Napoleon and Blucher by L. Muhlbach (page 10)

the war to the best of our power.”

Blucher uttered a cry of joy, and lifting up his large eyes, he exclaimed: “Good Heaven, I thank Thee, with all my heart; for the day is dawning now, and we shall soon see how the sun shines in Paris!”

“You did not wish to be commander-in-chief of the retreating army,” said the king, kindly; “let us appoint you, then, second general-in- chief of the advancing army.”

“How so? I do not understand that,” said Blucher, bewildered. “That is to say, I remain general-in-chief of my Silesian army?”

“Yes, but with enlarged power and independence, and with a greater number of troops. Your corps has suffered a great deal; on your victorious fields of Mockern and Leipsic you lost many brave soldiers. Your ranks need filling up, in order that you may act vigorously and energetically. Therefore, three new corps will be added to your forces [Footnote: Varnhagen von Ense, “Biography of Prince Blucher of Wahlstatt,” p. 205.]–a Prussian corps under General Kleist, a Hessian corps under the crown prince of Hesse, and a mixed corps under the Duke of Saxe-Coburg, the whole amounting to about fifty thousand fresh soldiers. With these reenforcements, added to your own eighty-five thousand men, you will be at the head of an army with which great things may be accomplished, and with which I believe you may gather your laurels in France.”

“Moreover,” said Alexander, kindly, “you will hereafter not be responsible to any other commander. We shall consider jointly with you all operations of the war, and the whole plan of the campaign, and lay before you all general communications. Prince Schwartzenberg will always keep you well instructed of the movements of the grand army, and only REQUEST you to inform him of those you deem it best for the Silesian army to make in cooperation with the former. [Footnote: Varuhagen von Euse, “Biography of Prince Blucher of Wahlstatt,” p. 205.] You will, therefore, be entirely at liberty to carry your own plans into execution, and will have only to report to Schwartzenberg and to us what you are doing. Are you now content, Blucher?”

“Do you still demand your discharge as a birthday present?” inquired the king.

“You ask me whether I am content, or demand my discharge?” cried Blucher, cheerfully. “Now that we advance, I would not take my discharge, and should your majesty give it to me, to punish me for my unseemly conduct, I would secretly accompany the army and fight in the ranks; for you ought to know that I do not advocate a vigorous prosecution of the war on account of the honor it might reflect on me, but for the rights of all Germany; and for this reason I am not only content, but I thank Heaven, my king, and the Emperor Alexander, from the bottom of my heart; and especially for the great confidence you place in me. This is the most flattering of all the honors you have lavished upon me, and I shall endeavor with head and arm to render myself worthy of it. I shall always remember that my king intrusted me with the sacred mission of blotting out the disgrace of Jena, and of causing our angel, Queen Louisa, who shed so many tears for us on earth, to rejoice in heaven over our deeds–and–” his words choked his utterance, his eyes grew dim; pressing his hand to them with a quivering movement, he said, in a stifled voice, “I believe–may God forgive me!–I believe I am weeping! But my tears are tears of joy; they do my heart good, and your majesties will forgive them!–Well, now I am all right again,” he added, after a pause. “I request your majesties to give me instructions, and tell me what is to be done, and when we shall cross the Rhine.”

Toward nightfall Blucher returned from Frankfort to Hochst. In front of his door he was met by General Gneisenau, Colonel Muffling, and several other gentlemen of his staff. Blucher made a very wry face, receiving them with loud grumbling. “Oh, it is all very well,” he said, alighting from his carriage. “I can now communicate bad news to you. We shall lie still here, like lazy bears, during the whole winter; we shall neither advance nor retreat. The diplomatists have hatched out the idea, and I am sure they will arrange a pretty treaty of peace for us! Well, I do not care; I will try to suppress my grief, and lead a happy life. If we are inactive, we shall at least try to kill time in as pleasant a manner as possible. I shall commence diverting myself this very day, and, despite the apostles of peace, show that they have not ruffled my temper. The officers of York’s corps will give a ball at Wiesbaden to-night. I will go, immediately setting out for Wiesbaden, and conveying the tidings to old York. Well, gentlemen, prepare to accompany me; and you, General Gneisenau, be so kind as to go with me to my room for a minute or two. I wish to tell you something.” He saluted the officers, and stepped quickly into the house. Followed by Gneisenau, he entered the room, and carefully locked the door. The wrinkles now disappeared from his forehead, and an expression of happiness beamed in his face. “Gneisenau,” he said, encircling the tall form of his friend in his arms, “now listen to what I have to say. What I told you about peace was not true. We are to advance–ay, to advance! and it seems to me as if I hear Bonaparte’s throne giving way!”

“What, your excellency!” exclaimed Gneisenau, joyfully, “we are going to advance–to march into France?”

Blucher hastily pressed his hand on his mouth. “Hush, general!” he whispered. “At present no one must hear it; it is a secret, and we must try to conceal our movements as much as possible. We ought to do our best to mislead the enemy–that is my plan. We must make him believe that the whole offensive force of the allies is turning toward Switzerland, and that the Silesian army is to remain on the Rhine as a mere corps of observation. Napoleon will make his dispositions accordingly: he will leave but a small force on the bank of the Rhine opposite us, and on passing over to the other side we shall meet with little resistance.”

“That is again a plan altogether worthy of my Ulysses,” said Gneisenau, smiling. “It is all-important now for us to let every one, and above all Napoleon, know as soon as possible that we stay here.”

“I will swear and rave so loudly that he will certainly hear it in Paris,” said Blucher. “Let us curse the necessity imposed on us, and secretly make all necessary dispositions, inform the commanders, and issue the orders, so that we may all cross the Rhine at midnight on the 31st of December.”

“What! The passage is to take place at midnight on the 31st of December?” asked Gneisenau.

“Yes, general. Let us begin the new year with a great deed, that we may end it with one.”

“But will that be possible, field-marshal? Can all our troops be prepared at so short a notice?”

“That is your task, Gneisenau; ideas are your province, execution is mine. You are my head, I am your arm; and these two, I believe, ought jointly to enable us to cross the Rhine at midnight on the 31st of December, as the holy army of vengeance, which God Himself sends to Bonaparte as a New-Year’s gift. But come, Gneisenau, let us ride to the ball. I must dance! Joy is in my legs, and I must allow it to get out of them. I shall ask old York to dance, and, while we two are hopping around, I must tell him what is to be done. We are to advance!”

Blucher’s resolutions were carried into effect. All dispositions were made in a quiet and efficient manner; and while the field- marshal scolded vehemently at the inactivity of the winter, General Gneisenau secretly took steps to prepare for the passage of the Rhine. Napoleon’s spies at Frankfort and on the Rhine heard only the grumbling of Blucher, but they did not see the preparations of Gneisenau.

On the 26th of December orders were dispatched to the commanders of the different corps of the great Silesian army, communicating the time and place of crossing the Rhine, and on the 31st every soldier of that army stood on the bank ready for the passage. This was to be effected at three different points–Mannheim, Caub, and Coblentz. The grand, all-important moment had come; midnight was at hand.

It was a clear and beautiful night; the deep-blue sky was spangled with stars, and the air cold and bracing. None saw the blank columns moving toward the Rhine. The French, on the opposite side, were asleep; they did not perceive Field-Marshal Blucher, who, at Caub, on the bank of the river, was halting on horse back by the side of his faithful Gneisenau, apparently listening in breathless suspense. Suddenly, the stillness was interrupted by the chime of a neighboring church-clock; another struck, and, like echoes, their notes resounded down the Rhine, in all cities and villages, proclaiming that the old year was past, and a new one begun.

Blucher took off his gray forage-cap, and, holding it before his face, uttered a low, fervent prayer. “And now, forward!” he said, in a resolute tone. “Let us in person convey our ‘happy New-Year’ to the French!–And Thou, great God, behold Thy German children, who are shaking off the thraldom of long years, and who have become again brave men! Heavenly Father, bless our undertaking! Bless the Rhine, that it may flow to the ocean again as a free German river for German freeman!–And now, boys, forward! Build your bridges, for Heaven sends us to France to punish Bonaparte, and sing him a song of the Rhine! Forward!”

CHAPTER XLII.

NAPOLEON’S NEW-YEAR’S-DAY.

It was early on the morning of the 1st of January. Napoleon was angrily pacing his cabinet, while the police-minister, Duke de Rovigo, was standing by the emperor’s desk, and waiting, as if afraid to look at his master, lest his anger burst upon his head.

“Why did you not tell me so yesterday, Savary?” asked Napoleon, with his flaming eyes on the police-minister. “Why did you not inform me, immediately after the close of the meeting of the Chamber of Deputies, of the seditious and refractory spirit of the speeches which certain members dared to deliver?”

“Sire, I had no proofs of their guilt. Speeches, it is true, had been made, but they vanish, and offer no solid grounds for convicting men of crime. As I have not the honor of being a member of the committee which your majesty has appointed to take the condition of France into consideration, I was unable to hear the speeches delivered at the meeting. I had to obtain palpable evidence. I knew, not only that the commission of the Chamber of Deputies had resolved to have an address to your majesty published, but that the opposition speaker of the committee, M. Raynouard, intended to have his speech printed and circulated, in order to prove to France that the committee of the Chamber had done every thing to give peace to the nation.”

“As if that were the task of those gentlemen–as if they had to give me advice, or could influence me!” cried Napoleon, vehemently. “They have never dared raise their voices against me; but now that we are surrounded by enemies–now that it is all-important for France to startle the world by her energy and the unanimity of her will, these men dare oppose me! You allowed, then, their addresses to be sent to the printing-office, Savary?”

“Yes, sire. But I had the printing-office surrounded by my police- agents, and waited until the composition was completed and the printing commenced. Then they entered the press-room, seized the copies already printed, knocked the types into pi, and burned the manuscripts, [Footnote: “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. xii., p. 294.] as well as the proofs, except this one, which I have the honor of bringing to your majesty.”

The emperor, with an impetuous movement, took up the printed sheet lying on the table by the side of the duke, and glanced over it. “Savary,” he said, pointing out a passage on the paper, “read this to me. Read the conclusion of Raynouard’s speech. Read it aloud!” He handed the paper to the duke, and pointed out the passage.

