When Roland returned to the Luxembourg, the clock of the palace marked one hour and a quarter after mid-day.  
The First Consul¹ was working with Bourrienne.
 
If we were merely writing a novel, we should hasten to its close, and in order to get there more expeditiously² we should neglect certain details, which, we are told, historical figures can do without. That is not our opinion. From the day we first put pen to paper—now some thirty years ago—whether our thought were concentrated on a drama, or whether it spread itself into a novel, we have had a double end—to instruct and to amuse.
 
And we say instruct first, for amusement has never been to our mind anything but a mask for instruction. Have we succeeded? We think so. Before long we shall have covered with our narratives⁴ an enormous period of time; between the “Comtesse de Salisbury” and the “Comte de Monte-Cristo” five centuries and a half are comprised. Well, we assert that we have taught France as much history about those five centuries and a half as any historian.
 
More than that; although our opinions are well known; although, under the Bourbons of the elder branch as under the Bourbons of the younger branch, under the Republic as under the present government, we have always proclaimed them loudly, we do not believe that that opinion has been unduly⁵ manifested in our books and dramas.
 
We admire the Marquis de Posa in Schiller’s “Don Carlos”; but, in his stead, we should not have anticipated the spirit of that age to the point of placing a philosopher of the eighteenth century among the heroes of the sixteenth, an encyclopedist at the court of Philippe II. Therefore, just as we have been—in literary parlance—monarchical under the Monarchy⁶, republican under the Republic, we are to-day reconstructionists under the Consulate⁷.
 
That does not prevent our thought from hovering⁸ above men, above their epoch⁹, and giving to each the share of good and evil they do. Now that share no one, except God, has the right to award from his individual point of view. The kings of Egypt who, at the moment they passed into the unknown, were judged upon the threshold of their tombs, were not judged by a man, but by a people. That is why it is said: “The judgment¹⁰ of a people is the judgment of God.”
 
Historian, novelist, poet, dramatic author, we are nothing more than the foreman of a jury who impartially¹¹ sums up the arguments and leaves the jury to give their verdict. The book is the summing up; the readers are the jury.
 
That is why, having to paint one of the most gigantic figures, not only of modern times but of all times; having to paint the period of his transition, that is to say the moment when Bonaparte transformed himself into Napoleon, the general into an emperor—that is why we say, in the fear of becoming unjust, we abandon interpretations¹² and substitute facts.
 
We are not of those who say with Voltaire that, “no one is a hero to his valet.”
 
It may be that the valet is near-sighted or envious—two infirmities that resemble each other more closely than people think. We maintain that a hero may become a kind man, but a hero, for being kind, is none the less a hero.
 
What is a hero in the eyes of the public? A man whose genius is momentarily greater than his heart. What is a hero in private life? A man whose heart is momentarily greater than his genius.
 
Historians, judge the genius!
 
People, judge the heart!
 
Who judged Charlemagne? The historians. Who judged Henri IV.? The people. Which, in your opinion, was the most righteously judged?
 
Well, in order to render just judgment, and compel the court of appeals, which is none other than posterity¹³, to confirm contemporaneous judgments¹⁴, it is essential not to light up one side only of the figure we depict¹⁵, but to walk around it, and wherever the sunlight does not reach, to hold a torch, or even a candle.
 
Now, let us return to Bonaparte.
 
He was working, as we said, with Bourrienne. Let us inquire into the usual division of the First Consul’s time.
 
He rose at seven or eight in the morning, and immediately called one of his secretaries, preferably Bourrienne, and worked with him until ten. At ten, breakfast was announced; Josephine, Hortense and Eugène either waited or sat down to table with the family, that is with the aides-de-camp on duty and Bourrienne. After breakfast he talked with the usual party, or the invited guests, if there were any; one hour was devoted¹⁶ to this intercourse¹⁷, which was generally shared by the First Consul’s two brothers, Lucien and Joseph, Regnault de Saint-Jean-d’Angely, Boulay (de la Meurthe), Monge, Berthollet, Laplace and Arnault. Toward noon Cambacérès arrived. As a general thing Bonaparte devoted half an hour to his chancellor¹⁸; then suddenly, without warning, he would rise and say: “Au revoir, Josephine! au revoir, Hortense! Come, Bourrienne, let us go to work.”
 
