WE did not reach Dresden until midnight. [December 13-14.] Our postilion, who had assured me that he knew where the French minister lived, spent so long driving us up and down the town without finding it that at last I grew impatient and ordered him to stop and make enquiries. But everyone was asleep. The whole place was in darkness and we had to go on a long way before we could see a lighted window. The postilion knocked at the door and rang the bell for some time before a man, wearing a nightcap, put his head out of the window and asked what we wanted. Upon our asking him to direct us to the French minister’s house, the doctor (for such he was, as I subsequently learned) shut his window with a bang, evidently considering that he was under no obligation to expose himself to the cold by talking to people in good health. So we had to resume our exploration of the town for some considerable time in search of a constable. Luckily we met a Saxon who proved more obliging than the doctor. He conducted us to M. Serra’s door, and there we found everything ready, as though he had been waiting for us.
The Emperor started work at once. He dictated to me despatches to the King of Naples and the Prince of Neuchatel, several orders for Warsaw and a despatch for Vienna. When he had finished his correspondence the Emperor left us the task of sending it off. He supped and went to bed, telling me to wake him when the King of Saxony arrived—for that sovereign did not want His Majesty to be put to the trouble of going to the Palace. While he took his rest M. Serra helped me send off the despatches.
The Emperor had been asleep for an hour when the King of Saxony appeared [three A.M.], accompanied by Counts Loss and Marcolini. He insisted on His Majesty’s receiving him in bed; consequently I had the honour of taking the King immediately to his apartment. The two sovereigns were together for three-quarters of an hour.
Instructions had already been given for the continuation of our journey through Saxony. Our sledge was not in a fit state to proceed farther,85 so the King lent the Emperor his berline fitted with runners. After I had had the honour of accompanying the King to his carriage the Emperor told me that he would start at five o’clock, and bid me awake him at half-past four, in time to sign his letters before taking his seat in the carriage. At his orders I wrote to Baron Saint-Aignan, his minister at Weimar, instructing him to prepare his carriage and have it ready at Erfurt. For two relays we were drawn by horses from the Court, and near Leipzig we passed the couriers who had been sent on to have horses ready for us in my name. So we were obliged to stay in that town to let them get ahead of us. Dusk was falling. While supper was being prepared the Emperor had the curiosity to stroll about the square and in the gardens outside the city. We stayed outdoors for a couple of hours; the cold was much less intense than in Poland.
During the journey that we had just made the Emperor talked again about the Tsar Alexander, Erfurt, the Duke of Abrantès, the peerage and the hatred in which the nobility were held. What I am about to record is the gist of several conversations in the course of which he repeated the same things. He spoke in praise of Count Daru.
“He works like a horse,” he said; “he is a man of rare capacity, my best administrator. He has never asked me for anything. He administered Prussia and the conquered territories with a tact and delicacy of feeling of which he alone has given the example. In an enemy country he lived at his own expense, not even benefiting by the advantages enjoyed by others, and which he was entitled to claim. I took care to recompense him for his disinterestedness.”
The Emperor returned to the subject of Tilsit. There he had found the Tsar Alexander an ideologist full of ill-digested notions as to his situation, but actuated by excellent intentions, though he lacked experience. The emotions which estranged him from his wife 86 had filled him with false ideas, even as to the need experienced by nations and great States for an heir to the dynasties which ruled over them. These notions had apparently carried him to the length of admitting advantages in an elective monarchy that placed merit on the throne—whereas hereditary succession commonly placed there an incapable, ill-trained fool. The Tsar Alexander felt no regret at his Empress’s having borne him no children. In general, he substituted all the virtues of good nature for those resulting from clear reason. He was a conscientious private individual, not a prince. In his childlessness he saw only one responsibility the less, and a responsibility which by his love of what was right seemed to him a serious burden. He was apparently imbued with the idea that monarchs ought to govern for the people, and are instituted for the people.
“That is also my maxim,” added the Emperor, dwelling on this principle as if he suspected me of doubting it, and wished to convince me. “Instead of enjoying it, the Tsar appeared to me to be weary of sovereign power and a monarch’s life, with its round of exacting duties for the man who regards the happiness of his people as a sacred trust held by him from Providence. Alexander is very religious. He is too liberal in his views and too democratic for his Russians. He will be the victim of this: that nation needs a strong hand. He would be more suited to the Parisians, he is just the sort of king the French would like. Gallant to women, flattering with men, even with those towards whom he ought to show his displeasure (for he knows better than anyone else how to hide his feelings), his fine bearing and extreme courtesy are very pleasing. Your good Frenchman loves flattery. He does not like my serious mien, and my firmness often proves irksome to him.
“Our conversations at Tilsit, his relations with you, and what passed at Erfurt have all combined to form the Tsar’s opinions. He is clever. Nothing escapes him and his memory serves him perfectly. Since that time his own reflections and the course of events have furnished him with the experience that he previously lacked. He came to Erfurt quite a different man from what he appeared to be at Tilsit. I noticed at Erfurt that he was defiant and unspeakably obstinate. He wanted to treat with me as between equals. As a matter of fact, circumstances were in his favour and he took advantage of them. He might have obtained much more, but fortunately he only paid attention to the effect that would be produced in Russia by the hope of getting Wallachia and Moldavia; he did not insist upon the evacuation of the forts on the Oder and of part of Prussia. More fortunately still, Austria exhibited some ill-humour and distrust. If the man she sent to Erfurt had been enabled to explain openly the views held by his Court, and to show some interest in Prussia, it would have made some impression on Alexander. I should have been placed in a very awkward situation: but even Prussia only sent an incapable fellow, and no one profited by the occasion.
