colours. The vessel freighted with the commander is the “Muiron,” thus
rechristened in memory of the lieutenant who had died to save him at
Arcola. Fifteen years later he is to do still more honour to this name.
Here, off Cape Bon, is the most dangerous point. Literally, they sail
through the English fleet, for they know the ships by their lights. An
August night, but cold, for the mistral is blowing. They sit on deck in
the starlight, feeling dull and rather depressed. Let’s liven things
up with a game of cards; there’s just light enough to play! Bonaparte
cheats, and is delighted that no one notices. Next morning, with
mischievous glee, he owns up, and restores his ill-gotten gains.
What a different voyage from that of fifteen months ago! Only two ships
now, and then there were four hundred. Half of the army is dead bones.
True, France still holds the land of ancient story—but for how long? The
hopes of striking an effective blow against England have been dashed.
What has become of the plan for a landing at Dover? Gone to join the
scheme for the invasion of India! He has had to steal away furtively from
Egypt, for there might have been a mutiny had his impending departure
become generally known among the soldiers of the army of occupation.
Kléber was not appointed commander-in-chief until Napoleon had gone. The
last order of the day had been dry and brief. The civilians had been sent
to Upper Egypt, for Monge and Berthollet, who were in the know, and were
now on board, might have blabbed the news to their colleagues. But poets
were a nuisance! One of the fellows, keen-witted, had guessed what was in
the wind, and had stolen aboard the frigate, whose destination was still
undisclosed. Oh, well, let the beggar come along. He and his tribe are
the brokers of fame, so we can’t do without them. After the last victory,
Paris will be on our side.
For weeks, the two frigates are in continual danger. “What would you
do, if the English fleet were to heave in sight? Fight? Impossible!
Surrender? You would none of you like that any better than I should. The
only other alternative is to blow up the ship.” A general silence. Monge,
who is sitting beside the commander, grows pale. “That shall be your
charge,” adds Napoleon, turning to him with a mischievous smile. A few
days later, a ship is sighted, and is wrongly supposed to be an English
man-of-war. The mathematician vanishes, and is found afterwards at the
door of the powder magazine.
This incident gives us the measure of Bonaparte’s authority.
After a six weeks’ cruise in the Mediterranean, an island is sighted
on a fine October morning, a familiar ridge of mountains is seen or
the horizon. The captain of the frigate consults his chart. “That is
Corsica,” says Bonaparte unhesitatingly. Does he order the seamen to
clap on all sail and make for the island? No, they must find out,
first, whether the place is still French. But a strong wind is blowing
shoreward, and, even under light canvas, progress is rapid. His thoughts
run swiftly, too.
“‘Still French?’ My question used to be, ‘French yet?’ Only six years
ago. I was twenty-four then, and to be master of this island seemed to
me the greatest thing in the world. Since then, I have had Italy at my
feet; Egypt has been conquered; Paris smiles. All has happened as if by
natural sequence. The wind is freshening. What will be the answer from
the shore?” The signals show that the harbour is open to a French ship.
The native island of the man without a country is home to him once more.
They land, and all Ajaccio crowds to the harbour; thousands who once
cursed the name of Bonaparte are now eager to welcome him. He regards
the throng cynically. Many address him with the familiar “thou”; and
hundreds wish to shake hands with him. He accepts these demonstrations
unmoved. But suddenly he hears a voice: “Figlio! Caro figlio!” Camilla is
speaking, his old nurse, a vigorous peasantwoman, hardly fifty years of
age. The sight of her is the only thing that stirs his emotions.
Napoleon makes for his ancestral home, which his mother has had set
in order once more, though she is away just now. He summons those
best fitted to give him the news he craves. There, beside the family
hearth, he learns what has, during the last three months, happened to
his creations. Mantua and Milan have gone, and with them most of Italy,
won by his feats of arms three short years ago. Genoa is still French,
though hard to keep. Masséna has been forced back through Switzerland!
The English have landed in Holland! What is the first thing to do? Make
for Nice! Instantly take the lead! Win back all in a storm of victories.
