2. The Lourre .--When Paris consisted only of the little island in
the Seine, and kings and feudal lords, with wine and wassail were
reveling in the saloons of China, a hunting-seat was reared in the
the dense forest which spread itself along the banks of the river.
As the city extended, and the forest disappeared, the hunting-seat
was enlarged, strengthened, and became a fortress and a state-prison
Thus it continued for three hundred years. In its gloomy dungeons
prisoners of state, and the victims of crime, groaned and died;
and countless tragedies of despotic power there transpired, which
the Day of Judgment alone can reveal. Three hundred years ago,
Francis I, tore down the dilapidated walls of this old castle, and
commerces the magnificent Palace of the Louver upon their foundations.
But its construction has required candle, while Gilpin, who was
taller and stronger than either of the other boys, bored the hole
in the door, in the place which Rodolphus indicated. When the hole
was bored, the boys inserted an iron rod into it. and running this
rod under the hasp, they pried the hasp up and unfastened the door.
They opened the door, and then, to their great joy, found themselves
all safe in the office.
They put the dark lantern down upon the table, and covered it with
its screen, and then listened, perfectly whist, a minute or two,
to be sure that nobody was coming.
"You go and watch at the shed-door," said Gilpin to Rodolphus,
"while we open the desk."
So Rodolphus went to the shed-door. He peeped out, and looked up
and down the village-street, but all was still.
Presently he heard a sort of splitting sound within the office,
which he knew was made by the forcing open of the lid of the desk.
Very soon afterward the boys came out, in a hurried manner--Griff
had the lantern and Gilpin the box.
"Have you got it!" said Rodolphus.
"Yes," said Griff.
"Let's see," said Rodolphus.
Griff held out the box to Rodolphus. It was very heavy and they
could hear the sound of the money within. All three of the boys
seemed almost wild with trepidation and excitement. Griff however
immediately began to hurry them away, pulling the box from them
and saying, "Come, come, boys, we must not stay fooling here."
"Wait a minute till I hide the tools again!" said Rodolphus, "and
then we'll run."
Rodolphus hid the tools behind the wood-pile, in the shed, where
they had been before, and then the boys sallied forth into the
street. They crept along stealthily in the shadows of the houses
and the most dark and obscure places, until they came to the tavern,
where they were to turn down the lane to the corn-barn. As soon as
they got safely to this lane, they felt relieved, and they walked
on in a more unconcerned manner; and when at length they got fairly
in under the corn-barn they felt perfectly secure.
"There," said Griff, "was not that well done!"
"Yes," said Rodolphus, "and now all that we have got to do is to
get the box open."
"We can break it open with stones," said Griff.
"No," said Gilpin, "that will make too much noise. We will bury
it under this straw for a few days, and open it somehow or other
by-and-by, when they have given up looking for the box. You can
get the real key of it for us, Rodolphus, can't you!"
"How can I get it?" asked Rodolphus.
"Oh, you can contrive some way to get it from old Kerber, I've no
doubt. At any rate the best thing is to bury it now.'
To this plan the boys all agreed. They pulled away the straw,
which was spread under the corn-barn, and dug a hole in the ground
beneath, working partly with sticks and partly with their fingers.
When they had got the hole deep enough, they put the box in and
covered it up. Then they covered it up. Then they spread the straw
over the place as before.
During all this time the lantern had been standing upon a box pretty
near by, having been put there by the boys, in order that the light
might shine down upon the place where they had been digging. As
soon as their work was done, the boys went softly outside to see
if the way was clear for them to go home, leaving the lantern on
the box; and while they were standing at the corner of the barn
outside, looking up the lane, and whispering together, they saw
suddenly a light beginning to gleam up from within. They ran in
and found that the lantern had fallen down, and that the straw was
all in a blaze. They immediately began to tread upon the fire and
try to put it out, but the instant that they did so they were all
thunderstruck by the appearance of a fourth person, who came rushing
in among them from the outside. They all screamed out with terror
and ran. Rodolphus separated from the rest and crouched down a
moment behind the stone wall, but immediately afterward, feeling
that there would be no safety for him here, he set off again and
ran across some back fields and gardens, in the direction toward
Mr. Kerber's. He looked back occasionally and found that the light
was rapidly increasing. Presently he began to hear cries of fire.
He ran on till he reached the house; he scrambled over the fences
into the back yard, climbed up upon a shed, crept along under the
chimneys to the window of his room, got in as fast as he could,
undressed himself and went to bed, and had just drawn the clothes
up over him, when he heard a loud knocking at the door, and Mrs.
Kerber's voice outside, calling out to him, that there was a cry
of fire in the village, and that he must get up quick as possible
and help put it out.
The Expedition to Egypt was one of the most magnificent enterprises
which human ambition ever conceived. The Return to France combines
still more, if possible, of the elements of the moral sublime.
But for the disastrous destruction of the French fleet the plans
of Napoleon, in reference to the East, would probably have been
triumphantly successful. At least it can not be doubted that a
vast change would have been effected throughout the Eastern world.
Those plans were now hopeless. The army was isolated, and cut off
from all reinforcements and all supplies. the best thing which
Napoleon could do for his troops in Egypt was to return to France,
and exert his personal influence in sending them succor. His return
involved the continuance of the most honorable devotion to those
soldiers whom he necessarily left behind him. The secrecy of his
departure was essential to its success. Had the bold attempt been
suspected, it would certainly have been frustrated by the increased
vigilance of the English cruisers. The intrepidity of the enterprise
must elicit universal admiration.