“Anyhow, I was prepared for whatever might happen. I still had my troops at hand; the sacrifice in Spain was three-quarters made; I should have crushed Austria before anyone could have stopped me. The Russians had not got over their defeat and were in no condition to make war. One might even have done me a service by forcing me to leave Spain; though it would have been disagreeable, after the reverses we had met with there, and especially to have left the English in the field. Threatened by Austria, I should have evacuated a great part of Prussia and retained only a fort on the Oder, as security for the assessments. It is probable that such an arrangement would have caused many changes. We should not be here now. Other combinations would have been necessary in order to establish a buffer-state. With Prussia liberated, restored and re-established, all political combinations would have been modified. Perhaps things would have been better and more advanced, for I should have been obliged to pay more attention to my war in Spain; I should have induced Russia to maintain the alliance and carry out the Continental System against England.
“Thus it is that the most insignificant incidents can change the fate of the world, just as the mistakes of our enemies often serve them to better purpose than the talents of their generals and lead us into even greater errors ourselves. I was wrong in not remaining at Witepsk to organize the country, or in not leaving Moscow a week after I entered the city. The reverses I have met with are due solely to that. I thought that I should be able to make peace, and that the Russians were anxious for it. I was deceived and I deceived myself. Then, Maret and the Abbé de Pradt have not turned Poland to account. I expected to find it in arms, and it was asleep. Maret beguiled the Poles, the archbishop discouraged them. I could not have made a worse choice or entrusted my affairs to a less capable man. I have been deceived by his cleverness. He knows how to argue and flatter, but he is incapable of showing action. The most insignificant of my secretaries would have done better.
“Men of his stamp, belonging to the Old Régime, are usually worth more than that. They are not liked in the army or the Court; yet look at Narbonne! Never did leader inspire more zeal in his men; despite his age he undergoes fatigues and privations like a young man. Yet he is upheld solely by a sense of honour. You men of the old army do not like these new adherents; in general, you do not like the émigrés. Every time I admit one, whether to the Court or to the army, I find grumbling and sulking. The bolder spirits take umbrage; it is not so long since they were even ready to rear like a horse annoyed by the bad hands of a poor rider.”
I maintained that the opposition of which he spoke was well-founded so far as some people were concerned, for they but little merited the personal benevolence he showed towards them; though so far as M. Narbonne was concerned, he was universally liked and appreciated.
“This even applies to you, Caulaincourt,” he said. “Although you have risen from the ranks like the rest, though you are a soldier and your success the fruit of your own labours, as is the case with all my generals—yet your birth and your position as a nobleman arouse jealousy. I have had to uphold you, and on more than one occasion have been obliged to defend you. You are an object of envy; I have often received accusations against you; they tried to discredit you in my eyes after Moreau’s trial, because you continued to see him, even after the days of the army of the Rhine.87 It was but a pretext; your real fault, in the eyes of those zealous souls, lies in the fact that you are of noble birth. I was not taken in. These prejudices are shared by many honest men. Having brought about your downfall they would have attacked Duroc and Lauriston. The men who are so proud of bearing a title to-day, not so long ago were bitter against those who had one. Junot alone does not share this weakness. He considers himself more a marquis, more of a great nobleman than the Beauvaus; but Lannes and Bessières and Lefèbvre were eaten up with resentment. If I did the slightest thing for a man of noble birth, even if his claim to a title extended to no further than his father’s purchase of it, they talked to me as though I were acting against my own interests; but I saw through them. Fortunately I have never had a favourite, but if I had singled out any particular person, if I had favoured anyone of noble birth with my confidence, it would have made some men actually ill. By consolidating all interests, by mingling all classes and fortunes, time will exhaust these jealousies.”
The Emperor spoke well of various persons, especially of Marshal Bessières, upon whose attachment he relied. He praised his integrity, and his effective administration of the Guard.
“I was obliged to take it from Lannes,” he said. “The itch to amass a fortune, and the advice he took from some knaves who made him their dupe, would have ruined him had I not removed him from that administration. No man,” he repeated, “has ever been or still is 88 more attached to me than Lannes is at heart. More than once he has given me proofs of this by exposing himself in perilous circumstances, but he loves me as a man loves his mistress and wants to manage me, or at least influence me, in order to obtain what he wants. Having been often refused, for his demands are in favour of schemers, he loses his temper; and being passionate by nature, he is then capable of anything. More than once, in such moments, he has done me a wrong which might have proved serious to anyone else, if he had to do with a sovereign of a different nature from mine, or one who held the human race in greater esteem.”
