trumpet-call, and Madame de Rémusat was full of happiness: "My dear, what
good news!" she wrote October 14, "... This morning the cannon announced
the victory to the city of Paris; it produced a great effect. Every one
was inquiring about it in the street, and congratulating himself; in
short, I send the Empress word, the Parisians were French. I have already
written twenty notes, and received all the visits of congratulation....
But what a great victory! How proud I am of being a Frenchwoman! I
couldn't sleep for joy. Perhaps by this time you have heard of others, and
when we are rejoicing over the first victory, you have forgotten it with
another. May Heaven continue to protect this noble army and its glorious
leader!" This enthusiastic letter ends with these somewhat harsh
criticising of the Parisians: "This victory was necessary, for these sad
Parisians had begun to complain. The emptiness of Paris, its quiet, the
lack of money which continues to make itself felt, gave to the malevolent
a good opportunity to excite dissatisfaction, and they did their best to
spread it. I was wondering this very morning why in a nation so devoid of
national feeling there should be in the army such unity of action and
thought. It seems to me that honor has a good deal to do with this
difference, and that it takes the place of public spirit in many who in
ordinary times are too happy, too rich, and too careless to care for
anything beyond their own belongings."
Napoleon went from one victory to another, October 18, just before the
capitulation of Ulm, he wrote to Josephine from Elchingen: "I have been
more tired than I should have been; for a week getting wet through every
day, and cold feet, have done me a little harm, but staying in to-day has
rested me. I have carried out my plan and have destroyed the Austrian army
by simple marches. I have taken sixty thousand prisoners, one hundred and
twenty cannon, more than ninety flags, and more than thirty generals. I am
going to attack the Russians; they are lost. I am satisfied with my army.
I have lost only fifteen hundred men, and two-thirds of these are but
slightly wounded. Good by. Remember me to every one. Prince Charles is
coming to cover Vienna. I think Masséna ought to be at Vienna at this
time. As soon as I am easy about Italy I shall make Eugene fight. My love
to Hortense."
The capitulation of Ulm was arranged by Napoleon with Prince Lichtenstein,
Major-General of the Austrian army. A heavy rain fell without cessation,
and the prisoners were amazed to see the Emperor, who had not taken off
his boots for a week, wet through, covered with mud, and more tired than
the humblest drummer. When some one spoke of it, he said to Prince
Lichtenstein: "Your Emperor wanted to remind me that I was a soldier. I
hope he will acknowledge that the throne and the Imperial purple have not
made me forget my old trade." October 21, the day after the capitulation,
Napoleon wrote to Josephine: "I am very well, my dear. I leave at once for
Augsburg. I have made an army of thirty-three thousand men surrender. I
have taken from sixty to seventy thousand prisoners, more than ninety
flags, and more than two hundred cannon. In the military annals there is
no such defeat. Keep well. I am a little worried. For three days the
weather has been pleasant. The first column of prisoners starts for France
to-day. Each column contains six thousand men." Never had war been fought
with such art. An army of eighty-five thousand men had been destroyed
almost without firing a gun; its adversaries had lost only three thousand
men. After this great victory Napoleon's soldiers said, "The Emperor beat
the enemy with our legs, not with our bayonets."
These chronicles of war have a sad side even when they commemorate the
most brilliant victories. Even while he counts the trophies the historian
cannot avoid melancholy reflections. What capitulations awaited France
sixty-five years after this capitulation of Ulm! But in this intoxication
of victory, people have eyes only for their success. Were they reasonable,
they would then reflect on the calamities of war. Hortense, who was as
kind as her mother, Josephine, had this wisdom and pity. She said, "When I
read these accounts I am surprised to find myself ready to weep even when
I am happy at the victories." At the time Madame de Rémusat wrote to her
husband: "Poor creatures that we are, how restless we are on this
sandhill, and too often only to hasten our end! A good subject for the
philosopher is this glory, with which we adorn our eagerness in killing
one another." The triumphal music should not drown the sobs and cries of
the mothers; we should think of the dead and wounded. But nations are like
individuals: they never reflect.
Napoleon pushed on the war with real delight. He felt about war as a good
workman feels about his work, as a great artist about his art. To war it
was that he owed his power and glory. Without it, he said, he would have
been nothing; by it, he was everything. Hence he felt for it not merely
love, but gratitude; loving it both by instinct and calculation. He
preferred the bivouac to the Tuileries. Just as the snipe-shooter prefers
a marsh to a drawing-room, he was more at home under a tent than in a
palace. To men who like the battle-field, war is the most intense of
pleasures. They love it as the gamester loves play, with a real frenzy.