Contemplate, for a moment, the moral aspects of this undertaking.
A nation of thirty millions of people, had been for ten years
agitated by the most terrible convulsions. There is no atrocity,
which the tongue can name, which had not desolated the doomed land.
Every passion which can degrade the heart of fallen man, had swept
with simoom blast over the cities and the villages of France.
Conflagrations had laid the palaces of the wealthy in ruins, and the
green lawns where their children had played, had been crimsoned with
the blood of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters. A gigantic
system of robbery had seized upon houses and lands and every
species of property and had turned thousands of the opulent out
into destitution, beggary, and death. Pollution had been legalized
by the voice of God-defying lust, and France, la belle France
, had been converted into a disgusting warehouse of infamy. Law,
with suicidal hand, had destroyed itself, and the decisions of
the legislature swayed to and fro, in accordance with the hideous
clamors of the mob. The guillotine, with gutters ever clotted
with human gore, was the only argument which anarchy condescended
to use. Effectually it silenced every remonstrating tongue.
Constitution after constitution had risen, like mushrooms, in
a night, and like mushrooms had perished in a day. Civil war was
raging with bloodhound fury in France, Monarchists and Jacobins
grappling each other infuriate with despair. The allied kings of
Europe, who by their alliance had fanned these flames of rage and
ruin, were gazing with terror upon the portentous prodigy, and were
surrounding France with their navies and their armies.
The people had been enslaved for centuries by the king and the nobles.
Their oppression had been execrable, and it had become absolutely
unendurable. "We, the millions," they exclaimed in their rage, "will
no longer minister to your voluptuousness, and pride, and lust."
"You shall, you insolent dogs," exclaimed king and nobles, "we
heed not your barking." "You shall," reiterated the Pope, in the
portentous thunderings of the Vatican. "You shall," came echoed back
from the palaces of Vienna, from the dome of the Kremlin, from the
seraglio of the Turk, and, in tones deeper, stronger, more resolute,
from constitutional, liberty-loving, happy England. Then was France
a volcano, and its lava-streams deluged Europe. The people were
desperate. In the blind fury of their frenzied self-defense they
lost all consideration. The castles of the nobles were but the
monuments of past taxation and servitude. With yells of hatred
the infuriated populace razed them to the ground. The palaces of
the kings, where, for uncounted centuries, dissolute monarchs had
reveled in enervating and heaven-forbidden pleasures, were but
national badges of the bondage of the people. The indignant throng
swept through them, like a Mississippi inundation, leaving upon
marble floors, and cartooned walls and ceilings, the impress of
their rage. At one bound France had passed from despotism to anarchy.
The kingly tyrant, with golden crown and iron sceptre, surrounded
by wealthy nobles and dissolute beauties, had disappeared, and
a many-headed monster, rapacious and blood-thirsty, vulgar and
revolting, had emerged from mines and workshops and the cellars of
vice and penury, like one of the spectres of fairy tales to fill his
place. France had passed from Monarchy, not to healthy Republicanism,
but to Jacobinism, to the reign of the mob. Napoleon utterly abhorred
the tyranny of the king. He also utterly abhorred the despotism of
vulgar, violent, sanguinary Jacobin misrule. The latter he regarded
with even far deeper repugnance than the former. "I frankly
confess," said Napoleon, again and again, "that if I must choose
between Bourbon oppression, and mob violence, I infinitely prefer
the former.
Such had been the state of France, essentially, for nearly ten
years. The great mass of the people were exhausted with suffering,
and longed for repose. The land was filled with plots and counterplots.
But there was no one man of sufficient prominence to carry with
him the nation. The government was despised and disregarded. France
was in a state of chaotic ruin. Many voices here and there, began
to inquire "Where is Bonaparte, the conqueror of Italy, the conqueror
of Egypt? He alone can save us." His world-wide renown turned the
eyes of the nation to him as their only hope.
Under these circumstances Napoleon, then a young man but twenty-nine
years of age, and who, but three years before, had been unknown
to fame or to fortune, resolved to return to France, to overthrow
the miserable government, by which the country was disgraced, to
subdue anarchy at home and aggression from abroad, and to rescue
thirty millions of people from ruin. The enterprise was undeniably
magnificent in its grandeur and noble in its object. He had two
foes to encounter, each formidable, the royalists of combined Europe
and the mob of Paris. The quiet and undoubting self-confidence with
which he entered upon this enterprise, is one of the most remarkable
events in the whole of his extraordinay career. He took with him
no armies to hew down opposition. He engaged in no deep-laid and
wide-spread conspiracy. Relying upon the energies of his own mind,
and upon the sympathies of the great mass of the people, he went
alone, with but one or two companions, to whom he revealed not his
thoughts, to gather into his hands the scattered reins of power.
Never did he encounter more fearful peril. The cruisers of England,
Russia, Turkey, of allied Europe in arms against France, thronged
the Mediterranean. How could he hope to escape them? The guillotine
was red with blood. Every one who had dared to oppose the mob had
perished upon it. How could Napoleon venture, single-handed, to
beard this terrible lion in his den?