Savary read as follows: “‘Let us attempt no dissimulation–our evils are at their height; the country is menaced on the frontiers at all points; commerce is annihilated, agriculture languishes, industry is expiring; there is no Frenchman who has not, in his family or his fortune, some cruel wound to heal. The facts are notorious, and can never be sufficiently enforced. Agriculture, for the last five years, has gained nothing; it barely exists, and the fruit of its toil is annually dissipated by the treasury, which unceasingly devours every thing to satisfy the cravings of ruined and famished armies. The conscription has become, for all France, a frightful scourge, because it has always been driven to extremities in its execution. For the last three years the harvest of death has been reaped three times a year! A barbarous war, without object, swallows up the youth torn from their education, from agriculture, commerce, and the arts. Have the tears of mothers and the blood of whole generations thus become the patrimony of kings? It is fit that nations should have a moment’s breathing-time; the period has arrived when they should cease to tear out each other’s entrails; it is time that thrones should be consolidated, and that our enemies be deprived of the plea that we are forever striving to carry into the world the torch of revolution. . . . To prevent the country from becoming the prey of foreigners, it is indispensable to nationalize the war; and this cannot be done unless the nation and its monarch bo united by closer bonds. It has become indispensable to give a satisfactory answer to our enemies’ acensations of aggrandizement: there would be real magnanimity in a formal declaration that the independence of the French people and the integrity of its territory are all that we contend for. It is for the government to propose measures which may promptly repel the euemy, and secure peace on a durable basis. Those measures would be at once efficacious, if the French people were persuaded that the government in good faith aspired only to the glory of peace, and that their blood would no longer be shed but to defend our country, and secure the protection of the laws. But these words of ‘peace’ and ‘country’ will resound in vain, if the institutions are not guaranteed which secure those blessings. It appears, therefore, to the commission, to be indispensable that, at the same time that the government proposes the most prompt and efficacious measures for the security of the country, his majesty should be supplicated to maintain entire the execution of the laws which guarantee to the French the rights of liberty and security, and to the nation the free exercise of its political rights.” [Footnote: “Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. xii., p. 208.]

“Well,” cried the emperor, impetuously, “what do you think of that? Does it not sound like the first note of the tocsin by which the people are to be called upon to rise in rebellion?”

“Sire, it is the language of treason!” replied Savary. “The conduct of the members of this committee would justify your majesty to have them shot as traitors.” [Footnote: Ibid., p. 294.]

The emperor made no reply, but bowed his head on his breast, and, with his hands folded behind him, paced the room for a few moments. “Savary,” he then said, “it is sufficient for us to be at war with our foreign enemies; let us not get into difficulty with our domestic adversaries. This is not the time for doing so. If we conquer our foreign enemies, the domestic ones will of themselves be silent; but if we succumb, every thing will be different. Those gentlemen have acted both foolishly and ungenerously (at a moment when it is all-important that France should act and think as one man), to stir up political partisan feeling; and it is ungrateful to oppose me at a time when, overwhelmed with care and work, I need my whole energy to maintain my position. Let us leave it to fate to punish the traitors. They will not have long to wait!”

“And those haughty members of the Chamber of Deputies do not even feel that they are deserving of punishment,” exclaimed the duke, indignantly. “The whole committee, and M. Raynouard with them, have accompanied me to the Tuileries, and repaired to the throne-hall in order to offer your majesty their congratulations for the new year.”

“Ah, it is true, to-day is New-Year’s-day,” said Napoleon; “I had almost forgotten it, for the cares and anxiety of the old year have, as a most faithful suite, followed me into the new year. But I am glad you remind me of it! I will go to the throne-hall and receive the congratulations of my faithful subjects, or those who call themselves so. Follow me!”

In the throne-hall were assembled, as on every New-Year’s-day, the dignitaries of France and the most prominent authorities of the government; but for the first time, since the establishment of the empire, the representatives of the foreign powers and the ambassadors of the European princes failed to appear at the reception in the Tuileries. In former years they had hastened to present their congratulations; to-day not one of those representatives was present, not even the ambassador of the Emperor of Austria, Napoleon’s father-in-law–not even the ambassador of the King of Naples, his brother-in-law! The troops of the Emperor Francis had invaded France; the troops of King Murat had returned to Naples, and he had informed his brother-in-law that the welfare of his own country rendered it necessary for him to forsake France. The very princes of the Confederation of the Rhine, hitherto the most sycophantic flatterers of the emperor, had likewise turned away from him; all the allies, adulators, and friends of his days of prosperity had left him, as rats desert the sinking ship. No one was in the throne-hall except the dignitaries and officers of France, and one-half of these came, perhaps, because the duties of their offices rendered it incumbent on them–because the events of the future could not be positively foreseen, and the emperor, thanks to his lucky star, might finally conquer his enemies.

The emperor entered with his usual proud and careless indifference. His quick glance swept past the ranks of the assembly, and rested for a moment on the place where the ambassadors of the foreign governments formerly stood beside the throne, and where no one was to be seen to-day. But not a feature changed; he was still calm and grave. With a gentle nod he turned toward the ministers who were on the left, and addressed each of them a few kind words; he then quickly ascended the steps of the throne. Under the canopy, he turned his eyes toward the side where were the members of the senate and the legislature.

Napoleon’s eyes flashed down the silent assembly with an expression of terrible anger. When he spoke, his voice rolled like thunder through the hall, and echoed in the trembling hearts of those who were conscious of their guilt, and who hung their heads under the outburst of their sovereign’s wrath. “Gentlemen of the legislature,” he said, “you come to greet me. I accept your greetings, and will tell you what you ought to hear. You have it in your power to do much good, and you have done nothing but mischief. Eleven-twelfths of you are patriotic, the rest are factious. What do you hope by putting yourselves in opposition? To gain possession of power? But what are your means? Are you the representatives of the people? I am. Four times I have been invoked by the nation, and have had the votes of four millions of men. I have a title to supreme authority, which you have not. You are nothing but the representatives of the departments. Your report is drawn up with an astute and perfidious spirit, of the effects of which you are well aware. Two battles lost in Champagne would not have done me so much mischief. I have sacrificed my passions, my pride, my ambition, to the good of France. I was in expectation that you would appreciate my motives, and not urge me to what is inconsistent with the honor of the nation. Far from that, in your report you mingle irony with reproach: you tell me that adversity has given me salutary counsels. How can you reproach me with my misfortunes? I have supported them with honor, because I have received from nature a sturdy temper; and if I had not possessed it, I would never have raised myself to the first throne in the world. Nevertheless, I have need of consolation, and I expected it from you: so far from receiving it, you have endeavored to depreciate me; but I am one of those whom you may kill, but cannot dishonor. Is it by such reproaches that you expect to restore the lustre of the throne? What is the throne? Four pieces of gilded wood, covered with a piece of velvet. The real throne has its seat in the heart of the nation. You cannot separate the two without mutual injury; for it has more need of me than I have of it. What could the nation do without a chief? When the question was, how we could repel the enemy, you demand institutions as if we had them not! Are you not content with the constitution? If you are not, you should have told me so four years ago, or postponed your demand to two years after a general peace. Is this the moment to insist on such a demand? You wish to imitate the Constituent Assembly, and commence a revolution? Be it so. You will find I will not imitate Louis XVI.: I would rather abandon the throne, I would prefer making part of the sovereign people, to being an enslaved king. I am sprung from the people; I know the obligations I contracted when I ascended the throne. You have done much mischief; you would have done me still more, if I had allowed your report to be printed.–You speak of abuses, of vexations. I know, as well as you, that such have existed; they arose from circumstances, and the misfortunes of the times. But was it necessary to let all Europe into our secrets? Is it fitting to wash our dirty linen in public? In what you say there is some truth and some falsehood. What, then, was your obvious duty? To have confidentially made known your grounds of complaint to me, by whom they would have been thankfully received. I do not, any more than yourselves, love those who have oppressed you. In three months we shall have peace: the enemy will be driven from our territory, or I shall be dead. We have greater resources than you imagine: our enemies have never conquered us–never will. They will be pursued over the frontier more quickly than they crossed it. Go!” [Footnote: Bucher et Roux, “Histoire Parl. de France,” vol. xxxix., pp. 460, 46l.]

The last words of the speech were still resounding through the hall when the deputies, with pale faces, bowing timidly and silently before the throne, turned and walked toward the door. All eyes were riveted on them, and it was felt that the men whom the emperor dismissed with such a strain of vehement invective were twenty new enemies whom Napoleon sent into the provinces, and who would bring a new hostile army–public opinion–into the field against him. Many hoped that the emperor, perceiving his blunder, would call back the deputies by some pleasant word, in order to bring about a reconciliation between him and those who, whatever the emperor might say, represented in the throne-hall the opinion of the people.

But Napoleon did not call them back; standing on his throne, haughty and defiant, he looked after the disappearing deputies in anger; and only when the door of the anteroom closed, did he turn his eyes toward those who surrounded him. As if by a magician’s wand his face resumed its former expression of august calmness. He slowly left the throne, and, dropping here and there a few condescending words, crossed the hall. Suddenly he noticed Baron Fontaine, the architect of the imperial palaces. “Ah,” exclaimed Napoleon, quickly advancing toward him, “you are here, Fontaine? I intended to send for you to- day. Did you bring your plans with you?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Well, then, come; and you, ministers, Duke de Rovigo, Duke de Vicenza, Duke de Bassano, pray follow me into my cabinet.”

The officers and cavaliers who remained in the hall looked after the emperor with anxious glances. “A cabinet meeting on this holiday! and at which the imperial architect has to be present!” they whispered. “What means this? Will the emperor commission M. de Fontaine to transform the Tuileries into a fortress, and construct ramparts and ditches? Are we, if all should be lost, to defend ourselves? Or will the emperor convert Paris into a fortress? Is M. de Fontaine to erect outworks and fortifications? Or will the emperor have a new Bastile built for the purpose of confining the traitorous legislature and several hundreds of these new-fangled royalists who are now springing up like mushrooms?”

But the emperor did not think of all this when, followed by the three ministers and Baron Fontaine, he entered his cabinet. An expression of affability overspread his features, and round his lips played the sunny smile which appeared so irresistible to all who had ever seen it. “Come hither, gentlemen,” he said, merrily, “let us act here as judges. Fontaine brings us plans for a palace for the King of Rome. It is high time for me to think of building one for the heir-apparent, and this idea has engrossed my mind for a long period. If the times had not been so unfavorable, it would already have been completed. I will begin now, in order to prove to the foreign powers how great is the confidence felt by France and her emperor in their ability to withstand the attacks of the allies; for, while their armies are fighting the enemy, they are constructing a palace for their future emperor.–Now let me see your plans, Fontaine; unroll them!”

Fontaine spread out on the table the papers which he had brought with him from the anteroom. The emperor bent over them, and asked the architect to explain to him the different lines and figures. The three ministers stood beside them, grave and silent, and their furtive glances seemed to ask whether this really was not a scene intentionally contrived by the emperor–whether he really could think of building a palace for the King of Rome at a moment, when France was hemmed in on all sides, and menaced by enemies, endangering the existence of the imperial throne!

