It has lately been recalled that as early as July, 1814, the Emperor of Elba remarked to an English visitor that Louis XVIII, being surrounded by those who had betrayed the Empire, would in turn probably be himself betrayed by them. For the ensuing four months, however, the exile gave no sign of any deep purpose; to those who wished to leave him, he gave a hearty good-bye. In December, however, he remarked to one of his old soldiers, pointedly, as the man thought: “Well, grenadier, you are bored;…take the weather as it comes.” Slipping a gold piece into the veteran’s hand, he then turned away, humming to a simple air the words, “This will not last forever.” Thereafter he dissuaded all who sought to depart, saying: “Be patient. We’ll pass these few winter days as best we may; then we’ll try to spend the spring in another fashion.”
This vague language may possibly have referred to the Italian scheme, but on February tenth he received a clear account of what had happened at Vienna, and on the evening of the twelfth Fleury de Chaboulon, a confidential friend of Maret, arrived in the disguise of a sailor, and revealed in the fullest and most authentic way the state of France. When he heard of the plan to reestablish the regency, Napoleon burst out hotly: “A regency! What for? Am I, then, dead?” Two days later, after long conferences, the emissary was despatched to do what he could at Naples, and the Emperor began his preparations.
This was soon known on the mainland, and three days later a personage whose identity has never been revealed arrived in the guise of a Marseilles merchant, declaring that, except the rich and the emigrants, every human being in France longed for the Emperor’s return. If he would but set up his hat on the shores of Provence, it would draw all men toward it. When Napoleon turned pseudo-historian he declared in one place that the breaches of the Fontainebleau treaty and his fears of deportation had nothing to do with his return from Elba; in another he states the reverse. Since the legend he was then studiously constructing required the unbroken devotion of the French to the standard-bearer of the Revolution for the sake of consistency, he probably recalled only the feelings awakened by Fleury’s report that opportunity was ripe, and that, too, earlier than had been expected.
But there were other motives at the time, for Peyrusse, keeper of Napoleon’s purse during the Elban sojourn, heard his master asseverate that it would be more dangerous to remain in Porto Ferrajo than to return to France. In any case, so far as France and the world at large were concerned, the contemptuous indifference of Louis and his ministers to their obligations under the treaty powerfully justified Napoleon’s course. Even Alexander and Castlereagh had early made an indignant protest to Talleyrand; but the latter, already deep in conspiracy, turned them off with a flippant rejoinder.
With great adroitness and secrecy Napoleon collected and fitted out his little flotilla, which consisted of the ‘Inconstant’, a stout brig assigned to him at Fontainebleau, and seven smaller craft. During the preparations the French and English war-vessels patrolling the neighbouring waters came and went, but their captains suspected nothing. Campbell’s departure created a false rumor among the islanders that England was favouring some expedition on which the Emperor was about to embark, thus allaying all suspicion. When, on the 26th, a little army of eleven hundred men found itself afloat, with eighty horses and a number of cannon, no one seemed to realize what had happened; except Drouot, who pleaded against Napoleon’s rashness, all were enthusiastic. To avoid suspicion, each captain steered his own course, and the various craft dotting the sea at irregular intervals looked no way unlike the other boats which plied those waters. Several men-of-war were sighted, but they kept their course. As one danger after another was averted, the great adventurer’s spirits rose until he was exuberant with joy, and talked of Austerlitz.
It was March 1st when land was finally sighted from the ‘Inconstant’; as if by magic, the other vessels hove in sight immediately, and by four the men were all ashore on the strand of the Gulf of Jouan. Cambronne, a colonel of the imperial guards, was sent to requisition horses at Cannes, with the strict injunction that not a drop of blood be shed. As the great actor had theatrically said on board his brig, he was “about to produce a great novelty,” and he counted upon dazzling the beholders into an enthusiasm they had ceased to feel for the old plays.
Among others brought to Napoleon’s bivouac that night was the Prince of Monaco, who had been found by Cambronne at St. Pierre traveling in a four-horse carriage, and had been taken as a prisoner into Napoleon’s presence. “Where are you going?” was, according to tradition, the greeting of Napoleon. “I am returning to my domains,” came the reply. “Indeed! and I too,” was the merry retort.
