Amiens in the spring of 1810. Certain difficulties which had arisen
between the plenipotentiaries were giving rise to some little
uneasiness, and Bonaparte was anxiously expecting dispatches. A courier
arrived, and brought to the Minister of Foreign Affairs the much-desired
signature. M. de Talleyrand put it in his pocket and went to the First
Consul. He appeared before him with that immovable countenance which he
wears on every occasion. For a whole hour he remained with Bonaparte,
transacting a number of important matters of business, and when all was
done, “Now,” said he, smiling, “I am going to give you a great pleasure;
the treaty is signed, and here it is.” Bonaparte was astounded at this
fashion of announcing the matter. “Why did you not tell me at once?” he
demanded. “Ah,” replied M. de Talleyrand, “because then you would not
have listened to me on any other subject. When you are pleased, you are
not always pleasant.” The self-control displayed in this reticence
struck the Consul, “and,” added M. de Talleyrand, “did not make him
angry, because he saw immediately how far it might be made useful to
himself.”
Another person, who was really more attached to Bonaparte, and quite as
demonstrative in his admiration for him as M. Maret, was Marshal
Berthier, Prince of Wagram. He had served in the campaign in Egypt, and
had become strongly attached to his General. Berthier’s friendship for
him was so great that, little as Bonaparte valued anything coming from
the heart, he could not but respond to it in some degree. The sentiment
was, however, very unequally divided between them, and was used by the
powerful one of the two as a means of exaction. One day Bonaparte said
to M. de Talleyrand: “I really can not understand how a relation that
bears some appearance of friendship has established itself between
Berthier and me. I don’t indulge in useless sentiments, and Berthier is
so uninteresting that I do not know why I should care at all about him;
and yet, when I think of it, I believe I really have some liking for
him.” “If you do care about him,” replied M. de Talleyrand, “do you know
the reason why? It is because he believes in you.”
These anecdotes, which I set down as they recur to my memory, did not
come to my knowledge till a much later period, when my greater intimacy
with M. de Talleyrand revealed to me the chief traits in Bonaparte’s
character. At first I was completely deceived by him, and was very happy
to be so. I knew he had genius, I saw that he was disposed to make
amends for the passing wrongs he did his wife, and I remarked his
friendship for Berthier with pleasure; he caressed little Napoleon in my
presence, and seemed to love him. I regarded him as accessible to kindly
natural feelings, and my youthful imagination arrayed him in all those
qualities which I desired to find in him. It is only just to him also to
admit that excess of power intoxicated him; that his passions were
increased in violence by the facility with which he was enabled to
gratify them; but that while he was young, and as yet uncertain of the
future, he frequently hesitated between the open exhibition of vice and,
at least, the affectation of virtue.
After the declaration of war with England, somebody (I do not know who)
suggested to Bonaparte the idea of an invasion by means of flat-bottomed
boats. I can not say with certainty whether he really believed in this
plan, or whether he only used it as a pretext for collecting and
increasing his army, which he assembled at the camp of Boulogne. So many
people maintained that a descent upon the shores of England in this way
was practicable, that it is quite possible he may have thought fate had
a success of the kind in store for him. Enormous works were begun in our
ports, and in some of the Belgian towns; the army marched to the coast,
and Generals Soult and Ney were sent to command it at different points.
The idea of a conquest of England fired the general imagination; and
even the English themselves began to feel uneasy, and thought it
necessary to make some preparations for defense. Attempts were made to
excite the public mind against the English by dramatic representations;
scenes from the life of William the Conqueror were represented at the
theatres. The conquest of Hanover was easily effected, but then came the
blockade of our ports that did us so much harm.
During the summer of this year (1803) a journey to Belgium was arranged,
and Bonaparte required that it should be made with great magnificence.
He had little trouble in persuading Mme. Bonaparte to take with her
everything that could make an impression on the people to whom she was
about to exhibit herself. Mme. Talhouet and I were selected to accompany
her, and the Consul gave me thirty thousand francs for those expenses
which he prescribed. He set out on the 24th of June, with a _cortège_ of
several carriages, two generals of his guard, his aides-de-camp, Duroc,
two Prefects of the Palace (M. de Rémusat and a Piedmontese named
Salmatoris), and commenced the journey in great pomp.
Before we set out, we went for one day to Mortefontaine, an estate which
had been purchased by Joseph Bonaparte. All the family were assembled
there, and a strange occurrence took place. We passed the morning in
walking about the gardens, which are beautiful. When dinner hour
approached, a question arose about the placing of the guests. The elder
Mme. Bonaparte was at Mortefontaine, and Joseph told his brother that he
intended to take his mother in to dinner, and to place her on his right
hand, while Mme. Bonaparte was to sit on his left. The First Consul took
offense at this arrangement, which placed his wife in the second rank,
and insisted that his brother should transfer their mother to that
position. Joseph refused, and no argument could induce him to give way.
When dinner was announced, Joseph took his mother’s hand, and Lucien
escorted Mme. Bonaparte. The First Consul, incensed at this opposition
to his will, hurriedly crossed the room, took the arm of his wife,
passed out before every one, seated her beside himself, and then,
turning to me, ordered me to place myself near him. The company were all
greatly embarrassed, I even more so than the others; and Mme. Joseph
Bonaparte, to whom some politeness was due, found herself at the bottom
of the table, as if she were not one of the family.
The stiffness and gloom of that dinner-party may be easily imagined. The
brothers were angry, Mme. Bonaparte was wretched, and I was excessively
embarrassed by my prominent position. During the dinner Bonaparte did
not address a single member of his family; he occupied himself with his
wife, talked to me, and chose this opportune occasion to inform me that
he had that morning restored to my cousin, the Vicomte de Vergennes,
certain forests which had long been sequestrated on account of his
emigration, but which had not been sold. I was touched by this mark of
his kindness, but it was very vexatious to me that he selected such a
moment to tell me of it, because the gratitude which I would otherwise
have gladly expressed, and the joy which I really felt, made me appear
to the observers of the little scene to be talking freely to him, while
I was really in a state of painful constraint. The remainder of the day
passed drearily, as may be supposed, and we left Mortefontaine on the
morrow.
An accident which happened at the beginning of our journey increased the
regard which I was then happy to feel for Bonaparte and his wife. He
traveled with her and one of the generals of his guard, and his carriage
was preceded by one containing Duroc and three aides-de-camp. A third
carriage was occupied by Mme. Talhouet, M. de Rémusat, and myself; two
others followed. Shortly after we had left Compiègne, where we visited a
military school, on our way to Amiens, our carriage was violently
overturned. Mme. Talhouet’s head was badly cut; M. de Rémusat and I were
only bruised. With some trouble we were extricated from the carriage.
Bonaparte, who was on in front, was told of this accident; he at once
alighted from his carriage, and with Mme. Bonaparte, who was much
frightened about me, hastened to join us at a cottage, whither we had
been taken. I was so terrified that, as soon as I saw Bonaparte, I
begged him with tears to send me back to Paris; I already disliked
traveling as much as did the pigeon of La Fontaine, and in my distress I
cried out that I must return to my mother and my children.
Bonaparte said a few words intended to calm me; but, finding that he
could not succeed in doing so, he took my arm in his, gave orders that
Mme. Talhouet should be placed in one of the carriages, and, after
satisfying himself that M. de Rémusat was none the worse for the
accident, led me, frightened as I was, to his own carriage, and made me
get in with him. We set off again, and he took pains to cheer up his
wife and me, and told us, laughingly, to kiss each other and cry,
“because,” he said, “that always does women good.” After a while his
animated conversation distracted my thoughts, and my fear of the further
journey subsided. Mme. Bonaparte having referred to the grief my mother
would feel if any harm happened to me, Bonaparte questioned me about
her, and appeared to be well aware of the high esteem in which she was
held in society. Indeed, it was largely to this that his attention to me
was due. At that period, when so many people still held back from the
advances he made to them, he was greatly gratified that my mother had
consented to my holding a place in his household. At that time I was in
his eyes almost a personage whose example would, he hoped, be followed.
On the evening of the same day we arrived at Amiens, where we were
received with enthusiasm impossible to describe. The horses were taken
from the carriage, and replaced by the inhabitants, who insisted on
drawing it themselves. I was the more affected by this spectacle, as it
was absolutely novel to me. Alas! since I had been of an age to observe
what was passing around me, I had witnessed only scenes of terror and
woe, I had heard only sounds of hate and menace; and the joy of the
inhabitants of Amiens, the garlands that decorated our route, the
triumphal arches erected in honor of him who was represented on all
these devices as the saviour of France, the crowds who fought for a
sight of him, the universal blessings which could not have been uttered
to order—the whole spectacle, in fact, so affected me that I could not
restrain my tears. Mme. Bonaparte wept; I saw even the eyes of Bonaparte
himself glisten for a moment.
CHAPTER III
(1803.)
ON Bonaparte’s arrival in town, the Prefect of the Palace was directed
to summon the various persons in authority, that they might be presented
to him. The prefect, the mayor, the bishop, the presidents of the
tribunals, would read an address to him, and then, turning to Mme.
Bonaparte, make her a little speech also. According to the mood he
happened to be in, Bonaparte would listen to these discourses to the
end, or interrupt them by questioning the deputation on the nature of
their respective functions, or on the district in which they exercised
them. He rarely put questions with an appearance of interest, but rather
with the air of a man who desires to show his knowledge, and wants to
see whether he can be answered. These speeches were addressed to the
Republic; but any one who reads them may see that in almost every
respect they might have been addressed to a sovereign. Indeed, the
mayors of some of the Flemish towns went so far as to urge the Consul to
“complete the happiness of the world by exchanging his precarious title
for one better suited to the lofty destiny to which he was called.” I
was present the first time that happened, and I kept my eyes fixed upon
Bonaparte. When these very words were uttered, he had some difficulty in
checking the smile that hovered about his lips; but, putting strong
control upon himself, he interrupted the orator, and replied, in a tone
of feigned anger, that it would be unworthy of him to usurp an authority
which must affect the existence of the Republic. Thus, like Cæsar, he
repudiated the crown, though perhaps he was not ill pleased that they
were beginning to offer it to him. The good people of the provinces we
visited were not very far wrong; for the splendor that surrounded us,
the sumptuousness of that military yet brilliant court, the strict
ceremonial, the imperious tone of the master, the submission of all
about him, and, finally, the expectation that homage should be paid the
wife of the first magistrate, to whom the Republic certainly owed
none—all this strongly resembled the progress of a King.
After these audiences, Bonaparte generally rode out on horseback; he
showed himself to the people, who followed him with acclamations; he
visited the public monuments and manufactories, but always in a hurried
way, for he could never get over that precipitation which gave him an
ill-bred air. Afterward he would give a dinner, or attend a fête which
had been prepared for him, and this was always the most wearisome part
of the business to him. “I am not made for pleasure,” he would say, in a
melancholy tone. Then he would leave the town, after having received
petitions, attended to complaints, and distributed alms and presents. He
was accustomed, when on a journey of this sort, to inform himself at
each town he went to what public establishments were wanting there, and
he would order them to be founded, in commemoration of his visit. The
inhabitants would load him with blessings for this munificence. But
shortly afterward a mandate from the Minister of the Interior would
arrive, drawn up in this form: “In conformity with the gracious
permission of the First Consul” (later it was “the Emperor”), “you are
directed, citizen mayors, to have such and such a building constructed,
taking care that the expenses shall be defrayed by the funds of your
commune.” Thus these towns would suddenly find themselves obliged to
alter the disposition of their funds, very often at a moment when they
were not sufficient for necessary expenses. The Prefect took care,
however, that the orders were executed, or at least the most useful
portion of them; and it must be admitted that, from one end of France to
the other, everything was being embellished, and that the general
prosperity was such that new works, even of the most important nature,
might safely be undertaken everywhere.
