20th.—After dinner one of us observed to the Emperor that he had been
less solitary, less quiet, that day twelve-month at the same hour. “I
was sitting down to table at the Tuileries,” said the Emperor. “I had
found it difficult to get thither: the dangers I went through in that
attempt were at least equal to those of a battle.” In fact he had been
seized, on his arrival, by thousands of officers and citizens; one party
had snatched him from another; he had been carried to the palace, and,
amidst a tumult like that of a mob about to tear a man to pieces,
instead of the orderly and respectful attendance of a multitude intent
on shewing their veneration for an individual. But we ought to look at
the sentiment and intention in this case: it was enthusiasm, and love,
carried to a pitch that resembled rage or madness.
The Emperor added that in all probability more than one person in Europe
would talk of him that evening; and that, in spite of all observation,
many a bottle would be emptied on his account.
The conversation then turned on the King of Rome; that day was the
anniversary of his birth; the Emperor reckoned that he must be five
years old. He then spoke of the accouchement of the Empress, and seemed
to take some pleasure in boasting that he had proved himself, on that
occasion, as good a husband as any in the world. He assisted the Empress
to walk about all night. We who were of the household knew something of
the matter; we had all been called together at the palace at ten in the
evening; we passed the night there; and the cries of the Empress
sometimes reached our ears. Towards morning the accoucheur having told
the Emperor that the pains had ceased, and that the labour might yet be
tedious, the Emperor went to the bath, and sent us away, desiring us,
however, not to go from home. The Emperor had not been long in the bath,
when the pains came on again; and the accoucheur ran to him, almost out
of his wits, saying he was the most unfortunate of men; that out of a
thousand labours in Paris there was not one more difficult. The Emperor,
dressing himself again as fast as he could, encouraged him, saying that
a man who understood his business ought never to lose his presence of
mind; that there was nothing in this case that he ought to be uneasy
about; that he had only to fancy he was delivering a citizen’s wife of
the Rue Saint-Denis: that nature had but one law; that he was sure he
would act for the best; and, above all, that he need not fear any
reproach. It was then represented to the Emperor that there was great
danger either for the mother or the child. “If the mother lives,” said
he, without hesitation, "I shall have another child. Act in this case as
if you were attending the birth of a cobbler’s son."
When he reached the Empress she really was in danger; the child
presented itself in an unfavourable posture, and there was every reason
to fear that it would be stifled.[2]
Footnote 2:
This event took place in the presence of twenty-two persons:—The
Emperor.—Dubois, Corvisart, Bourdier and Ivan.—Madames de Montebello,
de Lucay, and de Montesquiou. The six first ladies:—Ballant,
Deschamps, Durant, Hureau, Nabusson, and Gerard. Five ladies of the
bed-chamber.—Mademoiselles Honoré, Edouard, Barbier, Aubert, and
Geoffroy. The Keeper;—Madame Blaise, and two maids of the wardrobe.
The Emperor asked Dubois why he did not deliver her. He excused himself,
being unwilling to do it, he said, except in the presence of Corvisart,
who had not yet arrived. “But what can he tell you?” said the Emperor.
“If it is a witness, or a justification, you want to secure, here am I.”
Then Dubois, taking off his coat, commenced the operation. When the
Empress saw the instruments, she cried out in a piteous manner,
exclaiming that they were going to kill her. She was firmly held by the
Emperor, Madame de Montesquiou, Corvisart, who had just come in, &c.
Madame de Montesquiou dexterously took an opportunity to encourage her,
by declaring that she herself had more than once been in the same
situation.
The Empress, however, still persuaded herself that she was treated
differently from other women, and often repeated, “Am I to be sacrificed
because I am an Empress?” She declared, afterwards, to the Emperor, that
she really had entertained this fear. At length she was delivered. The
danger had been so imminent, said the Emperor, that all the etiquette
which had been studied and ordered was disregarded, and the child put on
one side, on the floor, whilst every one was occupied about the mother
only. The infant remained some moments in this situation, and it was
thought he was dead: it was Corvisart who took him up, chafed him, and
brought him to utter a cry.[3]
Footnote 3:
In an interesting work published some years since relative to the
return from Elba, there is this passage: “When young Napoleon came
into the world, he was supposed to be dead; he had neither warmth,
motion, nor respiration. Repeated efforts were made to produce signs
of life, when the hundred guns destined to proclaim his birth were
successively fired. The commotion and shock which they occasioned
acted so powerfully on the organs of the royal infant as to bring him
to his senses.”
