most faithful and honest servant of our house, who frequently carried Napoleon Bonaparte for whole days in her arms, and when he was sick sat at his bedside and nursed him with the tenderness of a mother. I will tell Cordelia to take this basket away, and inform the cook that we have a guest.” She rang the bell; the door of the adjoining room opened immediately, and old Cordelia entered. She stood still at the door, and cast mournful glances, now on Madame Letitia, now on the emperor.
“Well, Cordelia, do you not greet my son?” asked madame. “He is not the emperor to-day, but comes incognito as my son to ask dinner of me.”
“And listen, dear Delia,” said the emperor, speaking to her in the voice of a child–“listen, dear old Cordelia; afterward let us go and play, and gather shells on the sea-shore. Shall we do so, ‘Lia?”
An air of unutterable happiness illuminated the face of old Cordelia when Napoleon repeated to her, in the voice of his childhood, the words which he had so often addressed to her. She rushed toward him, and, sinking down before him, seized both his hands and pressed them to her lips. “Now do with me what you like, Napoleon,” she cried, in the language of her native country, while the tears were rolling down her cheeks, “I belong to you again, with every drop of my heart’s blood. Trample me under foot, strike me, kick me, as you often did during your childhood–I shall never murmur. I am as a faithful dog, who allows himself to be beaten, and yet loves his master to the last!”
“Yes, she is as constant as the sea that washes the shores of our native country,” said madame, with a tear in her eye. “You may count on both of us, Napoleon, and if there is power in our prayers you will always be victorious.”
The emperor’s face–darkened. He had forgotten every thing for a moment; but he soon recollected himself. In order to be victorious and prosperous he needed not only soldiers but money, and he had come for the purpose of obtaining this from his mother. He disengaged his hands from those of old Cordelia, and motioned her to rise. She obeyed in silence, quietly took up the clothes, and carried them off in the basket.
“See that we soon have dinner,” said madame to her. Cordelia turned and looked inquiringly at her mistress, who nodded to her; Cordelia nodded, too, and went out smiling.
A quarter of an hour afterward, the emperor conducted his loving mother to the dining-table, at which none other than themselves were to be seated. When they entered, the emperor’s eyes glided with a strange, searching look along the paintings hanging on the walls, and rested for a moment on the landscape which, in a broad gilded frame, was directly opposite; then a faint smile flitted over his features, and he turned toward his mother to address a few pleasant words to her.
The dinner commenced, as the emperor anticipated, with Corsican rice dumplings baked in oil. He partook of them with great relish, and this favorite dish of his childhood seemed to have restored his good humor. “I believe.” he said, gayly, “I am still able to read as well in your face, mother, as I could when I was a boy, and took pains to discover whether or not I had deserved punishment for some naughty prank. I believe I have understood your mute dialogue with Cordelia. Will you confess the truth to me if I tell you what Cordelia’s glances and your nod signified?”
“Yes, if you guess it.”
“Well, then, mother, did not Cordelia inquire by her glances whether she was to send to the baker for bread, and whether the remnant of yesterday’s dinner should not be served again in honor of my presence? And did not your nod reply, ‘Yes?’ Was not that the meaning of it? Do I guess right?”
“Yes, my son,” said madame, smiling; “I see that my haughty daughters Pauline and Eliza have made you familiar with the habits of my household.”
“They have,” exclaimed Napoleon. “They told me Madame Mere had every day only three loaves of white bread brought from the baker for herself and Cordelia.”
“They told you the truth; all my officers and servants receive their board-money, and three loaves are sufficient for us two. Ah, my son, how happy would you have often been, when still a lieutenant, had you had only one of the three loaves every day!”
“Eliza told me still other things,” said Napoleon, casting a glance toward the large oil painting. “She told me you had, like all honest bourgeoises, your water-carrier, who furnished every day six buckets of water.”
“Eliza told you the truth again. It is still the same water-carrier whom we employed when we lived in the Faubourg St. Honore; he is a faithful and honest man; why, then should I withdraw this little patronage from him?”
“But you pay him no more for his water, now that you are the emperor’s mother, than you did when you were a poor widow with nine children.”
“God makes the water flow, and it is the same now as then. Why should I, then, pay more for it?”
“Eliza told me, also,” added the emperor, dwelling with singular perseverance on the same subject, “that, instead of collecting a library, and buying the books you read, you have subscribed to the bookseller Renard’s circulating library.”
“There are very few books that deserve the honor of being bought,” said madame, in a dignified tone.
“And is it true, too,” asked the emperor, “that you have the books brought by the bookseller’s clerk to you every week the year round, and that you have the same exchanged by your servants during only New-Year’s week, in order thereby to avoid giving a New-Year’s present to the clerk?”
“It is true,” said madame, calmly. “This clerk is not poor, nor the father of a family; I avoid, therefore, giving him the money which I prefer giving to poor men.”
“But, madame,” cried Napoleon, angrily, “you really surpass Harpagon, and Moliere has cause to complain that he did not know you.” [Footnote: Napoleon’s words.–Vide Le Normand, vol. ii., p. 451.]
“Moliere has assuredly cause to deplore that he did not live at the present time,” said madame, quietly, “for if he lived now, he would have seen on the throne of France a prince who is even greater and more illustrious than his own Louis XIV. And he would have certainly been glad to make my acquaintance, as I am the mother of this great man.”
“The mother of an emperor, and yet living so parsimoniously that one might believe your son suffered you to starve! And still, if I am not mistaken, you receive a million francs a year for defraying the expenses of your court. Am I right, mother?”
“Yes, my son; I receive a million francs a year.”
“Ah, madame,” cried the emperor, “then you must, considering your economy, lay by riches every year?”
Madame Letitia’s face was serious; the emperor had touched a chord unpleasant to her ear.
“No,” she said, abruptly, “I lay by no riches, for my expenses are heavy.”
“But your income is larger,” exclaimed Napoleon. “I am satisfied that you spend far less than you receive. Whom do you economize for, madame?”
“Whom?” asked madame, in an angry voice. “I might say for myself, for my future, for that is uncertain, and one is never able to know what may happen. But, in addition to myself, I have to take care of your brother Lucien, for your majesty knows well that he is poor,”
“Because he would not accept the kingdom which I offered to him.”
“Because, as a king, he would not be a dependent vassal, the mere lieutenant of his brother. What, sire! Would you accept a kingdom offered to you on condition that you should never have a will of your own, but always obey that of another?”
“I would not,” said the emperor, smiling; “but I am the emperor.”
“You are Lucien’s brother, and he is no less proud than the emperor. Let us say no more about it. He is poor; that was all I wished to say. He is unable to endow his daughters, and I have, therefore, taken this upon myself. You know now, my son, what my savings are for.”
“But I am just as well your son as Lucien,” said the emperor, in a bland voice; “you may very well have laid by money for both of your sons. I am in the same predicament as my brother. I am poor, and need money. Hence I come to you, to my mother, and pray you, let me have some of your savings. I know you have money; I need it, and you would place me under the greatest obligations if you would lend me a large sum.”
Madame Letitia gravely shook her head. “You are mistaken, sire,” she said; “I have only as much as I need.”
The emperor’s forehead darkened more and more. “Madame,” he cried, in a tone of irritation, “I repeat to you, it is a great favor which I ask of you!”
“And I repeat that I have no money to spare; I had some, but sent it recently to Lucien, who needs it.”
“Well, then, let us say no more about it,” replied the emperor, rising, and, as if to overcome his vexation, turning toward the paintings, and closely inspecting one after another. “You have very fine paintings, madame,” he said, after a pause.
“Yes, the work of great masters,” replied madame, composedly. “You reproach me with being very parsimonious, sire; I have, however, paid very large sums to artists.”
“I am especially delighted with this landscape,” said the emperor, standing in front of the Swiss landscape, on which he had repeatedly cast furtive glances.
“Well, it is very fine and costly,” said madame.
The emperor was silent, and looked up again attentively to the painting. He then turned toward his mother, who stood near him. “Mother,” he exclaimed, “I asked money of you, and you refused it. Will you refuse my request, too, if I ask you to present me with this fine landscape?”
“On the contrary,” said madame, “I am glad to be able to fulfil your majesty’s wish. I shall have the painting conveyed to the Tuileries this very day.”
“No,” exclaimed the emperor, smiling, “it will be better to take it at once with me in my carriage. You are so economical, mother, you might repent of having given me so costly a present, and might want to keep it.”
“Sire,” said madame, solemnly, “the emperor’s mother pledges you her word that you shall receive the painting this very day.”
“Madame,” replied her proud son, no less solemnly, “the emperor’s mother also pledged me her word that she has no money to lend me, and yet I venture to believe that she has laid by a great deal. Pardon me, therefore, if I persist in taking the painting with me,– Delia, Delia!” The door of the corridor opened, and old Cordelia looked in. “Run, Cordelia, and tell my two valets de chambre, Constant and Roustan, to come hither at once.”
Cordelia disappeared, and Napoleon now turned his head slowly toward his mother. Madame Letitia became pale; large drops stood on her forehead; her eyes were flashing with angry excitement, and her lips were quivering. But overcoming her agitation she forced herself to smile, and offered her hand to the emperor. “Come, my son, let us go into my cabinet and take coffee. It is unnecessary for us to be present with the servants. Come, sire.”
The emperor did not take her hand, but, slightly bowing, drew back. “Permit me to stay, madame, till my servants have taken the painting from the wall.”
Madame could not suppress a sigh, and clutched a chair, as if she needed a support.
The door opened, and the two imperial valets de chambre, Constant and Roustan, entered. “Come here,” cried the emperor, “take this down and carry it into my carriage.” The valets hastened to take the painting carefully from the wall. The emperor’s glance passed over the spot which it had covered. He saw that part of the silk hangings looked somewhat fresher and darker than the rest. “One would think the wall here were wet, and had moistened the hangings,” he said, laying his hand on the dark spot. “No,” he then exclaimed, “the wall is hollow here! Let us see what it means.”
Madame uttered a cry, and, sinking into a chair, closed her eyes.
The emperor now hastily tore off the dark piece covering the wall, and behind it was a deep square hole, in which stood a rather large- sized iron box. “Ah! do you see, madame,” cried the emperor, smiling gayly, “I discover here a secret which you yourself were ignorant of. It is evidently a box which the former proprietors of this palace concealed here during the revolution from the rapacious hands of the Jacobins.”
Madame made no reply; her eyes were still closed, and she sat pale and motionless.
“The box is heavy!” added the emperor, trying to lift it up. “Constant, fetch the footmen to assist you in carrying it into my carriage.–I will take it with me, madame,” he said, turning toward his mother, “I will personally examine its contents.” At this moment Constant returned with four footmen, and the six men succeeded at length in lifting the iron box. “Now carry it immediately into my carriage,” commanded the emperor.
