In after life, when Napoleon was successful, and had made a position, reports were spread that his real father was Count Marbœuf, who had been in Corsica, and in after life, or at all events at his entrance into it, acted as his benefactor and patron. Lætitia Ramolini, afterwards Madame Lætitia Bonaparte, was very graceful and pretty, indeed Madame Junot says of her,[16] ‘Lætitia was indeed a lovely woman. Those who knew her in advanced life thought her countenance somewhat harsh; but that expression instead of being caused by any austerity of disposition, seemed, on the contrary, to have been produced by timidity.’ Indeed, no one can look at any portrait of Madame Mère, and not be struck with her lofty beauty. This scandal about Count Marbœuf, it must be remembered, is of French origin, and was well known, and recognised, probably, at its value. To give one illustration,[17] ‘La malignité a fait honneur de sa naissance au Comte de Marbœuf, governeur de l’isle, qui rendait des soins assidus à Madame Buonaparte, jeune femme, belle et interressante alors.’ All our English squibs repeat the tale, and the subjoined is certainly the cleverest of them.[18] About his parentage indeed, Biographers have disagreed; Some say his father was a farmer, His mother, too, a _Cyprian_ charmer: That his dad Carlo was quite poor, Letitia a French General’s ----; If, faithless to her marriage vows, She made a cuckold of her spouse, Then Nap (some characters are rotten) Has been a _merrily begotten_. But other writers, with civility, Insist he’s sprung from _old Nobility_, And therefore to his father’s name Attach the highest rank and fame: Nay, furthermore, they add as true, Nap was Paoli’s godson too. But what to this said great Paoli? ‘I stood for one, but ’pon my soul, I At present do not rightly know Whether it was for Nap or Joe.’ It was for Joe, if he’d have said it, But Joe has done him little credit. Now let the honest muse despise All adulation, barefaced lies, And own the truth--Then Boney’s father Was member of the law, or rather, A pettifogger, which his friends, To serve their own politic ends, Would keep a secret, knowing well That pettifoggers go to Hell. When France occasioned some alarms, And Corsica was up in arms, This Carlo Bonaparte thought fit, His parchments for the sword to quit. He fought, they say, with some applause, Tho’ unsuccessful in the cause: Meanwhile, with battle’s din and fright, His wife was in a dismal plight; From town to town Letitia fled, To shun the French, _as it is said_; Tho’ others whisper that the fair Was under a French Gen’ral’s care, And that to keep secure her charms She fondly trusted to his _arms_. Be this however as it might, After incessant fear and flight, Letitia (’fore her time, mayhap) Was brought to bed of Master Nap: The Cause, we think, of his ambition, And of his restless disposition.