CATILINE’S CONSPIRACY.—THE GRACCHI.—HISTORIANS.—SLEEP DURING A
BATTLE.—CÆSAR AND HIS COMMENTARIES OF DIFFERENT MILITARY SYSTEMS.
21st—22nd. The Emperor rode out very early: we made the tour of our
limits in several directions. It is during these rides that the Emperor
now takes his lessons in English. I walk by his side; he speaks a few
sentences in English, which I translate, word by word, as he pronounces
them; by which method he perceives when he is understood, or is enabled
to correct his mistakes. When he has finished a sentence, I repeat it to
him in English, so that he may understand it well himself: this helps to
form his ear.
The Emperor was reading to-day, in the Roman History, of Catiline’s
conspiracy; he could not comprehend it in the way in which it is
described. “However great a villain Catiline might be,” observed he, “he
must have had some object in view: it could not be that of governing in
Rome, since he is accused of having intended to set fire to the four
quarters of the city.” The Emperor conceived it to be much more probable
that it was some new faction similar to those of Marius and Sylla, which
having failed, all the accusations calculated to excite the horror of
patriots, were, as usual in such cases, heaped on the head of its
leader. It was then observed to the Emperor that the same thing would
infallibly have happened to himself, had he been overpowered in
Vendemiaire, Fructidor, or Brumaire, before he had illumined with such
radiant brilliancy an horizon cleared of clouds.
The Gracchi gave rise to doubts and suspicions of a very different sort
in his mind, which, he said, became almost certainties to those who had
been engaged in the politics of our times. “History,” said he, "presents
these Gracchi, in the aggregate, as seditious people, revolutionists,
criminals; and, nevertheless, allows it to appear, in detail, that they
had virtues; that they were gentle, disinterested, moral men; and,
besides, they were the sons of the illustrious Cornelia, which, to great
minds, ought to be a strong primary presumption in their favour. How
then can such a contrast be accounted for? It is thus: the Gracchi
generously devoted themselves in behalf of the rights of the oppressed
people, against a tyrannical senate; and their great talents and noble
character endangered a ferocious aristocracy, which triumphed, murdered,
and calumniated them. The historians of a party have transmitted their
characters in the same spirit. Under the Emperors it was necessary to
continue in the same manner; the bare mention of the rights of the
people, under a despotic master, was a blasphemy, a downright crime.
Afterwards, the case was the same under the feudal system, which was so
fruitful in petty despots. Such, no doubt, is the fatality which has
attended the memory of the Gracchi. Throughout succeeding ages their
virtues have never ceased to be considered crimes; but at this day,
when, possessed of better information, we have thought it expedient to
reason, the Gracchi may and ought to find favour in our eyes.
“In that terrible struggle between the aristocracy and democracy, which
has been renewed in our times—in that exasperation of ancient landed
property against modern industry, which still ferments throughout
Europe, there is no doubt that if the aristocracy should triumph by
force, it would point out many Gracchi in all directions, and treat them
as mercifully as its predecessors did the Gracchi of Rome.”
The Emperor added that it was, moreover, easy to see that there was a
hiatus in the ancient authors at this period of history; that all which
the moderns now presented to us on this subject was mere gleaning. He
then reverted to the charges already made against honest Rollin and his
pupil Crevier: they were both devoid of talent, system, or colouring. It
was to be allowed that the ancients were far superior to us in this
point; and that because, amongst them, statesmen were literary men, and
men of letters statesmen; they combined professions, whilst we divide
them in an absolute manner. This famous division of labour, which in our
times produces such a perfection in mechanical arts, is quite fatal to
excellence in mental productions: every work of genius is superior in
proportion to the universality of the mind whence it emanates. We owe to
the Emperor the attempt to establish this principle by frequently
employing on various objects men wholly unconnected with each other;—it
was his system. He once appointed, of his own accord, one of his
chamberlains to go into Illyria to liquidate the Austrian debt: this was
a matter of importance, and extremely complicated. The chamberlain, who
had previously been a total stranger to public business, was alarmed;
and the minister, who had been deprived of this appointment, being
dissatisfied with it, ventured to represent to the Emperor that, his
nomination having fallen on a man entirely new to such matters, it might
be feared that he would not acquit himself satisfactorily. “I have a
lucky hand, sir,” was his answer: “those on whom I lay it are fit for
every thing.”
The Emperor, proceeding in his criticism, also censured severely what he
called historical fooleries, ridiculously exalted by translators and
commentators. “Such things prove, in the first place,” said he, “that
the historians formed erroneous judgments of men and circumstances. They
are wrong, for instance,” said Napoleon, “when they applaud so highly
the _continence of Scipio_, and fall into ecstasies at the calmness of
Alexander, Cæsar, and others, for having been able to sleep on the eve
of a battle. It could only be a monk, debarred from women, whose face
brightens up at the very name—who neighs behind his bars at their
approach, who could give Scipio much credit for forbearing to violate
the female whom chance threw into his power, while he had so many others
entirely at his disposal. A famished man might as well praise the hero
for having quietly passed by a table covered with victuals, without
greedily snatching at them.” As to sleeping just before a battle, there
was not, he assured us, one of our soldiers or generals who had not
twenty times performed that miracle; their heroism was chiefly produced
by the fatigue of the day before.
Here the Grand Marshal added that he could safely say he had seen
Napoleon sleep, not only on the eve of an engagement, but even during
the battle. “I was obliged to do so,” said Napoleon, “when I fought
battles that lasted three days; Nature was also to have her due: I took
advantage of the smallest intervals, and slept where and when I could.”
He slept on the field of battle at Wagram, and at Bautzen, even during
the action, and completely within the range of the enemy’s balls. On
this subject, he said that, independently of the necessity of obeying
nature, these slumbers afforded a general, commanding a very large army,
the important advantage of enabling him to await, calmly, the reports
and combinations of all his divisions, instead of, perhaps, being
hurried away by the only event which he himself could witness.
The Emperor farther said that he found in Rollin, and even Cæsar,
circumstances of the Gallic war which he could not understand. He could
not by any means comprehend the invasion of the Helvetii; the road they
took; the object ascribed to them; the time they spent in crossing the
Saone; the diligence of Cæsar, who found time to go into Italy, as far
as Aquileia, in quest of reinforcements, and who overtook the invaders
before they had passed the Saone, &c.; that it was equally difficult to
comprehend what was meant by establishing winter-quarters that extended
from Treves to Vannes. And as we expressed our surprise at the immense
works which the generals got performed by their soldiers, the ditches,
walls, great towers, galleries, &c., the Emperor observed that in those
times all efforts were directed to construction on the spot, whereas in
ours they were employed in conveyance. He also thought the ancient
soldiers laboured, in fact, more than ours. He had thoughts of dictating
something on that subject. “Ancient history, however,” said he,
“embraces a long period, and the system of war often changed. In our
days it was no longer that of the times of Turenne and Vauban:
field-works were growing useless; even the system of our fortresses had
become problematical or inefficient; the enormous quantity of bombs and
howitzers changed every thing. It was no longer against the horizontal
attack that defence was requisite, but also against the curve and the
reflected lines. None of the ancient fortresses were henceforth safe;
they ceased to be tenable; no country was rich enough to maintain them.
The revenue of France would be insufficient for her lines in Flanders,
for the exterior fortifications were now not above a fourth or fifth of
the necessary expense. Casements, magazines, places of shelter secure
from the effects of bombs, were now indispensably requisite, and these
were too expensive.” The Emperor complained particularly of the weakness
of modern masonry: the engineer department is radically defective in
this point; it had cost him immense sums, wholly thrown away.
Struck with these novel truths, the Emperor had invented a system
altogether at variance with the axioms hitherto established; it was to
have metal of an extraordinary calibre, to advance beyond the principal
line towards the enemy; and to have that principal line itself, on the
contrary, defended by a great quantity of small moveable artillery:
hence the enemy would be stopped short in his sudden advance; he would
have only weak pieces to attack powerful ones with; he would be
commanded by this superior calibre, round which the resources of the
fortress, the small pieces, would form in groups, or even advance to a
distance, as skirmishers, and might follow all the movements of the
enemy by means of their lightness and mobility. The enemy would then
stand in need of battering-cannon; he would be obliged to open trenches:
time would be gained, and the true object of fortification accomplished.
The Emperor employed this method with great success, and to the great
astonishment of the engineers, in the defence of Vienna, and in that of
Dresden; he intended to use it in that of Paris, which city could not,
he thought, be defended by any other means; but of the success of this
method he had no doubt.
DAYS AT LONGWOOD.—TRIAL OF DROUOT.—MILITARY
CHARACTERS.—SOULT.—MASSENA.—THE EMPEROR’S COMRADES IN THE
ARTILLERY—HIS NAME THOUGHT BY HIM TO BE UNKNOWN TO SOME PEOPLE, EVEN
IN PARIS.