Panting under their heavy load, the men left the room. The emperor looked after them until the door closed. He then turned again toward his mother, who sat motionless and with her eyes closed. “Farewell, mother,” he said; “I am anxious to examine the contents of the box which I was lucky enough to find. But I must not dare now to deprive you of your beautiful painting. This hole in the wall must be covered, and your imperial highness might not at once have another picture worthy of replacing this landscape. I thank you, therefore, for your present, and take the will for the deed. Farewell, madame!” He bowed and walked slowly toward the door. [Footnote: Le Normand, “Memoires,” vol. ii., p. 448.]
Madame Letitia said nothing, and made no movement to return the emperor’s salutation. As he departed, she groaned and wept. “Five millions!” she murmured, after a pause–“the savings of long years has my son taken from me. Five millions!–the dower that I had laid by for Lucien’s daughters–that I had economized for the time when these days of prosperity will end.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud. At length her grief seemed somewhat calmed, and she raised her head again. “Well,” she said, aloud, “I formerly supported my family of nine children on an income of less than a hundred louis d’ors a year; if need be, I can do so again, and I hope I shall have at least so much left that Lucien and his daughters will not starve. I must be even more parsimonious.” [Footnote: Lucien, the ablest and noblest of Napoleon’s brothers, lived in constant dissension with him, for he would not submit to his will. He declined the throne of Naples because the emperor imposed the condition that he should govern in precise accordance with the orders given him. He married a distinguished and beautiful Roman lady, and when Napoleon afterward offered him the throne of Tuscany on condition that he should get a divorce from his wife, Lucien refused, and preferred to live in obscurity outside of France, and to dispense with the splendor surrounding his family.]
Two days afterward, on the 25th of January, the emperor left Paris for his army, and entered upon the last struggle. He was fully aware of the dangers threatening him. Hence, prior to leaving Paris, he put his house in order. The regency by letters-patent was conferred on the Empress Maria Louisa, but with her was conjoined his brother Joseph, under the title of lieutenant-general of the empire; and Cambaceres, the arch-chancellor, was placed at the head of the council of state. The emperor then received the officers of the National Guard of Paris in the apartments of the Tuileries. The empress preceded him on entering the apartments, carrying the King of Rome in her arms. Greeting the officers, the emperor said: “Gentlemen of the National Guard of Paris, I am glad to see you assembled here. I am about to set out for the army. I intrust to you what I hold dearest in the world–my wife and my son. Let there be no political divisions; let the respect for property, the maintenance of order, and, above all, the love of France, animate every heart. I do not disguise that, in the course of the military operations to ensue, the enemy may approach in force to Paris; it will be an affair of only a few days: before they are passed I will be on the flanks and rear, and annihilate those who have dared to invade our country. Efforts will be made to cause you to waver in your allegiance and the fulfilment of your duty; but I firmly rely on your resisting such perfidious temptations. Farewell, and God bless us all!” [Footnote: Constant, “Memoires,” vol. vl., p. 7.] Then, taking his son in his arms, he went through the ranks of the officers, and, presenting him to them as their future sovereign, he exclaimed, in a voice tremulous with emotion: “I intrust him to you; I intrust him to the love of my loyal city of Paris!”
The National Guard responded by protestations of fidelity and devotedness. Cries of enthusiasm rent the apartments; tears were shed, and a sense of the solemnity of the moment penetrated every mind. All shouted, “Long live the emperor! Long live the empress!” Maria Louisa, pale with emotion, her face bathed in tears, leaned her head on the emperor’s shoulder; and, holding his son in his left arm, he placed his right around the trembling form of his consort. At the sight of this touching group the enthusiasm of the National Guard knew no bounds. They wept, cheered, and swore they would die to a man rather than forsake the emperor–that they would allow Paris to be laid in ruins by the artillery of the enemy rather than surrender the empress and the King of Rome.
But this enthusiasm of the National Guard met with no response beyond the Tuileries. Paris maintained an ominous silence, and, when the emperor rode through the city at night, the streets were deserted; no one had awaited him to pay homage on his departure. Paris was asleep–its sleep that of exhaustion–and the people were dreaming, perhaps, that adversity was hastening upon them.
FALL OF PARIS.
CHAPTER XLVII.
THE BATTLE OF LA ROTHIERE.
The morning of the 1st of February dawned cold and gloomy; heavy gusts, driving the snow across the plain, gave to the landscape a sad and dreary aspect. Silence reigned in the camps of the hostile armies. In that of Napoleon at Brienne, and farther down the valley at the village of La Rothiere, on this side of the Aube, the camp- fires of the night were flickering in the gray morning, and far away on the horizon were seen the dark outlines of the castle of Brienne. There Napoleon had passed the last night of January, and in the vicinity encamped his troops, scarcely thirty thousand strong, the remnant of that “grand army” which the emperor had so often led to victory.
In the camp of the Silesian army, too, all was quiet. It encamped beyond the Aube, on the heights of Trannes and Felance, in the vineyards and the forests of Beaulieu; it was enjoying repose after a prolonged exposure and privation. But its commander-in-chief, Field-Marshal Blucher, seemed to have no need of rest. Scarcely had daylight dawned when he was already on horseback, and rode to the crest of the mountain, by the side of his faithful adviser and friend General Gneisenau, and followed by his pipe-master. From the crest he was able to survey the whole valley of La Rothiers and Brienne, lying at a distance of scarcely four miles.
Blucher raised his right arm toward the city and heaved a deep sigh. “Gneisenau,” he said, “I am deeply mortified at the defeat which Bonaparte inflicted on us two days ago. I cannot get over it, and can imagine what a hue-and-cry the distinguished gentlemen at headquarters have raised, and how the trubsalsspritzen are croaking again: Blucher is a crazy hussar who always wants to drive his head through a wall, and yet cannot get through it, and only causes us all a vast deal of trouble.’ I can imagine how the peace apostles are raising their voices again, crying that war ought to cease, and we should run home because we did not gain the battle of Brienne. It is indispensable, therefore, for us, Gneisenau, to strike a good blow and get even with Napoleon. Yonder the fellow stands, with his few thousand men, showing his teeth, as if he were still the lion that needed only to shake his mane to frighten us off as flies. I will show him that I am no fly, but a man who is able at any time to cope with him and such as are with him. Gneisenau, we cannot help it; we must attack him this very day. We must silence the trubsalsspritzen, in order to accelerate our operations against Paris.”
“You are right, field-marshal,” said Gneisenau; “we must strike a decisive blow, and compel the gentlemen at headquarters to discontinue their present system of procrastination. We must show Napoleon that we have also passed through a military school, though not at Brienne.”
“It makes me feel angry, Gneisenau, that we were unable to show him that at the very city of Brienne. I had thought how well it would be for me to prove to him, at the place where he passed his examination and received his first commission, that I had also passed my examination and learned something. Well, it is no use crying about it now; we must, try to get over it, and only think of the best manner in which we may be even with him. General Wrede must join us with his troops at noon to-day, when we shall be–stronger than Bonaparte, Marment, and all his marshals together.”
“See!” cried Gneisenou, whose eyes were directed to the camp of the enemy, “the troops yonder have put themselves in motion; I see it quite distinctly now that the view is clearer. But they are not advancing.”
“No,” cried Blucher, “they are retreating; they intend to escape us; Bonaparte wishes to avoid a battle. But that will not do; I must have my battle here! How am I to get to Paris if I do not rout his forces? how am I to pull him down if the present state of affairs goes on as heretofore? A blow must be struck now; we must take revenge for Brienne today!”
“Wrede will be here with his troops at noon,” said Gneisenau, thoughtfully; “let us, therefore, attack the enemy at twelve o’clock, and make all necessary dispositions for it. Above all, couriers should be sent to headquarters.”
“Yes, Gneisenau, it is your province to attend to all that, for you know well that you are the head and I am the arm. Consider all that is necessary; I know only that Bonaparte contemplates a retreat, and that I must compel him to accept battle. I have felt sad enough for the past three days; for, say yourself, Gneisenau, is it not sheer arrogance for Bonaparte to remain here so long quietly in front of us, as though he intended to give us time for uniting our forces, and thought we were after all, too cowardly to defeat him?”
“It is, perhaps, not arrogance, but disgust and weariness,” said Gneisenau, thoughtfully. “The prince of battles seems to be exhausted, and to have lost confidence.”
“A pretty fellow he is whom misfortunes at once exhaust,” grumbled Blucher, “and who is courageous only as long as he is successful! But I do not object to this disposition of Bonaparte, for every thing turns out now highly advantageous to us. The Austrians, the Wurtembergers, and the Bavarians, have come up, and will cooperate with us. Gneisenau, dispatch your couriers to headquarters, that the monarchs may come. Take out your note-book; I will dictate to you what occurs to me, and what are my plans in regard to the battle.– Halloo, Christian! give me a pipe! I can think much better when smoking!”
Christian galloped up, and with a grave air handed the short pipe to his master. “Pipe-master,” said Blucher, “hold a good many pipes in readiness to-day, for there will be a fight, and you know that our gunners fire more steadily when my pipe is burning well.–Well, write now, Gneisenau: ‘Precisely at twelve the troops will be put in motion, and descend from Trannes into the plain. In the centre, Sacken’s infantry will advance upon La Rothiere in two columns. The Austrians form the left, and will march on the town of Dionville. The hereditary Prince of Wurtemberg’s corps, composing the right wing, will penetrate through the forest of Beaulieu, and take the village of La Gibrin. Olsuwiew’s infantry and Wassilchikow’s cavalry, Sacken’s reserves, will follow the two columns of the centre. Two divisions of Russian cuirassiers and Rajewski’s corps of grenadiers will remain in reserve on the heights of Trannes. The Bavarian corps, under Wrede, will be stationed on the extreme right wing.’ [Footnote: Beitzke, vol. iii., p. 118] Well, that is enough; close your note-book,” said Blucher, blowing a large cloud of smoke from his mouth. “Every thing else will come of itself after the fight has begun. I have said what I had to say, and now commences your work, Gneisenau. Dispatch couriers quickly to the headquarters of the sovereigns, and may they arrive here in time, and not again, by their hesitation and timidity, spoil our game, coming too late from fear of coming too early! Let me tell you that I am not afraid of Bonaparte, with his young guard and his army of conscripts. We are twice as strong, for we have eighty thousand men, and his forces, I believe, are not forty thousand. Besides, we have allies whom Bonaparte cannot have–the good God and His angel, Queen Louisa. He has sent us to put an end to the tyranny of the robber of crowns, and Queen Louisa is looking down and praying for us and Prussia’s honor. The enemy, however, whom I am afraid of is, in our own flesh and blood; he is creeping around the headquarters of the monarchs, and singing peace-hymns, and raising a hue-and-cry about the greatness of Bonaparte, representing him as Invincible, and ourselves as insignificant. In that way are all our arms paralyzed! Gneisenau, should they hesitate to act in an energetic manner, and fail to be on hand in time, it would be dreadful, and I believe my rage would kill me!”
