Rejoicings on Napoleon’s victory over Blucher and surprise of Lord
Wellington—Bulletin issued at St. Cloud—Budget of news communicated by
a French cockney—Author’s alarm on account of his family—Proposes
quitting Paris—Information of Henry Thevenot: confirmed at
Lafitte’s—Napoleon’s return from Waterloo—The author’s sources of
intelligence—His visits to the Chamber of Deputies—Garat, minister of
justice at the period of Louis’s decapitation—The _Rousseau Mss._ and
their peculiar utility to the author—Fouché’s treachery—Vacillating
plan to inform Napoleon thereof, through Count Thibaudeau—Observations
on the vicissitudes and political extinction of Bonaparte.
The emperor having left Paris to take command of the army in Belgium,
the garrison left in that city was necessarily very inconsiderable. It
was the universal belief that the allies would be surprised by a
simultaneous attack, and the event in some degree warranted this
supposition. The result was—a double defeat of Blucher; the separation
of the Prussian and British armies; the consequent retreat of Lord
Wellington upon Brussels; the march of Grouchy upon that city; and the
advance of Napoleon; all this the work of two days only. The impatience
of the Parisians for news may be easily conceived; nor were they long
kept in suspense. Meanwhile, there ran through the whole mass of society
a suspicion that treachery was on foot, but nobody could guess in what
shape it would explode. The assassination of Napoleon was certainly
supposed to have been then spoken of, and was a thing in contemplation.
The disaffection of sundry general officers and others was likewise
publicly discussed at the Palais Royal; but no _names_ were mentioned
except Fouché’s.
On Sunday, the 18th of June, at day-break, I was roused by the noise of
artillery. I arose and instantly sallied out to inquire the cause:
nobody could at the moment inform me; but it was soon announced that it
was public rejoicings on account of a great victory gained by Napoleon
over the Prussians, commanded by Blucher, and the English, by the Duke
of Wellington: that the allies had been partly surprised, and were in
rapid retreat, followed by the emperor and flanked by Grouchy: that a
lancer had arrived as courier, and given many details, one of which was,
that our light dragoons, under Lord Anglesey, had been completely
destroyed.
I immediately determined to quit Paris for the day. It was Sunday: every
body was a-foot; the drums were beating in all directions, and it was
impossible to say how the _canaille_ might, in exultation at the
victory, be disposed to act by the English in Paris. We therefore set
out early, and breakfasted at St. Cloud. The report of the victory had
reached that village, but I perceived no indication of any great feeling
on the subject. We adjourned to Bagatelle, in the very pretty gardens of
which we sauntered about till dinner-time.
This victory did not surprise me; for when I saw the magnificent and to
me almost innumerable array of troops on the occasion of the
Promulgation, and before, I had adopted the unmilitary idea that they
_must be_ invincible. As yet we had heard no certain particulars: about
eleven o’clock, however, printed bulletins were liberally distributed,
announcing an unexpected attack on the Prussian and English armies with
the purpose of dividing them, which purpose was stated to be fully
accomplished; the Duke of Brunswick killed; the Prince of Orange
wounded; two Scotch regiments broken and sabred; Lord Wellington in full
retreat; Blucher’s army absolutely ruined; and the emperor in full march
for Brussels, where the Belgian army would join the French, and march
unitedly for Berlin. The day was rather drizzling: we took shelter in
the grotto, and were there joined by some Parisian shopkeeper and his
family, who had come out from the capital for their recreation. This man
told us a hundred incidents which were circulated in Paris with relation
to the battle. Among other things, it was said, that if the emperor’s
generals did their duty, the campaign might be already considered over,
since every man in France and Belgium would rise in favour of the
emperor. He told us news had arrived, that the Austrians were to be
neutral, and that the Russians durst advance no further; that the king
of Prussia would be dethroned; and that it was generally believed Lord
Wellington would either be dead or in the castle of Vincennes by
Wednesday morning! This budget of intelligence our informant
communicated himself in a very _neutral_ way, and without betraying the
slightest symptom either of gratification or the reverse; and as it was
impossible to doubt the main point (the defeat), I really began, from
the bulletin, to think all was lost, and that it was high time to
consider how we should get out of France forthwith; more particularly as
the emperor’s absence from Paris would, by leaving it at the mercy of
the populace, render that city no longer a secure residence for the
subjects of a hostile kingdom; and, in fact, the _marais_ had already
shown great impatience at the restraints of the police, and had got wind
of Fouché’s having smuggled a quantity of arms out of Paris, which was a
_fact_: he sent them to Vincennes. How singular was it that, at the very
moment I was receiving this news,—at the instant when I conceived
Napoleon again the conqueror of the world, and the rapidity of his
success as only supplementary to the rapidity of his previous return,
and a prelude to fresh achievements, that bloody and decisive conflict
was actually at its height, which had been decreed by Providence to
_terminate_ Napoleon’s political existence! What an embarrassing problem
to the mind of a casuist must a speculation be, as to the probable
results, had this day ended differently!
