‘That adventure of Malmaison,’ he said, ‘is an invention from beginning to end. It is ridiculous, and one of those semi-historical exaggerations which have grieved me more than I can tell. Napoleon was made to play a part utterly at variance with his character. When that story was bruited in Paris, I had not set eyes upon him for more than six weeks. The moment I heard of it, and of the particulars with which it was embellished, I went to St. Cloud. As soon as he saw me, he came up to me, and I had no difficulty in convincing him that I had no share in the matter; it really seemed to aim at ruining me for ever in his estimation. He was exceedingly kind, and reminded me of the well-known rejoinder of Turenne, when his valet struck him by mistake, and apologised by saying he fancied it was a fellow-servant (called George). “And supposing it had been George, there was no need to strike so hard,” said Turenne. But,’ observed Isabey, ‘refuted or not, the stories that pander to people’s spitefulness are repeated, and finally remain as quasi-truths.’ ‘Had I been in your place,’ said the prince, ‘I should not have taken the trouble to refute the fable. If it had been attributed to me, I should have accepted the part. It would have been rather interesting to jump like that on the shoulders of him who so unceremoniously jumped so well on the shoulders of others.’ Afterwards the conversation drifted to young Napoleon, whose portrait we had admired a few days previously at Schönbrunn. ‘That child,’ said Isabey, ‘has only one thought occupying his mind, the recollection of his father. One morning as he was sitting to me, there was the sound of bugles; the Hungarian Guards were passing down one of the courts. He immediately glides off his chair, runs to the window, comes back, and taking my hand, says, “Here are papa’s lancers going by.”’ The portrait of the Prince de Ligne was already sufficiently advanced to enable one to judge of the likeness, and I complimented Isabey upon it. All those who knew the admirable old man were struck with the marvellously faithful reproduction of him as a whole. In a few moments we gaily resumed the course of our little pilgrimage. The Kalemberg is a hill overlooking Vienna, and offering a most picturesque birdseye view of the city. The prince had established his summer quarters there some years ago, dividing his time in the delicious retreat between art, pleasure, and the delightful society his fame constantly attracted thither. On our way we chatted about the pastimes and diversions of Vienna, and he gave me a rapid picture of them, for it could be said absolutely of him what he said of Casanova: ‘Each word is a sketch, and each thought is a book.’