This speech, which recurred¹⁹ almost regularly in the same words, was no sooner uttered than Bonaparte left the salon²⁰ and returned to his study. There, no system of work was adopted; it might be some urgent matter or merely a caprice. Either Bonaparte dictated²² or Bourrienne read, after which the First Consul went to the council.
 
In the earlier months of the Consulate, he was obliged to cross the courtyard of the little Luxembourg to reach the council-chamber, which, if the weather were rainy, put him in bad humor; but toward the end of December he had the courtyard covered; and from that time he almost always returned to his study singing. Bonaparte sang almost as false as Louis XV.
 
As soon as he was back he examined the work he had ordered done, signed his letters, and stretched himself out in his armchair, the arms of which he stabbed with his penknife as he talked. If he was not inclined to talk, he reread the letters of the day before, or the pamphlets of the day, laughing at intervals²³ with the hearty²⁴ laugh of a great child. Then suddenly, as one awakening²⁵ from a dream, he would spring to his feet and cry out: “Write, Bourrienne!”
 
Then he would sketch²⁷ out the plan for some building to be erected²⁹, or dictate²¹ some one of those vast projects which have amazed—let us say rather, terrified the world.
 
At five o’clock he dined; after dinner the First Consul ascended³⁰ to Josephine’s apartments, where he usually received the visits of the ministers, and particularly that of the minister of foreign affairs, M. de Talleyrand. At midnight, sometimes earlier, but never later, he gave the signal for retiring by saying, brusquely: “Let us go to bed.”
 
The next day, at seven in the morning, the same life began over again, varied³¹ only by unforeseen incidents.
 
After these details of the personal habits of the great genius we are trying to depict under his first aspect, his personal portrait ought, we think, to come.
 
Bonaparte, First Consul, has left fewer indications of his personal appearance than Napoleon, Emperor. Now, as nothing less resembles the Emperor of 1812 than the First Consul of 1800; let us endeavor, if possible, to sketch with a pen those features which the brush has never fully³² portrayed³³, that countenance³⁵ which neither bronze nor marble has been able to render. Most of the painters and sculptors³⁶ who flourished during this illustrious period of art—Gros, David, Prud’hon, Girodet and Bosio—have endeavored to transmit to posterity the features of the Man of Destiny, at the different epochs when the vast providential vistas³⁷ which beckoned³⁸ him first revealed themselves. Thus, we have portraits of Bonaparte, commander-in-chief, Bonaparte, First Consul, and Napoleon, Emperor; and although some painters and sculptors have caught more or less successfully the type of his face, it may be said that there does not exist, either of the general, the First Consul, or the emperor, a single portrait or bust³⁹ which perfectly⁴⁰ resembles him.
 
It was not within the power of even genius to triumph over an impossibility. During the first part of Bonaparte’s life it was possible to paint or chisel⁴¹ Bonaparte’s protuberant⁴² skull⁴³, his brow furrowed⁴⁴ by the sublime⁴⁵ line of thought, his pale elongated⁴⁶ face, his granite⁴⁷ complexion⁴⁸, and the meditative⁴⁹ character of his countenance. During the second part of his life it was possible to paint or to chisel his broadened forehead, his admirably defined eyebrows⁵⁰, his straight nose, his close-pressed lips, his chin modelled with rare perfection, his whole face, in short, like a coin of Augustus. But that which neither his bust nor his portrait could render, which was utterly⁵¹ beyond the domain⁵² of imitation, was the mobility⁵³ of his look; that look which is to man what the lightning is to God, namely, the proof of his divinity.
 
In Bonaparte, that look obeyed his will with the rapidity of lightning; in one and the same minute it dared from beneath his eyelids⁵⁴, now keen and piercing as the blade of a dagger⁵⁵ violently unsheathed, now soft as a sun ray or a kiss, now stern as a challenge, or terrible as a threat.
 
