But Pauline was not to wait long, after all, for a husband.  Among the many men who fluttered round her, willing to woo if not to wed the empty-headed beauty, was General Leclerc, young and rich, but weak in body and mind, “a quiet, insignificant-looking man,” who at least loved her passionately, and would make a pliant husband to the capricious little autocrat.  And we may be sure Napoleon heaved a sigh of relief when his madcap sister was safely tied to her weak-kneed General.

Pauline was at last free to conduct her flirtations secure from the frowns of the brother she both feared and adored, and she seems to have made excellent use of her opportunities; and, what was even more to her, to encourage to the full her passion for finery.  Dress and love filled her whole life; and while her idolatrous husband lavishly supplied the former, he turned a conveniently blind eye to the latter.

Remarkable stories are told of Pauline’s extravagant and daring costumes at this time.  Thus, at a great ball in Madame Permon’s Paris mansion, she appeared in a dress of classic scantiness of Indian muslin, ornamented with gold palm leaves.  Beneath her breasts was a cincture of gold, with a gorgeous jewelled clasp; and her head was wreathed with bands spotted like a leopard’s skin, and adorned with bunches of gold grapes.

When this bewitching Bacchante made her appearance in the ballroom the sensation she created was so great that the dancing stopped instantly; women and men alike climbed on chairs to catch a glimpse of the rare and radiant vision, and murmurs of admiration and envy ran round the salon.  Her triumph was complete.  In the hush that followed, a voice was heard:  “Quel dommage! How lovely she would be, if it weren’t for her ears.  If I had such ears, I would cut them off, or hide them.”  Pauline heard the cruel words.  The flush of mortification and anger flamed in her cheeks; she burst into tears and walked out of the room.  Madame de Coutades, her most jealous rival, had found a rich revenge.

General Leclerc did not live long to play the slave to his little autocrat; and when he died at San Domingo, the beautiful widow returned to France, accompanied by his embalmed body, with her glorious hair, which she had cut off for the purpose, wreathing his head!  She had not, however, worn her weeds many months before she was once more surrounded by her court of lovers—­actors, soldiers, singers, on each of whom in turn she lavished her smiles; and such time as she could spare from their flatteries and ogling she spent at the card-table, with fortune-tellers, or, chief joy of all, in decking her beauty with wondrous dresses and jewels.

But the charming widow, sister of the great Napoleon, was not long to be left unclaimed; and this time the choice fell on Prince Camillo Borghese, a handsome, black-haired Italian, who allied to a head as vain and empty as her own the physical graces and gifts of an Admirable Crichton, and who, moreover, was lord of all the famed Borghese riches.