CHAPTER EIGHT
“It was the most terrible thing I’ve ever seen in my life, Sire.”
Kutuzov shifted from one foot to the other as he stood in front of the Czar.
His old legs were aching and he longed to sit down.
Alexander said kindly, “It must be a long story as well as a distressing one, General. You have my permission to sit down.”
Kutuzov accepted, and the Czar prompted him. “Go on, General. What happened then?”
“When we caught up with them there was a stiff fight. Napoleon had left Marshal Victor behind, and he tried to hold us off while the rest of the army got across. They fought very well, though God knows how. Then at one time we overwhelmed them and look one of the higher approaches to the river bank; we brought up artillery and began shelling the ground and the bridges. As I said, it was the most terrible thing I’ve ever seen. It was the wounded and the women, Sire. They panicked; there was a rush for the bridges. We were firing right into the middle of them, and there must have been thousands, fighting and screaming like wild beasts. One of the bridges gave way; they had cannon on it and the weight was too much; it was jammed with dead and people struggling to get over, and suddenly it gave way and the whole lot fell into the Beresina. There was a terrible cry then; it seemed like one cry, though it must have been hundreds screaming. God knows what Bonaparte must have felt when he heard it.
“Victor’s men retook that height to stop the artillery fire, but it was too late. The French were trampling each other to death on the last bridge; I heard that dozens tried swimming the river and were drowned in a few minutes.
“We captured a division of the French, and at dawn on the 29th their rear-guard fired the last bridge to prevent our following. That was the end for the ones left behind. They were mostly wounded, hundreds of them, and before God, they began throwing themselves into the Beresina rather than be captured. With your permission, Sire.” Kutuzov took out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his face.
“All great victories are horrible, General,” Alexander said. “And we’re not at the end of it even now.”
Kutuzov looked up at him quickly. “We’ve driven him out of Russia. He’s gone back to Paris without an army. Only 20,000 survived to cross the Niemen out of half a million men, and they’re mostly diseased and falling from hunger. Napoleon’s routed, Sire.”
“Napoleon’s in Paris raising another army,” Alexander said stonily. “And Austria hasn’t taken up arms against him. No one has moved, Kutuzov. It’s been left to us to complete our victory alone. And we shall complete it. Europe has trembled at Napoleon’s name long enough. Now she shall tremble at mine.”
He rose to end the interview, and the General bowed and backed out of the room. The Russian Army was back at Vilna and Alexander had left Petersburg to join it. It was curious, he thought, how patterns repeated themselves; again his presence was the signal for a ghastly gaiety, an echo of the elegant gatherings of those first months of 1812, when he stayed in the same town and heard the news that his enemy had crossed the Niemen with the greatest army of all time.
The remains of that army were in the woods and fields round Vilna, scattered in a terrible harvest of death and misery over the countryside from Moscow to the bridge at Kovno, where they had crossed to invade Russia on the 25th of June.
The host was obliterated, but Napoleon had escaped; Kutuzov’s trap had closed over the miserable thousands who perished at the Beresina, but the real object of it was in Paris, and the French Senate had just promised him a conscript army of 300,000 men. Austria and Prussia were still honouring their treaties with Napoleon; everyone was waiting, too terrified of his power to exploit Alexander’s victory. And his own staff urged him to overrun Poland and then stop. They argued that Russia’s armies were decimated by continued fighting and by the diseases spread everywhere by the French. The country was stripped and burnt bare. The first need was peace. No one wanted to advance into Europe except himself and Catherine Pavlovna. No one trusted the Prussians or believed that the Austrians would rise later when they hadn’t done so already. To go into Europe would be challenging Bonaparte on his own ground. Alexander listened and then gave the order to march through Poland and into Prussia as if no one had said a word.
If Prussia wouldn’t support him of her own volition, he would invade her.
In the first weeks of 1813 the Russian armies entered Prussia. But a famous exile went ahead of them, the patriot Von Stein, entrusted with the task of rousing his country against Napoleon. It was a brilliantly clever move; Stein organized a militia at Königsberg, and the idea spread to Breslau and Berlin itself, where the student class rose in a mass to take up arms against the hated French. The sparks of German independence which Napoleon extinguished after Wagram erupted violently all over Prussia. On March 17th Prussia and Russia agreed to deliver the nation from the French, and the first side of the triangle of Napoleon’s alliance collapsed.
In April the Austrian Ambassador to Paris went to see Napoleon. The Ambassador was the same Count Schwarzenberg who had been so popular in St. Petersburg. His considerable charm and talent were to be used to soften Napoleon and persuade him to agree with Austria’s proposals. Metternich of Austria had been waiting and watching very carefully, and he disliked what he saw from every point of view.
His decision not to attack France immediately had been a wise one, for less than six months after the end of 1812, Napoleon had mustered an army of nearly half a million men. He had drawn troops from Spain to do it, and the untried youth of France had rushed to arms, roused by the unquenchable enthusiasm Napoleon’s name inspired.
The homes and fields of France were emptied of young men; the factories worked night and day making uniforms, producing weapons and equipping this new army, the offspring of the vanished host of 1812. He had left Russia a ruined man, and fled across Europe to save his throne in Paris. A few months later he surveyed his enemies with an army nearly as big as the one he had lost.
Nearly as big, but not the same, Metternich thought. The veterans had perished in their tens of thousands. It was unlikely that even Napoleon could replace their quality as he had done their numbers.
