” said Lefebvre outside to the 
 crowd around the door; “a little patience, and she 
 will open to you. You frightened her by your ob- 
 streperous demands — give her time.” 
 
 Meanwhile, inside the house, in the entry from 
 the alley, the laundress was entreating the Austrian 
 nobleman to further exertion. 
 
 “Did you not hear them?” she said. “They are 
 coming in here; I must open to them, and you must 
 get up those stairs. I will hide you in the garret.” 
 
 While the wounded man only moaned, and asked: 
 “How high is it?” and said, “1 cannot climb, I can- 
 not see — shall fall.” 
 
 “Well, what must be, must,” said- Catherine des- 
 perately. “Fall there, in my bedroom, then,” open- 
 ing her chamber door, helping the Austrian to enter 
 it, and then locking the door upon him. 
 
 She blushed as she did so. It was the first time a 
 man had ever entered her bedchamber, and now she 
 had locked a strange man in it. 
 
 Then breathless and happy, as well as confused 
 and anxious, she rushed to the door and gave en- 
 trance and welcome to Lefebvre, thinking gleefully 
 to herself that the other man was safe. 
 
32 
 
 MADAME SAMS-GENE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE MAK IKSIDE THE BEDROOM AND THE MAN 
 OUTSIDE. 
 
 When ‘the bar was removed, the bolt drawn, and 
 the door opened, Lefebvre entered, along with sev- 
 eral members of the National Guard, and a crowd of 
 women and children, neighbors and idlers. 
 
 ^MVhy were you so slow in opening to us, my 
 sweet Catherine?” asked Lefebvre, as he kissed her 
 rapturously, on both her cheeks. 
 
 ‘‘My! such noise! such yells!” 
 
 “Yes, I know, you were frightened; but they were 
 friends and patriots who knocked. We are victors, 
 Catherine, victorious everywhere. The nation’s 
 tyrant is now the nation’s prisoner. The fortress of 
 despotism has been conquered by the free, and to-day 
 the people are the masters.” 
 
 “Long live the nation!” cried some. Others 
 shouted: “Death to traitors!” “To perdition with 
 the Swiss!” “Destruction to the Chevaliers du 
 Poignard!” while a Chevalier du Poignard lay within 
 a few feet of them, in Catherine’s bedchamber. 
 
 “Yes, death to those who have fired on the peo- 
 ple!” shouted Lefebvre. Then to Catherine and more 
 gently: “Do you know why we came so rudely to 
 your rooms?” 
 
 “No,” she replied, “but I was afraid; I have heard 
 shooting near here.” 
 
 “Yes,” said he, “we were firing just now at an 
 aristocrat who has escaped from the Tuileries, a 
 Chevalier du Poignard who assassinates patriots. I 
 swore that if he fell into my hands his blood should 
 atone for ours; but as we fired and pursued him he 
 vanished — here at the turn of the street. But he 
 must be wounded, and as there was blood beside 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 33 
 
 your al/ey door we thought he might have found a 
 hiding here; but he is not here, else we could see 
 him. Besides you can make it certain, can you not?” 
 
 He looked around him, then at Catherine — then 
 he turned to the National Guards. 
 
 ^‘Comrades, we — at least you — have nothing more 
 to do here now, for the white uniform is nowhere to 
 be seen. With your leave, you will permit me, as 
 one of the victors of the Tuileries, to embrace my 
 wife in private.” 
 
 ‘‘Oh, not yet your wife^ Lefebvre,” protested 
 Catherine, smiling. 
 
 “How so — ^why not?” insisted Lefebvre; “is not 
 the tyrant already done for?” and he waved his hand 
 to the guards. 
 
 “Comrades,” he said, “later on, at the section, we 
 must appoint a captain, two lieutenants, and a curate. 
 Our last curate ran away, and the other officers were 
 killed by the Swiss, but we can find others. But 
 now, au revoirP'* 
 
 The guards departed, yet the crowds still sur- 
 rounded the door. Lefebvre, though somewhat 
 impatient to be alone with Catherine, spoke to them 
 softly and pleasantly: “What are you waiting for?” 
 he said. “For the man in white? you see ho is not 
 here with her; so much is clear. He must have 
 fallen by the way — some distance perhaps from here 
 — he had at least three bullets in his breast; look for 
 him, do for him — that is your affair. No true hunter 
 gives up his game. Once more, au revoirP^ 
 
 And the ex-sergeant fairly drove the crowd 
 away. 
 
 They went off muttering. “Well, we’ll go after 
 him,” said one. 
 
 “ It is not so easy a thing after all to turn the world 
 upside down,” said another, thinking of the events of 
 the day. “But,” before going away he added in a 
 
34 
 
 MADAME SAN8-GENE. 
 
 whisper to Lefebvre, glancing at Catherine’s bedroom 
 door, ‘^couldn’t somebody be concealed there 
 
 Lefebvre comprehended the fellow’s meaning, and 
 was at first inclined to resent his insinuation, but he 
 quickly closed the street door on him with the 
 others. 
 
 At last the lovers were alone. With open arms 
 Lefebvre clasped his Catherine to his breast. ‘‘I 
 thought they’d nev.er go,” he said; ‘^but did you 
 hear his impudence — concealed in your bedroom, 
 indeed — your bedroom — what an idea! But how you 
 tremble, Catherine! Come, be calm — it’s all over; 
 let us think only of each other.” 
 
 But Catherine was thinking just then of the other 
 man. And involuntarily her eyes turned toward the 
 room where that other was concealed. Lefebvre 
 noticed the direction of Catherine’s eyes. Instinc- 
 tively he went toward the bedroom to enter it, but he 
 could not. The door was locked. Lefebvre paused, 
 astonished, uneasy, almost alarmed. A vague sus- 
 picion crossed his mind. Could, after all, a man 
 be concealed there? 
 
 ‘‘Why is that door closed?” asked Lefebvre. 
 
 “Because I wanted it to be,” answered Catherine. 
 
 “That is no reason for you — for me,” he said; 
 “give me the key.” 
 
 “You shall not have it,” she said distinctly, yet 
 with evident embarrassment. 
 
 Lefebvre turned white with rage. “Catherine,” 
 he cried, “you are deceiving me, there is some one — 
 some man — in your room — your bedroom. I must 
 have that key.” 
 
 “And I have already said,” she spoke calmly and 
 clearly now, “you shall not have it.” 
 
 “Well, then,” he shouted, almost beside himself 
 with anger, “I shall take it.” 
 
 As he spoke he forced his hand into the laundress’ 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 35 
 
 apron pocket, took the key out of it, opened the 
 door of the bedroom with it, and glanced within. 
 
 ^‘Lefebvre,” cried Catherine, speaking as quietly 
 yet as solemnly as a judge pronouncing sentence, “ I 
 have already told you that no man until after he is 
 my husband shall go through that door. Enter 
 through it now by force, and you will never enter it 
 again with meA^ 
 
 At this critical moment some one knocked at the 
 outer door. Catherine opened it. 
 
 Several men stood waiting. ‘‘Where is Sergeant 
 Lefebvre?” one of them asked of Catherine. “He 
 is wanted at the section. They talk of making him 
 lieutenant.” 
 
 Speechless and pale, Lefebvre stepped back from 
 Catherine’s bedroom door, but he had already seen 
 a sick man in it lying apparently lifeless on the bed. 
 
 He now relocked the door of Catherine’s bed- 
 chamber, and returned the key to Catherine, simply 
 saying : 
 
 “ Why did you not tell me that a wounded man 
 was there?” 
 
 “Ah! you know all now,” exclaimed the girl, 
 greatly relieved. Then she added sorrowfully : “ Poor 
 lad — will he die?” 
 
 “No, I think he will live,” said Lefebvre, now 
 calm. “He did not come as a lover— assure me of 
 that, at least,” he added, his jealousy for a moment 
 asserting itself. 
 
 “You, you brute cried Catherine, half indig- 
 nantly, half playfully, “had he been my lover 
 think you I would have hidden him in my bedroom 
 and let you in? But promise me,” she asked plead- 
 ingly, “you will not give him up. Eeraember, 
 though he is an Austrian, he is also the friend of 
 my friend. Mile. Blanche de Laveliue — my dearest 
 friend, my benefactress.” 
 
36 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 ‘^Oh, a wounded man is sacred,” answered Lefeb- 
 Tre; ‘^your bedroom now, my Catherine, is an ambu- 
 lance — none dare disturb it. Nurse the poor devil! 
 Save him ! I am ready to help you pay your debt to 
 that lady who has been your friend. But keep the 
 matter secret; gratify your kindly heart, but hold 
 your woman’s tongue, that none may ever even guess. 
 It would ruin me, in my section.” 
 
 “Spoken like a man, true and brave,” cried Cath- 
 erine, embracing Lefebvre. “You have my promise. 
 When you are ready I am your wife.” 
 
 “Well said and quickly done, my Catherine,” said 
 her lover. “But hear! the men outside are calling 
 for me — they grow impatient. I must go with my 
 friends.” 
 
 One more embrace and he was gone. 
 
 And while Sergeant Lefebvre went to the election 
 at the section, Catherine Sans-G^ne, laundress, 
 tended the young Austrian who was now her sacred 
 charge, for the sake of her benefactress, Blanche 
 de Laveline. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LITTLE BENRIOT, OR MAN’S LOVE AND WOMAN’S 
 GRATITUDE. 
 
 Catherine brought bouillon and wine to the sick 
 man, and, as he awakened at the sound of her step, 
 she gave them to him, saying: “Take, and grow 
 stronger. You will need strength, for you must know 
 that you cannot stay here much longer. Of course, 
 I do not send you away, for you are here as the 
 guest of my benefactress. Mademoiselle Blanche. 
 But then there are so many outsiders who come to 
 my laundry — my fellow-workers, my customers, and 
 
MADAME SANS-QENE. 
 
 37 
 
 the rest, that there would be talk aud trouble. And 
 then remember, man, you have fired on the people.’^ 
 
 Neipperg moved uneasilj, then said slowly: “We 
 defended the king.” 
 
 “The king!” cried patriotic Catherine, shrugging 
 her plump shoulders; “you mean ‘the big Veto!’ Ho 
 took refuge with the Assembly — he was all safe and 
 quiet — but he let you fight it out. He is a good-for- 
 nothing idler, this big Veto of yours — and his jade 
 of a wife leads him by the nose — and do you know 
 where she is leading him? — before the guns of the 
 people. But,” she asked, after a pause, “you are a 
 stranger, what were you fighting for, here in Paris — 
 you an Austrian?” 
 
 “I was charged, as lieutenant of the noble guards 
 of his majesty, with a mission to the queen,” was his 
 reply. 
 
 “Oh, the Austrian woman,” sneered Catherine; 
 “so it was for her you fought — you who have nothing 
 on earth to do with our troubles!” 
 
 “I wanted to die,” exclaimed the young man. He 
 spoke simply, and like a man who meant what he 
 said. 
 
 “To die!” cried Catherine, “at your age — for a 
 king — or a queen — or anybody. There’s some mys- 
 tery about all this, young man,” she continued, smil- 
 ing. “ Excuse me, monsieur, if I seem too emphatic, 
 but when one is twenty years old, or so, and wants 
 to die, fighting, among men he doesn’t know — and 
 against whom he has no reason to fight — why then 
 one must be in love. Come now, have I guessed* 
 aright?” 
 
 “You have, my good hostess.” 
 
 “Good gracious!” said Catherine, “it was not hard 
 to guess. Well, then, shall I tell you with whom 
 you are in love? Why, with Mademoiselle Blanche 
 de Laveline, to be sure.” The wounded man seemed 
 
38 
 
 MADAME SANS-GEME. 
 
 to wince. ‘‘Oh, I do not ask your confidence,” con- 
 tinued Catherine quickly ; “ it is none of my business, 
 but I know that Mademoiselle de Laveline is worthy 
 of your love — or any man’s.” 
 
 At these words the Count de Neipperg raised him- 
 self slightly and exclaimed fervently: “Yes, she is 
 good — ray darling Blanche— as good as she is beauti- 
 ful. Oh, madame,” he continued, seizing Cather- 
 ine’s hand, “if I die, tell her that with my last sigh 
 I breathed her name; tell her, will you not, that my 
 last thought was for her — and for ” 
 
 He paused abruptly; some secret was rising to his 
 lips, but it remained unrevealed. 
 
 “Oh, you will not die just yet,” said Catherine, 
 all anxiety to comfort him. “ Who dies at your time 
 of life when he is in love? You must live, my man 
 — live for the woman you love — and for — for that 
 other person you were going to name — her father, 
 was it not — Marquis de Laveline? He’s a very fine 
 old gentleman, if he is an aristocrat. I have seen 
 him several times, in Alsace. He wore a blue velvet 
 coat all embroidered with gold, and he carried such 
 a snuff-box — with jewels that sparkled like stars!” 
 
 But Neipperg frowned, and smiled contemptuously 
 when he heard the name of the Marquis de Laveline. 
 Evidently Catherine had not guessed aright, so far 
 as the marquis and this stranger were concerned. “ It 
 seems,” thought Catherine, “that those two are not 
 friends. AVell, it may be well to know this; I shall 
 not mention the marquis again. Perhaps the old 
 gentleman, Blanche’s father, is opposed to the match. 
 Poor girl ! poor fellow ! that was why he wanted to die.” 
 
 And, with a sigh of pity, sincere pity, felt by a 
 love-happy woman for the love unhappy, she ar- 
 ranged the “poor fellow’s” pillow, and, blaming 
 herself for having talked to him too much, begged 
 him to go to sleep. 
 
MADAME 8AN8-QENE. 
 
 39 
 
 ‘‘No, no,” said the sick man, earnestly but gently, 
 “talk to me more — talk to me of Blanche — tell me 
 all yon know about her — that will cure me.” 
 
 Catherine smiled at his words, and then sitting 
 down told him how she had been born on a farm 
 near the castle of the Seigneur de Laveline, where 
 she had seen Mademoiselle de Laveline grow up, and 
 learned to love her. B'lanche had been reared in the 
 country, became a splendid horsewoman, mingled 
 freely with the country people, was never proud, and 
 had become attached to Catherine. Finally Cather- 
 ine had been taken into the household service of the 
 Laveline ladies, and when Blanche’s mother died, 
 and Blanche and her father went to England, the 
 marquis having received a diplomatic appointment, 
 before going to London Mademoiselle Blanche had 
 set up Catherine in the laundry business in Paris. 
 “Oh, she is indeed a creature who deserves to be 
 beloved and blessed,” said the grateful Catherine. 
 
 Then some one knocked at the door. Could it be 
 Lefebvre, with his comrades? how inopportune! 
 The wounded man pricked his ears. Catherine be- 
 came uneasy, but she kept cool. “Best quietly, 
 and make no noise,” she said. “If Lefebvre is alone 
 there is no danger, but if his comrades are with him 
 I will send them all away. Do as I bid you, but do 
 not be afraid.” 
 
 Then she resolutely opened the door. — no Lefebvre 
 was there — no man was there — only one young woman 
 — veiled. Catherine was astonished, but her surprise 
 increased when the young woman staggered into the 
 room, crying out: “He is here, is he not? They 
 said they saw a man drag himself in here. Is he 
 still alive?” Catherine recognized the tones of her 
 voice, and when the stranger lifted her veil she saw 
 Mademoiselle Blanche de Laveline. The laundress 
 understood all. 
 
40 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GEME. 
 
 “Yes, he is here — in ray room,” she said; “he 
 lives — and he loves you — he lives for and loves you 
 only — speaks of you only — come and see him.” 
 
 “Oh, my good Catherine,” cried Blanche de Lave- 
 line, as she embraced the laundress, “what a happy 
 inspiration it was for me to send him here! Take 
 me to him.” 
 
 The sight of Blanche startled the wounded man 
 into energetic life. He leaped from his bed, but the 
 the two women forced him into it again, by gentle 
 force. He showered kisses on his lady love — he was 
 transported. Catherine smiled and would have left 
 them to themselves, but Blanche de Laveline insisted 
 that she should remain. The lovers had no secrets 
 now from her, beside they needed her, as will be seen. 
 
 The Marquis de Laveline had frowned upon the 
 suit of the Count de Neipperg for his daughter’s 
 hand. He had destined her, for his own aggran- 
 dizement, to become the wife of a Belgian millionaire, 
 a Baron de Lowendaal — a heavy creditor — who de- 
 manded either his daughter or his dues. Loving the 
 young count, but submissive to her father, like most 
 French girls, Mademoiselle Blanche had promised to 
 become the wife of the baron, even while yielding 
 herself to the count. The day of the marriage to 
 the baron had been fixed — yet the nobly-born made- 
 moiselle had given her lover the address of her former 
 servant, and protege, the laundress in Paris, that he 
 might meet her there by stealth, after marriage. 
 
 Distracted at his prospects the count had taken 
 military service at the Tuileries while the woman he 
 loved ostensibly prepared for her- marriage to another 
 man. But the chapter of accidents had favored the 
 count. The baron had left Paris, frightened at the 
 coming revolution, and the marriage had been post- 
 poned. It was, according to present arrangements, 
 to take place at the baron’s country seat, near Jem- 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE, 
 
 41 
 
 mapas, on the Belgian frontier — whither the young 
 girl had promised shortly to accompany her father. 
 But meanwhile she had secretly sent a letter to her 
 would-be husband telling of her love for another 
 man — and, come whatever would, she now vowed 
 never to be the baron’s bride. She might promise 
 to wed him all the time, but she would wed him 
 never — she swore it. 
 
 ‘‘Oh, my darling Blanche,” cried the count, when 
 he heard her solemn protestation; “my beloved wife 
 — whom I adore. You give me back my life — now!” 
 he almost shouted, “I can fight the canaille — I can 
 kill those sans-cnlottes.'^^ 
 
 In his wild excitement he made a sudden move- 
 ment. The compress which the laundress had made 
 of her delinquent customer, Napoleon Bonaparte’s 
 shirt, slipped from the wound. The gash re-opened 
 — and a stream of blood flowed over the bed. 
 
 He uttered a cry, and Catherine and Mademoiselle 
 Blanche, with difficulty closed the wound again. 
 
 But the count had fainted. 
 
 He recovered consciousness slowly. He imag- 
 ined he was dying, and in his death agonies, as he 
 thought, revealed to Catherine’s ears a secret — the 
 secret of secrets. “Blanche,” he cried, gasping, 
 “watch over our — our child.” 
 
 At the words “our child” Catherine staggered — as 
 though she had received a blow — but she controlled 
 herself, and, looking lovingly at the now downcast 
 Blanche, said: “Fear nothing, mademoiselle, what I 
 have happened to hear has gone into one ear and has 
 come out by the other. You know that if you need 
 me I am always at your service. But the — the child 
 — ^is he big — I know that he — for it surely is a boy — 
 is sweet.” 
 
 “He is nearly three years old,” answered the 
 blushing, beautiful mother. 
 
42 
 
 MADAME BAN8-GENE. 
 
 ‘‘And whafc is his name?” asked the interested 
 Catherine. 
 
 “ Henri,” said Blanche, “but we call him Henriot.” 
 
 “What a pretty name,” cried Catherine. “Oh, 
 can I not see him, mademoiselle?” 
 
 The mother paused a moment, in deep thought, 
 then taking the faithful laundress’ hand, she said: 
 “Listen, dear, you can do me a great service and 
 finish what you have already so well begun in 
 saving Monsieur de Neipperg.” 
 
 “Speak, mademoiselle,” cried Catherine excitedly; 
 “what is it I am to do?” 
 
 “My boy,” said Blanche, “is now with a good 
 woman in the suburbs of Versailles, her name is 
 Hoche — M^re Hoche.” 
 
 “I know her,” interrupted Catherine; “her son is 
 a great friend of my — my lover — my husband that is 
 to be — my Lefebvre. “You see,” she continued, 
 blushing divinely, “I too shall marry soon and have, 
 perhaps, a little Henri — who knows — more than one 
 perhaps.” 
 
 “I wish you joy,” said Mademoiselle de Laveline, 
 embracing her. “But will you go for me and see 
 Mother Hoche?” 
 
 “What shall I say to Citizeness Hoche?” asked 
 Catherine. 
 
 “Give her first this letter,” said Blanche, “then 
 this money — and then take the child — yourself. Do 
 I ask too much?” 
 
 “ Is that all asked the grateful laundress. “ Why 
 if you were to tell me to take the Tuileries, though 
 the Swiss guards were still in it, I would try to take 
 it.” She continued smiling, “too piuch — the bare 
 idea is cruel — why if it was not for your kindness in 
 having started me here in this laundry I should never 
 have b^een what I shall become — Madame Lefebvre. 
 Too much indeed — have you not something else for me 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE, 
 
 43 
 
 to do? But when I have taken the child what am I 
 to do with the little darling — whom I love already.” 
 
 ‘‘Bring him to me,” said his mother. 
 
 “ Where?” 
 
 “To Jemmapes — a village near the Belgian border 
 — to the Palace de Lowendaal, near the village. Can 
 you get there?” 
 
 “I can get anywhere — for you. But when am I 
 to be there with the boy?” 
 
 “ When? Let me see. By the sixth of November 
 at the very latest.” 
 
 “1 will be there,” said Catherine; “and perhaps 
 Lefebvre will be with me. The fighting may be 
 over then, and at any rate I am sure Lefebvre will 
 manage that I go.” 
 
 “Embrace me, Catherine,” cried Blanche de Lave- 
 line. “Some day I may be able to reward you.” 
 
 “You have rewarded me in advance,” said Cather- 
 ine; “rely on me.” 
 
 Then both women glanced at the young count, 
 who had fallen asleep from sheer excitement and 
 exhaustion. 
 
 “I shall watch beside him,” said Blanche; “but 
 meanwhile, Catherine, attend to your business, with 
 which I must already have interfered sadly.” 
 
 “I would have not had any business to attend to,” 
 remarked the laundress, “had it not been for you; 
 but make yourself entirely at home — thi^ place is 
 yours. But, oh, see, he opens his eyes — he sees you 
 — he smiles — he will be stronger now. You two must 
 have a world of things to tell each other. I shall 
 leave you, but not for long; I must take some 
 clothes to a customer who lives a little way from 
 here” (thinking of Napoleon Bonaparte and his 
 shirts); “I will return at once — open the door to 
 nobody. Good-by — au revoir,^^ 
 
44 
 
 MADAME SAMS-GEME. 
 
 CHAPTEE VIL 
 
 THE TE^Al^T OF THE HOTEL DE METZ. 
 
 While the Count de Neipperg and Blanche de 
 Laveline discussed in delicious tUe-a-Ute their future, 
 and their child, the laundress had taken a basketful 
 of linen and was preparing to go out. 
 
 Eirst, last, and all the time, Catherine Upscher, 
 Mademoiselle Sans-Gene, was a business woman, and 
 wanted to employ her time, pleasantly if she could, 
 but always profitably. 
 
 Her benefactress was happy with her lover, she 
 would not be missed, and besides she had lost the 
 whole morning — the best part of the day. True the 
 Tuileries had been taken— and it wasn’t taken often 
 — still it didn’t pay her anything — so she must make 
 up for lost time. 
 
 As she prepared for the street she thought upon 
 various things. She who had never had a secret of 
 her own, had now become, in spite of herself, the 
 keeper of the secrets of other people. 
 
 She was still amazed, in her own mind, that her 
 benefactress, the nobly-born Blanche de Laveline, 
 should have so far forgotten herself as to yield to a 
 lover — when she herself, Catherine Upscher, lowly 
 born and bred, had up to date resisted all importuni- 
 ties. But love laughs at all barriers of mere position 
 or education. A marquis’ daughter is quite as liable 
 to be fooled as a laundress, and after all Blanche had 
 been her benefactress, and it was not for such as her 
 to criticise. Eather let her look forward to the time 
 when Blanche would be publicly united to the count, 
 and their child acknowledged before the world. 
 
 Neipperg had approved warmly of Blanche’s idea 
 of entrusting the boy to Catherine, and of the latter 
 taking the child to Jemmapes, and it had been ar- 
 
MADAME SANS-OENE. 
 
 45 
 
 ranged that as soon as he was well enough the count 
 would seek the mother of his child, even if he had 
 to beard the lion in his den, the Baron de Lowendaal 
 in his own palace halls — ay, even if he were compelled 
 to dispute his right to Blanche at the point of the 
 sword. 
 
 This was as it should be. As for her own Lefebvre^ 
 he was doing his part in the world — that is, Paris. 
 
 ‘^Doubtless,” thought Catherine, “he is at this 
 moment at his section, where they are voting — many 
 of them for him. I wish I were there to vote 
 for him myself — but there will be enough without 
 me. No man has more friends, nor deserves them 
 more, than my Lefebvre. He cannot leave his sec- 
 tion for several hours yet,” she calculated; “he can- 
 not leave before the election of new officers, includ- 
 ing Ms election, is announced. That will take, let 
 me see, say two hours; they always take such a long 
 time to vote at the section of the Filles-Saint-Thomas. 
 They drink more quickly than they vote. Well, all 
 good angels guard my man; and now I shall have 
 time to run, or for that matter to walk, to Captain 
 Bonaparte’s.” 
 
 And as she thought of the captain she thought of 
 his shirt — the shirt she had used as a compress 
 for the wounds of the young Austrian. “I fear me, 
 he will miss that shirt; he has no surplus in the way 
 of linen. Poor Captain Bonaparte!” 
 
 She uttered the last three words with something 
 like a sigh. 
 
 She really seemed to have a pity for “poor Cap- 
 tain Bonaparte,” and has not the poet told us truly 
 that “Pity is akin to love.” 
 
 “ When I am Citizeness Lefebvre,” she blushed even 
 to herself, “I don’t want to owe anything — not even 
 the price of a shirt — to Captain Bonaparte.” So ran 
 her thoughts. “It is enough that he owes me — I’ll 
 
46 
 
 MADAME 8ANB-GENE. 
 
 have his bill ready^ — in case he should ask me for it. 
 I may even present it myself and demand payment if 
 I can muster up sufl3cient courage. Here, Made- 
 moiselle Sans-Gene, what’s the matter with you?” 
 she took herself to task roundly; ‘‘you are considered 
 to be full of dash and energy, and to be not afraid 
 of anybody, and yet you have never yet been able, 
 though you have tried several times, to present this 
 Captain Napoleon Bonaparte with his wash bill. 
 But then,” so she excused herself to herself, 
 never expect to get what he owes me. He is an 
 honest young man and would pay me if he could, 
 but he can’t, he hasn’t got the money, that is all 
 there is about it; and yet, I really can’t help admir- 
 ing him — he is such a worker, such a scholar-— he is 
 always reading, or writing, or studying, or planning, 
 and then he has no fun in his life; he takes his pleas- 
 ures sadly, as if he was an Englishman. Well, one 
 oannot be good and wise and rich, too; one cannot 
 have everything.” And she felt in her pocket for 
 Captain Bonaparte’s wash bill. 
 
 Finally she arrived at the Hotel de Metz, a modest 
 building kept by one Citizen Maureard. 
 
 It was in this hotel that this Captain Bonaparte 
 resided during this period of his existence. 
 
 Yes, “existence” is the right word in this con- 
 nection — existence, not life — he could not be said 
 truthfully to be “living” at this time — only existing 
 — not living at the Hotel de Metz, only residing 
 there, a mere tenant of the hotel, and a tenant in 
 arrears. 
 
 He occupied a room, a small room, a very small 
 and cheerless apartment on the third story, num- 
 ber 14. 
 
 He subsisted on next to nothing, cooked his own 
 meals, when he had any to cook, and often made a 
 meal of milk. 
 
MADAME SANS-GEIfE. 
 
 47 
 
 And yet in spite of his economy he ran into debt, 
 notwithstanding his own resolves. Necessity knows 
 no law and heeds no protestations. He owed fifteen 
 francs to his hotel-keeper, who often demanded 
 them, and, as we have already ascertained from his 
 laundress, owed his wash bill. 
 
 And all his friends, just then, were as poor as 
 himself — some of them even poorer — actually penni- 
 less — and Paris is a bad place to be poor in. His 
 closest intimates were Junot, Marmont, and Bourri- 
 enne, and on one occasion, counting up, there wert 
 only four sous among the four. 
 
 True, all four were rich in hopes, but landlords and 
 laundresses do not take their pay in hopes. 
 
 Yes, strange as it may seem, the future conqueror 
 of Europe was now almost a pauper in Paris. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE LITTLE DAYS OF A GREAT MAH — NAPOLEON 
 WHEN HE WAS YOUNG AND POOR. 
 
 The youth of Napoleon Bonaparte, one of the 
 greatest and the most unfortunate of men, one of 
 the important personages of history — who made 
 his country ring with his name and his glory, and 
 whose aureole of blood still stains the horizon, passed 
 without any extraordinary events whatever, and 
 could not point to one supernatural indication. 
 
 After he had become famous his biographers in- 
 vented such events and such indications in abundance, 
 but there were really none lefore. 
 
 Bonaparte as a boy and as a young man, may be 
 said to have deceived the world. There was no one 
 to foretell his fortune — there was no sign of coming 
 greatness. 
 
48 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE, 
 
 In his early years he was merely a poor, reserved, 
 industrious student, very proud and very quiet. He 
 was in fact decidedly unfortunate; he was isolated 
 from the world by lack of money. Like all Corsicans 
 he was clannish — like all Corsicans he felt the pres- 
 sure of family ties, and so he endured not only the 
 pangs of his own poverty, but those of the poverty 
 of his family. 
 
 He came of good stock, however; both his father 
 and his mother were superior to the average man 
 and woman. 
 
 His father, Charles Bonaparte, or speaking more 
 accurately, Charles de Bonaparte, was the descendant 
 of an ancient and honorable family of the Tuscan 
 nobility, established at Ajaccio for over two centu- 
 ries. He became a lawyer, like his father and grand- 
 father before him. Charles Bonaparte was both 
 ambitious and patriotic. He desired the independence 
 of Corsica, and was one of the most zealous adherents 
 of the patriot Paoli; but when Paoli failed and left 
 Corsica, Charles Bonaparte prudently submitted to 
 French rule. He became in time a member of the 
 Corsican council of administration, and was univer- 
 sally respected, but his pecuniary means were limited. 
 There were few opportunities for Corsicans to make 
 money in Corsica; he owned what was grandiloquently 
 styled ‘‘a plantation of vines and olives,” but it only 
 yielded its owner a thousand livres yearly — scarcely 
 that — and even this income grew less and less and 
 threatened to disappear altogether. 
 
 Perhaps the wisest thing Charles Bonaparte ever 
 did was to marry Letitia Eamolini. She was a 
 beauty, the belle of Corsica, with a profile clean out, 
 like an antique cameo, a woman of a commanding 
 presence, and a commanding mind. 
 
 Most great men owe most to their mothers, and 
 Napoleon Bonaparte was no exception to this rule. 
 
MADAME SAMS-OEME. 
 
 49 
 
 Among her other gifts, the wife of Charles Bona- 
 parte knew the value of money; she kept the Bona- 
 partes from absolutely starving in Corsica, and, later 
 on, when her sen was Emperor of France, and all 
 her children and relatives were kings, queens, princes 
 and princesses, she still saved all the money she could, 
 and spent as little as possible. 
 
 Napoleon reproved her gently for this ‘‘misplaced 
 economy” as he conceived it to be one day, and found 
 fault with her for not spending half of her liberal 
 allowance, but she simply said to him: “You may 
 yourself want money some day, and then I will have 
 some for you. I am economizing for my children.” 
 And the time came when her children needed all the 
 money they could get, and could not get any. 
 
 Accepted tradition has it that Napoleon Bonaparte 
 was horn August 15, 1769, and was the second son 
 of his parents, but another calculation figures that 
 Joseph Bonaparte was the younger son, and that 
 Napoleon was born January 7, 1768. 
 
 It is odd that the exact date of the birth of the 
 most famous man of modern times should thus be in 
 doubt; but so it is, and the very marriage certificate 
 of Napoleon and Josephine adds to this confusion of 
 dates. 
 
 Two sets of circumstances largely influenced the 
 formation of Napoleon’s character, and decided his 
 bent of thought. These were the political perturba- 
 tions of his native land, and the pecuniary distress 
 of his family. 
 
 There was civil war raging in his country, there 
 was poverty raging in his home. Together they 
 hardened his soul, they embittered his youth. 
 
 He was naturally serious, and seriously he went to 
 school at Brienne, but he came out of school sad, 
 heart sore. 
 
 He was not “popular” as a schoolboy; his comrades 
 
50 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 made fun at his odd name, and laughed at his trying 
 to talk French with an Italian accent, and above all 
 they taunted him with his poverty. He had no 
 ^‘spending money,” and every boy knows that 
 means to a boy. 
 
 He was not a particularly bright scholar either; 
 fair, especially in mathematics, but not brilliant. 
 He only came out of his shell once; he led a small 
 army of boys one winter to attack a snow fort with 
 snowballs, and by strategy he took the fort; but he 
 went back to his solitude again, and boys who love 
 solitude are not loved themselves. Youth is, as it 
 ought to be, social. 
 
 His only companion at Brienne was a lad called 
 Bourrienne, who afterward associated with him in 
 Paris and became his private secretary. This Bour- 
 rienne was a miser and an iugrate. Napoleon loaded 
 him with favors which he repaid by abuse in his 
 biography of his master. 
 
 Napoleon went from Brienne to the military school 
 where he duplicated his career at Brienne, with addi- 
 tional misery and privation. 
 
 He was always in want of ready money; v^hat little 
 he had he sent to his family, who were ever dear to 
 him; but he was young and loved pleasure, as all 
 boys should; but pleasures, even boyish joys, cost 
 money — not much it is true — but money is what the 
 young Napoleon never had. 
 
 Thus isolated from his kind at an age when the 
 heart is ready to expand, the lonely youth grew up 
 to be the inscrutable and pitiless man — a man of 
 bronze. 
 
 In 1785 his father died at the age of thirty-nine 
 years, just as Napoleon was appointed second lieu- 
 tenant in the company of bombardiers of the regi- 
 ment of La F^re in garrison at Valencia. While in 
 this position he wrote in his spare hours a history of 
 
MADAME 8AN8-GENE. 
 
 51 
 
 Corsica, a work of some merit, and he also made an 
 attempt to enter society. He even perpetrated the 
 extravagance of taking dancing lessons of a Professor 
 Dantel. He was as earnest in his study of the terp* 
 sichorean art as in his study of mathematics, but 
 his assiduity was not as well rewarded in the former 
 as in the latter. To tell the truth, the great Corsi- 
 can was never graceful — the cleverest soldier who 
 ever lived was clumsy. 
 
 At this time Napoleon likewise formed the ac- 
 quaintanceship of quasi-fashionable ladies, and began 
 his career of gallantry; but in this, as in every other 
 pursuit of his youth, he was hampered by his pov- 
 erty, and finally retired, alike defeated and disgusted. 
 
 His regiment was sent first to Lyons, then to 
 Douai, but Napoleon obtained a leave of absence, 
 which he passed partly with his mother and sisters 
 at Ajaccio, and partly in Paris, where he lived at 
 the Hotel de Cherbourg, in the Rue de Four-Saint- 
 Honore. 
 
 During his stay in Paris he took with him his 
 young brother Louis; he 'did so from affection and 
 from necessity. His mother, a widow with eight 
 children, could not support them all, so Napoleon 
 took one of the eight with him. 
 
 By this time his money fell short — shorter than 
 usual — and so the future emperor and his brother 
 existed, counting room rent, on ninety-two francs, 
 fifteen centimes a month — less than half of a clerk’s 
 salary. 
 
 The pair resided in two small rooms, without any 
 furniture to speak of, and without any fire at all. 
 The future master of the Tuileries and Saint Cloud, 
 slept on a cot, and a very old and hard one; sat and 
 thought out the problems of life on a straw-stuffed 
 chair, and wrote and ate on a table of hard white 
 board. For library he kept his old trunk, stuffed with 
 
 U, OF ILL UB. 
 
52 
 
 MADAME SANS-QENE. 
 
 manuscripts and books, in the middle of tne room ; as 
 for Louis, the future King of Holland, he slept 
 awhile on the floor, then on a mattress, but no bed. 
 As for servant they kept only one, and his name was 
 Napoleon Bonaparte. The future master of Europe 
 brushed the coats, polished the boots, dusted the 
 xoom and cooked the dinner. 
 
 And he did all this within a few thousand feet of 
 the palace which in a few years was to be his imperial 
 home. 
 
 History has given to the astonished world many 
 dramatic contrasts, but none so startling as this. 
 Napoleon himself in his prosperity never entirely 
 forgot this period of adversity. Once one of his 
 functionaries complained to his imperial lord that his 
 pay was inadequate — that it was but gilded poverty. 
 
 ‘‘Ah, monsieur,” said the emperor, “I, too, have 
 known poverty, and in this very Paris; but there 
 was no ‘gilt’ about it. The veneer was off — it was 
 the solid article. Many a morning I breakfasted on 
 dry bread, but I did my duty and never complained. 
 I closed my door on my poverty. I kept it to myself. 
 I never talked of it or showed my sores.” 
 
 One thing is certain: Napoleon’s poverty preserved 
 alike his health and his morals at this critical period 
 of his life. It kept him strong and pure. 
 
 It is characteristic of the man that, as his lack of 
 money prevented him at this time from gallantry, 
 he acted like the fox with the sour grapes, and railed 
 against women. He wrote to a friend: “I believe 
 that what is called love is the bane of the world, and 
 the destruction of all personal happiness in man. 
 Love does more harm than good.” He altered his 
 sentiments on this point with his circumstances. 
 
 At last, raised to a first lieutenancy of the Fourth 
 Artillery, Bonaparte, and his brother Louis, returned 
 to Valencia. At this stage he abandoned all social 
 
MADAME 8ANS-0ENE, 
 
 53 
 
 «fipirations for the while, and became once more the 
 trtiiet, studious cynic and officer, merging gradually 
 iiito the philosophical agitator and revolutionist. 
 
 About this period Napoleon Bonaparte, the future 
 aiitocrat of the continent, was almost as fiery in his 
 denunciations of authority as ever were Danton, 
 Marat, or Eobespierre. He Avas ahvays exclaiming 
 for ‘‘liberty,” always haranguing about “the rights 
 of the people.” In short he became known as a 
 “revolutionist,” an embryo anarchist. He became 
 the secretary of the democratic club “ Les Amis de 
 Peuple,” and perhaps while the fever lasted, he was 
 sincere. Why not? he was a many-sided man, a 
 chameleon, a superb actor, who understood “make 
 up” to perfection. 
 
 He could adapt himself to any scene, person, cir- 
 cumstance, or theory; could advocate any side, or all 
 sides, side by side, with equal facility and truthful- 
 ness; he could wear a mask as though it were a face. 
 There was Italian finesse as well as fervor in the great 
 Corsican. And yet, at this peculiar period of his 
 wonderful and meteoric career, he did not hesitate, 
 this advocate of the people, to resort to bold defiance 
 and brute force to gain his purposes, spite of popular 
 sentiment, as was shown by an episode of his life in 
 Corsica. 
 
 In October, 1791, he obtained leave of absence to 
 improve his health and to visit his mother and sisters. 
 He accordingly sailed to his native island, where he 
 determined to become the commander of a battalion 
 of National Guards at Ajaccio. He took his family 
 into his confidence, and made all his relatives bis 
 partisans, but he had a rival for this coveted place — a 
 man named Marius Peraldi, who belonged to one of 
 the most illustrious families in Corsica — and who 
 was, to a greater degree than Bonaparte, the popular 
 candidate for the position. 
 
54 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-GENE. 
 
 Bonaparte, however, was the more energetic of 
 the two, and worked day and night. He stirred 
 Ajaccio as the town had never been stirred before. 
 Ere long he stood even in the race with his rival, 
 but there was now a third element introduced into 
 the canvass which could turn the scale. This was 
 composed of the commissaries of the constituante, 
 sent direct to Corsica by the central power. They 
 occupied a species of semi-ofScial position, and that 
 means a great deal in Corsica, and they controlled 
 enough votes to make the candidate they favored 
 win. 
 
 Bonaparte appreciated these facts and did all he 
 could to gain the commissaries, but in vain. He 
 had no ready money, and the commissaries were 
 venal. Meanwhile the other side had “seen” them 
 and made “satisfactory arrangements.” Their chief, 
 a man named Muratori, had “settled” with Marius 
 Peraldi. 
 
 Ascertaining this, Bonaparte’s friends and parti- 
 sans, even his own family, thought his cause lost, but 
 not so Bonaparte. He was as ardent and tenacious 
 then as afterward. The youth is the father of the 
 full-grown man. 
 
 He called together a number of his warmest and 
 boldest partisans, men who like himself stopped at 
 nothing, and laid before them a daring plan of action, 
 which met with their instant approval. 
 
 This plan was carried out to the most minute 
 detail. 
 
 One night while Marius Peraldi was entertaining 
 Muratori and the commissaries at dinner, the dining- 
 room was invaded by a force of armed men who 
 pointed their guns alike at host and guests, while 
 two of the invaders, doubly armed, seized Muratori, 
 and led him to the Bonaparte mansion. 
 
 He was a thoroughly frightened man, but no 
 
MADAME SAN^QENE. 
 
 55 
 
 harm was done him. He was hospitably received 
 by Napoleon himself, who entertained him on the 
 best his honse afforded; his sisters and his mother 
 likewise welcomed him and lavished courtesies upor 
 him. 
 
 ‘‘Make yourself entirely at home,” said Napoleon 
 to his involuntary guest. “ 1 know that Peraldi forced 
 you to his dinner, but there is no compulsion.” 
 He said this, although several of his armed partisans 
 were still standing at his dining-room door, ready to 
 shoot his guest if he moved hand or foot. 
 
 Muratori saw that he was done for, so far as the 
 matter at issue was concerned, and man-like, ho pro- 
 ceeded to make the best of the situation. He pre- 
 tended to humor the Bonaparte assumption that he 
 was their invited guest, and he ate and drank as 
 heartily at Bonaparte's as a few hours before he had 
 feasted at Peraldi’s. Needless to say that on the 
 morrow Napoleon was elected commander of the 
 National Guards of Ajaccio. 
 
 Thus Ajaccio foreshadowed St. Cloud and the 
 election for commander of the National Guard fore- 
 told the man of Brumaire. 
 
 And it must be remembered that in this affair 
 Bonaparte took a double risk, not only of losing his 
 desired place as commander of the militia in Corsica, 
 but of forfeiting his rank in the regular army of 
 France. For according to the rule of military serv- 
 ice no officer connected with an army in active oper- 
 ation in the field has any right to any territorial or 
 outside position, but this was a revolutionary period, 
 and Napoleon took his chances. Had matters been 
 in a settled state his exploit would have cost him 
 dear; but he contrived to have his furlough pro- 
 longed, so that ere it ended his term of service had 
 expired. 
 
 But perhaps the one point connected with this 
 
56 
 
 MADAME SAJSfS-GENE. 
 
 episoue which was most characteristic of the man 
 was the motive which insjDired it. The affair had 
 not been undertaken for mere power — there was no 
 sphere for power to exert itself in Corsica. It had 
 not been conceived or executed in a spirit of ambi- 
 tion — there was no scope for ambition in Corsica. It 
 was not a political affair — Bonaparte really cared 
 nothing for the politics of Corsica. No, the real 
 motive which animated the future ‘‘man of destiny” 
 in this matter was money — the desire for money — 
 but not money for himself, but for his family, for 
 his mother, his brothers and his sisters. Napoleon 
 made an increase in his pay of eighty-one livres by 
 forcing himself into the position of commander of 
 the National Guards at Ajaccio; with this increase 
 he was enabled to replenish the scanty wardrobe of 
 his sisters and to educate his brothers; this was the 
 secret of his emeute in Corsica. All his life, in one 
 way or another, Napoleon Bonaparte, whether poor 
 or rich, obscure or omnipotent, was more or less, 
 generally more, the victim of his family. 
 
 Whatever were his faults, lack of natural affection 
 was not one of them. He was the best of sons, 
 always loving, respecting, and taking care of his 
 mother, who was in all respects worthy of his devo- 
 tion. He was the best of brothers to his sisters, 
 never ^'oxgetting their wishes — ever alert to gratify 
 their ambitions, besides being fond of them person- 
 ally. As for his brothers, he was a father and a 
 guardian to them all. True, in his after career he 
 used his brothers and sisters as the tools of his pur- 
 poses, but his purposes always included their own 
 benefit and advancement; and it must be said tliat 
 none of his family, except his mother, reciprocated 
 in full his attachment, or appreciated his motives. 
 
 He gained his end, as has been shown, in this Cor- 
 sican episode, and got his money, but he did not 
 
MADAME SANS-GEME, 
 
 57 
 
 have his own way in the matter altogether; he had to 
 suffer a certain penalty for his elevation and success. 
 The affair was brought by his enemies to the notice 
 of the French authorities, who investigated it thor- 
 oughly. Napoleon, like the shrewd lawyer he was 
 (as was shown afterward in the code Napoleon), 
 pleaded his own cause cunningly. In obtaining 
 command of the battalion at Ajaccio he was accused 
 of practically leaving or deserting the army. This 
 he strenuously denied, for he argued that the Na- 
 tional Guard in Corsica was really a part of the regular 
 French army, and was, according to the rules of war, 
 in active service. Consequently, as he had obtained 
 a position in the National Guards he had never left 
 the army; besides, argued Bonaparte, he had com- 
 plied with the decree of the Assembly of December 
 17, 1791, which authorized officers of the active army 
 to serve in the ranks of the National Guard. He 
 claimed to have consulted the camp-marshal of Kossi 
 on this point, who had convinced himself satisfac- 
 torily of the entire regularity of the whole proceeding. 
 
 But despite this special pleading Napoleon was 
 deposed by Colonel Maillard; whereupon he went to 
 Paris to justify his conduct to the minister of war. 
 
 He felt hopeful of so doing, and used every direct 
 and indirect influence to impress himself upon the 
 war minister. He lost not a minute’s time in Paris, 
 and when not engaged in advancing his cause with 
 the authorities he was working and planning for the 
 future, although not always able to pay for his wash- 
 ing, as his laundress, Mademoiselle Catherine Sans- 
 Gene, had already by experience ascertained. 
 
 The future emperor of the French at this period 
 of his life could claim only one family of any social 
 position as his “friends,” and this family hailed from 
 Corsica — the Permons, consisting of monsieur, ma- 
 dame and mademoiselle, their daughter, whom he 
 
68 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-0ENE. 
 
 had known in Valencia. He took dinner once a 
 week at the Permons’, and generally it was the only 
 real iona fide dinner he partook of during the week. 
 He repaid his social obligations to these Permons in 
 later years. Mademoiselle Permon married Junot, 
 and became Duchess of Abrantes. As will be seen 
 hereafter, Napoleon at one period thought of marry- 
 ing the widow Permon. 
 
 On the morning of August 10, Bonaparte had risen 
 early at the sounding of the tocsin and had been a 
 spectator of the fray, but nothing more. A brother 
 of his friend Bourrienne, named Fauvelet, kept a 
 bric-a-brac shop and a loan-office at the Place du 
 Carrousel, and thither the future emperor of the 
 French wended his way to pawn his watch. He 
 needed money desperately that day and knew no way 
 to get it but by pawning. He entered the pawn- 
 shop, and, after the usual higgling and haggling, 
 obtained on the security of his time-piece fifteen 
 francs, a trifling sum, which, however, meant five 
 days’ living to him. ‘^At any rate,” thought 
 Napoleon as he put the money in his pocket, ‘‘I 
 shall not be quite penniless on this day of revolu- 
 tion.” 
 
 He would have then left the shop, but the crowd 
 in the streets blocked the way, so he remained and 
 watched the fight. And at noon, when the victory 
 of the people was assured, he went home in a pensive 
 mood. Ay, positively sad, sickened by the smell of 
 blood, saddened by the sight of corpses. Bonaparte 
 never forgot the terrible spectacle he beheld on this 
 tenth day of August. It produced a phenomenal 
 impression upon his mind. In years to come he 
 became ‘‘the great butcher of Europe,” and thought 
 but little of the oceans of his people’s blood which 
 h@ had caused to flow, and the mountains of dead 
 
MADAME SANS-QENE. 
 
 59 
 
 bodies which had grown tinder his conquering feet. 
 But he never forgot the tragedy he witnessed from 
 the pawnshop on August the tenth. 
 
