him, as is the custom, with being the offensive cause of all the
evils, of all the troubles, of which we have been the witnesses or the
victims. The time of libels is past, the truth must have its turn.
Already the clouds of falsehood are clearing up before the sun of
futurity. A time will come when the world will render him complete
justice; for passions die with contemporaries; but actions live with
posterity, which has no bounds. Then it will be said that the great
actions, the great benefits, came from him; that the evils were those
of time and fate.
Who does not now begin to see that, notwithstanding his vast power, he
never had the choice of his destiny or of his means? that, constantly
armed for defence, he retarded his destruction only by a constant
succession of new prodigies; that in this terrible conflict he was
placed under the necessity of subduing every thing, in order to
survive and save the great national cause? Who among you, Englishmen,
dreams of denying, above all, this last truth? Has not _war for life_
been often proclaimed among you; and did not your secret allies, in
the bottom of their hearts, feel that which your position permitted
you to declare aloud? Do you not still boast that you would have
carried on the war as long as he maintained himself? Thus every time
that he proposed peace to you, whether his offers were sincere, or
whether they were not, it was of little importance to you: your
decision was fixed. What course then remained for him, and what
reproach could be uttered against him, which you yourselves did not
already deserve? And who at this day would still pretend to bring
forward the vulgar reproach of his ambition? What then has it had so
new, so extraordinary, and above all, so exclusive in his person?
Did it stifle sentiment in him, when he said to the illustrious Fox,
that in future Europe would be so united by laws, manners, and blood,
that there could be no war in it, but civil war?
Was it irresistible, when, describing to us all his useless efforts to
prevent the rupture of the treaty of Amiens, he concluded that
England, notwithstanding all the advantages of to-day, would, however,
have gained more by having adhered to it; that all Europe would have
gained by it; that he alone, perhaps, his name and his glory, would
have lost by it?
Was it an over-greedy and common ambition, when at Chatillon he
preferred the chance of losing a throne to the certainty of possessing
it at the price of the glory and independence of the nation?
Was it incapable of alteration, when he has been heard to say, ‘I
returned from the Isle of Elba quite another man. They did not think
it possible, and they were wrong. I am not a man to do things with a
bad grace, or by halves. I would have been at once the monarch of the
constitution and of peace?’
Was it insatiable, when, after the victory of which he considered
himself certain at Waterloo, his first word to the vanquished was to
have been the offer of the treaty of Paris, and a sincere and solid
union, which, blending the interests of the two nations, would have
insured the empire of the seas to England, and forced the continent to
repose?
Was it blind, and without motives, when, after his disaster, passing
in review the political consequences which he had so often foreseen,
and trembling at the probabilities of the future, he exclaimed, ‘There
is no nation, not even the English, who may not one day have to lament
their victory at Waterloo?’
And who can now think of reverting to this charge of ambition? It will
not be the people, all astonished as they are, at the conduct of those
who have overthrown him. Will it be the Sovereigns? They talked of
nothing but justice before the battle, but what use have they made of
the victory? Let them cease, then, to repeat these odious charges.
They might be an excellent pretence; they would be pitiful
justifications. Let them content themselves with having conquered!...
But I grow warm. Whither do the force of truth, the warmth of
sentiment, the impulse of the heart, carry me? I return to my subject.