At Arras, at Lille, and at Dunkirk, we had similar receptions; but it
seemed to me that the enthusiasm cooled down when we got beyond the
former boundaries of France. At Ghent, especially, we detected some
coldness in the popular greeting. In vain did the authorities endeavor
to stir up the zeal of the inhabitants; they were curious, but not
enthusiastic. Bonaparte was a little annoyed, and inclined to proceed
without delay. He thought better of this, however, and said in the
evening to his wife: “These people are bigoted and under the influence
of the priests; we must remain a long time at church to-morrow, and
propitiate the clergy by some favor. In this way we shall regain lost
ground.” Next day he attended high mass with every appearance of
devoutness; he talked to the Bishop, whom he completely captivated, and
by degrees he obtained the popular acclamations he desired. At Ghent he
met the daughters of the Duc de Villequier, formerly one of the four
Gentlemen of the Chamber to the King. These ladies were nieces of the
Bishop, and Bonaparte restored to them the beautiful estate of
Villequier, with its large revenues. I had the happiness of contributing
to this restitution, by urging it with all my might, both upon Bonaparte
and upon his wife. The two amiable young ladies have never forgotten
this to me. When I assured Bonaparte of their gratitude, “Ah,” said he,
“gratitude! That is a poetic word which has no meaning in times of
revolution; and what I have just done would not prevent your friends
from rejoicing if some Royalist emissary should succeed in assassinating
me during this journey.” And, as I betrayed the surprise with which I
heard him, he continued: “You are young; you do not know what political
hatred is. It is like a pair of spectacles: one sees everybody, every
opinion, or every sentiment only through the glass of one’s passions.
Hence, nothing is bad or good of itself, but simply according to the
party to which one belongs. In reality, this mode of seeing is
convenient, and we profit by it; for we also have our spectacles, and,
if we do not see things through our passions, we see them through our
interests.”
“But,” I replied, “where, in such a system, do you place the applause
which you do care to win? For what class of men do you spend your life
in great and often perilous enterprises?”
“Ah,” he answered, “one can not avoid one’s destiny; he who is called
can not resist. Besides, human pride finds the public it desires in that
ideal world which is called posterity. He who believes that, a hundred
years hence, a fine poem, or even a line in one, will recall a great
action of his own, or that a painting will commemorate it, has his
imagination fired by that idea. The battle-field has no dangers, the
cannon roars in vain; to him it is only that sound which, a thousand
years hence, will carry a brave man’s name to the ears of our distant
descendants.”
“I shall never be able to understand,” I continued, “how a man can
expose himself to every sort of danger for fame’s sake, if his own
inward sentiment be only contempt for the men of his own time.”
Here Bonaparte interrupted me quickly. “I do not despise men,
madame—that is a thing you must never say; and I particularly esteem
the French.”
I smiled at this abrupt declaration, and, as he guessed why, he smiled
also; and approaching me and pulling my ear, which was, as I have
already said, a trick of his when he was in a good humor, he repeated,
“Do you hear, madame? you must never say that I despise the French.”
From Ghent we went to Antwerp, where we were received with a special
ceremony. On occasions of visits from kings and princes, the people of
Antwerp are in the habit of parading through their streets a giant, who
never makes his appearance except on such solemn festivals. Although we
were neither king nor prince, we were obliged to yield to the people’s
wish in this matter, and it put Bonaparte in good humor with the town of
Antwerp. He occupied himself much while there with the important
extension which he designed for its harbor, and gave orders for the
commencement of the great works which have since been executed there.
On the way from Antwerp to Brussels we stopped at Malines for a few
hours, and there we saw the new Archbishop, M. de Roquelaure. He was
Bishop of Senlis under Louis XVI., and had been the intimate friend of
my great-uncle, the Count de Vergennes. I had seen a great deal of him
in my childhood, and I was glad to meet him again. Bonaparte talked to
him in a very insinuating manner. At this period he affected great
esteem for the priests, and care for their interests. He knew how
steadily religion supports royalty, and he hoped that through the
priests he might get the people taught that catechism which we have
since seen, in which all who did not love and obey the Emperor were
threatened with eternal condemnation. For the first time since the
Revolution, the clergy found the Government occupying itself with their
welfare, and giving them rank and consideration. They showed themselves
grateful, and were useful to Bonaparte until the moment came when he
endeavored to impose his ever-growing despotism on their consciences,
and the priests had to choose between him and their duty. At this time,
however, the words, “He has reëstablished religion,” were in every pious
mouth, and told immensely in his favor.
Our entry into Brussels was magnificent. Several fine regiments awaited
the First Consul at the gate, where he mounted his horse. Mme. Bonaparte
found a superb carriage, presented to her by the city, awaiting her; the
streets were lavishly decorated, cannon were fired, the bells were rung;
the numerous clergy were assembled in great pomp on the steps of all the
churches; there was an immense crowd of the population, and also many
foreigners, and the weather was beautiful. I was enchanted. Our stay in
Brussels was a succession of brilliant fêtes. The French ministers,
Consul Le Brun, the envoys from the foreign courts who had business to
arrange, came to meet us there. At Brussels I heard M. de Talleyrand
reply in an adroit and flattering manner to a question suddenly put to
him by Bonaparte, who asked him how he had so rapidly made his great
fortune? “Nothing could be more simple,” replied M. de Talleyrand; “I
bought stock on the 17th Brumaire, and I sold it again on the 19th.”
One Sunday we were to visit the cathedral in great state. M. de Rémusat
went early in the morning to the church, to arrange the ceremony. He had
been directed not to object to any honor which the clergy might propose
to pay to the First Consul on this occasion. As, however, it was
arranged that the priests should go to the great doors with the canopy
and the cross to receive the First Consul, a question arose whether Mme.
Bonaparte was to share this distinction with him, and Bonaparte did not
venture to bring her so prominently forward. She was, therefore, placed
in a tribune with the Second Consul. At twelve o’clock, the hour agreed
upon, the clergy left the altar, and proceeded to the grand entrance of
the magnificent Church of Sainte Gudule. They awaited the arrival of the
First Consul, but he did not appear. At first they were astonished, then
alarmed; but they presently perceived that he had slipped into the
church, and seated himself on the throne which was prepared for him. The
priests, surprised and disconcerted, returned to the sanctuary, and
commenced divine service. The fact was, just as he was setting out,
Bonaparte was told that, at a similar ceremony, Charles V. had preferred
to enter the Church of Sainte Gudule by a little side-door which had
ever after been called by his name; and it seemed he had taken a fancy
to use the same entrance, hoping, perhaps, that henceforth it would be
called the door of Charles V. and of Bonaparte.
One morning the numerous and magnificent regiments which had been
brought to Brussels were reviewed by the Consul, or, as on this occasion
I ought to call him, the General. His reception by the troops was
nothing short of rapturous. It was well worth seeing how he talked to
the soldiers—how he questioned them one after the other respecting
their campaigns or their wounds; taking particular interest in the men
who had accompanied him to Egypt. I have heard Mme. Bonaparte say that
her husband was in the constant habit of poring over the list of what
are called the _cadres_ of the army, at night, before he slept. He would
go to sleep repeating the names of the corps, and even those of some of
the individuals who composed them; he kept those names in a corner of
his memory, and this habit came to his aid when he wanted to recognize a
soldier, and to give him the pleasure of a cheering word from his
General. He spoke to the subalterns in a tone of good fellowship, which
delighted them all, as he reminded them of their common feats of arms.
Afterward, when his armies became so numerous, when his battles became
so deadly, he disdained to exercise this kind of fascination. Besides,
death had extinguished so many remembrances, that in a few years it
became difficult for him to find any great number of the companions of
his early exploits; and, when he addressed his soldiers before leading
them into battle, it was as a perpetually renewed posterity, to which
the preceding and destroyed army had bequeathed its glory. But even this
somber style of encouragement availed for a long time with a nation
which believed itself to be fulfilling its destiny while sending its
sons year after year to die for Bonaparte.
I have said that Bonaparte took great pleasure in recalling his campaign
in Egypt; it was, indeed, his favorite theme of discourse. He had taken
with him, on the journey I am describing, M. Monge the _savant_, whom he
had made a senator, and whom he liked particularly, for the sole reason
that he was among the number of the members of the Institute who had
gone with him to Egypt. Bonaparte often talked to him of that
expedition—“that land of poetry,” he would say, “which was trodden by
Cæsar and Pompey.” He would speak with enthusiasm of the time when he
appeared before the amazed Orientals like a new Prophet; for the sway he
exercised over imagination, being the most complete of all, he prized
more highly than any other. “In France,” he said, “one must conquer
everything at the point of demonstration. In Egypt we did not require
our mathematics; did we, Monge?”
It was at Brussels that I began to get accustomed to M. de Talleyrand,
and to shake off the earlier impression made by his disdainful manner
and sarcastic disposition. The idleness of a court life makes the day
seem a hundred hours long, and it happened that we often passed many of
those hours together in the _salon_, waiting until it should please
Bonaparte to come in or to go out. It was during one of these weary
waits that I heard M. de Talleyrand complain that his family had not
realized any of the plans he had formed for them. His brother,
Archambault de Périgord, had just been sent into exile for having
indulged in the sarcastic language common to the family. He had,
however, applied it to persons of rank too high to be ridiculed with
impunity, and he had also offended by refusing to give his daughter in
marriage to Eugène de Beauharnais, to whom he had preferred Count Just
de Noailles. M. de Talleyrand, who was quite as anxious as Mme.
Bonaparte that his niece should marry Beauharnais, blamed his brother’s
conduct severely, and I could perfectly understand that such an alliance
would have been advantageous to his personal policy. One of the first
things that struck me, when I had talked for a little while with M. de
Talleyrand, was the entire absence of any kind of illusion or enthusiasm
on his part with regard to all that was passing around us. Every one
else was more or less under the influence of feelings of this kind. The
implicit obedience of the military officers might easily pass for zeal,
and, in the case of some of them, it really was devotion. The ministers
affected or felt profound admiration; M. Maret paraded his worship of
the First Consul on every occasion; Berthier was happy in the sincerity
of his attachment; in short, every one seemed to feel something. M. de
Rémusat tried to like his post, and to esteem the man who had conferred
it on him. As for myself, I cultivated every opportunity of emotion and
of self-deception; and the calm indifference of M. de Talleyrand amazed
me. “Good heavens!” I said to him on one occasion, “how is it possible
that you can live and work without experiencing any emotion either from
what passes around us, or from your own actions?” “Ah! what a woman you
are, and how young!” he replied: and then he began to ridicule me, as he
did every one else. His jests wounded my feelings, yet they made me
laugh. I was angry with myself for being amused, and yet, because my
vanity was pleased at my own comprehension of his wit, less shocked than
I ought to have been at the hardness of his heart. However, I did not
yet know him, and it was not till much later, when I had got over the
restraint that he imposed on every one at first, that I observed the
curious mixture of qualities in his character.
On leaving Brussels we went to Liége and Maestricht, and reëntered the
former boundaries of France by way of Mézières and Sedan. Mme. Bonaparte
was charming during this journey, and left an impression on my mind of
her kindness and graciousness which, as I found fifteen years afterward,
time could not efface.
I was delighted to return to Paris, and to find myself once more among
my family and free from the restraint of court life. M. de Rémusat, like
myself, was tired of the idle yet restless pomp of the last six weeks;
and we rejoiced in the quiet of our happy home.
On his return to Saint Cloud, Bonaparte and Mme. Bonaparte received
complimentary addresses from the Corps Législatif, the tribunals, etc.;
the First Consul also received a visit from the Corps Diplomatique.
