at Düben Castle in the previous autumn; during the winter it had been
fomented in his brother’s circle; now it was to eventuate in treason
under fire. Marmont, the first among men still above ground who had
served under Napoleon, is also the first to betray him. Oudinot and
Macdonald have lost the battle of Bar-sur-Aube. Now, at Laon, Marmont
makes no more than a pretence of fighting, leaves his artillery in the
town square, thus snatches victory from his master, and even allows
himself to be surprised in his camp. “The Emperor would have been
justified in cutting him down,” says Berthier, “but is so fond of him
that, after making a scene, he has left him in command of his corps.”
What is more natural than that, during these days, his heart should go
out to the friends of his youth? But Marmont is not the only traitor to
whom he is lenient! Augereau, who had fought beside him at Rivoli, begins
to make signals to the Austrians, fails to be at his post. The reprimand
he receives is an affectionate one. Napoleon writes to him almost as if
they were still brothers in the field, as of old.
“Six hours’ rest were not enough for you?... What pitiful excuses you
are making, Augereau! No money! No horses! I command you to take the
field within twelve hours of receiving this. If you are still the old
Augereau of Castiglione, you can keep your command. But if you find the
burden of your sixty years so heavy, hand over the command to the oldest
of your generals. The country is in danger!... You should be the first
in the firing line. We must all put on our seven-leagued boots, and must
find the reckless courage of ’93. If the French soldiers see your plumes
at the outposts, you will be able to lead your men whithersoever you
please.”
Here we have General Bonaparte once more. The red of sunset reminds us of
the glories of sunrise.
Owing to Marmont’s retreat, the Emperor is left unsupported at
Arcis-sur-Aube, and has no more than a few thousand men with which
to face a great army. Defeat is inevitable. During the height of the
battle, a dust eddy sweeps across the field. A thousand dragoons are
panic-stricken, and take to flight, shouting: “The Cossacks!” The
Emperor gallops forward into the press. “Dragoons! Turn and fight! You
are running away, but I stand firm!” He draws his sword and charges
the enemy, followed only by his staff and the bodyguard. Six thousand
Cossacks take to flight. It is years upon years since he has led a
cavalry attack. His horse is shot under him, and he mounts another.
Berthier reports that the Emperor was obviously hoping to find death on
the field.
But death does not come for the asking. No more than Cæsar, Cromwell, or
Frederick, is Napoleon destined for this swift, heroic end. Such men are
something more than military commanders, and must live out their lives
as leaders of nations,—even though they have to fight against their own
nation. Henceforward the blows thicken, and each blow is symbolical.
But who can wonder if, at last, men forsake the despiser of men? He has
made princes of his soldiers; should it surprise us that they prefer
their princedoms to a soldier’s death? Need we wonder that a wife sprung
from an ancient ruling house, married off to an upstart, should be quick
to repudiate him and to become a Habsburg once more? That his brothers,
in whom he has shown too much trust, should, when disaster comes, think
of themselves rather than of the man to whom they owe everything?
When, in his last letters to Marie Louise, he asks her to write to her
father, she complies with a bad grace, and, instead of following the
example of Maria Theresa, she pens cold letters which can serve as hints
to her father and his ministers. News reaches the allied headquarters
that the English have landed in Bordeaux, and that the Bourbon flag has
been hoisted there; a letter from the Emperor to his wife is intercepted,
a letter in which he announces his intention to withdraw behind the
Marne. It is enough; at length all are agreed for the march on Paris.
In this utmost danger, Napoleon has still a last bold shift. He will arm
the peasants as a national reserve; they will be ready to his hand, for
they hate the invading foreigners. But now tidings come that Marmont has
allowed himself to be beaten once more, and is withdrawing to Paris with
Mortier. Like one who hears that his house is on fire, the Emperor storms
back towards Paris, entrusts the command of his troops to Berthier, and
rides citywards with his bodyguard. Then, leaving everything behind,
he jumps with Caulaincourt into a post-chaise, hoping it will not be
too late to seize the reins of power. After how many victories has he
not driven in such a carriage through the gates of his capital? Always
his thoughts have circled round the problem, “What is Paris saying? How
shall I find things there?” But now there is only one idea pulsing in
his brain: Will three persons stand firm till I come; three to whom I
can entrust the safety of the realm? The empress as regent, Joseph as
governor of Paris, Marmont as leader of the strongest corps!
