t who is rather too fond of the
bottle. Joseph is considered the best gourmet or connoisseur in liquors
and wines of this capital, and Montaigne found his Champagne and burgundy
so excellent that he never once went to bed that he was not heartily
intoxicated. But the best of the story is that he employed his mornings
in composing a poem holding out to abhorrence the disgusting vice of
drunkenness, and presented it to Joseph, requesting permission to
dedicate it to him when published. To those who have read it, or only
seen extracts from it, the compilation appears far from being
contemptible, but Joseph still keeps the copy, though he has made the
author a present of one hundred napoleons d'or, and procured him a place
of an amanuensis in the chancellory of the Senate, having resolved never
to accept any dedication, but wishing also not to hurt the feelings of
the author by a refusal.

In a chateau where so many visitors of licentious and depraved morals
meet, of both sexes, and where such an unlimited liberty reigns,
intrigues must occur, and have of course not seldom furnished materials
for the scandalous chronicle. Even Madame Joseph herself has either been
gallant or calumniated. Report says that to the nocturnal assiduities of
Eugene de Beauharnais and of Colonel la Fond-Blaniac she is exclusively
indebted to the honour of maternity, and that these two rivals even
fought a duel concerning the right of paternity. Eugene de Beauharnais
never was a great favourite with Joseph Bonaparte, whose reserved manners
and prudence form too great a contrast to his noisy and blundering way to
accord with each other. Before he set out for Italy, it was well known
in our fashionable circles that he had been interdicted the house of his
uncle, and that no reconciliation took place, notwithstanding the
endeavours of Madame Napoleon. To humble him still more, Joseph even
nominated la Fond-Blaniac an equerry to his wife, who, therefore, easily
consoled herself for the departure of her dear nephew.

The husband of Madame Miot (one of Madame Joseph's ladies-in-waiting) was
not so patient, nor such a philosopher as Joseph Bonaparte. Some
charitable person having reported in the company of a 'bonne amie' of
Miot, that his wife did not pass her nights in solitude, but that she
sought consolation among the many gallants and disengaged visitors at
Morfontaine, he determined to surprise her. It was past eleven o'clock
at night when his arriv