Almost every day some form of amusement offered itself—races, balls, picnics, and sham fights. There was also a pretty little theatre on the island, established by the popular Commissary General, where amateur plays were performed by the officers, to the great entertainment of all who saw them.
Madame Montholon and Madame Bertrand and, to a certain extent, the gentlemen of the Emperor's suite entered more or less into the festivities of the place. It was only Napoleon who always stayed at home alone. Betsy, who was an especial favorite of Madame Bertrand, was often at Longwood, and very often the latter was the young girl's chaperon at balls or other entertainments.
Yet even when no special gayety was in view, Betsy enjoyed her visits to Longwood, and the ingenuous girl with her frank speech certainly brightened the lives of the exiles. As for Betsy herself it was a great advantage for her to be so much in the society of these French people, with their cultivation and gayety. On cool evenings chairs were brought out on the lawn leading to the billiard-room, and there the Countess of Montholon and Madame Bertrand, with their husbands and children, would spend the hour after sunset listening to the crickets, of which there were thousands. Sometimes they sat on the lawn in the moonlight, gazing long at the sky, which at St. Helena is of a peculiarly deep blue.
Doubtless at such times the hearts of the poor exiles were far away among home scenes in France, and even lively Betsy for the time was quiet and subdued.
One splendid starry night, as they were all on the lawn near the billiard-room steps after a very sultry day, they heard a sound as if heavy wagons were lumbering over the ground beneath. Those nearer the house thought that it was about to fall about their heads. Dr. O'Meara and Major Blakeney, Captain of the Guard, hastening from the room, expected to find the ladies half dead with fright. All the household, some from their beds, rushed out, looking wonderingly into the sky, and little Tristram Montholon ran to his mother, screaming that some one had tried to throw him out of his bed.
This was in September, and the strange rumbling was caused by an earthquake, the first one in St. Helena for a long time. Many feared for their friends in the valleys with the sharp precipices, but fortunately in the end it was shown that there had been no loss of life.
Napoleon was in bed at the time of the shock.
"Ah Mees Betsee," he asked the next morning, "were you frightened by thetremblement de terre? You look pale and quiet."
Betsy admitted that she had had a little fear at the earthquake.
"I thought," said Napoleon, turning to General Bertrand, "that theConquerorhad blown up in the harbor; but the second or third shock showed that it was an earthquake."
TheConquerorwas the seventy-four gun ship whose arrival Betsy had seen Napoleon observe with great interest.
Betsy, for several nights after the earthquake, was too frightened to go to bed, and in a day or two she was ill with a severe cold, caught while sitting on the veranda. In this case, as always in illness, Napoleon was sympathetic, blaming the climate and adding that the houses ought to have plenty of fireplaces to protect people from sudden changes.
"What would be the use of fireplaces," asked Betsy, "when we have no coals?"
"Then burn the orange trees," responded Napoleon.
From this remark Betsy saw that for some reason the Emperor was not in good humor, for he was one of those who realized the need of more trees on St. Helena, and later—if he had not then begun—devoted much time and money to planting trees in the neighborhood of Longwood. Perhaps the presence of theConquerorin the harbor disturbed him, since this was the vessel that had brought Admiral Pamplin, who was to relieve Admiral Malcom. Sir Pultney Malcom had come to St. Helena with Napoleon, and the two had grown to be very good friends. The Admiral, a courteous old man, with exquisite, kindly manners, showed great consideration for the exile. He paid Napoleon many visits, sent him newspapers, and so far as he could tried to protect him from various annoying things said or done by Governor Lowe.
It was not strange, then, that Napoleon should feel depressed at the thought of Admiral Malcom's departure, and, in consequence, seem a little more brusque than usual with Betsy in talking of her cold.
Napoleon well understood the value of regular occupation and spent many hours daily in reading and writing. He had few of the works of reference that he needed for his historical work, yet he persevered in spite of all difficulties. In the end he really had something to show, volumes of military commentaries, essays on great generals and historical sketches, chiefly of the time of the French Republic. These writings may not all be perfectly accurate, but they show a wonderful memory and grasp of facts. The inaccuracies, indeed, are chiefly such as must result when a man writes without the proper documents and books to verify his statements.