“What’s that you say?” Two of the Directors forcibly removed! Only
by such tricks can the shaky government still keep in power? General
Moulin is one of the Directors? Moulin, who the devil is he? The other
substitute? Sieyès, you say? Another coup must be impending—perhaps a
forcible change of government. We must make all speed for Paris. On
board! On board! Take a big rowing boat in tow!
Two days’ sail towards Toulon. Twilight when the coast is sighted. The
lookout man reports English ships. “Put about!” orders the admiral.
“Forward!” thunders Bonaparte. In case of need, we can make the shore
in the big rowing boat! Once more his star blinds the enemy; once more
he escapes capture by the English. Night falls. Impossible to land at
Toulon? Let us make for Fréjus, then. Uncharted rocks there? Rocks
everywhere! In sight of the French coast after a seven weeks’ voyage, we
must run all risks to land!
Does this Italian love the country on which he now sets his foot? To him
it is nothing more than the fiddle on which he can play a better tune
than on any other instrument.
Next day, in the little town of Fréjus, Bonaparte’s name is on every
one’s lips. Why is the harbour full of rowing boats, laden with
sightseers? Why this popular rejoicing? What has the man done in Africa,
that the inhabitants of the provincial town should greet him as if he
were a Roman imperator celebrating a triumph? An official says something
about quarantine. “We prefer the plague to the Austrians, and the
Austrians are almost at our gates!” shouts the crowd, escorting him
through the streets as a deliverer.
“France seems to be in a bad way,” thinks the man in the carriage, as
he acknowledges the vociferations. “It looks as if every one had been
waiting for me. A while back would have been too soon. To-morrow would
have been too late. I have come at the right moment.”
He drives westward from Fréjus, and stays for a time in Aix, questioning
every one he meets. At Aix, a copy of a letter comes into his hands,
an old letter that had miscarried: “The Directory is waiting for you,
General; for you and your brave companions!” This was written in the
panic of rulers who are at their wits’ end for a saviour! What had
he better do? Stay where he is for a time, and write before going to
Paris. “Egypt is wholly ours, and safe from invasion.—I was cut off from
newspapers till the end of July, but when I heard of your troubles I
instantly set out for home. I had to take all risks, for my place was
the spot where I could be of most use. Had there been no frigate, I
should have wrapped myself in my cloak and should have sailed in the
first cockle-shell I could find. With Kléber in command, Egypt is in good
hands. When I left, the whole country was under water—the best Nile for
fifty years.”
[Illustration: General Bonaparte in 1797. Drawing by Wocher in Basle.
Town Library, Basle.]
This carefully worded epistle goes as a herald to Paris. The people
there must be told who is on the way. His northward journey is a via
triumphalis; salutes are fired everywhere. Passing through Valence,
he recognises among the onlookers the good woman who keeps the café
where he used to lodge, the place with the billiard room; he gives her
a keepsake from the East. In Lyons, he waits two or three hours to see
the performance of a hastily extemporised drama, “The Hero’s Return.”
Everything shows the powerful spell already exercised by his name.
Perhaps the most signal instance is the sensational end of Baudin, one of
the best of the deputies, who utters a shout of joy on hearing the news
of Napoleon’s return, and drops dead from surcharge of emotion. The light
that radiates from the commander is so strong that it kills.
Paris draws near. He is still gathering news. But about private affairs,
about Josephine, he can ask no questions. Is he already a divorcé? Where
are his brothers? The news of his coming has been noised abroad; why
has no one come to meet him? She, where is she? Will she, after all, be
waiting for him in the mirrored room, ready to welcome him with a smile?
In the grey dawn he passes the octroi, drives along the outer boulevards,
turns into his own little street. There is the house. A woman stands
alone at the door. Who is it?
His mother.
XVIII
“Bonaparte’s landing is one of those events which at first we hesitate to
believe. The news spread over night at theatres and in social gatherings.
In the most obscure pot-houses, people were drinking to celebrate his
return....” “Every one hails him with delight, for he brings us new
hope....” “Glory, peace, and happiness follow in his train.”
These and similar items catch Bonaparte’s eye as he flutters the
newspapers. Day by day he can read an abundance of details, mingled
truth and falsehood, concerning his aspect, demeanour, and dress. Even
the opposition press pins its hopes on him: “His Egyptian campaign has
miscarried; but what matter? He is satisfied with having undertaken it,
and it is difficult to say whither his rashness may lead. All the same,
his bold ventures restore our courage.”—He is received with acclamation,
and his plans are consolidated.
