While it is true that the return of the Emperor had not pleased the
nobles, the ultramontane priests, the capitalists, and the intriguers
who had been working for the Duke of Orleans, there appears to be
no doubt that the army and the masses of the people were sincerely
rejoiced. The only thing which had a tendency to cool the general
enthusiasm was the apprehension of war. But Napoleon having taken
great pains to make it known that he wished for peace, that he meant
to respect the Treaty of Paris, and that he intended to rule as a
constitutional king, the French could not fully realize the certainty
of war. They had heard the allied kings declare that France had the
right to choose her own ruler, and had been told that the Bourbons were
restored simply because the Senate and other organs of public opinion
had deposed Napoleon and selected Louis XVIII. If the allied kings were
telling the truth in making such declarations, then the French, who
had put Napoleon aside for the Bourbon, had as much right to put the
Bourbon aside for Napoleon. Neither to the French people, nor to Louis
XVIII., did it appear certain that the allied kings would march their
armies back into France to drive out an emperor the nation had welcomed.
Consequently the beginning of the Hundred Days was marked with what
General Thiébault calls a “boundless enthusiasm.” He was present on
the night of Napoleon’s entry into Paris; he was one of the officers
sent by the King to stop the Emperor’s advance; and Thiébault says
that “at least twenty thousand persons were crowding about the
Tuileries. Suddenly Napoleon reappeared. There was an instantaneous and
irresistible outburst. At sight of him the transports rose to such a
pitch that you would have thought the ceilings were coming down; then,
as after a thunder-clap, every man came to himself, quivering with
ecstasy, and stammering like a man intoxicated.”
This first night of his return had barely passed before Napoleon was
hard at work reorganizing his government; and he continued to labor
sixteen hours a day, almost without rest, to create an administration,
an army, and a thorough system of national defence.
As Dumas tersely states, “At his voice, France was covered with
manufactories, workshops, founderies; and the armorers of the capital
alone furnished as many as three thousand guns in twenty-four hours;
whilst the tailors made in the same time as many as fifteen and even
eighteen hundred coats. At the same time the lists of the regiments
of the line were increased from two battalions to five; those of the
cavalry were reënforced by two squadrons; two hundred battalions of
the National Guard were organized; twenty marine regiments and forty
regiments of the Young Guard were put in condition for service; the old
disbanded soldiers were recalled to the standard; the conscriptions of
1814 and 1815 were raised; soldiers and officers in retirement were
engaged to reënter the line. Six armies were formed under the names
of the Army of the North, of the Moselle, of the Rhine, of the Jura,
of the Alps, and of the Pyrenees; whilst a seventh, the Army of the
Reserve, collected under the walls of Paris and of Lyons, which cities
were to be fortified.”
Politically, Napoleon’s position in France itself was full of trouble.
Though they had cast out the Bourbons, the people had no intention of
returning to imperial despotism. Liberal ideas prevailed everywhere,
and Napoleon himself must not now hope to rule by personal sway. He
must become the mouthpiece and the public agent of the nation, else he
would become king of a minority faction, with the bulk of the nation
against him.
As an evidence of his good faith in accepting limited power, Napoleon
called to his counsels Benjamin Constant, leader of the French
liberals, a friend of Madame de Staël, and a very bitter enemy to
the Emperor. Constant responded to the invitation, and prepared an
amendment to the constitution of the Empire, which Madame de Staël
believed was precisely the thing needed to rally all France to
Napoleon’s support, and to make certain the future of the cause of
liberalism.
This famous document, known as “The Act Additional,” did not vindicate
Madame de Staël’s judgment. It angered all parties, more or less, for
it was what modern politicians would call “a straddle.” It contained
enough democracy to offend the imperialists; and enough imperialism to
disgust the democrats.
Let it be remembered that the rallying cry of the people who had
flocked to the returning Emperor had been: “Down with the nobles! Down
with the priests!” So intense had been this feeling, this terrible
antagonism to the abuses of the Old Order, that Napoleon himself, at
Lyons, had whispered, “This is madness.” In Paris he had found the
same spirit. Nobles and priests were furiously hated, not so much on
personal grounds, as because they stood for an abominable system.
