“Military science,” said Bonaparte, “consists in calculating all the

chances accurately in the first place, and then in giving accident

exactly, almost mathematically, its place in one’s calculations. It is

upon this point that one must not deceive one’s self, and that a decimal

more or less may change all. Now, this apportioning of accident and

science can not get into any head except that of a genius, for genius

must exist wherever there is a creation; and assuredly the grandest

improvisation of the human mind is the gift of an existence to that

which has it not. Accident, hazard, chance, whatever you choose to call

it, a mystery to ordinary minds, becomes a reality to superior men.

Turenne did not think about it, and so he had nothing but method. I

think,” he added with a smile, “I should have beaten him. Condé had a

better notion of it than Turenne, but then he gave himself up to it with

impetuosity. Prince Eugène is one of those who understood it best. Henry

IV. always put bravery in the place of everything; he only fought

actions—he would not have come well out of a pitched battle. Catinat

has been cried up chiefly from the democratic point of view; I have, for

my own part, carried off a victory on the spot where he was beaten. The

philosophers have worked up his reputation after their own fancy, and

that was all the easier to do, because one may say anything one likes

about ordinary people who have been lifted into eminence by

circumstances not of their own creating. A man, to be really great, no

matter in what order of greatness, must have actually improvised a

portion of his own glory—must have shown himself superior to the event

which he has brought about. For instance, Cæsar acted now and then with

weakness, which makes me suspect the praises that are lavished on him in

history.

“I am rather doubtful of your friends the historians, M. de Fontanes.

Even your Tacitus himself explains nothing; he arrives at certain

results without indicating the routes that have been followed. He is, I

think, able as a writer, but hardly so as a statesman. He depicts Nero

as an execrable tyrant, and then he tells us, almost in the same page

with a description of the pleasure he felt in burning down Rome, that

the people loved him. All that is not plain and clear. Believe me, we

are sometimes the dupes of our beliefs—of writers who have fabricated

history for us in accordance with the natural bent of their own minds.

But do you know whose history I should like to read, if it were well

written? That of King Frederick II. of Prussia. I hold him to be one of

those who has best understood his business in every sort of way. These

ladies”—here he turned to us—“will not be of my opinion; they will say

that he was harsh and selfish. But, after all, is a great statesman made

for feeling? Is he not a completely eccentric personage, who stands

always alone, on his own side, with the world on the other? The glass

through which he looks is that of his policy; his sole concern ought to

be that it should neither magnify nor diminish. And, while he observes

objects with attention, he must also be careful to hold the reins

equally; for the chariot which he drives is often drawn by ill-matched

horses. How, then, is he to occupy himself with those fine distinctions

of feelings which are important to the generality of mankind? Can he

consider the affections, the ties of kinship, the puerile arrangements

of society? In such a position as his, how many actions are regarded

separately, and condemned, although they are to contribute as a whole to

that great work which the public does not discern? One day, those deeds

will terminate the creation of the Colossus which will be the wonder of

posterity. And you, mistaken as you are—you will withhold your praises,

because you are afraid lest the movement of that great machine should

crush you, as Gulliver crushed the Lilliputians when he moved his legs.

Be advised; go on in advance of the time, enlarge your imagination, look

out afar, and you will see that those great personages whom you think

violent and cruel are only politic. They know themselves better, they

judge themselves more correctly than you do; and, when they are really

able men, they know how to master their passions, for they even

calculate the effects of them.”

From this, which was a kind of manifesto, the opinions of Bonaparte may

be gathered, and also a notion of the rapid succession in which his

ideas followed each other when he allowed himself to talk. It sometimes

happened that his discourse would be less consecutive, for he put up

well enough with interruptions; but on the day in question every one

seemed to be benumbed in his presence; no one ventured to take up

certain applications of his words, which it was evident he intended. He

had never ceased walking to and fro while he was talking, and this for

more than an hour. Many other things which he said have escaped my

memory. At length, abruptly breaking off the chain of his ideas, he

directed M. de Fontanes to read aloud certain extracts from Drake’s

correspondence, which I have already mentioned, all relating to the

conspiracy. When the reading of the extracts was concluded, “There are

proofs here,” said he, “that can not be disputed. These people wanted to

throw France into confusion, and to destroy the Revolution by destroying

me; it was my duty both to defend and to avenge the Revolution. I have

proved of what it is capable. The Duc d’Enghien was a conspirator like

any other, and he had to be treated as such. The whole affair, moreover,

was arranged without caution or accurate knowledge of the ground, on the

faith of some obscure correspondence; a few credulous old women wrote

letters, and were believed. The Bourbons will never see anything except

through the _Œil-de-Bœuf_, and they are fated to be perpetually deluded.

The Polignacs made sure that every house in Paris would be open to them;

and, when they arrived here, not a single noble would receive them. If

all these fools were to kill me, they would not get their own way; they

would only put angry Jacobins in my place. The day of etiquette is over,

but the Bourbons can not give it up. If ever you see them return, mark

my words that will be the first subject that will occupy their minds.

Ah! it would have been another story could they have been seen, like

Henry IV., covered with dust and blood on a battle-field. A kingdom is

not got back by dating a letter from London, and signing it ‘Louis.’

Nevertheless, such a letter compromises imprudent people, and I am

obliged to punish them, although I feel a sort of pity for them. I have

shed blood; it was necessary to do so. I may have to shed more, but not

out of anger—simply because blood-letting is one of the remedies in

political medicine. I am the man of the State; I am the French

Revolution, I say it, and I will uphold it.”

After this last declaration, Bonaparte dismissed us all. We dispersed

without daring to interchange our ideas, and thus ended this fatal day.

CHAPTER VI

(1804.)

THE First Consul spared no pains to allay the excitement which was

caused by this event. He perceived that his conduct had raised the

question of his real character, and he set himself to prove, both by his

speeches in the Council of State, and also to all of us, that political

considerations only, and not passion of any kind, had led to the death

of the Duc d’Enghien. As I said before, he made no attempt to check the

genuine indignation evinced by M. de Caulaincourt, and toward me he

displayed indulgence which once more unsettled my opinions. How strong a

power of persuasion do sovereigns, whatever their character, exercise

over us! Our feelings, and, to be frank, our vanity also, run to meet

their slightest advances half-way. I grieved, but I felt myself being

slowly won over by the adroitness of Bonaparte; and I cried

“Plut à Dieu ce fut dernier de ses crimes!”

Meanwhile we returned to Paris, and then my feelings were again

painfully excited by the state of opinion there. I could make no reply

to what was said. I could only try to persuade those who believed that

this fatal act was but the beginning of a blood-stained reign, that they

were mistaken; and although it would be difficult, in point of fact, to

exaggerate the impression that such a crime must produce, still party

spirit ran so high that, although my own feelings revolted against it, I

sometimes found myself endeavoring to offer some sort of excuse for

it—uselessly enough, since I was addressing myself to people whose

convictions were unalterable.

I had a warm discussion with Mme. de ——, a cousin of Mme. Bonaparte’s.

She was one of those persons who did not attend the evening receptions

at the Tuileries, but who, having divided the palace into two separate

regions, considered that they might appear in Mme. Bonaparte’s apartment

on the ground floor in the morning, without departing from their

principles or sullying their reminiscences by recognition of the actual

government on the first floor.

She was a clever, animated woman, with rather highflown notions. Mme.

Bonaparte was frightened by her vehement indignation; and, finding me

with her one day, she attacked me with equal vigor, and compassionated

both of us for being, as she said, bound in chains to a tyrant. She went

so far that I tried to make her understand the distress she was

inflicting on her cousin. Then she turned violently upon me, and accused

me of not sufficiently appreciating the horror of the event that had

just taken place. “As for me,” she said, “every sense and every feeling

is so outraged that, if your Consul were to come into this room, you

would see me fly on the instant, as one flies from a venomous beast.”

“Ah, madame,” I answered (little thinking that my words would prove

prophetic), “refrain from expressions which at some future day may prove

embarrassing to you. Weep with us, but reflect that the recollection of

words uttered in a moment of excitement often complicates one’s

subsequent actions. To-day you are angry with me for my apparent

moderation; yet, perhaps, my feelings will last longer than yours.” And,

in fact, a few months later, Mme. de —— became lady-in-waiting to her

cousin, the newly made Empress.

Hume says somewhere that Cromwell, having established a sort of phantom

of royalty, very soon found himself surrounded by that particular class

of nobles who conceive themselves called on to live in palaces so soon

as their doors are reopened. The First Consul, on assuming the insignia

of the power he already wielded, offered a salve to the conscience of

the old nobility which vanity always readily applies; for who can resist

the temptation of recovering the rank he feels himself made to adorn? I

am about to draw a very homely comparison, but I believe a true one. In

the nature of the _grand seigneur_ there is something of the character

of the cat, which remains faithful to the same house, no matter who may

become the proprietor of it.

Bonaparte, stained with the blood of the Duc d’Enghien, but having

become an Emperor, succeeded in obtaining from the French nobles that

for which he would have vainly sought so long as he was only First

Consul; and when, in later days, he maintained to one of his ministers

that this murder was indeed a crime, but not a blunder—“for,” he added,

“the consequences that I foresaw have all exactly happened”—he was, in

that sense, right.

And yet, if we look at things from a higher standpoint, the consequences

of this act of his reached further than he thought for. He succeeded,

doubtless, in moderating certain opinions, for there are numbers of

people who give up feeling when there is nothing to hope; but, as M. de

Rémusat said, the odium which the crime cast upon him obliged him to

divert our thoughts from it by a succession of extraordinary feats,

which would impose silence respecting the past. Moreover, he bound

himself, as it were, to be always successful, for by success alone could

he be justified. If we contemplate the tortuous and difficult path he

was henceforth obliged to tread, we shall conclude that a noble and pure

policy, based upon the prosperity of the human race and the free

exercise of its rights, would have been then, as it is always, the best

on which a sovereign can act.

By the death of the Duc d’Enghien, Bonaparte succeeded in compromising,

first ourselves, then the French nobility, finally the whole nation and

all Europe. Our fate was united with his, it is true—this was a great

point for him; but, when he dishonored us, he lost the right to that

devotion and adherence which he claimed in vain when the hour of his ill

fortune came. How could he reckon on a link forged, it must be owned, at

the cost of the noblest feelings of the soul? Alas! I judge by my own

case. From that time forward I began to blush in secret at the chain I

wore; and this hidden feeling, which I stifled at different times with

more or less success, afterward became the general sentiment.

On his return to Paris, the First Consul was struck by the effect he had

produced. He perceived that feelings go more slowly than opinions, and

that men’s countenances wore a new expression in his presence. Weary of

a remembrance that he would have liked to render a bygone from the very

first, he thought the best plan was to let the people wear out their

emotions as quickly as possible; and so he determined to appear in

public, although certain persons advised him to defer doing so for a

while. “But we must, at any cost,” he answered, “throw that event into

the past; and it will remain new so long as anything fresh is to be felt

about it. If we change nothing in our habits, the public will soon

regard the occurrence as an old affair.” It was therefore arranged that

he should go to the opera.

On that evening I was in attendance on Mme. Bonaparte; her carriage

followed her husband’s. His usual custom was not to wait for her, but to

pass rapidly up the staircase and show himself in his box; on this

occasion, however, he waited in the little anteroom adjoining it until

Mme. Bonaparte arrived. She was trembling very much, and he was

excessively pale; he looked round at us all, as if mutely asking us how

we thought he would be received; and then he went forward at last like a

man marching up to a battery. He was greeted in the usual way, either

because the sight of him produced its customary effect—for the

multitude do not change their habits in a moment—or because the police

had taken measures of precaution beforehand. I had greatly feared he

would not be applauded, and yet, when I saw that he was, my heart sank

within me.