It was ten o'clock at night, the 22d of August, 1799, when Napoleon
ascended the sides of the frigate Muiron, to France. A few of his
faithful Guards, and eight companions, either officers in the army
or members of the scientific corps, accompanied him. There were
five hundred soldiers on board the ships. The stars shone brightly
in the Syrian sky, and under their soft light the blue waves of
the Mediterranean lay spread out most peacefully before them. The
frigates unfurled their sails. Napoleon, silent and lost in thought,
for a long time walked the quarter deck of the ship, gazing upon
the low outline of Egypt as, in the dim starlight, it faded away.
His companions were intoxicated with delight, in view of again
returning to France. Napoleon was neither elated nor depressed.
Serene and silent he communed with himself, and whenever we can
catch a glimpse of those secret communings we find them always
bearing the impress of grandeur. Though Napoleon was in the habit
of visiting the soldiers at their camp fires, of sitting down and
conversing with them with the greatest freedom and familiarity,
the majesty of his character overawed his officers, and adoration
and reserve blended with their love. Though there was no haughtiness
in his demeanor, he habitually dwelt in a region of elevation
above them all. Their talk was of cards, of wine, of pretty women.
Napoleon's thoughts were of empire, of renown, of moulding the
destinies of nations. They regarded him not as a companion, but
as a master, whose wishes they loved to anticipate; for he would
surely guide them to wealth, and fame, and fortune. He contemplated
them, not as equals and confiding friends, but as efficient and
valuable instruments for the accomplishment of his purposes. Murat
was to Napoleon a body of ten thousand horsemen, ever ready for a
resistless charge. Lannes was a phalanx of infantry, bristling with
bayonets, which neither artillery nor cavalry could batter down or
break. Augereau was an armed column of invincible troops, black,
dense, massy, impetuous, resistless, moving with gigantic tread
wherever the finger of the conqueror pointed. These were but the
members of Napoleon's body, the limbs obedient to the mighty soul
which swayed them. They were not the companions of his thoughts,
they were only the servants of his will. The number to be found
with whom the soul of Napoleon could dwell in sympathetic friendship
was few--very few.
Napoleon had formed a very low estimate of human nature, and
consequently made great allowance for the infirmities incident
to humanity. Bourrienne reports him as saying, "Friendship is but
a name. I love no one; no, not even my brothers. Joseph perhaps a
little. And if I do love him, it is from habit, and because he is
my elder. Duroc! Ah, yes! I love him too. But why? His character
please me. He is cold, reserved, and resolute, and I really believe
that he never shed a tear. As to myself, I know well that I have
not one true friend. As long as I continue what I am, I may have
as many pretended friends as I please. We must leave sensibility
to the women. It is their business. Men should have nothing to do
with war or government. I am not amiable. No; I am not amiable. I
never have been. But I am just."
In another mood of mind, more tender, more subdued, he remarked,
at St. Helena, in reply to Las Casas, who with great severity was
condemning those who abandoned Napoleon in his hour of adversity:
"You are not acquainted with men. They are difficult to comprehend
if one wishes to be strictly just. Can they understand or explain
even their own characters? Almost all those who abandoned me would had
I continued to be prosperous, never perhaps have dreamed of their
own defection. There are vices and virtues which depend upon
circumstances. Our last trials were beyond all human strength! Besides
I was forsaken rather than betrayed; there was more weakness than
of perfidy around me. It was the denial of St. Peter . Tears and
penitence are probably at hand. And where will you find in the
page of history any one possessing a greater number of friends
and partisans? Who was ever more popular and more beloved? Who was
ever more ardently and deeply regretted? Here from this very rock
on viewing the present disorders in France who would not be tempted
to say that I still reign there? No; human nature might have appeared
in a more odious light."
Las Casas, who shared with Napoleon his weary years of imprisonment
at St. Helena says of him: "He views the complicated circumstances
of his from so high a point that individuals escape his notice. He
never evinces the least symptom of virulence toward those of whom
it might be supposed he has the greatest reason to complain. His
strongest mark of reprobation, and I have had frequent occasions
to notice it, is to preserve silence with respect to them whenever
they are mentioned in his presence. But how often has he been heard
to restrain the violent and less reserved expressions of those
about him?"
"And here I must observe," say Las Casas, "that since I have become
acquainted with the Emperor's character, I have never known him to
evince, for a single moment, the least feeling of anger or animosity
against those who had most deeply injured him. He speaks of them
coolly and without resentment, attributing their conduct in some
measure to the place, and throwing the rest to the account of human
weakness."
Marmont, who surrendered Paris to the allies was severely condemned
by Las Casas. Napoleon replied: "Vanity was his ruin. Posterity
will justly cast a shade upon his character, yet his heart will be
more valued than the memory of his career." "Your attachment for
Berthier," said Las Casas, "surprised us. He was full of pretensions
and pride." "Berthier was not with out talent." Napoleon replied,
"and I am far from wishing to disavow his merit, or my partiality;
but he was so undecided!" He was very harsh and overbearing." Las
Casas rejoined. "And what, my dear Las Casas," Napoleon replied,
"is more overbearing than weakness which feels itself protected
by strength! Look at women for example." This Berthier had with
the utmost meanness, abandoned his benefactor, and took his place
in front of the carriage of Louis XVIII. as he rode triumphantly
into Paris. "The only revenge I wish on this poor Berthier," said
Napoleon at the time, "would be to see him in his costume of captain
of the body-guard of Louis."