Shortly after this, he enhanced the dignity of the Legion of Honor by
appointing M. de Lacépède its Chancellor. Since the fall of Bonaparte,
certain liberal writers, and among others Mme. de Staël, have endeavored
to stigmatize that institution by reviving the recollection of an
English caricature which represented Bonaparte cutting up the _bonnet
rouge_ of the Revolution to make the crosses of the Legion. But, if he
had not misused that institution as he misused everything, there would
have been nothing to blame in the invention of a recompense which was an
inducement to every kind of merit, without being a great expense to the
State. What splendid deeds on the battle-field has that little bit of
ribbon inspired! If it had been accorded to merit only in every walk of
life, if it had never been given from motives of caprice or individual
favor, it would have been a fine idea to assimilate all services
rendered to the country, no matter of what nature, and to bestow a
similar decoration upon them all. The institutions of Bonaparte in
France ought not to be indiscriminately condemned. Most of them have a
commendable purpose, and might have been made of advantage to the
nation. But his insatiable greed of power perverted them. So intolerant
was he of any obstacles, that he could not even endure those which arose
from his own institutions, and he instantly set them aside by an
arbitrary decision.
Having in the course of this year (1803) created the different
senatorships, he gave a Chancellor, a Treasurer, and Prætors to the
Senate. M. de Laplace was the Chancellor. Bonaparte honored him because
he was a _savant_, and liked him because he was a skillful flatterer.
The two Prætors were General Lefebvre and General Serrurier. M. de
Fargues was the Treasurer.
The Republican year ended as usual in the middle of September, and the
anniversary of the Republic was celebrated by popular fêtes, and kept
with royal pomp at the palace of the Tuileries. We heard at the same
time that the Hanoverians, who had been conquered by General Mortier,
had celebrated the First Consul’s birthday with great rejoicings. Thus,
by degrees, by appearing at first at the head of all, and then quite
alone, he accustomed Europe to see France in his person only, and
presented himself everywhere as the sole representative of the nation.
Bonaparte, who well knew that he would meet with resistance from those
who held by the old ways of thinking, applied himself early and
skillfully to gain the young, to whom he opened all the doors of
advancement in life. He attached auditors to the different ministries,
and gave free scope to ambition, whether in military or in civil
careers. He often said that he preferred to every other advantage that
of governing a new people, and the youthful generation afforded him that
novelty.
The institution of the jury was also discussed in that year. I have
heard that Bonaparte himself had no liking for it; but, as he intended
later on to govern rather by himself than with the assistance of
assemblies which he feared, he was obliged to make some concessions to
their most distinguished members. By degrees, all the laws were
presented to the Council by the ministers, and were either changed into
decrees, which, without any other sanction, were put in force from one
end of France to the other; or else, having been received with the
silent approbation of the Corps Législatif, they were passed with no
more trouble than that imposed upon reporters of the Council, who had to
preface them by a discourse, so that they might have some show of
necessity. Lyceums were also established in all the important towns, and
the study of ancient languages, which had been abolished during the
Revolution, was again made obligatory in public education.
It was at this time that the flotilla of flat-bottomed boats which was
to be used for the invasion of England was being constructed. Day by day
it was more confidently asserted that in fine weather it would be
possible for the flotilla to reach the shores of England without being
impeded by ships of war. It was said that Bonaparte himself would
command the expedition, and such an enterprise did not seem to be beyond
the bounds of his daring or of his good fortune. Our newspapers
represented England as agitated and alarmed, and in reality the English
Government was not quite exempt from fear on the subject. The “Moniteur”
still complained bitterly of the English liberal journals, and the
gauntlet of wordy war was taken up on both sides. In France the law of
conscription was put in action, and large bodies of troops were raised.
Sometimes people asked what was the meaning of this great armament, and
of such paragraphs as the following, which appeared in the “Moniteur”;
“The English journalists suspect that the great preparations for war,
which the First Consul has just commenced in Italy, are intended for an
Egyptian expedition.”
No explanation was given. The French nation placed confidence in
Bonaparte of a kind like that which some credulous minds feel in magic;
and, as his success was believed to be infallible, it was not difficult
to obtain a tacit consent to all his operations from a people naturally
prone to worship success. At that time a few wise heads began to
perceive that he would not be useful to us; but, as the general dread of
the Revolutionary Government still proclaimed him to be necessary, no
opposition could be made to his authority without the risk of
facilitating the revolt of that party, which it was believed he alone
could control.
In the mean time he was always active and energetic; and, as it did not
suit him that the public mind should be left to repose, which leads to
reflection, he aroused apprehension and disturbance in every way that
might be useful to himself. A letter from the Comte d’Artois, taken from
the “Morning Chronicle,” was printed about this time; it offered the
services of the _émigrés_ to the King of England, in case of a descent
upon his coasts. Rumors were spread of certain attempts made in the
eastern departments; and since the war in La Vendée had been followed by
the inglorious proceedings of the Chouans, people had become accustomed
to the idea that any political movement set on foot in that part of
France had pillage and incendiarism for its objects. In fact, there
seemed no chance of quietness except in the duration of the established
Government; and when certain friends of liberty deplored its loss—for
the new liberal institutions were of little value in their eyes because
they were the work of absolute power—they were met with the following
argument, which was perhaps justified by circumstances: “After the storm
through which we have passed, and amid the strife of so many parties,
superior force only can give us liberty; and, so long as that force
tends to promote principles of order and morality, we ought not to
regard ourselves as straying from the right road; for the creator will
disappear, but that which he has created will remain with us.”
While more or less disturbance was thus kept up by his orders, Bonaparte
himself maintained a peaceful attitude. He had returned to his usual
orderly and busy life at Saint Cloud, and we passed our days as I have
already described. His brothers were all employed—Joseph, at the camp
of Boulogne; Louis, at the Council of State; Jérome, the youngest, in
America, whither he had been sent, and where he was well received by the
Anglo-Americans. Bonaparte’s sisters, who were now in the enjoyment of
wealth, vied with each other in the decoration of the houses which the
First Consul had given them, and in the luxury of their furniture and
equipment. Eugène de Beauharnais occupied himself exclusively in his
military duties; his sister lived a dull and quiet life.
Mme. Leclerc had inspired Prince Borghese (who had not long arrived in
France from Rome) with an ardent attachment, which she returned. The
Prince asked her hand of Bonaparte, but his demand was at first refused.
I do not know what the motive of his refusal was, but think it may
perhaps have been dictated by his vanity, which would have been hurt by
the supposition that he desired to be relieved of any family claims; and
probably, also, he did not wish to appear to accept a first proposal
with alacrity. But, as the _liason_ between his sister and the Prince
became publicly known, the Consul consented at last to legitimize it by
a marriage, which took place at Mortefontaine while he was at Boulogne.
He set out to visit the camp and the flotilla on the 3d of November,
1803. This time his journey was of an entirely military character. He
was accompanied only by the generals of his guard, by his aides-de-camp,
and by M. de Rémusat.
When they arrived at Pont de Briques, a little village about a league
from Boulogne, where Bonaparte had fixed his headquarters, my husband
fell dangerously ill. So soon as I heard of his illness I set out to
join him, and arrived at Pont de Briques in the middle of the night.
Entirely occupied by my anxiety, I had thought of nothing but of the
state in which I should find the invalid. But, when I got out of the
carriage, I was rather disconcerted by finding myself alone in the midst
of a camp, and not knowing what the First Consul would think of my
arrival. I was reassured, however, by the servants, who told me I was
expected, and that a room had been set apart for me two days before. I
passed the remainder of the night there, waiting until daylight before I
saw my husband, as I did not like to risk disturbing him. I found him
greatly pulled down by illness, but he was so rejoiced to see me that I
congratulated myself on having come without asking permission.
In the morning Bonaparte sent for me. I was so agitated that I could
hardly speak. He saw this the moment I entered the room, and he kissed
me, made me sit down, and restored me to composure by his first words.
“I was expecting you,” he said. “Your presence will cure your husband.”
At these words I burst into tears. He appeared touched, and endeavored
to console me. Then he directed me to come every day to dine and
breakfast with him, laughing as he said, “I must look after a woman of
your age among so many soldiers.” He asked me how I had left his wife. A
little while before his departure some more secret visits from Mlle.
Georges had given rise to fresh domestic disagreements. “She troubles
herself,” he said, “a great deal more than is necessary. Josephine is
always afraid that I shall fall seriously in love. Does she not know,
then, that I am not made for love? For what is love? A passion which
sets all the universe on one side, and on the other the beloved object.
I certainly am not of a nature to give myself up to any such exclusive
feeling. What, then, do these fancies, into which my affections do not
enter, matter to her? This,” he continued, looking at me seriously, “is
what her friends ought to dwell upon; and, above all, they ought not to
try to increase their influence over her by fostering her jealousy.”
There was in his last words a tone of suspicion and severity which I did
not deserve, and I think he knew that very well; but he never missed an
opportunity of carrying out his favorite system, which was to keep one’s
mind what he called “breathless”; that is to say, constantly anxious.
He remained at Pont de Briques for ten days after I arrived there. My
husband’s malady was a painful one, but the doctors were not alarmed.
With the exception of one quarter of an hour during which the First
Consul’s breakfast lasted, I spent the morning with my dear invalid.
Bonaparte went to the camp every day, reviewed the troops, visited the
flotilla, and assisted at some slight skirmishes, or rather at an
exchange of cannon-balls, between us and the English, who constantly
cruised in front of the harbor and tried to molest our workmen.
At six o’clock Bonaparte returned, and then I was summoned. Occasionally
some of the officers of his household, the Minister of Marine or the
Minister of Public Works, who had accompanied him, were invited to
dinner. At other times we dined _tête-à-tête_, and then he talked on a
multitude of subjects. He spoke of his own character, and described
himself as having always been of a melancholy temperament—far more so
than any of his comrades. My memory has faithfully preserved all he said
to me. The following is a correct summary of it:
“I was educated,” he said, “at a military school, and I showed no
aptitude for anything but the exact sciences. Every one said of me,
‘That child will never be good for anything but geometry.’ I kept aloof
from my schoolfellows. I had chosen a little corner in the
school-grounds, where I would sit and dream at my ease; for I have
always liked reverie. When my companions tried to usurp possession of
this corner, I defended it with all my might. I already knew by instinct
that my will was to override that of others, and that what pleased me
was to belong to me. I was not liked at school. It takes time to make
one’s self liked: and, even when I had nothing to do, I always felt
vaguely that I had no time to lose.
“I entered the service, and soon grew tired of garrison work. I began to
read novels, and they interested me deeply. I even tried to write some.
This occupation brought out something in my imagination which mingled
itself with the positive knowledge I had acquired; and I often let
myself dream, in order that I might afterward measure my dreams by the
compass of my reason. I threw myself into an ideal world, and I
endeavored to find out in what precise points it differed from the
actual world in which I lived. I have always liked analysis; and, if I
were to be seriously in love, I should analyze my love bit by bit.
_Why?_ and _How?_ are questions so useful that they can not be too often
asked. I conquered, rather than studied, history; that is to say, I did
not care to retain, and did not retain, anything that could not give me
a new idea; I disdained all that was useless, but took possession of
certain results which pleased me.
“I did not understand much about the Revolution, but I approved of it.
Equality, which was to elevate myself, attracted me. On the 20th of June
I was in Paris, and I saw the populace marching upon the Tuileries. I
have never liked popular movements, and I was indignant at the violent
deeds of that day. I thought the ringleaders in the attack very
imprudent, for I said to myself, ‘It is not they who will profit by this
revolution.’ But, when I was told that Louis had put the red cap on his
head, I came to the conclusion that he had ceased to reign; for in
politics there is no resurrection.
“On the 10th of August I felt that, had I been called upon, I would have
defended the King. I set myself against those who founded the Republic
by the people. Besides, I saw men in plain clothes attacking men in
uniform, and I could not stand that.
“One evening I was at the theatre; it was the 12th Vendémiaire. I heard
it said about me that next day _du train_ might be looked for. You know
that was the usual expression of the Parisians, who regarded the various
changes of government with indifference, as those changes did not
disturb their business, their pleasures, or even their dinners. After
the Terror, people were satisfied with anything, so that they were
allowed to live quietly.