He remained only a few days in Paris; thence he removed to Saint Cloud,

and I believe from that time forth he began to carry his projects of

sovereignty into execution. He felt the necessity of imposing an

authority which could no longer be contested upon Europe, and, at the

very moment when he had just broken with all parties by deeds which he

himself regarded as merely acts of vigor, he thought it well to reveal

the goal toward which he had been advancing with more or less

precaution. He began by obtaining from the Corps Législatif, now

assembled, a levy of sixty thousand men; not that he wanted them for the

war with England, which could only be carried on by sea, but because he

required to assume an imposing attitude when about to astonish Europe by

an altogether novel incident. The Code of Civil Laws had just been

completed; this was an important work, and was said to be worthy of

general approval. The halls wherein the three great bodies of the State

assembled rang on this occasion with the praises of Bonaparte. M.

Marcorelle, a deputy of the Corps Législatif, moved, amid loud

acclamations, on the 24th of March, three days after the death of the

Duc d’Enghien, that a bust of the First Consul should be placed in the

Chamber of Deputies. “Let us,” he said, “by a striking mark of our

affection, proclaim to Europe that he who has been threatened by the

daggers of vile assassins is the object of our attachment and

admiration.”

A few days later, Fourcroy, a member of the Council of State, closed the

session in the name of the Government. He alluded to the princes of the

house of Bourbon as “members of that unnatural family which would have

drowned France in her own blood, so that they might reign over her,” and

added that they must be threatened with death if they ventured to

pollute French territory by their presence.

Meanwhile, preparations for the great trial were going on; every day

more Chouans were arrested, either in Brittany or in Paris, who were

concerned in this conspiracy, and Georges Cadoudal, Pichegru, and Moreau

had already been examined several times. The two first, it was said,

answered with firmness; Moreau appeared to be much dejected. No clear

information was obtained by these interrogatories.

One morning General Pichegru was found strangled in his prison. This

event made a great sensation. It was unhesitatingly attributed to the

need of getting rid of a formidable enemy. Pichegru’s determination of

character would, it was said, have led him, when the proceeding became

public, to utter strong language, which would have had an undesirable

effect. He would, perhaps, have created a party in his favor; he would

have cleared Moreau, whose guilt it was already so difficult to prove.

On the other hand, the partisans of Bonaparte said: “Nobody can doubt

that Pichegru came to Paris in order to get up an insurrection. He

himself does not deny it. His own avowals would have convinced the most

incredulous; his absence will prevent that full light, which is so

desirable, from being thrown on the proceedings.”

Many years afterward I asked M. de Talleyrand one day what he thought of

the death of Pichegru. “I think,” said he, “that it happened very

suddenly and in the nick of time!” But just then M. de Talleyrand had

fallen out with Bonaparte, and took every opportunity of bringing

accusations against him; I therefore by no means commit myself to any

statement respecting this event. The subject was not spoken of at Saint

Cloud, and every one refrained from the slightest reflection on it.

About this time Lucien Bonaparte left France, having quarreled

irrevocably with his brother. His marriage with Mme. Jouberthon, which

Bonaparte had been unable to prevent, was the cause of the rupture. The

Consul, full of his great projects, made a last attempt to induce him to

renounce this marriage; but it was in vain that Lucien was apprised of

the approaching grandeur of his family, in vain that a marriage with the

Queen of Etruria was proposed to him. “Love was the strongest,” and he

refused everything. A violent scene ensued, and Lucien was exiled from

France.

On this occasion I happened to see the First Consul give way to one of

those rare bursts of emotion of which I have before spoken. It was at

Saint Cloud, rather late one evening. Mme. Bonaparte was anxiously

waiting the result of this final conference between the two brothers; M.

de Rémusat and I were the only persons with her. She did not care for

Lucien, but she deprecated any family scandal. It was near midnight when

Bonaparte came into the room; he was deeply dejected, and, throwing

himself into an arm-chair, he exclaimed, in a troubled voice, “It is all

over! I have broken with Lucien, and ordered him from my presence.” Mme.

Bonaparte began to expostulate. “You are a good woman,” he said, “to

plead for him.” Then he rose from his chair, took his wife in his arms,

and laid her head softly on his shoulder, and with his hand still

resting on the beautiful head which formed a contrast to the sad, set

countenance so near it, he told us that Lucien had resisted all his

entreaties, and that he had resorted equally in vain to both threats and

persuasion. “It is hard, though,” he added, “to find in one’s own family

such stubborn opposition to interests of such magnitude. Must I, then,

isolate myself from every one? Must I rely on myself alone? Well! I will

suffice to myself, and you, Josephine—you will be my comfort always.”

I retain a pleasurable recollection of this little scene. Tears were in

Bonaparte’s eyes as he spoke. I felt inclined to thank him when he

betrayed feelings like those of other men. Shortly after this, his

brother Louis crossed his wishes in another way, and this incident had

probably a great influence on the fate of Mme. Bonaparte.

The Consul, being quite resolved to raise himself to the throne of

France and to found a dynasty, had occasionally glanced at the question

of a divorce already; but, either because of his attachment to his wife

being still too strong, or because his existing relations with Europe

did not permit him to hope for an alliance which would strengthen his

political position, he seemed just then disinclined to break with

Josephine, and disposed to adopt the young Louis Napoleon, who was his

own nephew and also Josephine’s grandson.

He no sooner allowed this project to be discerned than his family

rebelled. Joseph Bonaparte ventured to represent to him that he had done

nothing to forfeit the right to the crown which, as eldest brother, he

would acquire, and he defended that right as if it had really existed of

old.

Bonaparte, who was always irritated by opposition, grew very angry, and

only the more determined. He confided his intentions to his wife, who

was overjoyed, and spoke to me as though the realization of this project

would bring her own anxieties to an end. Mme. Louis assented, but

without displaying any gratification. She was not at all ambitious, and,

in fact, could not help fearing that such an elevation would bring down

misfortune on the head of her son.

One day, when Bonaparte was surrounded by his family, he placed the

little Napoleon between his knees, and said, while playing with him, “Do

you know, my little fellow, that you run the risk of being a king some

day?” “And Achille?” immediately asked Murat, who was present. “Oh,

Achille,” answered Bonaparte, “will be a great soldier.” This reply

incensed Mme. Murat; but Bonaparte, pretending not to notice her, and

stung by his brother’s opposition, which he believed with reason to have

been prompted by Mme. Murat, went on to say to his little step-grandson,

“And mind, my poor child, I advise you, if you value your life, not to

accept invitations to dine with your cousins.”

We may imagine to what feelings such bitter words would give rise. From

that moment Louis Bonaparte was beset by his family, who adroitly

reminded him of the rumors respecting his wife, and that he ought not to

sacrifice the interests of his own kinsfolk to those of a child who was

at least half a Beauharnais; and, as Louis Bonaparte was not quite so

destitute of ambition as people have since made him out, he, like

Joseph, went to the First Consul to ask why the sacrifice of his own

rights should be demanded of him. “Why,” said he, “should I yield my

share of inheritance to my son? How have I deserved to be cut off? What

will my position be when this child, having become yours, finds himself

very much higher placed than I, and quite independent of me, standing

next to yourself, and regarding me with suspicion, if not with contempt?

No; I will never consent to this; and, rather than renounce the proper

course of succession to the royalty which is to be yours, rather than

consent to humble myself before my own son, I will leave France, taking

Napoleon with me, and we shall see whether you will dare openly to take

a child from his father!”

The First Consul, powerful as he was, found it impossible to overcome

his brother’s opposition. His wrath availed nothing, and he was obliged

to yield, for fear of a vexatious and even ridiculous scandal; for such

it certainly would have been, to see this whole family quarreling

beforehand over the crown which France had not yet actually conferred.

The strife was hushed up, and Napoleon was obliged to draw up the scheme

of succession, and the possible case of adoption which he reserved to

himself the power of making, in the terms to be found in the decree

relating to the elevation of the First Consul to the Empire.

These quarrels embittered the enmity already existing between the

Bonapartes and the Beauharnais. The former regarded the plan of adoption

as the result of Mme. Bonaparte’s scheming. Louis gave stricter orders

to his wife than before that she should hold no familiar intercourse

with her mother. “If you consult her interests at the cost of mine,” he

told her harshly, “I swear to you that I will make you repent. I will

separate you from your son; I will shut you up in some out-of-the-way

place, and no power on earth shall deliver you. You shall pay for your

concessions to your own family by the wretchedness of the rest of your

life. And take care, above all, that none of my threats reach the ears

of my brother. Even his power should not save you from my anger.”

Mme. Louis bowed her head, a patient victim to this violence. She was

then expecting the birth of her second child. Grief and anxiety told

upon her health, which was permanently injured; the fresh complexion,

her only beauty, disappeared. She had possessed natural spirits, but

they now died away for ever; and she became silent and timid. She

refrained from confiding her troubles to her mother, whose indiscretion

and hasty temper she dreaded; and neither would she further irritate the

First Consul. He, knowing well his brother’s character, felt grateful to

her for her reticence, and guessed at the sufferings she had to endure.

From that time forth he never let an opportunity pass without exhibiting

the interest—I may even say the respect—with which the mild and

prudent demeanor of his step-daughter inspired him.

What I have just said is quite opposed to the general opinion which has

unfortunately been entertained of this unhappy woman; but her vindictive

sisters-in-law never missed an opportunity of injuring her reputation by

the most odious calumnies, and, as she bore the name of Bonaparte, the

public, when they came to hate the Imperial despotism, included every

one belonging to the family in their impartial contempt, readily

believed every calumny against Mme. Louis. Her husband (whose ill

treatment of her irritated him all the more against her), obliged to own

that she could not love him after the tyranny he had exercised, jealous

with the jealousy of pride, and naturally suspicious, embittered by ill

health, and utterly selfish, made her feel the full weight of conjugal

despotism. She was surrounded by spies; her letters were opened before

they reached her hands; her conversations even with female friends were

resented; and, if she complained of this insulting severity, he would

say to her, “You can not love me. You are a woman—consequently a being

all made up of evil and deceit; you are the daughter of an unprincipled

mother; you belong to a family that I loathe. Are not these reasons

enough for me to suspect you?”

Mme. Louis, from whom I obtained these details long afterward, found her

only comfort in the affection of her brother, whose conduct, though

jealously watched by the Bonapartes, was unassailable. Eugène, who was

simple and frank, light-hearted, and open in all his dealings,

displaying no ambition, holding himself aloof from every intrigue, and

doing his duty wherever he was placed, disarmed calumny before it could

reach him, and knew nothing of all that took place in the palace. His

sister loved him passionately, and confided her sorrows to him only,

during the few moments that the jealous watchfulness of Louis allowed

them to pass together.

Meanwhile, the First Consul, having complained to the Elector of Bavaria

of the correspondence which Mr. Drake kept up in France, and this

English gentleman entertaining some apprehensions as to his own safety,

as did also Sir Spencer Smith, the British Envoy at the Court of

Würtemburg, they both suddenly disappeared. Lord Morpeth asked the

Government, in the House of Commons, for an explanation of Drake’s

conduct. The Chancellor of the Exchequer replied that the envoy had been

given authority for his proceedings, and that a fuller explanation

should be afforded when the ambassador had furnished the information

that had been demanded from him.

