these extraordinary letters—more extraordinary because of the character of the man who wrote them and of his surroundings—her comment is one of the most fatuous utterances recorded in history: "What an odd creature Bonaparte is!" she says. "What an odd creature Bonaparte is" is really delightful in its sublime unconsciousness—in its naïveté, in its tragic forecast of her subsequent fate. M. Lévy—who is a simple man himself—describes the phrase as "vulgar and unseemly." His comment is as simple as the original phrase. It is not specially vulgar or specially unseemly; it is gigantically stupid.
Above all things, Josephine did not wish to leave her beloved Paris. And life in that delightful city was now more delightful than ever, for the victories of her husband, producing mighty street demonstrations, reflected their glory on her; she is cheered as she rides through the triumphant crowds; she is at last in a steady and brilliant social position. She tries all kinds of expedients to excuse her delay in departing for her husband's camp, until at last she takes refuge in the splendid invention that she is enceinte.
At once Napoleon is pacified, and he bursts out into a profusion of apologies, regrets, almost grovelling palinodes. As thus:
"My life is a perpetual nightmare. A horrible presentiment prevents me from breathing. I live no more. I have lost more than life, more than