23rd—26th. The weather was very unfavourable during the greater part of
these mornings, on account of the heavy rains, which scarcely allowed us
to stir out of doors. The Emperor read a work by a Miss Williams, on the
return from the Isle of Elba; it had just reached us from England. He
was much disgusted with it, and with good reason: this production is
quite calumnious and false; it is the echo and collection of all the
reports invented at the time in certain malevolent Parisian societies.
As to our evenings, the weather was almost indifferent to us; whether it
rained, or the moon shone brightly, we literally made ourselves
prisoners. Towards nine o’clock we were surrounded by sentinels; to meet
them would have been painful. It is true that both the Emperor and
ourselves might have gone out at a later hour, accompanied by an
officer; but this would have been rather a punishment than a pleasure to
us, although the officer never could conceive this feeling. He gave us
reason to conclude, at first, that he imagined this seclusion to be
merely the effect of ill-humour, and thought it would not last long. I
know not what he may subsequently have thought of our perseverance.
The Emperor, as I believe I have already mentioned, sat down to table
pretty regularly at eight o’clock; he never remained there above half an
hour; sometimes scarcely a quarter of an hour. When he returned to the
drawing-room, if he happened to be unwell or taciturn, we had the
greatest difficulty in the world to get on till half-past nine or ten
o’clock; indeed, we could not effect it without the assistance of
reading. But when he was cheerful, and entered into conversation with
spirit, we were presently surprised to find it eleven o’clock, and
later: these were our pleasant evenings. He would then retire, with a
kind of satisfaction, at having, as he expressed it, conquered time. And
it was precisely on those days, when the remark applied with least
force, that he used to observe that it must require our utmost courage
to endure such a life.
On one of these evenings, the conversation turned upon the military
trials, which are now taking place in France. The Emperor thought that
General Drouot could not be condemned for coming in the suite of one
acknowledged sovereign to make war upon another. On this it was remarked
that what was now mentioned as his justification would be his greatest
danger at the tribunal of legitimacy.
The Emperor acknowledged, in fact, that there was nothing to be said to
the doctrines brought forward at this day: but, on the other hand, that,
in condemning General Drouot, they would condemn emigration, and
legitimize the condemnation of the emigrants. Whomsoever was found in
arms against France, the Republican doctrines punished with death; it
was not so with the Royal doctrine. If they should in this instance
adopt the Republican doctrine, the emigrant and royal party would
condemn themselves.
The case of Drouot, however, in a general point of view, was very
different even from that of Ney; and besides, Ney had evinced an
unfortunate vacillation of which Drouot had never been guilty. Thus the
interest which Ney had excited was wholly founded on opinion; whilst
that which was felt for Drouot was personal.
The Emperor dilated on the dangers and difficulties which the tribunals
and ministers of justice must experience, throughout the affairs
connected with his return from the Isle of Elba. Above all, he was
extremely struck by a particular circumstance relating to Soult, who, we
were told, was to be brought to trial. He (Napoleon) knew, he said, how
innocent Soult was; and yet, were it not for that circumstance, and were
he an individual and juror in Soult’s case, he had no doubt he should
declare him guilty, so strongly were appearances combined against him.
Ney, in the course of his defence, through some sentiment which it is
difficult to account for, stated, contrary to the truth, that the
Emperor had said Soult was in intelligence with him. Now, every
circumstance of Soult’s conduct during his administration, the
confidence which the Emperor placed in him after his return, &c., agreed
with that deposition: who, then, would not have condemned him? “Yet
Soult is innocent,” said the Emperor, “he even acknowledged to me that
he had taken a real liking to the King. The authority he enjoyed under
him,” he said, “so different from that of my ministers, was a very
agreeable thing, and had quite gained him over.”
Massena (whose proscription was also announced to us by the papers) was,
the Emperor said, another person whom they would perhaps condemn as
guilty of treason. All Marseilles was against him; appearances were
overwhelming; and yet he had fulfilled his duty up to the very moment of
declaring himself openly. On his return to Paris, he had even been far
from claiming any credit with the Emperor, when the latter asked him
whether he might have reckoned upon him. “The truth is,” continued the
Emperor, "that all the commanders did their duty; but they could not
withstand the torrent of opinion, and no one had sufficiently calculated
the sentiments of the mass of the people and the national impetuosity.
Carnot, Fouché, Maret, and Cambaceres, confessed to me, at Paris, that
they had been greatly deceived on this point. And no one understands it
well; even now.
“Had the King remained longer in France,” continued he, “he would
probably have lost his life in some insurrection; but, had he fallen
into my hands, I should have thought myself strong enough to have
allowed him every enjoyment in some retreat of his own selection; as
Ferdinand was treated at Valency.”