But Metternich knew his opponent; the man had achieved the impossible already; it would be wisest to wait. The hordes of Russia pouring into Europe, ostensibly to pursue Napoleon and swallowing Poland at the same time, didn’t please Metternich either. He dismissed the Czar’s guise of a Crusader as a piece of hypocrisy, and evaded all attempts to embroil Austria openly against France. Then Prussia suddenly deserted her ally and joined Alexander. Metternich liked this even less. There was going to be a major war, fought out over Europe; whoever won would be supremely powerful, too powerful for the safety of Austria. He sent Schwarzenberg to Napoleon to offer Austrian mediation and prevent the war. Austria’s reward would be a share in the lands parcelled out in the negotiations.
Bonaparte listened to the Count. He liked him, he liked Austrians in general; he had once liked Metternich, who used to be Ambassador to Paris himself, but he had measured Metternich, and he remined him of Talleyrand, whom he had used but always hated.
Peace, the Count explained, was the only sensible course for all sides. Austria was willing to secure it for France and for Russia and Prussia; her support to either side, he murmured gently, could be the deciding factor in any war.…
“In other words,” Napoleon interrupted, “Austria is now as frightened of Alexander of Russia as she is of Napoleon of France. She prefers us not to fight so that neither can win! Tell Monsieur le Comte I appreciate his point of view. For myself I have no wish for war. If the Russians want peace they must ask for it; I’ll always listen. But the real obstacle to any lasting settlement in Europe is England.
“Good evening, Count Schwarzenberg. My compliments to your excellent Foreign Minister; he could have found no better replacement for himself than he has done in you.”
The audience was over, and Napoleon went to the apartments of his little son, where he took the child on his knee and played with him.
“I must not make an enemy of Austria,” he was thinking. “Even if I fall, Austria will protect my son: …”
In the same months Austria’s envoy to London was received by Lord Castlereagh, and informed coldly that there could never be peace with France as long as Napoleon occupied Spain and refused to make greater concessions to his enemies’ demands. England had no intention of embarrassing Russia and Prussia at such a moment.
At Vienna, Metternich considered. He had two alternatives, the latest was an offer by Napoleon to dismember Prussia and give the rich province of Silesia to Austria in return for 100,000 men in the coming campaign. It was an outrageous and very tempting bribe. But the combined might of Russia, Prussia and England were gathering against the tempter. Metternich thought for a long time and then decided. The odds were too much, even for Napoleon.
Austria had better abandon him and join his enemies.
Alexander’s first meeting with Metternich took place at Opotschna. Each approached the other with deep suspicion and disguised it with fulsome words of friendship. Alexander received the Austrian informally; it was a ruse he employed to put his opponents at their ease and off their guard at the same time. When Count Metternich was announced he came forward and held out his hand. The Count kissed it and bowed, and the two men looked at each other. Metternich was tall, very slim and graceful and extremely handsome; he smiled at the Czar, thinking him older and more forbidding than he had expected.
This, then, was the victor of 1812, the man who had tricked Napoleon in the sphere of diplomacy and destroyed him on the field of battle. This grave, good-looking man with the gentle expression. Most dangerous, Metternich decided; we can’t exchange Napoleon for you.…
They sat down and spent some minutes discussing the campaign which had been fought in Saxony.
“It is amazing, Sire, what Napoleon has been able to do with an army of recruits,” Metternich remarked.
It was amazing; Alexander, whose troops had been defeated at Bautzen, flushed, and said suddenly, “Austrian support would have been welcomed by the King of Prussia and myself. We expected it long ago.”
“You have our support,” Metternich protested.
“We have your neutrality, Count, and that is not enough.”
“My position is difficult, Sire,” he said smoothly. “The Empress Marie-Louise is a Hapsburg. We must have an excuse to declare war.”
“Prussia found one,” Alexander answered.
“I believe we have too,” the Count said. “No one can provoke a quarrel like a mediator.” He glanced up at the Czar and smiled. “If he refuses a truce, then the war begins again and we enter it as your allies. And I am sure that if the terms are presented to him in the right way, he will reject the most generous offer!”
At Reichenbach Austria signed a secret treaty. If Napoleon had not reached a settlement by the expiration of the truce, she would join Russia, Prussia and England in making war on him.
Metternich went to see Napoleon, who was then quartered in the Marcolini Palace at Dresden, and there offered him terms. As he had said to Alexander, no one could provoke a quarrel as quickly as the mediator; Bonaparte lost his temper, swore and shouted at him, promising the most awful vengeance for the perfidy of Austria when he most needed her.
Metternich waited calmly until the outburst ceased, then he looked at the pale, sweating little man who had held them all in subjection for so many years. His hard eyes held the furious glare of the Emperor for some moments, then he said coldly, “You are lost, Sire. I had the presentiment of it when I came. Now, in going, I have the certainty.”
In the ante-room an anxious crowd surrounded him, hoping for news of peace. They all wanted peace, even the Marshals whose fortunes were built on war wanted peace; only Napoleon refused to give way, obstinate and savage in the face of danger, sure that if he yielded an inch, his enemies would end by destroying him. Especially the main enemy, the man who had followed him out of Russia and had engaged him in Saxony. Alexander wouldn’t be content with any treaty. He would attack again, there could never be peace while he remained undefeated. Marshal Berthier escorted Metternich to his carriage, and asked him whether he were satisfied with the interview. He must have confidence in the Emperor now, Berthier urged. Metternich turned on the coach step and looked at him as he had looked at Napoleon a little while before.
“Yes, he has explained everything to me,” he said. “It is all over with the man.”
Then he entered the carriage and drove away. Berthier turned back and walked slowly into the Palace.