But Blucher’s apprehensions were not to be verified. All the corps on which he had counted in drawing up his plan of operations arrived at the stated hour, and precisely at noon appeared the Emperor of Russia, the King of Prussia, and Prince Schwartzenberg, with their numerous and brilliant suites. The monarchs surveyed the position of the two armies from the heights of Trannes, and had Blucher explain his plan to them in his brief and energetic manner.
The Emperor Alexander then turned with a gentle smile toward Prince Schwartzenberg, commander-in-chief of the allied forces. “And what do you think of this plan of the brave field-marshal?”
“It is as well conceived as it is bold,” said Schwartzenberg, “and I beg leave to intrust the command of the whole army to Field-Marshal Blucher. I renounce the privilege of directing the operations of to- day, and leave every thing to the discretion of the field-marshal.”
Blucher’s eyes sparkled with delight, and a glow suffused his cheeks. “Prince,” he exclaimed, offering his hand to Schwartzenberg, “this is an honor for which I shall always be grateful to you. You have a generous heart, and know that I must take revenge for the disastrous affair of Brienne. I thank you, prince, for giving me an opportunity. Now I shall prove to their majesties that Bonaparte is not invincible, or, if I cannot prove it to them, I shall die! Hurrah! Let us begin!” He galloped with the impatience and ardor of a youth to the front of the troops, which put themselves rapidly in motion, and rushed like a torrent down the heights of Trannes.
Soon the artillery commenced to boom, and transmitted Blucher’s battle-cry to Napoleon. The emperor, who had intended to retreat with his small army, in order to avoid a fight, now halted his troops, and formed them into line. As the allies were advancing with great impetuosity, a further retreat would have been equivalent to flight. Napoleon, therefore, accepted the battle, and his cannon soon responded. The engagement raged with murderous energy; the balls hissed in every direction; the allies rushed forward in strong columns, but the French did not fall back before them. In the midst of the fearful carnage they stood like heroes, sometimes repulsing the superior enemy with sublime valor; and when they gave way, they rallied and advanced to reconquer their positions. It was easy to see that it was Napoleon’s presence that inspired the French with irresistible courage. Hour after hour vast numbers were slain on both sides, and while the earth was trembling beneath the strife, the snow fell to such a depth as to shroud the dead from view.
The contest was most furious in and around the village of La Rothiere. The French held it with the utmost obstinacy, and vainly did Sacken’s corps, which had been repeatedly repulsed, return to the charge; the French stood like a wall, and their cannon hurled death into the ranks of their adversaries.
Blucher witnessed this doubtful struggle for some time with growing impatience; his loud “Forward!” encouraged the troops to charge, but their assaults were in vain. “Gneisenau,” he cried, “we must take the village, for La Rothiere is the key of the position.–Halloo, pipe-master!” Hennomann was by his master’s side. “There,” said Blucher, taking the pipe from his mouth, and handing it to Christian, “take this pipe, and stay, do you hear, on this spot! I shall soon be back, and you will see to it that I then get a lighted pipe. I have to say a word or two to the French.”
“You may depend on it, field-marshal, I shall stay here,” said Christian, gravely; “you will find me and the pipe here.”
“Very well; and now come, Gneiseuau,” said Blucher, galloping to the head of the assaulting columns. Turning his face, full of warlike ardor, toward his soldiers, he shouted: “You call me Marshal Forward! Now I will show you what that means!” He turned his horse, and, brandishing his sword, rushed toward the village. The soldiers followed him with deafening cheers.
Christian Hennemann looked composedly after them, and, putting the field-marshal’s pipe into his mouth, he murmured, “Well, I wonder if this will burn until the field-marshal returns, or if I shall have to light another!” At this moment a bullet whizzed through the air, carrying away the pipe from his mouth, and slightly wounding him. “Well,” he murmured, calmly, “the first one is gone, and a piece of my head to boot! Let us immediately dress the wound, and then light another pipe; for if he should return, and it is not ready for him– thunder and lightning!” After giving vent to his feelings, the pipe- master took oat his little dressing-pouch, stanched the blood, applied a plaster to the wound, and wrapped a linen handkerchief around his head. “Now I am all right again, and will do my duty,” said Christian, closing the pouch, and opening the box, which was fastened to the pommel of his saddle.
The fight was still raging. Night came, accompanied by a violent snow-storm, so as to render the muskets useless. As on the Katzbach, Blucher’s soldiers had to attack the enemy with their swords and bayonets. At length the allies were successful; the French were overpowered and driven back. The soldiers, headed by Blucher, rushed exultingly into the village of La Rothiere. “Forward!” shouted the field-marshal. “Forward!” repeated the soldiers. They halted in the middle of the village. The French still occupied the houses on both sides of the principal street, and, converting every building into a fortress, they fought like lions against the impetuous enemy. Blucher was in the midst of the flying bullets, but he did not notice them. The position had to be taken, and he knew that his presence inspired his soldiers to heroic efforts. The village was soon on fire, for the wind carried the flames from house to house, and the snowy plain reflected the red glare far and wide. The French rushed from the houses in hurried flight, hotly pursued by Blucher’s soldiers. The battle was gained! The enemy evacuated La Rothiere, and retreated in disorder to Brienne and across the Aube.
Blucher could now return to his headquarters and inform the monarchs of a victory. He rode back, thoughtfully; and Gneisenau, who was by his side, was also grave and silent.
“Gneisenau,” he exclaimed, “I believe we have done very well to- day!”
“Your excellency must not say we, but _I_ have done very well to- day,” said Gneisenau, smiling. “You alone conceived the plan of battle, and directed it;–for La Rothiere was the key of the whole position, and it was Marshal Forward who took it. This time your deeds must give the name to the battle, and it must be called ‘the battle of La Rothiere.'”
“Well, I do not care,” said Blucher. “We have gained today, then, the battle of La Rothiere, and, what is still better, we have shown the French in their own country that Napoleon’s invincibility is a myth, and that he can be beaten as well as any other general.–But what is that? See there, Gneisenau! what sentinel is posted on the road yonder?”
In fact, a dark form on horseback halted by the roadside; the flames of the burning village rose higher, and shed a light on the stranger. It was a man dressed in the uniform of a hussar; a white, blood-stained handkerchief was wrapped around his head and half his face; his right arm was also bandaged, and in his mouth was a clay pipe.
“It is the pipe-master!” cried Blucher, quickly galloping up.
“Yes, it is I–who should it be?” grumbled Christian.
“But, Christian,” exclaimed Blucher, “how in Heaven’s name do you look! And what are you doing here?”
“I am waiting for Field-Marshal Blucher. Did you not tell me that I was to wait for you here, and keep the pipe in order? Well, I did wait for you, field-marshal. And you ask, too, how I look? Just like one around whom the blue beans have been whizzing for hours past, and whose head and arm have been scratched a great deal. You kept me waiting a long time, field-marshal–more than four hours! The French have shot pipe after pipe from my mouth, and this is the last I have. If you had not come soon, it would have been smashed, too.”
“No,” said Blucher, smiling, “the French will not break another pipe of mine to-day, Christian, for they have taken to their heels. It is true, however, I have kept you waiting a long time. But that was the fault of the French; they resisted with the greatest obstinacy, For the rest, Christian, you had a pipe of tobacco at least during the whole time that you were waiting, and did not fare so badly after all; as for your wounds, I shall have them well attended to, my boy. You have behaved as a brave man, and stood fire as a genuine soldier ought to do. When we get home I will relate it to your old father, and he will rejoice over it. Now, give me the pipe; it will be the last that you will fill for me for some time to come, for you are disabled; your right arm is shattered, and you must be cured.”
“Well,” exclaimed Christian, “with my left hand I can fill your pipes. I am and must be Field-Marshal Blucher’s pipe-master, and, if they do not shoot off my head, I will not give up my position!”
On the following day Blucher received at the castle of Brienne the congratulations and thanks of the allied monarchs. The Emperor Alexander embraced him, and his eyes were filled with tears of joyful emotion. “Field-marshal,” he said, “you have crowned all your former efforts by this glorious triumph. I do not know how we are to reward you for this. But I know we must admire and love you.”
King Frederick William shook hands with Blucher, and a smile illuminated his features. “Blucher,” he said, mildly, “you have kept your word; you have fulfilled all that you promised us at Frankfort, when I informed you of your appointment to the command-in-chief. To- day you have blotted out the disgrace of Jena. Have you any wish which I am able to fulfil? Pray let me know it, for I should like to prove to you my gratitude and love.”
“I have a wish, and before it is gratified, I shall neither sleep well by night nor be calm by day. Now your majesties are quite able to grant this wish of mine, and therefore I urgently pray both of you to do so.”
“Tell us what it is!” exclaimed the emperor; “I am anxious to grant it as far as I am concerned, for an heroic head like yours must not lie uneasy at night, and a childlike heart like yours must be content. Speak, then!”
“Ah, sire,” said the king, smiling, and fixing a searching look on Blucher’s bold face, “sire, beware of promising, for then he will leave us no rest; he will not even let us sleep at night until he has driven us to Paris.–That is your wish, Blucher, is it not?”
“It is!” exclaimed Blucher, ardently. “That is my wish; and, as your majesty has called upon me to tell you something that you could grant, and as his majesty the emperor tells me, too, that he would like to gratify me–I say, let us now set out by forced marches for Paris. Let us advance with all our armies on the capital, for then the war will soon be over. I implore your majesties, let us proceed quickly. Let us give Bonaparte no time for heading us off; but let us outstrip him moving on Paris, and, if need be, take the city by storm. When Paris falls all France is ours, and the war is over!”
“Well, what says your majesty?” asked Alexander, turning toward the king. “Shall we comply with the wish of our young madcap?”
“Sire, as far as I am concerned, I have pledged him my word,” said Frederick William; “hence, I must keep it.”
“And I assent with the greatest pleasure, sire,” exclaimed Alexander; “let us march on Paris, then; but we should agree as to the best way of doing so.”
“Well, we have invited our generals to hold a council of war, and I believe they are waiting for us now,” said the king. “Come, therefore, sire; and you, Blucher, pray accompany us. One thing is settled: we shall march on Paris in accordance with your wish–only we have to select the routes which the various columns of the army are to take, for they are too large to move by the same road; they could not find the necessary supplies in the same section of country. We must divide them, and that is the question which we shall now discuss with our generals.”
“I do not care about that,” replied Blucher, merrily; “if the chief point is settled, all the rest is indifferent to me; I shall obey the orders of my king, and be content with the route selected for me and my corps. The point is–we must profit by our victory and outstrip Bonaparte! We must take Paris!”
CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE DISEASED EYES.
Upward of a month had elapsed since the victory of La Rothiere, and Blucher’s ardent wish had not yet been fulfilled; the allies were not in Paris. The system of procrastination had again obtained the upper hand at the headquarters of the allies. Austria hesitated to use her power in a decisive manner against Napoleon, the emperor’s son-in-law; the crown prince of Sweden wished to spare France, and was still in hope that the congress, which had been in session at Chatillon since the 4th of February, would conclude a treaty of peace. Among the very attendants of the Emperor of Russia and the King of Prussia this peace party had its active supporters, who opposed an energetic policy, and wished the congress of Chatillon, and not the army, to put an end to the war.
Blucher once had dared openly to oppose these “peace apostles,” and disregarded the instructions received from the allied monarchs to move farther back from Paris, and, instead of crossing the Seine, retreat with his army to Chaumont and Langres. This order filled the field-marshal with anger, and his generals and staff-officers shared it. Great as he was in all his actions, Blucher took the bold resolution to pay no attention to the retrograde movements of Schwartzenberg and the crown prince of Sweden, but to continue his march, even at the risk of appearing in front of Paris without support.
But it was not as a rebel that he had wished to take so daring a step; on the contrary, before moving, he wrote to King Frederick William, and implored him to fulfil his wish, and allow him to advance. He did not wait, however, for the king’s answer, but, though he knew that the commander-in-chief, Prince Schwartzenberg, had already commenced retreating, continued to march with his Silesian army alone upon the capital of France.
The monarchs themselves were of Blucher’s opinion, and gave him full power, having his army reenforced by the corps of Bulow and Winzingerode. With his forces thus increased to twice their original strength, he was able to confront Napoleon, and attack Paris even without Schwartzenberg’s assistance. But the fortune of war is fickle, and he did not continue his march without experiencing this. On the 7th of March he fought a bloody battle with Napoleon and his marshals between Soissons and Craonne, and, to his profound regret, was defeated, and forced to retreat.
He took revenge at Laon, where he and his brave Silesian army gained a victory on the 9th of March. This was followed by still another. He at length silenced the “trubsalsspritzen” and “peace apostles,” who had up to this time raised their influential voices at headquarters. All felt that a retreat, after this great victory, was entirely out of the question, and even Schwartzenberg and Bernadotte joined in Blucher’s “Forward!” and marched their armies to Paris.
But the brave field-marshal himself was at this time unable to join in the movement. Since the battle of Laon he had been affected with a violent inflammation of the eyes, aggravated by a fever. Confined to his dark room, he was obliged to remain ten days at Laon, suffering not only physical but mental pain. For how could he redeem his pledge–how achieve a final victory over Napoleon–if, half- blind and doomed to the captivity of a sick-room, he could not march with his troops, and lead them in person into battle? Regardless of the warnings of his physicians, he tried to brave his sufferings, and, putting himself at the head of his troops, again advanced with them. Finally, on the 24th of March, by way of Rheims, he arrived at Chalons. But the inflammation of his eyes had grown worse on the road, and gave him intolerable pain; the fever sent his blood like fire through his veins, and what neither age, nor defeat, nor disappointed hope, had been able to accomplish, was accomplished by sickness. He grew faint-hearted–his disease destroyed his enthusiasm. Longing for tranquillity, he remembered how beautiful and peaceful his dear Kunzendorf was, how kind and mild the sweet face of his Amelia, and with what soft hands she would wash his inflamed eyes, and apply the remedies.
During the last march from Rheims to Chalons he constantly thought of this. At length he made up his mind, and no sooner had he arrived at Chalons than he sent for Hennemann, and locked himself in his room with him.
“Christian,” said Blucher, in a subdued voice, “I am going to see whether you are really a faithful fellow, and whether I may confide something to you.”
“Very well, field-marshal, put me to the test.”
“Not so loud!” cried Biucher, anxiously. “Let us first discover whether any one can hear us here.” He opened the door, and looked into the antechamber. No one was there. He then examined the dark alcove adjoining the sitting-room, which was empty, too. “We are alone; no one can overhear us,” said Blucher, returning from his reconnoissance to the sitting-room. “Now, pipe-master, listen to me. First, however, look at my eyes, do you hear; look closely at them. Well, how do they look?”
“Very sore,” said Christian, mournfully.
“And they have not grown better, though Voelzke, the surgeon-general has been doctoring them every day; and, by his salves, mixtures, leeches, and blisters, causing me almost as much pain as the eyes themselves. Nay, they grow rather worse from day to day, and if I remain here longer, and allow the physicians to torment me, I shall finally lose my eyesight altogether, and when I am blind, I shall be of no account–unable to use my sword and fight Bonaparte. I am afraid the good God will not permit me to pull down Bonaparte from his throne. He knows I should then be too happy, and therefore says, ‘Gotthold Leberecht Blucher, I have permitted thee to bring Bonaparte to the brink of ruin; now thine armies are close to Paris, and will, without thee, get into the city. Go, therefore, old boy, and have thine eyes cured!’ Well, I will comply with God’s will, and go to some place and have myself healed, where they know better how to do it than our doctors here. I have been told that there are excellent oculists at Brussels, and Brussels is not very far from here. I will, therefore, go there.”
“The field-marshal intends to retreat, then?” said Christian, laconically.
“Retreat!” cried Blucher, angrily. “Who takes the liberty of saying that Field-Marshal Blucher intends to retreat?”
“I take that liberty,” said Christian. “The field-marshal intends to retreat from the inflammation of his eyes.”
“Why, yes; that is an enemy from which it is no disgrace to retreat.”
“A retreat is always a retreat,” said Christian, with a shrug, “and if you carry out your intention you will no longer be called Marshal Forward!”
“I do not care to be called so now!” exclaimed Blucher. “The inflammation of my eyes has made me desperate; I shall lose my sight if I stay here, and then they will lead me by the nose like a blind bear. There is no use in talking any more about it; I will and must go. If you do not wish to accompany me say so, and you may stay here.”
“If you go, then I will too,” said Christian, with his usual calmness, “for where the field-marshal is the pipe-master must be; that is a matter of course. I have pledged my word to my father, to Madame von Blucher, and to the good God, that I would never leave my general, and it makes no difference if he is field-marshal now. If they do not shoot me, I shall stay with my field-marshal.”
“Christian,” said Blucher, offering him his hand, “you are a dear boy; your heart is in the right place, and it is always the best thing in a man. When we get back to Kunzendorf you shall lead a very pleasant life, for I can never forget what a faithful and excellent young fellow you have been. Then you will go with me?”
“Yes, to the end of the world, general!”
“Well, we shall not go so far as that–only to Brussels, where there are good oculists; and when they have cured me, I will see whether they still need me here, and whether every thing has then been done to my liking.”
“Oh, I believe it will be then as it is now,” said Christian, in a contemptuous tone. “When Marshal Forward is no longer here, things will go backward, that is sure. But we need not care, for we shall go forward to Brussels.”
“Yes, to Brussels,” said Blucher; “we set out to-night; but no one must know it; I will leave as quietly as possible. I cannot stand bidding them all farewell, and listening to their fine speeches; I will leave, therefore, so that no one shall discover it before I am gone.”
“A secret flight!” said Christian, laconically.
“Secret flight? how stupid!” grumbled Blucher. “It is strange what ridiculous words the boy uses! How a flight? I believe I am no prisoner.”
“No, but you are field-marshal.”
Blucher’s red eyes cast an angry glance on the bold pipe-master. “You talk as you understand it,” he cried; “when I am a poor blind fellow, swallowing powders and using salves all day I am no longer a field-marshal and had better resign, not waiting to be deposed by a few polite phrases. That is the reason why I am going to leave.”
“And I leave, too,” said Christian; “but as the field-marshal does not wish me to say any thing about it, of course I shall not. But how are we to get away, if no one is to be informed?”
“Well, listen! I will tell you. I have already devised the whole plan of operations, and–but, hark! something seems moving in the alcove, as if a door opened.”
“There is no door in the alcove,” said Christian; “it was, perhaps, a mouse, and it tells no tales. Inform me, field-marshal, what I have to do.”
“Well, listen, Christian!” And the field-marshal began to explain to him, in his vivacious manner, the whole plan of his departure. Christian comprehended it, and entered very seriously into the duties of quartermaster-general to his field-marshal.
“Do you remember it all now?” asked Blucher, at the conclusion of their conference. “Do you know all that you have to do?”
“I know all,” said Christian. “In the first place, I am to go to General Gneisenau and inform him that the field-marshal is sick and confined to his bed to-day, and refuses to see any one. General Gneisenau will mention it, of course, to Surgeon-General Dr. Voelzke, who will come to see the field-marshal. I am to tell him that he is in so much pain from his inflamed eyes that he had ordered me to admit no one–that he is trying to sleep. Then I am to come back to you, and your excellency will give me the farewell letters to General Gneisenau, whereupon I am to pack up your things and lock the bags. When it grows dark, I am to carry them secretly into our carriage. Then it will suddenly occur to your excellency to take an airing, the sun having set, and therefore unable to hurt your eyes. I am to accompany you, and we shall not come back.”
“No, we shall not come back,” said Blucher, thoughtfully. “Well, every thing is settled now; run, and attend to what I told you. We shall set out at seven o’clock to-night.”
Christian hastened away. Blucher looked after him with a mournful glance and a deep sigh. “The die is cast,” he murmured to himself; “now I am indeed a poor old invalid, no longer of any use. God has refused to fulfil my dearest wish; He would not let me hurl Bonaparte from his stolen throne. I must face about at the gates of Paris, and creep back into obscurity. Well, let God’s will be done! I have labored as long as there was daylight; now comes the night, when I can work no more. Ah, my poor sore eyes! I–but there is, after all, some one in the alcove,” cried Blucher, springing to his feet. Again he heard a noise as of footsteps, and an opening door. He bounded into the alcove, but all was still; no one was there, and no door to be seen. “I was mistaken,” he said. “A bad conscience is a very queer thing. Because I am about to do something secret, I am thinking that eavesdroppers are watching me and trying to forestall me.”
It was seven in the evening; the sun had set. Field-Marshal Blucher, who was very sick all day, now intended to take an airing. The pipe- master had, therefore, ordered the coachman; and the field-marshal’s carriage, drawn by four black horses, had just come to the door. Blucher was still in his room, but all his preparations were completed. On the table lay two letters–one addressed to the king, the other to General Gneisenau; the carpet-bags had already been conveyed into the carriage, together with his pipe-box. The invalid had only to wrap himself in his military cloak, leave the room, and enter the carriage; but he still hesitated. An anxiety, such as he had never known before, had crept over him; and, what had never before happened to him, his heart beat with fear. “That was just wanting to me,” he murmured. “I have become a white-livered coward, whose legs are trembling, and whose heart is throbbing! What am I afraid of, then? Is that wrong which I am about to do? My heart has never acted thus even in the storm of battle. What does it mean? Bah! it is folly; no attention should be paid to it. I hope, however, that no one will meet me when I go down-stairs, or at the carriage when I enter it. Let me see if there is any one in the street.” He quickly stepped to the window and looked out; there was no one in the street, or near his carriage. “I will go now,” said Blucher, turning again toward the room. “I–” He paused, and a blush suffused his cheeks. There, in the middle of the room, stood General Gneisenau, and gazed at him with a strange, mournful air. “Gneisenau, is it you?” asked Blucher, in a faltering voice. “How did you get in?”
“Simply by the door, your excellency,” said Gneisenau, smiling. “Your pipe-master kept the door closed all day, and turned me away by informing me the field-marshal had ordered him to admit no one, because he wished to sleep; but my desire to see you brought me back again and again, and so I have come, fortunately at the opportune hour, when the Cerberus is no longer at the door, but is standing below at the carriage, waiting for the field-marshal, who intends to take an airing.”
“Yes, I do,” said Blucher, casting an anxious glance on the two letters lying on the table. “I do intend to take an airing; good-by, then, Gneisenau!” He turned toward the door, but Gneisenau kept him back. “Your excellency must not ride out to-night,” he said; “I implore you not to do so. There is a cold wind, and you must not expose your inflamed eyes to it. You are not careful enough of your health; Surgeon-General Voelzke complains of the little attention you pay to his proscriptions, and that your eyes, instead of getting better, are growing worse and worse.”
“Yes, that is true,” grumbled Blucher, “they are burning like fire. I will go out, therefore; the night-wind will cool them.”
He turned again toward the door, but at this moment it was thrust open, and Surgeon-General Voelzke entered the room. “I am told your excellency intends to take an airing,” said the physician, almost indignantly. “But I declare that I cannot permit it. You have intrusted yourself to my treatment; I am responsible to God, to the king, to the whole world–nay, to history, if I allow you to rush so recklessly to destruction; I will not suffer it; your excellency must not ride out!”
“I should like to see who is to prevent me!” cried Blucher, striding toward the door.
“The physician will prevent you,” said Voelzke, standing in the doorway with his large, tall form. “The physician has the right of giving orders to kings and emperors, and Marshal Forward has to submit to his commands, too.”
“I do not think of it,” said Blucher; “I do not permit any one to give me orders.”
“Not even your disease–your inflamed eyes?” asked Voelzke, solemnly. “Did you not obey when your fever and inflamed eyes commanded you to remain idle at Laon for ten days, although you were in a towering passion, and were bent on advancing with the army? Well, your excellency, I tell you, if you do not now obey me. and consent to desist from taking an airing–if you are determined to ride out in the cold night-air, one more powerful than I am will compel you to obey; and that one is your disease. You may ride out today, but to-morrow it will command you to keep your bed, the inflammation of your eyes will make you a prisoner, and you will be unable to flee from it, notwithstanding your imperious will, or your four-horsed carriage.”
“Well, well,” said Blucher, “you put on such solemn airs as almost to frighten me. It is true, my disease is very powerful, and this soreness of my eyes has already rendered me so desperate that–“
“That your excellency has written letters,” interposed Gneisenau, pointing to the table. “But, what do I see? There is one addressed to me!”
“No, give it to me,” cried Blucher, embarrassed; “now that you are here, I can tell you every thing verbally, and it is unnecessary for you to read what I have written.”
He was about to seize the letter, but Gneisenau drew hack a step, and, bowing deeply said, “Your excellency has done me the honor of writing to me. Permit me, therefore, to read.” He stepped quickly into the window-niche, and opened the letter.
“Well, stand back there, doctor,” cried Blucher, “let me out! Do not make me angry; leave the door!”
“I do not care if you are angry, your excellency,” said the surgeon- general, folding his arms, “but in order to get me out of this doorway you will have to kill me.”
At this moment, Gneisenau uttered a cry of terror, and hastened toward Blucher. “What! your excellency,” he exclaimed, “you intend to leave us? To set out secretly?”
“What do you say?” thundered the physician. “What did my patient intend to do?”
“He intends to forsake us–his army that worships him, his friends who idolize him, his king who hopes in him–he intends to leave us all!” said Gneisenau, mournfully. “It is written here, doctor; I may mention it to you, for you are one of our most devoted friends.”
“And he intends also to leave his physician; he will go, and get blind!” exclaimed Voelzke, reproachfully.
“Well, it is precisely because I do not wish to get blind that I must move from here,” said Blucher, who had now recovered his firmness, and felt relieved, since his secret had been disclosed. “What am I, a poor blind old man, to do longer in the field? I am fit for nothing. In the end I shall perhaps fare like old Kutusoff, whom they dragged along with the army. Thus would they drag me when I am no longer myself.” [Footnote: Blucher’s words.–Vide Varnhagun, “Prince Blucher of Wahlstatt,” p. 373]
“But,” said the physician, “your excellency is not blind; you will be well in two weeks if you only resolve to comply with my prescriptions, use the remedies I give you, and punctually obey my instructions. You intend to go to Brussels, where you will certainly find celebrated physicians; but they do not know you; they will only doctor your eyes, not suspecting that the seat of your disease is in your nerves, and that your eyes are unhealthy because your mind is suffering. And it will suffer still more when you have deserted your army, your friends–nay, I may say, your duty. The strange surroundings, the want of care, the unknown physicians, your anxiety at being ignorant of what the army is doing–all this will torture your soul, and aggravate the disease of your eyes.”
“It is true, I shall be very lonely in a foreign city,” said Blucher, thoughtfully; “but it is, after all, better than to stay here as a useless, blind old man. I can never again command an army or direct a battle.”
“If you cannot command an army in person, you can by your words,” exclaimed Gneisenau; “and if you cannot direct the battle with your arms, you can do so with your spirit; for that fires our hearts as long as you are with us, and bids defiance to the adversaries and hesitating diplomatists. If your person leaves us, your spirit does also, and with Marshal Forward we lose all prospect of marching forward. Consider this, your excellency; consider that you endanger not only the welfare of your army, but the success of the war; for when you are not present, all will go wrong.”
“Well, you will be here, Gneisenau,” said Blucher; “you are half myself; you know my thoughts just as well as I do–nay, you often know them much better! You will, therefore, carry on all just as though I were still here.”
“But shall I have the power to do so?” asked Gneisenau. “Your excellency did not take into the account that when you leave the army, and give up your position as commander-in-chief, another general must be appointed in your stead. Who will receive this nomination? The senior general is Langeron, and do you consider him qualified to replace you?”
“Well, that would be a pretty thing, if HE should become commander- in-chief!” cried Blucher. “The confusion and wrangling that would ensue would baffle description; for York and Bulow would be even more disobedient to him than they are to me.”
“But he would have to take command of the army until orders from headquarters arrived appointing another general-in-chief. We might have to wait a long time; for we are distant from the allied monarchs now, and they, moreover, will not hasten to make that appointment. Until this is done, Langeron will command the army, and thereby I, the quartermaster-general, as well as Colonels Muffling and Grolman, will be completely paralyzed in the discharge of our duties, or even lose our positions, which your excellency has always said we filled to your satisfaction, and in a manner conducive to the welfare of the army. If you go now, you thereby deprive three men of their places, although they feel strong enough yet to serve their country.”
“It is true, I have not thought of that,” said Blucher, embarrassed. “It did not occur to me that I should have a successor here, and that he might be so stupid as to be unable to appreciate my Gneisenau, and the brave Colonels Muffling and Grolman. No, no, that will not do; Langeron must not become commander-in-chief.”
“If you leave us, he will surely have that position, and our brave Silesian army will then be headed by a Russian. No, field-marshal, you must not go. You have no right to quit the army so arbitrarily, and without the king’s permission!”
“Well, I should like to see who would prevent me!” cried Blucher, defiantly.
“Your noble soul, your devotion to duty, and your love of country, will prevent you,” said Gneisenau. “You will refuse to abandon your work before it is completed. You will not incur the disgrace of confessing to all the world that you are unable to fulfil your word- -not to rest before having overthrown Napoleon, and made your entrance into Paris. Nor will you tarnish your glory on account of your eyes. You will not become a faithless father and friend to your soldiers, whom you have so often greeted as your children, and who have always confided in you; nor will you break our courage and paralyze our souls by deserting us in this manner.”
“It is true, I did not think sufficiently on this matter,” murmured Blucher to himself–“Voelzke,” he then cried aloud, “you pledge me your word of honor that you can cure me?”
“I swear it to your excellency by all that is sacred that, if you take care of yourself, and comply with my prescriptions, you will be cured in the course of two weeks.”
“Well,” said Blucher, after a short reflection, “in that case I will yield, and stay.”
“Heaven be praised, your excellency!” cried Gneisenau, tenderly embracing Blucher, “you are still my noble field-marshal, who will not desert his army, his fatherland, and his friends, for the sake of his individual comfort.”
“Yes, I will stay,” said Blucher; “but as I have to obey the grim doctor there, and submit to his treatment thoroughly, as a matter of course I cannot work and make the necessary dispositions, but leave this to my head–to Gneisenau alone. I lend you my name for two weeks, and know that you will make good use of it. But if at the end of that time, doctor, I am not yet well, then, beware! May the Lord have mercy on your soul! for you will certainly get yourself into trouble.”
“Your excellency,” cried a loud voice outside, at this moment–“your excellency, are you not coming at all?” The door of the anteroom was violently thrust open, and the pipe-master appeared on the threshold. “It is past eight o’clock,” he exclaimed, “and–” He paused on perceiving the two gentlemen, and was about to retire very quickly.
“Come here, pipe-master,” exclaimed Blucher, “come here and look at me. Now tell me, pipe-master, have you been a chatterbox, after all, and told these two gentlemen what was the object of our airing?”
“No, your excellency; I have not uttered a word about it to any one,” replied the pipe-master, solemnly. “I have been as dumb as a fish; only in secret have I complained of my distress; and, when that did not relieve me, and I still felt as though my heart would burst, I did what I have learned to do from the field-marshal: I went to my room, closed the door, and swore in the most fearful manner! That relieved my heart, and I proceeded to do all your excellency charged me with.”
“First, therefore, you had to swear?” asked Blucher, drawing his long mustache through his fingers. “You were, then, greatly dissatisfied with my departure?”
“I did not conceal it from your excellency. I told you honestly that you would no longer be called Marshal Forward if you retreated.”
“Yes, retreat–that is just what he said,” exclaimed Blucher, laughing, and turning again toward the two gentlemen; “and when I told him I would leave the army and set out for Brussels he remarked that it was a secret flight.”
“The pipe-master is an honest man, who loves his master,” said Gneisenau, kindly smiling on him. “I have often and urgently begged him to-day to announce me to the field-marshal; but he persisted in replying that he was not allowed to do so, and that he was ordered to admit no one.”
“And I would have given my little-finger, if I could have admitted General Gneisenau, and Dr. Voelzke, too; for I knew that, as soon as they would be with the field-marshal, his departure would not be very soon. As they are here now–though I do not know how they got here so unexpectedly–I suppose, field-marshal, we shall not set out, and I may send the horses back to the stable?”
“Yes, you may,” said Blucher. “But wait, Christian, do not go yet; I have first to say a few words to these gentlemen, and you may listen. I will stay here, then, but on one condition. Will you fulfil it?”
“Yes, your excellency,” cried Gneisenau and Voelzke at the same time.
“Well, tell me, then, how did you discover that I intended to start to-day, the pipe-master having said nothing about it to you? For I shall never believe that both of you could happen to come to me at so unusual an hour, and without any reason. Reply–who told you that I was about to leave?”
“You yourself, your excellency,” said Surgeon-General Voelzke.
“What, I! What nonsense is this!” cried Blucher, laughing.
“Yes, I heard it from yourself. Do you not remember that you heard a mouse rustle in your alcove?”
“To be sure, I did; I heard it twice.”
“Well, then, the mouse was myself! I discovered a small secret side- door in your room, and desired to know whither it led. I therefore thrust it open, and was in your alcove; just as I entered I heard your voice, saying, ‘It is settled, then, Christian, I shall set out for Brussels to-night, but no one must know a word about it!’ Your excellency, I confess my crime: I stood and listened; only when the pipe-master left your room did I softly creep away, too, and hasten to General Gneisenau to inform him of what I had heard.”
“Let us examine the alcove more carefully, pipe-master,” said Blucher, “and see whether there is not somewhere else a secret door. Well, you may go now, Hennemann, and send the horses back to the stable.”
“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed Christian, hastening out of the room. But scarcely had he closed the door, when he thrust it open again. “Field-marshal,” he said, “General von Pietrowitch, adjutant of the Emperor of Russia, wishes to see your excellency immediately.”
“Come in, general,” exclaimed Blucher; and offering his hand to the officer, he asked hastily, “tell me, in the first place, general, whether you bring good or bad news?”
“I believe I bring what Marshal Forward would call good news,” said the general, smiling. “I come as a messenger from the emperor my master, and the king your master, and am commissioned to inform you of the determination taken at headquarters, and to obtain your consent and cooperation.”
“Is it a secret mission?” asked Gneisenau.
“On the contrary, the whole army will have to hear it tonight,” said the general. “My first news, then, is, that the congress of Chatillou was dissolved on the 19th of March.”
“Without leading to any results?” asked Blucher, breathlessly. “Without agreeing on a treaty of peace, or an armistice?”
“Nothing of the kind, your excellency. The congress has had an entirely opposite result–the speedy and energetic prosecution of the war. All the diplomatists, and the Emperor Francis with them, after the dissolution of the congress, retired southward to Dijon.”
“And Schwartzenberg?” cried Blucher.
“Prince Schwartzenberg remained, and held a council of war with the monarchs yesterday near Vitry. The result of this I am commissioned to communicate to you. The resumption of the offensive against Paris has been decided upon. Prince Schwartzenberg agrees with the sovereigns that Paris is the decisive point, and that it is all- important for us to cut off Napoleon from the capital, and take the city before he is able to reach it. Prince Schwartzenberg, therefore, sends word to your excellency that from this day all his standards are turned toward Paris, and that the army of Bohemia is marching in three columns. To-night they encamp at Fere Champeuoise, where the headquarters of the allies are to be. Now, Prince Schwartzenberg invites you to participate with the Silesian army in this advance, starting at once, and advancing by the road of Montmirail and La Ferte-sous-Jonarre, and then form a connection with the army of Bohemia.” [Footnote: Beitzke, vol. iii., p. 431.]
“Yes, I shall certainly do so,” joyfully cried Blucher. “Hurrah! This is good news; now the word is not only with us, but everywhere, ‘Forward!’ Tell their majesties, and, above all, Prince Schwartzenberg, that they have made me very happy, and have performed a truly miraculous cure. I was sick and desponding; now, since you have come, I am again well and in good spirits. I feel no longer any pain, and my eyes will be all right again, now that they know that they are to see the city of Paris. I thought that it would come to this–that my brave brother Schwartzenberg would at length agree with me. We shall soon now put an end to the war. Bonaparte must be dethroned, and that speedily.” [Footnote: Blucher’s own words.–Vide Varnhagen von Ense, “Blucher,” p. 375.]
CHAPTER XLIX.
ON TO PARIS!
Napoleon’s courage was not yet paralyzed; he had not yet given up the struggle. His indomitable heart was still wrestling with adversity, and hoping that he would be able to overcome it. It is true, the disastrous battle of Bar-sur-Aube, where the army of Bohemia had gained a victory on the 20th of March, had greatly weighed him down; but a few days sufficed to restore his determination and energy. On the 26th, when he arrived with his army at St. Dizier, he had already devised new plans, and was again resolved to give battle to the allies. “We are still strong,” he said to Caulaincourt, who had just joined him at St. Dizier. “We have upward of fifty thousand men here. I have issued orders to Marshals Marmont and Victor, as well as to all reinforcements that are on the road from Paris, to join our army. When they arrive, my forces will be eighty thousand, and the allies will not dare march on Paris, where they will find me. If I can now induce them to hesitate, and retard their operations a short time, by drawing reinforcements from the neighboring fortresses of the Meuse and the Moselle, I shall increase my army to upward of one hundred thousand, and it will then be easy for me to delay the progress of the enemy by constantly renewed attacks, and thus prolong the war.”
“But I am afraid, sire, you labor under a delusion as to one point: that it is still possible for you to delay the progress of the allies by any means whatever,” sighed Caulaincourt. “I have examined every thing on my trip to your majesty’s headquarters; I have conversed with every prisoner fallen into the hands of our troops, and I do not believe that the army of Bohemia is in the rear of your majesty, but that it has outstripped you, and is already on the road to Paris.”
Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and stepped to the door, which he opened, shouting, “The mayor of St. Dizier!” The corpulent form of the mayor, who greeted the emperor with awkward obeisances, appeared immediately. “Pray repeat your statements,” said the emperor, “The enemy’s troops were here yesterday, were they not?”
“They were, sire; all St. Dizier was occupied by them. It was General Winzingerode, with the soldiers of the allies. They stated that they were the vanguard of the principal army. General Winzingerode inspected all the large houses in the city, and reserved the best, adding that the Emperor of Russia and the King of Prussia would arrive here tomorrow, and take up their quarters at those houses; [Footnote: This was a stratagem, resorted to by Winzingerode, in order to mislead Napoleon as to the march of the allies.] but when the approach of your majesty was reported, the enemy quickly left the city.”
“Very well; you may go,” said Napoleon, motioning to the mayor to leave the room.–“Well, Caulaincourt, have you satisfied yourself now? Do you see now that the allies are not in our front, but still in our rear?”
“Sire, suppose it were a delusion, after all?” sighed Caulaincourt: “Suppose the allies had devised this stratagem, to mislead your majesty?–if none but Winzingerode’s corps follow us, while the principal army is hastening toward Paris by different routes? Oh, I implore your majesty, do not suffer your keen eyes to be blinded by false hopes! Look around and examine the evidences that confirm my views, All the prisoners report that the armies of Bohemia and Silesia have united, and are now marching on Paris. Besides, on our way from Bar-sur-Aube to this place, we have nowhere met with large columns of troops, and nothing whatever indicates the approach of the enemy in force.”
“Well,” cried Napoleon, vehemently, “if we have not met with the enemy’s forces, it may be because they are in full retreat toward Lorraine, and that they are at last tired of carrying on a fruitless struggle with me.” [Footnote: Fain, “Manuscrit de 18l4,” p. 142.]
“Ah, your majesty still thinks that you are opposed only by the timid and desponding enemies of former times!” said Caulaincourt, sighing; “but this is a mistake, which will prove disastrous.”
“Ah!” cried Napoleon, vehemently, “you dare tell me that?”
“Sire,” said Caulaincourt, calmly, “it is my duty to tell you the truth, and you are in duty bound to listen to it. [Footnote: Caulaincourt’s words,–“Memoires d’un Homme d’Etat,” vol. xii., p. 292] Now, the truth is, that the allies are firmly determined to carry on the war to the last extremity, and that, at the best, they will leave to your majesty the frontiers of France as they were under the Bourbons. I venture, therefore, once more to implore your majesty to make peace; sire, peace at any cost! Perhaps it may be time yet. Send me once more to the allied monarchs! Tell them that you will now accept the ultimatum offered us at the congress of Chatillon, and that you will content yourself with the frontiers of France, as they were previous to the rise of the empire. Send me with this declaration to the Emperor Alexander of Russia, who, at the bottom of his heart, is still your friend!”
“And whose devoted friend you are!” cried Napoleon. “Yes, you are Alexander’s servant, and not mine! You are a thorough Russian!”
“No, sire, I am a Frenchman!” said Caulaincourt, proudly, looking the emperor full in the face, “and I believe I prove it by imploring your majesty to give peace to France and save your crown.”
“Ah, save my crown!” exclaimed Napoleon. “Who dares, then, threaten my crown?”
“Sire, the allies and the Bourbons. The former have issued a proclamation, stating that they come to this country to make war on the Emperor Napoleon, and not on France; and the Bourbons, who are now in France, at the headquarters of the allies, have issued another proclamation, calling upon the nation to return to its duty and to the allegiance due to its legitimate king.”
“I am neither afraid of the allies nor of the Bourbons,” said Napoleon. “The French nation knows no Bourbons; it knows none but ME, its emperor, and we two shall not break the faith we have plighted to each other. We shall conquer together. Dare no longer ask me to accept the ignominious terms of the congress of Chatillon. It is better to die beneath the ruins of my throne than be at the mercy of my enemies. The allies are in my rear, and the arrival of reinforcements will soon enable me to give them battle; I shall win, and it will be for me to dictate terms. Under the walls of Paris the grave of the Russians will be dug. My dispositions have been made, and I shall not fail.” [Footnote: Napoleon’s words.–Vide Constant, “Memoires,” vol. vi., p. 48.]
Caulaincourt sighed, and gazed with an air of painful astonishment on the serene face of the emperor. “Sire,” he said, solemnly, “I call Heaven to witness that I have tried my best to incline your majesty to my prayers! You have refused to listen to me.”
“Because I am not at liberty to do so, Caulaincourt; and, besides, I do not believe in your apprehensions. Suppose that Alexander and Frederick William should determine to continue the war, there is a third sovereign who will decide the matter–the Emperor Francis, my father-in-law, and grand-father of the King of Rome. You see, therefore, that, though the present prospects were unfavorable to me, I should at least have nothing to fear from the Bourbons; for the emperor will not permit his daughter to be robbed of her crown, nor his grandson of his rightful inheritance.”
“Sire,” said Caulaincourt, in a low voice, “do not rely too much on the attachment of the Emperor Francis. I know that, though he is your father-in-law, he has never forgotten the day when, after the battle of Austerlitz, he met you as an humble supplicant at your camp-fire, and begged you to spare him and make peace with him. I know that that recollection has greater power over him than any bonds of relationship. I know that Metternich, who is still devoted to your majesty, vainly tried a few days ago to prevail upon the Emperor Francis to intercede energetically with the other monarchs for his son-in-law and daughter, and that he unsuccessfully urged him to take into consideration the future of his grandson, the King of Rome.”
“And what did the emperor reply?” asked Napoleon, quickly.
“Sire, the emperor replied, in his strong Austrian dialect, ‘Do not always talk to me about the child! I have at home many children of whom I ought to think first.'” [Footnote: The Emperor Francis said: “Rodt’s mier nit alleweil von dem Kind; bei mier z’ Haus hab’ ich gar vielle Kinder, an die ich z’erst denken muess.”–Hormayr, “Lebensbllder,” vol. i., p. 98.]
“That is not true; he did not say so!” cried Napoleon.
“Sire, he did; Prince Metternich told me so.”
Napoleon paused a moment. A low knocking at the door interrupted his meditation. One of the adjutants entered, and reported that the emperor’s equerry, Count Saint-Aignan, whom the emperor had intrusted with a mission, had returned, and requested an audience of his majesty. The emperor himself hastened to the door, and eagerly motioned to the count to approach. “Well, Saint-Aignan,” he asked, “what did you find? How is the disposition of the people in the south of France?”
“Sire,” said the count, mournfully, “I bring no news that will gladden your majesty’s heart. Southern France is discontented; the people are complaining of the duration of the war; they desire peace at any price, and are disposed to resort to extreme measures in order to reestablish it.”
“What does that mean?” asked the emperor. “I do not understand you; express yourself more distinctly.”
“Well, then, sire, the people there have read the proclamation of the Bourbons, and think of reinstating them, for the purpose of putting an end to the war.”
“They will not dare to do that,” cried Napoleon, casting an angry glance on Saint-Aignan.
“They have already, sire,” said the count. “The city of Bordeaux has declared for the Bourbons, and the Count d’Artois, as well as the Duke and Duchess d’Angouleme, have made their entrance into the city, and–“
“And have been received with enthusiasm by the population!” cried Napoleon. “Pray, finish your sentence, and tell me so. Add that the inhabitants of Bordeaux have returned to their duty, and that you, too, have discovered what your duty is, and that you intend to return to the legitimate rulers of France! Go! I permit you; I relieve you of the duties of your office! Go to the Bourbons!”
Count Saint-Aignan did not stir; pallor overspread his cheeks; his eyes, fixed on the emperor with an indescribable expression of grief, filled with tears, and his quivering lips were unable to speak.
“Sire,” said the Duke de Vicenza, “your majesty does injustice to the count. You commanded him to give a reliable report of his mission; he was not at liberty, therefore, to conceal any thing, but was obliged to tell you the whole truth.”
“The truth!” cried Napoleon, violently stamping, “that which you fear or desire you call the truth! You all see through the colored spectacles of your anxiety, and would compel me to do so, too; but I will not; my eyes are open, and see things as they are. Go, Count Saint-Aignan; your report is finished!” The count, with a sigh, approached the door, and, slowly walking backward, left the room. “The Bourbons!” murmured Napoleon to himself; “they shall not dare to threaten me with this spectre! There are no Bourbons! I am the Emperor of France, and it is to me alone that the French nation owes allegiance!” He looked thoughtfully, with a dark and wrinkled forehead, but, presently lifting his head–“Oh, Caulaincourt,” he exclaimed, “I will personally satisfy myself whether the army of the allies is really in our rear, or whether your fears are well grounded. Let us set out for Vitry!”
“Heaven be praised!” replied the Duke de Vicenza, joyfully. “All is not yet lost; for Vitry is on the road to Paris.”
On the following morning the emperor moved with his forces toward Vitry, and took up his quarters at Marolles, a short distance from the little fortress. Here at length he was to find out the true state of affairs. He was met by inhabitants of Fere Champenoise, who had fled to Marolles, and informed him that Marshals Marmont and Mortier had suffered decisive defeats at the hands of the allies; that the divisions of General Pacthod and Aurey had been annihilated, and that the united armies of Bohemia and Silesia were in rapid march on Paris.
An expression of terror passed over the face of Napoleon, and his equanimity seemed to be shaken; but he soon overcame the effect of this news, calmly remarking, “Well, if the allies are marching on Paris, we must march too.”
“Yes, on to Paris!” cried the marshals. “That is the most important point in present circumstances, and it can be defended, if the emperor hasten with his army.”
“On to Paris, then!” exclaimed Napoleon. “But we must move with the speed of the wind!” He appeared to have regained his whole energy; his eyes beamed again, his face resumed its old determination, and he issued his orders in a firm and cheerful voice.
It was all-important to defend the emperor’s throne at Paris, and to protect the inheritance of the King of Rome from the allies and the Bourbons. Forward, then, by forced marches! Napoleon’s headquarters were soon at Montier-en-Der–much nearer the capital. On the 28th of March he reached Doulerant, when a horseman, covered with dust, pale and breathless, coming from the direction of the capital, galloped up to the head of the column. “Where is the emperor?” he cried. Having been conducted to him, “Sire,” he whispered, “I am sent by the postmaster-general, your faithful Count La Valette, to deliver this paper.”
The emperor unfolded the paper and read. A slight tremor pervaded his frame, and his eyes grew gloomier. He cast another glance on the paper, and then, seizing it with his teeth, he tore it to pieces. None but himself was to learn the contents of that paper, which read: “The adherents of the invaders, encouraged by the defection of Bordeaux, are raising their heads; secret intrigues are helping them. The emperor’s presence is necessary, if he wishes to prevent his capital from being delivered into the hands of the enemy. We must march immediately. Not a moment is to be lost.” [Footnote: Fain, “Manuscrit de 1814.”]
“Forward!” shouted the emperor. “We must hasten to Paris, and be there to-morrow!” The emperor, with the cavalry of his guard, headed the column. His countenance was still calm and impenetrable; but at times a gleam lit up his sombre eyes, as he moved on in a violent thunderstorm.
Another courier galloped up and asked for the emperor. “Announce me to him. The lieutenant-general of the empire, King Joseph, the emperor’s brother, sends me.”
He was conducted to Napoleon, who received him with the words, “News from my brother in Paris? Give me your dispatch!”
“Sire, I have no dispatch to deliver; dispatches may be lost, or revealed if their bearer should be arrested; but memory betrays nothing. I have ridden from Paris in fourteen hours. Here are my credentials, King Joseph’s signet-ring.”
“I recognize it. Speak!” By a wave of his hand Napoleon ordered the marshals to retire, and, bending his head toward his brother’s messenger, he repeated calmly, “Speak!”
“Sire,” whispered the messenger, “the king informs your majesty that the allies are near Paris; that Marshals Marmont and Mortier, though determined to defend the capital, have no hope of holding their positions. The king implores your majesty most urgently to leave nothing undone to hasten to the assistance of your capital.” [Footnote: Fain, “Manuscrit de 1814.”]
Having heard this message, the emperor’s face was unveiled; it was quivering with anguish, and his eyes turned to heaven in despair. “Oh, if I had wings!” he cried, in an outburst of grief; “if I could be in Paris at this hour!” Then he became silent, and his head sank on his breast. His generals surrounded him, when he lifted his head again with drops of sweat on his forehead, but his face resumed its wonted calmness. “General Dejean,” he cried, in a powerful voice, “ride to Paris as fast as you can. Inform my brother that I am making a forced march to the capital. Hasten then to Marmont and Mortier; tell them to resist to the last, and leave nothing untried in order to hold out but for two days. In that time I shall be in front of Paris, and it is safe! Marmont is to dispatch a courier to Prince Schwartzenberg, and inform him that I have sent an envoy to the Emperor Francis with propositions leading to peace. Schwartzenberg will hesitate, and we shall gain time. Haste, Dejean, and remember that the fate of my capital rests with you!”
When General Dejean rode off, Napoleon sought his faithful friend, the Duke de Vicenza. He was by his side before the emperor had uttered his name. “Caulaincourt,” he said, in a gentle voice, “you were right. I have lost two days. I might now be in Paris. Fate is behind me, intent on crushing me, and death itself refuses to take me! At the battle of Bar-sur-Aube I did all I could to die while defending my country. I plunged into the thickest of the fight; the balls tore my clothes, and yet not one of them injured me. I am a man doomed to live [Footnote: Napoleon’s words.–“Vide Bausset’s Memoires,” vol. ii., p. 246.]–a man that, for the welfare of his people, is to subscribe his own humiliation and disgrace! Caulaincourt, go to the Emperor Francis of Austria. Tell him I accept the ultimatum which the allies offered me at Chatillon. I sign the death-warrant of my glory! Hasten! And now, forward! In two days we must reach Paris!”
CHAPTER L.
DEPARTURE OF MARIA LOUISA.
On the same day, and nearly at the same hour of the 29th of March, while the emperor was moving with his troops toward Paris, a scene of an entirely different description took place at the rooms of the empress, his consort, in the Tuileries. Napoleon, in his despair, wished for wings to fly to Paris; Maria Louisa, in her anguish, wished for wings to fly away from Paris; for the enemy was at its gates, and it was plain that the city must either capitulate or run the risk of an assault.
As yet Maria Louisa called the allies threatening the throne of her husband, and the inheritance of her son, her enemies, although her own father was among them. She deemed herself in duty bound to stand by her husband, to brave the vicissitudes of fortune jointly with him, and obey his will. The emperor desired that his consort and his son should not remain in the city if any danger should menace them. When the news reached the Tuileries that the allies had arrived at the walls of Paris, and it became obvious that the corps of Marmont and Mortier were not strong enough to withstand the armies of the enemy, King Joseph, the lieutenant of the emperor, summoned the regent, Maria Louisa, and the council of state, to deliberate on the grave question whether or not the empress and the King of Rome should remain, or be withdrawn to a place of safety beyond the Loire.
The decision was left with Maria Louisa; but the regent had declared it was not for her to settle this question; it was for the very purpose of advising her and guiding her steps that the emperor had associated the council of state with her. King Joseph produced a letter from Napoleon of a nature to indicate his wishes. It was dated Rheims, 15th of March, and read:
“In accordance with the verbal instructions which I have given, and with the spirit of all my letters, you are in no event to permit the empress and the King of Rome to fall into the hands of the enemy. I am about to manoeuvre in such a manner that you may possibly be several days without hearing from me. Should the enemy advance upon Paris with such forces as to render all resistance impossible, send off in the direction of the Loire the empress, the King of Rome, the great dignitaries, the ministers, the officers of the senate, the president of the council of state, the great officers of the crown, and the treasure. Never quit my son; and keep in mind that I would rather see him in the Seine than in the hands of the enemies of France! The fate of Astyanax, a prisoner in the hands of the Greeks, has always appeared to me the most deplorable in history.”
“Your brother, NAPOLEON.”
[Footnote: Baron de Meneval, “Marie Louise et Napoleon,” vol. ii., p. 230.]
This, of course, put an end to all debate. The emperor’s precise and final order, providing for the very case which had occurred, could not be disregarded, and Maria Louisa accordingly determined to leave with her son and her suite for Rambouillet. The morning of the 29th of March was fixed for the departure. The travelling-carriages, loaded with baggage, stood in the court-yard of the Tuileries; but Maria Louisa still hesitated. Her travelling-toilet was completed; her ladies were with her in the reception-room, filled with persons forming the cortege of the empress. All entered in mournful silence, and to their bows the empress responded only with a nod. Her eyes, red with weeping, were fixed on the door; she awaited in suspense the return of King Joseph, who had left the Tuileries at daybreak, and had gone to the gates of Paris to reconnoitre the enemy’s position. At first the departure was to have taken place at eight in the morning; now it was past nine, and King Joseph had not yet returned.
This unexpected delay increased the anxiety. None dared interrupt the breathless silence reigning in the apartment; only here and there some one whispered, and, whenever a door opened, all started and turned anxiously toward it, as if expecting a bearer of sad tidings. The face of the empress was pale and agitated; her form trembled; at times she turned toward her ladies, who stood behind her, and addressed to them some almost inaudible question, not waiting for a reply, but looking again toward the door, or inclining her head on her bosom.
Suddenly the door was opened, and on the threshold appeared the little King of Rome, followed by his governess, Madame de Montesquieu. The boy’s face did not exhibit today its air of childlike mirth, which usually beamed like sunshine from his beautiful features. No smile was on his fresh lips, and his lustrous eyes were dimmed. With a sullen face and without looking at any one, the child, so intelligent for his years, stepped through the room directly toward his mother. “Mamma empress,” he said, in his silvery voice, “my ‘Quiou says that we are about to leave Paris, and shall no longer live at the Tuileries. Is that true, mamma?”
“Yes, my son, we must leave,” said the empress, in a low voice, “but we shall return.”
“We MUST leave?” inquired the little king. “But my papa once said to me, the word ‘must’ is not for me, and I do not want it either, and I pray my dear mamma not to leave Paris with me.”
“But the emperor himself wishes us to leave, Napoleon,” said the empress, sighing, and with some displeasure. “Your papa has ordered us to depart if the enemy should come.”
“The enemy!” cried the boy; “I am not afraid of the enemy. If he, comes, we do as my papa emperor always does–we beat the enemy, and then he runs away.”
But these words of the brave child, which would have delighted his father’s heart, seemed to make a disagreeable impression upon his mother. She murmured a few inaudible words, and slightly shrugged her shoulders.
Madame de Montesquiou took the child by the hand, “Come, sire,” she said, in a low voice, “do not disturb her majesty. Come!”
“No, no,” cried the boy, violently disengaging himself, “I am sure you want to carry me down to the carriage, and I tell you I will not go! Let me stay here with my mother, dear ‘Quiou; I do not disturb her, for you see she is not busy, and she does not want to be alone either, for there are a great many persons with her. Therefore, I may stay here, too, may I not, dear mamma empress!”
“Yes, my son, stay here,” said the empress, abstractedly, looking again at the door.
“I am not afraid of the enemy,” cried the little king, proudly throwing back his head. “My papa will soon come and drive him away. But tell me, mamma, what is the name of the enemy who wants to rob us of our beautiful palace? What is his name?”
“Hush, Napoleon!” said the empress, almost indignantly; “what good would it do you to hear what you do not understand?”
“Oh, dear mamma,” cried the child, with a triumphant air, “I can understand very well, for my papa has often played war on the floor with me, and we have built fortresses. And not long ago, papa emperor told me, too, that he was going to the army, and he spoke of his enemies. I remember them very well; they are the Emperor of Russia–who once kissed my papa’s hand, and thanked God that papa emperor consented to be his friend; the King of Prussia, from whom my papa could have taken all his states; the crown prince of Sweden, who learned the art of war from my papa, and is a faithless servant; and last, the Emperor of Austria. But tell me, mamma, is not he your father? And did you not tell me that I ought to pray every night for my grandfather, the Emperor of Austria?”
“I did tell you so, Napoleon,” whispered the empress, whose eyes filled with tears.
The boy looked down for a moment musingly; and then, lifting his large blue eyes to his mother, “Mamma,” he said, “henceforth I shall never again pray for the Emperor of Austria, for he is now my papa’s enemy, and, therefore, no longer my grandfather. No, no, I shall not pray for him, but only as my papa likes me to do.” And the boy knelt down, lifting up his hands, and exclaiming in a loud voice, “Good God, I pray to Thee for France and for my father!”
Expressions of deep emotion were heard in the room. The empress covered her face with her handkerchief, and wept bitterly. The little king was still on his knees, with his eyes raised toward heaven. Suddenly the door at which the empress had looked so long and anxiously, opened. It was not King Joseph who entered, but the adjutant of General Clarke, the regent’s minister of war. Approaching the empress, he begged leave to communicate a message from the minister.
“Speak,” said Maria Louisa, hastily, “and loud enough for every one to hear the news.”
“His excellency, the minister of war, has commissioned me to implore your majesty in his name to leave without a moment’s delay. He believes that every minute increases the danger, and that an hour hence it might be impossible for you to get away, because your majesty would then run the risk of falling into the hands of roving bands of Cossacks. The Russian corps are already near, and we shall soon hear their cannon thunder at the very gates of Paris.” [Footnote: Meneval, “Marie Louise,” vol. II., p. 266.]
“Well, then,” said Maria Louisa, with quivering lips, “be it so! Let us set out.”
All felt that the decisive hour was at hand. The empress quickly advanced a few steps. “Come!” she exclaimed, in feverish agitation. “Let us set out for Rambouillet!”
Suddenly her son grasped her hand and endeavored to draw her back. “Dear mamma,” he cried, anxiously, “do not go! Rambouillet is an ugly old castle. Let us not go, but stay here!” [Footnote: The little king’s words. Ibid.]
“It cannot be, my son; we must go!”
But little Napoleon pushed back her hand with a gesture of indignation. “Well, then, mamma,” he said, “go! I will not go. I will not leave my house! As papa is not here, I am the master! and I say I WILL not go!” [Footnote: Meneval, “Marie Louise.”]
The empress motioned to the equerry on service. “M. de Comisy,” she ordered, “take the prince in your arms and carry him to the carriage.”
“The prince! I am no prince, I am the King of Rome,” cried the boy, in the most violent anger. “I will not go! I will not leave my house; I do not want you to betray my dear papa!” [Footnote: The king’s words.–Vide “Memoires du Due de Rovigo,” vol. vii., p. 5.] The empress took no longer any notice of him; M. de Comisy lifted the crying, struggling boy into his arms. “‘Quiou, dear ‘Quiou!” cried the child, “oh, come to my assistance! I will not leave my house!”
“Sire,” said Madame de Montesquieu, weeping, “we must leave: the emperor has ordered us to do so!”
“It is false!” cried the prince, bursting into a flood of tears, and still trying to disengage himself. “My papa never ordered any such thing, for he says that one ought never to flee from the enemy. I will not go, I will not flee!”
“Come, sire; come!” exclaimed M. de Comisy.
“I will not go!” said the boy, and clung to the door. But Madame de Montesqnion, vainly trying to comfort the prince by gentle words, disengaged his tiny hands, and M. de Comisy hurried on. The whole court, the whole travelling cortege thronged, forward, following the empress and the King of Rome.
Soon the brilliant apartment was empty; but the deserted rooms echoed the distant cries of the little King of Rome. All his struggles were in vain. M. de Comisy was not allowed to have pity on him; the will of the empress had to be fulfilled.
At length the preparations were completed, and all had taken their seats. The large clock on the tower of the Tuileries struck eleven as the empress’s carriage rolled slowly across the spacious court- yard. The crying of the little king, who sat by the side of his mother, was still heard. With them were also the mistress of ceremonies, the Duchess de Montebello, and the governess. Nine other carriages followed, decorated with the imperial coat-of-arms, and numerous baggage-wagons, and the whole train of a brilliant court. The procession filled the whole length of the court-yard of the Tuilories.
When the carriage of the empress drove through the large iron enclosure, a small crowd of spectators stood near, and gazed in mournful silence. Not a hand was raised to salute the fugitives; not a voice shouted farewell. The sad train passed along, while the people looked after it, as if the funeral procession of the empire. The imperial party disappeared among the trees of the Champs Elysees, and left Paris by the “Gate of Victory.”
CHAPTER LI.
THE CAPITULATION OF PARIS.
The roar of cannon, which continued all the day long of the 30th of March, began now to cease; but the great battle which the allies fought under the walls of Paris with the corps of Marmont and Mortier, was not finished. Before resorting to a bombardment, and an assault on the city, conciliation was once more to be tried. Delegates of the monarchs, therefore, repaired to the marshals, and requested them to consent to an honorable capitulation.
“This is another instance of our foolish generosity!” growled Blucher, leaning back in his carriage. “The whole rats’-nest ought to be demolished; Bonaparte and the French would then have to submit. But I see already how it will be. The peace will be unsatisfactory, and our demands will be as modest as possible, lest we incur the displeasure of the dear French.–Pipe-master, hand me a short pipe! I must smoke, to stifle my anger.”
“Your excellency,” said Christian, riding up to the carriage, “you have promised the surgeon general not to smoke much, and least of all a short pipe, because the hot smoke is injurious to the eyes. Your excellency has smoked six pipes to-day!”
“And it seems to me that is very little! What are six pipes for a general-in-chief, who has to reflect so much as I have to-day? Give me a pipe, Christian; it is bad enough that I have to sit in such a monkey-box of a carriage, instead of riding on horseback at the head of my troops.”
“Nevertheless, every thing passed off very well,” said Christian, calmly. “You shouted your orders out of the carriage like a madman, and the generals and adjutants heard and executed all as if you had been on horseback among them. In fact, it would have been only