Representatives of Great Britain, take this state of things into fresh
consideration. Justice, humanity, your honour, your glory, demand it
from you. St. Helena is insupportable; Napoleon’s stay there is
equivalent to certain and premeditated death; you could not wish to
make yourselves responsible for this in the eyes of futurity. Napoleon
was, during twenty years, your terrible enemy; he will remind you of
_Hannibal_ and _of Roman infamy_.... You would not stain with such a
spot the noble pages of your present history. Save your administration
the odious, the horrible, censure of having trafficked with the blood
of a prisoner. History furnishes several examples of it. They all
excite our horror; and what an increase of dignity would be reserved
for Napoleon’s character! For it is easy to predict, when Napoleon
shall be no more, when the crime has been accomplished, he will become
the man of the people; then he will be only the victim, the martyr, of
Kings. The inevitable march of the force of things and of the
sentiments of man so wills it. Save our modern annals from such a
scandal and its dangerous consequences. Save royalty from its own
blindness. Save the most sacred interests of the great Monarchs, in
whose name the victim is under execution. Save royal Majesty in the
first of its attributes, the most holy of its characters, its
_inviolability_. If kings themselves lay their hands upon the
representatives of God on earth, what restraint, what respect, can
they intend to oppose to the attempts of the people? There is no
prosperity here below, secure from time or from fortune. The circle of
vicissitudes envelops all thrones. This cause is the cause of all
kings, present and to come. An anointed of the Lord degraded, debased,
tortured, immolated, cannot, must not, be other than an object of
indignation, of horror for history, of terror for kings!
Recal Napoleon among you; let him come to find repose under the
protection of your laws; that they may enjoy his distinguished homage.
Do not deprive them of their noblest triumph. And who will prevent
you?
Will it be your first decision? But, in recalling it, you would shew
to every eye that you were only then guided by the force of
circumstances, the law of necessity.
Will it be your domestic repose? But the thought of that would be
foolish; the doubt an injury, an outrage, to your institutions, to
your manners, to your whole population.
Will it be the safety of Europe? But truths of circumstance have their
day, and it belongs only to the vulgar to perpetuate them, to bring
them forward long after they cease to exist. Napoleon, in his
omnipotence, might be the terror of Europe; reduced to his single
person, he can no longer be any thing but an object of astonishment
and meditation. And, in truth, what could he effect at this day, even
with power, against the safety of Russia, that of Austria, of Prussia,
or your own?
Finally, can there be any fear of his secret intentions? But Napoleon
now has no wish but for repose. In his own eyes, in his own mouth, his
wonderful career has already all the distance of ages. He no longer
considers himself of this world; his destinies are accomplished. A
soul of such elevated power is of no value but to lead to celebrity,
to glory. And what mortal has accumulated more of these? Does not the
measure seem above the imagination of man? Have not even his reverses
been abundant sources of glory to him? Does there exist any thing to
be compared with the return from the Isle of Elba? And, more lately,
what an apotheosis is his; the regrets of a great nation. A great
number among you have traversed our provinces, penetrated to our
fire-sides; you know our secrets, our sentiments. If the country was
less dear to him than glory, what has he to desire after what he has
left behind? His advanced age, his lost health, his disgust at the
vicissitudes of life, perhaps that which he feels for men, the
satiety, above all, of the great objects pursued here below, leave him
nothing new or desirable but a tranquil asylum, a happy and sweet
repose. He demands them from you, Englishmen, and you owe them to the
heroic magnanimity with which he gave you the preference over all his
other enemies. Learn, dare, will to be just. Recal him, and you will
have secured the only glory which seems to be wanting in your present
condition. The admirers, the real friends, of your liberties and of
your laws expect this of you; they demand it. You have baffled those
who delight in boasting of all the benefits that flow from your noble
constitution.
‘Where, then,’ say their adversaries, with a triumphant irony, ‘is
that generosity, that elevation of sentiment, that inflexibility of
principle, that public morality, that force of opinion, which you told
us distinguished that free people, in some sort superior to the
sovereignty itself? Where are the so much vaunted fruits of this
classic ground of liberal institutions? All this pompous scaffolding,
these imaginary pictures, have then disappeared before the dangers
which a single man has created; or rather before the hatred and the
vengeance which he has inspired. And what more could that absolute
power which we defend, and you decry so much, have done? It would have
done less, perhaps, but most assuredly it would not have been able to
do more. It would have shewn itself sensible, no doubt, of the noble
and magnanimous confidence of its enemy, or, if it had so decided, on
the ground of utility, it would, at least have shewn more energy,
candour, and elevation in its injustice. It would not have descended
to palliate its wrong in the eyes of the people, by associating its
neighbours gratuitously in it. It would have avoided above all the
leaving itself entangled in this distressing dilemma: Either, when you
concluded your iniquitous treaty of ostracism, the victim was not in
your power, and you had the cowardice to hold out the hand to him that
you might seize him; or, you had him already in your power, and you
sacrificed your glory, the honour of your country, the sanctity, the
majesty, of your laws to foreign solicitations.’