 Even when in St. Helena, looking backward on 
 his bloody life, he often alluded with emotion and 
 indignation to the innumerable victims of the Swiss 
 guards and the Chevaliers du Poignard, and to the 
 terrible" sights he saw in the streets of Paris as he 
 walked homeward on the tenth of August. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 THE HANDSOME SERGEANT AND HER BROTHER. 
 
 Such was the man — obscure, unknown, a man of 
 mystery — whom Catherine Sans-Gene was now seek- 
 ing in his little furnished room, in a modest hotel 
 where he was waiting impatiently but industriously 
 for the capricious and tardy goddess, whom men call 
 Eortune, who had not yet, it would appear, fully 
 decided to knock at his door. 
 
 The world seemed against him — nothing went 
 right — everything went wrong. He was the victim 
 of ill-luck. 
 
 On his return to his rooms on this tenth of August 
 he rushed to work, which meant distraction from his 
 cares, and a temporary oblivion of the terrible spec- 
 tacle he had witnessed from the windows of the 
 pawnshop. 
 
 He unrolled one of his geographical charts and care- 
 fully studied the region of the south of France, the 
 border towns of the Mediterranean, especially Mar- 
 seilles, and the seaport of Toulon where a royalist 
 reaction was taking place, and which was menaced 
 by an English fleet. 
 
 And ever and anon he pushed the map away, hid 
 his head in his hands, and dreamed. 
 
60 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE, 
 
 Oh! what dreams! 
 
 Visions of vanquished cities, which he entered as 
 conqueror, riding a white horse, amid the acclama- 
 tions of the crowd. Visions of triumphal marches, 
 amid vanquished soldiers in strange lands, sometimes 
 amid snow-storms, sometimes under tropical suns. 
 Visions of feasts and precessions in his honor, kings 
 subdued by his sword, queens flinging themselves at 
 his feet — an intoxication of glory— an apotheosis of 
 conquest! 
 
 And then he would cease dreaming and face the 
 realities of his little room, with its scanty furniture 
 and its bare walls, and he would smile bitterly, ridi- 
 culing his own dreams. And then for the hundredth 
 time he reviewed realistically his own situation. 
 
 His position was utterly deplorable, and no change 
 seemed probable. 
 
 He had no money, no work, no friend, no pro- 
 tector. The minister of war was deaf to his entreat- 
 ies, the courts seemed hostile. 
 
 He was in want, and he felt himself growing weak. 
 
 His ambition was blown to pieces by the winds of 
 reality — his castle of hopes fell like a castle of cards. 
 
 He shuddered with the chills of disillusion — there 
 is no other chill as cold as that. 
 
 An idea occurred to him in his desperation. Near 
 his hotel a contractor was putting up some houses 
 on a speculation, in the quarter of Paris known as 
 ^^Nouvelle-France” (new France). He knew this 
 contractor and might make terms with him. He 
 would hire one of his houses and let out furnished 
 rooms to poor devils not quite so poor as himself. 
 
 Then another idea struck him forcibly. He would 
 leave France at once and forever, and offer himself 
 and his sword to the Turks. 
 
 Then once more he looked at his map, studied it, 
 particularly the basin of the Mediterranean, his birth- 
 
MADAME SANS-GEJSrm 
 
 61 
 
 place. Perhaps some day, around the shores of the 
 Mediterranean Sea, he would lead his cannoneers 
 against perfidious Albion, against the hated En- 
 glish. 
 
 That^ at least, was possible — probable — naturaL 
 But when? and how? Again a cold chill seized 
 him — the subtle poison of discouragement, disap- 
 pointment and despair froze the blood in his veins. 
 
 But by a mighty effort of the will he repressed his 
 demoralizing thoughts, and resumed his work upon 
 the chart, which had been interrupted by his dream. 
 
 At this moment some one tapped lightly twice on 
 the door. 
 
 Bonaparte trembled. He who would have faced a 
 world in arms, was frightened at what he thought 
 might be the announcing of a dun. Brave men 
 when penniless are cowards. He kept still — he did 
 not move. Presently there was a third and louder 
 knock. 
 
 “Perhaps it is old Maureard, my landlord, with 
 my bill,'’ thought Bonaparte. “ Well, let him come.’^ 
 And then he cried, “Come in.” 
 
 The door opened and a young man entered. Very 
 young indeed — almost a boy — and as fresh and fair 
 as a girl. 
 
 On the sleeves of his new coat he wore the stripes 
 of a sergeant — new stripes. 
 
 Bonaparte looked at the youth in wonder. “ What 
 do you want with me?” he asked of the stranger. 
 “Have you not made a mistake?” 
 
 The young sergeant saluted in military fashion. 
 
 “Have I not the honor to address Captain Bona- 
 parte of the artillery?” he asked softly. 
 
 “I am he,” was the reply. “Your business with 
 me?” 
 
 The youth seemed embarrassed. “I am called 
 Een6,” he said hesitatingly. 
 
m 
 
 MADAME SAN8-GENE. 
 
 ‘‘Well, your name has one advantage, it is short,” 
 said Bonaparte. 
 
 “Yes, and I am serving in the regiment of volun- 
 teers from Mayenne-et-Loire,” continued the visitor, 
 recovering confidence. “And,” he added with a 
 smile so charming as to atone for his rather conceited 
 and effeminate speech, “they call me ‘the handsome 
 sergeant.’ ” 
 
 “And rightly,” said Bonaparte, himself smiling, 
 “though it seems to me that you are rather too gentle 
 and too foppish for a soldier.” 
 
 “Judge a soldier only when he is under fire,” re- 
 torted “the handsome sergeant” proudly. 
 
 “Ah!” Bonaparte winced; “you are right,” he 
 said. The young stranger’s words had touched the 
 artillery officer on a sore spot. “Under fire,” he 
 growled, “I wonder if any one will ever see me there. 
 But come, monsieur, to the point,” he continued; 
 “what do you want? what can I do?” 
 
 “Captain,” answered the “handsome sergeant,” 
 “I have a brother, named Marcel.” 
 
 “Oh, you have a — a brother named Marcel, have 
 youT'* repeated Bonaparte. 
 
 “Yes, captain, and my — my brother is detailed 
 as a doctor in the Fourth Artillery regiment at 
 Valencia.” 
 
 “My regiment,” said Bonaparte. Then correcting 
 himself, “my late regiment,” he said sadly. 
 
 “Yes, captain, and that is why I hoped to see you. 
 Sergeant Lefebvre, whom I met this morning at the 
 fight at the Tuileries, told me you were in Paris, 
 and that I must call upon you.” 
 
 “Brave Lefebvre, I know him well,” said Bona- 
 parte; “but why did he send you to me?” 
 
 “That you might perhaps by your influence, by 
 word to the commander, get my brother exchanged 
 60 that we might be together.” 
 
MADAME 8AN8-0ENE, 
 
 63 
 
 Bonaparte thought deeply, and looked intently at 
 ‘Hhe handsome sergeant,” who became more earnest, 
 even impassioned in his pleadings. 
 
 ‘^Oh, captain,” he cried, “I wa.t my brother, I 
 want to see him, to nurse him, if he should be 
 wounded. Oh, captain, help me to this great bless- 
 ing. If only we can be together, we will never cease 
 to bless you.” 
 
 The handsome sergeant’s voice grew husky with 
 emotion; it sounded as though he were sobbing. 
 
 Bonaparte approached him. ‘‘You love your — 
 your brother, do you not? Well, he is fortunate in 
 having such a brother. But really I fear I can do 
 nothing, or next to nothing for you. Lefebvre 
 should have told you what he knows about me, that 
 I am without employment, without commission. 
 They have broken my sword. I know no one in 
 Paris; my recommendation to the Fourth Artillery 
 would be worse than useless. Why, my — ray — man, 
 I am myself looking for some one to help me. Still 
 I will do for you and your — your brother what I can. 
 I know the brother of an influential man, an old 
 deputy who lives in the Eue Saint-Honore, he is 
 called Maximilian Eobespierre. Perhaps he can ob- 
 tain a favor for you that would be refused to me. 
 Go see young Eobespierre.” 
 
 “Thanks, captain,” cried the handsome sergeant 
 joyfully; “and perhaps some day I may be able to 
 prove my gratitude.” 
 
 Here Bonaparte raised his hand, half smilingly, 
 half seriously, and said slowly and meaningly: 
 
 “It seems to me, my pretty sergeant, that in your 
 desiro to enter the army, and be with your brother^ 
 you have changed the usual dress adopted by your 
 sex.” 
 
 The so-called handsome sergeant confessed her 
 secret, which Bonaparte had penetrated. “Yes, I 
 

 MADAME 8AN8-GENE. 
 
 am a woman, but pardon me, mon capitaine^ and 
 don’t betray me, for the love of God. Be generous. 
 Oh, I know you will be. Eespectmy disguise. You 
 will kill me if you divulge my deceit.” 
 
 ^‘Ah, I suspected your masquerade from the first,” 
 said Bonaparte, smiling reassuringly upon the girl in 
 uniform. ‘‘But,” he asked, “do not your chiefs — 
 do not your comrades suspect? Do they see nothing?” 
 
 “Ah, captain, there are so many young men with- 
 out beards in the army, and besides I do my duty 
 seriously,” answered the young girl proudly. 
 
 “I do not doubt it, but I do doubt about this 
 Marcel of yours being your brother.” 
 
 The handsome sergeant blushed. 
 
 “He is your lover, is he not?” 
 
 The handsome sergeant blushed more deeply still. 
 
 “Well,” said Bonaparte kindly, “I do not ask your 
 history, and I will keep your secret. If I can aid 
 you, count on me. Go and see young Eobespierre. 
 Tell him his friend, Bonaparte, sent you to him.” 
 
 He extended his hand to the handsome sergeant, 
 who looked as if she could embrace him. Then in a 
 transport of joy the girl-soldier bade him adieu and 
 passed out radiant. 
 
 “Ah! how I envy her and him,” muttered Bona- 
 parte when left alone. “ They Icve each other. They 
 will tight for their country side by side. Happy 
 lives, and, if must be, happy deaths, while I — ” the 
 melancholy look came over his face again. 
 
 He sat down at his table, spread out his chart, and 
 studied the location of Toulon, the great seaport of 
 the south. “Oh,” he cried, “if I could but fight 
 the English there.” 
 
 And his eager finger pointed on the map to a 
 point— a place unknown — a place visible to him alone 
 — where he destroyed, in imagination, the British 
 fleet. 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 65 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE OATH UKDER THE POPLARS — THE IKVOLUl?^- 
 TARY EKLISTMEi^T. 
 
 The Count de Surg^res, whose ancestral chateau, 
 near Laval, was reflected, with its moldering old tur- 
 rets, in the waters of the Mayenne, had sought shel- 
 ter, at the very first mutterings of the Revolution, 
 beyond the Rhine. 
 
 He had pitched his tent, near Coblenz, resolved to 
 watch the course of events, not as a participator but 
 in quiet as a spectator. 
 
 Nominally, he had entered the military service of 
 the allied princes, but, claiming and receiving ex- 
 emption, from his evident infirmities (though only 
 fifty years of age), he devoted himself to high living’ 
 and to looking on, under the protection of the royal 
 and imperial armies, and enjoyed life as best he eould 
 in the little Rhenish town. 
 
 To tell the truth, the count had left his ancestral 
 home not from love of the allied princes, nor yet 
 from fear of the rising patriots. Domestic and per- 
 sonal reasons impelled him to this step. Himself a 
 childless widower, he had contracted, years ago, a 
 liaison with the wife of one of his nearest neighbors 
 and most intimate friends, by whom he had an ille- 
 gitimate child, whose existence of course was kept 
 profoundly secret. No trouble had arisen, no suspi- 
 cion was excited in th^ husband’s breast, but th« 
 Count de Surgdres grew tired of his friend’s wife. 
 
 He began to weary of the slavery of love. The 
 lady he had once so passionately adored, so guiltily 
 worshiped, had grown not only older and uglier but 
 heavier. She looked less attractive, and she weighed 
 a great deal more. Formerly she was trim, tender, 
 elegant, sylph-like — a Venus — but now she was sim- 
 
66 
 
 MADAME SAHrS-GEME. . 
 
 ply so much avoirdupois. Her figure lay heavily on 
 his soul. She was a leaden weight upon his spirits. 
 
 Of all ponderous bodies, the most ponderous is the 
 woman we have ceased to love. 
 
 So he gladly accompanied the lady’s husband to 
 the wars, without going, as has been shown, to war. 
 
 As for his illegitimate daughter he left her to the 
 care of one of his old hunt-keepers, called Father La 
 Brisee, who had reared her as his own daughter. 
 Her name was Kenee, and she grew up to be beauti- 
 ful. She had been educated above her station, and 
 had accquired not only the health and heartiness of 
 country life but the knowledge that is imparted in 
 books and schools. She had been liberally though 
 indirectly supplied with money by her parents, who 
 did for her everything but acknowledge her, and she 
 was serenely happy. Her favorite pastime was to 
 accompany La Brisee on his hunting expeditions. 
 She had fallen in love with Marcel, the miller’s son. 
 Benee was seventeen and Marcel was entering his 
 twentieth year. 
 
 The miller’s son had, like his sweetheart, received 
 a liberal education. He had been designed for the 
 church, but took up the study of medicine. 
 
 The two met every day beside the mill-stream, 
 near a grove of poplars. Renee took a gun, and pre- 
 tended to go hunting; Marcel took a book and pre- 
 tended to be reading. It answered all purposes. 
 
 One day Mother Toinnon, the hunt-keeper’s wife, 
 surprised them in their retreat, and discovered their 
 transparent secret. Neither she nor her husband 
 made any objection; they felt sure that the real par- 
 ents of the girl would not run any risk of compro- 
 mising themselves by pretending to interfere. But 
 the father of Marcel would not permit his son to 
 marry Ren6e. Not that he knew aught against the 
 girl, but because one Bertrand le Goez, the notary 
 
MADAME 8AN8-GENE. 
 
 67 
 
 and administrator of the Count de Surg^res’ affairs, 
 desired himself to wed the girl, and had bribed Mar- 
 cel’s father, by favors to his mill, to aid him in his 
 suit, and rid him of the rivalry of his son. 
 
 But Eenee would have none of the notary, and 
 she would have Marcel. She pledged herself to love 
 him, and Marcel vowed to love her always, and to 
 wed her at last. 
 
 They took an oath under the poplar trees beside 
 the stream to be faithful to each other until death. 
 
 Bertrand le Goez set his spies upon the lovers and 
 then set his wits to work to part them. The notary 
 and agent was in his little world a great man, and 
 his influence was widespread. He caused constant 
 annoyances to be placed in the way of Marcel, till 
 the young and sensitive fellow was goaded into the 
 idea of emigrating to America, whereupon Eenee 
 vowed to go with him to the new world. What was 
 the old world to her without Marcel? what would 
 any world, or all the worlds, have been to her with- 
 out her lover? 
 
 Eenee, go to America ! What do you say to that, 
 old woman?” asked the hunt-keeper of his wife. 
 
 “Why, 1 say,” answered the old woman, “that it 
 will never do. The count would not permit it. I 
 must tell these turtle doves something they do not 
 know.” 
 
 And then Eenee learned, in the presence of Mar- 
 cel, the secret of her parentage. But this revelation 
 made not a whit of difference to the lovers. Marcel 
 would have taken Eenee for his wife had she been 
 the illegitimate child of Lucifer himself, and thought 
 himself honored as well as happy in so doing. As 
 for Eenee she held justly that her parents had for- 
 feited all right to be consulted by her, in any affairs 
 of the heart; as they had shown themselves without 
 heart to her, caring more for the world’s opinion 
 
68 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-0ENE. 
 
 than for ner affection. She should, therefore, with 
 or without their knowledge and consent, give herself 
 to the man she loved. The irregularity of her birth 
 placed her beyond the conventionalities of society, 
 and she was free to love. 
 
 Already the Eevolution was everywhere, even in 
 the quiet country, even in the soul of a girl like 
 Eenee. The people, even young maidens, were 
 thinking for themselves. 
 
 But ere long the morbidly sensitive soul of Marcel 
 discovered a barrier to his union with Eenee, a barrier 
 he felt that a man of honor could not overcome. 
 Eenee, he found, owing to the pecuniary liberality 
 of the count and his paramour, was comparatively 
 rich, while' he was comparatively poor. He could 
 not consent to ruin or rob the woman he loved, by 
 wedding her, and taking her from the sphere of those 
 who were providing for her. No, he would go to 
 America alone, and w'hen he had become a rich man 
 there, then he would send or come for Eenee. 
 
 Yes, he publicly announced his intention of emi- 
 grating to America, when suddenly he was arrested 
 on the charge of deserting his country. Of course 
 the arrest had been instigated by the notary, his 
 rival. 
 
 Marcel could not deny the fact that he was on the 
 verge of leaving France forever, and that in itself 
 was regarded as a crime in a Frenchman at that 
 period. Consequently his arrest held good, and he 
 was given the choice — if choice it was — of joining 
 the army as a regimental surgeon, stationed at 
 Angers, or of being sent to Angers as a prisoner. 
 
 Marcel was distracted, while Bertrand le Goez 
 watched him with evident enjoyment of his confu- 
 sion. La Brisee and his wife looked on in dazed 
 silence. 
 
 Ben6e meantime approached Marcel, and handing 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 69 
 
 him a pen, begged him to sign a paper handed to 
 him by the cooimmissioner who had arrested him, 
 and which was an agreement to join the army as a 
 surgeon. 
 
 ‘‘So you wish me to leave you, leave you defense- 
 less, leave you to that wretch,” said Marcel, pointing 
 to Bertrand lo Goez. 
 
 Eenee answered in a whisper, “Sign, go to tho 
 army, for,” she added, sinking her voice still lower, 
 “I shall go with you, I promise it.” 
 
 “ What!” cried Marcel in utter astonishment, “you 
 go among soldiers, you go to the army.” 
 
 “Why not?” said Eenee calmly; “I can make up 
 like a boy, and I have learned, as you know, in my 
 hunting expeditions with my father here,” pointing 
 to La Brisee, whom she regarded still as her parent, 
 “to shoot like a man. I tell you I will join you, so 
 sign.” 
 
 And so Marcel signed. Bertrand le Goez retired, 
 rubbing his hands gleefully. He had gained his end. 
 Marcel had signed, his rival was going away; Eenee, 
 of whose birth he knew the secret, was in the toils. 
 Marcel would never return, and if he did, by that 
 time Eenee would be Madame le Goez. But he cal- 
 culated without Eenee. 
 
 She met Marcel under the poplars — at the old 
 trysting place — that night. She was the calmer of 
 the two, and she solemnly repeated her promise to 
 join him in his regiment. 
 
 “I will make a fine-looking soldier,” she assured 
 him, laughing gayly. 
 
 “But the fatigue,” said he; “the rations.” 
 
 “I can endure the one and eat the other.” 
 
 “But if you should be wounded?” 
 
 “Are you not a surgeon?” 
 
 No more was to be said and Marcel started for his 
 regiment. Several days after the departure of Mar- 
 
70 
 
 MADAME 8AF8-GEME. 
 
 cel, about dusk, a young man was walking along the 
 country road slowly but steadily in the direction of 
 Angers. He carried a bundle of clothes on a cane, 
 and wore the uniform of the National Guards. Ar- 
 riving at Angers he enrolled himself at the mayor’s 
 office as a volunteer, and gave the name of Eenee 
 Marcel, the son of Marcel the miller. He was as- 
 signed to the battalion of Mayenne-et-Loire. 
 
 The young man had said that he wished to join 
 the company with which his brother Marcel was con- 
 nected, and so she was admitted without any difldculty 
 or the least suspicion. She was not by hundreds the 
 only girl who served in the French army as a man. 
 The regiments of the revolution were full of female 
 recruits. 
 
 Among the military annals of the Eepublic there 
 are many records of glorious service rendered by these 
 hero-women — ^these warrior-maids — these Joans of 
 Arc. Their names give luster to a deathless page. 
 
 Eenee became a prime favorite with her regiment, 
 and soon rose to the rank of silver stripes. She was 
 known far and wide as “the handsome sergeant.” 
 For a brief while the united lovers were supremely 
 happy, spite the barriers between them ; then, as the 
 Fates would have it, they were separated, Marcel 
 being sent to the Fourth Artillery at Valence, 
 where, as at Toulon, they were badly in need of 
 doctors. 
 
 The hour for parting came. They were compelled 
 to hide their feelings from the whole regiment that 
 witnessed their last interview. 
 
 They embraced each other and promised soon to 
 meet again. 
 
 They took it for granted that heaven would arrange 
 things for their benefit. It is a way young lovers 
 have. 
 
 Then Eenee came, on leave of absence to Paris, 
 
MADAME 8AN8-GENE. 
 
 71 
 
 and called on Bonaparte, as we have seen and heard 
 already. 
 
 And, thanks to the protection and influence of 
 young Eobespierre, who was indeed very frieildly to 
 young Bonaparte, the exchange the lovers so ardently 
 desired was effected, and under the command of 
 Beaurepaire, the defender-hero of Verdun, Eenee 
 who enlisted for love, marched side by side with 
 Marcel, the doctor and the philosopher, who was by 
 this time a full-fledged disciple of Jean Jacques 
 Eousseau, the apostle of peace, a citizen of the world, 
 but who had enlisted because he could not help it. 
 
 OHAPTEK XL 
 
 THE CONFIDENCE OF MADAME SANS-GENE AND WHY 
 SHE DID NOT PKESENT HER LAUNDRY BILL. 
 
 After “the handsome sergeant” had taken his or 
 her departure, Bonaparte, resuming his train of 
 thought, began once more his studies of his chart. 
 Already he had conceived vast projects, some of which 
 were subsequently undertaken, for the defense of the 
 Mediterranean coast. And to-day he cast a keen yet 
 glowing glance at the place on the chart where were 
 indicated those mountains between France and Pied- 
 mont — the key to Italy. 
 
 He looked and formed strategic combinations in 
 his brain. He gazed upon the chart, then grasped 
 it as if already master of the lands and seas it repre- 
 sented. 
 
 In the naiJst of his busy, brilliant meditations, a 
 knock at ^he door caused him to raise his head. He 
 was imi^tient at being again disturbed. “Who 
 comes i^ow,” he thought, “some creditor, or another 
 visitor? Probably the latter, for it seems fated to 
 be a day of visits. “ Who’s there?” he growled. 
 
72 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-GENE, 
 
 A woman’s voice — unmistakably this time a wom- 
 an’s — was heard outside. ‘^It is I,” it said, and for 
 further explanation of the the voice continued: 
 ^‘Catherine, the laundress.” 
 
 ^^Come in, then,” he growled again. 
 
 The laundress was not accustomed to meet such 
 an unwelcome reception. She felt a little hurt, 
 and, for a wonder for her, just the least bit in the 
 world embarrassed. She entered quietly, however, 
 and taking her basket from her arm, said almost 
 with an apology to the man who was so rude to her: 
 ‘‘Pray, do not disturb yourself, captain, I have 
 brought your wash. I — I thought that possibly you 
 might need your clothes.” 
 
 “ The captain” did not even deign to look up from 
 his chart. “ The wash,” he said, “ very well.” Then 
 he added in a tone of command, “Put them there on 
 the bed.” 
 
 Catherine for a moment stood stock still. She 
 was amazed, she was paralyzed, she was not accus- 
 tomed to be commanded by her customers, especially 
 by a customer in arrears. For a moment she neither 
 advanced toward the bed nor retreated toward the 
 door, but kept her basket in her hand, uncertain 
 what to do. But finally she did as she was told, and 
 put the clothes upon the bed. “I feel like a fool,” 
 she thought to herself, as she obeyed Bonaparte, and 
 arranged his wash upon his cot, “but this man im- 
 poses his will upon me in a way I cannot resist. He 
 masters me in a manner that is beyond my power to 
 control.” 
 
 Yes, the woman who was famous all through the 
 Saint-Roche quarter of Paris for doing as she pleased, 
 and for being afraid of nobody, the woman who was 
 known as Sans-Gene, and who justified that title, 
 felt really timid in the presence of Napoleon Bona- 
 parte. 
 
MADAME SANS-QENE. 
 
 73 
 
 Many a king and queen in after years resembled 
 Madame Sans-Gene in this respect. 
 
 Having arranged the clothes, she stared at the bed. 
 She shifted her basket on her arm, and then, as if a 
 sudden thought had occurred to her, she felt in her 
 apron pocket for the bill which she brought with 
 her, and which she fully intended to present to him 
 this time, with a demand for payment. 
 
 And yet she did not dare — yes, “dare” is the word 
 — to present that bill. As the saying is, “she shook 
 in her shoes” before him. 
 
 While Bonaparte continued, utterly heedless of 
 her presence, to study the chart before him. 
 
 She was not accustomed to being thus entirely ig- 
 nored, this Madame Sans-Gene, and felt uneasy 
 under this new sensation. At last she gave her dress 
 a rustle, she shook herself slightly, to remind him of 
 her presence, to let the ex-captain of the artillery 
 know that she was there. 
 
 But at first he took no heed of her little stratagem. 
 “Well,” thought Catherine, hulled, “he certainly is 
 not at all gallant. He heeds me no more than if I 
 was not a woman, and a good-looking one, some 
 say. Though even if one is decent and proper, and 
 doesn’t come for anything out of the way, yet one 
 may be worth looking at.” 
 
 And once more she rustled her dress and made a 
 movement. 
 
 Bonaparte looked up from his chart, but he merely 
 said: “Oh, you are still here, I see,” and looked 
 down again. Then raising his eyes after a minute 
 or more, during which period Catherine stood dum- 
 founded, he asked her almost rudely, certainly 
 abruptly, “What do you want?” 
 
 “Citizen,” answered Catherine eagerly, now that 
 he had really said something to her, “I wanted to- — ” 
 She paused. 
 
74 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 “To what?’’ asked Bonaparte. 
 
 She had intended to say: “Ask yon for some 
 money,” but what she really said now was: “To tell 
 you that I am about to be married.” 
 
 At that moment the laundress could not have asked 
 her delinquent customer to settle his little bill. No, 
 not even if Lefebvre had told her to do so. 
 
 She felt glad to escape the bill by talking of her- 
 self and her love affairs — something personal, not 
 pecuniary. She preferred to take her customer into 
 her confidence rather than to present his account. 
 
 Bonaparte at her communication looked at her 
 with a shade of annoyance in his face. Her naive 
 confession served to pleasantly distract his brooding 
 fancies. He thought of “the pretty sergeant” and 
 her love secret. This was the second affair of the 
 heart that had been forced upon his notice within 
 the hour. 
 
 He glanced at Catherine as she stood before him. 
 Eosy as a red-cheeked pippin, with her fine bust 
 heaving under her linen kerchief. Either her allu- 
 sion to her marriage, or the presence of the ex-artil- 
 lery captain, made her lose the gift she most prided 
 herself upon — her self-possession. She was a pretty 
 sight to look at, and Bonaparte, in spite of himself, 
 smiled approvingly. 
 
 “Ah, you are going to marry,” he said, coldly per- 
 haps, but not as before roughly. “Well, so much 
 the better for you, my girl.” Then more kindly, “I 
 wish you joy.” 
 
 Catherine courtesied. 
 
 “I presume,” continued Bonaparte, “that you are 
 going to marry some good fellow who keeps a 
 laundry.” 
 
 “Keeps a laundry!” repeated Catherine, almost 
 with scorn. “No, indeed, I am going to marry a 
 soldier, a sergeant.” 
 
MADAME SAMSr-OENE. 
 
 75 
 
 ‘‘Ah, is it so;” said Bonaparte more kindly, “You 
 do well to marry a soldier, mademoiselle. To be a 
 soldier is to be doubly a Frenchman. Once more I 
 wish you joy.” 
 
 And then he looked down upon his chart again. 
 But Catherine, somehow, did not leave the room. 
 And soon Bonaparte looked up at her and smiled. 
 
 Eeally, even in ill-luck, one could not help smil- 
 ing at Catherine. She looked so plump, so pretty, 
 so rosy-cheeked, and so mischievous, although her 
 manner had seemed to be so reserved, and she had 
 looked so demurely, hypocritically quiet, when she 
 had entered the room with her basket on her arm. 
 
 Bonaparte was pleased with her appearance. Above 
 all, he was pleased to notice she was stout — not too 
 stout, however; perhaps “plump” is the word. Bon- 
 aparte as man and as emperor was always fond of 
 large, plump women. When young and poor and an 
 officer, when older and more nervous as a consul, 
 and when in full feather as the ruler of Europe, 
 Napoleon always surrounded himself with plump 
 women, if he could. 
 
 And now, at this particular moment, Catherine’s 
 well-rounded beauty charmed him and drew him out 
 of the sphere of his strategetical calculations. 
 
 Ho even felt inclined to play the gallant with her. 
 But he was always rather brutally direct in his ad- 
 vances, and now he almost rushed at the young 
 laundress, and put his heavy hand upon her soft, 
 white neck. 
 
 Thereupon Catherine promptly shrieked, not 
 shrilly, but very properly, yet not loud enough to 
 summon anybody to her assistance. 
 
 Bonaparte never hesitated either in war or love. 
 He began the attack, he redoubled his attentions and 
 embraces, he made the laundress retreat, but toward 
 the bed. Beaching that, however, Catherine sat down. 
 
76 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GENE. 
 
 and insisting on sitting bolt upright commenced 
 to defend herself. This she did, without any false 
 modesty, however, and without showing that she 
 felt frightened, or even implying that there was any- 
 thing to be frightened at. 
 
 Bonaparte by this time had forgotten all about his 
 charts, his ambition, Toulon and the Mediterranean. 
 His sole aim now was to reach Catherine, and to con- 
 quer his laundress. The latter made, as it were, an 
 outwork of her basket; she placed it before her, and 
 between her pursuer and herself, like a gabion; ex- 
 olaiming, as she did so: ‘^No, no, captain! it is too 
 late for this. You cannot take me, for I have al- 
 ready capitulated. So my husband says.” 
 
 ^^Eeally,” said Bonaparte, desisting from his gal- 
 lantries. ‘‘Oh, then this marriage of yours is really 
 something serious.” 
 
 “Very serious indeed to me,” answered Catherine, 
 rising, and then, wishing to turn the conversation, 
 she said : “And I came to tell you, that as I am going 
 to be married, I cannot do your washing any longer.” 
 
 “What! will you shut up shop, my pretty one?” 
 
 “Yes; for a shop would do badly in such times as 
 these. And then, besides, like a good wife I shall 
 want to follow my husband.” 
 
 “What! in his regiment — on the march?” asked 
 Bonaparte. 
 
 “Why not?” asked Catherine. 
 
 “I’ve met a case like yours before,” said Bona- 
 parte, thinking of the handsome sergeant. “Ah! the 
 army will have more than one family,” he muttered. 
 
 “So you, too, are going to fire powder and, per- 
 haps, manage a cannon,” he continued, addressing 
 Catherine in a bantering, almost teasing manner. 
 
 “I have already learned how to use a gun,” said 
 Catherine; “but 1 have had no experience yet with 
 cannon. I should be glad to take lessons from you 
 
MADAME SANS-^QENE. 
 
 77 
 
 in artillery matters, mon capitaine^^^ she went on 
 laughingly, ‘‘but you see my husband that is to be 
 is in the infantry. But seriously, captain, I shall 
 not fight if I can help it, but I want to aid and com- 
 fort the fighters. They need canteen carriers in the 
 regiments, and I intend to carry drink to my hus- 
 band’s comrades. I may even hope to have your 
 patronage. Captain Bonaparte,” she exclaimed, with 
 a low courtesy, “if you should serve with us.” 
 
 “Consider me one of your best customers, made- 
 moiselle,” said Bonaparte; “but,” he added some- 
 what sadly, “not yet. The minister of war will not 
 let me fight or — ” eat, he was about to say, but he 
 checked himself and substituted the words “nor 
 spend money at the canteen. But perhaps things 
 may all come round in time, but later on, perhaps, 
 too late.” 
 
 He sighed and went back to his chart and table. 
 Catherine, without a word, respecting his feelings 
 and his work, rearranged the wash upon the bed, 
 gave the snowy little pile a few last feminine smooth- 
 ings, and then, disturbed in her own breast by the 
 sadness of her customer, whose story she knew well, 
 she with a silent courtesy left him, but suddenly she 
 returned. “Oh,” she said hurriedly, “I forgot to 
 tell you, captain, but I ruined one of your shirts by 
 accident, but 1 have replaced it. It is there, the new 
 shirt, along with the drawers and the handkerchiefs.” 
 Then more slowly and softly, she said: Au revoir. 
 mon capitaine.'^^ 
 
 Bonaparte looked up from his chart with one of 
 those rare, sweet, potent smiles of his. “ revoir^ 
 ma he replied, “and luck to your canteen,” 
 
 then he turned him to his chart. 
 
 Catherine walked slowly* down the stairs of the 
 Hotel de Metz, and while descending thought of 
 various things. First she half smiled, half frowned 
 
78 
 
 MADAME SANS-^QEFE. 
 
 as she recalled how she had resolved to present the 
 man she had just left with his wash bill, and how 
 she had utterly failed, never even alluding to the bill. 
 
 “I really hadn’t the courage to tell him about it. 
 Somehow he can do everything with me, that Bona- 
 parte, everything but make me forget Lefebvre. But 
 he’ll pay me someday; I believe in him; he is bound 
 to rise, and there’s no telling how high, either. Men 
 like him are not easily satisfied. Fouch6 laughs at 
 him, or pretends to, but I have every faith in this 
 Bonaparte. I am sure he will make his way.” 
 
 Then she recalled, half smiling, half blushing, the 
 memories of Bonaparte’s recent attempts at gallantry. 
 “ How he tormented me, that captain ; he even forgot 
 his chart and papers for me. Well, there was no 
 harm in pour passer le temps! It didn’t hurt me, 
 and it amused him, and poor fellow, he has had but 
 little amusement lately. Poor young man !” 
 
 She paused, blushed a little more, and added, in 
 her thoughts: ‘‘If he had really desired it. But, oh, 
 no, not now; at some other time, before I was prom- 
 ised to Lefebvre. In that case it might have been,” 
 and she felt a sort of retrospective regret for her own 
 coyness to the thin sad-eyed artillery captain. 
 
 “But,” she continued to herself gayly, “he did 
 not think of it really, or he would not have done it.” 
 
 Then her reflections took a new direction. 
 “Enough of this Bonaparte,” she thought; “I must 
 run and see if my Lefebvre is not at the shop. He 
 may be growing impatient, and I must not keep Mm 
 waiting, for he loves me well. He will make me a 
 far better husband than Captain Bonaparte.” 
 
 Pull of anticipation, she walked through the streets 
 quickly, and as she reached her shop she found a 
 crowd around it. There were noises and cries, 
 laughter, and merriment. The entire neighborhood 
 was aroused, and looking she saw Lefebvre, no longer 
 
MADAME 8AN8-GENE, 
 
 79 
 
 with a gun, and without his buff coat, but bearing 
 in his hand a splendid sword, ornamented with a 
 golden dragon. His comrades joyously surrounded 
 him; he was the center o£ attraction; they were car- 
 rying him along in triumph. 
 
 Lefebvre saw Catherine and stopped in his trium- 
 phal march beside her. “1 am now a lieutenant,” 
 he cried proudly. 
 
 Catherine’s plump figure seemed to expand, though 
 she could not speak a word. She was silent from 
 sheer fullness of pride. 
 
 ^^Long live Lieutenant Lefebvre,” shouted the 
 members of the National Guard, throwing their 
 hats up into the air, and twirling their guns. 
 
 “And long live Citizeness Lefebvre here,” cried 
 the new lieutenant, pointing to the happy Catherine. 
 “She is my wife, my comrades, or will be. We are 
 to be married next week.” 
 
 “Long live Citizeness Lefebvre,” shouted the 
 guards again, with more throwing up of hats and 
 more twirling of guns. And “long live Madame 
 Sans-G^ne,” shouted all the crowd of neighbors and 
 bystanders. For Catherine was popular throughout 
 the quarter. 
 
 Catherine smiled and acknowledged the compli- 
 ments bestowed upon her. Still, thoughtful of 
 others, even in the moment of her own glory, she 
 whispered to Lefebvre: “ Lot them not shout so loud, 
 for” (mindful of the Chevalier du Poignard, still 
 lying on her bed in her room) “ they will make our 
 sick man worse.” 
 
 Meantime, in his little cheerless room in the Hotel 
 de Metz Bonaparte had finished for the day his study 
 of his chart, and had turned his attention to his 
 clothes. He was orderly and systematic in his habits, 
 and he took the various pieces of linen which the 
 
80 
 
 MADAME SANS-OENE. 
 
 laundress had laid down on his bed, and re-arranged 
 them on a plain deal shelf along the wall. 
 
 Then he looked for something and could not find 
 it. ‘‘She has forgotten to leave the bill,” he said. 
 “Well, it is better so, for I would have had to tell 
 her that I could not pay her to-day, nor to-morrow,” 
 he sighed, “nor the day after. She is a good sonl 
 and I must owe her, let me see,” he calculated, 
 “thirty francs at least. The devil!” he ejaculated, 
 “thirty francs; that is a good deal of money to her, 
 and more to me. I shall settle with her in full as 
 soon as ever I get anything. She is a good, kind 
 girl this Catherine, as well as a pretty and a plump 
 one, and I shall not forget her or her bill. But 
 now I must dress; it is the day I dine with the Per- 
 mons — my one dinner a week.” And the future 
 emperor prepared to change his clothes and to attire 
 himself in his only good suit. 
 
 And as he dressed he thought kindly of Catherine 
 Sans-Gene, and was touched alike by the confidence 
 she had reposed in him concerning her own love 
 affairs, and the delicacy she had shown in forgetting 
 to present him with his little bill. “For she forgot 
 it on purpose, I am half-inclined to believe,” said 
 Bonaparte, to himself. 
 
 The delicacy and the little confidential communi- 
 cation of Catherine, his laundress, lingered long in 
 Napoleon’s memory, and led him years afterward to 
 speak and think with favor of her. 
 
 As for Catherine, after many years had passed, 
 she received, in the most unexpected manner, more 
 than payment of the wash bill she had “forgotten” 
 to present. 
 
 And our readers, as they follow us in the pages of 
 this story, will find again, and hear more about the 
 personages we have already introduced to them. The 
 
MADAME SANS-OENE. 
 
 81 
 
 love affairs and personal adventures of the Chevalier 
 dn Poignard, the Count de Neipperg and his lovely 
 Blanche, the marches of the pretty sergeant and her 
 devoted Marcel, these will be related in full. Little 
 Henriot will figure in the future of the story, new 
 personages will be introduced, and new light will 
 be shed on the personalities of Napoleon and of 
 Josephine. 
 
 And, above all, the numerous escapades and excit- 
 ing adventures of Catherine Upscher, the laundress, 
 later on the Marechale Lefebvre, and Duchess de 
 Dantzig, will be given to the world, the life narrative 
 of the woman, ever sympathetic, ever popular, the 
 good girl, the jolly companion, the heroic and chari- 
 table woman, who bore the Parisian nickname of 
 Madame Sans-Gene. 
 
82 
 
 MADAME 8AN&-aENE. 
 
 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 THE CANTEEN BEARER.. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. ^ 
 
 THE POST-CHAISE — THE FRUIT SHOP — THE LADY OF 
 ST. CYR — napoleon’s FIRST DEFEAT. 
 
 ^^Ah, see, they will not stop here. The postilion 
 cracks his whip as he passes L’Ecn; he does not 
 seem to even see us.” 
 
 ‘‘Travelers are not as numerous as they should be 
 nowadays.” 
 
 “They are out of sight. They are going to the 
 Lion d’Or.” 
 
 “Or, perhaps, to the Cheval Blanc.” 
 
 Such were the words, alternated with sighs, ex- 
 changed between the fat inn-keeper of the Hotel de 
 L’Ecu and his equally fat wife, as they stood on the 
 threshold of the chief tavern at Dammarten, looking 
 at a vehicle which had passed on. 
 
 Passengers in coaches were rare indeed after the 
 events which transpired after the fifteenth of June. 
 
 And the vehicle which had appeared to and then 
 disappeared from the longing gaze of the inn-keeper 
 at L’Ecu, had left Paris early that evening, and was 
 really the last coach which got safely over the border. 
 
 For an order had been issued to prevent any equi- 
 page from leaving Paris that very night, as soon as 
 
MADAME 8AES-GENE. 
 
 83 
 
 the Parisians had resolved to take the Tnileries at 
 dawn. 
 
 The coach contained the Baron de Lowendaal and 
 his factotum, Leonard. 
 
 The baron, scenting danger, had postponed his 
 marriage with Mdlle. Laveline, and had left Paris, 
 traveling like one who feared for his life. 
 
 He was bound for his chateau near the village of 
 Jemmapes, on the Belgian border. He thought he 
 certainly would be safe from the revolution there; 
 besides, the army of the Prince of Brunswick was 
 assembled on the Belgian frontier. 
 
 Fearful as the baron was, yet he was also hopeful. 
 He would still marry Mdlle. Laveline on the sixth 
 of November. Meanwhile he would arrange some 
 pressing business matters at the town of Verdun, 
 where he owned a large tobacco farm. 
 
 His man Leonard saw to the creature comforts of 
 the baron on his travels, arranged the relays of 
 horses, and attended to all other minor matters. 
 
 This man Leonard was as keen as he was servile 
 and unprincipled. 
 
 Not dreaming of his real character, or lack of 
 character, it was to this cunning rascal that Made- 
 moiselle Blanche de Laveline had entrusted the letter 
 already alluded to, in which she had confessed all to 
 jthe baron. 
 
 This letter, the young lady had instructed him, 
 was not to be given tu the baron till he had left 
 I Paris. This injunction set Leonard’s wits to work. 
 (What could such a mysterious letter contain? 
 
 /‘The secrets of masters and mistresses are the 
 fortunes of servants,” said Leonard, as he finally and 
 'deliberately opened and read the letter. Its contents 
 (were as follows: 
 
 ^“Monsieur le Barok: I owe you a guilty 
 
84 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENK 
 
 avowal, which I must make, that I may dispel an 
 illusion concerning me, which facts would not take 
 long to disclose. 
 
 You have given me some affection, and you have 
 'obtained my father’s consent to a marriage in which 
 you have thought to find happiness, perhaps love. 
 
 ‘^Good fortune cannot come to you from such a 
 union; I could promise you no love, for my heart 
 belongs to another. Forgive me that I do not give 
 you his name, who possesses all my soul, and whose 
 wife I consider myself to be, before God! 
 
 ‘^1 have a final revelation to make to you. I am a 
 mother. Monsieur le Baron, and death alone could 
 part me from my husband, the father of my little 
 Henriot. I shall follow M. de Laveline to Jem- 
 mapes, since he desires it; but I trust that, informed 
 of ;the obstacle which stands immovably against the 
 fufillment of your plans, you will pity and spare me 
 the shame of having to tell my father the real cause 
 which makes this union impossible. 
 
 * ‘‘l^rely, monsieur, on your discretion as a gallant 
 man. Burn this letter and believe in my gratitude 
 and my friendship. 
 
 ‘‘Blanche.” 
 
 Leonard’s surprise on reading this letter was great — 
 his satisfaction was greater. “Who would have 
 imagined that Mademoiselle Blanche had an illegiti- 
 mate child, and who on earth would have imagined 
 that she would confess the fact to the baron of all 
 men. What creatures women are! She doesn’t 
 know how stupid she was to commit herself thus in 
 writing. It is well for her it was I who discovered 
 her secret. Well, she can’t deny her own handwrit- 
 ing. Happily it is I to whom she has confided her 
 honor and her fortune. She will pay well for this 
 scrap of paper some day — after she has become Bar- 
 
MADAME SANS-GEJSTE. 
 
 85 
 
 oness de Lowendaal. I shall ask a stiflE pnce for it, 
 and perhaps I may want more than money. Made- 
 moiselle is handsome, and will be wholly in my 
 power; but this is an after coiisideration. I must 
 now guard this paper, and encourage more than ever 
 my master’s hopes of marrying mademoiselle.” 
 
 While Leonard was reading the letter intended for 
 the baron and soliloquizing over it, the baron was 
 wondering where Leonard had gone to. But return- 
 ing to the inn, the servant explained to his master 
 that he had been making the final preparations for 
 their departure to Verdun. 
 
 The baron was satisfied, and in high spirits re- 
 entered the carriage, which rolled thundering along 
 the road which was no longer “the king’s highway,” 
 
 At the door of her fruit shop, in the Kue de Mont- 
 reuil, at Versailles, Mother Hoche was serving her 
 customers, and occasionally watching a little rosy, 
 chubby boy, who was playing between the piles of 
 cabbage and the heaps of carrots. 
 
 “Henriot! Henriot! don’t eat that! you will make 
 yourself sick,” she cried out, now and then, as the 
 little fellow tackled the raw carrots and turnips. 
 
 And then thinking, “ What an appetite the little 
 imp has, to be sure, but what a sweet babe he is, all 
 the same,” she turned and waited on her customers. 
 
 Suddenly she gave a loud cry of surprise and joy, 
 for she saw a tall young fellow, in a grenadier’s 
 uniform, approaching her, accompanied b^y a good- 
 looking lieutenant with a buxom woman leaning on 
 his arm. 
 
 The newcomers were Lazare Hoche, Mother 
 Hoche’s adopted son, and Lieutenant and Madame 
 Lefebvre. 
 
 After salutations and conversation Lefebvre and 
 Hoche departed for a stroll — so they said — and the two 
 
86 
 
 MADAME SAMS-GENK 
 
 women remained behind. Mother Hoche preparing a 
 ragout of goose and turnips to greet the two men on 
 their return, Catherine helping to scrape the turnips, 
 also to shell peas, and kill a chicken for a stuJffed 
 omelette to complete the repast. 
 
 And then the two women talked about little Hen- 
 riot, and Catherine told Mother Hoche how she had 
 been sent by the child’s mother to take him from 
 her. 
 
 Mother Hoche was very sorry to part with the 
 little fellow, to whom she had become greatly 
 attached. 
 
 ‘‘Must you take the boy away at once?” she asked 
 of Catherine. “ Can’t you leave him here with me 
 and call i.or him at some other time, at the very last 
 moment?” 
 
 “But I can’t call again,” said Catherine; “fori 
 am going with my husband to the army.” 
 
 “You — pretty one,” said Mother Hoche amazed; 
 “you going to the wars?” 
 
 “Yes,” replied Catherine, “I have a commission 
 in my pocket as canteen-bearer to the thirteenth 
 regiment.” 
 
 And she drew from her bosom a great official doc- 
 ument, signed and sealed with the war-office seal. 
 “I must join my regiment in oight hours. We are 
 going to Verdun to root out the royalists there who 
 are conspiring with Brunswick.” 
 
 “Ah! so you are going to be a canteen-bearer,” 
 said old Mother Hoche, looking as she felt, envious 
 of Catherine’s luck. “Ah, it is a fine lot — none 
 finer, to my notion. One marches to the beat of the 
 drum, one sees the country, one always carries wel- 
 come, as well as wine, with one; for the soldier is at 
 his best at the side of the canteen. He forgets his 
 misery, he dreams of being a corporal, maybe a gen- 
 eral, and then when the battle begins,” cried the old 
 
MADAME SAMS-GEWR 
 
 87 
 
 woman, excited at her own words; ‘‘one feels that 
 one is not a useless Avoman, mere tears and fears, but 
 a part of the army, giving courage to the defenders 
 of one’s native land, making heroes with her eau de 
 vie at two sons per glass. Ah ! the cantiniere^s cask 
 has more than once decided the conflict and given 
 the victory; but,” becoming calmer, “how are you 
 going to take care of little Henriot?” she asked, “in 
 the camp, in march and battle?” 
 
 “Oh,” answered Catherine, with some pride, “I 
 can see to that well enough. As canteen-bearer of 
 the Thirteenth Eegiment I am entitled to a horse and 
 wagon, and we have already bought a complete turn- 
 out.” She spoke as though she were describing her 
 equipage in the Bois. “I sold out my laundry, and 
 Lefebvre when he married received a small inherit- 
 ance from his father, the miller, and with our econ- 
 omy we will want for nothing. The little lad shall 
 be treated like a general’s son.” 
 
 Mother Hoche was fain to be content, but at that 
 moment Lazare Hoche and Lefebvre returned from 
 their stroll. Hoche wore a bloody handkerchief for 
 a bandage; it covered half his face, hiding a deep 
 cut, which always remained a scar. 
 
