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THE TRAGEDY OF ST. HELENA

BY

SIR WALTER RUNCIMAN, BART.

AUTHOR OF

"WINDJAMMERS AND SEA TRAMPS,"
"THE SHELLBACK'S PROGRESS,"
"LOOKING SEAWARD AGAIN," ETC.


T. FISHER UNWIN
LONDON: ADELPHI TERRACE
LEIPSIC: INSELSTRASSE 20
1911




PREFACE


In my early sea-life, I used to listen to the eccentric and
complicated views expressed by a race of seamen long since passed
away. Occasionally there were amongst the crew one or two who had the
true British hypothetical belief in the demoniacal character of
Napoleon, but this was not the general view of the men with whom I
sailed; and after the lapse of many years, I often wonder how it came
about that such definite partiality in regard to this wonderful being
could have been formed, and the conclusion that impresses me most is,
that his many acts of kindness to his own men, the absence of flogging
and other debasing treatment in his own service, his generosity and
consideration for the comfort of British prisoners during the wars,
his ultimate defeat by the combined forces of Europe, the despicable
advantage they took of the man who was their superior in everything,
and to whom in other days the allied Kings had bent in homage, had
become known to the English sailors.

How these rugged men came to their knowledge of Napoleon and formed
their opinions about him may be explained in this way. Hundreds of
seamen and civilians were pressed into the King's service, many of
whom were taken ruthlessly from vessels they partly owned and
commanded. Indeed, there was no distinction. The pressgangs captured
everybody, irrespective of whether they were officers, common able
seamen, or boys, to say nothing of those who had no sea experience.
Both my own grandfathers and two of my great uncles were kidnapped
from their vessels and their families into the navy, and after many
years of execrable treatment, hard fighting, and wounds, they landed
back into their homes broken men, with no better prospect than to
begin life anew. It was natural that the numerous pressed men should
detest the ruffianly man-catchers and their employers, if not the
service they were forced into, and that they would nurse the wrong
which had been done to them.

They would have opportunities of comparing their own lot with that of
other nationalities engaged in combat against them, and though both
might be bad, it comes quite natural to the sailor to imagine his
treatment is worse than that of others; and there is copious evidence
that the British naval service was not at that period popular.
Besides, they knew, as everybody else should have known, that Napoleon
was beloved by his navy and army alike. Then, after the Emperor had
asked for the hospitality of the British nation, and became its guest
aboard the _Bellerophon_, the sailors saw what manner of man he was.
And later, his voyage to St. Helena in the _Northumberland_ gave them
a better chance of being impressed by his fascinating personality. It
is well known how popular he became aboard both ships; the men of the
squadron that was kept at St. Helena were also drawn to him in
sympathy, and many of the accounts show how, in their rough ardent
way, they repudiated the falsehoods of his traducers. The exiled
Emperor had become _their_ hero and _their_ martyr, just as
impressively as he was and remained that of the French; and from them
and other sources were handed down to the generation of merchant
seamen those tales which were told with the usual love of hyperbole
characteristic of the sailor, and wiled away many dreary hours while
traversing trackless oceans. They would talk about the sea fights of
Aboukir and Trafalgar, and the battles of Arcola, Marengo, Jena,
Austerlitz, the Russian campaign, the retreat from Moscow, his
deportation to Elba, his escape therefrom, and his matchless march
into Paris, and then the great encounter of Waterloo, combined with
the divorce of Josephine and the marriage with Marie Louise; all of
which, as I remember it now, was set forth in the most voluble and
comical manner. Some of their most engaging chanties were composed
about him, and the airs given to them, always pathetic and touching,
were sung by the sailors in a way which showed that they wanted it to
be known that they had no hand in, and disavowed, the crime that was
committed. As an example, I give four verses of the chanty "Boney was
a Warrior," as it was sung in the days I speak of. It is jargon, but
none the less interesting.

    "They sent him to St. Helena!
    Oh! aye, Oh!
    They sent him to St. Helena,
    John France Wa! (François.)

    Oh! Boney was ill-treated!
    Oh! aye, Oh!
    Oh! Boney was ill-treated,
    John France Wa!

    Oh! Boney's heart was broken!
    Oh! aye, Oh!
    Oh! Boney's heart was broken!
    John France Wa!

    But Boney was an Emperor!
    Oh! aye, Oh!
    But Boney was an Emperor!
    John France Wa!"

    --and so on.

Although at that time I had, in common with others, anti-Napoleonic
ideas, I was impressed by the views of the sailors. Later in life,
when on the eve of a long voyage, nearly forty years ago, I happened
to see Scott's "Life of Napoleon" on a bookstall, and being desirous
of having my opinion confirmed, I bought it. A careful reading of this
book was the means of convincing me of the fact that "Boney _was_
ill-treated," and this in face of the so-called evidence which Sir
Walter Scott had so obviously collected for the purpose of exonerating
the then English Government.

The new idea presented to my mind led me to take up a course of
serious reading, which comprised all the "Lives" of Napoleon on which
I could lay my hands, all the St. Helena Journals, and the
commentaries which have been written since their publication. As my
knowledge of the great drama increased, I found my pro-Napoleonic
ideas increasing in fervour. Like the Psalmist when musing on the
wickedness of man, "my heart was hot within me, and at the last I
spake with my tongue."

I may here state in passing that there is no public figure who lived
before or since his time who is surrounded with anything approaching
the colossal amount of literature which is centred on this man whose
dazzling achievements amazed the world. Paradoxical though it may
appear now, in the years to come, when the impartial student has
familiarised himself with the most adverse criticisms, he will see in
this literature much of the hand of enmity, cowardice, and delusion
and, as conviction forces itself upon him, there evolve therefrom the
revelation of a senseless travesty of justice.

I offer no apology for the opinions contained in this book, which have
been arrived at as the result of many years of study and exhaustive
reading. I give the volume to the public as it is, in the hope that it
may attract in other ways to a fair examination of Napoleon's complex
and fascinating character.


WALTER RUNCIMAN.

_December 3, 1910._




CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
THE ABODE OF DARKNESS

CHAPTER II
THE MAN OF THE REVOLUTION--CRITICISM, CONTEMPORARY AND OTHERWISE

CHAPTER III
THREE GENERATIONS: MADAME LA MÈRE, MARIE LOUISE, AND THE KING OF ROME

CHAPTER IV
THE OLIGARCHY, THEIR AGENTS AND APOLOGISTS

CHAPTER V
MESDAMES DE STAËL AND DE REMUSAT

CHAPTER VI
JOSEPHINE

CHAPTER VII
RELIGIOUS NOTIONS OF NAPOLEON

BIBLIOGRAPHY

LIST OF EVENTS AND DATES HAVING REFERENCE TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

INDEX




CHAPTER I

THE ABODE OF DARKNESS


In Clause 2 of his last will, dated Longwood, April 15, 1821, the
Emperor Napoleon states: "It is my wish that my ashes may repose on
the banks of the Seine, in the midst of the French people whom I have
loved so well."

At London, September 21, 1821, Count Bertrand and Count Montholon
addressed the following letter to the King of England:--

    "SIRE,--We now fulfil a sacred duty imposed on us by the Emperor
    Napoleon's last wishes--we claim his ashes. Your Ministers,
    Sire, are aware of his desire to repose in the midst of the
    people whom he loved so well. His wishes were communicated to
    the Governor of St. Helena, but that officer, without paying any
    regard to our protestations, caused him to be interred in that
    land of exile. His mother, listening to nothing but her grief,
    implores from you, Sire, demands from you, the ashes of her son;
    she demands from you the feeble consolation of watering his tomb
    with her tears. If on his barren rock as when on his throne, he
    was a terror of the world, when dead, his glory alone should
    survive him. We are, with respect, &c, &c,

    (Signed) COUNT BERTRAND.

    COUNT MONTHOLON."

In reply to this touching act of devotion to their dead chief the
English Ambassador at Paris wrote in December, 1821, that the English
Government only considered itself the depository of the Emperor's
ashes, and that it would deliver them up to France as soon as the
latter Government should express a desire to that effect. The two
Counts immediately applied to the French Ministry, but without result.
On May 1, 1822, a further letter was sent to Louis XVIII., by the
grace of God King of France and Navarre, concerning the redepositing
of the ashes of Napoleon, Emperor, thrice proclaimed by the grace of
the people.

On the accession of Louis Philippe to the throne the rival parties
were each struggling for ascendancy. The glory of the days of the
Empire had been stifled by the action of the European Powers and their
French allies, but the smouldering embers began to show signs of
renewed activity, and a wave of Napoleonic popularity swept over the
land. Philippe and his Ministry were not indifferent to what was going
on, and in order to distract attention from the chaos which the new
condition of things was creating, the plan of having the "ashes" of
the illustrious chief brought to the country and the people whom he
"loved so well" was suggested as a means of bringing tranquillity to
France and security to the throne.

M. Thiers, the head of a new Ministry, entered into negotiations with
the English Government, and M. Guizot addressed an official note to
Lord Palmerston, who was then Secretary for Foreign Affairs.

This precious communication is embodied in the following
document:--"The undersigned, Ambassador Extraordinary and
Plenipotentiary of His Majesty the King of the French, has the honour,
conformably to instructions received from His Government, to inform
His Excellency the Minister of Foreign Affairs to Her Majesty the
Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, that the King ardently
desires that the mortal remains of Napoleon may be deposited in a tomb
in France, in the country which he defended and rendered illustrious,
and which proudly preserves the ashes of thousands of his companions
in arms, officers and soldiers, devoted with him to the service of
their country. The undersigned is convinced that Her Britannic
Majesty's Government will only see in this desire of His Majesty the
King of the French a just and pious feeling, and will give the orders
necessary to the removal of any obstacle to the transfer of Napoleon's
remains from St. Helena to France."

This document was sent to the British Embassy in Paris, and the wishes
of M. Thiers and his Government were conveyed in orthodox fashion to
the British Foreign Secretary by the Ambassador, in the following
letter, dated Paris, May 4, 1840:--

    "MY LORD,--The French Government have been requested, in several
    petitions addressed to the Chambers, to take the necessary steps
    with regard to the Government of Her Majesty the Queen of Great
    Britain, in order to obtain an authorisation for removing the
    ashes of the Emperor Napoleon to Paris. These petitions were
    favourably received by the Chambers, who transmitted them to the
    President of the Council, and to the other Ministers, his
    colleagues. The Ministers having deliberated on this point, and
    the King having given his consent to the measures necessary to
    meet the object of the petitioners, M. Thiers yesterday
    announced to me officially the desire of the French Government
    that Her Majesty's Government would grant the necessary
    authority to enable them to remove the remains of the Emperor
    Napoleon from St. Helena to Paris. M. Thiers also calls my
    attention to the fact that the consent of the British Government
    to the projected measure would be one of the most efficacious
    means of cementing the union of the two countries, and of
    producing a friendly feeling between France and
    England.--(Signed) GRANVILLE."

    So that this King of the French and M. Thiers realise, after a
    quarter of a century, that the hero who was driven to abdicate,
    and then banished from France, _did_ defend his country and make
    it illustrious, and that the removal of his ashes to France was
    the "_most_ efficacious means" of cementing the union of the
    country that forsook him in his misfortune with the country that
    sent him to perish on a rock. His ashes, indeed, were to produce
    a friendly feeling between these two countries. What a
    burlesque!

    Napoleon's motto was "Everything for the French people." He
    seems to have predicted that after his death they would require
    his "ashes" to tranquillise an enraged people. Of the other
    contracting party he says in the fifth paragraph of his
    will:--"I die prematurely, assassinated by the English oligarchy
    and its deputy; the English nation will not be slow in avenging
    me."

Well, it is requested that his ashes shall be given up to France so
that peace may prevail. And now follows the great act of
condescension:--

    "MY LORD,--Her Majesty's Government having taken into
    consideration the request made by the French Government for an
    authorisation to remove the remains of the Emperor Napoleon from
    St. Helena to France, you are instructed to inform M. Thiers
    that Her Majesty's Government will with pleasure accede to the
    request. Her Majesty's Government entertains hopes that its
    readiness to comply with the wish expressed will be regarded in
    France as a proof of Her Majesty's desire to efface every trace
    of those national animosities which, during the life of the
    Emperor, engaged the two nations in war. Her Majesty's
    Government feels pleasure in believing that such sentiments, if
    they still exist, will be buried for ever in the tomb destined
    to receive the mortal remains of Napoleon. Her Majesty's
    Government, in concert with that of France, will arrange the
    measures necessary for effecting the removal.

   --(Signed) PALMERSTON."

One of the chief features of this State document is its veiled
condition that in consideration of H.B.M. Government giving up the
remains of Napoleon, it is to be understood that every _trace_ of
national animosity is to be effaced. Another is, now that his mortal
remains are in question, he is styled "the Emperor Napoleon."
Twenty-five years before, when the atrocious crime of captivity was
planned, Lord Keith, in the name of the British Government, addressed
a communication to "General Bonaparte." The title of Emperor which his
countrymen had given to him was, until his death, officially ignored,
and he was only allowed to be styled "General" Bonaparte--the rank
which the British Government in that hour of his misfortune thought
best suited to their illustrious captive. He was, in fact, so far as
rank was concerned, to be put on a level with some and beneath others
who followed him into captivity. Well might he "protest in the face of
Heaven and mankind against the violence that was being enacted"
towards him. Well might he appeal to history to avenge him. There is
nothing in history to equal the malignancy of the conquerors'
treatment of their fallen foe. We shall see now and hereafter
prejudices making way, reluctantly it may be, but surely, for the
justice that should be done him.

Three days after the gracious reply of the British Government, May 20,
1840, the French King signified his desire to carry out the wishes of
the Chambers by putting the following document before them:--

    "GENTLEMEN,--The King has commanded Prince Joinville [his son]
    to repair with his frigate to the island of St. Helena, there to
    receive the mortal remains of the Emperor Napoleon. The frigate
    containing the remains of Napoleon will present itself, on its
    return, at the mouth of the Seine; another vessel will convey
    them to Paris; they will be deposited in the Hospital of the
    Invalides. Solemn ceremonies, both religious and military, will
    inaugurate the tomb which is to retain them for ever. It is of
    importance, gentlemen, that this august sepulture should not be
    exposed on a public place, amidst a noisy and unheeding crowd.
    The remains must be placed in a silent and sacred spot, where
    all those who respect glory and genius, greatness and
    misfortune, may visit them in reverential tranquillity.

    "He was an Emperor and a King, he was the legitimate sovereign
    of our country, and, under this title, might be interred at St.
    Denis; but the ordinary sepulture of kings must not be accorded
    to Napoleon; he must still reign and command on the spot where
    the soldiers of France find a resting-place, and where those who
    are called upon to defend her will always seek for inspiration.
    His sword will be deposited in his tomb.

    "Beneath the dome of the temple consecrated by religion to the
    God of Armies, a tomb worthy, _if possible_, of the name
    destined to be graven on it will be erected. The study of the
    artist should be to give to this monument a simple beauty, a
    noble form, and that aspect of solidity which shall appear to
    brave all the efforts of time. Napoleon must have a monument
    durable as his memory. The grant for which we have applied to
    the Chambers is to be employed in the removal of the remains to
    the Invalides, the funeral obsequies, and the construction of
    the tomb. We doubt not, gentlemen, that the Chamber will concur
    with patriotic emotion in the royal project which we have laid
    before them. Henceforth, France, and France alone, will possess
    all that remains of Napoleon; his tomb, like his fame, will
    belong solely to his country.

    "The monarchy of 1830 is in fact the sole and legitimate heir of
    all the recollections in which France prides itself. It has
    remained for this monarchy, which was the first to rally all the
    strength and conciliate all the wishes of the French Revolution,
    to erect and to honour without fear the statue and the tomb of a
    popular hero; for there is one thing, and one thing alone, which
    does not dread a comparison with glory, and that is Liberty."[1]

The appeal is generous and just in its conception and beautifully
phrased. It was received with enthusiasm throughout the whole of
France. Louis Philippe and his Government had accurately gauged what
would, more than anything, for the time being, subdue the rumbling
indications of discord and revolt. The King had by this popular act
caught the imagination of the people. He had made his seat on the
throne secure for a time, and his name was immortal. The great mass of
the people and his Government were behind him, and he made use of this
to his own advantage. Napoleon's dying wish is to be consummated. "The
blind hatred of kings" is relaxed; they are no longer afraid of his
mortal remains; they see, and see correctly, that if they continue to
"pursue his blood" he will be "avenged, nay, but, perchance, cruelly
avenged." The old and the new generation of Frenchmen clamour that as
much as may be of the stigma that rests upon them shall be removed,
threatening reprisals if it be not quickly done. The British
Government diplomatically, and with almost comic celerity, gravely
drop "the General Bonaparte" and style their dead captive "the Emperor
Napoleon."

Louis Philippe, overwhelmed with the greatness of the dead monarch,
bursts forth in eloquent praise of this so-called "usurper" of other
days. He was not only an Emperor and a King, but the _legitimate
sovereign_ of his country. No ordinary sepulture is to be his--it is
to be an august sepulture, a silent sacred spot which those who
respect glory, genius, and greatness may visit in "reverential
tranquillity." Henceforth, by Royal Proclamation, history is to know
him as an Emperor and a King. He is to have a tomb as durable as his
memory, and his tomb and fame are to belong to his country for
evermore. The legitimate heir of Napoleon's glory is the author of one
of the finest panegyrics that has ever been written; a political move,
if you will, but none the less the document is glowing with the
artistic phrasing that appeals to the perceptions of an emotional
race.

But the real sincerity was obviously not so much in the author of the
document as in the great masses, who were intoxicated with the desire
to have the remains of their great hero brought home to the people he
had loved so well. It may easily be imagined how superfluously the
French King and his Government patted each other on the back in
self-adoration for the act of funereal restoration which they took
credit for having instituted. If they took too much credit it was only
natural. But not an item of what is their due should be taken from
them. The world must be grateful to whoever took a part in so noble a
deed. At the same time the world will not exonerate the two official
contracting parties from being exactly free from interested motives.
The one desired to maintain domestic harmony, and this could only be
assured by recalling the days of their nation's glory; and the other,
_i.e._, the British Government, had their eye on some Eastern business
which Palmerston desired to go smoothly, and so the dead Emperor was
made the medium of tranquillity, and, it may be, expediency, in both
cases.

In short, Prince Joinville was despatched from Toulon in feverish
haste with the frigate _Bellespoule_ and the corvette _Favorite_.
These vessels were piously fitted out to suit the august occasion.
Whatever the motives or influences, seen or unseen, that prompted the
two Governments to carry out this unquestionable act of justice to the
nation, to Napoleon's family, his comrades in arms who were still
living, yea, and to all the peoples of the earth who were possessed of
humane instincts, yet it is pretty certain that fear of a popular
rising suggested the idea, and the genius who thought of the
restoration of the Emperor's ashes as a means of subduing the
gathering storm may be regarded as a public benefactor.

But be all this as it may, it is doubtful if anything so ludicrously
farcical is known to history as the mortal terror of this man's
influence, living or dead. The very name of him, animate or inanimate,
made thrones rock and Ministers shiver. Such was their terror, that
the Allies, as they were called (inspired, as Napoleon believed, by
the British Government--and nothing has transpired to disprove his
theory) banished him to a rock in mid-ocean, caged him up in a house
overrun with rats, put him on strict allowance of rations, and guarded
him with warships, a regiment of soldiers with fixed bayonets, and the
uneasy spirit of Sir Hudson Lowe.

After six years of unspeakable treatment he is said to have died of
cancer in the stomach. Doubtless he did, but it is quite reasonable to
suppose that the conditions under which he was placed in an unhealthy
climate, together with perpetual petty irritations, brought about
premature death, and it is highly probable that the malady might have
been prevented altogether under different circumstances. At any rate,
he was without disease when Captain Cockburn handed him over, and for
some time after. But he knew his own mental and physical make-up; he
knew that in many ways he was differently constituted from other men.
His habits of life were different, and therefore his gaolers should
have been especially careful not to subject this singularly organised
man to a poisonous climate and to an unheard-of system of cruelty.
Yes, and they would have been well advised had they guarded with
greater humanity the fair fame of a great people, and not wantonly
committed acts that have left a stigma on the British name.

Sir Walter Scott, who cannot be regarded as an impartial historian of
the Napoleonic regime, does not, in his unfortunate "Life of
Napoleon," produce one single fact or argument that will exculpate the
British Government of that time from having violated every humane law.
The State papers so generously put at his disposal by the English
Ministry do not aid him in proving that they could not have found a
more suitable place or climate for their distinguished prisoner, or
that he would have died of cancer anyhow. The object of the good Sir
Walter is obvious, and the distressing thing is that this excellent
man should have been used for the purpose of whitewashing the British
Administration.

The great novelist is assured that the "ex-Emperor" was pre-disposed
to the "cruel complaint of which his father died." "The progress of
the disease is slow and insidious," says he, which may be true enough,
but predisposition can be either checked or accelerated, and the
course adopted towards Napoleon was not calculated to retard, but
encourage it. But in order to palliate the actions of the British
Government and their blindly devoted adherents at St. Helena,
Gourgaud, who was not always strictly loyal to his imperial
benefactor, is quoted as having stated that he disbelieved in the
Emperor's illness, and that the English were much imposed upon.

Why does Scott quote Gourgaud if, as he says, it is probable that the
malady was in slow progress even before 1817? The reason is quite
clear. He wishes to convey the impression that St. Helena has a
salubrious climate, that the Emperor was treated with indulgent
courtesy, and had abundance to eat and drink. It will be seen,
however, by the records of other chroniclers who were in constant
attendance on His Majesty, that Sir Walter Scott's version cannot be
relied upon.

If the statements in the annexed letter are true--and there is no
substantial reason for doubting them, supported as they are by
facts--then it is a complete refutation of what Scott has written as
to the health-giving qualities of the island.

Here is the statement of the Emperor's medical adviser (see p. 517,
Appendix, vol. ii., "Napoleon in Exile"):--

    "The following extract of an official letter transmitted by me
    to the Lords of the Admiralty, and dated the 28th October, 1818,
    containing a statement of the vexations inflicted upon Napoleon,
    will show that the fatal event which has since taken place at
    St. Helena was most distinctly pointed out by me to His
    Majesty's Ministers.

    "I think it my duty to state, as his late medical attendant,
    that considering the disease of the liver with which he is
    afflicted, the progress it has made in him, and reflecting upon
    the great mortality produced by that complaint in the island of
    St. Helena (so strongly exemplified in the number of deaths in
    the 66th Regiment, the St. Helena regiment, the squadron, and
    Europeans in general, and particularly in His Majesty's ship
    _Conqueror_, which ship has lost about one-sixth of her
    complement, nearly the whole of whom have died within the last
    eight months), it is my opinion that the life of Napoleon
    Bonaparte will be endangered by a longer residence in such a
    climate as that of St. Helena, especially if that residence be
    aggravated by a continuance of those disturbances and
    irritations to which he has hitherto been subjected, and of
    which it is the nature of his distemper to render him peculiarly
    susceptible.--(Signed) BARRY E. O'MEARA, Surgeon R.N. To John
    Wilson Croker, Esq., Secretary to the Admiralty."

It is a terrible reflection to think that this note of warning should
have gone unheeded. A body of men with a spark of humane feeling would
have thrown political exigencies to the winds and defied all the
powers of earth and hell to prevent them from at once offering their
prisoner a home in the land of a generous people. What had they to
fear from a man whose political career ended when he gave himself up
to the captain of the _Bellerophon_, and whose health was now
shattered by disease and ill-usage? Had the common people of this
nation known all that was being perpetrated in their name, the Duke of
Wellington and all his myrmidons could not have withstood the revolt
against it, and were such treatment to be meted out to a political
prisoner of our day, the wrath of the nation might break forth in a
way that would teach tyrants a salutary lesson.

But this great man was at the mercy of a lot of little men. They were
too cowardly to shoot him, so they determined on a cunning dastardly
process of slow assassination. The pious bard who sings the praises of
Napoleon's executioners--Wellington and his coadjutors--and whose
"History" was unworthy of the reputations of himself and his
publishers, will have sunk into oblivion when the fiery soul of the
"Sultan Kebir"[2] will seize on the imagination of generations yet
unborn, and intoxicate them with the memory of the deeds that he had
done.

Napoleon has said, "In the course of time, nothing will be thought so
fine nor seize the attention so much as the doing of justice to me. I
shall gain ground every day on the minds of the people. My name will
become the star of their rights, it will be the expression of their
regrets."[3] This statement is as prophetic as many others, more or
less important, made by Napoleon to one or other of his suite. It is
remarkable how accurately he foretold events and the impressions that
would be formed of himself.

Had the warning given so frequently to Sir Hudson Lowe been conveyed
to his Government, and had they acted upon it, there is little doubt
that a change of climate would have prolonged the Emperor's life. But
in going over those dreary nauseous documents which relate the tale,
one becomes permeated with the belief that the intention was to
torture, if not to kill. Dr. Antommarchi, who succeeded Dr. O'Meara as
medical attendant to the Emperor, confirms all that O'Meara had
conveyed so frequently to the Governor and to the Admiralty. The
Council sent for him to give them information as to the climate of
St. Helena. They express the opinion that at Longwood it is "good."
Antommarchi replies, "Horrible," "Cold," "Hot," "Dry," "Damp,"
"Variation of atmosphere twenty times in a day." "But," said they,
"this had no influence on General Bonaparte's health," and the blunt
reply of Antommarchi is flung at them, "It sent him to his grave."
"But," came the question, "what would have been the consequences of a
change of residence?" "That he would still be living," said
Antommarchi. The dialogue continues, the doctor scoring heavily all
the way through. At length one of the Council becomes offended at his
daring frankness, and blurts forth in "statesmanlike" anger: "What
signifies, after all, the death of General Bonaparte? It rids us of an
implacable enemy."

This noble expression of opinion was given three days after George IV.
had deplored the death of Napoleon. It is not of much consequence,
except to confirm the belief of the French that the death-warrant had
been issued. The popular opinion at the time when the Emperor gave
himself up to the British was that had he come in contact with George
IV. the great tragedy would not have happened.

We are not, however, solely dependent on what the two doctors have
said concerning the cause of his untimely demise. All those who knew
anything about Longwood, from the common sailor or soldier upwards,
were aware of the baneful nature of its climate. Counts Las Cases,
Montholon, and Bertrand had each represented it to the righteous Sir
Hudson Lowe as being deadly to the health of their Emperor. Discount
their statements as you will, the conviction forces itself upon you
that their contentions are in the main, if not wholly, reliable.

But the climate, trying and severe as it was, cannot be entirely
blamed for killing him, though it did the best part of it. Admiral Sir
George Cockburn, while he acted as Governor, seems to have caused
occasional trouble to the French by the unnecessary restrictions put
upon them, but by the accounts given he was not unkindly disposed. He
showed real anxiety to make the position as agreeable to them as he
could, and no doubt used his judgment instead of carrying out to the
letter the cast-iron instructions given to him by Bathurst. The
Emperor spoke of him as having the heart of a soldier, and regretted
his removal to give place to Sir Hudson Lowe, who arrived in the
_Phaeton_ on April 14, 1816.

The new Governor's rude, senseless conduct on the occasion of his
first visit to Longwood indicated forebodings of trouble. He does not
appear to have had the slightest notion of how to behave, or that he
was about to be introduced to a man who had completely governed the
destinies of Europe for twenty years. Napoleon with his eagle eye and
penetrating vision measured the man's character and capabilities at a
glance. He said to his friends, "That man is malevolent; his eye is
that of a hyena." Subsequent events only intensified this belief.

Perhaps the best that can be said of Lowe is that he possessed
distorted human intelligence. He was amiable when he pleased, a good
business man, so it is said, and the domestic part of his life has
never been assailed; but it would be a libel on all decency to say
that he was suited to the delicate and responsible post he was sent to
fulfil. In fact, all his actions prove him to have been without an
atom of tact, judgment, or administrative quality, and his nature had
a big unsympathetic flaw in it. The fact is, there are indications
that his nature was warped from the beginning, and that he was just
the very kind of man who ought never to have been sent to a post of
such varied responsibilities. His appointment shows how appallingly
ignorant or wicked the Government, or Bathurst, were in their
selection of him.

He was a monomaniac pure and simple. If they thought him best suited
to pursue a policy of vindictiveness, then their choice was perfect,
though it was a violation of all moral law. If, on the other hand,
they were not aware of his unsuitableness, they showed either
carelessness or incapacity which will rank them beneath mediocrity,
and by their act they stamped the English name with ignominy. And yet
there is a pathos at the end of it all when he was brought to see the
cold, inanimate form of the dead monarch. He was seized with fear,
smitten with the dread of retribution, and exclaimed to Montholon,
"His death is my ruin."[4]

Forsyth has done his utmost to justify the actions of Hudson Lowe, but
no one can read his work without feeling that the historian was
conscious all through of an abortive task. He reproduces in vain the
instructions and correspondence between Lowe and his Government, and
the letters and conversations with Napoleon and members of his
household, and deduces from these that the Governor could not have
acted otherwise than in the manner he did. It is easy to twist words
used either in conversations or letters into meanings which they were
never intended to convey, but there are too many evidences of
cold-blooded outbursts of tyrannical intent to be set aside, and
these make it impossible to regard Sir Hudson Lowe in any other light
than that of a petty little despot.

He had ability of a kind. Napoleon said he was eminently suited to
"command bandits or deserters," and tells him in that memorable verbal
conversation which arose through Lowe requesting that 200,000 francs
per annum should be found as a contribution towards the expenses at
Longwood: "I have never heard your name mentioned except as a brigand
chief. You never suffer a day to pass without torturing me with your
insults." This undoubtedly was a bitter attack, and the plainspoken
words used must have wounded Lowe intensely. Probably Napoleon
himself, on reflection, thought them too severe, even though they may
be presumed to be literally true, and it may be taken for granted that
they would never have been uttered but for the spiteful provocation.

A more discerning man would have foreseen that he could not treat a
great being like the late Emperor of the French as though _he_ were a
Corsican brigand without having to pay a severe penalty. An ordinary
prisoner might have submitted with amiable resignation to the
disciplinary methods which, to the oblique vision of Sir Hudson Lowe,
seemed to be necessary, but to treat the Emperor as though he were in
that category was a perversion of all decency, and no one but a Hudson
Lowe would have attempted it. It is quite certain that the dethroned
arbiter of Europe never, in his most exalted period, treated any of
his subordinates with such airs of majesty as St. Helena's Governor
adopted towards him.

Lowe seems to have had an inherent notion that the position in which
he was placed entitled him to pursue a policy of unrelenting severity,
and that homage should be paid as his reward. He thirsted for respect
to be shown himself, and was amazed at the inordinate ingratitude of
the French in not recognising his amiable qualities. It was his habit
to remind them that but for his clemency in carrying out the
instructions of Bathurst and those who acted with him, their condition
could be made unendurable. He was incapable of grasping the lofty
personality of the persecuted guest of England.

The popular, though erroneous, idea that Napoleon was, and ever had
been, a beast of prey, fascinated him; his days were occupied in
planning out schemes of closer supervision, and his nights were
haunted with the vision of his charge smashing down every barrier he
had racked his intellect to construct, and then vanishing from the
benevolent custody of his saintly Government to again wage sanguinary
war and spill rivers of blood. The awful presentiment of escape and
the consequences of it were ever lacerating his uneasy spirit, and
thus he never allowed himself to be forgotten; restrictions impishly
vexatious were ordered with monotonous regularity. Napoleon aptly
described Lowe as "being afflicted with an inveterate itch."

Montholon, in vol. i. p. 184, relates how Lowe would often leap out of
bed in the middle of the night, after dreaming of the Emperor's
flight, mount his horse and ride, like a man demented, to Longwood,
only to be assured by the officer on duty that all was well and that
the smitten hero was still his prisoner. When Napoleon was told of
these nocturnal visitations, he was overcome with mirth, but at the
same time filled with contempt, not alone for this amazing specimen,
but for the creatures who had created him a dignitary.

The tragic farce of sending the Emperor to the poisonous plateau of
Longwood, and giving Lowe Plantation House with its much more healthy
climate to reside at, is a phenomenon which few people who have made
themselves conversant with all the facts and circumstances will be
able to understand. But the policy of this Government, of whom the
Scottish bard sings so rapturously, is a problem that can never be
solved.

To a wise body of men, and in view of the fact that the eyes of the
world were fixed upon them and on the vanquished man, their prisoner,
the primary thought would have been compassion, even to indulgence;
instead of which they and their agents behaved as though they were
devoid of humane feelings.

Lowe's ambition seems to have been to ignore propriety, and to force
his way to the Emperor's privacy in order that he might assure himself
that his charge had not escaped, but his ambition and his heroics were
calmly and contemptuously ignored. "Tell my gaoler," said Napoleon to
his valet Noverras, "that it is in his power to change his keys for
the hatchet of the executioner, and that if he enters, it shall be
over a corpse. Give me my pistols," and it is said by Montholon, to
whom the Emperor was dictating at the time of the intrusion, that Sir
Hudson heard this answer and retired confounded. The ultimatum dazed
him, but he was forced to understand that beyond a certain limit,
heroics, fooleries, and impertinences would not be tolerated by this
terrible scavenger of European bureaucracy.[5] Lowe, in very truth,
discerned the stern reality of the Emperor's piercing words, and he
felt the need of greater caution bearing down on him. He pondered over
these grave developments as he journeyed back to Plantation House,
there to concoct and dispatch with all speed a tale that would chill
his confederates at St. Stephen's with horror, and give them a further
opportunity of showing how wise _they_ were in their plan of
banishment and rigid precautions, and in their selection of so
distinguished and dauntless a person as Sir Hudson Lowe, on whom they
implicitly relied to carry out their Christlike benefactions.

Cartoonists, pamphleteers, Bourbonites, treasonites, meteoric females,
all were supplied with the requisite material for declamatory speeches
to be hurled at the Emperor in the hope of being reaped to the glory
of God and the British ministry. The story of the attempted invasion
of Longwood and its sequel shocks the fine susceptibilities of the
satellites by whom Lowe is surrounded. They bellow out frothy words of
vengeance. Sir Thomas Reade, the noisiest filibuster of them all,
indicates his method of settling matters at Longwood. This incident
arose through Napoleon refusing to see Sir Thomas Strange, an Indian
Judge. Las Cases had just been forcibly removed. The Emperor was
feeling the cruelty of this act very keenly, so he sent the following
reply to Lowe's request that he should see Sir Thomas: "Tell the
Governor that those who have gone down to the tomb receive no visits,
and take care that the Judge be made acquainted with my answer." This
cutting reply caused Sir Hudson to give way to unrestrained anger, and
now Sir Thomas Reade gets his chance of vapouring. Here is his plan:
"If I were Governor, I would bring that dog of a Frenchman to his
senses; I would isolate him from all his friends, who are no better
than himself; then I would deprive him of his books. He is, in fact,
nothing but a miserable outlaw, and I would treat him as such.
By G--! it would be a great mercy to the King of France to rid him of
such a fellow altogether. It was a piece of great cowardice not to
have sent him at once to a court martial instead of sending him
here."[6]

This ebullition of spasmodic courage entitles the
Deputy-Adjutant-General to special mention in the dispatches of his
chief. O'Meara relates another of many episodes with which the
valiant Sir Thomas is associated. Further attempts were made to
violate the privacy of the Emperor on the 11th, 12th, 13th, and 16th
August, 1819, but these were defeated by the fastening of doors. Count
Montholon was indisposed, and the Governor, refusing to correspond
with Count Bertrand, insisted upon having communication with the
Emperor by letter or by one of his officers twice a day. So the
immortal Sir Thomas Reade and another staff officer were selected to
effect a communication. But "the dog of a Frenchman" that the deputy
boasted of "bringing to his senses" refuses admittance, and Sir
Thomas, who has now got his opportunity, evidently has some misgivings
about the loaded pistols that are kept handy in case of an emergency.
The Emperor, in one of his slashing dictated declarations which hit
home with every biting sentence, reminds the Governor again what the
inevitable result will be should indecorous liberty be taken. Sir
Thomas would be made aware of this danger, so contents himself by
knocking at the door and shouting at the top of his voice: "Come out,
Napoleon Bonaparte. We want Napoleon Bonaparte."

This grotesque incident, which is only one of many and worse outrages
that were hatched at Plantation House, reflects a lurid light on the
delirium of antagonism that pervaded the dispositions of some of
England's representatives. The hysterical delight of manufacturing
annoyances was notorious on the island, and Sir Hudson and his
myrmidons shrieked with resentment when dignified defiance was the
only response.

Lowe failed to recognise the important ethical fact that a person who
acts a villainous part can never realise his villainy. So oblivious
was he of this fundamental law that he never ceased to assure the
exiles that he was not only good, but kind. Here is a note that bears
out this self-consciousness: "General Bonaparte cannot be allowed to
traverse the island freely. Had the only question been that of his
safety, a mere commission of the East India Company would have been
sufficient to guard him at St. Helena. He may consider himself
fortunate that my Government has sent a man so kind as myself to guard
him, otherwise he would be put in chains, to teach him how to conduct
himself better."

To this the Emperor answered: "In this case it is obvious that, if the
instructions given to Sir Hudson Lowe by Lords Bathurst and
Castlereagh do not contain an order to kill me, a verbal order must
have been given; for whenever people wish mysteriously to destroy a
man, the first thing they do is to cut him off from all communication
with society, and surround him with the shades of mystery, till,
having accustomed the world to hear nothing said of him, and to forget
him, they can easily torture him or make him disappear."

What a dreadful indictment this is against Bathurst, Castlereagh, and
Lowe, and how difficult to think of these men at the same time as of
Napoleon, whose name had kept the world in awe! Surely their dwarfed
names and those of all the allied traitors and conspirators will pass
on down the ages subjects for mockery and derision, while his shall
still tower above everything unto all time. His faults will be
obscured by the magnificence of his powerful and beneficent reign, and
overshadowed by pity for his unspeakable martyrdom.

But what of the Commissioners representing Russia, Austria, Prussia,
and the Most Christian King of France? How shall they fare at the
hands of posterity? Their crime will not be that they acquiesced in
being sent to St. Helena by their respective Governments, but that
they allowed themselves to be completely cajoled and influenced by the
crafty allurements of Lowe. The representative of Austria is said to
have been a mere cipher in his hands, while the attention of Count
Balmin was wholly taken up in making love to Miss Johnson, the eldest
daughter of Lady Lowe by a former marriage. He eventually married her
and became one of the family. This young lady's charm of character and
goodness had captured the affections of the Longwood colony, and her
tender solicitude for the sorrows of the Emperor caused him to form an
attachment for her which was evidenced by his gracious attentions
whenever she came to Longwood.

The Marquis de Montchenu (who on landing at St. Helena found himself
in the midst of a group of officers attending on Sir Hudson, and
called out, "For the love of God, tell me if any of you speak French")
is not much heard of in his official capacity. Afterwards he appears
to have been enamoured of the Governor's good dinners, but though he
was always hospitable, kind, and glad to see his compatriots at his
breakfast table, the Emperor never would receive him, though he always
showed appreciation of his promptitude in forwarding to him French
papers or books. The Marquis would naturally find it difficult to
assert himself when he heard of the wrongs committed by his host.

The restrictions imposed on the Emperor were by this time having an
ominous effect. O'Meara reported that this was so, and the
Commissioners, whose instructions from their Governments were merely
formal, thought it their duty to bestir themselves, and requested the
Governor to remove the causes in so far as it was "compatible with the
security of his person," lest the result from want of exercise should
be of serious consequences to his health. Sir Hudson was angry at the
turn affairs were taking, as the Commissioners had always accommodated
themselves to his plans. He found, however, that in this instance
humanity had been aroused, and as it would not suit his purpose to run
against his hitherto complacent friends, he thinks to appease their
anxiety in the following extraordinary manner:--

"I am about to arrange in such a way as to allow him to take horse
exercise. I have no wish that he should die of an attack of
apoplexy--that would be very embarrassing both to me and to my
Government. I would much rather he should die of a tedious disease
which our physicians could properly declare to be natural. Apoplexy
furnishes too many grounds for comment."[7]

This insensate mockery of a man is always asserting himself in some
detestable fashion or other.[8]

At one time his benighted mind would swagger him into droll ideas of
attempting to chastise his Imperial prisoner, at another, his
childish fear of the consequences of his chastisement was pathetic,
and when one droll farce after another broke down, he shielded himself
with manifestations of aggrieved virtue.

The Emperor received Lord Amherst, who was a man of some human
feeling, and the noble lord offered to convey to the precious Prince
Regent certain messages. Then Napoleon, aroused by the recollection of
the perfidy which was causing him such infinite suffering, declared
that neither his King nor his nation had any right over him. "Your
country," he exclaims, "sets an example of twenty millions of men
oppressing one individual." With prophetic utterance he foreshadows "a
terrible war hatched under the ashes of the Empire." Nations are to
avenge the ingratitude of the Kings whom he "crowned and pardoned."
And then, as though his big soul had sickened at the thought of it
all, he exclaims, "Inform your Prince Regent that I await as a favour
the axe of the executioner." Lord Amherst was deeply affected, and
promised to tell of all his sufferings and indignities to the Regent,
and also to speak to the saintly Lowe thereon. "Useless," interjects
the Emperor; "crime, hatred, is his nature. It is necessary to his
enjoyment to torture me. He is like the tiger, who tears with his
claws the prey whose agonies he takes pleasure in prolonging." The
audience then closes and the sordid tragedy continues.

The Commissioners are to have bulletins, but no communication with the
Imperial abode. O'Meara is asked to prepare inspired bulletins, and to
report what he hears and learns from the Emperor, and in a general way
act the spy. He refused, and as Lowe required willing tools, not
honest men, he was ultimately banished from the island. The Emperor
embraces him, bestows his benediction, and gives him credentials of
the highest order, together with messages of affection to members of
his family and to the accommodating Marie Louise, who is now mistress
to the Austrian Count Neipperg. He is charged to convey kindly
thoughts of esteem and gratitude to the good Lady Holland for all her
kindness to him. The King of Rome is tenderly remembered, and O'Meara
is asked to send intelligence as to the manner of his education. A
message is entrusted to him for Prince Joseph, who is to give to
O'Meara the private and confidential letters of the Emperors Alexander
and Francis, the King of Prussia, and the other sovereigns of Europe.
He then thanks O'Meara for his care of him and bids him "quit the
abode of darkness and crime."[9]

Before O'Meara left the island, news of the diabolical treatment of
the Emperor had filtered through to Europe in spite of Lowe's
precautions. The _Edinburgh Review_ had published several articles
exposing the Governor's conduct, and when these were delivered at St.
Helena (addressed to Longwood) a great commotion arose at Plantation
House. Reade had orders to buy every one of the obnoxious
publications, but determined men of talent are not easily thwarted in
their object, especially if it is a good one, so the Governor had the
mortification of seeing himself outwitted. O'Meara was confronted and
charged with securing for Montholon the objectionable _Edinburgh
Review_. The articles gave the Emperor great pleasure, and when this
was made known to Lowe it was intolerable to him. O'Meara gets
official notice to quit on July 25, 1818.

Napoleon thought it a bold stroke on the part of the British Ministers
(whom he regarded, and spoke quite openly of, as assassins) to force
his physician from him. The doctor took the precaution to reveal the
place of concealment of his journal to Montholon, who found a way of
having it sent to him in England. This document was read to the
Emperor, who had several errors corrected, which do not appear to have
been of great importance, except one that had reference to the
shooting of the Duc d'Enghien.[10]

On the day following his exit from Longwood O'Meara sent a report on
the exile's illness and his treatment thereof. The report is an
alarming account of the health of the Emperor, who, notwithstanding,
is deprived of medical aid for months. He justly adhered to the
determination of having none other than his own medical attendant.
Lowe sees in this very reasonable request a subtle attempt at planning
escape, and will not concede it. An acrimonious correspondence then
takes place. Letters sent to him by Montholon or Bertrand are returned
because Napoleon is styled Emperor. Montholon in turn imitates Lowe,
and returns his on the ground of incivility, and it must be admitted
the French score off him each time.

Lowe whines to Montholon that Bertrand calls him a fool to the
Commissioners, and accuses him of collecting all the complaints he can
gather together, so that he may have them published. The newspapers,
particularly the _Edinburgh Review_, have slashing articles holding
him up to ridicule and denouncing him as an "assassin." He whimpers
that it is very hard that he, who pays every attention and regard for
the Emperor's feelings, should be pursued and made the victim of
calumnies. These expressions of unctuous pharisaism are coldly
received by the French, who ask no favours but claim justice. Their
thoughts are full of the wrongs perpetrated on the great man who is
the object of their attachment and pity. They will listen to none of
Lowe's canting humbug. They see incontestable evidences of the
Destroyer enfolding his arms around the hero who had thrilled the
nations of the world with his deeds. Their souls throb with fierce
emotion at the agony caused by the venomously malignant tyranny. The
meanest privileges of humanity are denied him, and if they plotted in
order that the world might learn of the hideous oppression, who, with
a vestige of holy pity in him, will deny that their motive was
laudable? Let critics say what they will, these devoted followers of a
fallen and sorely stricken chief are an example of imperishable
loyalty. They had their differences, their petty jealousies, and at
times bemoaned their hard fate, and this oft-times caused the Emperor
to quickly rebuke them.

Gourgaud was the Peter of the family, and a great source of trouble.
He may justly be accused at times of lapsing into disloyalty. He was
guilty both on the island and after his arrival in England of
committing the same fault, but in this latter instance he may have had
a purpose, as he was asking favours from men who were bitterly hostile
to his benefactor. He knew they would be glad to hear anything from so
important an authority as would in any degree justify their action.
Gourgaud, in fact, was more knave than fool, as his subsequent
beseeching appeals on behalf of Napoleon to Marie Louise and other
personages in France very clearly prove.

But take these men and women as a whole, view the circumstances and
conditions of life on this rock of vile memory, inquire as minutely as
you may into their conduct, and you see, towering above all, that
their supreme interest is centred on him whom they voluntarily
followed into exile. He is their ideal of human greatness, their
friend, and their Emperor.

They view Sir Hudson Lowe as they would a distracted phenomenon. The
introduction of new and frivolous vexations is occasionally ignored or
looked upon with despairing amusement. At other times, when their
master's rights, dignity, and matchless personality are assailed, they
resent it with fierce impulse, and this gives Lowe further
opportunities of reminding them of his goodness. But during the long,
weary years of incessant provocation, criminal retaliation was never
thought of except on one occasion, when some new arbitrary rules were
put in force.

Santini, a Corsican, and one of the domestics, brooded over his
master's wrongs. He was generally of a cheerful temperament, but since
the new regulations were enforced it had been noticed that his whole
disposition had changed. He became thoughtful and dejected, and one
day made known to Cipriani his deliberate intention to shoot the
Governor the first time he came to Longwood. Cipriani used all his
influence to dissuade him from committing so rash an act, and finding
that Santini was immovable, he reported the matter to Napoleon, who
had the devoted keeper of his portfolio brought to him, and commanded
him as his Emperor to cease thinking of injuring Sir Hudson. It took
the Emperor some time to persuade Santini, and when he did give his
promise it was with marked reluctance. Santini is spoken of as being
as brave as a lion, an expert with the small sword, and a deadly shot.
He was subsequently sent off the island, the Emperor granting him a
pension of £50 per annum.

Santini was the only one who refused to sign a document put forward
by Lowe in which all the officers and domestics pledged themselves to
conform to the new regulations, which were, as usual, senseless and
severe. They insisted on the words "Emperor Napoleon" being inserted,
but Lowe, with inherent stupid pleasure, would have none other than
the words "Napoleon Bonaparte," and the penalty for refusing to sign
was banishment from the island. Sir Hudson got it into his malevolent
brain that he had pinned them at last. He affirmed that their reason
for not signing what they pretended was their Emperor's and their own
degradation was to give an excuse for being "sent off." Whereupon, as
soon as the Governor's crafty insinuations became known, they all
signed except Santini, who refused to have Napoleon described by any
other term than that of Emperor.

Santini's loyalty to his illustrious master cost him the anguish of
being torn from his service and sent to the Cape of Good Hope in the
English frigate _Orontes_. He stayed there a few days, but returned
almost immediately to St. Helena. He was not, however, allowed to
land; and, having spent some days at the anchorage, sailed on February
25, 1817, for England.

These refractory captives of the British authorities seem to have
been a source of great perplexity to them, to say nothing of the cost
to the nation caused by the hopeless incapacity displayed in dealing
with them. The business grows so farcical that the English guardians
become the laughing-stock of the most menial creatures on the island.

Immediately on his arrival in London Santini issued a touching appeal
to the British people, laying naked the St. Helena atrocities, the
main facts of which have never been contradicted. Any exaggerations
which may appear in the pamphlet, coming as they do from a soldier
whose adoration for his Emperor amounted to fanaticism, may be
excused; but, whatever his faults, the ugly facts remain unshaken.

There is no evidence in all the voluminous publications concerning
Napoleon at St. Helena that there would have been a shred of mourning
put on by the best men and women of any nationality residing on this
inhospitable rock had Santini or any one else despatched the petty
tyrant who was carrying on a nefarious assassination by the consent,
if not the instructions, of an equally nefarious Ministry. Perhaps his
Imperial victim would have been the only person outside his family and
official circle who would have deplored the act. It is pretty
generally admitted that Lowe was detested by all classes who knew of
the villainous methods adopted by him to give pain to Napoleon and to
any one who showed the slightest sympathy towards him.

Letters from and to his wife, "the amiable Austrian Archduchess," his
mother, and other members of his family, were not allowed to pass
unless scrutinised and commented upon by this insatiable gaoler.
Letters written to the Ministry and to well-disposed public men
outside it were not forwarded, on the pretext that the title of
Emperor was used. A marble bust of the Emperor's son was brought to
St. Helena by T.M. Radowich, master gunner aboard the ship _Baring_.
It was taken possession of by the authorities, and had been in Lowe's
hands for some days when he intimated to Count Bertrand that, though
it was against the regulations, he would take upon himself to hand
over some presents sent out by Lady Holland and some left by Mr.
Manning. A more embarrassing matter was the handing over of the bust.
The mystery and comic absurdity of some Government officials of that
time, or even of this, is amazing.

Lowe's dull perceptions had been awakened. He realised that he might
be accused of having committed an exceedingly dirty trick. He thinks
it in keeping with the dignity of his high office to become uneasy
about the retention of these articles, especially the statue of the
King of Rome. So with unconscious humour he asks the Count if he
thinks Napoleon would really like to have his son's bust. The Count
replies, "You had better send it this very evening, and not detain it
until to-morrow." Lowe is aggrieved at the coldness of the reply. He
presumably expected Bertrand to gush out torrents of gratitude. But
the French code of real good taste and humane bearing put Sir Hudson
Lowe beneath their contempt. To them he had become indescribable.

To all those who had access to Napoleon, the burning love he had for
his son was well known, and in one of those outbursts of passionate
anguish he declares to the Countess of Montholon that it was for him
alone that he returned from Elba, and if he still formed some
expectations in exile, they were for him also. He declares that he is
the source of his greatest anguish, and that every day he costs him
tears of blood. He imagines to himself the most horrid events, which
he cannot remove from his mind. He sees either the potion or the
empoisoned fruit which is about to terminate the days of the young
innocent by the most cruel sufferings, and then, after this pouring
out of the innermost soul, he pleads with Madame to compassionate his
weakness, and asks her to console him.

This learned warrior-statesman was also a poet, and but for the
solitude of exile we should probably never have seen that side of this
versatile nature. The lines which he writes to the portrait of his son
are painfully touching. For some reason they were kept concealed, and
found some time afterwards. Here they are, but the English translation
does not do them justice:--

    Delightful image of my much-loved boy!
    Behold his eyes, his looks, his smile!
    No more, alas! will he enkindle joy,
    Nor on some kindlier shore my woes beguile.

    My son! my darling son! wert thou but here,
    My bosom should receive thy lovely form;
    Thou'dst soothe my gloomy hours with converse dear,
    Serenely we'd behold the lowering storm.

    I'd be the partner of thine infant cares,
    And pour instruction o'er thy expanding mind,
    Whilst in thy heart, in my declining years,
    My wearied soul should an asylum find.

    My wrongs, my cares, should be forgot with thee,
    My power Imperial, dignities, renown--
    This rock itself would be a heaven to me,
    Thine arms more cherished than the victor's crown.

    O! in thine arms, my son! I could forget that fame
    Shall give me, through all time, a never-dying name.

Here is another version of the same thoughts:--

    TO THE PORTRAIT OF MY SON.

    O! cherished image of my infant heir!
    Thy surface does his lineaments impart:
    But ah! thou liv'st not--on this rock so bare
    His living form shall never glad my heart.

    My second self! how would thy presence cheer
    The settled sadness of thy hapless sire!
    Thine infancy with tenderness I'd rear,
    And thou shouldst warm my age with youthful fire.

    In thee a truly glorious crown I'd find,
    With thee, upon this rock, a heaven should own,
    Thy kiss would chase past conquests from my mind
    Which raised me, demi-god, on Gallia's throne.

Perhaps the Emperor did not wish to show all the anguish by which he
was being hourly devoured, but who can read these lines now without a
pang of emotion? The overpowering conviction that his much-loved boy
would be destroyed haunted him. Many people to this day believe that
he was right, and that his son's health was sedulously undermined. But
if that be so, the Imperial House of Austria will have to answer for
it through all eternity. Napoleon knew that this much-treasured bust
was at Plantation House, and said to O'Meara, if it had not been given
up he would have told a tale which would have made the mothers of
England execrate Lowe as a monster in human shape.

But the Governments of Europe, as well as individuals, were spending
vast sums of money on pamphleteering, and probably those who wrote the
worst libels were the most highly paid. Therefore the women of England
and of other countries were continuously having their minds saturated
with poisonous statements. Many of them firmly believed Napoleon to be
the anti-Christ, and it is only now that the world is beginning to see
through the gigantic plot.

It was stated that the bust had been executed at Leghorn by order of
the faithless Marie Louise. In Hooper's "Life of Wellington," the
statement that "she was grateful to the Duke for winning Waterloo,
because in 1815 she had a lover who afterwards became her husband, and
she was not in a condition to return with safety to her Imperial
spouse," is hard to believe. This mother of the son the poet-Emperor
sings about was deriving pleasure in playing cards for napoleons with
the Duke who was regarded by her husband as one of his most determined
executioners. Her supposed connection with the statue naturally gave
it a larger interest, so the Emperor expressed a desire to see the
gunner, and ordered Bertrand to get permission for him to visit
Longwood.

The Governor, after examining the gunner on oath, and having had him
carefully searched, gave him leave to see Napoleon, but Captain
Poppleton was ordered not to allow him to speak to the French unless
in his presence. This arbitrary condition was resented with quiet,
scornful dignity, and the gunner was asked to withdraw. It is hard to
believe that a man could be so perversely crooked as Sir Hudson Lowe.
How human it was for the exile to long to hear a message from the lips
of one who was credited with having seen and spoken to the mother of
his son, and how inhuman of Lowe to put any obstacles in the way of
his desire being gratified!

The incident became common talk, and in proportion to its circulation,
so did Lowe's reputation suffer. It is questionable whether he could
have found any one unfeeling enough on the island to justify so
despicable an act, except perhaps Sir Thomas Reade, whose baseness in
this and other transactions cannot be adequately described, and whose
nature seems to have been ingrained with the daily thought of
achieving distinction by excelling his master in some form of cruelty.

It is a piteous reflection to think of these two plants of grace, the
one at all times imbued with the idea of some sanguinary plan of
punishment, while the other varied the plan of his doubtful
transactions, at the same time telling the exiles that he was actuated
by the sweetest and purest of motives.

In contrast to Lowe and Reade, the chroniclers speak in the highest
praise of Major Gorriquer. The officers and soldiers of the garrison,
as well as the men of the navy, extended their touching sympathy to
the hero who described his imprisonment as being worse than
"Tamerlane's iron cage." Captain Maitland, in his narrative, relates a
story which indicates the magnetic power of this great soldier.
Maitland was anxious to know what his men thought of Napoleon, so he
asked his servant, who told him that he had heard several of them
talking about him, and one of them had observed, "Well, they may abuse
that man as much as they please; but if the people of England knew him
as well as we do, they would not hurt a hair of his head." To which
the others agreed.

There are many instances recorded where sailors ran the risk of being
shot in order that they might get a glimpse of him, and there is
little doubt the poor gunner-messenger was subjected to inimitable
moral lectures on the sin and pains and penalties of having any
communication whatsoever with the ungentle inhabitants of Longwood.
This good-hearted fellow was as carefully shadowed as though he had
been commissioned to carry the Emperor off. Lowe was infected with the
belief that he had some secret designs, and if he were not kept under
close supervision he might take to sauntering on his own account and
really have some talk with the French, and then what might happen?
This episode was brought to a close by the Emperor directing that a
kind letter should be written to the enterprising sailor, and that a
draft for _£_300 should be enclosed. O'Meara says, "By means of some
unworthy trick he did not receive it for nearly two years."

The reason so much is made of the bust affair is accounted for as
follows:--

Lowe, on first hearing of it being landed, intended to have it seized
and thrown into the sea. He afterwards took possession of the article,
with the idea of making Napoleon a present of it himself. This idea
did not pan out as he expected, and in consequence of public
indignation running so high, he had the bust sent to Longwood
immediately after his conversation with Bertrand. While Las Cases was
waiting at Mannheim in the hope that the pathetic appeals he had made
to the sovereigns on behalf of Napoleon would bring to him a
favourable decision, the Dalmatian gunner heard of him. He was passing
through Germany to his home after a fruitless attempt in London to get
the money Napoleon had enclosed in his letter. The reason given was
that the persons on whom it was drawn were not then in possession of
the necessary funds. Las Cases paid him, and received his appropriate
blessings for his goodness. Imprecations against Lowe were lavishly
bestowed by the gunner. He had been prevented from landing at St.
Helena on his way back from India, and but for this spiteful act of
Lowe's the money would have been paid at once.

Meanwhile the touching appeals of Las Cases to the sovereigns were
unheeded. Even Napoleon's father-in-law, the Emperor of Austria, who
had given his daughter in marriage to the arbiter of Europe, did not
deign to reply, though only a brief time before he had received many
tokens of magnanimity from the French Emperor. So, indeed, had other
kings and queens of that time, not excluding Alexander of Russia; but
more hereafter about these monarchs who had once clamoured for the
honour of alliances with Napoleon and with his family, but who now
were conspirators in the act of a great assassination.

Some three years before, Lord Keith was horrified when Captain
Maitland informed him on board the _Bellerophon_, in Torbay, that the
Duke of Rovigo, Lallemand, Montholon, and Gourgaud had said that their
Emperor would not go to St. Helena, and if he were to consent, they
would prevent it, meaning that they would end his existence rather
than witness any further degradation of him. Lord Keith is indignant,
and replies to Sir Frederick Maitland, "You may tell those gentlemen
who have threatened to be Bonaparte's executioners that the law of
England awards death to murderers, and that the certain consequence of
such an act will be finishing their career on a gallows." Precisely!

The noble lord's fascinating little speech is quite in accord with
justice, but did _he_ ever raise a finger to prevent his colleagues
and their renowned deputy from committing the same crime at St.
Helena, and after this same Bonaparte's demise, were any steps taken
to call to account those whom the great soldier had consistently
declared were causing his premature death? Lord Keith, with his eyes
uplifted to heaven, had said, "England awards death to murderers," and
in this we are agreed, but there must be no fine distinction drawn as
to who the perpetrators are or their reason for doing it. Whether a
person for humanity's sake is despatched by a friendly pistol-shot or
the process of six years of refined cruelty, the crime is the same,
the only difference being (if life has to be taken) that it is more
merciful it should be done expeditiously.

The French revered their Emperor, and could not bear to witness his
dire humiliation at the hands of men so infinitely his inferiors,
hence the thought of unlawfully ending his existence. On the other
hand, members of the British Government were swollen out with haughty
righteousness; they regarded themselves as deputies of the Omnipotent.
They determined in solemn conclave that the man against whom they had
waged war for twenty years, and who was only now beaten by a
combination of circumstances, should be put through the ordeal of an
inquisition. If he held out long, well and good, but should he succumb
to their benign treatment, their faith would be steadfast in their own
blamelessness. They were quite unconscious of being an unspeakable
brood of hollow, heartless mediocrities. Why did Lord Keith not give
_them_, as he did the devoted Frenchmen, a little sermon on the
orthodoxy of the gallows? They were far more in need of his guiding
influence.

The British public were deceived by the most malevolent publications.
The great captive was made to appear so dangerous an animal that
neither soldiers nor sailors could keep him in subjection, and the
stories of his misdeeds when at the height of his ravishing glory were
spread broadcast everywhere. Nothing, indeed, was base enough for the
oligarchy of England and the French Royalists to stoop to.

For a time the flow of wickedness went on unchecked. At last a few
good men and women began to speak out the truth, and as though Nature
revolted against the scoundrelism that had been and was now being
perpetrated, a sharp and swelling reaction came over the public. Men
and women began to express the same views as Captain Maitland's
sailors had expressed, viz.: "This man cannot be so bad as they make
him out to be."

Las Cases had been sent to the Cape, but his journal, containing
conversations, dictations, and the general daily life of the exiles
since they embarked aboard the _Bellerophon_, was seized by Lowe, so
that he might pry into it with the hope of finding seditious entries.
(It may be taken for granted that no eulogy of himself appeared
therein.) The poor Count and his son on arrival at the Cape were
confined in an unhealthy hovel, and treated more like galley-slaves
than human beings. After some weeks of this truly British hospitality
under the Liverpool-Bathurst regime he determines to make a last
appeal to Lord Charles Somerset, then Governor at the Cape, to be more
compassionate. He had been told that nothing but a dog or a horse
attracted either his sympathy or his attention, and frankly admits
that he found himself in error in thinking so harshly of his
lordship, as his appeal met with a prompt and generous response.

The Governor, in fact, expressed his sorrow on learning for the first
time of the Count's illness and the conditions under which he was
living. He immediately put at his disposal his country residence,
servants, and all else that would add to his comfort, and thus earned
the eternal gratitude of a much persecuted father and son. Lord
Charles Somerset, for this gracious act alone, will rank amongst the
good-hearted Englishmen of that troublesome time. It would appear that
the Cape Governor's subordinates were entirely responsible for the
ill-treatment complained of.

It is a puzzle to know for what purpose this gentleman and his son
were detained at the Cape. The Count had frequently pointed out the
folly of his detention, and begged Lord Charles to allow them to take
their passage in a small brig of 200 tons that was bound to Europe.
This request was agreed to, a passport granted, and the captain of the
craft that was to be carried "in the sailors' arms" three thousand
leagues was given stern instructions that should he touch anywhere,
his passengers were to have no communication with the shore, and on
reaching England they were not to be allowed to land without receiving
orders from the Government.

Whatever other charge may be brought against Las Cases, the lack of
courage can never be cited. The act of taking so long a passage in
this cockleshell of a vessel is a sure testimony of his devotion and
bravery. The food and the accommodation were of the very worst, and
though the account given of the low thunder of the waves lashing on
the decks is not very sailorly, there can be little doubt that so long
a passage could not be made without some startling vicissitudes.

At length, after nearly one hundred days from the Cape, they are
safely landed at Dover, and make their way to London to apprise the
immortal Bathurst of their arrival and of their desire to see him, so
that he might listen to some observations about St. Helena matters.
This man of mighty mystery and dignity does not deign to reply, but
sends a Ministerial messenger to inform the Count that it is the
Prince Regent's pleasure that he quits Great Britain instantly. Las
Cases tells the messenger that it is a "very sorry, silly pleasure"
for His Royal Highness to have, but he has to quit all the same, as
England is now governed by "sorry, silly pleasure." Another batch of
papers is taken from him, and he is bundled away to Ostend and from
thence to other inhospitable countries, and ultimately lands at
Frankfort.

The Count writes many clever, rather long, but disturbing letters to
noble lords in England, to members of Governments in other countries,
and to every crowned head interested in the little community they have
in safe and despotic keeping at St. Helena. He sends a petition to the
British Parliament stating in clear, clinching terms another
indictment against the British Ministry and their agent. This document
was sent from the deserts of Tygerberg, but like much more of a
similar kind, not a word was said about it. The author, however, was
not to be fooled or driven from the path which he conceived to be his
duty to his much wronged Emperor, so the petition was published, and
created a great sensation.

This had to be subdued or counteracted, and as the Government were
unaccustomed to manly, straightforward dealing, they fell back on
their natural method of intrigue and the spreading of reports that
were likely to encourage and create prejudice against their captive.
It was imputed to them that while the Congress was sitting at
Aix-la-Chapelle they got up a scare of a daring plot of escape. This
was done at a time when the monarchs were touched with a kind of
sympathy for the man who had so often spared them, and whom their
cruelty was now putting to death.

No wonder that this Ministry of little men were suspected of tricks
degrading and treacherous. The recitals of their distorted versions
of their woes affected the public imagination like a dreary litany.
Vast communities of men were beginning to realise that a tragedy was
being engineered in the name of sanctity and humanity.

Every agency composed of cunning, unscrupulous rascals was enlisted to
picture the Emperor as a hideous monster who should not be allowed to
enjoy the liberty so charitably given him, and who, if he got his
proper deserts, should be put in chains. He was depicted as having a
mania for roaming about the island with a gun, shooting wild cats and
anything else that came within range. Madame Bertrand's pet kids, a
bullock, and some goats were reported to have fallen victims to this
vicious maniac. Old Montchenu and Lowe became alarmed lest he should
kill some human being by mistake; they perplexed their little minds as
to the form of indictment should such an event happen. Should it be
manslaughter or murder? This knotty question was submitted with
touching solemnity to the law officers of the Crown for decision, and
it may be assumed that even their sense of humour must have been
excited when they learned of the quandary of the Governor and the
French Commissioner. The shooting propensity set the ingenious Lowe
a-thinking, and in order to satisfy it he evolved the idea of having
rabbits let adrift, but, as usual, another of his little comforting
considerations is abortive, and the plan has a tragic finish. Shooting
is off. The Emperor's hobby has changed to gardening. The rabbits
become an easy prey to the swarms of rats that prowl about Longwood,
and soon disappear.

It is quite probable that Napoleon did have a fancy for shooting, but
it is well known he was never at any time a sportsman in the sense of
being a good shot--indeed, everything points to his having no taste
for what is ordinarily known as sport, and that he ever shot kids,
goats, or bullocks is highly improbable. That he occasionally went
shooting and got good sport in killing the rats and other vermin which
made Longwood an insufferable habitation to live in is quite true. It
is also quite true that Lowe became demented with fear in case the
shooting should have sanguinary and far-reaching effects. Hence the
foregoing communication to the law officers.

There is little doubt as to the use that was made of the ludicrous
inquiry by Lowe. It must have been handed over to the army of
loathsome libellers--men and women who were willing to do the dirtiest
of all work, that of writing and speaking lies (some abominable in
their character) of a defenceless man, in order that their
vindictiveness should be completely satisfied. Vast sums were
annually expended for no other purpose than to put their afflicted
prisoner through the torture of a living purgatory.

Napoleon did not heed their silly stories of shooting exploits, though
he knew the underlying purpose of them. It was the darker, sordid
wickedness that was daily practised on him that ate like a canker into
mind and body until he was a shattered wreck. It was the foul
treatment of this great man that caused Dr. Barry O'Meara to revolt
and openly proclaim that the captive of St. Helena was being put to
death. As an honourable man he declared he could behold it no longer
without making a spirited protest. He knew that this meant banishment,
ostracism, and persecution by the Government. He foresaw that powerful
agencies would be at work against him, and that no expense would be
spared in order that his statements should be refuted, but he hazarded
everything and defied the world. He came through the ordeal, as all
impartial judges will admit, with cleaner hands and a cleaner tongue
than those who challenged his accuracy.

Make what deductions you may, distort and twist as you like the
unimportant trivialities, the main facts related by O'Meara have never
been really shaken. What is more, he is backed up by Napoleon himself
in Lowe's personal interviews with him, and more particularly by his
letters to the Governor--to say nothing of the substantial backing he
gets from Las Cases, Montholon, Marchand, and Gourgaud--that
shameless, jealous, lachrymose traitor to his great benefactor.

And then there is Santini, whose wish to kill the Governor was not
altogether without good reason, and who was deported from the island
for this and other infringements of the regulations. The publication
of his pamphlet, previously mentioned, created a great sensation, and
it sold like wildfire. It was said to be fabrications, but it was not
_all_ fabrications. Montholon reports that Napoleon criticised the
work, and remarked that some one must have assisted him. Well, so it
was. The story was related to Colonel Maceroni, an Italian, by
Santini, and put into readable form by him, but this does not detract
from that which is really true in it, and a good deal of what O'Meara
contends is confirmed therein.

Then O'Meara's successor, Antommarchi, has even a worse story to
relate. These chronicles vary only in phrase and detail, and even in
these there is wonderful similarity. But when we come down to the
bedrock foundation of their complaints, _i.e._, the policy and
treatment by Lowe and his myrmidons, incited by the Home Government
and their followers, each record bears the stamp of truth--the
indictment is the same though it may be related differently.

Some writers have cast doubt on the authenticity of the St. Helena
chroniclers without having a peg to hang their contentions on. The
answer to all this is, that if never a line had been written by these
men, the State papers, cunningly devised and crafty though most of
them are, would have been ample evidence from which to draw
unfavourable conclusions. Indeed, without State papers being brought
into it at all, there is facing you always the glaring fact of a
determined assassination perpetrated in the name of humanity, and if I
felt any desire to be assured of this, I would take as an authority
William Forsyth's three volumes written in defence of Sir Hudson Lowe.
No author has so completely failed to prove his case. Moreover, no
valid reason has ever been given, or ever can be, for doubting the
veracity of O'Meara and other gentlemen of Napoleon's suite who have
written their experiences of the St. Helena period.

In the first place, those sceptical writers who deal with the
different books that have been published relative to this part of
Napoleon's history were not only not there to witness all that went
on, but some of them were not born for many years after Napoleon and
his contemporaries had passed on. So that it really narrows itself
down to this: the knowledge the sceptics have attained is taken from
documents or books written for the most part by the very men who they
say are not to be relied on as giving a true version of all that took
place during their stay at St. Helena. It cannot be disputed that
these gentlemen were in daily and hourly contact with England's
prisoner, and, as they aver, jotted down everything that passed in
conversation or that transpired in other ways between themselves and
the Emperor, or anybody else.

The history of the St. Helena period, as written by authors who were
on the spot, is, in the present writer's opinion, singularly free from
exaggeration, let alone untruths. Besides, what had any of them to
gain by sending forth distorted statements and untruthful history? No
one knew better than they that every line they wrote would be
contested by those who had relied on the rigid regulations suppressing
all communications except those which passed through the hands of Sir
Hudson Lowe. Certainly O'Meara cannot be accused of having ulterior
motives, nor can any of the others--not even Gourgaud, who acted
alternately traitor and devoted friend. Gourgaud alone seems to have
had a mania for sinning and repenting, writing down during his
childish fits of temper about his supposed wrongs on his shirtcuffs,
and not infrequently his finger-nails, some nasty remark or some
slanderous thoughts about the man whose amiable consideration for him
was notorious amongst the circle at Longwood, and even at Plantation
House. These scribblings were intended for precise entry in his diary,
and if the peevish temper lasted until he got at this precious book,
down they went in rancorous haste.

Yet this hot-headed, jealous chronicler, guided by blind passion and
never by reason while these moods were on him, has been held up as an
authority that may be relied upon as to the doings and sayings of
Napoleon and his immediate followers at the "Abode of Darkness." It is
a well-known axiom that persons who speak or write anything while
jealousy or temper holds them in its grip may not be counted as
reliable people to follow, and that is exactly what happened in
Gourgaud's case. He was the Peter of the band of disciples at St.
Helena, and it may be considered fairly reasonable to assume that
those who have written up the General as a sound historian have done
so with a view to backing up prejudices, big or small, against the
Emperor.

But surely they have committed a very grave error in singling out as
their hero of veracity a man who, in his more normal and charitable
moods, pours out praise and pity for his Imperial chief in astonishing
profusion.

O'Meara's position was very different from any of the other diarists
or writers. He was well aware that if he wrote an honest history it
meant his complete ruin, yet he faced it, and defied the world to
controvert his statements. "In face of the world," he says, "I
challenge investigation," and "investigation" was made with a
vengeance worthy of the Inquisition. If a word or a sentence could by
any possible means be made to appear faulty, a scream of denunciation
was sent forth from one end of Europe to the other, but the crime had
sunk too deeply into the hearts of an outraged public for these
ebullitions to have any real effect. There might be flaws in diction
and even matters of fact, but the sordid reality of the documentary
and verbal story that came to them was never doubted. The big heart of
the British nation was beginning to be moved in sympathy towards the
martyr long before his death, and of course long before O'Meara's book
appeared, though the doctor's advent in Europe was made the occasion
of a vigorous exposure of the progress of the great assassination.

A wave of public opinion was gathering force; the Government, stupid
and treacherous as they were, saw it rising, and renewed their silly
efforts to stem it by causing atrocious duplicity to be instituted at
home and on the martyr rock. Indeed, nothing was beneath their
dignity so long as they succeeded in deceiving an agitated populace
and accomplishing their own evil ends.

But notwithstanding the tactics and the deplorable use made of the
traitor Gourgaud, sympathetic feeling increases. Questions are
frequently asked in the House of Commons, to which evasive answers are
given, but reaction is so obviously gaining ground that Lords
Liverpool, Castlereagh, and the immortal Bathurst become perturbed.
They saw in the accession to power of Lord Holland's party a complete
exposure of their maladministration, and a reversing of their policy
(if it be not a libel to distinguish it as a "policy"). They knew,
too, that once the public is fairly seized with the idea of a great
wrong being perpetrated, no Government, however strong numerically or
in personality, can withstand its opposition. Had the Emperor lived
but a little longer, the vindictive men who tormented him to death
would have been compelled to give way before not only British, but
European, indignation. Public opinion would have enforced the
Administration to deal out better treatment to their captive, have
demanded his removal from the island of sorrow, and probably his
freedom. The public may be capricious, but once it makes up its mind
to do anything no power on earth can stop it, because it has a greater
power behind it. Luckily, or unluckily, for Bathurst & Co., the
spirit of the great captive had passed beyond the portal before
serious public action could be taken.

Three years previous to this the Colonial Secretary in writing to Lowe
says:--"We must expect that the removal of Mr. O'Meara will occasion a
great sensation, and an attempt will be made to give a bad impression
on the subject. You had better let the substance of my instructions be
generally known as soon as you have executed it, that it may not be
represented that Mr. O'Meara has been removed in consequence of any
quarrel with you, but in consequence of the information furnished by
General Gourgaud in England respecting his conduct."[11]

In reading through these State letters, one is struck with the
diplomatically(?) cunning composition of them. There does not seem to
be a manly phrase from beginning to end. Trickery, suspicion, cruelty,
veiled or apparent, and an occasional dash of pious consideration and
bombast sums up these perfidious documents. A few extracts will convey
precisely the character of the men who were carrying on negotiations
which should have been regarded as essentially delicate.

In February, 1821, Bathurst writes to Lowe:--

    "Sufficient time will have elapsed since the date of your last
    communications to enable you to form a more accurate judgment
    with respect to the extent and reality of General Bonaparte's
    indisposition. Should your observations convince you that the
    illness has been _assumed_, you will of course consider yourself
    at liberty to withhold from him the communication which you are
    otherwise authorised to make in my despatch No. 21," &c.

On April 11, 1821, Lowe writes to Bathurst:--"The enclosed extract of
a letter from Count Montholon may merit, as usual, your lordship's
perusal." (This, of course, is intended as wit.) "It may be regarded
as a bulletin of General Bonaparte's health, meant for circulation at
Paris."

Dr. Antommarchi, in writing to Signor Simeon Colonna on March 17,
1821, after dilating on his master's health, the climate, &c., bursts
out in a paragraph: "Dear friend, the medical art can do nothing
against the influence of climate, and if the English Government does
not hasten to remove him from this destructive atmosphere, His Majesty
soon, with anguish I say it, will pay the last tribute to the earth";
and in a postscript he adds: "I offer the _undoubted facts_ stated
above, in opposition to the gratuitous assertions in the English
newspapers relative to the good health which His Majesty is stated to
enjoy here."

On March 17, 1821, Montholon writes to Princess Pauline Borghesi:
"The Emperor reckons upon your Highness to make his real situation
known to some English of influence. He dies without succour upon this
frightful rock; his agonies are frightful." At the time Napoleon was
suffering thus, letters were published in some of the Ministerial
newspapers purporting to have come from St. Helena and representing
him to be in perfect health.

On May 6, 1821, Lowe writes to Bathurst announcing the death of the
Emperor. It is a long rigmarole not worth quoting, except that he
condescends to allow the body to be interred with the honours due to a
general officer of the highest rank. Then follows the majestic reply
of Bathurst. He says, "I am happy to assure you that your conduct, as
detailed in those despatches, has received His Majesty's approbation";
which indicates that Lowe did not feel quite happy himself as to how
the effusions would be regarded by his employers, now that the Emperor
had succumbed to their and his own wicked treatment. In his despatches
of February and April, 1821, he had mockingly referred to Napoleon's
indisposition as being faked, and in May he is obliged to write
himself as an unscrupulous liar, but notwithstanding this, his action
meets with the approval of the chief of the executioners, which is
very natural, seeing that this person was regarded as one of the most
prominent scoundrels in Europe. But Sir Hudson Lowe craved for
approbation, and was so mentally constituted that he believed he
deserved it by committing offences against God and man.

"Every good servant does not all commands, no bond but to do just
ones," but Lowe, in his anxiety to please his employers, went to the
furthest limits of injustice. How void of human understanding and what
Mrs. Carlyle called "that damned thing, human kindness" this wretched
man was!

As will be hereafter shown, he had not long to wait after Napoleon's
death and the receipt of tokens of friendliness that had been sent to
him through the Colonial Secretary, before he was made to feel that
the Government was not disposed to carry any part of his public
unpopularity on its shoulders. He had done his best or worst to make
that portion of the earth on which he lived miserable to those he
might have made tolerably happy, without infringing the loutish
instructions of a notoriously stupid Government. Instead of this he
made himself so despised that the Emperor, almost with his last
breath, called all good spirits to bear witness against him and his
murderous confederates.

The great soldier had slipped his moorings on May 6, 1821, and on the
7th or 8th, after much ado with the Governor, a post-mortem
examination was held by Dr. François Antommarchi in the presence of
Drs. Short, Arnott, Burton, and Livingstone. Lowe was represented by
the Chief of Staff. The examination disclosed an ulcerous growth and
an unnaturally enlarged liver, which may be assumed as the ultimate
cause of death, though Antommarchi's report assuredly points to the
fatal nature of the climatic conditions.

The French were anxious to have the body of their Emperor embalmed,
but Hudson Lowe insisted that his instructions forbade this. Napoleon
had commanded that his heart should be put in a silver vase filled
with spirits of wine and sent to Marie Louise. When Sir Hudson Lowe
heard that this was being done, he sent a peremptory order forbidding
it, stating that no part should be preserved but the stomach, which
would be sent to England. Naturally such wanton disregard of the
Emperor's wish was violently resented by the French, and by the best
of the English who were there. A long and heated discussion seems to
have ensued on this question, which ended in the Governor having to
give way--not altogether--but he was compelled to a compromise, viz.,
that the heart and stomach should be preserved and put into the
coffin.

The Governor was then confronted with what to him was another knotty
point. The Emperor had desired that a few gold coins struck during his
reign should be buried with him. After serious consideration this was
graciously allowed, but not without forebodings of trouble arising
therefrom! What the British Government or their idiotic Governor
wanted with Napoleon's stomach, or why they refused to allow his body
to be embalmed, or his heart preserved and sent to his wife, Heaven
only knows. They had monstrously violated all human feeling by
ignoring appeals made to them from all parts of the world to be
merciful to a much afflicted man. They were well informed by the best
medical authorities on the island that the climate was deadly to a
constitution such as his. They ignored reports of his declining health
even up to a few weeks of his death, and then when the Arch-enemy
claimed him, they flooded Europe with the intelligence that he had
succumbed to the malady from which his father died, and that their
tender and benevolent care for him was unavailing. The progress of his
inherited disease could not be checked.