After mentioning several acts which had led him to forbid Lannes for a time to appear at the Tuileries, the Emperor went on to say that this marshal had a strain of opposition and censoriousness in his character which blinded him and outweighed his attachment to his person. He was indiscreet and immoderate. To support this assertion he told me of a certain person to whom the marshal had boasted of what he had said to the Tsar of Russia, shortly before the last war with Austria. At the time of the Erfurt interview the Emperor had accredited Lannes to meet the Tsar, and as he travelled in the carriage with that monarch, he told him that the Emperor Napoleon meant to deceive him, that his ambition knew no bounds, that he breathed only war as the means of reaching the end he had in view, and that he, the Tsar, should know better than to trust him. Lannes even bragged of having added various intimate details and cited facts to enlighten the Tsar, as he called it, and prevent his becoming the Emperor’s dupe.
“I heard this in confidence,” said His Majesty; “and it explained Alexander’s conduct and his distrust at Erfurt. I did not mention the matter to the marshal; it would have comoro-mised the man who reported it to me, and I might have had further occasion for his services. Nothing I could have said to the marshal would have changed him. Had he found himself unmasked he would have become an irreconcilable enemy, whereas he subsequently behaved like an honest fellow. Besides, in other circumstance he had made a rampart of his body in my defence and he died a hero’s death, though his conduct had been that of a traitor; for his mission to the Tsar was simply a matter of courtesy and he had not been called upon to express any opinion on me or my affairs. He was not proof against flattering remarks or the confidence that Alexander pretended to place in him; still less was he able to forget an old grudge he had against me—I do not know on what score—for he was as violent in his feelings as he was impetuous on the field of battle. In his latter years he had an admirable coolness and had become as distinguished a general as he was audacious as a leader. He was one of my best generals, perhaps the most efficient on the battle-field. Men are like that, Caulaincourt,” said the Emperor. “I am condemned for holding them in slight esteem. Am I wrong? Should I ever grant pardon, should I ever forget, if I expected them to be better than they can be or than they really are?”
I return once more to the inn at Leipzig where, by the time we returned, the stove had become red-hot to warm us. Our dinner or supper, whichever you like to call it, was not yet ready, so the Emperor stretched himself on some chairs which I had placed together near the fire, and I seized the opportunity to continue my notes. At last supper was served. Extremely impatient to be on the road again, His Majesty cut the meal as short as he could.
Just as he was going downstairs a young Frenchman, who said he was a staff officer and was staying at the hotel, presented himself to the Emperor for the purpose of giving an account, as he said, of a secret mission on which he had been sent by the general of the staff. I was habitually so close to the Emperor at any time he was likely to be accosted, that I found myself between him and this officer, who was so eager that he jostled us. A crowd had collected, attracted by the splendid appearance of the King of Saxony’s sledge. The Emperor was hurrying to reach this vehicle and for the moment paid no attention to the man, but, struck by his manner rather than by his insistence, His Majesty paused. Then, guessing that it was probably a spy—or worse—posing as an officer, he promptly dismissed him. The whole bearing and appearance of this officer appeared to me suspicious. As we left the town I looked behind the carriage, for I had a presentiment that he was following us. There he was, in fact, seated beside our courier, telling him that he had been ordered to accompany us. I ordered him to get down, but it was not easy to make him obey.
Beyond Lutzen there was so little snow in certain parts of the road that the runners of the berline broke. After leaving Auerstadt we had to abandon the King’s fine sledge; and we entered Vigenov at daybreak [December 15] in the courier’s modest calèche. The postmaster, who knew me, came to chat while the relay was being put to, and I believe he recognized the Emperor, although he gave no sign of having done so. His Majesty partook of coffee without alighting from the carriage. At Erfurt we found Baron Saint-Aignan at the posthouse. The Emperor breakfasted with him, spoke of affairs and issued various orders to him and to the commandant of the place. After an hour we started again, in a landau that M. Saint-Aignan had caused to be fitted up so that the Emperor could lie at full length in it. His Majesty was delighted with this, and several times said that a good carriage, at the end of a long journey, gave greater pleasure than a comfortable bed after three months under canvas. He made me get rid of the Saxon gendarme who had been on the seat behind us since we had left Dresden, and we took a French one in his place.
When we reached Eisenach the horses were not ready, although it was more than two hours since they had been ordered. Tired of waiting in the carriage, after half an hour the Emperor alighted and entered the posting house to warm himself and chat with the postmistress, a very pretty young woman. Her husband made us the deepest of bows, but without putting himself to the trouble of getting us on our way. Seeing that the horses he said he had requisitioned from the inhabitants did not appear, and that my repeated demands evoked nothing but Gleich (immediately), it was clear that nightfall would find us in the difficult defiles of mountain and forest, so I left the Emperor and went out to make enquiries.
All I could learn was that the horses ought to arrive. My mind was filled with the idea that perhaps it was known that the traveller was none other than the Emperor; that they were deliberately delaying us until nightfall with the intention of setting an ambuscade. I was surprised, moreover, that a posthouse which I knew to be so well supplied with relays should have to requisition horses when they had been warned in advance of our coming. As we had met no travellers on the road, I was anxious to speak to someone and assure myself that there really were no posthorses. I went into the courtyard to find out why the horses requisitioned in the town had not come, and talked to a postilion as my eyes wandered round looking for the stables. I enquired whether the postmaster had no horses. He stealthily pointed with his finger to the stables, which were closed. I tapped on the door softly, saying in German March auf (Open!). Mistaking my voice for one of his fellows’, a postilion opened the door immediately. I found ten excellent horses which were being reserved, no doubt, for some better occasion.
