The foundations of St. Etienne were laid seven hundred years ago. It has
twice been partly burnt, and has been embellished in succession by
nearly all the emperors of Germany. Among its many costly tombs, the
most interesting is that of the hero Eugene of Savoy, erected by his
niece, the Princess Therese, of Liechtenstein. There is also a vault in
which it is said, in compliance with an old custom, the entrails of all
the emperors are deposited.
Having marked thus much upon my tablets, I remembered the patient porter
of my baggage, who had taken the opportunity to drop on his knees while
I was gazing about, and having achieved his matins, was now waiting
submissively till I was ready to proceed. A turn or two brought us to
the hotel, where a bath and a breakfast soon restored me, and in an hour
I was again on the way with a _valet de place_, to visit the tomb of the
son of Napoleon.
He lies in the deep vaults of the capuchin convent, with eighty-four of
the imperial family of Austria beside him. A monk answered our pull at
the cloister-bell, and the valet translated my request into German. He
opened the gate with a guttural “Yaw!” and lighting a wax candle at a
lamp burning before the image of the Virgin, unlocked a massive brazen
door at the end of the corridor, and led the way into the vault. The
capuchin was as pale as marble, quite bald, though young, and with
features which expressed, I thought, the subdued fierceness of a devil.
He impatiently waved away the officious interpreter after a moment or
two, and asked me if I understood Latin. Nothing could have been more
striking than the whole scene. The immense bronze sarcophagi lay in long
aisles behind railings and gates of iron, and as the long-robed monk
strode on with his lamp through the darkness, pronouncing the name and
title of each as he unlocked the door and struck it with his heavy key,
he seemed to me, with his solemn pronunciation, like some mysterious
being calling forth the imperial tenants to judgment. He appeared to
have something of scorn in his manner as he looked on the splendid
workmanship of the vast coffin, and pronounced the sounding titles of
the ashes within. At that of the celebrated Empress Maria Theresa alone,
he stopped to make a comment. It was a simple tribute to her virtues,
and he uttered it slowly, as if he were merely musing to himself. He
passed on to her husband, Francis the First, and then proceeded
uninterruptedly till he came to a new copper coffin. It lay in a niche,
beneath a tall, dim window, and the monk, merely pointing to the
inscription, set down his lamp, and began to pace up and down the damp
floor, with his head on his breast, as if it was a matter of course that
here I was to be left awhile to my thoughts.
It was certainly the spot, if there is one in the world, to feel
emotion. In the narrow enclosure on which my finger rested, lay the last
hopes of Napoleon. The heart of the master-spirit of the world was bound
up in these ashes. He was beautiful, accomplished, generous, brave. He
was loved with a sort of idolatry by the nation with which he had passed
his childhood. He had won all hearts. His death seemed impossible. There
was a universal prayer that he might live, his inheritance of glory was
so incalculable.
I read his epitaph. It was that of a private individual. It gave his
name, and his father’s and mother’s; and then enumerated his virtues,
with a commonplace regret for his early death. The monk took up his lamp
and reascended to the cloister in silence. He shut the convent-door
behind me, and the busy street seemed to me profane. How short a time
does the most moving event interrupt the common current of life.
* * * * *
* * * * *