by Louis, then thirteen years old. They travelled through a very
different France from that which Napoleon had beheld in 1778. Then all
was quiet on the surface, and it seemed as if nothing would ever change;
now, women as well as men met together in large numbers and talked
excitedly, ready at a moment's notice to break out into some deed of
violence. Everywhere the tricolour was to be seen, the 'Marseillaise' to
be heard. Napoleon's eyes brightened as he listened to the song, and
Louis watched and wondered. But not yet had the poor profited by the
wealth of the rich. Napoleon's lodging, which he shared with Louis, was
as bare as before; his food was even plainer, for now two had to eat it.
Masters were costly and not to be thought of, so Napoleon set lessons to
be learned during the day, and to be repeated at night when military
duties are over. And Louis was as eager for knowledge as Napoleon
himself had been. 'He learns to write and read French,' writes the young
lieutenant to his brother Joseph. 'I teach him mathematics and geography
and history. The ladies are all devoted to him' (probably the wives and
daughters of the officers), 'and he has become quite French in his
manners, as if he were thirty. As for his judgment, he might be forty.
He will do better than any of us, but then none of us had so good an
education.' So wrote Napoleon; and Louis on his side was deeply grateful
for the pains and care bestowed on him. 'After Napoleone, you are the
one I love most,' he says in a letter to Joseph, whose tact and good
nature made him everybody's favourite, though his stronger brother
always looked down on him a little. Louis was a good boy, with generous
feelings and a strong sense of duty, which in after-years, when he was
King of Holland, brought him into strife with Napoleon. But in 1791 that
was a long time off, and soon after this letter he writes another to
Joseph, in which he says, 'I make you a present of my two cravats that
Napoleone gave me.' Did he keep any for himself, one wonders?
[Illustration: Bonaparte hears the Marseillaise for the first time.]
Deeply though he loved his military duties, Napoleon could not rest away
from Corsica, and in the autumn he again asked for leave from his
long-suffering colonel. He found the island in even a worse condition
than when he had last left it, for parties were more numerous and hatred
fiercer. More than once Napoleon narrowly escaped with his life, which,
by all the laws of war, he had really forfeited as a deserter by long
outstaying his leave. But this did not trouble Napoleon. With France
upset, with 'Paris in convulsions,' and with the war with the allied
Powers on the point of breaking out, no one was likely to inquire
closely into the conduct of an unimportant young soldier. Besides,
rumours had reached the island that the school of St. Cyr would shortly
be closed, and his mother was anxious about Marianna, who was still a
pupil there. Clearly his best plan was to go to Paris, and to Paris he
went in May 1792, hoping to be allowed quietly to take his old place in
the regiment. Scarcely had he arrived when, walking in the street,
watching all that passed and saying nothing, he came upon his old friend
Bourrienne, from whom he had parted eight years before. The young men
were delighted to meet, and spent their time making plans for the
future. 'He had even less money than I,' writes Bourrienne, 'and that
was little enough! We formed a scheme for taking some houses that were
being built, and subletting them at a higher rate. But the owners asked
too much, and we were forced to give it up. Every day he went to seek
employment from the Minister of War, and I from the Foreign Office.'
Towards the end of June they both visited Marianna at St. Cyr, and from
her Napoleon learned that the school was almost certain to be closed or
totally changed in its institutions, and the girls returned to their
relations without the present of 3,000 francs (120_l._) usually given to
them when they left. It is curious to think that at that time, when
girls grew up so early and married so young, they were expected to
remain at St. Cyr till they were twenty. Marianna was at this time
sixteen, 'but,' says Napoleon in a letter to Joseph at Ajaccio, 'not at
all advanced for her age, less so, indeed, than Paoletta. It would be
impossible to marry her without having her at home for six or eight
months first, but if you see any distant prospect of finding her a
suitable husband, tell me, and I will bring her over. If not, she had
better stay where she is till we see how things turn out. Still, I
cannot help feeling that if she remains at St. Cyr for another four
years she will be too old to adapt herself to life in Corsica, while now
she will glide into its ways almost without noticing them.' In the end
St. Cyr was closed, and Marianna threw off the white cap which the girls
so hated because its fashion dated back to the time of the foundress,
Madame de Maintenon, and set out with her brother for Corsica. She was a
dull and rather disagreeable young lady, with a great notion of her own
importance, and a bad temper. Some of the new ideas, especially those of
the superiority of women over men, had reached her ears in a confused
way, and had readily been adopted by her. She spent hours in talking
over these with Lucien, her next brother, a youth of rather peculiar
disposition, who did not get on with the rest.