The Memoirs left by Napoleon, the many volumes of conversations collected by his friends on subjects of general interest, as well as those books that relate to the military profession, show the wonderful strength of his mind. His temperate habits were, of course, a great help in carrying out the broad plans that he made for hard work. He took little wine, and then only used it as a medicine.
Napoleon's hours for rising and going to bed were very irregular. Often on moonlight nights he would rise at three o'clock, and when at The Briars he would go to the garden before Toby was up, getting the key from the place where the old slave had hidden it. He would then have an early breakfast of fresh fruits.
Not infrequently, in those early days of his stay at St. Helena, Betsy would see him in the early morning riding around the lawn on his beautiful horse Hope, and when she talked with him she would learn that already he had that day dictated a number of letters. Hope was the first horse Napoleon rode on the island, and it pleased him to think that this name was an augury.
When it came to his bed hour, Napoleon's habits were most uncertain. Frequently, when he was restless, he would have Marchand read him to sleep.
At times when he was ill he resented the doctor's efforts to get him to take medicine. He had original ideas on the best treatment of the sick, and believed strongly in the efficacy of the salt-water bath.
However heterodox his views on any subject, Napoleon seldom hesitated to express them, at least to those in whom he had confidence.
"I have no faith whatever in medicine," said Napoleon one day to a very clever medical man who was on the island. "My own remedies are starvation and the warm bath. Churchmen," he added, "are often hypocrites, because too much is expected of them. Politicians must have a conventional conscience, and soldiers are cut-throats and robbers. But surgeons are neither too good nor too bad; their mission is to benefit mankind, and they have opportunities to study human nature as well as science. I have a higher opinion of the surgical profession than of any other. The practice of the law," he concluded, "is too severe for poor human nature, for he who distorts truth and exults at the success of injustice at last will hardly know right from wrong."
Napoleon liked sailors, and often talked with those who conducted fatigue parties around the island.
One day he asked the girls if they had met one active young reefer, who happened to belong to a distinguished family.
"He is one of the few combinations of high birth and intelligence I have ever seen."
"We know him," was the reply, "and he is one of the most popular men in the ward-room. Oh, how funny he was when we first knew him!" added Betsy. "He was coming back from the Admiral's ball. We met an old cart, and he was surrounded by brother middies, all shouting, 'Lord W.'s carriage stops the way.' Well, we couldn't get past, as the cart had been dragged inside the arch through which we were to pass. Afterwards this same young man had a narrow escape. He was rowing guard when hailed by sentry. On account of the surf, the sentry could not hear him give the password, and so he fired among the crew."
"Yes, he can do anything. Sir Pultney Malcom put him in charge of the government farm, and said he had never seen such vegetables produced on the sterile rocks of St. Helena."
"Whatever British sailors take in hand," said Napoleon, "they never leave undone."
A marble bust of the King of Rome was sent to Napoleon, probably by Maria Louisa. Napoleon gazed on it with proud satisfaction and he seemed pleased with the praises of Betsy and her mother.
"You ought to be proud to be the father of so beautiful a boy," said Mrs. Balcombe.
Smiles lit Napoleon's face, and Betsy, child though she was, was impressed by his expression of paternal fondness.
The bust was of white marble and executed by Caracci, and it bore the names Napoleon François Charles Joseph. The child was shown wearing the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor. It had been brought from Leghorn by the gunner of a ship bound to St. Helena, and although it had come so mysteriously, people generally understood that Maria Louisa herself had taken the trouble to have it sent in this way to Napoleon, her husband.
"Now, come," said Madame Bertrand, after the sisters had spent some time admiring Napoleon's gifts, "let me show you my presents;" for the ship that had brought the bust brought things also to others of the French exiles. These were chiefly for Countess Bertrand and Countess Montholon from Lady Holland, who often remembered them in this way.