But Napoleon really seemed to be quite sincere. With his magic energy he appeared to have banished all gloomy thoughts, and to be engrossed only in plans for a serene future. “See here, Caulaincourt,” he said, pointing to one of the plans, “what do you think of this? It is a sort of castle or fort, and looks well, does it not?”

“Very, indeed,” replied Caulaincourt. “It reminds me of the palace at Oranienbaum, which Paul I. built. The towers at the corners, the bastions, and ditches, are similar; and the interior had not only many rooms, but secret staircases, doors, and hidden passages.”

“And yet Paul I. was assassinated in that palace!” cried the emperor, whose face suddenly darkened. “The doors and passages did not protect him from murderers.–Well, Maret and Savary, what do you think of it? Do you deem it best that I should build the palace for the King of Rome in the style of a fortress, like that of Oranienbaum?”

“Sire,” exclaimed Savary, eagerly, “so precious a head cannot be sufficiently protected. In building a palace for the king, less attention should be paid to an attractive appearance than to safety and convenience.”

“Is that your opinion, too, Maret?”

The Duke de Bassano was silent for a moment, and closely examined the plan. “No, sire,” he then said, looking at the emperor, with a polite yet somewhat singular smile–“no, sire. I believe we should avoid the semblance of a fortress built for the heir-apparent, just as though he should ever need such a place of refuge against his own subjects, and in the middle of his capital! People would say your majesty intended to reconstruct for your successor the old Bastile.”

“Maret is right,” exclaimed the emperor. “No fortress! The confidence, love, and attachment of his people should be the only safeguard of a monarch. Ramparts did not save Paul I.; the greatest precautions, locked and guarded doors, did not protect the sultan from the scimitars of the Janizaries; every one falls when his hour has struck; it will strike for me, too, and my life will belong to him who is willing to give up his life for mine! But I shall teach my son to govern the Parisians without fortresses, and make them love him. [Footnote: Napoleon’s words.–Vide “Memoirs of the Duchess d’Abrantes.”] It is true, however, there will always be malicious men to frustrate our efforts, and sow the seeds of discord between me and my people.”

“Sire,” said Fontaine, anxious to turn the emperor’s thoughts into a different channel, “here is another plan. The former was in the old feudal style; this would look more like a villa.”

“That is the very thing I want,” exclaimed the emperor, eagerly. “A villa in the grandest possible style–a palace magnificent enough to be mentioned after the Louvre, but still with all the peculiarities of a villa. For the palace of the King of Rome, after all, will be only a sort of villa in Paris; as a winter residence the Tuileries, or the Louvre, would be preferred. But, though I want the building to be large and brilliant, the total cost must not exceed ten million francs. I do not want a chimera, but something real, substantial, and practical, for myself and the king, and not a fanciful structure merely gratifying to the architect. The completion of the Louvre will give glory enough to the architect. As to the palace of the King of Rome, he may forget his personal interest, and think only of rendering the structure as convenient as possible. It is to become a sort of Sans-Souci, where one is merry, forgets care, enjoys the sunshine in the apartments, and the shade in the garden, and may combine the simplicity of rural life with the comforts of a great city. Imagine you were building a commodious residence for a rich private citizen, a convalescent who has need of comfort, repose, and diversion. There must be, therefore, a small theatre, a small chapel, a concert-hall, a ball-room, a billiard- room, and a library; fish-ponds, and shady groves in the garden–in short, a genuine villa.” [Footnote: Napoleon’s words.–Vide Constant, “Memoires,” vol. v., p. 184.]

“I believe your majesty will find all that you wish for united in this,” said the Duke de Bassano, who had carefully examined the second plan. “It is a villa in grand style, and surely worthy of a great prince.”

“Ah,” said the emperor, with a profound sigh, “would it were already finished, and I could live in it with my son! I–“

At this moment the folding-doors of the cabinet were thrown open, and the usher’s voice shouted, “His majesty the King of Rome!”

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE KING OF ROME.

The emperor, with a joyful exclamation, turned toward the door. On its threshold stood a boy of remarkable beauty, such as Correggio or Murillo would have selected as a cherub model. His slender but vigorous form was clothed in sky-blue velvet, embroidered with silver, and his fairy-like feet wore shoes of the same color. His dimpled arms were bare, and a fleece of golden ringlets fell on his fair neck and shoulders. An ingenuousness, undeformed by bad training, increased the charm of his natural beauty. There was nothing affected in his blooming face; and, while a happy temper played about his lips, there was a light in his large blue eyes, reminding the beholder of his great father, from whom he also inherited a forehead which, when the attractions of his childhood had passed away, would at once assert his manly gravity and thought.

Behind the boy appeared the dignified form of Madame de Montesquiou, his governess, who seemed to take pains to keep back the boy, and, seizing his hand, hastily whispered a few words to him. But he forcibly disengaged himself, and, without noticing any one but the emperor, rushed toward him with open arms. “Papa,” he cried, in an imploring tone–“papa, have you not given me permission to come to you at any time?”

“Yes, sire,” said the emperor, tenderly, lifting him into his arms, “and the proof of it is that you are here.”

“Well, dear ‘Quiou,” asked the boy, in a triumphant tone, turning toward Madame de Montesquiou–“did I not tell you so?–The usher would not admit me, papa, though I told him I am the King of Rome!”

“He ran away from me,” said the governess, “in the first anteroom, and so fast that I could not follow him.”

“It was because I wanted to see my dear papa emperor,” cried the child, fixing his eyes with an expression of indescribable tenderness on his father.

“But that was the reason, sire,” said the governess, “why the usher would not immediately open the door to you. He did not know whether he was allowed to do so, and waited, therefore, until I came.”

“But why did he not know that he was allowed to do so?” cried the little king, impetuously. “Did I not tell him, ‘I WILL it, I am the King of Rome?’ Pray tell me, papa emperor, do not the ushers obey you either when you say, ‘I will it?'”

The emperor laughed as loudly and merrily as he had done in the days of his prosperity, and the ministers and Baron Fontaine joined heartily in his mirth; even Madame de Montesquiou could not suppress a faint smile. The boy saw it, and asked hastily, “Why do you laugh, ‘Quiou? Did I say any thing ridiculous?”

“No, rather something charming,” said the emperor, smiling, laying his hand on the blond head of his child, and pressing it closer to his breast. With the child still in his arms, he seated himself in an easy-chair, and, placing the little fair-haired king on his knee, gazed at him with joyful eyes. His whole countenance was changed, and beaming with mildness; even his voice assumed another tone, and seemed incapable of command or threat.

“Sire,” said the emperor, “we were just speaking of you.”

“Ah,” cried the child, with an arch smile, “I know what it was! My papa emperor was thinking of a New-Year’s present!”

“But, sire,” exclaimed the governess, sharply, “it is unseemly to ask for presents.”

A blush suffused the child’s face, and seemed reflected on the pale cheeks of the emperor, who felt almost pained at seeing him so much ashamed of himself.

“Madame,” he said, turning hastily to the governess, “I have to ask a favor of you: pray leave the King of Rome here with me for a time. I myself will take him back to you, and I promise to watch carefully over his majesty.”

Madame de Montesquiou made a ceremonious obeisance; the little king kissed his hand to her, and she then left the cabinet. No sooner had the door closed than the boy, with a smile, encircled the emperor’s neck with his arms, and cried, “Now we are alone, papa emperor!”

“Oh, no!” said the emperor, smiling, “did you not yet see these gentlemen?”

“No,” said the child, looking round in surprise, “I saw only you, papa!”

Never had the lips of the most beautiful woman uttered words that gladdened his heart so much as these. But before his ministers he was almost ashamed of his sensitiveness, and, therefore, he forced himself to assume a graver air. “Sire,” he said, “above all, you must greet these gentlemen; they are my ministers, and very dear friends of mine.”

“Ah, then they are friends of mine, too,” cried the boy, with that politeness which comes from the heart. Quickly descending from his father’s knee to the carpet on the floor, the little King of Rome walked several steps toward the gentlemen, and bowed so deeply to them that his blond ringlets rolled down over his face. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” he said, “if I did not see and greet you! I came to my papa emperor because to-day is a holiday, and I desired to wish him a happy New-Year. I see you now, gentlemen, and, if you will permit me, I wish you all, too, a happy New-Year.”

The gentlemen bowed, and looked with an expression of gentle sympathy and emotion on the lovely child, as if imploring the blessing of Heaven upon him. The emperor probably read this in their eyes, for he greeted the gentlemen with a pleasant smile, and nodded to them with the triumphant air of a happy father.

“Papa emperor,” exclaimed the child, turning once more to his father, “my dear Madame ‘Quiou says that France has now need of prosperity, and that I, therefore, ought to pray the good God to grant us His favor.”

“Well, and did you do so?” inquired the emperor.

“Yes,” replied the child, “I did, from the bottom of my heart.”

“How did you pray? Let me hear, sire; it can do no harm if you pray to God once more to grant us His favor. What did you say?”

The child assumed a grave air, and knelt down. He then raised his clasped hands, and, leaning back his head, lifted up his large blue eyes. “Good God,” he said aloud, “I pray to Thee for France and for my father!”

These words, uttered in so clear and melodious a voice, sounding like an angel’s greeting in the solemn cabinet of the emperor, made a wonderful impression. The gentlemen averted their heads, to conceal their emotion from Napoleon. But he paid no attention to them; his eyes rested on his child with an expression of profound affection; a veil seemed to overspread them, and as it perhaps prevented the emperor from seeing his kneeling child distinctly, he quickly moved his hand across his eyes. The veil disappeared, but the hand that had drawn it aside was moist.

The boy jumped up and hastened back to his father, who clasped him tenderly in his arms, and then, as if to apologize, turned toward his ministers. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, gayly, “do you believe that the voice of the King of Rome is strong enough to reach to heaven, and bring prosperity to France and to myself?”

“Sire, I do,” said the Duke de Bassano, in a trembling voice.

“And I feel convinced of it,” said the Duke de Rovigo. “If any prayer can reach heaven, this must.”

“It will bless France and her august emperor,” said the Duke de Vicenza. “Sire, permit me to ask a favor of you. Give to France as a New-Year’s present of your love, the picture of the King of Rome praying for France and his father. Your majesty, send for Isabey, and have him represent the king in this charming attitude. He will paint such a picture both with his hand and his heart, and within a month it must be circulated as a copperplate throughout France. Sire, I venture to assert that this engraving will win all hearts, and the members of the legislature cannot excite half as much hatred in the provinces as this picture will produce love.”

“You are right,” said the emperor, “that is an excellent idea. France shall learn that my son prays, first for it, and then for me.–Maret, see to it that Isabey come to-morrow. The plate must be ready for distribution in the course of a month. [Footnote: This copperplate really appeared shortly after; it is a sweet and beautiful portrait of the little King of Rome.] And now,” added the emperor, putting the child again on his knee, “now tell me what do you want me to give you as a New-Year’s present?”