In the worst days of the Retreat from Moscow he had never had such a presentiment of disaster as he did then with Metternich’s judgment sounding in his ears. “It is all over with the man.”
On June 22nd Wellington inflicted a crushing defeat on the French troops in Vittoria, and Joseph Bonaparte abandoned the Spanish throne and fled into France.
It was the signal for which Europe had been waiting.
On July 12th the treacherous Bernadotte of Sweden signed a treaty with the Allied Powers to fight France at the end of the armistice, and at midnight on the 10th August Alexander received the news that bonfires were blazing along the heights of the Riesengebirge. The truce had expired; the beacons proclaimed war against Napoleon.
In the first days of February, 1814, Alexander sat in his headquarters at Bar-sur-Seine writing a long letter to his sister Catherine.
“I miss you,” he wrote truthfully. “I know how much every triumph would have meant to you, how you would have rejoiced with me when you saw the first Russian troops cross into France. The last six months seem like as many years; he has fought like a man possessed of the devil, and everywhere he commanded he won. But elsewhere his Marshals lost. It is the hand of God, Catherine. Without Napoleon the rest made one blunder after another; Mac-Donald at Katzbach, Vandamme at Kulm, and Ney himself at Dennewitz. The Prussian Generals are magnificent; especially Blücher; he’s old but he has the energy of twenty men.
“We defeated Napoleon himself at Leipzig; the retreat was nearly as horrible as the Beresina. You remember they found twelve thousand corpses there when the floods abated. There was another panic at Leipzig, and his Polish Marshal Poniatowsky was drowned. He has lost many friends, they betray him one by one as he retreats. Murat left him in November; we’ve promised to let him stay in Naples, and he’s ready to turn on Napoleon. Ney remains with him, still fighting. Blücher is advancing on Paris now, but I do not intend to let him get there.
“I must reach Paris first, my dear sister, for I find we have other enemies besides Bonaparte. The Austrians want a Regency for the Empress Marie-Louise and Napoleon’s son. As I fight the French I am also forced to fight Metternich. He betrayed Napoleon and he is quite capable of betraying us if it suits him. I will not have either a Bonaparte or a Hapsburg on the French throne. Neither will England. More and more I miss you, and my one comfort is your letters. But I promise you this, as soon as the war is over, I shall send for you. It seems impossible that peace is near, that he is really going to be beaten. God guide you, Catherine. The next time I write I shall be in The Tuilleries.”
Alexander entered Paris on the 1st of April. He rode in with the King of Prussia on his right and the Austrian Commander on his left, leading a procession of Russian and Prussian Guards.
The streets were lined with silent crowds, the windows overlooking the route crowded with people who wanted to see the almost legendary Czar of Russia. It was the women who first began cheering him; he was dressed in a dazzling uniform of white, covered in gold braid and decorations. The idol of Napoleon had fallen from his pedestal; only the good sense of his timorous brother Joseph had saved Paris from the madness of a siege when the Allies approached. The Parisians, quaking for their lives and property surrendered with indecent haste while their Emperor fought overwhelming odds, struggling even then to turn back the invaders and almost succeeding. But Paris surrendered, and led by a few hysterical women, the people began cheering and pressing round their conqueror. The Liberator, they shrieked, the Republican Czar who had promised a free vote for the country, whose savage Cossacks had been ordered to remain in their quarters and spare the city the horrors of plunder and rapine inflicted on less lucky parts of France.… They had nothing to fear from that handsome, gallant enemy; they’d had enough of war, enough of Napoleon Bonaparte, Long live the Czar!
Alexander smiled and saluted. One year and seven months before, the Emperor of the French had ridden into Moscow; now his opponent entered his Capital in triumph, acclaimed by the crowds as a liberator and a protector. He thought how his sister Catherine would laugh when she heard of it; how her laughter would change to anger at the order to Russian troops not to molest or loot. He thought of Moscow, burning, and shaken by explosions as Napoleon’s men dynamited, determined to destroy what the fire had spared. He could have taken the same vengeance, he thought; the Prussians were mounting cannon on the heights of Montmartre, ready to bombard the city at the first sign of insurrection; their troops and his were restless and longing to revenge the devastation their own countries had suffered.
Only his will stood between Paris and the full terrors of occupation by a vindictive and, in his case, half-civilized army. But his clemency to Paris was the debt he owed God for his victory; he paid it with rigid observance and forced his allies to do the same. That day the French Senate agreed to form a Provisional Government. It was the end of Napoleon’s reign, and that night Alexander dined with the man who had addressed the Senate, the limping Prince of Benevento. It was the climax of Talleyrand’s career; the cold aristocrat had finally triumphed over the parvenu. Seated at the table with Alexander that night, he drank a toast to the liberation of France from the tyranny he had helped to institute fifteen years ago, when he sided with the young General Bonaparte. He also drank a private toast at the same time. The insults and dangers of his service with Napoleon were finally avenged.
Alexander stayed in his great mansion facing the Place de la Concorde, where Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette had been guillotined. Now Talleyrand, who had helped Danton prepare the Terror, was proposing the return of the Bourbon dynasty to the throne of France. He was reverting to type, Alexander thought, realizing suddenly how much he disliked the man. But the Bourbons suited Prussia too, and England. Under their rule, France would never recover her power.
He lay awake until dawn in Talleyrand’s luxurious bedroom, his hands clasped behind his head, thoughts rioting through his brain.