The world is fast beginning to realise the infamy of it all. Not a
thought ever entered their heads but that of torture, veiled or open,
and the appalling clumsiness of their endeavours to conceal their
Satanic designs, so that they might appear in the light of beneficent
hosts, shows that they cowered at the possibility of public vengeance.
Happily for them, Napoleon's death came too near to the terrific
commotion caused by the French Revolution.

Tumult raged round the Emperor during the whole of his public career,
and powerful agencies were constantly proclaiming against him and his
methods. His advent had brought with it a new form of democracy, which
cast down oligarchies and despotisms everywhere. His system destroyed
and affected too many interests not to leave behind it feelings of
revenge, but this revenge did not exist among the common people. Those
who persecuted the common people felt his heavy hand upon them. The
populace entered into his service in shoals, only to betray him when
the time of trial came. He knew the risk he ran, but did not shrink
from it. He hoped that he might bring them to adopt the great
principles he held and the plan he had in view.

His ambition was to seek out all those who had talent and character
and give them the opportunity of developing their gifts for the
benefit of the race. Humble origin had no deterrent effect on him. His
most brilliant officers and men of position sprang from the middle and
lower middle class, and taking them as a whole, their devotion never
gave way, even during the most terrible adversity that ever befell
mortal man. One small instance of admiration and sympathy is evidenced
by the beautiful reverence shown by the officers and men of the
English army and navy, who defiled before the dead hero's remains and
bent their knees to the ground.

Montholon says that "some of the officers entreated to be allowed the
honour of pressing to their lips the cloak of Marengo which covered
the Emperor's feet." Lowe must have felt a pang of remorse when he saw
these simple men pouring out in their sailorly and soldierly way
tokens of profound sorrow. Everything that could had been done to
cause their captive to be regarded as a menace to human safety, and to
be forgotten altogether; but how futile to attempt such a task while
the world of civilisation is swayed by human instinct and not by
barbarity!

The report of Napoleon's death did not relieve the anxieties of the
European Cabinets. They knew the danger of being overwhelmed by a
revulsion of feeling, and the difficulty of stopping the masses once
they are set in motion, and there were strong manifestations of the
popular indignation breaking loose, with all the terrible consequences
of a reign of terror. The feeling of grief was universal and intense.
A spark might have caused a great conflagration. Lord Holland declared
in Parliament that the very persons who detested this great man had
acknowledged that for ten centuries there had not appeared upon earth
a more extraordinary character.... "All Europe," he added, "has worn
mourning for the hero"; and those who contributed to that great
sacrifice are destined to be the objects of the execrations of the
present generation as well as to those of posterity.

Just at the time the great spirit of the hero was passing on to the
Elysian Fields, there, as he used to fancifully foreshadow, to meet
his brave comrades in arms who had preceded him, a tempest of unusual
severity broke over "the abode of darkness and of crimes." Houses were
shaken to their foundation; the favourite willow-tree, where he had
often sat and enjoyed the fresh breezes, was torn up by the hurricane,
as indeed were the other trees round about Longwood. This terrible
disturbance of the elements was characteristically interpreted as
being the voice of the living God proclaiming to the world that the
Emperor was being thundered into eternity to meet his Creator, and to
be judged by Him for the wrongs his political and other opponents said
he was guilty of towards themselves and the human race generally. In
true British orthodoxy, the Great Judge is always claimed as a
fellow-countryman, and Sir Walter Scott is not singular in attributing
this phenomenal disturbance as an indication of coming vengeance
against England's prisoner. The Scottish bard is not altogether
impartial in the send-off of the exile. He associates another colossal
personage with the great Corsican. The Lord Protector, we are
reminded, was similarly borne from time into eternity on the wings of
a devasting tornado. Poor Oliver! whose war-cry was "The Lord of
Hosts," and who never doubted that he was the high commissioner sent
by the Almighty to clean the earth of mischievous Royalists, traitors,
Papists, and other ungovernable creatures in Ireland and elsewhere.

It does not appear to have struck these gentlemen, with their thoughts
centred on Holy Writ and finding comfort in the support it gave to
their contention, that the Great God, instead of making nature break
out with such terrible violence to indicate His displeasure against
this wonderful man, made in His own image and sent by Him to serve
both a divine and a human purpose, was using accumulated natural
forces to show His wrath at the culmination of the most atrocious
tragedy that had ever been perpetrated.

The good Sir Walter and the unctuously pious biographer of Sir Hudson
are obviously overcome by the coincidence of the storm and Napoleon's
death coming simultaneously. To them it is the voice of God shouting
forth gladness that the enemy of the British race is being made to pay
the penalty of all the evil he has wrought. This is a very comforting
conclusion to arrive at after having kept your victim on the rack for
six years and made war on him for twenty, but did it never occur to
them that the greatest sacrifice ever offered culminated in just such
natural disturbances and that at the same time "the veil of the temple
was rent in twain"?

Happily for the fair fame of human rights, many writers of Napoleonic
history have got over national prejudices and timidity, and are
chronicling very different views from those of Sir Walter and the
uninteresting defender of Lowe; and the more impartial the minds who
inquire into the first as well as the last phase of this extraordinary
career, the more will it appear that he was not an enemy, but a
powerful reforming agency of mankind. He vowed over and over again
that he "never conquered unless in his own defence, and that Europe
never ceased to make war upon France and her principles." And again he
asserted: "One of my grand objects was to render education accessible
to everybody. I caused every institution to be formed upon a plan
which offered instruction to the public, either gratis or at a rate so
moderate, as not to be beyond the means of the peasant. The museums
were thrown open to the _canaille_. My _canaille_ would have become
the best educated in the world. All my exertions were directed to
illuminate the mass of the nation instead of brutifying them by
ignorance and superstition." These ideals are in striking contrast to
the policy of the oligarchy of Europe, who were fighting to suppress
knowledge and to re-establish the worst form of superstition and
despotism.

It is a deplorable thought that the nations (and especially Great
Britain) who allied themselves against this man of the people and sent
him to an inhuman death might have saved themselves the eternal
condemnation of future ages had they made their peace with him, as the
sagacious Charles James Fox would have done had he lived. Had they
been wise, they would have made use of his matchless gifts and
well-balanced mind to help forward the regeneration of the human chaos
which was both the cause and the result of the Revolution. Above all,
had the "Liberty loving" British nation been true to her declared
principles, she would either have kept aloof from the conflict that
was raging or found some honourable means of co-operating with him,
and thereby earned a share of the glory that will be eternally
attached to his name in the great effort of extinguishing thraldom and
ameliorating the condition of the masses.

Instead of this, she basely linked her destiny with the traitors of
France and the allies of Europe to dethrone the monarch elected by the
French people, and to place in his stead a king who was forced upon
them by the Allies, and not the people of France. This is a strange
travesty of "Liberty loving" government. Had the great Quaker been
kept in power, instead of Pitt, who was always in a chronic state of
scare and whining that he could never survive the downfall of his
country, the rivers of British blood that were shed and the eight
hundred million pounds sterling of debt need not have been squandered.
All this was done at the bidding of a few men who were entrusted with
the government of a great nation, and either by odious deception, or
sheer incapacity to judge of the fitness of things, caused it to be
believed that they were bound to maintain the balance of power or
_status quo_ which was endangered, and that the one man who had upset
their nerves and incurred their hatred should be removed at all costs.

It is pretty certain that England could easily have kept out of the
continental embroil had the Government been composed of men of talent
and free from oligarchal prejudices, whereas all we got out of it,
plus the loss of life and treasure, was a share in the questionable
glory of Waterloo, the custody of the great figure who was betrayed by
some of his own subjects, "the odium of having his death bequeathed to
the reigning family of England," and the fact that Louis XVIII., by
his own admission to the French nation, was put on the throne by our
own precious Prince Regent.

These are only a few of the results that should not make us proud of
that part of our history. But we have travelled far since those days
of vicious actions. Nothing approaching the perfidy of it could happen
in the present age. It is unthinkable that either the sagacious,
peaceloving, peacemaking monarch on the throne or his Ministers and
people would lend themselves to committing the senseless blunders that
disgraced our name at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Even
allowing that it was inevitable we should wage war against the head of
the French nation, nothing can ever blot out the stain of having
refused him the asylum he asked for, after we had taken so large a
share in bringing about his downfall. He asked in the following letter
to the Prince Regent to be the guest of England, and England made him
its prisoner. Here is the document:--

"The sport of those factions which divide my country and an object of
hostility to the greatest Powers of Europe, I have finished my
political career, and come, like Themistocles, to sit down by the
hearth of the English people. I place myself under the protection of
their laws, which I claim from your Royal Highness as the most
powerful, the most constant, and most generous of my enemies." Had it
been left to the English people instead of to the Government and His
Royal Highness, I do not think this dignified appeal would have been
altogether ignored, as Napoleon's quarrel was not with the people.

They knew that it was the oligarchy that feared and detested him. It
has been said that even His Royal Highness would have granted
hospitality, and it would have saved the nation over which he ruled
the blight of eternal execrations had he been strong enough to stand
against the blundering decision of a revengeful Ministry.

No impartial student of the part played by Napoleon during twenty
years of warfare will deny that the institutions he founded, the laws
that he made, and his mode of government wherever established, were
beneficent, and entirely aimed at the adjustment of inequalities that
had culminated in a great national uprising. His dictatorship was
wielded with a wholesome discipline without unnecessarily using the
lash. He had no cut-and-dried maxim of dealing with unruly people, but
his awful power made them feel that he distinguished between eternal
justice and tyranny. He knew, and he made everybody else know, that
under the circumstances too much liberty would be like poison to some
people. When he said, "No more of this," the aggressors realised that
the doctrine of fraternity as they understood it must not be stretched
further.

Notwithstanding his methods of reproof and restraint, he was idolised
by the masses, even by those he led his armies against and so often
conquered. Even in our own country, where enmity against him was
assiduously nursed by the press and other agencies, there was an
important section who believed we were putting our money on the wrong
horse. This idea was not confined to the poorer classes. Many of our
best and wisest statesmen were strongly opposed to this policy of
hostility against him.

He had starved in the streets of Paris, sold his precious books and
other belongings to provide the means of buying bread to sustain
himself and his much beloved brother Louis, who in after years behaved
to him with base ingratitude. He suffered dreadful privations during
the keen frosty nights, owing to the want of fire, light, and
sometimes sufficient clothing. No wonder that he thought of ending
his woes by plunging into the Seine.

But a glimmering of light came and lifted him out of a numbing
despair. He was made to see in his hour of trial that lassitude must
cease, and that he was meant for other things, and in order to
accomplish them he must be strong and audacious. Fate, fortune, and a
mysterious Providence found in him an indomitable chief whose genius
was intended to change the face of Europe. Like all big men who spring
from obscurity and the deadliness of poverty, and are launched on the
scene to create order out of tumult and chaos, his enemies, in the
nature of things, were both numerous and prolific. At the outset he
adopted the method he so often thundered into his soldiers when on the
eve of battle, viz.: "You must not fear Death, my lads. Defy him, and
you drive him into the enemy's ranks."

One of the charges made against him by serene critics who have been
desirous of showing his weak points is that he was too careless and
forgiving towards the squabbling nest of paid and unpaid murderers who
prowled about in disguise, thirsting after his blood. It is certain
that he carried clemency to a fault in many instances, and this no
doubt contributed to his undoing; but at the same time there is ample
proof that he knew well enough where his foes were to be found, and
whenever the dignity and safety of the State were imperilled, he was
not slow to punish. His habit was not weakness, but only a too
careless regard for his own personal safety.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Montholon, "History of the Captivity of Napoleon," p. 326. The
editor says he is indebted for these details to the official accounts
published at the time by the French Government.

[2] This was the name given to Napoleon by the Arabs. "Kebir" means
"great" (Montholon, vol. iv. p. 245).

[3] These words were dictated to Las Cases by Napoleon at St. Helena
in 1819 (p. 315, vol. iv., of his Journal).

[4] See p. 183, vol. i., "Captivity of Napoleon."

[5] O'Meara, in his second volume, p. 134, states: "The Emperor was so
firmly impressed with the idea that an attempt would be made to
forcibly intrude upon his privacy, that, from a short time after the
departure of Sir George Cockburn, he always kept four or five loaded
pistols and some swords in his apartments, with which he was
determined to despatch the first who entered against his will."

[6] See p. 299, Montholon's "Captivity of Napoleon," vol. i.

[7] See p. 301, vol. i., "Captivity of Napoleon."

[8] See pp. 57-62, bust incident.

[9] The easygoing Joseph had been careless of the letters, which would
have further proved the infamy of the oligarchy. These letters were in
many cases applications for territory. He had intrusted them to a base
friend, by whom they were offered to the various Governments for
£30,000. The Russian Ambassador is reported to have paid £10,000 to
get hold of those concerning his master. His Majesty of Prussia
appears to have had a covetous eye on Hanover. He always entertained a
paternal regard for that country. The sovereigns in general seem to
have compromised themselves deeply in their efforts to secure
territory.

[10] See "Montholon," vol. iii p. 37.

[11] This is an impudent lie. The quarrel was with Lowe because the
doctor refused to be his accomplice.




CHAPTER II

THE MAN OF THE REVOLUTION--CRITICISM, CONTEMPORARY AND OTHERWISE


On May 9, 1821, the mortal remains of the Exile were interred at a
spot called the Valley of Napoleon. He had selected this spot in the
event of the Powers not allowing his remains to be transferred to
France or Ajaccio. Lowe desired to put on the lid of the coffin
"Napoleon Bonaparte," but his followers very properly disdained
committing a breach of faith on the dead Emperor, and insisted on
having "Napoleon" and nothing else. The Governor was stubbornly
opposed to it, so he was buried without any name being put on the
coffin.[12]

Perhaps one of the most terrific passages of unconscious humour is
related by Forsyth (vol. iii. p. 288), where Lowe is made to say to
Major Gorrequer and Mr. Henry, as they walked together before the
door of Plantation House discussing the character of Napoleon, "Well,
gentlemen, he was England's greatest enemy and mine too; but _I_
forgive him everything. On the death of a man like him we should only
feel deep concern and regret." Forsyth thinks this splendid
magnanimity on the part of his hero.

It is not recorded what the gallant Major thought of it, but it may be
taken for granted that if Mr. Henry and Gorrequer had any sense of
humour at all, Lowe's comment must have sounded very comical, knowing
what they did of the relations between the dead monarch and his
custodian, though it must be said that Henry seems to have been the
only person who could work up a sympathetic word for Sir Hudson.
Forsyth, in vol. iii. p. 307, says: "No one can study the character of
Napoleon without being struck by one prevailing feature, his intense
selfishness." This is a remarkable statement for any man who professes
to write accurate history to make, and proves conclusively that
Forsyth had not "studied" Napoleon's "character," or he would have
found, not only his closest friends, but some of his bitterest enemies
doing him the justice of stating the very opposite of what this writer
says of him.

Mr. Henry, who took part in the dissection of the corpse, says that
Napoleon's face had a remarkably placid expression, and indicated
mildness and sweetness of disposition, and those who gazed on the
features as they lay in the still repose of death could not help
exclaiming, "How beautiful!" After this very fine description from Sir
Hudson's friend, Forsyth adds a footnote: "It may interest
phrenologists to know that the organs of combativeness, causativeness,
and philoprogenitiveness were strongly developed in the cranium"! In
order to prove the charge of selfishness he brings in the old familiar
story of the divorce: "A memorable example of this (_i.e._,
selfishness) occurs in his treatment of the nobleminded Josephine."

This outburst is obviously intended for effect, but Forsyth does not
score a success in bringing the amiable Empress to his aid; for,
whatever virtue she may have possessed, authentic history reveals her
as the antithesis of "nobleminded." Those who knew the lady intimately
speak with marked generosity of her graces, but they also record a
shameless habit of faithlessness to her husband at a time when he was
pouring out volumes of love to her from Italy. And she seems to have
let herself go without restraint during his stay in Egypt. The
wayward, weak Josephine had many lovers, who were not too carefully
selected.

From the time of her marriage with Napoleon until she heard of him
being on his way from Egypt to France, her love intrigues were well
known, and her lovers were certainly not men of high public repute. In
short, Josephine was anything but "nobleminded." She was a confirmed
and audacious flirt until the stern realities of the dissolution of
her marriage brought her to her senses, and from that time until the
great political divorce took place, she appears to have kept free from
further love entanglements. Napoleon's attachment to her was very
genuine, and remained steadfast up to the time of her death, and even
at St. Helena he always spoke of her with great reverence. Forsyth
does not enhance Lowe's reputation or damage Napoleon's by the popular
use he makes of the annulment of the little Creole lady's marriage,
the merits of which may be referred to at greater length hereafter, as
it is a subject of itself and this reference to a momentous incident
of her husband's history is only by the way.

Meanwhile the Emperor's remains, in layers of coffins composed of
wood, tin, and lead, were hermetically sealed, and the tomb, having
been securely battened down with cement and slab, was substantially
railed in to prevent the intrusion of a sympathetic and curious
public. His tomb was left in charge of a British garrison, and the
heroes who followed him to his grave, and shared his martyrdom and
exile on that fatal rock for six mortal years, were shipped aboard the
_Camel_ and conveyed to England, there to be received by a set of
mildew-witted bureaucrats smitten with suspicion that the exiles may
have brought with them the spirit of their dead master, with the
object of invoking a sanguinary reaction in his favour by disturbing
the peace of Europe--as though Europe had experienced a single day of
real peace since the downfall of the Empire!

These exemplary men had faced and borne with magnificent fortitude
hardships well-nigh beyond human endurance. Their mission was to carry
out the dying command of the hero whom they adored, and who had
succumbed to the hospitable treatment of Bathurst, Castlereagh,
Liverpool, and Wellington, and their accomplices. These guilty men,
whose names, strange to say, are as undying as that of their victim,
would fain have made it appear that had he not died of cancer of the
stomach, it were not possible that he could have died of anything but
robust health, owing to the salubrity of the climate they had selected
and the unequalled care they had taken of his person through the
immortal Lowe.

It is a remarkable thing that these men had no conception of the
great being they were practising cruelty upon. It is indeed a strange
freak of nature that makes it possible that the human mind can think
of Napoleon and these bureaucrats at the same time, but that is part
of the mystery that cannot at the present stage be understood. Time
may reveal the phenomenon, and in the years to come the spirits of the
just will call aloud for a real vindication of the character of the
man of the French Revolution, and, forsooth, it may be that a terrible
retribution is gathering in the distance. Who knows? Waterloo and St.
Helena may yet be the nemesis of the enemies of the great Emperor.
Obviously, he had visions, as had his compatriot Joan of Arc, who
suffered even a crueller fate than he at the hands of a few
bloodthirsty English noblemen, who disgraced the name of soldier by
not only allowing her to be burnt, but selling her to the parasitical
Bishops with that object in view. It is not strange that the Maid of
Orleans, who suffered martyrdom for the supernatural part she took in
fighting for her King and country, should, on April 18, 1909, become a
saint of the Roman Catholic Church throughout the world, nor that the
Pope should perform the ceremony. The English sold her. An
ecclesiastical court, headed by the infamous Bishop of Beauvais,
condemned her to be burnt as a witch, and when the flames were
consuming her a cry of "Jesus" was heard. An English soldier standing
by was so overcome by the awful wickedness that was being perpetrated
by the Anglo-French ecclesiastical alliance, that he called out, "We
are lost! We have burnt a saint!"

The soldier saw at once that the child of the Domremy labourer was a
"saint," but it has taken five centuries for the Church to which she
belonged, and whose representatives burnt her as a witch, to
officially beatify her. True, this stage has been gradually worked up
to by the erection of monuments to her honour and glory. Chinon
distinguished itself by this, presumably because it was there that
Joan interviewed the then uncrowned Charles, and startled him into
taking her into his service by the story she told of hearing the
heavenly voices at Domremy farm demanding that she should go forth as
the liberator of France.

The recognition of Napoleon's claim, not to "sanctity," but as a
benefactor of mankind, will also surely come, but in his case the
demand will come from no Church, but with the irresistible voice of
all Humanity.

Joan's country had been at war for one hundred years. Ravaged by
foreign invaders and depopulated by plague, it was foaming with civil
strife and treason to the national cause, many of the most powerful
men and women, both openly and in secret, taking sides with the enemy.
The crisis had reached a point when this modest, uneducated,
clear-witted, fearless maiden was launched by her "voices" to the
scene of battle, there to inspire hope and enthusiasm in the hearts of
her people. In a few weeks she had established confidence, smashed the
invader, and crowned the unworthy Charles VII. as King. Twenty years
after they had burnt her, there was scarcely a foreign foot to be
found on French soil.

There is a further similarity between the peasant girl and Napoleon.
_She_ was brought to the aid of her country by the voices of the
unseen, and four hundred years after, when her country was again in
dire trouble, _he_ was found in obscurity and in an almost
supernatural way flashed into prominent activity to save the
Revolution. It was the voices of the living, seen and unseen, that
called aloud for the little Corporal to lead to battle, conquer, and
ultimately govern. It was some of the self-same voices that intrigued
and then burst forth in declamation and demanded his abdication on the
eve of his first reverse. The Church, which owed its rehabilitation to
him after he had implanted a settled government in France, had no
small share in the conspiracy for his overthrow. He said, "There is
but one means of getting good manners, and that is by establishing
religion." He believed it, and did it in spite of a storm of
opposition that would have hurled a less resolute man from power, but
he knew full well his strength, and was sure then, as he ever was, of
his opinions.

The Church and those of the people who become allied to its material
policy are prone to destroy those who have been of service to their
cause. There is indeed no society of men and women who are so
vindictive, nay, revengeful, once they are seized with the idea that
they are being neglected, or their interests not receiving all the
patronage they think they deserve, and then, after a few generations
of reflection, they become overwhelmed with unctuous sanctity and
remorse, and proceed to make saints of the victims of their
progenitors in order that the perfidy they are historically linked to
shall be whitewashed and atoned for.

Napoleon believed that "No physical force ever dies; it merely changes
its form or direction"--and could we but get a glimpse behind the
veil, we might see his imperishable soul fleeting from sphere to
sphere, struggling with cruel reactionary spirits who forced him into
eternity before the work he was sent to do was completed.

Wieland, the German writer, had an interview with him on the field of
Jena. He says:--"I was presented by the Duchess of Weimar. He paid me
some compliments in an affable tone, and looked steadfastly at me. Few
men have appeared to me to possess in the same degree the art of
reading at the first glance the thought of other men. He saw in an
instant that, notwithstanding my celebrity, I was simple in my manners
and void of pretension, and as he seemed desirous of making a
favourable impression on me, he assumed the tone most likely to attain
his end. I have never beheld anyone more calm, more simple, more mild,
or less ostentatious in appearance; nothing about him indicated the
feeling of power in a great monarch; he spoke to me as an old
acquaintance would speak to an equal, and what was more extraordinary
on his part, he conversed with me exclusively for an hour and a half,
to the great surprise of the whole assembly."

Then Wieland goes on to relate what the conversation was. Napoleon
"preferred the Romans to the Greeks. The eternal squabbles of their
petty republics were not calculated to give birth to anything grand,
whereas the Romans were always occupied with great things, and it was
owing to this they raised up the Colossus which bestrode the world....
He was fond only of serious poetry, the pathetic and vigorous
writers, and above all, the tragic poets."

Wieland had been put so much at his ease (so he says) that he ventured
to ask how it was that the public worship Napoleon had restored in
France was not more philosophical and in harmony with the spirit of
the times. "My dear Wieland," was the reply, "religion is not meant
for philosophers! they have no faith either in me or my priests. As to
those who do believe, it would be difficult to give them, or to leave
them, too much of the marvellous. If I had to frame a religion for
philosophers, it would be just the reverse of that of the credulous
part of mankind."[13]

Müller, the Swiss historian's private interview with him at this
period is quite remarkable, and shows what a vast knowledge and
conception of things the Emperor had. Nothing shows more clearly his
own plan of regulating and guiding the affairs of the universe for the
benefit of all. He tells Müller that he should complete his history of
Switzerland, that even the more recent times had their interest. Then
he switched from the Swiss to the old Greek constitutions and history;
to the theory of constitutions; to the complete diversity of those in
Asia, and the causes of this diversity in the climate, polygamy, the
opposite characters of the Arabian and the Tartar races, the peculiar
value of European culture, and the progress of Freedom since the
sixteenth century; how everything was linked together, and in the
inscrutable guidance of an invisible hand; how he himself had become
great through his enemies; the great Confederation of Nations, the
idea of which Henri IV. had; the foundation of all religion and its
necessity; that man could not bear clear truth and required to be kept
in order; admitting the possibility, however, of a more happy
condition, if the numerous feuds ceased which were occasioned by too
complicated Constitutions (such as the German) and the intolerable
burden suffered by States from excessive armies.

These opinions clearly mark the guiding motives of Napoleon's attempts
to enforce upon different nations uniformity of the institutions and
customs. "I opposed him occasionally," says Müller, "and he entered
into discussion. Quite impartially and truly, as before God, I must
say that the variety of his knowledge, the acuteness of his
observations, the solidity of his understanding (not dazzling wit),
his grand and comprehensive views, filled me with astonishment, and
his manner of speaking to me with love for him. By his genius and his
disinterested goodness, he has also conquered me."[14] The remarkable
testimony of Wieland and Müller, both men of distinction, is of more
than ordinary value, seeing that they were not his countrymen, but on
the side of those who waged war against him. Müller admits that he
conquered him, and the world must admit that he is gradually, but
surely, conquering it in spite of the colossal libels that have been
spoken and written of him for the ostensible purpose of vindicating
the Puritans and making him appear as the Spoliator and Antichrist
whose thirst for blood, so that he might attain glory, was an
inexhaustible craze in him. To them he is the Ogre that staggers the
power of belief, and yet he defies the whole world to prove that he
ever declared war or committed a single crime during the whole
carnival of warfare that drenched Europe in human blood.

Up to the present, the world has lamentably failed to do anything of
the sort. His opponents, libellers, and progeny of his mean
executioners, are all losing ground, and he is gaining everywhere.
There is an unseen hand at work revealing the awful truth. This
dignified, calm, unassuming man, while surrounded by a crowd of Kings
and Princes, who were competing with each other to do him homage and
show their devotion, startles them by telling a story of when he was
"a simple Lieutenant in the 2nd Company of Artillery." Possibly some
of his guests were observed to be putting on airs that were always
distasteful to the Emperor, and this was his scornful way of rebuking
them. Or it might be that he wished to take the opportunity of
informing Europe that he had no desire to conceal his humble
beginning, though at that time he was recognised first man in it.
Historians, when he was at the height of his power, ransacked musty
archives assiduously to find out and prove that he had royal blood in
him. They professed to have discovered that he was connected with the
princely family of Treviso, and the comical way in which he
contemptuously brushed aside this fulsome flattery must have lacerated
the pride of courtiers who sought favours by such methods.

Bearing on the royal blood idea, Gourgaud in his Journal relates that
the Emperor told him the following stories:--

"At one time in my reign there was a disposition to make out that I
was descended from the Man in the Iron Mask. The Governor of Pignerol
was named Bompars. They said he had married his daughter to his
mysterious prisoner, the brother of Louis XIV., and had sent the pair
to Corsica under the name of 'Bonaparte,'" and then with fine humour
he adds:--"I had only to say the word and everybody would have
believed the fable."

He never forgot that he was Napoleon, hence never said the word.

His insincere father-in-law has been industriously searching for royal
blood too, and this is what his son-in-law says of him:--

"When I was about to marry Marie Louise, her father the Emperor sent
me a box of papers intended to prove that I was descended from the
Dukes of Florence. I burst out laughing, and said to Metternich, 'Do
you suppose I am going to waste my time over such foolishness? Suppose
it were true, what good would it do me? The Dukes of Florence were
inferior in rank to the Emperors of Germany. I will not place myself
beneath my father-in-law. I think that as I am, I am as good as he. My
nobility dates from Monte Notte. Return him these papers.' Metternich
was very much amused."

Francis of Austria must have felt confounded at the rebuke of his
unceremonious relative, who was always the man of stern reality--too
big to be dazzled by mouldy records of kingly blood. Neither did pomp
or ceremony attract him, except in so far as it might serve the
purpose of making an impression on others. Bourrienne, a shameless
predatory traitor, has said in his memoirs that when the seat of
government was removed from the Luxembourg to the Tuileries, the First
Consul said to him, "You are very lucky; you are not obliged to make a
spectacle of yourself. I have to go about with a cortège; it bores me,
but it appeals to the eye of the people."

Roederer in _his_ memoirs relates pretty much the same thing, only
that it bears on the question of title, and presumably the researches
for confirmation of his royal descent.

Here again, his strong practical view of things, and his utter
indifference to grandeur or genealogical distinction, are shown. He
says: "How can anyone pretend that empty names, titles given for the
sake of a political system, can change in the smallest degree one's
relations with one's friends and associates? I am called Sire, or
Imperial Majesty, without anyone in my household believing or thinking
that I am a different man in consequence. All those titles form part
of a _system_, and therefore they are necessary." He always ends his
ebullitions of convincing wisdom by making it clear precisely where he
stands.

The writer might quote pages of eulogies of him from the most eminent
men of every nationality. There is no trustworthy evidence that he
ever sought the flattery that was lavished on him; indeed, he seems
to have been alternately in the mood for ignoring or making fun of it.
On one occasion he writes to King Joseph, "I have never sought the
applause of Parisians; I am not an operatic monarch."[15]

Seguier says:--

"Napoleon is above human history. He belongs to heroic periods and is
beyond admiration."[16]

A notable Englishman, Lord Acton, says (like Müller) that "his
goodness was the most splendid that has appeared on earth." And there
are innumerable instances which prove that his sympathies and goodness
to those who were notoriously undeserving was a fatal passion with
him. But there is no opinion, blunt though it be, that so completely
touches one as that of the plain English sailors who said at Elba that
"Boney was a d----d good fellow after all." "They may talk about this
man as they like," said one of the crew of the _Northumberland_, "but
I won't believe the bad they say of him," and _this_ view seems to
have been generally held by the men who composed the crew of the
vessel that took the Emperor to St. Helena. It is noteworthy that
English man-of-war's-men, and also merchant seamen of these stirring
times, should have formed so favourable an impression of Napoleon,
especially as the Press of England teemed with hostility against him.
Articles attributing every form of indescribable bestiality,
corruption, gross cruelty to his soldiers, subordinate officers, and
even Marshals, appeared with shameful regularity. In these articles
were included the most absurd as well as the most serious charges.

I include the following story as a specimen, and take it in particular
as being quoted quite seriously by certain anti-Napoleonic writers in
the endeavour to bolster up a feeble case. Prejudice and distorted
vision prevented them from seeing the absurdity of such attempts to
blacken the character of Napoleon. Let the reader judge!

It is related that, at the time of the Concordat, Napoleon remarked to
Senator Volney, "France wants a religion." Volney's courageous (!)
reply was, "France wants the Bourbons," and the Emperor is thereupon
supposed to have been attacked by a fit of ungovernable fury, and to
have kicked the Senator in the stomach!

The more serious charges included incest with his sister Pauline and
his stepdaughter Hortense, and the poisoning of his plague-stricken
soldiers at Jaffa.

His palaces were said to be harems, and his libertinism to put
Oriental potentates to the blush. So industrious were these foes to
human fairness that they manufactured a silly story just before the
rupture of the Treaty of Amiens, to the effect that Napoleon had made
a violent attack on Lord Whitworth, the British Ambassador. So violent
was he in his gestures, the Ambassador feared lest the First Consul
would strike him. Even Oscar Browning is obliged to refute this
unworthy fabrication as being absurd on the face of it, but it has
taken ninety years to produce the authentic document from the British
Archives which disproves the scandal. Napoleon was too much absorbed
in things that mattered to take notice of the stupid though virulent
stories that were constantly being concocted against him. When he was
appealed to by his friends to have the libels suitably dealt with, he
merely shrugged his shoulders, as was his custom, and said, "All this
rubbish will be answered, if not in my time, by posterity. It pleases
the chatterers and scandalmongers, and I haven't time to be perturbed,
or to meddle with it."

It ill became the subjects of George IV. to attack Napoleon on the
side of morality. It is well enough known that the French Court during
the Empire was the purest in Europe. In his domestic arrangements, the
one thing that Napoleon was jealous of, above all others, was that
_his_ Court should have the reputation of being clean. He took
infinite pains to assure himself of this. His private amorous
connections are fully described by F. Masson, a Frenchman, and a
staunch admirer of his. But to accuse him of libertinism is an
outrage. He had mistresses, it is true, and it is said he would never
have agreed to the divorce of Josephine had it not been that Madame
Walewska (a Polish lady) had a son by him. (This son held high office
under Napoleon III.) But even in the matter of mistresses he was most
careful that it should not be known outside a very few personal
friends. As a matter of high policy it was kept from the eye of the
general public, and he gives very good reasons for doing so. Not
merely that it would have brought him into serious conflict with
Josephine, but he knew that in order to maintain a high standard of
public authority food for scandal must be kept well in hand.[17]

His enemies, however, were adepts at invention, and although the moral
code of that period was at its lowest ebb, they pumped up a standard
of celibacy for the French Emperor that would have put the obligation
under which any of his priests were bound in the shade. So shocked
were they at the breaches of orthodoxy which were written and
circulated by themselves without any foundation to go upon, that they
advocated excommunication, assassination, anything to rid the world of
so corrupt a monster. But the moral dodge fell flat. It was not
exactly in keeping with the unconventionalities of the times, and, in
fact, they had carried their other accusations and grievances to so
malevolent a pitch, the straightforward and rugged tars aboard the
_Bellerophon_ and _Northumberland_ were drawn in touching sympathy
towards the man who had thrown himself into their hands in the fervent
belief that he would be received as a guest and not as a prisoner of
war.

We know that he had other means of escape had he chosen to avail
himself of them. He had resolved after his abdication to live the time
that was left to him in retirement, and believing in the generosity of
the British nation, he threw himself on their hospitality. He had made
his way through a network of blockade when he returned from Egypt and
Elba, and looking at the facts as they are now before us, it is
preposterous to adhere to the boastful platitude that he was so hemmed
in that he had no option but to ask Captain Maitland to receive him as
the guest of England aboard the _Bellerophon_, and it may be taken
for granted that the resourceful sailors knew that he had many
channels of escape. They knew the _Bellerophon_ was a slow old tub,
and that she would be nowhere in a chase.

Besides, it was not necessary for Napoleon to make Rochefort or
Rochelle his starting-point. The troops and seamen at these and the
neighbouring ports were all devoted to him, and would have risked
everything to save him from capture. He knew all this, but he was
possessed of an innate belief in the chivalry of the British
character, and left out of account the class of men that were in
power. He knew them to be his inveterate foes, but was deceived in
believing they had hearts. Their foremost soldier had taken an active
share in his defeat, and he acknowledged it by putting himself under
the protection of our laws. The honest English seamen who were his
shipmates on both ships were not long in forming a strong liking to
him, and a dislike to the treatment he was receiving. They felt there
was something wrong, though all they could say about it was that "he
was a d----d good fellow."

Lord Keith was so afraid of his fascinating personality after his
visit to the _Bellerophon_ that he said, "D----n the fellow! if he
had obtained an interview with His Royal Highness, in half an hour
they would have been the best friends in England." In truth, Lord
Keith lost a fine opportunity of saving British hospitality from the
blight of eternal execration by evading the lawyer who came to
Plymouth to serve a writ of Habeas Corpus to claim the Emperor's
person, and the pity is that an honoured name should have been
associated with a mission so crimeful and an occasion so full of
illimitable consequences to England's boasted generosity. Except that
he too well carried out his imperious instructions, Lord Keith does
not come well out of the beginning of the great tragedy. The only
piece of real delicacy shown by Lord Keith to the Emperor was in
allowing him to retain his arms, and snubbing a secretary who reminded
him that the instructions were that _all_ should be disarmed. This
zealous person was told to mind his own business.

Napoleon asks the Admiral if there is any tribunal to which he can
apply to determine the legality of him being sent to St. Helena, as he
protested that he was the guest and not the prisoner of the British
nation; and Keith, with an air of condescending benevolence, assures
him that he is satisfied there is every disposition on the part of the
Government to render his situation as comfortable as prudence would
permit. No wonder Napoleon's reply was animated, and his soul full of
dignified resentment at the perfidy that was about to be administered
to him under the guise of beneficence.

Scott describes the interview with Keith as "a remarkable scene." He
says: "His (Napoleon's) manner was perfectly calm and collected, his
voice equal and firm, his tones very pleasing, the action of the head
was dignified, and the countenance remarkably soft and placid, without
any marks of severity." That is a good testimony from the author of
the "Waverley Novels," who was anything but an impartial biographer.
Not even the novelist's most ardent admirers (and the writer is one of
them) can give him credit for excessive partiality towards the hero
who was the first soldier, statesman, and ruler of the age, who not
only knew the art of conquering men as no other (not even Alexander)
had ever known it, but had the greater quality of knowing how to
conquer and govern himself under conditions that were unexampled in
the history of man.

I say again, that apart from the violence of the treatment of the
Powers towards him (and they all had a shameful share in it), it was a
fatal blunder to send this great mind to perish on a rock when, by
adopting a more humane policy, his incomparable genius might have
been used to carry out the reforms he had set his mind on after his
return from Elba. The tumult which surrounded his career had changed;
he saw with a clear vision the dawn of a new era, and at once
proclaimed to Benjamin Constant and to the French nation his great
scheme of renewing the heart of things. He knew it would take time,
and he foresaw also that a combination of forces was putting forth
supreme efforts to destroy him. They were out for blood, and _he_ was
in too great a hurry.

In one of his day-dreams at St. Helena he exclaimed, "Ah! if I could
have governed France for forty years I would have made her the most
splendid empire that ever existed!"

His demand on fortune was too great, and notwithstanding the knowledge
he had of human nature, he could not check the torrent of treason that
had been sedulously nursed against him by his enemies until it ignited
the imagination of those whom he had a right to expect would stand
loyally by him in an hour of tribulation such as no other man had ever
experienced.

It is true that he made history (brilliant history if you like) in
those latter days, but oh! the anguish and the baseness of it all.

Cæsar made history too; neither did _this_ ruler succeed altogether.
Brutus, his friend, forsook and dispatched him, and possibly that was
the most enviable finish to a great career. Did Napoleon fare better
than his prototype, inasmuch as he was not the victim of the
assassin's dagger? Intoxicated with the spirit of charity, his
conquerors decreed that he should be deported to a secluded place of
abode on a barren and unhealthy rock, there to be maintained at a cost
to the nation of £12,000 a year, and succumb as quickly as possible
like a good Christian gentleman.

The presumption of Lord Keith in observing to Napoleon that it was
preferable for him to be sent to St. Helena than to be confined in a
smaller space in England or sent to France or Russia, and the
Emperor's supposed reply--"Russia! God preserve me from it!"--is
almost unbelievable, and in the light of what he constantly asserted
while England's captive, this expression may be regarded as a
fabrication.

Whether it was an innate belief that Alexander of Russia was his
friend, or the fact that Francis of Austria was his father-in-law, he
certainly avowed--according to the St. Helena chroniclers--that if he
had surrendered to either of them he would have been treated, not only
with kindness, but with a proper regard as befitted a monarch who had
governed eighty-three millions of people, or more than the half of
Europe. But even if he were merely soliloquising, or wished to
convince himself and those he expressed this opinion to, it is hard to
think that any of the continental Powers would have risked the certain
consequences of having him either shot or ill-treated, and it is
extremely doubtful whether even in France there could have been found
a soldier that would have obeyed an order to shoot his former Emperor,
who had been requisitioned to return from Elba, and who so recently,
with only six hundred soldiers, made war against Louis with his two
hundred thousand and defeated and dethroned him.

Nothing so magnificent has ever been known. This great man had
complete hold of the imagination and devotion of his common people and
soldiers. Even in the hour of defeat their loyalty was amazing.

