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THE TWO EMPRESSES.—THE PRINCESS PAULINE.—ELOQUENT
EFFUSION OF THE EMPEROR.
On another of these evenings, the Emperor was holding forth against the
caprice of women: “Nothing,” said he, “more clearly indicates rank,
education, and good breeding among them, than evenness of temper and the
constant desire to please.” He added that they were bound by
circumstances to appear at all times mistresses of themselves, and to be
always attending to their part on the stage. His two wives, he observed,
had always been so: they certainly differed greatly in their qualities
and dispositions; but they always agreed in this point. Never had he
witnessed ill-humour in either the one or the other: to please him had
been the constant object with both of them.
Some one ventured to observe, however, that Maria-Louisa had boasted
that, whenever she desired any thing, no matter how difficult, she had
only to weep. The Emperor laughed, and said, this was new to him. He
might have suspected it of Josephine, but he had no idea of it in
Maria-Louisa. And then, addressing himself to Mesdames Bertrand and
Montholon: “Thus it is with you all, ladies,” said he: “in some points
you all agree.”
He continued for a long time to talk about the two Empresses, and
repeated, as usual, that one was Innocence, and the other the Graces. He
passed from them to his sisters, and dwelt particularly on the charms of
the Princess Pauline. It was admitted that she was, without dispute, the
handsomest woman in Paris. The Emperor said that the artists were
unanimous in considering her a perfect Venus de Medicis. A little
pleasantry was hazarded on the influence which the Princess Pauline had
exercised, at the Island of Elba, over General Drouot, whose assiduous
attentions she attracted in spite of the difference of their ages and
the harshness of his countenance. The Princess, it was said, had drawn
from him the secret of the intended departure, eight days before it took
place. He had repeated the fault of Turenne; and upon this the Emperor
said, “Such are women, and such is their dangerous power!” Here Madame
Bertrand declared that the Grand Marshal, to a certainty, had not done
as much. “Madame,” retorted the Emperor with a smile, “he was only your
husband.” Some one having remarked that the Princess Pauline, when at
Nice, had set up a post-waggon on the road, by which dresses and
fashions arrived from Paris every day, the Emperor said: “If I had been
aware of it, that should not have lasted long, she should have been well
scolded. But thus it happens: while one is Emperor one knows nothing of
these matters.”
After this conversation the Emperor enquired what was the day of the
month: it was the 11th of March. “Well!” said he, “it is a year ago
to-day, it was a brilliant day; I was at Lyons, I reviewed some troops,
I had the Mayor to dine with me, who, by the way, has boasted since that
it was the worst dinner he ever made in his life.” The Emperor became
animated; he paced the chamber quickly. “I was again become a great
power,” he continued: and a sigh escaped him, which he immediately
checked with these words, in an accent and with a warmth which it is
difficult to describe: “I had founded the finest empire in the world,
and I was so necessary to it that, in spite of all the last reverses,
here, upon my rock, I seem still to remain the master of France. Look at
what is going on there, read the papers, you will find it so in every
line. Let me once more set my foot there, they will see what France is,
and what I can do!” And then what ideas, what projects, he developed for
the glory and happiness of the country! He spoke for a long time, with
so much interest, and so unreservedly, that we could have forgotten
time, place, and seasons. A part of what he said follows:
“What a fatality,” he said, "that my return from the Island of Elba was
not acquiesced in, that every one did not perceive that my reign was
desirable and necessary for the balance and repose of Europe! But kings
and people both feared me; they were wrong, and may pay dearly for it. I
returned a new man; they could not believe it; they could not imagine
that a man might have sufficient strength of mind to alter his
character, or to bend to the power of circumstances. I had, however,
given proofs of this, and some pledges to the same effect. Who is
ignorant that I am not a man for half-measures? I should have been as
sincerely the monarch of the constitution and of peace, as I had been of
absolute sway and great enterprises.