Our minds were now made up to quit Paris on the following Thursday; and,
as the securest course, to get down to St. Maloes, and thence to Jersey,
or some of the adjacent islands: and without mentioning our intention, I
determined to make every preparation connected with the use of the _sauf
conduit_ which I had procured on my first arrival in Paris. But Fate
decreed it otherwise. Napoleon’s destiny had been meantime decided, and
my flight became unnecessary.
On returning to Paris, we found every thing quiet. On that very Sunday
night my servant, Henry Thevenot, told me that he had heard the French
had got entangled in a forest, and met a repulse. He said he had been
told this at a public house in Rue Mont Blanc.
I feared the man: I suspected him to be on the _espionnage_
establishment, and therefore told him to say no more to me about the
war, and that I wished much to be in England.
About nine on Wednesday morning, as soon as I rose, Thevenot again
informed me, with a countenance which gave no indication of his own
sentiments, that the French were _totally defeated_; that the emperor
had returned to Paris; and that the English were in full march to the
capital.
I always dreaded lest the language of _my servant_ might in some way
implicate _me_, and I now chid him for telling me so great a falsehood.
“It is _true_,” returned he.
Still I could not believe it; and I gave him notice, on the spot, to
quit my service. He received this intimation with much seeming
indifference, and his whole deportment impressed me with suspicion. I
went immediately, therefore, to Messrs. Lafitte, my bankers, and the
first person I saw was my friend, Mr. Phillips, very busily employed at
his desk in the outside room.
“Do you know, Phillips,” said I, “that I have been obliged to turn off
my servant for spreading a report that the French are beaten and the
emperor returned?”
Phillips, without withdrawing his eyes from what he was engaged on,
calmly and concisely replied, “It is true enough.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed I.
“Quite possible,” returned this man of few words, still without looking
off his account book.
“Where is Napoleon?” said I.
“In the Palais de Bourbon Elysée,” said he.
I saw it was vain to expect further communication from Mr. Phillips, and
I went into an inner chamber to Mr. Clermont, who seemed however more
taciturn than the other.
Being most anxious to learn all the facts, I proceeded to the Palais
d’Elysée, my scepticism having meanwhile undergone great diminution from
seeing an immense number of splendid equipages darting through the
streets, filled with full-dressed men, plentifully adorned with stars
and orders. When I got to the palace I found the court full of
carriages, and a large body of the national guard under arms: yet I
could scarcely believe my eyes; but I soon learned the principal fact
from a hundred mouths and with a thousand different details:—my
informants agreeing only on one point—namely, that the army was defeated
_by treachery_, and that the emperor had returned to Paris in quest of
new _matériel_. Groups and crowds were collecting every where, and
confusion reigned triumphant.
Being somewhat rudely driven out of the court-yard, I now went round to
the Champs d’Elysée, at the rear of the palace. Sentinels, belonging to
Napoleon’s guard, were by this time posted outside the terrace that
skirts the garden. They would permit no person to approach close; but I
was near enough to discern Napoleon walking deliberately backward and
forward, in easy conversation with two persons whom I conceived to be
his uncle, Cardinal Fesch, and Count Bertrand; and I afterward heard
that I was right. The emperor wore a short blue coat and a small
three-cocked hat, and held his hands behind his back, seemingly in a
most tranquil mood. Nobody could in fact suppose he was in any agitation
whatever, and the cardinal appeared much more earnest in the
conversation than himself. I stood there about fifteen minutes, when the
sentries ordered us off; and as I obeyed, I saw Napoleon walk up toward
the palace.