All the postilions ran up as soon as they saw me in the stable. I ordered them to harness the horses and put them to the carriage. At this they tried to make off, but I stopped three of them and called to the gendarme, whom I saw beneath the archway, to hold the others. Warned by one of the postilions, the postmaster hastened up and forbade his horses to be used. Upon this a great turmoil ensued. When I saw that the best reasons in the world failed to move him and that the postilions dared not disobey, I grabbed him by the collar and forced him into a corner of the stable, ordering him to have the horses put to instantly. He resisted, and I saw that the noise of our struggle had already attracted a small crowd. Also, the gendarme was having trouble detaining the postilions, who were trying to make their escape. I drew my sword, presented the point to the postmaster, and told him that if anyone came in from outside or made a movement, or if the horses were not harnessed in five minutes’ time, I would run him through. Thanks to the sword point, which made him realize that I was a man of my word, this argument proved as irresistible to him as to his postilions. The horses were harnessed in the twinkling of an eye. One of the postmaster’s friends, who called himself a counsellor of the Duke, appeared on the scene and at the beginning of the discussion was inclined to take his part, but I told him so curtly to mind his own business that he went off without another word. The postmaster’s wife appeared when she saw their horses being led out. Learning what had happened, she ran weeping to the Emperor and stammered in broken French that her husband was being ill-treated. The Emperor came up just as the last horses were being led across the courtyard. I followed them with the postmaster, to whom the Emperor handed over his loving wife, telling them that they had done wrong to treat travellers in such a manner.
The Emperor did not know what to make of the postmaster’s behaviour. The delay had startled him, and we remained on the alert all night. [December 15-16.] Never, I think, was I so glad to see daybreak, for never had the Emperor been in any situation that worried me more. It was bitter cold. We travelled rapidly, despite the bad Westphalian roads. A clumsy postilion managed to snap the carriage pole, but a couple of straps sufficed to mend it and we lost no more than half an hour. The Emperor stopped at Hanau and sent for M. d’Albini, minister of the Prince Bishop, to whom he talked while at his breakfast. This gentleman was not a little surprised to see His Majesty, especially with such a modest suite.
A league before reaching the Rhine we met M. Anatole Montesquiou, whom I had despatched from Molodetchna. He was on his way back from Paris, where he had stayed but a few hours. The news he had carried thither would have prepared the public for the bulletin. He brought word of the Empress, and was, I assume, very agreeably surprised to meet the Emperor and thus have his journeying brought to so speedy a conclusion. His Majesty asked him about the Empress and his son, and then started him off for Paris at once with news of us. But we met him again on the banks of the Rhine which, by reason of the floating ice, had to be crossed by boat. Thereafter he followed us.
When we had reached the farther side the Emperor went on foot to the posthouse, while his carriage was being ferried over and disembarked. I never remember seeing the Emperor so light-hearted. Setting foot once more on French soil made him forget all his weariness, and perhaps even his misfortunes, for a moment. When he reached the posting-house the postmaster recognized him. Marshal Valmy, for whom he sent and to whom he talked while the horses were being harnessed, could not believe his own eyes. We were on the road again before seven o’clock. Fagalde, who had been sent by way of Gumbinnen and had rejoined us at Glogau, had acted as courier,89 together with Amodru, since we had left Dresden. They continued their duties now that we were in France.
Fresh despatches from Paris led the conversation to the Malet affair and elicited from the Emperor several observations that ... seemed to me worth recording.
“Observe,” said the Emperor, “how the Revolution and the confirmed habit of changing governments have destroyed all idea of order and stability. There is still much for me to do towards re-establishing the social order.... When my death was announced, not one of those soldiers or officials gave a single thought to my son. The idea of the King of Rome did not even occur to Frochot. It seemed to him simpler to have a fresh revolution than to maintain the established order of things. But when I get to Paris everyone will boast of his own devotion to me, and Frochot with the rest of them, if I admit him to my presence. An example must be made, for fidelity is perhaps a more sacred duty in a magistrate than in a soldier, who has only to obey the orders he receives without questioning them. Errors committed by magistrates are serious matters; for they are expected to set an example. How blind men are, even where their own interests are concerned! ... France needs me for another ten years. If I were to die there would be general chaos; every throne would collapse if my son’s collapsed; for I perceive that all I have done still is very unstable.”
“Our institutions and organizations are not completed,” I said. “All the powerful interests of the country must be enlisted for the preservation of the existing—”
“You need a peerage,” the Emperor interrupted briskly; “an aristocracy adapted to the time we live in; but with the fickleness of this nation and the pretensions of the generals it will be a good ten years before those new institutions will exercise sufficient influence. If there were more talent among the army commanders, they would be like Caesar’s lieutenants and divide the world among themselves; but none has the genius necessary to accomplish a revolution so great as this, though it might save you in the event of my dying.... If I were to die, the danger would lie in the weakness of the Regency and the intrigues of the generals who want all the interest, all the places, and especially all the money. You would not pull through, particularly if you failed to take immediate steps to decrease the numbers of the Guard. Observe that I, myself, have not put all arms of that service under the same commander. A very firm will is needed to keep the Guard in hand.