“I heard it said that the Assembly was sitting in permanence; I went
there, and found all confusion and hesitation. Suddenly I heard a voice
say from the middle of the hall, ‘If any one here knows the address of
General Bonaparte, he is begged to go and tell him that he is expected
at the Committee of the Assembly.’ I have always observed with interest
how chance interferes in certain events, and this chance decided me. I
went to the Committee.
“There I found several terrified deputies, Cambacérès among others. They
expected to be attacked the next day, and they could not come to any
resolution. They asked my advice; I answered by asking for guns. This
proposition so alarmed them that the whole night passed without their
coming to any decision. In the morning there was very bad news. Then
they put the whole business into my hands, and afterward began to
discuss whether they had the right to repel force by force. ‘Are you
going to wait,’ I asked them, ‘until the people give you permission to
fire upon them? I am committed in this matter; you have appointed me to
defend you; it is right that you should leave me to act.’ Thereupon I
left these lawyers to stultify themselves with words. I put the troops
in motion, and pointed two cannons with terrible effect from Saint Roch;
the army of citizens and the conspirators were swept away in an instant.
“But I had shed Parisian blood! What sacrilege! It was necessary to
obliterate the effect of such a deed. I felt myself more and more
urgently called upon to do something. I asked for the command of the
army of Italy. Everything had to be put in order in that army, both men
and things. Only youth can have patience, because it has the future
before it. I set out for Italy with ill-trained soldiers, who were,
however, full of zeal and daring. In the midst of the troops I had
wagons placed, and escorted on the march, although they were empty.
These I called the treasure-chests of the army. I put it in the order of
the day that shoes should be distributed to the recruits: no one would
wear them. I promised my soldiers that fortune and glory should await us
behind the Alps; I kept my word, and ever since then the army would
follow me to the end of the world.
“I made a splendid campaign; I became a person of importance in Europe.
On the one hand, with the assistance of my orders of the day, I
maintained the revolutionary system; on the other hand, I secretly
conciliated the _émigrés_ by allowing them to form certain hopes. It is
easy to deceive that party, because it starts always not from what
exists, but from what it wishes to believe. I received magnificent
offers of recompense if I would follow the example of General Monk; the
Pretender even wrote to me in his vague and florid style; I conquered
the Pope more effectually by not going to Rome than if I had burned his
capital. In short, I became important and formidable; and the Directory,
although I made them very uneasy, could not bring any formal accusation
against me.
“I have been reproached with having favored the 18th Fructidor; they
might as well reproach me with having supported the Revolution. It was
necessary to take advantage of the Revolution, and to derive some profit
from the blood that had been shed. What! were we to give ourselves up
unconditionally to the princes of the house of Bourbon, who would have
thrown in our teeth all the misfortunes we had suffered since their
departure, and would have imposed silence upon us, because we had
solicited their return? Were we to exchange our victorious flag for that
white banner which had mingled with the standards of our enemies? Was I
to content myself with a few millions and a petty dukedom? The part of
Monk is not a difficult one to play; it would have given me less trouble
than the Egyptian campaign, or even than the 18th Brumaire; but can
anything teach princes who have never seen a battle-field? To what did
the return of Charles II. lead the English, except the dethronement of
James II.? Had it been necessary, I should certainly have dethroned the
Bourbons a second time, so that the best thing they could have done
would have been to get rid of me.
“When I returned to France, I found public opinion in a lethargic
condition. In Paris—and Paris is France—people can never interest
themselves in things if they do not care about persons. The customs of
an old monarchy had taught them to personify everything. This habit of
mind is bad for a people who desire liberty seriously; but Frenchmen can
no longer desire anything seriously, except perhaps it be equality; and
even that they would renounce willingly if every one could flatter
himself that he was the first. To be equals, with everybody uppermost,
is the secret of the vanity of all of you; every man among you must,
therefore, be given the hope of rising. The great difficulty of the
Directory was that no one cared about them, and that people began to
care a good deal about me.
“I do not know what would have happened to me had I not conceived the
happy thought of going to Egypt. When I embarked I did not know but that
I might be bidding an eternal farewell to France; but I had no doubt
that she would recall me. The charm of Oriental conquest drew my
thoughts away from Europe more than I should have believed possible. My
imagination interfered this time again with my actions; but I think it
died out at Saint Jean d’Arc. However that may be, I shall never allow
it to interfere with me again.
“In Egypt I found myself free from the wearisome restraints of
civilization. I dreamed all sorts of things, and I saw how all that I
dreamed might be realized. I created a religion. I pictured myself on
the road to Asia, mounted on an elephant, with a turban on my head, and
in my hand a new Koran, which I should compose according to my own
ideas. I would have the combined experience of two worlds to set about
my enterprise; I was to have ransacked, for my own advantage, the whole
domain of history; I was to have attacked the English power in India,
and renewed my relations with old Europe by my conquest. The time which
I passed in Egypt was the most delightful part of my life, for it was
the most ideal. Fate decided against my dreams; I received letters from
France; I saw that there was not a moment to lose. I reverted to the
realities of life, and I returned to Paris—to Paris, where the gravest
interests of the country are discussed in the _entr’acte_ of an opera.
“The Directory trembled at my return. I was very cautious; that is one
of the epochs of my life in which I have acted with the soundest
judgment. I saw the Abbé Siéyès, and promised him that his verbose
constitution should be put into effect; I received the chiefs of the
Jacobins and the agents of the Bourbons; I listened to advice from
everybody, but I only gave it in the interest of my own plans. I hid
myself from the people, because I knew that when the time came curiosity
to see me would make them run after me. Every one was taken in my toils;
and, when I became the head of the State, there was not a party in
France which did not build some special hope upon my success.”
CHAPTER IV
(1803-1804)
ONE evening, while we were at Boulogne, Bonaparte turned the
conversation upon literature. Lemercier, the poet, whom Bonaparte liked,
had just finished a tragedy, called “Philippe Auguste,” which contained
allusions to the First Consul, and had brought the manuscript to him.
Bonaparte took it into his head to read this production aloud to me. It
was amusing to hear a man, who was always in a hurry when he had nothing
to do, trying to read Alexandrine verses, of which he did not know the
meter, and pronouncing them so badly that he did not seem to understand
what he read. Besides, he no sooner opened any book than he wanted to
criticise it. I asked him to give me the manuscript, and I read it out
myself. Then he began to talk; he took the play out of my hand, struck
out whole passages, made several marginal notes, and found fault with
the plot and the characters. He did not run much risk of spoiling the
piece, for it was very bad. Singularly enough, when he had done reading,
he told me he did not wish the author to know that all these erasures
and corrections were made by so important a hand, and he directed me to
take them upon myself. I objected to this, as may be supposed. I had
great difficulty in convincing him that, as it might be thought strange
that even he should thus have meddled with an author’s manuscript, it
would be contrary to all the _convenances_ for me to have taken such a
liberty. “Well, well,” said he, “perhaps you are right; but on this, as
on every other occasion, I own I do not like that vague and levelling
phrase, the _convenances_, which you women are always using. It is a
device of fools to raise themselves to the level of people of intellect;
a sort of social gag, which obstructs the strong mind and only serves
the weak. It may be all very well for women: they have not much to do in
this life; but you must be aware that I, for example, can not be bound
by the _convenances_.”
“But,” I replied, “is not the application of these laws to the conduct
of life like that of the dramatic unities to the drama? They give order
and regularity, and they do not really trammel genius, except when it
would, without their control, err against good taste.”
“Ah, good taste! That is another of those classical words which I do not
adopt. It is perhaps my own fault, but there are certain rules which
mean nothing to me. For example, what is called ‘style,’ good or bad,
does not affect me. I care only for the force of the thought. I used to
like Ossian, but it was for the same reason which made me delight in the
murmur of the winds and waves. In Egypt I tried to read the ‘Iliad’; but
I got tired of it. As for French poets, I understand none of them except
Corneille. That man understood politics, and if he had been trained to
public affairs he would have been a statesman. I think I appreciate him
more truly than any one else does, because I exclude all the dramatic
sentiments from my view of him. For example, it is only lately I have
come to understand the _dénouement_ of ‘Cinna.’ At first I regarded it
as merely a contrivance for a pathetic fifth act; for really, clemency,
properly speaking, is such a poor little virtue, when it is not founded
on policy, that to turn Augustus suddenly into a kind-hearted prince
appeared to me an unworthy climax. However, I saw Monvel act in the
tragedy one night, and the mystery of the great conception was revealed
to me. He pronounced the ‘Soyons amis, Cinna,’ in so cunning and subtle
a tone, that I saw at once the action was only a feint of the tyrant,
and I approved as a calculation what had appeared to me silly as a
sentiment. The line should always be so delivered that, of all those who
hear it, only Cinna is deceived.
“As for Racine, he pleases me in ‘Iphigénie.’ That piece, while it
lasts, makes one breathe the poetic air of Greece. In ‘Britannicus’ he
has been trammeled by Tacitus, against whom I am prejudiced, because he
does not sufficiently explain his meaning. The tragedies of Voltaire are
passionate, but they do not go deeply into human nature. For instance,
his Mahomet is neither a prophet nor an Arab. He is an impostor, who
might have been educated at the Ecole Polytechnique, for he uses power
as I might use it in an age like the present. And then, the murder of
the father by the son is a useless crime. Great men are never cruel
except from necessity.
“As for comedy, it interests me about as much as the gossip of your
drawing-rooms. I understand your admiration of Molière, but I do not
share it; he has placed his personages in situations which have no
attractions for me.”
From these observations it is plain that Bonaparte cared only to observe
human nature when it was struggling with the great chances of life, and
that man in the abstract interested him but little. In conversations of
this kind the time I spent at Boulogne with the First Consul was passed,
and it was at the close of my sojourn there that I underwent the first
experience that inspired me with mistrust of persons among whom I was
obliged to live at Court. The officers of the household could not
believe that a woman might remain for hours together with their master,
simply talking with him on matters of general interest, and they drew
conclusions which were injurious to my character. I may now venture to
say that the purity of my mind, and my lifelong attachment to my
husband, prevented my even conceiving the possibility of such a
suspicion as that which was formed in the Consul’s ante-chamber, while I
was conversing with him in his salon. When Bonaparte returned to Paris,
his aides-de-camp talked about my long interviews with him, and Mme.
Bonaparte took fright at their stories; so that when, after a month’s
stay at Pont de Briques, my husband was sufficiently recovered to bear
the journey, and we returned to Paris, my jealous patroness received me
coldly.
I returned full of gratitude toward the First Consul. He had received me
so kindly; he had shown such interest in the state of my husband’s
health; his attention to me had so much soothed my troubled and anxious
mind, and had been so great a resource in that solitary place; and I was
so much flattered by the pleasure he seemed to take in my society, that
on my return I told every one, with the eager gratitude of one
twenty-three years old, of the extreme kindness he had shown me. My
friend, who was really attached to me, advised me to be careful of my
words, and apprised me of the impression they had made. I remember to
this hour that her hint struck like a dagger to my heart. It was the
first time I had suffered injustice; my youth and all my feelings
revolted against such an accusation. Stern experience only can steel us
against the unjust judgments of the world, and perhaps we ought to
regret the time when they had the power to wound us deeply. My friend’s
warning had, however, explained Mme. Bonaparte’s conduct toward me. One
day, when I was more hurt by this than usual, I could not refrain from
saying to her, with tears in my eyes, “What, madame! do you suspect me?”