I never saw the emperor of the French after that day, which was, in
fact, the last of his actual reign. It ought to have been the last day
of his existence, or the first of some new series of achievements: but
Fate had crushed the man, and he could rouse himself no more. Though I
think he could count but scantily on the fidelity of the national
guards, yet he was in possession of Montmartre, which the old guard had
occupied. Paris was quite within his power; and, as the event proved,
another and a very powerful army might soon have been gathered about
him. Perhaps, too, had Bonaparte rallied _in good earnest_, he might
have succeeded in working even on the very pride of his former subjects
to free the soil of the _grande nation_ from foreign invasion. The
people of the _marais_ appeared in crowds, quite wild, and I apprehend
nearly ungovernable.
Madame Le Jeune, the mistress of the hotel wherein we resided, was
sister to General Le Jeune, the painter who executed those noble pieces
of the battles of Jena and Austerlitz, which were formerly in the
outside room at the gallery of the Tuileries. I am no judge of painting,
but I think every thing he did (and his pieces were numerous) possessed
great effect. Through him, until the siege terminated by the surrender
of Paris, we learned all that was going on among the French; and through
Doctor Marshall and Col. Macirone I daily became acquainted with the
objects of the English.
After Napoleon had been making faint and fruitless endeavours to induce
the deputies to grant him the _matériel_ and aid him in a new armament,
their coldness to himself individually became too obvious to be
misconstrued: fortune had in fact forsaken Napoleon, and friends too
often follow fortune; and it soon became notorious that Fouché had every
disposition to seal his master’s destruction. The emperor had, however,
still many true and faithful friends—many ardent partisans on whose
fidelity he might rely. He had an army which _could_ not be estranged,
which no misfortune could divert from him. But his enemies (including
the timid and neutral among the deputies) appeared to me decidedly to
outnumber those who would have gone _far_ in ensuring his reinstatement.
Tranquillity seemed to be the general wish, and the re-equipment of
Napoleon would have rendered that unattainable.
Nevertheless, the deputies proceeded calmly on their business, and
events every day assumed a more extraordinary appearance. The interval
between the emperor’s return from Waterloo and his final
abdication—between his departure for Malmaison and the siege of
Paris—was of the most interesting and important nature; and so great was
my curiosity to be aware of passing events, that I am conscious I went
much farther lengths than prudence would have warranted.
During the debates of the deputies after Napoleon’s return, I was almost
daily present. I met a gentleman who procured me a free admission, and
through whom I became acquainted, by name with most, and personally with
many, of the most celebrated characters, not only of the current time,
but also those who had flourished during the different stages of the
revolution. I was particularly made known to Garat, who had been
minister of justice at the time Louis XVI. was beheaded, and had read to
him his sentence and conducted him to the scaffold. Although he had not
voted for the king’s death, he durst not refuse to execute his official
functions; his attendance therefore could not be considered as
voluntary. He was at this time one of the deputies. His person would
well answer the idea of a small, slight, sharp-looking, lame _tailor_;
but his conversation was acute, rational, and temperate. He regarded
Napoleon as lost beyond all redemption; nor did he express any great
regret hereat, seeming to be a man of much mental reservation. I suspect
he had been too much of a genuine republican, and of too democratic and
_liberal_ a policy, ever to have been any great admirer even of the most
splendid of monarchs. I think he was sent out of Paris on the king’s
restoration.
My friend having introduced me to the librarian of the Chamber of
Deputies, I was suffered to sit in the ante-room, or library, whenever I
chose, and had consequently a full opportunity of seeing the ingress and
egress of the deputies, who frequently formed small groups in the
ante-room, and entered into earnest although brief conferences. My ready
access to the gallery of the house itself enabled me likewise to know
the successive _objects_ of their anxious solicitude.
The librarian was particularly obliging, and suffered me to see and
examine many of the most curious old documents. But the original
manuscript of Rousseau’s “Confessions,” and of his “Eloisa,” afforded me
a real treat. His writing is as legible as print: the “Eloisa,” a work
of mere fancy, without one obliteration; while the “Confessions,” which
the author put forth as matter of _fact_, are, oddly enough, full of
alterations in every page.
When I wished for an hour of close observation, I used to draw my chair
to a window, get Rousseau into my hand, and, while apparently rivetted
on his “Confessions,” watch from the corner of my eye the earnest
gesticulation and ever-varying countenances of some agitated group of
deputies: many of them, as they passed by, cast a glance on the object
of my attention, of which I took care that they should always have a
complete view.