 Mon DienP'^ cried Mother Hoche, “where have 
 you been walTcing? what has happened? Ah, you 
 have taken him somewhere where they have tried to 
 kill him. Lieutenant Lefebvre,” she continued an- 
 grily- 
 
 But Hoche explained, after quieting his adopted 
 mother’s fears, and showing that he was not seriously 
 hurt. 
 
 He had been fighting a duel, with Lefebvre for 
 his second, with a lieutenant named Serre, who had 
 not only ill-treated himself, but insulted the wife of 
 his friend, Lefebvre. 
 
 Lefebvre would have taken a principal’s share in 
 
88 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GEME. 
 
 the duel himself, but Hoche had two wrongs to 
 avenge — his own as well as his friend’s — and so took 
 precedence. The explanations being made, and 
 Catherine, who had been privy to® the affair, having 
 warmly thanked her husband’s comrade, and the 
 champion of her honor, Lefebvre clamored for some- 
 thing to eat. ‘‘Yes, as your ragout is ready, dear 
 old mother,” said Hoche, “let us talk of other mat- 
 ters, and discuss your goose and turnips ” 
 
 “And chicken omelette,” added Catherine. 
 
 “But your wound, I cannot forget that, my boy,” 
 cried old Mother Hoche. 
 
 “Bah!” said Hoche, as he and the rest sat down 
 to the ragout and omelette; “I have forgotten it 
 already, and doubtless ere long the Austrians and 
 Eussians will give me some more ‘cuts, so one more 
 or less won’t matter; besides it is dry already. 
 See.” 
 
 And almost gayly the brave lad raised the hand- 
 kerchief which covered his head, and showed the 
 wound which, however, always remained a deep scar, 
 marring the martial countenance of the man who be- 
 came the famous fighting general of Sambre-et- 
 Meuse. 
 
 The repast ended, Mother Hoche and Catherine 
 made every preparation for the departure of little 
 Henriot. 
 
 They packed his holiday clothes in a trunk, and 
 to its contents were added boxes of sweetmeats, cakes 
 and candies, ^he gift of old Mother Hoche. 
 
 The child himself considerably helped the prepara- 
 tions for his departure. Childhood loves change. 
 
 Childhood is also carelessly ungrateful. Little 
 Henriot forgot the tenderness of old Mother Hoche, 
 and rejoiced in the prospect of going away with 
 Catherine. 
 
 Meanwhile Lefebvre and young Hoche sat along- 
 
MADAME SAN8-GENE. 
 
 89 
 
 side of the Montreuil road, langhiog, smoking, and 
 watching the crowd of passers-by. 
 
 This Montreuil, called at present the Avenue de 
 Saint-Cloud, was then the highway for foot passen- 
 gers from Paris — farm-ers, soldiers, rustics. 
 
 For economy, many travelers took the river boat 
 to La Samaritaine, at the Pont Neuf, and from the 
 Sevres bridge went on foot to and from Versailles. 
 
 Among these last, Lefebvre suddenly caught a 
 glimpse of a thin, short young man, with rather long 
 hair, with a uniform of the artillery corps, but rather 
 shabby, almost worn out. He seemed in a hurry 
 and was escorting a young girl in a faded black dress, 
 carrying in her hand a small package, half box, half 
 bundle, and both man and girl seemed sad. 
 
 do believe that’s Captain Bonaparte,” said 
 Lefebvre. 
 
 ‘‘Who’s Bonaparte?” asked Hoche. 
 
 “A good Eepublican, an excellent artilleryman, 
 a red-hot Jacobin, and a Corsican,” replied Lefebvre. 
 “He got into some trouble in his native island — they 
 are mostly aristocrats there. But I’ll ask my wife 
 about him, she knows him better than I do.” 
 
 He called for Catherine who came, somewhat sur- 
 prised. 
 
 “What does my husband want?” she asked, placing 
 her hands on her wide hips, her favorite attitude, 
 a habit which clung to her long in after life. 
 
 “Is not that man yonder Captain Bonaparte?” 
 asked Lefebvre, pointing. 
 
 “Yes,” said Catherine positively ; “I’d know him 
 in a million, and not because he owes me for his 
 washing either,” she added. “I like that Captain 
 Bonaparte, but what is he doing with that girl?” 
 
 “Call him and find out,” suggested Lefebvre. 
 
 “All right,” cried Catherine; “and we had better 
 invite him and the girl to take refreshment. He 
 
90 
 
 MADAME JSAM8-GEMR 
 
 
 must be warm and tired, and. the road is dusty, but 
 go you and ask him.” 
 
 Lefebvre ran and overtook Bonaparte. The latter 
 vowed that he was neither warm nor thirsty, and 
 said further that he and his companion were in a 
 hurry to take the boat at Sevres. 
 
 ‘‘Bah! there’s ano her b<^at in about five hours,” 
 said Lefebvre; “anc doui less, mademoiselle,” ad- 
 dressing the girl, “w:nld 1 ke to rest a moment.” 
 
 The girl intimated that .he was dry and tired, and 
 so the pair followed Lefebvre. 
 
 A table was brought out from the fruit shop into 
 the street, chairs were placed arouiid it, and glasses 
 and some bottles of good sour wine were placed 
 upon it. 
 
 They all sat down and drank to the nation, and 
 Bonaparte became more cheerful. 
 
 “My sister, ladies and comrades,” he said, intro- 
 ducing the young girl. 
 
 Yes, the young woman was his sister Marie-Anne, 
 better known as Elisa, who, ere many years, during 
 her brother’s period of glory, wedded a prince, and 
 became Grand Duchess of Tuscany. 
 
 She was ugly, this future princess and grand 
 duchess, and cross — by no means a pleasing person- 
 age. Tall, dark, thin, with sallow complexion, 
 prominent chin, sensual lips, oval head, and deep, 
 piercing eyes. She had far more brains than beauty, 
 and her manner was haughty and repellent. 
 
 She seemed to covertly sneer at the very men and 
 women whose hospitality she and her brother were 
 accepting. To her they were but common men and 
 women, in some way connected with a fruit shop, 
 while she was a demoiselle of Saint-Oyr, who had 
 been educated at the public expense. She really 
 thought herself descended from Jupiter. 
 
 Elisa Bonaparte had been one of the elect, selected 
 
MADAME SANS-OENB. 
 
 91 
 
 some years since by a lucky chance, to be a pupil at 
 the Royal School, although her brother Napoleon had 
 turned out a Democrat. How such a chance had 
 happened Napoleon himself never fully understood. 
 
 But his sister had availed herself of it to the ut- 
 most, and even Napoleon had thought it a capital 
 piece of good luck, and had been loath to take Elisa 
 away. But a national decree had closed the school, 
 and he was compelled to take his sister home. 
 
 But this misfortune, so he regarded it, had been 
 more than compensated by the minister of war having 
 at last consented to see him, and having restored 
 him to his former rank in the French army. 
 
 Whereupon, on hearing this, all the company con- 
 gratulated him, and prophesied his^future success. 
 
 ‘^Ah!” cried Napoleon, “if I do succeed, my 
 friends, you shall share my harvest.” He meant 
 what he said, and kept his promise fully afterward. 
 
 Finally it came time to part. 
 
 “We may meet again. Captain Bonaparte,” said 
 young Hoche, as he shook hands with his colleague. 
 
 “On the road to glory,” said Lefebvre. 
 
 “Yes,” said Bonaparte, “but to get there I must 
 first get the boat at the Sevres bridge,” and he started 
 off quickly with his sister. The two talked on the 
 road. 
 
 “How do you like the captain?” asked Bonaparte. 
 
 “Do you mean Captain Lefebvre?” asked his sister. 
 
 “No, not he,” replied Bonaparte, “for he’s married 
 to that pretty Catherine. No, the other captain, 
 Lazare Hoche.” 
 
 “Oh, he’s not so bad,” said the young lady. 
 
 “Humph ! how would you like him for a husband?” 
 said her brother. 
 
 The future grand duchess blushed, and made an 
 impatient gesture. 
 
 Her brother interpreted that gesture as a sign of 
 
92 
 
 MADAME 8AMS-GEME. 
 
 her dislike to the idea he had suggested. ‘^It’s a 
 pity,” he said, “for Hoche is a good soldier and I 
 think he is one of the men with a future.” 
 
 “Oh, I did not mean that Monsieur Hoche dis- 
 pleases me, but I could never marry any man who 
 does not believe in a king, who is not devoted to 
 some king. Whereas he is a Kepublican.” 
 
 The young girl talked like the ardent royalist she 
 was, such was the result of her education at Saint- 
 Cyr. No wonder one of the first acts of the Kepublic 
 was to close that institution. 
 
 This talk about Hoche illustrates one feature of 
 the character of Napoleon Bonaparte — one feature 
 which always and materially influenced his career. 
 He was ever thinking how to marry his sisters advan^ 
 tageously, always haunted by the specter of his family, 
 ever seeing the depressing vision of his mother, sur- 
 rounded by her children, in a cheerless home, with 
 an empty cupboard, and a fireless hearth. He felt 
 the responsibility of being practically the head of a 
 family fully as deeply as he did being the head of a 
 nation. 
 
 He considered marriage as the great means of lift- 
 ing his family from obscurity and want, ay, and of 
 elevating himself. He looked upon any advantageous 
 union (advantageous in a worldly, material sense), 
 however unsuited personally might be the parties, as 
 the chief refuge against poverty, the main instrument 
 of fortune. 
 
 As for himself marriage was the one step by which 
 he could at once rise from the petty rank of captain 
 to — who could tell what height. How easily he, once 
 well married, could conquer all positions. 
 
 And yet his first determined effort in the matri- 
 monial line for himself was a fiasco, a defeat. 
 
 Allusion has already been made to his friends, the 
 Permons, with whom, in his days of poverty in Paris, 
 
MADAME SANS-OENE. 
 
 93 
 
 he dined occasionally. Madame Permon (mother of . 
 the future Duchess of Abrantes), was by birth a 
 Greek, who had lived in Corsica, and she was still a 
 handsome woman. 
 
 She was middle-aged also, but she dressed to look 
 young, and she believed in being luxuriously sur- 
 rounded with furniture and bric-a-brac in the Louis 
 XV. style. And as Bonaparte in his youth had but 
 scanty opportunities to mingle with grand dames in 
 their palaces, Madame Permon seemed to the poor, 
 obscure young Corsican, a very queen of elegance 
 and grace. He was dazzled with her wardrobe, but he 
 did not see her wrinkles. He was charmed that she 
 was plump; he did not reflect that soon she would 
 be gross. The Permons were well-to-do; the last 
 consideration settled it. 
 
 He endeavored to interest Madame Permon first 
 in his plans of marrying off the members of his own 
 family. He attempted to make a match between 
 madame’s young son and his sister Pauline (who was 
 the beauty of the Bonapartes) ; then he suggested a 
 union between Mademoiselle Permon (madame’s 
 young daughter), and his brother Louis, or his 
 brother Jerome. It really did not matter to him, just 
 then, which brother. 
 
 ‘‘Eeally,” said madame to him one day, laughing, 
 Mon cher Napoleon, you are a very great priest; 
 you wish to administer the sacrament of marriage on 
 a most extensive scale. You want to marry all the 
 world, even the children.” 
 
 Bonaparte affected to laugh with the lady, but he 
 rather confusedly confessed that he was anxious to 
 see his family settled for life, and then, with his 
 usual abrupt, direct style of gallantry, such as he 
 had adopted with Madame Saus-G6ne, he seized the 
 astonished Madame Permon’s beringed hand, and 
 kissed it, once, twice, with burning lips. 
 
94 
 
 MADAME SAMS-GEWK 
 
 And having kissed, he told his love, or rather his 
 desires and his aspirations. He wanted her to marry 
 him, and thus indeed unite their respective families. 
 
 The lady in her surprise, not knowing what else 
 to do, laughed at her suitor. 
 
 Bonaparte was hurt. The worst treatment a 
 woman can give her suitor is to laugh at his suit. 
 
 Madame, as soon as she could check her laughter, 
 hastened to explain. 
 
 She assumed a maternal tone: My dear Napoleon, 
 she said, as if addressing her own son, “let us be 
 serious.” 
 
 “Madame,” said Napoleon, with empressernenty “I 
 never was more serious in my life — I ” 
 
 “But,” interrupted the lady, “you do not even 
 know my age.” 
 
 “What man — what gentleman,” said Bonaparte, 
 “ever can, or seeks to, know a lady’s age. Some one 
 has written, you know, that ‘women, like music, 
 should never be dated.’” 
 
 “All very fine,” said madame, smiling, “but for 
 all that you cannot even guess how old lam; I shall 
 not tell you my exact number of years — it is one of 
 my little foibles to hide that secret. But believe 
 me,” she continued, “I am old enough to be your 
 mother, or for that matter, your elder brother Jo- 
 seph’s mother. So let us have no more of this 
 nonsense, for I must confess, that coming from one 
 whom 1 esteem as I do you, it hurts me.” 
 
 “Ah, madame, I did not know that I was talking 
 ‘nonsense,’ ” said Napoleon; “nor did I imagine that 
 in asking you to marry me I was making myself 
 ridiculous. As for me, what care I for the age of 
 the woman I marry — I marry the woman, not her 
 years. And besides, without any flattery, you do 
 not seem to be over thirty.” 
 
 Madame Permon, like the true woman she was. 
 
MADAME 8AMS-GEME, 
 
 95 
 
 despite Bonaparte’s disclaimer, did feel flattered, and 
 she began to think almost tenderly of the flatterer. 
 But she forced herself to say: ‘‘Ah, mon clieVy I am 
 older, much older, than that.” 
 
 “ Be it so — it matters not — I do not care,” cried 
 Bonaparte, carried away by the ardor he really at 
 this moment felt. “You are young, you are charm- 
 ing, unto me.” 
 
 Madame smiled. How could she, or any other 
 woman in her place, help smiling! 
 
 “And,” continued the young man with redoubled 
 ardor, glancing fervently at the old-young lady, “you 
 are the woman I have dreamed of for years, as my 
 chosen companion.” 
 
 He really thought at that moment that he was 
 speaking the truth. 
 
 For a moment madame wavered, then she said: 
 “And if I do not consent to the folly you suggest, 
 what then will you do?” 
 
 “Seek elsewhere for the companionship you deny 
 me,” replied Bonaparte promptly. “Marry, and 
 marry soon, I must, I shall,” he added, after a 
 pause. “Some of my friends have already selected 
 a wife for me, a woman almost as charming as your- 
 self — a woman about your own age — of noble birth 
 and character. I shall be forced to marry her, if 
 you be cruel. Eeflect, madame, reflect.” 
 
 It was a curious speech for a suitor to make to the 
 woman to whom he was proposing. In some respects 
 it was a dangerous speech, in other points it was 
 about the wisest he could have uttered under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 But, as it happened, Madame Pennon was not 
 specially impressed by Bonaparte’s words one way or 
 the other. The truth was that she really loved in 
 secret a cousin of hers, who was a great rascal — a 
 Greek by the name of Stephanopolis. Worthless as 
 
96 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-QENE. 
 
 the fellow was, she worshiped him. She had already 
 introduced him to Bonaparte, and was doing all that 
 lay in her power to procure him a position in the 
 Guard of the Convention, a military organization 
 then forming. 
 
 And it was really for her love for this prosaic, 
 everyday fellow, a man of neither brains, heart or 
 principle, who ultimately died of cut corn in his 
 foot, that she now refused the offer of the man who 
 afterward became the master of the world of Europe. 
 
 On what threads do our destinies hang‘! Had 
 Madame Permon married Bonaparte, instead of re- 
 fusing him, Napoleon would probably have settled 
 down to a life of comparative ease and obscurity, 
 and never would have become general, consul, 
 emperor ! 
 
 The double refusal of Madame Permon to ally her 
 family to that of Bonaparte and to marry Napoleon 
 herself, was destined to make the pupil of Saint-Cyr, 
 Elisa Bonaparte, the Princess of Piombino, and to 
 make the future General Bonaparte the husband of 
 Josephine. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF VERDUK— ON THE MARCH— THE FOR- 
 SAKEN— THE ARRIVAL OF THE VOLUNTEERS. 
 
 M. HE Lowendaal had made the utmost haste 
 to shorten the distance to Verdun, and reaching it 
 had gone at once to the courthouse. Two great, 
 interests, one pecuniary and one personal, had com- 
 bined to carry him to the seat of war — to a town 
 which might be taken at any moment. He must 
 collect his money, and cautiously, for opposite Ver- 
 dun was his tobacco farm; and he must now, on the 
 eve of his marriage with Blanche de Laveline, rid 
 
MADAME 8ANS-GENE. 
 
 97 
 
 himself of the tie which bound him to another 
 woman. 
 
 This other woman Avas Mademoiselle Herminie de 
 Beaurepaire, of good family (her brother was even 
 now a general in the French army), and a girl of 
 strong character and great personal attractions. 
 
 She had designed to enter a convent, but the baron 
 had dazzled her, for the time being, with his wealth 
 and his knowledge of the world (the young lady had 
 lived all her life in the country, and almost in soli- 
 tude), and she had forgotten the vows of celibacy. 
 She had yielded to the baron, who had soon wearied 
 of his conquest, especially since his mistress had pre- 
 sented him with a pledge of their affection. 
 
 His money and his mistress pressed their heavy 
 claims upon the baron. He attended to the money 
 first. 
 
 He found that the finances of Verdun were in 
 such a chaotic state that he could collect nothing. 
 ‘‘But,” said his lawyer, who was likewise one of tho 
 magistrates of the town, “there is one chance. Mon- 
 sieur le Baron, for you to get your money.” 
 
 “Name it,” said the baron quickly. 
 
 “If we have no money the King of Austria has,” 
 answered the traitorous magistrate; “and if he could 
 get possession of this town ” 
 
 He did not finish this sentence, but the baron 
 understood him. It was treason to France, but the 
 baron was a financier, and all financiers are cosmo- 
 politan. Money has no country. The baron’s pock- 
 ets had no patriotism. He really didn’t care a sou 
 whether his money came from France or Austria, so 
 he got it. He felt no indignation whatever when 
 he then heard a magistrate suggest to him the be- 
 trayal of the town to the enemy. AVas it possible? 
 and would it pay? was all he asked. Having an- 
 swered these questions in the affirmative, he agreed. 
 
MADAME 8AMS-GEME. 
 
 with the traitor magistrate, to betray the town, using 
 his factotum Leonard to do the dirty work. This 
 being arranged, the two conspirators against the 
 people, the baron and the magistrate, separated, one 
 to send Leonard to spread alarming reports among 
 the citizens, the other to cement and strengthen 
 secret adhesions to his contemplated treason. 
 
 Meanwhile, on their way to Verdun, the volun- 
 teers of Mayenne-et-Loire, were happy. They were 
 accompanied by a detachment of the Thirteenth 
 Light Infantry, in which regiment Lefebvre served 
 as lieutenant with captain’s orders. The volunteers 
 sang, as they marched to the music of the Oarmag- 
 aole, some innocent and lively lay, like “ La Gamelle.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ My friends, say can you tell me, 
 
 Why blithe and gay are we ? 
 
 Because the meal tastes best 
 When eaten with a jest. 
 
 We mess together always, 
 
 Long live the sound! 
 
 We mess together always. 
 
 Long live the cauldron’s sound! ” 
 
 The refrain was carried along the entire line and 
 then the rear-guard answered with the words: 
 
 ‘‘ There’s naught of pride or coldness here, 
 
 ’Tis only friendship makes high cheer. 
 
 Yes, without fraternity. 
 
 There never can be gayety. 
 
 Let us mess together, lads. 
 
 Long live the sound! 
 
 Let us mess together, lads. 
 
 Long live the cauldron’s sound! ” 
 
 But General Beaurepaire was alert and watchful. 
 
MADAME SAN8-GENE, 
 
 99 
 
 The Prussians were not far away — there might be 
 ambuscades. 
 
 Time wore on and the volunteers began to prepare 
 for their meal; they lit fires and cooked soup; it was 
 a blithely busy period. Some went for wood, others 
 brought water from a spring that gurgled near, some 
 stole peas from the fields, while others again cooked 
 them, and they all sang in chorus: 
 
 ‘‘Ah! Many a crowned head, to-day, 
 
 Is dying, famished far away, 
 
 And envies the way 
 Of the soldier gay 
 Who dines at our mess to-day. 
 
 Long live the cauldron’s sound! ” 
 
 A wagon was drawn up near the cauldron and the 
 cooks. The old gray horse belonging to it was un- 
 harnessed and browsed at his ease. On the wagon 
 was inscribed : 
 
 13 Light. 
 
 Mme. Catherine Lefebvre, 
 
 Cantiniere. 
 
 Near the wagon and horse a child was playing, 
 rolling about on the grass. Every now and then the 
 boy would rush to Catherine, who would kiss him, 
 or pat him, and then attend to business. 
 
 The troopers wanted her to open the canteen. 
 She did so. 
 
 The preparations were simple but sufficient. 
 
 Assisted by a soldier, she arranged a long plank on 
 two trestles as a table, and then she quickly, neatly 
 placed upon it jugs, pitchers and a little keg. 
 
 Shop was opened, business was ready, the canteen 
 was mounted; there were plenty of customers. The 
 soldiers crowded around eagerly — they were all as 
 merry as they were thirsty. The long dusty march 
 
100 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-0ENE. 
 
 and the jolly songs had made them alike dry and 
 gay. 
 
 Glasses were filled and they drank to the success 
 of the battalion of Mayenne-et-Loire, to the triumph 
 of liberty, to the deliverance of Verdnn. 
 
 Among the crowd of soldiers were Marcel and 
 Eenee, devoted to each other, yet guarding their 
 mutual secret. It was hard to have to thus restrain 
 their ardor. But they contrived to do so, and were 
 not suspected. 
 
 General Beaurepaire mingled with his soldiers. 
 Meeting Lefebvre and Catherine, near the canteen, 
 the conversation became animated. Finally Bona- 
 parte’s name was casually mentioned by Lefebvre. 
 Beaurepaire had met, and taken a liking to Bona- 
 parte, and now asked after him, and Lefebvre and 
 Catherine together gave their commander the latest 
 particulars concerning their mutual friend, and then 
 Marcel joined the group with still more recent news 
 of the man they talked about. 
 
 ‘‘It is true,” said Marcel, “that Captain Bonaparte 
 is well and safe now with his family at Marseilles, 
 but he has been in the greatest danger.” 
 
 “Ah, tell me all about it,” said the general. 
 
 “Pardon me, commander,” suggested Lefebvre, 
 “but we would all listen to Marcel’s story with more 
 gusto if we were all seated comfortably and were 
 drinking something. My wife will serve it to us.” 
 
 “A good idea, Lefebvre,” said Beaurepaire. They 
 all sat down by the canteen. 
 
 “A toast, my comrades!” cried Beaurepaire, when 
 the glasses were filled. “Here’s to the health of 
 Madame Lefebvre, the pretty cantiniere of the Thir- 
 teenth.” 
 
 They clicked glasses. Catherine smiled. Then 
 Lefebvre said to her with a wink: “Come, listen to 
 Marcel here; he is going to tell us something more 
 
MADAME SAN8-0ENE, 
 
 iOl 
 
 new and interesting about your great friend Captain 
 Bonaparte.’- 
 
 ‘^Are you getting jealous of Captain Bonaparte 
 again?” laughed Catherine. ‘‘It is rather late in 
 the day for that. But has anything dreadful really 
 happened to him?” she asked, turning to Marcel. 
 
 “He has escaped death by a miracle,” was the 
 reply. 
 
 “Is it possible!” exclaimed Catherine. “Oh, tell 
 us all about it, with our commander’s permission.” 
 
 The ex-laundress sat her ample person on the 
 trunk of a tree, all attention, pricking her ears, and 
 with parted lips waiting for the very latest particu- 
 lars of news concerning her former customer. 
 
 According to Marcel’s account, the Corsicans, hos- 
 tile to revolution, had attempted to yield their island 
 and themselves to the English. Paoli himself, the 
 former patriot, had negotiated with the British gov- 
 ernment, and had endeavored to enlist Bonaparte on 
 his side. But Bonaparte had indignantly refused, 
 whereupon Paoli openly endeavored to destroy him. 
 
 His family — mother, brethren and sisters — had been 
 compelled to flee; their house had been burned down 
 in the night. 
 
 Napoleon’s mother, in person, led the fugitive 
 band. 
 
 They avoided the highroads, they sought thickets, 
 they traveled by night, they endured all manner ot 
 hardships. Their clothes were torn by stones and 
 brambles; they could not sleep — they were desolate, 
 desperate, despairing. Suddenly they saw Napoleon— 
 he had come for them in a French ship. It was 
 waiting for them in the harbor. Wearied as they 
 were, this joyful intelligence gave them strength to 
 run toward the vessel, when suddenly a troop of their 
 pursuers saw them and fired, aiming chiefly at Na- 
 poleon, who now led the band. 
 
102 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GENE. 
 
 Several shots almost touched him, but he heeded 
 not. The Bonaparte family reached the ship unin- 
 jured; but as soon as his family were all aboard, 
 Bonaparte turned the only gun the vessel possessed 
 against his enemies, and in one volley killed ten of 
 them on the spot. 
 
 Whereupon the rest fled, and Napoleon and his 
 family were saved. 
 
 ^ Brave Bonaparte !” cried Catherine, clapping her 
 hands. ‘‘Those dastardly Corsicans. Oh, if only,’^ 
 she added, “our men of the Thirteenth had been 
 there with you, Lefebvre.” 
 
 “No, Bonaparte was enough,” said Lefebvre; “he’s 
 a fine cannoneer.” 
 
 “And,” cried Beaurepaire, “a true Frenchman; 
 “but he was not born to die on a little island like 
 Corsica, this Bonaparte. It would have been too 
 absurd; his destiny’s too great for that. Thanks 
 for your story,” he said to Marcel, rising; “I shall 
 write to Bonaparte and congratulate him when we 
 have taken Verdun.” He gave the order to resume 
 the march. 
 
 The men having eaten their soup and drank their 
 wine, now cleaned their muskets and formed again in 
 column. 
 
 Beaurepaire made a sign to Catherine; he gave 
 her some instructions which were peculiar and in- 
 volved some danger. 
 
 “You will oblige me,” he said, “but do not hesi- 
 tate to refuse the task if you do not care to under- 
 take it.” 
 
 “I do not refuse, commander,” replied Catherine; 
 “I will put on my citizen dress, and I hope you will 
 be satisfied with me.” 
 
 “I know I shall be,” said the commander. 
 
 Lefebvre wondered what on earth his commander 
 was talking secretly to his wife about, but she did 
 
MADAME SAMi^GENB, 
 
 103 
 
 not enlighten him. ‘‘Frangois,” she said, ‘‘I shall 
 see you at Verdun, by the commander’s orders. 
 Take care of the horse — see that La Violette,” such 
 was the jjoetic name of the prosaic young soldier who 
 was detailed to take care of the canteen, ‘‘holds on 
 to him by the bridle, going down hill.” 
 
 “All right,” said Lefebvre. He was satisfied that 
 there was no use in asking his wife to tell him what 
 she was about, so he plied her with no idle questions, 
 only he warned her to be prudent, and reminded her 
 of the possibility that she might be taken prisoner 
 by the Prussians. 
 
 “You wretch! you prophet of evil!” she cried 
 gayly, “have you forgotten that I have my watch- 
 dogs under my blouse.” 
 
 She alluded to the two pistols which she always 
 carried under her skirt, in the belt where she carried 
 her money. 
 
 Kissing her husband she departed toward Verdun, 
 and as she trudged along she heard the song of the 
 volunteers: 
 
 “Ah! ga ira! ga ira! ga ira! 
 
 Little and big we, all soldiers at heart! 
 
 Ah! ga ira! ga ira! ga ira! 
 
 And during the battle let no one betray — 
 
 Ah! ga ira! ga ira! gairal” 
 
 And the echo of the valley repeated, “Qa ira! 9a 
 ira!” responding to the martial note of the brave 
 soldiers going forth to conquer for their country, and 
 singing under the sacred standard of Liberty. 
 
 Herminie de Beaurepaire lived in a wing of the 
 great house of Bl^court at Verdun, which had been 
 transformed into an oratory, under the direction of 
 her bigot of an aunt, Madame de Bl^court. 
 
 Two crucifixes and a small altar, on which stood 
 
104 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-GENE, 
 
 images of the Virgin holding the infant Jesns in robes 
 of bine and gold; candelabra and vases of flowers, 
 decorated and marked the room, which after the sup- 
 pression of the religions houses had been turned into 
 a temporary chapel. 
 
 Mademoiselle was praying in the chamber, when 
 suddenly, unannounced, the Baron de Lowendaal ap- 
 peared upon the threshold. The girl gave a cry of 
 surprise, arose, advanced toward him, then paused, 
 waiting for some sign from him — some sign from his 
 heart. 
 
 But the baron stood cold and silent; he had no 
 heart. 
 
 "Ah, monsieur, you have come at last,” cried the 
 girl. 
 
 "Yes,” he said grufldy; "and how is the — the 
 child?” 
 
 "Your daughter,” said the girl; "she is growing; 
 she is nearly three years old. Oh, would to God she 
 never had been born — ” Here her tears checked her 
 utterance. 
 
 This annoyed the baron — women’s tears annoy 
 most men. "Do not cry,” he said, "your weeping 
 may attract attention; all the house already doubt- 
 less is talking of my coming. Do not let them know 
 what it is our interest to hide,” and then he rushed 
 in medias res. Without further preface he told the 
 girl what he had come to tell her — that he no longer 
 loved her, that he wanted to be rid of her. 
 
 Even the toughest of men find this sort of com- 
 munication troublesome, and the baron made a botch 
 of it; but his task was greatly simplified by^ the girl 
 herself. She was pi'oud despite her position, and 
 she had ceased to love him, as he had ceased to love 
 her, but with far more reason. 
 
 She had awakened from her dream, had discovered 
 his real character, and despised him. 
 
MADAME 8AN8-aENE. 
 
 105 
 
 ‘‘The past is dead within me,” she said to him 
 bitterly. “In looking over my life now I find only 
 cinders and ruin, but I have a child — your daughter 
 Alice — for her I must live, for her I must keep up 
 appearances.” 
 
 “Quite right,” approved the baron; “we must 
 preserve appearances, even if we cannot preserve our 
 love. It was an intoxication,” he added, “but we 
 are sober now; one cannot always be mad or 
 drunk.” 
 
 “I am sobered now truly,” said the girl; “I love 
 you no longer, but for our child’s sake I demand 
 that you fulfill your promise. You must make me 
 your wife even though you leave me at the altar. 
 Have you come to marry me, monsieur?” 
 
 “The devil! now it’s out,” thought the baron. 
 “Your question staggers me,” he replied aloud; 
 “your demand embarrasses me. I remember that in 
 a moment of delirium I promised you what it would 
 be madness now to fulfill; but I pray you to remem- 
 ber also, that I shall ever hold you in the most 
 respectful esteem.” 
 
 “So you refuse,” said she. 
 
 “No, I merely ask for more time,” said he. 
 
 “ You have had three years and more,” she insisted. 
 
 “ Give me then a few months longer,” he suggested. 
 “But really,” he continued, “to tell the truth, I 
 came to Verdun chiefly on matters of business — my 
 head is full of pecuniary details — it is a poor time to 
 talk of marriage. Wait till peace is declared, till I 
 can settle my affairs; it will not be long before things 
 will be quieted down.” 
 
 “Ah, indeed,” cried Herminie de Beaurepaire; 
 “you think that the defense of Verdun is impossible. 
 You calonlate that artisans, villagers, blacksmiths, 
 shoemakers-*^in short, the people, will not be able to 
 successfully resist a king and an emperor. You insult 
 
106 . 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GENE. 
 
 brave men who fight like heroes to rid themselves of 
 tyrants and imbeciles.” 
 
 ‘‘I insult' no one,” answered the baron smoothly; ' 
 ^‘but I certainly consider that this town has no 
 garrison.” 
 
 ‘‘Ah! but it will have one very soon,” she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 “What’s that you said?” asked the baron, aston- 
 ished. 
 
 “Look and listen for yourself,” cried the young 
 girl. 
 
 A confused noise was heard, cheers, cries, shouts, 
 the beating of drums, the tramping of feet. 
 
 The Baron de Lowendaal grew pale. 
 
 “ What is this tumult?” he asked. “ Some new up- 
 rising? The inhabitants of this town, not being 
 fools, insist, I presume, on having the gates opened; 
 they will not endure the horrors of a siege, n'^est ce 
 pas P’ 
 
 “Not so, Monsieur Baron; the noise you hear, the 
 confusion you see, springs from an entirely opposite 
 cause, as you will be made to understand shortly,” 
 said the lady. “But let me ask yon, and for the last 
 time, will you keep your promise? Will you give my 
 child, your child, our child, our daughter Alice, the 
 fortune, the name, the rank, which are her due?” 
 
 “I have already told you, madame,” replied the 
 man impatiently, yet almost timidly, “that just now 
 I will not, because I cannot. Listen to me, and be 
 reasonable.” 
 
 (He asked a woman to be “reasonable!”) “I am 
 here to attend to important business matters” (the 
 woman made an indignant gesture). “The devil!” 
 said the man, losing his temper, “you must wait till 
 peace is established and the rebels are punished. 
 When his majesty returns, not to the Tuileries, 
 which could easily be captured by the mob, but to 
 
MADAME SANS-^QENB. 
 
 107 
 
 Versailles, then, my dear madame, I will consider— 
 I will decide.” 
 
 ‘‘Take care, monsieur!” cried the woman, “I am 
 one who will avenge myself on the man who trifles 
 with me and plays me false.” 
 
 “Threats,” sneered the baron; “well, I like it 
 better so. A woman’s threats are less dangerous 
 than her tears.” 
 
 “I repeat once more, monsieur, take care. I am 
 not so weak, so lonely, so uninfluential, as you seem 
 to think.” 
 
 “And I tell you once again, madame, that I am 
 not so easily frightened as you seem to imagine.” 
 
 “Do you not hear that noise, monsieur? It is 
 coming this way.” 
 
 “Yes, I hear it, madame; can the Prussians have 
 taken the town already?” 
 
 “They are not Prussians, monsieur; they are 
 patriots.” 
 
 “The devil!” ejaculated the baron; “French re- 
 inforcements! Can it be? Lafayette is with the 
 Austrians, Dumouriez is in camp, Dillon is bought 
 by the allies. Whence then these reinforcements?” 
 
 “Your very natural anxiety shall be gratified,” said 
 the lady with a meaning look. And advancing to 
 the door of the oratory, or temporary chapel, she 
 admitted a plump, pretty woman, who, accompanied 
 by two little children, had been in waiting for some 
 time, “Come in, madame,” cried Mdlle. Ilerminie, 
 “and let the Baron de Lowendaal know whose hands 
 beat the drums that have awakened this town.” 
 
 The plump, pretty young woman entered the ora- 
 tory and gave a military salute. And tlien address- 
 ing the baron, looking him full in the face, she said : 
 “I am Catherine Lefebvre, canteen-bearer to the 
 Thirteenth Infantry, at your service. You want to 
 know the news? It is the battalion of Mayeime-et- 
 
108 
 
 MADAME SAJSfS-GENE, 
 
 Loire, which is making its entry into Verdun, ac- 
 eompanied by a company of the Thirteenth, under 
 the command of Captain Frangois Lefebvre, my hus- 
 band. Ah, monsieur, mademoiselle, it will be a fine 
 surprise for the world.” 
 
 ^^Yes,” said Mademoiselle Herminie, and looking 
 at the baron she continued: ‘‘These troops are under 
 the command of General Beaurepaire, my brother.” 
 
 “Your brother!” echoed the baron, now seriously 
 alarmed. 
 
 “Yes, monsieur, my brave brother, who, prior to 
 his entry here, sent this brave woman to let me know 
 privately, and to reassure me.” 
 
 The baron looked as he felt, astounded, and not in 
 the least cheerful. 
 
 Madame Sans-Gene went up to him, and patted 
 him on the shoulder, as though she had known him 
 all his life — as though he were not a rich man and a 
 baron. “ One would almost be tempted to imagine, 
 my little man,” she said, “ that this news disconcerted 
 you. Oh, you cannot be a patriot, so be careful. 
 As for the aristocrats who talked of surrendering the 
 town to the Germans, they had better keep out of 
 the way of the soldiers; there are five hundred of us.” 
 
 “Only five hundred,” thought the baron, and he 
 grew calmer. “There are too few of them to do 
 much harm. The worst feature is the presence of 
 this Beaurepaire; we must get rid of him.” 
 
 Meantime Mademoiselle Herminie had brought in 
 one of the two little children — a blonde girl with thin 
 legs, who tottered and trembled. Leading this child 
 to the baron she said: “She is your daughter, mon- 
 sieur; will you not kiss her?” 
 
 Lowendaal scowled, then turning, like one who is 
 expected to do something disagreeable, he kissed the 
 child coldly on the forehead, as one would kiss a 
 corpse. It was the corpse of love. 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 109 
 
 ■ The child was afraid and began to cry — no wonder. 
 
 Suddenly a little handsome lad, wearing a liberty 
 cap and a cockade, rushed in and put his arms around 
 the weeping girl, who began to smile. 
 
 Don’t cry,” said the boy, ‘‘let’s go and play^ 
 Alice. Let’s make believe we are shooting the Prus- 
 sians. It is such fun.” 
 
 Catherine Lefebvre looked and listened proudly to 
 the boy. “That’s my little Henriot,” she told the 
 baron conlidentially ; “he will be a sergeant some 
 day. I am bringing him up as a defender of the 
 Eepublic — till I have one of my own.” 
 
 “ Your brother,” said the baron abruptly, turning 
 to Mdlle. Herminie, “does he know?” 
 
 “All,” replied the lady. “It was a terrible con- 
 fession for a sister to make, but I made it, and he 
 forgave me. He has hastened, as you see, to protect 
 me.” 
 
 The roll of the drums sounded louder, and came 
 nearer. The town seemed as full of noise as joy. 
 The banks of the Meuse were lively with song and 
 greeting. 
 
 “I must go to the courthouse,” said the baron,, 
 eager to terminate the interview with the woman he 
 had loved and left. 
 
 “And I must go and meet my husband,” said 
 Catherine. “Come, march, you young recruit!” she 
 cried to little Henriot. 
 
 The lad resisted slightly; he seized the little girl’s 
 skirts and clung to them, as if loath to let her go. 
 
 “See the young dandy,” said Catherine with a 
 laugh. “He already attaches himself to the ladies — 
 a promising boy. But come on, young man,” she 
 cried, pulling him along. “Let us thrash the Prus- 
 sians first, and then you shall see your girl again.” 
 
 “Madame,” said mademoiselle, much moved, tak- 
 ing Catherine’s hand, “I shall never forget you and 
 
110 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 your kindness; thank my brother for sending yon to 
 me. As for my daughter here, who smiles upon 
 your little Henriot, as if she wanted him to stay, 
 promise me that if aught befalls me, you will, should 
 opportunity offer, guard my child.” 
 
 ‘‘Count on me,” said our Catherine, in a tone and 
 with a look that showed she could be counted on. 
 “If I had another child to look after I could afford 
 to wait still longer for my own,” she added, laughing. 
 “But really, mademoiselle, it must be au revoir now 
 indeed; my husband will be waiting for me.” And 
 with a kiss and embrace the women parted ; Cather- 
 ine, ere she vanished, making a moue at the baron. 
 
 As for Lowendaal, he walked in a rage toward the 
 courthouse. “That Beaurepaire,” he said to him- 
 self, “may force me to marry his sister. Ah! into 
 what a wasp’s nest I have flung myself,” and utterly 
 dissatisfied with the turn of affairs, the baron went 
 to the courthouse to meet the notabilities there 
 assembled, among whom were several traitors whose 
 names should be pilloried by posterity. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 BRUN'SWICK’S messen^ger — beaurepaire’s oath — 
 
 LEOKARD’S MISSION’— the EMIGRANT’S CAMP. 
 
 In the great hall of the courthouse of Verdun, by 
 the light of torches, were assembled the members of 
 the districts and the great men of the place. 
 
 The Duke of Brunswick had encamped before the 
 gates of the city. Should those gates be opened to 
 him? or should they be kept closed, and the town 
 stand a siege? Such was the weighty matter await- 
 ing instant decision. 
 
 “Messieurs,” said Attorney -general Gossin, “my 
 heart bleeds at the bare idea of the horrors which 
 
MADAME SAMS-GENE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 would result to Verdun from a siege. Eesistance by 
 weakness (such as ours at this moment) to strength 
 (such as the Duke of Brunswick can command) is 
 madness. AVill you not receive, in a friendly spirit, 
 a gentleman who comes here with a conciliatory 
 message — a messenger from the Duke of Brunswick?” 
 
 President Ternaux looked around the assembly, 
 evidently seeking its sanction. 
 
 Yes, we will,” was the response. 
 
 The messenger from the duke was then admitted. 
 He was a young man in citizen’s dress, pale, and car- 
 rying his arm in a sling. 
 
 He was introduced by the president to the assem- 
 bly, with these words: 
 
 “This is Monsieur the Count de Neipperg, aid- 
 de-camp of General Clerfayt, general-in-chief of the 
 Austrian army, and representative of his grace the 
 Duke of Brunswick. 
 
 Yes, Brunswick’s messenger on this occasion was 
 the young Austrian whose life Catherine Sans G^ne 
 had saved in Paris. Kecovering under Catherine’s 
 care, he had sought active service to distract his 
 thoughts. 
 
 He now politely but firmly, and speaking excellent 
 French, made known the conditions of the Austrians. 
 The town must be surrendered within twenty-four 
 hours, or Verdun would be bombarded, and when 
 taken there would be “no quarter.” 
 
 Absolute silence followed the statement of these 
 terms. 
 
 Nine-tenths of the assembly, whose members were 
 mostly mercantile, had at once resolved to surrender 
 the town, but no man wished to be the first to say so. 
 
 Neipperg, looking about him, understood the posi- 
 tion of affairs, and despised the men around him for 
 their cowardice. 
 
 Within himself he thought: “Surely these are not 
 
112 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GENE, 
 
 kin to the Frenchmen with whom I fonght in Paris.” 
 Like the true soldier he was, he regarded far more 
 respectfully the brave Frenchmen who had wounded, 
 and nearly killed him, than these craven cowards 
 who trembled and kept still. 
 
 Finally Neipperg broke the silence he himself had 
 caused. ‘‘You have heard, messieurs, the terms of 
 the general of the Austrian army. What answer 
 shall I take to the Duke of Brunswick?” 
 
 “Shall we force the duke to fire on this defenseless 
 town?” cried the Baron Lowendaal. 
 
 Neipperg at once recognized the face and voice of 
 his rival in love. His brow flushed, he advanced a 
 step, he would fain then and there have addressed, 
 insulted, and perhaps, weak as he was, assaulted his 
 rival. “ But,” he reflected, “ I am here as an ambassa- 
 dor; I must restrain myself,” and he did so elfectually, 
 
 “But,” thought he likewise, “if the baron is here, 
 may not Blanche be here also? I must wait and 
 watch.” 
 
 The baron repeated his question. “No,” replied 
 the assembly, “there shall be no bombardment. We 
 agree to the duke’s terms.” 
 
 At this moment a fusilade sounded, drums were 
 beaten, and under the very windows of the court- 
 house were heard voices singing the “9a ira.” 
 
 Every one rose in wild bewilderment. 
 
 Some, calmer than the rest, looked out of the court- 
 room windows. They saw the town lighted, as 
 though for a fete. 
 
 Torches burned in the market-place, and round 
 the red light women and children danced fantastic- 
 ally. 
 
 It was the volunteers of Mayenne-et-Loire, who 
 had caused this tumult, this uprising of the town. 
 
 The Baron de Lowendaal disappeared. Neipperg 
 would fain have followed him, but his duty prevented. 
 
MADAME SANS-GEMh. 
 
 113 
 
 And now General Beaurepaire, accompanied by 
 Lefebvre, and surrounded by the volunteers and the 
 soldiers of the Thirteenth, burst into the court- 
 room. 
 
 The president of the assembly protested against 
 thi§ intrusion, but Beaurepaire spoke : It is reported 
 that you are all plotting treason here, and talk of 
 surrendering this city. Is it so?” 
 
 The president, feeling that he was supported by 
 the sentiment of the assembly answered in return: 
 “Go back with your men, General Beaurepaire, and 
 stop this tumult. You have acted without authority 
 from the council of defense.” 
 
 “Messieurs,” cried Beaurepaire, “I never wait for 
 orders to fire on the enemy. I have therefore fired on 
 the Prussians and barricaded the gates, without even 
 thinking of the council of defense.” 
 
 “You are in the wrong, general,” said Bellamond, 
 the director of artillery for Verdun. 
 
 “Comrade,” replied the general, “that is my affair, 
 for which I will answer to the people. So much for 
 the present situation; as for the future act with me, 
 and together we yet can repulse the enemy and «ave 
 the town.” 
 
 “lie is a brave man,” thought Neipperg, looking 
 at Beaurepaire. “He atones for the others,” and he 
 addressed himself to Beaurepaire, delivering to him 
 the message from the Duke of Brunswick, of Avhich 
 the French general made short work. “Your prop- 
 osition is declined,” he said; “permit me to conduct 
 you personally to our outposts, and to send you back 
 to those who sent you.” 
 
 “I am at your command, general,” said the Count 
 do Neipperg. 
 
 “ Messieurs,” cried Beaurepaire, addressing in his 
 loudest, firmest tones, the agitated assembly, “I 
 have sworn to defend Verdun to the death, and I 
 
114 
 
 MADAME SAJSrS-GEEE, 
 
 will keep my vow.” Then he left the court-room, 
 followed by Neipperg. 
 
 Lowendaal at this moment returned to the court- 
 room, and when told of Beaurepaire’s oath, ridiculed 
 it, and expressed the hope that at least the man who 
 took the oath might die. 
 
 “But let him not interfere with the purpose of 
 this assembly,” continued the baron. “Let us sur- 
 render the town rather than endure the fruitless 
 horrors of a siege. Was it not so agreed?” 
 
 “It was, it is,” answered the president; “but,” 
 looking around and not seeing De Neipperg, “the 
 duke’s messenger has gone. XVhat shall we do? he 
 may not return, and yet he has the papers.” 
 
 “Let us send some trusty messenger to the Aus- 
 trian camp, carrying your duplicate, with the official 
 assurance that to-morrow the town gates shall be 
 opened to the Austrians,” suggested the baron. 
 
 “ The very thing,” said the president eagerly; “but 
 whom can we entrust with our message?” 
 
 “Trust it with me,” said the baron. 
 
 “With you! ah, you will save us!” cried the presi- 
 dent with joy. And he embraced the baron as though 
 the latter, instead of being a pusillanimous, merce- 
 nary traitor, was a herald announcing a patriotic 
 triumph. 
 
 Some moments later the baron, with the duplicate 
 letter of capitulation, left the courthouse and joined 
 his factotum Leonard, who was in waiting. 
 
 The baron, in a low voice, gave Leonard some 
 instructions. 
 
 Leonard, submissive as he was, yet on this occasion 
 seemed loath to obey the instructions given him. 
 Whereupon the baron reminded him that he— the 
 baron — could send him — Leonard — to the galleys. 
 
 It was even so. Years ago the baron had caught 
 Leonard in the act of committing forgery — a crime 
 
MADAME 8ANS-GEME. 
 
 115 
 
 then punishable with galley-slavery at Toulon — and 
 though he had shielded him, for his own purposes, 
 he could at any moment make the charge against 
 him, and secure his punishment. This reminder 
 brought the servitor to his senses, and he promised 
 strict obedience to his master’s orders. The two 
 then talked over details, and Leonard was dispatched 
 about his business. 
 
 He had been instructed to do various things, in 
 quick succession, but two points perplexed him most 
 of all. 
 
 ^How am 1 to enter the house of Madame de B16- 
 court without being suspected?” he asked himself, 
 in sore distress of mind. “And how am I to reach 
 General Beaurepaire, at the dead of night, unarmed 
 and alone?” 
 
 As for the baron, he was not at all perplexed. He 
 felt sure that Leonard would, at all hazards, do what 
 he had been told. “He is to give me, while I go to 
 the emigrant’s camp, outside the town, a signal of 
 his success. I shall soon see that signal,” the baron 
 smiled. As for scruples he had none; besides it was 
 Leonard who was to commit the crimes. 
 
