The Private Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, Complete

C >> Constant >> The Private Life of Napoleon Bonaparte, Complete


The day after the battle of Wagram, I think, a large number of officers
were breakfasting near the Emperor's tent, the generals seated on the
grass, and the officers standing around them. They discussed the battle
at length, and related numerous remarkable anecdotes, some of which
remain engraven on my memory. A staff-officer of his Majesty said, "I
thought I had lost my finest horse. As I had ridden him on the 5th and
wished him to rest, I gave him to my servant to hold by the bridle; and
when he left him one moment to attend to his own, the horse was stolen in
a flash by a dragoon, who instantly sold him to a dismounted captain,
telling him he was a captured horse. I recognized him in the ranks, and
claimed him, proving by my saddle-bags and their contents that he was not
a horse taken from the Austrians, and had to repay the captain the five
louis which he had paid to the dragoon for this horse which had cost me
sixty."

The best anecdote, perhaps, of the day was this: M. Salsdorf, a Saxon,
and surgeon in Prince Christian's regiment, in the beginning of the
battle had his leg fractured by a shell. Lying on the ground, he saw,
fifteen paces from him, M. Amedee de Kerbourg, who was wounded by a
bullet, and vomiting blood. He saw that this officer would die of
apoplexy if something was not done for him, and collecting all his
strength, dragged himself along in the dust, bled him, and saved his
life.

M. de Kerbourg had no opportunity to embrace the one who had saved his
life; for M. de Salsdorf was carried to Vienna, and only survived the
amputation four days.




CHAPTER XXI.

At Schoenbrunn, as elsewhere, his Majesty marked his presence by his
benefactions. I still retain vivid recollections of an occurrence which
long continued to be the subject of conversation at this period, and the
singular details of which render it worthy of narration.

A little girl nine years old, belonging to a very wealthy and highly
esteemed family of Constantinople, was carried away by bandits as she was
promenading one day with her attendant outside the city. The bandits
carried their two captives to Anatolia, and there sold them. The little
girl, who gave promise of great beauty, fell to the lot of a rich
merchant of Broussa, the harshest, most severe, and intractable man of
the town; but the artless grace of this child touched even his ferocious
heart. He conceived a great affection for her, and distinguished her
from his other slaves by giving her only light employment, such as the
care of flowers, etc. A European gentleman who lived with this merchant
offered to take charge of her education; to which the man consented, all
the more willingly since she had gained his heart, and he wished to make
her his wife as soon as she reached a marriageable age. But the European
had the same idea; and as he was young, with an agreeable and intelligent
countenance, and very rich, he succeeded in winning the young slave's
affection; and she escaped one day from her master, and, like another
Heloise, followed her Abelard to Kutahie, where they remained concealed
for six months.

She was then ten years old. Her preceptor, who became more devoted to
her each day, carried her to Constantinople, and confided her to the care
of a Greek bishop, charging him to make her a good Christian, and then
returned to Vienna, with the intention of obtaining the consent of his
family and the permission of his government to marry a slave.

Two years then passed, and the poor girl heard nothing from her future
husband. Meanwhile the bishop had died, and his heirs had abandoned
Marie (this was the baptismal name of the convert); and she, with no
means and no protector, ran the risk of being at any moment discovered by
some relation or friend of her family--and it is well known that the
Turks never forgive a change of religion.

Tormented by a thousand fears, weary of her retreat and the deep
obscurity in which she was buried, she took the bold resolution of
rejoining her benefactor, and not deterred by dangers of the road set out
from Constantinople alone on foot. On her arrival in the capital of
Austria, she learned that her intended husband had been dead for more
than a year.

The despair into which the poor girl was plunged by this sad news can be
better imagined than described. What was to be done? What would become
of her? She decided to return to her family, and for this purpose
repaired to Trieste, which town she found in a state of great commotion.
It had just received a French garrison; but the disturbances inseparable
from war were not yet ended, and young Marie consequently entered a Greek
convent to await a suitable opportunity of returning to Constantinople.
There a sub-lieutenant of infantry, named Dartois, saw her, became madly
in love, won her heart, and married her at the end of a year.