"Let us reason a little upon the fears of kings and people on my
account. What could the kings apprehend? Did they still dread my
ambition, my conquests, my universal monarchy? But my power and my
resources were no longer the same; and, besides, I had only defeated and
conquered in my own defence: this is a truth which time will more fully
develop every day. Europe never ceased to make war upon France, her
principles, and me; and we were compelled to destroy, to save ourselves
from destruction. The coalition always existed openly or secretly,
avowed or denied; it was permanent; it only rested with the Allies to
give us peace; for ourselves, we were worn out; the French dreaded
making new conquests. As to myself, is it supposed that I am insensible
to the charms of repose and security, when glory and honour do not
require it otherwise? With our two Chambers, they might have forbidden
me in future to pass the Rhine; and why should I have wished it? For my
universal monarchy? But I never gave any convincing proof of insanity;
and what is its chief characteristic, but a disproportion between our
object and the means of attaining it. If I have been on the point of
accomplishing this universal monarchy, it was without any original
design, and because I was led on to it step by step. The last efforts
wanting to arrive at it seemed so trifling, was it very unreasonable to
attempt them? But, on my return from Elba, could a similar idea, a
thought so mad, a purpose so unattainable, enter the head of the
silliest man in the world? The Sovereigns, then, had nothing to fear
from my arms.
"Did they apprehend that I might overwhelm them with anarchical
principles? But they knew by experience my opinions on that point. They
have all seen me occupy their territories: how often have I been urged
to revolutionize their states, give municipal functions to their cities,
and excite insurrection among their subjects! However I may have been
stigmatized, in their names, as _the modern Attila, Robespierre on
horseback_, &c. they all know better at the bottom of their hearts—let
them look there! Had I been so, I might perhaps still have reigned; but
they most certainly would have long since ceased to reign. In the great
cause of which I saw myself the chief and the arbiter, one of two
systems was to be followed: to make kings listen to reason from the
people; or to conduct the people to happiness by means of their kings.
But it is well known to be no easy matter to check the people when they
are once set on: it was more rational to reckon a little upon the wisdom
and intelligence of rulers. I had a right always to suppose them
possessed of sufficient intellect to see such obvious interests: I was
deceived; they never calculated at all, and in their blind fury, they
let loose against me that which I withheld when opposed to them. They
will see!!!
"Lastly, did the Sovereigns take umbrage at seeing a mere soldier attain
a crown? Did they fear the example? The solemnities, the circumstances,
that accompanied my elevation, my eagerness to conform to their habits,
to identify myself with their existence, to become allied to them by
blood and by policy, closed the door sufficiently against new comers.
Besides, if there must needs have been the spectacle of an interrupted
legitimacy, I maintain that it was much more to their interest that it
should take place in my person, one risen from the ranks, than in that
of a prince, one of their own family: for thousands of ages will elapse
before the circumstances accumulated in my case draw forth another from
among the crowd to reproduce the same spectacle; while there is not a
Sovereign who has not, at a few paces distance in his palace, cousins,
nephews, brothers, and relations, to whom it would be easy to follow
such an example if once set.
"On the other side, what was there to alarm the people? Did they fear
that I should come to plunder and to impose chains on them?—On the
contrary, I came the Messiah of peace and of their rights: this new
maxim was my whole strength—to violate it would have been ruin. But even
the French mistrusted me; they had the insanity to discuss, when there
was nothing to do but to fight; to divide, when they should have united
on any terms. And was it not better to run the risk of having me again
for master than to expose themselves to that of being subjected to a
foreign yoke? Would it not have been easier to rid themselves of a
single despot, of one tyrant, than to shake off the chains of all the
nations united? And moreover, whence arose this mistrust of me? Because
they had already seen me concentrate all efforts in myself, and direct
them with a vigorous hand? But do they not learn at the present day, to
their cost, how necessary that was? Well! the danger was in any case the
same: the contest terrible, and the crisis imminent. In this state of
things, was not absolute power necessary, indispensable? The welfare of
the country obliged me even to declare it openly on my return from
Leipsic. I should have done so again on my return from Elba. I was
wanting in consistency, or rather in confidence in the French, because
many of them no longer placed any in me, and it was doing me a great
wrong. If narrow and vulgar minds only saw, in all my efforts, a care
for my own power, ought not those of greater scope to have shewn that,
under the circumstances in which we were placed, my power and the
country were but one! Did it require such great and incurable mischiefs
to enable them to comprehend me? History will do me more justice: it
will signalize me as the man of self-denials and disinterestedness. To
what temptations was I not exposed in the army of Italy? England offered
me the Crown of France at the time of the treaty of Amiens.—I refused
peace at Châtillon: I disdained all personal stipulations at
Waterloo;—and why? Because all this had no reference to my country, and
I had no ambition distinct from her’s—that of her glory, her ascendancy,
her majesty. And there is the reason that, in spite of so many
calamities, I am still so popular among the French. It is a sort of
instinct of after-justice on their part.
"Who in the world ever had greater treasures at his disposal? I have had
many hundred millions in my vaults; many other hundreds composed my
_domaine de l’extraordinaire_: all these were my own. What is become of
them?—They were poured out in the distresses of the country. Let them
contemplate me here: I live destitute upon my rock. My fortune was
wholly in that of France. In the extraordinary situation to which fate
had raised me, my treasures were her’s: I had identified myself
completely with her destinies. What other calculation was consistent
with the height to which I had risen? Was I ever seen occupied about my
personal interests? I never knew any other enjoyment, any other riches,
than those of the public;—so much so, that when Josephine, who had a
taste for the Arts, succeeded under the sanction of my name in acquiring
some master-pieces, though they were in my palace, under my eyes, in my
family apartments, they offended me, I thought myself robbed: _they were
not in the Museum_.
“Ah! the French people undoubtedly did much for me! more than was ever
done before for man! But, at the same time, who ever did so much for
them? who ever identified himself with them in the same manner? But to
return.—After all, what could be their fears? Were not the Chambers and
the new Constitution sufficient guarantees for the future? Those
additional Acts, against which so much indignation was expressed, did
they not carry in themselves their own corrective—remedies that were
infallible? How could I have violated them? I had not myself millions of
arms; I was but one man. Public opinion raised me up once more; public
opinion might equally put me down again; and, compared with this risk,
what had I to gain?”
"But as to surrounding States (I speak particularly as regards England),
what could be her fears, her motives, her jealousies? We enquire in
vain. With our new Constitution, our two Chambers, had we not adopted
her creed for the future? Was not that the sure means of coming to a
mutual understanding, to establish in future a community of interest?
The caprice, the passions of their rulers, once fettered, the interests
of the people move on, without obstacle, in their natural course: look
at the merchants of hostile nations; they continue their intercourse,
and pursue their business however their governments may wage war. The
two nations had arrived at that point.—Thanks to their respective
parliaments, each would have become the guarantee for the other: and who
can ever tell to what extent the union of the two nations and of their
interests might have been carried; what new combinations might have been
set to work? It is certain that, on the establishment of our two
Chambers and our Constitution, the Ministers of England had in their
hands the glory and prosperity of their country, the destinies and the
welfare of the world. Had I beaten the English army and won my last
battle, I should have caused a great and happy astonishment; the
following day I would have proposed peace, and, for once, it would have
been I who scattered benefits with a prodigal hand. Instead of this,
perhaps, the English will one day have to lament that they were
victorious at Waterloo.
"I repeat it, the people and the sovereigns were wrong: I had restored
thrones and an inoffensive nobility; and thrones and nobility may again
find themselves in danger. I had fixed and consecrated the reasonable
limits of the people’s rights; vague, peremptory and undefined claims
may again arise.