[Illustration: 'Why did they ever let these beasts enter?']
But all this happened in the autumn, and meanwhile Napoleon stayed in
Paris, observing the course of events and roaming the streets with
Bourrienne. One day they saw collected near the Palais Royal a crowd of
five or six thousand men, dirty, ragged, evil-faced, and with tongues as
evil. In their hands were guns, swords, knives, axes, or whatever they
could seize upon, and, shouting, screaming, and gesticulating, they made
their way towards the Tuileries. 'Let us follow those brutes,' said
Bonaparte, and, taking a short cut, they reached the garden terrace
which overlooks the Seine, and from there they watched terrible scenes.
'I could hardly describe the surprise and horror they excited in him,'
writes Bourrienne, 'and when at length the King appeared at a window,
wearing the Red Cap of Liberty which had been thrust on his head by one
of the mob, a cry broke from Napoleon:
'Why did they ever let these beasts enter?' he exclaimed, heedless of
who might hear him. 'They should have mown down five hundred of them
with the guns, and the rest would have run away.' 'They don't know what
they are doing,' he said to Bourrienne a few hours after when they were
sitting at dinner in a cheap restaurant. 'It is fatal to allow such
things to pass unpunished, and they will rue it bitterly.' And so they
did; for the 10th of August was soon to come, and after that the
September massacres of nobles and great ladies.
With feelings like these—feelings often quite different from the
doctrines which he held—Napoleon must have had hard work to keep his
sword in its sheath on that very 10th of August when the Tuileries was
attacked and the Swiss Guards so nobly died at their post. He was
standing at a shop window in a side street, and his soul sickened at the
sight of the struggle. At last he could bear it no longer, and, dashing
into the midst of the fray, he dragged out a wounded man from the swords
of the rabble, who by this time were drunk with blood. 'If Louis XVI.
had only shown himself on horseback,' he writes to Joseph that same
evening, 'the victory would have been his.' But, alas! Louis never did
the thing that was wisest to do. Eager as he was to get away, Napoleon
had to linger on amidst the horrors of the September massacres till he
gained permission to take his sister back to Corsica. Here the state of
affairs seemed almost as desperate as in France, and no man could trust
his neighbour. Napoleon now fought openly against Paoli, whom the
execution of Louis XVI. threw into the arms of England, and fierce
battles and sieges were the consequence. Once he was imprisoned in a
house, and sentinels were placed before the door, but he contrived to
escape through a side window, and hurried back to Ajaccio. Here his
arrest was ordered, but warned by his friends Napoleon hid himself all
day in a grotto, in the garden of one of his Ramolino cousins. Still, as
it was clear that Ajaccio was no longer safe for him, he got on board a
boat and rejoined Joseph at Bastia.
Furious at his having slipped through their hands, the partisans of
Paoli turned their wrath upon Laetitia and her children. With the high
courage she had shown all her life 'Madame Mère' wished to stay and
defend her house, but was at last persuaded to fly, taking with her
Louis, Marianna, and Paoletta, with her brother Fesch to guard them,
leaving the two youngest children with her mother. Hardly had she gone
when her house was pillaged and almost destroyed. It would have been
burned to the ground but for fear of setting fire to the houses of the
Paolistes. It was only on June 11, after perils by land and perils by
sea, that the fugitives, now joined by Napoleon, set sail for Toulon.
The voyage lasted two days, and as soon as they touched land Napoleon's
first care was to find a lodging for his mother and the children, where
they might rest in peace till he could decide what was best to be done.