Recalling the mortal agony he had endured on the highway through Aix but a short year before, and its causes, and having been informed how bitter was the anti-royalist feeling in the Dauphine, Napoleon set his little army in march direct toward Grenoble. At Cannes there was general indifference; at Grasse it was found that the division general in command had fled, and there were a few timid shouts of “Long live the Emperor!” Thence to Digne on the Grenoble highway was a mountain track over a ridge 12 thousand feet above the sea. In twenty hours the slender column marched 35 miles. The ‘growlers’ joked about the ‘little corporal’ who trudged at their side, the Alpine hamlets provided abundant rations, and the government officials furnished blank passports which enabled Napoleon to send emissaries both to Grenoble and to Marseilles, where Massena was in command. The little garrison of Digne was Bonapartist in feeling, but it was not yet ready to join Napoleon, and withdrew; that at Sisteron was kept from meddling by a body of troops which had been despatched as a corps of observation from Marseilles, while the populace shouted heartily for the Emperor.
At Gap the officials strove to organize resistance, but they desisted before the menaces of the people. By this time the peasantry were coming in by hundreds. So far Napoleon’s enterprise had received but four recruits: two soldiers from Antibes, a tanner from Grasse, and a gendarme. Now he was so confident that he dismissed the peasantry, assuring them that the soldiers in front would join his standards.
On March 7th the head of the column of imperial adventurers reached La Mure, a short day’s march from Grenoble. They were received with enthusiasm, and a bucket of the poor native wine was brought for the refreshment of the men. When all had been served Napoleon reached out for the cheap little glass, and swallowed his ration like the rest. There was wild delight among both his men and the onlookers as the ‘army’ set out for Laffray, the next hamlet, where was a small detachment sent from Grenoble to destroy a bridge over the Drac. With inscrutable faces they stood across the highway, lances set and muskets charged, under orders to fire on Napoleon the moment he should appear.
At length the critical moment arrived. “There he is! Fire!” cried a royalist officer. The soldiers clutched their arms, their faces blanched, their knees shook, and they—disobeyed! Napoleon, walking slowly, advanced within pistol-shot. He wore the old familiar gray surtout, the well-known cocked hat, and a tricolor cockade. “Soldiers of the Fifth,” he said in a strong, calm voice, “behold me!” Then advancing a few paces farther, he threw open his coat and displaying the familiar uniform, he called: “If there be one soldier among you who wishes to kill his Emperor, he can. I come to offer myself to your assaults.” In an instant the opposing ranks melted into a mob of sobbing, cheering men, kissing Napoleon’s shoes, struggling to touch the skirts of his shabby garments. The surrounding throng crowded near in sympathy. “Soldiers,” cried the magician, “I come with a handful of brave men because I count on you and the people. The throne of the Bourbons is illegitimate because it was not erected by the nation. Your fathers are threatened by a restoration of titles, of privilege, and of feudal rights; is it not so?”
“Yes, yes,” shouted the multitude. At that instant appeared a rider arrayed in the uniform of the national guard, but wearing a huge tricolour cockade. Alighting at Napoleon’s feet, he said: “Sire, I am Jean Dumoulin the glove-maker; I bring to your majesty a hundred thousand francs and my arm.” At that instant likewise an imperial proclamation denouncing traitors, and promising that under the old standards victory would return like the storm-wind, was passing from hand to hand in the garrison of Grenoble. Labedoyere, the colonel, of the Seventh of the line, first announced his purpose to support his Emperor, and the royalist officers saw the imperialist feeling spread with dismay. They arranged to evacuate the place next morning.
At 7 in the evening Napoleon summoned the town; the commandant, unable to resist the pressure of both soldiers and populace, fled with a few adherents, and at 10 the gates were opened. The reception of the returning exile was hearty and impressive. It was with an army of seven thousand men that, after a rest of 36 hours, he started for Lyons.
“As far as Grenoble I was an adventurer; at Grenoble I was a prince,” wrote Napoleon at St. Helena. If this were true, at Lyons he was an Emperor in fact as well as in name, that great city receiving him with plaudits as energetic as were the execrations with which they dismissed Artois and Macdonald. Recalling the lessons of his youth, some learned in Corsica, some in the Rhone valley, the returning Emperor carefully felt the pulse of public opinion as he journeyed. He found the longing for peace to be universal, and even before entering Lyons he began to promise peace with honor. But this he quickly found was not enough: it must be peace with liberty as well. The sole task before him, therefore, he declared to be that of protecting the interests and principles of the Revolution against the returning emigrants. France, restored to her glory, was to live in harmony with other European powers as long as they minded their own affairs.