“Oh,” cried the little king, smiling, “I know something, dear papa emperor, but I dare not say what it is.”

“Ah, you may,” said the emperor. “I pledge you my word that I will fulfil your wish, if it be possible. Speak, then.”

“Sire,” asked little Napoleon, nodding toward the ministers, “sire, will these gentlemen not betray me to Madame de Montesquieu?”

“I warrant you they will not,” said the emperor, gravely. “Let me hear what you want.”

“Well, then, papa emperor,” said the boy, leaning his head on his father’s breast, and looking up to him, “I feel a great wish that I could run just once all alone into the street, and play in the mud and the gutter, as other children do.” [Footnote: Bausset, “Memoires sur Intterieur du Palais Imperial,” vol. ii.]

The emperor burst into loud laughter, in which the others did not fail to join. “Ah, you see, gentlemen,” exclaimed the emperor, “this is a new rendering of Lafontaine’s celebrated ‘Toujours perdrix!’ The King of Rome, being able to command all that is beautiful and agreeable to his heart’s content, is longing for the gutter.–Be patient, sire, I cannot immediately fulfil your wish, but I shall have a palace for you, and in its court-yard you shall have a gutter, too. Sire, look at those plans which Baron Fontaine has drawn up for a palace destined for you alone.”

“What! For me alone?” asked the child, in dismay. “You will not live with me in the palace?”

“No, sire. The King of Rome must have a palace of his own where he will reside with his court.”

“Papa emperor, I thank you for your New-Year’s gift,” said the boy, sullenly; “I thank you, but do not accept it. I do not want a palace of my own. I thank your majesty, but prefer remaining at the Tuileries.”

“But, sire, just think of it–a splendid palace belonging to you alone!”

“I do not want to live alone!”

“Well, sire, then you will request your beautiful mother, the empress, to live with you. Will that be sufficient?”

The boy glanced quickly and anxiously around the room, as if to satisfy himself that neither the empress nor Madame de Montesquiou was present; he then threw both his arms round the emperor’s neck, and exclaimed, “I want to be where you are, papa!”

Napoleon pressed his lips with passionate tenderness on his son’s head. “Well, sire,” he said, in a voice tremulous with love, “I believe your wishes will have to be complied with. As soon as your palace is completed I shall live with you. Do you accept your palace on this condition?”

“Yes, my dear papa emperor,” exclaimed the prince, joyously, “now I accept it, and thank you for it.”

“Well, you hear that, Fontaine,” said Napoleon, turning toward his architect. “You may begin the construction of the palace; the King of Rome accepts it. I sanction this second plan. Build a magnificent villa, and it must be completed in two years. In two years–“

Suddenly the emperor paused, and his face darkened. “Ah,” he said, gloomily, putting his hand on the prince’s head, “ah, we purpose building you a palace, but if they conquer me you will not even possess a cabin!” [Footnote: Napoleon’s words.–Vide “Memoirs of the Duchess d’Abrantes.”] The emperor’s head dropped on his breast, and a pause ensued, which the child, usually so vivacious, did not venture to interrupt.

At length Napoleon said: “Go, Fontaine, and take your plans along; I will confer further about the matter. And you, ministers, come, we have to settle some questions of importance. But, first, I must take the king back to his governess.”

The boy clung with almost anxious tenderness to his father. “Ah, dear, dear papa emperor,” he begged, “let me stay here! I will be quiet–oh, so very quiet! I will only sit on your knee, lean my head on your breast, and not disturb you at all.”

“Well, you may stay then,” said Napoleon. “We shall see whether you really can be quiet and not disturb us.”

The little child kept his word. Sitting quietly on the emperor’s knee, and leaning his little head on his father’s breast, he did not interrupt in the least the important conference of Napoleon and his ministers. An hour afterward the conference was over, and the dukes were dismissed.

“Now, sire,” said Napoleon, turning toward the child, now “let us play.”

But the little king, who always received these words with exultation, remained silent, and when the emperor bent over him, he saw that he had fallen asleep. “Happy king!” murmured Napoleon, “happy king! who can fall asleep in the midst of state business!” Softly and cautiously drawing the boy closer to his breast, and taking pains not to disturb his slumber, he sat still and motionless, scarcely breathing, although sad thoughts oppressed his mind. It was an interesting spectacle–this lovely boy leaning his head in smiling dreams on the breast of his father, who was looking down on him with grave and tender eyes.

The emperor sat thus a long time. Strange and wonderful thoughts stole upon him–thoughts of past happiness, of past love. He thought of how long he had yearned to possess a son, and how many tears his first consort shed–how ardently he had been loved by the noble and beautiful Josephine, whom, in his pride, which demanded an heir- apparent, he had thrust into solitude. Providence had given Bonaparte all that his heart had longed for–a beautiful young wife, who loved him, and who was the daughter of an emperor; and a sweet, lovely child that was to be the heir of his imperial throne. But Providence, by giving him all, had taken all from Josephine–the heart and hand of her husband, her dignity and authority as an empress and sovereign. She was now nothing but a deserted and unhappy lady, who had only tears for her past, no joy in the present, no hopes for the future.

All this was on account of the child adored by his father, and hailed by France; and yet, despite all the mischief this little boy had done her and the fact that he was the child of another woman, Josephine loved him, and often implored the emperor to let her see and embrace the little King of Rome. He had always refused to grant this request, in order not to stir up the jealousy of his young wife, but, at this quiet hour, when he was alone with his sleeping child, Napoleon thought of Josephine with melancholy tenderness. Amid the profound silence which surrounded him, his recollections spoke to him. They pointed him to Josephine in the imperishable splendor of her love, her grace, and goodness; he thought he saw her sweet lips, which had always a smile for him; her brilliant eyes, which had ever looked tenderly on him, and which had learned to read his most secret thoughts.

“Poor Josephine!” he murmured, “poor Josephine! she loved me ardently, and many things might be different now if she were still by my side. She was my guardian angel, and with her my success has departed. She sacrificed her happiness to me and my ambition; and while formerly all hastened to offer congratulations on this day and pay homage to the empress, she now sits lonely and deserted at Malmaison.–No,” he then said aloud, “no, she shall not be lonely and deserted! I surely owe it to her to occasion her a moment of joy. She shall see my son–I myself will take him to her.” He cautiously lifted up the boy in his arms and rose. The prince awoke and looked smilingly up to his father, who carried him to the sofa and laid him with tender care on the cushions. But little Napoleon jumped up, and said laughingly. “I am no longer tired. The dukes are gone now, and let us play, papa!”

“No, sire,” said the emperor, “not now, I have business to attend to. But listen to me: at noon to-day I will take a ride with yon, all alone–that is to be my New-Year’s present.”

The boy uttered a cry of joy. “All alone, papa emperor? Oh, that will be splendid!”

“But now go to Madame de Montesquiou, sire,” said the emperor.– “Constant!” When the valet de chambre entered the room, he ordered Constant, “Pray conduct his majesty the King of Rome to Madame de Montesquiou, and tell her I shall call for him in a few hours in order to take a ride with him alone, without any attendants whatever.–Adieu, Sire, in a few hours we shall meet again.”

But the boy stood and looked at the emperor with grave and sullen glances. “Sire,” he said, “my dear Madame ‘Quiou tells me often a king ought to keep his word. Now I ask you must an emperor not keep his word also?”

“Certainly, sire!”

“Well, then, your majesty, take me to Madame ‘Quiou,” cried the boy, joyously; “you told her you would do so. Come, papa!”

“Ah,” exclaimed the emperor, smiling, “you are right–an emperor must fulfil his word, though he has pledged it only to a king. Come, sire, I will conduct you to Madame de Montesquiou. Constant, await me here!”

A few minutes afterward, the emperor returned to his cabinet. “Constant,” he said, in a low voice, “I know you loved the Empress Josephine, and have not forgotten her, I suppose?”

“Sire, the empress was my benefactress; I owe to her all that I am, and she was always kind to me.”

“More so than the present empress, you mean to say?” asked the emperor, casting a searching glance on his valet de chambre; and, as Constant was silent, Napoleon added, “It is true, the young empress is less condescending than my first consort. But that is, Constant, because she was brought up as the daughter of an emperor, and her feelings were restrained by the narrow limits of etiquette. Josephine forgot too much that she was an empress, Maria Louisa forgets it too little; but her heart is good and gentle, and she would never wish to grieve me. So, Constant, you have not yet forgotten the Empress Josephine?”

“Sire, none that ever knew the Empress Josephine could help remembering her. For my own part, I can never forget her.”

“Ah, what a fripon you are, to give me such a reply! Well, I will prove to you, M. Fripon, that I have not forgotten Josephine, either. This is New-Year’s-day. Would you not like to offer your congratulations to the Empress Josephine at Malmaison?”

“Sire, if so humble and low a servant as I am may dare, I should certainly be very happy to lay my congratulations at her feet.”

“Go, I permit you to do so, and the empress will surely receive you very kindly.”

“Particularly, sire, if I had a message from his majesty the emperor to deliver.”

“Fripon, I believe you take the liberty of guessing my thoughts! Yes, I will give you a message. Hasten to the Empress Josephine, take her my greetings, but see that the empress receives you without witnesses.–Do you hear, Constant–without witnesses? Then tell her to have her carriage immediately brought to the door, and, on the pretext of being alone with her mournful New-Year’s meditations, to take a ride without attendants. But when she is at a considerable distance from Malmaison, she is to order the coachman to drive to the little castle of La Bagatelle. She must be there precisely at four o’clock. I shall be there, and tell her majesty I shall not come alone. Now make haste, Constant! Recommend entire reticence to the empress. As to yourself, pray do not forget that, if any one shall hear of this affair, you must be held responsible. Go!”

CHAPTER XLIV.

JOSEPHINE.

Just as the clock struck four, the carriage of the Empress Josephine wheeled into the courtyard of the little castle of La Bagatelle. She inquired of the castellan, in a tremulous voice, whether any one had arrived there, and she breathed more freely when he replied in the negative. She left the carriage with youthful alacrity and entered the castle, followed by the castellan, who gazed in amazement at this empress without court or suite, who arrived stealthily and tremblingly, like a maiden to meet her lover for the first time. She hurried through the well-known apartments of the castle, and entered the hall in which, during the days of her happiness, she had so often received the foreign princes and ambassadors, or the dignitaries of France. The hall was now empty; no one was there to receive the deserted empress; but bright, merry fires were burning in the fireplaces, and every thing was in readiness for the reception of distinguished guests.

“You knew, then, that I was to come?” inquired the empress of the castellan.

“Your majesty,” he replied, in a low and reverential voice, “M. Constant was here, and gave orders to have the rooms in readiness. If your majesty wishes refreshments, you will find every thing served up in the dining-room.”

“No, no, I thank you,” cried the empress, hastily. “But tell me is my dressing-room–my former dressing-room,” she corrected herself falteringly–“is that heated, too?”

“Your majesty will find all your rooms comfortable, just as though you still condescended to reside here.”

“Well, then, I will go to that room. If any one comes, I shall notice it through the opened doors; it is unnecessary for you to inform me; I will go then at once to the reception-room.”

The castellan withdrew, and Josephine hastened through the adjoining apartment into the dressing-room. With a long, painful sigh she glanced around the room which had so often witnessed her happiness and her triumphs. Here, surrounded by her ladies in front of this mirror, she had had her hair dressed, and the emperor had almost always made his appearance at that hour to chat with her, look at her toilet, and delight her heart by a smile, a glance, that was more transporting to her than all the homage and flattery paid her by all her other admirers. Now she was here again, but alone, and with a mournful sigh she stepped to the mirror which had so often reflected her charming portrait, radiant with happiness, and sparkling with diamonds.

And what did she see now in this mirror? A woman with a pale, grief- stricken face, features growing old, and a desponding exhaustion which only a good and pleasant life can disguise when the vigor of youth has faded.

“Oh, I have become old!” sighed Josephine; “the years of tears and solitude count double, for one consumes then in days the strength of many years. I have grown old because I have wept for HIM, and because I have felt his misfortunes. Oh, how will he look? Will his cheeks be even paler and his eyes gloomier than formerly? I have not seen him since his return from his disastrous campaign; if I read the history of his sufferings on his face, my grief will kill me. But no,” she encouraged herself, “I will not weep, nor trouble him with my tears. I will be serene, and suppress my emotions. He will not come alone; but whom will he bring with him? I hope not the woman who is my rival–to whom I had to yield my throne!–No, I know Bonaparte’s heart, I know that he would be incapable of such cruelty. She, young, beautiful, the reigning empress–I, old, sorrowful, faded, the deserted empress! I–ah, there is a carriage rolling into the courtyard! He comes!” Her whole form trembled, and, breathless, her face suffused with deep blushes, she sank into an easy-chair. “I love him still,” she murmured; “my heart does not forget!” A low knocking at the small side-door leading to the inner corridor, was heard, and Constant entered. Josephine rose hastily, and with quivering lips asked, “Constant, is he there?”

“Yes, your majesty. The emperor requests you to repair to the reception-room. He will be there in a moment.”

“And who is accompanying him?”

“His majesty has commissioned me to tell you that it would afford him great satisfaction to prepare a little surprise for your majesty, and that he has, therefore, fulfilled a wish which you have felt for a long time.”

“Constant!” exclaimed Josephine, joyfully, “the emperor brings the King of Rome to me?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Ah, her child!” cried the empress, with an emotion of jealousy, burying her face in her hands.

“The emperor requests your majesty to be so gracious as not to let the little king suspect whom he has the honor to approach,” whispered Constant.

“Ah, she is not to suspect that her child has come to me!” murmured Josephine, while fresh tears trickled down her cheeks.

“The emperor, besides, implores your majesty not to frighten the prince by a sadness which your majesty, in the generosity and kindness of your heart, has so often overcome.”

“Yes,” said the empress, removing her hands from her face, and hastily drying her tears with her handkerchief, “I will not weep. It is true, I have often begged that I might see the King of Rome–the child for whom I have suffered so much, and to read in his face whether he is worthy of my sacrifice. The emperor is so kind as to fulfil my wish; tell him that I am profoundly grateful to him, that I will restrain my emotion and not make the prince suspect who I am. Tell him that I shall not weep when I see the child of the present empress. No, do not tell him that, Constant; it would grieve him– tell him only that I thank him, and that he shall not be displeased with me. Go! I am ready, and shall be happy to see the boy. It is not HER child, but HIS that I am to embrace.” And greeting Constant with that inimitable smile of grace and kindness peculiar to her, she walked toward the reception-room. “How my heart throbs!” she murmured; “it is as if my limbs were failing me–as if I should die.” Nearly fainting, she slowly glided through the adjoining apartment, and entered the reception-room. “Courage, my heart! for it is HIS child that I am to greet.” Sitting down on an easy-chair near the window, she looked in anxiety and suspense toward the large folding doors.

At length the emperor appeared. Josephine had not seen him for nearly a year, and at first her eyes beheld only him. She read in his pallid and furrowed face the secret history of his sorrows, which he had not, perhaps, communicated to any one, but which he could not conceal from the eye of love. Unutterable sympathy and tender compassion for him filled her soul. And now she almost timidly looked upon the child that Napoleon led by the hand.

How charming was this child! How proud of him was his father! Josephine felt this, and she said almost exultingly to herself “I have not, been sacrificed in vain! This child is an ample indemnity for my tears. I am the boy’s real mother, for I have suffered, sorrowed, and prayed for him!” Rejoicing in this sentiment, which seemed to restore the beauty of former days, Josephine stretched out her arms toward the child.

“Go, my son, and embrace the lady,” said Napoleon, dropping the hand of the prince. He advanced, while his father stood at the table in the middle of the room, supporting his right hand on the marble slab. He looked gravely but kindly upon the empress, from whom he felt separated, by the presence of his child, as by an impassable gulf.

The little prince offered his hand to the empress with a smile, and Josephine drew him into her arms, pressing his head to her bosom. A sigh, in spite of herself, came from the depths of her heart. She slowly bent back the boy’s head and gazed at him with a mournful but loving expression. Then her glance fell upon the emperor, and, with an indescribable look of love and tenderness, she said: “Sire, he is like you; God bless him for it!”

There was something so touching and heartfelt in these words–in the tone of her voice, and the glance of her eyes, that the emperor was profoundly moved, and responded only by a silent nod, not venturing to speak lest the tremor of his words should betray his emotion. Even the little king seemed to understand the excellent heart of this lady. He clung to her and said in a sweet voice, “I love you, madame, and want you to love me, too!”

“I love you, sire,” cried Josephine, “and shall pray God every day to preserve you to your father–to your parents,” she corrected herself with the self-abnegation of a true woman. “You will one day confer happiness on France and your people, for you undoubtedly wish to become as good, great, and wise, as your father.”

“Oh, yes, my papa emperor is very good, and I love him dearly!” exclaimed the boy, looking toward his father. “But, papa, why do you not come to us? Why do you not shake hands with this dear lady, who is so good and loves me so well?”

“The emperor is generous,” said Josephine, gently; “he wished me to have you a moment by yourself, sire; he has you every day, but I have never had you before.”

“Why did you not come and see me?” asked the child. “You live near Paris; and, if you loved me, you would often come and see how the little King of Rome is getting on. The emperor told me you were a dear and kind-hearted lady, and that every one loved you.”

“Did he tell you so, sire?” exclaimed the empress, drawing the boy into her arms. “Oh, tell the emperor that I shall always be grateful to him for it, and that these words will forever silence my grief.” Her eyes glanced in gratitude to the emperor, who softly laid his finger on his mouth, to admonish her to be silent and calm.

The little prince had now, with the facility with which children pass from one subject to another, turned his attention to a large diamond brooch fastened to Josephine’s golden sash. “How beautiful it is!” he exclaimed–“how it is flashing as though it were a star fallen from heaven, and fastened to your breast, because it loves you, madame, and because you are so good! And what fine ornaments you have on your watch! Ah, look here, papa emperor; see those pretty things! Come, papa, and look at them!”

“No, sire,” said the emperor, with a strange and mournful smile, “let me remain here. I can see all those pretty things quite distinctly.”

“They are very beautiful, are they not?” cried the child. “And if–“

“Well, sire,” asked Josephine, “why do you pause? Pray speak!”

The boy had suddenly assumed a grave air, and gazed upon the ornaments of the empress. “I was just thinking–but you will be angry if I tell you what, madame.”

“Certainly not, sire; tell me what you thought.”

“It occurred to my mind that we met in the forest on our way a poor man who looked haggard and wretched, and begged us to give him something. But papa and I could not, for we had already distributed all our money among the unfortunate persons whom we had previously met. Why are there so many poor people, madame?–why does my papa emperor not order all men to be happy and rich?”

“Because it is impossible for him to do so, sire,” said Josephine.

“And because, in order to be able to make others happy, we must ourselves be rich!” exclaimed the emperor, smiling. “Now you said yourself, sire, we could not give the poor man in the forest any thing, for we had nothing to give him.”

“Yes, and I was very sorry,” said the boy, “And now I was thinking if we sent for the poor man, and you, madame, gave him your watch and your diamonds, and he sold them, he would have a great deal of money, and be very rich and happy.”

Josephine pressed the boy tenderly to her heart. “Sire,” she said, “I promise you that I will send for your poor man and give him so much money that he will never again be wretched.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the prince, encircling the lady’s neck with his arms, “how good you are, madame, and how I love you!”

Josephine pressed his head to her bosom. “Oh, you may certainly love me a little,” she replied, with a touching smile; “I have really deserved it of you.”

“Sire,” said the emperor, advancing a few steps, “now bid the lady farewell. We must go.”

“Papa!” cried the boy, joyously–“papa, we must take the dear lady with us; she is so good, and I love her. Let her live with us in the Tuileries, and always stay with us. I want her to do so, and you, too, papa, do you not?”

Josephine’s eyes filled with tears, and she looked at the emperor with an expression of unutterable woe. He immediately averted his face, perhaps to prevent Josephine from noticing his emotion. “Come, sire,” he said imperiously, “it is high time; it is growing dark. Take leave of madame!”

“Oh, no; I will not take leave of her!” cried the boy, vehemently. “I say to her rather–Come with us to the Tuileries!”

“It cannot be, sire,” said Josephine, smiling amidst her tears.

“Why?” cried the boy, impatiently, and throwing back his head. “Come; you may accompany the emperor, and I want you to do so!”

Napoleon, painfully moved by this scene, quickly advanced to the prince, and took his hand. “Come, sire,” he said in a tone so grave that the boy dared no longer resist. Submitting to his father’s will, he stepped back, and, pleasantly bowing, took leave of the empress.

“We shall meet again,” said Josephine, and, turning her tearful eyes to Napoleon, she asked, “We shall meet again, sire, shall we not?”

“Yes,” said Napoleon, gravely, “we shall meet again.” He then took leave of her with an affectionate look, which fell as a sunbeam upon her desolate heart, and, leading the boy by the hand, turned quickly toward the door. She looked after them in silence and with clasped hands. As the door opened, the emperor turned again with a parting but melancholy glance.

Josephine was again alone. With a groan she fell on her knees, and lifting her face toward heaven, she cried, “My God, protect– preserve him! Whatever I may suffer, oh, let him be happy!”

CHAPTER XLV.