Various instances are given of this deep-rooted loyalty and affection.
Some of his Imperial Guards who were wounded at Waterloo killed
themselves on hearing that he had lost the battle, and many, who had
been thought to be dead, when brought to consciousness shouted "Vive
l'Empereur." The hospitals were full of dying men who uttered the same
cry. One was having his leg amputated, and as he looked at the blood
streaming from it, said that he would willingly give it all in the
service of Napoleon. Another, who was having a ball extracted from
his left side near the heart, shouted, "Probe an inch deeper and there
you will find the Emperor."

The story of the old woman whom he and Duroc met during the second
campaign in Italy, and while climbing Mont Tarare, is a striking
illustration of how he was regarded by the poorer classes. She hated
the Bourbons and wanted to see the First Consul. Napoleon answered,
"Bah! tyrant for tyrant--they are just the same thing." "No, no!" she
replied; "Louis XVI. was the king of the nobles, Bonaparte is the king
of the people." This idea of the old woman was the universal feeling
of her class right through his reign. No writer has been able to give
proof that it was withdrawn, even when he was overwhelmed with
disaster which drained his empire of vast masses of its population. No
cruel inhuman despot could magnetise with an enduring fascination
multitudes of men and women as he did. It was not his incomparable
genius, nor his matchless military successes in battle. He was loved
because he was lovable, and was trusted because he inspired belief in
his high motives of amelioration of all down-trodden people. He ruled
with a stern but kindly discipline, and put a heavy hand on those who
had despotic tendencies.

The Duchess of Abrantès, who smarted under some severe comments he
had made about her husband (Junot), the Duke of Abrantès, while at St.
Helena, has been generous enough to say many kind things of him in her
memoirs. One of her references to him is to this effect:--"All I know
of him" (and she knew him well from childhood) "proves that he
possessed a great soul which quickly forgets and forgives." She is
very fond of repeating in her memoirs that Napoleon proposed marriage
to her mother, Madame Permon, who was herself a Corsican and knew the
Bonaparte family well.

Madame Junot relates another story which is characteristic of
Bonaparte. Such was the enthusiasm of the people on his march towards
Paris after landing from Elba, that when he was holding a review of
the National Guard at Grenoble, the people shouldered him, and a young
girl with a laurel branch in her hand approached him reciting some
verses. "What can I do for you, my pretty girl?" said the Emperor. The
girl blushed, then lifting her eyes to him replied, "I have nothing to
ask of your Majesty; but you would render me very happy by embracing
me." Napoleon kissed her, and turning his head to either side, said
aloud, with a fascinating smile, "I embrace in you all the ladies of
Grenoble."

That Napoleon made mistakes no one will dispute; indeed, he saw
clearly, and admitted freely, in his solitude, that he had made many.
His minor fault (if it be right to characterise it as such) was in
extending clemency to the many rascals that were plotting his ruin and
carrying on a system of peculation that was an abhorrence to him.
Talleyrand, Fouché, and Bourrienne frequently came under his
displeasure and were removed from his service, but were taken back
after his wrath had passed.

Miot de Melito speaks of them as "Bourrienne and other subordinate
scoundrels," and, indeed, Miot de Melito does not exaggerate in his
estimate of them. Fouché says that Bourrienne kept him advised of all
Napoleon's movements for 25,000 francs per month, besides being both
partner and patron in the house of Coulon Brothers, cavalry equipment
providers, who failed for £120,000.

In 1805, Bourrienne was appointed Minister Plenipotentiary at Hamburg,
and during his stay there he made £290,000 by delivering permits and
making what is known as "arbitrary stoppages," and besides betraying
Bonaparte to the Bourbons, this vile traitor wrote to Talleyrand, a
few days after the abdication at Fontainebleau: "I always desired the
return of that excellent Prince, Louis XVIII., and his august family."
But these things are mere shadows of the incomparable villainy of
this thievish human jackdaw.

His memoirs are said to have been written by an impecunious and
mediocre penman called Villemarest, who also wrote "Mémoires de
Constant" (the Emperor's valet), and both books have been very
extensively read and believed. Men have got up terrific lectures from
them, authors have quoted from them whenever they desired an authority
to prove that which they wished themselves and their readers to
believe of trumped-up stories of Napoleon's despotism and evildoings.
Certainly, Bourrienne is the last and most unreliable of all the
chroniclers that may be quoted when writing a history of the Emperor.
Neither his character nor any of his personal qualities imbues the
impartial reader with confidence in either his criticisms or
historical statements.

Men like Fouché, Talleyrand, and Bourrienne, and political women like
Madame de Remusat and Madame de Staël, all of whom were brought under
the Emperor's displeasure by their zealous aptitude in one way and
another for intrigue, disloyalty, and, so far as the men are
concerned, glaring dishonesty in money matters, have assiduously
chronicled their own virtues and declaimed against Napoleon's
incalculable vices, and this course was no doubt chosen in order to
avert the public gaze from too close a scrutiny into their own
perfidy. Their plan is not an unusual one under such circumstances;
rascals never scruple to multiply offences more wicked than those
already committed in order to prove that they are acting from a pure
sense of public morality and historical truth. If the object of their
attack be a benefactor, and one who has been obliged to rebuke or
dismiss them for misdeeds, great or small, then they assail him with
unqualified hostility.

This unquestionably was the penalty paid by Napoleon for extending
clemency to men who, if they had been in the service of any other
monarch in Europe, would have been shut up in a fortress, or shot, the
moment their perfidies had been discovered. The pity is that so much
of this declamatory stuff has been so willingly believed and made use
of in order to defame the name of a sovereign whose besetting fault
was in relaxing just punishment bestowed on those who, he could never
altogether forget, were his companions in other days.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] Montholon wished to have the following simple inscription:
"Napoléon, né à Ajaccio, le 15 Août, 1769, mort à St. Helena, le 5
Mai, 1821."

[13] Horne's "History of Napoleon," vol. ii.

[14] Horne's "History of Napoleon," vol. ii.

[15] "Correspondence of Napoleon I."

[16] Ibid.

[17] Madame Walewska bore him two children. This caused him to develop
the idea of having an heir.




CHAPTER III

THREE GENERATIONS: MADAME LA MÈRE, MARIE LOUISE, AND THE KING OF ROME


It seems as though Hell had been let loose on this great man and his
family. The crowned heads of Europe and the plutocrats stopped at
nothing in order that they might make his ruin complete. They dare not
run the risk of putting him to death outright, but they engineered, by
means of willing tools, a plan that was unheard-of in its atrocious
character. They poured stories of unfaithfulness into the ears of a
faithless woman whose name will go down to posterity as an ignoble
wife and callous mother. She took with her into Austria the King of
Rome, a beautiful child who was put under the care of Austrian tutors.
He was watched as though he held the destinies of empires in the
hollow of his hand. His father's name was not allowed to fall on his
youthful ears, and more than one tutor was dismissed because he
secretly told him something of his father's fame. Treated as a
prisoner, spied upon by Metternich's satellites, not allowed to have
any visitors without this immortal Chancellor's permission, not
allowed to communicate with his father's family or with Frenchmen,
this pathetic figure, stuffed with Austrian views, is seized with a
growing desire to learn the history of his father, who declared in a
letter to his brother Joseph in 1814 that he would rather see his son
strangled than see him brought up in Vienna as an Austrian prince.[18]

Prince Napoleon in his excellent book--"Napoleon and His
Detractors"--refers to the young Prince playing a game of billiards
with Marmont and Don Miguel, the former having been one of his
father's most important generals. He it was who betrayed him, and now
he is become the Duke's confidant and instructor. The Prince says that
his cousin asked to be told about the deeds that his father had done,
his fall, and exile. There does not appear to be any record in
existence as to what Marmont conveyed or withheld from the son of
Marie Louise, but there is much evidence to show that the young man
was not only an eager student of his father's career, but fully
realised his own importance and influence on European politics.

It has been stated that until 1830 he really knew nothing of passing
events in the land of his birth. Obenaus, his tutor, states in his
diary, January 18, 1825: "During the afternoon walk, the political
relations of the Prince to the Imperial family and to the rest of the
world were discussed." Count Neipperg advised him to study the French
language, and his reply was: "This advice has not fallen on an
unfruitful or an ungrateful soil. Every imaginable motive inspires me
with the desire to perfect myself in, and to overcome the difficulties
of, a language which at the present moment forms the most essential
part of my studies. It is the language in which my father gave the
word of command in all his battles, in which his name was covered with
glory, and in which he has left us unparalleled memoirs of the art of
war; while to the last he expressed the wish that I should never
repudiate the nation into which I was born."[19] He further adds, "The
_chief_ aim of my life must be not to remain unworthy of my father's
fame."

His grandfather, the Emperor Francis--who was reputed to be quite
devoted to him--said, "I wish that the Duke should revere the memory
of his father." "Do not suppress the truth," says he to Metternich
(the disloyal friend of Napoleon). "Teach him above all to honour his
father's memory." The Chancellor replies, "I will speak to the Duke
about his father as I should wish myself to be spoken of to my own
son." What irony! Whatever attempts were made at any time to
depreciate the Emperor, his son's loyalty to him never flinched. He
regarded his father in the light of a hero whose glorious traditions
were unequalled by any warrior or ruler of men. He drank in every
particle of information he could discover about his father's life, and
was by no means ignorant of what would be his own great destiny should
he be permitted to live.

A strong party in France longed to have the son of their Emperor on
the throne of France. A section of the Poles clamoured to have him
proclaimed King of Poland after the Polish revolution, and the Greeks
claimed him as their future King. All existing records dealing with
the Prince's view concerning his position indicate quite clearly that
he never under-estimated his importance. He was fully alive to and
appreciated the growing devotion to himself, his cause, and to the
great name he bore. We learn from Marshal Marmont that the Prince
received him with marked cordiality when the Emperor Francis gave him
permission to relate to him his father's history. Marmont, like all
traitors, never neglected to put forth his popularity with the Emperor
Napoleon. This is a habit with people who do great injury to their
friends. They always make it appear that the injured person is
afflicted with growing love for them--they never realise how much they
are loathed and mistrusted.

The Prince at first received him with suspicion, then he tolerated him
coldly, and it was not until Marmont fascinated him with stories of
the genius and unparalleled greatness of his father's history that the
young man subdued his prejudices and encouraged the Marshal in his
visits to his apartments, in order that he might learn all that
Marmont could tell him of his father's qualities and accomplishments.
The young Napoleon caused the General to marvel at the quick
intelligence he displayed in the pointed comments made on his father's
career. In recognition of his services Marmont was presented with a
portrait of the Prince.[20]

His cousin, Prince Napoleon, son of King Jerome, in his book "Napoleon
and His Detractors," obviously desires to convey the impression that
all questions, important or unimportant, relating to the Emperor, were
studiously kept from his son, and until he arrived at a certain age
there can be little doubt that undue and unnatural precautions were
taken to prevent the Emperor's name being spoken, but the means used
for this purpose must have proved abortive, as everything points to
him having been well informed. He appears to have had an instinctive
knowledge that nullified the precautions of the Court of Vienna, and
especially its culpable Chancellor, Metternich, whose clumsy and
heartless treatment is so apparent to all students of history.
Probably this is the policy that prevailed up to 1830 which Prince
Napoleon complains of. Be that as it may, we are persuaded that the
Duke was not only well informed, but took a keen interest in the
events of his own and of his father's life, long before the advent of
Marmont as his tutor. For instance, on one occasion his friend, Count
Prokesch, dined with his grandfather in 1830, and at table the Prince
was afforded great pleasure in having the opportunity of conversing
with this distinguished man. The young Duke knew that Prokesch had
broken a lance in 1818 in defence of his father, and he eagerly
availed himself of the chance of saying some very complimentary things
to the Count. He informs him that he has "known him a long while, and
loved him because he defended his father's honour at a time when all
the world vied with each other to slander his name"; and then he
continues: "I have read your 'Battle of Waterloo,' and in order to
impress every line of it on my memory I translated it twice in French
and Italian."[21] Obviously this young man was neither a dunce nor
indolent when his father's fame and his own interests were in
question.

One of the most remarkable features of this pathetic young life is the
intense interest his mother's husband began to take in him, and he
probably owed a great deal to the fact that Count Neipperg urged him
to make himself familiar with the glory of the Empire and his father's
deeds. Strange though it may appear, the son of the Great Napoleon and
the morganatic husband of his mother were attached to each other in
the most intimate way. If he perceived the immoral relations between
Neipperg and Marie Louise, the Duke never seems to have divulged it;
but taking into account the passionate love and devotion he had for
his father's memory, it is barely likely that he knew either of the
amorous connection or marriage having taken place between the Count
and his mother, otherwise he would have had something to say about it,
not only to Neipperg himself, but certainly to his friends Prokesch,
Baron Obenaus, and Count Dietrichstein, and very naturally his
grandfather. It may be that the circumstances of his life made him
cautious, and even cunning, in keeping to himself an affair that was
generally approved by the most interested parties, but it is hardly
likely that the spirit of natural feeling had been so far crushed out
of him as to forbid his openly resenting a further monstrous wrong
being done to his Imperial father.

The young Prince was the centre of great political interest, and the
object of ungrudging sympathy and devotion of a large public in
Europe, and especially in France, and had his life been preserved a
few more years he would, in spite of obstacles and prejudices, have
been put on the throne of the land of his birth.

Metternich, the inveterate trickster, does not appear to have had any
serious thought of encouraging the project of making the Duke Emperor
of the French. His subtle game was to use him as a terror to Louis
Philippe when that monarch became refractory or showed signs of
covetousness.

The Prince carried himself high above sordid party methods. He was
proud of being heir to a throne that his father had made immortal and
he was determined not to soil it. If it was to be reclaimed, all
obstacles must be removed ere he would lend his countenance to it.
There must be a clear, uninterrupted passage. Thirty-four million
souls, it was claimed, were anxious for his restoration to France.
Amongst the leaders were to be found some of his father's old
companions in arms and in exile, amongst whom none were more
enthusiastic than the loyal and devoted Count Montholon, Bertrand, the
petulant and penitent Gourgaud, and Savary, Duke of Rovigo. These were
joined to thousands of other brave men who would have considered it an
honour to shed their last drop of blood for the cause, and in memory
of him whom they had loved so well. The two first-named were executors
to his father's will, in which Napoleon enjoins his son not to attempt
to avenge his death but to profit by it. He reminds him that things
have changed. He was obliged to daunt Europe by his arms, but now the
way is to convince her. His son is urged not to mount the throne by
the aid of foreign influence, and he is charged to deserve the
approbation of posterity. He is reminded that "MERIT may be pardoned,
but not intrigue," and that he is to "propagate in all uncivilised and
barbarous countries the benefits of Christianity and civilisation.
Religious ideas have more influence than certain narrow-minded
philosophers are willing to believe. They are capable of rendering
great services to humanity."

These are only a few of the excellent thoughts transmitted to the
young man from the tragic rock whose memories will ever defame the
name of those who combined to commit a crime unequalled in political
history.

It is none the less a phenomenon that this "abode of darkness," so
monstrous in the history of its perfidy, should be illumined by the
great figure that stamped its fame for evermore with his personality.

One of the last and finest works of genius he did there was to draw up
a constitution for his son. It is doubtful whether Montholon ever
succeeded in conveying it to the Prince, who passed on before the
legitimate call to put it into practice came.

The Powers that made holy war for the last time on the great soldier
with 900,000 men against his 128,000 arrogated the right to outlaw and
brand him as the disturber of public peace. I have already said this
was their ostensible plea, but the real reason was his determination
to exterminate feudalism and establish democratic institutions as soon
as he could bring the different factions into harmony. He failed, but
the colossal cost of his failure in men and money is unthinkable. His
subjugation left Great Britain alone with a debt, as already stated,
of eight hundred millions, and then there was no peace.

The constitution intended for his son could have been very
beneficially applied to some of the nations represented at the
Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle by the allied sovereigns who declared him
an outlaw, and spent their time in allocating slices of other people's
territory to each other. The only nation that came badly out of the
Congress was Great Britain.

This terrible despot, who was beloved by the common people and hated
by the oligarchy, left behind him a constitution that might well be
adopted by the most democratic countries.

The first article--composed of six words: "The sovereignty dwells in
the nation"--stamps the purpose of it with real democracy. It might do
no harm to embody some of its clauses into our own constitution at the
present time. We very tardily adopted some of its laws long after his
death, and we might go on copying to our advantage. He was a real
progressor, but his team was difficult to guide. Had he been
conciliated and allowed to remain at peace, he would have democratised
the whole of Europe, but the fear of that, or the legitimacy idea, was
undoubtedly the great underlying cause of much of the trouble. The
mistrust and animus against the father was reflected upon the son, who
was practically a State prisoner.

During childhood the Prince was strong and healthy, and his robust
physique caused favourable comment. It was not until 1819 that his
health became affected by an attack of spotted fever. This passed away
in a few weeks, but the decline of his health, which was attributed to
his rapid growth, dates from that period. He died prematurely on July
22, 1832, at Schönbrunn, and the accounts which may be relied upon
indicate either wilfully careless or incompetent medical treatment. It
is even asserted that this heir to the throne of France, ushered in
twenty-one years before as the herald of Peace, was to be regarded as
a source of infinite danger, and for that barbaric reason his health
was allowed to be slowly and surely undermined until death took him
from the restraining influences and crimeful policy of the Courts of
Europe. Great efforts have been made to convince a sceptical public
that his early death was the result of youthful indiscretions, but
this is stoutly denied by Prokesch, who declares that he was a
strictly moral youth, and Baron Obenaus, in his diary, justifies this
opinion, if there was nothing else to support it. Moreover the same
Anton, Count Prokesch was asked by Napoleon III. to tell him the truth
as to the alleged love affairs, and he averred that the rumours were
without foundation.

The King of Rome died at Schönbrunn in the same room that his father
had occupied in 1809. In Paris a report was put about that he had been
poisoned by the Court of Vienna. This opinion has been handed down,
and there are many persons to-day who have a firm belief in its
possibility.

Another common rumour, current in 1842, was that Metternich sent a
poisoned lemon by Prokesch, which had done its work, and even this
highly improbable story is not without reason believed, because
Metternich was known to be the most heartless cunning Judas in
politics at that time. He had betrayed the father of the Prince while
he was declaring the most loyal friendship. He admits this, nay, even
boasts of it, in his memoirs, and his shameful conduct has its reward
by having won for him the stigma of wishing for, and hastening on, the
death of an unfortunate young man for whom ordinary manliness should
have claimed compassion. This moral assassin of father and son
declared that he had "used all the means in his power to second the
hand of God" by trapping Napoleon into the clutches of the combined
moralists of Europe. The Usurper was to be ruined, then peace
proclaimed for evermore. That was their pretence, though it could not
have been their conviction. If it was, they were soon disillusioned.

I made a long journey in company with a Danish statesman a few years
ago, and amongst other things that we conversed about was the reign
and fall of Napoleon. This gentleman held up his hands and said to me,
"Oh! what a blunder the criminal affair was. Had the Powers beheld the
mission of this man aright, what a blessing it would have been to the
world!"--and there is not much difficulty in supporting the view of
this Danish gentleman. The more one probes into the history of the
period, the more vivid the blunder appears.

Metternich has the distinction of being eulogised by M. Taine, who was
neither fair nor accurate, and there is not much glory in being
championed by a man whose book is made up of libels. Metternich may
here be dismissed as being only one of many whose highest ambition was
to destroy the man whom the French nation had made their monarch.
Their aim was accomplished, but the spirit that evolved from the wreck
of the Revolution still lives on, and may rise again to be avenged for
the great crime that was committed.

Whether the gifted and amiable son of the Emperor Napoleon was
despatched by the cruellest of all assassinations or came by his
premature death by neglect, or by natural and constitutional causes,
is a matter that may never be cleared up, though the actions of the
high commissioners in the nauseous drama cause lingering doubts to
prevail as to their innocence. It is certain that several determined
attempts were made to take the Prince's life, and large sums were
offered to desperadoes to carry out this murderous deed. Then the
Court of Vienna were in constant fear of his abduction. His
invitations to come to France were perpetual.

A lady cousin--the Countess Napoleone Camerata, daughter of Elisa
Bacciochi, a sister of the Emperor, easily obtained a passport from
the Pope's Secretary of State, and coquetted so successfully with the
Austrian Ambassador, that he gave it a double guarantee of good faith
by signing it. This impetuous and eccentric female made her way
uninterruptedly to Vienna, found her cousin on the doorstep, made a
rush for him and seized his hand, then shouted, "Who can prevent my
kissing my sovereign's hand?" She also found means to convey letters
to him. There is not much said about this Napoleonic dash, but from
the records that are available the incident set the heroes--comprising
the allied Courts (including France)--into a flutter of excitement.
The fuss created by the enterprise of the pretty little Countess gives
a lurid insight into the wave of comic derangement which must have
taken possession of men's minds.

This lady received a pension during the Third Empire, and in eighteen
years it mounted to over six million francs. She died in Brittany,
1869, and left her fortune to the Prince Imperial.

That there was a determined and well-conceived plot to carry the Duke
off is undoubted, but the counter-plots prevailed against the more
ardent Bonapartists who were thirsting for a resurrection of the
glorious Empire. Prince Louis Napoleon, the eldest son of King Louis,
disagreed with the idea of his family. He looked upon the Emperor's
son as being an Austrian Prince, imbued with Austrian methods and
policy, and therefore dangerous to the best interests of France. This
Prince went so far as to hail with pleasure the crowning of Louis
Philippe. He died in 1831. In the following year his Imperial cousin
passed on too, and his demise was a great blow to the Bonapartists'
cause, and it well-nigh killed the aged Madame Mère, who had centred
all her hopes in him. Marie Louise announced his death, to his
grandmother and asks her to "accept on this sorrowful occasion the
assurance of the kindly feeling entertained for her by her
affectionate daughter," and here is the cold, dignified, crushing
reply from Madame Mère. It is dictated, and dated Rome, August 6,
1832:--

    "Madame, notwithstanding the political shortsightedness which
    has constantly deprived me of all news of the dear child whose
    death you have been so considerate to announce to me, I have
    never ceased to entertain towards him the devotion of a mother.
    In him I still found an object of some consolation, but to my
    great age, and to my incessant and painful infirmities, God has
    seen fit to add this blow as fresh proof of His mercy, since I
    firmly believe that He will amply atone to him in His glory for
    the glory of this world.

    "Accept my thanks, madame, for having put yourself to this
    trouble in such sorrowful circumstances to alleviate the
    bitterness of my grief. Be sure that it will remain with me all
    my life. My condition precludes me from even signing this
    letter, and I must therefore crave your permission to delegate
    the task to my brother."

Never a word about the lady's relationship to her son or to herself.
Her reply is studiously formal, but every expression of it betokens
grief and thoughts of the great martyr whom the woman she was writing
to had wronged. There is not a syllable of _open_ reproach, though
there runs through it a polite, withering indictment that must
assuredly have cut deeply into the callous nature of this notorious
Austrian Archduchess who had played her son so falsely.

This wonderful mother of a wonderful family seems to have been the
least suspected of political plotting of all the Bonapartists. She
was respected by all, and revered and beloved by many. Crowned heads
were not indifferent to her strength and nobility of character, but
the stupid old King who succeeded her son to the throne of France got
it into his head that she was harbouring agents in Corsica to excite
rebellion, and he thereupon had a complaint lodged against her. Pius
VII., who knew Madame Mère, sent his secretary to see her about this
supposed intrigue. She listened to what the representative of the Pope
had to say, and then with stern dignity began her reply:--

"Monseigneur, I do not possess the millions with which they credit me,
but let M. de Blacas tell his master Louis XVIII. that if I did, I
should not employ them to foment troubles in Corsica, or to gain
adherents for my son in France, since he already has enough; I should
use them to fit out a fleet to liberate him from St. Helena, where the
most infamous perfidy is holding him captive."

Then she bowed reverently and left the room.

This was indeed a slashing rebuff both to Pius VII. and the "Most
Christian King."

Another very good story is told of this extraordinary old lady by H.
Noel Williams. It appears she persisted after the fall of the Empire
in using the Imperial arms on her carriage.

"Why should I discontinue this symbol?" she asked. "Europe bowed to
the dust before my son's arms for ten years, and her sovereigns have
not forgotten it."

On one occasion she was out driving when a block occurred. Two
Austrian officers, who were riding past, boldly looked into the
carriage. Madame Mère, observing the Austrian uniform, to which she
had an aversion, was excited to indignation, so letting down the
window she exclaimed to them, "What, gentlemen, is your pleasure? If
it is to see the mother of the Emperor Napoleon, here she is!" The
officers were naturally crestfallen. They respectfully saluted and
rode off. These stinging shots of hers were quite disturbing; they
always went home, and reached too far for the comfort of her son's
persecutors.

Her letter to the allied sovereigns who met at Aix-la-Chapelle is one
of the most trenchant indictments that has ever been penned. Its
logic, its brave, though courteous, appeal for justice and
magnanimity, and above all the echo of motherly love which
characterises it, stamp it as a document worth cherishing. The last
paragraph will fascinate the imagination of generations yet to come,
and heavy judgment will be laid on those that were committing the
crime.

"Reasons of State," she says, "have their limits, and _posterity_,
which _forgets nothing_, admires above everything the generosity of
conquerors."

The allied sovereigns were afraid to answer the letter. Better for
their reputations if they had obviated the necessity of writing it.
The testimony of Pius VII. is that she was "a God-fearing woman who
deserved to be honoured by every prince in Christendom."

A great joy came to Madame Mère in 1830, when they told her that the
Government had decided to replace the statue of Napoleon on the
Vendome Column. She went into ecstasies over this, but bewailed her
lameness (she had broken her thigh that year) and total blindness,
which would forever prevent her beholding the statue. She turned away
from these painful reflections and comforted herself with a few words
of sad humour, remarking that if she could have been in Paris as in
former days, God would have given her strength to climb to the top of
the column to assure herself that it was there. She refused to
separate her lot from that of her children, and would not accept the
proposal that the sentence of banishment should be repealed unless it
included all her family. This remarkable woman died February 2, 1836,
aged eighty-five, and Napoleon III. had the remains of his grandmother
and Cardinal Fesch removed to Ajaccio in 1851. Six years later the
remains were again removed and deposited in a vault constructed to
receive them in a church which was built subsequent to the first
interment at Ajaccio.

Pity and strange it is that the Emperor's faithless second wife should
be noticed at all in history. Happily, very few even of those
historians who are anti-Napoleon have anything very complimentary to
say of her. She survived her son the King of Rome fifteen years, and
the earth claimed her in December, 1847, her age being fifty-six. Had
this amiable adulteress, who wished success to the allied armies
against her husband, lived a little longer, she would have witnessed
the humiliating spectacle of her father's successor being forced to
abdicate his throne in favour of the nephew of her Imperial husband,
whose memory all noble hearts revere, and whose sufferings, domestic
and public, will ever lie at the door of this woman who allowed
herself to be the base accomplice of a great assassination. The most
fitting reference to her death appeared in the _Times_ newspaper,
which said that "nothing in her life became her like the leaving it."
On April 15, 1821, in the third paragraph of his will, Napoleon, with
consistent magnanimity, if not wilful indifference to this passive,
icy female's abandonment of him, says: "I have always had reason to be
pleased with my dearest Marie Louise. I retain for her, to my last
moment, the most tender sentiments. I beseech her to watch, in order
to preserve my son from the snares which yet environ his infancy."
What irony!

It is quite a reasonable proposition to suppose that Napoleon must
have had a secret suspicion of his wife's infidelity. It is even hard
to believe that he had not a full knowledge of her actual association
with Count Neipperg. It will be observed that while his reference to
her is dutiful, not to say tender, there is still something lacking,
as though he kept something snugly in the back of his head, something
like the following:--"I cannot make this historical document without
alluding to you for my son's sake, though I know full well you have
wronged me and consorted with my enemies and betrayers. I know all
this, but I am about to pass on, and true to my instincts of
compassion and to my Imperial dignity, I must carry my sorrow and
grief with me, and having given you as good a testimonial as I can, I
must leave you to settle accounts with posterity as to your conduct
towards me and your adopted country. I shall not do by you as you have
done. I hope full allowance will be made for all you have made me
suffer. Meanwhile, I am about to relieve the digestion of Kings by
passing to the Elysian Fields, there to be greeted by Kleber, Desaix,
Bessières, Duroc, Ney, Murat, Masséna, and Berthier, and we shall talk
of the deeds we have done together. Yes, Marie Louise, I bend under
the terrible yoke your father, his Chancellor, and the allied
satellites have made for me, and yet I keep these incomparable
warriors of Europe in a state of alarm. I wish you joy of your allies,
who have behaved so nobly to your husband in captivity. I have often
thought in my solitude, Louise, that it would have been a more popular
national union had I carried out my intention of taking for my second
wife a Frenchwoman. It may be that my marriage with you, consummated
by every token of peace and goodwill, was really the beginning of my
downfall. Ah! how much more noble of you to have followed me in my
adversity to Elba. You might have done great service to France and to
your native land, to say nothing of the possibility of breaking up the
coalition against me and saving rivers of blood. Waterloo might never
have been fought had you emulated your matchless sister-in-law,
Catherine of Westphalia, in her attitude of supreme womanhood, and
your fame might have surpassed that of Joan of Arc, and been handed
down to distant ages as an example of heroic firmness and devotion,
and then you would have been beatified by the Church and acclaimed a
saint by the people to which you belong. You shared with me the
unequalled grandeur of the most powerful throne on earth. I was
devoted to you and you betrayed me. Your father insisted that you
should break your marriage vow and found in you a willing accomplice
in the outrage committed against me. You had shared my throne, and I
had reason to expect that every human instinct would call you to my
side in my exile, and the thought that burns into my soul is that in
the infamy of years, posterity will not be reproached for averting its
eye from you as well as from that heartless father who requested you
to forsake me. Catherine of Westphalia did better. She defied her
father, and clung more closely to her husband when he needed all the
succour of a sympathetic being to comfort him in his hour of dire
misfortune. These gloomy thoughts are forced upon me by every law of
nature, and now that I have but a brief time left, I am impelled to
bequeath to you in the third paragraph of my last will and testament
some tender remembrance of you. I do this notwithstanding that you,
Marie Louise, Empress of the French, prayed to God that He would bless
the arms of the enemies of the land of your adoption. And then that
letter which I sent you from Grenoble in a nutshell on my way from
Elba to Paris to reclaim the throne which treason had deprived me of.
I requested you to come to me with my son the King of Rome. You
ignored that, as you did other communications which I sent, and which
I am assured you received. I make no public accusation against you.
_That_ would be undignified and unkingly."

In spite of his apparent unaltered affection for his wife, Napoleon
reflectively made occasional remarks during his exile which indicated
that her conduct was much in his mind; and the foregoing portrayal of
his sentiments towards her may be regarded as a human probability. The
remarkable thing is that he should have made any reference at all to
this erotic woman in his will. It puzzled his companions in exile, who
knew well enough that she was the cause of much mental anguish to him.
It afflicted him so keenly on two notable occasions that he drew
pathetically a comparison between her conduct and that which would
have been Josephine's under similar circumstances. It is an
astonishing characteristic in Napoleon that he always forgave those
who had injured him most.

In order to emphasise the spirit of forgiveness, he specially refers
to a matter that must have taken a lot of forgiving. In the sixth
paragraph of his will he says: "The two unfortunate results of the
invasions of France, when she had still so many resources, are to be
attributed to the treason of Marmont, Augereau, Talleyrand, and La
Fayette. I forgive them--may the posterity of France forgive them as I
do." Then in the seventh paragraph he pardons his brother Louis for
the libel he published in 1820, although, as he states, "It is replete
with false assertions and falsified documents." He heaps coals of fire
on Marie Louise by requesting Marchand to preserve some of his hair
and to cause a bracelet to be made of it with a little gold clasp. It
is highly probable that the wife of Count Neipperg would rather not
have been reminded of her amorous habits and other culpable conduct by
these little attentions.

Neipperg, this foul and willing instrument of seduction, whose
baseness insults every moral law, suffered great agony for three years
from an incurable disease, and died in December, 1828, aged
fifty-seven years. The Kings and regicides in their ferocious fear had
made it an important part of their policy that Marie Louise should be
the pivot on which the complete ruin of Napoleon should centre, so
Neipperg was fixed upon as a fit and proper person to mould the
ex-Empress into passive obedience to the wishes of her husband's
inveterate enemies. Meneval notes that this man had already amours to
his credit. He had indeed run away with another man's wife, and had
issue by her. Probably his amorous reputation influenced the
oligarchy in their choice.

In order that the plan might be carried out, he adroitly improvised
falsehood, poured into her ears stories of faithlessness on the part
of her Imperial husband, read books and pamphlets manufactured and
exactly suited for the purpose he had in view. His instructions were
to carry things as far he could get them to go, and he did this with
revolting success.

God's broad earth has not known a more ugly incident than that of
carrying personal hatred and political cowardice to such a pitch of
delirium as that of forcing a weak woman to forsake her husband,
sacrifice the interests of her child, and tempt her to break her
marriage vow in order that her husband's ruin might be more completely
assured. As a matter of high policy its wickedness will never be
excelled.

At the death of her morganatic husband Marie Louise became
"inconsolable." She gave orders for a "costly mausoleum to be put up
so that her grief might be durably established." In reply to a letter
of condolence written to her by the eminent Italian, Dr. Aglietti, in
which he seems to have made some courteous and consoling observations,
she says "that all the efforts of art were powerless, for it is
impossible to fight against the _Divine Will_. You are very right in
saying that time and religion can alone diminish the bitterness of
such a loss. Alas! the former, far from exercising its power over me,
only daily increases my grief." This "amiable," grief-stricken royal
sham, overcharged with expressions of religious fervour, succumbs
again to her natural instincts. "Time," she avers, "cannot console,"
but only increases the depth of her grief for "our dear departed."

Her sentiments would be consummately impressive were it not that we
know how wholly deceitful she was without in the least knowing it. But
the creeping horror of time is quickly softened by her marriage in
1833 to a Frenchman called De Bombelles, who was in the service of her
native land, and is said to have had English blood in his veins. In
spite of the loyal effort of Meneval to make her ironic procession
through life appear as favourable as he can, the only true impression
that can be arrived at is that she was without shame, self-control, or
pity.

A strange sympathiser of Napoleon in his dire distress was a daughter
of Maria Theresa and a sister of Marie Antoinette--Queen Marie
Caroline, grandmother to Marie Louise. She had regarded the Emperor of
the French with peculiar aversion, but when his power was broken and
he became the victim of persecution, this good woman forgot her
prejudices, sent for Meneval, and said to him that she had had cause
to regard Napoleon at one time as an enemy, but now that he was in
trouble she forgot the past. She declared that if it was still the
determination of the Court of Vienna to sever the bonds of unity
between man and wife in order that the Emperor might be deprived of
consolation, it was her granddaughter's duty to assume disguise, tie
sheets together, lower herself from the window, and bolt.

There is little doubt the dexterous and spirited old lady gave Louise
sound advice, and had she acted under her holy influence, her name
would have become a monument of noblemindedness, a lesson, in fact,
against striking a vicious, cowardly blow at the unfortunate. It is
moreover highly probable that Queen Caroline felt, at the time, that
the political marriage of her granddaughter to the French Emperor was
ill-assorted and tragic, but the deed having been done, she upheld the
divine law of marriage. Besides, she knew that Napoleon had been an
indulgent, kind husband to the uneven-minded girl, and that, whatever
his faults may have been, it was her duty to comfort him and share in
his sorrow as she had so amply shared in his glory. Hence she urges a
reunion with the exile, but the ex-Empress may have made it
impossible ere this to enjoy the consoling sweets of conjugal
companionship, and her subsequent conduct makes it more than likely
that she was too deeply compromised to abandon the vortex and face the
penalty of the errors she had committed.

"I could listen," says Napoleon, "to the intelligence of the death of
my wife, my son, or of all my family, without a change of feature--not
the slightest emotion or alteration of countenance would be visible.
But when alone in my chamber, _then_ I suffer. Then the feelings of
the man burst forth."

We are not accustomed to think of this strong personality as being
overcome with soft emotions. We have regarded him as the
personification of strength, and yet with all his gigantic power over
men and himself, he had a real womanly supply of human tenderness.
Once he was seen weeping before the portrait of his much beloved son,
whom he called "Mon pauvre petit chou." "I do not blush to admit,"
said he on a memorable occasion, "that I have a good deal of a
mother's tenderness. I could never count on the faithfulness of a
father who did not love his children."

FOOTNOTES:

[18] "Correspondance de Napoléon," vol. 128, p. 133.

[19] Quoted from De Wertheimer's "Duke of Reichstadt," p. 330.

[20] See "Memoirs."

[21] See "Memoirs."




CHAPTER IV

THE OLIGARCHY, THEIR AGENTS AND APOLOGISTS


It would be an easy task to enlarge on the excellent qualities of this
wonderful man. Volumes could be written about this phase of his
dazzling career alone, and yet we have miscreants such as Talleyrand
proclaiming to the Conference of "Christian Kings" and traitors that
the greatest, most powerful, and most humane prince of the age "must
be exterminated like a mad dog." The news of his flight from Elba and
arrival in Paris, vociferously acclaimed by the French people as their
lawful sovereign, threw this band of parasites into apoplectic terror;
Talleyrand, of all creatures, dictating to the Conference as to the
wording of the proclamation that should be issued outlawing his
Emperor, whom he and they styled "Usurper." If it were not so
outrageous a violation of decency, we would look upon it as the most
comical incident notified in history. Talleyrand, the most
accomplished traitor and barefaced thief in Europe, except perhaps
Bourrienne, he who could not prevent himself from fumbling in his
sovereign's and everybody else's pockets whenever the opportunity
occurred, to be allowed to sit in conference with the anointed rulers
of Europe is really too comic.

Napoleon was styled "Usurper" by these saintly Legitimists, not one of
whom attained kingship so honourably and legitimately as the man whom
they had sworn to destroy, even though the whole of Europe were to be
drenched in blood by the process of it. They set themselves to
disfranchise and usurp the rights of the French people, who had only
just again ratified by millions of votes his claim to the throne, and
the gallant and heroic response to their requisition that he should
leave Elba and become their ruler again. Surely it will never be
contended that Napoleon's claims were less legitimate than those of
the Prince of Orange, or the Elector of Hanover, or Frederic William
the great Elector, whose sole qualification for kingship consisted in
having the instincts of a tiger. Of the latter Lord Macaulay says,
"His palace was hell, and he the most execrable of fiends." His sole
ambition seemed to be to pay fabulous sums for giant soldiers, and he
showed an inhuman aversion to his son, afterwards known as Frederic
the Great, and his daughter Wilhelmina. He was as ignorant and
ill-conditioned a creature as could be found in the whole world, a
cowardly rascal who found pleasure in kicking ladies whom he might
meet in the street and ordering them "home to mind their brats." No
more need be said of the father of the great Frederic, whose "Life"
took Thomas Carlyle thirteen years in searching musty German histories
to produce. Carlyle says, "One of the reasons that led me to write
'Frederic' was that he managed not to be a liar and charlatan as his
century was"; and indeed his adoration for Frederic is quite
pardonable. He had spent thirteen years of his life in the supreme
effort of making him a hero, and his great work, contained in eight
volumes, is a matchless piece of literature; but there is nothing in
it to justify anyone believing that Frederic was neither a liar nor a
charlatan. It is true Frederic finished better than he began, but
truthfulness and honesty were not conspicuous virtues of his. He lied,
broke faith, and plundered wherever and whenever it suited his
purpose, and some of his other vices were unspeakable. There is no
doubt he was both a quack and a coward when he broke the Pragmatic
Sanction and began to steal the territory of Maria Theresa. The powers
of England, France, Spain, Russia, Poland, Prussia, Sweden, Denmark,
the Germanic body, all had agreed by treaty to keep it. Had he been an
honourable man and possessed of the qualities Carlyle credits him
with, he would have stood by his oath. Instead of defending his ally,
he pounced upon her like a vulture, and plunged Europe into a
devastating, bloody war, with the sole object of robbery; and all he
could say for himself in extenuation of such base conduct was:
"Ambition, interest, the desire of making people talk about me,
carried the day; and I decided for war."

Truly Frederic was not a good man, and his reputation for being great
was mainly acquired because the Powers and circumstances allowed him
to succeed after seven long years of sanguinary conflict.

