morning a messenger arrived from Vienna, and desired to speak with
Monsieur Foresti. Their talk was long, and when they parted Foresti's
face was unusually grave, but he said nothing till the evening, when he
told the boy in a few words that the father of whom he thought so much
had died at St. Helena on May 5. Notwithstanding his occasional bursts
of temper, the duke's silence and reserve about his feelings had won him
the reputation of coldness of heart, and Foresti was amazed at the
torrent of tears which broke from him. Now indeed he was alone, with
only his shadowy recollections for company, and the stories of the
Emperor's greatness which he had heard from his French governesses five
years before. And during these five years his thoughts had never ceased
to hover round his father, all the more persistently, perhaps, from the
ignorance in which he had been kept concerning him. But well he
remembered how the portraits and miniatures of himself had from time to
time been sent to his father to Elba, to Fontainebleau, and some to St.
Helena—though exactly where St. Helena was he did not know. _That_ he
was to learn later, when his tutor bade him look it out on the map, and
gave him a lesson on its size and produce. Meanwhile he was put into
mourning, which Foresti and Collin wore also; but they had strict orders
not to go near any public places, where their black clothes might be
seen and noticed, as neither the Emperor nor his Court had made the
slightest change in their dress. The young duke's heart must have burned
within him at the double affront to himself and his father, but what
must his feelings have been if he ever heard of the conduct of his
mother! The letter which she wrote to her son must have sounded cold and
trifling even to a child; but perhaps the news may have been kept from
him that she declined to allow Napoleon's name to be inserted in the
prayers for the dead, and had refused his dying wish to have his heart
buried in Parma. 'It would be a fresh shock to me,' she wrote to Francis
II.
So the years passed on, and outwardly 'Napoleon, King of Rome,'
disappeared more and more completely, and in his place stood 'Francis,
Duke of Reichstadt.' At twelve he became a cadet; at seventeen he was
nominated captain in the regiment of Chasseurs. 'The spur of honour, and
the wish to merit such a distinction, have completely changed me,' he
writes to Foresti on this event, which he calls 'the happiest in his
life,' and adds, 'I wish to shake off everything that is childish in me,
and become a man in the best sense of the word.' But he was not allowed
to join his regiment, though the Austrian army was full of young
officers of fewer years than his, and for the present he was forced to
remain idle, and employ himself in riding fiery horses, an exercise for
which he had a passion. Yet his loyalty was no whit behind that of his
friends, and for the time being his military ardour made him more
Austrian than the precepts of his tutors could ever have done.
For the first time since he had crossed the French frontier the Duke of
Reichstadt had become a person of importance. In France Louis XVIII. had
been succeeded by his brother, Charles X., and a large party of
discontented people were sowing afresh the seeds of revolution. The eyes
of the Bourbons turned uneasily to Vienna, where the young Napoleon
stood by his grandfather's side. If the Emperor chose to send him with
an army across the Rhine, who could tell what fires might not be lighted
in Paris? In Vienna rumours began to be heard of plots to kidnap or
assassinate the young duke, and measures were taken to guard him
carefully. There was some talk of making him king of the newly formed
kingdom of Greece, but neither Francis II. nor his minister Metternich
would listen for a moment to the proposal that a Catholic prince should
forsake his religion and become a member of the Greek Church. Then came
the news that the Bourbon dynasty had been expelled from France. Who was
to be king? Was it to be Louis Philippe, Duke of Orléans, or Napoleon
II.?
As if by magic fifteen years were blotted out by the Parisians, and the
remembrance of the great Emperor sprang into life. Pictures of Napoleon
leading his army to victory, portraits of his son at every age,
beginning with his childhood, when he was a fair-haired, white-skinned
boy with eyes whose keen, far-seeing glances were never a heritage from
his Austrian mother, were sold in the streets, while the backs of gloves
were adorned by his image. In the young man himself all his early
instincts and his worship of his father's memory stirred strongly. But
the moment passed, and for eighteen years Louis Philippe sat on the
throne of France.
As early as the year 1828 the Duke of Reichstadt began to show signs of
delicacy. Always tall for his age, of late his growth had been very
rapid, and he was now over six feet—seven inches taller than his father
had been—but he became always thinner and thinner. The doctors
carefully examined him and found great weakness in his chest and lungs,
and reported the fact to Neipperg, Marie Louise's second husband, and to
Dietrichstein, the prince's governor, a strict and stern though just
man, who was not likely to encourage fancies. But with the coming winter
the state of the prince's health gave rise to great anxiety. 'I am
forbidden to dance this carnival,' he writes to a friend in January; yet
though dancing was prohibited he was ordered a course of swimming and
cold baths. One can only suppose that this was intended to strengthen
him, but the intense cold of an Austrian winter seems an odd moment to
begin such treatment. It is hardly surprising that it failed, and that
his weakness increased as the spring advanced, and a summer spent in
camp did not improve matters. At last, in 1830, a fresh doctor was
tried, one who had attended several of the Bonapartes, and he was
horrified at the condition in which he found his patient. The duke
scarcely ate anything at all, and coughed continually, and when at
length his dearest wish was about to be fulfilled, and he was to
accompany his regiment into camp, his hopes were dashed to the ground by
the statement of the doctor that only the greatest care could save his
life.
The disappointment was bitter. As long as he could remember he had
dreamed dreams, and they were all of military glory. He was to prove
himself his father's son, was to carry on worthily the name and
traditions that had been left him, and now— But once again he practised
the concealment of his feelings which he had so early learnt, and bore
his pain in silence. It was during this time that the Revolution in
France took place which caused the downfall of Charles X., and caused
the dying prince to become of such sudden importance. By the Emperor's
orders an establishment was formed for him, and in the spring, when he
reached his twentieth birthday, his tutors were dismissed. His health
was no better, perhaps even worse, but it did not suit Metternich, the
Emperor's chief Minister, to notice this; in spite of the remonstrances
of the doctor, the prince was again allowed to join his regiment and
take part in the manœuvres.
Ill though the duke felt, at last he was happy. His military duties were
well done, and, like his father, he had the genius to make himself loved
by his soldiers. For a time his strong will carried him along, but one
day in giving orders to his troops his voice failed him. He made light
of it, and said he had strained it unnecessarily, and that he would soon
learn to manage it better; but a bad attack of fever which followed
shortly after obliged him unwillingly to quit the camp, and to go for a
change to Schönbrunn. Here, in the country, his health improved, but in
a short time the fever returned, and left him too weak to care about
anything. So passed the summer and autumn; but in the early spring his
health began to mend, and with renewed strength came a sudden longing
for the old pleasures. The doctor, thinking it would do the prince more
harm to thwart him than to let him have his way, gave him permission to
take a quiet ride; but the moment he once more felt a horse under him,
he threw prudence to the winds and galloped madly round the park, till
both horse and rider were quite exhausted. And as if this was not
enough, he insisted, wet though it was, in going for a drive in the
evening. Unfortunately the carriage broke down, and no other was at
hand. He had only one attendant with him, and the officer did not dare
to leave him alone in the cold, shelterless place. There was therefore
nothing for it but to walk back to Vienna, but it was quite plain that
the prince scarcely had power to drag himself there. It was really a
very short distance, but to the invalid the way seemed endless, and he
had hardly reached the first houses when he staggered and fell.
From this period his state was practically hopeless, though he would
sometimes surprise his doctors by sudden if short-lived improvements.
When the warm weather came he was taken to Schönbrunn and fed at first
on asses' milk. But his cough prevented his sleeping; he ate almost
nothing, and it was evident to all who saw him that the end could not be
far off. Then, and only then, did his mother consent to come to him, and
the Viennese, who had always loved the ill-fated boy, said bitter things
about her indifference. But the young Napoleon said no bitter things; he
only smiled and welcomed her. Even at this time, though every symptom
showed that death was close at hand, his mother could not bring herself
to remain with him. Short visits in the day and one before she went to
bed were all she thought needful. Another woman would have known that
for her own sake it would have been well to have pretended, if she did
not feel, a little more motherly love, but from first to last Marie
Louise had been too stupid to guess how people would judge her.
In the night of July 22, 1832, he awoke from a feverish sleep crying
out, 'I am dying,' and directly after he added, 'Call my mother.' He was
past speaking when she came, followed by her brother, but he looked at
her and feebly moved his head. Then the prayers for the dying were said,
and at five o'clock his sufferings were over.
In the chapel of the Capuchins at Vienna his body lies amongst the tombs
of the Hapsburgs, parted from his father in death as he had been in
life. Yet, faithless and cold-hearted as she was, his mother did not
dare refuse him at the last the name she had so hated and disgraced, and
he stands forth to the world, not as the 'son of Marie Louise' alone, as
he had been called hitherto, but as the 'Son of Napoleon.'
_THE PRINCESS JEANNE_
IT was a cold day in January 1528 when Jeanne de Navarre was born in the
royal castle of Fontainebleau. Most of her relations were remarkable
people, famous even then for their cleverness and strong wills, and her
mother, Marguérite d'Angoulême, sister of Francis I., was distinguished
above them all for her learning. But Marguérite was better than learned,
she was wise, and she thought that her little daughter would be much
happier away from Court, with other children to play with, than in
travelling about the rough roads and small mountain towns that formed a
large part of the kingdom of Navarre, or in crossing the wide rivers
that lay between the Pyrenees and the city of Paris. For Paris was the
home of Francis I., whom Marguérite loved better than her husband, her
mother, or her little girl. So in a few days the baby was quietly
christened in the private chapel of the château, and when she was a
month old was very warmly wrapped up, and taken in a big heavy carriage
drawn by eight horses to a place near Alençon where lived her mother's
great friend, Madame de Silly, wife of the Bailiff of Caen. Here, in
company with Madame de Silly's own children, Jeanne left her babyhood
behind her. She was very strong, and very lively and mischievous
besides; it was she who led the others into mischief, who would tuck up
the long silk frock worn by little girls in those days, and climb trees
after rosy apples, or persuade one of the boys to get up very early and
go with her for hours into the woods on the hills, till Madame de Silly
and everybody else were frightened out of their wits. Nothing ever
frightened Jeanne, and she only laughed at the punishments dealt out to
her.
'Oh, yes, I promise not to do it again—not till next time,' she would
say; and her eyes looked up so merrily into the eyes of Madame de Silly
that the scolding suddenly stopped.
The only thing that ever made Jeanne really sorry for her naughty tricks
was when Madame de Silly talked to her about her mother, whom the child
loved deeply, though she saw her so seldom. To grow up like her was
Jeanne's great wish, even when she was quite a baby; and as her mother
loved the king, her uncle, so much, why, of course, she must love him
too. Every now and then Francis I. sent for her to the palace of St.
Germain, to play with her cousins, Princess Madeleine, who was
afterwards to be queen of Scotland, and Marguérite, the future duchess
of Savoy. The two little princesses were both delicate, and could not
ride and jump and run like Jeanne, who was besides the prettiest of the
three, so she was petted and spoilt and flattered by all, and when she
went back to Lonray, she gave herself all sorts of airs, till you would
have thought she was not made of flesh and blood at all, or just a child
like the rest.
By-and-by Jeanne's father, King Henry of Navarre, grew tired of dangling
about the French Court, where nobody took much notice of him, and
proposed going for a time to live in his own kingdom in the south of
France. Marguérite was herself weary of tournaments and pageants and
constant banquets, and pined for leisure to read books, and to write
poetry. So she gladly gave her consent, and wished to take Jeanne with
her, that they might get to know one another. But to this Francis would
not agree. He knew—or guessed—that the Emperor Charles V., King of
Spain, desired to bring about a marriage between his son Philip, prince
of the Asturias, and the heiress of Navarre, and such a marriage would
mean that the King of Spain would also be lord of a great part of
France. If Jeanne even approached the frontier who could say what might
happen? Therefore, to the grief of her mother and the great wrath of her
father, she was to remain in France as the ward of the king. However, to
make things as pleasant as he could, Francis announced his desire to
betrothe the princess to his second son, Henry, Duke of Orleans, a boy
of twelve, even then showing signs of the silent and melancholy
character which distinguished him in later years.
[Illustration: THE OUBLIETTES]
The prospect of this alliance delighted both the king and queen of
Navarre, but in spite of it Marguérite refused to allow Jeanne to live
at the Court and be brought up with her cousins. After much talk, it was
arranged that the gloomy castle of Plessis-les-Tours should be her
residence, and here she was to dwell in state under the care of Madame
de Silly, with a bishop, two chaplains, and a poet, to look after her
education, and some other children, probably the daughters of great
nobles, for her to play with.
Considering how many large and beautiful castles were owned by Francis,
it seems strange that he should have chosen such a dismal place as
Plessis for a child to be brought up in. The thick forests by which it
was surrounded kept out the sun, and even Jeanne's high spirits were
awed by the dark memories of Louis XI. which filled every corner—by the
deep holes, or _oubliettes_, through which a man might be thrust—and
forgotten; by Cardinal La Balue's iron cage. She was still, in spite of
her strength and cleverness, a very little girl, and she often lay awake
at night half afraid and half fascinated, wondering what _she_ would
have thought about all day long in that iron cage, and making plans how
to get out of it.
As has been said, Jeanne desired in all things to resemble her mother,
and worked hard at her lessons; she learned several languages, besides
the history of France, and Navarre, and Spain, and a little about that
strange country England, whose king, Henry VIII., had stirred up the
Church and disobeyed his Holy Father the Pope, in his refusal to allow
Henry to put away his wife Katharine of Aragon, and marry somebody else.
In after years Jeanne disobeyed the Pope in other ways, and taught her
son to do so also; but at Plessis her sharp little ears picked up all
that was said about Henry VIII. and his three wives, and her sharp
little mind was horrified at the bare idea of revolting against the Holy
Father. She came to know many of the poems of Monsieur Pierre Ronsard
and Joachim du Bellay by heart; but best of all she liked the songs of
Louis, Duke of Orleans. She even struggled to write poems herself; but
she had sense enough to see that they were not good enough to waste her
time on. On wet or cold days, when the wind whistled through the forest
and the old towers, she and her friends would dance in the hall, or sing
songs together in the firelight.
Sometimes the castle was turned upside down by the news that the king
was coming to pay his niece a visit. Poor Madame de Silly rather dreaded
these grand occasions, for Jeanne was apt to have her head turned by her
uncle, who encouraged her to say what she liked, and only laughed when
she answered him pertly. He was amused, too, by the way in which she
stuck to any plan she had formed, and, if he refused his consent one
day, would begin all over again the next. Very often she got her own way
through sheer obstinacy, and Madame de Silly would sigh as she looked
on, for she knew that it would take some time after the king's departure
to get Jeanne into order again.
And when Jeanne was tiresome she could be very tiresome indeed. She not
only had a quick tongue, but a quick temper, and would despise and even
ill-treat anyone who was not so determined as herself. When she was ten
years old her aunt, the Vicomtesse de Rohan, came to live at Plessis
with some of her children, for her husband had lost so much money that
they had almost nothing to live on. The eldest girl, Françoise, had
already gone to live at Pau with Queen Marguérite, which made Jeanne
bitterly jealous, so that when she heard from Madame de Silly that her
cousin was to be left at Plessis while the Queen of Navarre went to
Court, she was thoroughly prepared to dislike her and everything she
did. If only Mademoiselle de Rohan had behaved to Jeanne as Jeanne
behaved to _her_ they would soon have made friends; but, unluckily, she
was easily frightened, and would give up anything sooner than quarrel
about it. She was lazy, too, and preferred sitting over her embroidery
to joining in the rough games in which Jeanne delighted. Of course she
was not allowed to have her way, and was forced, little as she liked it,
to go with the rest; but Jeanne, who played as earnestly as she did
everything else, was speedily provoked by the listless Françoise, and
even went so far as to give her a hard slap as a punishment for her
indolence. Mademoiselle de Rohan did not slap her back, but she had
weapons of her own which stung as well. When Marguérite returned to
fetch her on her road to Pau, a poem of 'Farewell to Plessis' was left
behind, each lady in the queen's suite writing one verse. The stanza
composed by Françoise, whose poetical gifts were greater than her
cousin's, ran as follows:
Farewell, dear hand, farewell, I say,
That used to slap me every day;
And yet I love the slapper so,
It breaks my heart that I must go!
No doubt Queen Marguérite heard all the story from Madame de Silly, and
scolded her daughter, and no doubt also that when Jeanne recovered her
temper she felt very much ashamed of her rudeness. All her life she was
absolutely truthful, whatever it might cost her, and when she had done
wrong, and knew it, she never made excuses for herself, but accepted
manfully the punishment that was given her. But though Jeanne was
pleased enough to say good-bye to Françoise, she was extremely sorry to
part from Mademoiselle de Grammont, who was three years older than
herself, and a very clever and decided young lady, who at thirteen
thought herself a woman, and wrote some pretty lines to Jeanne on her
departure from Plessis, assuring the princess that she would never cease
to love her all her life, and that when they were both married, which
would probably be soon, they would crave their husbands' permission to
meet often.
After all the excitement was over, and everyday habits were resumed,
Jeanne began to feel very dull indeed. Her lessons ceased to interest
her, and she no longer cared for games, but would listen eagerly to the
dark tales of cruel deeds done by Louis XI. more than fifty years
before, which you may read about in 'Quentin Durward,' by Sir Walter
Scott. Her mind seemed to brood over them, and Madame de Silly would
gladly have welcomed some of the mischievous pranks, which had formerly
been Jeanne's delight, rather than watch her growing pale and thin,
gazing out of the narrow windows into the dripping forest, yet seeing
nothing that was before her. When this had gone on for many weeks Madame
de Silly became really frightened, and told Jeanne that if she was
unhappy where she was she had better write to the king and her mother
and tell them so, and perhaps they would allow her to leave. Jeanne
brightened a little at the thought of getting away, and Madame de Silly,
who noticed this, added letters of her own both to Francis and to
Marguérite, pointing out that if the princess was kept there much longer
her health would probably break down altogether.
Jeanne was, as usual, standing at the window when the two men-at-arms
rode out through the great gate of the castle. Many days would pass, she
knew, before they could come back again; but still—surely her mother
would listen to her prayers, and not leave her in that horrible place,
where she would soon die, and _then_, perhaps, they would be sorry they
had treated her so unkindly! And Jeanne burst into tears at the sad
picture she had made for herself. About three days later the messenger
who had ridden to Francis at Amboise returned to Plessis, and handed
Jeanne a letter. Her heart beat with excitement as she cut the strings
wrapped round it, and so eager was she to know her fate that the words
seemed to dance under her eyes. Then she looked up with the face of the
old Jeanne once more. 'I'm going! I'm going!' she cried, tossing the
king's letter in the air. 'I'm going to Pau at last. To _live_ there—do
you understand, Madame? But first the king is coming to see me, for he
has not been here for a long time, and he fears I may have forgotten
him. I wonder if I have any dresses fit to welcome him, for I have grown
so tall—nearly as tall as _you_, Madame la baillive de Caen.'
[Illustration: JEANNE AND THE KING]
Madame de Silly smiled at her pleasure; yet she was a little uneasy
also, for she too had heard from the king, and he had told her
something which he had hidden from Jeanne. He spoke of a marriage he
wished to arrange between his niece and the young Duke of Clèves, a
Lutheran prince, part of whose duchy had been seized by the emperor.
If, said the king, Jeanne were once wedded to the Duke of Clèves there
would be an end to the project of her marriage with the Prince of the
Asturias—and there would be an end, he might likewise have added, of
the long-talked of match with his own son, the Duke of Orléans! But
this had conveniently slipped from his mind, and he only remembered
that by this alliance he would get the better of his life-long enemy,
the King of Spain. If Francis had forgotten the early betrothal of
Jeanne and her cousin, the King of Navarre most certainly had not, and
great was his rage on receiving his brother-in-law's letter, which
had arrived some time before Jeanne's. He was naturally angry at the
hardly veiled contempt with which the King of France always treated
him, and felt very sore with his wife for suffering it, and for always
taking her brother's part against himself. Then, for reasons of state,
he thought the marriage a very undesirable one, and when he laid the
matter before his council they entirely agreed with him. Unluckily,
however, Jeanne was in the power of the King of France, who made hardly
any secret of his intention to invade Navarre should her father,
Henri d'Albret, refuse his consent. In case of war, the country would
inevitably fall to the lot of either France or Spain, and with a sullen
face and heavy heart Henri desired his wife to inform her brother that
he might do as he willed in the matter. Of course, when once he got his
way, Francis was all smiles and gracious words again, and he instantly
replied that as soon as the betrothal ceremony had been performed
Jeanne should join her mother and remain with her till she was fifteen.
For, said he, he considered that she was at present of too tender
years to take on herself the cares of the married state. And with that
prospect, Henri who passionately loved his daughter, had to be content.