returned to Paris, much grieved that she had not been able to snatch a
few more unfortunates from the rigor of the law.

I have already said two things which I am compelled to repeat here: the
first is, that, not feeling obliged to relate events in their
chronological order, I shall narrate them as they present themselves to
my memory; the second is, that I deem it both an obligation and a duty
which I owe to the Emperor to relate every event which may serve to make
his true character better known, and which has been omitted, whether
involuntarily or by design, by those who have written his life. I care
little if I am accused of monotony on this subject, or of writing only a
panegyric; but, if this should be done, I would reply: So much the worse
for him who grows weary of the recital of good deeds! I have undertaken
to tell the truth concerning the Emperor, be it good or bad; and every
reader who expects to find in my memoirs of the Emperor only evil, as
well as he who expects to find only good, will be wise to go no farther,
for I have firmly resolved to relate all that I know; and it is not my
fault if the kind acts performed by the Emperor are so numerous that my
recitals should often turn to praises.

I thought it best to make these short observations before giving an
account of another pardon granted by his Majesty at the time of the
coronation, and which the story of Mademoiselle Lajolais has recalled to
my recollection.

On the day of the last distribution of the decoration of the Legion of
Honor in the Church of the Invalides, as the Emperor was about to retire
at the conclusion of this imposing ceremony, a very young man threw
himself on his knees on the steps of the throne, crying out, "Pardon,
pardon for my father." His Majesty, touched by his interesting