The happiness which Madame Dartois now enjoyed did not cause her to
renounce her plan of visiting her own family; and, as she now had become
a Frenchwoman, she thought this title would accelerate her return to her
parents' favor. Her husband's regiment received orders to leave Trieste;
and this gave Madame Dartois the opportunity to renew her entreaties to
be allowed to visit Constantinople, to which her husband gave his
consent, not without explaining to her, however, all she had to fear, and
all the dangers to which this journey would again expose her. At last
she started, and a few days after her arrival was on the point of making
herself known to her family, when she recognized on the street through
her veil, the Broussan merchant, her former master, who was seeking her
throughout Constantinople, and had sworn to kill her on sight.

This terrible 'rencontre' threw her into such a fright, that for three
days she lived in constant terror, scarcely daring to venture out, even
on the most urgent business, and always fearing lest she should see again
the ferocious Anatolian. From time to time she received letters from her
husband, who still marched with the French army; and, as it was now
advancing, he conjured her in his last letters to return to France,
hoping to be able soon to rejoin her there.

Deprived of all hope of a reconciliation with her family, Madame Dartois
determined to comply with her husband's request; and, although the war
between Russia and Turkey rendered the roads very unsafe, she left
Constantinople in the month of July, 1809.

After passing through Hungary and the midst of the Austrian camp, Madame
Dartois bent her steps towards Vienna, where she had the sorrow to learn
that her husband had been mortally wounded at the battle of Wagram, and
was now in that town; she hastened to him, and he expired in her arms.

She mourned her husband deeply, but was soon compelled to think of the
future, as the small amount of money remaining to her when she left
Constantinople had been barely sufficient for the expenses of her
journey, and M. Dartois had left no property. Some one having advised
the poor woman to go to Schoenbrunn and ask his Majesty's assistance, a
superior officer gave her a letter of recommendation to M. Jaubert,
interpreting secretary of the Emperor.

Madame Dartois arrived as his Majesty was preparing to leave Schoenbrunn,
and made application to M. Jaubert, the Duke of Bassano, General Lebrun,
and many other persons who became deeply interested in her misfortunes.

The Emperor, when informed by the Duke of Bassano of the deplorable
condition of this woman, at once made a special order granting Madame
Dartois an annual pension of sixteen hundred francs, the first year of
which was paid in advance. When the Duke of Bassano announced to the
widow his Majesty's decision, and handed her the first year's pension,
she fell at his feet, and bathed them with her tears.

The Emperor's fete was celebrated at Vienna with much brilliancy; and as
all the inhabitants felt themselves obliged to illumine their windows,
the effect was extraordinarily brilliant. They had no set illuminations;
but almost all the windows had double sashes, and between these sashes
were placed lamps, candles, etc., ingeniously arranged, the effect of
which was charming. The Austrians appeared as gay as our soldiers; they
had not feted their own Emperor with so much ardor, and, though deep down
in their hearts they must have experienced a feeling of constraint at
such unaccustomed joy, appearances gave no sign of this.

On the evening of the fete, during the parade, a terrible explosion was
heard at Schoenbrunn, the noise of which seemed to come from the town;
and a few moments afterwards a gendarme appeared, his horse in a gallop.
"Oh, oh!" said Colonel Mechnem, "there must be a fire at Vienna, if a
gendarme is galloping." In fact, he brought tidings of a very deplorable
event. While an artillery company had been preparing, in the arsenal of
the town, numerous fireworks to celebrate his Majesty's fete, one of
them, in preparing a rocket, accidentally set the fuse on fire, and
becoming frightened threw it away from him. It fell on the powder which
the shop contained, and eighteen cannoneers were killed by the explosion,
and seven wounded.