Englishmen, your friends are obliged to turn to you for an answer.
They await it.
As for me, in spite of a fatal experience of two years, such is still
my confidence in your principles, that I still reckon upon your
justice; and I have dared to speak before you, consulting only my own
heart, persuaded that it will be in the midst of you that I shall see
the defence and the talents worthy of this great and noble cause
arise. However you may decide in other respects, my own destinies are
fixed. Wherever the victim dwells I wish to go, to devote at his feet
the few days that still remain to me;[36] and in this tribute of
sentiment I shall think I have done nothing but for myself. When I
followed him at first, I rather obeyed honour, I followed glory:—but
now I bewail, far from him, all the qualities of the heart that attach
man to man. How many of your countrymen have approached him! they
would all tell you the same thing. Let them be consulted. Englishmen!
is this,
Footnote 36:
All solicitations in this respect with the English Ministry have
proved vain. This demand, frequently repeated, remains without an
answer, or has produced only a refusal; as may be particularly seen
in one of the letters in this collection.
then, the man who has been portrayed to you? Have you pronounced upon
his fate in full possession of the case?
COUNT DE LAS CASES.
My solicitations were not confined to the letters which I addressed to
the Allied Sovereigns; my efforts were ardently directed towards every
point, and every object I could think of. As soon as I was restored to
liberty, I found myself surrounded by the French exiles at Frankfort,
who shared my sentiments, and manifested the tenderest sympathy for
me. All, not even excepting those who had nothing to spare, save the
widow’s mite, offered me all they possessed, not only to provide for
the personal wants with which they supposed I had to struggle, but
also to promote the sacred object which wholly occupied my mind. At
Frankfort I had also the happiness to meet the Countess de
Survilliers, whose extreme generosity is only one of the many virtues
that adorn her. Finally, some eminent merchants of Frankfort, merely
from hearing of my adventures, and from motives of pure sympathy, made
me the most generous offers; and even diplomatic individuals, of whom
there were many at that time in the town, indirectly conveyed to me
proofs of their attention. These circumstances enabled me to learn
where the different members of the Emperor’s family were to be found,
and to enter immediately into communication with them, so as to adopt
the speediest means of ameliorating the condition of him for whose
sake I had resolved to exert every effort, and even to sacrifice my
life.
On the other hand, I had laid down the rule of writing regularly, on a
certain day every month, to the Grand Marshal, in order to obtain such
information as would enable me to render myself as useful as possible;
and I sent the letter open to the Under Secretary of State for the
Colonies, with whom I had, by this means, commenced a correspondence,
which I conceived to be best calculated to fulfil the object I had in
view. I requested that he would send out regularly to Longwood the
newspapers, pamphlets, new publications, and various articles of daily
use which I specified, or which I begged he would himself select, to
be paid for by me to his order; this he promised to do.
The Emperor’s mother, brothers, sisters, and all his relations, though
I was not particularly acquainted with any of them, except Prince
Lucien, immediately answered me in the warmest and most affecting
manner. Mine were almost the first authentic tidings they had received
from the illustrious victim; and they esteemed themselves happy in
finding a channel, by means of which they could transmit to him
testimonies of their respect, devotedness, and affection. They wished
only to be informed what they had to do. An annual contribution of one
hundred and fifty thousand francs was immediately determined on: this
sum I conceived to be indispensably necessary for the establishment at
Longwood. The amount was divided equally among all, and I already had
in my hands the subscriptions of several of the parties, when I had
the satisfaction of being enabled to return them, with the request
that they might be reserved till a future time, as unforeseen
circumstances would render it unnecessary to make use of the money for
two or three years. The reason was that there had been found a deposit
of several hundred thousand francs belonging to the Emperor, and I
esteemed myself happy in being thus early enabled to present to the
members of his family a proof of the regularity and reserve with which
I acted. But unfortunately I was too precipitate; for the money which
had been promised, and was to have been furnished by me, was, either
through the mistake or embarrassments of the banker, or the negligence
of agents, more than a year in being paid. I was very much vexed and
disappointed by this circumstance, for the thirteen bills which I had
left with the Grand Marshal on my departure from St. Helena, had been
quickly paid away, and fresh drafts had been made on my banker, or on
other individuals in London, who allowed the bills to be protested,
because they had no funds belonging to me, or had received none from
any other individual. This occasioned enormous expense, compromised
Longwood, and afforded a subject of ridicule to the English
ministerial journals.