“Had my return, my establishment on the throne, my adoption, been freely
acquiesced in by the sovereigns, the cause of kings and the people would
have been settled; both would have gained. Now they are again to try it;
both may lose. They might have concluded every thing; they may have
every thing to begin again: they might have secured a long and certain
calm, and already begun to enjoy it: and, instead of that, a spark may
now be sufficient to re-produce a general conflagration! Poor, weak
humanity!”
Attached, as I am, to the words and the opinions which I gathered from
Napoleon on his rock of exile, and however perfectly persuaded and
convinced of their entire sincerity, I do not the less experience an
extreme gratification, whenever a testimony from another quarter
confirms the truth of them; and I am bound to say that I have that
gratification as often as opportunity occurs of obtaining other
evidence.
The reader has just perused the foregoing remarkable passage, in which
Napoleon expresses his ideas, his intentions, his sentiments. What a
value do not these expressions collected at St. Helena acquire, when we
find them re-echoed in Europe, at the distance of 2000 leagues, by a
celebrated writer, who, with a shade of difference in his opinions, and
at a very different time, had himself received them from the same lips!
What a fortunate circumstance for history! I cannot, indeed, forbear
bringing forward here this extract from M. Benjamin Constant, as well on
account of the intrinsic merit of the expressions, as from the weight
they acquire from the distinguished writer who records them; and also
from the pleasure I feel in seeing them coincide so exactly with what I
have collected myself in another hemisphere. There are the same
intentions, the same depth of thought, the same sentiments.
“I went to the Tuileries,” says M. Benjamin Constant in his account; "I
found Bonaparte alone. He began the conversation: it was long: I will
only give an analysis of it; for I do not propose to make an exhibition
of an unfortunate man. I will not amuse my readers at the expense of
fallen greatness; I will not give up to malevolent curiosity him whom I
have served, whatever might be my motive; and I will not transcribe more
of his discourse than is indispensable: but in what I shall transcribe,
I will use his own words.
“He did not attempt to deceive me either as to his views, or the state
of affairs. He did not present himself as one corrected by the lessons
of adversity: he did not desire to take the merit of returning to
liberty from inclination; he investigated coolly, as regarded his
interest, and, with an impartiality too nearly allied to indifference,
what was possible and what was preferable.
“‘The nation,’ said he, ‘has rested for twelve years from all political
agitation, and for a year it has been undisturbed by war: this double
repose has begotten a necessity for motion. It desires, or fancies it
desires, a public rostrum and assemblies; it has not always desired
them. It cast itself at my feet when I came to the government; you must
remember, you who made trial of its opinion. Where was your support,
your power? No where. I took less authority than I was invited to take.
Now all is changed. A weak government, opposed to the interests of the
nation, has given these interests the habit of taking up the defensive,
and of cavilling at authority. The taste for constitutions, debates,
harangues, seems to return.... However, it is only the minority that
desires it, do not deceive yourself. The people, or if you like it
better, the mob, desire me alone; you have not seen them, this mob,
crowding after me, rushing from the tops of the mountains, calling me,
seeking me, saluting me.[1] On my return hither from Cannes, I did not
conquer—I administered.... I am not only, as it has been said, the
Emperor of the soldiers; I am the Emperor of the peasants, of the lower
ranks in France.... Thus, in spite of all that is past, you see the
people return to me—there is a sympathy between us. It is not so with
the privileged classes; the nobility have served me, have rushed in
crowds into my ante-chambers, there are no offices that they have not
accepted, solicited, pressed for. I have had my _Montmorencies_, my
_Noailles_, my _Rohans_, my _Beauveaus_, my _Mortemarts_. But there was
no analogy between us. The steed curvetted, he was well trained, but I
felt him quivering under me. With the people it is another thing; the
