well, as always, and built
an immense chateau, surrounded by a deep moat into which were turned the
swift-flowing waters of the Seine. A vast park was laid out, in part in
the formal manner and in part as a natural preserve, and the
neighbourhood once more became frequented by royalty and the nobles of
the court.

Richelieu bequeathed the property to his niece, the Duchesse
d'Aiguillon, and Louis XIV became a frequent dweller there--as a
visitor, but he did not mind that. Louis XIV was sometimes a monarch,
sometimes a master, and sometimes a "family friend," to put it in a
noncommittal manner.

The Revolution nearly made way with the property and the Duc de Massena,
a few years afterwards, reestablished it after a fashion, but
speculating land-boomers came along in turn and royal memories meaning
nothing to them the property was cut up into streets, avenues and house
lots.

The Chateau de Malmaison, which is very near Rueil, is in quite a
different class. Its history comes very nearly down to modern times. The
memory of Malmaison is purely Napoleonic. Its historical souvenirs are
many, but its actual ruins have taken on a plebeian aspect of little
appeal in these later days.

In 1792 Malmaison was sold as a piece of national merchandise to be
turned into _ecus_, and a certain Monsieur Lecouteux de Canteleu, having
the ready cash and a disposition to live under its roof, took over the
proprietorship for a time. It was he who sold it to Josephine
Beauharnais, and it was she who gave it a glory and splendour which it
had never before possessed, gave it its complete fame, in fact.

Napoleon himself, as First Consul, was passionately fond of the place,
but by the time he had become emperor, because of unhappy memories,
perhaps, for he had them at times, came rarely to this charming suburban
chateau.

It was at Malmaison that began the good fortune of Josephine, and it was
at Malmaison that it flickered out like the dying flame of a candle.

In a beating rain, on Saturday, December 16, 1809, Josephine quitted the
Tuileries, her eyes still red with the tears from that last brief
interview. She arrived at Malmaison at the end of a lugubrious day, when
the whole place was enveloped in a thick fog. She passed the night
almost alone in this great house where she had previously been so happy.
She could hardly, however, have been more sad than Napoleon was that
same night. He had shut himself up in his cabinet, remorseful