To Pauline, the gay, gallant Parisian, penniless adventurer though he was, was a veritable hero of romance; and at sight of him she completely lost her heart.  It was a grande passion, which he was by no means slow to return.  Those were delicious hours which Pauline spent in the company of her beloved “Stanislas,” hours of ecstasy; and when he left Marseilles she pursued him with the most passionate protestations.

“Yes,” she wrote, “I swear, dear Stanislas, never to love any other than thee; my heart knows no divided allegiance.  It is thine alone.  Who could oppose the union of two souls who seek to find no other happiness than in a mutual love?” And again, “Thou knowest how I worship thee.  It is not possible for Paulette to live apart from her adored Stanislas.  I love thee for ever, most passionately, my beautiful god, my adorable one—­I love thee, love thee, love thee!”

In such hot words this child of fifteen poured out her soul to the Paris dandy.  “Neither mamma,” she vowed, “nor anyone in the world shall come between us.”  But Pauline had not counted on her brother Napoleon, whose foot was now placed on the ladder of ambition, at the top of which was an Imperial crown, and who had other designs for his sister than to marry her to a penniless nobody.  In vain did Pauline rage and weep, and declare that “she would die—­voila tout!” Napoleon was inexorable; and the flower of her first romance was trodden ruthlessly under his feet.

When Junot, his own aide-de-camp, next came awooing Pauline, he was equally obdurate.  “No,” he said to the young soldier; “you have nothing, she has nothing.  And what is twice nothing?” And thus lover number two was sent away disconsolate.

Napoleon’s sun was now in the ascendant, and his family were basking in its rays.  From the Marseilles slums they were transported first to a sumptuous villa at Antibes; then to the Castle of Montebello, at Naples.  The days of poverty were gone like an evil dream; the sisters of the famous General and coming Emperor were now young ladies of fashion, courted and fawned on.  Their lovers were not Marseilles tradesmen or obscure soldiers and journalists (like Junot and Freron), but brilliant Generals and men of the great world; and among them Napoleon now sought a husband for his prettiest and most irresponsible sister.

This, however, proved no easy task.  When he offered her to his favourite General, Marmont, he was met with a polite refusal.  “She is indeed charming and lovely,” said Marmont; “but I fear I could not make her happy.”  Then, waxing bolder, he continued:  “I have dreams of domestic happiness, of fidelity, virtue; and these dreams I can scarcely hope to realise in your sister.”  Albert Permon, Napoleon’s old schoolfellow, next declined the honour of Pauline’s hand, although it held the bait of a high office and splendid fortune.

The explanation of these refusals is not far to seek if we believe Arnault’s description of Pauline—­“An extraordinary combination of the most faultless physical beauty and the oddest moral laxity.  She had no more manners than a schoolgirl—­she talked incoherently, giggled at everything and nothing, mimicked the most serious personages, put out her tongue at her sister-in-law....  She was a good child naturally rather than voluntarily, for she had no principles.”