Night. Change of horses. A squad of soldiers led by an officer. The
officer reports: “I am under Marshal Mortier’s orders, and am seeking
quarters for the troops that are being withdrawn.”
“Troops being withdrawn? Where is the empress? Where is King Joseph?”
“Her Majesty, with the king of Rome, fled yesterday to Blois. King Joseph
left Paris to-day.”
“Where is Marmont?”
“I don’t know, Sire.”
Beads of sweat form on the Emperor’s forehead; his lips twitch nervously;
he is horrified at the news. He breaks out: “Forward! To-morrow the
guards will be here. The National Guard is on my side. Once within the
walls of Paris, I shall only leave the town as a conqueror or as a dead
man!”
With difficulty, Caulaincourt persuades him to renounce this foolhardy
design. The Emperor orders that Marmont’s corps is to take up its
position behind the Essonne. Then he says to his minister: “Hasten to
Paris! Go on negotiating for a treaty. I have been betrayed and sold. You
have full powers. I will wait for you here. It is not far. Forward!”
He drives a hundred paces nearer, and can see the waters of the Seine.
But what is mirrored therein? The enemy’s watch-fires! At the outposts,
the invaders are cooking supper and singing songs; while the Emperor,
on the left bank with two post-chaises and a few servants, watches them
under cover of the darkness.
Then he has the carriage turned, and drives to Fontainebleau.
XIV
Next morning, Talleyrand is sitting in his bedchamber, submitting to the
ministrations of his valet. This statesman of the revolution still has
his wig dressed in the rococo style. The door is thrown open, and almost
before the servant has time to announce him, Count Nesselrode hurries
in to greet the friend of many years’ standing. He gets covered with
powder from head to foot, Talleyrand informs us. Two hours later, the
tsar himself comes to stay with his intimate friend as guest; he will not
put up at the Elysée for fear of bombs. The moment for which Napoleon’s
minister has worked indefatigably for six years has come at last, and
the smiling victors shake hands with a sense of moral righteousness:
virtue has triumphed! After knocking at the gates of Paris for two and
twenty years, the legitimist monarchs have at length been admitted.
This is their great moment. They have ridden into the city. A small
party of Bourbon supporters has hailed them as liberators; the Faubourg
Saint-Germain has rallied. Elsewhere in Paris, silence reigns. Every one
is calmly waiting to see whether, on the morrow, Napoleon or Louis is to
be called master.
The Emperor’s fate is sealed, for Joseph, in his cowardly flight and in
spite of Napoleon’s warnings, has not taken Talleyrand along with him,
but has left that cleverest and most dangerous of enemies in Paris. It is
not fixity of purpose on the part of the nation that brings the Emperor
to his doom; nor are the four allied foes unanimous as to his fate. He is
ruined by the co-operation of faithless servants and treacherous friends,
under the guidance of a man who is both—for Talleyrand, with the good
graces of the tsar, takes upon himself the spiritual leadership of the
next ten days. Now the intriguer is in his true element.
Yesterday he received another guest. Talleyrand by no means hates the
Emperor, but has from the first sign of Napoleon’s decline, forsaken
his master in order that he himself may climb. He has no wish to wreak
vengeance on a prisoner, and, indeed, has no reason for revenge.
Still, it would be convenient were the disturber of the peace quietly
to disappear; and therefore he promises a goodly reward to a certain
Maubreuil (a monarchist officer with an adventurous past) if this man
“will carry out an important commission on the road to Fontainebleau.”
But the adventurer’s heart fails him at the last moment, and he is
content to attack Jerome’s brave young wife and carry off her jewels,
instead of making an attempt on Napoleon’s life. Blücher, too, on his own
initiative, has sent a detachment with definite orders to make an end of
the Emperor.
“Well, what does France want?” asks the tsar of the abbé, as a man of
wide experience. Talleyrand has long had in mind the restoration of the
former king, but he thinks it best to ask whom Alexander would recommend.
Somewhat diffidently, the tsar mentions the name of Bernadotte.
Talleyrand smiles: “France does not want any more soldiers. If we wanted
one we should keep the one we have already, the finest soldier in the
world. No other, in his place, would find a hundred men to follow him.”
Talleyrand says this to the conqueror, says it in plain words to the
tsar; the defeated Emperor at Fontainebleau could have wished no greater
tribute of admiration than such words from such lips in such a situation.