Indeed, there was not a single act in the whole of Napoleon's career
that approaches the lawlessness and cruelty of Frederic. He really
usurped nothing, and Frederic usurped everything that he could put his
hands on, regardless of every moral law; but then he ignored all moral
laws. There is no need for comparison, but it is just as well to point
out that the plea of legitimacy is very shallow, and the contention of
the Allies is an amazing burlesque emanating from the brains of an
industrious mediocrity.

These legitimate monarchs, through their Ministers, used barefacedly
to inspire journalists to write the doctrine of waste of blood as
being a natural process of dealing with the problem of overpopulation.
History is pregnant with proof that their cry for peace was an
impudent hypocrisy. They might have had it at any time, but this did
not suit their policy of legitimacy. Countless thousands of human
beings were slaughtered to satisfy the aversion of kings and nobles to
the plan of one man who towered above them, and insisted on breaking
up the nefarious system of feudalism and kingship by divine right.
They loathed both him and his system. They plotted for his
assassination, and intrigued with all the ferocity of wild animals
against his humane and enlightened government. He trampled over all
their satanic dodges to overthrow the power that had been so often
enthusiastically placed in his hands by the sovereign people. He
constructed roads and canals, and introduced new methods of creating
commerce. He introduced a great scheme of expanding education,
science, art, literature. Every phase of enlightenment was not only
initiated, but made compulsory so far as he could enforce its
application. He re-established religion, and gave France a new code of
laws that are to this day notoriously practical, comprehensive, and
eminently just.

He not only re-established religion, but he upheld the authority of
the Pope as the recognised head of the Roman Church. He built his
"pyramids in the sea," established a free press, and declared himself
in favour of manhood suffrage. He included in his system a unification
of all the small continental States, and was declaimed against as a
brigand for doing it. Wherever his plans were carried out the people
were prosperous and happy, so long as they were allowed to toil in
their own way in their fields and in other industrial pursuits.

It was the perpetual spirit of war that overshadowed the whole of
Europe which prevented his rule from solving a great problem. He, in
this, was invariably the aggrieved. The plan which he had carried into
practical solution was wrecked by the allies, and in less than a
century after the great reformer had been removed from the sphere of
enmity and usefulness, Prince Bismarck forced these small States into
unification with the German Empire, thereby carrying into effect the
very system Napoleon was condemned for bringing under his suzerainty.
What satire, what malignity of fate, that Bismarck, a positive
refutation of genius in comparison with the French Emperor, should
succeed in resurrecting the fabric that the latter had so proudly
built up for France, only to be in a few short years the prize of
Germany, recognised by the very Powers who fought with such embittered
aggressiveness against the great captain and statesman who made not
only modern France, but modern Europe; and who at any time during his
reign could, by making a sign, as he has said, have had the nobles of
France massacred. These bloodsucking creatures were always in the road
of reform, always steeped overhead in political intrigue, always
concerned in plots against the life of Napoleon, and always shrieking
with resentment when they and their accomplices were caught. Some
writers are so completely imbued with the righteousness of murdering
Napoleon, they convey the impression that when any attempt failed, the
perpetrators, instead of being punished, should have had the
decoration of the Legion of Honour placed upon them by himself. They
are also quite unconscious that they are backing a mean revenge and an
awful mockery of freedom when they eloquently shout "Hosanna!"

According to them St. Helena was the only solution of the problem, if
it may be so called, and the Powers who sent him there must have had
an inspiration from above. They have no conception that the Allies
perpetrated another crucifixion on the greatest and (if we are to
judge him by _reliable_ records) the best man of the nineteenth
century. Ah! fickle France! you are blighted with eternal shame for
having allowed these cowardly vindictive conspirators, popularly
called the Allies, to besmear _you_, as well as themselves, with the
blood of a hero.

France had resources at her command which could and should have been
used to drive the invaders beyond her boundaries. Frenchmen can never
live down the great blunder of abandoning their Emperor, forsaking
themselves and the duty they owed to their native land. They forsook
in the hour of need all that was noble and honourable, and cast
themselves into a cauldron of treason, such as has never been heard of
in the world's history. They were soon disillusioned, but it was then
too late. The poison had done its work, and France was placed under
the subjection of traitors, place-hunters and foreign Powers for many
years to come.

I have already said that Louis XVIII. was put on the throne, not by
the French people, but by their conquerors and their myrmidons. He did
not long survive his ignoble accession. Then came Charles X., who had
to fly to Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh because he governed so ill. His
qualification to rule was in putting down all reform and liberty;
after him came Louis Philippe, but even he only governed on
sufferance, though on the whole he occupied an onerous position with
creditable success. A monarch who rules under the tender mercies of a
capricious people, and worse still, a capricious and not too
scrupulous monarchy of monarchs, is not to be envied, and this was
exactly the position of Louis Philippe. He was beset by the noisy
clamour of many factions, besides having to keep a shrewd eye on those
lofty men to whom he had to look with perpetual nervous tension for
the stability and endurance of his throne. He knew the heart of the
nation was centred on St. Helena, and that a wave of repentance was
passing over the land. The people wished to atone for the crime they
allowed to be committed in 1815.

Louis Philippe showed great wisdom and foresight. Nothing could have
been done with more suitable delicacy than the negotiations which
caused the British Government to consent to give the remains of the
Emperor up to the French. The air of importance and swagger put into
it by Lord Palmerston is supremely farcical, but then the whole
senseless blunder from beginning to end was a farce, which does not
redound to our credit. It is incredible that a nation so thickly
stocked with men of ability in every important department should have
had the misfortune to have her affairs entrusted to Ministers and
officials who were childishly incompetent and ludicrously vindictive.
Men of meagre mental calibre, who hold office under the Crown or
anywhere else, are invariably fussy, pompous, overbearing, and
stifling with conceit. This condition of things was in full swing
during the Napoleonic regime and captivity, and that is the period we
are concerned about. There does not appear to have been a single man
of genius in Europe but himself. The population of France who were
contemporary with him during his meteoric leadership remembered him as
a matchless reformer and an unconquerable warrior. Their devotion and
belief in his great gifts had sunk deeply into their being. A couple
of generations had come into existence from 1815 to 1840, but even to
those who knew him only as a captive, he was as much their Emperor and
their hero and martyr as he was to his contemporaries. The pride of
race, the glory of the Empire and of its great founder, was suckled
into them from the time of birth, and as they grew into manhood and
womanhood they became permeated with a passionate devotion to his
cause. They claimed that his deliverance to the people "he loved so
well" was a right that should not be withheld. The spirit of sullen
determination that he should be given up had taken deep root. They had
arrived at the point when the igniting of a spark would have created
a conflagration. There was to be no more chattering. They meant
business, and were resolved that they would stand no more red-tape
fussy nonsense from either their Government or the Government who kept
a regiment of British soldiers to guard his tomb, lest he should again
disturb the peace of Europe. They let it be known that no more of that
kind of humbug would be tolerated without reprisals, and the hint was
taken. Louis Philippe grasped the situation, and formed an expedition
with his son Prince Joinville as chief, who was accompanied by Baron
Las Cases, member of the Chamber of Deputies; General Count Bertrand;
M. l'Abbé Conquereau, almoner to the expedition; four former servants
of Napoleon--viz., Saint Denis and Noverraz, valets-de-chambre;
Pierron, officer of the kitchen; and Archambaud, butler--Marchand, one
of the executors, and the quarrelsome and disloyal General Gourgaud,
of whom we may have something more to say further on. This same
Gourgaud, who lied so infamously about his Imperial benefactor when he
landed in London, has said that "he could not express what he felt
when he again found himself near that extraordinary being, that giant
of the human race, to whom he had sacrificed all and to whom he owed
all he was." These thoughts, and many more not uttered, would come to
him when he stood beside the sepulchre of the master whom he had so
grievously wronged and who was now and henceforth to be recognised as
having been the "legitimate ruler of his country."

Count Montholon, the most devoted and most constant follower of
Napoleon and his family, was not of the expedition. He was engaged in
helping the nephew of his hero to ascend the throne of his illustrious
uncle, and the effort landed them both in the fortress of Ham. Louis
Philippe and his Ministers were very jealous of anyone sharing in any
part of the glory of having Napoleon brought to the banks of the
Seine. Hence, when King Joseph and Prince Louis Napoleon offered the
arms of the Emperor to the nation, the King refused them, but
prevailed upon General Bertrand to give them to him, that he might
give them to the nation. Napoleon had given the sword he wore at
Austerlitz and his arms to Bertrand when on his deathbed. Prince Louis
could not stand the great captain's name being trumpeted about for
other people's glory. He claimed that it belonged to him. He was the
legitimate heir to all its glory, and this too previous assumption got
him imprisoned in Ham for asserting what he protested was his right.

Meanwhile the _Bellepoule_ goes lumbering along, impeded by calms and
gales, but anchored safely off Jamestown on October 8, 1840. Of course
many formalities had to be carried out, so that the exhumation did not
commence until the 15th at midnight. They came upon the coffin at ten
in the forenoon, opened it, and found the body well preserved. Thereon
everyone was overcome with emotion. After the coffin was deposited
with profound solemnity and the national flag placed over it, the
honours which would have been paid to the Emperor had he been living
were paid to his remains on October 18, 1840.

The expedition set sail, and had only been a few days out when the
captain of a passing vessel called the _Hamburg_ informed Prince
Joinville that war between France and Great Britain was imminent, and
two or three days later this was confirmed by circumstantial
information to him by a Dutch vessel called the _Egmont_. Officers of
the two other vessels of the expedition were ordered aboard the
_Bellepoule_, a council of war held, and a determined resistance
resolved upon. The decks were cleared for action, guns were mounted,
and every form of princely comfort dispensed with. The son of Louis
Philippe added lustre to the name of Bourbon by the heroic decision
that, whatever the fortune of battle might be, he would sink his ship
rather than allow the remains of the Emperor to fall into the hands
of the British again. The resolve was worthy of Napoleon himself.

Every precaution was taken to evade capture, but as the information
proved to be unfounded, the expedition was not interrupted by hostile
cruisers, nor even by contrary winds, and long before it was expected
the historic frigate sailed quietly into the harbour of Cherbourg at
5.0 a.m. on November 30, 1840. She had made the passage from St.
Helena in forty-two days. Then the great and unexampled triumph
commenced.

Europe was a second time in mourning, bowing its head in reverence and
shame. Never have there been such universal tokens of condemnation of
the captivity and the creatures who engineered it, and never such
unequalled joy and homage as were paid to the memory of the great
dead. During the eight days the lying-in-state lasted, more than two
hundred thousand people came to the Invalides daily. Thousands never
got within the coveted grounds, yet they came in increasing numbers
each successive day, notwithstanding the rigour of the biting weather.

It may be said that the whole world was moved with the desire to show
sympathy with this unsurpassed national devotion and worldwide
repentance. His remains are now in the church of the Invalides, where
the daily pilgrimage still goes on. The interest in the victim of the
stupidity of the British Administration never flags. Each day the dead
Emperor is canonised, and his prophetic words that posterity would do
him justice are being amply fulfilled.

The Christian Kings that made saintly war on Napoleon, and combined to
commit an atrocious crime in the name of the founder of our faith,
were dead. God in His mercy had dispensed with their sagacious
guidance in human affairs, and it may be they were paying a lingering
penalty for the diabolical act at the very time their prisoner's ashes
reached the shores of his beloved country and convulsed it with
irrepressible joy. They and many of their accomplices were gone. Four
Popes had reigned and passed on to their last long sleep. The Spanish
nation, which contributed to his downfall, had been smitten with the
plague of chronic revolution. They had been deprived of the great
guiding spirit who alone could administer that wholesome discipline
which was so necessary to keep the turbulent spirits in restraint.
Only Bernadotte, whom Napoleon had put in the way of becoming King of
Norway and Sweden, remained to represent the galaxy of Kings. A few of
the traitor Marshals were left, but Augereau had died soon after the
banishment and Berthier had committed suicide a few day before the
Battle of Waterloo by jumping out a window. Soult, Oudinot, and the
guilty Marmont were in evidence in these days of great national
rejoicing. Davoust, Jourdan, Macdonald, and Masséna had passed behind
the veil. It was the defection of Berthier and Marmont, whom he
regarded as his most trusted and loyal comrades-in-arms, that crushed
the Emperor at the time of the first abdication. It was a cruel stab,
which sunk deep into his soul, and never really healed, but the most
heartless incident in connection with this betrayal was the
appointment of Marmont, the betrayer, by the Emperor Francis to be the
military instructor of Napoleon's son while he was held in captivity
and ignorance at Vienna.

Fouché, whose treason and predatory misdeeds should have had him shot
long before the dawn of disaster to the Empire came, joined the
Ministry of Louis XVIII., whom he had arduously assisted to the
throne, but in 1816 he was included in the decree against the
murderers of Louis XVI., and had to make himself scarce. He went to
Prague, then to Trieste, and died there in 1820.

Talleyrand died at Paris in 1838.

Both men were unscrupulous intriguers, without an atom of moral sense
or loyalty, and both possessed ability, differing in kind, perhaps,
which they used in the accomplishment of their own ends. France can
never overestimate the great evil these two men did to the national
cause. Napoleon's power and penetrating vision kept them in check only
when he could grasp the nettle. Even when absent on his campaigns,
they knew he was kept in close touch with what was going on. It was
not until treason became entangled within treason that their evil
designs had fuller scope and more disastrous results. Bourrienne,
another rascal already referred to in this book, lost his fortune and
his reason in 1830, and died in a lunatic asylum at Caen of apoplexy
in February, 1834. It is a notable fact that nearly the whole of the
prominent figures in the drama of the Empire and its fall had passed
beyond the portal before the great captain's remains were brought back
to France. These individuals are only remembered now as uninspired
small men, benighted in mind, who had wrought ignobly to bring about
the fall of a powerful leader, and to the end of their days were
associated with and encouraged a fiendish persecution of the Emperor
while he lived, and of his family before and after his death.

But the pious care of his tomb by a regiment of British soldiers, paid
for by British taxpayers, from 1821 until the patriotic exhumation in
1840; by stately and solemn permission of the British Government,
excels the comic genius of a gang of plethoric parochial innkeepers.
If it were not so degrading to the national pride of race, we might
regard it as taking rank amongst the drollest incidents of human life.
What a gang of puffy, mildewed creatures were at the head British
affairs in those days! Indeed, they expose the human soul at its
worst, and a curious feature is their ingrained belief in the
integrity of all their doings, which beggars the English vocabulary
describe. How the people tolerated the drain on human life and the
material resources of country is also phenomenal.

Thousands of lives were sacrificed and millions of money squandered,
with the sole object of destroying and humiliating one man, who, had
he been handled discreetly, would have proved greater public asset
than he was. Sir Hudson Lowe would not be known to posterity but for
the guilty part he played in the tragedy. He left St. Helena on July
25, 1821, and was presented on the eve of his departure with an
address from the inhabitants. It has been said that document was
inspired from Plantation House, but that is scarcely credible.
Besides, we are not inclined to discount any credit Lowe and his
friends and accomplices can derive from it. It does not glow with
devotion nor regret at his resigning his command. Indeed, it is
nothing more nor less than a cold, polite way of bidding him farewell.
Forsyth makes much of this, with the object of proving his popularity
with the islanders and the itinerant persons in the service of the
Crown. He only makes his case worse by embarking on so hopeless a
task. As a matter of fact, this extraordinary representative of the
British Government had roused the whole population of St. Helena at
one time and another to a pitch of passion and scorn that puts it
beyond doubt that no genuine regret could have been consistently
expressed by a single soul, except those few composing his staff, who
were as guilty as himself and were always ready to lick his boots for
a grain of favour; and yet it is quite certain, notwithstanding the
heroic fooleries and the care to make Plantation House a sanctuary of
guilty secrecy, there was nothing that transpired, either important or
unimportant, concerning the inhabitants of Longwood, that was not
promptly passed along. Needless to say, these communications relieved
the dull monotony of the exiles, and even Gourgaud was driven to
cynical mockery by the ridiculous character of some of the piteous
stories that filtered through. There never was any difficulty in
verifying the truth of them when it was thought necessary or useful to
do so. On the authority of Lowe's biographer, we are told that this
immortal High Commissioner was presented to his precious sovereign on
November 14, 1821, and was on the point of kissing his hand, but His
Majesty, overwhelmed with the preeminence of the great man who stood
before him, indicated that there was to be no kissing of hands. His
services to his King and country demanded a good shake of the hand and
hearty congratulations from His Christian Majesty. Lowe's arduous and
exemplary task was admitted with tears in the kingly eyes, and so
overcome was His Majesty that he took Lowe's hand again, and shook it
a second time, combining with the handshake a further flow of grateful
thanks and the appointment to a colonelcy of the 93rd Regiment These
compliments were well deserved, coming, as they did from a monarch
whose will he had discharged with such brutal fidelity. But what of
the afterthought, the reaction which began to hum round his ears
almost immediately after this fulsome display of enthusiastic
approbation? A vast public, never in favour of the Government's
vaunted policy of heroism over an unfortunate foe, swung round with a
vengeance. The indignation against the perpetrators of this cruel
assassination had no bounds. It was not confined to Britain. The
civilised world was shocked. The willing tool of the Government got
the worst of it, and the perfidy will cling to his name throughout
eternity.

O'Meara's book, "A Voice from St. Helena; or, Napoleon in Exile,"
published in 1822, sold like wildfire. In vain Bathurst, Castlereagh,
and Liverpool tried to check the flood of public censure that poured
in upon them from everywhere. Sir Hudson Lowe, beside himself with
apprehension, appealed to them for protection, but none was
forthcoming. Indeed, they were too busy searching out some means by
which the blow could be eased off themselves, and with studious
politeness left their accomplice to plan out his defence as best he
could; and the world knows what a sorry job he made of it. His
coadjutors in the great tragedy were not the kind of people to share
any part of the public censure that could be reflected on to their
gaoler. Pretty compliments had been paid to him by the King and some
of his Ministers previous to the realisation of the full force of
public indignation. Bathurst sent him a letter in 1823 reminding him
that his treatment had been beyond that of ordinary governors, that he
was working out an idea of having him recommended to a West Indian
governorship, and that he was not to suppose that this gracious
interest in him was in order to silence the clamour that was being
raised against him. This communication was made in November, and in
December Lowe was told that he was to go to Antigua as Governor. For
special reasons this favour was refused, and two years afterwards he
accepted command of the forces at Ceylon, and was still there when Sir
Walter Scott's exculpation of the British Government appeared in 1828.
Scott was employed for that special purpose.

The ex-Governor searched the pages of this extraordinary work for a
vindication of himself, but never a word that could be construed into
real approval was there. He obtained leave of absence from the
Governor of Ceylon and made his way to England, ostensibly to
vindicate his character. He landed at St. Helena, paid a visit to
Longwood, otherwise known as the "Abode of Darkness" since the
Imperial tenant named it so when he gave O'Meara his benediction on
the occasion of his last parting from him, when he was banished from
the island. Sir Hudson was shocked at seeing the place reverted back
to a worse state than it was previous to the exiles being forced into
it. Then it was a dirty, unwholesome barn, overrun with vermin; now it
was worse than a piggery. The aspect touched a tender chord in this
man who had been the cause of making the Emperor's compulsory sojourn
a sorrowful agony.

Reflections of all that happened during those five memorable years
must have crowded in upon him and racked him with feelings of bitter
remorse for his avoidable part in the cruel drama; and as he stood
upon the spot that had been made famous by England's voluntary
captive, it was not unnatural that he should have been overcome by a
strange and possibly a purifying sadness. All of that which he had
regarded in other days, under different conditions, as unjustifiable
splendour had vanished. The Imperial bedroom and study were now made
use of to accommodate and give shelter to cows, horses, and pigs.
Other agricultural commodities were strewn about everywhere. Nothing
was left that would indicate that it was consecrated to fame and
everlasting pity. The triumph of death came to it only some six years
before. And now Sir Hudson Lowe, we doubt not, filled with pensive
regret, looked down on the nameless tomb of the great captain, guarded
by sentinels with fixed bayonets, ready to thrust them into any
unauthorised intruder into the sacred precincts of the Valley of
Napoleon, or the Geranium Valley, which is also known by the name of
Punch Bowl.

Ah! what thickly gathering memories must have come to him in that
solemn hour on that smitten rock of bitter and brutal vengeance! All
we shall ever know of that melancholy visit as it really affected Lowe
has been told by his biographer. We are left to imagine a good deal,
and therefore must conclude that he would be less than human if he did
not realise that the shadow of retribution was pursuing him. If his
thoughts of himself were otherwise, he was soon to be disillusioned.

He spent three days on the Rock, and had a good reception and
send-off, and ere long made his appearance in London and presented
himself to his quasi-friend, Bathurst, who, with an eye to his own and
his colleagues' interests, discouraged the idea of publishing an
answer to Sir Walter Scott's book. Bathurst, in fact (with unconscious
drollery), advised Lowe to hurry back to Ceylon without delay, lest
meanwhile a vacancy of the governorship should occur and he might lose
his opportunity. He was assured of the Government's appreciation of
him as their most trusted and loyal public servant, while as a matter
of fact it was ludicrously obvious that his presence was quite as
objectionable to them in England as it was to the exiles in St.
Helena. He was fully alive to, and did not underestimate, the amount
of dirty work he had done for them, and very properly expected to be
amply rewarded. It never occurred to him that retribution was
over-shadowing them as well as himself, and that they could not openly
avow their displeasure at the odium he was the cause of bringing on
the Government and on the British name by reason of his having so
rigidly carried out their perfidious regulations. Had public opinion
supported them, their action would have been claimed as a sagacious
policy, but it didn't, so this poor, wretched, tactless, incompetent
tool became almost as much their aversion as the great prisoner
himself. In fact, things went so ill with them that they would have
preferred it had Lowe indulged every whim of his prisoner, granted him
full liberty to roam wherever he liked, recognised him as Emperor, and
even been not too zealous in preventing his escape; and they must have
wished that, in the first instance, they had not thought of St.
Helena, but wisely and generously granted him hospitality in our own
land. This last would have been the best thing that could have
happened for everybody concerned.

Ill-treatment of the most humble prisoner or assassination of the most
exalted can never be popular with the British people. Sir Hudson got a
cold douche when he obtained an interview with the Duke of
Wellington. His Grace in so many words told him that they wished to
have nothing to do with him. He could not recommend him for a post in
the Russian army. He could not hold out hopes of him getting the
governorship of Ceylon should a vacancy occur. He had been hardly
used, but there was no help for it. Parliament would not grant him the
pension he asked for. Lowe replied that he would stand or fall by its
decision, but the Duke snapped him off by stating that Mr. Peel would
never make such a proposal to the House of Commons. No other course
was open to him now but to return to Ceylon. He did not get the
vacancy which occurred in 1830, and returned to England, but never got
a public appointment again.

He presented a wordy memorial in 1843, complaining of having been kept
out of employment for twelve years. The governorship of Ceylon had
been vacant three times, the Ionian Islands four times; he had been
Governor there in 1812. In other parts of the Empire appointments that
he supposed he could have filled were given to others. Poor creature!
He died in 1844, a broken and ruined man.

He lacked every quality that is essential in an administrator, and was
utterly void of humour, imagination, or the capacity to manage men.
His suspicious disposition and lack of judgment made it eminently
impossible for him to fulfil any delicate position, and it was a
monstrous libel on the knowledge of the fitness of things to entrust
him with the governorship of St. Helena.

Lord Teynham made a violent attack on Lowe in the House of Lords in
1833. The Duke of Wellington was bound to defend his satellite, and
did so with some vigour, as the attack was really on him and certain
members of his Government. Lord Teynham replies with equal vigour: "He
had no intention of aspersing the private character of Sir Hudson, but
as regards his conduct while Governor of St. Helena, he maintained,
and always would, that Lowe was cried out upon by all the people of
Europe as a person unfit to be trusted with power." Lord Teynham a few
days afterwards made a sort of apology, no doubt inspired by
interested persons, for personal plus international reasons. They were
high of heart, these dauntless confederates, in the early and middle
stages of the captivity, and, indeed, they bore themselves with
braggart defiance of public opinion, until many strong manifestations
of inevitable trouble encompassed them, and, like all despots, who are
invariably cowards, they lived in mortal terror lest this creature of
theirs should break out into St. Helena leprosy again and impose
further humiliation upon them. Lowe had talked of actions for libel
against Barry O'Meara, and in a whimsical, half-hearted way worried
his employers to give battle, and the law officers of the Crown stated
a case but advised against taking action, and so it was never brought,
though O'Meara kept telling them in so many words to come on. "I am
anxious that you should have the opportunity of defending the charges
I have brought against you. I am anxious too that the public should
know more than I have written." That in effect was the attitude of the
gallant doctor, who was the first to call serious attention to the
goings on in the "Abode of Darkness." Needless to say, no action was
ever taken, and, in face of all the incriminating facts, it was never
intended that any should be taken. Even High Toryism became alarmed at
the consequences. The Duke of Wellington, brave and gallant soldier
though he was, shrank from so impossible an ordeal. The best he could
say of him was, "He was a stupid man," "A bad choice," "and totally
unfit to take charge of Bonaparte."

Wellington may have been a brave and skilful general, but he did not
know how to be generous to an unfortunate enemy who was himself always
kind and considerate in the hour of victory. Wellington's expressions
about Lowe are more than significant, though his conduct towards the
poor cat's-paw is characteristic of a mean, flinty soul. But his
behaviour towards Napoleon would have put any French Jacobin to the
blush, and has belittled him for all time in the eyes of everybody who
has a spark of human feeling in him.

Meneval[22] says that Waterloo was won by the French in the middle of
the day of that fateful battle, but a caprice of fortune--the arrival
of Bulow's corps and Blucher's army, and the absence of Grouchy's
corps--snatched from Napoleon's hands the triumph which was within his
grasp. Wellington had even said to General Hill, who came to take his
orders at the most critical moment of the battle: "I have no orders to
give you. There is nothing left for us but to die here. Our retreat is
even cut off behind us."

Wellington's despairing words have been handed down in various forms.
Notably he is reported to have said, "Oh! for night or Blücher." When
he heard the firing, "That is old Blücher at last!" &c. That he was in
a tight place there is little doubt, and many authorities have stated
that had Grouchy come up according to orders, the allied forces would
have been cut to pieces.

Whether it was "caprice of fortune" or not, Wellington claimed to have
won the battle. "Caprice of fortune" had nothing to do with it. It
was a hard-fought battle. Treachery and desertion at an important
juncture undoubtedly weakened the chances of French success. Meneval
adds that "in no encounter of such importance did the French army
display more heroism and more resolution than at the Battle of
Waterloo." Napoleon at St. Helena attributed his defeat to a variety
of circumstances: to treachery, and to his orders not being carried
out as they should have been by some of his generals, and often
concludes: "It must have been Fate, for I ought to have succeeded." He
was accustomed to say that "One must never ask of Fortune more than
she can grant," and possibly he erred in this.

Though nearly a century has passed since the catastrophe to France,
the cause of it is still controversial. It is certain that the conduct
of Marshal Soult, who was second in command, gave reason for
suspicion. An old corporal told the Emperor that he was to "be assured
that Soult was betraying him." General Vandamme was reported to have
gone over to the enemy. It was also reported to the Emperor by a
dragoon that General Henin was exhorting the soldiers of his corps to
go over to the Allies, and while this was going on the General had
both legs blown away by a cannon shot. Lieutenants, colonels, staff
officers, and, it is said, officers who were bearing despatches
deserted, but it is significant that there is not a single instance
given of the common soldier forsaking his great chief's cause. Lord
Wolseley declares that if Napoleon had been the man he was at
Austerlitz, he would have won the Battle of Waterloo. Wolseley is
supported in this view by many writers.

After Lutzen, Bautzen, and Dresden, Byron said that "bar epilepsy and
the elements, he would back Napoleon against the field." It is well
known the odds he had to battle with, including the vilest treachery
within his own circle.

Marshal Grouchy's conduct will always remain doubtful, even to the
most friendly critics. High treason bubbling up everywhere must have
had a dulling effect on the mind of the great genius, though he
battled with the increasing vigour of it with amazing courage. He saw
the current was running too strong for him to stem unless he
determined to again risk the flow of rivers of blood. This he shrank
from, and abdicated the throne a second time. And then the barbarous,
crimeful story began.

Sir Hudson Lowe's appointment was a national calamity, but he was the
nominee of Wellington's coadjutors, and carried out their wishes with
a criminal exactitude, and they should have stood by him in his dire
distress, instead of which they allowed him to die in poverty, broken
in spirit, and a victim to calumny which they ought to have been manly
enough to share.

Whatever may be said in exculpation of them and him, _they_ were
undoubtedly too seriously involved to enter upon a fight that would
have ended disastrously for all of them, and so, with unusual wisdom,
they never got further than threats.

Sir Hudson was dead something like nine years before Forsyth burst
upon the public with his eccentric vindication of the unamiable and
unfortunate ex-Governor. The zealous biographer's research for
material favourable to his deified hero caused him to ransack prints
that were written by unfriendly authors and vindictive critics of the
great captive. Even the State Papers, the most unreliable of all
documents on this particular subject, were used to prove the goodness
of Sir Hudson, and when quotations were unavailing, the author
proceeded to concoct the most amazing ideas in support of the task he
had set himself to prove.

Writers of anti-Napoleonic history who take in the St. Helena period
are filled with wonder and contempt of the Emperor, who, according to
their refined and accurate judgment of the fitness of things, should
have been eternally grateful to the British Government that they did
not have him shot. Why should he complain in the fretful way he does
of his treatment and his condition? A great man would have shown his
appreciation of all the money that was being spent on the needs for
his existence and for the better security of his person. It ill
becomes him to complain of improper treatment after all the trouble
and commotion he has caused at one time and another. Indeed, a great
man would bear the burden of captivity with equanimity and praise the
men who gave him the opportunity of showing how a great soldier could
carry himself in such unequalled adversity.

This in effect is what these high-minded men of letters say should
have been the attitude of England's guest. He should have received his
treatment, harsh and arbitrary though it was, with Christian
fortitude, and ought to have borne in mind that he was in the custody
of a Christian King and a Christian people. Dr. Max Lenz, who has
written a most interesting and on the whole moderate account of
Napoleon, considering his nationality, drifts into the same
stereotyped closing phraseology of how Napoleon worried and almost
wore out the good Sir Hudson Lowe, who only did his duty, and gave in
to Napoleon whenever he could see his way to do so.

But on the authority of Gourgaud, whom Lord Rosebery would appear to
regard as the most truthful of all the St. Helena chroniclers, this
eulogy is totally unwarranted, for truly there is no reliable
contemporary writer who would have risked his reputation by making so
reckless a statement that could so easily be proved to be a deliberate
fabrication. This is not to say that fabrication was an uncommon
trick, but the Governor's reputation in relation to Napoleon was so
well and widely known, that no person who claimed to have a clear,
balanced judgment could defend his silly, vicious conduct.

Napoleon never altered his opinion of Lowe's perfidy towards him. On
one occasion, in conversation with the truthful Gourgaud, he exclaims,
"Ah! I know the English. You may be sure that the sentinels stationed
round this house have orders from the Governor to kill me. They will
pretend to give me a thrust with a bayonet by mistake some day."
Gourgaud reports him as saying on another occasion, "Hudson Lowe is a
Sicilian grafted on a Prussian; they must have chosen him to make me
die under his charge by inches. It would have been more generous to
have shot me at once."

It would be absurd to affirm that Napoleon said these things without
sound foundation, and although, when his personal vanity and abnormal
jealousy was aroused by some fancied injury to himself, Gourgaud
would resort to the most remarkable fibbing, what he relates as to his
master's opinion of the Governor may be relied on, being, as it is,
confirmed in a more complete form by O'Meara, Las Cases, Montholon,
Bertrand, Antommarchi, and each of the Commissioners. The former
sacrificed everything rather than be a party to what he termed
treatment that was an "outrage on decency."

These are only a few of the men who bear witness against Sir Hudson
being termed "good"; and I may add one other to the galaxy, poor Dr.
Stokoe, who shrank from having the abominable indignity of inquisitor
and spy tacked on to his high office and distinguished profession. He
refused, as O'Meara had done, to sacrifice his manhood or his sense of
honour. Tricked into a false position by Lowe and the virtuous (?) Sir
Robert Plampin, Dr. Stokoe, who had only paid five professional visits
to Longwood, was deprived of his position and all its advantages,
after twenty-five years' service in the Navy, because he refused to
become a sneak and a rascal at the bidding of these two unspeakable
Government officials, the one disgracing the service of his country in
the capacity of Governor and the other the name of a sailor and an
Admiral.

In 1819 Stokoe resigned his position on the _Conqueror_, and sailed
for England. Lowe sent a report addressed to the Lords of the
Admiralty by the same vessel, and Stokoe had scarcely landed when he
was bundled back to St. Helena. He rejoined the _Conqueror_ under the
impression that his conduct had been approved, but was disillusioned
by being forthwith put under arrest. A bogus court-martial was
instituted in the interests of Lowe, and Plampin and these packed
scallywags sentenced him to dismissal from the Navy. The charges
against Stokoe were that he failed to report himself to Plampin at the
Briars after a visit to Longwood, and that in his report he had
designated the patient as the Emperor instead of General Bonaparte.
This is a sample of the "good old times" that a certain species of
creature delights to show forth his wisdom in talking about. I believe
the immortal John Ruskin indulged occasionally in reminding a
twentieth-century world of these days that were so blissful.

Forsyth, the self-reputed impartial historian, neglects to insert in
his work in defence of Lowe's conduct the following amazing charges,
which shall be fully given. They have been published before, but they
are so unique, so unmanly, and so perfidious, I think they ought to be
given to the public again, so that the amiable reader may know the
depth of infamy to which England had sunk in the early part of the
nineteenth century. Here is the whole story on which Dr. Stokoe was
condemned. His bulletin about Napoleon's health asserted that "The
more alarming symptom is that which was experienced in the night of
the 16th instant, a recurrence of which may soon prove fatal,
particularly if medical attendance is not at hand." The Governor and
the worthy Admiral were incensed at such unheard-of arrogance in
making a report not in accordance with their wishes and that of the
Government and the oligarchy, so the indictment of Stokoe, based on
this bulletin, proceeds: "Intending thereby, contrary to the character
and duty of a British officer, to create a false impression or belief
that General Bonaparte was in imminent or considerable danger, and
that no medical assistance was at hand, he, the said Mr. John Stokoe,
not having witnessed any such symptom, and knowing that the state of
the patient was so little urgent that he was at Longwood four hours
before he was admitted to see him, and further, knowing that Dr.
Verling was at hand, ready to attend if required in any such emergency
or considerable danger. He had knowingly and willingly designated
General Bonaparte in the said bulletin in a manner different from that
in which he was designated in the Act of Parliament for the better
custody of his person, and contrary to the practice of His Majesty's
Government, of the Lieutenant-General Governor of the island, and of
the said Rear Admiral, and he had done so at the especial instance and
request of the said General Bonaparte or his attendants, though he,
Mr. John Stokoe, well knew that the mode of designation was a point in
dispute between the said General Bonaparte and Lieutenant-General Sir
Hudson Lowe and the British Government, and that by acceding to the
wish of the said General Bonaparte he, the said Mr. John Stokoe, was
acting in opposition to the wish and practice of his own superior
officers, and to the respect which he owed them under the general
printed instructions." The very idea of any grown man being expected
to have "respect" for superior officers who had no more sense of
justice, dignity, or self-respect than to produce such a blatant
document for the supreme purpose of covering up a sample of mingled
folly and rascality, and ruining a poor man who was at their
ill-conditioned mercy!

Indeed, we need no further justification for Napoleon's statements as
to what the official intention was towards him. Without a doubt Dr.
Max Lenz is too reckless in his generosity towards Lowe, for his
actions from beginning to end of his career prove that he was a
dreadful creature. The thought of him and of those incarnate spiders
who kept spinning their web, and for six mortal years disgracing
humanity, is in truth enough to unsettle one's reason. Vainly they had
ransacked creation in search of persons in authority to support them
in the plea of justification, but never a soul came forth to share
what is now regarded as ingrained criminality.

Perhaps the virulent treatment of Byron ranks with the meanest and
most impotent actions of the militant oligarchists because of his
shocking (?) sympathy with England's enemy. The fierce though
exquisite weaver of rhymes, who had been the idol of the nation and
the drawing-room, was sought after by the highest and most cultured in
the land. Byron had fallen a victim to public displeasure partly
because he gave way to excesses that shocked the orthodoxy of a
capricious public. He had reached a pinnacle of fame such as no man of
his years had ever attained, and suddenly without warning he fell, a
victim to unparalleled vituperation. His faults, if the meagre
accounts that have been handed down are true, were great, but many of
them were merely human. His marriage was not compatible, and his love
entanglements embarrassing. His temper and habits were very similar to
those of other geniuses, and great allowances should be made for
personalities whose mental arrangements may be such as to nullify
normal control.

It is all very well to say that these men should be compelled to
adhere to a conventional law because ordinary mortals are expected to
do so, but a man like Byron was not ordinary. In his particular line
he was a great force with a brain that took spasmodic twists. It is
absurd to expect that a being whose genius produced "Childe Harold"
and "Manfred" could be fashioned into living a quite commonplace
domestic life. Miss Milbanke, who married him, and the public who
first blessed and then cursed and made him an outcast, were not
faultless. Had they been possessed of the superiority they piously
assumed, they would have seen how impossible it was for this eccentric
man of stormy passions to be controlled and overridden by
conventionality.

It is possible the serene critic may take exception to this form of
reasoning and produce examples of genius, such as Wordsworth, who
lived a strictly pious life, never offending any moral law by a
hairbreadth; but Wordsworth was not made like Byron; he had not the
personality of the poor wayward cripple who at one time had brought
the world to his feet, neither had Wordsworth to fight against such
wild hereditary complications as Byron. Wordsworth never caught the
public imagination, while Byron had the power of inflaming it. But,
alas! neither his magnetic force nor his haughty spirit could stem the
whirlwind of hatred, rage, and calumny that took possession of the
virtuous and capricious public. The story of cruelty to his wife grew
in its enormity, his reported liaisons multiplied beyond all human
reason. The bleached, white hearts of the oligarchal party had been
lashed into fury by his withering ridicule and charge of hypocrisy,
but the climax came like a tornado when the poet's sense of fair play
caused him to satirise the Prince Regent and eulogise the Emperor
Napoleon with unique pathos and passion.

This was high treason! He had at last put himself beyond the mercy of
the chosen people. They had twaddled and stormed about his immorality,
but his praise of Napoleon sent them into diabolic frenzy. He was
proclaimed an outlaw and hounded out of the country. The beautiful and
rich Lady Jersey, a leader of society, convinced that he was
misunderstood and was being treated with unreasonable severity,
defended him with all the strength of her resolute character, but
malignity had sunk too deep even for her power and influence to avert
the disaster. So intense was the feeling engendered against him that
it became dangerous for him to drive out without risking an exhibition
of virulent hostility. Had he merely abused the Prince Regent, it is
improbable that any exception would have been taken to it; but to
praise and show compassion for the Man of the French Revolution, who
had fought for a new condition of things which threatened the fabric
on which their order held its dominating and despotic sway, was an
enormity they were persuaded even God in heaven could not tolerate;
why then, should _they_ be expected to do so?--they were only human.
Both public and private resentment ran amok, and thus it was that the
immortal poet's belauding of the immortal Emperor became linked to the
ignominy of being accused of gross immorality. The reaction against
this eccentric being was a fanaticism. There was neither sense nor
reason in it, and as he said, "If what they say of me be true, then I
am not fit for England; but if it be false, then England is not fit
for me"; and with this thought thrilling in his mind he left his
native land, never more to see it.

Caught without a doubt by the spirit of the great man whose eulogy had
given such offence in certain quarters, he embarked on the crusade of
emancipating the Greeks, was stricken with fever, and died at
Missolonghi.

Adhering to human tradition, the nation which had so recently cast
him out became afflicted with grief. Men and women cast reflection on
themselves for their misguided judgment of him, and he became a god in
memory again, his wife being a singular exception in the great
demonstration of national penitence. The incomparable poet had sinned
grievously, if rumour may be relied upon, but he was made to suffer
out of all proportion to his sinning. His faults were only different
from other men's. It may be said quite truly that one of his defects
was in having been born a genius, and allowing himself to be idolised
by a public whose opinions and friendships were shifty. Second, he
erred in disregarding and satirising puritanical conventionalisms.
Thirdly, and probably the most provocative of all, was his defiance of
the fiery patriotism of some of the ruling classes in lauding him whom
they stigmatised as the enemy of the human race and lampooning the
precious Prince Regent. His extraordinary talents did not shield him,
any more than they did the hero of fifty pitched battles whose
greatness he had extolled.