He then made his way to Nice, where a battery of artillery was
quartered, and found that by great good luck the brother of his old
general Baron du Teil was in command. In happier times he would most
likely have been put under arrest at once, before being shot as a
deserter; but, as in earlier days, the Republic was in need of every man
it could get, and he was at once employed to inspect the defences along
the coast and to collect guns and ammunition. In all this the warfare he
had carried on in Corsica stood him in good stead. It had taught him how
to deal with men, and his eye had learned to discover the strong and
weak points of a position, while his mind had grown rich in resource. As
in the case of many of the greatest men, he had been trained for victory
by defeat. It was at the siege of Toulon he gained the name at which for
eleven years 'the world grew pale.' Revolted by the cruelties of the
Convention in Paris, the town, like others in different parts of France,
had declared for Louis XVIII. A friendly fleet of English and Spanish
ships had cast anchor in the bay, and the French army which besieged the
city was undisciplined and ill commanded. All that it had in the way of
artillery was in so bad a condition as to be useless, the powder and
shot were exhausted, Dommartin, the artillery officer, was wounded, and
there was no man to take his place.
'Send for young Bonaparte,' said Salicetti, one of the commissioners of
the Convention, who had known him elsewhere; and from that moment the
tide began to turn. Messengers were despatched at once to bring in
horses from miles round, while an arsenal was built on one of the
surrounding hills. Day and night the men kept at work, and before a week
had passed fourteen big guns and four mortars were ready, and a large
quantity of provisions stored up. Day and night the men laboured, and
day and night Bonaparte was to be found beside them, directing,
encouraging, praising. When he could no longer stand, he wrapped himself
in his cloak and lay down beside them, present to guide them in any
difficulty, to repair any blunder. And the representatives of the
Convention noted it all, and one morning handed him his brevet of
general of battalion. Armed with this authority Napoleon's task became
easier. He had aides-de-camp to send where he would, and forthwith one
rode along the coast to bring up cannon from the army of Italy, and
another set out for Lyons to gather horses and food. But whatever he
did, his eyes were fixed on the key of the city—the Fort Mulgrave
which, it was plain to all, must be the first object of attack. Close
underneath the fort a French battery was erected and manned—only to be
swept clear by the guns from the English ships. Another set of
volunteers slipped out from the ranks, and fell dead beside their
comrades. For the third time Bonaparte gave the word of command, but
there was silence. 'Call it the Battery of the Fearless,' he said, and
in an instant every man had sprung forward. The battery was never
without its gunner till the fort was taken.
[Illustration: BONAPARTE IN THE BATTERY OF THE FEARLESS]
With the fall of Toulon we must bid farewell to Napoleon, whose youth
was over and whose manhood was now begun. You all know the story which
ended at last in Waterloo, and there is no need to repeat it. 'He was
not a gentleman,' is said by many. Well, perhaps he was not _always_ a
gentleman, but the hold he obtained on France, and particularly on the
men who followed him, was true and deep and lasting, for it endures even
to this day. Listen to a soldier standing in the Invalides, where his
body was laid when it was brought from St. Helena, with his hat and his
sword placed beside him.
'Ah! c'est Lui! c'est son chapeau! c'est son épée!' he cries, the
glorious memories of the past rushing over him, till he too feels that
he has fought at Austerlitz and at Marengo.
And when they asked for rights, he made reply
'Ye have my glory.' And so, drawing round them
His ample purple, glorified and bound them
In an embrace that seemed identity.
'He ruled them like a tyrant.' True. But none
Were ruled like slaves. Each felt Napoleon.
_HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF ROME_
AT nine o'clock on the morning of March 20, 1811, the boom of a cannon
sounded through Paris. Peace reigned throughout France, yet the roar of
the gun had a magical effect on the hurrying passers-by. Every man,
woman, and child, whatever might be their business, stopped where they
stood, as if a fairy had waved her wand over them. No one moved; no one
spoke; not only did their feet seem enchanted, but their tongues too.
Silently they all remained in their places while the thunder of the
cannon still went on, but their faces wore a strained, intense look as
if they were counting something. Nineteen! twenty! twenty-one! one and
all they held their breath. Twenty-two! and a cry as of one man rung
out. The spell was broken, handkerchiefs were waved, hats flew into the
air, old soldiers embraced each other with tears in their eyes. The King
of Rome was born.
And who was this King of Rome, the only bearer of a noble name, and why
was his birth so dear to the citizens of Paris? He was the son of
Napoleon and the Archduchess Marie Louise, destined, so it was hoped, to
carry on the work of his father and to bear the eagles triumphant
through many a field of battle. And yet, if they could have looked
forward twenty-one years, they would have seen a youth dying of
consumption far from the country which he loved, after one of the
saddest lives that perhaps any child ever knew.