Says Bourrienne, Napoleon's rejected secretary, "The character
of Napoleon was not a cruel one. He was neither rancorous nor
vindictive. None but those who are blinded by fury, could have
given him the name of Nero or Caligula. I think that I have stated
his real fault with sufficient sincerity to be believed upon my
word. I can assert that Bonaparte, apart from politics, was feeling
kind, and accessible to pity. He was very fond of children, and a
bad man has seldom that disposition. In the habits of private life
he had and the expression is not too strong, much benevolence and
great indulgence for human weakness. A contrary opinion is too
firmly fixed in some minds for me to hope to remove it. I shall,
I fear, have opposers; but I address myself to those who are in
search of truth. I lived in the most unreserved confidence with
Napoleon until the age of thirty-four years, and I advance nothing
lightly." This is the admission of one who had been ejected from
office by Napoleon, and who become a courtier of the reinstated
Bourbons. It is a candid admission of an enemy.
The ships weighed anchor in the darkness of the night, hoping
before the day should dawn to escape the English cruisers which
were hovering about Alexandria. Unfortunately, at midnight, the wind
died away, and it became almost perfectly calm. Fearful of being
captured, some were anxious to seek again the shore. "Be quiet,"
said Napoleon, "we shall pass in safety."
Admiral Gantheaume wished to take the shortest route to France.
Napoleon, however, directed the admiral to sail along as near as
possible the coast of Africa, and to continue that unfrequented
route, till the ships should pass the Island of Sardinia. "In the
mean while," said he, "should an English fleet present itself,
we will run ashore upon the sands, and march, with the handful of
brave men and the few pieces of artillery we have with us, to Oran
or Tunis, and there find means to re-embark." Thus Napoleon, is
this hazardous enterprise braved every peril. The most imminent and
the most to be dreaded of all was captivity in an English prison.
For twenty days the wind was so invariable adverse, that the ships
did not advance three hundred miles. Many were so discouraged and
so apprehensive of capture that it was even proposed to return to
Alexandria. Napoleon was much in the habit of peaceful submission
to that which he could not remedy. During all these trying weeks
he appeared perfectly serene and contented. To the murmuring of
his companions he replied, "We shall arrive in France in safety. I
am determined to proceed at all hazards. Fortune will not abandon
us." "People frequently speak," says Bourrienne, who accompanied
Napoleon upon this voyage, "of the good fortune which attaches to
an individual, and even attends him this sort of predestination,
yet, when I call to mind the numerous dangers which Bonaparte
escaped in so many enterprises, the hazards he encountered, the
chances he ran, I can conceive that others may have this faith.
But having for a length of time studied the 'man of destiny',
I have remarked that what was called his fortune was, in reality,
his genius; that his success was the consequence of his admirable
foresight--of his calculations, rapid as lightning, and of the
conviction that boldness is often the truest wisdom. If, for example,
during our voyage from Egypt to France, he had not imperiously
insisted upon pursuing a course different from that usually taken,
and which usual course was recommended by the admiral, would he
have escaped the perils which beset his path! Probably not. And
was all this the effect of chance. .......... Certainly not."
During these days of suspense Napoleon, apparently as serene in
spirit as the calm which often silvered the unrippled surface of the
sea held all the energies of his mind in perfect control. A choice
library he invariably took with him wherever he went. He devoted
the hours to writing study, finding recreation in solving the most
difficult problems in geometry, and in investigating chemistry and
other scientific subjects of practical utility. He devoted much
time to conversation with the distinguished scholars whom he had
selected to accompany him. His whole soul seemed engrossed in the
pursuit of literary and scientific attainments. He also carefully,
and with most intense interest, studied the Bible and Koran,
scrutinizing, with the eye of a philosopher, the antagonistic
system of the Christian and the Moslem. The limity of the Scriptures
charmed him. He read again and again, with deep admiration,
Christ's sermon upon the mount and called his companions form their
card-tables, to read it to them, that they might also appreciate its
moral beauty and its eloquence. "You will ere long, become devout
yourself," said one of his infidel companions. "I wish I might
become so," Napoleon replied. "What a solace Christianity must be
to one who has an undoubting conviction of its truth." But practical
Christianity he had only seen in the mummeries of the papal church.
Remembering the fasts, the vigils, the penances, the cloisters,
the scourgings of a corrupt Christianity, and contrasting them with
the voluptuous paradise and the sensual houries which inflamed the
eager vision of the Moslem, he once exclaimed in phrase characteristic
of his genius, "The religion of Jesus is a threat, that of Mohammed."
The religion of Jesus is not a threat. Though the wrath of God
shall fall upon the children of disobedience, our Saviour invites
us, in gentle accents, to the green pastures and the still waters
of the Heavenly Canaan; to cities resplendent with pearls and
gold; to mansions of which God is the architect; to the songs of
seraphim, and the flight of cherubim, exploring on tireless pinion
the wonders of infinity; to peace of conscience and rapture dwelling
in pure heart and to blest companionship loving and beloved; to
majesty of person and loftiness of intellect; to appear as children
and as nobles in the audience-chamber of God; to an immorality of
bliss. No! the religion of Jesus is not a threat, though it has too
often been thus represented by its mistaken or designing advocates.