FOOTNOTES:

[22] Vol. iii. pp. 451-2.




CHAPTER V

MESDAMES DE STAËL AND DE REMUSAT


It is a strange human frailty that cannot stand for long the purgatory
of seeing the elevation of a great public benefactor. The less
competent the critics, the more merciless they are in their
declamation and intrigue. They hint at faults, and if this is too
ineffective, they invent them. Men in prominent public positions
rarely escape the vituperation of the professional scandalmonger.
These creatures exist everywhere. Their vanity is only equal to their
incompetency in all matters that count. Their capacity consists in
knowing the kind of diversion a certain class of people relish, and
the more exalted their prey is, and the larger the reputation he may
have for living a blameless life, the more persistent their
whisperings, significant nods, and winkings become. They know, and
they could tell, a thing or two which would paralyse belief. They
could show how correct they have been in consistently proclaiming
that so and so was a very much overestimated man, and never ought to
have been put into such a high position; "and besides, I don't want to
say all I know, but his depravity! Well, there, I could, if I would,
open some people's eyes, but I don't want to do anybody any harm," and
so on. These condescending ulcerous-minded defamers congratulate
themselves on their goodness of heart in withholding from the public
gaze their nasty imaginary accusations, which are merely the thoughts
of a conceited and putrid mind.

Many and many a poor man, without knowing it, is the innocent victim
of unfounded accusations, hatched and circulated in that subtle,
insinuating way so familiar to the sexless calumniator. The genuine
female traducer is an awful scourge, especially if she be political.
No male can equal her in refined aggressive cunning. She can circulate
a filthy libel by writing a virtuous letter, and never a flaw will
appear to trip her into responsibility for it. And her sardonic smile
is an inarticulate revelation of all she wishes to convey. It is more
than a mere oration. It emits the impression of a bite.

Madame de Staël showed an aptitude for this ignoble aggressiveness
towards Napoleon after she had exhausted every form of strategy to
allure him into a flirtation with her. She was frequently a sort of
magnificent horse-marine who bounced herself into the presence of
prominent individuals, thrusting her venomed points on those who had
been flattered into listening; at other times she was feline in her
methods. Talleyrand and Fouché made use of this latter phase of her
character to serve their own ends. She had a talent which was used for
mischief, but her vulgarity and egotism were quite deplorable. She
would have risked the torments of Hades if she could but have embarked
upon a liaison with Napoleon. She plied him with letters well seasoned
with passion, but all to no purpose. She came to see him at the Rue
Chantereine, and was sent away. She invited him to balls to which he
never went. But she had opportunities given her which were used in
forcing herself upon his attention. At one of these she held him for
two hours, and imagining she had made a great impression, she asked
him abruptly, "Who was the most superior woman in antiquity, and who
is so at the present day?" Napoleon had had enough of her love-making
chatter, so snapped out in his quick practical way, "She who has borne
the most children." The lady's discomfiture may be imagined. It was a
deadly thrust.

This very same lady, who had tempted the ruler of France without
success, made violent love to Benjamin Constant, who was no friend of
Napoleon's at the time. Her letters to him were passionate, and
Napoleon told Gourgaud at St. Helena that she even threatened to kill
her son if Benjamin would do what she wished him to. This fussy female
intriguer suggested to Napoleon that if he would give her two million
francs she would write anything he wished. She was immediately packed
about her business.

Madame de Staël was not an important personage at all, but she had the
power of attracting people to her who, like herself, had grievances to
be discussed, and we may without doubt conclude that these gatherings
were composed of well-selected intriguers whom she had fixed in her
feline eye. Her great grievance was the First Consul's, and
subsequently the Emperor's, coldness towards her. He estimated her at
her true value. He treated her with the courtesy due to a French
citizen, but nothing more, and when she misbehaved in his presence, he
rebuked her with due consideration for her sex. When she caused people
to talk to him of her, he merely shrugged his shoulders as was his
habit, and smiled disdainfully; though occasionally he could not
resist the temptation of ridiculing her comic pretensions. But this
human curiosity had power for mischief.

She was not only an intriguer, but, subsequent to her failure in
love-making, she developed a literary tyrannicide. She condescended to
patronise the head of the State by causing it to be conveyed to him
that her hostility would cease under certain well-defined conditions.
When he became the real Governor of France, Napoleon put a stop to
religious persecution, and put the churches into use. He
re-established religion, and by doing so brought under his influence
one hundred million Catholics. This wise policy created strong
opposition from a section of the clergy. Madame de Staël and the
friends whom she had whipped up, many of them being the principal
generals, were mischievously opposed to it, and brought pressure to
bear so that he might be induced to establish the Protestant religion.
Napoleon ignored them all. He knew he was on the right ground, and
that the nation as a whole was with him. France was essentially a
Roman Catholic country, and the head of it gave back to her people
what was regarded as the true faith. The exile frequently referred to
these matters in conversation with one or other of his followers.
Napoleon's disdain for Madame de Staël was well merited, and he never
saw or heard of her that it did not set his nerves on edge. She was
the "death on man" sort of female who persisted in being, either
directly or indirectly, his political adviser. Dr. Max Lenz accuses
the Emperor of developing a despotism that caused him to drive a woman
like Madame de Staël from land to land, "and trampled under foot every
manifestation of independence."

Really, the good doctor lays himself open to the charge of not making
himself better informed of the doings of this sinister person, who was
steeped in treason, and who refused to accept the laws of life with
proper submission. It is merely farcical to assume that Madame de
Staël was kept well under discipline because of a whimsical despotism
on the part of the man who had fixed a settled government on France,
and who was kept well informed of the attempts of the Baroness and her
anarchist associates to undermine and destroy the Constitution it had
cost France and its ruler so much to reconstruct and consolidate. "Let
her be judged as a man," said Napoleon, and in truth he was right in
deciding in this way, as her whole attitude aped the masculine. He was
right, too, in showing how wholly objectionable she had made herself
to him. He had been led to adopt a sort of "For God's sake, what does
she want?" idea of her during the early years of his rule, though he
never at any time showed weakness in his actual dealings with her. He
disliked women who asserted themselves as men, and he disliked the
amorous offspring of Necker more because he loathed women who threw
themselves into the arms of men; she had surfeited him with her
persistent attempts at making love to him. In one of her letters to
him she says it was evidently an egregious error, an entire
misunderstanding of human nature, that the quiet and timid Josephine
had bound up her fate with that of a tempestuous temper like his. She
and Napoleon seemed born for each other, and it appeared as if nature
had only gifted her with so enthusiastic a disposition in order to
enable her to admire such a hero as he was. Napoleon in his fury tore
this precious letter up and exclaimed, "This manufacturer of
sentiments dares to compare herself with Josephine!"

The letters were not answered, though this had no deterrent effect on
Madame de Staël. She continued to pour out in profusion adoration. He
was "a god who had descended on earth." She addressed him as such, and
his callous reception of her madness drove her into despair and
vindictiveness which brought salutary punishment to herself. Her
weapons of wit and sarcasm availed nothing. He looked upon her as a
sort of gifted lunatic that had got the idea of seducing him into her
head. She became so mischievous that he bundled her out of France.
"As long as I live," said he, "she shall not return." He advised that
she should live in Berlin, Vienna, Milan, or London, the latter for
preference. There she would have full scope for her genius in
producing pamphlets. "Oh yes," says the "god who had descended on
earth"; "she has talent, much talent, in fact far too much, but it is
offensive and revolutionary." This poetess-politician, who said brave
things and wrote amazing diatribes against her "god," was in truth one
of the most servile creatures on earth. She pleaded to be allowed to
come back to her native land, and pledged herself to a life of
retirement, but the great man's faith in his own sound judgment was
not to be shaken.

"Her promises are all very fine," he said, "but I know what they mean.
Why should she be so anxious to be in the immediate reach of tyranny?"

Like all eccentric women who desire to play the part of man, she made
her appearance before Napoleon in the most absurd, tasteless attire.
This woman of genius and folly lacked the wisdom of gauging the taste
of Bonaparte, whom she desired to captivate with her sluttish
appearance and whirling words.

This man of method and order, who had a keen eye for grace or beauty
in its varied phases, was always pronounced in his opinion that women
should dress simply but with faultless taste. It improves good looks,
and, if need be, it covers up defects; but in any case it is the
bounden duty of women to dress with some regard to conventional
custom. It gives them much greater influence than they would otherwise
have. Most women know the importance of this trick, and do it, and
they are amply rewarded for their good sense.

Madame de Staël did quite the opposite. She appeared before the Man of
Destiny in a shocking garb, and he regarded it as a piece of
impertinence. It stirred up his prejudice openly against her, in spite
of his indifferent attempts to conceal it, but her egotism was so
gigantic, she actually believed she was making great strides towards
curing his callousness towards her. This woman has been used
elaborately by anti-Napoleonic writers to prove that he was an inhuman
despot and she a high-minded, virtuous Frenchwoman, and a genius in
the art of government. They quote her as a great authority. Her
knowledge of his evil deeds and mistakes of administration is set
forth as being flawless. They bemoan his treatment of this amiable
female, and in the midst of their ecstasy of compassion and wrath they
hand down to posterity a record of unheard-of woes. There is little
doubt Napoleon's remark that "the Neckers were an odd lot, always
comforting themselves in mutual admiration," is well merited. The
daughter utilised the name of the father with lavish persistence. Her
ambition and impudence were boundless, and were the cause of Napoleon
bestowing some wholesome discipline upon her, which, like a true
heroine, she resented, and sent forth from her exile streams of
relentless wailing, adorned by a fluency of venom that would have put
the most militant suffragette in our time to the blush.

But suddenly her hysteria subsided, and after a brief repose she
switched off the truculent side and sought the pity of the man whose
life she had set herself to make one long ache if he did not yield to
her arrogant pretensions. She had written in a perpetual scream of his
iniquities, and was thrown over by her former associates, who saw
clearly enough that no real good could be accomplished by whining
about cruelty when stern flawless justice only existed. They
recognised that she was a personality, but her antics puzzled them,
and well they might. She bewailed her isolation with a throbbing
heart, and after committing indiscretions that Robespierre would have
sent her head flying for, she was suddenly bereaved of her neglected
husband. This event gave Benjamin Constant a better chance, but the
Baroness aimed at higher game. She was held in the grip of a delusion
that she had it in her power to hypnotise the First Consul and cause
him to become her lover. She had an uncontrollable idolatry for this
august person, whom she hoped to win over by writing for the
consumption of his enemies the many reasons for her aversion to him.
Without a doubt the woman was madly in love with the object of her
supposed aversion, and was driven to frenzy by his obvious distaste
for her.

In 1811 she secretly married a young officer called M. de Rocca, who
had fallen desperately in love with her. He was amiable and brilliant;
became an officer of Hussars in the French Army; did valiant deeds
amongst the hills in Andalusia in 1809; and was awarded the Cross of
the Legion of Honour. Subsequently he was shot down by guerillas,
badly wounded in the thigh, foot, and chest; had a romantic
deliverance; was hidden in a chapel by a young lady, and nursed into
consciousness and convalescence by loving care, which enabled him to
reach Madrid, and ultimately Geneva, where, in the radiance of
youthful infatuation, he rode with reckless energy down a risky steep
part of the city, so that he might pass the window of the lady, who
was more than old enough to be his mother, and in a few months was to
be made his wife. A child was born to them in 1812, and in order to
save its legitimacy, she acknowledged the marriage to a few, but it
was not generally known until after her death that Rocca was her
lawful husband. Conscious, and sensitive no doubt, that it was not
quite natural for old women to marry young men, she prudently had the
event kept secret. The young husband did not only possess tender
affection for her, but he combined chivalrous ambitions which made the
romance additionally attractive.

Be it remembered that Benjamin Constant was a former lover of Madame
de Staël. The young bridegroom, following a natural instinct, had a
great dislike to Benjamin, and took an opportunity of really small
provocation to challenge him to a duel, which, owing to wiser
counsels, was never fought. There does not seem to have been very much
to fight a duel about. Constant had a quarrel with his father in which
he involved Madame de Staël, and Rocca resented it like a gallant
youthful husband, who was at that stage when it is thought desirable
to shoot or otherwise kill somebody, in order to show the extent of
his devotion to his enchantress. Rocca had hoped to die (so he said)
before her, but fate willed that he should linger on and suffer for
six months more. Madame de Staël slept peacefully into her last long
sleep on July 14, 1817.

Her career was chequered and restless. She had influence, which she
used oft-times recklessly, and led less gifted people than herself
into committing needless errors. She wrote and spoke with a wit and
sarcasm which charmed all but those at whom it was directed. Her
bitter rebuffs and severe trials were mainly of her own making. For
the most part she wrote with superficial feeling and without real
soul. During the Napoleonic regime, time was a creeping horror to her,
but she found pleasure in the thought that it was a torture to her
suffering heart. George Eliot knew and used her extraordinary power;
Madame de Staël wasted hers. Nevertheless she had many friends who
loved her society. Wellington was brought under her influence. Byron,
who shrank from her at first, says, "She was the best creature in the
world." She had been at some pains to try to bring Lord and Lady Byron
together. She was capable of impressing people with her charm, but
magnetic influence she had none when living, and has left none behind.

Rocca exclaimed, when he heard that she had passed to the shadows,
"What crown could replace that which I have lost!" And the distracted
Benjamin Constant, filled with remorse, reproached himself for some
undefined suffering he had caused her, and did penance all night
through in the death-chamber of his divine Juliet.

This crazy woman seems to have been capricious in everything. She made
and broke liaisons with amazing rapidity while undergoing a compulsory
sojourn at Coppet. She formed there an attachment for the son of a
person named M. Baranti, which very nearly cheated Rocca from becoming
her husband, and the faithless Benjamin Constant from being,
erroneously perhaps, associated with her name as the author of the
manuscript of St. Helen, and she the notoriety of writing "Ten Years
of Exile," which was published after her death.

The youthful Baranti found no scope for his talents at Coppet, and
being offered an inducement to go to the metropolis so that he might
have larger opportunities of advancement, he abandoned the famous
authoress, and she, in loving despair, was seized with the impulse to
immortalise his severance by attempting suicide, and thereby ending
her passion for liaisons, virulence, and fame. The attempt, presumably
feeble, left her long years of mischievous mania for attack on the
supposed author of all her woes. She readily found amongst his enemies
(and thus the enemies of France) those who yearned with her in the
hope she freely and openly expressed that her native land should
suffer defeats, and in this her desire was fully acquiesced in by the
combination of hysterical and purblind Kings, aided by a coterie of
irreconcilables, who welcomed the destruction of their fatherland in
order that the man who had made it the glory and the envy of the world
should be driven from it. Many of these creatures were members of the
same Senate who, a few years previously, sent Napoleon a fervent
address couched in grovelling language, imploring him to cement the
hold his personality had on the national life. The following is what
they say, and what they ask him to do:--"You have brought us out of
the chaos of the past, you have made us bless the benefits of the
present. Great man, complete your work, and make it as immortal as
your glory!"

The authors of this whining appeal are worthy to be associated with
the traitorous daughter of Jacques Necker, Minister of Finance to
Louis XVI., and of those apoplectic monarchs who sought her guilty and
inflammatory aid.

Then we come to another female celebrity, though less notable than
Madame de Staël, who is regarded by the traducers of Napoleon as a
historian because she wrote in her memoirs that which they wished the
world to think of him, and because they flattered themselves that it
exculpated them from the charge of injustice and mere hatred. Madame
de Staël's book, "Considérations sur la Révolution Française," made
its appearance. Its violent characteristics inflamed Charles de
Remusat to urge his mother to enter into competition with this work,
the result being the production of Madame de Remusat's memoirs, edited
by her grandson, M. Paul de Remusat. Charles (her son) had reproached
her for having destroyed memoirs she had written previously,[23] but
lurking in her mind was the thought of all the favours she and her
family had received, and her correspondence, teeming with adulation
for the man whom she was now induced to declaim against. The knowledge
that she was about to expose her perfidy "worried" her, and she wrote
to Charles thus:--"If it should happen that some day my son were to
publish all this, what would people think of me?" and the son,
obviously influenced by the mother's fears, delayed until the fall of
the Second Empire the publication of one of the most unreliable and
barefaced calumnies ever produced against a great benefactor.

In her memoirs she says that she and her husband excited general envy
by the high position the First Consul had given them. She was first
Lady in Waiting, and subsequently Lady of the Household, her husband
being "attached to Napoleon's household." She says that she was witty
and of a refined mind, and though she was less "good-looking" than her
companions, she had the advantage of being able to "charm his mind,"
and she was almost the only woman with whom he condescended to
converse. She relates residing in the camp at Boulogne "and having
breakfast and dinner daily with Bonaparte." In the evenings they used
to "discuss philosophy, literature, and art, or listen to the First
Consul relating about the years of his youth and early achievements."

No doubt the young Madame de Remusat became assured in the same way as
Madame de Staël that she would one day be raised to heights of glory
unequalled in history, and the disappointment embittered her. She
admits that she "suffered on account of blighted hopes and deceived
affections and the failure of her calculations." Moreover, Josephine
had an eye on the lady whose husband in evil times sought her
influence with Napoleon to stretch out a helping hand and save them
from the poverty by which they were beset. Napoleon's big heart
spontaneously responded to the appeal of his fascinating spouse, the
result being that favours were heaped upon M. de Remusat and his wife
from time to time, and Josephine's goodness was repaid by seeing
Madame in feline fashion purring at her Imperial master's affections,
and on the authority of Madame de Remusat she "becomes cold and
jealous." Finding that Napoleon did not appreciate her love-making,
she, like Madame de Staël under similar circumstances, took to
intriguing, which got her quickly into disgrace. She is anxious to
make her fall as light as possible in the public eye, so relates that
he told her that "his desire was to make her a great lady, but he
could not be expected to do this unless she showed devotion." But in
spite of the wife's defection, as is always Napoleon's way, he does
not visit her sins on the husband, but raises him to the important
posts of Grand Master of the Robes, High Chamberlain, and then
Superintendent of Theatres, and in addition gave him large sums to
keep up his status, and notwithstanding Josephine's cause for "cold
jealousy," Madame de Remusat was generously kept in her service after
Marie Louise had become Empress. M. de Remusat remained in the
Emperor's service until the fall of the Empire, and then went over to
Louis XVIII. Both of these sycophants were content to accept the
favours of the Imperial couple and eat their bread and cringe at their
feet while they plotted with the plotters for the Emperor's downfall.

Unhappily for the veracity and probity of Madame Remusat as a history
writer, her letters containing notes jotted down day by day as they
occurred have been published, and the memoirs put side by side with
these throbbings of the heart reveal an incomparable baseness that
makes one wonder at the reckless, blind partisanship which induced her
descendants to give the memoirs to an intelligent public.

In the memoirs she says:--"Nothing is so base as his soul; it is
closed against all generous impulses, and possesses no true grandeur.
I noticed that he always failed to understand and to admire a noble
action;" and again she goes on to say that "In war he foresaw the
means of calling away our attention from the reflections which, sooner
or later, his government could not fail to suggest to us, and he
reserved it in order to dazzle, or at least to enforce silence on us.
Bonaparte felt that he would be infallibly lost the day when his
enforced inactivity enabled us to think both of him and of ourselves."
"What a relief whenever the Emperor went away! His absence always
seemed to bring solace. People breathed more freely."

Now this would have been all very well. It was the stereotyped
phraseology of Napoleon's avowed enemies. He knew it, and viewed it
with contempt and derision, and until Madame de Remusat and her
snuffling, cringing husband became swollen with over-indulgence and
smitten with wounded pride, they regarded language such as now appears
in her memoirs as mere froth. She practically says that she held the
same views in 1818 as she did from 1802 to 1808, but when she wrote
this she no doubt relied on her correspondence being kept snugly
private or destroyed; but it has been published, and here are some
amazing extracts from it:--

"I often think, my dear, of that Empire, the territory of which
extends to Antwerp! Consider what a man he must be who can rule it
single-handed, and what few instances history offers like him!"[24]
"Whilst he creates, so to speak, new nations in his progress, people
must be struck, from one end of Europe to the other, by the remarkably
prosperous state of France. Her Navy, formed in two years, after a
ruinous revolution, and assuming at last a menacing attitude after so
long, excited the scoffs of a shortsighted enemy."

"When again I reflect on the peace we enjoy, our wise and _moderate
liberty_, which is quite sufficient for me, the glory my country is
covered with, the pomp and even the magnificence surrounding us, and
in which I delight, because it is proof that success has crowned our
efforts; when, in short, I consider that all this prosperity is the
work of _one man_, I am filled with admiration and gratitude."[25]

"What I write here, my dear, is, of course, strictly between
ourselves, for many people would be anxious to ascribe to these
feelings some other cause than that which really inspires them;
besides, it seems to me that we are less eager to express the praises
that come from the heart than those that proceed from the mind."[26]

"Thank goodness, I am at last happy and contented!! What a pleasure it
is to see the Emperor again, and how much that pleasure will be felt
here! This splendid campaign, this glorious peace, this prompt return,
all is really marvellous."[27]

"Like woman, the French are rather impatient and exacting; it is true
that the Emperor has spoilt us in the campaign; indeed, no lover was
ever more anxious to gratify the wishes of his mistress than His
Majesty to meet our desires. You demand a prompt march? Very well, the
army that was at Boulogne will find itself, three weeks later, in
Germany. You ask for the capture of a town? Here is the surrender of
Ulm. You are not satisfied!! You are craving for more victories? Here
they are: Here is Vienna which you wanted, and also a pitched battle,
in order that no kind of success may be wanting. Add to these a whole
series of noble and generous deeds, of words full of grandeur and
kindness, and always to the purpose, so much so that our hearts share
also that glory, and can join it to all the national pride it arouses
in us."[28]

"I used to cry bitterly at that time, for I felt so affected that, had
I met the Emperor at the moment, I should, I believe, have thrown my
arms round his neck, although I should, afterwards, have been
compelled to fall on my knees and ask pardon for my conduct."[29]

So overcome with boundless admiration is she that her soul yearns for
the gift of being able to do him full justice by writing a history, a
panegyric, a book, in fact, that would show him to be immeasurably
above all men living or dead. She fears that people cannot see his
nobility and greatness as she does. She is bewildered and acclaims him
a god. Here is another outburst of passionate devotion:--

"That undaunted courage, carried even to rashness, and which was
always crowned with success, that calm assurance in the midst of
danger, with that wise foresight and that prompt resolution, arouse
always new feelings of admiration which it seems can never be
surpassed."[30]

It will be seen her letters shape well for the fulfilment of the great
ambition of her life, _i.e._, to picture him as he was. The writing is
good, the description picturesque, and I believe the impartial mind
will also regard it as accurate. She believes "that even persons who
are hardest to please must be compelled to admit that he is a most
amiable sovereign." She is smitten with the feeling of gratitude, and
says it is so sweet that she really regards it as another favour. She
wishes her husband could "often secure some of those comforting smiles
from the master," and tells him he is "no fool to be fond of those
smiles," and promises to congratulate him if he secures some.

She asks God to watch over him (such will always be her prayer) when
he is fighting and conquering. Her heart is grieved when he is at a
great distance from them. She eulogises his great qualities to her
son, and advises him "to study all that she was able to tell him of
the Emperor, and write about it when he grew up," and the boy
exclaimed, "Mother, what you have told me sounds like one of
Plutarch's lives!"

But there comes a time when Napoleon sees that the price he has to pay
for adulation is too high, for, like most over-pampered people, Madame
de Remusat seems to have got the idea of equality badly into her head.
She became waspish, exacting, claiming more than her share of
emoluments, seeking for attentions which her "amiable sovereign" saw
in the fitness of things it would be folly to bestow. She mistook
wholesome justice for tyranny, defied discipline, and not only
connived at treason, but prayed for the extinction of him against whom
it was directed. Disaster overtook him, he fell, and in her delirium
of malice and joy she bethought it an opportune moment to write what
are known as her memoirs, refuting therein all her former eulogies and
opinions so vividly told in the "Letters of Madame de Remusat." Now
that adversity so terrible overshadows the matchless hero of the
letters, she throws every scruple aside, and warms to her task in
writing unstinted, gross, and manifest libels. Contrast with the
"letters" these quotations from the memoirs. She avows that "nothing
is so base as his soul. It is closed against all generous impulses; he
never could admire a noble action." "He possesses an innate depravity
of nature, and has a special taste for evil." "His absence brought
solace, and made people breathe freely." "He is devoid of every kind
of personal courage, and generous impulses are foreign to him." "He
put a feeling of restraint into everybody that approached him." "He
was feared everywhere." "He delighted to excite fear." "He did not
like to make people comfortable." "He was afraid of the least
familiarity." This latter grievance, combined of course with the rest,
is quite significant, and we are justified in assuming that the Lady
in Waiting has been taking liberties, and has been deservedly snubbed
by His Imperial Majesty. It is perhaps necessary to pause here and
remind the reader that on the authority of her son, and subsequently
of her grandson, these memoirs were written entirely "without malice,"
and the sole object of writing them at all was that "the truth should
be told."

Very well then. Are we to believe the letters or the memoirs, because
in the former she over and over again declares that "his comely
manners were irresistible"; but in the memoirs with audacious
bitterness she affirms "not only is he ill-mannered but brutal."

Such effrontery is beyond criticism. She finds it "impossible to
depict the disinterested loyalty with which she longed for the King's
return," and describes the hero of her letters as a ruthless destroyer
of all worth, and being brought so low, she is straitened by the
demands of "truth" and "grows quite disheartened."

It will be observed that it is always truth which is the abiding
motive, it matters not whether it is letters or memoirs. She avows it
is "truth" she writes. "The love of truth," says the editor in his
preface, "gave her courage to persevere in her task for more than two
years." That is, it took her more than two years to write the "truths"
contained in the memoirs disavowing the "truths" so vehemently given
in the letters; the former book pregnant with the bitterness of a
writer without heart and principle, and with political and personal
motives running through its pages like a canker, while the latter,
radiant in luxuriant adulation, gapes at her memory with retributive
justice.

The renegade son served the renegade and ungrateful mother ill when he
advised her to write what is a barefaced recantation of her former
statements. Napoleon has said that "People are rarely drawn to you by
favours conferred upon them." He had many examples of this truth, but
none more striking than the above. Madame de Remusat and her husband
were raised from poverty to affluence by Napoleon, and the memory of
all the favours that were showered upon them by the man she declares
she loved should have kept them from hate and disloyalty, and
forbidden the writing of such unworthy vituperations against him.

FOOTNOTES:

[23] Madame de Remusat burnt her original memoirs during the Hundred
Days, doubtless because she had in her mind the probability that
Napoleon might firmly establish himself on the throne, and the
discovery of anti-Napoleon MSS. might have acted seriously against
herself and family being appointed to important positions. Moreover,
the greater danger of getting herself into trouble was constantly in
her mind.

[24] "Letters of Madame de Remusat," vol. i. p. 195.

[25] "Letters of Madame de Remusat," vol. i. p, 196.

[26] Ibid., vol. i. p. 160.

[27] Ibid., vol. ii. p. 2.

[28] "Letters of Madame de Remusat," vol. i. p. 190.

[29] Ibid., vol. i. p. 393.

[30] "Letters of Madame de Remusat," vol. ii. p. 45.




CHAPTER VI

JOSEPHINE


One of the phenomena of human affairs is the part destined for
Josephine, daughter of M. Joseph Gaspard Tascher de la Pagerie,
sugar-planter at Martinique, and friend of the Marquis de Beauharnais,
whose son Alexandre was fated to marry her when she was but sixteen
years of age. The marriage took place on December 13, 1779, at
Noisy-le-Grand. The pompous young bridegroom speaks of his young bride
in appreciative terms in a letter to his father, and in order that his
parent may not be disappointed as to her beauty, he explains that in
this respect she may not be up to his expectations. He regards the
pleasure of being with her as very sweet, and forms the resolution of
putting her through a course of education, as this had been grievously
neglected.

The father of Alexandre is said to have been charmed with the
sweetness of Josephine's character, but then he was not her husband,
and it soon became apparent that the union was ill-assorted, and so it
came to pass that marital relations were entirely broken off after the
birth of Hortense, subsequently dressmaker's apprentice, Queen of
Holland, and mother of Napoleon III. Alexandre had gone to Martinique,
and it was there the news of his daughter's birth came to him. He knew
before leaving France that his wife was enceinte, and expressed his
pleasure to her. The Marquis Beauharnais had assured his friend,
Joseph Tascher de la Pagerie, that his "son was worthy of being his
son-in-law, and that Nature had endowed him with fine and noble
qualities." These virtues seem to have been dissolved with remarkable
rapidity after his marriage, as it was well known before his departure
on the voyage to Martinique that he had been diligently unfaithful to
the poor "uneducated" little Creole girl who really thought she loved
him. From all accounts, and I have read many, Alexandre Beauharnais
was an ill-conditioned cruel prig. This excellent son with "fine and
noble qualities" had not been long at Martinique before he associated
himself with a lady of questionable virtue, who was much older than
he. This person's dislike to Josephine caused her to pour into his
willing ears and receptive mind scandalous stories of his childwife's
love intrigues before she left her native island. This gave Alexandre
a fine opportunity of writing a letter to her, disclaiming the
paternity of Hortense, and accusing her of intrigues with "an officer
in the Martinique regiment, and another man who sailed in a ship
called the _Cæsar_." He declares he knows the contents of her letters
to her lovers, and "swears by the Heaven which enlightens him that the
child is another's, and that strange blood flows in its veins," and
"it shall never know his shame"; and so the virtuous Alexandre goes
rambling on, until he comes to the slashing finish in the good old
style that persons similarly situated adopt to those whom they have
grievously injured. He soars between elegant politeness and old-time
aristocratic ferocity: "Goodbye, madam, this is the last letter you
will receive from your desperate and unhappy husband." Then comes the
inevitable postscript, with an avenging bite embodying the spirit of
murder. He is to be in France soon if his health does not break down
under the load she has cast upon him. He warns her to be out of the
house on his arrival, because, if she is not, "she will find in him a
tyrant." The whole letter is indicative of a low-down unworthy scamp,
a mere collection of transparent verbiage, intended as a means of
ridding himself of a woman he had nothing in common with, and a cover
to his own unfaithfulness.

But whatever may be the interpretation of his motives, on his coming
back to Paris he kept his word. Conjugal relations were not renewed.
His family were indignant at the treatment Josephine was receiving at
the hands of this pompous libertine, and he assures her that of "the
two, she is not the one to be most pitied."

M. Masson declares that there was never a reconciliation, and that
they lived apart, but met in society, and spoke to one another, mainly
about their children's education. Josephine caused him to withdraw
before her lawyer the gross and unfounded charges he had made against
her and to agree to a satisfactory allowance.

Alexandre, finding soldiering distasteful, embarked upon a political
career as an aristocrat Liberal. His rise to position was swift, and
after the death of Mirabeau he followed him as President of the
Assembly. Before his fall came, he was appointed Commander-in-Chief of
the Army of the Rhine, and at the head of sixty thousand men failed to
relieve Mayence and resigned his command.

His Liberal pretensions did not prevent him being included amongst the
proscribed. He was made captive, accused of attempting to escape,
condemned to death and guillotined. Josephine's device of reassuring
the Revolutionists of her conversion to Republicanism by apprenticing
Hortense to a dressmaker and Eugene to a carpenter did not avail. She
was suspected and sent to Les Carmes, where frequent conversations
took place between her philosophic and abandoned husband and herself,
mainly concerning their children's education, and had not the reaction
against the regime of blood brought about the fall of Robespierre, she
would assuredly have shared the fate of Alexandre; and had the cry of
"A bas le tyrant" been heard a few days earlier, Beauharnais would
have escaped too, and cheated Josephine of becoming Empress of the
French and Queen of Italy. As it was, some of the very same people who
but a short time before had harangued the mob to "Behold the friend of
the people, the great defender of liberty," switched their murderous
vengeance on to their late idol, and ere many hours the widow
Beauharnais was set free. The thought of the appalling end and the
brevity of time that seemed left to her impressed Josephine with all
its ghastly horror. She had shrieked and wept herself into a deathlike
illness. The doctor predicted that she could not survive more than a
week, and for this reason she escaped being brought before the
Tribunal.

A wondrous Providence this, which, with frantic speed, broke the
power of a hideous monster, and thereby saved the woman who was to
enter upon a new era, and to be borne swiftly on to share the glory of
an unequalled Empire.

M. Masson's theory is that Josephine's womanly grief had much to do
with awakening the sentiment of Paris, and breaking the Reign of
Terror; and, indeed, there is some reason in this view, for tears are
not only useful as an indication of sorrow, suffering, or conquest,
but an effective means of gaining sympathy. Josephine was an adept at
trying the efficacy of weeping, and if M. Masson has gauged the
influence of melting the heart of the spirit of massacre aright, then
Josephine was gifted with, and made the instrument of, a divine
instinct that should claim attention and reverence for all time, even
though her subsequent misdeeds occasionally incline us to avert the
eye.

But it is likely that the sombre satire of the pure and beautiful
Jeanne-Marie Philipon touched the heart of Paris more than the
shedding of tears and shrieking lamentations. The wife of Roland, led
to the scaffold, faced with the stern certainty of death, asks with
calm dignity for pen, ink, and paper, "so that she might write the
strange thoughts that were rising in her." The request was not
granted. Then looking at the statue of Liberty, she exclaimed with
fierce dignity, "O Liberty! What things are done in thy name!" and
these throbbing magical words reverberated through France with
wonderful effect. The guilty populace, shuddering with superstitious
awe at the revolting horrors committed in the name of Liberty,
Equality, Fraternity, or Death, flashed a thought on the scaffold of
the stainless victim, then on the loathsome prisons that were filled
with suspects, rich and poor, all over France. Then, in time, the
dooming to death of some of the prominent polecats who committed
murder in the name of liberty and fraternity brought Robespierreism to
an end. Robespierre himself was cursed on the scaffold by a woman who
sent him to "hell with the curses of all wives and mothers," and
Samson did the rest. And it may be logically assumed that the parting
words of Jeanne-Marie Philipon at the foot of the scaffold inoculated
the public mind, not only with the horrors that were being committed
in the name of Liberty, but what things were cantishly being said in
its name. I like to think of the stainless lady's inspired phrase
rather than Josephine's tears as being in some degree responsible for
the end of the Reign of Terror.

After her release, Josephine's shattered health was a cause of
anxiety, but this was soon re-established, and she quickly put her
emotions aside and plunged into gaiety with an alacrity that makes
one wonder whether she had more than spasmodic regret at the awful
doom that had come to her husband, who left a somewhat penitent letter
behind, wherein he speaks of his brotherly affection for her, bids her
"goodbye," exhorts her "to be the consoler of those whom she knows he
loves," and "by her care to prolong his life in their hearts."
"Goodbye," says he; "for the last time in my life I press you and my
children to my breast."

These posthumous reflections and instructions did not impress the
widow with any apparent interest. The picture recorded of their tragic
married life is not sweet. Neither lived up to the great essentials
which assure happiness.

Before her imprisonment the gossip-mongers were whispering round
rumours of violent flirtations, and even when she was in Les Carmes
they said that she and her fellow-prisoner, General Hoche, were too
familiar, and coupled the name of the ex-Count with that of a young
lady suspect. The truth of such accusations seems highly improbable,
and they may well be regarded as malicious slander. It is not unlikely
that Josephine was on friendly terms with the General before they met
in Les Carmes, but that it was more than friendship is a mere
hypothesis. Her relation with that unspeakable libertine Barras was
especially unfortunate. No doubt she was driven to extremities after
her release. Her fate was as hard as it is possible to conceive. She
was without the proper means of sustenance for herself and her family,
and appears to have lost no time in really becoming the chosen friend
of a creature who took advantage of her and then betrayed her to the
world. It is he who tells in his memoirs the sad and sickening story
of his connection with Josephine, and gloats over the opportunity it
gives him of repeating conversations he had with General Hoche as to
her love entanglements. He declares that she was "the patient mistress
of Hoche in the sight of the whole world."

The editor of the memoirs to some extent tones down the brutal
statements of the author. But a man who publicly exposes the relations
he has had with a fascinating woman who gives herself to him may not
be readily believed when he deliberately involves his own friends in
the liaisons. There is no question of what his part was in the
degradation of Josephine, but the luxury of dragging other names into
the moral quagmire, in order, it may be, to justify his own dealings
and to further debase her, could only be undertaken by a person soaked
with the venom of indecency, and, in this case, had no other object
than that of gratifying his malice against her husband. His
assumption of moral superiority is quite entertaining when he, the
seducer and corrupter, speaks of the unfortunate woman's
"libertinism," and calls her in his bitterness "a licentious Creole."

This representative of the Republic one and indivisible, embodying
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, at the end of the eighteenth
century, will forever disgrace the judgment and moral condition of the
France which knew Charlemagne.

"Citizen" Barras repudiates the story of Eugene asking the
Commander-in-Chief for his beheaded father's sword. He claims that
Napoleon himself invented the story. But it is highly improbable that
Napoleon would risk at the beginning of his career having his veracity
doubted. In itself, the incident is a small matter. The only real
interest attached to it is the touching pathos of the small boy asking
for and receiving the sword, which, of course, gave his mother the
opportunity of calling to thank the General for his goodness, and in
this way it has historic importance, as Napoleon and Josephine were
married four months after, _i.e._, March 9, 1796, her age being
thirty-two and his twenty-five.

The quibble is that of a small man searching in every pond for mud to
throw at his master's memory. Napoleon gave the facts to Barry
O'Meara at St. Helena, and they also appear in the "Memorial de St.
Helena." Had the introduction of these two remarkable people not come
about in this way, it would have been brought about in some other.
But, whether the story has any interest further than the writer has
stated or not, it is safer to believe Napoleon than Barras, who
boasted after the success of Napoleon in Italy that it was he who had
perceived in him a genius and urged the Directory to appoint him
Commander-in-Chief. Carnot is indignant at this impudent falsehood,
and declares that it was he and not Barras who nominated and urged the
appointment of Bonaparte. Certainly Carnot's story is the accepted
one. It matters little who the selected spokesman of the inspiration
was. France needed a man, and he was found.

On the eve of this obscure and neglected young soldier's departure to
spread the blessings of Fraternity in Italy, the voluptuous Barras was
commissioned by him to announce to the Directory his marriage with
Citizeness Tascher Beauharnais. Then began a period of devouring love
and war such as the world has never beheld. In the midst of strife and
strenuous responsibility, this young missionary, representing the
solacing new doctrine of symbolic brotherhood, neither shirks nor
forgets the responsibilities of his instructions to lay Italy at his
feet.

Nor does he for a moment forget his wedded obligations. He is in love,
nay, desperately in love. The image of Josephine is constantly soaring
around him, and he pours forth ebullitions of frantic devotion at the
cannon's mouth, in the Canton, anywhere, and everywhere. He is as rich
in phrase as he is in courage and resource. He finds time to scrawl a
few burning words of passion which indicate that his soul is at once
aflame with thoughts of her and the grim military task he has
undertaken.

He leads to battle flashing with the spirit of assured victory and
inspired by the belief that it has been written that he is the chosen
force which is to regenerate misgoverned nationalities. Order out of
chaos; moderation in the hour of victory; no interference with any
one's religious belief; stern discipline--these were some of the
behests of this young Titan, whose startling and victorious campaigns
were amazing an astonished world and causing significant apprehension
in the minds of the Directory, who decided to check the swift process
of ascendancy by giving instructions that he was to give over the
command of Lombardy to General Kellerman, and go south to commence
raiding other parts of Italy, including Rome and Naples.