 “The emigrant’s camp,” so-called, was a collection 
 of royalist Frenchmen, who had assembled to fight 
 against the nation, and for the restoration of the 
 monarchy. They, to a certain extent, atfiliated with 
 the Austrians and Prussians, all being alike hostile 
 to the Kepablic. 
 
 Lowendaal secretly visited this camp that night, 
 and while waiting there m«t face to face with the 
 Count de Neipperg. 
 
 The rivals and enemies scowled, but saluted each 
 other with ceremonious politeness, like two duelists, 
 who bow low before trying to lay each other low 
 forever. 
 
 Lowendaal had ostensibly visited the emigrant’s 
 
116 
 
 MADAME 8ANB-GENE, 
 
 camp to bring news of the intended surrender of the 
 town, and on this account he was received in person 
 by the commander of the camp. 
 
 While the baron talked with the commander, he 
 kept his eyes turned in a certain direction. Suddenly 
 he saw, in the town of Verdun, a peculiar light as of 
 a fire. It was the agreed-upon signal; Leonard had 
 done his work. Yes, there could be no mistake — the 
 fire was in the northern portion of the town, a part 
 which had as yet been spared by the besieging forces; 
 there could be no mistake, and Beaurepaire was dead — 
 that was what the signal signified. The baron smiled 
 cruelly, triumphantly — the great obstacle in his path 
 had been removed — the only man he really dreaded 
 had been obliterated. He could afford to smile. 
 
 His main purpose in his visit to the emigrant 
 camp had been accomplished. He had seen the sig- 
 nal, and now knew what to do. He cut the interview 
 with the Austrian general as short as he decently 
 could, assured the general of the absolute certainty 
 that Verdun would capitulate, hinted mysteriously 
 that the great barrier to capitulation. General Beau- 
 repaire had been removed, and then returned to 
 Verdun. 
 
 The Count de Neipperg had been present during 
 this interview, and showed as openly as he dared his 
 contempt for the baron, who, thick as his hide was, 
 winced beneath his withering looks. 
 
 And when the baron had departed, De Neipperg 
 openly expressed his suspicions, from the baron’s 
 positive knowledge of Beaurepaire’s ‘‘removal,” that 
 Beaurepaire had met with foul play, with the baron 
 either a principal or an accessory to the deed. 
 
 “At any rate,” said the commander of the emi- 
 grant camp, “I shall continue our fire on the ram- 
 parts of Verdun until we see raised there the flag of 
 truce.” 
 
ifADAME SAJ^S-GJEJJYU. 
 
 ' 117 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Catherine’s night alarm— a hero’s end. 
 
 Leonard had left his master, the baron, perplexed 
 and discomfited, as we have seen. He made his way 
 as best he could to the Porte de France. The cannon 
 roared on that side of the town, and Leonard was a 
 coward as well as a scoundrel. But even scoundrels 
 are brave when desperate. He was now seeking a 
 soldier — he was on the hunt, by the baron’s orders, 
 for General Beaurepaire, and so he must perforce go 
 among the fighters. 
 
 Near the gate Leonard saw a crowd of men gath- 
 ered around a table. Here at least there was no fight- 
 ing going on, only eating and drinking. Leonard 
 did not therefore hesitate to approach. 
 
 Bread, sausages, bottles and glasses were spread on 
 a rude board table. It was the canteen of the Thir- 
 teenth Light, tended by the fair Catherine herself, in 
 person. She was as usual lively, smart, jolly, shrewd, 
 wide-awake. 
 
 Near the table was her wagon, and in the wagon 
 slept the little Henriot. Catherine ever and anon 
 glanced toward the little fellow fondly. ‘‘The can- 
 non lulls him as though it were a cradle-song,” she 
 said to herself. And then turning to a soldier, she 
 loudly execrated the Prussians. 
 
 During the siege Beaurepaire had been at every 
 point where there was danger, and Catherine had 
 followed Beaurepaire. 
 
 Like a war-goddess she shamed the laggards, she 
 encouraged the courageous, she helped the wounded, 
 she fired guns, she prevented panics, she was invalu- 
 able; she was, without thinking of heroism, a heroine. 
 
MADAME 8AMB-aEA(E, 
 
 11b 
 
 Beanrepaire noticed her, and praised her; while as 
 for her husband, he almost worshiped her. 
 
 It was her baptism of fire. 
 
 But now she had returned to the canteen. 
 
 Leonard approached her. Catherine looked at 
 him; she did not like his looks. He asked her where 
 he could find General Beaurepaire. 
 
 ‘^You are in civilian’s dress,” answered Catherine; 
 “you are not a soldier. What do you want to see 
 the general about.” 
 
 “That’s my business,” replied Leonard, half smil- 
 ing, half scowling, “but I must see him.” 
 
 “You choose a bad time,” said Catherine, shrug- 
 ging her shoulders. 
 
 “I choose what time I can get,” was the reply. 
 “I have some important news for the general.” 
 
 “Possibly,” said Catherine, “but I don’t think you 
 will be able to see him to-night.” 
 
 “Possibly, but I will try,” retorted Leonard, and 
 he walked away. 
 
 Catherine did not like this. She scented mystery 
 and danger for Beaurepaire, perhaps. She had no 
 proof of anything wrong, but she believed in her own 
 intuitions. She had reason to do so. She determined 
 to tell her husband about this civilian stranger who 
 was anxious to see Beaurepaire. But her husband just 
 then was nowhere to be found. Husbands never are 
 to be found when wanted. 
 
 And suddenly she recollected having seen this 
 man’s, this strange civilian’s face before. Yes, she 
 was certain of it. She racked her brain to remember 
 when and where. 
 
 “Ah, I have it at last,” she cried to herself, “I 
 recall him now. I have seen him with the Baron 
 Lowendaal, but I am sure that the baron is a traitor 
 and a rascal. Probably this other man is no better. 
 
MADAME 8AN8-QENE. 
 
 119 
 
 Why should he be so anxious to see Beaurepaire? 
 There is some underhanded business going on, but I 
 shall find it out, or my name is not Catherine Sans- 
 G^ne.” 
 
 The more she thought about the matter, the more 
 convinced and the more anxious she became. At 
 last she could endure the suspense no longer, and 
 when as night advanced, her customers became few, 
 she sent away the few that were left, under the plea 
 that she was weary and must sleep. 
 
 ‘‘Amuse yourselves,” she said to those she thus 
 dismissed, “on the ramparts. You will find a few 
 men there still, trying to place gabions and set 
 guns.” 
 
 And then, after kissing the sleeping Henriot, and 
 neatly arranging her canteen, she sallied forth into 
 the dark streets. Her instinct led her first toward 
 the house of Madame de Blecourt, where Beaure- 
 paire’s sister resided and where the general slept. 
 
 There, if anywhere, danger threatened Beaurepaire. 
 She hastened along sadly, she divined coming sorrow, 
 she scented crime and treason. 
 
 Suddenly, as she approached the Blecourt house, 
 she heard a shot. 
 
 It was not a surprising noise in a city that was 
 besieged, but in this lonely quarter, far from the 
 ramparts, it was simply frightful. 
 
 It meant murder. She saw the shadow of a mail 
 running away. She fancied, nay, she was sure it 
 was the shadow of the man in civilian’s dress, whom 
 she had disliked and distrusted so. 
 
 Should she pursue him? No! On to the Blecourt 
 house! See if Beaurepaire is safe. 
 
 “ Oh, God ! what does this mean?” cried Catherine, 
 as she neared the Blecourt mansion. 
 
 People were calling out for help. Some one 
 shouted “Fire!” 
 
120 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GENE. 
 
 Fire indeed it was. A red light shot forth. The 
 Bleconrt residence was in flames. 
 
 The old dowager aunt of Mile. Herminie, her 
 bigot aunt, Madame de Bleconrt, appeared upon the 
 balcony of her house, waving her withered arms 
 wildly. Clouds of dense black smoke formed around 
 the open windows, great tongues of flame seemed to 
 lick the roof. The servants of the establishment lost 
 their heads, and rah about distracted, doing nothing. 
 Finally they all ran away. 
 
 Meanwhile the courageous Catherine, intent on 
 saving human life, rushed into the burning house, 
 mounted the already flaming stairs, and entered the 
 first room she found with its door open. She was 
 prepared to drag its inmate forth. 
 
 “Is any one asleep here?” she cried. “Come, save 
 yourself and quickly. Can I aid you?” 
 
 No answer came from the room, and the smoke 
 prevented her from entering in. 
 
 Suddenly a glare of darting flame illuminated the 
 apartment through the smoke. 
 
 Catherine peered within the chamber; then despite 
 her bravery she gave a shriek. 
 
 It was a shriek more of horror than of terror. For 
 she had seen by the glare of the flames a man 
 motionless upon the bed, and that man was General 
 Beaurepaire. 
 
 Danger was all around him, yet there he lay 
 stretched, still as the dead. 
 
 Catherine rushed into the room and reached the 
 bed, though she could scarcely breathe for the smoke. 
 The glare, too, of the light had now died away. She 
 was in the dark, she could but grope with her hands, 
 she might never herself leave this room alive. 
 
 But she heeded not; she found her way with her 
 hands. “The general must have fainted,” she 
 thought. 
 
MADAME SAMS-GEME. 
 
 121 
 
 Ah ! she was at his side at last. She touched him, 
 but he moved not, there was not even any sound of 
 breathing. 
 
 “ What a sleep to be sure,” she thought, “and at 
 such a time.” Her very blood froze with terror as 
 an idea suggested itself. 
 
 “My God! it is true,” she cried in agony, as she 
 laid her ear upon the general’s breast. “His heart 
 has ceased to beat — he is dead.” 
 
 She laid her hand upon his forehead. Once more 
 she shrieked, for she felt blood; her fingers were 
 thick with it; they stuck together with it. 
 
 She recoiled, she felt stunned, she was taken sick. 
 “Ah, the smoke is killing me.” She rushed to 
 the window, opened it and revived. “But it was 
 not the smoke that killed /u’m,” she thought, looking 
 at the dead general on the bed; “no, he was dead 
 when the fire began. He has been murdered, and 
 then the house was fired to hide the crime, and that 
 baron and that man were concerned in his murder, I 
 will swear it. But he shall be avenged, I swear 
 that, too.” 
 
 She rushed from the room and heard a woman 
 singing a cradle song. She could not believe it — a 
 woman singing a child’s ditty while the house was 
 burning. But so it was; the voice came from the 
 story above, and Catherine climbed in the direction 
 of the voice. 
 
 She found Mile. Herminie de Beaurepaire hold- 
 ing her sleeping daughter on her lap, and chanting 
 a lullaby which was a death-song. 
 
 A glance at the young girl’s calm manner but 
 wild eye convinced Catherine that the lady had gone 
 mad from trouble. Catherine had now to deal with 
 a maniac. The brother killed, the sister crazy. 
 
 There was no time for words. Silently, swiftly, 
 Catherine led the mother down the stairs, and carried 
 
122 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-QENE. 
 
 the child. As the mad woman passed the still open 
 door of the room where the general was lying dead, 
 she shrieked: ^‘Thafc man with the pistol, he shot 
 him in the temple, he will kill me,” and she fell at 
 the doorway. 
 
 Catherine could not move or carry her. She 
 rushed downstairs into the street with the child, 
 handed her to the soldiers who, now understanding 
 the situation, were doing what they could. And 
 then returning with assistance, she carried down the 
 mad woman and her dead brother. 
 
 The crazed girl would have it that this was her 
 wedding-day, and that the burning house was a huge 
 candle lighted for the nuptial ceremony. 
 
 Madame de Blecourt broke her leg in jumping 
 from the balcony to the street, and died a few days 
 after. The mad girl was taken care of by a relative. 
 Beaurepaire was said to have committed suicide to 
 avoid surrender, and was buried with great honors. 
 But the, town of Verdun was surrendered to the 
 Prussians, thanks to the Baron Lowendaal. 
 
 But the French garrison of Verdun had been al- 
 lowed the honors of war. They went out with flags 
 flying, and their arms in their hands. Lefebvre, 
 now captain, was sent north with the Thirteenth 
 Infantry; his wife went with him with her canteen, 
 and little Alice, now practically motherless, was 
 taken along, with little Henriot, under Catherine’s 
 care. 
 
 ‘^Now, dear heart,” she used to say to her husband, 
 ‘^we have two children whom our country has sent 
 us, we who have none of our own.” 
 
 Lefebvre would then express his determination to 
 rectify this matrimonial error, and supply this want, 
 and then they would kiss like lovers. 
 
MADAME SAN8-GENE. 
 
 123 
 
 The volunteers marched out of Verdun with anger 
 in their eyes, but with hope in their hearts, vowing 
 to retake the town, and to drive out, at the bayonet’s 
 point, the Austrians and the Prussians, who would 
 never have entered the place had it not been for the 
 traitors of Verdun. 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 ON THE EDGE OF THE UNKNOWN— NAPOLEON BONA- 
 PARTE’S ATTEMPT AT SUICIDE AND WHY IT FAILED 
 
 — HIS SECOND DEFEAT. 
 
 While the events we have narrated were transpir- 
 ing in the east, and while elsewhere Dumouriez and 
 Kellermann saved France and the republic, what 
 had become of Bonaparte? 
 
 He, as already told in Marcel’s narrative, had 
 secured the departure of his family from Corsica. 
 He had brought them with him to Marseilles, but 
 he and they were penniless. 
 
 It is needless to relate in detail the sufferings of a 
 moneyless family in a strange city. The Bonapartes 
 wandered from lodging to lodging, in the humblest 
 quarters of the town, and were on several occasions 
 turned out into the streets for non-payment of reint. 
 
 Landlords are pitiless. Keepers of furnished rooms 
 are seldom furnished with a heart. 
 
 But Madame M^re, the real head of the Bonaparte 
 family at this period, was not a woman of the ordi- 
 nary stamp. She was possessed of an energy as great 
 as that of her illustrious son, and a will-power which 
 generally impressed all who met her. It was fj:om 
 her, his mother, that Bonaparte derived all his 
 industry, all his daring, all his determination, and 
 he always acknowledged his obligation. 
 
 Madame never allowed herself, under the most 
 
124 
 
 MA DA ME SAN 8-GENE. 
 
 pressing circumstances, to become disheartened. She 
 ever hoped for the future, and endeavored to justify 
 that hope. 
 
 As soon as she was driven from one shelter she 
 secured another, till at last she found a sure, safe, 
 steady haven of rest for her weary family. She at- 
 tracted the favorable notice of a Monsieur Clary, a 
 well-to-do soap merchant of Marseilles, who, taking 
 pity on her, gave her two rooms in the upper part of 
 his house, at a reduced rental. 
 
 He would have allowed Madame Bonaparte to have 
 lived rent free, but she was not an object of charity 
 yet. She took in sewing from the neighbors, and 
 aided by her daughters’ needlework managed to sub- 
 sist and pay her room-rent. 
 
 The family rose at dawn, and the mother and 
 daughters did all their own housework, saw to the 
 marketing, kept things in order. None were allowed 
 to play, except the youngest — a child of ten. 
 
 Joseph Bonaparte was lucky enough to receive a 
 government position as a military commissioner, but 
 the pay was woefully small, much lighter than the 
 work. The rest of “the Bonaparte boys” did noth- 
 ing — they had nothing to do. Napoleon himself was 
 mustered out of active service, and lost his scanty 
 pay. 
 
 Ere long, despite the mother’s pride, and the 
 daughters’ needlework, the family were reduced to 
 absolute penury, and were obliged for the first time 
 in their lives to eat the bitter bread of charity. 
 
 As Corsican refugees, victims to their devotion to 
 France, the Bonapartes were legally entitled to ra- 
 tions of bread from the town, and though for several 
 months Madame Bonaparte would not even think of 
 such a thing, she at last was obliged to avail herself 
 of it. Tears came into the proud lady’s eyes as she 
 applied to the city authorities for her quantum of 
 
MADAME 8AN8~GENE. 
 
 125 
 
 loaveg, but there was no help for it, her needs were 
 pressing. 
 
 Napoleon wept with her, bnt what conld he do? 
 At least he could get rid of himself. He need be 
 no longer a drag upon his mother, a burden on his 
 family. If he could no4; support them or himself, 
 he could at least ^‘shuffle off this mortal coil,” and 
 make an end of it. He resolved to do so. 
 
 All his life he was a fatalist, and if it was his fate 
 to kill himself— well, it was kismet. 
 
 He had hoped for higher destinies, he had believed 
 in his star; but if it was so arranged that he was to 
 perish young, in his prime, by his own hand, why 
 then he had only read his stars under a mistake — > 
 given his life-chart the wrong interpretation. 
 
 He had a sou in his pocket — his last sou ; a beggar 
 came along and solicited alms. Napoleon laughed 
 bitterly, thinking how much more wretched and 
 more in need of help he was than this beggar who 
 asked him for what he was wanting himself, ,and 
 then he gave the coin to the beggar and walked down, 
 utterly penniless and hopeless, toward the sea. 
 
 It was a rocky coast, and one great rock projected 
 far over the coast line, forming a sort of promontory. 
 The Man of Destiny made his way with difficulty over 
 the stones to this projection, and stood there awhile 
 with folded arms — ^his favorite attitude — looking 
 down upon the calm green sea beneath. 
 
 The waters seemed to call him. In a voice of their 
 own, audible to him alone, they cried: 
 
 ‘‘Come down to us. For what have you to live 
 longer on earth. You are useless to your country, 
 to your family, to yourself. Your sword has been 
 taken from you, and though your genius, God- 
 given, cannot be thus taken, what good can it do 
 you? You have lost all confidence in yourself, and 
 no wonder. What reason have you for any self- 
 
126 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-GENB. 
 
 belief? what have yon to show for it? Your star 
 ha set, or become forever hidden in the clouds; you 
 are all alone in your absurd aspirations. You have 
 really no one to sympathize with you, or understand 
 you ; you are a burden to the woman you love best — 
 your mother. You have lived your life; it has been 
 a failure; one plunge, die the death that all must 
 die sooner or later, and have it over.” 
 
 Yes, the waves were right. If he died to-day 
 there would be one less mouth to feed to-morrow, 
 one pensioner less upon the scanty and unwilling 
 charity of the state. 
 
 And yet, even to a pauper and a pensioner, life is 
 sweet. He hesitated ; he stood debating with himself 
 upon the verge of nothingness — on the edge of the 
 unknown. 
 
 He saw a ship sailing along. ‘‘If that vessel ap- 
 proaches the land I shall keep on living; if on the 
 contrary it goes farther out to sea, I shall at once 
 leap from this rock.” So he arranged within him- 
 self, chancing his fate upon a passing sail. 
 
 He watched the ship; it was leaving the land. It 
 was lessening in the distance. “I must do it,” he 
 said. He calculated the distance and the force of 
 the spring necessary to clear the rock in his descent, 
 when — “Bonaparte! Bonaparte!” he heard his own 
 name called aloud. 
 
 He turned. A fisherman, or a man dressed in 
 fishing garb, was running straight toward him with 
 open arms. 
 
 He wondered what it all meant, but his first im- 
 pulse was not to heed the interruption, but in some 
 more secluded spot to kill himself. 
 
 But again the voice cried: 
 
 “Bonaparte! Napoleon Bonaparte!” and the man 
 in fisher’s garb came nearer and nearer, till reaching 
 where he stood, the newcomer embraced him ere he 
 was aware. 
 
MADAME SAMS-QENE. 
 
 m 
 
 ‘‘Is it really yon, my dear Napoleon?” said the 
 voice. “What the devil are you doing here in this 
 lonely spot, and looking like a man about to commit 
 some desperate deed?” 
 
 Then seeing Bonaparte’s absolute and utter aston- 
 ishment the stranger cried: “Why, don’t you know 
 me? Have I changed so much? Don’t you remem- 
 ber Desmazis, your old comrade? I served with you 
 in the artillery regiment at La Fere. Surely you 
 cannot have forgotten the jolly nights we had to- 
 gether at Valence?” 
 
 The look of wonder and displeasure left Bona- 
 parte’s face as he listened, and was replaced by rec- 
 ognition and genuine delight. 
 
 “What!” he said, “my dear old comrade, my true 
 friend Desmazis, I am indeed as glad as I am sur- 
 prised to see you here after all these years.” 
 
 And then, in his turn, he embraced the stranger. 
 
 Explanations ensued ; Desmazis gave his story first. 
 He had emigrated at the beginning of the revolution, 
 and lived in peace and plenty in Italy, along the 
 shore near Savona, but he had recently received word 
 that his old mother, residing near Marseilles, had 
 been taken seriously ill. So he had donned an old 
 suit of fisherman’s clothes, that he might not attract 
 any attention, and had come to France to see his 
 mother. 
 
 He had found the old lady already convalescing, 
 so having made her happy by his presence and pres- 
 ents, he was returning to his beloved Italy again, a 
 happy man — and much the happier for having thus 
 unexpectedly met his often-thought-of comrade, 
 Bonaparte. 
 
 “But you?” he turned suddenly to his companion 
 and looked at him keenly, “What were you doing, 
 or about to do, at this lonely spot?” 
 
 Bonaparte, generally so self-poised and self-pos- 
 
128 
 
 MADAMJE SAJSrS-GEJSTK 
 
 sessed, now stammered, hesitated, almost blushed, as 
 though detected in a folly or a crime. And he looked 
 unconsciously upon the sea below, whose waters 
 seemed to call him still. 
 
 ‘‘Ah! you are unhappy, my dear Bonaparte,” cried 
 his old comrade. “What makes you suffer? What 
 misfortune hangs over you? Tell your old friend. 
 Why, man, you look as if you were thinking of taking 
 your own life.” 
 
 “You have guessed it,” said Bonaparte, “or rather 
 the instinct of your sympathetic soul has guided you 
 aright. I was about to throw myself into the sea.” 
 
 “ del! and what for, man?” 
 
 “For poverty. I have lost my position and my 
 pay. I have no money and a large family. I have no 
 bread and no hope.” 
 
 “Poverty! only that?” shouted Desmazis, almost 
 joyfully. “Only poverty? That’s easily cured — I 
 can cure it. Truly, I am in luck, and came in a 
 good time. Take this,” and he handed Napoleon a 
 hag from under his belt; “here are ten thousand 
 francs in gold. Don’t hesitate, I say, I am rich — 
 very rich — and I can spare them. Pshaw! take 
 them as a loan if you will not have them as a gift. 
 You can pay me back as soon as you like. Either 
 take them, or drop them on the ground, or throw 
 them into the sea, for I will not touch that bag again. 
 Take it, mon cUei% for your family'' s sake.” 
 
 “For my family’s sake, God bless you!” cried 
 Napoleon, as he received the bag. 
 
 Then like the true gentleman and nature’s noble- 
 man that he was, Desmazis almost ran away from 
 Bonaparte to escape his thanks. revoirV he 
 
 cried, embracing the friend he had so materially 
 aided, whose life he had really saved. Au revoir^ 
 I must be off and away, my men are coming in my 
 gig to take me to my ship; I am homeward bound. 
 
MADAME SANS-QENE. 
 
 Gyjod luck to you, my dear Napoleon,” and he disap- 
 peared, reached his ship, and set sail for his beloved 
 Italy. 
 
 Bonaparte for awhile stood stunned. He allowed 
 his preserver to depart without a word. What could 
 he say? He could but feel! As if fascinated, he 
 looked upon the bag of gold, realizing all it meant 
 to him and his. To his excited soul it was as if that 
 golden shower had fallen on him from the sky. 
 
 Then suddenly he started off on a run toward the 
 town, and, like a whirlwind, entered the cheerless 
 room where his mother and sisters sat hungry at 
 their needlework. 
 
 He opened the bag before their dazzled eyes with- 
 out a word, and spread the golden pieces on the deal 
 table, chinking the money joyfully — how he enjoyed 
 the sound. Then he found speech at last. ‘‘Moth- 
 er,” he cried, “we are rich. Girls, you shall have 
 enough to eat — dinner every day, and you shall wear 
 new gowns. See, what a windfall.” 
 
 “What a godsend,” said the mother gratefully. 
 “But how came you by this gold, my Napoleon?” 
 
 And then he told them all. 
 
 The Bonapartes were happy. 
 
 In after years, when a great man, Napoleon caused 
 a diligent search to be made for his benefactor. 
 Desmazis was found in a little village in Provence, 
 cultivating violets. 
 
 He at. first pretended not to know Bonaparte, and 
 to have forgotten all about the little incident of the 
 bag of gold. 
 
 But Napoleon’s memory was not so treacherous, 
 and he insisted on showing his gratitude. He paid 
 his money-debt with ample interest, giving Desmazis 
 three hundred thousand francs for ten. His old 
 comrade positively refused to be thus recklessly com- 
 pensated, but the emperor would have his way. He 
 
180 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-0ENE. 
 
 absolutely threatened to make things unpleasant for 
 his benefactor if he persisted in hisref usal ; so Desmazis 
 yielded. But Napoleon was not even then content. 
 As his former comrade was so fond of flowers, the 
 emperor appointed him superintendent of the royal 
 gardens at a liberal salary. 
 
 It was an episode creditable to all parties and to 
 human nature. 
 
 Altogether independent of saving Napoleon from 
 suicide, Desmazis’ generosity advanced materially the 
 interests of Napoleon’s family. It aided his brother 
 Joseph in forming a matrimonial alliance with Mile. 
 Julie, one of the daughters of Monsieur Clary, the 
 wealthy soap merchant, who had befriended the 
 Bonapartes and had almost given them their rooms. 
 
 And hereby hangs a tale. 
 
 Monsieur Clary had another daughter, a pretty 
 girl called Desiree. Encouraged by the success of 
 his brother Joseph with one sister, Napoleon courted 
 the other. 
 
 He believed in matrimonial advancement, and 
 Mile. Desiree Clary was not only fair to look at, 
 but, thanks to her father, well-to-do. The Clary 
 family were likewise well-connected. It would be 
 an advantageous marriage for Napoleon; that settled 
 it for him. 
 
 But not for her. The young lady had the bad 
 taste and the bad luck to refuse the future emperor 
 of the French. 
 
 To tell the truth, she had no special faith in any 
 particularly bright future for her suitor. He seemed 
 to her but an ordinary young man, who was rather 
 sterner and more gloomy than most young men. 
 
 It must be conceded as a mere matter of fact, that 
 the man who conquered Europe never conquered 
 women, until after he had become powerful and suc- 
 cessful. As emperor he never made advances in 
 
MADAME SANS-GEJSTE. 
 
 131 
 
 Tain, as witness the famous actress, Mile. Mars; 
 but on his unaided merits, while a young man, he 
 could boast of few feminine victories. Defeated first 
 in his designs on Madame Perrnon, he failed for the 
 second time with Mile. Clary. 
 
 And he seemed to feel his second defeat more 
 acutely than he had his first. The refusal of the 
 j^oung girl seemed to rankle more than that of the 
 mature widow. Being still a young man himself, 
 perhaps this was but natural. 
 
 For a month or more, Napoleon persisted in his 
 hopeless suit; he would not take ‘‘No” for an answer. 
 He almost rendered himself obnoxious to the young 
 lady by his insistence, and when at last he abandoned 
 the attempt, he swore to make the girl repent her 
 refusal. 
 
 And doubtless one of the reasons which later on 
 led Napoleon to seek Josephine, the Widow Beau- 
 harnais, was his desire to show both the Widow Per- 
 mon and Mile. Desiree Clary that he could secure 
 a woman superior in every respect to either of them. 
 
 And yet his very revenge upon Mile. Clary con- 
 tributed indirectly to her advancement. For, as 
 Bonaparte ascended, he raised others with him, and 
 thanks to his rise, the girl who rejected him — this 
 daughter of a soap-maker — became the wife of one of 
 Napoleon’s companions-in-arms, married Bernadette, 
 and became thereby queen of Sweden. 
 
 Such then was the history of Napoleon up to the 
 time when, in our true story, Lefebvreand Catherine, 
 his wife, marched in the ranks of the army of the 
 north toward the ever-memorable town of Jemmapes. 
 
132 
 
 MADAME SANS-QENE. 
 
 OHAPTEE XVIL 
 
 JEMMAPES— THE NUPTIAL MASS— A MARKIED A.NB 
 
 settled” woman’s UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE AS 
 
 A ‘‘BRIDE.” 
 
 Eobespierre once said : “ War is absurd,” but he 
 added, “nevertheless, being human, man must go to 
 war.” 
 
 Such was the creed of the republicans. With 
 them war was indeed “absurd;” they had no talented 
 generals and no trained soldiers, no ammunition and 
 no rations. They had no money, they had nothing 
 which could warrant making an attack, nor did they 
 have even the means for defense. 
 
 All their generals were royalists or traitors, Du- 
 mouriez, Dillon, Castine, Valence. 
 
 Dumouriez favored the young Duke de Chartres, 
 afterward Louis^Philippe, but the young duke did 
 not justify the predilection — at least not on the field 
 of battle. 
 
 But the army of the republic, though composed 
 of undisciplined volunteers, possessed what is more 
 than discipline itself — patriotic enthusiasm. These 
 volunteers sang the Marseillaise, the Carmagnole, 
 and the (Ja-ira tunes which beat time to their wild 
 marches, and they could fight as well as sing. 
 
 It was at Jemmapes that the improvised infantry of 
 the republic, commanded by Lefebvre and Hoche, 
 then merely subordinate officers, began its victorious 
 career of twenty years. 
 
 And on the eve of battle the chateau de Lowen- 
 daal (in the center of the district which separated 
 the French from the Austrian army, protected from 
 the French by wood and stream, and from the Aus- 
 trians by a mountain range), was occupied by its 
 
MADAME SAMS-GENE . ' 
 
 133 
 
 owner, and his two guests of honor, the Marquis da 
 Laveline and his daughter Blanche. 
 
 The baron, being now rid of General Beaurepaire 
 and his sister Herminie (the former dead, the latter 
 mad), and the child, Alice, having disappeared, felt 
 free and light of heart, and was more determined 
 than ever to marry the marquis’ daughter. 
 
 True, Mile. Blanche refused absolutely to see 
 him, but he heeded not. He had the father in his 
 power — not only his property, but his honor, his life. 
 
 For the Marquis de Laveline had been concerned 
 in the infamous Diamond Necklace affair, in which 
 Marie Antoinette, and the Chevalier de Kohan so 
 conspicuously figured, and his part in this transaction 
 (which would have alike in France and Austria for- 
 feited his life, as well as ruined his reputation), was 
 well known to the baron, who held it over the head 
 of his guest as a menace. 
 
 It was arranged that the marriage was to take 
 place at midnight, solemnized in the chateau by the 
 baron’s chaplain, but Blanche was more than ever 
 resolved that this hated union should never be con- 
 secrated by mortal priest. But meanwhile where 
 was Catherine and the child, her little Henriot? 
 
 Although the lady knew it not, Catherine then 
 was near her, where the camp fires of the Thirteenth 
 Light Infantry lighted up the woods around the 
 chateau. 
 
 And that night the faithful and heroic Catherine 
 resolved to call on Blanche de Laveline. Her determi- 
 nation made, she put her two pistols into her belt, 
 saying nothing to her husband, who probably would 
 have disapproved of her intention, and kissing the 
 little Henriot, who lay fast asleep beside Alice, with 
 his arm around her neck, she whispered softly to the 
 sleeping boy: ‘‘My darling, I am going to your other 
 mother,” and was gone. 
 
134 
 
 MADAME SAMS-GENE, 
 
 She was incurring great risk, but she thought not 
 of herself, though to tell the truth she felt the least 
 bit guilty at leaving her husband, though only for a 
 few hours, without his knowledge and consent. 
 
 She advanced toward the woods, and there she saw, 
 coming toward her, a tall, thin man. She took one 
 of her pistols from her belt and stood ready to fire. 
 ‘‘Who goes there?” she cried, loudly enough for the 
 man to hear, but not loudly enough to be heard by 
 the sentries. 
 
 “No enemy, but a friend — your friend, Madame 
 Catherine,” said the tall, thin man, whom she now 
 recognized as La Violette. 
 
 This fellow was supposed to be half-witted. He 
 was a butt for his companions, but Catherine rather 
 liked him; he had tended faithfully her horse, and 
 helped her with her canteen, but he bore the reputa- 
 tion of being afraid of powder and ball, in short, a 
 coward. 
 
 Catherine, on seeing who it was, put back her pis- 
 tol laughing. “Well, since it is you, I must not 
 scare you,” she said; “but why are you prowling 
 about here, outside the lines; it is a dangerous time 
 and place for a coward.” 
 
 La Violette came closer to Catherine. “I will tell 
 you why I am here now,” saic. the tall, thin, young 
 man, “I saw you, Madame Lefebvre, as you left the 
 camp, and here I am.” 
 
 “What! to play the spy upon me, La Violette?” 
 
 “Oh, no, but I thought you might be running 
 into danger, Madame Lefebvre.” 
 
 “Danger, and what then? Danger and you gen- 
 erally keep far apart. La Violette.” 
 
 “Alas! yes, Madame Catherine, but I thought I 
 would form its acquaintance to-night.” 
 
 “Very good. La Violette, but why to-night?” 
 
 “Because 1 wanted to see you; I have something 
 
MADAME SANS-QENE. 
 
 135 
 
 to say to yon, madanie. Oh, Catherine, do not 
 send me hack.” 
 
 Madame Lefebvre was puzzled, the young fellow 
 seemed desperately earnest in his desire to be with 
 her, and yet what did he want? what could it be? 
 And then he had never called her ^‘Catherine” — 
 Catherine without any prefix — before. What could 
 he mean? She was not kept long in doubt. 
 
 ‘^Oh, Madame Catherine,” cried La Violette, 
 love you.” 
 
 Catherine started, uncertain whether to wax merry 
 or grow indignant. 
 
 ‘‘Yes, I love you so,” the tall, thin, young fellow 
 repeated. “I should never have dared to tell you so 
 in the daytime at the canteen, before the men; but 
 here I am not a coward in the dark; night makes me 
 brave.” 
 
 As he spoke, and before Catherine could speak, 
 two shots were heard; La Violette disappeared. 
 “The brave man has fied,” she said to herself. 
 
 But he had not. For in a moment more shooting 
 was heard, and then she caught sight of a man flee- 
 ing — not La Violette; and then La Violette himself 
 reappeared with a sword, stained with blood. “I 
 have kept that ‘Kaiserlick’ (a term of reproach ap- 
 plied to the Austrians) from doing any more firing. 
 
 I killed him, but the other one escaped me,” said La 
 Violette. 
 
 Catherine looked upon her new lover in a new 
 light. He might be a fool, but ho certainly was no 
 coward. She and the rest had misjudged him; she 
 was indeed surprised. 
 
 She had made up her mind to scold him roundly 
 and then send him back to the camp, but she changed 
 her mind. He might be useful, too. After all, two 
 are safer than one. 
 
 “La Violette,” she said sweetly, “I feel it my duty 
 
136 
 
 MADAME 8AMS-GENE. 
 
 to warn you that I am now going where there is 
 danger — great danger — and precisely wliat I do not 
 know myself. Do you still wish to share my perils 
 to-night?” 
 
 I follow you though you go througlf fire,” said 
 La Violette. 
 
 ‘^Then begin,” laughed Catherine, ^^by going 
 through water. We must cross this stream to get to 
 where I am going — ^yonder chateau.” 
 
 That is where ‘we’ are going, is it?” said La Vio- 
 lette. “Lead on,” he added, “I follow; I’ll swim if 
 need be.” 
 
 “Ob, not quite so bad as that,” laughed Catherine. 
 “Now for it,” she said, reaching the stream. “ Close 
 your lips, hold your head up, keep your eyes wide 
 open —now.” 
 
 The two crossed the stream, now almost a river 
 (the Weme it is called), the water coming up to their 
 knees. 
 
 Drying their feet on the other side, they advanced 
 cautiously till they reached the door of the chateau 
 stables. 
 
 Catherine felt along the walls for a place to climb 
 over them. Finding a spot where the stone was 
 crumbling, she signed to La Violette to help her 
 climb. 
 
 “With pleasure,” said her remarkable lover, “only 
 too happy;” and he knelt down in the damp grass, 
 on all fours. 
 
 “He is not dignified, but decidedly obliging,” 
 thought Madame Lefebvre, as she put her ample 
 foot upon his back, and then rested the very 
 considerable weight of her body on his as she leaped 
 over. 
 
 A few minutes more and they were both in the 
 chateau garden. Here they stepped along cautiously, 
 hiding as much as possible among the trees, and ap- 
 proaching a room where lamps burned brightly. 
 
MABAME 8ANS-QENE. 
 
 137 
 
 The Baron de Lowcndaal and the Marqnis de 
 Laveline had a last decisive interview, the baron had 
 imposed his conditions. Blanche must marry him 
 that very night, or in every way the marquis would 
 be ruined. 
 
 But Blanche refused positively to wed the baron; 
 she was in fact utterly astonished at the persistency 
 of her most unwelcome suitor. Taking it for granted 
 that the baron had received her letter, which she had 
 entrusted to Leonard, she wondered how any man, 
 with pretensions to being a gentleman, or even with- 
 out such pretensions, could seek to unite himself 
 with a woman who was already united in affection 
 with another man, and of which mutual affection 
 such a palpable pledge existed as little Henriot. 
 
 ^^But perphance,” thought Blanche, ‘‘the baron 
 does not believe we have a child. Oh, why does not 
 Oatherine bring me little Henriot, that I may prove 
 it? Ay, I would rather prove my shame than be 
 false to him who is, in heaven’s sight, my husband. 
 Oh, where is Catherine? Can aught have befallen 
 her, or the child? If she comes not within the hour 
 I shall flee and seek her and my child myself.” 
 
 Oatherine came not, and Blanche de Laveline re- 
 solved on instant flight. She would take the road 
 straight onward and before her. Night is propitious 
 for escape. The very presence of the two armies 
 near the chateau was favorable; surely among so 
 many soldiers she could hide. The roads were full 
 of people fleeing from their homes, before the ad- 
 vancing troops. A woman like herself, disguised, 
 apparently poor and obscure, could pass along prob- 
 ably unnoticed, certainly unsuspected. Somehow 
 she would go somewhere, and get there some time; 
 she would reach Brussels or Lille, and thence to 
 Paris, to Versailles, to And, or at any rate, to look 
 for Catherine and the child. She had her jewels 
 
138 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-GENE. 
 
 with her, also a little money. Once far away, safe 
 from the hated baron, she would write to her father, 
 who would become reconciled to the inevitable. 
 
 And having made all the necessary personal ar- 
 rangements, she left her light burning in her room, 
 descended cautiously the stairs, and gained a door 
 leading to the vegetable garden. 
 
 Without the slightest noise she slipped the holt, 
 and was free in the open air. The night was cold, 
 clear, but not so very dark; but once in the woods 
 she could not be seen; but as she turned the base- 
 ment of the hall and passed the servants’ room, she 
 saw under a tree two forms, two strange forms, a 
 man and a woman. She stopped, shivered with fear, 
 was motionless through wonder. The two mysterious 
 forms came slowly toward her. Blanche de Lave- 
 line was paralyzed — she could not advance, she could 
 not retreat, she could not scream. 
 
 Suddenly she heard the woman’s voice addressing 
 her. She noticed that the woman wore a short skirt, 
 and a little hat, with the brim turned up. It oc- 
 curred to her that she had seen that woman before; 
 her voice, too, sounded familiar as it said : “ Mademoi- 
 selle, do not be alarmed, do not speak. Are you not 
 Mile. Blanche de Laveline?” 
 
 Mon Dieu! I know her now,” said Blanche; ‘^are 
 you not Catherine? Ah! yovL are Catherine,” and 
 impulsively forgetting all distinctions of rank, the 
 women embraced. Catherine then hurriedly ex- 
 plained the position of affairs on her side and pre- 
 sented LaViolette, who saluted the lady respectfully, 
 but proudly. He felt that he was no longer a butt 
 or a coward; he was a man, doing man’s work, and 
 protecting two women at night. What an adventure 
 for La Violeite! 
 
 ‘‘Ah ! where is my little Henriot?” asked the boy’s 
 ‘‘other” and real mother, anxiously. 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE 
 
 139 
 
 Catherine reassured her that the child was safe 
 and happy. 
 
 “But your costume?” said Blanche de Laveline, 
 looking at Catherine’s peculiar dress as a cantini^re. 
 Catherine explained. “Oh, I must have my child 
 to-night,” cried Blanche abruptly. 
 
 Catherine told her that at this very moment little 
 Henriot was doubtless sleeping in the wagon of the 
 canteen of the Thirteenth Light Infantry, in the 
 French camp. Whereupon Blanche insisted on going 
 to the camp forthwith. 
 
 Catherine and La Violette both endeavored to dis- 
 suade her from this idea, advising her to remain in 
 the chateau over night, and to seek her child in the 
 morning. “But I must be wedded to the Baron de 
 Lowendaal this very night,” said Blanche; “that is, 
 if I remain here, which I will not.” And she told 
 Catherine her exact position. 
 
 “What is to be done?” cried Catherine. Like the 
 good wife she was, she added: “What a pity it is 
 that my Lefebvre is not here, he could advise us.” 
 Then looking at La Violette she said : “ Oh, imbecile, 
 if only you could have an idea!” 
 
 But as it happened, “the imbecile” had one, and 
 a very good one. He would leave the women in 
 comparative safety in their hiding here, and go him- 
 self to the French camp, get the boy, and bring him 
 hither ere midnight. It could be done. 
 
 “By a brave man, yes,” said Catherine; “and La 
 Violette,” she added kindly, “you are brave.” 
 
 La Violette’s idea was adopted. Then suddenly 
 Blanche insisted on accompanying him. 
 
 At this moment the Baron de Lowendaal was 
 awaiting his expected bride in the chapel of his cha- 
 teau, and was sending his servants to call down 
 Mile, de Laveline. 
 
 The women heard the direction given by the 
 
140 
 
 MADAME 8AMS-GEME. 
 
 baron, and they saw the servants with lights, prepar- 
 ing to execute his orders. 
 
 ^^Oh, God!” cried Blanche to Catherine, ‘‘I am 
 lost; they will see that I have gone.” 
 
 ‘^Everything now depends on gaining time, but 
 how, oh, how?” said Catherine, in sore perplexity. 
 
 “Ah!” she exclaimed striking her thigh, as usual 
 when pleased with herself, “I have it. It is sure, 
 but rather risky.” 
 
 “What is it, in heaven’s name?” cried Blanche. 
 “What way suggests itself to you? I am willing 
 to undergo any risk whatever.” 
 
 “Oh,” said Catherine, “the danger would not be 
 to you, but to we.” 
 
 “To you?” asked Blanche; “what can you mean?” 
 
 “Why this,” answered Catherine. “It would per- 
 haps be best for you to go away now with La Violette, 
 if only ” 
 
 “If only what, Catherine?” 
 
 “If only some one should stay here in your place, 
 mademoiselle, to represent you to the baron. That 
 would relieve you for some time and give you a 
 chance, at least until the baron found out his mis- 
 take, which he would soon enough, I warrant me,” 
 she added. 
 
 “Oh, what an excellent idea,” said Blanche de 
 Laveline, almost joyously. “If some one could only 
 make up like a bride, and hide her face like a modest 
 bride should, and imitate my walk and gestures, in 
 short, be married in iny stead, why, it would mean 
 my escape, my salvation. But,” she added gloomily, 
 “what is the good of a mere idea like this?” 
 
 “/ will make it materialize, mademoiselle,” said 
 Catherine. “Come, we have no time to spare; give 
 me your cloak; hasten away, the baron is coming for 
 his bride.” 
 
 Catherine wrapped herself quickly and deftly in 
 
MADAME SAN8-0ENE, 
 
 141 
 
 Blanche’s cloak, while Blanche, having wrapped her- 
 self in a cape she carried with her, followed La Vio- 
 lette, having first embraced the clever and courageous 
 Catherine. 
 
 As for La Violette. he walked as if on air, his head 
 seemed in the clouds. He was so proud of his new 
 role as protector of a wandering demoiselle. 
 
 Catherine watched them till their figures had dis- 
 appeared in the night. ‘‘They are safe now,” she 
 said to herself, “and she will soon see her boy. But 
 I,” she thought, with a sigh, “shall I ever see and 
 hug my good Lefebvre once more. A woman never 
 knows how much she loves a man till she feels that 
 possibly she may never set eyes on him again. Bah ! 
 what’s the matter with me to-night?” recovering 
 her accustomed nerve and spirits, “of course I shall 
 hug my man again, and be well scolded by him, as I 
 deserve. But I must not think of that now, I must 
 try to play my new role as a bride. After all I ought 
 to play bride pretty well; it is not so very long ago 
 since I was one.” She had won back her own good 
 humor, and she really began to take a pleased interest 
 in the exciting part she had chosen for herself. 
 “After all,” she thought, “every woman, even a 
 laundress, or a cantini^re, is a born actress.” 
 
 Humming softly a bar of the Marseillaise, she 
 walked bravely on toward the lighted hall where the 
 servants were gathered after supper. She stood in the 
 doorway, and imitating capitally the tones of Mile. 
 Blanche’s voice, ordered one of the menials to tell 
 Monsieur le Baron that Mile, de Laveline awaited 
 him in the chapel. 
 
 Having delivered herself of this speech, she retired 
 slowly, and (she tried her best) majestically. “I 
 couldn’t really do better if I was doing the duchess,” 
 she thought, with an inward smile. 
 
 But she came near tripping in her pride of state, 
 
142 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 perilonsly near slipping and falling on the floor^ for 
 mademoiselle’s cloak was somewhat too long for the 
 somewhat short, as well as stout cantiniere. 
 
 As she neared the chapel she heard voices. The 
 baron said inquiringly: You have the password, 
 Leonard, you are sure?” 
 
 “Yes,” she heard the man Leonard say in reply to 
 the implied inquiry. “I managed it; I got a 
 courier drunk and took his papers; nothing in them 
 important save the orders and the password.” 
 
 “All’s well then, Leonard,” said the baron in a 
 tone of satisfaction. “While I am getting married, 
 do you run to the Austrian guards to warn the com- 
 manding officer.” 
 
 This dialogue had made Catherine prick her ears; 
 it stirred her military instincts. “ Courier — password 
 —orders — whose? ours perhaps. I must off and tell 
 Lefebvre. Treason afoot.” 
 
 She turned from the chapel, then returned to it. 
 “No, the nearest duty must come first; I am here to 
 save my benefactress by personating her. This is 
 the duty of this hour; next hour, if all is well, and I 
 escape from this alive, or next day, maybe, I will tell 
 Lefebvre what I have heard just now.” 
 
 She entered the chapel, walking with measured step, 
 and looking out for the train of her cloak. Suddenly 
 the idea occurred to her: “What if the baron and 
 this Leonard have been plotting to surprise the 
 French camp to-night, surprise the Thirteenth in 
 their sleep. No, no, that is simply impossible,” 
 she said to herself assuringly. “The Thirteenth 
 sleeps with one eye open, and no ‘Kaiserlicks,’ even 
 with stolen passwords, will be allowed to get within 
 gunshot.” 
 
 And somewhat calmed she sat down in one of the 
 two armchairs, placed before the chapel altar for 
 the happy couple. 
 
MADAME SAN8-0ENE. 
 
 143 
 
 The priest was already prepared and waiting for 
 the ceremony of the nuptial mass; he was meanwhile 
 wrapt in his devotions — he was praying in a corner, 
 and took no heed of her. 
 
 Catherine Sans-Gene, who was now once more 
 demonstrating her claim to her ‘‘don’t care” sobri- 
 quet, quietly, yet keenly, looked round about the 
 chapel, in which she was so soon to play so conspicu- 
 ous a part. 
 
 She didn’t like its appearance at all. The old altar- 
 pieces, the ornaments — such as they were — the little 
 oil lamp, and the four lighted candles — she sniffed at 
 them all. 
 
 “Bah!” she murmured, “this is a fitter place for 
 a funeral than a wedding. How much longer will I 
 have to wait, I wonder.” 
 
 Her waiting was not long. The chapel door 
 opened, there was a noise of feet and a clink of 
 swords. 
 
 Catherine, to keep up her disguise as long as pos- 
 sible, wrapped her person completely in Blanche’s 
 cloak, and kneeling down thereby avoided turning 
 round. 
 
 The priest rose slowly, bowed twice or thrice, ap- 
 proached the altar, and read the marriage ritual of 
 the church. 
 
 The baron took Catherine’s hand. “ I had hoped,” 
 he said, “to have led you hither myself, but I appre- 
 ciate your modesty and timidity.” Here Catherine 
 moved slightly; she was inwardly agitated with 
 laughter. 
 