During his Majesty's fete, as I entered his cabinet one morning, I found
with him M. Charles Sulmetter, commissary general of the police of
Vienna, whom I had seen often before. He had begun as head spy for the
Emperor; and this had proved such a profitable business that he had
amassed an income of forty thousand pounds. He had been born at
Strasburg; and in his early life had been chief of a band of smugglers,
to which vocation he was as wonderfully adapted by nature as to that
which he afterwards pursued. He admitted this in relating his
adventures, and maintained that smuggling and police service had many
points of similarity, since the great art of smuggling was to know how to
evade, while that of a spy was to know how to seek. He inspired such
terror in the Viennese that he was equal to a whole army-corps in keeping
them in subjection. His quick and penetrating glance, his air of
resolution and severity, the abruptness of his step and gestures, his
terrible voice, and his appearance of great strength, fully justified his
reputation; and his adventures furnish ample materials for a romance.
During the first campaigns of Germany, being charged with a message from
the French government to one of the most prominent persons in the
Austrian army, he passed among the enemy disguised as a German peddler,
furnished with regular passports, and provided with a complete stock of
diamonds and jewelry. He was betrayed, arrested, and searched; and the
letter concealed in the double bottom of a gold box was found, and very
foolishly read before him. He was tried and condemned to death, and
delivered to the soldiers by whom he was to be executed; but as night had
arrived by this time, they postponed his execution till morning. He
recognized among his guards a French deserter, talked with him, and
promised him a large sum of money: he had wine brought, drank with the
soldiers, intoxicated them, and disguised in one of their coats, escaped
with the Frenchman. Before re-entering the camp, however, he found means
to inform the person for whom the letter was intended, of its contents,
and of what had happened.

Countersigns difficult to remember were often given in the army in order
to attract the soldiers' attention more closely. One day the word was
Pericles, Persepolis; and a captain of the guard who had a better
knowledge of how to command a charge than of Greek history and geography,
not hearing it distinctly, gave as the countersign, 'perce l'eglise',
which mistake furnished much amusement. The old captain was not at all
angry, and said that after all he was not very far wrong.

The secretary of General Andreossy, Governor of Vienna, had an
unfortunate passion for gambling; and finding that he did not gain enough
to pay his debts, sold himself to the enemy. His correspondence was
seized; he admitted his treachery, and was condemned to death, and
in confronting death evinced astonishing self-possession. "Come nearer,"
said he to the soldiers who were to shoot, "so that you may see me
better, and I will have less to suffer."

In one of his excursions in the environs of Vienna, the Emperor met a
very young conscript who was rejoining his corps. He stopped him, asked
his name, his age, regiment, and country. "Monsieur," said the soldier,
who did not know him, "my name is Martin; I am seventeen years old, and
from the Upper Pyrenees."--"you are a Frenchman, then?"--"yes, Monsieur."
--"Ah, you are a miserable' Frenchman. Disarm this man, and hang him!"--
"Yes, you fool, I am French," repeated the conscript; "and Vive
l'Empereur!" His Majesty was much amused; the conscript was undeceived,
congratulated, and hastened to rejoin his comrades, with the promise of a
reward,--a promise which the Emperor was not slow to perform.

Two or three days before his departure from Schoenbrunn, the Emperor
again came near being assassinated. This time the attack was to have
been made by a woman.

The Countess at this time was well known, both on account of her
astonishing beauty and the scandal of her liaisons with Lord Paget, the
English ambassador.

It would be hard to find words which would truthfully describe the grace
and charms of this lady, whom the best society of Vienna admitted only
with the greatest repugnance, but who consoled herself for their scorn by
receiving at her own house the most brilliant part of the French army.

An army contractor conceived the idea of procuring this lady for the
Emperor, and, without informing his Majesty, made propositions to the
countess through one of his friends, a cavalry officer attached to the
military police of the town of Vienna.

The cavalry officer thought he was representing his Majesty, and in good
faith said to the countess that his Majesty was exceedingly anxious to
see her at Schoenbrunn. One morning, accordingly, he made propositions
for that evening, which, appearing somewhat abrupt to the countess, she
did not decide at once, but demanded a day for reflection, adding that
she must have good proof that the Emperor was really sincere in this
matter. The officer protested his sincerity, promised, moreover, to give
every proof she required, and made an appointment for that evening.
Having given the contractor an account of his negotiation, the latter
gave orders that a carriage, escorted by the cavalry officer, should be
ready for the countess on the evening indicated. At the appointed hour
the officer returned to the countess, expecting her to accompany him, but
she begged him to return next day, saying that she had not yet decided,
and needed the night for longer reflection. At the officer's
solicitations she decided, however, and appointed the next day, giving
her word of honor to be ready at the appointed hour.