At this time Bonaparte held long and frequent consultations with M. de

Talleyrand. The latter, whose opinions were essentially monarchical,

urged the Consul to change his title to that of King. He has since owned

to me that the name of Emperor alarmed him; it conveyed a sense of

vagueness and immensity, which was precisely what charmed the

imagination of Bonaparte. He added, “A combination of the Roman Republic

and of Charlemagne in the title turned his head. I amused myself one day

by mystifying Berthier. I took him aside, and said to him, ‘You know of

the great scheme that is occupying us. Go to the Consul, and urge him to

take the title of King; it will please him.’ Accordingly Berthier, who

was delighted to have an opportunity of speaking to Bonaparte on an

agreeable subject, went up to him at the other end of the room in which

we were all assembled, and I drew back a little, foreseeing the storm.

Berthier began his little speech, but at the word ‘King’ Bonaparte’s

eyes flashed fire; he seized Berthier by the throat, and pushed him back

against the wall. ‘You idiot!’ he said; ‘who has been advising you to

come here and excite my anger? Another time, don’t take such a task on

yourself.’ Poor Berthier, in dire confusion, looked piteously at me, and

it was a long time before he forgave my sorry jest.”

At last, on April 30, 1804, the tribune Curée, who had no doubt learnt

his part, and who, later on, was rewarded for his complaisance by being

created a senator, made what was then called “a motion of order” in the

Tribunate, demanding that the government of the Republic should be

confided to an Emperor, and that the Empire should be made hereditary in

the family of Napoleon Bonaparte. His speech was effective. He regarded

an hereditary succession, he said, as a guarantee against plots from

without, and that in reality the title of Emperor only meant “Victorious

Consul.” Nearly all the tribunes put down their names to speak. A

commission of thirteen members was appointed. Carnot alone had the

courage to protest against this proposal. He declared that he would vote

against an Empire, for the same reason that he had voted against a life

Consulship, but without any personal animosity, and that he was quite

prepared to render obedience to the Emperor should he be elected. He

spoke in high praise of the American form of government, and added that

Bonaparte might have adopted it at the time of the treaty of Amiens;

that the abuses of despotism led to worse results than the abuses of

liberty; and that, before smoothing the way to this despotism, which

would be all the more dangerous because it was reared on military

success, it would have been advisable to create institutions for its due

repression. Notwithstanding Carnot’s opposition, the motion was put to

the vote and adopted.

On May 4th a deputation from the Tribunate carried it to the Senate, who

were already prepared for it. The Vice-President, François de

Neufchateau, replied that the Senate had expected the vote, and would

take it into consideration. At the same sitting it was decided that the

motion of the Tribunate and the answer of the Vice-President should be

laid before the First Consul.

On May 5th the Senate sent an address to Bonaparte, asking him, without

further explanation, for a final act which would insure the future peace

of France. His answer to this address may be read in the “Moniteur.” “I

beg you,” he said, “to let me know your entire purpose. I desire that we

may be able to say to the French nation on the 14th of next July, ‘The

possessions that you acquired fifteen years ago, liberty, equality, and

glory, are now beyond the reach of every storm.’” In reply, the Senate

voted unanimously for imperial government, adding that, in the interests

of the French people, it was important that it should be intrusted to

Napoleon Bonaparte.

After May 8th addresses from the towns poured in at Saint Cloud. An

address from Lyons came first; a little later came those from Paris and

other places. At the same time came the vote from Klein’s division, and

then one from the troops in camp at Montreuil under the orders of

General Ney; and the other divisions promptly followed these examples.

M. de Fontanes addressed the First Consul in the name of the Corps

Législatif, which at this moment was not sitting; but those among its

members who were then in Paris met, and voted as the Senate had done.

The excitement that these events caused at Saint Cloud may readily be

imagined.

I have already recorded the disappointment which Louis Bonaparte’s

rejection of the project of adoption had inflicted on his mother-in-law.

She still hoped, however, that the First Consul would contrive, if he

himself remained in the same mind, to overcome the opposition of his

brother; and she expressed to me her delight that her husband’s new

prospects had not induced him to reconsider the terrible question of the

divorce. Whenever Bonaparte was displeased with his brothers, Mme.

Bonaparte always rose in his estimation, because he found consolation in

the unfailing sweetness of her disposition. She never tried to extract

from him any promise either for herself or for her children; and the

confidence she showed in his affection, together with the

disinterestedness of Eugène, when contrasted with the exactions of the

Bonaparte family, could not fail to please him. Mme. Bacciochi and

Murat, who were in great anxiety about coming events, endeavored to worm

out of M. de Talleyrand, or out of Fouché, the secret projects of the

First Consul, so that they might know what to expect. Their perturbation

was beyond their power to conceal; and it was with some amusement that I

detected it in their troubled glances and in every word they let fall.

At last we were told, one evening, that on the following day the Senate

was to come in great state and lay before Bonaparte the decree which

should give him a crown. When I recall that evening, the emotions I

experienced on hearing the news return to me. The First Consul, when

informing his wife of the coming event, had told her he intended to

surround himself with a more numerous Court, but that he would fitly

distinguish between the new-comers and those old servants who had first

devoted themselves to his service. He particularly desired her to assure

M. de Rémusat and me of his good will toward us. I have already told how

he bore with the anguish which I was unable to hide on the occasion of

the death of the Duc d’Enghien. His indulgence on this point did not

diminish; perhaps it amused him to pry into my secret feelings, and

gradually to appease them by such marked kindness that it revived my

flagging attachment to him.

I could not as yet overcome my feelings toward him. I grieved over his

great fault; but when I saw that he was, so to speak, a better man than

formerly, though I believed he had made a fatal mistake, I felt grateful

to him for keeping his word and being gentle and kind afterward, as he

had promised. The fact is that at this period he could not afford to

dispense with anybody, and he therefore neglected no means of success.

His dexterous behaviour toward M. de Caulaincourt had won him over so

that he had gradually recovered his former serenity of mind, and was at

this epoch one of the confidants of the First Consul’s schemes.

Bonaparte, having questioned his wife as to what each person at Court

had said at the time of the prince’s death, learned from her that M. de

Rémusat, who was habitually reticent both from inclination and from

prudence, but who always spoke the truth when asked, had not hesitated

to own his indignation. Being apparently resolved that nothing should

irritate him, he broached the subject to M. de Rémusat, and, having

revealed to him as much of his policy as he thought proper, succeeded in

convincing my husband that he had really believed the Duke’s death

indispensable to the safety of France. My husband, when repeating this

conversation to me, said, “I am far from agreeing with him that this

deed of blood was needed to establish his authority, and I did not

hesitate to tell him so; but I own that it is a relief to me to think

that he did not commit the crime out of revenge. He is evidently

distressed, no matter what he may say, by the effect it has produced;

and I believe he will never again seek to strengthen his authority by

such terrible means. I did not neglect to point out to him that in an

age like ours, and in a nation like ours, it is playing a dangerous game

to rule by terror and bloodshed; and I think that the earnest attention

with which he listened to me augurs well for the future.”

This sincere avowal of what we both felt shows how much need we had of

hope. Severe judges of other people might blame us, no doubt, for the

facility with which we again deceived ourselves, and impute our

credulity, with apparent justice, to our own position in the Court. Ah!

it is so hard to have to blush in secret for the calling one has chosen,

it is so pleasant to like one’s self-imposed duties, it is so natural to

paint in bright colors one’s own and one’s country’s future, that it is

only after a long struggle the conviction of a truth which must shatter

one’s whole life is admitted. Such a truth did come home to us, slowly,

but with a strength that could not be gainsaid; and we paid dearly for

an error to which all well-disposed persons clung as long as possible.

On May 18, 1804, the Second Consul, Cambacérès, President of the Senate,

came to Saint Cloud, accompanied by all the senators and escorted by a

large body of troops. He made a set speech, and gave to Bonaparte for

the first time the title of “Your Majesty.” Bonaparte took it calmly,

just as though he had borne it all his life. The Senate then proceeded

to the apartment of Mme. Bonaparte, who in her turn was proclaimed

Empress. She replied with that natural grace which always raised her to

the level of any position, however lofty, in which she might be placed.

At the same time, the Grand Dignitaries, as they were called, were

created—Grand Elector, Joseph Bonaparte; High Constable, Louis

Bonaparte; Arch-Chancellor of the Empire, Cambacérès; Arch-Treasurer, Le

Brun. The Ministers, Maret (the Secretary of State, who ranked with the

Ministers), the Colonels-general of the Guards, Duroc (the Governor of

the Palace), and the aides-de-camp took the oaths; and the next day the

officers of the army, among whom was Colonel Eugène Beauharnais, were

presented to the Emperor by the new Constable.

The opposition which Bonaparte had encountered in his own family, to his

intended adoption of the little Louis, induced him to postpone that

project. The succession was therefore declared to belong to the heirs

male of Napoleon Bonaparte, and failing these, to the sons of Joseph and

of Louis, who were created Imperial Princes. The organic _senatus

consultum_ declared that the Emperor might adopt as his successor any

one of his nephews whom he chose, but not until the selected individual

had reached the age of eighteen, and that no further act of adoption

could take place in the family.

The civil list was to be the same as that granted to the King in 1791,

and the princes were to be endowed in accordance with the law of

December 20, 1791. The great dignitaries were to have one third of the

sum settled on the princes. They were to preside over the electoral

colleges of the six largest towns in the Empire, and the princes, from

the eighteenth year of their age, were to be permanent members of the

Senate and the Council of State.

Fourteen Marshals of France were created at this date, and the title of

Marshal was conferred on four of the Senators. The new Marshals were

Berthier, Murat, Moncey, Jourdan, Masséna, Augereau, Bernadotte, Soult,

Brune, Lannes, Mortier, Ney, Davoust, Bessières; the four Senators were

Kellermann, Lefebvre, Pérignon, and Serrurier.

An article in the “Moniteur” apprised the public that the title of

Imperial Highness was to be given to the princes, that of Serene

Highness and Monseigneur to the great dignitaries; that the Ministers

were to be called Monseigneur by public officials and all petitioners,

and the Marshals Monsieur le Maréchal.

Thus disappeared the title of “Citizen,” which had long since been

disused in society, where “Monsieur” had resumed its former place, but

which Bonaparte was always most careful to employ. On the same day, the

18th of May, his brothers, with Cambacérès and Le Brun and the officers

of his household, were invited to dine with him, and we heard him use

the old word “Monsieur” for the first time, without being betrayed by

habit into saying “Citizen” even once.

Titles were also accorded to the great officers of the Empire, eight

inspectors and colonels-general of artillery, engineers, cavalry, and

the navy, and the great civil officers of the Crown, to whom I shall

refer hereafter.

CHAPTER VII

THE accession of Bonaparte to the Imperial throne was very variously

regarded in Europe, and even in France opinions were divided. It is,

however, quite certain that it did not displease the great majority of

the nation. The Jacobins were not astonished by it, for they themselves

were in the habit of pushing success as far as it would go, whenever

luck favored them. Among the Royalists it spread disheartenment, and

that was just what Bonaparte wanted. The exchange of the Consulate for

Imperial authority was, however, regarded with dislike by all true

friends of liberty. These true friends were, unfortunately, divided into

two classes, so that their influence was diminished—an evil which still

exists. One class regarded the change of the reigning dynasty with

indifference, and would have accepted Bonaparte as readily as another,

provided that he had received his royal authority in right of a

constitution which would have restrained as well as founded it. They

regarded the seizure of power by an enterprising and warlike man with

serious apprehension; for it was plain enough that the so-called “bodies

of the State,” which were already reduced to insignificance, would be

unable to check his encroachments. The Senate seemed to be given over to

mere passive obedience; the Tribunate was shaken to its foundations; and

what was to be expected from a silent Corps Législatif? The Ministers,

deprived of all responsibility, were no more than head clerks, and it

was evident beforehand that the Council of State would henceforth be

merely a storehouse, whence such laws as circumstances might demand

could be taken, as occasion for them arose.