“Malet is a lunatic. He must be, if he believed he could overturn a government just by suspending the activities of the police and hoodwinking some senior officers and a prefect for a matter of three hours, when there was an army of two hundred thousand men abroad and he had not one accomplice in high office nor in the provinces. He is a man who wanted to get himself shot by getting himself talked about, but his action has proved conclusively what I had partly suspected—that no great faith can be put in mankind. The men of the Old Régime were unruly and factious. They rose in revolt when they dared, but they would not permit an underling to rebel and they were faithful to their oath. The notions of monarchy and hereditary titles—the desire to preserve the existing order of things—these belong to a new language which is to be learned by the rising generation; but they will never be in the dictionary of the men of to-day. They have already forgotten the misfortunes of the Revolution.
“Clarke boasts of his devotion, of what he did and the orders he gave, possibly after the event; but he did not even put on his boots to go to the nearest barracks and make sure of the troops. ... He saw Jacobins everywhere. We will see who is right. To ensure that the thing shall be unravelled I have not even changed the Minister of Police; for he is more concerned than anyone else in repairing the harm brought about by his lack of foresight.
“Savary clings to his ministry and the salary. He is afraid of losing his post, although, so far as that goes, he no longer needs it, as I have given him plenty of money. He has at least five or six millions. Whether as aide-de-camp or as cabinet minister, he was always asking me for money, and this displeased me. Not that he was alone in this, for never did Ney or Oudinot or many another open or finish a campaign without coming to me for cash. Savary had no fortune; he has children and an extravagant wife. I must, however, do him the justice to say that he serves me with zeal. He has a fine appearance, and this is essential in Paris. His squabbles with Maret weary me. He is always at odds with him. I do not like this bickering; they are jealous of each other. Savary thinks that I prefer Maret to himself. Do you know who put them against one another?”
“I do not know at all.”
“Probably their wives: they would embroil empires. My other ministers never bother me on that score. They understand one another and do not weary me with their petty jealousies or dislikes. Sometimes I have wanted to get Cambacérès married, but, when all is said and done, it would have been a nuisance. Women have pretensions, and the wives of functionaries have always been a nuisance at Court. One does not know where to rank them, nor what precedence to give them when there are foreign ladies present.
“Poor Savary is not treated well by the Paris correspondents. Everyone ridicules him. It is always a stroke of luck for many conspirators when a Minister of Police gets the worst of it, though another comes to take his place. Savary’s fall appears certain, and it seems as if everyone wants the honour of dealing him the first blow.”
“That is one reason, Sire, why you should stand up for him and keep him, for, as you say, he will now do better than another. If there has been no conspiracy, if Malet is the sole author of this folly, Savary is justified.”
“You are right, but I can scarcely believe it is so. Savary is the dupe of some conspirators who have blinded his eyes, or this would have slipped out to Pasquier, who is a good observer. We shall know all about it—tell me, in how many hours?”
“In forty-four hours, Sire.”
“I say in thirty-six.”
Upon this the Emperor made me relight the candle; and he set to work reckoning alternately by the map and the road-book how many hours it would take us. After disputing about minutes, as if it lay in my power to prolong our journey, he then spoke of his anticipated joy at seeing the Empress and his son, and then began to tease at my ear and joke about the eight hours that he was obliged to add to his calculations—which he spent a couple of hours in going over again. Each stage, each quarter of a stage, each quarter of an hour, each minute, was reckoned up. Our inevitable halts, our moments of rest, all were curtailed; the difficulties and delays of the road were whittled down to a minimum. The Emperor forgot Malet, the police, all his troubles. By daylight his expression showed me that he was already dreaming of the Tuileries, where I was as anxious to see him safely installed as he was to be there. He seemed so confident and happy that for me, also, this was one of the pleasantest moments of our journey.
The following day the Emperor supped at Verdun. [December 17.] Having resumed a wheeled carriage at Erfurt, we had to stop twice a day to grease the axles, and we took advantage of this forced delay to eat. After leaving Dresden the Emperor spoke of nothing but Paris, of the Empress’s surprise at seeing him, of how everyone would be astonished. From Frankfort onwards he calculated the hour of his arrival in Paris and at each stage confirmed his certainty of reaching there before midnight, if nothing delayed us. The more frequently he met the couriers, the more avid he was for details. He was more satisfied than he had expected to be with the attitude of public opinion, and with its reception of the news of our retreat from Moscow, coupled with the interruption of all communications, but he was much concerned with the effect the bulletin would have caused, and was surprised at getting no news of it, especially as M. Montesquiou, who preceded his messenger, had rejoined us. Judging by private correspondence, every family was too occupied with its own stake in Russia to pay great attention to public affairs. It was not thought that there could have been a battle; the Russians were supposed to be in no condition to fight. This opinion made any disquietude less lively. Our disasters were entirely ignored. As we subsequently learned, it had not been possible to publish the famous bulletin which depicted them so tragically until the sixteenth, two days later than the Emperor thought.
This delay annoyed the Emperor, who would have liked the publication to have preceded his arrival by some days. He had travelled more rapidly than he realized. Habitually so calm and impassive, His Majesty was now agitated by so many diverse emotions, regrets and hopes, he had such happiness before him and had left such misery behind, that he could not hide his feelings. After talking for some considerable time about the various things that filled his mind, he returned for the third time to our adventure at Eisenach. He could not understand the behaviour of the postmaster, who had been warned a long time in advance, and knew that the horses were for a distinguished traveller. The place, the hour, everything rendered his conduct suspicious. The Emperor ordered me to write to Baron Saint-Aignan, instructing him to obtain precise information regarding the motives for the man’s behaviour, and to complain to the government if necessary. He was to make his report at once.
“As it is a personal matter,” added the Emperor, “I do not wish the postmaster to be arrested now, nor to be dismissed. But it would be satisfactory to know there was no intrigue at the back of it.”
The conversation returned to affairs in general. What the Emperor had said to me about the King of Naples’s schemes [for a United Italy] gave me a chance to speak of Rome and the Pope. I deprecated the latter’s captivity,90 which, I told him, created a bad effect everywhere, even though Christendom no longer drew the sword to back up the thunders of the Vatican. The Emperor agreed that it was an unpleasant business. He said:
“In removing the Pope from Rome for the time being, I had thought to get him away from some bad advice. I should perhaps have done better to leave him there; my government is strong enough in Italy to make even the priests feel it. To this coup d’état, nonetheless, I owe the tranquillity that that country has enjoyed for the past year. The English have not stopped pouring money in there, to start at least partial insurrections; and they have miscarried. Not even the most timid consciences, if their owners wished to be fair-minded, could find anything more than a political difference in my disputes with the Pope. The Church has me to thank for the re-establishment of the True Faith in France—perhaps for its survival in Europe—and I am surely as good a Catholic as Charles V was, who also carried off a Pope without becoming a heretic in consequence.
“If I had followed the advice of several very enlightened men at the moment when I restored religion, I should not have made myself dependent upon Rome. They suggested alternatives to me. I might have done like the Tsars; have created a sort of Patriarch, and made myself head of the Church, or at least its protector, as the King of Prussia is of Protestantism. (Speaking of that, everybody is Protestant now, since no one goes to confession any more.) The other alternative was to form a permanent council or committee of bishops for the administration of matters spiritual—in fact, a Gallican Church. That would have changed no usages, and so would have offended none of the devout; for no one would have known the nature of my accountings with Rome.
“... Now,” the Emperor added, “it is indispensable to establish the Pope in France, and to bring the cardinals there, so as to have the Sacred College under one’s influence. This preference belongs to France; her papist population forms the largest clientele the Pope has. He would then find himself in the midst of his flock. Where should I be now if the Pope had died, and this sensible, moderate successor to the Chief Apostle had been replaced by an Austrian or an Italian, angry and ultramontane—as would inevitably have been the case?
“... The clergy,” he said, “is a power that never is quiet. Against you unless it is for you, it serves none free of charge. You cannot be under obligations to it, wherefore you must be its master.... Before it can be the auxiliary of government, it has to be its friend; and to secure that, the clergy must have its rights clearly defined. With me its pretensions can come to nothing; but after me they could cause disorder. God has given me the strength to undertake great things, and to delight in them. I must not leave them incomplete. The clergy must be restricted to reconciling us with heaven—to consoling our women and us, when we grow old—and must surrender to us the power of this world: Roi dans le temple, sujet à la porte.”
The army and Poland furnished inexhaustible topics of conversation. Two army couriers, with news of the happenings during the sixty hours that succeeded our departure, reached us one after the other. The King of Naples and Berthier reported that the rout continued; the intensity of the cold had caused many to desert the colours, even many of the Guard; but there was nothing to prepare us for the events that were to follow—nothing even that might have made us foresee them.91 The Emperor was well aware that his departure would have increased the disorder to some extent, and that it would affect the Guard more than the other corps, but as Wilna was the goal that everyone was striving for, it mattered little to him whether the men reached there singly or with their units. As the issue of rations and clothing were only to be made to men with the colours, he appeared certain of being able to rally the army. His despatches confirmed him more than ever in the opinion that the army would hold Wilna. It was in vain that I combated this view. He jested and laughed at my arguments, which he called misgivings.
“You see everything in its worst light,” he said.
Nothing but the actual outcome of events was able to undeceive him. At that moment he was more than ever filled with hopes. To find himself back in France seemed to signalize the return of his good fortune. He had a presentiment that his Star was again in the ascendant, and, certain of being able to control events, he could think no more about the disasters which, forty hours previously, he had been able to face as clearly as I did.
Towards Harville we overtook Fagalde, one of the grooms, who had not been able to get beyond Mars-le-Tour. At Saint-Jean the front axle-tree of our carriage broke, some five hun. dred paces from the posthouse. The Emperor took his place beside me in a little open cabriolet which had served for the courier who had followed us. We had to give up our heavy cloaks, as there was no room for them. Since leaving Fulda we had noticed a great difference in the temperature. It was in this croquant that we drove into Meaux. Only Amodru had remained with us; and he still had the energy to ride ahead of us and order horses, though we were driving as though the devil were behind us.
The Emperor had been recognized at Mayence; the postilions told everyone who he was, but the postmasters would only believe it when they saw him for themselves. As for the postilions, they whirled us onward like men certain in advance of the napoleon that I was to give to each. It is impossible to convey any idea of the eagerness exhibited by the stable hands and postmaster, immediately on our arrival at the beginning of a stage, when they heard from the men who had brought us that it was the Emperor himself and not merely the Master of Horse, as our advance-courier had announced. From Metz onward we thought we had come into spring; the ice had given place to horrible mud. At Meaux the postmaster gave us his own chaise that closed properly and took us right to the Tuileries. Since leaving Claye poor Amodru, overcome by drowsiness rather than by fatigue, kept swaying in the saddle, and I had to encourage him every moment. At the sound of my voice he would wake up with renewed energy. At last the moment arrived when he was to ride ahead into the courtyard and hand us out at the Tuileries.
Without being told to do so, and before the mounted sentinels had time to challenge him, the postilion drove at a gallop through the Arc de Triomphe.92
“That’s a good sign,” the Emperor said to me.
Safe and sound, he got out at the main gateway just as the clock was striking the quarter before midnight. [December 18, 1812.] I had unbuttoned my overcoat far enough to show the braid of my uniform. The sentries, taking us for despatch officers, let us pass; and so we got through to the door of the open gallery that overlooks the Gardens. The porter, who had gone to bed, came out with a lamp in his hand, and dressed only in his shirt, to see who was knocking. Our faces looked so strange to him that he called his wife. I had to repeat my name three or four times over before I could persuade them to open the door. Nor was it without difficulty and a lot of blinking—she stuck the lamp right into my face—that either of them knew who I was. Then she unlocked, while he was calling one of the regular footmen. The Empress had just retired. I asked to be shown into the quarters of her ladies-in-waiting, ostensibly to give her word that the Emperor would follow me, as our custom was. All this time the porter and the rest of them were looking over the Emperor from head to foot. “It’s the Emperor!” one of them shouted. I cannot tell you how pleased they were. They could scarcely contain themselves.
The two ladies-in-waiting on the Empress came out of her apartment at the very moment when I came into theirs. My two-weeks’ beard, the state of my clothes, my fur-lined boots,—all this, I imagine, struck them as unfavourably as it had the porter; for I had to repeat the good news of the Emperor’s arrival over and over before I could stop their fleeing from the ghost they thought they saw. Finally the Emperor’s name reassured them, and helped them to recognize me. One of them announced me to the Empress. Meanwhile the Emperor, who had scarcely been able to hide his impatience, brought my errand to an end by coming into the Empress’s apartment and saying to me:
“Good-night, Caulaincourt. You need some rest, too.”
I went immediately to the Archchancellor’s, as the Emperor had instructed me to do. The Prince had little thought that the despatch he sent off by the evening post would reach its destination so quickly. If I had not come by the post-chaise—if a footman in the palace livery had not come with me, and the postilion’s uniform had not been my passport—I should have had trouble again in being admitted at the Archchancellor’s. I could have got nowhere on my looks. The Court footman had more or less to stand sponsor for me, for the Prince’s servants looked me over and did not know for sure what to make of this figure that none of them recognized or would announce. M. Jaubert, of the Bank, and a number of others who were in the Prince’s salon, stood as though petrified at this apparition. Everyone looked at me without saying a word. None knew what to make either of my arrival or of this figure that seemed not to fit the name which had been announced. After the first impression produced by my attire and my beard, the same thought came to them all:
“Where is the Emperor? What’s the news? Can something have happened to him?”
That was what everybody said, without being able to utter a word. The terrible bulletin had come out; none had awakened that morning with pleasant impressions. They felt glum. None knew the Emperor was in Paris; why was the Master of Horse there? Why had he left the Emperor? The hour, the pale lamp-light, the uncertainties they had been through, the melancholy details they had learned and those for which they were waiting,—all this filled their minds with gloom and inclined them to sad forebodings. Such was the state of those in the salon, while I stood there waiting for the footman to return from announcing me in the Prince’s study. That dumb show cannot be described. All stared at me without the power to speak: they seemed to be holding their breath. Each tried to read his own sentence in my glance—and the expression of all their faces betrayed more fear than hope. I had spoken to M. Jaubert,; when his first astonishment had worn off, he exclaimed:
“And the Emperor, Your Grace—?”
He could not finish his question. Each repeated those words with an air of dismay:
“And the Emperor? Where is he?”
“In Paris,” I answered.
At that all their faces brightened up, and I went in to see the Prince. He greeted me with the same exclamation, which I broke in upon to give him reassurance. I conveyed the Emperor’s orders, chatted a few minutes, and enjoined upon him to have the cannon announce the Emperor’s return at dawn. He was also to advise the ministers and the Court that levee would be held at eleven o’clock, and so on.
On reaching my quarters I ordered that a page be sent to Madame Mere and to each of the Princesses at eight in the morning, to announce the Emperor’s arrival to them. I wrote the Lord Chamberlain concerning the palace staff....
On the morrow [December 19] the Emperor ordered me to take over the portfolio of Foreign Affairs during the Duke of Bassano’s absence, and to bring him certain parts of the Viennese correspondence, together with the latest treaties with Austria and Prussia. I was wearied from the fourteen nights I had spent on the qui vive, without a wink of sleep, and in a measure depressed by the sense of the responsibilities that such a journey, made under such circumstances, had heaped upon me. Apart from that, moreover, I had been heavily preoccupied lest something happen to the Emperor, who had entrusted himself to my care and good faith. All these recent impressions had induced such a state of nervous exhaustion that I needed some repose. I therefore requested the Emperor to excuse me from this task, and to turn it over to M. de la Bes-nardiere. He acceded.
At eleven o’clock I was at the Tuileries for the levee. The ministers and many of the Household officials (the chamberlains in particular) were at hand. They crowded around and made much of me, as though I had been a favourite—as though I were a man with influence, who had just spent fourteen nights and as many days tête-à-tête with Authority.
The dreadful bulletin had appeared in the Moniteur on the sixteenth. We had had word of that from the last despatch we met along the way. It had produced so strong an impression, even upon the most subservient, that they too sought to read from my expression some news of their dear ones. None dared to ask me for it. The bulletin alone had arrived; not one private letter had been given out. I had the satisfaction of setting many peoples’ minds at rest. But there were, alas, many whom I saddened—even though, after Malo-Jaroslawetz, the army had been so disordered and strung out that the General Staff was unable to give reports about many officers, even of the highest rank. They, unhorsed and in total want, had had to seek their subsistence by following the gangs that ranged along the flanks of the column, now towards the head and now towards the rear. The most resolute were reduced to this cruel necessity; for a whole handful of gold, even before the Beresina, would not have procured a crust of bread....
I return to the attendance chamber, before concluding what relates to the campaign and the Emperor’s journey. As I was saying, the bulletin had produced so woeful a sensation that none dared question me. The lone servant [Roustam] who had accompanied us was sleeping, and had been forbidden besides to tell anything in his conversation. The Emperor spoke out as frankly about our reverses as the bulletin had done. As yet, however, no news could be had of the army’s arrival at Wilna; and consequently he, like everyone else, knew nothing of the worst disasters. His legs were a little bloated, his eyes were puffy, and he had the hue of one whose skin has been tanned by the cold. Otherwise he appeared in good health. He was so happy to find himself in Paris that he did not need to compose his countenance in order to appear satisfied and not at all downcast. He worked the whole day and even part of the night, sending out orders and imparting to all branches of administration the impulse he wished them to have. He seemed to me well content with the state of opinion and of public spirit since the printing of the bulletin. His arrival had calmed many fears and allayed the greatest anxieties—though unhappily without drying the tears of families that had losses to weep for.
The Emperor spoke of his disasters, of the mistake he had made by staying at Moscow, as a stranger might have done.
“The venture failed by a week’s time,” he said. “Everything in the world depends on that. The right moment, timeliness, those are everything.”
In receiving MM. Decrès and Cessac, his first words were:
“Well, well, gentlemen, Fortune dazzled me. I let myself be carried away, instead of following the plan I had made and that I spoke of to you, Monsieur Cessac. I have been to Moscow. I thought to sign peace there. I stayed there too long. I had thought to gain in a year what only two campaigns could achieve. I have made a great blunder; but I shall have the means to retrieve it.”
From the very first the complexion of Paris had looked cheering to him. His return had produced a tremendous effect. The Emperor sensed as much; and after the second day he felt reassured about the consequences that his losses might entail. The losses at Wilna did not alter his opinion.
“The terrible bulletin has had its effect,” he said to me; “but I see that my presence is giving even more pleasure than our disasters give pain. There is more affliction than discouragement. This state of mind will communicate itself to Vienna; and all will be retrieved within three months.”
If I have omitted many things from the details here given of the conversations I had with the Emperor during our long tête-à-tête, I can at least guarantee the accuracy, for the most part down even to the very words, of what I do record. Neither conscience nor memory has played me false. I had long been in the habit of telling the Emperor candidly what I thought, without fear of offending him; and I owe it to him to declare that, during this journey, he more often requested me to speak out boldly than to mind what I was saying. He encouraged me especially by the frankness of his discourse and of his confidences. He proved to me what I had already believed: that he did not always love the plain truth, but that he esteemed those who spoke it plainly.
Under other circumstances, if the conversation touched on a matter he would not discuss, he broke it off somehow or other. If he were at home he would leave or dismiss you, or would interrupt with an order foreign to the subject at hand. Sometimes, too, he would say: “You know nothing about that.”
In the sledge, on the contrary, he always prompted. Did he feel himself hurt?—he joked about it. More than anything, he showed the need of unburdening himself. If certain topics were too displeasing to him, he would change the subject momentarily. But that day or the next he would revert to the same question. I venture to assert that during this journey the Emperor was kind enough to hear me without taking offence; and I say once again that I was able to convince myself, from the nature and frankness of his conversation, that one could lay many claims to his confidence who could lay none to his favour.