He had won; a Provisional Government ruled France, led by Talleyrand; Napoleon was at Fontainebleau Palace, less than ten miles away, with all that was left of his army. The Empress Marie-Louise was at Blois with the little King of Rome, preparing to desert her husband and go to her father, the Austrian Emperor; the whole Bonaparte family had fled Paris and were streaking for safety; everyone had abandoned the Emperor in his hour of defeat. It was a bitter lesson, Alexander reflected, and for the first time his hatred of Napoleon became tinged with pity. It would have broken a lesser man.
He lay back on the pillows frowning, thinking that he hated Talleyrand and could never trust him, or Metternich, or Castlereagh of England.
The pygmies had dragged down the giant; now they were turning against him, jealous of his power, his popularity with the French people.… Strange, that they should cheer him like that.
It had moved him till tears came into his eyes. He had beaten their idol, but been merciful to them, and they trusted him like children. It must be that they too recognized a man as great as the ruler they had lost, a man above the petty instincts of the other allies. A man whose cause was just, a man favoured by God.… He fell asleep at last.
He was dining alone with Talleyrand on the evening of the 4th of April. The Prince of Benevento was an excellent host; he had made every effort to amuse the Czar, relating one incident after another to Napoleon’s detriment in the hope of pleasing him or provoking a smile. Usually silent and aloof, the Prince was unable to restrain his own good humour, in spite of the gravity and coldness of his guest. He watched Alexander carefully and then remarked: “I hope you have observed the number of white cockades being worn in the city streets, Sire. The people can hardly wait to welcome His Majesty King Louis XVIII.”
Alexander stared at him; Talleyrand, a master of the art of disconcerting other people, became the victim of a much superior technique.
“I have seen some demonstrations, Monsieur le Prince, but not enough to convince me that the people of France wish for the Bourbons to return. It may be that they will want a Republic.”
“A Republic?” Talleyrand’s eyebrows lifted. “Surely, Sire, as an absolute monarch, you couldn’t support that?”
“I have promised to honour the wishes of the French people,” Alexander answered coldly. “My own country’s constitution has nothing to do with it. And in your support for a Monarchy, are you not carrying your patriotism too far? “
A flush rose in Talleyrand’s face and then died away.
“Your Majesty’s meaning escapes me.”
“I believe you had some part in the upheaval which removed the House of Bourbon from the throne of France, my dear Prince. Aren’t you afraid that the new King might prove vindictive?”
Talleyrand regarded him with a smile of pure hatred.
“It is more likely he’ll prove grateful, Sire. And my personal safety is small consideration beside the danger of a Republic which Bonaparte would probably be able to upset, or worse still a Regency for his son which he would undoubtedly usurp in a few months. The only safeguard against him is to give France a legitimate King. It is also the only way to restrain the influence of Austria,” he added smoothly.
Alexander studied his hands.
“I hope for your support for King Louis, Sire,” Talleyrand insisted. “Indeed, I have assured him he can rely on you.”
“Your assurance will be honoured, Prince, if it agrees with the wishes of the French people.”
“Of course, Sire.”
Talleyrand smiled his crooked smile and his pale eyes flickered towards Alexander. The spectacle of the most absolute monarch in Europe upholding the rights of the people widened his smile into genuine amusement. It was curious how power affected different men, he thought. Napoleon … power and Napoleon seemed to fuse into an irresistible force, devoid of moral sense, mercy or human fear. Power had transformed the parvenu into an object of terror and personal hatred. Now he was broken and this barbarian might easily take his place; not a parvenu, Talleyrand thought, applying his vicious epithet for Napoleon, but an autocrat with a sense of God-given mission. He had read Alexander’s dispatches, noting the increasing religious influence in them; since the Czar arrived in his house, the servants set to spy on him told Talleyrand that he spent hours praying in his room. And he had not availed himself of any of the women who clustered round him wherever he went in Paris.
It was odd, Talleyrand thought. Very odd. And it might be terribly dangerous. Once a man as powerful as Alexander of Russia claimed the Almighty as his ally, he might do anything.…
At that moment the door opened and one of the Prince’s household came towards him, bowing low to the Czar.
“What is it? I gave orders we were not to be disturbed!”
“With His Majesty’s permission, Monsieur le Prince, I have a message for him. I request his permission to speak,” the man said. He was obviously very agitated.
“You have it,” Alexander said quickly. “What is your message?”
“Sire, three gentlemen have come to the house and they beg you to grant them an audience.”
Talleyrand turned round. “I must ask you to forgive this, Sire. I have no idea who would dare such a thing.… One moment and I will see.”
“Who are these gentlemen?” Alexander asked.
The servant looked at him and mumbled.
“The one who requested the audience is Marshal Ney, Your Majesty.”
Alexander and the most famous of Napoleon’s Marshals came face to face a few minutes later. Ney walked towards him and then bowed.
“Your Majesty,” he said. His voice was hoarse with fatigue and emotion. “May I present the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Monsieur Caulaincourt, and Marshal McDonald of the Imperial Army.”
“Monsieur Caulaincourt and I are old friends,” Alexander said, and nodded to the former Ambassador to St. Petersburg. He acknowledged the bow of the second Marshal with the peculiar name. Then he remembered; McDonald had been defeated at Katzbach in the Saxon campaign. He had written to Catherine about it.…
“Please sit down, Gentlemen. We shall not be disturbed. What have you to say to me?”
He had requested Talleyrand to wait in another room during the meeting, and been amused by the expression of dread on his face and the anxious warning not to listen to an emissary from Napoleon, it would only be a trap.…
“I come to you on behalf of the Emperor, Sire,” Ney said. “I bring a message from him.”