The carriage was then sent away, and ordered for the next evening at the
same hour. This time the contractor's envoy found the countess well
disposed; she received him gayly, eagerly even, and told him that she had
given orders in regard to her affairs as if she were going on a journey;
then, regarding him fixedly, said, tutoying him, "You may return in an
hour and I will be ready; I will go to him, you may rely upon it.
Yesterday I had business to finish, but to-day I am free. If you are a
good Austrian, you will prove it to me; you know how much harm he has
done our country! This evening our country will be avenged! Come for
me; do not fail!"

The cavalry officer, frightened at such a confidence as this, was
unwilling to accept the responsibility, and repeated everything at the
chateau; in return for which the Emperor rewarded him generously, urged
him for his own sake not to see the countess again, and expressly forbade
his having anything more to do with the matter. All these dangers in no
wise-depressed the Emperor; and he had a habit of saying, "What have I to
fear? I cannot be assassinated; I can die only on the field of battle."
But even on the field of battle he took no care of himself, and at
Essling, for example, exposed himself like a chief of battalion who wants
to be a colonel; bullets slew those in front, behind, beside him, but he
did not budge. It was then that a terrified general cried, "Sire, if
your Majesty does not retire, it will be necessary for me to have you
carried off by my grenadiers." This anecdote proves took any precautions
in regard to himself. The signs of exasperation manifested by the
inhabitants of Vienna made him very watchful, however, for the safety of
his troops, and he expressly forbade their leaving their cantonments in
the evening. His Majesty was afraid for them.

The chateau of Schoenbrunn was the rendezvous of all the illustrious
savants of Germany; and no new work, no curious invention, appeared, but
the Emperor immediately gave orders to have the author presented to him.
It was thus that M. Maelzel, the famous inventor of metronomy, was
allowed the honor of exhibiting before his Majesty several of his own
inventions. The Emperor admired the artificial limbs intended to replace
more comfortably and satisfactorily than wooden ones those carried off by
balls, and gave him orders to have a wagon constructed to convey the
wounded from the field of battle. This wagon was to be of such a kind
that it could be folded up and easily carried behind men on horseback,
who accompanied the army, such as surgeons, aides, servants, etc. M.
Maelzel had also built an automaton known throughout Europe under the
name of the chess player, which he brought to Schoenbrunn to show to his
Majesty, and set it up in the apartments of the Prince de Neuchatel. The
Emperor visited the Prince; and I, in company with several other persons,
accompanied him, and found this automaton seated before a table on which
the chessmen were arranged. His Majesty took a chair, and seating himself
in front of the automaton, said, with a laugh, "Come, my comrade, we are
ready." The automaton bowed and made a sign with his hand to the
Emperor, as if to tell him to begin, upon which the game commenced. The
Emperor made two or three moves, and intentionally made a wrong one. The
automaton bowed, took the piece, and put it in its proper place. His
Majesty cheated a second time; the automaton bowed again, and took the
piece. "That is right," said the Emperor; and when he cheated a third
time, the automaton, passing his hand over the chess-board, spoiled the
game.

The Emperor complimented the inventor highly. As we left the room,
accompanied by the Prince de Neuchatel we found in the antechamber two
young girls, who presented to the prince, in the name of their mother, a
basket of beautiful fruit. As the prince welcomed them with an air of
familiarity, the Emperor, curious to find out who they were, drew near
and questioned them; but they did not understand French: Some one then
told his Majesty that these two pretty girls were daughters of a good
woman, whose life Marshal Berthier had saved in 1805. On this occasion
he was alone on horseback, the cold was terrible, and the ground covered
with snow, when he perceived, lying at the foot of a tree, a woman who
appeared to be dying, and had been seized with a stupor. The marshal
took her in his arms, and placed her on his horse with his cloak wrapped
around her, and thus conveyed her to her home, where her daughters were
mourning her absence. He left without making himself known; but they
recognized him at the capture of Vienna, and every week the two sisters
came to see their benefactor, bringing him flowers or fruit as a token of
their gratitude.




CHAPTER XXII.