Napoleon, the liberator of France! To terrify foreign invaders and intestine foes a great united nation was to speak in trumpet notes. From Lyons, therefore, second city of the Empire, was summoned a popular assembly to revise the constitution. To convey the impression that Austria was in secret accord with the Emperor’s course, three delegates from the eastern capital were summoned to assist at a significant ceremony which was to occur almost immediately, the coronation of the Empress and the King of Rome. Still further, a decree was issued which banished the returned emigrants and swept away the pretensions of the arrogant nobles. Talleyrand, Marmont, Augereau, and Dalberg were attainted, and the noble guard of the King was abolished.
Under these influences Bonapartist feeling grew so intense and spread so widely that the army of Soult, which had been assembled in the southeast to oppose Murat, turned imperialist almost to a man. Massena, who seems to have followed the lead of Fouche, waited to see what was coming, and remained neutral. Ney fell in with the general movement, and joined Napoleon at Auxerre. “Embrace me, my dear general,” were the Emperor’s words of greeting. “I am glad to see you; and I want neither explanations nor justifications.”
All resistance disappeared before Napoleon’s advance as he passed Autun and descended the Yonne valley toward Paris. Everywhere there were dissensions among the populace, but the enthusiasm of the soldiers and their sympathizers triumphed. The troops despatched by the King’s government to overpower the ‘usurper’ sooner or later went over to the ‘usurper’s’ standards. One morning a placard was found on the railing around the Vendome column: “Napoleon to Louis XVIII. My good brother, it is useless to send me any more troops; I have enough.” Paris was in a storm of suppressed excitement. The measures of resistance were half-hearted; the King made lavish concessions and the chambers passed excellent laws without attracting any attention or sympathy; volunteers were raised, but there was no energy in their organization. When Napoleon reached Fontainebleau on the eighteenth, the reserves stationed in and near Paris on the south came over to him in a body.
On the 9th Louis issued a despairing address to the army, and fled to Lille; on the morning of the twentieth the capital found itself without any vestige of government. The streets were thronged with people, but there was no disorder until a band of royalists attacked a half-pay officer wearing the imperial cockade. At once the city guard formed and intervened to quell the disturbance. Thereupon the imperialists endeavored to seize the Tuileries; they, too, were checked, and a double force, royalist and imperial, was set to defend that important spot. Over other public buildings the imperial colours waved alone and undisturbed. During the afternoon the crowds dispersed and the imperial officials quietly resumed their places. At 9 in the evening a post-chaise rolled up to the Tuileries gate, Napoleon alighted, and the observers thought his smile was like that of one walking in a dream. At once he was caught in the brawny arms of his admirers, and handed upward from step to step, from landing to landing.
So fierce was the affection of his friends that his life seemed to be in danger from their embraces, and it was with relief that he entered his cabinet and closed the door, to find himself among a few of his old stanch and tried servants, with Caulaincourt at their head. This reception had been in sharp contrast to the apathy displayed on the streets, where the people were few in number, unenthusiastic, and indifferent. “They let me come,” said Napoleon to Mollien, “as they let the other go.” Finding himself unable to endure the loneliness of the Tuileries, and depressed by the associations of the familiar scenes, he withdrew in a few days to the comparative seclusion of the Elysee, then a suburban mansion dubbed by courtesy a palace.
Some portion of Napoleon’s leisure in Elba had been devoted, as was mentioned in another connection, to sketching the outline of a treatise intended to prove that his dynasty was quite as legitimate as any other which had ruled over France. His illusions of European empire were dismissed either permanently or temporarily, and for the moment he was the apostle of nationality and popular sovereignty in France.
Before laying his head on his pillow in the Tuileries he displayed this fact to the world in the constitution of his cabinet, which would in our day be designated as a cabinet of concentration, representative of various shades of opinion. Maret, Davout, Cambaceres, Gaudin, Mollien, Decres, Caulaincourt, Fouche, and Carnot accepted the various portfolios; most surprising of all, Benjamin Constant, the constitutional republican, became president of a reconstructed council of state. In connection with the announcement of these names, the nation was informed that the constitution was to be revised, and that the censorship of the press was abolished.