If this section of the friends of liberty had been more numerous and

better led, it might have set itself to demand the settled and

legitimate exercise of its rights, which is never demanded in vain by a

nation in the long run. There existed, however, a second party, which

agreed with the first on fundamental principles only, and, abiding by

theories of its own, which it had already attempted to practise in a

dangerous and sanguinary manner, lost the opportunity of producing an

effective opposition. To this section belonged the proselytes of the

Anglo-American Government, who had disgusted the nation with the notion

of liberty.

They had witnessed the creation of the Consulate without any protest,

for it was a tolerably fair imitation of the Presidentship of the United

States; they believed, or wished to believe, that Bonaparte would

maintain that equality of rights to which they attached so much

importance, and some among them were really deceived. I say “some,”

because I think the greater number fell into a trap, baited with

flattery and consultations on all sorts of matters, which Bonaparte

dexterously set for them. If they had not had some private interest to

serve by deceiving themselves, how could they have declared afterward

that they had approved of Bonaparte only as Consul, but that as Emperor

he was odious to them? In what respect was he, while Consul, different

from his ordinary self? What was his Consular authority but dictatorship

under another name? Did he not, as Consul, make peace and declare war

without consulting the nation? Did not the right of levying the

conscription devolve upon him? Did he permit freedom in the discussion

of affairs? Could any journal publish a single article without his

approval? Did he not make it perfectly clear that he held his power by

the right of his victorious arms? How, then, could stern Republicans

have allowed him to take them by surprise?

I can understand how it was that men, worn out by the turmoil of the

Revolution, and afraid of that liberty which had been so long associated

with death, looked for repose under the dominion of an able ruler, on

whom fortune was seemingly resolved to smile. I can conceive that they

regarded his elevation as a decree of destiny, and fondly believed that

in the irrevocable they should find peace. I may confidently assert that

those persons believed quite sincerely that Bonaparte, whether as Consul

or as Emperor, would exert his authority to oppose the attempts of

faction, and would save us from the perils of anarchy.

None dared to utter the word Republic, so deeply had the Terror stained

that name, and the Directorial government had perished in the contempt

with which its chiefs were regarded. The return of the Bourbons could

only be brought about by the aid of a revolution; and the slightest

disturbance terrified the French people, in whom enthusiasm of every

kind seemed to be dead. Besides, the men in whom they had trusted had,

one after the other, deceived them; and as, this time, they were

yielding to force, they were at least certain that they were not

deceiving themselves.

The belief, or rather the error, that only despotism could at that epoch

maintain order in France, was very widespread. It became the mainstay of

Bonaparte; and it is due to him to say that he also held it. The

factions played into his hands by imprudent attempts which he turned to

his own advantage; he had some grounds for his belief that he was

necessary; France believed it too; and he even succeeded in persuading

foreign sovereigns that he formed a barrier against Republican

influences, which, but for him, might spread widely. At the moment when

Bonaparte placed the Imperial crown upon his head, there was not a king

in Europe who did not believe that he wore his own crown more securely

because of that event. Had the new Emperor added to that decisive act

the gift of a liberal constitution, the peace of nations and of kings

might, in sober seriousness, have been for ever secured.

Sincere defenders of Bonaparte’s original system—and some of these

still exist—advance, in justification of it, that we could not have

exacted from him that which it belongs only to a legitimate sovereign to

bestow; that freedom to discuss our interests might have been followed

by the discussion of our rights; that England, jealous of our reviving

prosperity, would have fomented fresh disturbances among us; that our

princes had not abandoned their designs, and that the slow methods of

constitutional government would not have availed to restrain the

contending factions. Hume says, when speaking of Cromwell, that it is a

great difficulty for a usurping government that its personal policy is

generally opposed to the interest of its country. This gives a

superiority to hereditary authority, of which it would be well that

nations should be convinced. But, after all, Bonaparte was not an

ordinary usurper; his elevation offered no point of comparison with that

of Cromwell. “I found the crown of France lying on the ground,” said he,

“and I took it up on the point of my sword.” He was the product of an

inevitable revolution; but he had no share in its disasters, and I

sincerely believe that, until the death of the Duc d’Enghien, it would

have been possible for him to legitimatize his power by conferring upon

France benefits of a kind which would have pledged the nation to him and

his for ever.

His despotic ambition misled him; but, I say it again, he was not the

only one who went astray. He was beguiled by appearances which he did

not take the trouble to investigate. The word “liberty” did indeed

resound in the air about him, but those who uttered it were not held in

sufficient esteem by the nation to be made its representatives to him.

Well-meaning, honest folk asked nothing of him but repose, and did not

trouble themselves about the form under which it was to be granted. And

then, he knew well that the secret weakness of the French nation was

vanity, and he saw a means of gratifying it easily by the pomp and

display that attend on monarchical power. He revived distinctions which

were now, in reality, democratic, because they were placed within the

reach of all and entailed no privileges. The eagerness displayed in the

pursuit of these titles, and of crosses, which were objects of derision

while they hung on the coats of one’s neighbors, was not likely to

undeceive him, if indeed he was on the wrong road. Was it not natural,

on the contrary, that he should applaud and congratulate himself, when

he had succeeded in bringing feudal and republican pretensions to the

same level by the assistance of a few bits of ribbons and some words

added to men’s names? Had not we ourselves much to do with that notion

which became so firmly fixed in his mind, that, for his own safety and

for ours, he ought to use the power which he possessed to suspend the

Revolution without destroying it? “My successor,” said he, “whoever he

may be, will be forced to march with his own times, and to find his

support in liberal opinions. I will bequeath them to him, but deprived

of their primitive asperity.” France imprudently applauded this idea.

Nevertheless, a warning voice—that of conscience for him, that of our

interests for us—spoke to him and to us alike. If he would silence that

importunate whisper, he would have to dazzle us by a series of

surprising feats. Hence those interminable wars, whose duration was so

all-important to him that he always called the peace which he signed “a

halt,” and hence the fact that into every one of his treaties he was

forced by M. de Talleyrand’s skill in negotiation. When he returned to

Paris, and resumed the administration of the affairs of France, in

addition to the fact that he did not know what to do with an army whose

demands grew with its victories, he had to encounter the dumb but steady

and inevitable resistance which the spirit of the age, in spite of

individual proclivities, opposes to despotism; so that despotism has

happily become an impracticable mode of government. It died with the

good fortune of Bonaparte, when, as Mme. de Staël said, “The terrible

mace which he alone could wield fell at last upon his own head.” Happy,

thrice happy, are the days in which we are now living, since we have

exhausted every experiment, and only madmen can dispute the road which

leads to safety.

Bonaparte was seconded for a long time by the military ardor of the

youth of France. That insensate passion for conquest which has been

implanted by an evil spirit in men collected into societies, to retard

the progress of each generation in every kind of prosperity, urged us

forward in the path of Bonaparte’s career of devastation. France can

rarely resist glory, and it was especially tempting when it covered and

disguised the humiliation to which we were then condemned. When

Bonaparte was quiet, he let us perceive the reality of our servitude;

when our sons marched away to plant our standards on the ramparts of all

the great cities of Europe, that servitude disappeared. It was a long

time before we recognized that each one of our conquests was a link in

the chain that fettered our liberties; and, when we became fully aware

of what our intoxication had led us into, it was too late for

resistance. The army had become the accomplice of tyranny, had broken

with France, and would treat a cry for deliverance as revolt.

The greatest of Bonaparte’s errors—one very characteristic of him—was

that he never took anything but success into account in the calculations

on which he acted. Perhaps he was more excusable than another would have

been in doubting whether any reverse could come in him. His natural

pride shrank from the idea of a defeat of any kind. There was the weak

point in his strong mind, for such a man as he ought to have

contemplated every contingency. But, as he lacked nobility of soul, and

had not that instinctive elevation of mind which rises above evil

fortune, he turned his thoughts away from this weakness in himself, and

contemplated only his wonderful faculty of growing greater with success.

“_I shall succeed_” was the basis of all his calculations, and his

obstinate repetition of the phrase helped him to realize the prediction.

At length his own good fortune grew into a superstition with him, and

his worship of it made every sacrifice which was to be imposed upon us

fair and lawful in his eyes.

And we ourselves—let us once more own it—did we not at first share

this baleful superstition? At the time of which I write, it had great

mastery over our wonder-loving imaginations. The trial of General Moreau

and the death of the Duc d’Enghien had shocked every one’s feelings, but

had not changed public opinion. Bonaparte scarcely tried to conceal that

both events had furthered the project which for a long time past he had

been maturing. It is to the credit of human nature that repugnance to

crime is innate among us; that we willingly believe, when a guilty act

is acknowledged by its perpetrator, that he has been absolutely forced

to commit it; and, when he succeeded in raising himself by such deeds,

we too readily accepted the bargain that he offered us—absolution on

our part, as the guerdon of success on his.

Thenceforth he was no longer beloved; but the days in which monarchs

reign through the love of nations are gone by, and, when Bonaparte let

us see that he could punish even our thoughts, he was well pleased to

exchange the affection we had striven to retain for him for the very

real fear that he inspired. We admired, or at least we wondered at, the

boldness of the game which he was openly playing; and when at last he

sprang, with imposing audacity, from the blood-stained grave at

Vincennes to the steps of the Imperial throne, exclaiming, “I have won!”

France, in her amazement, could but reëcho his words. And that was all

he wanted her to do.

A few days after Bonaparte had assumed the title of Emperor (by which I

shall not scruple to designate him, for, after all, he bore it longer

than that of Consul), on one of those occasions when, as I have said

before, he was disposed to talk freely to us, he was discussing his new

position with the Empress, my husband, and myself. I think I see him

still, in the window-recess of a drawing-room at Saint Cloud, astride on

a chair, resting his chin on the back of it. Mme. Bonaparte reclined on

a sofa near him; I was sitting opposite him, and M. de Rémusat stood

behind my chair. For a long time the Emperor had been silent; then he

suddenly addressed me: “You have borne me a grudge for the death of the

Duc d’Enghien?” “It is true, Sire,” I answered, “and I still bear it

you. I believe you did yourself much harm by that act.” “But are you

aware that he was waiting at the frontier for me to be assassinated?”

“Possibly, Sire; but still he was not in France.” “Ah! there is no harm

in showing other countries, now and then, that one is the master.”

“There, Sire, do not let us speak of it, or you will make me cry.” “Ah!

tears! Woman’s only weapon. That is like Josephine. She thinks she has

carried her point when she begins to cry. Are not tears, M. de Rémusat,

the strongest argument of women?” “Sire,” replied my husband, “there are

tears which can not be censured.”

“Ah! I perceive that you also take a serious view of the matter. But

that is quite natural; you have seen other days, all of you, and you

remember them. I only date from the day when I began to be somebody.