To this he promptly sends a vigorous though respectful reply, which
is intended to convey that they are to have done with such impractical
foolery. It is a world-shaking fight he has on hand. The honour and
military glory of France are at stake. It is not for mere theoretic
upholders of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity to meddle with such
things. He says to them, "Kellerman is an excellent General, and could
lead an army as well as I," but then he goes on to plead the
superiority of his army, always modestly leaving himself outside the
praise he takes care to bestow on others, and adds with fervour, "The
command must remain in the hands of one man." "I believe," says he,
"that one bad General is better than two good ones." "The art of war,
like the art of government, is a matter of careful handling." Then
with delicious frankness he flashes out: "I cannot allow myself to
have my feet entangled." "A free hand or resignation." That is his
ultimatum. This thunderbolt of bewildering audacity sent a flutter
through the sanctuary of Fraternity, and in hot haste a message of
confidence, coupled with an order that he shall be left in supreme
control, was dispatched by a vigilant energetic courier. The Directory
were made to see that a great power had arisen which would hold
dominion over them.

And yet this young and terrible conqueror, who judiciously dominated
every will in the process of his achievements, he who defiantly told
his masters that he would not suffer his "feet to be entangled" by
their amateurish absurdities, was entangled for a time by a rapturous
infatuation and allowed a giddy woman with seductive habits and a
silken voice to cajole, dominate, ridicule, and ignore him. His
imploring theatrical appeals to her to come to him are piteously
pathetic. The rational parts of his letters are without example in
neat concise phrase, and portray a man possessed of great human
virtues. It is when the love-storm attacks him that he flies into
extravagances, such as when he writes that "she has more than robbed
him of his soul," and that "she is devouring his blood." He writes to
his brother Joseph that he loves her to madness, and to Carnot even he
does the same thing. Perhaps the most extravagant outburst of all is
when he begs that she is to let him see some of her faults, and to be
less kind, gracious, and beautiful. "Your tears drive away my reason
and scorch my blood." "You set my poor heart ablaze." He complains of
her letters being "cold as friendship," and adds, "But oh! how I am
infatuated."

Josephine has never been addressed in such consuming language before.
She is flattered, and her little head becomes swollen with the idea
of greatness. The ridiculous endearments amuse her. She must not
allow such opportunities of creating envy to pass, so she shows the
letters as they come along to her most intimate friends, amongst whom
Barras still continues high on the list, and with an air of dizzy
pride she playfully says Bonaparte is "very droll." And really,
Josephine was right. Some of his letters are "droll," but they are
genuine, and this highly honoured woman, launched into prominence and
position, and reaping the laurels of his work disgraced her womanhood
by showing his letters, and doubly disgraced herself by ridiculing
them.

It was not until Murat, Junot, and Joseph Bonaparte were sent by
Napoleon to Paris from the seat of war with important dispatches, and
also with letters to her, that it dawned upon her that she had carried
her unwillingness to join her husband far enough. Doubtless the
gallant commissioners had given her a hint that further refusal meant
inevitable reprisals. It is quite feasible that the rollicking Junot,
who was always prepared to give his soul for Bonaparte, was frank
enough to intimate that there was a risk of driving her husband into
the arms of some covetous female, many of whom were angling in the
hope of capturing the brilliant and rising General, and that already
he was showing signs of jealousy and suspicion of her good faith.

News of fresh victories was coming in, fêtes were held in honour of
them, crowds of people congregated, and at the sight of her leaning on
the arm of Junot after leaving the Luxembourg they shout, "Long live
General Bonaparte! Long live Citizeness Bonaparte!" She is enthralled
by the adulation which reflected glory showers upon her. Her spirit
rebels against leaving all its pleasures and pomps. But she has
exhausted every canon of truth in excuses, even that of being
pregnant, and finds herself inevitably driven to abandon the seat of
joy and easy morals and set off for Milan with her dog "Fortune" and
Eugene, her son. Tears flow copiously at the thought of her wrongs,
but these are dried up with the compensating opportunity of commencing
a flirtation with Murat, who is soon to become the husband of Caroline
Bonaparte.

The popular opinion was that it was Junot who was the object of her
designs, but the future Duchess d'Abrantès scornfully repudiates this,
and declares that Junot's devotion to his beloved General forbade him
reciprocating his wife's indiscretion, so he made love to Louise
Compoint, Josephine's waiting-maid, instead, the result being that
Louise was requested to leave the service of the offended Josephine.

On arrival at Milan, Napoleon was absent, so the honour of receiving
her was deputed to the Milanese Due de Serbelloni, who took her in
regal style to stay at his palace. On Napoleon meeting his wife for
the first time since their marriage his joy was unbounded. Marmont,
who betrayed him and France in later days, says that "at that time he
lived only for his wife, and never had purer, truer, or more exclusive
love taken possession of the heart of a man, and that a man of so
superior an order."

Napoleon had still much work to do, and many hard battles to fight, so
that they were frequently separated during the remaining months before
he had freed Italy and beaten the Austrians. On no occasion when he
was absent from her did he neglect sending letters on fire with the
assurance of unabated love, but they frequently indicate not only a
conviction of her indifference, but a suspicion that it is more, which
is promptly nullified by further explosions such as "kisses as burning
as my heart and as pure as you." Poor Napoleon! he is soon to be
disillusioned. She is the same old Josephine in Italy as she was in
Paris. He pleads with her to send him letters, for she must "know how
dear they are to him." "I do not live," he tells her, "when I am far
from you." "My life's happiness is in the society of my sweet
Josephine." Again he writes, "A thousand kisses as fiery as my soul,
as chaste as yourself! I have just summoned the courier; he tells me
that he crossed over to your house, and that you told him you had no
commands. Fie! Naughty, undutiful, cruel, tyrannous, jolly little
monster. You laugh at my threats, at my infatuation; ah! you well know
that if I could shut you up in my heart I would put you in prison
there!" This playful, gloomy, humorous, and tender quotation does not
emanate from the heart of a monster, but from an unequalled lovesick
soul confiding the innermost secrets of his mind to an inglorious
helpmate, whose follies during the first years of their married life
were a cruel humiliation to him.

She courted ruin with cool dissolute persistency. She deceived, lied,
and wept with the felicity of a fanatic. She sought and found
happiness at the cost of not only self-respect, but honour and virtue.
She was not a shrew, but a born coquette, without morals rather than
immoral, and, withal, a superb enigmatic who would have made the
Founder of our faith shed tears of sorrow. It is by distorting facts
that her eulogists make it appear that she was a loving and devoted
wife during the early years of her second marriage.

On her arrival at Milan from Paris she had presented to her many army
officers, amongst whom was a young Hussar, the friend and assistant
General of Leclerc, who became the husband of Paulette, the giddy
little schoolgirl sister of Napoleon. Josephine, at this period of her
history was famous for her aversion to chastity, so that it is not
altogether inexplicable that she should have sought the distinction of
making Hippolyte Charles her lover. He was fascinating, witty, dressed
with splendour, and was quite up to her standard of moral quality. The
friendship grew into intimacy, so that he became a frequent visitor to
Josephine during Napoleon's absence.

It was scarcely likely that this love affair, which was assuming
dramatic proportions, could be long kept from the knowledge of
Napoleon. The mocking critics of the camp and the stern moralists
amongst the civilians vied with each other in babbling commentary of
the growing dilapidated reputation that the Commander-in-Chief's wife
was precipitately acquiring. Wherever she is or goes, so long as
Bonaparte is at a safe distance, Charles is hanging on to her skirts.
Some writers have said that on the occasion of her visit to Genoa to
attend the fêtes given by the Republic he was in attendance, and it is
most likely that this clumsy act of strategy on the part of Josephine
brought about the climax. Unquestionably her movements were being
watched by members of the Bonaparte family. They not unnaturally felt
that the scandal was exposing them as well as their brother to
ridicule.

But, as frequently happens, great events are brought about in the most
unexpected way. The vivacious Paulette had fallen in love with Freron,
a man of forty, holding a high position in the Government service.
Napoleon was strongly averse to the match, so decided that she should
become the wife of General Leclerc, aged twenty-five, who was said to
be Napoleon's double. Hippolyte Charles had been the friend of
Leclerc, and Paulette resolutely set her mind on inflicting salutary
punishment on her sister-in-law for the wrong she was doing her
brother. She quickly managed to wriggle confidences out of Leclerc
concerning the Josephine-Charles connection, then peached. Charles was
banished from the army, and, on the authority of Madame Leclerc, we
learn that Josephine "nearly died of grief." The avenging little vixen
had put a big spoke in the wheel, although there were other powerful
agencies that had no small part in bringing light to the aching and
devout heart.

From this dates the fall of Josephine's complete magical divinity over
him, and a new era begins. We hear no more of "shutting her up in his
heart," or of sending her "kisses as fiery as his soul and as chaste
as herself"; though to the end his letters are studiously kind and
even reverential.

Meanwhile, the intrepid General, having brought the campaign of Italy
and Austria to a successful end, came back to Paris, received the
plaudits of a grateful and adoring nation, and the doubtful favour of
a jealous Directory. They banqueted him at the Luxembourg with every
outward sign of satisfaction. Talleyrand and Barras made eloquent and
flattering speeches of his accomplishments and talents, and the latter
folded him in his arms as a concluding token of affection. Josephine
revelled in the gaiety and honours that encompassed them, while her
husband sought the consolation of privacy.

After a short though not inactive stay in Paris, he was given command
of the Army of the East, and sailed from Toulon on May 19, 1798, in
the _Orient_ (which came to a tragic end at Aboukir), and Josephine
waved her handkerchief, soaked in tears, as the fleet passed from
view.

Her doings do not interest us until she again came across the young
ex-officer Charles in Paris, some time in 1799, and, at his request no
doubt, she introduced him to a firm of army contractors, and for the
ostensible purpose of showing his gratitude, he called at Malmaison to
thank her. This act of grace could have been done with greater
propriety by letter, though there may have been reasons for not
putting in writing anything that might associate the wife of the
Commander-in-Chief with having dealings with army contractors, even to
the extent of interesting herself on behalf of a man who was dismissed
the service for carrying on an intrigue with his General's wife, who
happened to be Josephine herself.

But putting aside the unpardonable breach of faith in allowing a
renewal of the intimacy with such a man, the fact of a lady in her
position being mixed up with a firm of this character might have
seriously compromised Napoleon, and for this reason alone her act was
highly reprehensible. Charles was not slow to avail himself of
Josephine's hospitality, and became a regular visitor. This further
lapse of loyalty to the absent husband was transmitted to Egypt, and
very naturally determined him on the necessity of taking proceedings
to get a divorce, but although Napoleon had ceased, so far as he
could, to be the dreadful simpleton lover of other days, he failed to
gauge the grip the old fascination had of him.

He believed the avenging spirit that guided him to definite
conclusions was real, and with the thought of "divorce, public and
sensational divorce," buzzing in his head, combined with another of
State policy lurking in the background, he set sail for France, and
created wild excitement in domestic and Directorial circles by
unexpectedly landing at Fréjus.

He then made his way, as quickly as the enthusiasm of the cheering
populace allowed him, towards his house in the Rue de la Victoire; but
the penitent (?) Josephine was not there. She had gone to meet him,
taken the wrong road, and missed throwing herself into his arms as was
her intention. He asks excitedly, "Is she ill?" and the significant
wink of her enemies threw him into paroxysms of grief. His friend
Collot calls and reminds him that the hope of the nation is centred on
him. His wrath is proof that he is still in love, and Collot fears
that the magical effect of her appearance will bring forgiveness.
"Never," shouts the irate husband. "How little you know me, Collot.
Rather than abase myself, I would tear my heart out and throw it on
the fire."

But Collot knew him better than he chose to admit he knew himself, and
we shall see that his heart was not thrown "on the fire," but given
again to the erring Josephine, who was travelling back post-haste from
Lyons. She arrived broken in spirit and wearied unto death. Napoleon,
obviously not quite sure of his determination to refuse her
admittance, had bolted the door, and was stamping about the room with
a glare in his piercing eye as though he were planning an onslaught
that was to be furiously contested. Josephine arrives, knocks at the
door, implores him to open it, and addresses him as "Mon ami, _mon bon
ami_." There is no response, and in her frenzy of despair she weeps
and beats her head against the door, and piteously pleads for the
opportunity of justifying herself. But still he holds out. And then
her unfailing resource suggests that Hortense and Eugene, whom he
loves so well, shall be brought as the medium of compassion to their
distracted mother. They come, and the bolts are drawn. Their
stepfather admits them to his presence. They kneel at his feet and
appeal to him to continue to be the good, kind father he has ever
been, and to receive their mother back to his affections.

It is all over now with Napoleon. He is never proof against tears, so
sends for their mother, who falls into his arms and faints. She is
tenderly laid into his bed, saved from her woeful fate, and when
Lucien Bonaparte arrived by command next morning, to take instructions
for the impending divorce proceedings, that horror had disappeared
from their outlook, and both Josephine and Napoleon were wrapped in a
drowsy joy.

Josephine, gifted with irresistible subtlety and skilful in the art
and use of hysteria, had rekindled the embers of infatuation that was
never more to be totally quenched. In all likelihood she would give a
different explanation of her conduct to Napoleon than that given him
by Lucien and other members of his family. It is not an undue stretch
of imagination to conclude that she assured him that her heart was
shared with none other, though the assertion may be regarded as a
daring fabrication. She did not gauge calmly, but she gauged well, the
supreme power she had over the man who had so abjectly shown her such
inflammable love. She knew, too, of his vanity, and hit him
caressingly on the spot. The cry of "he and none other," combined with
a beseeching wail that he should open his heart to an affectionate and
faithful love, was more likely to conquer than any admission of wrong.
Could she forget the oft-repeated declaration that his ruling
principle was that he would have no divided affection? It must be all
or none. The hypothesis is therefore that she played on his vanity,
and not on his confidence or judgment, the sequel being the complete
surrender of Napoleon.

Josephine, whether from fear of the penalty or the purity of her
motives, never again allowed herself to be placed in the same
hazardous position. She had been cured of unfaithfulness, and promised
that Hippolyte Charles should never be allowed to lead her into such
a scrape again. He was put out of her life, and was never more heard
of. He was seen but once more by Napoleon, and the sight of his evil
face nearly caused the Emperor the humiliation of a collapse.

Josephine's matrimonial transgressions, whatever they may have been,
were condoned with exuberant suddenness, and Napoleon rushed into
domestic tranquillity. The zealot of freedom forthwith concentrated
his wondrous talents with aggressive righteousness on the task of
destroying a decadence that was bearing France to her doom. Josephine
was enrolled as patron of deliverance from anarchy, and having all the
essential attributes which make for success in such an enterprise, she
daily filled her salon with men and women who had influence to aid her
husband and his friends in upsetting the Government. She had developed
into an attractive, graceful hostess, and was endowed with the knack
of cajoling which disarmed opposition and enthused supporters, and
unquestionably she played the part given to her with unmeasured
success, and Napoleon did the rest.

The _coup d'état_ had been dexterously planned, which enabled him to
bring about a bloodless overthrow. Josephine was deployed to win over
her friend Gohier, the President of the Directory. She invited him
and his wife to breakfast on the 17th Brumaire. Gohier wonders why
they should be asked so early as six in the morning. He thinks he
smells a rat, excuses himself, but sends his wife, who is ushered into
the presence of a houseful of officers of the National Guard, and the
hostess does not lose time in conveying to Gohier's former cook the
meaning of their being there. Bonaparte, be it known, is determined to
form a Government, and it grieves her that so good a friend as the
President of Directors should have been so thoughtless of his own
interests as not to accompany his wife on such an auspicious occasion.

"The inevitable is at hand, Madame Gohier," says Josephine in effect,
"and at this very moment Barras is being pressed to resign, and if he
disobeys his fate is sealed." Madame Gohier is aghast, stiffens her
back, and with as much dignity as her nature will allow, she bows,
withdraws, and hastens to the side of her husband, to convey all she
has seen and heard.

Meanwhile, events travel swiftly under the direction of the intrepid
General. He walks into the Council of Ancients and jerks out with
vivid flashes of oratory the object of his visit. The members see at a
glance its meaning. They become inarticulate with rage begotten of
fear. He thunders out, "I am here to demand a Republic founded on
true liberty," and swears that he will have it. In the Hall of the
Five Hundred he is met with cries of "Down with the Cromwell!" "No
Dictator!" "Outlaw him!" and so forth.

But these are mere futile belchings of exasperated gasbags, on whom he
darts a look of withering scorn, which they discern means trouble if
they do not conduct themselves with decorum. His guards are close at
hand, and he is daring enough to make use of them if there is any
resistance to that which he has undertaken. To the Directory, through
their envoy Dottot, he says in substance, and not without vigour, "Do
not sicken me with your imbecile arguments and lame, impotent
conclusions. What I want to know is: What have you done with this
France which I left you so glorious? I left you peace; I return and
find war! I left you victories; I find reverses! I left you the
millions of Italy; I find despoiling laws and misery throughout!" But
ere this terrific indictment had been thrust at them, they had become
conscious that their dissolute and chaotic regime was at an end, and
that Napoleon had become the ruler of the France he had left
prosperous and found tottering to pieces on his return from Egypt.

Josephine had played her part in the drama with surprising shrewdness
and marked devotion to her husband's cause. He was rewarded by being
made First Consul, and she by becoming the first lady of the Republic
and the leader of society. They quickly availed themselves of the
distinction by removing from their humble habitation, first to the
Petit Luxembourg and then to the Tuileries, where she occupied the
bedroom of the famous Marie Antoinette and the apartments formerly
inhabited by Louis, which were immediately above. They gathered round
them men of merit representing science, art, literature, law,
politics, military notables, and fashion. They set up, in fact, a
little Court, but lived a quiet, unostentatious life, so far as it was
diplomatic and permissive.

It was not until the advent of the Empire that gaiety and grandeur
began, excelling and putting into the shade every other Court in
Europe. Josephine wallowed in it, but Napoleon adopted and encouraged
it more from policy than taste. In fact, when in a whimsical mood, he
often said it bored him. That is not to say that he did not adapt
himself to what he believed was a necessity. An Oriental potentate
could not have carried the dignity of splendour more naturally than
he. Whilst in his secret heart he loathed its pomp and extravagance,
fixed in his memory was the impression of poverty and suffering that
he had passed through in his boyhood days, when, in the streets of
Paris, he was on the verge of starvation and at one time obliged to
sell his meagre possession of books to find food for the mouth of his
brother Louis, and went without himself. To his intimate friends he
was accustomed to relate the story, not in a whining manner, but with
a vividness and pathos that brought tears to the eyes of every one who
heard it.

The wilful and false conception of Napoleon's character that existed
amongst thousands of those who were contemporary with him, and the
persistent efforts to defame him, even now, by a section of the
world's community, are extraordinary, when so many convincing proofs
are available which show him to have been the reverse of what they say
he was. As brother, son, husband, father, or friend, his love,
devotion, and loyalty were matchless. He was never once known to
upbraid Josephine after the condonement of her infidelities. He paid
her colossal debts, not without protest, but rather than make her
unhappy he excused her extravagance and overlooked the capricious,
peevish way in which she gave her domestic confidences concerning
himself to her friends, who were oft-times his enemies, and so
forgiving was he of faults which were so glaring to others, that he
frequently caressed when he should have chastised.

Josephine played upon his purblindness where she was concerned in
most scandalous ways. She had no money sense, and combined with this
defect she had no moral sense in money matters. Her debts were
chronic, and periodically so enlarged that she adopted the most
monstrous methods to reduce them before the balances were put before
Napoleon by herself, or an inkling conveyed to him by a wily creditor;
but these subterfuges only added to her spending resources. It is said
that she actually did not shrink from receiving a thousand francs per
day from Fouché as the price of information given him of what was
going on in the Tuileries, and also that she received half a million
francs from Flachats, the predatory army contractors.

It is unthinkable that Napoleon, whose rigid uprightness in matters of
money has never been disputed, could have known that his wife was
involved in such shocking financial dealings, or he would have taken
salutary measures to put a definite end to them. He knew that he was
surrounded by men who were inveterate thieves, and when their
defalcations were brought to his knowledge, they were either cashiered
or made to disgorge. Bourrienne, Talleyrand, and Fouché, for instance.
But there is no evidence to show that he ever suspected Josephine at
any time, and let us hope that the Fouché-Flachats transactions were
either exaggerated or mere invention, though it is hard to believe
that there was no truth in the accusation.

Napoleon was no sooner made Consul than there began to be hints and
innuendoes of an heir, and as Josephine knew that she could not bear
him one, she was thrown into fits of despondency lest he should be
driven by designing persons in and outside his family to listen to a
scheme of divorce and remarriage. The alternative was to nominate one
of his brothers as his heir. Joseph and Lucien were impossible, so he
fixed his mind on Louis. But the plot to assassinate him on the way to
the opera, together with the Duc d'Enghien, Cadoudal, Moreau, and
Pichegru affair, brought the change from Life Consul to Emperor more
quickly. The marriage of Louis to Hortense eased Josephine's mind. She
had in view the fact that an heir might be born to them, and the
possibility of the inheritance going to him. In due course Napoleon
Charles was born, and an attempt made by Napoleon to carry his idea
out. Louis was at first in favour of it, but Joseph and Lucien had
envious conceptions of what the brothers' rights were. Louis became
impressed with their views, and ultimately decided against Napoleon's
wishes. The Senate passed a resolution in favour of "direct natural,
legitimate, and adoptive descendants of Napoleon Bonaparte, and on the
direct, natural, legitimate descendants of Joseph and Louis." The
plebiscite supported the resolution of the Senate, and Joseph and
Louis had the mortification of seeing that to them the succession was
barred.

This decision was regarded by Josephine as highly satisfactory to
herself. She made no fuss about it, but was greatly overjoyed at the
prospect of the effect it would have on Napoleon, and for a time no
more was openly heard of divorce; but the venom was insidiously eating
its way to that end all the same, and as he grew in power, so did the
conspiracy develop. His own family were eager that she should be put
away, but there were influences more powerful than that of Madame Mère
and her sons and daughters. Talleyrand and Fouché being the High
Commissioners who founded the direct hereditary idea, they
persistently worried him with the plea that the State claimed that he
should make the sacrifice. They knew that this was the strongest and
most effective reason they could put forward to a man who would have
given his soul in the service of his country.

The birth of Madame Eleonore Denuelle's son Leon on December 29, 1806,
made a great impression on the Emperor's mind. It was well known that
he was the father of the child, and now that there was no doubt as to
the possibility of him having an heir, it was only to be expected
that the advocates of divorce would press their claim that an
alliance should be made with one of the powerful ruling families. The
advantages to France would be inestimable, and would it not establish
himself and his dynasty more firmly on the throne? It is not unlikely
that Napoleon pondered over the great possibilities of such a
marriage, but he could not bring himself to the thought of divorcing
the woman he still loved. He went so far as to seek Josephine's
support in the plan of making his natural son his heir, and Masson
says that in support of his desire he vigorously used "precedents and
invented justifications." Happily he did not stretch the law of
hereditary succession further than this.

Leon, when he grew up, became a great source of trouble to all those
with whom he was connected. His features and physical make up had a
marked resemblance to his father's, but his mind was erratic. He had
inherited none of the steady, sane genius of the Emperor, though but
for a freak of nature which gave him a mental twist, he would have
been as near his prototype as may be. He was always full of great
schemes, which in the hands of a normally constituted person would
have been fashioned into public usefulness.

Masson gives a vivid and somewhat categorical account of his
predilections, which were "gambling, duels, politics, writing
pamphlets, the conception of colossal canal, railway, and commercial
undertakings that never got far beyond the initial and rocky mental
stage." He was one of the chief mourners when his father's remains
were brought to Paris from St. Helena in 1840, and in 1848 aspired to
the Presidency of the Republic, which fell to the lot of his cousin
Louis Napoleon, whose life he desired to take, but who, with great
generosity, gave him a pension and paid the legacy left him by
Napoleon. He died in 1881.

The birth of Leon gives him a prominent place in the history of the
political divorce, though so far as Napoleon was concerned or affected
by it, there is strong evidence to show that he really thought it was
a way out, and had he been left to his own inclinations, the
probability is that there would have been no second marriage so long
as Josephine lived. From 1807 to 1809 his brain was racked to pieces
with the inevitable shadow he struggled to evade. He could not bring
himself to sever the tie that bound them together in strong attachment
for nearly fifteen years. He invented every conceivable device to try
and find a more congenial solution than divorce.

For two years the Emperor lived in an atmosphere of intolerable
anguish which distracted him. The nearer he approached the dreaded
theme, the more fascinating his wife appeared to him, and the more
tenaciously he clung to the deep impressions that had been made by
that youthful passion that swayed his very being in other days. She
had frequently recaptured him from the subtle blandishments of an
agency that was ever on his track, and then his devotion became more
rapturous than ever. Fouché was frequently rebuked with stern severity
for his pertinacious advocacy of the separation. At another time we
hear of him falling into Josephine's arms, shedding copious tears,
and, choking with grief, he sobs out, "My poor Josephine! I can never
leave you," "I still love you," and so forth.

Those who pretend to see in these outbursts of devotion nothing but
artifice, cannot have informed themselves of the true character of
this extraordinary man. In truth, his was a sacrifice of affection
forced upon him for the benefit of the State. That is the conclusion
the writer has come to after much research. Even after he was
persuaded that he would have to submit, the recollections of the glory
they had shared together, and of their happy days, and the grief and
suffering the parting would cause, filled him with remorse and pity,
and then would come a period of wavering which exasperated his family
and the upholders of the stability of the Empire. At last he saw
clearly that it was an imperative duty that must be fulfilled.

The succession problem had been artfully revived, and the amiable
Marie Walewska, who was living close to Schönbrunn, was about to give
birth to a child which he knew to be his, and it is not improbable
that this double assurance that he might reasonably expect to have an
heir if he married again brought him to the definite decision to go on
with the divorce; and the Emperor Francis of Austria made haste to
form an alliance by offering his daughter Marie Louise in marriage.

At the end of December, 1809, the great political divorce was ratified
amid sombre signs of sympathy. Even the Bonapartes were compelled to
yield to emotion, and Napoleon himself was profoundly affected. The
subdued distress of Josephine pierced through the chilly hearts of
those who had looked on with composure while men and women were being
led to the guillotine during the Reign of Terror. But even Josephine's
tears and grief were graceful and fascinating, so that it was not
surprising that the spectators extended sympathy to her in her sorrow.
Almost immediately after the ceremony Napoleon became overcome with
grief. He allowed a little time to elapse before asking Meneval to
accompany him to Josephine's apartments. They found her in a condition
of inexorable despair. She flung herself into the Emperor's arms; he
embraced and fervently kissed her, but the ordeal was too great. She
collapsed and fainted. He remained with her until she showed signs of
consciousness, then left her in charge of Meneval and women
attendants. The sight of her grief was too much for him to bear.

Napoleon sought a delusive diversion at Trianon after Josephine had
taken up her abode at Malmaison. His sympathetic and affectionate
attentions from there could not have been more earnestly shown.
Nothing that would appease her grief and add to her comfort was
overlooked by him or allowed to be overlooked by others. An annual
income of three million francs was settled on her for life, which,
should he pre-decease her, was to be paid by his successors. She
retained the title of Empress and every other appearance of
sovereignty.

The negotiations for the second marriage were conducted from Trianon.
The Russian alliance fell through, ostensibly on religious grounds.
Napoleon did not like the thought of having Russian priests about him,
and besides, the Princess Anne was too young to marry, and even if
there had been no other difficulty, the Emperor Napoleon could not
wait. The Saxon alliance did not appeal to him, so he gave preference
to the House of Austria, and on March 11, 1810, His Majesty was
married by proxy at Vienna to the Austrian Archduchess, and on the 1st
of April the civil marriage took place at St. Cloud, and the following
day they were ecclesiastically united.[31]

Better for him and for France had he defied the advocates of royal
alliance and stuck to Josephine, or even married Marie Walewska. If it
was merely the policy of succession that was aimed at, he could have
adopted his natural son, the brilliant Alexander Walewska, whose
subsequent career in the service of France would have justified this
course.

The desire to unite the French Emperor with one of the powerful
reigning families in order to give stability to the Empire and put an
end to incessant warfare was a theory which proved to be a delusion,
and perhaps Napoleon, with his clear vision, foresaw the jealousies
and international complications that would arise through a political
marriage of this character. This, and his unwillingness to part with
Josephine, is a conclusion that may reasonably account for the
vacillation that was so pronounced from time to time.

The flippant attitude (which indicates the scope and summit of an
ill-informed mind) that he was the victim of abnormal ambition to be
connected with one or other of the royal families is ludicrous. If he
had been eager to have such distinction, it was within his reach at
any time after he became First Consul. He had only to impart a hint
and there would have been a competition of available princesses, the
choice of which would have bewildered him. Assuredly he showed no
youthful impetuosity in this respect, and it may not be an overdrawn
hypothesis to conclude that his marriage with Marie Louise was neither
popular with the French people as a whole nor with other
nationalities. It excited jealousy and mistrust amongst the larger
Powers, and in France itself the memory of the last ill-fated union of
France with Austria--that of Marie Antoinette and Louis--had left
rankling effects in the minds of the people of the Revolution.[32]


Murat had urged on his brother-in-law and the grand dignitaries the
fact that a marriage with a relative of Marie Antoinette, who was an
abhorrence to the adherents of the Revolution, would alienate a large
public, but Murat's objections were suspected of having personal
colour and overruled. It is, however, beyond conjecture that the King
of Naples had diagnosed aright; whether from self-interest or not, the
warning proved accurate. The most loyal and devoted of his subjects
felt that their invincible hero was drifting into a vortex of trouble.
They had learned by bitter experience the duplicity of Austrian
diplomacy. The remembrance of the cruel wars they had been cunningly
trapped into, the bleached bones of Frenchmen that lay on Austrian
soil, and the denuded homes that resulted from Austria's odious policy
of greed, worked on them like a subtle poison. And the glory of their
conquests over her was nullified by the eternal suspicion that she was
ever hatching new grounds of quarrel. They thought, indeed, their
premonition of Austria's perpetual treachery was clear and definite,
and that the new Empress would be a useful medium of their enemies'
machinations.

We can never fully estimate to what extent these impressions
influenced their minds and actions and the part they played in
hastening the great national humiliation. It is a pretty certain
conclusion that it was only the colossal successes and magical
personality of the Emperor that kept subdued the spirit of resentment
which the marriage had caused.

And we have historic evidence before us which clearly shows that the
well-balanced mind of Napoleon was torn and tattered between doubt and
conviction, and he fell into the fatal error of allowing his judgment
to be overruled either by circumstances or pride. Had he relied on his
superstition even, the chances are that St. Helena would never have
had the stigma of his captivity stamped upon it.

French and Austrian alliances have never, so far as they affected
political history, been very successful. The stability of earthly
things is governed, not by sentiment or theoretic doctrines, but by
facts as hard as granite, and no one knew this more thoroughly than
the man who fell a victim to the devices of the Austrians and their
French allies.

He was usually reticent about his domestic sorrows while in exile, but
when his thoughts were far off, reviewing the great mystery of human
destiny, he broke the rule, and with a sort of languid frankness spoke
the thoughts that crowded his mind, and it was during these spasmodic
periods that he opened his soul by declaring that it was his "having
married a princess of Austria that ruined him, and that his marriage
with Marie Louise was the cause of the expedition into Russia," and
that "he might not have been at St. Helena had he married a
Frenchwoman." It is said that he seriously thought of doing this, and
had some available ladies put before him with that object. These
dreamy utterances reveal that his mind was centred on the causes of
his misfortunes, and that he held definite views on the marriage
tragedy, and perhaps his sense of pride, the interests of his son (the
King of Rome), and the reluctance to admit that he knew he was going
wrong at the time, constrained him to withhold much that he thought
and knew. The impression we get is that he could not bring himself to
utter the whole of the unutterable canker which haunted him.

It is strange that this keen-sighted man should have yielded up his
own convictions and sunk under the admonitions of less capable judges.
Even so far back as the Directory days, when Bernadotte was insulted
at Vienna, he summed up the Austrian character in the following
terms:--"When the Austrians think of making war, they do not insult;
they cajole and flatter the enemy, so that they may have a better
chance to stick a knife into him." He told the Directory they did not
understand the Cabinet of Vienna; "it is the meanest and most
perfidious to be found." "It will not make war with you because it
cannot." "Peace with Austria is only a truce." His diagnoses were
confirmed by Bernadotte, and more than confirmed in after years. The
marvel is that he did not allow himself to benefit by his shrewd
observations at a moment when so much depended on strength, not
vacillation and weakness.

A vivid justification of the opposition to another Austrian princess
sharing the throne of France is embodied in the lofty ideals (?) of
the Emperor Francis to his daughter Marie Louise at Schönbrunn after
she had deserted Napoleon. He said to her:--"As my daughter, all that
I have is yours, even my blood and my life; as a sovereign, I do not
know you."

The benediction, pure and big of heart, benignly expressed, is
promptly qualified with kingly sternness; the orthodoxy being that so
long as Napoleon was in power she was his daughter, all that he had
was hers, including his life and blood, but now that he has fallen she
must not thwart his wishes, and loyally share the fate of him who was
the father of her son, who had given her unparalleled glory, and been
so merciful to Francis himself. If she elected to be at all wifely and
cling to her husband in his misfortune, then he would assert the
sovereign, and as readily gore her as he would Napoleon if, in his
patriarchal wisdom, he judged national interests were at stake. His
spirit-crushing rhetoric had a real ultra-monarchical ring about it.
But it was meant for other ears and a purpose other than that of
making his daughter shudder. So far as she was concerned, he might
have saved himself any anxiety on that score. She bowed her head in
conformity, and swiftly cast her amorous eyes on Neipperg, a man after
his and her own heart. This was the culminating event that brought her
destiny with Napoleon to an end, though _he_ tried to avert it, and
the causes are summarised in his own pathetic language, clearly
expressed from time to time.

His nephew, Napoleon III., taking a lesson from his folly, refused to
be buffeted into political matrimony by any of the matchmaking
factions. When his turn came he acted with independence and wisdom by
ignoring the blandishments of meddling advisers and royal
conventionalism, and elected to marry the lady on whom he had set his
affections.

Incidentally, it may be stated that Napoleon III.'s merits have been
overshadowed by the greater genius of his uncle, but as time separates
the reigns of the two men it will be realised that, though he was not
looked upon as a great military general, he had genius of a different
kind, and was unquestionably a great ruler, acting under somewhat
changed conditions, but subject to the same human caprices, and a time
will come when the benefits he bestowed upon the French nation will be
appreciated more than they are this day.

In 1812, Europe was in a state of dammed convulsion. The wars, though
always successful for France, had brought about no definite settlement
of international affairs. Peace was transitory, and the dread of
Napoleon's power and genius was the only check on rapacious designs on
his dominion.

What direct or indirect share Marie Louise had in bringing about the
war with Russia and then the great European struggle will never be
wholly known, but as the wife of Napoleon she would have opportunities
of hearing from himself and those who were in his confidence remarks
and even discussions on the complexities of the political situation.
She was in daily communication with Metternich, and constantly
corresponding with her father; and even allowing that her intentions
were loyal at that time to her husband and to the country of her
adoption, she may have unconsciously conveyed something that in the
hands of adroit diplomats would reveal the pivot on which great issues
might depend. Then, placing the Regency in her hands was an unchecked
temptation, and must be counted as one of Napoleon's great mistakes.
Imbued with an abundant share of Austrian predilection, and occupying
a mechanical or fictitious position towards France and its ruler, and
in view of her subsequent conduct, it is a reasonable assumption that
during the Regency she conveyed important information of military
movements and intentions to the Austrian Court, which it was not slow
to take advantage of; and if truth were told, it would be found that
the Allies owed much of their success to the Austrian Archduchess. May
it not have been part of the subtle policy of Austria in arranging the
marriage? Everything certainly points to it.

Instead of making Metternich a present at the Prague Congress of a
snuff-box which cost 30,000 francs, as a token of friendship, Fouché,
who always had his mind well stored with ideas of corruption,
suggested to the Emperor that, if it was intended to buy Austria off,
he ought to make it millions. If Napoleon had been a man after his own
heart, this might have been a successful solution for a time, but
only for a time. Meneval says that the Emperor, who had a horror of
corruption, replied to him with a gesture of disgust.

In the early part of 1812, when war with Russia had become imminent,
Napoleon carried out a promise that Josephine should see the King of
Rome. The meeting took place at Bagatelle. She hugged and kissed the
child with motherly affection, and her tears flowed with profusion.
The scene was touching, and proved to be the everlasting farewell.
Strange as it may appear, Josephine formed an enduring affection for
Napoleon's natural son, afterwards Count Colonna (Alexander Walewska),
and for his mother, Marie Walewska. She loved the child and treated
him with the same indulgence as she did her own grandchildren. The
mother was a regular visitor, and no one was more welcome at Malmaison
than she. These incidents of magnanimity, characteristic of Josephine,
would make her not only attractive but lovable, were it not there are
also left on record flaws which show that she was seriously lacking in
probity and fidelity to him to whom she owed everything. Her maternal
affection and loving care of her children are without reproach, and
her generosity to worthy and unworthy people was extraordinary. She
loved Napoleon with peculiar eccentricity. His honour and interests
were never a consideration. She allowed herself to be surrounded at
Malmaison during the Russian campaign with Royalist plotters and
treachery of the most implacable character. She poured out her woes to
them with acceptable results, and nothing that would damage him and
draw sympathy to herself was left uncommunicated. Her whole thought
was of herself. She did not intend to be false or cruel to him, and
yet she was both cruel and false.

As soon as the Allied Armies had taken possession of Paris, the
irrepressible Madame de Staël made a call on Josephine to ascertain
how she stood now towards her former husband. She promptly asked her
whether she still loved him. Josephine resented the impertinence, so
the Duchesse de Reggio relates, and told some of her visitors that she
had never ceased to love the Emperor in the days of his prosperity,
and it was unthinkable that she should cease to do so in his
adversity. Unhappily for Josephine, she adopted a most astounding
course of showing her devotion by agreeing to the visits, first, of
the Emperor of Russia, and then the other sovereigns and foreign
dignitaries. She gave balls and treated the enemies of France, and
especially the Tsar, as though they were the real descendants of the
builders of the Temple to Jehovah. She and Hortense walked about the
grounds linked to Alexander's arms during frequent visits, which was
indicative of strongly formed affection.

Had Josephine been possessed of a grain of discernment or a proper
estimate of her dignity, she would have seen that this was part of a
well-defined policy of striking a blow through her at the man she
professed to love still, even with a greater passion now that he was
the victim of combined and unrelenting hostility. Hortense, it would
appear, refused at first to have any dealings with Alexander, but this
sovereign's personal charms, winning manners, and homely ways soon
fascinated and captured her. She may be excused, but her mother did
not act the part of a nobleminded woman, and her memory must bear the
reproach of it.

Apart from the respect she owed to herself, she should have remembered
the duty and loyalty she owed to a vast French public, and to the
victim of her guests, who had been to her the most forgiving,
indulgent friend that ever a human soul was blessed with. He had been
a father to her children, and even when he was overwhelmed with the
consequences of great disaster, his tenderest and most generous
thoughts were sent to her.

A woman who had a high sense of duty and honour would not have
accepted a single favour from either one or the other of the inimical
sovereigns, even if it had been offered to her; much less would she
have cringed and whined indelicately in order that she might receive
either their smiles or their favours at so abhorrent a price.

Some writers have endeavoured to give Josephine credit for having
influenced Alexander in a way that secured for Napoleon better terms
than he would have otherwise got at the first abdication. The
suggestion is ludicrous. Presumably the alternative was that he should
be shot or confined in a fortress for the balance of his life. Either
of these ideas of disposing of his person would have created reaction
and public vengeance. The Allies shied at this, though some of the
most ferocious, but by no means the bravest, of the set clamoured for
shooting, which is always the way with spurious heroes.

The diplomats amongst them devised the more subtle plan of exiling him
first to Elba with the title of Emperor, and a pension of £200,000 per
annum, never a penny of which was paid, or, in the light of history,
was ever intended to be paid.

They had preconceived the notion of masking the St. Helena plan until
they thought they had cheated the public into believing that they were
inspired by humane motives and the necessity for the peace of Europe.
They laboriously studied out the most ingenious plots so that they
might be glorified for ridding Europe of a "monster."

Napoleon was kept advised, during his stay at Elba, of their designs
on the liberty they had graciously (?) given him (with a pension that
was designedly withheld), and, acting on certain specific information,
he promptly developed one of his most brilliant achievements--the
sudden landing in France, his triumphal march to Paris, and the
resultant flight of the Bourbons at his unexpected approach at the
head of an enthusiastic army.