Towards the end of September the Emperor made a journey to Raab; and, as
he was mounting his horse to return to his residence at Schoenbrunn, he
saw the bishop a few steps from him. "Is not that the bishop?" said he
to M. Jardin, who was holding his horse's head. "No, Sire, it is
Soliman."--"I asked you if that was not the bishop," repeated his
Majesty, pointing to the prelate. M. Jardin, intent on business, and
thinking only of the Emperor's horse which bore the name of Bishop, again
replied, "Sire, you forget that you rode him on the last relay." The
Emperor now perceived the mistake, and broke into a laugh. I was witness
at Wagram of an act which furnished a fine illustration of the Emperor's
kindness of heart and consideration for others, of which I have already
given several instances; for, although in the one I shall now relate, he
was forced to refuse an act of clemency, his very refusal challenges
admiration as an exhibition of the generosity and greatness of his soul.

A very rich woman, named Madame de Combray, who lived near Caen, allowed
her chateau to be occupied by a band of royalists, who seemed to think
they upheld their cause worthily by robbing diligences on the highway.
She constituted herself treasurer of this band of partisans, and
consigned the funds thus obtained to a pretended treasurer of Louis
XVIII. Her daughter, Madame Aquet, joined this troop, and, dressed in
men's clothing, showed most conspicuous bravery. Their exploits,
however, were not of long duration; and pursued and overcome by superior
forces, they were brought to trial, and Madame Aquet was condemned to
death with her accomplices. By means of a pretended illness she obtained
a reprieve, of which she availed herself to employ every means in her
power to obtain a pardon, and finally, after eight months of useless
supplications, decided to send her children to Germany to intercede with
the Emperor. Her physician, accompanied by her sister and two daughters,
reached Schoenbrunn just as the Emperor had gone to visit the field of
Wagram, and for an entire day awaited the Emperor's return on the steps
of the palace; and these children, one ten, the other twelve, years old,
excited much interest. Notwithstanding this, their mother's crime was a
terrible one; for although in political matters opinions may not be
criminal, yet under every form of government opinions are punished, if
thereby one becomes a robber and an assassin. The children, clothed in
black, threw themselves at the Emperor's feet, crying, "Pardon, pardon,
restore to us our mother." The Emperor raised them tenderly, took the
petition from the hands of the aunt, read every word attentively, then
questioned the physician with much interest, looked at the children,
hesitated--but just as I, with all who witnessed this touching scene,
thought he was going to pronounce her pardon, he recoiled several steps,
exclaiming, "I cannot do it!" His changing color, eyes suffused with
tears, and choking voice, gave evidence of the struggle through which he
was passing; and witnessing this, his refusal appeared to me an act of
sublime courage.

Following upon the remembrance of these violent crimes, so much the more
worthy of condemnation since they were the work of a woman, who, in order
to abandon herself to them, was forced to begin by trampling under foot
all the gentle and modest virtues of her sex, I find recorded in my notes
an act of fidelity and conjugal tenderness which well deserved a better
result. The wife of an infantry colonel, unwilling to be parted from her
husband, followed the march of his regiment in a coach, and on the days
of battle mounted a horse and kept herself as near as possible to the
line. At Friedland she saw the colonel fall, pierced by a ball, hastened
to him with her servant, carried him from the ranks, and bore him away in
an ambulance, though too late, for he was already dead. Her grief was
silent, and no one saw her shed a tear. She offered her purse to a
surgeon, and begged him to embalm her husband's corpse, which was done as
well as possible under the circumstances; and she then had the corpse
wrapped in bandages, placed in a box with a lid, and put in a carriage,
and seating herself beside it, the heart-broken widow set out on her
return to France. A grief thus repressed soon affected her mind; and at
each halt she made on the journey, she shut herself up with her precious
burden, drew the corpse from its bog, placed it on a bed, uncovered its
face, and lavished on it the most tender caresses, talking to it as if it
was living, and slept beside it. In the morning she replaced her husband
in the box, and, resuming her gloomy silence, continued her route. For
several days her secret remained unknown, and was discovered only a few
days before she reached Paris.

The body had not been embalmed in such a manner as to preserve it long
from decay; and this soon reached such a point, that, when she arrived at
an inn, the horrible odor from the box aroused suspicion, and the unhappy
wife's room was entered that evening, and she was found clasping in her
arms the already sadly disfigured corpse of her husband. "Silence," she
cried to the frightened innkeeper. "My husband is asleep, why do you
come to disturb his glorious rest?" With much difficulty the corpse was
removed from the arms of the insane woman who had guarded it with such
jealous care, and she was conveyed to Paris, where she afterward died,
without recovering her reason for an instant.