Memoirs of Thiebault #51 - The End... or is it?

     But even though I dawdle on subjects that hardly concern me personally, there is a confession I can no longer delay, and, however poignant that memory is even today, when, having survived all illusions of life, I am reaching the end of my painful road to the grave, I have to come to the shattering of what was then my fondest dream of happiness.

     Arriving in Bayonne, I had found a letter from Pauline; she reminded me in heartbreaking terms of my promise to leave Spain through Barcelona, and from there to go to Milan through Genoa: “I am counting upon this oath,” she added, “as a redress for all those I had counted on in vain.” Indeed, I had made this promise writing from Salamanca, setting up plans which my merciless duty thwarted once again. Had I retained my brigade in Monnier’s division, I could have left it in Salamanca and slipped away for two months; but having received command of a division, and orders to bring it back to Bayonne, I could not escape travelling with it, and once I was in France, how could I go a hundred leagues away from it and board a ship or cross the Alps without leaving traces? How could I even leave Bayonne without taking into account the new orders I would no doubt find there? These orders recalled me to Paris, and I had hurried to write to Pauline all these reasons that I did my best to present as imperatives; I also announced that I would do everything to be sent back to Italy or to obtain a leave. In order to soften these cruel motives for a new painful delay, I had tried to put my anguish into words, telling Pauline how life away from her was increasingly loathsome, and how delighted I was at the thought of seeing her again. My protests were in vain, and, not wanting to insist further on that painful memory of betrayal, I will only say that around that time in Paris, I received a last letter in which Pauline released me from my oath and announced that she would send back my portrait...

     Tortured by this memory, I incessantly mixed in society, going out only to drain my sorrows away from my mind by tiring my body as much as I could. In order to tear myself away from the pain, I started working on a large treatise on war; but, being unable to write anything, I merely collected materials, and even this I soon abandoned, if only to avoid being reminded of the cruel motive that had made me start this undertaking.

     Fortunately, a diversion occurred. The corps I belonged to had been disbanded on 16 January 1802; we had retained our active pay, and I still received it when, on 22 March, I got orders to report to the twenty-second military division, with its headquarters in Tours. General Liébert—under whose orders I had met some misfortune in the Army of the North, where he acted as Pichegru’s chief of staff—was then the commander of this twenty-fourth division; hurrying to answer the letter by which I had announced I would arrive soon, he gave me the choice between Le Mans and Tours, and said that he would be delighted if I chose the latter. Tours was indeed a nice place to live; however, placed in the moral situation which I could not escape, I would have preferred a village rather than a capital, and I was about to choose Le Mans, but Richebourg, who was from Tours and was there during this exchange of letters, was informed of my decision and took advantage of his influence over me to make me change my mind. General Liébert was kind enough to insist all the more, and I accepted Tours, without thinking that I would find another love, a passion more exalted but also more painful than the first.