 “Now may I take my place at the side of my — my 
 wife?” he asked. 
 
 Catherine did not speak nor stir. 
 
 The marquis now approached. “I am glad you 
 have come to your senses, daughter; I congratulate 
 you on being reasonable, at least,” the marquis said. 
 
144 
 
 MADAME SANS-OENE. 
 
 Then looking at his supposed daughter, he cried: 
 ‘^But remove your cloak, my child, you cannot marry 
 in a traveling cloak; that comes after the ceremony. 
 Besides,” he added, ‘‘you must do honor to our in- 
 vited guests and witnesses, to the Austrian officers, 
 whom your husband has invited to the ceremony, to 
 the officers of General Clerfayt.” 
 
 Hearing this name, so detested by every true 
 Frenchman and Frenchwoman of that period, Cath- 
 erine at once complied with the suggestion of the 
 Marquis de Laveline. She cast aside her traveling 
 cloak, and stood revealed in her tricolored skirt. 
 
 The marquis and the baron looked on, dumb for a 
 moment in amazement. “ This is not my daughter,” 
 the marquis contrived to say at last. 
 
 “This is not the woman who is to be my wife,” 
 cried the baron, white with anger. “Who are you?” 
 he demanded of the bogus bride. 
 
 The chapel became a scene of wild confusion. 
 
 The priest endeavored to preserve the sanctity of 
 the time and place. He looked toward the cross, 
 he held his arms outstretched, he uttered the sublime 
 formula: 
 
 Benedicat vos^ omnipotens Deus^ Dominus volis- 
 
 He waited for the answer that should be returned — 
 Et cum spiritu 
 
 But the confusion was too general for any one 
 present to follow the ritual. The priest withdrew. 
 The Austrian officers, who had just arrived, sur- 
 rounded Catherine. “She is a Frenchwoman, she is 
 a cantiniere. What can it mean!” The wonder of 
 the man, who uttered these words, and who seemed 
 to be in command, was almost comical. 
 
 “You are right, for once, even if you are aii Aus- 
 trian,” cried Catherine, addressing this personage. 
 “I am a Frenchwoman and a cantiniere, Catherine 
 
MADAME SANS-UENE. 
 
 145 
 
 Lefebvre of the Thirteenth Light Infantry, not at 
 your service.” 
 
 ‘^Eeally,” continued Madame Sans-Gene, abso- 
 lutely enjoying the tumult she had caused. “This 
 seems to be too much for you, it has turned your 
 stomach, my lads.” 
 
 She was ready now for anythiiig— everything, 
 anybody — everybody; ready to laugh in the face of 
 the discomfited bridegroom, ready to bandy words 
 with the raging marquis, ready to snap her fingers 
 at the Austrian officers, who, seeing her bold bear- 
 ing, began to think that her regiment must be some- 
 where near, in hiding perhaps, in that very chapel, 
 at that very moment, ready to sound a bugle-call, 
 or a battle cry, and to rush upon them from that 
 very chapel, under the protection of the gods of war. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A DEBT OF GRATITUDE— THE EVE OF BATTLE — THE 
 WAR SOKG AND THE VICTORY. 
 
 When the first moment of surprise was over, one 
 of the Austrian officers seized Catherine by the 
 shoulder. 
 
 “You are my prisoner, madame,” he said sternly. 
 
 “Prisoner,” said Catherine, “why, I am not fight- 
 ing, but — but — ” she was at a loss for a word, 
 “visiting.” 
 
 “Do not jest, madame,” replied the officer; “you 
 have introduced yourself into this chateau, of which 
 I have taken possession in the name of the Emperor 
 of Austria; you are a French citizen, and you are in 
 Austrian territory. I arrest you.” 
 
 “That is not at all gallant,” cried Catherine, “ar- 
 resting women.” 
 
146 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 You are a cantiniere,” said the officer, ‘‘connected 
 with the French army.” 
 
 “True, but a woman all the same. Besides, can- 
 tinieres are not soldiers,” cried Catherine. 
 
 “You are not taken as a soldier,” said the officer, 
 “but as a spy.” Catherine’s face blanched for the 
 first time at this word, so hateful and fatal in war- 
 time, “spy.” “Let some one get four men to guard 
 this woman till she has been tried,” ordered the 
 officer. 
 
 The baron, who had rushed to Blanche’s room, 
 now returned to Catherine. “Gentlemen,” he cried 
 in a voice choked with wrath, “this woman is the 
 accomplice of a flight. She has aided my fiancee in 
 her escape. Where is Mile, de Laveline?” he asked 
 furiously of Catherine. 
 
 Catherine laughed. “Go to the French camp,” 
 she cried to the baron, “you will find her there.” 
 
 The marquis whispered to the baron: “If she has 
 gone to the French camp, at least she has not gone 
 to De Ueipperg.” 
 
 “But nevertheless,” asked the baron wonderingly, 
 “for what can she have gone to the French camp?” 
 
 “To get her child,” answered Catherine calmly. 
 
 These words were really the very first intimation 
 that either the baron or the marquis had received of 
 Blanche’s secret, and it mystified them both, as well 
 as shocked and horrified the father. 
 
 The two men were for the moment dumb. 
 
 “What on earth do you mean, woman?” asked at 
 last the marquis, like a man dazed. 
 
 “ What I say,” answered Catherine. “ Your daugh- 
 ter has gone to rejoin her child — little Henriot — a 
 lovely little cherub. Oh, he’s far better looking 
 than any child of yours could ever be. Monsieur le 
 Baron.” 
 
 The marquis and the baron strode away, each full 
 of their own thoughts. 
 
MADAME 8ANS-GENE. 
 
 147 
 
 The baron’s man, Leonard, had heard what had 
 been said; he saw now that any hope of a hold on 
 the Lady Blanche through her secret was over. The 
 child was no longer a secret, but he resolved to go 
 forthwith to the French camp; he had the stolen 
 password. ‘^Perchance I may still do something, 
 make something,” he said to himself. “ We shall 
 meet again, my lady,” and the cunning rogue slipped 
 away unnoticed. 
 
 “ Baron,” said the Austrian officer who had arrested 
 Catherine, as he saw Lowendaal coming his way, 
 “have you anything to say to this prisoner here?” 
 pointing to Catherine. 
 
 “No, no,” cried the baron in a fury. “No, no, 
 take her, guard her, punish her, shoot her, but find 
 out first about Mile, de Laveline and her — her 
 child.” 
 
 “We shall imprison her in one of the rooms in 
 your chateau till to-morrow,” replied the officer; 
 “then she shall be questioned.” 
 
 “No,” cried Catherine, “for by to-morrow the 
 sdldiers of the republic will be in possession here, 
 and you all will be dead or captured.” 
 
 “ Take her away,” ordered the officer to the guard ; 
 “carry her away if she resists.” 
 
 The guard advanced toward Catherine. 
 
 “Come not near me,” shouted Catherine. “The 
 first man of you who moves is dead,” and drawing 
 from her belt her “two bulldogs,” her pistols, and 
 aiming af the men, she prepared to fire. 
 
 “Advance! seize her!” cried the officer; “are you 
 afraid of a woman?” 
 
 The guard approached Catherine, despite her pis- 
 tols. She was about to keep her word and fire, when 
 through the darkness and near the chapel, sounded 
 the roll of the drum. 
 
 “ Ah ! my lads of the Thirteenth,” cried Catherine, 
 in joy. 
 
148 
 
 MADAME SANS-GEME. 
 
 “Ah! the French!” cried the baron in dismay. 
 
 The Austrians vanished, the baron and the mar- 
 quis hid themselves in the chapel, where the priest 
 onc^more was praying. 
 
 TTie drum beat louder and louder, but no French 
 troops appeared, only La Violette entered, beating 
 a drum. 
 
 It was now Catherine’s turn to be astonished. 
 “Where is your regiment?” she asked. 
 
 “Why, in the camp, of course,” answered La Vio- 
 lette; “but I got back here Just at the right time to 
 help you, did I not?” he added. “But let us close 
 the door and talk,” he suggested. 
 
 He locked the door and then made his explana- 
 tions. He had conducted Mile, de Laveline to 
 the French camp, but midway he had met a pa- 
 trol, led by Lefebvre himself, whereupon La Violette 
 had given the lady into his charge, and seizing a 
 drum (he was always fond of the sound of the drum) 
 had returned as quickly as possible to the chateau 
 and Catherine. Seeing and hearing what was going 
 on, and learning in what trouble the woman he loved 
 was in, the idea had occurred to him, of frightening 
 ofiE Catherine’s enemies by making them believe that 
 the French were attacking the chateau, an idea which 
 he had carried out by the aid of a picked-up drum. 
 
 “It was cleverly done, my brave lad,” said Cath- 
 erine to La Violette, and she laughed to think how 
 one drum in the hands of a half-witted fellow bad 
 frightened off noblemen, officers and soldiers. 
 
 “But how is my husband?” she asked anxiously 
 of La Violette. 
 
 “Well; and more anxious about you than you can 
 imagine,” answered La Violette. “He will keep as 
 near you as possible, and at my signal — four shots — ■ 
 he will rush to your assistance with his men.” 
 
 Suddenly the chateau was surrounded — by a real 
 
MADAME SANS-QENE. 
 
 149 
 
 regiment this time — and not French but Aus- 
 trians. 
 
 ‘‘Open, or we will force the door,” cried a com- 
 manding voice outside. 
 
 “Shall I give the signal to Lefebvre,” asked La 
 Violette of Catherine, “shall I fire the four shots?” 
 
 “No,” she answered; “these Austrians now are too 
 many even for him, my husband. We must wait 
 and tak"" advantage of events. Meanwhile open the 
 door, then let us hide here in the chapel.” 
 
 La Violette obeyed instructions. 
 
 The Austrian soldiers rushed into the chapel and 
 soon discovered and dragged out Catherine and La 
 Violette. 
 
 “ Colonel,” said one of the Austrian soldiers to a 
 man in a richly embroidered cloak, “shall we shoot 
 this man and this woman as spies? They have been 
 adjudged such.” 
 
 “ I demand that we be treated as prisoners of war,” 
 cried Catherine boldly. 
 
 “A woman,” said the man in the embroidered 
 cloak, looking at Catherine coldly. “Well, as they 
 are spies, let them be shot.” 
 
 Again Catherine shouted, interrupting him : “We 
 are prisoners of war, we are not spies.” 
 
 “Woman,” said the man in the cloak, “how can 
 you claim to be a prisoner of war when the battle is 
 not yet begun?” 
 
 “Yes, it has begun,” cried Catherine. 
 
 “When?” asked the man in the cloak. 
 
 “About two hours ago,” answered Catherine. 
 
 “And by whom?” asked the man in the cloak. 
 
 “By me, by us two,” Catherine said, pointing to 
 La Violette. 
 
 “This is mere quibbling,” cried the officer, the 
 Austrian colonel. “They are spies,” he said, turn- 
 ing to his men. 
 
150 
 
 MADAME SANS-OENE. 
 
 ‘‘We are tzo#,” persisted Catherine. “Besides,” 
 she continued, “you have no right to shoot us, be- 
 cause we have given ourselves up, we have voluntarily 
 surrendered.” 
 
 The man in the cloak shook his head coldly. 
 
 “Ah ! then,” shduted Catherine, “take care of your- 
 selves, for if you wrong us we shall be avenged, and 
 at once. Expect no mercy from the soldiers of the 
 Thirteenth; they are not far off, nor will they be 
 slow at reaching here. My husband, who is a cap- 
 tain, will avenge me, will avenge us both, as surely 
 as my name is Catherine Lefebvre.” 
 
 The man whom they called colonel, the command- 
 ing officer, the man in the cloak, on hearing the 
 words “Catherine Lefebvre,” started in surprise. 
 He even came forward a few steps, to see as plainly 
 as he could in the semi-darkness who the woman was 
 who had spoken thus. 
 
 “Are you, madame, related to a certain Lefebvre 
 who served in the guard at Paris, and who married 
 a washerwoman whom they called Sans-Gene?” he 
 asked with a politeness strongly in contrast to his 
 previous tone and manner. 
 
 “ Sans-Gene,” cried Catherine, astonished beyond 
 measure, “that is the name they have given me. I 
 am the washerwoman you refer to, and Captain Le- 
 febvre is my husband.” 
 
 The colonel was strongly agitated at this statement 
 of Catherine’s. He advanced closely toward her, 
 made a movement as though about to take her by 
 the hand, then throwing back his cloak, raising his 
 head and looking her full in the face, he asked her: 
 “Do you not recognize me?” 
 
 Catherine, still more surprised, almost startled, 
 stepped back, saying as she looked at the officer: “1 
 think I have heard your voice before, and your fea- 
 tures seem familiar. It is as if I had even seen you 
 dimly.” 
 
MADAME 8AN8-0ENE. 
 
 151 
 
 ‘‘Yes,” said the officer softly, almost tenderly, 
 “yes, dimly, through the smoke of cannon. Have 
 you forgotten the tenth of August in Paris?” 
 
 “The tenth of August,” cried Catherine. “Oh, 
 now I recollect, you are the Austrian officer, the 
 wounded man.” 
 
 “Yes,” said the officer, now all smiles and softness; 
 “I am the Count de Neipperg, whom you so kindly 
 rescued, and who has been always grateful. Ah! 
 madame,” he continued, “let me embrace you, for 
 to you I owe my life,” and he advanced with open 
 arms toward her. 
 
 But Catherine Lefebvre shrunk back from him. 
 “I thank you, colonel,” she said, “for having remem- 
 bered me so fervently, but what I did for you that 
 day, I did for humanity. You were unarmed and 
 wounded, yet hunted. down; I protected you, as best 
 I could, without stopping to ask under what flag 
 you were wounded, nor why you fled, but that was 
 on the tenth of August. To-day,” she continued, 
 almost sternly, “I find you wearing the uniform of 
 the enemies of my country, commanding soldiers 
 who are the foes of my comrades, the invaders of my 
 native land. Under these circumstances I desire to 
 forget what happened in Paris. I almost feel as if I 
 merited reproach from my husband, fi’om my friends, 
 the soldiers of my regiment; from this boy. La Vio- 
 lette, who stands here beside me, a prisoner. I feel 
 as if I have incurred their censure by having saved 
 your life, you an Austrian, an aristocrat, a colonel 
 who would order his men to shoot people like this 
 brave lad” (here La Violette, listening, seemed to ex- 
 pand with pride), “and myself — people who have 
 given themselves up. 
 
 “So, colonel and count as you may be,” concluded 
 Catherine, “speak not to me of the tenth of August; 
 remind me not that I preserved an enemy.” She 
 
153 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 placed her hands on her hips and looked scornfully 
 upon the officer, who was silent awhile. Catherine’s 
 plain speech, delivered with her usual energy, had 
 affected him profoundly. But at last he spoke earn- 
 estly, and with evident sincerity: 
 
 ‘‘Catherine, my preserver,” he said, “I do not 
 deserve your reproaches. You serve your country, 
 why should not I serve mine? Why should I not 
 fight for my flag as your brave husband fights under 
 his? We cannot all be born in France.” 
 
 His questions were unanswerable, his statement was 
 a truism. Catherine inwardly felt that De Neipperg 
 was talking sense, but she would have died ere she 
 confessed as much. 
 
 He continued: “Do not thus hate me* or despise 
 me, Catherine. You may choose to forget the tenth 
 of August, but I will not, for I cannot, and as colonel 
 
 of the staff of the imperial and victorious army ” 
 
 Not yet victorious,” interrupted Catherine. 
 
 “It will be so to-morrow,” he continued; “but be 
 this as it may, the colonel of the Empire who com- 
 mands here, has not forgotten the debt he contracted 
 as a soldier in the Tuileries, he remembers his obli- 
 gations as the wounded man of the laundry at Saint- 
 Koche.” 
 
 Then making a sign to the guard around her to 
 release her, he cried: 
 
 “Catherine Lefebvre, you are free.” 
 
 Catherine advanced and shook herself, as though 
 getting rid of imaginary shackles. “Thanks, colo- 
 nel,” she said simply and naturally. 
 
 “But La Violette,” she added, pointing to her tall, 
 thin companion, who was standing as erect as possi- 
 ble, as if desirous of showing his valor to his enemies. 
 “Is he not free also?” 
 
 “No,” said the colonel decidedly, “ that man is a 
 soldier and an enemy; he came here by a stratagem — 
 a trick — he shall be shot as a spy.” 
 
MADAME SANS~GENE. 
 
 153 
 
 ‘‘Then yon will have to shoot me with him,” said 
 Catherine Sans-G^ue. She said this in her ordinary 
 tone, as if being shot as a spy was an everyday affair. 
 “It shall not be reported through the camp that 
 I, Catherine Lefebvre, cantiniere of the Thirteenth 
 Light, left a brave lad to be killed by the Austrians, 
 who but for me would never have been a prisoner. 
 So, colonel, give your orders, and oblige me by being 
 quick about it; one don’t want to Avait too long 
 when one is to be killed; I am not here for fun. 
 There is nothing amusing in the thought of taking a 
 number of'shots into one’s body, when one is young, 
 and when one loves one’s husband. My poor Lefebvre ! 
 He will grieve. But such is war!” 
 
 “Pardon me, colonel,” now piped La Violette, in 
 his shrill childish treble. “I beg that you will shoot 
 me, but me only — I deserve to be shot; but Madame 
 Lefebvre here has done nothing. She came to bring 
 a lady news about her child ” 
 
 “A child! loJiat child?” exclaimed the colonel ex- 
 citedly. “My God! I remember now, you were” (to 
 Catherine) “entrusted with her child; you were to 
 bring that child ” 
 
 “To Jemmapes; yes, monsieur,” said Catherine. 
 
 “Good woman! brave heart!” cried De Neipperg, 
 looking volumes of gratitude at Catherine; “what 
 you have risked for me and mine! But where is our 
 child?” 
 
 “With its mother, safe in the French camp,” an- 
 swered Catherine. “Mademoiselle Blanche has fled 
 to avoid a marriage with a baron. She preferred a 
 count,” looking at De Neipperg. “And it Avas La 
 Violette here, who conducted mademoiselle to the 
 French camp.” 
 
 “Ah ! then,” said De Neipperg, now looking kindly 
 on La Violette, whom but a few moments before he 
 had frowned upon as a spy, “ I see I must free La 
 
154 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 Violette as well. Catherine, once more I tell yon, 
 you are free. Go, and take your comrade with yon. 
 I shall send two men to accompany you to the out- 
 posts. You will see Blanche, tell her I love and 
 long for her more than ever; tell her I will wait for 
 her after the battle on the road to Paris ” 
 
 “You mean Brussels,” saucily interrupted Cather- 
 ine Sans-Gene. 
 
 Neipperg continued, not noticing her sally: “Has- 
 ten away, Madame Lefebvre. Catherine, use what 
 remains of the night to regain your camp, and be- 
 lieve me I do not yet consider my debt of gratitude 
 as paid in full. I shall ever be in your debt, but per- 
 haps some day, I may be able to ” 
 
 “Pshaw!” cried Catherine, interrupting him, “we 
 are quits, I tell you, or rather, I owe you something 
 for La Violette. Come, you tall boy, march!” she 
 almost shouted to La Violette, who departed like a 
 whole army in martial state. 
 
 As for Catherine Sans-G4ne, with her hands on 
 her hips, her cocked hat, and her tricolored cockade, 
 she went out defying the Austrians. 
 
 As she crossed the threshold of the chapel, she 
 turned and said: Au revoir^ gentlemen, I shall 
 return before noon with Captain Lefebvre and his 
 sharpshooters.” 
 
 Neipperg watched with anxiety the departure of 
 Catherine. He wondered if he would ever really, as 
 the brave cantiniere had implied, see Blanche and 
 hi^ little son once more? How could she, a young 
 girl with a child, escape danger in the very midst of 
 hostile armies? But one joy at least was his^ the 
 marriage plotted by the baron and the marquis had 
 not yet taken place. Blanche was free, and might 
 one day be his before the world. He looked about 
 him for Lowendaal and Monsieur de Laveline, but 
 neither were to be found. On inquiry he was told 
 
MADAME 8ANS-GENE. 
 
 K5 
 
 that the pair had taken conveyance to Brussel?. 
 Neipperg was for the time comparatively content^ 
 yefc two questions still troubled him : Bow could he 
 meet Blanche? how could he see his child? 
 
 The battle was about to begin, he m^pt await its 
 results. Surely the mob of volunteers forming the 
 republican army could not cope with the veteran 
 soldiers forming the imperial army. But even if 
 the French were routed, what might not happen to 
 Blanche and to the child? The reflection caused 
 him anguish. 
 
 Suddenly a confusion near him arrested his atten- 
 tion. He asked its cause, and was told that a wild- 
 looking young woman, with torn dress and disheveled 
 hair had been caught attempting to enter the cha- 
 teau. She claimed to be the daughter of the Mar- 
 quis de Laveline; she had been arrested and taken in 
 charge by the sentinels. 
 
 Neipperg was startled, and his heart began to beat 
 fast. Could this woman be Blanche at the chateau, 
 when Catherine Lefebvre had just assured him that 
 Blanche was in the French camp? Yet the woman 
 was really Blanche de Laveline, her dress disordered 
 by the brambles and bushes she had passed through 
 in the flelds. Her lover rushed to her and embraced 
 her passionately. Fate, as often happens, had in the 
 most unexpected manner, relieved ) irn from one of 
 his anxieties; he saw Blanche again. 
 
 Amid tears and smiles she explained her appear- 
 ance. She had reached the French camp in safety, 
 escorted by Lefebvre’s soldiers. She had found the 
 canteen of the Thirteenth Light Infantry, and had 
 found there a sleeping child. She clasped the little 
 sleeper in her arms, when by the light of the lantern 
 carried by one of her soldier guides, she saw that the 
 child was not her boy; it was a girl, who, when she 
 at last understood the now distracted mother’s ques- 
 
156 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE, 
 
 tions, told her that ‘‘Henriot was not here; he must 
 have gone to see them shooting off the cannons,” add- 
 ing in her childish treble, “He is a bad boy because 
 he didn’t wake me up too, to go with him.” 
 
 A inomAit later a passing soldier told her that he 
 had seen a man, in a civilian’s dress, fleeing with a 
 child, in the direction of the town of Maubeuge. 
 From the vague description given, the mother’s in- 
 stinct told her that this child was hers, and that 
 some villain, for some purpose, had stolen him. 
 
 Her instinct proved to be correct. The ambulance 
 surgeon, named Marcel, was informed by a sergeant, 
 named Kenee, that a former orderly of General Beau- 
 repairehad recognized a servant of the Baron de Low- 
 endaal, named Leonard, in the French camp that 
 night, and had seen him in the neighborhood of 
 Catherine’s canteen. 
 
 Blanche at once understood all. This Leonard, 
 whom she had foolishly trusted, was a scoundrel, and 
 had stolen her child to make capital out of him with 
 the Baron de Lowendaal, who, having the child, 
 would once more have the mother in his power. 
 
 And then with almost superhuman strength, the 
 mother at once started back to the baron’s chateau 
 to retake her child. She had a terrible passage back ; 
 she was occasionally compelled to hide among rushes 
 and reeds; she was forced to wade streams, her feet 
 were bleeding, her clothes were torn, but she pressed 
 on toward the baron’s chateau, to confront the man 
 who had stolen her child. And even now, amid her 
 joy to find herself with the man she loved best in all 
 the world, was mingled sorrow that she was destined 
 to find here neither Leonard, the baron nor her little 
 Henriot. 
 
 Then Neipperg told Blanche how the baron and 
 the marquis had gone to Brussels, and assured her 
 that “AVe will catch them and the scoundrelly Leon- 
 ard to-morrow.” 
 
MADAME SAN 8-GENE. 
 
 157 
 
 ‘‘But to-morrow is not cried the mother, 
 
 “why not go after them to-night 
 
 “To-morrow,” answered Neipperg, “I must go to 
 battle; first I help to defeat the French, then I find 
 our child. My duty as a soldier must take prece- 
 dence even of my sorrow as a father.” 
 
 Blanche sighed, but submitted. It is woman’s 
 way. 
 
 Then, for a moment forgetting the child, Neijj- 
 perg thought of his love and duty toward the woman. 
 
 “Blanche,” he said, “you are my wife in my sight 
 and the sight of heaven. Why not seize this opportu- 
 nity to become my wife in the sight of the world? 
 You owe me a higher duty than even your obedience 
 to your father; you must place an insurmountable 
 obstacle between yourself and that odious baron; you 
 must marry me here to-night. Will you not, my 
 loife 
 
 And with smiles, blushes, tears, and an embrace, 
 the wife consented to marry her husband. 
 
 “All has for some time been ready for your mar- 
 riage to this Lowendaal,” said Neipperg to Blanche; 
 “you have now but to marry your Neipperg instead. 
 The priest is still at the altar, the notary is still at 
 the chateau asleep; we will wake him instantly and he 
 can change the name of the bridegroom while the 
 priest pronounces the nuptial benediction. It is a 
 change for the better, and is easily made. Come, 
 sweetheart, and make me, already the happiest of 
 lovers, the proudest of husbands.” 
 
 An hour later, in the chapel where Catherine Sans- 
 Gene had played the bride, Blanche de Laveline, 
 became the Countess de Neipperg. 
 
 Scarcely was the ceremony over when a volley of 
 musketry gave notice that the battle was begun. 
 
 Trumpet-calls were heard, the drums beat to 
 arms. 
 
158 
 
 MADAME SANS-GEME. 
 
 But the Count de Neipperg calmly, proudly con- 
 ducted Blanche toward a group of Austrian officers. 
 
 “Gentlemen,” he said, “I wish to present to you 
 the Countess de Neipperg, my wife.” 
 
 The officers bowed profoundly and all invoked 
 blessings on this marriage, on the eve of a great bat- 
 tle in a chapel which now became transformed into a 
 fortress from which volleys of cannon-shot thundered 
 instead of the peal of wedding bells. 
 
 The spectators on the crest of Jemmapes, on the 
 ever-memorable morning of November 6, 1792 (the 
 Belgians whom the empire oppressed, and whom the 
 republic freed), witnessed a majestic and never-to- 
 be-forgotten sight over the hills. 
 
 The dawn rose pale and gray, while a light wind 
 bent the tree tops and rustled the dry leaves. 
 
 The Austrians, Hungarians and Prussians, in vast 
 numbers, held the heights. The hussars, with their 
 furred coats; the grenadiers with their tall bonnets; 
 the infantry with their semi-conical caps; lances, 
 cavalry sabers glistened, shone, twinkled in the light 
 of that autumn morn. 
 
 Below were the Tyrolese sharpshooters, behind 
 redoubts, while the artillery was ready for its fatal 
 work. 
 
 The advantage of position was with the well-fed 
 Austrian army. The French were badly located, 
 and were absolutely hungry, but the volunteers 
 promised themselves a dinner after they had defeated 
 the Austrians. They sang the Marseillaise in chorus ; 
 the song stirred them to victory, and then they rushed 
 in a flood upon the foe. 
 
 The battle of Jemmapes was a hurricane. Only 
 the bayonet and the cannon were used. 
 
 The old Imperial forces were absolutely cut to 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 159 
 
 pieces or shot into nothingness, by raw young repub- 
 lican heroes. 
 
 The Parisian recruits behaved magnificently. 
 They carried three redoubts; they routed the superb 
 Imperial dragoons; they were commanded by Gen- 
 eral Dampierre. 
 
 Generals d’Harville, Dumouriez, Ferrand, Beurnon- 
 ville, Thevenot, shared the honors of the day. 
 
 Lieutenant Philip Bgalite (afterward King Louis 
 Phillippe) was in the battle, but his troops were led 
 to victory by another Frenchman, a common soldier, 
 formerly the valet of General Dumouriez, by name 
 Baptiste Kenard. Lefebrve fought like a tiger. 
 
 The battle was one of the many great” French 
 victories. It preserved France from the invaders, it 
 obliterated old Germany, it saved Belgium. It was 
 the new republic’s ‘‘Baptism of Fire.” , 
 
 The battle over, the victors took to eating and 
 drinking; they were very hungry and very dry. 
 Too late for dinner they took supper, and as they 
 feasted, they gossiped over the incidents of the battle. 
 Catherine Lefebvre, brave, bustling and good hu- 
 mored as ever, listened, and told some stories of her 
 own adventures. 
 
 One of the soldiers spoke of a little child that had 
 been found shut up in a room in the Chateau de 
 Lowendaal, which had been held by the Austrians, 
 but had now fallen into the possession of the 
 French. 
 
 Catherine listened intently; she felt sure that this 
 child was the missing Henriot, whose mysterious 
 absence weighed upon her spirits deeply, despite of 
 all her natural “high spirits.” 
 
 “A man fled when we found the child,” said the 
 soldier who had given the information. 
 
 “Ah! it was that wretch, Leonard, I am sure,” 
 said Catherine; “you shot him, of course.” 
 
160 
 
 MADAME SANS-GEYE. 
 
 Nay, he escaped.” 
 
 Sacre hleii! but where did you take the child? 
 You did not leave him, I hope.” 
 
 ‘‘I was obliged to do so. In escaping, the man set 
 fire to a barrel of powder. We could not stay after 
 that, could we?” said the soldier. 
 
 Catherine did not deign to anwser; she turned to 
 the group around her. 
 
 ‘‘Friends, comrades,” she said, “you have kind 
 hearts, let us go now and look for that little child 
 left alone in the ruins; perhaps he still lives.” 
 
 No one stirred or said a word, but all went on 
 eating and drinking. 
 
 “Well, don’t speak all at once,” cried Catherine^ 
 finding no one spoke at all. 
 
 “I am wounded,” now said one; “I haven’t fin- 
 ished the soup,” said another; “I must get myself 
 into condition for more fighting,” said a third. 
 
 While the fourth, who had found and left the 
 child, gro\yled out that “There might be more pow- 
 der barrels to burst, and that after all, a child, espe- 
 cially when it is somebody else’s child, ain’t worth 
 risking one’s skin for.” 
 
 “I am going anyway,” cried Catherine, “even if 
 I go alone. My husband is busy at the outposts, 
 and you are cowards,” she hissed the word at them. 
 “I promised the child’s mother to take care of him, 
 and I shall keep my word. So eat, drink, and then 
 sleep, children.” (“You hogs,” she added, sotto 
 voce)^ “good-night, (go to the devil),” she added, 
 under her breath. 
 
 Eenee, the handsome sergeant, now arose from the 
 group. “Madame Lefebvre,” he said, “I will go 
 with you. Two are more courageous than one.” 
 
 “And three more brave than two,” squeaked La 
 Violette, likewise rising. The latter carried a scab- 
 bardless sword, and his uniform was full of sword- 
 
MADAME 8ANS-GENE, 
 
 161 
 
 cuts; he wore a captain’s cap, taken from the head 
 of an Austrian officer whom he had killed. 
 
 Brave boy,” said Catherine. She had already 
 begun to like and to respect her boy -lover; she now 
 learned to respect and like him even more. 
 
 The handsome sergeant stood still a moment as if 
 waiting for some one to join them. The ‘‘some one” 
 came; he wa§ Dr. Marcel. Catherine was somewhat 
 surprised at Ms appearance, but Eenee wasn’t. 
 
 “A doctor is the very man we need now,” he (she) 
 said. 
 
 “The child may be hurt,” suggested La Violette, 
 “let the doctor go with us.” 
 
 And the doctor went. So La Violette and Cath- 
 erine led the way, followed by Eenee and Marcel, 
 who exchanged a kiss in the dark. 
 
 The fields were full of the dying and the dead, 
 piles of debris and broken weapons were to be found 
 everywhere. There is nothing more terrible than a 
 battlefield after a battle. 
 
 But amid all the horrors of war little Henriot was 
 found safe. There was little need of any doctor; 
 the child was weak but well, and as glad to see Cath- 
 erine as Catherine was glad to see him. 
 
 Marcel tended to his little scratches, and he was 
 soon his lively, playful self once more. Brought 
 back to the French camp the lad, saved on the field 
 of battle, was adopted by “the Thirteenth Light.” 
 He became “ the child of the regiment.” 
 
162 
 
 MADAME SAJSfS-GENE. 
 
 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 THE MATRIMONIAL ADVEN- 
 TURES OF NAPOLEON AND 
 JOSEPHINE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE STAR OF DESTINY RISES — AlsD THE MAN OF 
 DESTINY FALLS IN LOVE. 
 
 Toulon, like Lyons, Marseilles, Bordeaux and 
 Caen, became a resort for traitors. The Royalists 
 and the Girondists opened the gates, alike of the 
 arsenal and the town, to the allies. 
 
 All the poetical charm which clings round the 
 Girondists cannot absolve them of the crime of trea- 
 son to their country. 
 
 By good luck the cannons of the republic were 
 entrusted at this juncture to the then comparatively 
 obscure artillery officer, Napoleon Bonaparte. 
 
 What seemed to be mere chance had given Bona- 
 parte this place. On a trip from Avignon to Nice 
 he stopped at Toulon to see his comrade, Salicetti. 
 This personage introduced him to Commander Car- 
 teaux, whom in a short period Bonaparte surperseded, 
 having impressed the republican representatives with 
 his superior qualifications for the post. 
 
MADAME SANS^QENE. 
 
 163 
 
 Napoleon was now twenty-four years of age, and 
 began for the first time in his life to think well of 
 himself. His night of despair was over, the day was 
 dawning, a reaction had taken place; he began to 
 dream of greatness. 
 
 And the very first thing he did with his good for- 
 tune was to use it to advance the personal, social and 
 matrimonial interests of his family. He was com- 
 pletely satisfied with Joseph Bonaparte’s marriage, 
 already alluded to. In fact Napoleon envied Joseph’s 
 luck. He often remarked ‘‘that Joseph is a lucky 
 fellow. It is a great thing to marry a rich soap 
 manufacturer’s daughter,” and such he regarded it 
 at that time. 
 
 And for several years Napoleon really and sincerely 
 regretted that he had not been able to win as a wife 
 Mile. Desiree, soapmaker Clary’s second daughter, 
 previously referred to. 
 
 But even his own ill-luck in this case annoyed him 
 less than an unfortunate affair in which his brother 
 Lucien was concerned. 
 
 This matrimonial faux-pas of Lucien was one of 
 the sore points in Napoleon’s career, a thorn in his 
 side. He did not get over the annoyance for ten 
 years. 
 
 Lucien was good but rather weak, and through 
 his brother’s influence got a modest post in the mili- 
 tary administration, and had just sense and merit 
 enough to keep it, but no more. 
 
 He was very fluent in speech, though like many 
 weak natures, quite a tavern orator, very fiery in his 
 language, good-looking, and withal precisely the sort 
 of man to captivate a certain sort of woman — such a 
 woman for example as the pretty, but rather coarse 
 daughter of the restaurant keeper at whose establish- 
 ment the young orator took his meals. 
 
 The inn-keeper’s name was Boyer, and he was^^ 
 
164 
 
 MADAME SAm-GEME. 
 
 quite well-to-do in his way. The daughter was qnite 
 a belle too in her own circle. She used to wait upon 
 her father’s customers, and thus she often listened 
 enchanted to the eloquence of the young, ardent, 
 and handsome Lucien Bonaparte. 
 
 Lucien soon noticed that the young girl liked him, 
 and this of course made him feel very favorably dis- 
 posed toward the young girl. But she was more in 
 love than he was, and despite the conventional 
 modesty of young French girls before marriage, the 
 mademoiselle made most of the advances, and finally 
 told Papa Boyer that she was resolved to have Mon- 
 sieur Lucien for a husband. 
 
 Papa Boyer had formed other plans for the dis- 
 posal of his daughter’s hand, but he knew his place. 
 He was a dutiful father — more after the American 
 pattern than the French — and when his daughter 
 declared her intentions he bowed before her will, 
 and prepared to receive Lucien as a son-in-law. 
 
 He had one comfort. Papa Boyer; he would now 
 get rid of the annoyance of presenting Monsieur 
 Lucien every week with a bill, which he always put 
 off paying till the next week, and didn’t pay then. 
 If Lucien owed him any more money after he mar- 
 ried his daughter, why it would be all in the family, 
 and wouldn’t matter. So Boyer had made the best 
 of a bad bargain. 
 
 But Napoleon did not resemble Boyer in this re- 
 spect, nor in any other. When he discovered that 
 he was to have an inn-keeper’s daughter for a sister- 
 in-law, he was simply furious. Already he was 
 beginning to foresee his future greatness, and was 
 seriously enraged with any act of his family which 
 could injure his fortune (and theirs) or lessen his 
 influence or renown. 
 
 So he quarreled with his brother, and severed all 
 (trtelations with him for awhile. 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE, 
 
 165 
 
 And he never forgave the innkeeper’s daughter, 
 Christine Boyer, whose only fault had been that sha 
 loved his brother. 
 
 She was sweet-tempered, however, and resigned, 
 though she made several attempts in vain to appease 
 Napoleon, and gain his good will. 
 
 One touching letter written by her is preserved. 
 It was written when she was about to become a 
 mother. 
 
 ‘^Permit me,” she wrote, ‘^to call you brother. 
 According to your decree, I fled from France and 
 came to Germany. Within one month, I hope to 
 present you a nephew, for I feel that it is to be a 
 boy. I promise you, he shall be a soldier; but I 
 want him to have your name, and be your godson. 
 Do not refuse me. You will not disclaim us for our 
 poverty, for you are really our brother, and will be 
 the uncle of my children. We love you better than 
 fortune. May I some day be able to prove all my 
 tender affection for you.” 
 
 But Napoleon remained deaf to the appeal. Ha 
 kept the tavern keeper’s daughter out of his heart 
 forever. 
 
 He was ashamed of the woman because he feared 
 to present her to some other woman, no better, but 
 greater — as the world , counts greatness. He was 
 always dreaming of a wife and relatives, who should 
 flatter his vanity. 
 
 But about the time that Lucien married Christine 
 Boyer, Bonaparte’s own personal affairs reached a 
 crisis. 
 
 He had lost his protectors; the two Kobespierres 
 had been guillotined. 
 
 An insignificant artillery captain, named Aubry, 
 had been appointed minister of war. He had hated 
 the Kobespierres, and hated Bonaparte as their 
 friend; he was also envious of Napoleon’s rapid rise 
 
166 
 
 MADAME I^ANS~GENE. 
 
 in favor. So he sent him away where he would have 
 no further chance to distinguish himself. Napoleon 
 refused to go where he was sent, and was therefore 
 dismissed from the army. 
 
 In the rage of desperation, Napoleon offered him- 
 self and sword to the Sultan of Turkey; the East 
 had always attracted him. One side of his nature, 
 as fatalist and dreamer, was thoroughly oriental. 
 
 Perhaps he would meet some glorious, dark-eyed 
 woman there, who would satisfy alike his body and 
 his soul. If his brother Joseph had not at this 
 period come to his assistance, Constantinople and 
 not Paris might have been the capital of a Napoleonic 
 empire. 
 
 Finally his opportunity came. A decison of the 
 Convention caused an insurrection in Paris. A gen- 
 eral was needed in Menou’s place, who had b^een 
 defeated by the mob. On the night of the insur- 
 rection Bonaparte was at the Feydeau theater. He 
 went at once to the Assembly, where the man of the 
 hour, Barras, appointed him General of the Interior. 
 
 He was in power now, and his power could not be 
 taken from him. Yesterday poor and without re- 
 sources, he was to-day the master of Paris, aye, the 
 master of the nation. 
 
 His star, which had for years by turns been dim 
 and bright, now shone with a steady and clear light 
 from above. It was destined to bo a dazzling beacon 
 light throughout France and Europe for twenty years. 
 
 Fortune had indeed smiled suddenly upon Napo- 
 leon Bonaparte. 
 
 An utterly unexpected and resistless sweep had 
 placed him on the very pinnacle. 
 
 Hitherto, despite his conceded military talent, and 
 the praise he had received from men of position and 
 influence, his name had been comparatively unknown 
 and his position uncertain and precarious. 
 
MADAME 8AN8-QENE. 
 
 167 
 
 But the insurrection of October 3, 1795, had 
 broken out, and brought him to the front. 
 
 Thanks to Barras, and to Freron (who had already 
 met Pauline Bonaparte the beauty of the family, 
 and was about to propose to her), he was appointed 
 to command, spite of the opposition of Carnot. 
 
 For a few 'moments Napoleon himself had even 
 hesitated to accept the dazzling chance thus offered 
 him ; he would be assuming, with great power, still 
 greater responsibility. It would be civil war that he 
 would be compelled to face — a war of Frenchmen 
 against Frenchmen — of Parisians against Parisians; 
 if he failed his life would be forfeited, his name exe- 
 crated. He was not made for civil wars, and besides 
 the line of his sympathies carried him to a certain 
 length with the insurrectionists themselves. They 
 wanted what he had always professed to worship, 
 Liberte^ Egalite^ Fraternite. And they demanded 
 the resignation of all incompetent and corrupt office- 
 holders. 
 
 But on the other hand, if he refused the position 
 thus offered him, he lost his chance in life. Such 
 opportunities come not twice to any man; and as for 
 his country, the Convention with all its faults was 
 better than no Convention at all. Ita rule — any rule 
 — was safer than that of the mob. There had been 
 too much already of the mob in Paris — true liberty 
 demands law. The defeat of the Convention by the 
 insurrectionists now would neutralize all the glorious 
 successes of the French army, at Jemmapes and else- 
 where. The ruin of the Convention would mean 
 the ruin of France. His first duty as a good citizen 
 was to uphold the Convention, to defend established 
 government even if administered by iiicapables. 
 
 So lifting his head Napoleon said to Barras: 
 accept the command, but I solemnly warn you that 
 my sword, once drawn, returns not to its scabbard 
 
168 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE, 
 
 until order is universally and completely re-estab- 
 lished.’’ 
 
 The next day he assumed his new position and was 
 respectfully saluted, among others, by the mistress of 
 Barras, Madame Tallien, who always worshiped the 
 rising sun. 
 
 Napoleon, even in his pride of new-found power, 
 almost blushed when he acknowledged the salute of 
 Madame Tallien. For he remembered that a few 
 days before he had gone almost humbly, almost 
 timidly, to this woman to solicit her influence and 
 her aid with Barras. 
 
 He had no money in his pocket then, and only soiled 
 clothes on his back, and he wore long hair, parted in 
 the middle, and unpowdered (because he could not pay 
 a hairdresser). His boots were cracked, and he bad 
 inked his stockings, so that they would not show 
 between the cracks. His uniform was threadbare; 
 he was seedy, shabby, sad; but despite these disad- 
 vantages, this man of energy had called upon this 
 woman, in her diamonds and full toilette, to invoke 
 her aid. And the first thing the woman did was 
 to give him an order for a suit of clothes so that he 
 could appear before the Convention at least in pre- 
 sentable condition. 
 
 She was a wayward, perverse, wicked creature this 
 courtesan, this Theresa Cabarrus, this mistress of 
 Barras, but she befriended Napoleon when he needed 
 a friend. 
 
 Napoleon’s sudden rise to power at this period re- 
 sembled the metamorphosis in fairy tales, in which 
 palaces arise from pumpkins at the waving of a 
 wand. 
 
 He made his headquarters in the Eue des Capu- 
 chines. He kept Junot and Lemarois near him; he 
 sent for his uncle to be his secretary. He also sent 
 fifty thousand francs to his mother and sisters. 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 169 
 
 He only kept cash enough for himself to buy a 
 pair of fine shoes in the place of the cracked pair, 
 some new stockings without any ink marks, and 
 some gold embroidery for the new uniform he had 
 obtained through Madame Tallien’s order. 
 
 He at once helped his brothers. He had now wholly 
 forgiven Lucien, for he took him as his aide; he ob- 
 tained a consulship for Joseph, and paid for more 
 schooling for Jerome. 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 « VEYETTE” — JOSEPHINE AS GIRL — WIFE — WIDOW — 
 ADVENTURESS AND AS NAPOLEON’S IDOL. 
 
 Fortune had smiled suddenly upon Napoleon. 
 He, who despite his war-like abilities and the praise 
 of influential personages, had been until a few days 
 since so humble, so obscure, was now the fashion in 
 Paris. 
 
 It was at this opportune moment in his career 
 that he bethought him of realizing his life-long 
 dream of marrying some woman who should aid 
 him socially and pecuniarily in maintaining his 
 position. 
 
 He set about the matter coolly, almost mathemat- 
 ically, but ere long he upset all his own calculations 
 by falling in love. 
 
 He had intended to look about him and do the 
 best he could for himself in a matrimonial alliance, 
 but he really fell in love with the first woman who 
 came in his path. 
 
 It was at Madame Tallien’s, while paying her a 
 visit to express his genuine gratitude for her friendly 
 influence in his behalf, that he first saw Josephine, 
 then the Widow Beauharnais. 
 
 Who was this Josephine? She was a creole from 
 
170 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 the Antilles. She was one of those foreign adven- 
 turesses who are occasionally admitted into society 
 althongh society really knows nothing about them. 
 
 These women are more seductive because they are so 
 mysterious, and they come from afar. Foreign ad- 
 venturesses are always preferred to the home 
 articles. 
 
 Her maiden name was a long one — Marie- Josephine- 
 Eose Tascher de la Pagerie. She was born June 23, 
 1763, in Martinique, in the parish of Notre Dame de 
 la Purification. She had two sisters, Catherine- 
 Marie-Desiree, and Marie-Fran 9 ois. Her father was 
 a well -descended planter, whose great ambition, like 
 that of Napoleon, was to see his family well married. 
 He had been captain of dragoons, chevalier of St. 
 Louis, and page to the Dauphiness, but he had little 
 land and less money. An aunt of Josephine, Ma- 
 dame Eenaudin, secured a husband for her favorite 
 niece. He was a younger son of the Marquis de 
 Beauharnais, governor of the Windward Islands. 
 
 The marriage took place when both parties were 
 children — he eighteen, she sixteen. But young as she 
 was, Bonaparte was at that time six years younger^ 
 as a schoolboy at Brienne. 
 
 The couple came to Paris and lodged in the Rue 
 Thevenot. Here was born their first child, Eugene, 
 afterward Prince Eugene, viceroy of Italy. 
 
 The couple soon separated. The young husband 
 grew tired of a coquettish, frivolous, extravagant 
 wife, and started off to join Lafayette, Eochambeau, 
 and Washington in America, and during his absence 
 the future Queen Hortense was born — the mother of 
 Louis Napoleon, afterward Napoleon the Third. 
 
 The absent husband, in the intervals of fighting 
 for American independence against the English, 
 made love right and left. Josephine, who had, with 
 all her follies, been true to him, now followed 
 
MADAME SAMS-OENE. 
 
 171 
 
 his example. His absence therefore did not grieve 
 her. It gave her a liberty she was happy to obtain. 
 
 She began to lead an irregular life. She had her 
 lovers as well as her debts, her excitements as well 
 as her troubles, her heights as well as her depths. 
 She lived on the edge, or the outskirts, of society. 
 The Beauharnais family belonged to the old Orleans 
 nobility, so she was not absolutely ostracized at court; 
 but she was barely tolerated, while her aunt Eenaudin 
 occupied, like herself, a somewhat equivocal position^ 
 and was not eligible at Versailles. 
 
 M. de Beauharnais, finally returning to France^ 
 procured a legal separation. As there were wrongs 
 on both sides, the ex-wife received ten thousand 
 livres alimony. She then revisited Martinique, and 
 returned to France in 1791, accompanied by a marine 
 gallant, one M. Scipio de Eoux. 
 
 She found her ex-husband occupying a high official 
 position. He had been elected several times president 
 of the National Assembly. He proposed on that event- 
 ful night, the fourth of August, two memorable 
 resolutions looking to the abolition of the old order 
 of things — the admissibility of all citizens to all 
 offices, and the equality of taxes for all classes of 
 citizens. 
 
 Seeing her ex-husband prosperous and powerful, 
 the ex-wife, woman-like, sought to be reconciled unto 
 him; she succeeded. She pretended, perhaps really 
 felt, for awhile humility and penitence. At any 
 rate, she became a society queen in the Beauharnais 
 mansion, on the Eue d’TJniversite. 
 
 But the days grew dark; the Terror approached; 
 Beauharnais was arrested hastily, illegally, and exe- 
 cuted in the same manner. He was one of the early 
 victims of the guillotine. 
 
 Beauharnais died as he lived, a brave man and a 
 true gentleman. He appealed to the woman he left 
 
172 MADAME 8ANS-0ENE. 
 
 behind him to see that posterity did his memory jus- 
 tice. It has partially done so. Alexander de Beau- 
 harnais has his place in the revolutionary Pantheon, 
 among the martyrs of the new evangel. 
 