"La bonne Lady Holland," as Napoleon called her, was one of the few English women not afraid to show her sympathy with Napoleon and those who had followed him to St. Helena. He was very grateful for her attentions to him now when he was abandoned by the world. "All members of the family of Fox," he said, "abound in liberal, generous sentiments. Fox was sincere in his intentions, and had he lived England would not have been devastated by war. He was the only minister who rightly understood the interests of his country." To show that he had always appreciated Fox, Napoleon told of a visit that the latter with his wife paid to St. Cloud. By mistake he opened the door of a private room, and he was surprised to see there his own statue among those of distinguished citizens of the world, Hampden, Washington, Cicero, Lord Chatham and his son.
The regulation that an officer must accompany him on his rides was a continued annoyance to Napoleon. At first he submitted, and rode off, painfully realizing that a representative of his jailers constantly kept his eye on him. After a time he decided that he would not ride if he could not ride alone, and during the last four years of his life he was not on a horse. As he had depended on riding for exercise during the greater part of his life, he now suffered from giving it up. He not only began to grow extremely stout, but his general health became poorer.
It disturbed Napoleon greatly that the English always addressed him as "General Bonaparte." The title "Emperor" would have been so barren on St. Helena that it is hard to understand why Napoleon should have cared much about it. He might easily have been as philosophic about this as he was about other things.
Soon after his arrival Sir Hudson Lowe addressed a card of invitation to "General Bonaparte."
"Send this card to General Bonaparte," said Napoleon to Count Bertrand. "The last I heard of him was at the Pyramids and Mt. Tabor." Yet Napoleon was never happier, never better loved by the French people, than when, as General Bonaparte, he was received with the greatest enthusiasm on his return from his Italian campaign.
The English, on their part, were foolish in objecting to the use of a title to which he once had had a perfect right, with all its power and dignity. Now, deprived of the substance, there was no reason for forbidding him the pleasure of treasuring the shadow. Sir George Cockburn seems to have been almost childish in writing to Count Bertrand:
"I have no cognizance of any Emperor being actually upon this island, or of any person possessing such dignity (as stated by you) having come here."
Language like this was far more absurd than Napoleon's obstinacy on the subject. Even his good friend, Admiral Malcom, could not change his views. In the course of a conversation on the subject of letting him have the title "Emperor," Malcom said decidedly:
"Still, it would be impossible to treat you as a sovereign."
"Why, they might leave me my honors to amuse me. It would do no harm on this rock."
"But you would have to be styled Emperor."
"No; they could not do that. I have abdicated."
"But you object to be called General."
"That is because I am no longer a general,—not since I returned from Egypt,—but why not call me 'Napoleon'?"
It was a long and painful discussion, and it did not end even with Napoleon's death. The British Government, since Napoleon was securely in its power, could have afforded to let him wear the title that had once been his by right, even though on St. Helena it would have shown itself an almost foolishly vain ornament. The foreign Commissioners were told by the countries that they represented to give him this title, but the Act of Parliament dealing with the distinguished prisoner had called him "Napoleon Bonaparte," and this, or "General Bonaparte," he was to be to all who had dealings with him at St. Helena.
Within his own circle—and in this circle the Balcombe family may be included—he was ever "the Emperor."
Napoleon often showed great kindness to the sick. For example, when a certain officer, Captain Meynell, was ill under Mr. Balcombe's roof at The Briars, Napoleon sent Cipriani, hismaître d'hôtel, daily to inquire about him, and seemed really concerned when he asked about him.
Not long after he left The Briars, Betsy had a severe illness. When Napoleon heard of this he sent constantly to inquire for her, and the messenger usually brought her some delicacy made by Piron.
Napoleon's kindness of heart was also shown by his attitude toward the Malay slave, named Toby, who had care of the beautiful garden at The Briars. When no one was in it the garden was kept locked and the key was left in Toby's hands. Toby and Napoleon speedily became friends, and the black man always spoke of the Emperor as "that good man, Bony." He always placed the key of the garden where Napoleon could reach it under the wicket. The black man was original and entertaining, and so autocratic that no one at The Briars ever disputed his authority. His story was rather pathetic.