One evening a group of officers were conversing together, upon the
quarter deck, respecting the existence of God. Many of them believed
not in his being. It was a calm, cloudless, brilliant night. The
heavens, the work of God's fingers, canopied them gloriously. The
moon and the stars, which God had ordained beamed down upon them
with serene lustre. As they were flippantly giving utterance to
the arguments of atheism. Napoleon paced to and fro upon the deck,
taking no part in the conversation, and apparently absorbed in his
own thoughts. Suddenly he stopped before them and said, in those
tones of dignity which ever overawed, "Gentlemen, your arguments
are very fine. But who made all those worlds, beaming so gloriously
above us? Can you tell me that?" No one answered. Napoleon resumed his
silent walk, and the officers selected another topic for conversation.
In these intense studies Napoleon first began to appreciate the
beauty and the sublimity of Christianity. Previously to this, his
own strong sense had taught him the principles of a noble toleration;
and Jew, Christian, and Moslem stood equally regarded before him.
Now he began to apprehend the surpassing excellence of Christianity.
And though the cares of the busiest life through which a mortal
has ever passed soon engrossed his energies, this appreciation and
admiration of the gospel of Christ, visibly increased with each
succeeding year. He unflinchingly braved the scoffs of infidel Europe,
in re-establishing the Christian religion in paganized France. He
periled his popularity with the army, and disregarded the opposition
of his most influential friends, from his deep conviction of
the importance of religion to the welfare of the state. With the
inimitable force of his own glowing eloquence, he said to Montholon,
at St. Helena, "I know men, and I tell you that Jesus Christ is
not a man! The religion of Christ is a mystery, which subsists by
its own force, and proceeds from a mind which is not a human mind.
We find in it a marked individuality which originated a train of
words and maxims unknown before. Jesus borrowed nothing from our
knowledge. He exhibited himself the perfect example of his precepts.
Jesus is not a philosopher: for his proofs are his miracles, and
from the first his disciples adored him. In fact, learning and
philosophy are of no use for salvation; and Jesus came into the
world to reveal the mysteries of heaven and the laws of the spirit.
Alexander, Caesar, Charlemagne, and myself have founded empires.
But upon what did we rest the creations of our genius? upon force
. Jesus Christ alone founded his empire upon love. And at this
moment millions of men would die for him. I die before my time,
and my body will be given back to earth, to become food for worms.
Such is the fate of him who has been called the great Napoleon.
What an abyss between my deep misery and the eternal kingdom of
Christ, which is proclaimed, loved, and adored, and which is extending
over the whole earth! Call you this dying? Is it not living rather?
The death of Christ is the death of a God!"
At the time of the invasion of Egypt, Napoleon regarded all forms
of religion with equal respect. And though he considered Christianity
superior, in intellectuality and refinement, to all other modes
of worship, he did not consider any religion as of divine origin.
At one time, speaking of the course which he pursued in Egypt, he
said, "Such was the disposition of the army, that in order to induce
them to listen to the bare mention of religion, I was obliged to
speak very lightly on the subject; to place Jews beside Christians,
and rabbis beside bishops. But after all it would not have been so
very extraordinary had circumstances induced me to embrace Islamism.
But I must have had good reasons for my conversion. I must have
been secure of advancing at least as far as the Euphrates. Change
of religion for private interest is inexcusable. But it may be
pardoned in consideration of immense political results. Henry IV.
said, Paris is well worth a mass . Will it then be said that the
dominion of the East, and perhaps the subjugation of all Asia,
were not worth a turban and a pair of trousers ? And in truth the
whole matter was reduced to this. The sheiks had studied how to
render it easy to us. They had smoothed down the great obstacles,
allowed us the use of wine, and dispensed with all corporeal
formalities. We should have lost only our small-clothes and hats."
Of the infidel Rousseau, Napoleon ever spoke in terms of severe
reprobation. "He was a bad man, a very bad man," said he, "he
caused the revolution." "I was not aware," another replied, "that
you considered the French Revolution such an unmixed evil." "Ah,"
Napoleon rejoined, "you wish to say that without the revolution you
would not have had me. Nevertheless, without the revolution France
would have been more happy." When invited to visit the hermitage
of Rousseau, to see his cap, table, great chair, &c., he exclaimed,
"Bah! I have no taste for such fooleries. Show them to my brother
Louis. He is worthy of them."
Probably the following remarks of Napoleon, made at St. Helena,
will give a very correct idea of his prevailing feeling upon the
subject of religion. "The sentiment of religion is so consolatory,
that it must be considered a gift from Heaven. What a resource
would it not be for us here, to possess it. What rewards have I
not a right to expect, who have run a career so extraordinary, so
tempestuous, as mine has been, without committing a single crime.
And yet how many might I not have been guilty of? I can appear
before the tribunal of God, I can await his judgment, without fear.
He will not find my conscience stained with the thoughts of murder
and poisonings; with the infliction of violent and premeditated
deaths, events so common in the history of those whose lives resemble
mine. I have wished only for the power, the greatness, the glory of
France. All my faculties, all my efforts, all my movements, were
directed to the attainment of that object. These can not be crimes.
To me they appeared acts of virtue. What then would be my happiness,
if the bright prospect of futurity presented itself to crown the
last moments of my existence."