TALLEYRAND.

For a week the emperor had scarcely left his cabinet; bending over his maps, he anxiously examined the position of his army, and that of the constantly advancing allies. Every day couriers with news of fresh disasters arrived at Paris; rumors of invading armies terrified the citizens, and disturbed the emperor’s temper. It was impossible for the government to conceal the misfortunes which had befallen France from the beginning of the new year. The people knew that Blucher had crossed the Rhine, and, victoriously penetrating France, on the 16th of January had taken up his quarters at Nancy. It was publicly known that a still larger army of the allies, commanded by Prince Schwartzenberg, had advanced through Switzerland, Lorraine, and Alsace, taken the fortresses, overcome all resistance, and that both generals had sworn to appear in front of Paris by February, and conquer the capital. All Paris knew this, and longed for peace as the only way to put an end to the sufferings of the nation. The strength and the superiority of the allied army could not be concealed, and it was felt to be impossible to expel the powerful invaders.

Napoleon himself at length saw the necessity of peace, and, conquering his proud heart, he sent the Duke de Vicenza, his faithful friend Caulaincourt, to the headquarters of the allies, to request them to send plenipotentiaries to a peace congress. The allies accepted this proposition, but they declared that, despite the peace congress, the course of the war could not in the least be interrupted; that the operations in the field must be vigorously continued. Napoleon responded to this by decreeing a new conscription, ordering all able-bodied men in France to be enrolled in the national armies. The terrors of war were, therefore, approaching, and yet Paris was in hope that peace would be concluded; Caulaincourt was still at the headquarters of the allies, treating with them about the congress.

Early on the morning of the 23d of January, another dispatch from Caulaincourt to Maret was received at Paris, and the minister immediately repaired to the Tuileries, to communicate it to the emperor. This dispatch confirmed all the disastrous tidings which had arrived from day to day, and convinced Napoleon and his minister that the vast superiority of the allied armies rendered it impossible for the emperor to rid his country of the formidable invaders.

“Maret,” said Napoleon, gloomily, “come and look at this map. What do you see here?”

“Sire, a number of colored pins extending in all directions.”

“And a small number of white pins. Well these are my troops; the colored pins designate the armies of my enemies. They are allied; but I–I have no longer a single ally at this hour; I stand alone, and have to meet eight different armies. See here, Maret: there is, in the first place, the grand army of the Russians, Austrians, Bavarians, and Wurtembergers, commanded by Prince Schwartzenberg, and accompanied by the allied monarchs; next, there is the grand Prussian army, with the Russian and Saxon corps, under the command of Blucher, the hussar; here stand the Swedes under Bernadotte, reenforced by Russian and English corps, and the German troops of the Confederation of the Rhine; there comes the Anglo-Batavian army; here, farther to the South, is Wellington’s army, composed of English, Spaniards, and Portuguese; there, in Italy, is an Austrian corps under Bellegarde; at no great distance from it, the Neapolitan corps under the King of Naples; and, finally, here at Lyons, is another Austrian corps under Bubna. The armies of Schwartzenberg, Blucher, and Bernadotte, are about six hundred thousand strong. And now see what forces I have–I cannot call them armies! Augereau’s corps is stationed near Lyons; Ney, Marmont, and Mortier, are with their corps here between the Meuse and the Seine; Sebastiani and Macdonald are with the remnants of their corps on the frontier of the Netherlands. Maret, my troops are hardly one hundred thousand; the allies, therefore, are six to one.”

“Sire,” said Maret, “even a military genius like that of your majesty, will be unable to cope with such odds, and it reflects no dishonor on the bravest to submit to the decrees of Fate.”

“It is true,” murmured Napoleon, throwing himself into his easy- chair, with his arm leaning on the desk, and his head bent forward– “it is true, I have no sufficient force to oppose them; their armies are six times as strong as mine, and, unless fortune greatly favors me, I must yield!”

“But fortune has forsaken us, sire, and we have no strength left. Yield, therefore, sire; submit to a stern necessity; comply with the anxious demand of France; restore peace to your people–to the world! Do not endanger, without prospect of success, your precious life, which is necessary to France–your throne, threatened by foreign and domestic foes. All is at stake. Save France, save the throne! Make peace at any cost!”

While Maret was speaking, Napoleon slowly raised his head, and sent a flaming glance on his minister. Now that Maret was silent, the emperor quickly took up an open book from his desk and handed it to Maret. “I will not answer you, duke,” said Napoleon, “but Marmontel shall. Read this. Read it aloud.”

Maret read: “‘I know of nothing more sublime than the resolution taken by a monarch living in our times, who would be buried under the ruins of his throne rather than accept terms to which a king should not listen; he was possessed of too proud a soul to descend lower than unavoidable misfortune. He knew full well that courage may restore strength and lustre to a crown, but that cowardice and dishonor never can.'” [Footnote: Marmontel, “Grandeur et Decadence des Romains,” ch. v.]

“That is my reply, Maret,” exclaimed Napoleon. “The example of Louis XIV. shall teach me to perish rather than humiliate myself.”

“Sire,” said Maret, solemnly, “Marmontel is wrong; there is something more sublime than to be buried under the ruins of a throne–a king sacrificing his own greatness to the welfare of a state that must perish with him.”

“Never!” exclaimed the emperor, impetuously. “I can die beneath the ruins of my throne, but I cannot sign my own humiliation! Maret, I have made up my mind: I will continue this struggle to the last: I will conquer or die! Tomorrow I set out for the army. Ah, I want to see whether that drunken general of hussars, Blucher, shall not yield to me, notwithstanding his crazy cavalry tricks; whether Schwartzenberg, my faithless pupil, who had learned the art of war from me, will meet me in a pitched battle; and whether Bernadotte, my rebellious subject, dare look me in the face. Maret, the decisive struggle is at hand. I will take the field, save Paris, and conquer the enemy. I must call upon all the men of France to defend the sacred soil of our country, and convert every house into a castle, every village into a fortress, so that my enemies shall have to wrest every inch of ground from us at a vast sacrifice. Not another word about peace! Every thing is ready. Troops are hurrying forward from Spain to fill up my army; in a few days they will be here. Between the Seine and the Marne all my forces will unite and put a stop to the advance of the allies upon Paris. We shall occupy a position by which it will be easy for us to divide, disperse, and crush the enemy. Here, in the plain between these rivers, I shall march along the Aube, scatter the allied army, hurl most of my troops at one of its wings, and, by skilful manoeuvres, compel the other wing to fall back. The enemy must retreat; I shall profit by it, and when I have gained a great battle over him, I can impose my own terms; I have then conquered an HONORABLE peace for France–one that we can subscribe to without blushing. Ah, I see a brilliant future! It is time to begin. My eagles are ascending; they are not ravens or bats–they are soaring to the sun.” As the emperor uttered these words his soul illuminated his face; he was again the conqueror, confiding in his star.

Maret looked anxiously, but admiringly, at Napoleon’s face, in which great resolutions were beaming, and he read there an assurance and determination that nothing could change. “You have made up your mind, then, sire: the war is to go on, and the peace congress is not to meet?”

“On the contrary,” exclaimed Napoleon, smiling, “let it meet, if the allies wish it. While Caulaincourt, Metternich, and Hardenberg, are dictating terms of peace with their pens, we shall do so with our swords, and we shall soon see which will make the more progress. But let us now commence with some movements of peace. We must be on good terms with Spain and Rome. Let Ferdinand return as King to Spain, and as such become my ally. I shall also open the doors of Pope Pius’s prison at Fontainebleau; let him return as pope to Rome, and, as God’s vicegerent, be on my side. Maret, here are already two allies. In order to conquer, but one is wanting; and it is for you, Maret, to procure it.”

“Sire, what is the name of this ally?” asked the Duke de Bassano, in amazement.

“Money! money! and, for the third time, money! Procure me five millions in cash, and I can add one hundred thousand men to my army.”

“Ah, sire, our chests are empty!” sighed Maret.

“But I must have money,” replied Napoleon, vehemently. “Without it no war can be waged–no victory gained. Five millions, Maret; I need them; I must have them!”

Maret looked thoughtful. Suddenly his face kindled, and his whole frame shook with joy. “Sire, your majesty asks for five millions?”

“Yes, five millions, to begin with.”

“Well, then, sire, I can tell you where to find them, and perhaps more.”

“Where?”

“Sire, will you pledge me your imperial word not to betray that it was I who told you where to find this money?”

“Certainly, Maret.”

“Listen, sire; but permit me to whisper what I do not wish even the walls to hear.” He bent close to the emperor’s ear.

Napoleon listened with breathless attention, and nodded repeatedly. “You really believe this to be true, Maret?” he then asked, eagerly.

“Sire, I affirm it to be true. It is a secret known only to three persons! It was betrayed to me to gain me over by an act of treachery–but that is altogether another matter; the fact is sufficient.”

“And this fact is, that I shall find with my mother the millions that I need?” said the emperor. “Maret, if that is so, I shall have them this very day.”

“Your majesty believes so? Madame Letitia–“

“My mother is avaricious, you wish to say? It is true, her extreme economy has often vexed me; to-day it gladdens my heart; for, thanks to her parsimony, I shall find with her what I need for my army. She will deny these millions to me, to be sure; but you told me where to look for them, and I pledge you my word I know how to find and take them! Hush, not another word! I shall have what I want within an hour. Go now, Maret. You will meet the Prince de Benevento in the antechamber. Send him to me. I have to address a few parting words to M. de Talleyrand.”

The emperor stood in the middle of the magnificently furnished cabinet when the Prince de Benevento slowly opened the door and entered. The prince bore the emperor’s piercing look with a perfectly composed air. Not a feature of his aristocratic countenance expressed any anxiety and his smile did not for an instant vanish from his lips. With a sort of careless bearing he approached the emperor, who allowed him to come near him, still watching every expression of his countenance.

“I wished to see you,” he said, “in order to tell you that I shall set out for the army the day after to-morrow.” Talleyrand bowed, but made no reply. “Do you desire to accompany me?” asked the emperor, vehemently.

“Sire, what should I do at the headquarters of the army?” said Talleyrand, shrugging his shoulders. “Your majesty knows well that I could be of very little service in the army–that I am able only to wield the pen.”

“And the tongue!” added Napoleon. “But before leaving Paris I will give you some wholesome advice; bridle both your tongue and your pen a little better than you have done of late. I know that you will not shrink from any treachery, and that you are the first rat that will desert the sinking ship; but consider what you are doing. The ship is not yet in danger, and, spreading her sails, she will move proudly on her way.”

“I hope she will have favorable winds and deep water,” said Talleyrand, bowing carelessly.