As she was very kind and always easily touched by passing emotions, she
embraced me, and thenceforth treated me with her former cordiality. But
she did not understand my feelings. There was nothing in her mind which
corresponded to my just indignation; and, without endeavoring to
ascertain whether my relations with her husband at Boulogne had been
such as they were represented to her, she was content to conclude that
in any case the affair had been merely temporary, since I did not, when
under her own eyes, depart from my usual reserve toward Bonaparte. In
order to justify herself, she told me that the Bonaparte family had
spread injurious reports against me during my absence. “Do you not
perceive,” I asked her, “that, rightly or wrongly, it is believed here
that my tender attachment to you, madame, makes me clear-sighted to what
is going on, and that, feeble as my counsels are, they may help you to
act with prudence? Political jealousy spreads suspicion broadcast
everywhere, and, insignificant as I am, I do believe they want to make
you quarrel with me.” Mme. Bonaparte agreed in the truth of my
observation; but she had not the least idea that I could feel aggrieved
because it had not occurred to herself in the first instance. She
acknowledged that she had reproached her husband about me, and he had
evidently amused himself by leaving her in doubt. These occurrences
opened my eyes about the people among whom I lived to an extent which
alarmed me and upset all my former feelings toward them. I began to feel
that the ground which I had trodden until then with all the confidence
of ignorance was not firm; I knew that from the kind of annoyance I had
just experienced I should never again be free.
The First Consul, on leaving Boulogne, had declared, in the order of the
day, that he was pleased with the army; and in the “Moniteur” of
November 12, 1803, we read the following: “It was remarked as a presage
that, in the course of the excavations for the First Consul’s camp, a
war hatchet was found, which probably belonged to the Roman army that
invaded Britain. There were also medals of William the Conqueror found
at Ambleteuse, where the First Consul’s tent was pitched. It must be
admitted that these circumstances are singular, and they appear still
more strange when it is borne in mind that when General Bonaparte
visited the ruins of Pelusium, in Egypt, he found there a medallion of
Julius Cæsar.”
The allusion was not a very fortunate one, for, notwithstanding the
medallion of Julius Cæsar, Bonaparte was obliged to leave Egypt; but
these little parallels, dictated by the ingenious flattery of M. Maret,
pleased his master immensely, and Bonaparte was confident that they were
not without effect upon the country.
In the journals every effort was made at that time to excite the popular
imagination on the subject of the invasion of England. I do not know
whether Bonaparte really believed that such an adventure was possible,
but he appeared to do so, and the expense incurred in the construction
of flat-bottomed boats was considerable. The war of words between the
English newspapers and the “Moniteur” continued. We read in the “Times,”
“It is said that the French have made Hanover a desert, and they are now
about to abandon it”; to which a note in the “Moniteur” immediately
replied, “Yes, when you abandon Malta.” The Bishops issued pastorals, in
which they exhorted the nation to arm itself for a just war. “Choose men
of good courage,” said the Bishop of Arras, “and go forth to fight
Amalek. Bossuet has said, ‘To submit to the public orders is to submit
to the orders of God, who establishes empires.’”
This quotation from Bossuet reminds me of a story which M. Bourlier, the
Bishop of Evreux, used to tell. It related to the time when the Council
was assembled at Paris with a view to inducing the Bishops to oppose the
decrees of the Pope. “Sometimes,” said the Bishop of Evreux, “the
Emperor would have us all summoned, and would begin a theological
discussion with us. He would address himself to the most recalcitrant
among us, and say, ‘My religion is that of Bossuet; he is my Father of
the Church; he defended our liberties. I want to commence his work and
to maintain your dignity. Do you understand me?’ Speaking thus, and pale
with anger, he would clap his hand on the hilt of his sword. The ardor
with which he was ready to defend us made me tremble, and this singular
amalgamation of the name of Bossuet and the word liberty, with his own
threatening gestures, would have made me smile if I had not been too
heavy-hearted at the prospect of the hard times which I foresaw for the
Church.”
I now return to the winter of 1804. This winter passed as the preceding
one had done, in balls and fêtes at Court and in Paris, and in the
organization of the new laws which were presented to the Corps
Législatif. Mme. Bacciochi, who had a very decided liking for M. de
Fontanes, spoke of him so often at that time to her brother, that her
influence, added to Bonaparte’s own high opinion of the academician,
determined him to make M. de Fontanes President of the Corps Législatif.
This selection appeared strange to some people; but a man of letters
would do as well as any other President for what Bonaparte intended to
make of the Corps Législatif. M. de Fontanes had to deliver harangues to
the Emperor under most difficult circumstances, but he always acquitted
himself with grace and distinction. He had but little strength of
character, but his ability told when he had to speak in public, and his
good taste lent him dignity and impressiveness. Perhaps that was not an
advantage for Bonaparte. Nothing is so dangerous for sovereigns as to
have their abuses of power clothed in the glowing colors of eloquence,
when they figure before nations; and this is especially dangerous in
France, where forms are held in such high esteem. How often have the
Parisians, although in the secret of the farce the Government was
acting, lent themselves to the deception with a good grace, simply
because the actors did justice to that delicacy of taste which demands
that each shall do his best with the _rôle_ assigned to him?
In the course of the month of January, the “Moniteur” published a
selection of articles from the English journals, in which the
differences between Bavaria and Austria, and the probabilities of a
continental war, were discussed. Paragraphs of this kind were from time
to time inserted in the newspapers, without any comment, as if to
prepare us for what might happen. These intimations—like the clouds
over mountain summits, which fall apart for a moment now and then, and
afford a glimpse of what is passing behind—allowed us to have momentary
peeps at the important discussions which were taking place in Europe, so
that we should not be much surprised when they resulted in a rupture.
After each glimpse the clouds would close again, and we would remain in
darkness until the storm burst.
I am about to speak of an important epoch, concerning which my memory is
full and faithful. It is that of the conspiracy of Georges Cadoudal, and
the crime to which it led. With respect to General Moreau, I shall
repeat what I have heard said, but shall be careful to affirm nothing. I
think it well to preface this narrative by a brief explanation of the
state of affairs at that time. Certain persons, somewhat closely
connected with politics, were beginning to assert that France felt the
necessity of hereditary right in the governing power. Political
courtiers, and honest, sincere revolutionists, seeing that the
tranquillity of the country depended on one life, were discussing the
instability of the Consulate. By degrees the thoughts of all were once
more turned to monarchy, and this would have had its advantages if they
could have agreed to establish a monarchy tempered by the laws.
Revolutions have this great disadvantage, that they divide public
opinion into an infinite number of varieties, which are all modified by
circumstances. This it is which gives opportunity to that despotism
which comes after revolutions. To restrain the power of Bonaparte, it
would have been necessary to venture on uttering the word “Liberty”; but
as, only a few years before, that word had been used from one end of
France to the other as a disguise for the worst kind of slavery, it
inspired an unreasonable but fatal repugnance.
The Royalists, finding that day by day Bonaparte was departing more
widely from the path they had expected he would take, were much
disturbed. The Jacobins, whose opposition the First Consul feared much
more, were secretly preparing for action, for they perceived that it was
to their antagonists that the Government was giving guarantees. The
Concordat, the advances made to the old nobility, the destruction of
revolutionary equality, all these things constituted an encroachment
upon them. How happy would France have been had Bonaparte contended only
against the factions! But, to have done that, he must have been animated
solely by the love of justice, and guided by the counsels of a generous
mind.
When a sovereign, no matter what his title may be, sides with one or
other of the violent parties which stir up civil strife, it is certain
that he has hostile intentions against the rights of citizens, who have
confided those rights to his keeping. Bonaparte, in order to fix his
despotic yoke upon France, found himself obliged to come to terms with
the Jacobins; and, unfortunately, there are persons whom no guarantee
but that of crime will satisfy. Their ally must involve himself in some
of their iniquities. This motive had a great deal to do with the death
of the Duc d’Enghien; and I am convinced that all which happened at that
time was the result of no violent feeling, of no blind revenge, but
simply a Machiavellian policy, resolved to smooth its own path at any
cost. Neither was it for the gratification of vanity that Bonaparte
wanted to change his title of Consul for that of Emperor. We must not
believe that he was always ruled by insatiable passions; he was capable
of controlling them by calculation, and, if in the end he allowed
himself to be led away, it was because he became intoxicated by success
and flattery. The comedy of republican equality, which he was obliged to
play so long as he remained Consul, annoyed him, and in reality only
deceived those who were willing to be deceived. It resembled the
political pretenses of ancient Rome, when the Emperors from time to time
had themselves reelected by the Senate. I have heard persons who, having
put on the love of liberty like a garment, and yet paid assiduous court
to Bonaparte while he was First Consul, declare that they had quite
withdrawn their esteem from him so soon as he conferred the title of
Emperor upon himself. I never could understand their argument. How was
it possible that the authority which he exercised almost from the moment
of his entrance into the government did not enlighten them as to his
actual position? Might it not rather be said that he gave a proof of
sincerity in his assumption of a title whose real powers he exercised?
At the epoch of which I am treating, it became necessary that the First
Consul should strengthen his position by some new measure. The English,
who had been threatened, were secretly exciting disturbances to act as
diversions from the projects formed against themselves; their relations
with the Chouans were resumed; and the Royalists regarded the Consular
Government as a mere transition state from the Directory to the
Monarchy. One man only stood in the way; it became easy to conclude that
he must be got rid of.
I remember to have heard Bonaparte say in the summer of that year (1804)
that for once events had hurried him, and that he had not intended to
establish royalty until two years later. He had placed the police in the
hands of the Minister of Justice. This was a sound and moral proceeding,
but it was contradicted by his intention that the magistracy should use
that police as it had been used when it was a revolutionary institution.
I have already said that Bonaparte’s first ideas were generally good and
great. To conceive and carry them out was to exercise his power, but to
submit to them afterward savored of abdication. He was unable to endure
the dominion even of any of his own institutions. Restrained by the slow
and regular forms of justice, and also by the feebleness and mediocrity
of his Chief Judge, he surrounded himself with innumberable police
agents, and by degrees regained confidence in Fouché, who was an adept
in the art of making himself necessary. Fouché, a man of keen and
far-seeing intellect, a Jacobin grown rich, and consequently disgusted
with some of the principles of that party—with which, however, he still
remained connected, so that he might have support should trouble
arise—had no objection to invest Bonaparte with royalty. His natural
flexibility made him always ready to accept any form of government in
which he saw a post for himself. His habits were more revolutionary than
his principles, and the only state of things, I believe, which he could
not have endured, would have been one which should make an absolute
nonenity of him. To make use of him one must thoroughly understand his
disposition, and be very cautious in dealing with him, remembering that
he needed troublous times for the full display of his capacity; for, as
he had no passions and no aversions, he rose at such times superior to
the generality of those about him, who were all more or less actuated by
either fear or resentment.
Fouché has denied that he advised the murder of the Duc d’Enghien.
Unless there is complete certainty of the fact, I see no reason for
bringing the accusation of a crime against a man who positively denies
it. Besides, Fouché, who was very far-sighted, must have foreseen that
such a deed would give only a temporary guarantee to the party which
Bonaparte wanted to win. He knew the First Consul too well to fear that
he would think of replacing the King on a throne which he might occupy
himself, and there is little doubt that, with the information he
possessed, he would have pronounced the murder of the Duc d’Enghien to
be a mistake.
M. de Talleyrand’s plans were also served by his advice that Bonaparte
should invest himself with royalty. That proceeding would suit M. de
Talleyrand to a nicety. His enemies, and even Bonaparte himself, have
accused him of having advised the murder of the unhappy prince. But
Bonaparte and his enemies are not credible on this point; the well-known
character of M. de Talleyrand is against the truth of the statement. He
has said to me more than once that Bonaparte informed him and the two
Consuls of the arrest of the Duc d’Enghien and of his own unalterable
determination at the same time. He added that they all three saw that
words were useless, and therefore kept silence. That was indeed a
deplorable weakness, but one very common to M. de Talleyrand, who would
not think of remonstrating for the sake of conscience only, when he knew
that a line of action had been decided upon. Opposition and bold
resistance may take effect upon any nature, however resolute. A
sovereign of a cruel and sanguinary disposition will sometimes sacrifice
his inclination to the force of reason arrayed against it. Bonaparte was
not cruel either by inclination or on system; he merely wanted to carry
his point by the quickest and surest method. He has himself said that at
that time he was obliged to get rid of both Jacobins and Royalists. The
imprudence of the latter furnished him with this fatal opportunity. He
seized it; and what I shall hereafter have to relate will show that it
was with the coolest of calculation, or rather of sophistry, that he
shed illustrious and innocent blood.