By tens of thousands the workmen of Paris had paraded before the
Tuileries, making the air ring with the old war cries of the
Revolution, and chanting fiercely the song whose burden is “With the
guts of the last of the priests we will strangle the last of the kings!”
Now, of all men, Napoleon was the least likely to throw himself into
the arms of men like these. He had no objection to nobles if they
were _his_ nobles; nor to priests if they were _his_ priests; nor,
indeed, to kings if they were _his_ kings. Perfectly willing that the
opportunities of life should be offered to all men alike, whether
peasants or princes, and democrat enough to wish that all men should
be equal in the eye of the law,--free to choose their vocations, their
religion, and their political creed,--he had not the slightest idea
of opening the flood-gates of that pent-up democracy, socialism, and
communism which had horrified him in the days of his youth.
In the “Act Additional” provisions were made for a representative
government and for the responsibility of ministers. Freedom of
religion, freedom of the press, security for person and property, were
also guaranteed.
The good effects of these concessions were nullified by the creation of
a hereditary House of Lords, which, it is said, Napoleon opposed, but
which was adopted in spite of him. General Thiébault thought that this
unpopular feature of the new Constitution lost the Emperor two hundred
thousand men, who, otherwise, would have joined his army.
This “Act Additional” was submitted to the people, and adopted, but the
vote was light.
By a decree which he had issued from Lyons, he had abolished the Senate
and the legislative body. In their place was to be put the new House
of Lords, and a legislative assembly. Urged by Lafayette, and other
Liberals whose support he could not throw away, Napoleon ordered the
elections much earlier than he had intended--and much earlier than was
good for him, as it afterward appeared.
One by one grievous disappointments fell upon Napoleon and his people.
It became evident that his return meant war. The Congress of Vienna
declared that he had broken the Treaty of Fontainebleau, and declared
him an outlaw. The armies of the kings were ordered to halt in their
homeward march, and to set out for France again. Napoleon’s letters to
the Allies could not even be delivered; his couriers were turned back
at the frontier.
If Austria had made a secret agreement with him, it became apparent
that nothing was to be hoped for in that quarter.
Murat had ruined everything by madly plunging into the papal states,
proclaiming Italian unity and independence, and dashing himself to
pieces in an attempt far beyond his means and his ability. Austria
believed that Murat was acting at the instigation of Napoleon, and this
unfounded suspicion led her to think, as Napoleon said, that he had
played her false.
Murat’s army melted away in the face of Austrian and English
opposition; the Italians did not rise as he had hoped; and the rash,
unfortunate King of Naples fled to France, and hid himself near Toulon.
From this place of concealment he sent to Napoleon the offer of his
services; but the great man who had forgiven Ney, and reëmployed
Fouché, drew the line at Murat. More’s the pity! In an army which had
a general’s place for the infamous Bourmont, there surely might have
been found room for the finest cavalry leader in the world--a man who
had sinned, but had bitterly repented; a man whose splendid sword might
have made Ligny another Jena, and Waterloo another Dresden.
As it was, Murat’s failure strengthened the Allies, and cast a gloom
over France.
Two things Napoleon needed above all others,--time and money. He had
only a few weeks in which to create means of defence against a world
in arms; and the lack of money made it impossible for him to utilize
to the best advantage even these few weeks. Supported only by silver
and gold (arrant cowards in times of war), and the note currency of
the Bank of France, he was combating nations which redoubled their
resources by the issue of paper money. He received liberal voluntary
contributions; Hobhouse relates that it was a frequent occurrence for
rolls of bank notes to be handed the Emperor while he was reviewing the
troops. But, after all, such a resource yields comparatively little;
and the scarcity of money seriously crippled the great captain in
preparing for his last fight.
Before he sets out to join the army we see Napoleon in two characters
which will never fade from the memory: one as the successor of
Charlemagne and Emperor of the French; the other as the private citizen
with his personal griefs.
Time being so short, it was decided that the electoral colleges of
France should have a grand open-air meeting as in the days of Charles
the Great--a _Champ de Mai_, to be held in the Field of Mars.
On the 1st of June, 1815, deputations from all the constituencies of
the Empire, together with those from the army, and every public body,
assembled in that historic amphitheatre where the first Festival of the
Federation had been held twenty odd years before. Sixty thousand troops
added to the pomp of the ceremony, and countless throngs of Parisians
crowded the field. There was inspiring music, impressive religious
forms, and a great taking of oaths to the new Constitution. Napoleon
himself took the oath, distributed the eagles to his enthusiastic
soldiers, and in a far-reaching, sharply pitched voice delivered one of
his masterly addresses.
“Emperor, consul, soldier, I owe everything to the people. In
prosperity, in adversity, on the field of battle, in the council room,
on the throne, in exile, France has been the soul and constant object
of my thought and my efforts.”
How could Frenchmen listen to words like these and not burst into
cheers? Had he been dressed that day in simple uniform instead of
absurd court costume; had he kept his baleful brothers--Joseph, Lucien,
and Jerome--in the background instead of at the forefront; had he made
his appeal and trusted his cause more unreservedly to the people, the
_Champ de Mai_ might have been a colossal repetition of his triumph at
Grenoble and Lyons. As it was, Paris regarded it as a fine spectacle,
an exhibition to be seen and applauded--nothing more. It touched the
heart of the army; it did not touch the larger heart of the French
people.
When the chambers met, the Emperor delivered still a more successful
speech. Hobhouse, who was present, says that when he had finished with
the sentence, pronounced in a louder tone and with a flourish of the
right hand, “The sacred cause of country will triumph!” he rose quickly
from his throne, “bowed to the assembly, and retired amidst thunders
of applause, which accompanied him from the throne to the door, and
obliged him several times to turn round and salute the assembly as he
was ascending the stairs of the area. He appeared highly delighted.
Indeed, nothing could exceed the enthusiasm, which was the more
gratifying as it proceeded from such an assembly.” When we remember
that this assembly of notables was already hostile to Napoleon, was
already cut up into factions, only one of which was devoted to him, and
that it was an open secret that these notables would openly oppose him
the moment the fortunes of war should go against him, his oratorical
triumph becomes all the more remarkable.
So much for the Emperor, his labors, his speeches, his dangers, his
mighty efforts to conquer an impossible situation; we can admire it
all, marvel at his genius, courage, resources, and versatility; but
it is only when we go with him to Malmaison that we draw near to the
_man_, feel for him, feel with him, and realize how greatly he has
been misunderstood. He had always been a good son; he had been but too
affectionate, too generous, to his sisters and brothers; he had been to
both his wives one of the most tenderly indulgent of husbands.
It seems that he had continued to hope, almost to the last, that
Maria Louisa would come to him at Elba, and bring his boy. A lot of
fireworks, we are told, had fallen into his possession, and he had
kept them carefully, ready to be used when wife and child should come.
He knew, at length, that neither would ever see him again. He had been
told of Neipperg, and the true reason why Maria Louisa had ceased to
write. “Méva, tell papa I am still very fond of him!” and this message,
sent almost by stealth, was all that Méneval could bring to the father
from the little son who was held at Vienna. No wonder that Napoleon
should be found sitting before a portrait of his son, with tears
coursing down his cheeks.
Josephine was dead. The fall of the Emperor, her hero, her Cid, had
bewildered and unnerved her. Frightened at the din of war that shook
the whole realm, she had lived in terror at Malmaison. The allied
kings paid her every attention, and in showing the King of Prussia
over her lovely grounds when she was ill, broken out with an eruption,
she had, it is said, brought on a fatal relapse. Murmuring the words
“Elba”--“Bonaparte”--she died, while her hero was yet in exile. It
is a revelation of his true character that before setting out on his
last campaign he should claim one day out of the few fate gave him,
and devote it to memories, to regrets, to recollections of the frail,
but tender-hearted woman who had warmed to him when all the world was
growing cold. He went to Malmaison, almost alone, and, with Hortense,
walked over the grounds, seeing the old familiar places, and thinking
of the “old familiar faces.” He lingered in the garden he himself had
made, and in which he used to love to work when he was First Consul,
surrounded by trees and flowers, and inhaling the breath of nature.