But now, on the day of his birth, nobody dreamed of the doom that lay on
him! Instead, he seemed the most fortunate baby in the whole world! He
had a lady-in-waiting in charge of him and his numerous nurses, and
chief attendant, the Comtesse de Montesquiou, 'Maman Quiou' as he called
her in after-days; his room was hung with soft green silk curtains, with
palm trees and golden lizards embroidered on them. He slept all night
long, and part of the day too, in a cot shaped like a boat, with a
gilded prow, and the green, myrtle broidered curtains that shaded him
from the light were caught together by a wreath of golden laurels. In
the room there was another cradle, more beautiful, given him by the City
of Paris, which was to go with him by-and-by into exile, and can still
be seen at the Palace of Schönbrunn. This cot had been the work of
famous artists; Prud'hon had drawn the designs, and the most skilful
sculptors and goldsmiths had carried them out. The curtains at his head
were of lace, sprinkled with golden stars, and an eaglet, with
outstretched wings, hovered over his feet.
When His Majesty the King of Rome was a month old, he was driven out to
the palace of St. Cloud, where he lived with Madame de Montesquiou in
rooms opening straight on to the gardens. Here, in the green and quiet,
he grew strong, and able to bear the fatigues of his christening, which
was celebrated in the Cathedral of Nôtre Dame, on June 9, with all the
pomp suitable to the occasion. Once again the bells rang out, and all
along the way troops took up their places. At five o'clock the Tuileries
gardens were filled with carriages, and the procession began to form.
The escort of troops rode first, and were followed by the gay-coated
heralds and the officers of State, these last in carriages drawn by four
horses. The Emperor's brothers and sisters came next, and after them was
a pause, till the Imperial carriage, drawn by eight horses, hove in
sight, containing Madame de Montesquiou, holding on her knees the King
of Rome. His long robe was of white satin covered with lace; a little
lace cap was on his head, and across his breast lay the red ribbon of
the Legion of Honour. 'Long live Napoleon Francis Charles Joseph, King
of Rome!' cried the heralds when the baptismal ceremony was over, and
the Emperor, snatching the child from the arms of its mother, held him
out to the crowd who thronged the church. 'Long live the King of Rome!'
it cried in answer: then the procession re-formed, and returned to the
Tuileries in the same order.
Marie Louise does not seem to have had the boy much with her, though
Isabey, the famous artist, was constantly ordered to paint his picture,
and it was his father whom he first learned to know. Napoleon had always
been fond of playing with children; and before the birth of his own son,
his nephews and nieces were constantly about him. Best of all, he had
loved the little Napoleon Charles, son of his brother Louis, King of
Holland, and Hortense Beauharnais, and Charles was never happier than
when trotting about at 'Nanon's' side. Nanon was the pet name of
Napoleon. Together they would go and feed the gazelles with
tobacco—which (if strong) was very bad for the gazelles, and made them
ill for a whole day after—or the Emperor would take him to parade, and
Charles would cry, 'Long live Nanon the soldier!' And how proud Nanon
was one day when Charles, who had been lost at a review held at
Boulogne, was found wandering between the line of fire of the two
armies, not a bit afraid of the guns.
[Illustration: Feeding the gazelles with tobacco]
Charles was a very nice little boy, and had been taught good manners by
Queen Hortense. When he went into Nanon's dressing-room he did not pull
about the things that were lying on the dressing-table, but sat still
while he chattered to his uncle, or repeated some fable of La Fontaine's
which he had learned the day before. He was a generous little fellow,
and would readily give away his toys or sweets, and only laughed when
Napoleon pulled his ears, instead of getting angry like his cousins, the
little Murats. Every day he did his lessons, and was allowed sometimes,
as a great treat, to copy out the 'Wolf and the Lamb,' or the 'Lion and
the Mouse,' or the 'Goose with the Golden Eggs,' to show to Nanon. But
by-and-by he had to say good-bye to Nanon and go back to his father and
mother in Holland, where he fell ill and died, at the age of four and a
half, in May 1807.