popular fibre responds to mine: I am come from the ranks of the people,
my voice has influence over them. Observe these conscripts, these sons
of peasants, I did not flatter them, I treated them with severity; they
did not the less surround me, they did not the less shout ‘_The Emperor
for ever!_’ It is because between them and me there is an identity of
nature; they look to me as their support, their defender against the
nobles.... I have but to make a sign, or rather to turn away my eyes,
and the nobles will be massacred in all the departments. They have
carried on such fine intrigues for these six months!... But I will not
be the King of a _Jacquerie_. If there are any means of governing with a
Constitution, well and good..... I wished for the empire of the world;
and, to insure it, unlimited power was necessary to me. To govern France
only, a Constitution may be better.... I wished for the empire of the
world, and who in my situation would not have wished for it? The world
invited me to govern it: sovereigns and subjects vied with each other in
hastening beneath my sceptre. I have rarely found any opposition in
France; but I have, however, met with more from some obscure unarmed
Frenchmen, than from all those kings, so vain at present of no longer
having a popular man for their equal.... Consider, then, what seems to
you to be possible. Give me your ideas. Free elections, public
discussions, responsible ministers, liberty, all this is my wish.... The
liberty of the press in particular: to stifle it is absurd—I am
satisfied upon this point.... I am the man of the people, if the people
sincerely wish for liberty: I owe it to them. I have recognised their
sovereignty; I am bound to lend an ear to their desires, even to their
caprices. I never desired to oppress them for my own gratification. I
had great designs, fate has decided them; I am no longer a conqueror, I
can no more become so. I know what is possible and what is not; I have
now but once charge—to relieve France, and to give her a government that
is suited to her.... I am not inimical to liberty: I set it aside when
it obstructed my road; but I comprehend it, I have been educated in its
principles.... At the same time, the work of fifteen years is destroyed;
it cannot begin again. It would require twenty years, and the sacrifice
of two millions of men.... Besides I am desirous of peace, and I shall
obtain it only by dint of victories. I will not hold out false hopes to
you; I cause reports to be circulated that negotiations are on foot; but
there are none. I foresee a difficult contest, a long war. To maintain
it, the nation must support me; but in return, it will require
liberty,—and it shall have it.... The situation is new. I desire no
better than to receive information; I grow old; a man is no longer at
forty-five what he was at thirty. The repose of a constitutional monarch
may be well suited to me. It will assuredly be still more suitable to my
son.’”
Footnote 1:
_Note by M.B.C._—Bonaparte attached a high value to the proofs that
his return was not effected by military manœuvres. I am sorry that I
have not by me six pages which he had written or dictated on this
subject, and which he had carefully corrected. He put them into my
hands at the time of the communication referred to here. He desired
that I would reply to Lord Castlereagh, who, in a speech in
parliament, had attributed all his success to the army.
Not choosing to write at all, till I had ascertained that it was not a
despot that I was restoring to France, I declined this task; and, in
1815, I entrusted the sketch which Napoleon had given me to one of my
friends, who set out for England, and from whom I have hitherto
neglected to get it back again. It was written with much warmth; it
contained expressions singular, but powerful, a great rapidity of
thought, and some strokes of real eloquence.
13th.—The Emperor sent instructions to the Grand Marshal to write to the
Admiral to enquire if a letter which he, Napoleon, should write to the
Prince Regent would be sent to him. Towards four o’clock, the Deputy
Governor Skelton and his lady desired to pay their respects to the
Emperor. He received them, took them to walk in the garden, and
afterwards out with him in his carriage. The weather had been extremely
foggy all day. Upon its clearing up for a short time we saw, on a
sudden, a corvette or frigate very near, and coming in with all sails
set.
INSULT TO THE EMPEROR AND THE PRINCE OF WALES.—EXECUTION
OF NEY.—ESCAPE OF LAVALETTE.