Observing one day a very unusual degree of excitement amongst the
members in the chamber, and perceiving the sally of the groups into the
library to be more frequent and earnest than ordinary, I conceived that
something very mysterious was in agitation. I mentioned my suspicions to
a well-informed friend: he nodded assent, but was too wise or too
timorous to give any opinion on so ticklish a subject. I well knew that
Napoleon had been betrayed, because I had learned from an authentic
source that _double_ dispatches had been actually sent by Fouché to the
allies, and that the embassy to the emperor of Russia, from M. Lafitte,
&c. had been some hours anticipated and _counteracted_ by the chief
commissioner of government.
It was clear to every body that Napoleon had lost his fortitude: in
fact, to judge by his conduct, he seemed so feeble and irresolute that
he had ceased to be formidable, and it occurred to me that some sudden
and strong step was in the contemplation of his true friends to raise
his energies once more, and stimulate him to resistance. I was led to
think so, particularly, by hearing some of his warmest partisans
publicly declare that, if he had not lost all feeling both for himself
and France, he should take the alternative of either reigning again or
dying in the centre of his still-devoted army.
The next day confirmed my surmises. A letter had been written without
signature,[48] addressed to Count Thibaudeau, disclosing to him in
detail the treachery of Fouché, &c. and advising the emperor _instantly_
to arrest the traitors, unfold the treason to the chambers, then put
himself at the head of his guards, re-assemble the army at Vilette, and,
before the allies could unite at Paris, make one effort more to save
France from subjugation. This was, I have reason to believe, the purport
of the letter; and I also learned the mode and hour determined on to
convey it to Count Thibaudeau. It was to be slipped into the letter-box
in the ante-room of the chamber, which was used, as I have already
mentioned, as a library. I was determined to ascertain the fact; and,
seated in one of the windows, turning over the leaves and copying
passages out of my favourite manuscript, I could see plainly where the
letter-box was placed, and kept it constantly in my eye. The crowd was
always considerable; groups were conversing; notes and letters were
every moment put into the box for delivery; but I did not see the person
who I believed was about to give Count Thibaudeau the information. At
length, however, I saw him warily approach the box: he was obviously
agitated—so much so indeed, that far from _avoiding_, his palpable
timidity would have _excited_ observation. He had the note in his hand:
he looked around him, put his hand toward the box, withdrew it, changed
colour, made a second effort—and, his resolution again faltering, walked
away without effecting his purpose. I afterward learned that the letter
had been destroyed, and that Count Thibaudeau received no intimation
till too late.
-----
Footnote 48:
The writer of that letter, whose real politics I was extremely
doubtful of, but which I afterward perceived were unfixed and
speculative, lived to become an _ultra_ loyalist. He was a British
subject, and a bigot in _every thing_: his prejudices _pro_ or _con_
were invincible. He died long since the first edition of this book was
published.
-----
This was an incident fraught with portentous results: had that note been
dropped, as intended, into the box, the fate of Europe might have
remained long undecided; Fouché would _surely_ have met his due reward;
Bonaparte would have put himself at the head of the army assembling at
Vilette—numerous, enthusiastic, and desperate. Neither the Austrian nor
Russian armies were within reach of Paris; while that of the French
would, I believe, in point of numbers, have exceeded the English and
Prussian united force: and it is more than probable, that the most
exterminating battle which ever took place between two great armies,
would have been fought in the suburbs, perhaps _in the boulevards_ of
Paris.
Very different indeed were the consequences of that suppression. The
evil genius of Napoleon pressed down the balance; and instead of any
chance of remounting his throne, he forfeited both his _character_ and
his life; while Fouché, dreading the risk of detection, devised a plan
to get the emperor clear out of France, and either _end_ him, or at
least put him into the power of the British government, as is detailed
in a subsequent chapter.
This last occurrence marked finally the destiny of Napoleon. Fortune had
not only _forsaken_, she had _mocked_ him! She tossed about, and played
with, before she destroyed her victim—one moment giving him hopes which
only rendered despair more terrible the next. After what I saw of his
downfall, no public event, no revolution, can ever excite in my mind one
moment of surprise. I have seen, and deeply feel, that we are daily
deceived in our views of every thing and every body, public and private.
Bonaparte’s last days of power were certainly full of tremendous
vicissitudes:—on one elated by a great victory—on the next overwhelmed
by a fatal overthrow. Hurled from a lofty throne into the deepest
profundity of misfortune; bereft of his wife and only child; persecuted
by his enemies; abandoned by his friends; betrayed by his ministers;
humbled, depressed, paralysed;—his proud heart died within him; his
great spirit was quenched; and, after a grievous struggle, Despair
became his conqueror, and Napoleon Bonaparte degenerated into an
ordinary mortal.