“Read it, if you please.”
Ney cleared his throat and unfolded a paper; the eagle seal hung from it on a broad red ribbon.
“‘The Allied Powers having proclaimed that the Emperor Napoleon was the sole obstacle to the re-establishment of peace in Europe, the Emperor Napoleon, faithful to his oaths, declares that he is ready to descend from the throne, to leave France, and even give up his life, for the good of the fatherland, inseparable from the rights of his son, of those of the Regency of the Empress and of the maintenance of the laws of the Empire.’”
Ney lowered the paper and then offered it to Alexander.
“There is his signature, Sire.”
Alexander read it through and looked at the angry sprawling word written at the end of it.
Then he stared straight at Ney.
“Tell me, Prince de la Moscova, do you believe he’ll keep to this?”
Ney passed his hand across his face; it was a weary, despairing gesture.
“He has no choice, Sire. We held a conference with him to-day. He wanted to go on fighting, to attack Paris, but none of his Marshals would follow him. We forced his hand, Sire.”
“I think he’s gone mad, Your Majesty.” It was Marshal MacDonald who spoke then. “He was ready to fight the whole allied armies with a force of less than 50,000 men. He has the Guards with him at Fontainebleau; they are as crazy as he is. It was our duty to save France while we could.”
“And to save him,” Ney said slowly. “He charged us to come to you, Sire. He doesn’t trust anyone else’s word.”
“I am his bitterest enemy,” Alexander said. “Why didn’t he send you to the Austrians. His wife is an Arch-duchess.”
“Because you have the final word, Sire.” MacDonald answered him. “You’ve treated Paris honourably when the Prussians would have razed it to the ground. You’ve promised the people of France a free choice in their government.”
“I beg of you, don’t restore the Bourbons!” Ney burst out. “France doesn’t want them. Appoint Marie-Louise Regent for the King of Rome. That’s all Napoleon asks of you.”
Alexander said nothing, and for several minutes the four men sat in silence. Ney wiped his face with a handkerchief, he looked old and exhausted; the other Marshal stared gloomily at his polished boots and Caulaincourt watched the Czar, his thoughts returning to the days of his embassy in Petersburg, the long talks with Alexander, his admiration for him, his trust, even to the last moment. And now these five words; ‘I am his bitterest enemy’. It was probably the only time he had ever heard Alexander speak the truth. He looked away and frowned. Their mission was a waste of time.
At last Alexander spoke to Ney; a curious sympathy had sprung up between the two men from the first words exchanged. There was something simple in the bravest of all the great Marshals that appealed to his conqueror, and there was something immovably strong about the Russian Czar that aroused the soldier’s trust.
“I can grant nothing to Napoleon Bonaparte,” he said. “But I respect the wishes of the French people and of men like yourself, Prince. I am Bonaparte’s enemy, but I am the friend of France. I will do what I can to help you. Leave me the document of abdication.”
He stood and Caulaincourt looked at him bitterly and said, “The army is still behind Napoleon, Sire. Even without us, he may march. The miracles he accomplished with boys of fifteen who had never used a rifle until a few weeks ago, he may repeat. The Guards will fight to the last man to defend him.”
It was an act of defiance and hatred made many years too late by the man he had duped while he was planning war with France. Alexander acknowledged it and saw that there were tears of rage in the diplomat’s eyes.
“I will bear that in mind, Monsieur Caulaincourt,” he said gently. “If you will come to me to-morrow morning, I may have an answer for you.”
When the door closed behind them Alexander walked to the fireplace and leant against it, looking down into the embers of the fire. The room was very large with a lofty ceiling; even in April it was cold.
He thought how much he liked Ney; he had made a friend there, and lost a friend. Poor Caulaincourt would never forgive him for the deception of those early years in Petersburg or for the humiliation of that interview, where the second greatest soldier in France was forced to beg the aid of a foreigner for his own Emperor.
He noticed that Talleyrand had not come near him. He was trying to seduce Napoleon’s emissaries no doubt. Alexander re-read Napoleon’s act of abdication and imagined the turmoil of that arrogant spirit in signing such a document. He was at Fontainebleau, deserted by his Marshals, his wife and his family, still trying with threats and cajolery to maintain the dynasty of Bonaparte on the throne of France, longing to lunge against his enemies like a mad tiger in a last effort to destroy them before he was destroyed himself. It was ironical and outrageous and pathetic that he should have appealed to Alexander. Yawning, he rang for his valet and went upstairs to bed.
Early next morning, Talleyrand asked to see him. He greeted his guest with a triumphant smile and the news that Marshal Marmont’s force of 12,000 men had been tricked into the allied camp where they had to surrender. The Marshal and his generals had betrayed Napoleon at the last moment and ruined his last chance of negotiations. There was only one answer the Czar could give Marshal Ney and the others when they came. Unconditional surrender.
They returned to Fontainebleau with that answer, and on the 6th of April, Napoleon signed the act of unconditional abdication and delivered himself into the hand of his enemies.
On the 26th of April King Louis XVIII landed at Calais and proceeded to Paris to claim his throne. Between them, Alexander and Talleyrand had outwitted Metternich and broken Austrian influence in France. It was to prove a very costly triumph.
After Napoleon had sailed to exile on the Island of Elba, Alexander attended a Ball given by the Empress Josephine at Malmaison. When she came forward to receive him he was astonished at her beauty; she curtsied to him with the grace of a young woman, and he bent over her hand and kissed it gallantly.
“Welcome to my house, Your Majesty.”
