the Emperor, who kept as strict a guard over his family as over his
Empire, and was as prompt to exercise control in private, as in political
matters. He wanted his brother to obey him, both as King and husband, and
in his discontent at seeing his orders disobeyed, he wrote to him, from
the depths of Poland, April 4, 1807, this reproachful letter, which is a
real reprimand: "Your quarrels with the Queen have become public. Show,
then, in private life some of that paternal and effeminate character which
you display in matters of government, and in business the same rigor you
exercise in your household. You treat a young woman as we treat a
regiment.... You have an excellent and most virtuous wife and you make her
unhappy. Let her dance as much as she pleases; she is young. My wife is
forty; I wrote to her from the battle-field to go to a ball. And you want
a young woman of twenty, who sees her life flitting, and has every
illusion, to live in a cloister, or to be always washing her baby like a
nurse. You are too much _you_ in your household, and not enough in your
administration. I should not say all this to you except for the interest I
have for you. Make the mother of your children happy; you have one way to
do this: that is, by showing her esteem and confidence. Unfortunately your
wife is too virtuous; if you had married a coquette she would lead you by
the end of your nose. But you have a proud wife who is afflicted and
distressed by the mere thought that you may have a bad opinion of her. You
ought to have married any one of a number of women whom I know in Paris;
she would have had no difficulty in getting ahead of you and would have
kept you at her feet. It is not my fault, I have often told your wife so."
Thus the Emperor, by taking part in behalf of his daughter-in-law and
against his brother, took a position as arbiter in their domestic
quarrels. This interference was all the more galling to Louis,--who would
have liked to be master in both his own kingdom and in his own house,--
that calumny, as he well knew, persisted in representing the Emperor as
his rival in Hortense's love, and as the father of the Crown Prince.
This child was named Napoleon Charles. He was born in Paris, October 10,
1802. His grandmother, Josephine, nourished the hope that some day he
might be heir to the Empire, and she regarded his birth as a pledge of
final reconciliation between the Bonapartes and the Beauharnaises. She
believed that his cradle saved her from divorce. The Emperor, who always
liked children, was especially fond of his nephew. He watched his growth
with the keenest interest, admiring his amiability, his precocity, his
excellent disposition, The boy was really remarkable for intelligence and
beauty. His large blue eyes reflected every mood of his mind. Good,
loving, frank, and merry, he needed only to appear and all sadness was
banished. His mother had brought him up to revere the Emperor. His father,
the King, gave him new toys every day, choosing those he thought most
attractive. The boy preferred those he received from his uncle, and when
his father said, "But just see, Napoleon, those are ugly; mine are
prettier." "No," said the young Prince, "those are very pretty, my uncle
gave them to me." One morning on his way to see the Emperor, he passed
through a drawing-room where happened to be among others, Murat, then
Grand Duke of Berg. The young Napoleon walked straight ahead without
paying attention to any one, and when Murat stopped him and said, "Don't
you mean to say good-morning to me?" the child replied, "No; not before my
uncle the Emperor." Who knows? if this little Prince had lived the Emperor
might have desired no other heir, and perhaps the divorce would never have
taken place.
This boy was his mother's hope and pride, her joy and consolation. His
father, too, loved him much. He was a light in the darkness, a rainbow
after the storm. Sometimes when his parents were quarrelling he succeeded
in reconciling them. He used to take his father by the hand, who gladly
let himself be led by this little angel, and then he would say in a
caressing tone: "Kiss her, papa, I beg of you"; then he was perfectly
happy when his father and mother exchanged a kiss of peace.
The little Prince had a sudden attack of croup in the night of May 4,
1807. He was thought to be lost, but in the evening he was a little
better, and the physicians had some hope of saving him. The improvement
lasted but a few minutes. In the course of the day he was given some
English powders, which lent him a feverish strength, so that at six in the
evening he asked for some cards and pictures to play with, but the fever
only gave way to his death agony. Towards ten in the evening the child
drew his last breath.