A day later, Talleyrand summons the Senate, and the legislature confirms
the decision that the Emperor must abdicate. There is a general swing
of opinion in this direction. Caulaincourt is the only one who puts up
a fight for Napoleon, and tries to win over the tsar. For a moment,
Alexander’s impressionable heart is touched; the image of his whilom
friend rises before his mind; he wavers, and says that he will do his
best with his allies to save the crown for the king of Rome.
But while the impotent Caulaincourt is trying to persuade the vacillating
tsar, and is doing what he can to save the house of Bonaparte, at this
same hour on the third of April, Talleyrand has summoned Marshal Marmont
who, with his twelve thousand men across the Seine, is still a power,
since the main body of the allies has not yet reached Paris.
See them sitting there, Napoleon’s companion-in-arms and senior officer,
hobnobbing with the doyen of the Emperor’s ministers. The diplomat
reasons coldly with the soldier, who hardly needs to listen to the
arguments. He is hopelessly disillusioned, tired out. His faith had been
shaken three years ago in Spain. His thoughts run this wise: “What is
the use of trying to march with a dead man? The king is dead; long live
the king! At the military academy, we were all monarchists. His defeat
is a proof that the Bourbons have the right of it. The only choice is
between being stood up in front of an old wall or taking one’s stand
behind an old throne. The oath of allegiance? That has been abrogated.
The ties of friendship? Only the other day, he was scolding me after the
Laon affair.” Acting on the suggestion of his old acquaintance, Marmont
writes to Schwarzenberg, the allies’ commander-in-chief:
“By the decree of the Senate, the army and the people have been released
from their obligation of fealty to Napoleon. I am ready to promote an
understanding between people and army, in order to avoid civil war.”
Upon this pretext, which he subsequently endeavoured to fortify with
the excuse of patriotism (the paltry argument of every turncoat), the
Emperor’s senior marshal destroys the Emperor. Augereau, in a shameful
proclamation, is quick to follow Marmont’s lead.
At the time when Talleyrand is winning over the marshals, the Emperor in
Fontainebleau is reviewing his guards. To them he exclaims: “Never shall
we allow any one to wear in Paris the white cockade of the émigrés....
In a few days we will attack the enemy in Paris!” The officers brandish
their swords enthusiastically, shouting: “À Paris! Vive l’Empereur!” He
waves his hand to them, and, smiling joyfully, he briskly mounts the
steps, surrounded by his last ministers in their embroidered coats.
Soon afterwards, a carriage draws up in the courtyard. Caulaincourt steps
out; he is pale, having passed the night in a vigil. He approaches the
Emperor. Berthier enquires: “Well, my lad, how goes it?” The minister
hesitates to answer, for he does not like Berthier’s tone. Are the very
nearest going to fall away too? He finds the Emperor at work.
“What do they want of me?” asks Napoleon eagerly.
“Great sacrifices, that you may retain the crown for your son.”
“You mean that they refuse to treat with me! They want to make a helot of
me, to hold me up as a warning to all those whose genius enables them to
rule men and to make the born kings tremble on their ancient thrones!”
Bonaparte’s metallic tone! Such is the mood produced in the Emperor by
the sight of his guards, by the perusal of his latest muster rolls, by
the study of his maps. Now the minister mentions the most moderate of the
tsar’s demands. Napoleon is to abdicate in favour of the king of Rome,
and then the terms of a regency will be discussed. But there is talk of a
Bourbon restoration. The Emperor leaps to his feet:
“They are mad! The Bourbons in France; they would not be able to hold
their position for a year! Nine-tenths of the nation cannot endure them;
my soldiers will never serve under them. They have lived for twenty years
upon the alms of a foreigner, at war all the time with the fundamental
principles of their homeland! The Senate consists entirely of regicides,
or the sons of regicides. I was a newcomer, with nothing to take
vengeance for; a man whose only business it was to upbuild.... No doubt
they can draw profit out of the crash, can exile me and my family; but
the Bourbons—never!”
Thus does his work roll before his mind as in a rhapsody, lighted up by
his contempt for those whom he succeeded and who are now to succeed him.
He becomes the soldier once more. “They demand my abdication. Will the
crown then be secure for my son? I have still fifty thousand men. They
will march with me to Paris. After the victory, the people shall decide.
If, then, the French want to chase me away, I will go.” See the conflict
in his soul. As statesman, he is willing to abdicate, that his son may
reign; as soldier, he is still eager to fight, that he may retain all.
But while enthusiasm grows in the rank and file of his army, while the
common soldiers are willing to give their lives for the Emperor, the
marshals are malcontent. Although they have not yet heard of Marmont’s
defection, they cherish like wishes, and would gladly shake off their
allegiance to Napoleon if they could do so decently. This marked
difference between the mood of the men and that of their leaders is
once more a vengeance for the system of titles and monetary rewards
with whose aid the military commander, when he had become an emperor,
had transformed generals into marshals. Next day, the seniors among
them are of one mind. Ney, Macdonald, Oudinot, and Lefèvre, in the most
subservient way possible, speak to him of the advantages of abdication.
The Emperor shows them his maps, which are again beset with coloured
pins; he points out to them that the enemy is in an unfavourable
position, and enumerates his own resources. All is vain! The frame of
mind they had shown in Düben Castle, intensified a hundredfold, blocks
his way. Silently he dismisses them, for he wants to think over a plan.
Mentally, he has mustered his forces, and the total of his additions does
not seem to him a bad one. A conditional renunciation, therefore, will
not betoken anything more than an armistice, a postponement.
A few hours after the audience of the marshals, he sends for
Caulaincourt, and points to a holograph document on the table:
“There is my abdication. You can take it to Paris.”
The minister reads:
“Since the allied powers have declared that Emperor Napoleon is the
only obstacle to the peace of Europe, Emperor Napoleon, faithful to his
oath, declares himself ready, for the welfare of his country, which is
inseparable from the rights of his son, from those of the regency of the
empress, and from the maintenance of the laws of the Empire, to descend
from the throne, to give up France and even life itself.”
What a style! A diplomatic document, involved in its phraseology,
cautiously worded, ambiguous, penned for the inspection of diplomats of
the old school. Nothing of Napoleon in it. The minister begs for the
companionship of two of the marshals for so important a mission.
“Take Marmont and Ney,” says the Emperor, adding, “Marmont is my oldest
comrade.”
“Marmont is not here.”
“Macdonald, then.”
Late that evening, three hours after the interview with Napoleon, the
plenipotentiaries are at the Elysée confronting the allied princes and
ministers. Most of the negotiations are carried on between the tsar
and Caulaincourt. The latter’s contention that the French are heartily
against the Bourbons has its effect; the parleys continue far into the
night. Suddenly an announcement is made in Russian; the Frenchmen do not
understand. Thereupon the tsar speaks: “You are relying, gentlemen, upon
the unshakable loyalty of the troops towards the imperial regime. Well, I
have just been informed that the advance guard, the sixth army corps, has
deserted the Emperor. It has come over to our lines.”
The allies’ task has become easier; they now demand instant and
unconditional abdication. Meanwhile the Emperor sends one courier after
another from Fontainebleau to his minister. He writes:
“If they refuse to negotiate with me, what kind of a treaty will it
be?... Bring back my act of abdication, I command you.... I will sign no
treaty!”
Next day at six o’clock in the morning the Emperor is at work with
Berthier. A captain is introduced, an adjutant of Mortier’s.
“Well, what news?”
“The sixth army corps has gone over to the enemy. It is marching to
Paris.”
The Emperor seizes him by the arm and shakes it.
“Marmont? Are you sure? Did the troops know where they were being led?”
“During the night they were led into the Austrian camp. They were told
that they were marching against the enemy.”
“My men have to be duped before they can be torn away from me! Did you
see Marmont at the time he set out?”
“No, Sire.”
“The cavalry, too?”
“In close columns.”
“Where is Mortier?”
“He sent me to tell you that his corps will be loyal to you in life and
in death. He awaits Your Majesty’s orders. The young guard is ready to
die for you. All young France is ready!”
The emperor steps close up to the young officer, looks him straight in
the eyes, and with a friendly gesture allows his hand to slip under the
fringe of the epaulette so that it may rest on the captain’s shoulder.
Thus does the ageing Napoleon find support once more in the young men of
France.
When Caulaincourt brings the demands, he is accompanied only by Macdonald.
“Where is Ney?”
Silence. A pause. Then he is told the conditions. They probe him to the
quick. To disavow the dynasty! For a decade the dynasty has been his goal.
“My personal withdrawal did not suffice? Must I, with my signature,
disinherit my wife and my son? I cannot do this! I won their throne for
them by my deeds!” The paradox has taken such deep root in his thoughts
that he has ceased to be aware of his existence. Then he counts his
troops again.
“I have twenty-five thousand men here; I can speedily bring up another
eighteen thousand from Italy; Souchet has eighteen thousand, Soult forty.
I shall fight!...”
The remaining troops are loyal, but the leaders are weary of the
struggle. Why does he not place himself at the head of his guards?
Because he can only think in terms of marshals, because the feudalist
atmosphere is cutting him off from his stalwarts.
Here they all come again! They warn him, even Berthier joins with the
others now, that Fontainebleau can easily be surrounded. He listens to
them with dignified composure. Then he abruptly asks them whether they
are prepared to march with him to the Loire; or to Italy, where they can
join Eugene’s forces. Behind the proposal, we sense new plans of our
adventurer. But the men who stand before him are marshals and Frenchmen;
they breathe the words “civil war”; they advise him to abdicate. The
island of Elba has been chosen for his dwelling place; he had better take
what he can get! He dismisses them.
“None of them has either heart or reins! I am not so much beaten by
fortune, as by the ingratitude of my brothers-in-arms. It is infamous.
All is over!”
Without, in the drawing-room, groups of courtiers and dignitaries have
assembled. Voices are hushed as though a king lay dead. All are awaiting
the signature. The Emperor is well aware of this, he allows no one to
enter his room, he will keep them waiting till morning. After a feverish,
sleepless night, his negotiators find him sitting in his dressing-gown
before the fire, a broken man and pitiable.
They bring him the deed which they have signed in Paris that night. He
is to receive Elba, and two million francs as annual subsidy; he is to
retain the title of Emperor; he is to have a guard of four hundred men.
Talleyrand had warned the allies that this proximity of the lion to
France was a menace; he suggested Corfu, and even mentioned St. Helena.
Fouché endeavours to shield the Emperor from a slow descent from the
heights; in elegantly phrased letters he suggests that Napoleon should
go straight to America, where, as a free citizen, life could be started
anew.—The farther away from the coasts of Europe, the better!
All this leaves the Emperor cold. He is visioning something different.
He sees how Macdonald is standing the test; in his secret heart he
is comparing this marshal with those others who have shown so much
ingratitude; he feels now that he has not honoured the man enough. In
this hour when he has to sign his abdication, Napoleon says:
“I have not sufficiently rewarded you. Now I can do no more. Take the
sword which Sultan Selim gave me and keep it in remembrance.” While all
are waiting for the signature, the Emperor sends for the gilded scimitar,
and embraces the general as he presents it. Then Napoleon signs the act
of abdication.
“The allied powers having declared that Emperor Napoleon is the sole
obstacle to the re-establishment of peace in Europe, the Emperor,
faithful to his oath, declares that he renounces, for himself and his
heirs, the thrones of France and Italy, and that there is no sacrifice,
not even that of life, which he is not ready to make for the interests of
France.”
The deed is done! All breathe freely again. The generals and the
courtiers leave Fontainebleau; Maret alone remains. They hasten to Paris;
even Berthier throws himself into the arms of the provisional government.
Talleyrand and Fouché are at the head of things.
But the Emperor remains another nine days in his palace, and he is
not alone. Around him, unshaken, his guards are encamped; they still
muster twenty-five thousand men. Who else is with him? His brothers
have taken to their heels. What is Josephine doing, at Malmaison? After
she has wept, and sworn that she will follow the forsaken Emperor, she
receives Napoleon’s conqueror with sparkling eyes and adorned with all
the pitiful appeal of a Niobe. The tsar wishes to play the part of a
knightly cavalier, and succumbs to the renowned charms of the first
empress. But Hortense, her daughter, receives the tsar’s visit coldly and
off-handedly. As soon as he is gone, she hastens to Fontainebleau and
remains with the Emperor till his departure.
At first, his mother is with him. But, wishing to see her in safety, he
persuades her to go away with Jerome. They will meet again later. When
the empress says good-bye to Letizia, she utters polite commonplaces
and wishes her mother-in-law well. The old lady, who sees through Marie
Louise, and knows that all she cares for is security and enjoyment,
answers this daughter of the Habsburgs: “That will depend upon you, and
upon your future conduct.”