As soon as I was made acquainted with this unfortunate circumstance, I
wrote to London, to offer my personal security for any drafts that
might come from Longwood, stating that they should be payable to order
at Frankfort. To this object I appropriated, in the most advantageous
way I could, the sum which I received from Madame Mère, and which was
the only one that had not been returned, together with some money
which a few friends had lodged in my hands when my own was exhausted;
for my four thousand louis had been repaid to me in a way so singular
that I cannot refrain from mentioning it. A person who stood in a very
delicate situation, and who held money belonging to the Emperor,
suspecting, though he knew nothing of me, that I might be in some
degree of embarrasment, transmitted to me a hundred thousand francs. I
could lay no claim whatever to the sum: but this the person in
question doubtless conceived to be his most prudent course,
considering the peculiarity of his situation. Thus I found myself
repaid without having made any claim or given any receipt, and I am
not aware that there existed any trace of the debt due by the Emperor
in any account whatever.
Six months had already elapsed; the fine weather was set in; and my
health, which had been so greatly impaired by disappointment and
vexation, required me to make trial of the waters of Baden. But was I
free to depart? The times were so extraordinary, and such a total
disregard seemed to be every where manifested for the privileges and
the destiny of a Frenchman, that many persons about me very much
doubted whether I should be at liberty; and I was myself not without
apprehension, so accustomed was I to see all justice violated in my
person. Be this as it may, I was so desirous to act with perfect
openness, and to evince my gratitude for the kindness of Baron
Wessemberg, that I determined to acquaint him with my intention of
departing, and to ask him whether he considered me under his
inspection. However, the Baron in a moment banished all my scruples
and fears, by replying, with the frankness and courtesy which
characterize him, that, in granting me hospitality, there had been no
idea of making me a prisoner.
I accordingly repaired to Baden, where I had the honour of being
received by the Grand Duke and Duchess, almost secretly it is true,
but with those proofs of interest and attention which I might have
expected from the adopted children of Napoleon.
On taking my leave of the worthy Grand Duke, I requested that he would
permit me to remain in his States, and I determined on fixing my
residence at Manheim. I made choice of this place because, like
Frankfort, it afforded every desirable advantage for the continuance
of my correspondence, while it presented none of the inconveniences of
the latter city, which, from circumstances of a very delicate nature,
I was anxious to avoid.
I seldom went out, and I did not abuse my liberty any more than I had
done in the time of the Prussian Commissioner; but I thought it my
duty to receive every one who came to me. I was perfectly aware that I
should be likely to encounter enemies in the disguise of friends; but
I also knew that there were many persons, of all classes, who
frequently came from a distance for the purpose of seeing me, and who
were guided by sincere sentiment. But could I, for the sake of
avoiding one betrayer, run the risk of wounding many honest hearts,
who, amidst their sorrow and regret, hoped to obtain from me a few
words of satisfaction and consolation? During my stay at Manheim, it
would be difficult to imagine the singular questions that were put to
me, and the hints and insinuations of every kind that were thrown out
to me. One proposed to execute my most secret, hazardous, and remote
commissions; another offered to become my mediator with distinguished
and hostile individuals; and a third assured me that he would go in
disguise to Parma, and deliver all my packets to the Empress Maria
Louisa in person. In short, I know not what plans were suggested to
me. I several times received, from natives of different countries,
proposals for effecting Napoleon’s escape. Some were excited by
enthusiasm, some by speculation, and others were, no doubt, contriving
snares; for the crime of instigation is now boldly and universally
resorted to. Fortunately my guarantee was that I had nothing to
conceal. I possessed no secret, therefore I could only express hopes
and wishes in reply to all I heard; and certainly, in the avowed
situation in which I stood, the reports that might have been made from
my conversation could convey no new information. Accordingly, nothing
of an unpleasant nature occurred. By making choice of Manheim, which
is a retired place, and where I lived as privately as possible, I
obviated most of the inconveniences I had met with at Frankfort, which
was the resort of schemers and intriguers of every kind. I also proved
to those who were interested in observing me that I was a stranger to
all secret designs.