In reference to the latter, Napoleon remarked that, since everything possible had been said about him during the past year, he could himself be no worse off than he was, but the editors could still find much to say about his enemies. To Constant he frankly explained what he meant by revision. The common people had welcomed his return because he was one of themselves, and at a signal he could have the nobles murdered. But he wanted no peasants’ war, and, as the taste had returned for unrestricted discussion, public trials, emancipated elections, responsible ministers, and all the paraphernalia of constitutional government, the public must be gratified. For all this he was ready, and with it for peace. But peace he could win only by victory, for, although in his conduct, in the Lyons decrees, and in casual talk, he hinted at negotiations with foreign powers, those negotiations were purely imaginary.
With a clear comprehension of the situation, the ministers went to work. On April 23rd was promulgated the Additional Act, whereby the franchise was extended, the state church abolished, liberty of worship guaranteed, and every wretched remnant of privilege or divine right expunged. The two chambers were retained, many imperial dignitaries being assigned to the House of Peers, the Bonaparte brothers, Lucien, Joseph, and Jerome, among the number. It was, as Chateaubriand sarcastically said, a revised and improved edition of Louis’s constitution.
The preamble, however, was new; it set forth that Napoleon, having been long engaged in constructing a great European federal system suited to the spirit of the time and favorable to the spirit of civilization, had now abandoned it, and would henceforth devote himself to a single aim, the perfect security of public liberty. This specious representation, half true and half false, awakened no enthusiasm in France; it was accepted, along with the Additional Act, by a plebiscite, but by only a million three hundred thousand votes—less than half the number cast for the Consulate and the Empire. This was largely due to a curious apathy, induced by a still more curious but firm conviction that at last France had secured peace with honour. Reference has been made to a military conspiracy fomented by Fouche in the North; before the hostile public feeling thus engendered in that quarter Louis fled to Ghent within five days after Napoleon reached Paris, and, though the royal princes were able to carry on civil war in the South a little longer, it was generally felt that the nation now had a ruler of its own choosing, and that if they attended strictly to their own affairs they would be left in peace. For considerable time there was little news from abroad, and so swift was the rush of internal affairs that no heed was given to what there was.
This was suddenly changed in April, when it was brought home to the nation that the specter of war had again been raised, and that the dynasties were finally a unit in their determination to extirpate the Napoleonic regime as a measure of self-defence. Every man with any means saw himself beggared, and every mother felt her son slipping from her arms to swim once more that sea of blood in which for a generation the hope of the nation had been submerged. The depression was general and terrible, for the prospect was appalling. England, entangled with dynastic alliances in order to preserve her prosperity and dignity, had lost most of her serious and trusted leaders, and the few who survived were so panic-stricken as to have little perspicacity.
The King’s illness having at last removed him from public life, he had been succeeded by the most profligate and frivolous of all the line of English kings, the Prince Regent, who was later George IV. Percival and Liverpool were not merely conservative from principle; they were negative from the love of negatives. Already they had laid the basis, in their mismanagement of domestic affairs, for the social turbulence which within a short time was to compel the most sweeping reforms. Castlereagh had not even an inkling of what the treaty of Chaumont might mean to Great Britain in the end. To destroy Napoleon he was perfectly content that his own free country should support a system of dynastic politics destructive of every principle of liberty.
The Congress of Vienna represented, not a confederation of states, but a league of dynasties posing as nations and banded for mutual self-preservation. To them the permanent restoration of Napoleon could mean only one thing, the recognition of a nation’s right to choose its own rulers, and that would be the end of absolutism in Europe. To Great Britain it would mean the destruction of her prosperity, or at least a serious diminution of both power and prestige. The late coalition, therefore, was re-cemented without difficulty, but on a basis entirely new. The account of Napoleon’s escape reached Vienna on March sixth. Within the week Maria Louisa, now entirely under Neipperg’s influence, wrote declaring herself a stranger to all Napoleon’s schemes, and a few days later the French attendants of the little King of Rome were dismissed; the child’s last words to Meneval were a message of affection to his father.
At that time negotiations among the powers were progressing famously, each having secured its main object; on March thirteenth the Congress, under Castlereagh’s instigation, publicly denounced Napoleon as the “enemy and disturber of the world’s peace,” and proclaimed him an outlaw. The Whigs stigmatized the paper in parliament as provocative of assassination and a disgrace to the English character, but, of all the important journals, the Morning Chronicle alone was courageous enough to sustain them, asserting that it was a matter of complete indifference to England whether a Bourbon or a Bonaparte reigned in France. These manly protests were unheeded, and by the twenty-fifth all Europe, except Naples, was united against France alone.
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