What is a Duc d’Enghien to me? Only an _émigré_, more important than the

others—nothing more. But that was enough to make me strike hard. Those

crack-brained Royalists had actually spread a report that I was to

replace the Bourbons on the throne. The Jacobins became alarmed, and

they sent Fouché to me to inquire into my intentions. Power has for the

last two years fallen so naturally into my hands, that people may well

have doubted sometimes whether I had any serious intention of investing

myself with it officially. I came to the conclusion that it was my duty

to profit by this, in order to put a lawful end to the Revolution. The

reason why I chose Empire rather than Dictatorship is because one

becomes legitimate by taking up well-known ground. I began by trying to

reconcile the two contending factions at the time of my accession to the

Consulship. I thought that, in establishing order by means of permanent

institutions, I should put an end to their enterprises; but factions are

not to be put down so long as any fear of them is shown, and every

attempt to conciliate them looks like fear. Besides, it may sometimes be

possible to get the better of a sentiment; but of an opinion, never. I

saw clearly that I could make no alliance between the two, but that I

might make one with both of them on my own account. The Concordat and

the permissions to return have conciliated the _émigrés_, and I shall

soon be completely reconciled with them; for you will see how the

attractions of a Court will allure them. The mere phrases that recall

former habits will win over the nobility, but the Jacobins require

deeds. They are not men to be won by fair words. They were satisfied

with my necessary severity when, after the 3d Nivôse, at the very moment

of a purely Royalist conspiracy, I transported a number of Jacobins.

They might justly have complained if I had struck a weaker blow. You all

thought I was becoming cruel and bloodthirsty, but you were wrong. I

have no feelings of hatred—I am not capable of acting from revenge; I

only sweep obstacles from my path, and, if it were expedient, you should

see me pardon Georges Cadoudal to-morrow, although he came simply and

solely to assassinate me.

“When people find that public tranquillity is the result of the event in

question, they will no longer reproach me with it, and in a year’s time

this execution will be regarded as a great act of policy. It is true,

however, that it has driven me to shorten the crisis. What I have just

done I did not intend to do for two years yet. I meant to retain the

Consulate, although words and things clash with one another under this

form of government, and the signature I affixed to all the acts of my

authority was the sign manual of a continual lie. We should have got on

nevertheless, France and I, because she has confidence in me, and what I

will she wills.

“As, however, this particular conspiracy was meant to shake the whole of

Europe, the Royalists and also Europe had to be undeceived. I had to

choose between continuous persecution or one decisive blow; and my

decision was not doubtful. I have for ever silenced both Royalists and

Jacobins. Only the Republicans remain—mere dreamers, who think a

republic can be made out of an old monarchy, and that Europe would stand

by and let us quietly found a federative government of twenty million

men. The Republicans I shall not win, but they are few in number and not

important. The rest of you Frenchmen like a monarchy; it is the only

government that pleases you. I will wager that you, M. de Rémusat, are a

hundred times more at your ease, now that you call me _Sire_ and that I

address you as _Monsieur_?”

As there was some truth in this remark, my husband laughed, and answered

that certainly the sovereign power became his Majesty very well.

“The fact is,” resumed the Emperor, good-humoredly, “I believe I should

not know how to obey. I recollect, at the time of the Treaty of Campo

Formio, M. de Cobentzel and I met, in order to conclude it, in a room

where, according to an Austrian custom, a dais had been erected and the

throne of the Emperor of Austria was represented. On entering the room,

I asked what that meant; and afterward I said to the Austrian Minister,

‘Now, before we begin, have that arm-chair removed, for I can never see

one seat higher than the others without instantly wanting to place

myself in it.’ You see, I had an instinct of what was to happen to me

some day.

“I have now acquired one great advantage for my government of France:

neither she nor I will deceive ourselves any longer. Talleyrand wanted

me to make myself _King_—that is _the_ word of his dictionary; but I

will have no _grands seigneurs_, except those I make myself. Besides

which, the title of King is worn out. Certain preconceived ideas are

attached to it; it would make me a kind of heir, and I will be the heir

of no one. The title that I bear is a grander one; it is still somewhat

vague, and leaves room for the imagination. Here is a revolution brought

to an end, and, I flatter myself, not harshly. Would you know why?

Because no interests have been displaced, and many have been revived.

That vanity of yours must always have breathing room; you would have

been wearied to death with the dull sternness of a republican

government. What caused the Revolution? Vanity. What will end it? Vanity

again. Liberty is a pretext; equality is your hobby, and here are the

people quite pleased with a king taken from the ranks of the soldiery.

Men like the Abbé Siéyès,” he added, laughing, “may inveigh against

despotism, but my authority will always be popular. To-day I have the

people and the army on my side; and with these a man would be a great

fool who could not reign.”

With these concluding words, Bonaparte rose. Hitherto he had been very

agreeable; his tone of voice, his countenance, his gestures, all were

familiar and encouraging. He had been smiling, he had seen our answering

smiles, and had even been amused by the remarks we had made on his

discourse; in fact, he had put us perfectly at our ease. But now, in a

moment, his manner changed. He looked at us sternly, in a way that

always seemed to increase his short stature, and gave M. de Rémusat some

insignificant order in the curt tone of a despotic master, who takes

care that every request shall be a command.

His tone of voice, so different from that to which I had been listening

for the last hour, made me start; and, when we had withdrawn, my

husband, who had noticed my involuntary movement, told me that he had

felt the same sensation. “You perceive,” he said, “he was afraid that

this momentary unbending and confidence might lessen the fear he is

always anxious to inspire. He therefore thought proper to dismiss us

with a reminder that he is the _master_.” I never forgot this just

observation, and more than once I have seen that it was founded on a

sound appreciation of Bonaparte’s character.

I have allowed myself to digress in relating this conversation and the

reflections which preceded it, and must now return to the day on which

Bonaparte was made Emperor, and continue to depict the curious scenes of

which I was an eye-witness.

I have already enumerated the guests whom Bonaparte invited to dine with

him on that day. Just before dinner was announced, Duroc, the Governor

of the Palace, informed each of us, severally, that the title of Prince

was to be given to Joseph and Louis Bonaparte, and that of Princess to

their wives. Mmes. Bacciochi and Murat were enraged at the distinction

thus made between themselves and their sisters-in-law; and Mme. Murat

could hardly conceal her anger. At six o’clock the new Emperor made his

appearance, and, with perfect ease and readiness, saluted each one

present by his or her new title. The scene made a deep impression on me;

I felt it like a presentiment. The early part of the day had been fine,

but very hot; but, about the time of the arrival of the Senate at Saint

Cloud, the weather suddenly changed, the sky became overcast, thunder

was heard, and for several hours a storm seemed impending. The dark and

heavy atmosphere which weighed on the palace of Saint Cloud struck me as

an evil omen, and I could hardly conceal the depression I felt. The

Emperor was in good spirits, and, I think secretly enjoyed the slight

confusion which the new ceremonial created among us all. The Empress

was, as usual, gracious, and unaffected, and easy; Joseph and Louis

looked pleased; Mme. Joseph appeared resigned to anything that might be

required of her; Mme. Louis was equally submissive; and Eugène

Beauharnais, whom I can not praise too highly in comparison with the

others, was simple and natural, evidently free from any secret ambition

or repining. This was not the case with the new-made Marshal Murat; but

his fear of his brother-in-law forced him to restrain himself, and he

maintained a sullen silence. Mme. Murat was excessively angry, and

during the dinner had so little control over herself that, on hearing

the Emperor address Mme. Louis several times as “Princess,” she could

not restrain her tears. She drank several glasses of water in order to

recover herself, and to appear to be taking something at the table, but

her tears were not to be checked. Every one was embarrassed, and her

brother smiled maliciously. For my own part, I was surprised, and even

shocked, to see that young and pretty face disfigured by emotions whose

source was so mean a passion.

Mme. Murat was then between twenty-two and twenty-three years of age;

her dazzlingly white skin, her beautiful fair hair, the flowery wreath

which decked it, the rose-colored dress she wore, all contributed to

give her a youthful and childlike appearance. The feelings which she now

displayed contrasted harshly with those charms. No one could pity her

tears, and I think they impressed every one else as disagreeably as they

impressed me.

Mme. Bacciochi, who was older and had more command over herself, shed no

tears; but her manner was abrupt and sarcastic, and she treated us all

with marked haughtiness.

The Emperor became annoyed at last by his sisters’ behavior, and he

aggravated their ill humor by indirect taunts, which wounded them very

deeply. All that I witnessed during that eventful day gave me new

notions of the effect which ambition produces on minds of a certain

order; it was a spectacle of which I could have formed no previous

conception.

On the following day, after a family dinner, a violent scene took place,

at which I was not present; but we could hear something of it through

the wall which divided the Empress’s boudoir from our salon. Mme. Murat

burst into complaints, tears, and reproaches; she asked why she and her

sisters were to be condemned to obscurity and contempt, while strangers

were to be loaded with honors and dignity? Bonaparte answered her

angrily, asserting several times that he was master, and would

distribute honors as he pleased. It was on this occasion that he uttered

the memorable remark, “Really, mesdames, to hear your pretension, one

would think we hold the crown from our father, the late King.”

The Empress afterward retailed to me the whole of this angry dispute.

With all her kindheartedness, she could not help enjoying the wrath of a

person who so thoroughly disliked her. The discussion ended by Mme.

Murat’s falling on the floor in a dead faint, overcome by her excessive

anger and by the acrimony of her brother’s reproaches. At this,

Bonaparte’s anger vanished, and when his sister recovered consciousness

he gave her some little encouragement. A few days later, after a

consultation with M. de Talleyrand, Cambacérès, and others, it was

arranged that titles of courtesy should be given to the sisters of the

Emperor, and we learned from the “Moniteur” that they were to be

addressed as “Imperial Highness.”

Another vexation was, however, in store for Mme. Murat and her husband.

The private regulations of the palace of Saint Cloud divided the

Imperial apartment into several reception-rooms, which could only be

entered according to the newly acquired rank of each person. The room

nearest the Emperor’s cabinet became the throne-room, or Princes’ room,

and Marshal Murat, although the husband of a princess, was excluded from

it. M. de Rémusat had the unpleasant task of refusing him admittance

when he was about to pass in. Although my husband was not responsible

for the orders he had received, and executed them with scrupulous

politeness, Murat was deeply offended by this public affront; and he and

his wife, already prejudiced against us on account of our attachment to

the Empress, henceforth honored us both, if I may use the word, with a

secret enmity, of which we have more than once experienced the effects.

Mme. Murat, however, who had discovered her influence over her brother,

was far from considering the case hopeless on this occasion; and, in

fact, she eventually succeeded in raising her husband to the position

she so eagerly desired for him.

The new code of precedence caused some disturbance in a Court which had

hitherto been tolerably quiet. The struggle of contending vanity that

convulsed the Imperial family was parodied in Mme. Bonaparte’s circle.

In addition to her four ladies-in-waiting, Mme. Bonaparte was in the

habit of receiving the wives of the various officers attached to the

service of the First Consul. Besides these, Mme. Murat was frequently

invited—she lived permanently at Saint Cloud on account of her

husband’s position there; also Mme. de la Valette, the Marquis de

Beauharnais’s daughter, whose misfortunes and conjugal tenderness

afterward made her famous at the time of the sentence passed on her

husband and his escape, in 1815. He was of very humble origin, but

clever, and of amiable disposition. After having served some time in the

army, he had abandoned a mode of life unsuited to his tastes. The First

Consul had employed him on some diplomatic missions, and had just

appointed him Counsellor of State. He evinced extreme devotion to all

the Beauharnais, whose kinsman he had become. His wife was amiable and

unpretending by nature, but it seemed as though vanity were to become

the ruling passion in every one belonging to the Court, of both sexes

and all ages.

An order from the Emperor which gave the ladies-in-waiting precedence

over others became a signal for an outburst of feminine jealousy. Mme.