No words can describe the unhappy Queen's despair; she became stony with
grief, and fears were felt for her reason. Josephine's grief was
boundless. She did not dare to leave the Empire without the Emperor's
authorization, and so did not go to The Hague, but went in all haste to
the Castle of Laeken, near Brussels, whence she wrote to Hortense in the
evening of May 14: "I have just readied the Castle of Laeken, my dear
daughter, and await you here. Come and give me life; your presence is
necessary for me, and you must have need of seeing me and of weeping with
your mother. I should have liked to go further, but I was too weak, and
besides I had not time to send word to the Emperor. I have summoned
courage to come thus far; I hope that you will have enough to come to your
mother. Good by, my dear daughter, I am worn out with fatigue and
especially with grief." In the evening of May 15, Hortense arrived at the
Castle of Laeken, accompanied by her husband and her sole surviving son.
She was motionless, apathetic, the figure of despair. M. de Rémusat, who
was with the Empress, wrote the next day to his wife: "The Queen has but
one thought, the loss she has suffered; she speaks of only one thing, of
_him_. Not a tear, but a cold calm, an almost absolute silence about
everything, and when she speaks she wrings every one's heart. If she sees
any one whom she has ever seen with her son, she looks at him with
kindliness and interest, and says, 'You know he is dead.' When she first
saw her mother, she said to her: 'It's not long since he was here with me.
I held him on my knees thus.' Seeing me a few minutes later, she made a
sign for me to come forward. 'Do you remember Mayence? He acted with us.'
She heard ten o'clock strike; she turned to one of the ladies and said,
'You know it was at ten that he died.' That is the only way she breaks her
almost continual silence. With all that, she is kind, sensible, perfectly
reasonable; she thoroughly understands her condition, and even speaks of
it. She says she is glad that she has fallen into this numb state,
otherwise her sufferings would have been too intense. Some one asked her
if she was much moved when she saw her mother: 'No,' she answered; 'but I
am very glad to have seen her.' Mention was made of Josephine's surprise
at her lack of emotion on seeing her; 'Oh, Heavens!' she said, 'she must
not mind it; that's the way I am.' To anything that is asked her on any
other subject, she says, 'It's all the same to me; do as you please.'"
A messenger had been sent to carry the news to the Emperor, who was much
affected by hearing it. He wrote to Josephine, May 14: "I can well imagine
the grief which Napoleon's death, must cause. You can understand what I
suffer. I should like to be with you, that you might be moderate and
discreet in your grief. You were happy enough never to lose a child, but
that is one of the conditions and penalties attached to our human misery.
Let me hear that you are calm and well! Do you want to add to my regret?
Good by, my dear."
May 17 an imposing ceremony took place in Paris--the carrying of the sword
of Frederick the Great to the Tuileries. A triumphal chariot, richly
decorated, carried the one hundred and eighty flags captured in the last
campaign. Marshal Moncey, on horseback, held the hero's sword. The chariot
proceeded to the iron gate of the Invalides, which it was too lofty to
pass under. Then the veterans came to take the flags and to carry them
into the church. The ceremony began with a song of triumph. Marshal
Sérurier, Governor of the Invalides, spoke: "We are here," he said, "to
the number of more than nine hundred of those who fought against the great
king whose warlike spoils our children have just won. At that time fortune
did not always smile upon our valor. The fathers were no less brave than
their sons, but they had not the same leader. Yet we can only recall with
pride the words of that great man: 'If I were at the head of the French
people, not a cannon would be fired in Europe without my permission'--
honorable proof of his esteem for the soldiers who were fighting him. But
it was in the reign of a sovereign even greater by his genius, his feats,
his moderation, that the French people was to rise to such a height of
power and glory. We swear faithfully to guard the treasure which his
Imperial and Royal Majesty has entrusted to us." Then the old church
echoed with cries of "We swear it!"
At this ceremony, the eloquent President of the Legislative Body, M. de
Fontanes, made a fine speech full of enthusiasm for Napoleon, but
respectful to the memory of the great Frederick and to the misfortunes of
his successor. He closed with a few words on the grief that the death of
the Crown Prince must have caused the Emperor: "Perhaps, at this moment,"
he said, "the hero who has saved us is weeping in his tent at the head of
three hundred thousand victorious French, and of all the confederate kings
and princes who march under his banner. He weeps, and neither the trophies
heaped about him, nor the glory of the twenty sceptres he holds so firmly,
which even Charlemagne failed to grasp, can distract his thoughts from the
coffin of that boy, whose first steps he aided with his triumphant hands,
whose promising intelligence he hoped one day to guide. Let him not forget
that his domestic woes have been felt like a public calamity, and may a
tender expression of the national interest bring him some slight
consolation. All our alarm for the future is a more ardent expression of
our homage. May fortune be satisfied with this one victim, and while she
always favors the plans of the greatest of monarchs, may she not make him
pay for his glory by similar misfortunes!"
