rom the choosing of a
wife to the discarding of a mistress, that this young conqueror of
thirty-six did not claim the right of discussing and of finally
settling. Talleyrand broke once more into his benevolent but
inscrutable smile.

'I suppose that it is from early association, Sire,' said he, 'but my
instincts are to avoid marriage.'

Napoleon began to laugh.

'I forget sometimes that it is really the Bishop of Autun to whom I am
speaking,' said he. 'I think that perhaps I have interest enough with
the Pope to ask him, in return for any little attention which we gave
him at the Coronation, to show you some leniency in this matter. She is
a clever woman, this Madame Grand. I have observed that she listens
with attention.'

Talleyrand shrugged his rounded shoulders. 'Intellect in a woman is not
always an advantage, Sire. A clever woman compromises her husband.
A stupid woman only compromises herself.'

'The cleverest woman,' said Napoleon, 'is the woman who is clever enough
to conceal her cleverness. The women in France have always been a
danger, for they are cleverer than the men. They cannot understand that
it is their hearts and not their heads that we want. When they have had
influence upon a monarch, they have invariably ruined his career. Look
at Henry the Fourth and Louis the Fourteenth. They are all ideologists,
dreamers, sentimentalists, full of emotion and energy, but without logic
or foresight. Look at that accursed Madame de Stael! Look at the
Salons of the Quartier St. Germain! Their eternal clack, clack, clack
give me more trouble than the fleet of England. Why cannot they look
after their babies and their needlework? I suppose you think that these
are very dreadful opinions, Monsieur de Laval?'

It was not an easy question to answer, so I was silent.

'You have not at your age become a practical man,' said the Emperor.
'You will understand then. I dare say that I thought as you do at the
time when the stupid Parisians were saying what a misalliance the widow
of the famous General de Beauharnais was making by marrying the unknown
Buonaparte. It was a beautiful dream! There are nine inns in a single
day's journey between Milan and Mantua, and I wrote a letter to my wife
from each of them. Nine letters in a day--but one becomes
disillusioned, monsieur. One learns to accept things as they are.'

I could not but think what a beautiful young man he must have been
before he had lea