A few days after the first return of the King, the Duc de Rovigo
[General Savary] presented himself at my house one morning. He then
tried to clear himself from the accusations that were brought against
him. He spoke to me of the death of the Duc d’Enghien. “The Emperor and
I,” he said, “were deceived on that occasion. One of the inferior agents
in Georges Cadoudal’s conspiracy had been suborned by my police. He came
to us, and stated that one night, when all the conspirators were
assembled, the secret arrival of an important chief who could not yet be
named had been announced to them. A few nights later, a person appeared
among them, to whom the others paid great respect. The spy described the
unknown so as to give us the impression that he was a prince of the
house of Bourbon. About the same time the Duc d’Enghien had established
himself at Ettenheim, with the intention, no doubt, of awaiting the
result of the conspiracy. The police agents wrote that he sometimes
disappeared for several days together. We concluded that at these times
he came to Paris, and his arrest was resolved upon. Afterward, when the
spy was confronted with the persons who had been arrested, he recognized
Pichegru as the important personage of whom he had spoken; and when I
told this to Bonaparte he exclaimed, with a stamp of his foot, ‘Ah, the
wretch! what has he made me do?’”
To return to the facts. Pichegru arrived in France on the 15th of
January, 1804, and from the 25th of January was concealed in Paris. It
was known that, in the year 5 of the Republic, General Moreau had
denounced him to the Government for keeping up relations with the house
of Bourbon. Moreau was supposed to hold Republican opinions; but he had
probably then exchanged them for the idea of a constitutional monarchy.
I do not know whether his family would now defend him as earnestly as
they did then from the accusation of having aided the plans of the
Royalists, nor do I know whether implicit confidence is to be placed on
confessions made in the reign of Louis XVIII. The conduct of Moreau in
1813, and the honor paid to his memory by our princes, might, however,
fairly lead us to believe that they had reason to count on him
previously. At the period of which I am now speaking, Moreau was deeply
irritated against Bonaparte. It has never been doubted that he visited
Pichegru in secret; he certainly kept silence about the conspiracy. Some
of the Royalists who were arrested at this time declared that he had
merely displayed that prudent hesitation which waits to declare itself
for the success of a party. Moreau, it was said, was a feeble and
insignificant man, except on the field of battle, and overweighted by
his reputation. “There are persons,” said Bonaparte, “who do not know
how to wear their fame. The part of Monk suited Moreau perfectly. In his
place I should have acted as he did, only more cleverly.”
It is not, however, in order to justify Bonaparte that I mention my
doubts. Whatever was Moreau’s character, his fame was real; it ought to
have been respected, and an old comrade in arms, grown discontented and
embittered, ought to have been excused. A reconciliation with him, even
if it had only been a result of that political calculation which
Bonaparte discerned in the “Auguste” of Corneille, would still have been
the wisest proceeding. But I do not doubt that Bonaparte was sincerely
convinced of what he called Moreau’s _moral_ treason, and he held that
to be sufficient for the law and for justice, because he always refused
to look at the true aspect of anything which was displeasing to himself.
He was assured that proofs to justify the condemnation of Moreau were
not wanting. He found himself committed to a line of action, and
afterward he refused to recognize anything but party spirit in the
equity of the tribunals; and, besides, he knew the most injurious thing
which could happen to him would be that this interesting prisoner should
be declared innocent. When he found himself on the point of being
compromised, he would stop at nothing. From this cause arose the
deplorable incidents of the famous trial. The conspiracy had been a
subject of conversation for several days. On the 17th of February, 1804,
I went to the Tuileries in the morning. The Consul was in the room with
his wife; I was announced and shown in. Mme. Bonaparte was in great
distress; her eyes were red with crying. Bonaparte was sitting near the
fireplace, with little Napoleon on his knees. He looked grave, but not
agitated, and was playing mechanically with the child.
“Do you know what I have done?” said he. I answered in the negative. “I
have just given an order for Moreau’s arrest.” I could not repress a
start. “Ah, you are astonished,” said he. “There will be a great fuss
about this, will there not? Of course, it will be said that I am jealous
of Moreau, that this is revenge, and other petty nonsense of the same
kind. I jealous of Moreau! Why, he owes the best part of his reputation
to me. It was I who left a fine army with him, and kept only recruits
with myself in Italy. I wanted nothing more than to get on well with
him. I certainly was not afraid of him; I am not afraid of anybody, and
less of Moreau than of other people. I have hindered him from committing
himself twenty times over. I warned him that there would be mischief
made between us; he knew that as well as I did. But he is weak and
conceited; he allows women to lead him, and the various parties have
urged him.”
While he was speaking Bonaparte rose, approached his wife, and, taking
her by the chin, made her hold up her head. “Ha!” he said, “every one
has not got a good wife, like me. You are crying, Josephine. What for,
eh? Are you frightened?” “No; but I don’t like to think of what will be
said.” “What? How can that be helped?” Then, turning to me, he added, “I
am not actuated by any enmity or any desire of vengeance; I have
reflected deeply before arresting Moreau. I might have shut my eyes, and
given him time to fly, but it would have been said that I did not dare
to bring him to trial. I have the means of convicting him. He is guilty;
I am the Government; the whole thing is quite simple.”
I can not tell whether the power of my old recollections is still upon
me, but I confess that even at this moment I can hardly believe that
when Bonaparte spoke thus he was not sincere. I have watched each stage
of progress in the art of dissimulation, and I know that at that
particular epoch he still retained certain accents of truthfulness,
which afterward were no longer to be detected in his voice. Perhaps,
however, it was only that at that time I still believed in him.
With the above words he left us, and Mme. Bonaparte told me that he
remained up almost the whole of the night, debating whether or not he
should have Moreau arrested, weighing the pros and cons of the measure,
without any symptom of personal feeling in the matter; that then, toward
daybreak, he sent for General Berthier, and after a long interview with
him he determined on sending to Grosbois, whither Moreau had retired.
This event gave rise to a great deal of discussion, and opinion was much
divided. General Moreau’s brother, a tribune, spoke with great vehemence
at the Tribunate, and produced considerable effect. A deputation was
sent up by the three representative bodies with an address of
congratulation to the First Consul. In Paris, all who represented the
liberal portion of the population, a section of the _bourgeoisie_,
lawyers, and men of letters, were warmly in favor of Moreau. It was, of
course, plain enough that political opposition formed an element in the
interest exhibited on his behalf; his partisans agreed that they would
throng the court at which he was to be brought up, and there was even a
threatening whisper about what should be done if he were condemned.
Bonaparte’s police informed him that there was a plot to break into
Moreau’s prison. This irritated him, and his calmness began to give way.
Murat, his brother-in-law, who was then Governor of Paris, hated Moreau,
and took care to add to Bonaparte’s exasperation by his daily reports to
him, he and Dubois, the Prefect of Police, combining together to pursue
him with alarming rumors. Events, unhappily, came to the aid of their
design. Each day a fresh ramification of the conspiracy was discovered,
and each day Parisian society refused more obstinately than on the
preceding to believe that there was any conspiracy at all. A war of
opinion was being waged between Bonaparte and the Parisians.
On the 29th of February Pichegru’s hiding-place was discovered, and he
was arrested, after a gallant struggle with the gendarmes. This event
somewhat shook the general incredulity, but public interest still
centered in Moreau. His wife’s grief assumed a rather theatrical aspect,
and this also had its effect. In the mean time Bonaparte, who was
ignorant of the formalities of law, found them much more tedious than he
had expected. At the commencement of the affair, the Chief Judge had too
readily undertaken to simplify and shorten the procedure, and now only
one charge was distinctly made: that Moreau had held secret conferences
with Pichegru, and had received his confidence, but without pledging
himself positively to anything. This was not sufficient to secure a
condemnation, which was becoming a necessity. In short, notwithstanding
that great name which is mixed up in the affair, Georges Cadoudal has
always been believed to have been, as at the trial he appeared to be,
the real leader of the conspiracy.
It would be impossible to describe the excitement that pervaded the
palace. Everybody was consulted; the most trifling conversations were
repeated. One day Savary took M. de Rémusat aside, and said, “You have
been a magistrate, you know the laws; do you think the details of this
affair that we are in possession of are sufficient for the information
of the judges?” “No man,” replied my husband, “has ever been condemned
merely because he did not reveal projects with which he was made
acquainted. No doubt that is a political wrong with respect to the
Government, but it is not a crime which ought to involve the penalty of
death; and, if that is your sole plea, you will only have furnished
Moreau with evidence damaging to yourselves.” “In that case,” said
Savary, “the Chief Judge has led us into making a great blunder. It
would have been better to have had a military commission.”
From the day of Pichegru’s arrest, the gates of Paris were shut, while
search was made for Georges Cadoudal, who eluded pursuit with
extraordinary success. Fouché, who laid the foundations of his new
reputation on this occasion, mercilessly ridiculed the unskillfulness of
the police, and his comments enraged Bonaparte, who was already angry
enough; so that, when he had incurred a real danger, and saw that the
Parisians were disinclined to believe the statement of the facts, he
began to wish for revenge. “Judge,” said he, “whether the French can
ever be governed by legal and moderate institutions: I have put down a
revolutionary but useful department of the ministry, and conspiracies
are immediately formed. I have foregone my own personal feelings; I have
handed over the punishment of a man who intended to kill me to an
authority independent of myself; and, far from giving me any thanks for
all this, people laugh at my moderation, and assign corrupt motives to
my conduct. I will teach them to belie my intentions. I will lay hold of
all my powers again, and prove to them that I alone am made to govern,
to decide, and to punish.”
Bonaparte grew more and more angry as he became aware, from moment to
moment, that something was amiss with himself. He had thought to rule
public opinion, but here was public opinion escaping from his hold. He
had been ruled himself by it in the outset of his career, I am certain,
and he had gained no credit by that; so he resolved that never again
would he be so mistaken. It will seem strange, to those who do not know
how utterly the wearing of a uniform destroys the habit of thinking,
that not the slightest uneasiness was felt on this occasion with respect
to the army. Military men do everything by word of command, and they
abstain from opinions which are not prescribed to them. Very few
officers remembered then that they had fought and conquered under
Moreau, and the _bourgeoisie_ was much more excited about the affair
than any other class.
The Polignacs, M. de Rivière, and some others were arrested. Then the
public began to think there really was some truth in the story of the
conspiracy, and that the plot was a Royalist one. Nevertheless, the
Republican party still demanded Moreau. The nobility were alarmed and
kept very quiet; they condemned the imprudence of the Polignacs, who
have since acknowledged that they were not seconded with so much zeal as
they had been led to expect. The error into which they fell, and to
which the Royalist party was always prone, was that they believed in the
existence of what they desired, and acted upon their illusions. This is
a mistake common to men who are led by their passions or by their
vanity.
I suffered a great deal at this time. At the Tuileries the First Consul
was moody and silent, his wife was frequently in tears, his family were
angry; his sister exasperated him by her violent way of talking. In
society opinions were divided: on the one hand were distrust, suspicion,
indignant satisfaction; on the other, regret that the attempt had failed
and passionate condemnation. All these contentions distracted and upset
me. I shut myself up with my mother and my husband; we questioned one
another about all that we heard and everything that we respectively
thought. M. de Rémusat’s steady rectitude of mind was grieved by the
errors which were perpetrated; and, as his judgment was quite
uninfluenced by passion, he began to dread the future, and imparted to
me his sagacious and melancholy prevision of a character which he
studied closely and silently. His apprehensions distressed me; the
doubts which were springing up in my own mind rendered me very unhappy.
Alas! the moment was drawing near when I was to be far more painfully
enlightened.