After a moment's pause, in which he seemed lost in thought, he
resumed: "But, how is it possible that conviction can find its way
to our hearts, when we hear the absurd language, and witness the
iniquitous conduct of the greater part of those whose business it
is to preach to us. I am surrounded by priests, who repeat incessantly
that their reign is not of this world; and yet they lay their hands
upon every thing which they can get. The Pope is the head of that
religion which is from Heaven. What did the present chief pontiff,
who is undoubtedly a good and a holy man, not offer, to be allowed
to return to Rome. The surrender of the government of the church,
of the institution of bishops was not too much for him to give, to
become once more a secular prince.
"Nevertheless," he continued, after another thoughtful pause, "it
can not be doubted that, as emperor, the species of incredulity
which I felt was beneficial to the nations I had to govern. How could
I have favored equally sects so opposed to one another, if I had
joined any one of them? How could I have preserved the independence
of my thoughts and of my actions under the control of a confessor,
who would have governed me under the dread of hell!" Napoleon closed
this conversation, by ordering the New Testament to be brought.
Commencing at the beginning, he read aloud as far as the conclusion
of our Savior's address to his disciples upon the mountain. He
expressed himself struck with the highest admiration, in contemplating
its purity, its sublimity, and the beautiful perfection of its
moral code.
For forty days the ships were driven about by contrary winds, and
on the 1st of October they made the island of Corsica, and took
refuge in the harbor of Ajaccio. The tidings that Napoleon had
landed in his native town swept over the island like a gale, and
the whole population crowded to the port to catch a sight of their
illustrious countryman. "It seemed," said Napoleon, "that half of
the inhabitants had discovered traces of kindred." But a few years
had elapsed since the dwelling of Madame Letitia was pillaged by the
mob, and the whole Bonaparte family, in penury and friendlessness,
were hunted from their home, effecting their escape in an open
boat by night. Now, the name of Bonaparte filled the island with
acclamations. But Napoleon was alike indifferent to such unjust
censure, and to such unthinking applause. As the curse did not
depress, neither did the hosanna elate.
After the delay of a few days in obtaining supplies, the ships
again weighed anchor, on the 7th of October, and continued their
perilous voyage. The evening of the next day, as the sun was going
down in unusual splendor, there appeared in the west, painted in
strong relief against his golden rays, an English squadron. The
admiral, who saw from the enemy's signals that he was observed,
urged an immediate return to Corsica. Napoleon, convinced that
capture would be the result of such a manoeuvre, exclaimed, "To do
so would be to take the road to England.
I am seeking that to France. Spread all sail. Let every one be at
his post. Steer to the northwest. Onward." The night was dark, the
wind fair. Rapidly the ships were approaching the coast of France,
through the midst of the hostile squadron, and exposed to the most
imminent danger of capture. Escape seemed impossible. It was a
night of fearful apprehension and terror to all on board, excepting
Napoleon. He determined, in case of extremity, to throw himself
into a boat, and trust for safety to darkness and the oars. With the
most perfect self-possession and composure of spirits, he ordered
the long-boat to be prepared, selected those whom he desired to
accompany him, and carefully collected such papers as he was anxious
to preserve. Not an eye was closed during the night. It was indeed
a fearful question to be decided. Are these weary wanderers, in a
few hours, to be in the embrace of their wives and their children,
or will the next moment show them the black hull of an English
man-of war, emerging from the gloom, to consign them to lingering
years of captivity in an English prison? In this terrible hour
no one could perceive that the composure of Napoleon was in the
slightest degree ruffled. The first drawn of the morning revealed
to their straining vision the hills of France stretching along
but a few leagues before them, and far away, in the northeast, the
hostile squadron, disappearing beneath the horizon of the sea. The
French had escaped. The wildest bursts of joy rose from the ships.
But Napoleon gazed calmly upon his beloved France, with pale cheek
and marble brow, too proud to manifest emotion. At eight o'clock
in the morning the four vessels dropped anchor in the little harbor
of Frejus. It was the morning of the 8th of October. Thus for fifty
days Napoleon had been tossed upon the waves of the Mediterranean,
surrounded by the hostile flects of England, Russia, and Turkey,
and yet had eluded their vigilance.
This wonderful passage of Napoleon, gave rise to many caricatures,
both in England and France. One of these caricatures, which was
conspicuous in the London shop windows, possessed so much point and
historic truth, that Napoleon is said to have laughed most heartily
on seeing it. Lord Nelson, as is well known, with all his heroism,
was not exempt from the frailties of humanity. The British admiral
was represented as guarding Napoleon. Lady Hamilton makes her
appearance, and his lordship becomes so engrossed in caressing the
fair enchantress, that Napoleon escapes between his legs. This was
hardly a caricature. It was almost historic verity. While Napoleon
was struggling against adverse storms off the coast of Africa,
Lord Nelson, adorned with the laurels of his magnificent victory,
in fond dalliance with his frail Delilah, was basking in the courts
of voluptuous and profligate kings. "No one," said Napoleon, "can
surrender himself to the dominion of love, without the forfeiture
of some palms of glory."
When the four vessels entered the harbor of Frejus, a signal at
the mast-head of the Muiron informed the authorities on shore that
Napoleon was on board. The whole town was instantly in commotion.
Before the anchors were dropped the harbor was filled with boats,
and the ships were surrounded with an enthusiastic multitude,
climbing their sides, thronging their decks, and rending the air
with their acclamations. All the laws of quarantine were disregarded.