Doubtless the death of this young child altered the face of things. If he
had lived, it would have been for him, and not his brother, to bear the
name of Napoleon III., or possibly even of Napoleon II., and apparently
the destiny of the world would have been very different. Kingdoms and
empires, on what does their fate depend! May 5 was to be a fatal date; the
young Prince died May 5, 1807, and fourteen years later to a day his uncle
was to die on the rock of Saint Helena.
XXIII.
THE END OF THE WAR.
The Empress brought her daughter Hortense and her grandson Napoleon Louis,
a boy a little over two, back to Paris with her, but she had not long the
consolation of their presence; before the end of May Hortense was obliged
to leave for Cauterets to repair her shattered health. Her mother wrote to
her from Saint Cloud, May 27: "I have wept much since your departure; this
separation is very painful for me, and the only thing that could enable me
to bear it would be the certainty that you are getting some good from your
trip. I have heard of you from Madame de Broc. I beg of you to thank her
for this attention and to ask her to write to me when you are unable. I
heard news, too, of your son; he is at Laeken, very well, and awaits the
King's arrival. The Emperor has written to me again; he shares our sorrow.
I needed this consolation, the only one I have received since your
departure. I am always alone, every moment recalls our loss, my tears
never cease flowing. Good by, my dear daughter, take care of yourself for
your mother's sake, who loves you most tenderly."
Napoleon, who forbade his wife and daughter-in-law to be gloomy,--an order
more easily given than obeyed,--thought their mourning excessive. His
expressions of sympathy were very singular. He wrote from Finkenstein to
Queen Hortense, May 20, 1807:--
"MY DAUGHTER: Everything I hear from The Hague tells me you are not
reasonable. However legitimate your grief, it should have some bounds. Do
not ruin your health; seek some distractions, and remember that life is so
full of dangers and evils that death is not the worst thing that can
befall one." In his letter of May 24 to the Empress, the Emperor spoke of
the unhappy Queen with a severity that amounted to brutality: "Hortense is
unreasonable and does not deserve to be loved since she does not love any
one but her children. Try to calm her and do not make trouble for me. For
every hopeless evil, consolation must be found." He wrote to her again,
May 26: "I have your letter of the 16th. I am glad Hortense has gone to
Laeken. I am sorry to hear what you say about the sort of stupor she is
in. She might show courage and self-control. I can't understand why she
should be sent to the baths; she could find more distractions in Paris.
Control yourself; be cheerful, and keep well. My health is excellent. Good
by. I stare your sufferings, and am sorry not to be with you."
In her bitter grief Hortense lacked courage to write to the Emperor, who
was annoyed by her silence. "My dear," he wrote to Josephine, June 2, "I
hear that you have arrived at Malmaison. I have no letters from you. I am
vexed with Hortense; she has not written me a word. All you tell me about
her distresses me. Why could you not distract her a little? You are always
in tears! I hope you will show some self-control, that I may not find you
sad. I have been for two days at Dantzic; the weather is fine; I am well.
I think of you more than you think of an absent man. Good by; much love.
Forward to Hortense this letter." This is the severe epistle which
Josephine was bidden to send to Hortense:--
"June 2. MY DAUGHTER: You have not written me a word in your great and
natural grief. You have forgotten everything, as if you had not still
losses to endure. I hear that you love nothing, are indifferent to
everything; this is plain from your silence. That is not right, Hortense.
It is not what you promised us. Your son was everything for you? Are your
mother and I nothing? Had I been at Malmaison I should have shared your
sorrow, but I should have wanted you to listen to your best friends. Good
by, my daughter; be cheerful; you must be resigned. My wife is much
distressed at your condition; do not give her further pain. Your
affectionate father."
It is easily seen that such letters were ill adapted to allay the anguish
of an inconsolable mother mourning for her child.