CHAPTER V
AFTER the arrests which I have already recorded, there appeared in the
“Moniteur” certain articles from the “Morning Chronicle,” in which it
was stated that the death of Bonaparte and the restoration of Louis
XVIII. were imminent. It was added that persons newly arrived from
London affirmed that speculation upon these eventualities was rife on
the Stock Exchange, and that Georges Cadoudal, Pichegru, and Moreau were
named openly there. In the same “Moniteur” appeared a letter from an
Englishman to Bonaparte, whom he addressed as “Monsieur Consul.” The
purport of this letter was to recommend, as specially applicable to
Bonaparte, a pamphlet written in Cromwell’s time, which tended to prove
that persons such as Cromwell and himself could not be assassinated,
because there was no crime in killing a dangerous animal or a tyrant.
“To kill is not to assassinate in such cases,” said the pamphlet; “the
difference is great.”
In France, however, addresses from all the towns and from all the
regiments, and pastorals by all the Bishops, complimenting the First
Consul and congratulating France on the danger which had been escaped,
were forwarded to Paris; and these documents were punctually inserted in
the “Moniteur.”
At length, on the 29th of March, Georges Cadoudal was arrested in the
Place de l’Odéon. He was in a cabriolet, and, perceiving that he was
followed, he urged on his horse. A gendarme bravely caught the animal by
the head, and was shot dead by Cadoudal; the cabriolet was, however,
stopped, owing to the crowd which instantly collected at the noise of
the pistol-shot, and Cadoudal was seized. Between sixty thousand and
eighty thousand francs in notes were found on him, and given to the
widow of the man whom he had killed. The newspapers stated that he
acknowledged he had come to France for no other purpose than to
assassinate Bonaparte; but I remember to have heard at the time that the
prisoner, whose courage and firmness during the whole of the proceedings
were unshaken, and who evinced great devotion to the house of Bourbon,
steadily denied that there had ever been any purpose of assassination,
while admitting that his intentions had been to attack the carriage of
the First Consul, and to carry him off without harming him.
At this time the King of England (George III.) was taken seriously ill,
and our Government reckoned upon his death to insure the retirement of
Mr. Pitt from the ministry.
On the 21st of March the following appeared in the “Moniteur”: “Prince
de Condé has addressed a circular to the _émigrés_, with a view to
collecting them on the Rhine. A prince of the house of Bourbon is now on
the frontier for that purpose.”
Immediately afterward the secret correspondence that had been taken from
Mr. Drake, the accredited English Minister in Bavaria, was published.
These proved that the English Government was leaving no means untried of
creating disturbance in France. M. de Talleyrand was directed to send
copies of this correspondence to all the members of the Corps
Diplomatique, and they expressed their indignation in letters which were
inserted in the “Moniteur.”
Holy Week was approaching. On Passion Sunday, the 18th of March, my week
of attendance on Mme. Bonaparte began. I went to the Tuileries in the
morning, in time for mass, which was again celebrated with all the
former pomp. After mass, Mme. Bonaparte received company in the great
drawing-room, and remained for some time, talking to several persons.
When we went down to her private apartments, she informed me that we
were to pass that week at Malmaison. “I am very glad,” she added; “Paris
frightens me just now.” Shortly afterward we set out; Bonaparte was in
his own carriage, Mme. Bonaparte and myself in hers. I observed that she
was very silent and sad for a part of the way, and I let her see that I
was uneasy about her. At first she seemed reluctant to give me any
explanation, but at length she said, “I am going to trust you with a
great secret. This morning Bonaparte told me that he had sent M. de
Caulaincourt to the frontier to seize the Duc d’Enghien. He is to be
brought back here.” “Ah, madame,” I exclaimed, “what are they going to
do with him?” “I believe,” she answered, “he will have him tried.” I do
not think I have ever in my life experienced such a thrill of terror as
that which her words sent through me. Mme. Bonaparte thought I was going
to faint, and let down all the glasses. “I have done what I could,” she
went on, “to induce him to promise me that the prince’s life shall not
be taken, but I am greatly afraid his mind is made up.” “What, do you
really think he will have him put to death?” “I fear so.” At these words
I burst into tears, and then, so soon as I could master my emotion
sufficiently to be able to speak, I urged upon her the fatal
consequences of such a deed, the indelible stain of the royal blood,
whose shedding would satisfy the Jacobin party only, the strong interest
with which the prince inspired all the other parties, the great name of
Condé, the general horror, the bitter animosity which would be aroused,
and many other considerations. I urged every side of the question, of
which Mme. Bonaparte contemplated one only. The idea of a murder was
that which had struck her most strongly; but I succeeded in seriously
alarming her, and she promised me that she would endeavor by every means
in her power to induce Bonaparte to relinquish his fatal purpose.
We both arrived at Malmaison in the deepest dejection. I took refuge at
once in my own room, where I wept bitterly. I was completely overwhelmed
by this terrible discovery. I liked and admired Bonaparte; I believed
him to be called by an invincible power to the highest of human
destinies; I allowed my youthful imagination to run riot concerning him.
All in a moment, the veil which hid the truth from my eyes was torn
away, and by my own feelings at that instant I could only too accurately
divine what would be the general opinion of such an act.
There was no one at Malmaison to whom I could speak freely. My husband
was not in waiting, and had remained in Paris. I was obliged to control
my agitation, and to make my appearance with an unmoved countenance; for
Mme. Bonaparte had earnestly entreated me not to let Bonaparte divine
that she had spoken to me of this matter.
On going down to the drawing-room at six o’clock, I found the First
Consul playing a game of chess. He appeared quite serene and calm; it
made me ill to look at his face. So completely had my mind been upset by
all that had passed through it during the last two hours, that I could
not regard him with the feelings which his presence usually inspired; it
seemed to me that I must see some extraordinary alteration in him. A few
officers dined with him. Nothing whatever of any significance occurred.
After dinner he withdrew to his cabinet, where he transacted business
with his police. That night, when I was leaving Mme. Bonaparte, she
again promised me that she would renew her entreaties.
I joined her as early as I could on the following morning, and found her
quite in despair. Bonaparte had repelled her at every point. He had told
her that women had no concern with such matters; that his policy
required this _coup d’état_; that by it he should acquire the right to
exercise clemency hereafter; that, in fact, he was forced to choose
between this decisive act and a long series of conspiracies which he
would have to punish in detail, as impunity would have encouraged the
various parties. He should have to go on prosecuting, exiling,
condemning, without end; to revoke his measures of mercy toward the
_émigrés_; to place himself in the hands of the Jacobins. The Royalists
had more than once compromised him with the revolutionists. The
contemplated action would set him free from all parties alike. Besides,
the Duc d’Enghien, after all, had joined in the conspiracy of Georges
Cadoudal; he was a cause of disturbance to France, and a tool in the
hands of England for effecting her purposes of vengeance. The prince’s
military reputation might in the future prove a source of trouble in the
army; whereas by his death the last link between our soldiers and the
Bourbons would be broken. In politics, a death which tranquillizes a
nation is not a crime. Finally, he had given his orders—he would not
withdraw them; there was an end of the matter.
During this interview, Mme. Bonaparte informed her husband that he was
about to aggravate the heinousness of the deed by the selection of M. de
Caulaincourt, whose parents had formerly been in the household of the
Prince de Condé, as the person who was to arrest the Duc d’Enghien. “I
did not know that,” replied Bonaparte; “but what does it matter? If
Caulaincourt is compromised, there is no great harm in that; indeed, it
will only make him serve me all the better, and the opposite party will
henceforth forgive him for being a gentleman.” He then added that M. de
Caulaincourt, who had been informed of only a portion of his plan,
believed that the Duc d’Enghien was to be imprisoned in France.
My heart failed me at these words. M. de Caulaincourt was a friend of
mine. It seemed to me that he ought to have refused to undertake such a
task as that which had been imposed upon him.
The day passed drearily. I remember that Mme. Bonaparte, who was very
fond of trees and flowers, was busy during the morning superintending
the transplanting of a cypress to a newly laid-out portion of her
garden. She threw a few handfuls of earth on the roots of the tree, so
that she might say that she had planted it with her own hands. “Ah,
madame,” said I to her, as I observed her doing so, “a cypress is just
the tree to suit such a day as this.” I have never passed by that
cypress since without a thrill of pain.
My profound emotion distressed Mme. Bonaparte. She had great faith in
all Bonaparte’s views, and, owing to her natural levity and fickleness,
she excessively disliked painful or lasting impressions. Her feelings
were quick, but extraordinarily evanescent. Being convinced that the
death of the Duc d’Enghien was inevitable, she wanted to get rid of an
unavailing regret; but I would not allow her to do so. I importuned her
all day long, without ceasing. She listened to me with extreme
gentleness and kindness, but in utter dejection; she knew Bonaparte
better than I. I wept while talking to her; I implored her not to allow
herself to be put down, and, as I was not without influence over her, I
succeeded in inducing her to make a last attempt.
“Mention me to the First Consul, if necessary,” said I. “I am of very
little importance, but at least he will be able to judge of the
impression he is about to make by the effect upon me, and I am more
attached to him than other people are. I, who would ask nothing better
than to find excuses for him, can not see even one for what he intends
to do.”
We saw very little of Bonaparte during the whole of that second day. The
Chief Judge, the Prefect of Police, and Murat all came to Malmaison, and
had prolonged audience of the First Consul; I augured ill from their
countenances. I remained up a great part of the night; and when at
length I fell asleep my dreams were frightful. I fancied that I heard
constant movements in the château, and that a fresh attempt was about to
be made upon our lives. I was possessed with a strong desire to go and
throw myself at Bonaparte’s feet, and implore him to take pity upon his
own fame, which I then believed to be very pure and bright, and I
grieved heartily over the tarnishing of it. The hours of that night can
never be effaced from my memory.
On the Tuesday morning Mme. Bonaparte said to me, “All is useless. The
Duc d’Enghien arrives this evening. He will be taken to Vincennes and
tried to-night. Murat has undertaken the whole. He is odious in this
matter; it is he who is urging Bonaparte on, by telling him that his
clemency will be taken for weakness, that the Jacobins will be furious,
and one party is now displeased because the former fame of Moreau has
not been taken into consideration, and will ask why a Bourbon should be
differently treated. Bonaparte has forbidden me to speak to him again on
the subject. He asked me about you,” she added, “and I acknowledged that
I had told you everything. He had perceived your distress. Pray try to
control yourself.”
At this I lost all self-restraint, and exclaimed, “Let him think what he
likes of me. It matters very little to me, madame, I assure you; and if
he asks me why I am weeping, I will tell him that I weep for him.” And,
in fact, I again burst into tears.
Mme. Bonaparte was thrown into utter consternation by the state I was
in—she was almost a stranger to any strong mental emotion; and when she
tried to calm me by reassuring words I could only say to her, “Ah,
madame, you do not understand me!” After this event, she said, Bonaparte
would go on just as he had done before. Alas! it was not the future
which was troubling me. I did not doubt his power over himself and
others. The anguish that filled my whole being was interior and
personal.
Dinner hour came, and she had to go down with a composed face. Mine was
quite beyond my control. Again Bonaparte was playing chess: he had taken
a fancy to that game. Immediately on perceiving me he called me to him,
saying that he wanted to consult me. I was not able to speak. He
addressed me in a tone of kindness and interest, which increased my
confusion and distress. When dinner was served, he placed me near
himself, and asked me a number of questions about the affairs of my
family. He seemed bent on bewildering me, and hindering me from
thinking. Little Napoleon (the son of Louis and Hortense) Had been
brought down from Paris; and his uncle placed the child in the middle of
the table, and seemed much amused when he pulled the dishes about, and
upset everything within his reach.
After dinner he sat on the floor, playing with the boy, and apparently
in very high spirits, but, it seemed to me, assumed. Mme. Bonaparte, who
was afraid that he would have been angry at what she had told him about
me, looked from him to me, smiling sweetly, as if she would have said,
“You see, he is not so bad after all; we may make our minds easy.”