Bonaparte had a look for every thought that stirred his soul. In Napoleon, this look, except in the momentous⁵⁶ circumstances of his life, ceased to be mobile and became fixed⁵⁷, but even so it was none the less impossible to render; it was a drill sounding the heart of whosoever he looked upon, the deepest, the most secret thought of which he meant to sound. Marble or painting might render the fixedness⁵⁸ of that look, but neither the one nor the other could portray³⁴ its life—that is to say, its penetrating⁵⁹ and magnetic action. Troubled hearts have veiled eyes.
 
Bonaparte, even in the days of his leanness, had beautiful hands, and he displayed them with a certain coquetry. As he grew stouter⁶¹ his hands became superb; he took the utmost care of them, and looked at them when talking, with much complacency. He felt the same satisfaction in his teeth, which were handsome, though not with the splendor⁶² of his hands.
 
When he walked, either alone or with some one, whether in a room or in a garden, he always bent⁶³ a little forward, as though his head were heavy to carry, and crossed his hands behind his back. He frequently made an involuntary movement with the right shoulder, as if a nervous shudder⁶⁴ had passed through it, and at the same time his mouth made a curious movement from right to left, which seemed to result from the other. These movements, however, had nothing convulsive about them, whatever may have been said notwithstanding; they were a simple trick indicative of great preoccupation, a sort of congestion⁶⁶ of the mind. It was chiefly manifested when the general, the First Consul, or the Emperor, was maturing vast plans. It was after such promenades⁶⁷, accompanied by this twofold movement of the shoulders and lips, that he dictated his most important notes. On a campaign, with the army, on horseback, he was indefatigable⁶⁸; he was almost as much so in ordinary life, and would often walk five or six hours in succession without perceiving it.
 
When he walked thus with some one with whom he was familiar, he commonly passed his arm through that or his companion and leaned upon him.
 
Slender and thin as he was at the period when we place him before our readers’ eyes, he was much concerned by the fear of future corpulence; it was to Bourrienne that he usually confided⁶⁹ this singular dread⁷⁰.
 
“You see, Bourrienne, how slim and abstemious⁷¹ I am. Well, nothing can rid me of the idea that when I am forty I shall be a great eater and very fat. I foresee that my constitution will undergo a change. I take exercise enough, but what will you!—it’s a presentiment⁷²; and it won’t fail to happen.”
 
We all know to what obesity⁷³ he attained⁷⁴ when a prisoner at Saint Helena.
 
He had a positive passion for baths, which no doubt contributed not a little to make him fat; this passion became an irresistible⁷⁵ need. He took one every other day, and stayed in it two hours, during which time the journals and pamphlets of the day were read to him. As the water cooled he would turn the hot-water faucet⁷⁶ until he raised the temperature of his bathroom to such a degree that the reader could neither bear it any longer, nor see to read. Not until then would he permit the door to be opened.
 
It has been said that he was subject to epileptic attacks after his first campaign in Italy. Bourrienne was with him eleven years, and never saw him suffer from an attack of this malady⁷⁷.
 
Bonaparte, though indefatigable when necessity demanded it, required much sleep, especially during the period of which we are now writing. Bonaparte, general or First Consul, kept others awake, but he slept, and slept well. He retired⁷⁸ at midnight, sometimes earlier, as we have said, and when at seven in the morning they entered his room to awaken²⁶ him he was always asleep. Usually at the first call he would rise; but occasionally, still half asleep, he would mutter: “Bourrienne, I beg of you, let me sleep a little longer.”
 
Then, if there was nothing urgent, Bourrienne would return at eight o’clock; if it was otherwise, he insisted, and then, with much grumbling⁷⁹, Bonaparte would get up. He slept seven, sometimes eight, hours out of the twenty-four, taking a short nap in the afternoon. He also gave particular instruction for the night.
 
“At night,” he would say, “come in my room as seldom as possible. Never wake me if you have good news to announce—good news can wait; but if there is bad news, wake me instantly, for then there is not a moment to be lost in facing it.”
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