Josephine's letters to her daughter showed very different feelings. The
kind Empress did her best to persuade her that the Emperor sympathized
with her grief. She wrote from Saint Cloud, June 4: "Your letter, my dear
Hortense, gives me much consolation, and what I hear from your ladies
about your health makes me easier. The Emperor was much distressed, in
every letter he tries to give me courage, but I know that this unhappy
event was a great blow to him. The King arrived at Saint Len last evening;
he has sent me word that he meant to call on me to-day, and he must leave
the boy here during his absence. You know how much I love the child, and
how careful I shall be of him. I want the King to take the same route as
you; it will be a consolation for you both to meet. All his letters since
you left are full of love for you. He has too tender a heart not to be
touched. Good by, my dear daughter; take care of your health; mine will
improve only when I don't have to suffer for those I love." This letter
shows all the kindness and gentleness of Josephine's character. She was
conciliating and benevolent, and did her best to smooth over Napoleon's
blame and to reconcile Hortense with her husband. She wrote again from
Saint Cloud, June 11: "Your boy is very well, and amuses me a great deal;
he is so gentle; I think he has all the ways of the poor boy we mourn."
Josephine understood consolation better than the Emperor.
What could be more touching, more maternal, than this letter from the
Empress? "Your letter moved me deeply; I see your grief is ever fresh and
I perceive this better by my own sufferings. We have lost what was most
worthy to be loved; my tears flow as they did the first day. Those regrets
are too natural to be repressed by reason, although it should moderate
them. You are not alone in the world. You have left a husband, an
interesting child, and you are too tender for that to be strange and
indifferent to you. Think of us, my dear daughter, and let this calm your
natural sorrow. I rely on your love for me and on your reasonableness. I
hope that the trip and the waters will do you good. Your son is very well,
and is charming. My health is a little better, but you know it depends on
yours. Good by. Many kisses."
The character of this loving mother and grandmother manifests itself in
every one of her letters. Her style was simple and affectionate, like
herself. Her letters, full of the gentlest, best, and most touching
feeling, might make one say, "The style is the woman."
While Josephine and Hortense were weeping, Napoleon was bringing a
terrible campaign to a brilliant end. June 15 he thus announced to his
wife the great victory of Friedland: "My dear: I write but a word, for I
am very tired; I have been bivouacking for several days. My children have
been worthily celebrating the battle of Marengo. The battle of Friedland
will be quite as famous and glorious for my people. The whole Russian army
routed; eighty cannon; thirty thousand men captured or killed; twenty-five
Russian generals killed, wounded, or captured; the Russian Guard wiped
out; it is a worthy sister of Marengo, Austerlitz, Jena. The bulletin will
tell you the rest. My losses are not serious; I succeeded in
outmanoeuvring the enemy. Be calm and contented. Good by, my dear, my
horse is waiting." The next day he wrote another letter to Josephine: "My
dear, yesterday I sent Moustache to you with news of the battle of
Friedland. Since then, I have continued to pursue the enemy, Königsberg, a
city of eighty thousand inhabitants, Is in my power, I have found there
many cannon, stores, and finally sixty thousand muskets just come from
England. Good by, my dear, my health is perfect, although I have a cold
from the rain and cold of the bivouac. Be cheerful and contented. Ever
yours." From Tilsitt Napoleon wrote to his wife, June 19: "I have sent
Tascher to you to allay your anxiety. Everything goes on admirably here.
The battle of Friedland decided everything. The enemy is confounded, cast
down, and extremely enfeebled. My health is excellent, my army superb.
Good by; be cheerful and contented." Be cheerful and contented--he was
always saying it.
June 25, at one in the afternoon, a great sight was to be seen in the
middle of the Niemen. A raft had been placed midstream in plain view from
both banks of the river. All the rich stuffs that could be found in the
little town of Tilsitt had been taken to make a pavilion on a part of this
raft for the reception of the Emperors of France and Russia. From one bank
Napoleon embarked with Murat, Berthier, Bessières, Duroc, and
Caulaincourt; and from the other, Alexander, with the Grand Duke
Constantine, Generals Bennigsen and Ouvaroff, the Prince of Labanoff, and
the Count of Lieven. The two armies were drawn up on the two banks, and
the country people of the neighborhood were present to watch one of the
most memorable interviews known to history. When they reached the raft,
the two sovereigns, who had just been fighting so bitterly, and had sent
so many thousand men to death, fell into each other's arms with emotion.
The same day Napoleon wrote to Josephine: "I have just seen the Emperor
Alexander, and am much pleased with him; he is a very fine-looking, good
young Emperor; he has more intelligence than is generally supposed. He is
going to move into Tilsitt to-morrow. Good by; keep well and be contented.