Immediately before this conversation, the Emperor was playing at chess,
and his king having fallen, he cried out—"Ah! my poor king, you are
down!" Some one having picked it up, and restored it to him in a
mutilated state—"Horrid!" he exclaimed; “I certainly do not accept the
omen, and I am far from wishing any such thing: my enmity does not
extend so far.”
I would not, on any account, have omitted this circumstance, trifling as
it may appear, because it is in many respects characteristic. We
ourselves, when the Emperor had retired, reverted to the incident. What
cheerfulness, what freedom of mind in such dreadful circumstances! we
said. What serenity in the heart! what absence of malice, irritation, or
hatred! Who could discover in him the man whom enmity and falsehood have
depicted as such a monster! Even amongst his own followers, who is there
that has well understood him, or taken sufficient pains to make him
known?
On another evening, the Emperor was speaking of his early years, when he
was in the artillery, and of his companions at the mess: he always
delighted in reverting to those days. One of his messmates was
mentioned, who, having been Prefect of the same department under
Napoleon and under the King, had not been able to retain his place on
the return of Napoleon. The Emperor, when he recollected him, said that
this person had, at a certain period, missed the opportunity of making
his fortune through him. When Napoleon obtained the command of the army
of the Interior, he loaded this person with favours, made him his
aide-de-camp, and intended to place great confidence in him; but this
favoured aide-de-camp had behaved very ill to him at the time of his
departure for the Army of Italy: he then abandoned his General for the
Directory. “Nevertheless,” said the Emperor, "when once I was seated on
the throne, he might have done much with me, if he had known how to set
about it. He had the claim of early friendship, which never loses its
influence; I should certainly never have withstood an unexpected
overture in a hunting-party, for instance, or half an hour’s
conversation on old times at any other opportunity. I should have
forgotten his conduct: it was no longer important whether he had been on
my side or not: I had united all parties. Those who had an insight into
my character were well aware of this: they knew that, with me, however I
might have felt disposed towards them, it was like the game of
prison-bars; when once the point was touched, the game was won. In fact,
if I wished to withstand them, I had no resource but that of refusing to
see them."
He mentioned another old comrade, who, with intelligence and the
requisite qualifications, might have done any thing with him. He also
said that a third would never have been removed from him, had he been
less rapacious.
We disputed amongst ourselves whether these people ever suspected the
secret, or their own chances; and whether the elevated station and the
Imperial splendour of Napoleon, had fairly allowed them to avail
themselves of his favourable disposition towards them.
With respect to the splendour of the Imperial power, the Grand Marshal
said that, however great and magnificent the Emperor had appeared to him
on the throne, he had never made on him a superior, perhaps an equal,
impression, to that which his situation at the head of the Army of Italy
had stamped on his memory. He explained and justified this idea very
successfully, and the Emperor heard him with some complacency.—But, we
observed, what great events took place afterwards! what elevation! what
grandeur! what renown throughout the world! The Emperor had listened.
“For all that,” said he, “Paris is so extensive, and contains so many
people of all sorts, and some so eccentric, that I can conceive there
may be some who never saw me, and others who never even heard my name
mentioned. Do not you think so?” And it was curious to see with what
whimsical ingenuity he himself maintained this assertion, which he knew
to be untenable. We all insisted loudly that, as to his name, there was
not a town or village in Europe, perhaps even in the world, where it had
not been pronounced. One person in company added—"Sire, before I
returned to France at the treaty of Amiens, your Majesty being then only
FIRST Consul, I determined to make a tour in Wales, as one of the most
extraordinary parts of Great Britain. I climbed the wildest mountains,
some of which are of prodigious height; I visited cabins that seemed to
me to belong to another world. As I entered one of these secluded
dwellings, I observed, to my fellow-traveller, that, in this spot, one
would expect to find repose, and escape the din of revolution. The
cottager, suspecting us to be French, on account of our accent,
immediately enquired the news from France, and what _Bonaparte_, the
First Consul, was about."
“Sire,” said another, "we had the curiosity to ask the Chinese officers
whether our European affairs had been heard of in their Empire.
‘Certainly,’ they replied; ‘in a confused manner, to be sure, because we
are totally uninterested in those matters; but the name of your Emperor
is famous there, and connected with grand ideas of conquest and
revolution:’ exactly as the names of those who have changed the face of
that part of the world have arrived in ours, such as Gengis Khan,
Tamerlane," &c.
[Illustration: