For so many proofs of the royal generosity, the beautiful countess,

perhaps willingly, submitted to be called "the royal snuff-box," which

appellation had its origin in the habit which the king fondly indulged

in of strewing snuff on the countess's lovely shoulder, and then

snuffing it up with his nose.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DRAWING-KOOM OF THE DUCHESS OF ST. LEU.

While the etiquette and frivolity of the old era were being introduced

anew at the Tuileries, and while M. de Blacas was governing in

complacent recklessness, time was progressing, notwithstanding his

endeavors to turn it backward in his flight.

While, out of the incessant conflict between the old and the new France,

a discontented France was being born, Napoleon, the Emperor of Elba, was

forming great plans of conquest, and preparing in secret understanding

with the faithful, to leave his place of exile and return to France.

He well knew that he could rely on his old army--on the army who loudly

cried, "_Vive le roi!_" and then added, _sotto voce_, "_de Rome, et son

petit papa_[41]!"

[Footnote 41: Cochelet, Mémoires sur la Reine Hortense, vol. iii, p.

121.]

Hortense, the new Duchess of St. Leu, took but little part in all these

things. She had, notwithstanding her youth and beauty, in a measure

taken leave of the world. She felt herself to be no longer the woman,

but only the mother; her sons were the objects of all her tenderness and

love, and she lived for them only. In her retirement at St. Leu, her

time was devoted to the arts, to reading, and to study; and, after

having been thus occupied throughout the day, she passed the evening in

her drawing-room, in unrestrained intellectual conversation with

her friends.

For she had friends who had remained true, notwithstanding the obscurity

into which she had withdrawn herself, and who, although they filled

important positions at the new court, had retained their friendship for

the solitary dethroned queen.

With these friends the Duchess of St. Leu conversed, in the evening, in

her parlor, of the grand and beautiful past, giving themselves up

entirely to these recollections, little dreaming that this harmless

relaxation could awaken suspicion.

For the Duke of Otranto, who had succeeded in his shrewdness in

retaining his position of minister of police, as well under Louis XVIII.

as under Napoleon, had his spies everywhere; he knew of all that was

said in every parlor of Paris; he knew also that it was the custom, in

the parlors of the Duchess of St. Leu, to look from the dark present

back at the brilliant past, and to console one's self for the littleness

of the present, with the recollection of the grandeur of departed days!

And Fouché, or rather the Duke of Otranto, knew how to utilize

everything.

In order to arouse Minister Blacas out of his stupid dream of security,

to a realizing sense of the grave events that were taking place, Fouché

told him that a conspiracy against the government was being formed in

the parlors of the Duchess of St. Leu; that all those who were secret

adherents of Bonaparte were in the habit of assembling there, and

planning the deliverance of the emperor from Elba. In order, however, on

the other hand, to provide against the possibility of Napoleon's return,

the Duke of Otranto hastened to the Duchess of St. Leu, to warn her and

conjure her to be on her guard against the spies by whom she was

surrounded, as suspicion might be easily excited against her at court.

Hortense paid no attention to this warning; she considered precaution

unnecessary, and was not willing to deprive herself of her one

happiness--that of seeing her friends, and of conversing with them in a

free and unconstrained manner.

The parlors of the duchess, therefore, continued to be thrown open to

her faithful friends, who had also been the faithful servants of the

emperor; and the Dukes of Bassano, of Friaul, of Ragusa, of the Moskwa,

and their wives, as well as the gallant Charles de Labedoyère, and the

acute Count Renault de Saint-Jean d'Angely, still continued to meet in

the parlors of the Duchess of St. Leu.

The voice of hostility was raised against them with ever-increasing

hostility; the reunions that took place at St. Leu were day by day

portrayed at the Tuileries in more hateful colors; and the poor duchess,

who lived in sorrow and retirement in her apartments, became an object

of hatred and envy to these proud ladies of the old aristocracy, who

were unable to comprehend how this woman could be thought of while they

were near, although she had been the ornament of the imperial court, and

who was considered amiable, intellectual, and beautiful, even under the

legitimate dynasty.

Hortense heard of the ridiculous and malicious reports which had been

circulated concerning her, and, for the sake of her friends and sons,

she resolved to put an end to them.

"I must leave my dear St. Leu and go to Paris," said she. "There they

can better observe all my actions. Reason demands that I should conform

myself to circumstances."

She therefore abandoned her quiet home at St. Leu, and repaired with her

children and her court to Paris, to again take up her abode in her

dwelling in the Rue de la Victoire.

But this step gave fresh fuel to the calumnies of her enemies, who saw

in her the embodied remembrance of the empire which they hated and at

the same time feared.

The Bonapartists still continued their visits to her parlors, as before;

and no appeals, no representations could induce Hortense to close her

doors against her faithful friends, for fear that their fidelity might

excite suspicion against herself.

In order, however, to contradict the report that adherents of Napoleon

only were in the habit of frequenting her parlors, the duchess also

extended the hospitalities of her parlors to the strangers who brought

letters of recommendation, and who desired to be introduced to her.

Great numbers hastened to avail themselves of this permission.

The most brilliant and select circle was soon assembled around the

duchess. There, were to be found the great men of the empire, who came

out of attachment; distinguished strangers, who came out of admiration;

and, finally, the aristocrats of the old era, who came out of curiosity,

who came to see if the Duchess of St. Leu was really so intelligent,

amiable, and graceful, as she was said to be.

The parlors of the duchess were therefore more talked of in Paris than

they had been at St. Leu. The old duchesses and princesses of the

Faubourg St. Germain, with all their ancestors, prejudices, and

pretensions, were enraged at hearing this everlasting praise of the

charming queen, and endeavored to appease their wrath by renewed

hostilities against its object.

It was not enough that she was calumniated, at court and in society, as

a dangerous person; the arm of the press was also wielded against her.

As we have said, Hortense was the embodied remembrance of the empire,

and it was therefore determined that she should be destroyed.

_Brochures_ and pamphlets were published, in which the king was appealed

to, to banish from Paris, and even from France, the dangerous woman who

was conspiring publicly, and even under the very eyes of the government,

for Napoleon, and to banish with her the two children also, the two

Napoleons; "for," said these odious accusers, "to leave these two

princes here, means to raise in France wolves that would one day ravage

their country[42]."

[Footnote 42: Cochelet, Mémoires sur la Reins Hortense, vol. ii., p.

330.]

Hortense paid but little attention to these reports and calumnies. She

was too much accustomed to being misunderstood and wrongly judged, to

allow herself to be disquieted thereby. She knew that calumnies were

never refuted by contradiction, and that it was therefore better to meet

them with proud silence, and to conquer them by contempt, instead of

giving them new life by combating and contradicting them.

She herself entertained such contempt for calumny that she never allowed

anything abusive to be said in her presence that would injure any one in

her estimation. When, on one occasion, while she was still Queen of

Holland, a lady of Holland took occasion to speak ill of another lady,

on account of her political opinions, the queen interrupted her, and

said: "Madame, here I am a stranger to all parties, and receive all

persons with the same consideration, for I love to hear every one well

spoken of; and I generally receive an unfavorable impression of those

only who speak ill of others[43]."

[Footnote 43: Cochelet, vol. i., p. 378.]

And, strange to say, she herself was ever the object of calumny and

accusation.

"During twenty-five years, I have never been separated from Princess

Hortense," says Louise de Cochelet, "and I have never observed in her

the slightest feeling of bitterness against any one; ever good and

gentle, she never failed to take an interest in those who were unhappy;

and she endeavored to help them whenever and wherever they presented

themselves. And this noble and gentle woman was always the object of

hatred and absurd calumnies, and against all this she was armed with the

integrity and purity of her actions and intentions only[44]."

[Footnote 44: Cochelet, vol. i., p. 378.]

Nor did Hortense now think of contradicting the calumnies that had been

circulated concerning her. Her mind was occupied with other and far more

important matters.

An ambassador of her husband, who resided in Florence, had come to Paris

in order to demand of Hortense, in the name of Louis Bonaparte, his

two sons.

After much discussion, he had finally declared that he would be

satisfied, if his wife would send him his eldest son, Napoleon

Louis, only.

But the loving mother could not and would not consent to a separation

from either of her children; and as, in spite of her entreaties, her

husband persisted in refusing to allow her to retain both of them, she

resolved, in the anguish of maternal love, to resort to the most extreme

means to retain the possession of her sons.

She informed her husband's ambassador that it was her fixed purpose to

retain possession of her children, and appealed to the law to recognize

and protect them, and not allow her sons to be deprived of their rights

as Frenchmen, by going into a compulsory exile.

While the Duchess of St. Leu was being accused of conspiring in favor of

Napoleon, her whole soul was occupied with the one question, which was

to decide whether one of her sons could be torn from her side or not;

and, if she conspired at all, it was only with her lawyer in order to

frustrate her husband's plans.

But the calumnies and accusations of the press were nevertheless

continued; and at last her friends thought it necessary to lay before

the queen a journal that contained a violent and abusive article against

her, and to request that they might be permitted to reply to it.

"With a sad smile, Hortense read the article and returned the newspaper.

"It is extremely mortifying to be scorned by one's countrymen," said

she, "but it would be useless to make any reply. I can afford to

disregard such attacks--they are powerless to harm me."

But when on the following morning the same journal contained a venomous

and odious article levelled at her husband, Louis Bonaparte, her

generous indignation was aroused, and, oblivious of all their

disagreements, and even of the process now pending between them, she

remembered only that it was the father of her children whom they had

dared to attack, and that he was not present to defend himself. It

therefore devolved upon her to defend him.

"I am enraged, and I desire that M. Després shall reply to this article

at once," said Hortense. "Although paternal love on the one side, and

maternal love on the other, has involved us in a painful process, it

nevertheless concerns no one else, and it disgraces neither of us. I

should be in despair, if this sad controversy were made the pretext for

insulting the father of my children and the honored name he bears. For

the very reason that I stand alone, am I called on to defend the absent

to the best of my ability. Therefore let M. Després come to me; I will

instruct him how to answer this disgraceful article!"

On the following day, an able and eloquent article in defence of Louis

Bonaparte appeared in the journal--an article that shamed and silenced

his accusers--an article which the prince, whose cause it so warmly

espoused, probably never thought of attributing to the wife to whose

maternal heart be had caused such anguish[45].

[Footnote 45: Cochelet, vol. i., p. 303.]

CHAPTER IX.

THE BURIAL OF LOUIS XVI. AND HIS WIFE.

The earnest endeavors of the Bourbon court to find the resting-place of

the remains of the royal couple who had died on the scaffold, and who

had expiated the crimes of their predecessors rather than their own,

were at last successful. The remains of the illustrious martyrs had

been sought for in accordance with the directions of persons who had

witnessed their sorrowful and contemptuous burial, and the body of Louis

XVI. was found in a desolate corner of the grave-yard of St. Roch, and

in another place also that of Queen Marie Antoinette.

It was the king's wish, and a perfectly natural and just one, to inter

these bodies in the royal vault at St. Denis, but he wished to do it

quietly and without pomp; his acute political tact taught him that these

sad remains should not be made the occasion of a political

demonstration, and that it was unwise to permit the bones of Louis XVI.

to become a new apple of discord.

But the king's court, even his nearest relatives, his ministers, and the

whole troop of arrogant courtiers, who desired, by means of an

ostentatious interment, not only to show a proper respect for the

beheaded royal pair, but also to punish those whom they covertly called

"regicides," and whom they were nevertheless now compelled to

tolerate--the king's entire court demanded a solemn and ceremonious

interment; and Louis, who, as he himself had said, "was king, but not

master," was compelled to yield to this demand.

Preparations were therefore made for an ostentatious interment of the

royal remains, and it was determined that the melancholy rites should

take place on the 21st of January, 1815, the anniversary of painful

memories and unending regret for the royal family.

M. de Chateaubriand, the noble and intelligent eulogist and friend of

the Bourbons, caused an article to be inserted in the _Journal des

Débats_, in which he announced the impending ceremony. This article was

then republished in pamphlet form; and so great was the sympathy of the

Parisians in the approaching event, that thirty thousand copies were

disposed of, in Paris alone, in one day.

On the 20th of January the graves of the martyrs were opened, and all

the princes of the royal house who were present, knelt down at the edge

of the grave to mingle their prayers with those of the thousands who had

accompanied them to the church-yard.

But the king was right. This act, that appeared to some to be a mere act

of justice, seemed an insult to others, and reminded them of the dark

days of error and fanaticism, in which they had allowed themselves to be

drawn into the vortex of the general delirium. Many of those who in the

Assembly had voted for the death of the king, were now residing at

Paris, and even at court, as for instance Fouché, and to them the

approaching ceremony seemed an insult.

"Are you aware," exclaimed Descourtis, as he rushed into the apartment

of Cambacérès, who was at that moment conversing with the Count de Pere,

"have you already been informed that this ceremony is really to take

place to-morrow?"

"Yes, to-morrow is the fated day. To-morrow we are to be delivered over

to the daggers of fanatics."

"Is this the pardon that was promised us?"

"As for that," exclaimed the Count de Pere (a good royalist), "I was

not aware that there was an article in the constitution forbidding the

reinterment of the mortal remains of the royal pair. The proceeding will

be perfectly lawful."

"It is their purpose to infuriate the populace," exclaimed Descourtis,

pale with inward agitation. "Old recollections are to be recalled and a

mute accusation hurled at us. But we shall some day be restored to power

again, and then we will remember also!"

Cambacérès, who had listened to this conversation in silence, now

stepped forward, and, taking Descourtis's hand in his own, pressed

it tenderly.

"Ah, my friend," said he, in sad and solemn tones, "I would we were

permitted to march behind the funeral-car in mourning-robes to-morrow!

We owe this proof of repentance to France and to ourselves!"

The solemn funeral celebration took place on the following day. All

Paris took part in it. Every one, even the old republicans, the

Bonapartists as well as the royalists, joined the funeral procession, in

order to testify that they had abandoned the past and were repentant.

Slowly and solemnly, amid the ringing of all the bells, the roll of the

drum, the thunders of artillery, and the chants of the clergy, the

procession moved onward.

The golden crown, which hung suspended over the funeral-car, shone

lustrously in the sunlight. It had fallen from the heads of the royal

pair while they still lived; it now adorned them in death.

Slowly and solemnly the procession moved onward; it had arrived at the

Boulevards which separates the two streets of Montmartre. Suddenly a

terrible, thousand-voiced cry of horror burst upon the air.

The crown, which hung suspended over the funeral-car, had fallen down,

touching the coffins with a dismal sound, and then broke into fragments

on the glittering snow of the street.

This occurred on the 21st of January; two months later, at the same

hour, and on the same day, the crown of Louis XVIII. fell from his head,

and Napoleon placed it on his own!

CHAPTER X.

NAPOLEON'S RETURN FROM ELBA.

A cry of tremendous import reverberated through Paris, all France, and

all Europe, in the first days of March, 1815. Napoleon, it was said, had

quitted Elba, and would soon arrive in France!

The royalists heard it with dismay, the Bonapartists with a delight that

they hardly took the pains to conceal.

Hortense alone took no part in the universal delight of the

imperialists. Her soul was filled with profound sadness and dark

forebodings. "I lament this step," said she; "I would have sacrificed

every thing to prevent his return to France, because I am of the belief

that no good can come of it. Many will declare for, and many against

him, and we shall have a civil war, of which the emperor himself may be

the victim[46]."

[Footnote 46: Cochelet, vol. ii., p. 348.]

In the meanwhile the general excitement was continually increasing; it

took possession of every one, and at this time none would have been

capable of giving cool and sensible advice.

Great numbers of the emperor's friends came to the Duchess of St. Leu,

and demanded of her counsel, assistance, and encouragement, accusing her

of indifference and want of sympathy, because she did not share their

hopes, and was sad instead of rejoicing with them.

But the spies of the still ruling government, who lay in wait around the

queen's dwelling, did not hear her words; they only saw that the

emperor's former generals and advisers were in the habit of repairing to

her parlors, and that was sufficient to stamp Hortense as the head of

the conspiracy which had for its object the return of Napoleon

to France.

The queen perceived the danger of her situation, but she bowed her head

to receive the blows of Fate in silent resignation. "I am environed by

torments and perplexities," said she, "but I see no means of avoiding

them. There is no resource for me but to arm myself with courage, and

that I will do."

The royal government, however, still hoped to be able to stem the

advancing tide, and compel the waves of insurrection to surge backward

and destroy those who had set them in motion.

They proposed to treat the great event which made France glow with new

pulsations, as a mere insurrection, that had been discovered in good

time, and could therefore be easily repressed. They therefore

determined, above all, to seize and render harmless the "conspirators,"

that is to say, all those of whom it was known that they had remained

faithful to the emperor in their hearts.

Spies surrounded the houses of all the generals, dukes, and princes of

the empire, and it was only in disguise and by the greatest dexterity

that they could evade the vigilance of the police.

The Duchess of St. Leu was at last also compelled to yield to the urgent

entreaties of her friends, and seek an asylum during these days of

uncertainty and danger. She quitted her dwelling in disguise, and,

penetrating through the army of spies who lay in wait around the house

and in the street in which she resided, she happily succeeded in

reaching the hiding-place prepared for her by a faithful servant of her

mother. She had already confided her children to another servant who had

remained true to her in her time of trouble.

The Duke of Otranto, now once more the faithful Fouché of the empire,

was also to have been arrested, but he managed to effect his escape.

General Lavalette--who was aware that the dwelling of the Duchess of St.

Leu was no longer watched by the police, who had discovered that the

duchess was no longer there--Lavalette took advantage of this

circumstance, and concealed himself in her dwelling, and M. de Dandré,

the chief of police, who had vainly endeavored to catch the so-called

conspirators, exclaimed in anguish: "It is impossible to find any one;

it has been so much noised about that these Bonapartists were to be

arrested, that they are now all hidden away."

Like a bombshell the news suddenly burst upon the anxious and doubting

capital: "The emperor has been received by the people in Grenoble with

exultation, and the troops that were to have been led against him have,

together with their chieftain, Charles de Labedoyère, gone over to the

emperor. The gates of the city were thrown open, and the people advanced

to meet him with shouts of welcome and applause; and now Napoleon stood

no longer at the head of a little body of troops, but at the head of a

small army that was increasing with every hour."

The government still endeavored, through its officials and through the

public press, to make the Parisians disbelieve this intelligence.

But the government had lost faith in itself. It heard the old, the hated

cry, "Vive l'empereur!" resounding through the air; it heard the

fluttering of the victorious battle-flags of Marengo, Arcola, Jena, and

Austerlitz! The Emperor Napoleon was still the conquering hero, who

swayed destiny and compelled it to declare for him.

A perfect frenzy of dismay took possession of the royalists; and when

they learned that Napoleon had already arrived in Lyons, that its

inhabitants had received him with enthusiasm, and that its garrison had

also declared for him, their panic knew no bounds.

The royalist leaders assembled at the house of Count de la Pere, for the

purpose of holding a last great discussion and consultation. The most

eminent persons, men and women, differing widely on other subjects, but

a unit on this point, assembled here with the same feelings of patriotic

horror, and with the same desire to promote the general welfare. There

were Madame de Staël, Benjamin Constant, Count Lainé, and Chateaubriand;

there were the Duke de Némours, and Count de la Pere, and around them

gathered the whole troop of anxious royalists, expecting and hoping that

the eloquent lips of these celebrated personages who stood in their

midst would give them consolation and new life.

Benjamin Constant spoke first. He said that, to Napoleon, that is, to

force, force must be opposed. Bonaparte was armed with the love of the

soldiers, they must arm themselves with the love of the citizens. His

appearance was imposing, like the visage of Caesar; it would be

necessary to oppose to him an equally sublime countenance. Lafayette

should, therefore, be made commander-in-chief of the French army.

M. de Chateaubriand exclaimed, with noble indignation, that the first

step to be taken by the government was to punish severely a ministry

that was so short-sighted, and had committed so many faults. Lainé

declared, with a voice tremulous with emotion, that all was lost, and

that but one means of confounding tyranny remained; a scene, portraying

the whole terror, dismay and grief of the capital at the approach of the

hated enemy, should be arranged. In accordance with this plan, the whole

population of Paris--the entire National Guard, the mothers, the young

girls, the children, the old and the young--were to pass out of the

city, and await the tyrant; and this aspect of a million of men fleeing

from the face of a single human being was to move or terrify him who

came to rob them of their peace!

In her enthusiastic and energetic manner, Madame de Staël pronounced an

anathema against the usurper who was about to kindle anew, in weeping,

shivering France, the flames of war.

All were touched, enthusiastic, and agitated, but they could do nothing

but utter fine phrases; and all that fell from the eloquent lips of

these celebrated poets and politicians was, as it were, nothing more

than a bulletin concerning the condition of the patient, and concerning

the mortal wounds which he had received. This patient was France; and

the royalists, who were assembled in the house of Count de la Pere, now

felt that the patient's case was hopeless, and that nothing remained to

them but to go into exile, and bemoan his sad fate[47]!

[Footnote 47: Mémoires d'une Femme de Qualité, vol. i., p. 99.]

CHAPTER XI

LOUIS XVIII.'S DEPARTURE AND NAPOLEON'S ARRIVAL.

While the royalists were thus considering, hesitating, and despairing,

King Louis XVIII. had alone retained his composure and sense of

security. That is to say, they had taken care not to inform him of the

real state of affairs. On the contrary, he had been informed that

Bonaparte had been everywhere received with coldness and silence, and

that the army would not respond to his appeal, but would remain true to

the king. The exultation with which the people everywhere received the

advancing emperor found, therefore, no echo in the Tuileries, and the

crowd who pressed around the king when he repaired to the hall of the

_Corps Législatif_ to hold an encouraging address, was not the people,

but the royalists--those otherwise so haughty ladies and gentlemen of

the old nobility, who again, as on the day of the first entrance, acted

the part to which the people were not disposed to adapt themselves, and

transformed themselves for a moment into the people, in order to show to

the king the demonstrations of his people's love.

The king was completely deceived. M. de Blacas told the king of

continuous reverses to Napoleon's arms, while the emperor's advance was

in reality a continuous triumph. They had carried this deception so far

that they had informed the king that Lyons had closed its gates to

Napoleon, and that Ney was advancing to meet him, vowing that he would

bring the emperor back to Paris in an iron cage.

The king was therefore composed, self-possessed, and resolute, when

suddenly his brother, the Count d'Artois, and the Duke of Orleans, who,

according to the king's belief, occupied Lyons as a victor, arrived in

Paris alone, as fugitives, abandoned by their soldiers and servants, and

informed Louis that Lyons had received the emperor with open arms, and

that no resource had been left them but to betake themselves to flight.

And a second, and still more terrible, item of intelligence followed the

first. Ney, the king's hope, the last support of his tottering throne,

Ney had not had the heart to maintain a hostile position toward his old

companion in arms. Ney had gone over to the emperor, and his army had

followed him with exultation.

The king's eyes were now opened, he now saw the truth, and learned how

greatly he had been deceived.

"Alas," cried he, sadly, "Bonaparte fell because he would not listen to

the truth, and I shall fall because they would not tell me the truth!"

At this moment, and while the king was eloquently appealing to his

brothers and relatives, and to the gentlemen of his court who surrounded

him, to tell him the whole truth, the door opened, and the Minister

Blacas, until then so complacent, so confident of victory, now stepped

in pale and trembling.

The truth, which he had so long concealed from the king, was now plainly

impressed on his pale, terrified countenance. The king had desired to

hear the truth; it stood before him in his trembling minister.

A short interval of profound silence occurred; the eyes of all were

fastened on the count, and, in the midst of the general silence, he was

heard to say, in a voice choked with emotion: "Sire, all is lost; the

army, as well as the people, betray your majesty. It will be necessary

for your majesty to leave Paris."

The king staggered backward for an instant, and then fastened an

inquiring glance on the faces of all who were present. No one dared to

return his gaze with a glance of hope. They all looked down sorrowfully.

The king understood this mute reply, and a deep sigh escaped his breast.

"The tree bears its fruit," said he, with a bitter smile; "heretofore it

has been your purpose to make me govern for you, hereafter I shall

govern for no one. If I shall, however, return to the throne of my

fathers once more, you will be made to understand that I will profit by

the experience you have given me[48]!"

[Footnote 48: The king's own words. Mémoires d'une Femme de Qualité,

vol. i. p. 156.]

A few hours later, at nightfall, supported on the arm of Count Blacas,

without any suite, and preceded by a single lackey bearing a torch, the

king left the once more desolate and solitary Tuileries, and fled

to Holland.

Twenty-four hours later, on the evening of the 20th of March, Napoleon

entered the Tuileries, accompanied by the exulting shouts of the

people, and the thundering "_Vive l'empereur_" of the troops. On the

same place where the white flag of the Bourbons had but yesterday

fluttered, the _tricolore_ of the empire now flung out its folds to

the breeze.

In the Tuileries the emperor found all his old ministers, his generals,

and his courtiers, assembled. All were desirous of seeing and greeting

him. An immense concourse of people surged around the entrance on the

stair-ways and in the halls.

Borne aloft on the arms and shoulders of the people, the emperor was

carried up the stairway, and into his apartments; and, while shouts of

joy were resounding within, the thousands without joined the more

fortunate ones who had borne the emperor to his apartments, and rent the

air with exulting cries of "_Vive l'empereur_!"

In his cabinet, to which Napoleon immediately repaired, he was received

by Queen Julia, wife of Joseph Bonaparte, and Queen Hortense, who had

abandoned her place of concealment, and hurried to the Tuileries to

salute the emperor.

Napoleon greeted Hortense coldly, he inquired briefly after the health

of her sons, and then added, almost severely: "You have placed my

nephews in a false position, by permitting them to remain in the midst

of my enemies."

Hortense turned pale, and her eyes filled with tears. The emperor seemed

not to notice it. "You have accepted the friendship of my enemies," said

he, "and have placed yourself under obligations to the Bourbons. I

depend on Eugene; I hope he will soon be here. I wrote to him

from Lyons."

This was the reception Hortense received from the emperor. He was angry

with her for having remained in France, and at the same time the flying

Bourbons, who were on their way to Holland, said of her: "The Duchess of

St. Leu is to blame for all! Her intrigues alone have brought Napoleon

back to Paris."

CHAPTER XII.

THE HUNDRED DAYS.

The hundred days that followed the emperor's return are like a myth of

the olden time, like a poem of Homer, in which heroes destroy worlds

with a blow of the hand, and raise armies out of the ground with a stamp

of the foot; in which nations perish, and new ones are born within the

space of a minute.

These hundred days stand in history as a giant era, and these hundred

days of the restored empire were replete with all the earth can offer of

fortune, of magnificence, of glory, and of victory, as well as of all

that the earth contains that is disgraceful, miserable, traitorous, and

perfidious.

Wondrous and brilliant was their commencement. All France seemed to hail

the emperor's return with exultation. Every one hastened to assure him

of his unchangeable fidelity, and to persuade him that they had only

obeyed the Bourbons under compulsion.

The old splendor of the empire once more prevailed in the Tuileries,

where the emperor now held his glittering court again. There was,

however, this difference: Queen Hortense now did the honors of the

court, in the place of the Empress Marie Louise, who had not returned

with her husband; and the emperor could not now show the people his own

son, but could only point to his two nephews, the sons of Hortense.

The emperor had quickly reconciled himself to the queen; he had been

compelled to yield to her gentle and yet decided explanations; he had

comprehended that Hortense had sacrificed herself for her children, in

continuing to remain in France notwithstanding her reluctance. After

this reconciliation had taken place, Napoleon extended his hand to

Hortense, with his irresistible smile, and begged her to name a wish, in

order that he might fulfil it.

Queen Hortense, who had been so bitterly slandered and scorned by the

royalists, and who was still considered by the fleeing Bourbons to be

the cause of their overthrow--this same queen now entreated the emperor

to permit the Duchess d'Orleans, who had not been able to leave Paris on

account of a broken limb, to remain, and to accord her a pension

besides. She told the emperor that she had received a letter from the

duchess, in which she begged for her intercession in obtaining some

assistance from the emperor, assuring her that it was urgently Deeded,

in her depressed circumstances.

The emperor consented to grant this wish of his step-daughter Hortense;

and it was solely at her solicitation that Napoleon accorded a pension

of four hundred thousand francs to the Duchess d'Orleans, the mother of

King Louis Philippe[49].

[Footnote 49: La Reine Hortense en Italie, en France, et en Angleterre.

Ecrit par elle-même, p. 185.]

A few days later, at Hortense's request, a pension of two hundred

thousand francs was also accorded to the Duchess of Bourbon, who had

also besought the queen to exert her influence in her behalf; and both

ladies now hastened to assure Hortense of their everlasting gratitude.

The fulfilment of her wish filled Hortense with delight; she was as

proud of it as of a victory achieved.

"I considered it a sacred duty," said she, "to intercede for these

ladies. They were as isolated and desolate as I had been a few clays

before, and I know how sad it is to be in such a state!"

But Hortense's present state was a very different one. She was now no

longer the Duchess of St. Leu, but the queen and the ornament of the

court once more; all heads now bowed before her again, and the high-born

ladies, who had seemed oblivious of her existence during the past year,

now hastened to do homage to the queen.

"Majesty," said one of these ladies to the queen, "unfortunately, you

were always absent in the country when I called to pay my respects

during the past winter."

The queen's only response was a gentle "Indeed madame," which she

accompanied with a smile.

Hortense, as has before been said, was now again the grand point of

attraction at court, and, at Napoleon's command, the public officials

now also hastened to solicit the honor of an audience, in order to pay

their respects to the emperor's step-daughter. Each day beheld new

_fêtes_ and ceremonies.

The most sublime and imposing of all these was the ceremony of the

_Champ de Mai_, that took place on the first of June, and at which the

emperor, in the presence of the applauding populace, presented to his

army the new eagles and flags, which they were henceforth to carry into

battle instead of the lilies of the Bourbons.

It was a wondrous, an enchanting spectacle to behold the sea of human

beings that surged to and fro on this immense space, and made the welkin

ring with their "_Vive l'empereur_!"--to behold the proud, triumphant

soldiers receiving from Napoleon the eagles consecrated by the priests

at the altar that stood before the emperor. It was a wondrous spectacle

to behold the hundreds of richly-attired ladies glittering with

diamonds, who occupied the tiers of seats that stood immediately behind

the emperor's chair, and on which Hortense and her two sons occupied the

first seats.

The air was so balmy, the sun shone so lustriously over all this

splendor and magnificence, the cannon thundered so mightily, and the

strains of music resounded so sweetly on the ear; and, while all were

applauding and rejoicing, Hortense sat behind the emperor's chair

covertly sketching the imposing scene that lay before her, the grand

ceremony, which, a dark foreboding told her, "might perhaps be the last

of the empire[50]."

[Footnote 50: Cochelet, vol. iii., p. 97.]

Hortense alone did not allow herself to be deceived by this universal

delight and contentment.

The heavens still seemed bright and serene overhead, but she already

perceived the gathering clouds, she already heard the mutterings of the

storm that was soon, and this time forever, to hurl the emperor's throne

to the ground. She knew that a day would suddenly come when all this

brightness would grow dim, and when all those who now bowed so humbly

before him, would turn from him again--a day when they would deny and

desert the emperor as they had already done once before, and that, from

that day on, the present period of grandeur would be accounted to her as

a debt. But this knowledge caused her neither anxiety nor embarrassment.

The emperor was once more there; he was the lord and father left her by

her mother Josephine, and it was her duty and desire to be true and

obedient to him as long as she lived.

The sun still shone lustrously over the restored empire, and in the

parlors of Queen Hortense, where the diplomats, statesmen, artists, and

all the notables of the empire were in the habit of assembling, gayety

reigned supreme. There music and literature were discussed, and homage

done to all the fine arts.

Benjamin Constant, who had with great rapidity transformed himself from

an enthusiastic royalist into an imperial state-councillor, came to the

queen's parlors and regaled her guests by reading to them his romance

Adolphe; and Metternich, the Austrian ambassador seemed to have no other

destiny than to amuse the queen and the circle of ladies assembled

around them, and to invent new social games for their entertainment.

Metternich knew how to bring thousands of charming little frivolities

into fashion; he taught the ladies the charming and poetic language of

flowers, and made it a symbolic means of conversation and correspondence

in the queen's circle. He also, to the great delight of the court,

invented the alphabet of gems; in this alphabet each gem represented its

initial letter, and, by combinations, names and devices were formed,

which were worn in necklaces, bracelets, and rings.

The little games with which the diplomatic Metternich occupied himself

during the hundred days at the imperial court at Paris, were, it

appears, of the most innocent and harmless nature.

CHAPTER XIII.

NAPOLEON'S LAST ADIEU.

The storm, of the approach of which Queen Hortense had so long had a

foreboding, was preparing to burst over France. All the princes of

Europe who had once been Napoleon's allies had now declared against him.

They all refused to acknowledge Napoleon as emperor, or to treat with

him as one having any authority.

"No peace, no reconciliation with this man," wrote the Emperor Alexander

to Pozzo di Borgo; "all Europe is of the same opinion concerning him.

With the exception of this man, any thing they may demand; no preference

for any one; no war after this man shall have been set aside[51]."

[Footnote 51: Cochelet, vol. iii., p. 90.]

But, in order to "set this man aside," war was necessary. The allied

armies therefore advanced toward the boundaries of France; the great

powers declared war against France, or rather against the Emperor

Napoleon; and France, which had so long desired peace, and had only

accepted the Bourbons because it hoped to obtain it of them, France was

now compelled to take up the gauntlet.

On the 12th of June the emperor left Paris with his army, in order to

meet the advancing enemy. Napoleon himself, who had hitherto gone into

battle, his countenance beaming with an assurance of victory, now looked

gloomy and dejected, for he well knew that on the fate of his army now

depended his own, and the fate of France.

This time it was not a question of making conquests, but of saving the

national independence, and it was the mother-earth, red with the blood

of her children, that was now to be defended.

Paris, that for eighty days had been the scene of splendor and

festivity, now put on its mourning attire. All rejoicings were at an

end, and every one listened hopefully to catch the first tones of the

thunder of a victorious battle.

But the days of victory were over; the cannon thundered, the battle was

fought, but instead of a triumph it was an overthrow.

At Waterloo, the eagles that had been consecrated on the first of June,

on the _Champ de Mai_, sank in the dust; the emperor returned to Paris,

a fugitive, and broken down in spirit, while the victorious allies were

approaching the capital.

At the first intelligence of his return, Hortense hastened to the

Elysée, where he had taken up his residence, to greet him. During the

last few days she had been a prey to gloomy thoughts; now that the

danger had come, now when all were despairing, she was composed,

resolute, and ready to stand at the emperor's side to the last.

Napoleon was lost, and Hortense knew it; but he now had most need of

friends, and she remained true, while so many of his nearest friends and

relatives were deserting him.

On the twenty-second day of June the emperor sent in his abdication in

favor of his son, the King of Rome, to the chambers; and a week later

the chambers proclaimed Napoleon's son Emperor of France, under the name

of Napoleon II.

But this emperor was a child of four years, and was, moreover, not in

France, but in the custody of the Emperor of Austria, whose army was now

marching on Paris with hostile intent!

Napoleon, now no longer Emperor of France, had been compelled to take

the crown from his head a second time; and for the second time he

quitted Paris to await the destiny to be appointed him by the allies.

This time he did not repair to Fontainebleau, but to Malmaison--to

Malmaison, that had once been Josephine's paradise, and where her heart

had at last bled to death. This charming resort had passed into the

possession of Queen Hortense; and Napoleon, who but yesterday had ruled

over a whole empire, and to-day could call nothing, not even the space

of ground on which he stood, his own, Napoleon asked Hortense to receive

him at Malmaison.

Hortense accorded his request joyfully, and, when her friends learned

this, and in their dismay and anxiety conjured her not to identify in

this manner herself and children with the fate of the emperor, but to

consider well the danger that would result from such a course, the queen

replied resolutely: "That is an additional reason for holding firm to my

determination. I consider it my sacred duty to remain true to the

emperor to the last, and the greater the danger that threatens the

emperor, the happier I shall be in having it in my power to show him my

entire devotion and gratitude."

And when, in this decision, when her whole future hung in the balance,

one of her most intimate lady-friends ventured to remind the queen of

the disgraceful and malicious reports that had once been put in

circulation with regard to her relation to Napoleon, and suggested that

she would give new strength to them by now receiving the emperor at

Malmaison, Hortense replied with dignity: "What do I care for these

calumnies? I fulfil the duty imposed on me by feeling and principle. The

emperor has always treated me as his child; I shall therefore ever

remain his devoted and grateful daughter; it is my first and greatest

necessity to be at peace with myself[52]."

[Footnote 52: Cochelet, vol. iii., p. 149.]

Hortense therefore repaired with the emperor to Malmaison, and the

faithful, who were not willing to leave him in his misfortune, gathered

around him, watched over his life, and gave to his residence a fleeting

reflection of the old grandeur and magnificence. For they who now stood

around Napoleon, guarding his person from any immediate danger that

threatened him at the hands of fanatic enemies or hired assassins, were

marshals, generals, dukes, and princes.

But Napoleon's fate was already decided--it was an inevitable one, and

when the intelligence reached Malmaison that the enemy was approaching

nearer and nearer, and that resistance was no longer made anywhere, and

when Napoleon saw that all was lost, his throne, his crown, and even the

love which he imagined he had for ever built up for himself in the

hearts of the French people by his great deeds and victories--when he

saw this he determined to fly, no matter whither, but away from the

France that would no longer rally to his call, the France that had

abandoned him.

The emperor resolved to fly to Rochefort, and to embark there in order

to return to Elba. The provisional government that had established

itself in Paris, and had sent an ambassador to Napoleon at Malmaison

with the demand that he should depart at once, now instructed this

ambassador to accompany the emperor on his journey, and not to leave him

until he should have embarked.

Napoleon was ready to comply with this demand. He determined to depart

on the afternoon of the 30th of June. He had nothing more to do but to

take leave of his friends and family. He did this with cold, tearless

composure, with an immovable, iron countenance; no muscle of his face

quivered, and his glance was severe and imperious.

But, when Hortense brought in her two sons, when he had clasped them in

his arms for the last time, then a shadow passed over his countenance;

then his pale compressed lips quivered, and he turned away to conceal

the tears that stood in his eyes.

But Hortense had seen them, and in her heart she preserved the

remembrance of these tears as the most precious gem of her departed

fortune. As the emperor then turned to her to bid her adieu in his

former cold and immovable manner, Hortense, who well knew that a volcano

of torments must be glowing under this cold lava, entreated him to grant

her a last favor.

A painful smile illumined the emperor's countenance for a moment. There

was, it seemed, still something that he could grant; he was not

altogether powerless! With a mute inclination of the head he signified

his assent. Hortense handed him a broad black belt.

"Sire," said she, "wear this belt around your body and beneath your

clothing. Conceal it carefully, but in the time of necessity remember it

and open it."

The emperor took the belt in his hand, and its weight startled him.

"What does it contain?" asked he: "I must know what it contains!"

"Sire," said Hortense, blushing and hesitating: "Sire, it is my large

diamond necklace that I have taken apart and sewed in this belt. Your

majesty may need money in a critical moment, and you will not deny me

this last happiness, your acceptance of this token."

The emperor refused, but Hortense entreated him so earnestly that he was

at last compelled to yield, and accept this love-offering.

They then took a hasty and mute leave of each other, and Hortense, in

order to hide her tears, hastened with her children from the room.

The emperor summoned a servant, and ordered that no one else should be

admitted; but at this moment the door was hastily thrown open, and a

national guard entered the room.

"Talma!" exclaimed the emperor, almost gayly, as he extended his hand.

"Yes, Talma, sire," said he, pressing the emperor's hand to his lips.

"I disguised myself in this dress, in order that I might get here to

take leave of your majesty."

"To take leave, never to see each other more," said the emperor, sadly.

"I shall never be able to admire you in your great _rôles_ again, Talma.

I am about to depart, never to return again. You will play the emperor

on many an evening, but not I, Talma! My part is at an end!"

"No, sire, you will always remain the emperor!" exclaimed Talma, with

generous enthusiasm; "the emperor, although without the crown and the

purple robe."

"And also the emperor without a people," said Napoleon.

"Sire, you have a people that will ever remain yours, and a throne that

is imperishable! It is the throne that you have erected for yourself on

the battle-fields, that will be recorded in the books of history. And

every one, no matter to what nation he may belong, who reads of your

great deeds, will be inspired by them, and will acknowledge himself to

be one of your people, and bow down before the emperor in reverence."

"I have no people," murmured Napoleon, gloomily; "they have all

deserted--all betrayed me, Talma!"

"Sire, they will some day regret, as Alexander of Russia will also one

day regret, having deserted the great man he once called brother!" And,

in his delicate and generous endeavor to remind Napoleon of one of his

moments of grandeur, Talma continued: "Your majesty perhaps remembers

that evening at Tilsit, when the Emperor of Russia made you so tender a

declaration of his love, publicly and before the whole world? But no,

you cannot remember it; for you it was a matter of no moment; but I--I

shall never forget it! It was at the theatre; we were playing 'Oedipus.'

I looked up at the box in which your majesty sat, between the King of

Prussia and the Emperor Alexander. I could see you only--the second

Alexander of Macedon, the second Julius Caesar--and I held my arms aloft

and saw you only when I repeated the words of my part: 'The friendship

of a great man is a gift of the gods!' And as I said this, the Emperor

Alexander arose and pressed you to his heart. I saw this, and tears

choked my utterance. The audience applauded rapturously; this applause

was, however, not for me, but for the Emperor Alexander[53]!"

[Footnote 53: This scene is entirely historical. See Bossuet, Mémoires;

Bourrienne, Mémoires; Cochelet and Une Femme de Qualité.]

While Talma was speaking, his cheeks glowing and his eyes flashing, a

rosy hue suffused the emperor's countenance, and, for an instant, he

smiled. Talma had attained his object; he had raised up the humiliated

emperor with the recital of his own grandeur.

Napoleon thanked him with a kindly glance, and extended his hand to bid

him adieu.

As Talma approached the emperor, a carriage was heard driving up in

front of the house. It was Letitia, the emperor's mother, who had come

to take leave of her son. Talma stood still, in breathless suspense; in

his heart he thanked Providence for permitting him to witness this

leave-taking.

"Madame mère" walked past Talma in silence, and without observing him.

She saw only her son, who stood in the middle of the room, his sombre

and flashing glance fastened on her with an unutterable expression. Now

they stood face to face, mother and son. The emperor's countenance

remained immovable as though hewn out of marble.

They stood face to face in silence, but two great tears slowly trickled

down the mother's cheeks. Talma stood in the background, weeping

bitterly. Napoleon remained unmoved. Letitia now raised both hands and

extended them to the emperor. "Adieu, my son!" said she, in full and

sonorous tones.

Napoleon pressed her hands in his own, and gazed at her long and

fixedly; and then, with the same firmness, he said: "My mother, adieu!"

Once more they gazed at each other; then the emperor let her hand fall.

Letitia turned to go, and at this moment General Bertrand appeared at

the door to announce that all was prepared for the journey[54].

[Footnote 54: This leave-taking was exactly as above described, and

Talma himself narrated it to Louise de Cochelet. See her Mémoires, vol.

iii, P. 173.]

BOOK IV.

_THE DUCHESS OF ST. LEU_.

CHAPTER I.

THE BANISHMENT OF THE DUCHESS OF ST. LEU.

For the second time, the Bourbons had entered Paris under the protection

of the allies, and Louis XVIII. was once more King of France. But this

time he did not return with his former mild and conciliatory

disposition. He came to punish and to reward; he came unaccompanied by

mercy. The old generals and marshals of the empire, who had not been

able to resist their chieftain's call, were now banished, degraded, or

executed. Ney and Labédoyère paid for their fidelity to the emperor with

their blood; and all who were in any way connected with the Bonapartes

were relentlessly pursued. The calumnies that had been circulated in

1814 against the Duchess of St. Leu were now to bear bitter fruit. These

were the dragon's teeth from which the armed warriors had sprung, who

now levelled their swords at the breast of a defenceless woman.

King Louis had returned to the throne of his fathers, but he had not

forgotten that he had been told on his flight: "The Duchess of St. Leu

is to blame for all! Her intrigues have brought Napoleon back!" Now that

he was again king, he thought of it, and determined to punish her. He

requested it of Alexander, as a favor, that he should this time not call

on the Duchess of St. Leu.

The emperor, dismayed by the odious reports in circulation concerning

Hortense, and already enchained in the mystic glittering web with which

Madame de Krüdener had enveloped him, and separated from the reality of

the world, acceded to the wishes of the Bourbons, and abandoned the

queen. This was the signal that let loose the general wrath of the

royalists; they could now freely utter their scorn and malice. By low

calumnies they could now compensate themselves for their humiliation of

the past, for having been compelled to approach the daughter of

Viscountess de Beauharnais with the reverence due to a queen.

They could pursue the step-daughter of the emperor with boundless fury,

for this very fury proved their royalism, and to hate and calumniate

Bonaparte and his family was to love and flatter the Bourbons.

Day by day these royalists hurled new accusations against the duchess,

whose presence in Paris unpleasantly recalled the days of the empire,

and whom they desired to remove from their sight, as well as the column

on the _Place Vendôme_.

While the poor queen was living in the retirement of her apartments, in

sadness and desolation, the report was circulated that she was again

conspiring, and that she was in the habit of leaving her house every

evening at twilight, in order to incite the populace to rise and demand

the emperor's return, or at least the instalment of the little King of

Rome on the throne instead of Louis de Bourbon.

When the queen's faithful companion, Louise de Cochelet, informed her of

these calumnies, Hortense remained cold and indifferent.

"Madame," exclaimed Louise, "you listen with as much composure as if I

were reciting a story of the last century!"

"And it interests me as little," said Hortense, earnestly; "we have lost

all, and I consider any blow that may still strike us, with the

composure of an indifferent spectator. I consider it natural that they

should endeavor to caluminate me, because I bear a name that has made

the whole world tremble, and that will still be great, though we all be

trodden in the dust. But I will shield myself and children from this

hatred. We will leave France and go to Switzerland, where I possess a

little estate on the Lake of Geneva."

But time was not allowed the duchess to prepare for her departure. The

dogs of calumny and hatred were let loose upon her to drive her from the

city. A defenceless woman with two young children seemed to be an object

of anxiety and terror to the government, and it made haste to get rid

of her.

On the morning of the 17th of July, an adjutant of the Prussian General

de Müffling, the allied commandant of Paris, came to the dwelling of the

Duchess of St. Leu, and informed her intendant, M. Deveaux, that the

duchess must leave Paris within two hours, and it was only at the urgent

solicitation of the intendant, that a further sojourn of four hours was

allowed her.

Hortense was compelled to conform to this military command, and depart

without arranging her affairs or making any preparations for her

journey. Her only possession consisted of jewelry, and this she of

course intended to take with her. But she was warned that a troop of

enraged Bourbonists, who knew of her approaching departure, had quitted

Paris to lie in wait for her on her road, "in order to rob her of the

millions in her custody."

The queen was warned to take no money or articles of value with her, but

only that which was absolutely necessary.

General de Müffling offered her an escort of his soldiers; Hortense

declined this offer, but requested that an Austrian officer might be

allowed to accompany her for the protection of herself and children on

the journey. Count de Boyna, adjutant of Prince Schwartzenberg, was

selected for this purpose.

On the evening of the 17th of July, 1815, the Duchess of St. Leu took

her departure. She left her faithful friend Louise de Cochelet in Paris

to arrange her affairs, and assure the safe-keeping of her jewelry.

Accompanied only by her equerry, M. de Marmold, Count Boyna, her

children, her maid, and a man-servant, she who had been a queen left

Paris to go into exile.

It was a sorrowful journey that Hortense now made through her beloved

France, that she could no longer call her country, and that now seemed

as ill-disposed toward the emperor and his family as it had once

passionately loved them.

In these days of political persecution, the Bonapartists had everywhere

hidden themselves in obscure places, or concealed their real disposition

beneath the mask of Bourbonism. Those whom Hortense met on her journey

were therefore all royalists, who thought they could give no better

testimony to their patriotism than by persecuting with cries of scorn,

with gestures of hatred, and with loud curses, the woman whose only

crime was that she bore the name of him whom France had once adored, and

whom the royalists hated.

Count Boyna was more than once compelled to protect Hortense and her

children against the furious attacks of royalists--the stranger against

her own countrymen! In Dijon, Count Boyna had found it necessary to call

on the Austrian military stationed there for assistance in protecting

the duchess and her children from the attacks of an infuriated crowd,

led by royal guards and beautiful ladies of rank, whose hair was adorned

with the lilies of the Bourbons[55].

[Footnote 55: Cochelet, vol. iii, p. 289.]

Dispirited and broken down by all she had seen and experienced,

Hortense at last reached Geneva, happy at the prospect of being able to

retire to her little estate of Pregny, to repose after the storms of

life. But this refuge was also to be refused her. The French ambassador

in Switzerland, who resided in Geneva, informed the authorities of that

city that his government would not tolerate the queen's sojourn so near

the French boundary, and demanded that she should depart. The

authorities of Geneva complied with this demand, and ordered the Duchess

of St. Leu to leave the city immediately.

When Count Boyna imparted this intelligence to the duchess, and asked

her to what place she would now go, her long-repressed despair found

utterance in a single cry: "I know not. Throw me into the lake, then we

shall all be at rest!"

But she soon recovered her usual proud resignation, and quietly

submitted to the new banishment that drove her from her last possession,

the charming little Pregny, from her "_rêve de chalet_."

In Aix she finally found repose and peace for a few weeks--in Aix, where

she had once celebrated brilliant triumphs as a queen, and where she was

at least permitted to live in retirement with her children and a few

faithful adherents.

But in Aix the most fearful blow that Fate had in store for her fell

upon her!

Her action against her husband had already been decided in 1814, shortly

before the emperor's return, and it had been adjudged that she should

deliver her elder son Napoleon Louis, into the custody of his father.

Now that Napoleon's will no longer restrained him, Louis demanded that

this judgment be carried out, and sent Baron von Zuyten to Aix to bring

back the prince to his father then residing in Florence.

The unhappy mother was now powerless to resist this hard command; she

was compelled to yield, and send her son from her arms to a father who

was a stranger to the boy, and whom he therefore could not love.

It was a heart-rending scene this parting between the boy, his mother,

and his young brother Louis, from whom he had never before been

separated for a day, and who now threw his arms around his neck,

tearfully entreating him to stay with him.

But the separation was inevitable. Hortense parted the two weeping

children, taking little Louis Napoleon in her arms, while Napoleon Louis

followed his governor to the carriage, sobbing as though his heart would

break. When Hortense heard the carriage driving off, she uttered a cry

of anguish and fell to the ground in a swoon, and a long and painful

attack of illness was the consequence of this sorrowful separation.

CHAPTER II.

LOUIS NAPOLEON AS A CHILD.

The Duchess of St. Leu was, however, not destined to find repose in Aix;

the Bourbons--not yet weary of persecuting her, and still fearing the

name whose first and greatest representative was now languishing on a

solitary, inhospitable rock-island--the Bourbons considered it dangerous

that Hortense, the emperor's step-daughter, and her son, whose name of

Louis Napoleon seemed to them a living monument of the past, should be

permitted to sojourn so near the French boundary. They therefore

instructed their ambassador to the government of Savoy to protest

against the further sojourn of the queen in Aix, and Hortense was

compelled to undertake a new pilgrimage, and to start out into the world

again in search of a home.

She first turned to Baden, whose duchess, Stephanie, was so nearly

related to her, and from whose husband she might therefore well expect a

kindly reception. But the grand-duke did not justify his cousin's hopes;

he had not the courage to defy the jealous fears of France, and it was

only at the earnest solicitation of his wife that he at last consented

that Hortense should take up her residence at the extreme end of the

grand-duchy, at Constance, on the Lake of Constance; and this permission

was only accorded her on the express condition that neither the duchess

nor her son should ever come to Carlsruhe, and that his wife,

Stephanie, should never visit her cousin at Constance.

Hortense accepted this offer with its conditions, contented to find a

place where she could rest after her long wanderings, and let the

bleeding wounds of her heart heal in the stillness and peace of

beautiful natural scenery. She passed a few quiet, happy years in

Constance desiring and demanding nothing but a little rest and peace,

aspiring to but one thing--to make of the son whom Providence had given

her as a compensation for all her sufferings, a strong, a resolute, and

an intelligent man.

Her most tender care and closest attention were devoted to the education

of this son. An excellent teacher, Prof. Lebas, of Paris, officiated as

instructor to the young prince. She herself gave him instruction in

drawing, in music, and in dancing; she read with him, sang with him, and

made herself a child, in order to replace to her lonely boy the playmate

Fate had torn from his side.

While reposing on her _chaise-longue_ on the long quiet evenings, her

boy seated on a cushion at her feet, she would speak to him of his great

uncle, and of his heroic deeds, and of his country, of France that had

discarded them, to be able to return to which was, however, her most

ardent wish, and would continue to be while life lasted. She would then

inspire the boy's soul with the description of the great battles which

his uncle had won in Italy, on the Nile, on the Rhine, and on the

Danube; and the quiet, pale boy, with the dark, thoughtful eyes, would

listen in breathless suspense, his weak, slender body quivering with

emotion when his mother told him how dearly his uncle had loved France,

and that all his great and glorious deeds had been done for the honor

and renown of France alone.

One day, while he was sitting before her, pale and trembling with

agitation, his mother pointed to David's splendid painting, representing

Napoleon on the heights of the Alps, the genial conception of which

painting is due to Napoleon's own suggestions.

"Paint me tranquilly seated on a wild horse," Napoleon had said to

David, and David had so painted him--on a rearing steed, on the summit

of a rock which bears the inscription "Hannibal" and "Caesar." The

emperor's countenance is calm, his large eyes full of a mysterious

brilliancy, his hair fluttering in the wind, the whole expression

thoughtful and earnest; the rider heedless of the rearing steed, which

he holds firmly in check with the reins.

A beautiful copy of this great painting hung in the parlor of the

duchess; and to this she now pointed while narrating the history of the

emperor's passage over the Great St. Bernard with an army, a feat never

before performed except by Hannibal and Caesar, and perhaps never to be

performed again.

As she concluded her narrative, an almost angry expression flitted

across the young prince's countenance. Rising from his seat, and holding

himself perfectly erect, he exclaimed: "Oh, mamma, I shall also cross

the Alps some day, as the emperor did!"

And while thus speaking, a glowing color suffused his face; his lips

trembled, and the feverish beating of his heart was quite audible.

Hortense turned in some anxiety to her friend Louise de Cochelet, and

begged her in a low voice to soothe the child with the recital of some

merry narrative. As Louise looked around the room thoughtfully and

searchingly, a cup that stood on the mantel-piece arrested her gaze. She

hastened to the mantel, took the cup, and returned with it to little

Louis Napoleon.

"Mamma has been explaining a very grave picture to you, Louis," said

she; "I will now show you a merry one. Look at it--isn't it charming?"

The prince cast a hasty, absent-minded look at the cup, and nodded

gravely. Louise laughed gayly.

"You see, Louis," said she, "that this is the exact counterpart of the

picture of the Emperor Napoleon, who, while riding over the Alps,

encounters on their summit the great spirits of Hannibal and Caesar.

Here is a little Napoleon, who is not climbing up the Alps, but climbing

down from his bed, and who, on this occasion, meets a black spirit, in

the person of a chimney-sweep. This is the history of the great and of

the little Napoleon; the great meets Hannibal, the little the

chimney-sweep."

"Am I the little Napoleon?" asked the boy, gravely.

"Yes, Louis, you are, and I will now tell you the story of this cup.

One day, when we were all still in Paris, and while your great uncle was

still Emperor of France--one day, you met in your room a little Savoyard

who had just crept out of the chimney in his black dress, his black

broom in his hand. You cried out with horror, and were about to run

away, but I held you back and told you that these chimney-sweeps were

poor boys, and that their parents were so poor that they could not

support their children, but were compelled to send them to Paris to earn

their bread by creeping into and cleaning our hot and dirty chimneys,

with great trouble, and at the risk of their lives. My story touched

you, and you promised me never to be afraid of the little chimney-sweeps

again. A short time afterward, you were awakened early in the morning by

a strange noise, your brother still lay asleep at your side, and your

nurse was absent from the room. This noise was made by a chimney-sweep

who had just come down the chimney and now stood in your room. As soon

as you saw him, you remembered his poverty, jumped out of bed in your

night-clothes, and ran to the chair on which your clothes lay. You took

out of your pocket the purse you were compelled to carry with you on

your walks to give money to the poor, and you emptied its entire

contents into the black, sooty hand of the young Savoyard. You then

tried to get back to bed, but it was too high for you; you could not

climb over the railing. Seeing this, the chimney-sweep came to your

assistance, and took the little prince in his arms to help him into bed.

At this moment, your nurse entered the room, and your brother who had

just awakened, cried loudly when he saw Louis in the arms of a

chimney-sweep.

"This is the story of little Napoleon and the chimney-sweep! Your

grandmother, the Empress Josephine was so much pleased with this story,

that your mother had the scene painted on a cup, and presented it to the

empress, in order to afford her a gratification. And what do you think,

Louis--this cup was also the cause of a punishment being remitted your

cousin, the King of Rome, who now lives in Vienna!"

"Tell me all about it, Louise," said the prince, smiling.

"You shall hear it! Your mother had instructed me to take the cup to

Malmaison to the empress. But before going, I endeavored to obtain some

news about the little King of Rome for the empress. Your good

grandmother loved him as though he had been her own child, although she

had never seen him. I therefore went to the Tuileries to see the little

King of Rome, with whose governess, Madame de Montesquieu, I was

intimately acquainted. On entering the apartment, I saw the king

cowering behind a chair in a corner of the room; Madame de Montesquieu

intimated by a look that he was undergoing a punishment; I understood

it, and first conversed with his governess for a short time. When I then

turned and approached him, he concealed the tearful, flushed face, that

his long blond curls covered as with a golden veil, whenever he moved

behind the chair.

"'Sire,' said Madame de Montesquieu to him, 'sire, do you not intend to

bid Mademoiselle de Cochelet good-morning? She came here expressly

to see you.'

"'Your majesty does not recognize me,' said I, attempting to take his

small hand in mine. He tore it from me, and cried in a voice almost

choked with sobbing: 'She will not let me look at the soldiers of

my papa!'

"Madame de Montesquieu told me that it was the little prince's greatest

pleasure to see the Guards exercising on the _Place de Carrousel_, but

that she had deprived Mm of this pleasure to-day, because he had been

naughty and disobedient; that, when he heard the music and drums, his

despair and anger had become so great that she had been forced to resort

to severe means, and make him stand in the corner behind a chair. I

begged for the young king's pardon; I showed him the cup, and explained

the scene that was painted on it. The king laughed, and Madame de

Montesquieu pardoned him for the sake of his little cousin, Louis

Napoleon, who was so well behaved, and who was always held up to him as

a model[56]. Now you have heard the whole story, are you pleased with

it, Louis?"

[Footnote 56: Cochelet, vol. i., p. 212.]

"I like it very much," said the grave boy, "but I do not like my

cousin's governess, for having intended to prevent him from looking at

his father's soldiers. Oh, how handsome they must have been, the

soldiers of the emperor! Mamma, I wish I were also an emperor, and had

ever so many handsome soldiers."

Hortense smiled sadly, and laid her hand on the boy's head as if to

bless him. "Oh, my son," said she, "it is no enviable fortune to wear a

crown. It is almost always fastened on our head with thorns!"

From this day on, Prince Louis Napoleon would stand before his uncle's

portrait, lost in thought, and after looking at it to his satisfaction,

he would run out and call the boys of the neighborhood together, in

order to play soldier and emperor with them in the large garden that

surrounded his mother's house, and teach the boys the first exercise.

One day, in the zeal of play, he had entirely forgotten his mother's

command, not to go out of the garden, and had inarched into the open

field with his soldiers. When his absence from the garden was noticed,

all the servants were sent out to look for him, and the anxious duchess,

together with her ladies, assisted in this search, walking about in

every direction through the cold and the slush of the thawing snow.

Suddenly they came upon the boy barefooted and in his shirt-sleeves,

wading toward them through the mud and snow. He was alarmed and confused

at this unexpected meeting, and confessed that a moment before, while he

had been playing in front of the garden, a family had passed by so poor

and ragged that it was painful to look at them. As he had no money to

give them, he had put his shoes on one child, and his coat on

another[57].

[Footnote 57: Cochelet, vol. iv., p. 303.]

The duchess did not have the courage to scold him; she stooped down and

kissed her son; but when her ladies commenced to praise him, she

motioned to them to be silent, and said in a loud voice that what her

son had done was quite a matter of course, and therefore deserved

no praise.

An ardent desire to gladden others and make them presents was

characteristic of little Louis Napoleon. One day, Hortense had given him

three beautiful studs for his shirt, and on the same day the prince

transferred them to one of his friends who admired them.

When Hortense reproached her son for doing so, and threatened to make

him no more presents, as he always gave them away again directly, Louis

Napoleon replied, "Ah, mamma, this is why your presents give me double

pleasure--once when you give them to me, and the second time when I make

others happy with them[58]."

[Footnote 58: Cochelet, vol. i, p. 355.]

CHAPTER III.

THE REVOLUTION OF 1830.

Fate seemed at last weary of persecuting the poor Duchess of St. Leu. It

at least accorded her a few peaceful years of repose and comfort; it at

least permitted her to rest from the weariness of the past on the bosom

of Nature, and to forget her disappointments and sorrows. The Canton of

Thurgau had had the courage to extend permission to the duchess to take

up her residence within its borders, at the very moment when the

Grand-duke of Baden, who had been urged to the step by Germany and

France, had peremptorily ordered Hortense to leave Constance and his

grand-duchy without delay.

Hortense had thankfully accepted the offer of the Swiss canton, and had

purchased, on the Swiss side of the Lake of Constance, an estate, whose

beautiful situation on the summit of a mountain, immediately on the

banks of the lake, with its magnificent view of the surrounding country,

and its glittering glaciers on the distant horizon, made it a most

delightful place of sojourn. Hortense now caused the furniture of her

dwelling in Paris, that had been sold, to be sent to her. The sight of

these evidences of her former grandeur awakened sweet and bitter

emotions in her heart, as they were one after another taken out of the

cases in which they had been packed--these sofas, chairs, divans,

carpets, chandeliers, mirrors, and all the other ornaments of the

parlors in which Hortense had been accustomed to receive kings and

emperors, and which were now to adorn the Swiss villa that was outwardly

so beautiful because of the vicinity, and inwardly so plain and simple.

But Hortense knew how to make an elegant and tasteful disposition of all

these articles; she herself arranged every thing in her house, and took

true feminine delight in her task. And when all was at last

arranged--when she walked, with her son at her side, through the suite

of rooms, in which every ornament and piece of furniture reminded her

of the past--when these things recalled the proud days of state when so

many friends, relatives, and servants, had surrounded her--a feeling of

unutterable loneliness, of painful desolation, came over her, and she

sank down on a sofa and wept bitterly. But there was nevertheless a

consolation in having these familiar articles in her possession once

more; these mute friends often awakened in the solitary queen's heart

memories that served to entertain and console her. Arenenberg was a

perfect temple of memory; every chair, every table, every article of

furniture, had its history, and this history spoke of Napoleon, of

Josephine, and the great days of the empire.

In Arenenberg Hortense had at last found a permanent home, and there she

passed the greater part of the year; and it was only when the autumnal

storms began to howl through her open and lightly-constructed villa,

that Hortense repaired to Rome, to pass the winter months in a more

genial climate, while her son Louis Napoleon was pursuing his studies at

the artillery school at Thun.

And thus the years passed on, quiet and peaceful, though sometimes

interrupted by new losses and sorrows. In the year 1821 the hero, the

emperor, to whose laurel-crown the halo of a martyr had now also been

added, died on the island-rock, St. Helena.

In the year 1824 Hortense lost her only brother, Eugene, the Duke of

Leuchtenberg.

The only objects of Hortense's love were now her two sons, who were

prospering in mind and body, and were the pride and joy of their mother,

and an object of annoyance and suspicion to all the princes of Europe.

For these children bore in their countenance, in their name, and in

their disposition, too plain an impress of the great past, which they

could never entirely ignore while Bonaparte still lived to testify

to it.

And they lived and prospered in spite of the Bourbons; they lived and

prospered, although banished from their country, and compelled to lead

an inactive life.

But at last it seemed as though the hour of fortune and freedom had come

for these Bonapartes--as though they, too, were to be permitted to have

a country to which they might give their devotion and services.

The thundering voice of the revolution of 1830 resounded throughout

trembling Europe. France, on whom the allies had imposed the Bourbons,

arose and shook its mane; with its lion's paw it overthrew the Bourbon

throne, drove out the Jesuits who had stood behind it, and whom Charles

X. had advised to tear the charter to pieces, to destroy the freedom of

the press, and to reintroduce the _autos da fé_ of the olden time.

France had been treated as a child in 1815, and was now determined to

assert its manhood; it resolved to break entirely with the past, and

with its own strength to build up a future for itself.

The lilies of the Bourbons were to bloom no more; these last years of

fanatical Jesuit tyranny had deprived them of life, and France tore the

faded lily from her bosom in order to replace it with a young and

vigorous plant. The throne of the Bourbons was overthrown, but the

people, shuddering at the recollection of the sanguinary republic,

selected a king in preference. It stretched out its hand after him it

held dearest; after him who in the past few years had succeeded in

winning the sympathy of France. It selected the Duke of Orleans, the son

of Philippe Égalité, for its king.

Louis Philippe, the enthusiastic republican of 1790, who at that time

had caused the three words "_Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité_" and the

inscription "_Vive la République,"_ to be burnt on his arm, in order to

prove his republicanism; the proscribed Louis Philippe, who had wandered

through Europe a fugitive, earning his bread by teaching writing and

languages--the same Louis Philippe now became King of France.

The people called him to the throne; they tore the white flag from the

roof of the Tuileries, but they knew no other or better one with which

to replace it than the _tricolore_ of the empire.

Under the shadow of this _tricolore_ Louis Philippe mounted the throne,

and the people--to whom the three colors recalled the glorious era of

the empire--the people shouted with delight, and in order to indulge

their sympathies they demanded for France--not the son of Napoleon, not

Napoleon II.--but the ashes of Napoleon, and the emperor's statue on the

Palace Vendôme. Louis Philippe accorded them both, but with these

concessions he thought he had done enough. He had accepted the

_tricolore_ of the empire; he had promised that the emperor should watch

over Paris from the summit of the Vendôme monument, and to cause his

ashes to be brought to Paris--these were sufficient proofs of love.

They might be accorded the dead Napoleon without danger, but it would be

worse to accord them to living Napoleons; such a course might easily

shake the new throne, and recall the allies to Paris.

The hatred of the princes of Europe against Napoleon was still continued

against his family, and it was with them, as Metternich said, "a

principle never to tolerate another Napoleon on the throne."

The European powers had signified to the King of France, through their

diplomatic agents, their readiness to acknowledge him, but they exacted

one condition--the condition that Louis Philippe should confirm or renew

the decree of exile fulminated by the Bourbons against the Bonapartes.

Louis Philippe had accepted this condition; and the Bonapartes, whose

only crime was that they were the brothers and relatives of the deceased

emperor, before whom not only France, but all the princes of Europe, had

once bent the knee--the Bonapartes were once more declared strangers to

their country, and condemned to exile!

CHAPTER IV.

THE REVOLUTION IN ROME, AND THE SONS OF HORTENSE.

It was a terrible blow to the Bonapartes, this new decree of banishment!

Like a stroke of lightning it entered their hearts, annihilating their

holiest hopes and most ardent desires, and their joy over the glorious

and heroic revolution of July gave place to a bitter sense of

disappointment.

Nothing, therefore, remained for them but to continue the life to which

they had become somewhat accustomed, and to console themselves, for

their new disappointment, with the arts and sciences.

At the end of October, in the year 1830, Hortense determined to leave

Arenenberg and go to Rome with her son, as she was in the habit of doing

every year.

But this time she first went to Florence, where her elder son, Napoleon

Louis, recently married to his cousin, the second daughter of King

Joseph, was now living with his young wife. The heart of the tender

mother was filled with anxiety and care; she felt and saw that this new

French Revolution was likely to infect all Europe, and that Italy, above

all, would be unable to avoid this infection. Italy was diseased to the

core, and it was to be feared that it would grasp at desperate means in

its agony, and proceed to the blood-letting of a revolution, in order to

restore itself to health. Hortense felt this, and feared for her sons.

She feared that the exiled, the homeless ones who had been driven from

their country, and were not permitted to serve it, would devote their

services to those who were unhappy and who suffered like themselves. She

feared the enthusiasm, the generous courage, the energy of her sons, and

she knew that, if a revolution should break out in Italy, it would

gladly adorn itself with the name of Napoleon.

Hortense, therefore, conjured her sons to hold themselves aloof from all

dangerous undertakings, and not to follow those who might appeal to them

with the old word of magic power, "liberty;" that, in spite of the tears

and blood it has already caused mankind, can never lose its

wondrous power.

Her two sons promised compliance; and, much relieved, Hortense left

Florence, and went, with her younger son, Louis Napoleon, to Rome.

But Rome, otherwise so aristocratic and solemn, assumed an unusual, an

entirely new, physiognomy this winter. In society the topics of

conversation were no longer art and poetry, the Pantheon and St. Peter,

or what the newest amusement should be; but politics and the French

Revolution were the all-engrossing topics, and the populace listened

anxiously for the signal that should announce that the revolution in

Italy had at last begun.

Even the populace of Rome, usually addicted to lying so harmlessly in

the sunshine, now assembled in dense groups on the streets, and strange

words were heard when the police cautiously approached these groups for

the purpose of listening. But they now lacked the courage to arrest

those who uttered those words; they felt that such a provocation might

suffice to tear away the veil behind which the revolution still

concealed itself.

The whole energy and watchfulness of the Roman government was therefore

employed in endeavoring to avert the revolution, if possible; not,

however, by removing the cause and occasion, but by depriving the people

of the means. The son of Hortense, Louis Napoleon, seemed to the

government a means which the revolution might use for its purposes, and

it was therefore determined that he should be removed.

His name, and even the three-colored saddle-blanket of his horse, with

which he rode through the streets of Rome, were exciting to the

populace, in whose veins the fever of revolution was already throbbing.

Louis Napoleon must therefore be removed.

The Governor of Rome first addressed the prince's great-uncle, Cardinal

Fesch, requesting him to advise the Duchess of St. Leu to remove the

young prince from Rome for a few weeks.

But the cardinal indignantly declared that his nephew, who had done

nothing, should not be compelled to leave Rome merely on account of his

name and his saddle-blanket, and that he would never advise the Duchess

of St. Leu to do anything of the kind.

The Roman government therefore determined to adopt energetic means. It

caused the dwelling of the duchess to be surrounded by soldiers, while

a papal office presented himself before Hortense, and announced that he

had received orders to remove Prince Louis from the city at once, and to

conduct him without the papal territory.

The fear of approaching evil caused the government to forget the respect

due to nobility in misfortune and the emperor's nephew was turned out of

the city like a criminal!

Hortense received this intelligence almost with joy. Far from Rome, it

seemed to her that he would be safer from the revolution, whose approach

she so much dreaded; and it therefore afforded her great satisfaction to

send the prince to Florence, to his father, believing that he would

there be shielded from the dangerous political calumnies that threatened

him in Rome. She therefore permitted him to depart; and how could she

have prevented his departure--she, the lone, powerless woman, to whom

not even the French ambassador would have accorded protection! No one

interceded for her--no one protested against the violent and brutal

course pursued toward Louis Napoleon--no one, except the Russian

ambassador.

The Emperor of Russia was the only one of all the sovereigns of Europe

who felt himself strong enough not to ignore the name of Napoleon, and

the consideration due to the family of a hero and of an emperor.

The Emperor of Russia had, therefore, never refused his protection and

assistance to the Bonapartes, and his ambassador was now the only one

who protested against the violent course taken by the Roman government.

The revolution at last broke forth. Italy arose as France had done,

resolved to throw off the yoke of tyranny and oppression, and be free!

The storm first broke out in Modena. The duke saw himself compelled to

fly, and a provisional government under General Menotti placed itself in

his stead. But, while this was taking place in Modena, the populace of

Rome was holding high festival in honor of the newly-chosen Pope Gregory

XVI., who had just taken his seat in the chair of the deceased Pope Pius

VIII., and these festivities, and the Carnival, seemed to occupy the

undivided attention of the Romans; under the laughing mask of these

rejoicings the revolution hid its grave and threatening visage, and it

was not until _mardi-gras_ that it laid this mask aside and showed its

true countenance.

The people had been accustomed to throw confectionery and flowers on

this day, but this time the day was to be made memorable by a shower of

stones and bullets; this time they were not to appear in the harlequin

jacket, but in their true form, earnest, grand, commanding,

self-conscious, and self-asserting.

But the government had been informed of the intention of the

conspirators to avail themselves of the drive to the Corso, to begin the

revolution, and this procession was prohibited an hour before the time

appointed for its commencement.

The people arose against this prohibition, and the revolution they had

endeavored to repress by this means now broke out.

The thunder of cannon and the rattling of musketry now resounded through

the streets of Rome, and the people everywhere resisted the papal

soldiery with energy and determination.

The new pope trembled in the Quirinal, the old cardinals lost courage,

and in dismay recoiled a step at every advancing stride of the

insurgents. Gregory felt that the papal crown he had just achieved was

already on the point of falling from his head, to be trodden in the dust

by the victorious populace; he turned to Austria, and solicited help and

assistance.

But young Italy, the Italy of enthusiasm, of liberty, and of hope,

looked to France for support. Old Italy had turned to Austria for help;

young Italy looked for assistance to the free, newly-arisen France, in

which the revolution had just celebrated a glorious victory. But France

denied its Italian brother, and denied its own origin; scarcely had the

revolution seated itself on the newly-erected kingly throne and invested

itself with the crown and purple robe, when, for its own safety, it

became reactionary, and denied itself.

With all Italy, Rome was resolved to shake off the yoke of oppression;

the whole people espoused this cause with enthusiasm; and in the streets

of Rome--at other times filled with priests and monks and holy

processions--in these streets, now alive with the triumphant youth of

Rome, resounded exultant songs of freedom.