Maret, a cold, proud personage, was annoyed that we should take

precedence of her, and made common cause with Mme. Murat, who fully

shared her feelings. Besides this, M. de Talleyrand, who was no friend

to Maret, and mercilessly ridiculed his absurdities, and was also on bad

terms with Murat, had become an object of dislike to both, and,

consequently, a bond of union between the two. The Empress did not like

anybody who was a friend of Mme. Murat, and treated Mme. Maret with some

coldness; and, although I never shared any of these feelings, and, for

my own part, disliked nobody, I was included in the animadversions of

that party upon the Beauharnais.

On Sunday morning the new Empress received commands to appear at mass,

attended only by her four ladies-in-waiting. Mme. de la Valette, who had

hitherto accompanied her aunt on all occasions, finding herself suddenly

deprived of this privilege, burst into tears, and so we had to set about

consoling this ambitious young lady. I observed these things with much

amusement, preserving my serenity in these somewhat absurd dissensions,

which were, nevertheless, natural enough. So much was it a matter of

course for the inmates of the palace to live in a state of excitement,

and to be either joyous or depressed according as their new-born

projects of ambition were accomplished or disappointed, that one day,

when I was in great spirits and laughing heartily at some jest or other,

one of Bonaparte’s aides-de-camp came up to me and asked me in a low

voice whether I had been promised some new dignity. I could not help

asking him in return whether he fancied that at Saint Cloud one must

always be in tears unless one was a princess.

Yet I had my own little ambition too, but it was moderate and easy to

satisfy. The Emperor had made known to me through the Empress, and M. de

Caulaincourt had repeated it to my husband, that, on the consolidation

of his own fortunes, he would not forget those who had from the first

devoted themselves to his service. Relying on this assurance, we felt

easy with regard to our future, and took no steps to render it secure.

We were wrong, for every one else was actively at work. M. de Rémusat

had always kept aloof from any kind of scheming, a defect in a man who

lived at a Court. Certain good qualities are absolutely a bar to

advancement in the favor of sovereigns. They do not like to find

generous feelings and philosophical opinions which are a mark of

independence of mind in their surroundings; and they think it still less

pardonable that those who serve them should have any means of escaping

from their power. Bonaparte, who was exacting in the kind of service he

required, quickly perceived that M. de Rémusat would serve him

faithfully, and yet would not bend to all his caprices. This discovery,

together with some additional circumstances which I shall relate in

their proper places, induced him to discard his obligations to him. He

retained my husband near him; he made use of him to suit his own

convenience; but he did not confer the same honors upon him which he

bestowed on many others, because he knew that no favors would procure

the compliance of a man who was incapable of sacrificing self-respect to

ambition. The arts of a courtier were, besides, incompatible with M. de

Rémusat’s tastes. He liked solitude, serious occupations, family life;

every feeling of his heart was tender and pure; the use, or rather the

waste of his time, which was exclusively occupied in a continual and

minute attention to the details of Court etiquette, was a source of

constant regret to him. The Revolution, which removed him from the ranks

of the magistracy, having deprived him of his chosen calling, he thought

it his duty to his children to accept the position which had offered

itself; but the constant attention to important trifles to which he was

condemned was wearisome, and he was only punctual when he ought to have

been assiduous. Afterward, when the veil fell from his eyes, and he saw

Bonaparte as he really was, his generous spirit was roused to

indignation, and close personal attendance on him became very painful to

my husband. Nothing is so fatal to the promotion of a courtier as his

being actuated by conscientious scruples which he does not conceal. But,

at the period of which I am speaking, these feelings of ours were still

only vague, and I must repeat what I have already said—that we believed

that the Emperor was in some measure indebted to us, and we relied on

him.

The time soon came, however, when we lost some of our importance. People

of rank equal to our own, and soon afterward those who were our

superiors both in rank and fortune, begged to be allowed to form part of

the Imperial Court; and thenceforth the services of those who were the

first to show the way thither decreased in value. Bonaparte was highly

delighted at his gradual conquest of the French nobility, and even Mme.

Bonaparte, who was more susceptible of affection than he, had her head

turned for a time by finding real _grandes dames_ among her

ladies-in-waiting. Wiser and more far-sighted persons than ourselves

would have been more than ever attentive and assiduous in order to keep

their footing, which was disputed in every direction by a crowd full of

their own importance; but, far from acting thus, we gave way to them. We

saw in all this an opportunity of partially regaining our freedom, and

imprudently availed ourselves of it; and when, from any cause whatever,

one loses ground at Court, it is rarely to be recovered.

M. de Talleyrand, who was urging Bonaparte to surround himself with all

the prestige of royalty, advised him to gratify the vanity and

pretension of those whom he wished to allure; and in France the nobility

can be satisfied only by being placed in the front. Those distinctions

to which they thought themselves entitled had to be dangled before their

eyes; the Montmorencys, the Montesquious, etc., were secured by the

promise that, from the day they cast in their lot with Bonaparte, they

should resume all their former importance. In fact, it could not be

otherwise, when the Emperor had once resolved on forming a regular

Court.

Some persons have thought that Bonaparte would have done more wisely had

he retained some of the simplicity and austerity in externals which

disappeared with the Consulate when he adopted the new title of Emperor.

A constitutional government and a limited Court, displaying no luxury,

and significant of the change which successive revolutions had wrought

in people’s ideas, might perhaps have been less pleasing to the national

vanity, but it would have commanded more real respect. At the time of

which I am speaking, the dignities to be conferred on those persons

surrounding the new sovereign were much discussed. Duroc requested M. de

Rémusat to give his ideas on the subject in writing. He drew up a wise

and moderate plan, but which was too simple for those secret projects

which no one had then divined. “There is not sufficient display in it,”

said Bonaparte, as he read it; “all that would not throw dust in

people’s eyes.” His project was to decoy, in order to deceive more

effectually.

As he refused to give a free constitution to the French, he had to

conciliate and fascinate them by every possible means; and, there being

always some littleness in pride, supreme power was not enough for

him—he must have the appearance of it too; he must have etiquette,

chamberlains, and so forth, which he believed would disguise the

_parvenu_. He liked display; he leaned toward a feudal system quite

alien to the age in which he lived, but which nevertheless he intended

to establish. It would, however, in all probability, have only lasted

for the duration of his own reign.

It would be impossible to record all his notions on this subject. The

following were some of them: “The French Empire,” he would say, “will

become the mother country of the other sovereignties of Europe. I intend

that each of the kings shall be obliged to build a big palace for his

own use in Paris; and that, on the coronation of the Emperor of the

French, these kings shall come to Paris, and grace by their presence

that imposing ceremony to which they will render homage.” What did this

project mean, except that he hoped to revive the feudal system, and to

resuscitate a Charlemagne who, for his own advantage only, and to

strengthen his own power, should avail himself of the despotic notions

of a former era and also of the experience of modern times?

Bonaparte frequently declared that he alone was the whole Revolution,

and he at length persuaded himself that in his own person he preserved

all of it which it would not be well to destroy.

A fever of etiquette seemed to have seized on all the inhabitants of the

Imperial palace of Saint Cloud. The ponderous regulations of Louis XIV.

were taken down from the shelves in the library, and extracts were

commenced from them, in order that a code might be drawn up for the use

of the new Court. Mme. Bonaparte sent for Mme. Campan, who had been

First Bedchamber Woman to Marie Antoinette. She was a clever woman, and

kept a school, where, as I have already mentioned, nearly all the young

girls who appeared at Bonaparte’s Court had been educated. She was

questioned in detail as to the manners and customs of the last Queen of

France, and I was appointed to write everything that she related from

her dictation. Bonaparte added the very voluminous memoranda which

resulted from this to those which were brought to him from all sides. M.

de Talleyrand was consulted about everything. There was a continual

coming and going; people were living in a kind of uncertainty which had

its pleasing side, because every one hoped to rise higher. I must

candidly confess that we all felt ourselves more or less elevated.

Vanity is ingenious in its expectations, and ours were unlimited.

Sometimes it was disenchanting, for a moment, to observe the almost

ridiculous effect that this agitation produced upon certain classes of

society. Those who had nothing to do with our brand-new dignities said

with Montaigne, “_Vengeons-nous par en médire._” Jests more or less

witty, and _calembours_ more or less ingenious, were lavished on these

new-made princes, and somewhat disturbed our brilliant visions; but the

number of those who dare to censure success is small, and flattery was

much more common than criticism, at any rate in the circle under our

observation.

Such was, then, the position of affairs at the close of the era which

terminates here. The narrative of the second epoch will show what

progress we all made (when I say “we all,” I mean France and Europe) in

this course of brilliant errors, which was destined to lead to the loss

of our liberties and the obscuration of our true greatness for a long

period.

In the April of that year Bonaparte made his brother Louis a member of

the Council of State, and Joseph colonel of the 4th Regiment of

Infantry. “You must both belong to the civil and military service by

turns,” he said. “You must not be strangers to anything that concerns

the interests of the country.”

CHAPTER VIII

(1804.)

THE creation of the Empire had turned public attention away from the

proceeding against Moreau, which were, however, going on. The accused

had been brought before the tribunal several times; but, the more the

case was investigated, the less hope there was of the condemnation of

Moreau, which became day by day an object of greater importance. I am

perfectly convinced that the Emperor would not have allowed Moreau’s

life to be taken. That the General should be condemned and pardoned

would have been sufficient for his purpose, which was to refute, by the

sentence of the court, those who accused him of having acted with undue

haste and personal animosity.

All who have brought cool observation to bear upon this important event

are agreed in thinking that Moreau exhibited weakness and want of

judgment. When he was brought up for examination, he showed none of the

dignity that was expected from him. He did not, like Georges Cadoudal,

assume the attitude of a determined man, who openly avowed the lofty

designs that had actuated him; neither did he assume that of an innocent

man, full of righteous indignation at an unjust charge. He prevaricated

in some of his answers, and the interest which he inspired was

diminished by that fact; but even then Bonaparte gained nothing by this

lessening enthusiasm, and not only party spirit, but reason itself,

censured no less strongly than before a proceeding which was still

attributed to personal enmity.

At length, on the 30th of May, the formal indictment (_acte

d’accusation_) appeared in the “Moniteur.” It was accompanied by certain

letters written by Moreau in 1795, before the 18th Fructidor, which

proved that the General, being then convinced that Pichegru was

corresponding with the princes, had denounced him to the Directory. A

general and natural question then arose: Why had Moreau acted so

differently in the case of this second conspiracy, justifying himself by

the statement that he had not thought it proper to reveal the secret of

a plot, in which he had refused to engage, to the First Consul?

On the 6th of June the examinations of all the accused persons were

published. Among these there were some who declared positively that the

princes, in England, were quite confident that they might count upon

Moreau; that it was with this hope Pichegru had gone to France, and that

the two generals had subsequently on several occasions had interviews

with Georges Cadoudal. They even asserted that Pichegru had evinced

great dissatisfaction after these interviews, had complained that Moreau

gave him only half-hearted support, and seemed anxious to profit on his

own account by the blow which was to strike Bonaparte. A person named

Bolland declared that Moreau had said, “The first thing to be done is to

get rid of the First Consul.”

Moreau, on being questioned in his turn, answered that Pichegru, when he

was in England, had conveyed an inquiry to him as to whether he would

assist him in case he should wish to return to France, and that he had

promised to help him to carry out that project. It naturally occasioned

no little astonishment that Pichegru, who had been denounced some years

before by Moreau himself, should have applied to him to obtain his

“erasure”; and Pichegru had, at the time of his examination, denied that

he had done so. At the same time, however, he also denied that he had

seen Moreau, although Moreau acknowledged that they had met, and he

persisted in declaring that in coming to France he had been actuated

solely by his aversion to a foreign country, and his desire to return to

his own. Shortly afterward Pichegru was found strangled in his prison,

and the circumstances of his death have never been explained, nor have

any comprehensible motives which could have rendered it necessary to

himself been assigned.