14th—15th. We received the Admiral’s answer. After beginning, according
to his established form, by saying that he knew no person by the title
of ‘Emperor’ at St. Helena, he stated, that he would undoubtedly send
the Emperor’s letter to the Prince Regent: but that he should adhere to
the tenor of his instructions, which directed him not to allow any paper
to be despatched to England, without having first opened it.
This communication, it must be acknowledged, gave us great astonishment:
the part of the instructions cited by the Admiral had two objects in
view, both of them foreign to the interpretation put upon them by this
officer.
The first was, in the case of our making any complaints, that the local
authorities might add their observations, and that the government, in
England, might do us justice more speedily, without being obliged to
send again to the island for farther information. This precaution, then,
was entirely for our interest. The second object of this measure was
that our correspondence might not be prejudicial to the interests of the
government or the policy of England. But we were writing to the
Sovereign, to the chief, to the individual in whom these interests and
this government centered: and if there was any conspiracy here, it was
not on the part of us, who were writing to him, but rather on his who
intercepted our letter, or resolved to violate the privacy of it. That
they should place jailors about us with all their equipage, though we
did not consider it just, still it seemed possible. But that these
jailors should cause their functions to react, even upon their
Sovereign, was a thing for which we could not find a name! It was to
attach to him completely the idea of a King without faculties, or of a
Sultan buried in the recesses of his Seraglio! It was really a monstrous
phenomenon in our European manners!
For a long time, we had little or no intercourse with the Admiral. One
thought that ill humour had perhaps dictated his answer; another
supposed that he was fearful the letter might contain some complaints
against him. But the Admiral knew the Emperor too well, not to be aware
that he would never appeal to any other tribunal than to that of
nations. I, who knew what would have been the subject of the letter,
felt the most lively indignation at it! The sole intention of the
Emperor had been to employ this method, the only one that seemed
compatible with his dignity, to write to his wife, and obtain tidings of
his son. However, the Grand Marshal replied to the Admiral that he
either over-stepped, or misinterpreted his instructions; that his
determination could only be regarded as another instance of flagrant
vexation; that the condition imposed was too much beneath the dignity of
the Emperor, as well as of the Prince Regent, for him to retain any
intention of writing.
The frigate that had just arrived was the Spey, bringing the European
papers to the 31st December: they contained the execution of the
unfortunate Marshal Ney, and the escape of Lavalette.
“Ney,” said the Emperor, “as ill attacked as defended, had been
condemned by the Chamber of Peers, in the teeth of a formal
capitulation. His execution had been allowed to take place; that was
another error—from that moment he became a martyr. That Labedoyere
should not have been pardoned, because the clemency extended to him
would have seemed only a predilection in favour of the old Aristocracy,
might be conceived; but the pardon of Ney would only have been a proof
of the strength of the government, and the moderation of the Prince. It
will be said, perhaps, that an example was necessary! But the Marshal
would become so, much more certainly, by a pardon, after being degraded
by a sentence: it was, to him, in fact, a moral death that deprived him
of all influence; and nevertheless the object of authority would be
obtained, the Sovereign satisfied, the example complete. The refusal of
pardon to Lavalette, and his escape, were new grievances equally
unpopular,” said the Emperor.
“But the saloons of Paris,” he observed, “exhibited the same passions as
the clubs; the nobility were a new version of the Jacobins. Europe,
moreover, was in a state of complete anarchy; the code of political
immorality was openly followed; whatever fell into the hands of the
Sovereigns was turned to the advantage of each of them. At least in my
time I was the butt of all the accusations of this kind. The Sovereigns
then talked of nothing but principles and virtue; but now,” added he,
“that they are victorious and without control, they practise
unblushingly all the wrongs which they themselves then reprobated. What
resource and what hope were there then left for nations and for
morality? Our countrywomen at least,” he observed, “have rendered their
sentiments illustrious: Madame Labedoyere was on the point of dying from
grief, and these papers shew us that Madame Ney has displayed the most
courageous and determined devotion. Madame Lavalette is become the
heroine of Europe.”