Napoleon had left Paris for the field towards the close of January, and the strain of expectation became intense. All knew now that the empire trembled in the balance. The English and Spaniards had crossed the Pyrenees since the middle of November, and were welcomed by the peasants of the south as deliverers. The northern allies had crossed the Rhine on December 21st. Already the imagination could see Napoleon and his capital hemmed between the converging forces. The group of whist-players at the Hotel St. Florentin dropped their voices to lower whispers, as the news came stealthily through the screen of spies and censors. “Burn this letter” appears time after time at the foot of the brief notes to the Duchess of Courland. In one letter he tells her that he has sent a totally different and misleading message by post, because he knows it will be opened. Another, probably sent by post instead of the usual friendly bearer, ends with the postcript: “My letters are opened. Those who read them will discover that I love you, which concerns you and me alone. After all, I only send news that is being cried in the streets. This interruption of a confidential exchange of thoughts is sad for those who wish to renounce the affairs of the world.” The thoughts of the hermit were then as vigorously bent on “the affairs of the world” as ever in his whole career. Was the future to be a Napoleon with clipped wings? Was it to be a regency? Bernadotte? the Bourbons? He had several channels of information, and was not affected by the rigid censorship that ruled Paris. He knew well the march of military events, but was painfully perplexed as to the political view of the Allies. He holds in his memoirs that up to the middle of March they were prepared to treat with Napoleon, and hardly gave a thought to the Bourbons. But the Emperor was obstinate. He saw with rage the vast empire slipping from his grasp. At the beginning of February he sent his Foreign Minister to treat with the Allies at Chatillon, but as usual insisted on terms too arrogant for his situation. “Talleyrand would have got me out of the difficulty,” he said, when he heard of Caulaincourt’s failure. It was not the first time the remark had been wrung from him. But Talleyrand rightfully says he could have done nothing of the kind. If the Emperor had gained a slight success the day after Talleyrand had secured reasonable terms, he would have disowned them.