The people, weary of anarchy, and trembling in view of the approaching
Austrian invasion, were almost delirious with delight in receiving
thus as it were from the clouds, a deliverer, in whose potency they
could implicitly trust. When warned that the ships had recently
sailed from Alexandria, and that there was imminent danger that the
plague, might be communicated, they replied, "We had rather have
the plague than the Austrians," Breaking over all the municipal
regulations of health, the people took Napoleon, almost by violence,
hurried him over the side of the ship to the boats, and conveyed
him in triumph to the shore. The tidings had spread from farm-house
to farm-house with almost electric speed, and the whole country
population, men, women, and children, were crowding down to the
shore. Even the wounded soldiers in the hospital, left their cots
and crawled to the beach, to get a sight of the hero. The throng
became so great that it was with difficulty that Napoleon could
land. The gathering multitude, however, opened to the right and the
left, and Napoleon passed through them, greeted with the enthusiastic
cries of "Long live the conqueror of Italy, the conqueror of Egypt,
the liberator of France." The peaceful little harbor of Frejus was
suddenly thrown into a state of the most unheard of excitement.
The bells rang their merriest peels. The guns in the forts rolled
forth their heaviest thunders over the hills and over the waves;
and the enthusiastic shouts of the ever increasing multitudes,
thronging Napoleon, filled the air. The ships brought the first
tidings, of the wonderful victories of Mount Tabor and of Aboukir.
The French, humiliated by defeat, were exceedingly elated by this
restoration of the national honor. The intelligence of Napoleon's
arrival was immediately communicated, by telegraph, to Paris, which
was six hundred miles from Frejus.
When the tidings of Napoleon's landing of Frejus, arrived in Paris,
on the evening of the 9th of October, Josephine was at a large party
at the house of M. Gohier, President of the Directory. All the most
distinguished men of the metropolis were there. The intelligence
produced the most profound sensation. Some, rioting in the spoils
of office, turned pale with apprehension; knowing well the genius
of Napoleon, and his boundless popularity, they feared another
revolution, which should eject them from their seats of power.
Others were elated with hope; they felt that Providence had sent to
France a deliverer, at the very moment when a deliverer was needed.
One of the deputies, who had been deeply grieved at the disasters
which were overwhelming the Republic, actually died of joy, when
he heard of Napoleon's return. Josephine, intensely excited by the
sudden and totally unexpected announcement, immediately withdrew,
hastened home, and at midnight, without allowing an hour for repose,
she entered her carriage, with Louis Bonaparte and Hortense, who
subsequently became the bride of Louis, and set out to meet her
husband. Napoleon almost at the same hour, with his suite, left
Frejus. During every stop of his progress he was greeted with the
most extraordinary demonstrations of enthusiasm and affection.
Bonfires blazed from the hills, triumphed arches, hastily of maidens
spread a carpet of flowers for his chariot wheels, and greeted
him with smiles and choruses of welcome. He carried at Lyons in
the evening. The whole city was brilliant with illuminations. An
immense concourse surrounded him with almost delirious shouts of
joy. The constituted authorities received him as he descended from
his carriage. The major had prepared a long and eulogistic harangue
for the occasion. Napoleon had no time to listen to it. With a
motion of his hand, imposing silence, he said said, "Gentlemen, I
learned that France was in peril, I therefore did not hesitate to
leave my army in Egypt, that I might come to he rescue. I now go
hence. In a few days, if you think fit to wait upon me, I shall be
at leisure to hear you." Fresh horses were by this time attached to
the carriages, and the cavalcade, which like a meteor had burst upon
them, like a meteor disappeared. From Lyons, for some unexplained
reason, Napoleon turned from the regular route to Paris and took
a less frequented road. When Josephine arrived at Lyons, to her
utter consternation she found that Napoleon had left the city,
several hours before her arrival, and that they had passed each
other by different roads. Her anguish was inexpressible. For many
months she had not received a line from her idolized husband, all
communication having been intercepted by the English cruisers. She
knew that many, jealous her power, had disseminated, far and wide,
false reports respecting her conduct. She knew that these, her
enemies, would surround Napoleon immediately upon his arrival,
and take advantage of her absence to inflame his mind against her.
Lyons is 245 miles from Paris. Josephine had passed over those
weary leagues of hill and dale, pressing on without intermission, by
day and by night, alighting not for refreshment of repose. Faint,
exhausted, and her heart sinking within her with fearful apprehensions
of the hopeless alienation of her husband, she received the dreadful
tidings that she had missed him. There was no resource left her but
to retrace the steps with the utmost possible celerity. Napoleon
would, however, have been one or two days in Paris before Josephine
could, by any possibility, re-enter the city. Probably in all France,
there was not, at that time, a more unhappy woman than Josephine.
Secret wretchedness was also gnawing at the heart of Napoleon.
Who has yet fathomed the mystery of human love! Intensest love and
intensest hate can, at the same moment, intertwine their fibres
in inextricable blending. In nothing is the will so impotent as
in guiding or checking the impulses of this omnipotent passion.
Napoleon loved Josephine with that almost superhuman energy which
characterized all the movements of his impetuous spirit. The stream
did not fret and ripple over a shallow bed, but it was serene
in its unfathomable depths. The world contained but two objects
for Napoleon, glory and Josephine; glory first, and then, closely
following the more substantial idol.
