Let’s have another look at Hortense’s Memoirs. If you want to read the book it is available for free at the side bar in English and French. Use the widget on the sidebar to translate the text below into pretty much any language.
In the passage below, we see Napoleon’s interest in escalating his role as a surrogate father to Hortense’s sons. Hortense also begins her relationship with Charles de Flahaut. This relationship is a constant source of torment as he professes to dearly care about her. He tells her he loves her but his actions don’t match his words. Was he a handler? Was there a love spell involved? Why are so many rich women engrossed with this young unremarkable man who just so happens to have a scheming mother who is clearly central to his pursuits. Note the patterns. The truth in these books can be found between the lines.
Hortense’s memoirs continues:
Madame Mere, who was worried about what was happening to her son Louis, thought of sending Monsieur Decazes to him. Monsieur Decazes, on his return to France from Holland and after I had refused to make him my chief secretary, had resumed his former post as judge, of a court of the first instance in Paris.
He had remained in touch with my husband. The Emperor's relatives thought that a letter from me might persuade my husband to return. I wrote it, but the curious thing was that the more I feared this return, the more I tried to have it take place in order to exculpate myself in my own mind of not wanting something which might make another person happy.
I therefore placed my best carriage at the disposal of Monsieur Decazes, thinking it might be used by the King. I paid the expenses of several trips he made to Austria, and some months later on, hearing that my husband refused to come back to France, I was very glad not to be in any way to blame for this attitude.
The Emperor had given the King an allowance of 2,000,000 francs, of which 500,000 came from a forest near Saint Cloud, a domain which had been granted my second son.
The rest was paid by the Treasury. When the King refused to accept this sum the Emperor turned it over to me.
I paid all my husband's debts and bestowed pensions upon those who had served him devotedly, even upon those people of whom I had often been forced to complain. Monsieur Decazes told me that my husband had given him a letter for me which the Emperor had confiscated, as he had also done several others addressed to the Senate, to the Secretary of the imperial family, etc.
That same evening the Emperor, next to whom I was seated, said to me very gravely "Your husband is mad. He is writing to all the French authorities. He has written you a letter which will not be delivered to you. I have kept it. He wishes to be somebody and forgets what he owes to France and to me. He deserves that I punish him by abandoning his children."
I could not understand what these abrupt sentences meant. The last one brought tears to my eyes. The Emperor noticed it. "Fortunately, I am kind-hearted," he went on, "and people always count on that. It is not the fault of those poor children. But they would deserve to be pitied if they had only their father to look after them."
That was all I ever knew about the incident, and for a long time I kept wondering what new grounds for irritation the King might have given his brother.
It was not until 1814 that I saw in the Gazette de Lausanne the text of my husband's statement to the Senate and the passage in it where he forbade me to accept anything from the Emperor.
He left me his estate at Saint-Leu and all his private property, which in France had only consisted of his house in Paris and the country place of Saint-Leu. The latter was charming, brought in no revenue and cost more than 30,000 francs a year to keep up.
The trip to Fontainebleau was over. My mother had come back to Malmaison, and I settled down in my home in Paris, free for the first time to arrange my life in accordance with my tastes.
My household had again been reorganized and established with all the importance due a person of my rank. The Emperor had given orders that this should be done, and he was right. He wished the princes to spend all their income in order that this money should go back to the people whence it had come.
Madame la Comtesse de Caulaincourt, mother of the Duc de Vicence, was my chief lady in waiting. She had known me from my babyhood and was sincerely attached to me. I had kept the Dutch lady in waiting who had accompanied me back to France, as well as my former ladies in waiting and my French officers.
Monsieur de Marmol was especially attached to my children, and Abbé Bertrand was my private chaplain.
Madame de Broc had come to live with me. Her bitter grief had given place to a gentle melancholy. Her affection for me seemed to fill her entire heart. I was equally fond of my friend, and constantly sought for her a man as exemplary as the husband she had lost.
I thought of Monsieur de Pourtales, the friend of Monsieur de Flahaut whom I had had appointed my mother's equerry. His fortune was very great, and his character charming, but it was all a question of time and of keeping Adele in ignorance of my plans. An indoor life would have been the only one which agreed with my constantly poor health, but I was forced to go occasionally in the evening to see the Emperor and attend every Sunday the family dinner he gave.
My frequent trips to Malmaison also tired me, as did the crowd of people. I did not care about those who were always there and toward whom I no longer had the strength to make the least effort to be agreeable.
The one thing I enjoyed was staying at home. I avoided receptions, concerts and the theater but gathered a little group of people about me, which was much discussed. All the persons belonging to this group were distinguished by their charm, their wit and their excellent reputation.
I had made a very limited selection, the establishment of which gave me quite a little trouble. Everybody who was received at the court felt entitled to figure on my list, and this made it difficult for me whose only aim was to secure a quiet, intimate gathering and pleasant conversation.
In the morning I received no visitors. I would sketch with Adele, and dine either alone or with her. In the evening, surrounded by my children I received, from eight o'clock on the people whose names figured on my list.
We played or sang. The gentlemen could play billiards. On a large table in the middle of the room everyone found something with which to amuse himself.'
The ladies sewed or chatted. Tea was served at ten o'clock. Frequently midnight or one o'clock struck while some animated discussion was still going on, which would have lasted still later had it not been for the hostess's poor health. I had great difficulty in persuading my officers not to remain standing as though they were on duty, but to join in our diversions.
I wished my home to seem like a family gathering where politeness is the rule and where innocent mirth does not dispel the respectful attitude of the guests toward the hostess.
I had been so successful in forming a drawing-room such as I desired and such as rarely exists that it acquired a wider reputation than I wished. In spite of my giving receptions and balls everyone had the ambition to be admitted to my private parties.
