Letter from Napoleon Bonaparte to Britons
Britons, my friends, I am yours. Yes, you heard me right, I am a Breton. I owe you this historical truth. I have mead and salt water in blood, as Snipes and Bernard Hinault.
And why am I Breton? Quite simply because the old adage: "Pater incertus is". And yes, my father was not that wise significant Ajaccio complacently described in historical books, but this flamboyant General Armorican, Count Louis-Charles René de Marboeuf.
Friends Corsicans, wait several seconds before making the mouth and debunk all my statues! Being Corsica, it is picked up primarily by the mother. And then, no doubt: it is the soft and sensual Laeticia, born Ramolino who bore me.
One that really was not the kind Ramolino, it was my Breton Father! Fairly enterprising, even invading! My spitting image, after all.
the top of my eternal rest and since I have time to lose, I even eternity before me, I'll tell you my story very strange.
Appointed governor of Corsica after the fantastic French decision to annex the island of beauty, Count Charles-Henri de Marboeuf made the acquaintance of Laetitia, nor Ramolino but already Bonaparte. Married to Charles, my father Official Laeticia was left by Marboeuf flirt. Their first meetings were held in Corte, in brilliant evenings Data by Grazziani. A famous family, known for his love of the arts and festivities, including a branch was exiled to Nantes. They brought to the upper town Breton undeniable intellectual magister, an elegant nonchalance and a code of honor saluted and recognized in the business. But hay digressions.
My mother forsook more my father for the benefit of official Marboeuf. The count even went so far breton cover with honors, high-sounding titles and even rents, as is done in good company with that which cuckolded! While Charles Bonaparte went about vague administrative occupations, that rascal Marboeuf was becoming closer to my mother. He learned to read and speak French. He danced and "distracted" during the long absences of her husband. As I later made for Josephine before Moscow was burning, he wrote letters to Laeticia inflamed and upsetting.
This story is whispered from time immemorial by the inhabitants of Sainte-Sève the ears of the few historians of this country free. At the vigil, the grandmothers still tell my mom Ramolino how I came to the manor of Pen ar Vern in the absence of the man who posed as my father. She arrived quite "big" and left much leaner. ... So much so that the register of baptisms, then held by the holy clergy, had registered the birth of a Mabaléon Bonaparte. Born in Leon, Mabaléon means in Breton, "the son of Leon." To make a little French and Corsican, I later became Napoleon! In fact, I sang the Marseillaise in Breton! "Impure blood water our furrows cauliflower!"
pages of the register of baptisms in the parish of Sainte Seve were torn. Weird ... The register of births of Ajaccio has suffered the same fate on the same date, that of the birth of the Emperor August 15, 1769. Curious, no?
About baptism, mine, the official was not solemnized within three days after my birth, as then imposed very strong church, but nearly two years later in Corsica.
Another detail that any genealogist will appreciate: Since I was born in Britain, it is curiously in Sainte-Sève, several daughters - Brittany, all well and without a drop of blood Corsican - which bear the name totally alien there Laeticia.
also difficult to explain why my father's official, Charles Bonaparte, has not seen fit to bed in his will! Failing to sleep with my mother. Ramolino too perhaps?
is certainly still a child by accident, I came to Britain holiday at Pen ar Ven and the castle-in-Callac Tredion. I quickly stopped, the water is too cold. She was best in Malta!
Good, the cider cup is full: I am a Breton Marboeuf by my father, that's all. And Corsica Ramolino my mother.
Trust me. And I know in terms of confidence, because, as said another cellar, which had the curious habit of kick from Adam is leaving off the coast, up to myself Meanwhile Grouchy at Waterloo, all the major cases that were missed precisely based on trust ...
Go, Yer Kenavo and Mat!
Ty Napoleon
Britons, my friends, I am yours. Yes, you heard me right, I am a Breton. I owe you this historical truth. I have mead and salt water in blood, as Snipes and Bernard Hinault.
And why am I Breton? Quite simply because the old adage: "Pater incertus is". And yes, my father was not that wise significant Ajaccio complacently described in historical books, but this flamboyant General Armorican, Count Louis-Charles René de Marboeuf.
Friends Corsicans, wait several seconds before making the mouth and debunk all my statues! Being Corsica, it is picked up primarily by the mother. And then, no doubt: it is the soft and sensual Laeticia, born Ramolino who bore me.
One that really was not the kind Ramolino, it was my Breton Father! Fairly enterprising, even invading! My spitting image, after all.
the top of my eternal rest and since I have time to lose, I even eternity before me, I'll tell you my story very strange.
Appointed governor of Corsica after the fantastic French decision to annex the island of beauty, Count Charles-Henri de Marboeuf made the acquaintance of Laetitia, nor Ramolino but already Bonaparte. Married to Charles, my father Official Laeticia was left by Marboeuf flirt. Their first meetings were held in Corte, in brilliant evenings Data by Grazziani. A famous family, known for his love of the arts and festivities, including a branch was exiled to Nantes. They brought to the upper town Breton undeniable intellectual magister, an elegant nonchalance and a code of honor saluted and recognized in the business. But hay digressions.
My mother forsook more my father for the benefit of official Marboeuf. The count even went so far breton cover with honors, high-sounding titles and even rents, as is done in good company with that which cuckolded! While Charles Bonaparte went about vague administrative occupations, that rascal Marboeuf was becoming closer to my mother. He learned to read and speak French. He danced and "distracted" during the long absences of her husband. As I later made for Josephine before Moscow was burning, he wrote letters to Laeticia inflamed and upsetting.
This story is whispered from time immemorial by the inhabitants of Sainte-Sève the ears of the few historians of this country free. At the vigil, the grandmothers still tell my mom Ramolino how I came to the manor of Pen ar Vern in the absence of the man who posed as my father. She arrived quite "big" and left much leaner. ... So much so that the register of baptisms, then held by the holy clergy, had registered the birth of a Mabaléon Bonaparte. Born in Leon, Mabaléon means in Breton, "the son of Leon." To make a little French and Corsican, I later became Napoleon! In fact, I sang the Marseillaise in Breton! "Impure blood water our furrows cauliflower!"
pages of the register of baptisms in the parish of Sainte Seve were torn. Weird ... The register of births of Ajaccio has suffered the same fate on the same date, that of the birth of the Emperor August 15, 1769. Curious, no?
About baptism, mine, the official was not solemnized within three days after my birth, as then imposed very strong church, but nearly two years later in Corsica.
Another detail that any genealogist will appreciate: Since I was born in Britain, it is curiously in Sainte-Sève, several daughters - Brittany, all well and without a drop of blood Corsican - which bear the name totally alien there Laeticia.
also difficult to explain why my father's official, Charles Bonaparte, has not seen fit to bed in his will! Failing to sleep with my mother. Ramolino too perhaps?
is certainly still a child by accident, I came to Britain holiday at Pen ar Ven and the castle-in-Callac Tredion. I quickly stopped, the water is too cold. She was best in Malta!
Good, the cider cup is full: I am a Breton Marboeuf by my father, that's all. And Corsica Ramolino my mother.
Trust me. And I know in terms of confidence, because, as said another cellar, which had the curious habit of kick from Adam is leaving off the coast, up to myself Meanwhile Grouchy at Waterloo, all the major cases that were missed precisely based on trust ...
Go, Yer Kenavo and Mat!
Ty Napoleon