 The revolution transformed Josephine from a 
 social outcast into a great lady. During her hus- 
 band’s imprisonment she formed the acquaintance of 
 several of the more prominent of the venerable sur- 
 vivors of UAncien Regime. She also gained the 
 friendship of that peculiar woman already referred 
 to, La Cabarrus, a courtesan who became Tallien’s 
 wife, and Barras’ mistress. 
 
 It was in this woman’s house that Josephine first 
 met the slim and silent young conqueror, Napoleon 
 Bonaparte. 
 
 By this time Napoleon had become ‘Hhe fashion.” 
 Everybody was speaking of the general who had 
 bounded into fame and power. Salons disputed for 
 his presence, women smiled upon him, but he 
 passed them by gravely, or carelessly ; he felt himself 
 a sovereign already. 
 
 Yet the Widow Beauharnais (already passee^ and 
 prematurely grave), with her creole nonchalance, 
 won this “coming man” with her first effort. 
 
 Bonaparte’s feelings were captivated at the very 
 first meeting at Madame Tallien’s. He felt himself 
 dragged into the charmed circle of this “dark 
 daughter of the isles;” he was spellbound, he was 
 charmed, he fell prostrate. 
 
 She was not beautiful. Lucien Bonaparte, her 
 future brother-in-law, has thus recorded his impres- 
 aions of this woman 
 
 “She was very languid, and did not have a single 
 feature that could be called beautiful, though the 
 soft curves of her slight, short figure suggested the 
 graceful creole form ; a face without natural fresh- 
 ness, which required the colors of her toilet to give it 
 
MADAME SANSr-GENE, 
 
 m 
 
 luster and brilliancy; everything indicated the 
 remains of her early youth, as the painter, Gerard,, 
 has faithfully shown in his portraits of the first 
 consul’s wife. In the brilliant receptions of the 
 Dirsctory, to which Barras introduced me, she seemed 
 to me no longer young, and inferior to the beauties 
 who generally composed the court of the voluptuous 
 director, and of whom the fair Tallien was the veri- 
 table Calypso.” 
 
 This pen-portrait was not flattering, but it was 
 correct. 
 
 Yes, Josephine, the Widow Beauharnais, was now 
 over thirty-two years old, the mother of two children. 
 She had lost all freshness. Her adventures, her 
 loves, her cares, her travels, her late hours, her loose 
 existence, had aided the work of time. And yet, at 
 their very first meeting, she vanquished the man 
 who vanquished the world. 
 
 Napoleon left the Talliens with a throbbing heart. 
 His eyes were abnormally bright, but they did not 
 burn for glory; he was tormented with a pang, but it 
 was no longer hunger. For the while he even forgot 
 his family; for the time being he did not think of 
 conquering mankind, he thought only of one woman 
 who had just told him that her friends, and those 
 she wished to be friendly with, always called her not 
 Josephine, but by the pet name of Yeyette. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 MADAME BONAPARTE AND AN INTERVIEW WITH 
 BARRAS — A WOMAN ASKS FOR ADVICE AND TAKES IT. 
 
 Bonaparte, whose life had hitherto been as clean 
 as it had been industrious, whose only intoxications 
 had been mental, became the ardent lover of the 
 middle-aged woman whose pet name was Yeyette. 
 
174 
 
 MADAME 8AM8-GENE. 
 
 It is perfectly certain that Josephine never merited 
 such excessive love; but the young general was in 
 that psychological state in which the heart is pecul- 
 iarly susceptible to dreams of an ideal woman. 
 
 Josephine was clever, but not a bluestocking. She 
 never obtruded her smartness on a man. She pleased 
 the young general most by pretending to be enor- 
 mously, intensely interested in his generalship, in his 
 .strategy, in his victories, in himself. 
 
 Besides she possessed in Napoleon’s eyes an aristo- 
 cratic prestige. To him she was an aristocrat, une 
 grande dame of the ancient regime^ that regime which, 
 spite of his republicanism, Napoleon, within his 
 soul, adored. After all he had only been a Corsican 
 gentleman on a small scale, and had seldom or never 
 met a great court lady. 
 
 The prestige of nobility became as powerful after 
 the Eed Kevolution as before. The guillotine had 
 done away with the frayed glitter of the old school 
 of aristocracy; but the new nobility took fresh life 
 and new color. 
 
 And in the case of Josephine, Napoleon, who 
 though even now a military genius, was still in 
 worldly and social affairs almost a child, was not 
 able to distinguish between the pinchbeck aristocracy 
 and the real. He took the cunning, yet careless 
 widow for a great lady. To tell the truth it was not 
 the real woman Napoleon loved in Josephine, it was 
 the ideal woman of his own creation and imagination. 
 She was not the type of his ideal woman in her phy- 
 :sique, but in her mentality and his own. 
 
 As a matter of fact Josephine’s mature age helped 
 her, not hindered her, with Napoleon. He had always 
 sought to marry women older as well as richer than 
 himself. He had wooed the Widow Permon, old 
 enough, as she confessed herself, to be his mother. 
 He had cared for Desiree Clary, the soap-maker’s 
 
MADAME SAN8-0EFE. 
 
 175 
 
 daughter, not for her youth, hut for her dowry. 
 With women Bonaparte, the rude soldier, the cold 
 and pitiless politician, was always short and stormy, 
 a style of courtship that suits mature women better 
 than younger ones. 
 
 He wanted a wife who could rule a salon, a woman 
 who had prestige, friends, an established social rank. 
 Josephine represented such a woman unto him. She 
 was aristocratic, like Madame Permon; she was 
 well-to-do, like Desiree Clary; at least he thought so. 
 
 Unsentimental as it may sound, it was Napoleon’s 
 notion that Josephine Beauharnais was rich, which, 
 as much as his passion for her, induced him to marry 
 her. 
 
 Now Josephine was really far from being rich, but 
 she was far from letting her new lover into the 
 secret. 
 
 After the meeting at Tallien’s, the widow invited 
 her admirer to call at her little house. No. 6 Kue de 
 Chantereine, where she dazzled him with her appar- 
 ent luxury, all manufactured or hired for the occasion. 
 
 Her ‘‘little house” was but an humble and cheap 
 lodging. To the practiced eye, lack of money would 
 have been evident everywhere; but the Bonaparte 
 eye was not “practiced” in this direction, and so, 
 with two attendants, one Gauthier, who was at once 
 her gardener, her coachman, her footman and her 
 waiter, and one Mile. Compoint, who acted as friend, 
 companion and maid, the widow succeeded in daz- 
 zling Bonaparte. Why not? He knew really nothing 
 as yet of luxury, and, being still a young though 
 rising officer, he was socially invited to dine with a 
 noble lady. 
 
 True this “little house” was only a part of the 
 former Hotel de Chantereine, let to the Citizeness 
 Talma for four thousand livres. Its cellars were 
 without wine, even its woodshed was without wood. 
 
176 
 
 MADAME SAN^GENE. 
 
 but a hiied pair of horses, showy though leau, and a 
 line, second-hand coach, stood in full view, in evi- 
 dence at the entrance. Josephine, tinseled Bohemi- 
 enne and practiced coquette, maintaCned an apparent 
 luxury; her toilettes were many but her lingerie was 
 scant. 
 
 But every woman knows that light, airy, tastefully 
 trimmed muslin gowns produce a charming eliect, 
 and cost next to nothing. 
 
 Napoleon was taken captive. He left the ‘Mittle 
 house,” the showy but battered residence of a sj'iowy 
 but battered woman, with his head turned and his 
 senses dazzled. He had resolved that this Josephine, 
 Widow Beauharnais, must be his wife! 
 
 He judged her, as many a man wifch the one thou- 
 sandth part of his abilities has judged a woman 
 before, by her exterior. He was not aware of her 
 real character, origin, or position. 
 
 As a wife she would satisfy him wholly; his wife 
 she was therefore to be. Nothing could ever with- 
 stand his will, once thoroughly determined. It 
 shot to its purpose as though it were a shell fired 
 from a cannon. 
 
 He did not hesitate, but it was Josephine who now 
 hesitated for awhile. She had resolved to attract 
 this rising young Bonaparte, and she had attracted 
 hime, he was at her feet; but to marry him, to link 
 her fate to his, that was another and more serious 
 matter. Her present position, she was well aware, 
 was precarious, but was not Bonaparte’s also. After 
 all, this Napoleon was but a new man, i\\Q protege of 
 Barras. Would Barras continue his interest in the 
 young adventurer? How would the Directory regard 
 her marriage with this new man? She would be 
 cautious and see first what this worldly-wise though 
 sensual potentate, this Barras, thought about the 
 matter. 
 
MADAME SAMS-GEJSTE. 
 
 in 
 
 So one night she ordered her carriage and called at 
 the Luxembourg, to have a talk with Citizen Barras, 
 member of the Directory. 
 
 There was a f4te at the Luxembourg on the night 
 of Josephine’s visit. She was elaborately dressed in 
 the latest style, in a Flora-like costume, light as a 
 floating vapor, almost transparent, revealing through 
 its soft tissue her ripe, rich, dusky, ivory flesh. 
 
 She looked at her best, as she intended to do, not 
 only to please the eye of Barras, but to shine among, 
 and if possible above, all other women who might be 
 present. 
 
 She also wished to display herself before Bonaparte, 
 and to show him as her admirer before the social 
 world of Paris. 
 
 Josephine had passed some tender hours with Bar- 
 ras ere this, in times gone by, but still remembered; 
 she had never been his mistress, but a love, e?i pas- 
 sant, Barras was rough, brutal, with a weather- 
 beaten face, a democratic pasha, but he made pre- 
 tensions to elegance, as a member of the regency. 
 He had been a man of many loves, of whom Joseph- 
 ine Beauharnais had been one, an hour’s queen. 
 
 No woman resisted this man Barras. He broke 
 hearts as well as heads. Though a revolutionist by 
 profession he was an aristocrat by nature. Tall and 
 strong, he hid under the mask of a staid director 
 the manners and morals of a Don Juan of the bar- 
 racks. 
 
 He carried his head high ; he lifted his three-white- 
 feathered-hat with an air; he clanged carelessly a 
 curved sword in a silver scabbard; he pleased the 
 people at that time. 
 
 He became a species of uncrowned king, precisely 
 what the mob at that period wanted. He had been 
 the Louis XI V. of the army, he became a grande 
 monarque in the republic. Even his vices aided 
 
1?8 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 him ; Lis mistresses helped him to amuse the Pari- 
 sians, and then he was a lavish entertainer and gave 
 great fetes. 
 
 Already the reaction from the Terror had com- 
 menced. The early days of the revolution were 
 even now looked back upon as a nightmare. Men 
 reveled in joy and intoxicated themselves with pleas- 
 ures, wine, women, dance and song. Lawn parties 
 every day and night, pretty girls in low-necked 
 dresses, roses everywhere, equipages everywhere. A 
 strange, wild period, full of life and color, a period 
 that ages of time will never reproduce. 
 
 And this man, the voluptuous but crafty Barras, 
 was the personification of his period — the embodi- 
 ment of the follies, the passions and the force of the 
 Directory. 
 
 Here-established order in the streets; he also re- 
 stored pleasures in society. Was it a wonder, then, 
 that young and old, men and women, adored him? 
 He gambled freely, and he gave as freely; he ruled 
 his world. 
 
 But a woman ruled him. The woman’s name was 
 La Cabarrus, the courtesan, known as Madame Tal- 
 lien. She was the prime favorite of the man in 
 power in Paris, and therefore the real power. 
 
 She was also the chief agent of social corruption. 
 She played the role of a broker — a superb broker and 
 dealer in political favors. 
 
 She aided the sybarite director in burying the 
 revolution under flowers; she caused an orgy of 
 drink and dance to follow the intoxication of blood 
 and battle. 
 
 In the red revolution brother Frenchmen de- 
 voured each other — a feast of Atrides. But under 
 the joint sway of Barras and La Cabarrus the .times 
 became a feast of Trimalcion. 
 
 A soiree at Barras’ was a concentration of the dis- 
 
MADAME SANS-QENE 
 
 179 
 
 tinctioD, the elegance, the virtue and the vice, the 
 glory and the folly, in short, the society of the 
 period. Young generals, old statesmen, Samsons 
 and their Delilahs, the nouveau riclie^ the relics of 
 the ancien regime^ dandies, belles, fools and men of 
 brains like Laplace, Monge and Volney — all were to 
 be seen and heard in the halls of the Luxembourg; 
 all glad to be alive, anxious to atone by pleasures 
 present for the loss of pleasures in the past, careless 
 of the future, each man and woman saying to him 
 or herself: ‘‘If this could only last.” While in the 
 shadows, Talleyrand, just returned from America, 
 sneered at the rottenness of a society over which, 
 however, he hovered, like a vulture soon to devour 
 the dead. 
 
 In the midst of the gay whirl Josephine found an 
 opportunity to send word to Barras that she desired 
 to see him a moment in private. 
 
 She was led to a small apartment beside the Direc- 
 tor’s “study,” separated from it only by a thin 
 partition. 
 
 While waiting for Barras she heard his voice in 
 his “study.” He was talking to Carnot, who was 
 warning him against this new Napoleon. Barras 
 warmly defended Bonaparte, whereupon Carnot 
 withdrew, slamming the door behind him. 
 
 Barras now lifted a portiere and approached Jo- 
 sephine with a smile which had more of politeness 
 than sincerity in it. Barras was really uneasy; what 
 could this woman want? He had never allowed her 
 to have a hold upon him. She had been glad, when 
 poor and alone, to avail herself of his favor on any 
 terms, and he had been, when younger, flattered with 
 the favors she bestowed. But all that was over now 
 on either side. There remained only the memory of 
 past intimacy, the soupfon of passion long grown 
 cold. 
 
180 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GENE. 
 
 Josephine, rather timidly for her, told the object 
 of the present interview. 
 
 “Somebody wants me to marry him, my dear 
 director,” she said without preface. “What do you 
 think of it?” 
 
 “Think,” answered Barras gallantly, “why, that 
 you could make the lucky man supremely happy. 
 Who is he?” 
 
 “You know him well,” she replied smiling, “he is 
 your friend. General Napoleon Bonaparte.” 
 
 “Ah! Bonaparte,” said Barras; “a person of prom- 
 ise, an eminently able artillery officer, a rising man.” 
 
 “Yes,” remarked Josephine, “and I think, a good 
 man. He will be a father to the two children of 
 Alexander de Beauharnais and a true husband to 
 his widow.” 
 
 “All very well, madame, but do you love him?” 
 asked the director. 
 
 The lady hesitated, stammered. “No — that is, yes, 
 — to tell the truth,” she said, “I neither love nor 
 dislike him as yet. I am undecided — such a state of 
 indecision, they say in Martinique, where I was born, 
 is bad for the soul.” 
 
 “Ah! one must consider one’s body a little when 
 it comes to marriage,” remarked Barras. 
 
 “True,” the lady granted; “but then love is a 
 cult, M. Barras; it needs faith, hope and counsel. I 
 want to make up my mind about my course toward 
 this man. I come to you for advice. To decide is 
 ever, to a careless nature like mine, a task that I 
 gladly yield to others. I have always found it easiest 
 to do as I am told.” 
 
 “Then how must my advice be given?” asked 
 Barras smiling; “must I tell you to marry the gen- 
 eral?” 
 
 “No, not necessarily so,” said Josephine, “only 
 advise me sincerely. I really admire him and his 
 
MADAME SANS-OENE. 
 
 181 
 
 courage,” she continued; ‘^he saved society on that 
 thirteenth Vend^miaire.” 
 
 Then she and Barras joined in praising Napoleon, 
 and the Director told the widow the story of his rela- 
 tion with him. How he had met Napoleon, a 
 strange, poor, sternly silent young man, had liked 
 him from the first, and had since found this liking 
 more than justified. 
 
 ‘‘His face I do not think, or did not think at first, 
 a fine one,” said Barras, speaking of Napoleon; “but 
 his pronounced features, his eyes quick and fiery, 
 his movements, animated and alert, evince an ardent 
 and determined spirit. He speaks little, but his 
 large, broad forehead shows that he thinks much. 
 He is a man, believe me, Josephine, a man of cour- 
 age and conviction, who may be a hero and may be- 
 come a great man. Take him since he wants you. 
 1 give you a friend’s advice; you may believe me.” 
 
 “Then, Barras, you advise me to marry him?” 
 
 “Yes, Josephine; and if you marry, you will learn 
 to love him.” 
 
 “Do you really think so, Barras? At present I 
 must confess, that although he worships me, I some- 
 times almost fear him.” 
 
 “Ah! Josephine, you are not the only one. All 
 my colleagues, even Carnot, fear him.” 
 
 “Ah! Barras, if he intimidates Directors, think 
 what an impression he may make upon me, a woman.” 
 
 “But, Josephine, you will get used to him ere 
 long. Besides he donH love the Directors, but you 
 say he does love you.” 
 
 “I really believe he is very much in love with me 
 at present, but, my dear Barras (between old friends 
 like ourselves,'there can be confidences like this) as I 
 have passed my first youth, can I reasonably hope to 
 retain his love? Is it not merely on his part a tem- 
 porary delirium?” 
 
182 
 
 MADAME JSAJSrS-GENE. 
 
 ‘^Do not fret too much about the future, Joseph- 
 ine; do not forever foresee misfortune or suffer by 
 anticipation. Besides, this Bonaparte feels that he is 
 destined to greatness; he claims to have his star.” 
 
 ‘‘Ah! Barras, a negro woman down in Martinique 
 once prophesied that I should wear a crown and be a 
 queen. Now I confess I can hardly fancy that this 
 Bonaparte shall ever be a king.” 
 
 “Perhaps not, ma cliere Josephine, but if he mar- 
 ries you, some one may give him as a wedding 
 gift ” 
 
 “What, Barras?” 
 
 “The command of the army of Italy. But really, 
 Josephine, I shall be missed from the fete. You 
 seem surprised. Well, let us go together and aston- 
 ish this Bonaparte, who I vow, is looking round for 
 you in the salon at this moment. Let us congratu- 
 late this coming man: I, on his coming marriage, 
 you, on his coming command.” 
 
 And with the Widow Beauharnais on his arm, 
 almost speechless at the decision which had been 
 made in her behalf, and the favor the head of the 
 Directory intended to show her future husband, 
 Barras, assuming his most majestic air, re-entered 
 the glittering salon, brilliant with light, with flowers 
 and with women, accompanied by the future Madame 
 Bonaparte. 
 
 OHAPTEK XXII. 
 
 HOW A GREAT MAK MARRIED AND WAS DEOEITED 
 — THE TRUTH CONCERNING JOSEPHINE — THE 
 SWORD FROM THE PYRAMIDS. 
 
 Bonaparte, on February 23, 1796, was appointed 
 general of the army of Italy. Carnot had yielded to 
 
MADAME 8ANS-QENE. 
 
 183 
 
 the wish of Barras. There was one opposing voice 
 only, that of Kenbell, but he was overruled by his 
 colleagues. 
 
 And a few days later, March 9th, the marriage of 
 General Napoleon Bonaparte and the Widow Beau- 
 harnais took place. 
 
 At this period Bonaparte’s life was all fever and 
 love. He, in the literal meaning of the word, 
 ‘^adored” Josephine with all the ecstasy of a Car- 
 melite monk, receiving what he regards as a divine 
 revelation. Prostrated with emotion, he smothered 
 his idol with his caresses, he wildly embraced her, 
 he fiercely, almost brutally, flung himself upon her, 
 he seized her in his arms, he cast himself upon the 
 gauzy draperies in which, in fond memories of the 
 tropical home where she was born, the now almost 
 beautiful widow loved to array her charms, and acted 
 like a barbarian pillaging a palace. In his kisses he 
 sometimes tore his darling’s dresses. His hands were 
 always trembling when they touched her, his lips 
 always hungry for hers. With all the untamed ex- 
 uberance of his exceptional nature, he was on fire 
 with the sense of possession. He loved a woman, and 
 was, he thought, loved by her, for the first and last 
 time in his life; and his passion, long accumulated 
 and repressed, burst at length with the violence of 
 a river in a flood. And with the double joy of vanity 
 and love, both gratified, mingled the bliss yet higher, 
 to a nature like his, of having gained his point, of 
 having fulfilled his will. 
 
 For the time the great man, like many a little 
 man, forgot himself — forgot his pride, his reserve, 
 his ambitions for success and conquest, in a delirium 
 of passion. In possessing Josephine he fell, as it 
 were, into an intoxication of madness. 
 
 He was a changed man, he became demonstrative, 
 he grew nervous, he laughed, he talked, he wept. 
 
184 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-GENE. 
 
 Bnfc liis honeymoon was short. Two days after 
 the official ceremony he departed from Paris to Italy. 
 He was now indeed upon the road to glory. Hence- 
 forth he stopped at the inns of love only between 
 victories, until the fatal day when he was destined to 
 stumble upon the marriage bed of Archdachess Marie 
 Louise of Austria. 
 
 One point here en passant. In the certificate of 
 his marriage with Josephine, Napoleon, to lessen the 
 discrepancy of age between his bride and himself, 
 gallantly recorded himself as two years older than he 
 actually was, while on her part, Josephine, woman- 
 like, recorded herself as four years younger than the 
 truth. It was a bride’s natural whim to be no older 
 than her young husband, but it was fated to have 
 unpleasant consequencesfor the woman in later years. 
 
 During his Italian campaign, when not burning 
 with war-like fervor, Napoleon was on fire with love 
 for Josephine. 
 
 He never allowed a day to pass without penning 
 some tender epistle, though, sooth to say, these love- 
 letters were generally rather too emphatic in their 
 tone, suggesting the style of a Saint-Preux writing 
 to Julie. 
 
 Even when weary with travel, and sleepless, the 
 young general, forgetting his cares and dangers, 
 never failed to fill a sheet with living words, and dis- 
 patch it by a courier traveling day and night, to 
 Paris and to Josephine. His tender messages were 
 carried as quickly and as carefully as his accounts of 
 battles won. To the man who wrote the letters and 
 won the battles, one was as important as the other. 
 
 She was in truth the queen of France, that insig- 
 nificant and sensual creole. The people of Paris, 
 intoxicated with Napoleon’s triumphs, regarded her 
 ns an empress already, and hailed her when she ap- 
 peared in public, on her husband’s friend Junot’s 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 185 
 
 arm, with halleluias shouted by a hundred thousand 
 voices, f 
 
 Carnot, completely converted to belief in the man 
 he once doubted, pronounced a harangue in the 
 Champ de Mars, in which he compared Napoleon to 
 Miltiades and to Epaminondas. The poet, Lebrun, 
 wrote a poem and led the chorus of a song, in Bona- 
 parte’s honor, who was on the eve of taking Mantua. 
 All France paid homage to Citizeness Bonaparte for 
 the sake of her absent husband. 
 
 And yet it can be proved that on the very night 
 when this great demonstration, this almost apotheosis 
 of her husband took place, where she was worshiped 
 as a goddess, this^very Josephine passed several hours 
 in the society of a then popular actor, after whom 
 she received a handsome young officer, a M. Charles, 
 a second lieutenant of hussars. 
 
 This last mentioned scapegrace was her special 
 favorite. She not only sacrificed to him her own 
 and her husband’s honor, but her husband’s money. 
 M. Charles, like Josephine herself, was always in 
 pecuniary straits, and he did not hesitate to demand 
 financial aid from the woman who had already given 
 him herself. 
 
 Josephine, in short, was false to Napoleon almost 
 from the hour she married him. She was proud of him, 
 of course; no woman in her position could have failed 
 in pride in possessing such a man. She was well 
 aware by this time that he was one of the great men 
 of the world, and was destined to be greater. She 
 knew also, and perhaps, being a woman, this knowl- 
 edge gave her more delight than all else beside, that 
 every woman now desired Napoleon, and envied her 
 influence over him. Perhaps, to a certain extent 
 too, she was grateful for his kindness to herself and to 
 her children. 
 
 But this much is certain: she did not love him as 
 
186 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GENE, 
 
 he loved her ; she did not constantly desire to be with 
 him as he with her. 
 
 Bonaparte longed to have her company dnring his 
 Italian campaign, but she persistently refused to join 
 him. She ever had excuses in plenty for her refusal. 
 
 Her course in this matter at one time came very 
 near defeating itself. Her husband, worn out with 
 fighting and privation, sick of glory, became light- 
 headed and foolish. He talked seriously of throwing 
 up his commission, resigning his command, and living 
 constantly with his Yeyette. If she would not come 
 to him, he would go to her. Many a wife would 
 have been glad to encourage such a plan, preferring 
 her husband’s company with peace, to his absence 
 with glory and war. But not so Josephine. In 
 mortal terror that ho really might surrender all to 
 come to her, she at last consented to leave Paris and 
 seek him. Of two pressing evils, she chose what 
 seemed to her the less. 
 
 This is not the view of Josephine’s character which 
 has been given to the world by poets, dramatists and 
 novelists, up to date; but it is the view which histo- 
 rians and men of research, men who look for facts, 
 not fancy, for truths, not theories, have been forced 
 to adopt. . It is the view which will be taken by 
 posterity. 
 
 As a rule, Napoleon was not betrayed to such an 
 extent by the men he had benefited as by the women 
 whom he had blessed. He was not deceived in the 
 majority of the marshals whom he loaded with honors 
 and wealth, but in the two women whom he married. 
 These, Josephine and Marie Louise, whom he called 
 from all the millions of their sex, to share his name 
 and his glory, behaved toward him like infamous 
 wretches. Which woman treated him the worae, 
 casuists must decide. Both deceived him, neither 
 even loved him. 
 
MADAME SANM-QENE. 
 
 187 
 
 On the whole the daughter and descendant of 
 bestial emperors^ Marie Louise, of Austria, was the 
 more excusable. She did not have the opportunity 
 of knowing the Napoleon whom she married as well 
 as did Josephine. She was not a resident of Paris, 
 she was not a citizen of France, she had not lived in 
 the French capital in the days of thoi Directory, and 
 watched Napoleon’s course; she understood not the 
 man Napoleon. All Marie Louise knew was that 
 Bonaparte had conquered her father, and entered 
 her nuptial chamber as though it were but one of his 
 vanquished cities. 
 
 After the Italian campaign, Bonaparte, both victor 
 and peacemaker, returned to Paris, but dreamed of 
 the East. 
 
 As before remarked there was much of the oriental 
 in his nature, and to Napoleon at this period of his 
 career, the East was not merely a field for conquest 
 and for glory, but a place for rest. Aye, rest from 
 the intrigues and uncertainties of Paris. 
 
 For returning to the gay capital, December 5, 
 1797, and settling down with delight in the ‘‘little 
 house” in the Eue Chantereine, which in his honor 
 had been rechristened to Eue de la Victoire, he began 
 to experience some of the nuisances and some of the 
 dangers of popularity . 
 
 He was compelled to be personally present at all 
 military f4tes. He was forced to pose as a hero, he 
 was saluted everywhere he went by a flutter of flags. 
 
 In vain he endeavored to free himself from the 
 ovations with which he was constantly pursued. 
 Carnot’s place was now vacant at the institute; 
 it was offered to him, and he tried to figure no 
 longer as a warrior, but as a student. 
 
 He declined all distinctions and gifts, refused the 
 famous Chateau de Chambord, one of the marvels of 
 the art of the Eenaissance. 
 
188 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 Finally, seeing that France would accept him as 
 its soldier and its general only, he aimed high, and 
 aspired to the position of commander-in-chief of the 
 French army for the conquest of England. 
 
 Great Britain, the traditional enemy of France, 
 had ever been the foe of the revolution and the 
 republic. 
 
 But Napoleon did not now propose to attack Eng- 
 land direct. He determined to injure his adversary 
 indirectly, but vitally, through her colonies and an- 
 nexed territories. 
 
 And in this scheme he included a gigantic, a poetic, 
 but an impracticable plan for conquering the East — ■ 
 that East which Great Britain was annexing, ^ that 
 East of which he dreamed. 
 
 So he planned the campaign in Egypt. It was 
 well for him he did so, in one way. It led him to 
 leave Paris, which would soon have wearied of even 
 Napoleon — in peace. 
 
 The mob is fickle and soon tires of hero-worship. 
 
 He himself once remarked to a friend, when the 
 crowd were shouting his praises: ‘‘Bah! when they 
 shall have seen me three times they won’t look at me 
 the fourth.” 
 
 A conspiracy against him hastened his departure. 
 His enemies who were few in number comparatively, 
 but determined, hinted that he had misused public 
 money in the Italian campaign. Eeubell, a weak, 
 but honest politician, took Bonaparte at his word, 
 too, one day, in a rather pointed and unpleasant 
 manner: “lam ready to resign my sword to France.” 
 Bonaparte had remarked. “Then resign,” said Reu- 
 bell, handing Napoleon a pen, with which to write 
 his resignation. 
 
 He started for the East at last, addressing his 
 troops before they started, with one of those glowing 
 proclamations which were so thoroughly Napoleonic. 
 
MADAME SANS--GENE. 
 
 189 
 
 Proclamations in which he made his men believe^ 
 because he almost believed in them himself. 
 
 The campaign in Egypt began with its fabled 
 marches. It was like a tale in the Arabian Nights. 
 On May 19, 1798, Napoleon Bonaparte left Toulon 
 for the orient, but on October 15, 1799, the news 
 reached Paris that he had embarked for his return 
 at Frejus. France then prepared to receive him as 
 a savior. Paris made ready to welcome him as an 
 almost godlike hero. 
 
 The whole country resigned itself, as it were, to 
 his embrace, like the actress when she swoons in the 
 arms of her lover in the play. 
 
 But even at this time it is doubtful if he had 
 really in his own mind any fixed plan or design to 
 overturn the existing order of things and make his 
 own will law, as it afterward came to pass. 
 
 No, he was a dreamer as well as a man who caused 
 dreams to come true, and he was guided by events. 
 
 The 18th Brumaire was commanded by public 
 opinion, though it was executed by Napoleon. 
 
 Had Napoleon not attempted the coup dPetat on 
 that occasion, Bernadotte, Moreau, or some other 
 general would have essayed it. 
 
 Bonaparte prepared for this event; he surrounded 
 himself with a bold and capable staff of assistants, 
 brave warriors like Lannes, Murat, Berthier, Mar- 
 mont, legislators like Cambacer^s, and fishers in 
 the troubled waters of statecraft, like Talleyrand 
 and Fouche. He trusted greatly to his two brothers, 
 Lucien and Joseph, who worked actively in his be- 
 half. Through his precautions he succeeded. 
 
 On the 18th Brumaire (November 9, 1799) all 
 parties concerned met at Napoleon’s “little house” 
 in the Eue de la Victoire, at six in the morning. 
 The pretense for the meeting \7Q8 a review. 
 
 Only one man on whom Napoleon had confidently . 
 
190 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-GENE. 
 
 counted was absent. This one man was Napoleon’s 
 old friend, Lefebvre. 
 
 Bonaparte asked for him with ill-concealed anxiety. 
 
 Where is Lefebvre?” he inquired of Marmont. 
 ^ Why is he not with us?” 
 
 At that very moment some one announced “Gen- 
 eral” Lefebvre. For he was now a general in the 
 army — our Lefebvre. He had indeed made great 
 strides onward and upward, this husband of Cath- 
 erine Sans-Gene. He was at this moment, in fact, 
 governor of Paris. He had been first guardsman, 
 then lieutenant, then captain, till at last he had 
 risen to be general in charge of the seventeenth 
 military division, which included the French 
 capital. 
 
 He became a hero when his comrade Hoche, 
 who likewise rose to the rank of general, was killed. 
 He had conducted the army of Sambre-et-Meuse to 
 victory; he had then commanded the army of the 
 Danube, and would have become a member of the 
 Directory; but he was too much of a soldier, and too 
 much of a republican. 
 
 At this crisis, as commander-in-chief of the army 
 of Paris, his aid was absolutely indispensable to 
 Napoleon. 
 
 But Napoleon had not fully informed Lefebvre of 
 his plans, who, finding out the night before that mili- 
 tary movements were being undertaken without his 
 orders, became indignant, and now sought Napoleon 
 to obtain an explanation. 
 
 He was therefore in a bad humor when he entered 
 the room, where the rest were assembled. 
 
 Napoleon did not seem to notice this, however, 
 and ran to him, with arms outstretched. 
 
 “Ah! my dear old Lefebvre,” he cried in his most 
 familiar tone and manner, “how are you? and how 
 is your wife, the good Madame Catherine Sans-G6ne? 
 
MADAME 8ANS-0ENE. 
 
 191 
 
 Has slie still her heart in her hand, and is her tongue 
 as ready as her heart, as ever? My wife, Madame 
 Bonaparte, justly complains that she sees far too 
 little of her.” 
 
 Napoleon could flatter either man or woman when 
 it was worth his while. 
 
 My wife is well, I thank you, General Bonaparte,” 
 replied Lefebvre, still under the spell of his bad 
 humor, though thawing fast; ‘‘but that is not the 
 matter at issue.” 
 
 Napoleon interrupted him. “Look you, my dear 
 old comrade,” said the great man, with that tone of 
 affectionate good fellowship which he could so well 
 assume on necessary occasions, “you are one of 
 the main props of the republic; you are not the man 
 to let it fall into the hands of lawyers. Look at this.” 
 
 He pointed to a magnificent sword he was wearing; 
 a saber with a jeweled hilt. 
 
 “This,” continued Napoleon, “is the scimitar of 
 the great chief Mourad Bey. It is a sword from the 
 Pyramids, and now,” taking the weapon and handing 
 it to Lefebvre, “it is yours. Accept it as a token of 
 my confidence and my esteem.” 
 
 Lefebvre, though flattered' immensely, still hesi- 
 tated a moment — but only a moment. He began to 
 understand now that a coup d’^etat was to be under- 
 taken, and as he believed in Napoleon, he would take 
 his side of the affair. And so he took the sword of 
 the Pyramids. 
 
 “You are right, General Bonaparte,” he said, “let 
 us throw all the lawyers into the river.” 
 
 This decided the matter. Soon the 18th Bru- 
 maire was over, and that day changed once more the 
 destinies of France. 
 
 That evening. General Lefebvre, as he embraced 
 his faithful Catherine on his return home, drew from 
 his scabbard Napoleon’s gift. 
 
192 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GENE. 
 
 ‘‘Look, wife,” he said, “it is a Turk’s sword, fit 
 only for a parade, or to hit a lawyer over the back. 
 
 I We will leave it in the scabbard, and it will serve ns 
 as a reminder of the friendship of General Bonaparte, 
 who began life almost as humbly as we did, my sweet 
 Catherine.” 
 
 “But, Lefebvre, it is really a fine sword,” cried 
 Catherine; “will you not use it, sometimes?” 
 
 “No, my Catherine,” answered her husband. “I 
 have my own sword to defend my country with, to 
 strike against the Austrians, the Prussians or the 
 English, or to go wherever Bonaparte may choose to 
 lead us. Aye, if it were to fight the very thunder, 
 my own sword will do — my dear old sword with which 
 I led the army of Sambre-et-Meuse: it is good enough, 
 my sweet.” 
 
 And so saying General Lefebvre, embracing the 
 wife he loved as dearly now, as on that memorable 
 tenth of August, kissed her fervently and tenderly, 
 and the soldier’s kiss was as pure and honest as the 
 dear old sword. 
 
MADAME SANB-QENE 
 
 193 
 
 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 LA MARECHALE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIL 
 
 MADAME LA MARECHALE TAKES A DANCING LESSON 
 AND — A THUNDERBOLT FALLS. 
 
 Discreetly and softly the door of a bedchamber 
 at Saint-Cloud was opened, and a maid peeped into 
 the apartment. Then she entered the room and 
 approached a superb mahogany bed, crowned with a 
 coronet from which fell two large flowered curtains. 
 
 Gently she called: ‘‘Madame la Marechale! waken! 
 it is ten o’clock.” 
 
 A decidedly strong yet hoarse voice came from 
 beneath the bedclothes. 
 
 “ del! one can’t even sleep in this palace of paste- 
 board.” 
 
 Pardoyinez moiP'* said the maid, “butmadame 
 ordered that she should be called at ten o’clock.” 
 
 “Is it ten already?” cried the voice. “What a 
 lazy wretch I am becoming, to be sure. I was a 
 different woman when I took in washing. I rose 
 early then; and later on, in the regiment beside the 
 canteen, I did not wait for the morning drum-call to 
 sound twice ere I was stirring; but now, since I am 
 
194 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-GENE. 
 
 Madame la Marechale, I cannot bestir myself. Come, 
 Lise; quick, my dressing-gown.” 
 
 And Madame la Marechale sprang out of bed, and 
 trufeh to tell, swore like a trooper because she couldn’t 
 find her hosiery. 
 
 She was not an easy mistress when she was dress- 
 ing, being impatient to a degree. Though she was 
 now La Marechale Lefebvre, she retained all her old 
 looks and ways; all the familiarity of gesture, all the 
 good-fellowship which had distinguished her in the 
 Saint-Koche quarter as laundress, and in the great 
 days of the revolution, in the army of the North, of 
 the Moselle, and of the Sambre-et-Meuse, when she 
 was cantiniSre, and was known by all as Madame 
 Sans-G^ne. 
 
 The course of events had changed the earth,' and 
 individual destinies since then. 
 
 The little artillery officer had become first consul, 
 and then emperor. He sat on the throne, ablaze 
 with glory, while humbled kings fell prostrate at his 
 feet, and the predictions of the Waux-Hall ball 
 magician had been realized by Lefebvre and his wife. 
 Lefebvre had been the favorite alike of the consul 
 and the emperor, and when Napoleon had restored 
 the old order of marshals of France, he became one 
 of the very first appointed to that rank; he was also 
 a senator. The emperor considered him ignorant 
 but invincible — a man who decided what to do (after 
 he had done it), on the field of battle. 
 
 The great leader liked this; it suited him. Napo- 
 leon schemed, Lefebvre executed. The emperor was 
 the cannon, he the ball. He commanded Napoleon’s 
 pets — the imperial foot-guards, composed of giants. 
 
 But Lefebvre was not only a great warrior, but 
 what was more rare, a good husband. 
 
 Toward Catherine he was always the same. The 
 change of uniform caused no change of conduct; the 
 
MADAME SAN8-GENE. 
 
 195 
 
 medal of the Legion of Honor over his breast altered 
 not the heart within it. 
 
 The imperial court laughed a little at such old- 
 fashioned conjugal fidelity, but Napoleon, who pre- 
 tended publicly to an austerity of morals, congratu- 
 lated Lefebvre and his wife on the excellent example 
 they set his courtiers. 
 
 Still the emperor w^as annoyed at some of Madame 
 la Mar^chale’s sans-gme habits. He used to lecture 
 Lefebvre about them. “Listen, Lefebvre,” said his 
 majesty, “try to make your wife understand that 
 she need not lift her skirts as if she was jumping a 
 ditch, when she enters the apartments of the empress; 
 tell her, too, not to swear any more, and to pronounce 
 her ‘f’s’ and her ‘p’s:’ and one more suggestion, Le- 
 febvre; are you listening?” 
 
 “Yes, sire,” answered Lefebvre, and he loas paying 
 attention. It grieved him, what the emperor said, 
 but he knew there was reason for it. 
 
 “Well,” continued Napoleon, “your wife is always 
 bandying words with my sisters, especially with Elisa. 
 This must not be; one does not like these eternal 
 bickerings among women.” 
 
 “Sire,” said Lefebvre, defending his wife on this 
 point; “your sisters reproach my wife and myself 
 with being republicans; yet are we not still republi- 
 cans, you and I?” 
 
 He asked this question with a triumphant air. 
 Like most of the soldiers of ’92, he fancied that he 
 was still serving the republic by serving the emperor. 
 
 Napoleon smiled slightly, then continued: “So my 
 old comrade and friend, do ask your wife, for me, not 
 to quarrel any more with my sisters.” 
 
 “Sire,” said Lefebvre, “I shall repeat your maj- 
 esty’s remarks to my wife; she will remember them.” 
 
 “If she suj)plemented the emperor; “I do 
 
 not demand what is impossible — early habits will 
 
196 
 
 MADAME SAJSrS-OENE. 
 
 dingo” Then he said, as if to himself, What folly 
 for a man to marry when he is a sergeant. Yet I 
 made almost the very same mistake myself; but after 
 all there is a remedy,” his voice sank to a whisper, 
 heard by himself alone, ‘‘divorce.” 
 
 As if to distract his thoughts he drew from a 
 pocket in his white waistcoat an oval snuff-box, and 
 inhaled the odor of its contents. That was the 
 imperial method of taking snuff; the emperor never 
 smoked. 
 
 Suddenly he retraced his steps to Lefebvre. “ Your 
 wife should take lessons of Despreaux,” he said, and 
 said no more. 
 
 Lefebvre at once sought this Despreaux, the dancing 
 master, par excellence^ of the imperial court. What 
 a personage he was! small, slender, graceful, per- 
 fumed and powdered he had danced through “the 
 times of the Terror,” as though they were balls; and 
 when the revolution was over he became quite a 
 personage. 
 
 Now this dancing master had made an appoint- 
 ment to call on Madame la Marechale at ten this 
 morning. Hence the maid’s awakening, and Cath- 
 erine’s haste. 
 
 When once awake — when at last fully dressed, 
 Catherine entered her salon, she found Despreaux 
 bowing before a mirror, and limbering his joints. 
 
 Even court dancing masters’ limbs grow stiffer as 
 they grow older. 
 
 “Ah! there you are, professor,” cried Catherine; 
 “and how is your good health?” she asked, good- 
 humoredly and bluntly. She seized him % the 
 hand (he had never dreamed of extending his own,, 
 it would not have been “etiquette”), and she shook 
 hands heartily. 
 
 The dancing master had been interrupted while 
 he was practicing before the mirror the second move- 
 
MADAME SAJS'S-GEJSTE. 
 
 197 
 
 inent of his very best bow, and he didn’t like it. He 
 blushed, he stammered, he looked down, he took 
 away his hand from la Marechale’s grip, readjusted 
 his cuffs, disordered somewhat by her too earnest 
 greeting, and said dryly : “ I have the honor to await 
 the orders of Madame la Marechale.” 
 
 “Well, little one,” said Saus-Geue, heedless of 
 “the professor’s” fussiness, and leaning with her fair 
 plump arms on the edge of the table, “the case stands 
 that I have sent for you because the emperor wants 
 me to — his majesty thinks we haven’t got manners 
 enough for his court — he wants us to get some man- 
 ners. In short, you know what he wants, old boy.” 
 
 Old boy! The professor looked and felt as if 
 he was about to faint. 
 
 Old boy ! The poor fellow could have expired on 
 the spot. In a weak voice, choked by emotion, he 
 managed to say: “Madame, his majesty is right in 
 desiring that his courtiers should acquire distinction, 
 polish and elegance, as becomes a court. I am proud 
 to be the humble interpreter of his wishes. May I 
 ask, Madame la Marechale, what you wish to learn of 
 the great art I teach, that you may please his majesty ?” 
 
 “ What do I wish,” said Catherine. “Aye, that’s 
 just the very point, my lad!” 
 
 The professor winced. 
 
 Catherine continued : “ But as there’s to be a great 
 ball at the palace next Tuesday, when they are to 
 dance the gavotte, I guess it must be that- Though, 
 on my life,” she added, “why they should want tho 
 gavotte I can’t guess, for they tell me it was danced 
 in the times of the tyrants. But if the emperor 
 wishes me to dance the gavotte, let me have it. You 
 deal in the article it seems, so hand — or foot it over.” 
 
 The “professor” at this free and easy style of ad- 
 dress nearly had a fit, but he found strength to say 
 with some earnestness: 
 
198 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 “Madame la Marecliale, the gavotte is a difficult 
 dance, and it needs inclination — yes, inspiration. 
 Perhaps,” he added, with pretended modesty, “I 
 may not be qualified to teach it to you, though I had 
 the honor of instructing Madame the Dauphiness, 
 with whom it was a special favorite.” 
 
 “ Well, we can’t do more or less than try anyway,” 
 cried Catherine carelessly. “To tell the truth,” she 
 added in a confidential tone, “if it was 07 ily the em- 
 peror I wouldn’t bother. He didn’t care whether 
 I knew how to dance the gavotte or not when I washed 
 his clothes; but it is Lefebvre has asked me also, and 
 that alters the matter, my boy.” 
 
 The professor felt the faint feeling once again. 
 
 Catherine continued: “And as whatever my hus- 
 band wishes, I wish; why, here goes. You see, Le- 
 febvre and. I are like two fingers on the same 
 hand, and we let all the princes and princesses who 
 choose, laugh at us because we keep our marriage 
 vows. But come, my good man.” 
 
 (One more fluttering of the professor’s heart, one 
 more attack of “nerves.”) 
 
 “I am ready for the gavotte. Say, where do I 
 put my feet?” 
 
 And Sans-Gene tapped the floor twice with her 
 well-shaped though large-sized foot, as if she were 
 executing a military call to arms. 
 
 The dancing master, almost by this time reduced 
 to a state of collapse, shrugged his shoulders slightly. 
 
 “Oh! these vulgar times!” he thought, “when an 
 aristocratic dancing master has to try to teach good 
 manners to cantinieres, and the gavotte to laun- 
 dresses.” 
 
 Mastering up courage, he asked Catherine a ques- 
 tion: 
 
 “Madame, have you ever danced?” 
 
 Mille tonnaire! hear the man!” she exclaimed. 
 
MADAME SANS-QENE. 
 
 199 
 
 *^Have I ever danced? I should say I have. Long, 
 and long ago.” 
 
 ‘‘Where, madame?” 
 
 “At the Waux-Hall.” 
 
 “The Waux-Hall? I do not even know the place, 
 madame.” 
 
 “Worse luck for you then, monsieur.” 
 
 “What did Madame dance at — ye — ye — ye Waux- 
 Hall? Did she dance the pavane, or the trenitz, the 
 menace or the minuet?” 
 
 “No, monsieur, 1 never even heard of them. I 
 danced la fricassee. 
 
 The professor shuddered. He had heard of the 
 fricassee. 
 
 “It is a dance for porters and for — laundresses,” 
 he muttered. 
 
 “I was a laundress when I danced it,” said she. 
 “I danced it with Lefebvre the night I first met 
 him.” 
 
 And she smiled sweetly at the recollection. 
 
 The professor of elegance shook his little head 
 with a mournful air. “Upon what evil days I have 
 fallen,” he said to himself. “ I, the dancing master of 
 Madame the Dauphiness,” and then he turned to 
 Madame Sans-Gene, as sadly as if he was going to a 
 funeral, and prepared to teach her the rudimentary 
 elements of that great dance, which Napoleon wished 
 to introduce among the festivities of his court. 
 
 In obedience to the instructions of the professor, 
 Madame Catherine did her best to extend her arms 
 this way, to turn and bend that way; to draw her 
 foot back, and to put it forward in time with the 
 arietta from Paesiello, which Despreaux played upon 
 his little violin. 
 
 There might reasonably be some difference of 
 opinion as to the way she danced, but there could be 
 but one opinion as to the way she worked. She did 
 
200 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-GENE. 
 
 everything she did at all, conscientiously, our Ma- 
 dame Sans-G^ne, but she really felt like yawning, 
 and like laughing both at the professor and herself; 
 she kept as grave as an owl, however. ‘‘But this is 
 worse than working,” she said to herself. 
 
 Suddenly the door was pushed open almost rudely, 
 and Lefebvre rushed in. 
 
 He was in full uniform ; he wore all his insignia of 
 rank. In his hand he held his great plumed hat, 
 across his breast sparkled the badge of the Legion of 
 Honor, and across his uniform, with its gold embroid- 
 ery, he wore the red sash betokening his rank. 
 
 He looked grand, but he was terribly excited. 
 
 “Aha!” he shouted as he strode, or rather stag- 
 gered like one drunk, into the room. “ Vive VEm~ 
 pereur!^^ and he hurled his hat upon the floor. 
 
 Then he darted at his wife, who stopped her at- 
 tempts at dancing, much relieved at the chance to 
 do so. He kissed her, he hugged her, he held her 
 close. 
 
 “What in the name of heaven has happened, Le- 
 febvre?” asked Catherine, returning the embrace. 
 
 The poor professor, who now found that he couldn’t 
 have even one uninterrupted chance to teach his not 
 refractory but reluctant pupil, and who was now 
 forced to spoil his very best bow, which he had been 
 trying his best to impress on madame, advanced 
 quickly to Lefebvre in great anxiety. “Monsieur 
 le Marechal, is the emperor dead?” he asked. 
 