Napoleon looked at him with hatred and rage. These equivocal words– the calm, cold tone in which they were uttered, disturbed the emperor, and his blood boiled. “I believe in the sincerity of your wish,” he said, “although there are many who assert that you are a traitor. I have given you fair warning; now prove to those who are accusing you, that they are doing you injustice. No intrigues! You will be closely watched. Beware!” Talleyrand bowed again, and his face still retained its indifferent, smiling expression. “Listen now to what I have to say,” added Napoleon. “Prior to my departure I desire to put an end to the dissensions with Rome and Spain. The pope will leave Fontainebleau to-morrow and return to Rome. The Infante of Spain, too, is at liberty to return to his country and ascend the throne of his ancestors. Go to-morrow to Valencay. It was you who conveyed Ferdinand thither; you must, therefore, open the doors of his prison that you locked.”

“Sire, I thank your majesty for the favor which you desire to confer on me,” said Talleyrand, gravely. “But it was not I who arrested the sacred person of the legitimate King of Spain; it was not I who dared to deprive him of his rights–nay, his very liberty. I acted only as the obedient servant of my master, for your majesty’s orders made me the jailer of the Infante of Spain.”

Napoleon approached Talleyrand, and his flaming eyes seemed to pierce his soul. “What!” he shouted, in a loud voice. “You wish to give yourself now the semblance of innocence in this affair? What! You only executed my orders, and I made you the jailer of the infante! Who was it, then, that urged me to do this? Who was it that told me it was indispensable for me to crush the head of this Spanish hydra? Who wished even to persuade me to more energetic measures than imprisonment, in order to get rid of the royal family of Spain? Who told me at that time that it would be wiser and better for the welfare of Europe to cut the Gordian knot instead of untying it? Do you remember who did all this?”

Talleyrand made no reply. His countenance still exhibiting the same indifferent composure, he seemed scarcely to have heard the rebukes of the emperor. His head slightly bent forward, his eyes half closed, his lips compressed, he stood leaning with one hand on the back of a chair, and with the other playing with his lace-frill. This conduct greatly augmented the emperor’s anger. “Will you reply to me?” thundered Napoleon, stamping the floor, and so near to Talleyrand’s foot that the prince softly drew it back. “Will you reply to me?”

Talleyrand looked at the emperor with immovable calmness. “Sire,” he said, slowly, “I do not know what your majesty means.”

“You do not know what I mean?” echoed Napoleon. “If you do not, listen!” Unable longer to overcome his anger, he advanced toward Talleyrand, and the prince drew back. As if beside himself, the emperor raised his clinched fists, and held them toward the prince’s face, moving through the large room, while Talleyrand, looking the emperor full in the face, retreated, taking care to get nearer the door.

“I will tell you that you are a traitor,” cried Napoleon, rushing forward–“a traitor who would like to deny to-day what he did yesterday, because he believes that another era is dawning, and that he must betray his master before the cock crows for the first time. You wish to deny that it was you who urged me to imprison the Spanish prince? You are impudent enough to tell me that to my face?” So saying, the emperor’s clinched fists almost touched the cheek of the prince, who was still receding, and now noticed with a feeling of relief that he had reached the end of his dangerous promenade.

“Do you really dare deny your past in so barefaced a manner?” cried Napoleon, still holding his fist so close to Talleyrand’s cheek that he almost felt it.

The prince softly put his hand behind his back, and fortunately succeeded in seizing the door-knob. He opened the door with a hasty jerk so wide that the gentlemen assembled in the anteroom enjoyed the spectacle of Napoleon with uplifted fists threatening his minister.

“Sire,” said Talleyrand, in a calm voice, “I shall not dare say any thing; for I know of no reply to what your majesty has said.” The prince pointed with a sarcastic smile to the clinched fists of the emperor, and, without complying with the requirements of usual ceremony, he hastened, more rapidly than his lame foot generally permitted him to do, through the antechamber, saluting the gentlemen as he passed with a wave of his hand and a smile. On stepping into the outer room he accelerated his pace, gliding down-stairs as softly as a cat, and hurrying across the hall to his carriage.

“Home,” he said aloud, “at a gallop!” When the horses started, Talleyrand leaned back, and said to himself, “This was our last adieu! I shall take good care not to meet Napoleon again, provided he is stupid enough to give me time for making my dispositions.”

The emperor in the mean time, half ashamed of himself, reentered the cabinet, and locked the door. Angry as a lion in his cage, he paced to and fro with quick steps, when suddenly a gentle voice behind him said, “Sire, pray be so gracious as to listen to me!”

The emperor turned with an angry gesture, and saw the Duke do Rovigo standing near the open door of the antechamber. “Well, Savary, what do yo want?” he asked in a faint voice. “Shut the door, and come here. Speak! What do you want?”

“Sire, to implore you to be on your guard,” said the duke. “Your majesty has just had a violent scene with the Prince de Benevento.”

“Who told you so?”

“Sire, we could distinctly hear your majesty’s voice in the antechamber; and, when the prince opened the door, the rest, like myself, saw your threatening attitude. In an hour all Paris will know it.”

“Well?”

“Sire, the Prince de Benevento is not the man to forgot an insult, and it will mortify him doubly that the world will hear of it.”

“Let it mortify him!” cried Napoleon. “All of you have insinuated to me that Talleyrand is a traitor, deserving punishment. I have chastised him; that is all.”

“Sire, the chastisement was either too severe, or not severe enough,” said Savary, gravely. “Had it been too severe, the generous heart of your majesty would think of offering him some satisfaction; but I know Talleyrand, and am firmly convinced of the truth of my statement–I pronounce him a plotter of dangerous intrigues. Your majesty therefore cannot chastise him too severely; and, having gone so far, you must now go still farther.”

“How so? What do you mean?”

“Sire, I mean that your majesty, instead of allowing the Prince de Benevento to return home, ought to send him to Vincennes, and recommend him to the special care of your friend General Daumesnil.”

“Ah, I ought to have him arrested!” cried Napoleon, shrugging his shoulders. “I ought to make a martyr out of a traitor!”

“No, sire, punish a traitor, neither more nor less! I know that Talleyrand is one. He is in secret communication with the legitimists, corresponding with the Bourbons, through other hands; at his house, meetings of malcontents and secret royalists are held every day; there the fires are kindled that will soon burst into devouring energy, unless your majesty extinguish them in time. You have disdained to regain Talleyrand by promises or honors. You have insulted him, and he will revenge himself, if the power of doing so be left him. Sire, I venture to remind your majesty of Machiavel, ‘One ought never to make half an enemy.'”

“It is true,” murmured Napoleon to himself, thoughtfully, “nothing is more dangerous than such half enmities. Under the mask of friendship they betray us the more surely.”

“Hence, sire, pray tear this mask from Talleyrand’s treacherous face. Meet him as an open enemy. Then either his enmity will be destroyed by terror, or he will betray his intentions.”

“I lack proof to convict him,” said Napoleon, in a hesitating and wavering tone.

“Well, yes,” exclaimed Savary, “you have no proof, but there cannot be the least doubt as to the intrigues which he is bold enough to plot. The opportunity is too favorable that he should not endeavor to embrace it. Sire, I should like to urge the example of the great police-minister of Louis XV. Whenever M. de Sartines was on the eve of a festival, or any great public ceremony, he sent for all suspicious persons to whom his attention was particularly directed, and said to them, ‘I have no charge against you at present, but to- morrow it may be different. Habit you know has power over you, and you are unlikely to resist temptation. It would be incumbent upon me to treat you with extreme rigor. For your sake, as well as mine, be kind enough therefore to repair for a few days to a prison, the choice of which I leave to yourselves.’ The suspected persons willingly complied with his request, and no arrests were made.”

“You may be right; M. de Sartines was undoubtedly a sagacious police-minister,” said the emperor, musingly. “His precaution is good for those who are afraid; but I am not! If I conquer my enemies, I thereby trample in the dust this vile serpent, too, that would sting me, and then would crawl as a worm at my feet. If I yield to my enemies, let the structure which I have built fall upon me. It will not matter then whether Talleyrand’s hand, too, broke off a piece of the wall or not; it would have fallen without him. Not another word about it, Savary! My carriage–I will ride to my mother!”

On the evening of the same day, the Prince de Benevento left his palace, entered a hackney-coach, and was driven to one of the remote streets of the Faubourg St. Germain. He stopped in front of a small, mean-looking house; and, when the coach had gone, the prince knocked three times in a peculiar manner at the street door. It opened, and he cautiously entered. No one was to be seen in the lighted hall; but Talleyrand seemed perfectly familiar with the locality; and crossing, without hesitation, a long passage, he ascended the thickly-carpeted staircase. Here was another locked door, beside which was a bell, which the prince rang three times. The door was opened, and he walked through a long corridor. The passage widened, and the prince was now in a brilliant hall, decorated with paintings and gildings. The entrance through the small house was plainly but a circuitous road to one of the palaces of the Faubourg St. Germain where the royalists were plotting mischief. At the end of this hall was a portiere, in front of which was a richly-liveried footman. Talleyrand whispered a few words; the servant bowed and opened the door. The prince now entered a saloon, furnished in the most magnificent and tasteful style, where another liveried attendant was waiting. “The Countess du Cayla?” asked the Prince de Benevento.

“She is in her cabinet. Shall I announce your highness?”

“It is unnecessary.”

He quickly approached and knocked softly at the door of the cabinet. A sweet voice bade him come in. Before him stood a young lady who welcomed him with a charming smile, but with an air of ill-concealed amazement. “Oh, the Prince de Benevento!” she exclaimed, merrily. “You come to me to-day; but yesterday, when I went to you to bring you greetings from our august master, King Louis XVIII., you feigned not to understand whom I wished to speak of, and imposed silence.”

“To-day I come to make amends for what I did yesterday, countess,” said Talleyrand, with his graceful kindness. “Be good enough to inform his majesty King Louis XVIII. that he may henceforth count upon my services and my zealous devotedness. I shall assist him in opening the road to Paris, and do all I can that his majesty may soon be able to make his entrance into the capital of his kingdom.”

“Then you have forsaken Napoleon openly and unreservedly!” exclaimed the Countess du Cayla, the zealous agent of the Count de Lille, whom at that time none but the royalists secretly called King Louis XVIII. “You are, then, one of us, now and forever?”

“Yes, I consider myself a member of your party,” said Talleyrand, “and at heart I was always one of the most faithful and zealous servants of the king. I can prove it, for it was I who led Napoleon, step by step, frequently even in spite of his reluctance, to the brink of ruin, on which he is standing now, and I am ready to give him a last thrust to plunge him into the abyss. The emperor has been guilty of great folly to-day. He ought to have had me arrested, but he failed to do so. For this mistake I shall punish him by profiting by my liberty in the service of his majesty the king. Let us consider, therefore, countess, what we ought to do for the speedy return of King Louis XVIII. to Paris.”

“Yes, let us consider that,” exclaimed the countess; “and if you have no objection, prince, we shall allow the faithful friends of his majesty to participate in the consultation. Upward of one hundred friends are already assembled in the large saloon, and they are doubtless astonished at my prolonged absence. Come, prince! You will meet an old friend among your new friends.”

“Who is it, countess?”

“The Duke d’Otranto!”

“What? Is he here? Has he dared to return?”

“He has, with the emperor’s sister, the Princess Eliza Bacciochi; and he is believed to be with her in the south of France, in order to await the course of events. But he has secretly and in disguise come to Paris, in order, like you, to offer his services to King Louis. Late events seem to have converted him into a very zealous royalist, and he openly admits his conversion. He boasts of having said to the Princess Eliza: ‘Madame, there is but one way of salvation: the emperor must be killed on the spot.'” [Footnote: “Memoires du Duo de Rovigo,” vol. vi., p. 352.]

“In truth, he is right,” said Talleyrand, smiling; “that would speedily put an end to all embarrassments. Well, the emperor intends to join the army; perhaps, a hostile bullet may become our ally, and save us further trouble. If not, we shall speak of the matter hereafter. Permit me, countess, to conduct you to the saloon.”

CHAPTER XLVI.

MADAME LETITIA.

Profound silence reigned in the palace of “Madame Mere.” It was noonday, and the male and female servants, as well as the ladies of honor of the emperor’s mother, had left the palace to take elsewhere the dinner which Madame Letitia refused to give them, and for which she paid them every month a ridiculously small sum; only the two cooks, whom madame, notwithstanding her objections, had to keep, in compliance with the express orders of the emperor, were in the kitchen, but under the vigilant supervision of old Cordelia, the faithful servant who had accompanied madame from Corsica to France, and who, since then, notwithstanding all vicissitudes, had remained her companion. Cordelia not only watched the cooks and gave them what was needed for preparing the meals, but, as soon as the dishes were handed to the servant who was to carry them to the table, she hastened after him in order to prevent him from putting anything aside. When Cordelia went with the servant, she opened, with an air of self-importance, a cupboard fixed in the wall of the corridor, near the dining-room, of which she alone possessed the key, and, as soon as the servant returned with the fragments of the dinner, she locked them in this cupboard with the wine and bread; only on Sundays did the dinner-table of Madame Mere provide any thing for the servants.

To-day, however, was not Sunday, and hence Madame Cordelia herself had placed a bottle, half filled with wine remaining from yesterday’s dinner, on the table, at which no one but Madame Letitia was to seat herself, one of the ladies of honor, who always dined with her, having been excused on account of indisposition. Madame Letitia was therefore alone to-day; it was unnecessary for her to submit to the restraint of etiquette, and she yielded with genuine relief to an unwonted freedom. She was in her sitting-room, busily engaged in taking from a large basket, the plebeian appearance of which contrasted strangely with the magnificent Turkish carpet on which it stood, the folded clothes which the washerwoman had just delivered. The appearance of Madame Mere herself was also in some contrast with the gorgeous surroundings amid which she moved.

The room was furnished with princely magnificence, the walls being hung with heavy satin, and curtains of the same description, adorned with gold embroideries, suspended on both sides of the high windows; the richly-carved chairs and sofas were covered with purple velvet, and the tables had marble slabs of Florentine workmanship. A chandelier of rock-crystal hung in solid gold chains from the ceiling; masterly paintings in broad, rich frames were on the silken walls; Japan vases stood on gilded consoles, and numerous costly ornaments added to the splendor of the aristocratic apartment.

Madame Letitia, standing beside the wash-basket, presented a marked contrast with all this. Her tall figure was wrapped in a light white muslin dress trimmed below with rosettes, and from which protruded a rather large foot, covered with a cotton stocking, and encased in a coarse, worn-out shoe. A sash of rose-colored silk, with faded embroidery, encircled her waist; a lace shawl, crossed over her bosom, and tied in a careless knot on her back, enveloped her neck and full shoulders. Her hair, falling down in heavy gray ringlets, was surmounted by a sort of turban, and a large bouquet of artificial roses, fastened above her forehead, was her only ornament.

There was nothing therefore imposing in the appearance of the emperor’s mother; but still there was something noble about her, and that was her face. It was of imperishable beauty; its outlines were classic and of great dignity, and her eyes, which were of the deep, incomparable color which she had bequeathed to her son the emperor, possessed still the lustre of youth; her lips were fresh, and her teeth faultless; not a single wrinkle furrowed her forehead, and her finely-curved nose added to the imperious expression of her features. The whole bearing of Madame Letitia indicated a lofty and yet a gentle spirit. He who beheld only this form, with its strange dress, could not refrain from smiling; but a glance at the beautiful and dignified face filled the beholder with feelings of reverence and admiration.

Madame Letitia, as we have said, was engaged in unpacking the clothes just returned by the laundress. This was an occupation which she never intrusted to any of her attendants, but in which she could generally engage only secretly and at night, after she had dismissed them; for the emperor made it incumbent on his mother’s ladies of honor to observe the strictest etiquette, and forbade her to occupy herself with affairs improper for the mother of an emperor. Hence, Madame Letitia was obliged, for the most part, to lead the life of an aristocratic lady, embroider a little, ride out, have her companions read to her, receive visitors, and pass the day in ennui. Only at night, when the ladies left the palace–when etiquette permitted Madame Letitia to retire with her maid Cordelia into her bedroom–only then commenced her active life. At that time madame conversed with her confidantes about her household affairs; she decided what dishes should be prepared for the following day. and, when all were asleep and she was sure of being watched by no one, she proceeded with her faithful Cordelia to the cupboard of the corridor to examine the remnants saved from dinner, and to decide whether they might not be served up again.

On this day she was free from the restraints of etiquette. The lady on service had been taken ill; and her second lady of honor, not anticipating such an event, had obtained leave to take a trip to Versailles. Madame Letitia, therefore, was at liberty to dispose of her time as she pleased; she could fearlessly indulge in occupations entirely contrary to etiquette, and she embraced this rare opportunity in the course of the forenoon of examining the clothes, which otherwise would have had this honor only after nightfall. But the consequence was, that the usually serene forehead of Madame Letitia grew dark, because she was by no means satisfied with the performance of her laundress. Just as her busy hands took up another piece from the basket and unfolded it, the door behind her opened. She heard it, but did not turn, knowing very well that it was Cordelia who entered her room, for no one else had the right of taking such a liberty without being duly and formally announced.

“Cordelia,” she exclaimed, “Cordelia, come and look at these towels of the cook; all of them are already threadbare, and it is but a year since I bought them. You ought to tell the cook very emphatically that she should be more careful and not ruin my towels. Do you hear, Cordelia?”

“Cordelia is not here,” said a grave, angry voice behind her. Madame Letitia started, and a deep blush suffused her cheeks. Close behind her stood the emperor, fixing his stern eyes on his mother.

“The emperor!” she murmured, yielding to the first movement of terror, and sinking back on her chair.

“Yes, the emperor!” said Napoleon, approaching and casting angry glances on the clothes spread out on the table. “The emperor pays a visit to his mother, and finds to his amazement that little respect is felt here for his orders, and that it is deemed unnecessary to comply with his wishes. Ah, madame, how can the emperor expect the people to obey him everywhere and unconditionally, when his own family set an example of disobedience, and openly show that the emperor’s orders are indifferent to them?”

“When have I shown indifference to them?” asked Madame Letitia, casting a despairing glance on the basket.

“You show it at this very hour,” said the emperor, sternly, “and every thing proves that you are in the habit of disobeying my wishes. I met with no footmen in the outer antechamber; I did not see the chamberlain of your imperial highness in the adjoining room.”

“It is noonday, and they have gone to dinner.”

“Ah, it is true, your imperial highness directs your court to take their meals at other houses,” exclaimed the emperor, with a sarcastic smile. “You are paying board-money to the chamberlain, the valet de chambre, and the footman, so that it is unnecessary for you to feed them. But where is your waiting-lady, madame? Did I not issue orders that etiquette should be observed at my mother’s palace, and that your imperial highness should always have your lady of honor with you?”

“The Duchess d’Abrantes was suddenly taken sick this morning, and had to return to her house.”

“In that case the second lady of honor ought to have taken her place.”

“Yesterday I gave permission to the Countess de Castries to go to a family-festival to be celebrated at Versailles, and she went early this morning.”

“Every thing, then, is here just as it ought to be!” cried the emperor, indignantly, thrusting the basket with his foot. “It is in strict accordance with my wishes that your house is empty, that you are so occupied, that you are alone, and that there was no one to announce my visit?”

“But Cordelia certainly was there, and quite ready to attend to this.”

“Yes, she was,” cried the emperor, “and it is true she wished to do me that honor. But I would not allow her, and preferred coming to you without being announced. In truth, it would be too ludicrous if the old Sibyl had served the emperor as mistress of ceremonies.”

“She formerly did him far greater and more difficult service,” said Madame Letitia, in a firm and calm voice, for she had fully recovered her presence of mind, and, rising from her easy-chair, proudly bridled herself up and turned toward the emperor her face, which now had resumed its expression of noble dignity and composure.

“When I first saw your countenance,” she said, calmly, “I was frightened, and greeted you in my terror as the emperor. Pardon me for it! I ought to have remembered that when the emperor crosses the threshold of this house, he ceases to be emperor, and is simply Napoleon Bonaparte, who, as it behooves a son, comes to pay his respects to his mother. Hence, I ought to have greeted you at once as my son, and if I did not, it was because I was frightened, for I am not accustomed to see anyone enter here without being announced. Now, I have overcome my terror, I bid you welcome with all my heart, my dear son!” She offered her hand to Napoleon so proudly that the emperor, scarcely aware of what he did, pressed the small white hand of his mother to his lips.

A gentle smile lit up the beautiful face of Madame Letitia. “I forgive you also your vehement words, my son,” she said; “and how could I be angry with you for forgetting for a moment that you are here only my son, when I myself remembered only that you are the emperor? Let us, therefore, make peace again. Napoleon, my son, I bid you welcome once more with all my heart.”

“Even, my mother, if I should come to ask my dinner of you?” inquired the emperor, smiling.

Madame Letitia was silent for a moment. “Even then!” she said, after a pause. “My son will be content with what I am able to give, and he will pardon an old woman, who attaches little value to the pleasures of the table, if she has, on account of her health, but a very plain dinner.”

“That is to say, we shall have the national dish of Corsica–rice dumplings baked in oil!” exclaimed the emperor, laughing.

“So it is,” said madame, merrily. “Ah, I see my son has not forgotten his native Corsica; then he will also have a kind look for poor old Cordelia, who, both in good and evil days, has been the