Many of the Parisian ladies, proud of a more exalted lineage than
Josephine could boast, were exceedingly envious of the supremacy
she had attained in consequence of the renown of her husband. Her
influence over Napoleon was well known. Philosophers, statesmen,
ambitious generals, all crowded her saloons, paying her homage. A
favorable word from Josephine they knew would pave the way for them
to fame and fortune. Thus Josephine, from the saloons of Paris,
with milder radiance, reflected back the splendor of her husband.
She solicitous of securing as many friends as possible, to aid
him in future emergencies, was as diligent in "winning hearts" at
home, as Napoleon was in conquering provinces abroad. The gracefulness
of Josephine, her consummate delicacy of moral appreciation, her
exalted intellectual gifts, the melodious tones of her winning
voice, charmed courtiers, philosophers, and statesmen alike. Her
saloons were ever crowded. Her entertainments were ever embellished
by the presence of all who were illustrious in rank and power in
the metropolis. And in whatever circles she appeared the eyes of
the gentlemen first sought for her. Two resistless attractions drew
them. She was peculiarly fascinating in person and in character,
and, through her renowned husband, she could dispense the most
precious gifts. It is not difficult to imagine the envy which must
thus have been excited. Many a haughty duchess was provoked, almost
beyond endurance, that Josephine, the untitled daughter of a West
Indian planter, should thus engross the homage of Paris, while she,
with her proud rank, her wit, and her beauty, was comparatively
a cipher. Moreau's wife, in particular resented the supremacy of
Josephine as a personal affront. She thought General Moreau entitled
to as much consideration as General Bonaparte. By the jealousy,
rankling in her own bosom, she finally succeeded in rousing her
husband to conspire against Napoleon, and thus the hero of Hohenlinden
was ruined. Some of the brothers and sisters of Napoleon were also
jealous of the paramount influence of Josephine, and would gladly
wrest a portion of it from her hands. Under these circumstances,
in various ways, slander had been warily insinuated into the ears
of Napoleon, respecting the conduct of his wife. Conspiring enemies
became more and more bold. Josephine was represented as having
forgotten her husband, as reveling exultant with female vanity, in
general flirtation; and, finally, as guilty of gross infidelity.
Nearly all the letters written by Napoleon and Josephine to each
other, were intercepted by the English cruisers. Though Napoleon
did not credit these charges in full, he cherished not a little of
the pride, which led the Roman monarch to exclaim, "Caesar's wife
must not be suspected."
Napoleon was in the troubled state of mind during the latter
months of his residence in Egypt. One day he was sitting alone in
his tent, which was pitched in the great Arabian desert. Several
months had passed since he had heard a word from Josephine. Years
might elapse ere they would meet again. Junot entered, having
just received, through some channel of jealousy and malignity,
communications from Paris. Cautiously, but fully, he unfolded the
whole budget of Parisian gossip. Josephine had found, as he represented,
in the love of others an ample recompense for the absence of her
husband. She was surrounded by admirers with whom she was engaged
in an incessant round of intrigues and flirtations. Regardless
of honor she had surrendered herself to the dominion of passion.
Napoleon was for a few moments in a state of terrible agitation. With
hasty strides, like a chafed lion, he paced his tent, exclaiming,
"Why do I love that woman so? Why can I not tear her image from my
heart? I will do so. I will have an immediate and open divorce-open
and public divorce." He immediately wrote to Josephine, in terms
of the utmost severity accusing her of playing the coquette with
half the world." The letter escaped the British cruisers and she
received it. It almost broke her faithful heart. Such were the
circumstances under which Napoleon and Josephine were to meet after
an absence of eighteen months. Josephine was exceedingly anxious to
see Napoleon before he should have an interview with her enemies.
Hence the depth of anguish with which she heard her husband had
passes her. Two or three days must have elapse ere she could possibly
retraced the weary miles over which she had already traveled.
In the mean time the carriage of Napoleon was rapidly approaching
the metropolis. By night his path was brilliant with bonfires and
illuminations. The ringing of bells, the thunders of artillery,
and the acclamations of the multitude, accompanied him every step
of his way. But no smile of triumph played upon his pale and pensive
cheeks. He felt that he was returning to a desolated home. Gloom
reigned in his heart. He entered Paris, and drove rapidly to his
own dwelling. Behold, Josephine was not there. Conscious guilt, he
thought, had made her afraid to meet him. It is in vain to attempt
to penetrate the hidden anguish of Napoleon's soul. That his proud
spirit must have suffered intensity of woe no one can doubt. The
bitter enemies of Josephine immediately surrounded him, eagerly
taking advantage of her absence, to inflame, to a still higher
degree, by adroit insinuations, his jealousy and anger. Eugene
had accompanied him in his return from Egypt, and his affectionate
heart ever glowed with love and admiration for his mother. With
anxiety, amounting to anguish, he watched at the window for her
arrival. Said one to Napoleon, maliciously endeavoring to prevent
the possibility of reconciliation, "Josephine will appear before
you, with all her fascinations. She will explain matters. You will
forgive all, and tranquillity will be restored." "Never!" exclaimed
Napoleon, with pallid cheek and trembling lip, striding nervously
too and fro, through the room, "never! I forgive! ever!" Then
stopping suddenly, and gazing the interlocutor wildly in the face,
he exclaimed, with passionate gesticulation, "You know me. Were I
not sure of my resolution, I would tear out this heart, and cast it into the fire." |
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