Moreau admitted that he had received Pichegru (who took him, he said, by

surprise) at his house, but he declared at the same time that he had

positively refused to enter into a scheme for the replacement of the

house of Bourbon on the throne, because such a resolution would disturb

the settlement of the national property; and he added that, so far as

his own personal pretensions were concerned, the notion was absurd, as

it would have been necessary to their success that not only the First

Consul, but the two other Consuls, the Governors of Paris, and the

guard, should be got rid of. He declared that he had seen Pichegru but

once, although others of the accused asserted that several interviews

had taken place between them; and he maintained this line of defense

unshaken. He was, however, obliged to admit that he had discovered at an

advanced stage of the affair that Frasnières, his private secretary, was

deeply involved with the conspirators. Frasnières had fled on the first

alarm.

Georges Cadoudal answered that his plan was to attack the First Consul,

and remove him by force; that he had never entertained a doubt of

finding in Paris itself a number of enemies of the actual _régime_ who

would aid him in his enterprise; and that he would have endeavored by

every means in his power to replace Louis XVIII. upon his throne. He

steadily denied, however, that he knew either Pichegru or Moreau; and he

terminated his replies with these words: “You have victims enough; I do

not wish to augment their number.”

Bonaparte seemed to be impressed by this strength of character, and said

to us on that occasion, “If it were possible that I could save any of

these assassins, I should pardon Georges.”

The Duc de Polignac replied that he had come to France secretly, with

the sole purpose of ascertaining positively the state of public opinion,

and what were the chances it afforded; but that, when he perceived that

an assassination was in question, he had thought only of getting away

again, and would have left France if he had not been arrested.

M. de Rivière made a similar answer, and M. Jules de Polignac declared

that he had merely followed his brother.

On the 10th of June twenty of the accused persons were convicted and

sentenced to death. At the head of the list were Georges Cadoudal and

the Marquis de Rivière. The judgment went on to state that Jules de

Polignac, Louis Méridan, Moreau, and Bolland were guilty of having taken

part in the said conspiracy, but that it appeared from the “instruction”

and the investigation that there were circumstances which rendered them

excusable, and that the court therefore commuted the punishment which

they had incurred to that of fine and imprisonment.

I was at Saint Cloud when the news of this finding of the court arrived.

Every one was dumbfounded. The Chief Judge had pledged himself to the

First Consul that Moreau should be condemned to death, and Bonaparte’s

discomfiture was so great that he was incapable of concealing it. It was

publicly known that, at his first public audience on the Sunday

following, he displayed ungoverned anger toward Lecourbe (brother to the

general of that name), the judge who had spoken strongly in favor of

Moreau’s innocence at the trial. He ordered Lecourbe out of his

presence, calling him a “prevaricating judge”—an epithet whose

signification nobody could guess; and shortly afterward he deprived him

of his judgeship.

I returned to Paris, much troubled by the state of things at Saint

Cloud, and I found that among a certain party in the city the result of

the trial was regarded with exultation which was nothing short of an

insult to the Emperor. The nobility were much grieved by the

condemnation of the Duc de Polignac.

I was with my mother and my husband, and we were deploring the

melancholy results of these proceedings, and the numerous executions

which were about to take place, when I was informed that the Duchesse de

Polignac, and her aunt, Mme. Daudlau, the daughter of Helvétius, whom I

had often met in society, had come to visit me. They were ushered into

the room, both in tears. The Duchess, who was in an interesting

situation, enlisted my sympathies at once; she came to entreat me to

procure an audience of the Emperor for her, that she might implore him

to pardon her husband. She had no means of gaining admission to the

palace of Saint Cloud, and she hoped I would assist her. M. de Rémusat

and my mother were, like myself, fully alive to the difficulty of the

enterprise, but we all three felt that I ought not to allow that

difficulty to hinder me from making the attempt; and as we still had

some days before us, because of the appeal against their sentence which

the condemned men had made, I arranged with the two ladies that they

should go to Saint Cloud on the following day, while I was to precede

them by a few hours, and induce Mme. Bonaparte to receive them.

Accordingly, the next day I returned to Saint Cloud, and I had no

difficulty in obtaining a promise from my good Empress that she would

receive a person in so unhappy a position. But she did not conceal from

me that she felt considerable dread of approaching the Emperor at a

moment when he was so much displeased. “If,” said she, “Moreau had been

condemned, I should feel more hopeful of our success; but he is in such

a rage that I am afraid he will turn us away, and be angry with you for

what you are going to make me do.”

I was too much moved by the tears and the condition of Mme. de Polignac

to be influenced by such a consideration, and I did my best to make the

Empress realize the impression which these sentences had produced in

Paris. I reminded her of the death of the Duc d’Enghien, of Bonaparte’s

elevation to the Imperial throne in the midst of sanguinary punishments,

and pointed out to her that the general alarm would be allayed by one

act of clemency which might, at least, be quoted side by side with so

many acts of severity.

While I was speaking to the Empress with all the warmth and earnestness

of which I was capable, and with streaming tears, the Emperor suddenly

entered the room from the terrace outside; this he frequently did of a

morning, when he would leave his work, and come through the glass door

into his wife’s room for a little talk with her. He instantly perceived

our agitation, and, although at another moment I should have been taken

aback at his unlooked-for presence, the profound emotion which I felt

overcame all other considerations, and I replied to his questions with a

frank avowal of what I had ventured to do. The Empress, who was closely

observing his countenance, seeing the severe look that overcast it, did

not hesitate to come to my aid by telling him that she had already

consented to receive Mme. de Polignac.

The Emperor began by refusing to listen to us, and complaining that we

were putting him in for all the difficulty of a position which would

give him the appearance of cruelty. “I will not see this woman,” he said

to me. “I can not grant a pardon. You do not see that this Royalist

party is full of young fools, who will begin again with this kind of

thing, and keep on at it, if they are not kept within bounds by a severe

lesson. The Bourbons are credulous; they believe the assurances which

they get from schemers who deceive them respecting the real state of the

public mind of France, and they will send a lot of victims over here.”

This answer did not stop me; I was extremely excited, partly by the

event itself, and perhaps also by the slight risk I was running of

displeasing my formidable master. I would not be so cowardly in my own

eyes as to retreat before any personal consideration, and that feeling

made me bold and tenacious. I insisted so strongly, and entreated with

such earnestness, that the Emperor, who was walking hurriedly about the

room while I was speaking, suddenly paused opposite to me, and, fixing a

piercing gaze on me, said: “What personal interest do you take in these

people? You are not excusable except they are your relatives.”

“Sire,” I answered, with all the firmness I could summon up, “I do not

know them, and until yesterday I had never seen Mme. de Polignac.”

“What! And you thus plead the cause of people who came here to

assassinate me?” “No, Sire; I plead the cause of an unfortunate woman

who is in despair, and—I must say it—I plead your own cause too.” And

then, quite carried away by my feelings, I repeated all that I had said

to the Empress. She was as much affected as myself, and warmly seconded

all I said. But we could obtain nothing from the Emperor at that moment;

he went angrily away, telling us not to “worry” him any more.

A few minutes afterward I was informed that Mme. de Polignac had

arrived. The Empress received her in a private room, and promised that

she would do everything in her power to obtain a pardon for the Duc de

Polignac. During the course of that morning, certainly one of the most

agitating I have ever lived through, the Empress went twice into her

husband’s cabinet, and twice had to leave it, repulsed. Each time she

returned to me, quite disheartened, and I was losing hope and beginning

to tremble at the prospect of having to take a refusal to Mme. de

Polignac as the final answer. At length we learned that M. de Talleyrand

was with the Emperor, and I besought the Empress to make one last

attempt, thinking that, if M. de Talleyrand were a witness to it, he

would endeavor to persuade Bonaparte. And, in fact, he did second the

Empress at once and strongly; and at length Bonaparte, vanquished by

their supplications, consented to allow Mme. de Polignac to appear

before him. This was promising everything; it would have been impossible

to utter a cruel “No!” in such a presence. Mme. de Polignac was ushered

into the cabinet, and fell fainting at the Emperor’s feet. The Empress

was in tears; the pardon of the Duc de Polignac was granted, and an

article written by M. de Talleyrand gave a charming account of the

scene, in what was then called the “Journal de l’Empire,” on the

following day.

M. de Talleyrand, on leaving the Emperor’s cabinet, found me in the

Empress’s boudoir, and related to me all that had occurred. He made me

cry afresh, and he was far from being unmoved himself; but,

nevertheless, he also made me laugh by his recital of an absurd little

circumstance which had not escaped his keen perception of the

ridiculous. Poor Mme. Daudlau, who had accompanied her niece, and wanted

to produce her own particular little effect, kept on repeating, in the

midst of her efforts to revive Mme. de Polignac—who was restored to

consciousness with great difficulty—“Sire, I am the daughter of

Helvétius!”

The Duc de Polignac’s sentence was commuted to four years’ imprisonment,

to be followed by banishment He was sent to join his brother, and, after

having been confined in a fortress, they were removed to a civil prison,

whence they escaped during the campaign of 1814. The Duc de Rovigo

(Fouché), who was then Minister of Police, was suspected of having

connived at their escape, in order to curry favor with the party whose

approaching triumph he foresaw.

I have no desire to make more of myself on this occasion than I strictly

deserve, but I think it will be admitted that circumstances so fell out

as to permit me to render a very substantial service to the Polignac

family—one of which it would seem natural that they should have

preserved some recollection. Since the return of the King to France, I

have, however, been taught by experience how effectually party spirit,

especially among courtiers, effaces all sentiments of which it

disapproves, no matter how just they may be.

After the incident which I have just related, I received a few visits

from Mme. de Polignac, who doubtless held herself bound to so much

recognition of me; but, by degrees, as we lived in different circles, we

lost sight of each other for some years, until the Restoration. At that

epoch the Duc de Polignac, having been sent by the King to Malmaison to

thank the Empress Josephine in his Majesty’s name for her zealous

efforts to save the life of the Duc d’Enghien, took advantage of the

opportunity to express his own gratitude to her at the same time. The

Empress informed me of this visit, and said that no doubt the Duke would

also call on me; and I confess that I expected some polite recognition

from him. I did not receive any; and, as it was not according to my

notions to endeavor to arouse by any words of mine gratitude which could

only be valuable by being voluntary, I remained quietly at home, and

made no reference to an event which the persons concerned in it seemed

to wish to forget, or at least to ignore.

One evening chance brought me in contact with Mme. de Polignac. It was

at a reception at the house of the Duc d’Orléans, and in the midst of a

great crowd. The Palais Royal was splendidly decorated, all the French

nobility were assembled there, and the _grands seigneurs_ and high-born

gentlemen to whom the Restoration at first seemed to mean the

restoration of their former rights, accosted each other with the easy,

secure, and satisfied manner so readily resumed with success. Amid this

brillant crowd I perceived the Duchesse de Polignac. After long years I

found her again, restored to her rank, receiving all those

congratulations which were due to her, surrounded by an adulatory crowd.

I recalled the day on which I first saw her, the state she was then in,

her tears, her terror, the way in which she came toward me when she

entered my room, and almost fell at my feet. I was deeply moved by this

contrast, and, being only a few paces from her, the interest with which

she inspired me led me to approach her. I addressed her in a tone of

voice which, no doubt, fully conveyed the really tender feeling of the

moment, and congratulated her on the very different circumstances under

which we met again. All I would have asked of her was a word of

remembrance, which would have responded to the emotion I felt on her

account. This feeling was speedily chilled by the indifference and

constraint with which she listened to what I said. She either did not

recognize me, or she affected not to do so; I had to give my name. Her

embarrassment increased. On perceiving this I immediately turned away,

and with very painful feelings; for those which her presence had caused,

and which I had thought at first she would share, were rudely dispelled.