 He could imagine no less an event to account for 
 the marshal’s extraordinary behavior. 
 
 Lefebvre’s only reply was a kick — a vigorous kick. 
 It struck the professor in the back, and made him 
 squirm, and forced him to pirouette in a very undig- 
 nified and unartistic fashion. 
 
 But the dancing master, after all, was a thorough- 
 bred in his line. He recovered his pose quickly, 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 201 
 
 sainted Lefebvre as though he had just been shaking 
 hands with him, and getting off that ‘^best bow” 
 which had just been interrupted, he asked blandly: 
 ‘^Did Monsieur le Marechal 
 
 ‘^Come, Lefebvre, calm yourself,” said his wife, 
 herself somewhat astonished at her husband’s behav- 
 ior; “do tell us what has happened. Monsieur Des- 
 preaux asks if the emperor is dead. That is impos- 
 sible I know, but ” 
 
 “No, of course,” interrupted Lefebvre, “the em- 
 peror is not dead; he cannot die, our emperor. That, 
 as you say, Catherine, is impossible, the emperor 
 will never die; but it is something else. We are to 
 go, we are to leave here at once, just as we have 
 begun to feel settled here.” 
 
 “Go! and where to, my husband? I mean,” she 
 added, looking comically at the court dancing master, 
 “Monsieur le Marechal.” 
 
 “I don’t exactly know where,” replied Lefebvre, 
 looking distressed and bothered, “but somewhere. 
 It is absolutely necessary for us to go somewhere and 
 quickly. I believe,” he added, “we are to go to — 
 Berlin.” 
 
 “Is Berlin far off?” asked our simple Catherine, 
 who was not as well versed as she might have been 
 in geography. 
 
 “I really don’t know myself,” answered honest 
 Lefebvre, telling a white lie that he might not ap- 
 pear to be wiser than his wife. “But,” he added, 
 with an air of the most profound conviction, “noth- 
 ing is ‘far’ to the emperor.” 
 
 “And how soon must we start — next week?” she 
 asked. 
 
 “Next week, indeed,” he answered; “no, but 
 to-morrow.” 
 
 “Impossible! so soon,” she exclaimed. 
 
 “Impossible?” said Lefebvre, “you know the em- 
 
203 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 peror insists that ‘impossible’ is not a French word, f 
 But really, Catherine, the emperor is in a hurry, i 
 even for him. You see, the Prussians are in arms 
 against us, though we have never injured them; but \ 
 there is no glory to be gained by routing Prussians.” 
 
 Pardonnez moi! monsieur,” interrupted the little 
 dancing master, widening the distance between the 
 marshal’s boot and his own body; “Frederick the 
 Great was a Prussian.” 
 
 “ Don’t know or care anything about him,” said 
 Lefebvre calmly. 
 
 “But, Lefebvre, can’t I go with you, dear?” asked 
 his wife. 
 
 “If you like,” answered the loving husband, 
 “that is, as far as the frontier; the emperor is going 
 to take the empress. It is simply a walk over to 
 Berlin in uniform. Still, as far as my comfort goes, 
 Catherine, I must confess I would rather have re- 
 mained where we are. The whole thing is so sudden, 
 you know. It is as if a thunderbolt falls from a 
 clear sky; but let us set to work about our departure. 
 Have you seen Henriot?” 
 
 “He is waiting for you, Lefebvre, as you ordered.” 
 
 “All right, Catherine, bring him here, I shall pre- 
 sent him to the emperor; perhaps this new movement 
 may advance him.” 
 
 Catherine rose to bring in Henriot, and Despr6aux 
 gallantly rose to offer his services. He rushed to 
 open the door for madame. 
 
 Permittez moiP'* he said, with a flourish. He 
 had no time to say more, for once again Lefebvre 
 gave him a kick, harder than the first. “Ton 
 idiot,” growled the marshal, “we are military folk 
 here; no frills or backbreaking, you little acrobat.” 
 
 The poor professor disappeared hastily, rubbing 
 himself and cursing the vulgar times and people 
 be had come across — he who had taught the princi- 
 
MADAME SAN8-0ENE, 
 
 203 
 
 pies and practices of stately courtesy to Madame the 
 Dauphiiiess. 
 
 Soon Catherine returned with ‘Mittle Henriot,’’ 
 now a young man, and a sub-lieutenant, eager to 
 fight for France if Napoleon permitted. “But,” as 
 Lefebvre remarked, “it was not such an easy thing 
 to be allowed even to die for the emperor.” But 
 Catherine determined to see the Empress Josephine, 
 and ask her to use her influence to allow Henriot to 
 accompany the army to Berlin. “I will ask her this 
 very day; there is to be a review of the imperial 
 guard,” said Catherine. 
 
 It was the close of September, 1806; the French 
 ertipire then comprised two-thirds of Europe. Na- 
 poleon sat on a throne constructed of trophies and 
 standards, from which he ruled not only peoples but 
 kings. All the members of his family occupied ex- 
 alted stations, yet not one of them was satisfied, and 
 his sisters were always jealous of each other. 
 
 “It would really seem,” Napoleon once remarked, 
 “as though they thought I had defrauded them of 
 their inheritance from the late king, our father.” 
 
 The review took place, and Napoleon inspected 
 his soldiers with even more than his usual care. He 
 noticed specially the drum major of the grenadiers, 
 tall, straight, yet boyish looking. 
 
 “Your name?” he asked, of the drum major. 
 
 “La Violette, sire,” answered the young giant in 
 a soft voice. 
 
 “ Where have you served?” 
 
 “Everywhere, sire.” 
 
 “ Trh iienV'^ said the emperor, who liked short 
 answers. “Do you know Berlin?” 
 
 “No, sire.” 
 
 “Would you like to go there?” 
 
 “I would like to go, sire, wherever my emperor 
 wishes.” 
 
204 
 
 MADAME SAJSrS-GENE. 
 
 “Well said, La Violette; get ready your drum and 
 drumsticks. In a month from to-day you shall be the 
 first Frenchman to enter the Prussian capital. But 
 how tall you are — tall as a poplar.” 
 
 “And you, sire, are as tall as the whole world.” 
 
 The emperor smiled; he liked compliments. La 
 Violette’s fortune was assured. 
 
 When the drums ceased to beat that morning a 
 great shout arose from that forest of men, strong as 
 oaks, many of them destined never to return from 
 that Berlin to which their master, “ the butcher of 
 Europe” was about to lead them. 
 
 “ Vive V Em'pereurV'* 
 
 “I believe my cousin, the king of Prussia, will 
 soon be sorry he provoked my wrath,” said Napoleon 
 to Lefebvre. “With such men I might war against 
 the Almighty and his archangels. Embrace your 
 wife, marshal; we leave to-night.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE SECRET SOCIETY OF LA RUE BOURG L’ABBE — 
 THE PLAN OF LEONIDAS — LEFEBVRE TRIES TO 
 UNDERSTAND— THE ENTRY INTO BERLIN. 
 
 In the center of Paris, in the Rue Bourg PAbbe, 
 peopled by a colony of laborers in single rooms, 
 on the night of the day when Napoleon reviewed his 
 troops at Saint-Cloud, seven or eight men were as- 
 sembled in a cabinet-maker’s shop secretly; and 
 eight or ten more joined them later on, each man 
 taking the utmost precautions to avoid being seen 
 entering. 
 
 Major Marcel, already introduced to our readers, 
 presided over the meeting, which was held by the 
 secret society, the Philadelphes, founded by Colonel 
 
MADAME 8ANS-GENE, 
 
 205 
 
 Joseph Oudet^ Avhich embraced not only republicans 
 but royalists, not only Frenchmen but foreigners. 
 
 This society was based on and called after a society 
 in Philadelphia, United States, and extended all over 
 Europe. The members took the names of the great 
 men of ancient times; Aristotle, Socrates, etc.; and 
 their emblem was a star — like that of the Legion of 
 Honor. 
 
 The society was at this time an association of con- 
 spirators who had resolved to assassinate Napoleon. 
 And they were now addressed by a new arrival, a 
 ‘‘patriot,” who was called Leonidas, a stranger, but 
 introduced to the society by the chairman, Marcel. 
 
 This individual began by vehemently, passionately 
 abusing Napoleon, and recommending his “removal” 
 as the only cure for the evils he had caused, justify- 
 ing assassination as “the supreme recourse.” 
 
 His views were vehemently applauded, and it was 
 resolved to “execute” the emperor in the name and 
 in the behalf of the “liberty” he had abused. 
 
 In the midst of the proceedings Marcel’s constant 
 companion, Renee, gave the alarm. The agents of 
 the secret police, headed by [Dubois and Fouche, 
 were at the door. 
 
 But the Philadelphes were prepared for this con- 
 tingency. The floor of the room in which they 
 assembled had a well-concealed trapdoor, which led 
 down to an entrance into a side street. They fled, 
 but Leonidas, whose real name was General Malus, 
 was among the last to leave. 
 
 When the police burst open the door they found 
 an empty room. 
 
 The emperor was winning glory abroad, but he 
 had to pay its price; he had enemies to the death at 
 home. 
 
 The war against Prussia had now commenced in 
 earnest. For this conflict Prussia was not prepared, 
 
206 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-GENE, 
 
 whereas France The result was simple enough; 
 
 Napoleon covered himself and his army with glory. 
 
 And amid the emperor’s followers marched La 
 Violette. 
 
 Napoleon met him one day, and recognized him. 
 The great man had the rare faculty of remembering 
 faces and names. “Ah!” said the Man of Destiny 
 to the tall gawk of a drum major, “you are La 
 Violette.” 
 
 “Yes, sire, on the route to Berlin, by your maj- 
 esty’s orders.” 
 
 ‘‘ Bien! drum major, I adhere to my promise; you 
 shall be the first man to enter Berlin.” 
 
 “Sire!” cried La Violettte, sadly, “I shall not be 
 able to take with me all my prisoners.” 
 
 “ Tlhs prisoners J loliat prisoners?” Napoleon asked, 
 amazed. 
 
 “Oh, the prisoners I captured myself, sire; there 
 they all are,” pointing as he spoke to a hut near by. 
 “I have shut the door on them, and I am keeping 
 guard.” 
 
 It was a fact; La Violette spoke the truth. He 
 had managed to take, while off their guard and by 
 deceiving them as to the number of their antagonists, 
 and by depriving them of their weapons, to keep a 
 number of prisoners. He had done all this alone, 
 unaided. 
 
 Napoleon rode up to the big, boyish drum major. 
 
 “Who gave you authority to take prisoners of 
 war?” he cried “Ah, hienl wait a little, I will pay 
 you their ransom.” 
 
 And he presented La Violette on the spot with 
 the cross of the Legion of Honor. 
 
 “Ah!” said La Violette to himself, after a mo- 
 ment’s profound thought, “after all I am not a 
 coward, even by daylight. This cross here proves 
 it” 
 
MADAME SANS-QENE 
 
 207 
 
 On October 8, a French army under Murat began 
 firing upon Schleitz. 
 
 On the 10th an engagement took place at Saalfield, 
 ^vhere Prince Louis of Prussia fell, and from whence 
 Marshal Lannes mfarched on to Jena. And on Octo- 
 ber 13, Napoleon himself arrived at Jena in person. 
 From his headquarters he sent Eapp, ^his aide-de- 
 camp, to find Marshal Lefebvre. 
 
 The latter soon arrived and entered quietly, his 
 uniform torn, and the gilt on his coat all black with 
 gunpowder. 
 
 Napoleon shook his hand. ‘‘Well, dear old Le- 
 febvre,” he said, “wo have made a good thing of 
 this; is it not so?” 
 
 “Sire,” said Lefebvre, “with you and with my 
 men, we could always do well. 
 
 “Ah! sire,” he continued, “you gave me long ago 
 a saber from the Pyramids; you would not do ill to 
 give me another, the old one is used up. See, it is 
 like a corkscrew^” 
 
 “Well, Lefebvre, in place of your sword you shall 
 have a rapier. But,” pointing to a chart on a 
 table in his tent, the emperor said to his marshal: 
 “ That is a fine piece of work.” 
 
 “Ah, indeed,” remarked Lefebvre. He knew and 
 cared no more about charts than he did about Sanskrit. 
 
 “It is a plan of the town of Dantzig,” continued 
 the emperor. 
 
 “Indeed, I do not know anything about Dantzig, 
 sire,” said the marshal. He had little faith in draw- 
 ings on paper; ho believed only in fighting in 
 person. 
 
 “Well, you must learn everything about it, my 
 dear Lefebvre,” said the emperor. “It is the most 
 important commercial point on the Vistula. I will 
 need the town as a base of supplies when we go to 
 fight the Russians. It is strongly fortified, and is 
 
MADAME 8AN8-QENE. 
 
 a08 
 
 impregnable. Nobody can take it; therefore 
 
 the very reason why I give it to you to^take.” 
 
 Lefebvre became all animation now" “Ah, I see, 
 I must take it,” he cried; “then, sire, I will take it, 
 with my grenadiers, of course.” 
 
 “No,” said Napoleon, “but with Mis,” pointing to 
 the chart. “ How stupid yon are, Lefebvre, almost 
 as dull as you are brave.” 
 
 But after awhile the marshal began to understand. 
 
 “Ah, I shall write to my wife and tell her how 
 kind you have been to me again— about this Dantzig, 
 sire,” he said gratefully. 
 
 “Your wife, Sans-G6ne,” said Napoleon, rather 
 disdainfully, “you still think as much as ever of your 
 wife, eh, Lefebvre?” 
 
 “More, sire, if possible,” replied the marshal. 
 “Catherine and I love like a pair of children. We 
 are the same lovers to-day as when I was laundress 
 and she was sergeant— I mean when I was sergeant 
 
 and she was laundress, before we dreamed Oh, 
 
 sire, I only know and love three things: my em- 
 peror, my flag, my wife — but these three are enough.” 
 
 “It is as it should be, Lefebvre,” said the emperor, 
 not pursuing the subject of his wife any further. 
 “When you have taken Dantzig I shall bestow a new 
 favor on the former laundress whom you continue to 
 love so well. But now we must both to our business 
 — on to Berlin.” 
 
 And on the 27th of October, 1806, Berlin was the 
 center of a glorious spectacle. Like the legions of 
 old Kome, the armies of new Prance made the entry 
 into the conquered capital, and La Violette was at 
 the head. 
 
 It was a great day for France and for La Violette. 
 He made a speech on the sidewalk to the crowd. 
 
 “Listen to me, children of Berlin,” he squeaked. 
 “France is the one finest country in the world; the 
 
MADAME SAN8-GENE. 
 
 209 
 
 army is the one best thing in France; the first regi- 
 ment of grenadiers is the best thing in the French 
 army; and I am, all things considered, the best man 
 in the first regiment of grenadiers. Look therefore 
 upon me, children of Prussia, regardez moi hien^ 
 mes enfants; you are looking at the greatest man on 
 earth, save one, the emperor. Vive V empereiirP'* And 
 then he strutted off, saying to himself, with a sigh: 
 ‘‘Oh! if Catherine Sans-Gene were but here. Oh! 
 if only Madame la Marechale could but see me now!” 
 
 Napoleon, having conquered Berlin, governed it. 
 He maintained discipline in the army, he protected 
 the citizens, and he acted liberally toward the Prince 
 de Hatzfeld, the burgomaster of Berlin. He re- 
 spected the latter’s office, only exacting a parole of 
 honor from the prince that he would do naught to 
 interfere with Prance or the French while in office. 
 The prince accepted Napoleon’s conditions, and 
 Berlin was for the time being, like Paris, a French 
 capital. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE PROMOTION OF HENRIOT — THE PAROLE OF A 
 PRUSSIAN — THE LOVES OF NAPOLEON AND THE 
 SECRET OF JOSEPHINE — MONSIEUR LE DUG DE 
 DANTZIG. 
 
 At the very first opportunity Marshal Lefebvre 
 presented to his emperor his adopted son, Henriot. 
 
 Napoleon eyed the youth profoundly ; he seemed 
 to like his looks. 
 
 ‘^1 adopted the boy upon the field of battle, sire,” 
 said Lefebvre, “at Jemmapes.” 
 
 “Ah!” said the soldier-emperor to Lefebvre, “that 
 
210 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GENE. 
 
 ■was a fine battle, that Jemniapes. A good debut 
 for you^ young lieutenant,” remarked Kapoleon to 
 young Henriot. 
 
 “In what regiment did you say, sire?” asked Hen- 
 riot quickly. 
 
 The emperor smiled; he liked people to be bright, 
 keen, quick. He became interested in young Henriot 
 for his own sake as well as for his adopted father’s; 
 he listened to his story. After all, Henriot had already 
 had his adventures, and had acquitted himself well. 
 In one affair at Stettin he had behaved mrost bravely. 
 The emperor heard of it now and was charmed at 
 the recital. He congratulated the lad on his courage; 
 he congratulated Lefebvre on having adopted such a 
 son. He appointed the young warrior to a high 
 command upon the spot; he bestowed upon him 
 every mark of honor. Lefebvre and Henriot were 
 in the seventh heaven of delight and adoration. 
 
 As father and son walked to their quarters along 
 the streets of Berlin in joyous mood, they passed the 
 palace where resided the Prince de Hatzfeld. Here 
 Lefebvre paused; he had a surprise in store for 
 Henriot. 
 
 “Do you remember your little playmate, Alice?” 
 he asked of Henriot, who started, then blushed. 
 
 “Well, she lives here; she has been taken care of 
 in her loneliness and poverty by the Princess de 
 Hatzfeld, who was a friend of the Beaurepaires; she 
 is with her in that house, at this moment,” said 
 Lefebvre. 
 
 “Alice here! what happiness!” cried Henriot. 
 
 “Yes,” said Lefebvre; “she saw us, when we en- 
 tered Berlin; spoke to the princess about us; and so 
 we are invited to dine to-day at the Hatzfeld palace. 
 You will not be sorry to see her at dinner, I take it.” 
 Henriot was overjoyed to renew his acquaintance 
 with his former young playfellow. In his heart he 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 211 
 
 felt he loved her as dearly as when they played 
 together in the canteen wagon. 
 
 The discovery of her presence here was even more 
 to this trne-hearted young soldier than his own recent 
 promotion. 
 
 The two men, father and son, called afc the muni- 
 cipal palace and were kindly received by Madame la 
 Princesse de Hatzfeld. 
 
 But; the prince himself was silent and morose, 
 though keenly watchful. 
 
 Henriot, however, heeded not the affability of the 
 one, nor the almost repellent reserve of the other; he 
 had only eyes and ears for Alice, who was as glad 
 apparently to see him once more, as he was to feast 
 his sight upon her again. 
 
 Old associations are the strongest of all earthly 
 ties; so altogether independent of their own youth 
 and good looks, they were attracted irresistibly unto 
 each other. 
 
 In talking and recalling the past they soon forgot 
 the lapse of time, but suddenly Lefebvre, who felt 
 it necessary to make his preparations to leave for 
 Dantzig at once, as the emperor had ordered, took 
 his departure. He was followed by young Henriot 
 who, however, in bidding adieu to Alice, imprudently 
 disclosed Lefebvre’s present plans, and hinted at 
 going to Dantzig. The Prince de Hatzfeld watched 
 the young lovers closely, and caught their conversa- 
 tion. He even played the eavesdropper, and was 
 caught by Henriot on going out, listening behind the 
 door. 
 
 The Prussian prince was aware that the French 
 emperor dealt largely in “surprises” which always 
 heralded some important political or military move- 
 ment. He felt convincerl that it was some “ surprise” 
 which had called away the marshal and his adopted 
 son so early from this dinner party — some surprise 
 
212 
 
 MADAME SAJSrS-GEME. 
 
 •which betokened some military maneuver against his 
 countrymen, the Prussians. 
 
 So forgetting, in his anxiety about his own people, 
 the parole of honor he had given to the French 
 emperor not to interfere in any political or military 
 matter, the Prince de Hatzfeld having listened and 
 discovered that plans were on foot for the capture 
 of Dantzig, sent word by letter to the Prussians of 
 this step in contemplation, thus putting them on 
 their guard. 
 
 The news sent by the prince would have indeed 
 been invaluable to the Prussians had they received 
 it. But they did not, for Henriot having told 
 Lefebvre how he had caught the prince listening, the 
 message was intercepted by Lefebvre’s scouts, and 
 the prince himself was arrested and condemned for 
 treason against the. French, and for violating his 
 parole of honor, to instant death. But the Princess 
 de Hatzfeld so strongly enlisted the feelings of her 
 protegee and ward, Alice, and Alice so strongly 
 enlisted the feelings of her new-found comrade and 
 lover, and Henriot so earnestly entreated the good 
 offices of his stepfather, Lefebvre, that j^apoleon was 
 at last with great difficulty induced to yield to their 
 triple pleas for clemency, ani to remit the death 
 sentence — an act of noble clemency which forms a 
 bright page in his history. 
 
 Dantzig itself, Dantzig long considered “the im- 
 pregnable,” was taken at last by the man to whom 
 Napoleon had entrusted the apparently impossible 
 task. Marshal Lefebvre, and after the capture of the 
 town, the marshal was made happy by the coming of 
 his wife to visit him, an event which really gave him 
 more delight than the taking of the town. 
 
 Catherine came to Dantzig first to see her husband, 
 but she also had another motive of the most delicate 
 nature. 
 
MADAME SAN8-GEME. 
 
 S13 
 
 The Empress Josephine, though fully aware by 
 this time of her great husband’s love, was also well 
 aware that she had many enemies — Fouche, chief 
 of Napoleon’s secret police, among the number — and 
 that one strong point with her foes was that she had 
 given the emperor no heir. 
 
 Her daughter Hortensehad given birth to a bright 
 boy, Napoleon Charles, whom Napoleon intended, if 
 he could do no better, to adopt as his successor. But 
 this child had died, and Josephine was in despair 
 thereat until she ascertained that one of the ladies of 
 her court who had been one of Napoleon’s sub-rosa par- 
 amours, had given birth to a son who was the very 
 image of his imperial parent. This un wedded 
 mother’s name was Mile. Elenore, an elegant bru- 
 nette, with magnificent eyes. Josephine had for 
 years been aware of her husband’s occasional lapses 
 from conjugal morality, but being also aware that 
 she really was the only woman who had, as yet, any 
 hold upon his affections, and knowing that her child- 
 lessness removed from her the right of complaint, 
 had submitted to this state of affairs. She even was 
 willing now to avail herself of this, her rival’s child, 
 and to present him as her own, with Napoleon’s con- 
 sent. And it was to interview the emperor on this 
 delicate point that Catherine, la Marechale Lefebvre, 
 had on this occasion ostensibly visited her lord and 
 master. 
 
 She, of course, revealed her mission to her hus- 
 band, who sympathized with Josephine in her pre- 
 dicament. “Oh,” he said, “if science could only 
 give the emperor a son.” 
 
 “But science canH^^'" said Catherine. “It takes 
 more than doctors to give the emperor a successor, 
 and even the doctors, in this case, seem to have lost 
 their skill. But,” continued Catherine, “at least 
 the empress has done all she can, she is beyond sus- 
 
214 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 picion, thongli nol reproach. She has not only loved | 
 her husband, but she has consulted all sorts of people, ; 
 fortune tellers and sorcerers, demanding some rem- 
 edy, some elixir, some drug, some something or any- 
 thing that will make her a mother. She has taken 
 the waters at Luxeuil and Plombieres which are 
 reputed to have the power to produce maternity. 
 
 But all in vain.” 
 
 ‘‘Well, I can vouch,” said Lebefvre, “that the 
 emperor has done all he can do to become a father, 
 at home or elsewhere. But none of his ladies, little 
 Foures, for example, Belliote, his pretty companion 
 in Egypt, Signora Granini, Mile. George, his court 
 ladies of honor, none of these have brought any heir 
 to Napoleon, though they were all very willing, for 
 the sake of their own importance; but none of them 
 has ever charged him with being a father.” 
 
 “And meanwhile,” said Catherine, “his brother 
 Lucien and Talleyrand advise the emperor to get a 
 divorce and marry some European princess. The 
 empress knows this and so she has sent me to see 
 how the emperor feels about it.” 
 
 Lefebvre did not like the task that Catherine had 
 undertaken, but as she had promised, of course, she 
 must keep her word. 
 
 Catherine, we may be sure, fulfilled her mis- 
 sion with all possible rapidity and honesty, and 
 discharged her task as probably no other woman in 
 the world could. But even she was not as successful 
 as Josephine expected, or rather hoped. Napoleon 
 on his side had his own secrets. He had been 
 somewhat weaned by his various mistresses from 
 his originally violent, passionate love for Jose- 
 phine. 
 
 Various books and papers have been written by 
 men and women by the Duchess D’Abrantes, De 
 Bourienne, etc., on the loves of Napoleon, meaning 
 
MADAME 8ANS-GENE, 
 
 215 
 
 his illicit loves; but no author or authoress ius ever 
 done the subject justice. 
 
 The fact is that Napoleon, though passionate, was 
 never constant, and for years he had been merely the 
 dearest, kindest, tenderest friend to, and partner of, 
 Josephine — no nJore. The wild delirium of his early 
 married life had subsided, and he had sought tempo- 
 rary distractions to divert his thoughts from a child- 
 less home. 
 
 Josephine’s early escapades during his campaign 
 in Italy had been reported to him by her enemies 
 at court; and Fouche, always opposed to her, had 
 on several occasions suggested divorce, but it was 
 really her and his childlessness which had rendered 
 Bonaparte unfaithful. 
 
 The list of Napoleon’s loves is long and interesting. 
 First, during his campaign in Italy, he carried on an 
 intrigue with a Madame Turrau, the wife of an ad- 
 herent of his cause, whom he afterward rewarded for 
 his convenient blindness by an office. 
 
 Then in his Egyptian campaign, he met at Cairo 
 (while at a ball given at the Tivoli, a garden like the 
 Waux-Hall), a Parisian modiste, a woman by the 
 name of Marguerite Pauline Belliote, who had mar- 
 ried a man named Foures. She was a petite, pretty, 
 vivacious blonde, who had for awhile worn male cos- 
 tume, and looked bewitching as a man. 
 
 Napoleon became captivated, and having finally 
 overcome her scruples, he sent her husband back to 
 France, ‘‘on a political mission of great importance,” 
 and then giving a dinner in her honor, installed her 
 in state as his mistress. 
 
 The husband returning from his “mission” too 
 soon, saw how he had been deceived and applied for 
 a divorce. Bonaparte seriously loved this woman 
 and promised her if she had a child, to marry her 
 and divorce himself from Josephine, but she was 
 
216 
 
 MADAME SAJSfS-OENE. 
 
 never able to claim this promise. He always provided '' 
 for her well, however, but in the end she proved ^ 
 alike unfaithful and ungrateful. 
 
 His next “affair” was with Granini, the opera < 
 sipger, who afterward (such are the strange vicissi- ; 
 tudes and transformation scenes of fate), became the ' 
 mistress of Napoleon’s conqueror, the Duke of Well- 
 ington. 
 
 Then he made love oi passant to Mile. Brancha, 
 of the opera, Paris; Mile. Bourgeois, the dancer; 
 and Mile. George, the famous actress, who remained 
 always his friend and admirer. 
 
 And in course of time, after many palace intrigues, 
 he established personal relations with the famous, or 
 infamous, adventuress, Madame de Vauday. 
 
 She was at that time one of the ladies of honor 
 attendant on Josephine; she “bled” Napoleon 
 freely. 
 
 One night she sent him a despairing note, stating 
 that she needed a large sum of money, and as she 
 did not dare to hope that her needs could be sup- 
 plied, she had resolved to kill herself. 
 
 The emperor at once sent her the sum she “needed” 
 and a love message with it, but she never got the 
 money, for the faithful aide-de-camp by whom he 
 sent it, came back and reported that he had found 
 the despairing, desperate, would-be suicide giving a 
 sumptuous dinner party to some gentlemen friends at 
 her cozy retreat, which Napoleon was paying for, at 
 Auteuil. 
 
 Among Josephine’s maids there was a Mile. Felicite 
 Lacorte, who shared with her mistress the emperor’s 
 favors. Likewise a “reader” by the name of Gaz- 
 zoni, and a “writer” by the name of Suillebeau. The 
 last mentioned lady lost her “position” through a 
 letter her mother sent to her, but which fell into the 
 emperor’s hands. The letter simply told the one it 
 
MADAME SANS-OENE. 
 
 217 
 
 was addressed to, to make hay while the son shone, 
 as it never shone very long. 
 
 Finally there came upon the scene, ‘‘the true 
 mistress” of his heart, and the woman who loved 
 him truly, the Countess Walewski, known all over 
 Europe as “the beautiful Pole.” This woman was a 
 sincere patriot; had married a Polish count of sev- 
 enty years in preference to one of the Eussian op- 
 pressors of her country of only twenty five years, 
 and fell in love with Napoleon, as much on account 
 of his war with Kussia, as for himself. 
 
 She became his mistress from patriotism, but con- 
 tinued the relation from affection. She bore him a 
 son (afterward Count Walewski of the second empire) 
 and remained faithful till the last. 
 
 No wonder that with all these distractions, his 
 love for Josephine had waned, no wonder that for 
 the sake of an heir he was willing to divorce a wife. 
 
 Yes, Catherine’s mission was not an unqualified 
 success. 
 
 But she managed to have her usual complement of 
 adventures nevertheless. The young Henriot in one 
 of his expeditions had been taken prisoner by the 
 Prussians beyond Berlin, and under such circum- 
 stances that he was justly, under the laws of war, 
 liable to death as a spy. Lefebvre was, of course, 
 distracted at the news. Alice was wild with grief 
 and fear, but Catherine determined “to go and do 
 something,” as she expressed it. “I will get the boy 
 free,” she said, “if I have to see his own real father 
 to do it,” and she kept her word. Lefebvre himself, 
 who, though he loved and missed the young Henriot 
 much, loved and would miss his wife much more, in 
 vain endeavored to dissuade her from her purpose. 
 Catherine could be as obstinate as a mule when she 
 chose, and she chose this time. Accompanied by 
 
218 
 
 MADAME BANB-GENE, 
 
 the ever-faithfnl and more than ever valiant La I 
 Violette, Catherine secretly left the French lines and | 
 penetrated into the very heart of the Prussian camp. | 
 There she, with infinite care and difficulty, saw 1 
 Henriot himself. There she met and recalled her- * i 
 self to the youthful and unhappy Alice, and there, 1 
 above all, she met for the third time in their event- | 
 ful careers, with the Count de Neipperg, who, by , ^ 
 the irony of fate, had the control of Henriot’s des- : 
 tiny, and had doomed him to perish as a spy. i 
 
 In vain Catherine pleaded for the young man’s 
 life, in vain she demanded his safety as a return for ; 
 her own past services to De Neipperg. The Austrian 
 nobleman reluctantly was compelled from a sense of 
 duty to his country, to refuse her request. ;> 
 
 Then Catherine at last fell back upon her secret 
 and human nature. She revealed to De Neipperg 
 the fact that this Henriot whom he was to shoot as a 
 spy, was his own and Blanche’s child. 
 
 De Neipperg denied this at first, insisted that ' 
 ‘‘little Henriot” had been long dead and buried, 
 having been blown up by a powder explosion in the 
 ruins of the baron’s chateau near Jemmapes, after | 
 the battle, but Catherine soon convinced him that 
 he was under a mistake, and that she had rescued, 
 adopted, and reared the deserted child, whom he was 
 about to kill. ; 
 
 And then De Neipperg naturally became as deter- 
 mined to save the young man as he had been to 
 destroy him. 
 
 He saw his child, revealed his relationship, and 
 gratified for the moment his paternal love. But, 
 alas! a new complication now arose. 
 
 De Neipperg had conceived the idea of saving 
 Henriot without violating the rules of war, by '^claim- 
 ing him as an Austrian subject, as he really was, 
 from one point of view — his father being an Austrian. ; 
 
MADAME SANSr-GENE. 
 
 219 
 
 But young Henriot’s high sense of honor, and the 
 love that he had been taught to feel for France here 
 interfered- ‘‘I am not, 1 cannot be a German,” he 
 insisted, ‘‘for I have not only a French heart, but I 
 was born on French soil. Besides, the only father 
 and mother I have ever known are French; so as a 
 Frenchman I have lived, a Frenchman I will die.” 
 
 All attempts to change this determination were in 
 vain, and to the intense grief of his father. Count de 
 Neipperg, his sweetheart, Alice, his friends, the De 
 Hatzfelds, and his foster-mother, Catherine, the 
 young man would have been shot as a French spy by 
 the Prussians, had not the Prussians in the nick of 
 time been routed and captured by the French (and 
 La Violette) under Marshal Lefebvre, the hero of 
 Dantzig. 
 
 On the 26th of May, Marshal Lefebvre made his 
 official entry into Dantzig. He had invited his two 
 colleagues. Marshal Lannes and Marshal Mortier to 
 ride beside him, and share his honors, but both re- 
 fused on the ground that Lefebvre having done all 
 the work was entitled to all the glory. 
 
 The moral and material results of the capture of 
 Dantzig were alike immensely important. 
 
 Two days after Lefebvre’s entry into the town 
 Napoleon visited the place. He gave a dinner to his 
 generals and placed Lefebvre at his right hand at 
 the banquet. 
 
 While Lannes, Mortier and the other high officers 
 awaited the emperor. Grand Marshal Duroc entered 
 bearing a sword, the hilt of which fairly blazed with 
 diamonds. With him came an officer carrying a cor- 
 onet on a cushion. 
 
 During the dinner the emperor asked Duroc to 
 “request the Duke of Dantzig to kneel and receive 
 the investiture.” 
 
220 
 
 MADAME SAN8-GEME. 
 
 I', 
 
 All eyes turned to Lefebvre, who himself looked ‘ 
 all around him to see this Duke of Dantzig, of whom < 
 he had not yet heard. 
 
 Duroc whispered to Lefehvre, ‘‘Kneel.” 
 
 Then the truth dawned on the hrave, hut modest 
 man. 
 
 He was to he the Duke of Dantzig, the coronet 
 and jeweled sword were his. 
 
 His emperor, after honoring, embraced him. 
 
 But Lefebvre seemed anxious to eat. “Are you 
 so hungry?” asked Duroc. “No,” replied the new 
 duke, “but you know, the sooner the emperor lets 
 us dine, the sooner I can gratify my wild desire to be 
 the first to embrace and congratulate the Duchess of 
 Dantzig.” 
 
MADAME 8ANS-0ENE. 
 
 221 
 
 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 MADAME LA DUCHESSE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVL 
 
 THE SALON OF AN EMPRESS AND THE REVENGE OF^ 
 CATHERINE SANS-GENE. 
 
 The emperor was expected at the French capital. 
 
 Victorious, master of Europe, having forced his 
 will on even Eussia, and his friendship on even 
 Prussia, he returned to his adoring Paris. 
 
 Meanwhile a State function, had been arranged in 
 honor of the new Duchess de Dantzig, and all the 
 little world of great people was talking about it. 
 
 The great people really wondered how the new 
 duchess would take to her rank. 
 
 There where many evil-disposed individuals each 
 with a tongue. Some sneered at her, as an ex-laun- 
 dress; but many of those who sneered had once been 
 quite as humble, although not quite as spotless. 
 
 The good Catherine’s reputation was stainless; all 
 that people could do was to laugh at her for loving 
 her husband. As for Lefebvre they laughed at him, 
 too, for being a good husband. 
 
 Though he adored Napoleon, he had never imitated 
 the example of his idol in one point — he had never 
 deceived his wife. 
 
MADAME SAN8~GENE. 
 
 222 
 
 “I follow the emperor in all -but he said. | 
 
 ^^Look you, 7nes amis,^^ he once remarked to his 
 officers, ‘^if I were to deceive my Catherine, I could ^ 
 not conquer the Prussians. I would be fighting my 
 remorse instead. One must have a whole heart and 
 a clear conscience to fight, one to twenty.” 
 
 Catherine, la Duchesse de Dantzig, was late at the 
 reception given in her honor by the empress. She 
 found Napoleon’s two sisters quarreling. Caroline 
 Bonaparte was a queen — the queen of Naples — Elisa, 
 from Saint-Cyr, was only a duchess. So the queen 
 scorned and snubbed the duchess, and the duchess 
 envied and abused the queen. 
 
 But while the sisters were bandying words, Cather- 
 ine’s husband was taking breakfast with the emperor. 
 
 Napoleon really loved Lefebvre. He needed and 
 valued fidelity above all things, and he knew that 
 Lefebvre was as faithful as he was brave. He also 
 knew that Lefebvre was poor; he resolved to make 
 him rich. 
 
 He asked suddenly at table: “Do you like choco- 
 late?” 
 
 “Yes, sire,” answered the new duke, somewhat 
 surprised; “that is, if you like it.” 
 
 “Oh,” said the emperor, “I am very fond of Dant- 
 zig chocolate; I will give you some. Here it is,” 
 handing him a little package, “you ought to have 
 some of the products of the town you conquered. 
 Accept this package. Such little gifts prove friend- 
 ship.” 
 
 Lefebvre carelessly put the “little gift” in his 
 pocket. “Thank you, sire,” he said; then added, 
 “They say chocolate is good for the sick; I’ll send it 
 to some hospital.” 
 
 “No,” said Napoleon smiling, “I particularly re- 
 quest that you keep it for yourself.” 
 
 Lefebvre bowed, but wonderingly said to himself: 
 
MADAME SAJSrS-QENE. 
 
 223 
 
 “How odd to give me chocolate, like a bon-bon to a 
 girl.” But he understood the emperor’s meaning 
 better in an hour or two. 
 
 That little package of so-called “Dantzig choco- 
 late” was of satin paper, containing banknotes for 
 three hundred thousand francs, the emperor’s gift 
 to the new duke to sustain his rank. 
 
 As for the new duchess, she was trying to hold her 
 own at the empress’ reception that morning. 
 
 She was in all the splendor (to her “horrors”) of 
 “full dress.” 
 
 White ostrich plumes were in her headgear; she 
 wore her ducal coronet; her trailing skirt arid long 
 cloak of sky-blue velvet were magnificent. And yet 
 in all her glory, she felt timid, she blushed. 
 
 Yes, for once in her life, and for the very proudest 
 moment in it, Catherine Sans-Gene did not deserve 
 her sobriquet; she was abashed, she did “care.” 
 
 She had sent for little Despreaux once more, and 
 he had “coached” her in acting as a duchess; but 
 as she entered the salon the pompous little usher, 
 forgetting her new dignity, had announced her by 
 her former title as “Madame la Marechale Lefebvre.” 
 
 “The stupid,” murmured Catherine, “he is like 
 me, he does not know his part.” 
 
 The empress advanced to meet her, and by this 
 time the Duchess of Dantzig was herself again. 
 
 And when the empress asked about her health, she 
 replied “that she felt as strong as the Pont Neuf.” 
 
 Then she turned to the little usher who had mis- 
 announced her, and told him “to learn his part better 
 next time,” and she called him “my lad.” 
 
 Then she took her place near the throne among 
 the court ladies who giggled and laughed. 
 
 Now Catherine Sans-G6ne could not and would 
 not stand being laughed at. She was vexed, but she 
 bit her lips to restrain the expression of her anger. 
 
224 
 
 MADAME SAN8-0ENE. 
 
 What are they better than I, these odious women,” 
 she thought. “Oh, if the emperor was only here 
 that I might tell him what I think of his court.” 
 
 A man approached her, looking like a cross between 
 a priest and a bandit. 
 
 “Madame la Duchesse does not recognize me,” said 
 the man, bowing low. 
 
 “Not exactly,” said Catherine, eyeing him with 
 some instinctive suspicion and dislike already, “yet 
 I think I have seen you somewhere before.” 
 
 “Madame la Duchesse saw me years ago,” contin- 
 ued the man, “when she was not a ” 
 
 “Oh!” cried Catherine, interrupting him, “you 
 mean when I was a laundress. Oh, don’t hesitate 
 to say it, man ; I keep my laundress dress yet, and 
 my husband keeps his old sergeant clothes.” 
 
 “Well, then, I did meet madame years ago, at a 
 public ball at the Waux-Hall,” said the stranger, 
 whose face, as Catherine looked at it, grew more and 
 more familiar. “A magician prophesied at the ball 
 that you should become a duchess — you are one.” 
 
 “While you, monsieur?” asked Catherine. 
 
 “I have the honor to be minister of police.” 
 
 “Ah! then you are Monsieur Fouche.” 
 
 “At your service, Madame la Duchesse,” said 
 Fouche with his lowest bow. “Permit me, ma- 
 dame,” he continued, “to take the privilege of old 
 acquaintance. You seem to have some enemies and 
 would-be rivals here,” looking at the court ladies. 
 “Let me warn you against giving them the advan- 
 tage by some slip of the tongue or temper; comprenez^ 
 vous^ madame?” 
 
 “ Oui! Monsieur Fouche,” answered Catherine. 
 She really could not but dislike this man, but his 
 advice was good, and perhaps he might help her at 
 this moment. 
 
 She suggested it to Fouche frankly, and he, with 
 
MADAME SANS-OENE. 
 
 225 
 
 his catlike smile, having his own purposes in view, 
 agreed to pull her through. 
 
 “I will be infinitely obliged to you, monsieur,’’ 
 said Catherine; “you know I left the flatiron for 
 the canteen, and the canteen wagon for the court. 
 It is not so much to be wondered at, if I know but 
 next to nothing of the last.” 
 
 “Well, Madame la Duchesse, watch me, and when 
 I tap my snuffbox with my two fingers, consider it a 
 danger signal and stop,^'^ 
 
 “ Ah ! Monsieur Fouche,” cried Catherine, “ I shall 
 watch you like a hawk ; I shall not for one moment 
 lose sight of you or your snuffbox.” 
 
 “Don’t mind me, madame,” said Fouche, “only 
 my snuff box, 
 
 And this arrangement having been made, the two 
 followed the empress and partook of a collation. 
 
 But the unkind remarks of her female companions 
 and critics pursued Catherine even in the supper-room . 
 
 The sisters of the emperor, the queen of Naples 
 and Elisa Bonaparte, turned a cold shoulder on the 
 duchess of Dantzig. 
 
 The queen of Naples showed behind her fan a 
 note of Catherine’s to the court costumer in which 
 she had spelled satin “catin.” 
 
 Then she told a story of how Catherine, having 
 missed a diamond, had herself searched all the cloth- 
 ing of a suspected workman, till she found her stolen 
 jewel. 
 
 Elisa mockingly turned to Catherine to get her 
 own version of this affair, and Catherine would have 
 fallen into this trap had not Fouche tapped upon his 
 snuffbox. 
 
 She comprehended at once what Fouche meant, 
 and what Elisa would have done; but she made up 
 her mind to give her enemies of the court circle a 
 lesson here and now — a lesson which they would not 
 
226 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 be likely lo forget. “I suppose Monsieur Pouche,” 
 she said to herself, ‘‘if he knew what I was going to 
 do, would tap harder than ever on his snuffbox, but 
 I don’t care; I am not called ‘Sans-G^ne’ for 
 nothing.” 
 
 Without pause she advanced into the very center 
 of the court circle, and looking at the two sisters of 
 the emperor, who for awhile seemed to have forgotten 
 their own quarrels to mock and make woman’s war 
 on her^ said to Caroline Bonaparte, “Your majesty,” 
 and to Elisa, “Madame la Princesse.” 
 
 All knew “something” was coming. In vain 
 Pouche tapped on his snuffbox. Catherine Sans- 
 G^ne could not have been “stopped” now by the 
 emperor himself. “ You seem to make sport,” she 
 cried, her eyes flashing, her voice resonant, clear as 
 a bell, “because a poor woman like myself was able 
 to discover a thief; but then, he was a poor thief, an 
 humble thief; he wasn’t a marshal, nor a court lady, 
 who take everything they can get. Probably I was 
 wrong in arresting a poor devil, when other thieves, 
 who wear coronets, pillage the empire and despoil our 
 country.” 
 
 All who heard her, everybody in that brilliant 
 assemblage, were paralyzed, motionless with amaze- 
 ment or anger. 
 
 “Ah!” continued Catherine Sans-Gene, “the em- 
 peror is good — too good — so good that ho is weak. 
 He does not care for money, he never did. I knew 
 him when he liived on next to nothing a day, but he 
 lets those he has favored and elevated rob him at 
 will. It is not the servants or the work-people in 
 the palace that should be searched, but the do- 
 nothings and the sovereigns.” 
 
 Her voice shook with anger. She, strong in her 
 own and her husband’s honesty, denounced titled 
 thieves unsparingly. 
 
 
 
MADAME 8ANS-QENE, 
 
 227 
 
 Caroline of Naples was herself as audacious as 
 beautiful and unprincipled; she was proud, too, and 
 sneered at Catherine. 
 
 ‘‘Madame la Duchesse is thinking of that era of 
 republican virtue when one was suspected if one 
 happened to wash one’s hands, unless indeed one 
 happened to b6 a regular laundress.” 
 
 The queen spoke bitterly, sarcastically, and as she 
 thought, triumphantly. 
 
 But Catherine Sans-Gene now shouted forth, 
 trembling with patriotic more than with personal 
 auger: 
 
 “Do not dare, queen though you may chance to 
 be, do not dare to insult the soldiers of the republic. 
 They were all heroes, and my husband was one of 
 them. They fought for country and for glory, not 
 for rewards or plunder.” 
 
 She paused as if to gather strength, but it was to 
 make a new and telling point. “Ah! our emperor, 
 God bless him, he will miss the soldiers of the repub- 
 lic, and he may need them some day. When he 
 seeks for friends among such as you, in hours of 
 danger, he will only find kings, queens, princes, 
 princesses, marshals and noblemen — by title — who will 
 in his hour of need, take heed only of themselves 
 and their thrones.” 
 
 Every word spoken by Catherine Sans-G6ne struck 
 home. 
 
 The Princess Elisa said to the queen of Naples: 
 “Come, sister, let us leave this. Who can tell what 
 more may be uttered by a laundress, whom our 
 brother’s weakness has made a duchess.” 
 
 Fouche approached Catherine. “ You spoke rather 
 too strongly, Madame la Duchesse,” he said, with his 
 slow, cold smile. “You would not stop though I 
 warned you on my snuffbox.” 
 
 “Nevermind, Monsieur Fouch6,” replied Catherine 
 
228 
 
 MADAME SAMS-QENE. 
 
 Sans-G^ne, now Duchess de Dantzig, ‘‘I shall tell ! 
 all to the emperor, and when he knows all I think | 
 he will endorse what I have said.” ] 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. j 
 
 THE RUSSIAN ALLIANCE— THE AUSTRIAN ALLIANCE— 
 THE DIVORCE. 
 
 France, on the 22d day of June, 1807, was every- 
 where victorious and full of glory. Lannes, Murat, 
 Ney — were names for soldiers to conjure by. 
 
 Napoleon once said of Ney: ‘‘He is not a man, he 
 is a lion.” 
 
 Jena, Friedland, Austerlitz, all three victories; 
 Austria, Prussia, Eussia, all three conquered. 
 
 Napoleon was now hailed by his soldiers, 
 jjereur d'^ Occident 
 
 He had been victor alike, in the East and in the 
 West. But after war peace and negotiations. The Man 
 of Destiny dreamed of an alliance with Eussia for 
 awhile. He hoped to marry the Archduchess Anne, 
 the sister of the czar, Alexander. 
 
 But in February, 1810, weary of ruse or delay, he 
 broke with the czar and sent an autograph letter to 
 Francis II., of Austria. 
 
 It was the most momentous of letters. For in it 
 he solicited through Berthier the hand of the Prin- 
 cess Marie Louise of Vienna. 
 
 He had already determined on divorcing himself 
 from Josephine. For she remained childless, and 
 the other schemes for an adopted heir to his domin- 
 ions did not please him; he wanted a son. 
 
 Josephine had long feared the long-delayed blow. 
 
 True, she held a certificate of her religious mar- 
 jiage, given her by Cardinal Fesch, and she counted 
 
MADAME SANS-QEJSfE. 
 
 229r 
 
 on the steady, though no longer passionate attach--* 
 ment of Napoleon. 
 
 But one day, summoned by the archchancellor 
 Cambaceres, she presented herself before the emperor. 
 
 The interview was as stormy as it was short. 
 
 It took place after dinner, on November 30, 1809. 
 When the cofiee was served the emperor took his 
 cup from his page and dismissed him. 
 
 Husband and wife were alone together for the last 
 time. 
 
 Napoleon spoke of his determination to obtain a 
 divorce, and gave his reasons. He tried to be calm. 
 
 Josephine was profoundly agitated, stammered 
 forth her love, reminded him of happy hours in the 
 past. 
 
 But Napoleon intrenched himself behind the mask 
 of a cold manner. 
 
 ‘‘Do not try to soften me,” he said; “do not think 
 to change my resolution. I shall always love you, 
 but policy demands that I part from you — policy is 
 all head and no heart.” 
 
 Josephine, with a cry, fell on the floor senseless. 
 
 Napoleon called for M. de Bausset, his chamber- 
 lain, and the two men carried the already ex-empress 
 to her chamber. 
 
 The emperor sacrificed love and happiness to what 
 he thought was policy. It was an error for which 
 he was punished cruelly thereafter. 
 
 His “luck” left him with Josephine. 
 
 The divorce papers were signed at the Tuileries, 
 on the evening of December 15, in the midst of an 
 august and solemn assemblage. 
 
 Napoleon, taking Josephine by the hand, read 
 with tears (and the tears were real) a paper, prepared 
 by Cambaceres, announcing his resolution. He gave 
 as his only reason for a divorce his desire for a son 
 by a second marriage. 
 
330 
 
 MADAME SANB-GEME. 
 
 It had been arranged that Josephine was to read a 
 reply, prepared for her, to this declaration, but tears 
 choked her utterance. She passed the paper to M. 
 Eegnauld de Saint-Jean-d’Angely, who read it in 
 her stead. 
 
 In it she accepted the decree of divorce with resig- 
 nation. 
 
 The paper being read, Josephine added one touch- 
 ing sentence of her own—the inspiration of the 
 moment. 
 
 am glad,^’ she said, ^‘to give the emperor this 
 proof of my attachment and devotion. I think it is 
 the greatest proof the world has ever seen.” 
 
 Josephine, by her attitude and conduct at this 
 period, atoi^ed for her early faults, and in considera- 
 tion thereof posterity has been far more lenient to 
 her memory than it would otherwise have been. 
 
 She has been looked upon ever since as the victim 
 of Napoleon’s ambition. 
 
 On Saturday, December 16, the consular senate 
 divorced the unhappy though famous pair, and at 
 eight o’clock Josephine left her husband’s palace for 
 her own separate establishment at Malmaison. 
 
 It was a dark, a dreadful night; the sky seemed 
 covered with a funeral pall. 
 
 The Eeuil road, one of her favorite rides as em- 
 press, now looked leafless and somber. 
 
 Her son. Prince Eugene, accompanied her. 
 
 The emperor himself, overcome by tender, mourn- 
 ful memories, had left the Tuileries for the night, 
 ?md passed the weary, lonely hours till morning at 
 the Trianon. 
 
 Two days later he called at Malmaison, tried to 
 comfort Josephine, kissed her farewell, and then 
 pushed on the preparations for the second mar- 
 riage. 
 
 Talleyrand and Eouch6, two inseparable traitors, 
 
MAIXAME 8ANS-QENE, 
 
 231 
 
 and Metternich, the Austrian minister (of whom 
 Cambaceres remarked, “He has aU the material for 
 a statesman, he is such a liar”), schemed day and 
 night to give the Tnileries a young empress. And 
 their schemes succeeded. 
 
 As for Francis Joseph of Austria, he did not hesi- 
 tate to sacrifice his daughter to save his crown. 
 
 Napoleon, now that he was to marry a young 
 woman began to change his habits and to give more 
 care and time to his toilet. With a view to please 
 Marie Louise he ordered a suit of foppish clothes 
 from that soldier-dandy Murat’s tailor. 
 
 But after all, when the clothes were sent to the 
 palace as per order, he would not wear them. 
 
 Young wife, or no young wife, Napoleon would 
 not appear ridiculous. 
 
 So spite the court tailor (Leger’s) offer to remake 
 the suit, he sent it as a present to his prospective 
 brother-in-law, the Austrian prince. 
 
 But he stopped wearing boots with spurs, and 
 ordered a superfine pair of shoes from a ladies’ shoe- 
 maker. 
 
 And then he sent for Professor Despreaux and 
 took lessons in the waltz. He intended to dance 
 with his bride. 
 
 He inspected the Tuileries critically. It must be 
 in some portions refurnished. It had been good 
 enough for him and for Josephine, but for Marie 
 Louise, no. 
 
 While on one of his tours of house criticism, he 
 met Lefebvre. Now Lefebvre had liked, and at this 
 time missed, Josephine; besides, he hated to seethe 
 emperor of France wed a princess of Austria. It 
 boded no good. 
 
 And then he didn’t like the idea of a divorce. Mar- 
 ried people should stick together, child or no child, 
 like himself and Catherine. 
 
233 
 
 MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 Life to his notion was a battle, and comrades should 
 not part in the middle of a fight. 
 
 But the emperor seeing the duke of Dantzig, took 
 him around his palace, showing him the new harp he 
 had bought (Marie Louise played the harp), and the 
 new jewels (Marie Louise doted on diamonds), and 
 finally confided to him the news that he, the emperor, 
 intended to allow the new empress a thousand francs 
 a day pin money. 
 
 But Lefebvre seemed to think that this was too 
 much, and that after all, the most valuable thing he 
 could ever give any woman was — himself, the great 
 Napoleon — and that all the treasures in the world 
 were naught compared to the glory of being the 
 spouse of the emperor of the French. 
 
 ‘‘Flatterer,” said Napoleon. 
 
 “No, sire,” said Lefebvre, “I say but what I think. 
 I do not know how to flatter — don’t want to know. 
 Like my wife, I am myself somewhat sans-gene.^'* 
 
 “Ah!” exclaimed the emperor, “as to your wife, 
 I want to talk to you about her. Come dine with me 
 to-day, we can talk at dinner.” 
 
 And he led the way to the imperial dining-room, 
 whither Lefebvre followed him, somewhat unwill- 
 ingly and wondering greatly. 
 
 “What can the emperor want to say about my 
 wife,” he muttered; “has Catherine been quarreling 
 with his sisters again?” 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE. 
 
 233 
 
 OHAPTEK XXVIII. 
 
 LEFEBVRE CONQUERS NAPOLEON — THE FLAMING 
 HEART. 
 
 The dinner of the emperor was fully prepared, 
 the table being set in one of those little dining-rooms 
 which the great man vastly preferred to the grand 
 dining-hall. * 
 
 To-day’s dinner to which Lefebvre was thus unex- 
 pectedly invited was simple, but elaborately served. 
 
 The guest noted that his imperial host was becom- 
 ing more of an epicure lately, and lingered longer at 
 table than had been his wont. 
 
 It was another sacrifice for the sake of Marie 
 Louise. “She is a German, and as the Germans eat 
 much and eat long, I suppose I must try to do the 
 same,” said Napoleon to Lefebvre, and as Lefebvre 
 liked eating, he was pleased with this new de- 
 parture. 
 
 But to-day his uneasiness interfered with his en- 
 joyment. “Why has the emperor brought me here 
 to talk about my wife?” 
 
 When the coffee was served, Napoleon asked Le- 
 febvre a leading question. He wanted to know what 
 people generally thought of his divorce? 
 
 Lefebvre endeavored to evade the question. Fi- 
 nally he told the emperor bluntly that most of his 
 old soldiers regretted it, simply because most of them 
 had risen along with Josephine, as well as with 
 Napoleon himself, and they “had got used to each 
 other,” whereas they all dreaded more or less the 
 aristocratic Marie Louise, who might despise them 
 for their low origin. 
 
 Napoleon assured him that his future empress 
 
234 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-QENE, 
 
 would always honor his faithful adherents for their 
 services. 
 
 ‘‘Yes,” said Lefebvre, “but how about our wives?” 
 
 “Eh? yes,” impatiently answered the master of 
 Europe, “but your sacred wives have not, like you, 
 won battles. They— — ” 
 
 “Sire!” cried Lefebvre, daring to interrupt even 
 the emperor, “they are the best part of our lives, 
 they inspire us to win the rewards your majesty 
 gives.” 
 
 “Yes, yes, I know, Lefebvre; but some of these 
 good wives make very peculiar court ladies. Why,” 
 his majesty asked abruptly, “did you so foolishly 
 marry when you were only a sergeant?” 
 
 “Sire,” replied Lefebvre, like the man and hus- 
 band he was, “if I have made a mistake I have 
 never discovered it.” 
 
 “You are a true and noble heart, Lefebvre,” said 
 Napoleon earnestly. “I believe in your words as I 
 do in your deeds, but even you must own that for 
 fhe duke of Dantzig your wife, good as she is, is 
 out of place. She is provincial, she is still a washer- 
 woman.” 
 
 “Sire,” replied Lefebvre, “she loves me, I love 
 her, and nothing can make me forget how happy she 
 has made me.” 
 
 “Still it is too bad you married in those young 
 days of the revolution,” insisted the emperor. 
 
 “Still, sire, it is a fact, and it is unalterable,” in- 
 sisted Lefebvre. 
 
 “ Unalterdble^^^ repeated Napoleon, then mean- 
 ingly, “do you really think it cannot be altered?” 
 
 The marshal shuddered a little, he began to see 
 Napleon’s drift. He stammered out: “Catherine 
 and I are united for 
 
 “But,” said Napoleon quickly, “so were I and 
 Josephine.” 
 
MADAME 8AN8-0ENE. 
 
 235 
 
 ‘‘Aye, sire,” replied Lefebvre, “but you are differ- 
 ent. You are the emperor, I — ” he really did not 
 know what to say. 
 
 “Seriously, my dear Lefebvre, have you never 
 considered divorce?” asked the emperor. 
 
 “Sire,” answered his faithful subject, “I consider 
 
 a divorce as a ” Again he knew not what to say, 
 
 although he knew what he meant to say. 
 
 Then to his astonished follower, the emperor pro- 
 posed that he, Lefebvre, should procure a divorce 
 from his wife, as he had procured one from Joseph- 
 ine, and then he, the emperor, would find his favorite 
 marshal-duke a more fitting partner from the old 
 aristocracy. 
 
 Napoleon went on to argue the wisdom, nay the 
 necessity of this measure, and some of his arguments 
 were very ingenious and eloquent. He was a master 
 pleader as well as a master fighter, a most able casu- 
 ist, and he might have convinced many a brighter 
 man than the one he was talking to. 
 
 But he produced in this instance no impression 
 whatever on the man he was talking to, though this 
 man all but worshiped him. 
 
 “Sire,” said the duke of Dantzig, “send me to 
 the end of the earth, to Africa, or to Siberia; dispose 
 of me as you will; shoot me if you like; deprive me 
 of the rank you have given me; but love Catherine I 
 must; live with her, as well as for her, I shall. 
 
 “Sire, even if I incur your displeasure, I shall not 
 divorce my wife. 
 
 “She is Duchess of Dantzig and Marechale Lefeb- 
 vre by your desire, but she shall always be Madame 
 Lefebvre by 
 
 Thus for the first time in his life did Lefebvre, 
 the duke of Dantzig, resist his emperor’s will. 
 
 Napoleon intently watched him. 
 
 “You are a model husband as well as soldier,” he 
 
^36 
 
 MADAME SANS-GEME, 
 
 said at length, but coldly, almost sternly. ‘‘I do 
 not agree with you, but I respect you, nor am 1 a 
 tyrant; do as you will, it is your affair. We will not 
 mention the matter again. Cleave to your wife, but 
 warn her to hold her tongue; she shall not introduce 
 before the future empress of France, reared in the 
 imperial palace at Vienna, the argot of her clais. 
 Oo, Monsieur le Due, I must see the minister of 
 police; return to your housekeeper.” Lefebvre with- 
 drew stunned. As he passed out Napoleon shrugged 
 his shoulders and uttered the single word — 
 ^Mmbecile.” 
 
 Lefebvre really felt uneasy as to the ultimate result 
 of his resistance. He did not feel sure as to how the 
 emperor would take it. On his return home he 
 found Catherine in the agonies of the toilette, trying 
 on a new gown ordered for the approaching irpperial 
 nuptials. 
 
 But she let her dress drop on the floor as she ran 
 to greet her husband. She noted, however, at once 
 his anxiety and asked forthwith, in her blunt, direct 
 way: 
 
 ‘‘Has anything happened to the emperor?” 
 
 Already it had been hinted abroad that Napoleon 
 was to be assassinated. Catherine could imagine no 
 greater misfortune — save the loss of Lefebvre. 
 
 Her husband assured her that the emperor was 
 well, but that he had had a difference with him. 
 Catherine was sorry, alarmed. It was dangerous to 
 defy the emperor, he could avenge disobedience and 
 he would. “But what did you differ about?” asked 
 Catherine. 
 
 “About 1/02^,” answered her husband. 
 
 “About me^ impossible,” said Catherine. 
 
 “It is true; and lohat do you think he wanted me 
 to do with you ?” asked Lefebvre. 
 
 “How do I know,” said Catherine, “unless he 
 
MADAME SANS-OENE. 
 
 237 
 
 Tvanted you to send me to the country. If so, do not 
 differ with his majesty but agree and thank him. 
 We can be very happy together in the country, dear.’’ 
 
 ‘^Yes, Catherine, .but the emperor don’t want us 
 to go anywhere together; he wants us to separate.” 
 
 ‘‘What! separate in time of yeace^ What ails the 
 emperor, Lefebvre?” 
 
 “I don’t know, or rather, I do know, Catherine; 
 but wAat do you think he wants me to do?” 
 
 “To lead another army, my great Lefebvre, or to* 
 become a governor of some. State, perhaps, why not^ 
 a k ” 
 
 “No, not anything like that, Catherine, he wants 
 me to ” 
 
 A pause. 
 
 “To what?” (another pause) “out with it, man.” 
 
 “To marry.” 
 
 “To ivhatf^ 
 
 “To marry again.” 
 
 “Again, and me?^' 
 
 “Oh, he wants me to divorce you^ Catherine.” 
 
 “Divorce! oh, Lefebvre, how abominable in the 
 emperor; and what did you say?” 
 
 “ ThiSy^ and he opened his arms. 
 
 Catherine threw herself into them. They em- 
 braced passionately, and they vowed once more that 
 naught but death should part them. 
 
 Each sustained the other, despite the vague fear 
 both had of the emperor. 
 
 Catherine, then still holding her husband’s hand, 
 led him to a sofa, and sitting down side by side, one 
 told and the other listened to the details of what 
 Napoleon had said at the dinner, and then both 
 guessed, as best they could, at his reasons. 
 
 Catherine was in the clouds as to the great man’s; 
 motives. “Does the emperor thi7ik because he ia 
 divorced that the whole world must follow his exam- 
 
238 
 
 MADAME SANS^OEME. 
 
 pie?” she asked indignantly. ‘^Lefebvre, I begin to 
 Jear onr^emperor has gone mad,” she remarked vehe- 
 mently; ‘‘mad on this subject of a marriage with a 
 real bred and born emperor’s daughter.” 
 
 Lefebvre would have it that “the emperor had his 
 reasons.” But both agreed on one point — he should 
 not carry out his ideas with them. 
 
 Catherine, woman-like, was very anxious to know 
 whether the emperor had hinted at any particular 
 ^rand lady whom he wanted Lefebvre to marry, and 
 breathed freer when assured in the negative. “I 
 would make it very unpleasant for that particular 
 grand lady,” she thought. 
 
 “Ah! I told our emperor I loved thee, Catherine,” 
 said her husband, as they talked with renewed ten- 
 derness, re-embracing her, “and none but thee. I 
 told him, dear, how we had been happy together, 
 how we had spent our youth together, and that we 
 had but one dream — to lead our existence together to 
 the end, till some stray bullet should send me to join 
 Hoche, Lannes or the rest, in the wars gone by.” 
 
 Catherine, blushing like a young girl with love 
 and pleasure, nestled in her husband’s arms. Sud- 
 denly she seized Lefebvre by the wrist, turned back 
 the cuff of his uniform, pushed back his shirt sleeve, 
 and revealed on his bared arm the tatooing represent- 
 ing a heart on fire, with the words: “To Catherine, 
 for life,” all in blue marks and all indelible, uneras- 
 able. 
 
 “Don’t you remember, dear?” she said, “you called 
 this ‘your wedding gift.’ There it is still, and there 
 it still will be,” she almost shouted triumphantly. 
 “ How on earth could you ever marry any fine foreign 
 lady, an archduchess or princess, with that on your 
 arm? What would any other woman say and do, if 
 she saw that, I should like to know? What a scene 
 she would make to be sure. I can see her now almost 
 
MADAME 8AN8-GENE. 
 
 239 
 
 snifBDg, ‘and who pray, Monsieur le Due, may this 
 Catherine be?’ Ha! ha! no, no, my dear old Fran- 
 <;ois Lefebvre, you never could marry any other 
 woman with that on your arm.” 
 
 “Well, for the matter of that, Catherine, probably 
 my other arm wouldn’t suit the fine foreign lady of 
 yours any better,” said Lefebvre laughing. 
 
 And turning back the other cuff, he displayed the 
 tatooing-marks upon the other arm, “ Death to 
 Tyrants,” which legend had been inscribed on his 
 flesh ever since the memorable 10th of August. 
 
 “Ah, see, Lefebvre, we belong to each other for 
 life, love,” said the completely happy Catherine, as 
 she laid her head upon her husband’s breast. 
 
 “Yes,” said the marshal, “yes, my love, for life.” 
 
 “Ah! if the haughty, foolish emperor who wanted 
 to part us could but see us now^ Lefebvre,” whispered 
 Catherine softly. 
 
 And then husband and wife more than ever united 
 by this attempt to separate them celebrated the last 
 battle, and comm'*emorated the great victory gained 
 by Lefebvre over Napoleon. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE ARCHDUCHESS— THE IMPERIAL WEDDING — 
 
 napoleon’s jealousy — POUCH e’s disgrace — 
 
 CATHERINE’S NEW HAT. 
 
 Marie Louise of Austria had been simply reared, 
 and though as proud as Lucifer to a parvenu (as she 
 and hers ever considered Napoleon), she was gentle* 
 ness itself to her imperial circle. 
 
 She looked upon her marriage with Napoleon 
 purely as a political affair, and really thought more 
 of her dog Keisu, or her young chevalier, the Count de 
 
240 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GENE. 
 
 Neipperg (with whom she had become acquaicted 
 under rather romantic circumstances at her father’s 
 court in Vienna), than she did of the emperor of the 
 French. 
 
 De Neipperg had met her one day in the royal 
 park at Schontounn, and had saved her from acci- 
 dentally drowning in the lake, while trying to pluck a 
 favorite flower. He had met her frequently after 
 this, having become a member of the Austrian 
 emperor’s official family. 
 
 Napoleon was just a little jealous of Marie Louise’s 
 dog, though he had the animal sent to Paris, to be 
 the pet companion of its mistress, but he was really 
 jealous of De Neipperg, who had accompanied the 
 archduchess and her suite to the French capital, 
 and he made it advisable for the young gallant to 
 return forthwith to Vienna. 
 
 The imperial wedding had been twice solemnized 
 with the greatest possible pomp, once in Vienna, by 
 proxy, and once in Paris, and Napoleon did all in 
 his power to render the ill-starred marriage, based 
 on a divorce and a broken heart, a happy one. He 
 endeavored to please his young bride in every way, 
 but in vain. She never really liked Paris, and she 
 could ‘^scarcely endure” Napoleon, who never felt 
 himself secure of her fldelity. He was sure from 
 her ample physique that she was destined to become 
 a mother, and to bring him what he most desired, 
 an heir, and with that he endeavored to be content. 
 But he was always jealous of De Neipperg, and 
 ordered his secret agents to see that he was kept 
 away from France. 
 
 He had his own political and state troubles, despite 
 the consummation of his second marriage. A plot 
 to assassinate him was discovered, in which the secret 
 society of the Philadelphes already mentioned was 
 concerned; in this plot General Mallet, Marcel, 
 
MADAME SAN8-GENE. 
 
 241 
 
 Kenee and others were implicated, and about this 
 time Fouche, chief of police, and now duke of 
 Otranto, fell under the imperial displeasure. ‘^Un- 
 easy lies the head that wears a crown,” proved as true 
 an adage in the great emperor’s case as in all others. 
 
 Such was the position of affairs when a grand 
 hunting party was arranged by Napoleon in honor of 
 some German princes visiting Paris. 
 
 The hunt was to be a state function, and the 
 duchess of Dantzig had ordered for the occasion a 
 superb, and what she herself called ‘‘a stunning” 
 toilette. 
 
 “Here is Madame la Duchcsse’s new hat,” said her 
 maid Lisette, to Catherine, on the day before the 
 hunt. Catherine was trying *on her new costume 
 just then before the mirror. The main elements of 
 the costume were to be a very long skirt, a coat with 
 metal buttons, and a cocked hat. 
 
 The hat had arrived with the rest of the suit; the 
 lady was dissatisfied, she found it too tight. 
 
 “I can’t get myself into it,” laughed Catherine. 
 “It will burst, or I will faint. I shall be laughed 
 at, I suppose, whichever happens.” She almost 
 sighed, then laughed again. “What do I care any 
 way what they say or do, those moths of the court; I 
 know them too well to care for them; who are they 
 any way? I would like to give that Queen Caroline 
 a piece of my mind if I could get hold of her; I would 
 remind her of her early days. She has reminded me 
 of mine often enough. I have sworn respect to the 
 emperor and to the new empress, for his sake, but I 
 haven’t sworn allegiance to this Caroline — this Ma- 
 dame Murat; I guess not — Madame Murat didn’t 
 gain the battle of Austerlitz; But, oh, that hat I 
 lise, my girl, let me look at it.” 
 
 She took it from her maid. “ It seems to me pretty 
 bad,” she said disdainfully. 
 
MADAME SAMS-GEME. 
 
 24:2 
 
 ‘‘I do not find it so,” said the maid admiringly. 
 
 Bah I you don’t know anything about it, Lisette,” 
 cried Catherine, ‘‘nor for the matter of that, do I,” 
 she added. “ Who brought it?” 
 
 “The hatter’s clerk,” said the maid. 
 
 “Let him come in,” said Catherine. 
 
 And the duchess turned again to her looking-glass, 
 trying to adjust the hat to her head. 
 
 The hatter’s clerk was shown in. 
 
 Catherine shrieked as she saw in the mirror the 
 face of the clerk. 
 
 “Leave us!” she cried to her maid. 
 
 “Ah! I guess Madame la Duchesse recognized in 
 the hatter’s clerk somebody she knew in her early 
 days when she was a laundress,” thought the maid. 
 
 And the maid was right. For Catherine in the 
 hatter’s clerk had recognized — De Neipperg. 
 
 “You in Paris! you here at Compiegne,” she ex- 
 claimed, in utter astonishment. “You in this dis- 
 guise! del! what does it all mean?” 
 
 Then De Neipperg hurriedly explained: 
 
 “I am here on an important errand for the arch- 
 duchess — I mean the empress,” he said. His errand 
 was indeed important. Napoleon had some time 
 before this missed a ring from Marie Louise’s hand, 
 a ring which he himself had given her, but which 
 she, on De Neipperg’s hurried banishment from 
 Paris, had given to him as a souvenir. The empress 
 had told the emperor that she had lost the ring, but 
 he did not believe her. 
 
 What rendered Napoleon specially suspicious was 
 that the empress lost the ring about the time that 
 he had found Marie Louise and De Neipperg seated 
 together in a summer house in the palace grounds— 
 a discovery which had been the direct cause of De 
 Neipperg’s exile. 
 
 It was necessary that this ring should be returned 
 
MADAME SANSr-GENE. 
 
 243 
 
 to the empress, that she might say she had found it 
 again. De Neipperg at Vienna had been notified 
 and had hastened secretly to Paris to return the 
 token. He had at once on his arrival hunted up 
 Catherine, tracked her to Oompiegne, bribed the 
 hatter to let him play clerk, and here he was. 
 
 ‘^And from here you must go back at once to 
 Vienna,” said Catherine with decision. ‘‘If the em- 
 peror finds you here, you will be lost, and what is 
 perhaps of even more importance, the empress will 
 be compromised.” 
 
 “Ah, duchess, I had hoped,” said De Neipperg, 
 “that you would be my friend to help me to see the 
 empress once more.” 
 
 Catherine said promptly, unhesitatingly: “No, sir, 
 do not count on vie. See,” she continued, “this is^ 
 no longer the tenth of August; I am now the Mare- 
 chale Lefebvre, Duchess of Dantzig, and my husband 
 and I owe all we are to the emperor. Give me the 
 ring; I will see that it is given to the empress, but 
 go away yourself.” 
 
 “But tell the empress for me,” said De Neipperg 
 earnestly, “if ever she is in trouble to send for me.” 
 
 “I will carry your message, sir,” said Catherine, 
 “but it strikes me as utterly unnecessary. Young 
 man,” she added proudly, “the wife of the emperor 
 of Franco, over whom the Goddess of Victory ever 
 watches, who^e throne is surrounded by prostrate 
 kings, is not likely to ‘ be in trouble.’ ” 
 
 “Ah, madame — ah, Catherine,” replied De Neip- 
 perg, “prostrate kings may rise again to revenge 
 their too-long servitude. Let your emperor beware, 
 a storm is gathering; it will break upon his head.” 
 
 “But this storm of yours,” said Catherine, “can- 
 not come from Vienna. Your emperor, man, is our 
 emperor’s father-in-law.” 
 
 “True, but Francis of Austria has no real love for 
 
244 
 
 MADAME SAN8-GENE, 
 
 Napoleon Bonaparte. It is policy only that unites 
 them. The tie will break and Austria will join 
 Eussia, Prussia, England, to dethrone and to destroy 
 your emperor.” 
 
 ‘‘But our emperor will destroy them all,” cried 
 Catherine confidently. “But we waste time talking, 
 you must go at once.” 
 
 De Neipperg was resolved to remain and see the 
 empress, but he thought it best at this time to pre- 
 tend to acquiesce with Catherine. “I will obey 
 you, madame,” he said. But at this moment the 
 maid outside announced M. de Eemusat, the emper- 
 or’s chamberlain. “Admit M. de Eemusat,” said 
 Catherine. 
 
 “Now I must be once more the hatter’s clerk,” 
 thought De Neipperg. “ So madame is satisfied with 
 the hat,” said he aloud, as the chamberlain entered. 
 
 “Quite so,” cried Catherine equally loudly, “quite 
 so; and you may present my compliments to your 
 chief.” 
 
 So saying the duchess of Dantzig seated herself to 
 receive with due dignity monsieur the emperor’s 
 chamberlain. 
 
 OHAPTEB XXX. 
 
 THE FAITH OF THE LAUNDRESS — THE MAMELUKES 
 OF HAPOLEOH — THE DEBT OF THE CANTINIERE 
 IS CANCELLED. 
 
 Monsieur de Eemusat bore a formal order in 
 which it was tersely stated that “the emperor wished 
 the duchess of Dantzig to come to him at once in his 
 study.” 
 
 Catherine hastened to dress. She knew that an 
 emperor does not like to be kept waiting. 
 
MADAME 8AN8-GENE, 
 
 245 
 
 She found Napoleon busy delivering orders and 
 signing papers; he seemed nervous. 
 
 Then he read the newspapers fiercely ; they were 
 the foreign journals, containing scandals about him- 
 self and his sisters. 
 
 One paper hinted at De Neipperg’s having been, 
 by the emperor’s jealousy, compelled to leave Paris 
 in a hurry; another journal alluded to the quarrels 
 between Caroline and Elisa. 
 
 Catherine felt that she had been sent for at an 
 unlucky time. She braced herself for what might 
 be to come, and she fortified herself by looking at a 
 bit of old-time, yellow paper, looking like a letter, 
 which she had put into her bosom before leaving 
 her apartments. 
 
 Eoustan, the emperor’s faithful servant, was on 
 duty at the study door. 
 
 An aide-de-camp had announced the duchess of 
 Dantzig and had retired. 
 
 Catherine on entering had bowed profoundly. 
 
 She waited, herself becoming rather nervous, it 
 must be confessed. 
 
 She was not altogether Catherine Sans- Gene in the 
 presence of the emperor. 
 
 It was very quiet in the imperial study, only a 
 clock ticked on the mantelpiece. There was no other 
 sound save Napoleon’s impatient exclamations as he 
 read the newspapers. 
 
 Suddenly the emperor looked up and saw Cath- 
 erine. 
 
 ‘‘Ah! there you are, Madame la Marechale,” he 
 said brusquely; “I hear fine tales of you, my fine 
 madame. What was the last one? Well, it is always 
 the same thing, with variations. Always rough lan- 
 guage, crude expressions, mistakes which get into the 
 
246 
 
 MADAME SAN8~GENE, 
 
 ignorant; but I am sorry that Lefebvre married while 
 he was a sergeant.” 
 
 The eruperor paused a moment. Catherine stood 
 with beating heart and pursed lips, biting her tongue 
 to keep it still. The great man took a cup of coffee, 
 at a table near by, and then proceeded : 
 
 ‘‘You cannot remain longer at my court, madame; 
 it is impossible. You must leave here and leave Le- 
 febvre — get divorced. It will not alter your title or 
 your privileges; I told Lefebvre all about it; did he 
 tell you?” 
 
 “Yes, sire,” said Catherine, “he told me all.” 
 
 “What did you say?” asked the emperor. 
 
 “Why, I laughed first at and then with him,” 
 answered the duchess. 
 
 At this reply, in his surprise, the emperor dropped 
 his cup of coffee. It fell with a loud metallic clang 
 against its solid silver saucer. 
 
 “What!” he cried; “well, but what did Lefebvre 
 say? what did he do?” 
 
 “Why, sire,” answered Catherine, “he kissed me 
 and vowed he would never obey you in this.” 
 
 “Do you dare to speak of disobedience to 
 cried the emperor. 
 
 “Sire,” said Catherine firmly, her hands on her 
 hips in the old fashion, “you are our master, our 
 emperor; we owe you everything. But although you 
 can send by a nod and a sign five hundred thousand 
 men to the Danube or the Vistula, happy to die for 
 you, you cannot make us two, Lefebvre and I, cease 
 loving each other; you cannot part us. If you even 
 think so, you are mistaken.” 
 
 Napoleon listened speechless. This was new lan- 
 guage for him to hear; he changed the subject some- 
 what. “But what do you say to the stories I have 
 heard about you,” he asked. 
 
 “ What stories, sire,” calmly inquired Catherine. 
 
MADAME SAN8-QENE. 
 
 247 
 
 ^‘Did yon not insult the queen of Naples, and niy 
 sister Elisa?” he cried impatiently, angrily. “Can 
 I tolerate such impertinence? have you no respect 
 for the emperor that you thus show all lack of it for 
 the members of his family?” 
 
 “Sire,” answered Catherine quietly, “you have 
 beeu grossly misinformed. I insulted no one, I de- 
 fended myself; but your majesty’s sisters, sire, they 
 insulted the army.” 
 
 “Insulted my army! what can you mean?” almost 
 shouted the emperor, rising from the chair he had 
 just taken. “Who dared insult the army?” 
 
 “Sire,” said Catherine proudly, ^^ioth of your 
 sisters outraged the army in my person. For I have 
 been a soldier, sire; I went to the wars with Lefebvre 
 as cantiniere of the old Thirteenth Light In- 
 fantry.” 
 
 “A good regiment,” said Napoleon. 
 
 “True, sire,” said Catherine, “and I have seen 
 service at Verdun, Jemmapes, with the army of the 
 North, the army of the Mozelle, the army of Sambre- 
 et-Meuse. Why, sire, I have been through eighteen 
 battles.” 
 
 “You have done well; I congratulate you, madame; 
 I respect you, madame,” said Napoleon emphatically. 
 “But,” he added, “I don’t remember Lefebvre ever 
 telling me this.” 
 
 “Why should he tell you, sire?” asked Catherine. 
 “Has he not glory enough for twoV* 
 
 “I was wounded once, sire,” she added, “I would 
 not have mentioned it only you brought this subject 
 up yourself.” 
 
 “Wounded, where, madame?” asked Napoleon, 
 really interested. 
 
 “In the arm here,” showing the scar of a wound 
 on her fair, white, plump arm. 
 
 Napoleon kissed the arm over the wound; he 
 
248 
 
 MAD AMU SAlSfS^QENE, 
 
 would have kissed it a second time, but Catherine 
 withdrew it from his eager lips. 
 
 Suddenly she turned to the emperor and asked 
 him, as familiarly as she would have spoken to him 
 fifteen years before: ‘‘Do you not remember a visit 
 I paid you long ago, on the tenth of August, in 
 Paris? I called on you at your little room in the 
 Hotel de Maureaud. Don’t you really remember?” 
 seeing Napoleon had really forgotten. “I came to 
 bring you your washing, you needed the things.” 
 
 The emperor looked puzzled, then half smiled, he 
 began now to recollect. “You were then?” he in- 
 quired. 
 
 “A laundress,” said she. 
 
 “ Ah, yes, true,” said he. 
 
 “ Yes, and somebody in your palace here owes me 
 for his washing yet. Will you pay me, sire?” she 
 asked, smiling. 
 
 “I — pay you?” cried the emperor, “are you mad, 
 woman?” 
 
 “No, sire, but I think you will pay me,” she re- 
 plied confidently. “ My debtor was a poor man then ; 
 he is a rich man now, and I think an honest one, 
 who will pay his debts.” 
 
 She laughed merrily, and she pulled from her 
 ample bosom the little old bit of faded yellow paper, 
 which looked like a bill or a letter. 
 
 And it was a letter — about a bill — about the bill 
 for washing done by Catherine Upscher, laundress, 
 for Captain Napoleon Bonaparte of the artillery. 
 
 She handed the emperor of the French the bit of 
 paper, which turned out to be an old letter which he, 
 when an ex-captain, had written to her, when a 
 laundress, about his indebtedness, promising to pay 
 her when 
 
 “Ah, yes, that was I who wrote that letter,” said 
 Napoleon, as he seized it. “Ah! how that 
 
MADAME SANS-OENE. 
 
 249 
 
 crumpled paper and that faded ink bring me back 
 my youth. Then indeed I was poor, alone, with 
 none to believe in me, yet you believed in me even 
 then, you, a simple laundress. Ah! now I do indeed 
 remember you — you were as kind as you were clever. 
 Ah! madame, believe in me again, that the emperor 
 will not again forget.” 
 
 Napoleon was profoundly affected by this little 
 incident; all his anger was gone. 
 
 ‘^But stop,” he asked, ‘‘had you not some other 
 name — some nickname?” 
 
 “Yes, sire, they called me Catherine Sans-Gene,” 
 answered the ex-laundress. 
 
 “Ah! true, I recollect, and I remember once Le- 
 febvre alluded to it in my presence. And now, 
 Madame la Duchesse de Dantzig,” he said, resuming 
 his imperial tone and manner, “ I shall see to it that 
 my sisters shall never reproach you with your humble 
 origin again. If it is a fault, you shared it with 
 Murat, with Ney — eh — and with me. By the bye,” 
 he continued, gliding back into the familiar style 
 again, “before we part how much do I owe you, 
 Madame Sans-Gene?” 
 
 “Three napoleons, sire,” she replied gayly. 
 
 The emperor smilingly felt in his pocket. 
 
 Parileu!^^ said he, “I haven’t any money with 
 me.” 
 
 “Never mind,” said she, “I will trust you again.” 
 Both laughed. 
 
 “Thanks,” said the emperor merrily. “But,” he 
 continued, “it has grown late, the palace is all asleep, 
 or should be by this time; I will send Koustan with 
 you to see you to your apartments.” He called his 
 faithful servitor. 
 
 Roustan lighted a candle to conduct madame to 
 her rooms. He started in advance of the duchess. 
 Then suddenly turning to the emperor he cried 
 
250 
 
 MADAME 8AN8-QENE. 
 
 with an expression that sent a cold chill through 
 Catherine’s veins; 
 
 ‘‘Sire, there is some one in the gallery, a man in 
 white uniform; he is going toward the apartments of 
 the empress.” 
 
 Napoleon became terribly pale. 
 
 A man in white uniform-— an Austrian — going to 
 the empress’ apartments! Who could it be if not — 
 if not De Neipperg, whom he had sent away. 
 
 “But De Neipperg is at Vienna, so Savary has 
 positively assured me,” he thought to himself; “I 
 am needlessly alarmed; but then it must be some 
 thief, some assassin. Well, I am awake and he will 
 be caught.” 
 
 So with the rapidity which characterized him 
 on the battlefield, he signed to Eoustan to put out 
 the light. 
 
 “Get behind the door,” he said to his attendant, 
 “ready to come when called.” 
 
 The imperial study from which they were emerg- 
 ing, was now dark; only the faint glow of the dying 
 embers of the fire in the grate could be seen, barely 
 light enough to show the way to the gallery. 
 
 In the darkness and silence Napoleon crept to 
 Catherine’s side and seized her by the hand. 
 
 He pressed it hard, he whispered “Hush.” 
 
 Catherine trembled now, for she was sure the man 
 in the white uniform was De Neipperg, who had not 
 gone but lingered. 
 
 “He is doomed,” she thought, “what shall I do?” 
 
 A door at the end of the gallery was seen opening. 
 
 “It is Madame Montebello,” murmured Catherine, 
 recognizing the empress’ lady of honor-in-waiting. 
 
 Napoleon pressed Catherine’s hand harder. 
 
 The advent of the lady of honor-in-waiting on the 
 scene increased his suspicions. She seemed to be 
 looking for or conducting some one. 
 
MADAME SANS-GENE, 
 
 251 
 
 Napoleon moved forward. Suddenly a man’s voice 
 was heard saying: “Duchess, may I pass?” 
 
 The man had mistaken his party in the darkness. 
 His form, groping in the dark, had stumbled against 
 the emperor. 
 
 Napoleon grasped the intruder firmly and cried: 
 “ Eoustan !” 
 
 His attendant, having lighted the candle, ap- 
 proached. 
 
 “Ah! DeNeipperg; it ^*5 he,’’ cried the emperor, 
 recognizing his rival — so he thought him. 
 
 A woman’s cry was heard at the emperor’s excla- 
 mation. Madame de Montebello had thus revealed 
 her presence. 
 
 “Eoustan, hold that woman,” cried the emperor. 
 
 The woman was held. 
 
 Then the emperor, beside himself with rage, struck 
 De Neipperg on the breast, denounced him as 
 “liar, thief, wretch,” and tore his orders and insignia 
 from him. “You are an assassin, a midnight marau- 
 der; you are unworthy of these noble emblems,” he 
 shouted. He was desperate. 
 
 De Neipperg, desperate likewise, drew his sword 
 to kill the emperor. “Death to you,” he cried. 
 Catherine threw herself between the infuriated men, 
 but Eoustan gave a peculiar whistle and three of 
 Napoleon’s Egyptian guard, his favorite personal 
 attendants, his Mamelukes, rushed in, and disarming 
 De Neipperg, bound him securely. 
 
 Catherine knelt to Napoleon. “Grace, sire, be 
 merciful, be patient,” she implored. 
 
 He heeded her not, he shouted for his aides. 
 
 “Gentlemen,” he cried, “here is a man who has 
 dared to raise his sword against me. Let some one 
 summon the due de Eovigo. This man must be 
 tried, sentenced and executed at once. By to-mor- 
 row morning all must be over.” And while De 
 
252 
 
 MADAME SAMS-GEEE. 
 
 Neipperg was led away, Napoleon in anguish turned 
 toward his own apartments. 
 
 The duchess de Dantzig remained like one stunned. 
 She vainly sought some means to save De Neip- 
 perg. 
 
 Suddenly Lefebvre entered, he had heard all. 
 
 ‘^‘What can we do?” he said to Catherine; ‘‘the 
 unfortunate young man has sacrificed himself. As 
 for me, I am doubly to be pitied, for the emperor 
 insists that as I am marshal of the palace I must 
 preside at the court-martial which will condemn him. 
 I must obey.” 
 
 “Yet he saved my life once, Lefebvre, at Jem- 
 mapes you know.” 
 
 “Yes, Catherine, I remember, and you saved Ms 
 on the tenth of August here in Paris. What can be 
 done?” 
 
 “Ah! at least we can give the empress warning if 
 she needs any,” said Catherine. “Here, Lefebvre, 
 try to get as near as you can to the empress’ apart- 
 ments.” 
 
 “That is easily done,” said Lefebvre. 
 
 “Then make some sound, some noise to awaken 
 her,” continued Catherine; “call out loudly to her 
 sentinels: ‘Be careful that no one enters the em- 
 press'" rooms; seize any one who is found hearing her 
 a letter^ even if it he from the emperor of Austria.'" 
 Do you understand, Jjefebvre?” 
 
 “No, Catherine, not exactly,” replied her faithful, 
 brave, but not quick-witted husband. “But I will 
 all the same obey you as if I did.” 
 
 And he did obey Catherine literally, thereby ac- 
 complishing her purpose and putting the empress on 
 her guard. 
 
 Meanwhile Catherine, looking around, saw Fouche, 
 Duke of Otranto, now in disgrace at court, but stil 
 the clever, unscrupulous, irrepressible Fouche. 
 
MADAME SAN8-0ENE, 
 
 253 
 
 ‘‘The very man,” said Catherine, as she saw him^ 
 and she smilingly advanced toward him. 
 
 In a brief conversation she readily convinced 
 Fouche that it was to his present interest to save 
 De Neipperg. The count was an Austrian, a noble^ 
 and a friend of the Austrian empress and her family. 
 Marie Louise would therefore be thankful toFouche 
 if he saved De Neipperg, and Marie Louise was now all- 
 powerful with Napoleon. She could show her grati- 
 tude by using her influence to reinstate him as 
 minister of police, and to remove his rival Savary^ 
 Due de Eovigo, who now occupied the coveted 
 position. 
 
 Fouche saw and seized the point at once. 
 
 “I shall delay the execution; that will give us 
 he said to Catherine, “and time is what we 
 want most now.” 
 
 “True,” said Catherine, and she began at once to 
 plan a scheme for De Neipperg’s escape. 
 
 But suddenly the emperor sent for Catherine. 
 She found the empress’ lady of honor-in-waiting, 
 Madame Campobello, likewise standing before his 
 imperial majesty — standing in fear and trembling — 
 but Catherine, once as alarmed as the lady of honor,, 
 was now calm. She saw her way to her purpose. 
 
 Napoleon examined the two women like a lawyer; 
 he cross-examined them, he watched them, while he 
 plied them with questions; but he extorted nothing 
 suspicious from Catherine and nothing at all from 
 Madame Campobello. 
 
 “I must know,” he said to himself, “if my wife 
 be true or false. My crown, my scepter, for a proof 
 that she is true.” 
 
 But his examination of the two women eliciting^ 
 nothing, his suspicions were allayed. 
 
 At last he said to Catherine: “So you think, Ma- 
 -dame Duchesse de Dantzig, that I have been mistaken 
 
254 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GENE, 
 
 in my view of M. de Neipperg’s secret visit to my M 
 palace to-night. ^ Yon really think, do yon, that he 1 
 has called here in this pecnliar manner, merely to 1 
 receive a letter from my wife to my father-in-law?” ; 
 
 ‘‘I am certain of it, sire,” answered in her firmest i 
 tones Catherine Sans-Gene. ; 
 
 ‘*Oh! wonld I were as certain as yonrself,” said 
 Napoleon. . : 
 
 “ Yon will be, sire, soon,” said Catherine. Nay,” 1 
 she con tinned, ‘‘yon can make yonrself snre at once, 
 this very moment, sire.” ] 
 
 “How so?” asked the emperor, with nervous in- 
 terest and anxiety. \ 
 
 “Her majesty is asleep, she has not been told?” ’ 
 asked Catherine. ^ 
 
 “Yes — no,” answered the emperor. 
 
 “Then let Madame de Montebello carry on t the 
 purpose for which she started from her room to-night 
 when she went to see the empress, when yon saw and 
 prevented her. The empress will, of course, not be 
 prepared for anything that has happened, and will 
 answer as she wonld had nothing happened.” 
 
 So spoke Catherine with assurance, knowing that 
 ere this, in the womanly manner her own woman’s 
 wit had suggested, her husband had indirectly given 
 the empress alike the news and her cue, 
 
 “By heavens!” cried the emperor, “yon are a sen- 
 sible woman. I will try your experiment at once. 
 Only,” he added almost fiercely, seizing the fright- 
 ened lady of honor-in-waiting by the arm, “do not 
 trifle with me; not a word, not a sign to warn the 
 empress. Go on, forward, but remember, madame, 
 
 I am behind yon.” 
 
 Madame Montebello advanced trembling. She did 
 not know that, thanks to Catherine and Lefebvre, 
 her majesty had been already notified in advance. 
 Napoleon stood, on fire with impatience and 
 
MADAME SAJSfS-OENE. 
 
 255 
 
 anxiety, in a corner. He clenched his hands, he 
 grasped the back of a chair, he looked, he listened, 
 his eyes were two balls of flame, his every nerve 
 tingled with excitement. 
 
 Madame de Montebello had now reached the em- 
 press’ room, and, as she entered, she left the door 
 open and said distinctly: “Madame, M. de Neipperg 
 sends me to request your answer ; he waits in the ante- 
 chamber. What shall I say to him?” 
 
 The empress half sighed like one suddenly aroused 
 from a deep sleep, stretched her arms, and then gave 
 a sealed letter, which had been lying on a table, to 
 Madame de Montebello. 
 
 “Here is the answer,” she said. “Greet M. de 
 Neipperg kindly for me and now leave me, for I am 
 very sleepy.” 
 
 The lady of honor-in-waiting, returning, handed 
 the letter which had been entrusted to her by the 
 empress, to Napoleon who read it eagerly, the two 
 women watching his face eagerly while he read it. 
 
 Then they smiled, for they saw the emperor’s brow 
 clear. They saw him press his wife’s letter to his 
 lips, they heard him murmur: “Dear Louise, she 
 does love me.” Then he went to Catherine and 
 wrung her hand. “Ah! duchess,” he said, “you 
 were right and I am happy.” 
 
 “It is well, sire,” said Catherine, “but how about 
 the count de Neipperg?” 
 
 “Let him go,” exclaimed Napoleon, “but let him 
 never enter France again.” Then calling M. de 
 Kemusat he said: “Give M. de Neipperg his sword 
 and tell him hereafter to use it better.” 
 
 “Ah! sire,” cried the voice of M. Savary, Due de 
 Kovigo, “M. de Neipperg is dead, as you have 
 ordered.” 
 
 “Dead! why this haste?” asked the emperor; 
 “could you not have waited till dawn?” 
 
956 
 
 MADAME 8ANS-GENE. 
 
 Savary was utterly surprised at this change of 
 base, but Fouche, Due d’Otranto, now stepped for- 
 ward. 
 
 ^‘Pardon me, your majesty,” he said, ^‘but M. de 
 Neipperg still lives, I took the liberty of ordering 
 his execution to ie ^postponed for your further in- 
 structions. So the men whom you told to shoot him 
 have obeyed me^ M. Due de Eovigo,” said Fouche to 
 Savary. Then turning to the emperor he said: 
 ^‘You see, sire, the men still take me for chief of 
 the police.” 
 
 ‘‘So you from this moment,” cried Napoleon 
 well pleased. “Ah! Fouch6, you are the devil,” he 
 added, “you see and foresee everything.” 
 
 Then turning to the Mar^chale Lefebvre, he said: 
 “It is time, Madame la Duchesse, for you to rejoin 
 your husband. As for me, I shall awake the empress 
 and assure her that her letter to Vienna has been 
 forwarded.” 
 
 Lefebvre now entered for orders. 
 
 “The emperor has pardoned De Neipperg,” his 
 wife said to him, “and, as you know, dear, he no 
 longer wishes to divorce us.” 
 
 “Bravo! I thank you, sire,” said the marshal 
 gratefully to the emperor. 
 
 “Lefebvre, when one has a wife like yours one 
 keeps her,” said Napoleon, smiling. 
 
 Happy in the fond faith that Marie Louise was 
 true, pleased that he had been merciful, sure that 
 Neipperg, through Fouche, had escaped Savary, 
 and left Paris, Napoleon raised Catherine’s face and 
 kissed her — a mark of unusual favor at his court. 
 “Good-night, Madame Sans-Gene,” he said. 
 
 And, rejoicing in his heart, Napoleon retired to 
 the room of his wife, Marie Louise. All this was 
 nine months before the birth of the king of Rome. 
 
 THE EKD.