She smiled, and the illusion of youth disappeared. Close to, he saw the fine lines under the make-up, the streaks of silver in the short curled hair.
Her large brown eyes smiled up at him in admiration, the old coquetry of her youth creeping into their expression.
How handsome, they said gaily, how tall and attractive.
She allowed her fingers to linger in his for a moment and then took his arm. “This is a great honour, Sire. I admit I have been dying to be presented to you.”
“Madame, you overwhelm me. In Paris I saw everything and met everyone, and then they told me, ‘If you wish to see France’s most beautiful woman, you must go to Malmaison.’”
He smiled down at her. “I couldn’t wait to come here, and I find I’ve been deceived. They should have said the most beautiful woman in Europe. It’s unfair to confine you to France alone, Madame.”
She laughed her pretty laugh. “You have an unfortunate effect upon me, Sire. You make me feel quite young again! Alas, I shall have to disillusion you. Come and let me present my daughter, Queen Hortense.”
Napoleon’s stepdaughter had married his brother Louis Bonaparte and been made Queen of Holland. She was waiting in the elegant salon, and Alexander’s impression was of a young and not unattractive woman who carried herself well. He spoke to her with deliberate charm and she responded immediately; she was obviously in a state of emotional tension, because the few words brought tears to her eyes.
He escorted Josephine into dinner, and enjoyed himself in a woman’s company for the first time in eighteen months. The Empress was a born coquette; she talked amusing nonsense and made him laugh; the members of his entourage were flirting with several of her ladies. The conquest of France and the deposition of Napoleon might never have happened. He noticed how exquisitely she was dressed; her shoulders and arms were still smooth and beautiful. She was years older than he was, but he found himself laughing and paying her compliments for the pleasure of seeing her brown eyes shine up at him. After dinner they opened the Ball. It was a brilliant scene, and the Empress Josephine assured him he waltzed better than any man she knew.
Later she suggested a walk in the gardens.
“They’re rather beautiful, Sire. My roses are quite famous.” He sensed that she wanted to talk to him alone; they walked out on to the terrace and down to the lawns. A large moon hung overhead.
She slipped her hand through his arm and they walked in silence for some moments, he measuring his long steps to hers.
“How curious life is,” she said suddenly. “I remember the first time he talked about you, when he’d come back from Tilsit. I was so bored, you know. Politics never interested me and he would discuss them with me. I suppose it was natural with one’s wife, but I didn’t think of it like that at the time. I remember distinctly what he said about you, Sire. He said, ‘You would have liked him, my dear.’ And in spite of everything, I do. Isn’t that curious?”
She was not smiling when she looked up at him. She suddenly looked extremely tired and rather sad.
“I’m glad, Madame,” he said gently. “I would be distressed if you disliked me. For myself, may I say one thing?”
“Of course. Shall we walk down here, you can see quite clearly the arrangement of the flower beds.”
“I shall never be able to understand how he could part from you.”
She shrugged and her gauze scarf slipped from her shoulders.
“I shall never be able to understand why he stayed with me for so long,” she answered. “Is it true that wretched woman has run to her father and won’t go to Elba with him?”
“I’m afraid so, Madame.”
She said harshly, “That’s curious too. A Hapsburg should have more sense of duty than to desert like Murat and Ney and all the others. She never loved him, I knew that, but she knows what the King of Rome means to him. He deserved better.”
“Don’t blame Ney and the Marshals, Madame,” Alexander urged. “They had to make peace; France would have been laid in ruins if they had listened to Napoleon.”
“Perhaps. You must forgive me, Sire; being only a woman I can’t visualize such things, and being what was once termed a ci-devant aristo, I have that foolish, old-fashioned penchant for honour.… Public honour, I mean. One’s private affairs are different. I wonder how he will manage at Elba?”
“It’s a pleasant place,” he comforted. “He’s been allowed to keep the title of Emperor; we’ve given him the island to rule. He should find some happiness.”
“It won’t be quite the same as ruling Europe though. Tell me, Sire, is it true that he tried to commit suicide at Fontainebleau after the abdication? I heard some rumour of it.” Her voice was unnaturally even.
“I think so,” he said cautiously. “It was just a moment of despair. He had recovered his spirits by the next morning.”
She laughed a little. “He would. I can imagine him. Always the optimist, always convincing other people he could work miracles because he was so sure of it himself. And now it’s over and the Bourbons are back. That’s a pity, I think. They really asked for the guillotine—they were so stupid. Look down there, Sire. See the little fountain; don’t you think it’s pretty?”
“I think it’s charming, Madame.”
She was standing close to him and he felt her shiver.
“It’s cold for you. We should go in, or at least let me get you a wrap.”
“No, thank you, Sire. After all, this is my most elegant dress, worn in your honour. Why should I cover it up under some old shawl? Let’s walk through here.”
The top of her curly head reached below the level of his shoulder, the diamonds in her head-dress sparkled in the moonlight as she turned.
Again they were silent until he said suddenly, “You said life was curious, Madame. Now I agree with you! In defeat Napoleon has more friends than he ever had in success; even you, Madame, whom he treated so shamefully. And I, the conqueror, find myself surrounded by people working against me!”
“Talleyrand, no doubt. He works against everyone; he’s a horrible man. I really think his mind’s as twisted as his foot. Who else, Sire?”
“The Austrians,” he answered.
“They must be afraid of you,” she said. “They were afraid of Napoleon, and now they’re afraid of you because you’ve beaten him, I suppose. The hatred of mankind is the reward of greatness; I think he said something like that once; I certainly never thought of it myself!”