The Empress’s goodness in obtaining a remission of the capital sentence

for M. de Polignac made a great sensation in Paris, and gave rise to

renewed praise of her kindness of heart, which had obtained almost

universal recognition. The wives, or mothers, or sisters of the other

political offenders immediately besieged the palace of Saint Cloud, and

endeavored to obtain audience of the Empress, hoping to enlist her

sympathy. Applications were also made to her daughter, and they both

obtained further pardons or commutations of sentence. The Emperor felt

that a dark shadow would be cast on his accession to the throne by so

many executions, and showed himself accessible to the petitions

addressed to him.

His sisters, who were by no means included in the popularity of the

Empress, and were anxious to obtain if possible some public favor for

themselves, gave the wives of some of the condemned men to understand

that they might apply to them also. They then took the petitioners in

their own carriages to Saint Cloud, in a sort of semi-state, to entreat

pardon for their husbands. These proceedings, as to which the Emperor, I

believe, had been consulted beforehand, seemed less spontaneous than

those of the Empress—indeed, bore signs of prearrangement; but at any

rate they served to save the lives of several persons. Murat, who had

excited universal indignation by his violent behavior and by his

hostility to Moreau, also tried to regain popularity by similar devices,

and did in fact obtain a pardon for the Marquis de Rivière. On the same

occasion he brought a letter from Georges Cadoudal to Bonaparte, which I

heard read. It was a manly and outspoken letter, such as might be penned

by a man who, being convinced that the deeds he has done, and which have

proved his destruction, were dictated by a generous sense of duty and an

unchangeable resolution, is resigned to his fate. Bonaparte was deeply

impressed by this letter, and again expressed his regret that he could

not extend clemency to Georges Cadoudal.

This man, the real head of the conspiracy, died with unshaken courage.

Twenty had been condemned to death. The capital sentence was, in the

cases of seven, commuted to a more or less prolonged imprisonment. Their

names are as follows: the Duc de Polignac, the Marquis de Rivière,

Russillon, Rochelle, D’Hozier, Lajollais, Guillard. The others were

executed. General Moreau was taken to Bordeaux, and put on board a ship

for the United States. His family sold their property by Imperial

command; the Emperor bought a portion of it, and bestowed the estate of

Grosbois on Marshal Berthier.

A few days later, the “Moniteur” published a protest from Louis XVIII.

against the accession of Napoleon. It appeared on July 1, 1804, but

produced little effect. The Cadoudal conspiracy had weakened the faint

sentiment of barely surviving allegiance to the old dynasty. The plot

had, in fact, been so badly conceived; it seemed to be based on such

total ignorance of the internal state of France, and of the opinions of

the various parties in the country; the names and the characters of the

conspirators inspired so little confidence; and, above all, the further

disturbances which must have resulted from any great change, were so

universally dreaded that, with the exception of a small number of

gentlemen whose interests would be served by the renewal of an abolished

state of things, there was in France no regret for a result which served

to strengthen the newly inaugurated system. Whether from conviction, or

from a longing for repose, or from yielding to the sway of the great

fortunes of the new Head of the State, many gave in their adhesion to

his sovereignty, and from this time forth France assumed a peaceful and

orderly attitude. The opposing factions became disheartened, and, as

commonly happens when this is the case, each individual belonging to

them made secret attempts to link his lot to the chances offered by a

totally new system. Gentle and simple, Royalists and Liberals, all began

to scheme for advancement. New ambitions and vanities were aroused, and

favors solicited in every direction. Bonaparte beheld those on whom he

could least have counted suing for the honor of serving him.

Meanwhile he was not in haste to choose from among them; he delayed a

long time, in order to feed their hopes and to increase the number of

aspirants. During this respite, I left the Court for a little

breathing-time in the country. I stayed for a month in the valley of

Montmorency, with Mme. d’Houdetot, of whom I have already spoken. The

quiet life I led in her house was refreshing after the anxieties and

annoyances which I had recently had to endure almost uninterruptedly. I

needed this interval of rest; my health, which since that time has

always been more or less delicate, was beginning to fail, and my spirits

were depressed by the new aspect of events, and by discoveries I was

slowly making about things in general, and about certain great

personages in particular. The gilded veil which Bonaparte used to say

hung before the eyes of youth was beginning to lose its brightness, and

I became aware of the fact with astonishment, which always causes more

or less suffering, until time and experience have made us wiser and

taught us to take things more easily.

CHAPTER IX

(1804.)

BY degrees the flotillas built in our other harbors came round to join

those of Boulogne. They sometimes met with obstacles on the way, for

English vessels were always cruising about the coast to prevent their

junction. The camps at Boulogne, at Montreuil, and at Compiègne

presented an imposing appearance, and the army became daily more

numerous and more formidable.

There is no doubt that these preparations for war, and the comments

which were made upon them in Paris, caused some anxiety in Europe; for

an article appeared in the newspapers which created no great impression

at the time, but which I considered to be worth preserving, because it

was an exact forecast of all that has since occurred. It appeared in the

“Moniteur” of July 10, 1804, on the same day with an account of the

audience given by the Emperor to all the ambassadors who had just

received fresh credentials to his Court. Some of the latter contained

flattering expressions from foreign sovereigns on his accession to the

throne.

This is the article:

“From time immemorial, the metropolis has been the home of hearsay (_les

on dit_). A new rumor springs up every day, to be contradicted on the

next. Although there has been of late more activity, and a certain

persistence in these reports which gratify idle curiosity, we think it

more desirable to leave them to time, and that wisest of all possible

replies silence! Besides, what sensible Frenchman, really interested in

discovering the truth, will fail to recognize in the current rumors the

offspring of malignity more or less interested in their circulation?

“In a country where so large a number of men are well aware of existing

facts, and are able to judge of those which do not exist, if any one

imagines that current rumors ought to cause him real anxiety, if a

credulous confidence in them influences his commercial enterprises or

his personal interests, either his error is not a lasting one, or he

must lay the blame on his own want of reflection.

“But foreigners, persons attached to diplomatic missions, not having the

same means of judging, nor the same knowledge of the country, are often

deceived; and, although for a long time past they have had opportunities

of observing how invariably every event gives the lie to current gossip,

they nevertheless repeat it in foreign countries, and thus give rise to

most erroneous notions about France. We therefore think it advisable to

say a few words in this journal on the subject of political gossip.

“_It is said_ that the Emperor is about to unite the Italian republic,

the Ligurian republic, the republic of Lucca, the kingdom of Etruria,

the Papal States, and, by a necessary consequence, Naples and Sicily,

under his own rule. _It is said_ that the same fate is reserved for

Switzerland and Holland. _It is said_ that, by annexing Hanover, the

Emperor will be enabled to become a member of the Germanic

Confederation.

“Many deductions are drawn from these suppositions; and the first we

remark is that the Pope will abdicate, and that Cardinal Fesch or

Cardinal Ruffo will be raised to the Pontifical Throne.

“We have already said, and we repeat it, that if the influence of France

were to be exerted in any changes affecting the Sovereign Pontiff, it

would be exerted for the welfare of the Holy Father, and to increase the

respect due to the Holy See and its possessions, rather than to diminish

it.

“As to the kingdom of Naples, Mr. Action’s aggressive action and his

constantly hostile policy might in former times have afforded France a

legitimate cause of war, which she would never have undertaken with the

intention of uniting the Two Sicilies to the French Empire.

“The Italian and Ligurian republics and the kingdom of Etruria will not

cease to exist as independent States, and it is surely very unlikely

that the Emperor would disown both the duties attached to the authority

which he derives from the comitia of Lyons, and the personal glory he

has acquired by twice restoring to independence the States which twice

he has conquered.

“We may ask, as regards Switzerland, who prevented its annexation to

France before the Act of Mediation? This Act, the immediate result of

care and thought on the part of the Emperor, has restored tranquillity

to those peoples, and is a guarantee of their independence and security,

so long as they themselves do not destroy this guarantee by substituting

the will of one of their constituent corporations, or that of a party,

for the elements of which it is composed.

“Had France desired to annex Holland, Holland would now be French, like

Belgium. That she is an independent power is because France felt with

regard to that country, as she felt in the case of Switzerland, that the

localities required an individual existence and a particular kind of

organization.

“A still more absurd supposition is entertained respecting Hanover. The

annexation of that province would be the most fatal gift that could be

made to France, and no lengthened consideration of the matter is needed

in order to perceive this. Hanover would become a cause of rivalry

between the French nation and that prince who was the ally and friend of

France at a time when all Europe was in coalition against her. In order

to retain Hanover, it would be necessary to keep up a military force at

a cost out of all proportion to the few millions which constitute the

whole of the revenues of that country. Will that Government which has

made sacrifices in order to maintain the principle that a simple and

continuous frontier-line, even as far as the fortifications of

Strasbourg and of Mayence on the right bank, is necessary, be so

short-sighted as to wish for the incorporation of Hanover?

“But, it is said, the advantage of belonging to the Germanic

Confederation depends on the possession of Hanover. The mere title of

Emperor of the French is sufficient answer to this singular idea. The

Germanic Confederation is composed of kings, electors, and princes, and

it recognizes, in relation to itself, but one imperial dignity. It would

be to misjudge the noble pride of our country to suppose she would ever

consent to become an element in any other confederation, even had such a

thing been compatible with national dignity. What could have prevented

France from maintaining her rights in the circle of Burgundy, or those

which conferred on her the possession of the Palatinate? We may even

ask, with pardonable pride, who was it that prevented France from

keeping part of the States of Baden and of the Swabian territory?

“No, France will never cross the Rhine! Nor will her armies pass over

it, unless it become necessary for her to protect the German Empire and

its princes, who inspire an interest in her because of their attachment

to her, and their value in the balance of power in Europe.

“If these are simply idle rumors, we have answered them sufficiently. If

they owe their origin to the anxious jealousy of foreign Powers, who are

always crying out that France is ambitious in order to cloak their own

ambition, there is another answer to be made. Owing to the two

coalitions successively entered into against us, and to the treaties of

Campo Formio and Lunéville, France has no province for her neighbor

which she could wish to annex; and, if in the past she has displayed an

example of moderation unexampled in modern history, the result is an

advantage for her, inasmuch as she need not henceforth take up arms.

“Her capital is in the center of her Empire; her frontiers are bounded

by small States which complete her political constitution;

geographically she can desire nothing belonging to her neighbors—she is

therefore naturally inimical to none; and, as there exists in her

respect neither another Finland, nor another River Inn, she is in a

position which no other Power enjoys.

“As it is with those rumors which try to prove that France is

inordinately ambitious, so it is with others of a different nature.

“Not long ago rebellion was in our camps. Two days back thirty thousand

Frenchmen had refused to embark at Boulogne; yesterday our legions were

at war with each other, ten against ten, thirty against thirty, flag

against flag. Our four Rhenish departments were informed that we were

about to restore them to their former ruler. To-day, perhaps, _it is

said_ that the public treasury is empty, that the public works have been

discontinued, that discord prevails everywhere, and that the taxes are

unpaid. If the Emperor starts for the camps, it will be said, perhaps,

that he is hurrying thither to restore peace. In fact, whether he

remains at Saint Cloud, or goes to the Tuileries, or lives at Malmaison,

there will be opportunities for absurd reports.