But his wife is away. When the news that he had landed reached Paris,
she was dining with Gohier, the first of the five Directors. She and
her host were equally alarmed. Both had uneasy consciences, and now the
volcano was rumbling beneath them. Some time ago, Barras (who during this
period seems still to have been an occasional recipient of her favours)
had advised her to procure a divorce from the absent and almost vanished
adventurer, and to marry handsome Hippolyte. She had received no letters
from Napoleon. If he had written any, they must have miscarried. But her
brother-in-law’s hostile attitude showed her what was in the wind. Barras
was right. She would do well to act first.—Then Paris was electrified by
the news of Napoleon’s great victory over the Turks. Perhaps it would
be wiser, after all, to stay in her present safe harbourage. Unstable
and frivolous, she had of late been coquetting with the thought of
reconciliation. A glance at her own image in the mirror, a knowledge
of the way she could turn men’s heads, sufficed to convince her of the
possibility.
Now, at Gohier’s table, she pulls herself together, and her host tries
to outdo her in self-command. They drink to the general’s return. She
hurries home, packs up all that can set off her beauty to the best
advantage, and in a trice is driving southward. As her carriage rattles
past the barrier, she thinks: “Act promptly, and take the enemy by
surprise—is not that the secret of his military success? On the return
journey, I shall be with him day and night, and shall win him over before
the tale-bearers can get at him!”
But she misses him, learns that he has passed her, and hastens back to
Paris. She has lost three precious days, during which his relatives have
told him all the scandal. True, some of his intimates warn him against
applying for a divorce. In Paris, a cuckold is always a figure of fun.
He is resolute, however: “I have done with her. What do I care about the
chatter? It will only last for a day or two.” He has her trunks packed,
and carried down to the porter’s lodge, so that she shall not enter the
house. Could he give plainer proof that he dreads his own weakness?
She comes, breaks through the first line of defence, enters the fortress.
He has locked himself in. She calls to him and pleads with him through
the door. During her journey, the more she has come to realise that his
name is in every one’s mouth, the more fervent have been her hopes for a
reconciliation, and the more has her pride been humbled. But the citadel
holds out. At length she decides to call up reinforcements for a final
assault. Hortense and Eugene must come to her aid. They clamour, beseech,
shed tears. Thus a night passes.
No dispassionate observer can fail to understand Josephine’s motives in
making this ridiculous scene. What of Bonaparte himself, the man with so
profound a knowledge of the human soul? Was he duped by a woman?
There he lies, returned after a long absence, with his head full of
schemes for the conquest of a nation. Let us try to follow his thoughts.
“They have deceived me one and all. The government, the political
parties, my own companions-in-arms, were all endeavouring, during my
absence, to exclude me from power, for they regarded me as a danger to
themselves. As long as I was out of range, no one wanted me back; my
brothers no more than the rest. This capricious woman, whose pretty whims
I have never tried to restrain—would it be reasonable for me to expect
that she should have spent a year and more thinking of no one but her
absent husband, whose return seemed ever more unlikely as the days went
by? When I am there, she is fascinating. If I make truce with her now,
when the game is in my hands, she will agree to all my conditions, and I
can exact guarantees for the future. What a lovely voice she has. There
cannot have been any falling off in her charms, or she would not have so
many admirers. What a fool, compared with her, was that little woman in
Egypt, and even she could not give me an heir. Where shall I find a woman
who will make a more perfect lover and a better wife than Josephine?
Besides, she has had two children, and may yet have more.”
He opens the door and, heroic in his silence, suppresses, once and for
all, the accusations with which his heart is filled. In this matter, as
in others, he holds fast to his resolves. Next day she confesses that she
is in debt to the tune of two million francs. He pays without a word.
It is hard for his brothers, and still harder for his sisters, to accept
the situation; but they do not venture a remonstrance.
Nor is there time for the further discussion of family matters. Events
are on the wing. His brothers have not been idle while he has been
away. Joseph, after being envoy in Rome, is now on guard as one of the
Parisian deputies. Lucien is leader of the opposition, although, being
only twenty-four, he is under the legal age. A brilliant orator, dreaded
in debate, a Hotspur with a taste for theatrical displays, burning with
ambition, too headstrong for constructive work. He and Sieyès have been
working at plans for a coup d’état on their own, but they lack the
support of a great soldier whom the troops would follow. Now the soldier
has come, and Lucien will keep his private wishes to himself. He, too, is
a Bonaparte.
Dangerous, inscrutable, and cunning is Joseph’s new brother-in-law,
Bernadotte. He is slow in coming to greet Bonaparte. When he does
come, and Bonaparte speaks of the desperate situation of the republic,
Bernadotte rejoins: “It will be able to make headway against its enemies
both abroad and at home!” He looked searchingly at his interlocutor, and
for a moment the masterful eyes of the two men clash. But Bonaparte,
controlling his emotions as usual, attempts a diversion to political
issues, speaks again of the dangers, and then passes severe strictures on
the Jacobin Club. Thereupon Bernadotte breaks in: “Your brothers founded
it!”
Bonaparte is still loathe to take offence, and replies: “Well, well,
General, I would rather live in the woods than in a State where there is
no security!”
Bernadotte, mockingly: “Good God! What security is lacking to you?”
Now, Bonaparte is about to make an angry rejoinder, but Josephine
intervenes to keep the peace. And yet the hidden fact is that Josephine
is, in a sense, the cause of the dissension. For Bernadotte has married
Désirée Clary, to whom Napoleon had once paid court, with whom he had
not found favour when he was still obscure, and to whom he had preferred
Josephine when his fortunes were on the mend. Now he can forgive neither
himself nor Bernadotte. Throughout his career, Bonaparte will try, by
showering benefits on her, to atone to Désirée for what she has lost by
not marrying him, though it was mainly her doing that they did not become
man and wife. For her sake, he continually advances Bernadotte, who no
less persistently betrays him.
All that his brothers and other intimates have told him about affairs
in Paris during his absence, their picture of anarchical corruption and
violent impotence, fills him with forebodings and urges him to speedy
action. The number of the holders of power must be reduced, and their
term of office must be lengthened. The government is a plateau; it must
become a towering peak. A ten years’ triumvirate—that will be the best
plan.
At the Luxembourg they are all uneasy, now that he is back. Every one of
the Directors mistrusts him, and each of them is suspicious of his four
co-Directors likewise. Which of them is intriguing with Bonaparte? Sieyès
is on friendly terms with Lucien, Barras with Josephine, Gohier with
both. What about Ducos? Is General Moulin to be relied on?—Immediately
after reaching Paris Bonaparte had sent Moulin a Damascus blade with a
diamond-studded hilt, and Moulin could not in decency refuse the gift.
Such are the secret thoughts of the Directors. Look at Bonaparte’s
get-up when he first came to pay us his respects! Did any one ever see a
general in such a rig? Much more like an adventurer! Mufti; green coat;
round hat; Mameluke sword. The man wants to dazzle Paris into believing
him a pasha. Did you notice that he has had his hair cut short? Wants
to win people by an affectation of simplicity! Yet to-day he comes to
call in great style. General on horseback, with all his aides. Brilliant
uniforms. Paris agog. Very sinister, this change of aspect. Look at the
way he sits and questions the five of us, as if he were a monarch holding
audience.
“Why do you let the man impose on you?” say his enemies angrily to the
Directors. “He made a frightful mess of the Egyptian campaign. Your
proper course is plain enough. Have him arrested for deserting the army
under his command! He’s got something up his sleeve, you may be sure!”
Bonaparte, meanwhile, receives visits from Jacobin leaders and Bourbon
agents; gives advice to all and sundry, but tells no one what he really
thinks; behaves like a man of family who has just returned from a long
journey, and, with an air of good-natured boredom, allows his relatives
to tell him all about their squabbles while he has been away. He has
been home for two weeks now. The tension is increasing. Affairs of State
are at a standstill, or nearly so; for the Five, who should be carrying
on the work of government, are busied in intrigue. Amid the general
confusion, the Councils have utterly lost prestige. The new constitution
is rocking in the blast, but no one seems to know from which quarter
the wind is blowing. Who is the real holder of power in the State? Who
controls the army? General Moulin? General Bonaparte?
While no one can tell from day to day how the relationships between
Napoleon and the government are likely to shape themselves, he goes
to the Institute to deliver a lecture on the vestiges of the ancient
Suez canal, and describes the Rosetta stone. On November 1st, there
is a State banquet in honour of a victory won by Masséna. Where is
Bonaparte? No doubt it is not to his taste to celebrate the triumphs of a
brother-in-arms!
That evening he is closeted with Lucien and Abbé Sieyès. Talleyrand has
at length brought him in touch with the ablest of the Directors. Sieyès
and Bonaparte, the man who has rediscovered the constitution and the man
who has rediscovered the secret of power, sit face to face; they vie with
one another in ambition and in intellectual ability. “I have made the
Great Nation,” says the general. “You could not have done so, had we not
first made the Nation,” counters the abbé.
They discuss the details of the proposed coup d’état. On the critical
day, they will spread the report that a Jacobin conspiracy is afoot.
The Councils, in alarm, will transfer their sessions from Central
Paris to Saint-Cloud. “As a measure of precaution,” Bonaparte will be
entrusted with the command of the Paris garrison. Sieyès has come to an
understanding with Ducos. Persuasion, threats, or money, will induce the
other three Directors to resign. Barras will take money. But what about
Gohier? “Make short work of it,” says Lucien. “Dissolve the Councils by
force.” But at night Napoleon, when he is alone, turns matters over in
his mind:
“Force! How silly it was to use force four years ago! We see where it has
led! The supreme art is to maintain the appearance of legality. Without
cannon or bloodshed, without arrests and parties, that is the secret of
the ideal coup d’état. Otherwise you set up something that may last a
year before it wears out. After ten years of revolution, the republic is
heartily sick of it all. She is an amazon who has borne arms till she is
tired, and now asks nothing better than to be led by a strong man. She is
ready for me.
“Can I depend upon Sieyès? Behind that receding forehead of his, he
thinks too much. For ten years he has been building constitutions, but
he is nothing more than the ideologue whom a vigorous general can use
before casting aside. Had I not arrived in the nick of time, he would
have joined forces with Moreau. I shall turn the pair of them to account.
I know I can trust Berthier, Bourrienne, Murat, Marmont, and Leclerc.
Is Lucien faithful? For the time being. Bernadotte? His spiteful look
betrayed his true feelings. Still, he will not come into the field
against me. What about Talleyrand? A dangerous man, and for that very
reason I must have him on my side. Moulin? No time to waste; there are
too many generals in Paris. Watch out!”
Next evening he went to Talleyrand’s, for a private talk with that
intriguer. They sat late, discussing plans. Suddenly there was a noise
in the street. Trotting horses, which stop in front of the door. The
patrol? “Bonaparte turned pale, and I fancy I must have done the same,”
wrote Talleyrand in his Memoirs. Both men believe that they are about
to be arrested. Lights out, and on tiptoe to the balcony. False alarm!
An ordinary street scene, nocturnal revellers and police, nothing more.
The conspirators breathe again. But why do not the Directors have them
arrested on suspicion? The answer is simple. Bonaparte is already too
commanding a figure to be touched!
On the 6th, there is a banquet at the Luxembourg. Bonaparte and Moreau
are the guests, but the latter has the place of honour, and the hosts
eye Bonaparte askance. He reciprocates his entertainers’ suspicions, and
eats nothing but bread and eggs, handed him by a trusty servant. After
half an hour, he makes his excuses, and goes back to his confederates, to
talk over the plan for bringing about the downfall of the men with whom
he has just been dining. Next evening, Talleyrand, Roederer, and Sieyès,
dine with Bonaparte; Jourdan and Bernadotte, who are to be won over, have
also been invited. After dinner, he asks Jourdan what is to happen. This
simple question is evidence enough of the prevailing crisis. Two generals
who have never before exchanged a word except about commonplaces, meet,
and look one another in the face. “What is going to happen?” enquires
one. The other significantly grips his sword-hilt. The plotters agree to
take action in forty-eight hours. The parts to be played by members of
the inner ring are assigned. Murat, Lannes, and Marmont are to inform the
officers of the three branches of the service; Berthier will acquaint the
general staff.