He had been enticed from his native place many years before, brought to St. Helena by the English, smuggled on shore and illegally sold as a slave, let out to whoever would hire him, and his earnings chiefly appropriated to his master. Napoleon perhaps recognized in Toby a kindred spirit, or at least felt a common bond in the fact that both had been brought unwillingly to the island. Certainly he liked him, and, when he had heard his story, wished to buy and free him. But for political reasons, when Mr. Balcombe made Napoleon's wishes known to Sir Hudson Lowe, he could not get his consent.
Toby, however, was grateful to Napoleon for his wish to help him, and continued his devoted admirer. On going from The Briars, Napoleon presented Toby with twenty-nine napoleons and always inquired for his health. When Napoleon left The Briars, Toby often arranged bouquets and fruits to go to Longwood,—"to that good man, Bony."
Toby, from all accounts, was an attractive fellow. His countenance had a frank and benevolent expression. His eyes were animated and sparkling, his aspect not abject, but prepossessing. So at least he appeared to Betsy, and one day she was interested to hear Napoleon reflecting upon him:
"What, after all, is a poor prisoner but a machine? As for poor Toby, he endures his misfortunes very quietly; he stoops to his work, and spends his days in innocent tranquillity. This man, after all, had his family and his happiness and his liberty, and it was a horrible act of cruelty to bring him here to languish in the fetters of his slavery."
Toby, however, was not the only slave on St. Helena. Not long after the first discovery of the island by the Portuguese, Juan Denova Castella, a nobleman, was exiled there for desertion and had to spend four years in complete solitude, except for a few slaves that he was allowed to have with him. The Portuguese did not colonize St. Helena, and after a time the Dutch held it for many years. When they had deserted it, the East India Company, with plenty of capital, took possession and naturally fell back on slave labor to cultivate the fields. When the Dutch saw that St. Helena was likely to prove profitable to the English they tried to get it back again, but the effort was unsuccessful, and since 1666 it has been counted an English possession. At one time a law was passed restricting the importation of slaves, for the colonists had begun to fear that they might outnumber the Europeans. There was, however, an old law that every Madagascar ship should leave one slave to work the company's plantations. The slaves were often troublesome, but the cruelty with which they were treated was inexcusable. Probably many a poor creature on the island had been stolen from his home, just as we know poor Toby had been stolen.
After the arrival of Sir Hudson Lowe, the new Governor reminded the people of St. Helena that their island was the last British possession to retain slavery. Various plans were proposed for doing away with it, and at last, at his suggestion, it was agreed that after Christmas Day, 1818, all children born of slave women should be considered free. Thus the great evil gradually ceased.
This good action on the part of Sir Hudson Lowe—that he helped gain freedom for the slaves—made him no better liked by Napoleon and his friends. From the first, indeed, the Governor was suspicious of Napoleon's friends, and the fear that they were plotting for Napoleon's escape was one of the reasons, probably, for the regulations that greatly annoyed Napoleon. It seemed as if he wished Napoleon to be surrounded entirely by English, for one of his early acts was to tell the French that they were at liberty to leave St. Helena whenever they wished. Every facility, he said, would be offered them to return to Europe. Had he known human nature better, Sir Hudson Lowe would have realized that persons who had given up so much to follow Napoleon would hardly desert him merely because conditions on the island did not suit them.
At last, on one pretext or another, he contrived to have several of Napoleon's attendants sent away,—Santini, the clever little lamplighter, the jack-of-all-trades, who had so often amused Betsy's small brothers with his toys; Rousseau, his artificer; and Archambaud, his coachman, whose reckless driving of the jaunting car always struck terror to Betsy's heart. Most important of all, however, was the departure of Count Las Cases, who had never failed to frown on Betsy's hoydenish pranks. With Count Las Cases went his son, the boy about whom Napoleon had loved to tease Betsy. It was before the end of Napoleon's first year at Longwood that these two were sent away on the charge of bribing a young native of St. Helena to carry a letter to Europe for them. This would not have been a serious offence, except for the reason that the Governor had made a regulation that no letter should be sent to Europe without passing through his hands.
For a time Las Cases and his son were in prison on the island. Later they were despatched to the Cape of Good Hope, where they were detained seven months and at last sent to England.