She smiled up at him, and impulsively he lifted the hand resting on his arm and kissed it. There was something unbearably moving in her loyalty to the man he had beaten. He saw that she was shivering.
“You are a very young man still, Sire,” she said gently. “And now the world is yours, as it was his.… I never understood why men cared so much about such things. But now I’m old enough to have regrets. I missed the greatest opportunity ever given to a woman. I was loved by the greatest man of his age and I was too stupid to appreciate it. I lost him and I deserved to; but I can never quite forgive myself. Ah, it is cold! We’d better turn back.”
“Madame,” he said urgently. “Let me offer you my protection. I would like to guarantee your allowance and also the Queen of Holland and her children. I don’t like to think that His Majesty King Louis might not be generous. Please allow me.”
She smiled and nodded her head. “No wonder the French people look to you,” she said simply. “You’re a very good man, Sire. Far, far better than the Emperor ever could be. He used to be furious over my extravagance. I’m heavily in debt again, I’m afraid.”
“Not from this moment,” Alexander said. “You will leave all those affairs to me, Madame, and don’t worry about them. There’s the house now, we haven’t far to go. You should have let me get a wrap for you. I’m afraid you may catch cold.”
They walked indoors and sat with Hortense of Holland talking for some time. Josephine was herself again, smiling up at Alexander; the tinkling laugh, the pretty gestures had returned, there was no trace of the woman in the garden whose heart was bitter with grief and regret.
He rose at last and, bending, kissed her hand. He was surprised to find it icy cold.
She wished him good night, and her daughter curtsied to him, her eyes lowered; she had said very little during the evening. He was conducted to his suite and went to bed, to find his mind occupied with thoughts of Marie Naryshkin, of all sorts of women who had made love with him in the past. He was young, Josephine had said, and he was healthy and lonely again now that the strain of winning was passed. He turned in the big bed and lay still; his door had opened. He saw a woman standing on the threshold and couldn’t recognize her; slowly he sat up. She came towards him, and he saw that under her long robe her legs were bare. She came to the edge and looked down at him. The pale face of Hortense Bonaparte softened as she smiled.
“Have I disturbed Your Majesty?” she whispered.
Alexander looked at her; the hand holding her robe together fell to her side and the covering parted.
“No, Madame,” he said softly.
This woman was Napoleon’s stepdaughter, once married to his brother Louis. They said she had been in love with Napoleon himself for years and was bitterly jealous of her own mother. This was the ultimate triumph. He smiled at her and held out his hand.
On May 28th Josephine, Empress of the French, died of the chill she had caught while walking in the gardens with the Czar. It was a fitting end for a woman whose career had been feckless and indiscreet; the gossips repeated it, adding details to the story, while Alexander was in Paris and the ex-Queen of Holland tried to put her mother’s riotous affairs in order. She was as cold and silent then as she had been the night of Alexander’s visit; when she heard the rumours that Josephine had betrayed Napoleon with his enemy, she only smiled. It was her own idea to go to his room. When she heard he had already promised money and protection to the household she burst out laughing. But it was worth it. Neither of them would ever forget that night; it was her revenge and his triumph, the revenge for the years she had loved Napoleon Bonaparte while he was fawning on her mother, and for her miserable marriage with a man she had detested. It was viler still, because she imagined Josephine to have designs on the Russian Emperor, and she meant to thwart her mother and get there first. It was worth it. Even if Josephine, dying of pneumonia a few days afterwards, looked at her as if she knew.
“Do you realize,” the Grand Duchess Catherine said,” that we’ve hardly had a moment alone until now?”
Alexander smiled. “It’s fortunate we’re both good sailors and Frederick William isn’t! I wonder what London will be like?”
“I’m longing to see it. They say it’s black with fogs all the time.” She leant over the rail of the ship which was carrying them to England on the State visit, and looked down at the dark water.
It was a still night, the Channel seas were calm, and brother and sister stood on deck, relieved of the King of Prussia’s presence by a heavier motion of the ship.
The Prince Regent of England had invited Alexander, his sister and the King of Prussia to come to England before the Peace Congress opened in Vienna.
“I must admit,” Catherine said, “I’ve never seen anyone more ridiculous than King Louis. And that Court! God’s death, they might all have been embalmed since 1792! And I don’t love them for their ingratitude to you.…”
“They’re impossible,” Alexander said angrily. “Apart from their insolence to me, which I shall never forgive, they’re doing everything to antagonize the French people and infuriate the army already. We put that blockhead on the throne and now I suppose we’ll have to keep him there. By God, it’s as well Bonaparte’s safe in Elba and the Austrians are guarding his son!”
“I heard the boy was delicate,” Catherine said. “And the last thing Marie-Louise wants is to leave Austria and be Regent. No, they’re safe enough as long as Napoleon’s well guarded. Personally, I think he should have been put to death.”
“In Russia, yes,” Alexander answered, “but not in Europe. In Europe they have their own ways; we’re only savages, my sister!” He spoke with bitterness.
“That was the attitude of that damned Bourbon who never fired a shot to get his throne; and Metternich, ah, how he hates me for making Louis King—and Talleyrand. A superior, treacherous snake. We fought Napoleon, we poured out our life-blood, destroyed Moscow, burnt our countryside, we chased him across Europe, and so did the Prussians. Oh, I could be relied on in war! But the peace is different. We might have some legitimate claims to make, and you can’t have barbarians encroaching on Europe! But if they think they’re going to deny me at the Congress, they’re mistaken. The only one I trust is Friedrich Wilhelm.”