After Charles's death Napoleon made a pet of the dead child's younger
brother, Napoleon Louis, though he never took the elder child's place in
his uncle's heart. Still, the Emperor liked to have Louis about him, and
swung him on to his knee at breakfast, and gave him bits of omelette or
cutlet on his fork. Louis, of course, wanted to do everything his uncle
did, and one day insisted on sipping his coffee, but he did not like it,
and made a face. 'Oh, Louis!' cried the Emperor, 'your education is
certainly not finished, as you have not learned how to hide your
feelings.' The boy stared and grew rather cross, for he felt he was
being laughed at, though he did not understand why. His temper was never
as good as his brother's, and he often flew into a rage when Napoleon
teased him, as he was very fond of doing. One morning, when Louis was
three years old, he was breakfasting with the Emperor, and was just
going to eat an egg, when Napoleon caught it up, and held it out of his
reach. 'Give me my egg, or I will kill you,' said Louis, picking up a
knife. 'Would you really kill your uncle?' asked Napoleon.
'Give me my egg, or I will _kill_ you,' repeated Louis, louder than
before; and Napoleon laughed and gave it back to him, and patted his
head, saying, 'Ah, some day you will be a fine fellow!'
But now that he had a son of his own, who would by-and-by inherit the
Empire he had created and tread in his footsteps, Napoleon could not
make enough of him. He, too, came to breakfast, and, much to Madame de
Montesquiou's disgust, the Emperor would dip his fingers in the red wine
he was drinking, and give it to the baby to suck. The King of Rome would
shrink away in terror from the bunch of nodding plumes on his mother's
bonnet, but he smiled and crowed when his father lifted him in the air.
Sometimes, however, the play got too rough, and the child would screw up
the corners of his mouth and begin to cry. Then the Emperor would stop
and look at him gravely, and say to him:
'What, Sire! are you crying? A king, and yet you cry! Oh, that is very
bad! Kings don't cry!' and he would begin to make faces, which the baby
loved, and it would break into smiles directly. The boy grew quickly,
and at eight months old he was already trying to walk, but, on the other
hand, he was very backward in talking. As he got older, he would often
manage to escape from the nursery, and, running along the passage, knock
with his fists on the door of the Emperor's study.
'Open! I want papa,' he would say to the sentry, who always answered:
'Sire, I must not let in your Majesty.'
'Why not? I am the little king.'
'But your Majesty is alone!' replied the sentry, who had been ordered
not to admit the boy unless Madame de Montesquiou was with him. The
child's eyes filled with tears, but hearing 'Maman Quiou's' voice behind
him, he took hold of her hand and looked at the man, saying:
'Now open it. The little king desires it.'
'His Majesty the King of Rome,' announced the usher, and the little
fellow ran straight up to his father, sure of his welcome. No matter how
occupied the Emperor might be, the child was never sent away. His father
would hold him on his knee while he signed State papers, or walk up and
down the room with the boy on his back as he dictated despatches to his
secretaries, or, greatest joy of all, he would allow his son to play
with the little wooden soldiers that he kept on the table when planning
his campaigns. In face the little king grew daily more like an Austrian,
though his father tried in vain to see some resemblance to himself. But
in many ways he showed his Corsican blood, and chiefly in the sudden
bursts of temper to which he was liable. These were always stopped at
once by his governess, who never spoilt him herself or suffered anyone
else to do so. One day, when something had displeased him, he stormed
and raged till Madame de Montesquiou feared he would fall into
convulsions, as his cousin, Achille Murat, had done only the week
before. Finding that the child would listen to nothing, she ordered an
attendant to close all the shutters. The boy, astonished at the sudden
darkness, ceased crying at once, and asked why the sun was shut out.
[Illustration: "Open I want Papa"
"Sire, I must not let in your Majesty"]
'So that nobody might hear you, Sire. The people would never want you
for their king if they knew how naughty you could be!'
'Did I scream very loud?' he inquired in rather a small voice.
'Very,' replied the governess.
'Do you think they heard?'
'I am afraid so.'
At this answer his tears began to fall again, but quite silently. He
made a violent effort to check them, and when he could speak, he
stretched up his arms to his governess, and whispered, 'I'll never do it
again, Maman Quiou. I am very sorry.'