His was still the
cold, inscrutable face of the emperor, such as it had been on his
triumphal entrance into Berlin and Madrid, after the victories of
Austerlitz and Jena, in the days of Erfurt and Tilsit, at the
conflagration of Moscow, at the Beresina, and at Leipsic. He gave no
expression to his soul's agony. It was only in the dead of night
that his faithful servants heard him sometimes sigh, pacing his
room, restless and melancholy. He did not yet feel wholly
discouraged; he still hoped. His bravest marshals were still with
him; his Old Guard had not yet gone, and at Paris there were many
devoted friends, because they owed to him honor and riches.
He was hopeful that Marmont's troops would arrive at Fontainebleau,
when, concentrating all his corps, he would march with them and
reconquer his capital. Engrossed with this idea, he was alone in his
cabinet; bent over his maps, he examined the various positions of
his troops, and considered when they might all reach him. But while
he was thinking of war, his marshals were thinking of peace. They
had withdrawn into one of the remote apartments of Fontainebleau for
the purpose of holding a secret consultation. There were his old
comrades Ney, Prince de la Moskwa; Macdonald, Duke de Tarento;
Lefebvre, Duke de Dantzic; Oudinot, Duke de Reggio--all of them
owing their glory to Napoleon: it was, therefore, pardonable if he
confided in their gratitude--but gratitude to the fallen, who had
nothing more to give, and whose misfortunes resembled an infectious
disease, repelling even his dearest friends.
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