“He’s a fool,” Catherine said contemptuously. “What of the English?”
He frowned. “I don’t know yet. At least they struggled as hard as we did to beat France. They’re ruthless people—look at their power! Bonaparte always said they were his one enemy, that as long as they remained he could never have peace. Or conquer the world, which is what he meant by peace. I don’t know about England either … wait till we get to London. Oh, thank God for the fresh air. I felt I was stifling at times in the last few weeks!”
Catherine pinned back a wisp of hair which the breeze had blown across her face and smiled; the smile was mocking and reflected in the tilted eyes as she looked up at her brother.
“Success hasn’t improved your temper,” she remarked. “You’re becoming quite the autocrat, my dear brother. I see that famous smile that used to irritate me so much less and less these days. God’s death, at times you even frighten me! Don’t be surprised our fond allies are not so fond of you now that the war is won. They’re afraid of you.”
He remembered the Empress Josephine saying the same thing, that night in the gardens at Malmaison. They were afraid of him. Afraid of his power.
“I only want Russia’s due,” he said angrily. “I want peace for the world. God gave me the victory; I know that. I know He wants me to secure the peace.”
Catherine didn’t answer. It was there again. ‘God wants me … God gave me …’ His simmering anger, his insistence that God was guiding him, that the men who resisted him were resisting the Almighty.
She glanced at him quickly, at the set expression, the lines cut into his forehead and at each corner of his mouth. There was a time during the war of 1812 when she had wondered if her brother were going mad, a time when he did nothing but pray and invoke the God he had never believed in before. He had lived a life of chastity after years of indulgence, but that phase had passed now, and she was sure the religious mania had gone with it.
Every gossip in Europe was whispering that the Czar had slept with Josephine at Malmaison—it was affirmed even more strongly that he had slept with her daughter Hortense as well. Catherine listened and laughed and thought cynically that he had become himself again.
But he hadn’t; the sexual lapses hadn’t changed him; he seemed able to ignore them and resume his rôle of prophet and arbiter as soon as they were over.
“If you could match Bonaparte, you’ll match Talleyrand and Metternich,” she said. “I wonder how he’s enjoying Elba.”
“They says he’s content,” Alexander said gloomily. “Some of his Old Guards followed him into exile, he’s organized the whole island like a military camp. The reports say he’s well and in excellent spirits, and I tell you Catherine, more people love that man now he’s defeated than are grateful to me.”
She shrugged. “Bah!” she said. “Twelve months from now he’ll be forgotten as if he were dead. Let’s go below and rest now. I want to look well before these English. Is it true the Prince Regent’s mistresses are always old enough to be his mother?”
“I’ve been told so. We’ll see soon and so shall they. They will see that a Czar and a Grand Duchess of Russia are a match for any Royal family in the world. I want you to look beautiful, Catherine. Wear Grandmother’s rubies at the reception in London! Wear your most elegant dress!”
“Oh, I shall do you credit, Alexander,” she promised. “I’ve no doubt they think it odd you brought me with you instead of Elizabeth.”
“Their opinion doesn’t interest me,” he said stonily. “I do what I please. I’m allowing Elizabeth to come to Vienna for the Congress.”
Catherine said nothing. She knew what had been said about them in Paris; no doubt London would form the same opinion. Her thwarted ambition derived a fierce pleasure from the scandal her trip with Alexander was causing. He had never let her have power on her own account, but sharing his was almost as good.
She lifted his hand and kissed it, and he bent and kissed her cheek.
“With your permission, I’ll go below,” she said.
“I’ll follow in a few minutes. Go and rest, my sister.”
When she had gone he leant against the ship’s rail, staring out to sea.
Alexander hated London. He hated the Prince Regent and the members of the English Court, and his dislike was brought to the point of explosion by his sister. Catherine made enemies everywhere as soon as she arrived; the gloss of the State visit was tarnished by her outrageous conduct to the Regent’s mistress, the middle-aged Lady Hertford, her sweeping arrogance and her unguarded tongue. She thought London small, ugly and ridiculous compared to the splendours of St. Petersburg and the great Czarist Palaces; she though the English cold and condescending to someone as important as her brother, and the English ladies timid and plain compared to herself; she disliked Castlereagh and went out of her way to insult Metternich, who was also visiting London at that time. And she aired her opinions everywhere she went. Together brother and sister went through the round of Balls and Banquets arranged in their honour, causing comment by their intimate manner with each other and offence by their disregard of protocol. The Regent was polite to the Czar, but he conveyed the same impressions as King Louis of France; he considered the Russian a barbarian whom he was obliged to entertain, and Alexander sensed it with increasing fury. He towered over the fat little Prince, taller by a head than most of the English courtiers, trying to hide his anger under the charm which had once been so famous. As far as the younger and prettier English ladies were concerned, he was successful, but politically, the visit was a failure. His rage redoubled at the sight of Metternich, always the polished courtier, making himself popular at the expense of the Czar and the Grand Duchess.
And Catherine, stung by the snubs she had invited, incensed him still further. “This miserable place,” she said venomously, “dismal and cold even in June, with its ridiculous houses, small enough to fit into one floor of their own Palaces, and that gross idiot with his pomposity and his elderly frumps. Bah!” She almost spat her contempt, and Alexander listened, his face reddening with anger and disappointment.
He had beaten Napoleon, he thought again and again, and this was his reward! He left Dover on the 26th of June to return to Russia before the opening of the great Congress of Vienna which was to decide the peace of the world.
He arrived in Vienna in September, prepared to fight his former allies as bitterly as he had fought Napoleon.