The campaign which followed--ending with the Battle of
Waterloo--enabled the Allies, after his defeat, to satisfy the
cravings of their savage instincts by carrying out their plan as
mentioned above and sending him to martyrdom.

But one of their most brutal acts was in refusing the request that his
wife and child should accompany him to Elba. These are the ultimate
"better terms" that Josephine is said to have secured by coquetting
with Alexander of Russia!

She revelled in grasping at every fragment of wreckage that would be
of advantage to herself and her family, and Alexander's crafty
friendship unquestionably gave her opportunities to indulge unchecked
in complaints of her grievances against the man who had been so foully
betrayed. Her mania for the distribution of confidences of the most
sacred character was only equalled by her capacity for intriguing and
piling up debts, and these attributes never forsook her at any time.

Josephine's moral qualities cannot be accurately judged by her
frequent outpourings of admiration and affection for Napoleon to
Eugene and Hortense. In the letters to each which are extant, she
declares it would be impossible for anyone to be kinder, more amiable,
or considerate than he has always been, and even after the divorce she
writes that if she loved him less sincerely, he could not show more
anxiety to mitigate anything that might be painful to her.

But notwithstanding these declarations, she never failed to gratify
her insatiable love of pouring forth to his most inveterate enemies
faults and failings that her constitutional moral obliquity indicated
he had. It is not an unfair assumption, therefore, that their
Majesties and others had conveyed to them in handfuls (unwittingly
perhaps) much that was valuable to their pernicious purpose while they
were being entertained at Malmaison. It has been said that it was her
intention to be presented to the Bourbon King, and though we would
fain believe her to be incapable of such perfidy, it is quite in
keeping with the by-ways of her complex character, more especially as
Eugene had paid him a visit. The promises of the sovereigns that the
interests of herself and children would be protected became less
reassuring as the few days that were left to her went on. At last she
realised they were mere silken verbiage, and gave way to despair.
This, and the anxiety of entertaining her royal guests, accentuated
the illness she had contracted. Alexander paid his first visit on May
14th, and she died of quinsy or diphtheria on May 29, 1814.

The allied monarchs were all represented at her funeral, and the
Prince of Mecklenburg (the Queen of Prussia's brother) was amongst the
mourners. It was of him the Court gossipers assiduously circulated
reports that he was paying suspicious attention to Josephine after the
divorce. Napoleon, on hearing of the flirtation through Fouché,
rebuked her with justifiable vigour on the ground of it being a gross
violation of dignity to go about with the Prince and others of lower
ranks to second-rate theatres, even under the cover of incognito. He
does not appear to have thought there was anything more than
Josephine's habitual lack of respect for herself and the high position
he had preserved for her, though according to the unreliable Madame de
Remusat Napoleon suggested to his divorced wife that she should take
Prince Mecklenburg as her husband. The same authority (?) asserts that
the Prince had written to Napoleon asking his permission, and,
further, says that Josephine told her this curious story. It is
entirely unsupported by either the words or actions of the Emperor
himself, and may be put aside as another of the fabrications of the
memoir writer.

That there was a flirtation there can be little doubt, but the
Prince's object may have been part of the political intrigue, rather
than carnal intercourse with a woman of nearly fifty years of age.
Josephine, always sorry for herself, a sieve of the first water,
susceptible to flattery, blind to device, yearning for admiration and
pity, was rejoiced to find attention extended to her from any quarter,
but coming from the Royal House of Prussia or any other royal
personage it was a dazzling compliment to the high esteem in which she
believed she was held, and enhanced the luxury of feeling that she was
the centre of international sympathy.

It was not that she had any malicious intent to do deliberate wrong to
Napoleon, or any thought of degrading herself. Her mind did not work
in these grooves. She was merely carried off her feet by vain love of
self-approbation, which led her far beyond the bounds of honourable
prudence. She was interred at Rueil amidst quiet solemnity, and in
1825 Eugene and Hortense erected a monument in her memory.

The legend is that her last articulate utterance was the enchanted
name of "Napoleon"--"Elba." Corvisat, the Imperial physician, was
piteously asked by the Emperor on his return why he allowed her to
die, and the nature of the malady that took her spirit away. He
replied that she "Died of grief and sorrow." Her own doctor, Horeau,
told him pretty much the same thing, which brought forth the sad
reply, she was a "good woman" and "loved me well." The intimation that
she had spoken often and kindly of him brought back all the old
passion for her and filled him with emotion. He had heard of her death
while at Elba, and told Corvisat that it was a most acute grief to
him, and although she had her failings _she_ at least would "never
have abandoned him"; and possibly this latter expressed opinion, so
often repeated, might have been fulfilled had he at once thrown Marie
Louise over after her desertion of him.

The popular charges against Napoleon, by those who are either
prejudiced or have failed to inform themselves of his history, are
that he must have been a cruel and barbarous husband or he would not
have divorced his wife, and that, as a ruler, he thirsted for blood.
Each of these, as well as many other silly things that are said and
believed of him, is palpably false. As a husband, so far as kindness
and indulgence goes, he was exemplary. As a soldier, First Consul, and
Emperor, his desire at all times was for peace. History has revealed
the real man, and in recent years it has been convincingly proved that
he was the very antithesis of the monster he has been given out and
supposed to be. Now, in the light of more accurate knowledge and
calmer judgment, the world is showing a desire to do him the justice
he never ceased to believe that it would do him.

His unexampled personality and fame is spreading and inspiring
everywhere. His faults are being put in the limelight of public
opinion, and the growing desire to treat even these with proper
generosity is an indication that reason and knowledge are taking the
place of stereotyped international prejudice, political and personal.
We are beginning to see more clearly through the fog of enmity that he
had rare virtues, besides having unparalleled genius. The divorce of
Josephine was unquestionably political, though had he been the
ferocious creature he has been made to appear, the opportunities she
gave him so frequently would have justified the divorce at a much
earlier stage on other than political grounds.

It ill becomes a nation which knew George I., George IV., and Henry
VIII. to take such unctuous exception to the gentle and benevolent
attitude of Napoleon before and after the annulment of the marriage.

FOOTNOTES:

[31] It has been asserted that when Josephine found the divorce to be
inevitable she herself suggested the alliance with Marie Louise. One
reason for believing that this might be the case lies in the fact that
the affection of Josephine's children for Napoleon suffered no
diminution on account of the divorce--indeed, Eugene took a leading
part in the negotiations for the marriage.

[32] In the notorious "Letters from the Cape," addressed to Lady
Clavering and variously attributed to an Englishman, Las Cases, and
even Napoleon himself, there is noted a curious coincidence with
regard to the two Franco-Austrian alliances. Both marriage contracts
were signed under somewhat similar circumstances, and in both cases
fêtes were held in honour of the event. At the marriage fête of Louis
XVI. and Marie Antoinette a calamity occurred which resulted in the
loss of about two thousand lives. To celebrate the union of Napoleon
and Marie Louise, Prince Schwartzenberg gave a fête, at which a fire
occurred, the Prince's wife and some twenty other people being burnt
to death. The superstitious drew attention to the coincidence, and it
is said that Napoleon looked upon it as an evil omen.




CHAPTER VII

RELIGIOUS NOTIONS OF NAPOLEON


In contrast with members of the oligarchy, who threw all moral
restraints to the winds, Napoleon towers above them. Take any
grounds--administrative, strategical, religious, domestic--he was
preeminent above his contemporaries. On religious grounds alone, those
thoughts of his which have been recorded not only disclose the insight
of a man of affairs, but reveal the thinking mind of a deeply
religious being. His conversations with Gourgaud on religious
subjects, some of which are quoted in Lord Rosebery's admirable book,
"The Last Phase," are so contradictory that they cannot be taken as
authentic beliefs. It greatly depended to whom he was talking as to
the line he took.

It is evident that the Emperor took a delight in arguing with and
contradicting the devout Catholic for sheer intellectual exercise. At
one time he declares to his refractory companion, "If I had to choose
a religion, I would worship the sun, because the sun gives to all
things life and fertility." At another time he torments the Count,
after tying him into a knot and exposing his superficial knowledge, by
saying that "the Mohammedan religion is the finest of all." But when
his mind seriously dwells on sacred things, he declares "that religion
lends sanctity to everything." "The remission of sins is a beautiful
idea." "It makes the Christian religion so attractive that it will
never perish. No one can say 'I do not believe and I never shall
believe.'"

Montholon is more to the writer's liking than Gourgaud, even though
Gourgaud's authenticity is backed by Lord Rosebery, and we shall see
later what _he_ says about his Emperor's religious beliefs. It was he
who endeavoured to mitigate his master's mental and physical
sufferings, and it was he whom he desired should close his eyes in
death when the nefarious assassination had been completed. It was he,
too, who got himself locked up in the fortress of Ham for seven years
by adhering steadfastly to the cause of the great exile's nephew.
Gourgaud was loyal and devoted on a sort of sliding scale, which led
him to do great injustice to the stricken hero. Montholon's devotion
was consistent and abiding under all circumstances, while Gourgaud's
fluctuated with his moods.

None of Napoleon's companions in exile were admitted to such close
intimacy with the illustrious warrior-statesman as was Count
Montholon, not even Bertrand or Marchand. It was he who had won
confidence by the most amazing attachment that one human being could
give to another, and it was natural that the big soul of Napoleon
should respond to what amounted to fanatical fidelity. He was the
beloved companion of the Emperor for six years, and during the last
forty-two nights of his life he was with him in the death-chamber, and
at his request he kept vigil and witnessed, his spirit pass away.

It was to him, when the shadow of death was hovering round the smitten
rock, that Napoleon conveyed his most sacred thoughts, domestic,
civil, and religious. He made him one of his executors, bequeathed to
him a fortune, entrusted him with the custody of precious documents,
and to his dying day the recipient of such flattering confidences
never betrayed by word or act the faith that was reposed in him, nor
did he ever falter in his devotion to the martyr's cause. It is from
him we have handed down the famous constitution drawn up by Napoleon
for his son, which is pregnant with democratic wisdom and flows with
the genius of statesmanship. We get, too, a vivid knowledge of the
religious side of Napoleon's versatile character. His talks and
dictations on this controversial subject are unorthodox if you like,
but nevertheless religious; copious in thought and trenchant in
vocabulary, they disclose the magic of a well-stored inspired mind. He
indulges in neither puerilities nor conventionalities. He is a
vigorous student of the Bible and the Koran; he knows his subject, and
speaks his reasonings without reservation, and in the end we see the
vision of the omnipotent God fixed in an enduring belief.

In the first clause of his will he declares: "I die in the Apostolic
Roman religion, in the bosom of which I was born more than fifty years
since." If any other proof were needed that he believed in the
divinity of Jesus Christ, this avowed declaration on the eve of the
great transformation may be confirmed by the fact that the cardinal
doctrine of the Roman religion centres in the divinity of Christ.
Again, in the course of his public and private duties, you frequently
come across passages in his letters and official documents such as
"May God have you in His holy keeping." It may be said that this is a
mere form or figure of speech but then unbelievers do not use such
phrases.

We find in everyday life a lack of courage to do justice and be
generous to one another. But surely, in the interest of political,
historical, and personal rectitude, the dying man's message to the
world should absolve him from having his lucid, succinct
conversations jargoned into a tattered tedium. It is either a
perversion of understanding or a misanthropic egoism that can twist
Napoleon's discourses on religious topics into meaning that he ever
was seriously thinking of giving preference to the worship of the sun,
or contemplating becoming a follower of Mohammed, or that he ever
showed real evidences of being an unbeliever in the God of his race.

He praised many of the virtues of the Mohammedan religion, such as
honesty, cleanliness, temperance, and devoutness, and denounced with
scathing sarcasm, not Christ, but professing Christians whose conduct
towards himself was beneath the dignity of the pagan. But this in no
way detracts from his admiration of the genuine follower of Christ. He
says that "religious ideas have more influence than certain
narrow-minded philosophers are willing to believe; they are capable of
rendering great services to humanity." Again, he says that "the
Christian religion is the religion of a civilised people; it is
entirely spiritual, and the reward which Jesus Christ promises to the
elect is that they shall see God face to face; and its whole tendency
is to subdue the passions; it offers nothing to excite them."

There were frequently heated arguments on religion between Napoleon
and members of his suite during the dreary hours at Longwood, and on
one of these occasions he, Montholon, and Antommarchi are the
debaters. To the former he suddenly flashed out: "I know men well, and
I tell you that Jesus Christ was not a man"; then he curtly attacks
the pretentious doctor by informing him that "aspiring to be an
atheist does not make a man one."

Dr. Alexander Mair published in the _Expositor_, some twenty years
ago, a critical study of the authenticity of the declarations imputed
to Napoleon when at St. Helena on the subject of the Christian
religion, from which I make the following extract:--

"One evening at St. Helena," says M. Beauterne, "the conversation was
animated. The subject treated of was an exalted one; it was the
divinity of Jesus Christ. Napoleon defended the truth of this doctrine
with the arguments and eloquence of a man of genius, with something
also of the native faith of the Corsican and the Italian. To the
objections of one of the interlocutors, who seemed to see in the
Saviour but a sage, an illustrious philosopher, a great man, the
Emperor replied:--

"'I know men, and I tell you that Jesus Christ is not a man.

"'Superficial minds may see some resemblance between Christ and the
founders of empires, the conquerors, and the gods of other religions.
That resemblance does not exist.

"'I see in Lycurgus, Numa, Confucius, and Mahomet merely legislators;
but nothing which reveals the Deity. On the contrary, I see numerous
relations between them and myself. I make out resemblances,
weaknesses, and common errors which assimilate them to myself and
humanity. Their faculties are those which I possess. But it is
different with Christ. Everything about Him astonishes me; His spirit
surprises me, and His will confounds me. Between Him and anything of
this world there is no possible comparison. He is really a Being
apart.

"'The nearer I approach Him and the more clearly I examine Him, the
more everything seems above me; everything continues great with a
greatness that crushes me.

"'His religion is a secret belonging to Himself alone, and proceeds
from an intelligence which assuredly is not the intelligence of man.
There is in Him a profound originality which creates a series of
sayings and maxims hitherto unknown.

"'Christ expects everything from His death. Is that the invention of a
man? On the contrary, it is a strange course of procedure, a
superhuman confidence, an inexplicable reality. In every other
existence than that of Christ, what imperfections, what changes! I
defy you to cite any existence, other than that of Christ, exempt from
the least vacillation, free from all such blemishes and changes. From
the first day to the last He is the same, always the same, majestic
and simple, infinitely severe, and infinitely gentle.

"'How the horizon of His empire extends, and prolongs itself into
infinitude! Christ reigns beyond life and beyond death. The past and
the future are alike to Him; the kingdom of the truth has, and in
effect can have, no other limit than the false. Jesus has taken
possession of the human race; He has made of it a single nationality,
the nationality of upright men, whom He calls to a perfect life.

"'The existence of Christ from beginning to end is a tissue entirely
mysterious, I admit; but that mystery meets difficulties which are in
all existences. Reject it, the world is an enigma; accept it, and we
have an admirable solution of the history of man.

"'Christ speaks, and henceforth generations belong to Him by bonds
more close, more intimate than those of blood, by a union more sacred,
more imperious than any other union beside. He kindles the flame of a
love which kills out the love of self and prevails over every other
love. Without contradiction, the greatest miracle of Christ is the
reign of love. All who believe in Him sincerely feel this love,
wonderful, supernatural, supreme. It is a phenomenon inexplicable,
impossible to reason and the power of man; a sacred fire given to the
earth by this new Prometheus, of which Time, the great destroyer, can
neither exhaust the force nor terminate the duration. That is what I
wonder at most of all, for I often think about it; and it is that
which absolutely proves to me the divinity of Christ!'

"Here the Emperor's voice assumed a peculiar accent of ironical
melancholy and of profound sadness: 'Yes, our existence has shone with
all the splendour of the crown and sovereignty; and yours, Montholon,
Bertrand, reflected that splendour, as the dome of the Invalides,
gilded by us, reflects the rays of the sun. But reverses have come;
the gold is effaced little by little. The rain of misfortunes and
outrages with which we are deluged every day carries away the last
particles; we are only lead, gentlemen, and soon we shall be but dust.
Such is the destiny of great men; such is the near destiny of the
great Napoleon.

"'What an abyss between my profound misery and the eternal reign of
Christ, proclaimed, worshipped, beloved, adored, living throughout the
whole universe! Is that to die? Is it not rather to live?'"

A more beautiful panegyric on the divinity of Christ has never been
pronounced. The thrilling and convincing conclusions evolved from the
mind of a great reader, a great thinker--a man, in fact, who had
studied and knew the human side of life, and could describe it with
flawless accuracy--are a complete refutation of the opinions expressed
either from prejudice or personal and political motives. Napoleon
conversed about religion with other men in a critical way, not always
with orthodox reverence, but certainly with the conviction that he had
a thorough knowledge of every phase of the subject. Perhaps he derived
pleasure from showing that he did not accept the popular doctrine
unreservedly.

His unorthodox view of the Catholic religion is shown by the fact that
in 1797 he endeavoured to get Pius VI. to suppress the Inquisition
throughout Europe. The Pope, in his reply, addressing the General as
his "very dear son," urges him to abandon the idea and assures him
that the charges made against the Holy Office are false. He further
says that the Inquisition is not tyrannical, and that sooner than
remove the Holy Office he would part with a province. Napoleon for a
time gave way, and it was not until 1808 that he issued a decree
suppressing the institution in France and confiscating its property.
This incident is another proof of Napoleon's humane attitude towards
his people and his abhorrence of religious intolerance.

The basis for such an attitude towards an accepted institution of the
Roman Catholic Church was Napoleon's belief that "Faith is beyond the
reach of the law and the most sacred property of man, for which he has
no right to account to any mortal if there is nothing in it contrary
to social order."

Unquestionably he had pride in impressing his auditors with the
vastness of his information, acquired by reading and study. He had,
moreover, a kind of childlike vanity in making men feel that he was
not only extraordinary, but greatly their superior, even when they got
him to talk on their own subjects. This habit was especially
pronounced at St. Helena.

But this in no way impairs the evidences of his spiritual character.
One of his first acts when his authority was established in France was
to face the most hostile declamation against the Concordat, but
believing that no good government could be assured without religion,
he carried his convictions through in spite of it being a reversion of
one of the cardinal doctrines of the Revolution, and there is
abundance of proof that when he was faced with the last great problem,
he accepted it without a sign of superstitious dread, believing in the
immortality of the soul which should reveal all things.




BIBLIOGRAPHY

LIST OF SOME OF THE BOOKS REFERRED TO OR CONSULTED BY THE AUTHOR


Correspondence of Napoleon.
Last Letters of Napoleon.
Letters and Despatches of the First Napoleon, by Bingham.
Napoleon's Miscellanies.
Napoleon's Own Memoirs.
Napoleon Anecdotes, Ireland.
Talks of Napoleon at St. Helena, by Count Gourgaud.
Napoleon's Correspondence with King Joseph.
Napoleon's Letters to Josephine, by H.F. Hall.
Letters from the Island of St. Helena.
History of Napoleon, by Lanfrey.
Life of Napoleon, by Sir Walter Scott.
Life of Napoleon, by J.H. Rose.
Napoleon, by Phyfe.
Private Life of Napoleon, by Levy.
Life of Napoleon, by Bourrienne.
Short Life of Napoleon, by J.R. Seeley.
Life of Napoleon the Third, by Blanchard.
Life of Napoleon, by W. Hazlitt.
History of Napoleon, edited by R.H. Horne.
Life of Napoleon, by MacFarlane.
History of Napoleon, by George Moir Bussey.
Life of Napoleon, by W.M. Sloane.
Napoleon, by J.T. Bailey.
Napoleon, by Dr. Max Lenz.
Baron de Meneval, Memoirs.
Memoirs of Count Miot de Melito.
Memoirs of General Count Rapp, written by himself.
Memoirs of the Duke of Rovigo.
Memoirs of Madame Junot, Duchess of Abrantès.
Secret Memoirs of Napoleon, by Charles Doris.
Mallet Du Pan, by B. Mallet.
Madame de Staël.
Recollections of Marshal MacDonald.
Memoirs of the Empress Josephine.
Memoirs of Queen Hortense.
Memoirs of the Court of St. Cloud.
Memoirs of the Empress Marie Louise, by De St. Amand.
Memoirs of Joseph.
Memoirs of Madame de Remusat.
Life of Nelson, by Southey.
Life of Wellington, by George Hooper.
Life of Sir Walter Scott, by Lockhart.
Dumourier Memoirs.
Life of Byron.
William Pitt, by Lord Rosebery.
William Pitt, by Charles Whibley.
Memoirs of the Court of the Empress Josephine, by Ducrest.
The Sailor King, by Fitzgerald Molloy.
Marmont Memoirs.
General Marbot Memoirs.
Marshal Berthier, by General Derrecagaix.
Constant, Memoirs of the Life of Napoleon.
Napoleon and Marie Louise, by Madame Durand.
The Women Napoleon Loved, by Tighe Hopkins.
The Marriages of the Bonapartes, by Bingham.
Napoleon at Home, by F. Masson.
Napoleon et les Femmes, by F. Masson.
Josephine, Imperatrice et Reine, by F. Masson.
Love of an Uncrowned Queen, by Wilkins.
The Love Affairs of Napoleon, by Joseph Turquan.
The Women Bonapartes, by Noel Williams.
Las Cases' Journal.
Napoleon at St. Helena and Sir Hudson Lowe, by Forsyth.
Napoleon's Captivity in Relation to Sir Hudson Lowe, by R.C. Seaton.
The Exile of St. Helena, by Philippe Gonnard.
Napoleon, Last Voyages, by J.H. Rose.
The Last Days of Napoleon, by Dr. F. Antommarchi.
Duke of Reichstadt, by De Wertheimer.
Napoleon, the First Phase, by Oscar Browning.
Napoleon, The Last Phase, by Lord Rosebery.
Talks of Napoleon at St. Helena, by Latimer.
The Surrender of Napoleon, by Rear-Admiral Sir Frederick Maitland.
Napoleon in Exile, by Barry O'Meara.
The Drama of St. Helena, by Paul Frembeaux.
History of a Crime, by Victor Hugo.
History of the Captivity of Napoleon, by Count Montholon.
Warden's Letters from St. Helena.
With Napoleon at St. Helena, by Dr. John Stokoe.
Napoleon's Last Voyages, by Sir Thomas Usher.
Napoleon and His Fellow Travellers, by Clement Shorter.
An Exposition of Some of the Transactions that have taken
  place at St. Helena since the Appointment of Sir Hudson
  Lowe as Governor of that Island, by B.E. O'Meara.
Facts Illustrative of the Treatment of Napoleon Bonaparte
  in St. Helena, by Theodore Hook (?).
History of the Consulate and the Empire, by Thiers.
Napoleon's Expedition to Russia, by Count Philippe de Segur.
Napoleon in Russia, by Verestchagen.
Napoleon, King of Elba, by Paul Gruyer.
Cambridge Modern History, Volume IX., Sections by--
  Georges Pariset.
  T.A. Walker.
  H.W. Wilson.
  Anton Guilland.
  H.A.L. Fisher.
  L.G. Wickham-Legg.
  E.M. Lloyd.
  J. Holland Rose.
  August Keim.
  C.W. Oman.
  Eugen Stschepkin.
  Julius von Pflugk-Harttung.
  A.W. Ward.
  G.P. Gooch.
Napoleon and His Detractors, by Prince Napoleon.
Heinrich Heine's Essays.
France, by J.E.C. Bodley.
Talleyrand, by Lady Blennerhassett.
Napoleon's Marshals, by R.P. Dunn Pattison.
French Revolution, by Thomas Carlyle.
French Revolution, by Lord Acton.
Bonaparte and the Consulate, by Thibeaudeau.
Napoleonic Studies, by J. Holland Rose.
Biographical Sketches, by Harriet Martineau.
From Howard to Nelson, by Mahan.
The Life of Nelson, by Mahan.
A Mariner of England, 1780-1817, edited by Colonel Spencer
    Childers.
Bonapartism, by H.A.L. Fisher.
Bernadotte's Correspondence with Napoleon.




LIST OF EVENTS AND DATES HAVING REFERENCE TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

1769. Aug.  15. Napoleon the First born.

1789. July  14. French Revolution breaks out with the
                  destruction of the Bastille.

1790. July  14. France declared a Limited Monarchy.

      July  14. Louis XVI. swears to maintain the Constitution.

1791. June  21. The King, Queen, and Royal family arrested
                  at Varennes.

      Sept. 15. Louis (a prisoner) signs the National Constitution.

1792. July  17. First coalition against France.

      Nov.  19. French people declare their fraternity
                  with all nations who desire to be free
                  and offer help.

1796. Mar.   9. Bonaparte's marriage with Josephine.
                Bonaparte's successful campaign in Italy.

1798.           Expedition to Syria and Egypt.

1799. April.    European coalition against France.

      Nov.  10. Council of 500 deposed by Bonaparte; he
                  is declared First Consul.
1800. June  14. Bonaparte defeats the Austrians at Marengo.
      Dec.  24. Bonaparte's life attempted by an infernal
                  machine.

                Bank of France founded by Napoleon.

1802. Mar.  28. Peace of Amiens (with England, Spain,
                  and Holland) signed.

1802. May   19. Legion of Honour instituted by Napoleon.

      Aug.   2. Napoleon made First Consul for life.

1803. April 14. Bank of France established.

      May   22. Declaration of war against England.

1804. Feb.  15. Conspiracy of Moreau and Pichegru against
                Napoleon.

      Mar.  21. Duc d'Enghien executed.

      May   18. Napoleon proclaimed Emperor of France.

      Dec.   2. Napoleon crowned by the Pope.

1805. May   26. Napoleon crowned King of Italy.

      Aug.      Third coalition against France.

      Dec.   2. Napoleon defeats the Allies at Austerlitz.

1806. Oct.  14. Napoleon defeats the Prussians at Jena.

1807. Feb.   8. Napoleon defeats the Russians at Eylau.

      July   7. Peace of Tilsit signed.

      Dec.  17. Napoleon issues his Milan Decree against
                  British commerce.

1808. Mar.   1. New Nobility of France created.

      May    5. Abdication of Charles IV. of Spain and his
                  son in favour of Napoleon.

      July      Commencement of the Peninsular War.

1809. April     Alliance of England and Austria against
                  France.

      May       Napoleon defeats the Austrians and enters
                  Vienna.

      Oct.  14. Peace of Vienna signed.

      Dec.  16. Divorce of the Emperor and the Empress
                  Josephine decreed by the Senate.

1810. April  1. Marriage of Napoleon to Marie Louise of
                  Austria.

      July   9. Holland united to France.

1811. Mar.  20. Birth of the King of Rome (Napoleon II.).

1812. June  22. War with Russia declared.

      Oct.      The retreat from Moscow.

1813. Mar.      Alliance of Austria, Russia, and Prussia
                  against France.

      Oct.   7. British enter France.

1814. Mar.  31. Surrender of Paris to the Allies.

1814. April  5. Abdication of Napoleon negotiated.

      May    3. Restoration of the Bourbon dynasty.
                  Louis XVIII. arrives at Paris.

      May    4. Napoleon arrives at Elba.

      May   29. Death of Josephine.

1815. Mar.   1. Napoleon  escapes  from   Elba   and lands
                  at Cannes.

      Mar.  20. Napoleon arrives at Fontainebleau.

      Mar.  22. Napoleon is joined by all the Army.

      Mar.      The Allies sign a treaty against him.

      Mar.  29. Napoleon abolishes the slave trade.

      June  12. Napoleon leaves Paris for the Army.

      June  18. Battle of Waterloo.

      June  20. Napoleon returns to Paris.

      June  22. Abdicates in favour of his son.

      July   3. He arrives at Rochefort, intending to
                  embark for America.

      July   3. Louis XVIII. re-enters Paris.

      July  15. Napoleon surrenders to Captain Maitland,
                  of the _Bellerophon_, at Rochefort.

      Aug.   8. Is transferred at Torbay to the _Northumberland_,
                  and, with Admiral Sir George Cockburn,
                  sails for St. Helena.

      Oct.  15. Arrives at St. Helena, to remain for life.

      Dec.   7. Execution of Marshal Ney.

1816. Jan.  12. Family of Bonaparte excluded _for ever_
                  from France by the Law of Amnesty.

1821. May    5. Death of Napoleon.

1836. Oct.  29. Attempted insurrection by Louis Napoleon
                  (afterwards Emperor).

1837. May    8. Amnesty proclaimed for political offences.

1838.           "Idees Napoleoniennes" published by
                  Prince Louis Napoleon.

1840. May   12. The Chambers decree the removal of
                  Napoleon's remains from St. Helena.

      Oct.  15. Exhumation of Napoleon's remains.

      Nov.  30. Arrival of _Belle Poule_ frigate at Cherbourg
                  with remains on board.

1840. Dec.  15. Remains deposited in the Hôtel des Invalides.[33]

      Aug.   6. Descent of Louis Napoleon, General Montholon,
                  and fifty followers at Vimeraux, near Boulogne.

      Oct.   6. The Prince captured and sentenced to
                  imprisonment for life.

1841. Aug.  15. Bronze statue of Napoleon placed on the
                  column of the Grande Armée, Boulogne.

1846. May   25. Louis Napoleon escapes from Ham.

1847. Oct.  10. Jerome Bonaparte returns to France, after
                  an exile of thirty-two years.

1848. June  13. Election of Louis Napoleon to the National
                  Assembly.

      Sept. 26. Louis Napoleon takes his seat in the
                  National Assembly.

1857.           Longwood, the residence of Napoleon
                  Bonaparte at St. Helena, bought for
                  180,000 francs.

1860. June  24. Jerome Bonaparte (the  Emperor's uncle)
                  dies, aged 76.

1861. Mar.  31.  Napoleon's body finally placed in the crypt
                   of the Hôtel des Invalides.

FOOTNOTES:

[33] The ceremony was witnessed by about 1,000,000 persons and 150,000
soldiers assisted at the obsequies. No relatives of the Emperor were
present, as at this time the various members of the Bonaparte family
were either proscribed and in exile or in prison.




INDEX


Abrantès, Duke and Duchess of, _see_ Junot
Acton, Lord, 115
Aglietti, Dr., 157
Alexander, _see_ Russia, Emperor of
Amherst, Lord, 48
Anne of Russia, Princess, 268
Antommarchi, Dr., 32, 75, 82, 85, 195, 293
Archambaud, 171
Arnott, Dr., 85
Augereau, General, 156, 176
Austria, Commissioner for, 45, 49
Austria, Emperor of, 49, 55, 113, 124, 133, 267, 274


Baranti, M., 217
Barras, "Citizen," 240, 241, 251
Bathurst, Lord, 34, 35, 45, 70, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 103, 181, 184
Beauharnais, Alexandre, 231, 232, 234, 235
Beauharnais, Eugene, 235, 240, 254, 283, 285
Beauharnais, Hortense, 116, 232, 235, 254, 262, 279, 280, 283, 285
Beauharnais, Marquis de, 231, 232
Beauterne, M., 293
Beauvais, Bishop of, 104
Bernadotte, Marshal, 175, 273
Berthier, General, 153, 176
Bertrand, Count, 15, 34, 51, 57, 139, 171, 172, 195, 290
Bertrand, Madame, 72
Bessières, General, 153
Bismarck, Prince von, 166
Blücher, Marshal, 189
Bombelles, M. de, 158
Bonaparte, Caroline, 246
Bonaparte, Joseph, 49, 115, 172, 244, 245, 262
Bonaparte, Leon, 263, 264
Bonaparte, Louis, 262
Bonaparte, Lucien, 254, 262
Bonaparte, Madame Mère, 146 _et seq._
Bonaparte, Napoleon, 15, 19, 32, 35, 37, 40, 44, 48, 50, 58, 73, 75, 83,
                     84, 85, 105, 106, 108, 116, 117, 120, 121, 122, 124,
                     126, 127, 128, 139, 155, 160, 162, 172, 194, 201,
                     206, 207, 210, 213, 221, 240, 241, 243, 247, 250,
                     252, 253, 254, 257, 259, 261, 265, 267, 271, 277,
                     281, 284, 286, 288 _et seq._;
  on the Christian religion, 293 _et seq._
Bonaparte, Pauline, 116, 249, 250
Borghesi, Countess Pauline, 83
Bourrienne, M., 113, 128, 129, 162, 177
Browning, Oscar, 117
Brutus, Marcus, 124
Bülow, von, 189
Burton, Dr., 85
Byron, Lord, 191, 199 _et seq._, 216

Cadoudal, 262
Cæsar, Julius, 123
Camerata, Countess Napoleone, 145
Carlyle, Jane, 84
Carlyle, Thomas, 163
Carnot, 241, 244
Cases, Count Las, 34, 64, 65, 68, 70, 75, 171, 195
Castlereagh, Lord, 45, 80, 103, 181
Catherine of Westphalia, 153, 154
Charles, Hippolyte, 249, 250, 251, 252
Charles VII., 105, 106
Charles X., 168
Cipriani, 54
Cockburn, Captain, 27, 34
Collot, 253
Colonna, Count, _see_ Walewska, Alexander
Colonna, Signor Simeon, 82
Commissioners of the Powers, 45, 49
Compoint, Louise, 246
Conquereau, l'Abbé, 171
Constant, Benjamin, 123, 207, 213, 215, 216
Corvisat, Dr., 286
Coulon Brothers, 128
Cromwell, Oliver, 90

Davoust, Marshal, 176
Denuelle, Madame Eleanore, 263
Desaix, General, 153
Dietrichstein, Count, 137
Documents, _see_ Official Documents
Dottot, M., 258
Duroc, Marshal, 126, 153

Editor of _Edinburgh Review_, 50
Eliot, George, 216
d'Enghien, Due, 51, 262

Fesch, Cardinal, 150
Flachats, MM., 261
Forsyth, William, 36, 76, 91, 99, 100, 101, 179, 192, 196
Fouché, M., 128, 129, 176, 206, 261, 263, 277, 284
Fox, Charles James, 92, 93
France, Commissioner for, 45, 49, 72
Francis, _see_ Austria, Emperor of
Frederick of Prussia, 49, 162
Frederick the Great, 163
Freron, M., 250

George I., 162, 287
George IV., 33, 70, 94, 95, 117, 180, 201, 287
Gohier, M., 256
Gorrequer, Major, 99, 100
Gourgaud, General, 29, 53, 65, 75, 77, 78, 80, 81, 112, 139, 171, 179,
                   193, 194, 195, 207, 288, 289
Granville, Earl, 19
Grouchy, Marshal, 189, 191
Guizot, M., 17

Hanover, Elector of, 162
Henin, General, 190
Henry, Mr., 99, 100
Henry VIII., 287
Hill, General Lord, 189
Hoche, General, 240
Holland, Lady, 49, 57
Holland, Lord, 80, 89
Hooper, 61
Horeau, Dr., 286

Jersey, Lady, 201
Joan of Arc, 104, 106, 153
Joinville, Prince, 26, 171, 173
Josephine, 101, 118, 155, 210, 220, 231 _et seq._
Jourdan, General, 176
Junot, Marshal, 127, 245, 246

Keith, Lord, 21, 65, 66, 120, 121, 122, 124
Kellerman, General, 242, 243
Kleber, General, 153

La Fayette, 156
Lallemand, 65
Las Cases, _see_ Cases, Las
Leclerc, General, 249, 250
Lenz, Dr. Max, 193, 198, 209
Liverpool, Lord, 80, 103, 181
Livingstone, Dr., 85
Louis Philippe, 16, 21 _et seq._, 138, 168, 169, 171, 172
Louis XVI., 126, 270
Louis XVIII., 94, 168
Lowe, Sir Hudson, 27, 32, 34, 35, 38, 40, 41, 42, 44, 45, 47, 49, 50, 51,
                  57, 62, 63, 64, 65, 72, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 88, 99,
                  103, 178, 180, 182, 183, 184, 185, 188, 191, 194, 195,
                  196

Macaulay, Lord, 162
Macdonald, Marshal, 176
Maceroni, Colonel, 75
Manning, Mr., 57
Mair, Dr. Alexander, 293
Maitland, Captain, 63, 65, 66, 118
Marchand, M., 75, 156, 171, 290
Marie Antoinette, 270
Marie Caroline, Queen, 158
Marie Louise, 49, 85, 131, 137, 146, 151 _et seq._, 267, 270, 274, 276, 286
Marmont, General, 132, 134, 135, 156, 176, 247
Masséna, General, 153, 176
Masson, F., 118, 234, 235, 264
Mecklenburg, Prince of, 284
Melito, Miot de, 128
Meneval, 156, 159, 189, 190, 267, 278
Metternich, Count, 133, 136, 138, 143, 144, 276, 277
Miguel, Dom, 132
Montchenu, Marquis de, 45, 49, 72
Montholon, Count, 15, 34, 39, 40, 43, 50, 51, 65, 75, 82, 83, 88, 139,
                  172, 195, 289, 290, 293
Montholon, Countess, 58
Moreau, M., 262
Müller, 109, 110, 111
Murat, Marshal, 153, 245, 246, 271

Napoleon, Charles, Prince, 262
Napoleon I., _see_ Bonaparte, Napoleon
Napoleon II., _see_ Rome, King of
Napoleon III., 118, 142, 275, 276
Napoleon, Prince Louis, 132, 135, 146, 172, 265
Neipperg, Count, 49, 133, 137, 152, 156 _et seq._, 274
Ney, Marshal, 153
Noverraz, 171

Obenaus, Baron, 133, 137, 142
Official Documents, 15, 17, 18, 20, 21 _et seq._, 81, 82, 83, 95, 197
O'Meara, Dr. Barry E., 30, 43, 46, 49, 50, 64, 73, 77, 79, 81, 181, 188,
                       195, 241
Orange, Prince of, 162
Oudinot, Marshal, 176

Pagerie, Joseph Tascher de la, 232
Palmerston, Lord, 17, 20, 169
Peel, Sir Robert, 186
Permon, Madame, 127
Philipon, Jeanne Marie, 236, 237
Pichegru, 267
Pieron, 171
Pitt, William, 93
Pius VII., 148, 150
Plampin, Sir Robert, 195, 196
Poppleton, Captain, 61
Prokesch, Count, 136, 137, 142, 143
Prussia, Commissioner for, 45, 49
Prussia, King of, _see_ Frederick

Radowich, Gunner, 57
Reade, Sir Thomas, 41, 42, 43, 50, 62, 63
Reggio, Duchess of, 279
Remusat, Charles de, 219
Remusat, Madame de, 129, 219 _et seq._, 284
Remusat, M. de, 220, 221
Remusat, Paul de, 219
Robespierre, 213, 235, 237
Rocca, M., 214 _et seq._
Roderer, M., 114
Rome, King of, 49, 57 _et seq._, 131 _et seq._, 278
Rosebery, Lord, 193, 288, 289
Rovigo, Duke of, 65, 139
Ruskin, John, 196
Russia, Commissioner for, 45, 49
Russia, Emperor of, 49, 65, 124, 279, 280, 282

Saint-Denis, 171
Samson (M. de Paris), 237
Santini, 54, 55, 56, 75
Scott, Sir Walter, 28, 90, 91, 122, 182, 184
Seguier, M., 115
Serbelloni, Duke of, 247
Short, Dr., 85
Somerset, Lord Charles, 68, 69
Soult, Marshal, 176, 190
Staël, Madame de, 129, 204 _et seq._, 279
Stokoe, Dr. John, 195, 196
Strange, Sir Thomas, 42

Taine, M., 144
Talleyrand, M., 128, 129, 156, 161, 176, 206, 251, 261, 263
Teynham, Lord, 187
Thiers, M., 17

Vandamme, General, 190
Villemarest, 129
Volney, Senator, 116

Walewska, Alexander (Count Colonna), 269, 278
Walewska, Madame, 118, 267, 269, 278
Wellington, Duke of, 31, 103, 186, 187, 188, 189, 216
Wieland, 108, 111
Whitworth, Lord, 117
Wilhelmina of Prussia, 163
Williams, H. Noel, 148
Wolseley, Lord, 191
Wordsworth, William, 200





End of Project Gutenberg's The Tragedy of St. Helena, by Walter Runciman