My sisters-in-law criticized me severely for allowing men to attend in ordinary dress-coats. I even feared the Emperor might not be pleased if he heard of it. He merely said to me one day, "People are saying that you have a clearing house of wit at your home."
“As usual people feel they have to be talking about us," I replied. "I would as soon have that sort of reputation as any other."
No more was said. It was natural that such gatherings should please me in several respects. I could say to myself: "Today these are my acquaintances; in ten years they will have become my friends. Slander will no longer be able to touch me. At least I shall have some defenders. Now people may meet me informally, judge me for themselves, and if I please them they will reward me with their affection. What more do I need?"
I shall not seek to hide the fact that it was the wish to see the man I loved which made me invite many others and take extra pains to form an agreeable social circle. I never sent special invitations to those whom I had informed once and for all that their names were on my list.
They were free to come or not as they chose. This is how I understand social life. I did not wish to impose a respect for my rank which would make them feel obliged to accept my invitation and perhaps refuse one they would have enjoyed more.
This complete informality made admission to my circle a dearly sought privilege. If I happened to be absent one day I was sure that those who had not found me at home would return the following evening more eagerly than ever.
Monsieur de Flahaut was not one of the least assiduous of my guests. As soon as he came into the room, no matter how easy the conversation I was having might be, it at once became difficult for me. My wits deserted me as long as he was present. I could not find a word to say.
I knew I should have to speak to him as to any other guest, but I could do so only by not looking at him, in a voice that was not my natural one. If he made a remark, I did not seem to have heard it. Yet not a syllable he spoke was lost to me.
Frequently he complained that I was not as pleasant to him as to the others. A smile informed him how welcome this reproof was to me, since it showed that I had been able to conceal the violence of my emotions. Monsieur de Flahaut wrote me often. When I answered him, I took no pains to hide my affection. It seemed that when he was absent, I cared a thousand times more for him.
I no longer had to struggle to preserve appearances and I should have reproached myself if I had not let him see how dear he was to me. Yet when I saw him again everything was different. He must have found me difficult to understand.
I alone could know my varied emotions. It was when hostilities forced him into the midst of danger that I felt I should go mad with anxiety. I could talk about nothing else but Monsieur de Flahaut to Adele; he was the object of all my thoughts. But when he came back, I was nervous and embarrassed.
The only way I betrayed the fact that I cared for him was in my efforts to stifle it. I do not know whether I appeared to him to be utterly indifferent. But the persons who were near me could make no such mistake.
They were too much interested in the feelings of her on whom they were dependent not to discover the secret it was so difficult for her to keep. The clairvoyant friendship of Adele had something admirable about it.
If, leaning against the mantelpiece, Monsieur de Flahaut had managed to remain alone with me, if our conversation lasted longer than it should have done, she would come up and remind me that other persons were present who would feel offended if I did not speak to them.
A desire to protect me made her sense the maliciousness of others, and her affection was always on the watch for means of preserving me from it. A word or a sign from her was at once understood, and my heart was always as grateful as it was docile to her suggestion.
May I confess one of my faults that caused me the greatest suffering? I was jealous, and this jealousy was of the kind that embitters the soul because it does not utter a single complaint but consumes a person in silence.
Monsieur de Flahaut was a man whose qualities and weaknesses were of the type that best inspires such sentiments. He had an excellent mind, a quick wit and was charming and even brilliant, sensitive but superficial, more desirous of being liked than yearning to be loved.
Completely absorbed in the task of charming any woman whose interest he happened to have aroused, he frequently hurt the feelings of the one whom he seemed to have forgotten. Eager though he was to see me, he was equally attracted by other pleasures which separated us. Although there was not one he would not have sacrificed for my sake, there was not one which he deliberately abstained from. I urged him to amuse himself, ashamed of my secret impulse to restrain him, happy if he disobeyed me, alarmed if he obeyed too willingly, and always in the end wondering, since what he felt was what people call love, what name I should give to my own emotion.
In spite of my eagerness to see him again I never once asked him, "Shall I see you tomorrow?" I always waited for him to express his desire to see me as I could only enjoy what was offered me spontaneously. Many ladies seemed interested in Monsieur de Flahaut. I noticed this. If he had told me about it I should have believed him. I repeatedly told him that no lasting affection can exist between two people unless it is founded on mutual confidence, that such frankness excuses all faults, and since none of us are perfect at least we should try to be sincere.
In vain he assured me that he could never love another woman, that people like me were too rarely met with, that it was I who had for the first time made him believe there was good in the world, that I was making him better, that he never would have the courage to be unfaithful to me.
Yet in spite of all these assurances I was always making him confess some passing fancy, and the present like the future was troubled by them. I was too keenly aware that in view of his character I must anticipate someday his no longer caring for me. But I wished him to be the one to announce this to me, to come to me and say, "I love someone else."
I insisted he should do this, so convinced was I that I would hold out my hand to the man who had just pierced my heart and even sympathize with the woman who had taken his affection from me. If that was not love it was something finer.
Every time I complained to Madame de Broc how unhappy I was she would say, "Certainly you have not that happiness which you once dreamed of. But look around you. Who is there who is perfectly happy? Fate has tied you irrevocably to a man with whom you cannot live and fate has separated you from him without even giving you any reason to blame yourself for this separation. After a long period of slavery, you at last are free, mistress of your own actions. Your children are near you. You are enormously wealthy, you can do much good. You are loved and admired by all those who know you and yet you blame Providence."
Feeling the wisdom of these remarks, I conquered my discouragement and sought at least to bring happiness to others. I took particular pains to leave those about me entirely free. I do not believe I ever refused a single request that might give someone pleasure. Yet, in spite of this I saw people frequently discontented.
The original French is available below:
