CAMPAIGN OF 1813—CAMPAIGN OF 1814—ABDICATION
The campaign opened May 2, 1813, southwest of Leipsic, with the battle
of Lützen. It was Napoleon’s victory, though he could not follow it up,
as he had no cavalry. The moral effect of Lützen was excellent in the
French army. Among the allies there was a return to the old dread of the
“monster.” By May 8th the French occupied Dresden; from there they
crossed the Elbe, and on the 21st fought the battle of Bautzen, another
incomplete victory for Napoleon. The next day, in an engagement with the
Russian rear guard, Marshal Duroc, one of Napoleon’s warmest and oldest
friends, was killed. It was the second marshal lost since the campaign
began, Bessières having been killed at Lützen.
The French obtained Breslau on June 1st, and three days later an
armistice was signed, lasting until August 10th. It was hoped that peace
might be concluded during this armistice. At that moment Austria held
the key to the situation. The allies saw that they were defeated if they
could not persuade her to join them. Napoleon, his old confidence
restored by a series of victories, hoped to keep his Austrian
father-in-law quiet until he had crushed the Prussians and driven the
Russians across the Nieman. Austria saw her power, and determined to use
it to regain territory lost in 1805 and 1809, and Metternich came to
Dresden to see Napoleon. Austria would keep peace with France, he said
if Napoleon would restore Illyria and the Polish provinces, would send
the Pope back to Rome, give up the protectorate of the Confederation of
the Rhine, restore Naples and Spain. Napoleon’s amazement and
indignation were boundless.
[Illustration:
THE DUKE OF REICHSTADT.
Engraved by Benedetti, after Daffinger.]
“How much has England given you for playing this _rôle_ against me,
Metternich?” he asked.
A semblance of a congress was held at Prague soon after, but it was only
a mockery. Such was the exasperation and suffering of Central Europe,
that peace could only be reached by large sacrifices on Napoleon’s part.
These he refused to make. There is no doubt but that France and his
allies begged him to compromise; that his wisest counsellors advised him
to do so. But he repulsed with irritation all such suggestions. “You
bore me continually about the necessity of peace,” he wrote Savary. “I
know the situation of my empire better than you do; no one is more
interested in concluding peace than myself, but I shall not make a
dishonorable peace, or one that would see us at war again in six
months.... These things do not concern you.”
By the middle of August the campaign began. The French had in the field
some three hundred and sixty thousand men. This force was surrounded by
a circle of armies, Swedish, Russian, Prussian, and Austrian, in all
some eight hundred thousand men. The leaders of this hostile force
included, besides the natural enemies of France, Bernadotte, crown
prince of Sweden, who had fought with Napoleon in Italy, and General
Moreau, the hero of Hohenlinden. Moreau was on Alexander’s staff. He had
reached the army the night that the armistice expired, having sailed
from the United States on the 21st of June, at the invitation of the
Russian emperor, to aid in the campaign against France. He had been
greeted by the allies with every mark of distinction. Another deserter
on the allies’ staff was the eminent military critic Jomini. In the
ranks were stragglers from all the French corps, and the Saxons were
threatening to leave the French in a body, and go over to the allies.
The second campaign of 1813 opened brilliantly for Napoleon, for at
Dresden he took twenty thousand prisoners, and captured sixty cannon.
The victory turned the anxiety of Paris to hopefulness, and their faith
in Napoleon’s star was further revived by the report that Moreau had
fallen, both legs carried off by a French bullet. Moreau himself felt
that fate was friendly to the emperor. “That rascal Bonaparte is always
lucky,” he wrote his wife, just after the amputation of his legs.
But there was something stronger than luck at work; the allies were
animated by a spirit of nationality, indomitable in its force, and they
were following a plan which was sure to crush Napoleon in the long run.
It was one laid out by Moreau; a general battle was not to be risked,
but the corps of the French were to be engaged one by one, until the
parts of the army were disabled. In turn Vandamme, Oudinot, MacDonald,
Ney, were defeated, and in October the remnants of the French fell back
to Leipsic. Here the horde that surrounded them was suddenly enlarged.
The Bavarians had gone over to the allies.
A three days’ battle at Leipsic exhausted the French, and they were
obliged to make a disastrous retreat to the Rhine, which they crossed
November 1st. Ten days later the emperor was in Paris.
The situation of France at the end of 1813 was deplorable. The allies
lay on the right bank of the Rhine. The battle of Vittoria had given the
Spanish boundary to Wellington, and the English and Spanish armies were
on the frontier. The allies which remained with the French were not to
be trusted. “All Europe was marching with us a year ago,” Napoleon said;
“to-day all Europe is marching against us.” There was despair among his
generals, alarm in Paris. Besides, there seemed no human means of
gathering up a new army. Where were the men to come from? France was
bled to death. She could give no more. Her veins were empty.
“This is the truth, the exact truth, and such is the secret and the
explanation of all that has since occurred,” says Pasquier. “With these
successive levies of conscriptions, past, present, and to come; with the
Guards of Honor; with the brevet of sub-lieutenant forced on the young
men appertaining to the best families, after they had escaped the
conscript, or had supplied substitutes in conformity with the provisions
of the law, there did not remain a single family which was not in
anxiety or in mourning.”
Yet hedged in as he was by enemies, threatened by anarchy, supported by
a fainting people, Napoleon dallied over the peace the allies offered.
The terms were not dishonorable. France was to retire, as the other
nations, within her natural boundaries, which they designated as the
Rhine, the Alps, and the Pyrenees. But the emperor could not believe
that Europe, whom he had defeated so often, had power to confine him
within such limits. He could not believe that such a peace would be
stable, and he began preparations for resistance. Fresh levies of troops
were made. The Spanish frontier he attempted to secure by making peace
with Ferdinand, recognizing him as King of Spain. He tried to settle his
trouble with the Pope.
While he struggled to simplify the situation, to arouse national spirit,
and to gather reënforcements, hostile forces multiplied and closed in
upon him. The allies crossed the Rhine. The _corps législatif_ took
advantage of his necessity to demand the restoration of certain rights
which he had taken from them. In his anger at their audacity, the
emperor alienated public sympathy by dissolving the body. “I stood in
need of something to console me,” he told them, “and you have sought to
dishonor me. I was expecting that you would unite in mind and deed to
drive out the foreigner; you have bid him come. Indeed, had I lost two
battles, it would not have done France any greater evil.” To crown his
evil day, Murat, Caroline’s husband, now King of Naples, abandoned him.
This betrayal was the more bitter because his sister herself was the
cause of it. Fearful of losing her little glory as Queen of Naples,
Caroline watched the course of events until she was certain that her
brother was lost, and then urged Murat to conclude a peace with England
and Austria.
This accumulation of reverses, coming upon him as he tried to prepare
for battle, drove Napoleon to approach the allies with proposals of
peace. It was too late. The idea had taken root that France, with
Napoleon at her head, would never remain in her natural limits; that the
only hope for Europe was to crush him completely. This hatred of
Napoleon had become almost fanatical, and made any terms of peace with
him impossible.
By the end of January, 1814, the emperor was ready to renew the
struggle. The day before he left Paris, he led the empress and the King
of Rome to the court of the Tuileries, and presented them to the
National Guard. He was leaving them what he held dearest in the world,
he told them. The enemy were closing around; they might reach Paris;
they might even destroy the city. While he fought without to shield
France from this calamity, he prayed them to protect the priceless trust
left within. The nobility and sincerity of the feeling that stirred the
emperor were unquestionable; tears flowed down the cheeks of the men to
whom he spoke, and for a moment every heart was animated by the old
emotion, and they took with eagerness the oath he asked.
The next day he left Paris. The army he commanded did not number more
than sixty thousand men. He led it against a force which, counting only
those who had crossed the Rhine, numbered nearly six hundred thousand.
In the campaign of two months which followed, Napoleon several times
defeated the allies. In spite of the terrible disadvantages under which
he fought, he nearly drove them from the country. In every way the
campaign was worthy of his genius. But the odds against him were too
tremendous. The saddest phase of his situation was that he was not
seconded. The people, the generals, the legislative bodies, everybody
not under his personal influence seemed paralyzed. Augereau, who was at
Lyons, did absolutely nothing, and the following letter to him shows
with what energy and indignation Napoleon tried to arouse his stupefied
followers.
“NOGENT, 21st _February_, 1814.
“... What! six hours after having received the first troops coming
from Spain you were not in the field! Six hours’ repose was
sufficient. I won the action of Nangis with a brigade of dragoons
coming from Spain, which, since it left Bayonne, had not unbridled
its horses. The six battalions of the division of Nismes want
clothes, equipment, and drilling, say you. What poor reasons you
give me there, Augereau! I have destroyed eighty thousand enemies
with conscripts having nothing but knapsacks! The National Guards,
say you, are pitiable. I have four thousand here, in round hats,
without knapsacks, in wooden shoes, but with good muskets, and I get
a great deal out of them. There is no money, you continue; and where
do you hope to draw money from? You want wagons; take them wherever
you can. You have no magazines; this is too ridiculous. I order you,
twelve hours after the reception of this letter, to take the field.
If you are still Augereau of Castiglione, keep the command; but if
your sixty years weigh upon you, hand over the command to your
senior general. The country is in danger, and can be saved by
boldness and good will alone....
“NAPOLEON.”
[Illustration:
1814.
Etched by Ruet, after Meissonier. Original in Walters’s gallery,
Baltimore. Meissonier was fond of short titles, and very often in
his historical works made choice of only a simple date. Among such
titles are 1806, 1807, 1814, which might very well be replaced by
Battle of Jena, Friedland, and Campaign of France. This last subject
he treated twice under different aspects. First, in the famous
canvas, his great masterpiece, where we see a gloomy, silent
Napoleon, with face contracted by anguish, slowly riding at the head
of his discouraged staff across the snowy plains of Champagne. This
important work forms part of the collection of Monsieur Chauchard of
Paris, who bought it for eight hundred thousand francs. The second
picture is the one reproduced here, in which Napoleon is represented
at the same period, but only at the outset of this terrible
campaign—the last act but one of the Napoleonic tragedy. The
carefully studied face shows as yet no expression of discouragement,
but rather a determined hope of success. Napoleon wears the
traditionary gray overcoat over the costume of the _Chasseurs de la
Garde_, and rides his faithful little mare _Marie_, painted with a
living, nervous effect that cannot be too much admired. Meissonier,
inaccessible to the poetic seductions of symbolism, has nevertheless
indicated here in a superb manner the gloomy future of the hero, by
surrounding his luminous form with darkness, and casting on his brow
the shadow of a stormy, threatening sky.—A. D.]
The terror and apathy of Paris exasperated him beyond measure. To his
great disgust, the court and some of the counsellors had taken to public
prayers for his safety. “I see that instead of sustaining the empress,”
he wrote Cambacérès, “you discourage her. Why do you lose your head like
that? What are these _misereres_ and these prayers forty hours long at
the chapel? Have people in Paris gone mad?”
The most serious concern of Napoleon in this campaign was that the
empress and the King of Rome should not be captured. He realized that
the allies might reach Paris at any time, and repeatedly he instructed
Joseph, who had been appointed lieutenant-general in his absence, what
to do if the city was threatened.
“Never allow the empress or the King of Rome to fall into the hands
of the enemy.... As far as I am concerned, I would rather see my son
slain than brought up at Vienna as an Austrian prince; and I have a
sufficiently good opinion of the empress to feel persuaded that she
thinks in the same way, as far as it is possible for a woman and a
mother to do so. I never saw Andromaque represented without pitying
Astyanax surviving his family, and without regarding it as a piece
of good fortune that he did not survive his father.”
Throughout the two months there were negotiations for peace. They varied
according to the success or failure of the emperor or the allies.
Napoleon had reached a point where he would gladly have accepted the
terms offered at the close of 1813. But those were withdrawn. France
must come down to her limits in 1789. “What!” cried Napoleon, “leave
France smaller than I found her? Never.”
The frightful combination of forces closed about him steadily, with the
deadly precision of the chamber of torture, whose adjustable walls
imperceptibly, but surely, draw together, day by day, until the victim
is crushed. On the 30th of March Paris capitulated. The day before, the
Regent Marie Louise with the King of Rome and her suite had left the
city for Blois. The allied sovereigns entered Paris on the 1st of April.
As they passed through the streets, they saw multiplying, as they
advanced, the white cockades which the _grandes dames_ of the Faubourg
St. Germain had been making in anticipation of the entrance of the
foreigner, and the only cries which greeted them as they passed up the
boulevards were, “_Long live the Bourbons! Long live the sovereigns!
Long live the Emperor Alexander_.”
The allies were in Paris, but Napoleon was not crushed. Encamped at
Fontainebleau, his army about him, the soldiers everywhere faithful to
him, he had still a large chance of victory, and the allies looked with
uneasiness to see what move he would make. It was due largely to the wit
of Talleyrand that the standing ground which remained to the emperor was
undermined. That wily diplomat, whose place it was to have gone with the
empress to Blois, had succeeded in getting himself shut into Paris, and,
on the entry of the allies, had joined Alexander, whom he had persuaded
to announce that the allied powers would not treat with Napoleon nor
with any member of his family. This was eliminating the most difficult
factor from the problem. By his fine tact Talleyrand brought over the
legislative bodies to this view.
From the populace Alexander and Talleyrand feared nothing; it was too
exhausted to ask anything but peace. Their most serious difficulty was
the army. All over the country the cry of the common soldiers was, “Let
us go to the emperor.” “The army,” declared Alexander, “is always the
army; as long as it is not with you, gentlemen, you can boast of
nothing. The army represents the French nation; if it is not won over,
what can you accomplish that will endure?”
Every influence of persuasion, of bribery, of intimidation, was used
with the soldiers and generals. They were told in phrases which could
not but flatter them; “You are the most noble of the children of the
country, and you cannot belong to the man who has laid it waste.... You
are no longer the soldiers of Napoleon; the Senate and all France
release you from your oaths.”
The older officers on Napoleon’s staff at Fontainebleau were unsettled
by adroit communications sent from Paris. They were made to believe that
they were fighting against the will of the nation and of their comrades.
When this disaffection had become serious, one of Napoleon’s oldest and
most trusted associates, Marmont, suddenly deserted. He led the vanguard
of the army. This treachery took away the last hope of the imperial
cause, and on April 11, 1814, Napoleon signed the act of abdication at
Fontainebleau. The act read:
“The allied powers having proclaimed that the Emperor Napoleon
Bonaparte is the only obstacle to the reëstablishment of peace in
Europe, the Emperor Napoleon, faithful to his oath, declares that he
renounces, for himself and his heirs, the thrones of France and
Italy, and that there is no personal sacrifice, even that of his
life, which he is not ready to make in the interest of France.”
For only a moment did the gigantic will waver under the shock of defeat,
of treachery, and of abandonment. Uncertain of the fate of his wife and
child, himself and his family denounced by the allies, his army
scattered, he braved everything until Marmont deserted him, and he saw
one after another of his trusted officers join his enemies; then for a
moment he gave up the fight and tried to end his life. The poison he
took had lost its full force, and he recovered from its effects. Even
death would have none of him, he groaned.
But this discouragement was brief. No sooner was it decided that his
future home should be the island of Elba, and that its affairs should be
under his control, than he began to prepare for the journey to his
little kingdom with the same energy and zest which had characterized him
as emperor. On the 20th of April he left the palace of Fontainebleau.
[Illustration:
NAPOLEON AT FONTAINEBLEAU THE EVENING AFTER HIS ABDICATION, APRIL 11,
1814.
François, after Delaroche, 1845.]