My health is excellent." The two monarchs became very intimate. "My dear,"
Napoleon wrote to his wife July 3, "M. de Turenne will give you all the
details about what is going on here; everything is moving smoothly. I
think I told you that the Emperor of Russia drank to your health with
great kindness. He and the King of Prussia dine with me every day. I want
you to be contented. Good by; much love." And July 6: "I have yours of
June 25. I am sorry you are so egoistic, and that my success gives you no
pleasure. The beautiful Queen of Prussia is to dine with me to-day. I am
well and anxious to see you again when fate permits. Still it will
probably be soon."
The Queen of Prussia was one of the most beautiful and most brilliant
women of her time. An hour after her arrival at Tilsitt, Napoleon called
on her, and that evening, when she came to dine with him, he went to the
door of the house in which he lived to receive her with all respect. But
in spite of all her efforts to modify the conditions of the peace imposed
on Prussia, her gracious and obstinate endeavors were fruitless. Napoleon,
July 7, thus described to Josephine the dinner of the evening before to
the charming Queen: "My dear, the Queen of Prussia dined with me
yesterday. I was obliged to refuse her some concessions she wanted me to
make to her husband; but I was polite, and also kept to my plan. She is
very amiable. When I see you I will give you all the details which would
be too long to write now. When you read this letter, peace will have been
concluded with Russia and Prussia, and Jerome will have been recognized as
King of Westphalia with a population of three millions. This piece of news
is for you alone. Good by, my dear; I want to hear that you are contented
and cheerful." The story runs that the Queen of Prussia, who held a
beautiful rose in her hand, offered it to Napoleon, saying with a gracious
smile: "Take it, Sire, but in exchange for Magdeburg." The hero of Jena
made a mistake not to make the exchange. He did too much or too little for
the Prussian monarchy. Since he could not or would not wipe it out, he
ought to have let it live, and become a friendly power. Who can tell?
Perhaps his acceptance of the rose would have warded off many acts of
vengeance, many disasters. On such slight things does the world's destiny
depend!
Josephine wrote to her daughter from Saint Cloud, July 10: "I often hear
from the Emperor, who speaks a great deal about the Emperor Alexander,
with whom he seems well satisfied. He sent M. de Monaco and M. de
Montesquiou to give me details of all they had seen. They say the first
view was a magnificent sight. The two armies were on the two banks of the
Niemen. The Emperor was the first to arrive at a raft built in the middle
of the river; the Emperor Alexander's boat found some difficulty in
approaching, which gave him a chance to speak of his eagerness thwarted by
the stream. They tell me that when the two Emperors kissed, wide-spread
applause arose from both banks. What most interests me in all this good
news is my hope of soon seeing the Emperor again. Why is this happiness
troubled by sad memories that can never be destroyed? Your boy is
perfectly-well; his complexion has entirely changed. I hope the waters
will do both you and the King good; remember me to him, and believe in my
constant love."
Before leaving Tilsitt, where he had signed a glorious peace, Napoleon had
the bravest soldier of the Russian Guard presented to him, and he gave him
the eagle of the Legion of Honor. He gave his portrait to Platou, the
hetman of the Cossacks, and some Baschirs gave him a concert after the
custom of their country. July 9, at eleven in the morning, wearing the
grand cordon of Saint Andrew, he called on the Emperor Alexander, who wore
the broad ribbon of the Legion of Honor, The two sovereigns passed three
hours together, then mounted their horses, and rode towards the Niemen.
Then they got down and embraced for the last time. The Czar then embarked,
and Napoleon waited on the river-bank until his new friend had landed on
the other shore. He returned to Königsberg and from there to Dresden,
whence he wrote to Josephine, July, 18: "My dear, I reached here yesterday
afternoon at five, very well, though I had been posting one hundred hours
without stopping. I am staying with the King of Saxony, whom I like very
much. I have more than half my journey to you behind me. I warn you that I
may burst in on you at Saint Cloud one of these nights, like a jealous
husband. Good by, my dear; I shall be very glad to see you again. Ever
yours." Napoleon spoke of jealousy. The days of the first Italian campaign
were very distant. Everything had changed. It was no longer he who had to
be jealous of Josephine: it was Josephine who was jealous of him, and with
good reason. After an absence of nearly a year, the Emperor reached Saint
Cloud, July 27, 1807, at six o'clock in the morning.
XXIV.
THE EMPEROR'S RETURN.