He used to say that he could work better there than anywhere else. He
wandered through the park, looking out on the trees he had planted in
those brilliant days long ago. Every spot had its silent reminder of
glories that were gone, of friends he would see no more.
He had asked to be told everything about Josephine,--her last days,
her sickness, her dying hours; no details were too trivial to escape
him. And as they told the story he would break in with exclamations
of interest, of fondness, of sorrow. On this visit to the château he
wanted to see everything that could remind him of her, and of their old
life together--the death-chamber at the last. Here he would have no
companion. “My daughter, let me go in here alone!” and he put Hortense
back, entered, and closed the door. He remained a long while, and when
he came out his eyes showed that he had been weeping.
* * * * *
His personal appearance at this time is thus described by Hobhouse, who
saw him at a military review at the Tuileries: “His face was deadly
pale; his jaws overhung, but not so much as I had heard; his lips
thin, but partially curling, so as to give his mouth an inexpressible
sweetness. He had the habit of retracting the lips and apparently
chewing. His hair was dusky brown, scattered thinly over his temples;
the crown of his head was bald. One of the names of affection given him
of late by his soldiers is ‘Our little monk.’ He was not fat in the
upper part of his body, but projected considerably in the abdomen, so
much so, that his linen appeared beneath his waistcoat. He generally
stood with his hands knit behind him, or folded before him, but
sometimes unfolded them, played with his nose, took snuff three or four
times, and looked at his watch. He seemed to have a laboring in his
chest, sighing or swallowing. He very seldom spoke, but when he did,
smiled, in some sort, agreeably. He looked about him, not knitting but
joining his eyebrows, as if to see more minutely, and went through the
whole tedious ceremony with an air of sedate impatience.”
Hobhouse speaks of Napoleon’s reception at the opera where Talma was to
play Hector. “The house was choked with spectators, who crowded into
the orchestra. The airs of La Victoire and the Marseillaise were called
for, and performed amidst thunders of applause, the spectators joining
in the burden of the song.... Napoleon entered at the third scene.
The whole mass rose with a shout which still thunders in my ears. The
vivats continued until the Emperor, bowing right and left, seated
himself, and the play recommenced. The audience received every speech
which had the least reference to their returned hero with unnumbered
plaudits.”
General Thiébault in his _Memoirs_ declares that Napoleon was no longer
the same man he had once been; that his face wore a greenish tinge
and had lost its expression; that his mouth had lost its witchery;
“his very head no longer had the pose which used to characterize the
conqueror of the world; and his gait was as perplexed as his demeanor
and gestures were undecided. Everything about him seemed to have lost
its nature and to be broken up.”
The lady who composed the _Memoirs of the Court of Louis XVIII._ saw
Napoleon holding a review at the Tuileries, and had a conversation with
him afterward.
“Bonaparte was dressed that day in a green uniform. I have been told
that it was the same which he afterward wore at Waterloo, and which he
wore, almost in tatters, at St. Helena. He had been reviewing some
troops that morning at the Champ-de-Mars, and his coat, hat, and boots
were still dusty.... I looked in vain for the fire which once beamed
in his eyes. He stooped more than usual; his head almost hung upon
his breast; his complexion was yellow, his countenance melancholy and
thoughtful, and his little hat drawn almost over his eyes, gave him a
gloomy expression. His movements were still abrupt, but this seemed
merely the effect of habit.... He had altogether a wearied, harassed
appearance, which seemed to indicate a great man extinct.”
To the same effect is the testimony of Chancellor Pasquier.
Carnot said: “I do not know him again. He talks instead of acting,
he the man of rapid decisions; he asks opinions, he the imperious
dictator, who seemed insulted by advice; his mind wanders, though he
used to have the power of attending to everything, when and as he
would; he is sleepy, and he used to sleep and wake at pleasure.”