The period fixed for the meeting of the Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle
was now approaching; and I formed the highest hopes from this august
assemblage. These hopes were shared by every generous heart; for who
could have imagined that the Sovereigns of Europe would have shewn
themselves insensible to the misery of Napoleon, whom each,
individually, had so long treated as a friend, a brother, or a son;
particularly when they should receive a correct and faithful account
of the situation in which he was placed? I had made every necessary
preparation; being determined that they should be assailed by
entreaties, and surrounded by information. I wrote to Maria Louisa;
and I was charged to present to the Sovereigns a letter from Madame
Mère; all the other relations of the Emperor having undertaken to act
for themselves. I carefully collected for each of the Sovereigns all
the authentic documents existing, and drew up a note on the subject,
enclosed in a letter addressed to _themselves_. I did not even neglect
Lord Castlereagh; to whom I thought it requisite to make the
communication in his quality of representative of the King of England.
I shall insert these documents, hoping that the reader will pardon the
many repetitions that occur in them. They all relate to one and the
same subject; this subject is reduced to its simplest expression; the
circle is limited; and recurrence to the same topic is unavoidable.
TO THE EMPRESS MARIA LOUISA.
MADAM,—On my return from the place where your husband is perishing,
what a tale of misery could I not unfold to you! But you are his wife,
the mother of his son; what, then, can I say that will appeal to you
more forcibly than the feelings that must naturally arise in your
heart!
I think it my duty to inform your Majesty that I intend, at the
approaching assemblage of the Allied Sovereigns, to lay at their feet
my humble supplications for a mitigation of the misery and cruel
sufferings which are inflicted in their name, and which cannot be
adequately conceived, except by a servant so devoted as I am, or a
relative so near as yourself.
But, Madam, what can be my claims, when compared with the sacred and
all-powerful rights of your Majesty, which are held in veneration all
over the world!
Deign then, Madam, to exercise those rights; and posterity, history,
which consecrate crowns, will encircle your brow with a diadem as
imperishable as your elevation of character, which subdues, and your
gentle virtues, which delight the heart.[37]
I am, &c.,
COUNT LAS CASES.
Footnote 37:
This letter was put into the post at Vienna. I know not whether it
ever reached its destination; but most probably it did not.
MADAME MERE TO THE ALLIED SOVEREIGNS AT AIX-LA-CHAPELLE.
SIRES,—A mother, afflicted beyond all expression, has long cherished
the hope that the meeting of your Imperial and Royal Majesties will
afford some alleviation of her distress.
The prolonged captivity of the Emperor Napoleon gives occasion for
appealing to you. It is impossible but that your magnanimity, your
power, and the recollection of past events, should induce your
Imperial and Royal Majesties to interest yourselves for the
deliverance of a Prince, who has had so great a share in your regard
and even in your friendship.
Would you suffer to perish, in miserable exile, a Sovereign, who,
relying on the magnanimity of his enemy, threw himself into his power?
My son might have demanded an asylum from the Emperor, his
father-in-law; he might have consigned himself to the generosity of
the Emperor Alexander, of whom he was once the friend; he might have
taken refuge with his Prussian Majesty, who, in that case, would, no
doubt, have recollected his old alliance. Should England punish him
for the confidence which he reposed in her?