They defeat the enemy, not merely without feeling, but with a fierce joy,
as if it were their prey. They feel the same emotions as the Romans in a
circus, or the Spaniards at a bull-fight. The rattle of drums, the blare
of trumpets, shouts of soldiers, are what they hear; their ears are deaf
to the cries of the wounded and dying. The varying chances of the combat,
the uncertainties of fear and hope produce in them emotions that they
prefer to all others, however poetic and charming. It is with a sort of
intoxication that they inhale the smell of gunpowder, perhaps even that of
blood. A hotly contested victory is more agreeable to them than one too
easily gained. Fortune is, in their eyes, a difficult mistress, whose
favors seem the dearer, the harder they are of attainment. What a
satisfaction for a proud man to be absolute commander of an army which,
before the fight, shouts like the ancient gladiators: _Ave, Caesar,
morituri te salutant!_ "Hail, Caesar, those about to die salute you!" an
army in which even dying men shout applause, with their last breath, to
their sovereign, their idol! And yet how petty is all this glory! Bossuet
was right when he said: "What could you find on earth strong and dignified
enough to bear the name of power? Open your eyes, pierce the dusk. All the
power in the world can but take a man's life: is it then such a great
thing to shorten by a few moments a life which is already hastening to its
end?"
Josephine did not in the least share her husband's warlike tastes. Gentle,
kindly, affectionate, full of pity for human woes, she would have liked to
reconcile all parties, all nations,--to have universal peace. This woman,
who had all the graces and charms of her sex, never inspired Napoleon with
ambitious or haughty thoughts. While the war lasted, she was anxious,
unhappy; waiting anxiously with bated breath for news, scarcely living.
Napoleon, wrote to her from Augsburg, October 28: "The last two nights
have rested me completely, and I leave for Munich to-morrow; I am
summoning to me M. de Talleyrand and M. Maret; I shall see them for a
short time, and then leave for the Inn, where I mean to attack Austria in
its hereditary states. I should have been glad to see you, but don't
expect me to summon you unless there should be an armistice, or we should
go into winter quarters. Good by, my dear; a thousand kisses. Remember me
to all the ladies." From Munich the Emperor wrote the following letter,
dated October 27; "I have received your letter from Lamarois. I am sorry
to see that you have been over-anxious. I have heard many details of your
affection for me, but you should have more strength, and confidence.
Besides, I had told you I should not write for six days. To-morrow I
expect the Elector. At noon I start to strengthen my movement on the Inn.
My health is very fair. You mustn't think of crossing the Rhine in less
than two or three weeks. You must be cheerful, and amuse yourself in the
hope of our meeting before the end of the month (Brumaire). I am advancing
on the Russian army. In a few days I shall have crossed the Inn. Good by,
my dear; much love to Hortense, to Eugene, and to the two Napoleons. Keep
the wedding present for some time yet. Yesterday I gave a concert to the
ladies of this court. The leader is a worthy man. I have shot pheasants
with the Elector; you see I am not worn out. M. de Talleyrand has come."
Again, from Haag, November 3, 1805: "I am advancing rapidly; the weather
is very cold; the snow is a foot deep. This is not pleasant. Fortunately,
we have an abundance of wood; we are continually in the forests. I am
fairly well. Everything goes on satisfactorily; the enemy has more cause
for anxiety than I. I am eager to hear from you, and to know that your
mind is easy. Good by, my dear; I am going to bed."
Napoleon continued his operations with startling rapidity. He wrote to
Josephine November 5: "I am at Linz. The weather is fine. We are within
twenty-eight leagues of Vienna. The Russians are retreating without making
a stand. The house of Austria is much embarrassed; all the belongings of
the court have been removed from Vienna. You will probably have some news
in five or six days. I am very anxious to see you. My health is good." The
Emperor of Austria, compelled to leave Vienna, had sought refuge at Brunn,
where he joined the Czar and the second Russian army; and Napoleon entered
the capital whence the Emperor Francis had fled. He wrote to Josephine
November 15: "I have been for two days in Vienna, a little tired. I have
not yet seen the city by daylight, but have only passed through it by
night. To-morrow I receive the authorities. Almost all my troops are
beyond the Danube in pursuit of the Russians. Good by, dear Josephine; as
soon as possible I shall arrange for you to come. I send much love." The
next day he wrote again to the Empress from Vienna: "I am writing to M. de
Narville to arrange for you to go to Baden, thence to Stuttgart, and
thence to Munich. At Stuttgart you will give the present to the Princess
Paul. Fifteen or twenty thousand francs will be enough for it; the rest
will be enough for a present to the daughter of the Elector of Bavaria at
Munich. All that you heard from Madame de Sérent is definitely arranged.
Bring presents for the ladies and officers in waiting on you. Be pleasant,
but receive all their homages; they owe you everything, and you owe them
nothing, except in the way of politeness. The Electress of Würtemberg is a
daughter of the King of England; you should treat her well, and especially
without affectation. I shall be glad to see you as soon as business will
permit. I am leaving for the front. The weather is admirable; there is
much snow, but everything is in good condition. Good by, my dear one." On
the receipt of this letter, Josephine, who was most anxious to see her
husband, hastened away from Strassburg to go to Munich through Baden and
Würtemberg. At the same time Napoleon set off to meet the Austrian and
Russian armies, commanded by their respective Emperors, in Moravia.
We have in the Memoirs of General de Ségur, an eye-witness, an interesting
account of the eve of Austerlitz. Late in the afternoon Napoleon entered a
hut, and took his place at table in the best of spirits, along with Murat,
Caulaincourt, Junot, Ségur, Rapp, and a few other guests. They thought
that he would talk about the next day's battle. Not at all: he discussed
literature with Junot, who was familiar with all the new tragedies; he had
a good deal to say about Raynouard's _Templars_, about Racine, Corneille,
and the fate of the ancient drama. Then, by a singular transition, he
began to talk about his Egyptian campaign. "If I had captured Acre," he
said, "I should have put my army into long trousers, and have made it my
sacred battalion, my Immortals, and have finished my war against the Turks
with Arabians, Greeks, and Armenians. Instead of fighting here in Moravia,
I should be winning a battle of Issus, and be making myself Emperor of the
West, returning to Paris through Constantinople."
After dinner Napoleon wished to make a final reconnoissance of the enemy's
position by their bivouac fires; he mounted his horse and rode out between
the lines. One moment he came near paying dear for his imprudence; he went
too far forward and suddenly fell on a post of Cossacks, and had it not
been for the devotion of the chasseurs who escorted him, he would have
been killed or captured, and he was scarcely able to escape at full
gallop. After crossing the stream which covered the front of the French
army, he dismounted and returned to his bivouac, from one watch-fire to
another, on foot. On his way he stumbled over the stump of a tree and fell
to the ground. Then a grenadier took some straw, rolled it up to something
like a torch, and lit it; other soldiers did the same thing; the camp was
illuminated, and the face of the great conqueror was plainly to be seen.
The next day was December 2, the anniversary of his coronation. "Emperor,"
shouted an old soldier, "I promise you in the name of the grenadiers of
the army that you will have to fight only with your eyes, and that to-
morrow we shall bring you the flags and artillery of the Russian army to
celebrate the anniversary of your coronation." Every one shouted applause.
Napoleon in vain tried to stop them. "Silence," he commanded, "until to-
morrow! think of nothing but sharpening your bayonets!" Shouts of "Long
live the Emperor!" were repeated. Along a line of two leagues blazed
thousands of fires and flames. The Russians wondered what was the cause of
this unusual brilliancy, and thought the French were retreating. Napoleon
was at first annoyed by this rapturous demonstration, but at last he was
touched by it, and passing through a number of bivouacs, all brightly lit,
he expressed his gratitude to his soldiers, saying it was the happiest
evening of his life. Then he went to his tent, snatched a little sleep,
and when he rose in the morning, said, "Now, gentlemen, we are beginning a
great day."
A moment later, the commanders of the different army corps, Murat, Lannes,
Bernadotte, Soult, Davout, came galloping up the little mound which the
soldiers called the Emperor's hill, to receive his final orders. It was a
solemn, impressive moment. "If I were to live," says General de Ségur, "as
long as the world shall last, I shall never forget that scene.... Times
have changed quickly since then. Heavens! how great everything was then,
how brave the men, how glorious the time, how imposing the appearance of
fate!" Never was there a more brilliant triumph. "I have fought thirty
battles like that," said the conqueror, "but I have never seen so decisive
a victory, or one where the chances were so unevenly balanced." And then
full of admiration for his soldiers, he exclaimed; "I am satisfied with
you; you have covered your eagles with undying glory."
From a military point of view Austerlitz was Napoleon's greatest triumph.
War, which he loved with all its risks and emotions, then showed him its
most tempting side. He was always tempting fate, and fate had always
favored him. The hour had not yet struck when he was to ask more of
fortune than it could give. As Sainte-Beuve truly says, it was not till in
the icy plain of Eylau, from the cemetery covered with blood-stained snow,
that receiving the first warning of Providence, he had a sort of terrible
vision of what the future held in store for him. Then he had before his
eyes a sort of rehearsal of the horrors awaiting him in Russia, and at the
sight of so many corpses, and the awful scene, he said with deep
melancholy, "This sight is one to fill kings with love of peace and horror
of war." But at Austerlitz it was very different. The shrieks of the
Russians sinking through the holes torn in the ice by cannon-balls were
drowned in the shouts of the victors. The bright sunlight of that day of
triumph dispelled, all traces of gloom in the conqueror's heart.
December 3. Napoleon wrote thus to Josephine about his victory: "I
despatched Lebrun to you from the battle-field. I have beaten the Russian
and Austrian armies commanded by the two Emperors. I am a little tired. I
have bivouacked for a week in the open air, and the nights have been cool.
To-night I am going to sleep in the castle of Prince Kaunitz, where I
shall get two or three hours' rest. The Russian army is not merely
defeated, but destroyed. Much love." December 3, he had an interview in
his bivouac with the Emperor of Austria; and as if to apologize for the
wretched quarters in which he received him, he said, "This is the palace
which Your Majesty has compelled me to inhabit these three months." The
Emperor of Austria replied, "You make such good use of it, that you
certainly can't blame me on that account." And then the two Emperors
embraced.
The day Napoleon wrote to Josephine: "I have made a truce. The Russians
withdraw. The battle of Austerlitz is the greatest I have won: forty-five
flags, more than one hundred and fifty cannon, the standards of the
Russian guards, twenty generals, more than twenty thousand killed,--a
horrid sight! The Emperor Alexander is in despair, and is leaving for
Russia. Yesterday I saw the Emperor of Germany in my bivouac; we talked
for two hours, and agreed on a speedy peace. The weather is not yet very
bad. Now that the continent is at peace, we may hope for it everywhere;
the English will be unable to face us. I shall see with pleasure the time
that will restore me to you. For two days a little trouble with the eyes
has been prevalent in the army. I have not yet been attacked. Good by, my
dear. I am fairly well, and very anxious to see you." December 3, there
was another letter, also from Austerlitz: "I have concluded an armistice,
and peace will be made within a week. I am anxious to hear that you have
reached Munich in good health. The Russians are going back after suffering
immense losses: more than twenty thousand killed and thirty thousand
captured; they have lost three-quarters of their army. Buxhövden, their
commander-in-chief, is killed. I have three thousand wounded and seven or
eight hundred killed. I have a little trouble with my eyes: an epidemic;
it amounts to nothing. Good by; I am anxious to see you once more. To-
night I sleep in Vienna."
Cambacérès said that the news of the victory of Austerlitz filled the
populace with the wildest joy, which expressed itself in the most
extravagant flattery. The Emperor was treated like a god, and naturally a
sovereign so flattered did not control his love of war. It was only on his
deathbed that Louis XIV. said, "I have been overfond of war!" He said
nothing of the sort when the gates of Saint Martin and of Saint Denis were
built in his honor, when his statue was put up in the Place des Victoires,
when Lebrun painted the proud frescoes in the gallery at Versailles. Like
Louis XIV., Napoleon reproached himself with excessive love of war; but it
was not after Austerlitz, but after Waterloo. No man is worthy of
adoration; it belongs to God alone. Woe to the princes who are fed on
flattery! Extravagant laudation brings its punishment; even in this world
pride has its fall.
The enthusiasm was universal; the victorious French could not contain
themselves for joy, and wholly lost their heads. Thus even Madame de
Rémusat, who, after the defeat, had shown herself so severe, one might
almost say so cruel, towards Napoleon, wrote thus to her husband, December
18, 1805, after the news of Austerlitz: "You cannot imagine how excited
every one is. Praise of the Emperor is on every one's lips; the most
recalcitrant are obliged to lay down their arms, and to say with the
Emperor of Russia, 'He is the man of destiny!' Day before yesterday I went
to the theatre with Princess Louis to hear the different bulletins read.
The crowd was enormous because the cannon in the morning had announced the
arrival of news; every thing was listened to, and then applauded with
cries such as I had never imagined. I wept copiously all the time. I was
so moved that I believe if the Emperor had been present, I should have
flung my arms about his neck, to beg for pardon afterwards at his feet.
After this I supped out: every one plied me with questions. I knew the
whole bulletin by heart, and kept repeating it; and was glad to be able to
tell the news to so many people, to repeat those simple impressive words,
with a feeling of owning them, which you can understand better than I can
define. I missed you much in all my joy, which I should have gladly shared
with you; but in your absence I tried to communicate my admiration to our
son. Instead of making him finish the life of Alexander, which he has been
reading for two days, it occurred to me to have him read aloud the
_Moniteur_, and he was so much pleased that he said he thought it all much
greater than Alexander."
Alas! thoughtful people should never forget how much greater is virtue
than success. In this low world no one takes a lofty enough view of
things. Not after defeat, but after victory, is the time to speak of war
seriously and sadly. If Napoleon in the hour of triumph had not been
flattered to excess, if at the proper moment the lessons of history,
philosophy, and religion had been enforced upon him, he would not have
rushed blindly into the gulf that finally swallowed him. Nothing is less
humane, less Christian, than the extravagant praise lavished on the
conquerors of the earth. Laymen and priests are equally to blame, for the
flatterers of conquerors bear perhaps a heavier responsibility than the
conquerors themselves. In the ancient triumphs, at least there was a slave
charged with reminding the hero that he was but a man; in modern times,
there is nothing of the sort; the hero can imagine himself more than
mortal. Why does not the clergy, instead of intoning a _Te Deum_, take the
part of that slave? Is it well to forget that those nations who are most
modest in success are bravest and most resigned in misfortune? Those whose
heads are turned by prosperity cannot endure reverses. For society, as for
individuals, nothing is more baneful than outbursts of joy and pride. The
vaster a monarch's power, the greater his need to meditate on the
fickleness of fate; but the lessons of wisdom are never recalled till they
are useless; they are whispered into his ears only when they can but add a
sting to defeat.
XVI.
THE MARRIAGE OF PRINCE EUGENE.
Both before and after the battle of Austerlitz a great part of Germany was
at Napoleon's feet. The Electors of Baden, Würtemberg, and Bavaria the
last two of whom were to become kings by the consent of the new
Charlemagne, testified an enthusiastic admiration for him, and were all to
profit by his victory. The petty princes who were about to enter the
Confederation of the Rhine were his humble vassals, and paid obsequious
court to his Minister of Foreign Affairs, M. de Talleyrand. The archives
of our Ministry of Foreign Affairs would have to be consulted for an exact
understanding of their servility and flattery. Moreover, the populace
itself shared the feelings of their princes. The Bavarians regarded
Napoleon as their liberator. French manners and ideas were more than ever
prevalent on the banks of the Rhine, and Germanic patriotism pardoned
France the possession of the left bank of this river. If Napoleon had not
abused fortune, what grand and pacific things might he not have
accomplished in concert with Germany, and what progress might not have
been made for the harmony of nations, for civilization and humanity!
We quote a letter written before the battle of Austerlitz, November 26,
1805, by the Elector of Bavaria to M. de Talleyrand, then in Vienna: "You
are the most amiable of men, my dear Talleyrand. Your two letters which I
received last evening have given me the greatest pleasure. How grateful I
am that you should have thought of me and of Munich when you are in the
most beautiful city in Germany, and hearing every day the famous
Crescentini! I do as much for you, Your Excellency, but the merit is not
the same. Every evening I express my regret that you are not here. M. de
Canisy has announced the arrival of the Emperor in a week. Six days have
passed, and I am hoping to see him in three days at the outside, and the
Empress, Saturday next. My wife arrived day before yesterday, very
anxious, as is her chaste spouse, to pay our court to Their Imperial
Majesties, and to offer them all the honors of Munich. Lay me before the
feet of the hero to whom I owe my present and future existence, and speak
to him often of my respect, of my enthusiasm for his virtues, and of my
heartiest and incessant gratitude. I hope that the coalition will soon
grow tired of war; in any event, the lessons the Emperor has given it the
last two months are of a nature to inspire disgust with it."
November 10, 1805, Napoleon had written to Josephine to leave Strassburg
for Munich, stopping at Carlsruhe and Stuttgart. In this letter he had
said: