From his wife to his groom there was not one of those who were about him who did not live in dread of being held up to ridicule and infamy before a smiling crowd, whose amusement was only tempered by the reflection that each of them might be the next to endure the same exposure.
As to Josephine, she had taken refuge in a woman's last resource, and was crying bitterly, with her graceful neck stooping towards her knees and her two hands over her face.

Madame de Remusat was weeping also, and in every pause of his hoarse scolding--for his voice was very hoarse and raucous when he was angry--there came the soft hissing and clicking of their sobs.

Sometimes his fierce taunts would bring some reply from the Empress, some gentle reproof to him for his gallantries, but each remonstrance only excited him to a fresh rush of vituperation.

In one of his outbursts he threw his snuff-box with a crash upon the floor as a spoiled child would hurl down its toys.
'Morality!' he cried, 'morality was not made for me, and I was not made for morality.

I am a man apart, and I accept nobody's conditions.
I tell you always, Josephine, that these are the foolish phrases of mediocre people who wish to fetter the great.