I hardly knew where I was. I felt as though I were dreaming a bad dream;
no doubt I looked bewildered. Suddenly, fixing a piercing gaze on me,
Bonaparte said, “Why have you no rouge on? You are too pale.” I answered
that I had forgotten to put on any. “What!” said he, “a woman forget to
put on her rouge?” And then, with a loud laugh, he turned to his wife
and added, “That would never happen to you, Josephine.” I was greatly
disconcerted, and he completed my discomfiture by remarking, “Two things
are very becoming to women—rouge and tears.”
When General Bonaparte was in high spirits, he was equally devoid of
taste and moderation, and on such occasions his manners smacked of the
barrack-room. He went on for some time jesting with his wife with more
freedom than delicacy, and then challenged me to a game of chess. He did
not play well, and never would observe the correct “moves.” I allowed
him to do as he liked; every one in the room kept silence. Presently he
began to mutter some lines of poetry, and then repeated a little louder,
“Soyons amis, Cinna,” and Guzman’s lines in Act v. Scene vii. of
“Alzire”:
“Des dieux que nous servons connais la différence:
Les tiens t’ont commandé le meurtre et la vengeance:
Et le mien, quand ton bras vient de m’assassiner,
M’ordonne de te plaindre et de te pardonner.”
As he half whispered the line,
“Et le mien, quand ton bras vient de m’assassiner,”
I could not refrain from raising my eyes and looking at him. He smiled,
and went on repeating the verses. In truth, at that moment I did believe
that he had deceived his wife and everybody else, and was planning a
grand scene of magnanimous pardon. I caught eagerly at this idea, and it
restored me to composure. My imagination was very juvenile in those
days, and I longed so much to be able to hope!
“You like poetry?” Bonaparte asked me. How I longed to answer,
“Especially when the lines are applicable;” but I did not dare to utter
the words. I may as well mention in this place that the very day after I
had set down the above reminiscence, a friend lent me a book entitled
“Mémoires Secrètes sur la Vie de Lucien Bonaparte.” This work, which is
probably written by a secretary of Lucien’s, is inaccurate in several
instances. Some notes added at the end are said to be written by a
person worthy of belief. I found among them the following, which struck
me as curious: “Lucien was informed of the death of the Duc d’Enghien by
General Hullin, a relative of Mme. Jouberthon, who came to her house
some hours after that event, looking the image of grief and
consternation. The Military Council had been assured that the First
Consul only purposed to assert his authority, and fully intended to
pardon the prince, and certain lines from ‘Alzire’, commencing
‘Des dieux que nous servons connais la différence,’
had been quoted to them.”
But to resume. We went on with our game, and his gayety gave me more and
more confidence. We were still playing when the sound of carriage-wheels
was heard, and presently General Hullin was announced. Bonaparte pushed
away the chess-table roughly, rose, and went into the adjoining gallery.
There he remained all the rest of the evening, with Murat, Hullin, and
Savary. We saw no more of him, and yet I went to my room feeling more
easy. I could not believe but that Bonaparte must be moved by the fact
of having such a victim in his hands. I hoped the prince would ask to
see him; and in fact he did so, adding, “If the First Consul would
consent to see me, he would do me justice, for he would know that I have
done my duty.” My idea was that Bonaparte would go to Vincennes, and
publicly grant the prince pardon in person. If he were not going to act
thus, why should he have quoted those lines from “Alzire”?
That night, that terrible night, passed. Early in the morning I went
down to the drawing-room, and there I found Savary. He was deadly pale,
and I must do him the justice to say that his face betrayed great
agitation. He spoke to me with trembling lips, but his words were quite
insignificant. I did not question him; for persons of his kind will
always say what they want to say without being asked, although they
never give answers.
Mme. Bonaparte came in, looked at me very sadly, and, as she took her
seat, said to Savary, “Well—so it is done?” “Yes, madame,” he answered.
“He died this morning, and, I am bound to acknowledge, with great
courage.” I was struck dumb with horror.
Mme. Bonaparte asked for details. They have all been made known since.
The prince was taken to one of the trenches of the château. Being
offered a handkerchief to bind his eyes with, he rejected it with
dignity, and, addressing the gendarmes, said, “You are Frenchmen: at
least you will do me the service not to miss your aim.” He placed in
Savary’s hands a ring, a lock of hair, and a letter for Mme. de Rohan;
and all these Savary showed to Mme. Bonaparte. The letter was open; it
was brief and tender. I do not know whether these last wishes of the
unfortunate prince were carried out.
“After his death,” said Savary, “the gendarmes were told that they might
take his clothes, his watch, and the money he had in his pocket; but not
one of them would touch anything. People may say what they like, but one
can not see a man like that die as coolly as one can see others. I feel
it hard to get over it.”
Presently Eugène de Beauharnais made his appearance. He was too young to
have recollections of the past, and in his eyes the Duc d’Enghien was
simply a conspirator against the life of his master. Then came certain
generals, whose names I will not set down here; and they approved of the
deed so loudly that Mme. Bonaparte thought it necessary to apologize for
her own dejection, by repeating over and over again the unmeaning
sentence, “I am a woman, you know, and I confess I could cry.”
In the course of the morning a number of visitors came to the Tuileries.
Among them were the Consuls, the Ministers, and Louis Bonaparte and his
wife. Louis preserved a sullen silence, which seemed to imply
disapprobation. Mme. Louis was so frightened that she did not dare to
feel, and seemed to be asking what she ought to think. Women, even more
than men, were subjugated by the magic of that sacramental phrase of
Bonaparte’s—“My policy.” With those words he crushed one’s thoughts,
feelings, and even impressions; and, when he uttered them, no one in the
palace, especially no woman, would have dared to ask him what he meant.
My husband also came during the morning, and his presence relieved me
from the terrible oppression from which I was suffering. He, like
myself, was grieved and downcast. How grateful I was to him for not
lecturing me upon the absolute necessity of our appearing perfectly
composed under the circumstances! We sympathized in every feeling. He
told me that the general sentiment in Paris was one of disgust, and that
the heads of the Jacobin party said, “He belongs to us now.” He added
the following words, which I have frequently recalled to mind since:
“The Consul has taken a line which will force him into laying aside the
useful, in order to efface this recollection, and into dazzling us by
the extraordinary and the unexpected.” He also said to Mme. Bonaparte:
“There is one important piece of advice which you ought to give the
First Consul. It is that he should not lose a moment in restoring public
confidence. Opinion is apt to be precipitate in Paris. He ought at least
to prove to the people that the event which has just occurred is not due
to the development of a cruel disposition, but to reasons whose force I
am not called upon to determine, and which ought to make him very
circumspect.”
Mme. Bonaparte fully appreciated the advice of M. de Rémusat, and
immediately repeated his words to her husband. He seemed well disposed
to listen to her, and answered briefly, “That is quite true.” On
rejoining Mme. Bonaparte before dinner, I found her in the gallery, with
her daughter and M. de Caulaincourt, who had just arrived. He had
superintended the arrest of the prince, but had not accompanied him to
Paris. I recoiled at the sight of him. “And you, too,” said he,
addressing me, so that all could hear him, “you are going to detest me!
And yet I am only unfortunate; but that I am in no small degree, for the
Consul has disgraced me by this act. Such is the reward of my devotion
to him. I have been shamefully deceived, and I am now ruined.” He shed
tears while speaking, and I could not but pity him.
Mme. Bonaparte assured me afterward that he had spoken in the same way
to the First Consul, and I was myself a witness to his maintenance of a
severe and angry bearing toward Bonaparte, who made many advances to
him, but for a long time in vain. The First Consul laid out his plans
before him, but found him cold and uninterested; then he made him
brilliant offers, by way of amends, which were at first rejected.
Perhaps they ought to have been always refused.
In the mean time public opinion declared itself strongly against M. de
Caulaincourt. Certain persons condemned the aide-de-camp mercilessly,
while they made excuses for the master; and such injustice exasperated
M. de Caulaincourt, who might have bowed his head before frank and
candid censure, fairly distributed between them. When, however, he saw
that every sort of affront was to be heaped on him, in order that the
real culprit might go quite free, he conceived an utter disdain for
these people, and consented to force them into silence by placing
himself in a position of such authority as would enable him to overrule
them. He was urged to take this course by Bonaparte, and also by his own
ambition. “Do not act like a fool,” said the former. “If you retreat
before the blows which are aimed at you, you will be done for; no one
will give you any thanks or credit for your tardy opposition to my
wishes, and you will be all the more heavily censured because you are
not formidable.” By dint of similar reasoning frequently reiterated, and
by the employment of every sort of device for consoling and coaxing M.
de Caulaincourt, Bonaparte succeeded in appeasing his resentment, and by
degrees he raised him to posts of great dignity about his own person.
The weakness which induced M. de Caulaincourt to pardon the indelible
injury which the First Consul had done him may be more or less blamed;
but, at least, it should be admitted that he was never a blind or
servile courtier, and that he remained to the last among the small
number of Bonaparte’s servants who never neglected an opportunity of
telling him the truth.
Before dinner, both Mme. Bonaparte and her daughter entreated me to
command my countenance as much as possible. The former told me that her
husband had asked her that morning what effect the deplorable news had
produced upon me; and on her replying that I had wept, he said, “That is
a matter of course; she merely did what was to be expected of her as a
woman. You don’t understand anything about our business; but it will all
subside and everybody will see that I have not made a blunder.”
At length dinner was announced. In addition to the household officers on
duty for that week, the dinner-party included M. and Mme. Louis
Bonaparte, Eugène Beauharnais, M. de Caulaincourt, and General Hullin,
who was then Commandant of Paris. The sight of this man affected me
painfully. His expression of face, perfectly unmoved, was just the same
on that day as it had been on the preceding. I quite believe that he did
not think he had done an ill deed, or that he had performed an act of
zeal in presiding over the military commission which condemned the
prince. Bonaparte rewarded the fatal service which he had rendered him
with money and promotion, but he said more than once, when he noted
Hullin’s presence, “The sight of him annoys me; he reminds me of things
which I do not like.”
Bonaparte did not come into the drawing-room at all; he went from his
cabinet to the dinner-table. He affected no high spirits that day; on
the contrary, he remained during the whole time of dinner in a profound
reverie. We were all very silent. Just as we were about to rise from
table, the First Consul said, in a harsh, abrupt tone, as if in reply to
his own thoughts, “At least they will see what we are capable of, and
henceforth, I hope, they will leave us alone.” He then passed on into
the drawing-room, where he talked for a long time in a low voice with
his wife, looking at me now and then, but without any anger in his
glance. I sat apart from all, downcast and ill, without either the power
or the wish to utter a word.
Presently Joseph Bonaparte and M. and Mme. Bacciochi arrived,
accompanied by M. de Fontanes. Lucien was on bad terms with his brother,
who had objected to his marriage with Mme. Jouberthon, and came no more
to the palace; indeed, he was then making ready to leave France. During
the evening, Murat, Dubois, who was Prefect of Police, the members of
the Council of the State, and others arrived, all with composed faces.
The conversation was at first trifling and awkward: the women sitting
silent, the men standing in a semicircle, Bonaparte walking about from
one side of the room to the other. Presently he began a discussion, half
literary, half historical, with M. de Fontanes. The mention of certain
names which belong to history gave him an opportunity of bringing out
his opinion of some of our kings and great military commanders. I
remarked on this evening that he dwelt on the dethronements of every
kind, both actual and such as are effected by a change of mind. He
lauded Charlemagne, but maintained that France had always been _en
décadence_ under the Valois. He depreciated the greatness of Henry IV.
“He was wanting,” said he, “in gravity. Good nature is an affectation
which a sovereign ought to avoid. What does he want? Is it to remind
those who surround him that he is a man like any other? What nonsense!
So soon as a man is a king he is apart from all, and I have always held
that the instinct of true policy was in Alexander’s idea of making
himself out to be the descendant of a god.” He added that Louis XIV.
knew the French better than Henry IV.; but he hastened to add that Louis
had allowed “priests and an old woman” to get the better of him, and he
made some coarse remarks on that point. Then he held forth on Louis
XIV.’s generals, and on military science in general.