"Let them take away all my Frenchmen," said Napoleon sadly, after the departure of Las Cases. "I do not want them." He especially missed Las Cases, since it was to him that he daily dictated the material for his Memoirs.
Not long after the departure of Las Cases, Napoleon was greatly disturbed because the Governor would not let him receive a visit from a botanist just arrived from Europe, who was known lately to have seen Maria Louisa and the little King of Rome. Betsy sympathized with him in his indignation at this and other needless restrictions.
Sometimes, however, she felt like laughing at him.
"Where is the Emperor, where is the Emperor?" she asked one morning, when staying at Longwood after a ball.
At first no one could inform her, but at last some one said, "Go over there; he is building a ditch."
Going in the direction indicated, the young girl found Napoleon superintending the building of a trench that he was having constructed, so that he might have a place where he could walk unobserved.
"Do not laugh!" he said, after Betsy had come upon him, standing with folded arms and downcast gaze. "Do not laugh! I must have a walk of my own, where no one can look at me when I go out."
Even though she smiled, Betsy understood Napoleon's feeling. In his early days at The Briars, when he was permitted to walk out unattended, Napoleon was fond of strolling some distance from the cottage. Later when he could not go far without the watchful eye of an officer upon him, he almost gave up walking. At a certain hour of the afternoon, as it was known that he took a short walk along a straight path not far from the house, the curious often stationed themselves at a distance where they could observe him. On account of this annoying observation, Napoleon conceived the plan of digging a ditch or trench. The ditch served at least one purpose: while it was digging it gave Napoleon plenty of occupation in directing the workmen. When it was finished it is said that he never used it as a promenade.
His unwillingness to take exercise resulted in a serious illness. During this time Betsy and her sister did not see him, but whenever they met Dr. O'Meara they eagerly questioned him about their friend. "I would rather die at once than walk, as you prescribe." These were the words of Napoleon that Dr. O'Meara reported to the sisters. "I have tried persuasion of every kind, but I cannot get him to take exercise," he said, "although I have told him that this is the only thing that can possibly cure him. I urged him to let me call in another surgeon, so that if he should grow no better, too much blame need not fall on me, and what was his reply?"
Dr. O'Meara paused for a moment, and then repeated Napoleon's exact words: "If all the physicians in the world were collected, they would but repeat what you have already advised me—to take constant exercise on horseback. I am well aware of the truth of what you say, but if I were to call in another surgeon, it would be like sending a physician to a starving man instead of giving him a loaf of bread. I have no objection to your making known to him my state of health, if it be any satisfaction to you; but I know that he will say, 'Exercise.' As long as this strict surveillance is enforced, I will never stir."
In vain Dr. O'Meara repeated his arguments. Napoleon had but one reply, "Would you have me render myself liable to insult from the sentries surrounding my house, as Madame Bertrand was, some days ago?"
"Jane," said Betsy, who always saw the funny side of things, "what a fine caricature this would have made for the London print shops—Napoleon stopped at the gates by a sentinel, charging him with a fixed bayonet! How the Londoners would laugh! No, I don't blame Napoleon for staying indoors."
But when Betsy saw the Emperor after this illness, her heart was filled with pity. His skin was a waxy yellow and his cheeks hung in deep pouches. His ankles were terribly swollen, and he could not stand without the support of a table on one side and the shoulder of an attendant on the other.
As Betsy looked at him, tears fell from her eyes and she could hardly keep from sobbing aloud.
"Ah!" said Napoleon kindly. "Do not cry, Mees Betsee. I am almost well—and the good O'Meara will surely cure me."
Upon this Betsy became more cheerful, but later, when they were out of the Emperor's hearing, Mrs. Balcombe shook her head sorrowfully, as she turned to Betsy, saying, "He has the stamp of death on his brow."
Had Napoleon been less obstinate, within the eight miles of enclosure allotted him he might certainly have taken enough exercise of various kinds to preserve his health.
At last the time came when Napoleon and his young neighbor must part. The health of Betsy's mother, Mrs. Balcombe, was not good, and the family decided to go home to England. Mr. Balcombe obtained six months' leave, but, although the family professed to expect to return, in their secret hearts they felt that they were bidding good-bye to St. Helena.
A day or two before sailing Betsy and Jane went over to Longwood to say farewell to Napoleon. They found him in the billiard-room, as usual, surrounded by books. There was sadness in his voice as he talked about their departure.
"I hope your mother's health will soon be restored," he said. "Give her my kindest regards and best wishes for the journey. Soon you will be sailing away towards England, leaving me to die on this miserable rock. Look at those dreadful mountains—they are my prison walls. You will soon hear that the Emperor Napoleon is dead."
At these melancholy words the emotional Betsy burst into tears and Jane's eyes grew moist. Betsy sobbed as if her heart would break, and Napoleon, greatly moved, tried to comfort her. Betsy felt for her handkerchief, only to find that she had left it in her side-saddle pocket. So Napoleon, holding his own toward her, said, "Take it, and keep it in remembrance of this sad day."
The sisters went the rounds of Longwood, bidding good-bye to all that was dear to them. Later they dined with Napoleon, but Betsy was still so overcome with grief that she could hardly swallow.
"Take some bonbons," said Napoleon kindly.
"I cannot," she cried. "My throat has a swelling, and I cannot eat!"
When at last they were ready to go, the Emperor embraced the two sisters with great affection.
"Do not forget me!" he said. "I thank you for your kindness and friendship, and all my happy hours in your society."
The two sisters could hardly reply.
"Mees Betsee," he added, after a moment's pause, "what would you like to have in remembrance?"
"A lock of your hair," sobbed the young girl, "better than anything else."
"Marchand shall bring the scissors, then;" and the devoted Marchand, promptly obeying, severed four locks for the four older members of the Balcombe family.
Not long before they left, Napoleon in a conversation with Mr. Balcombe said:
"I fear that your resignation of your employment in this island is caused by the quarrels and annoyances drawn upon you by the relation established between your family and Longwood, in consequence of the hospitality which you showed on my first arrival in St. Helena. I would not wish you to regret having known me."
Although Mr. Balcombe did not exactly confirm what Napoleon said about the reason for his withdrawal from St. Helena, he knew that to a great extent it was true. For a long time Sir Hudson Lowe had been dissatisfied with the intimacy existing between Napoleon and the Balcombes. While he admitted that he had no tangible cause for complaint, he was constantly watching for one, and was always ready to call Mr. Balcombe to account for what he considered partiality for the illustrious exile. As the Governor himself put it, he was not without suspicion that his relations with Longwood were not limited to the ostensible duties of his office. The Governor at this time was very suspicious of Dr. O'Meara, and as Mr. Balcombe and he were intimate friends, the former was naturally regarded also with disfavor.
More than once had Betsy's careless behavior drawn a reprimand upon her father. But for the Governor's feeling against him, Mr. Balcombe and his family might have been on St. Helena during the last sad days of Napoleon.
As it was, they went back to England the middle of March, 1818, little more than three years before Napoleon's death. Their ship was the Winchelsea store-ship, on its way from China, and on the same vessel went General Gorgaud, the bachelor of Napoleon's suite, a pompous, though brave man, for whom Betsy had no especial liking. General Gorgaud knew that he would never return to St. Helena. Mr. Balcombe had obtained a six months' leave from his official duties, but he, too, may have felt as the vessel sailed away that he was unlikely ever again to look upon its frowning walls.
As to Betsy, Napoleon's young neighbor, the tears that fell from her eyes when she said her last good-bye to the Emperor were not the last that she shed for him. As the years went by she ever listened eagerly to all the news that came from St. Helena, until the final mournful tidings in the early summer of 1821, that Napoleon had died on the fifth of May.
"I am sure," said Betsy long afterwards, "after seeing Napoleon in every possible mood and in his most unguarded moments, I know that the idea of acting a part never entered his head. I had the most complete conviction of his want of guile, and the thorough goodness and amiability of his heart."
Betsy was a keen observer of human nature, and another of her judgments is worth remembering: "That this impression of his amiability and goodness was common to almost all who approached him is proved by the devotion of his followers at St. Helena. They had then nothing more to expect from him, and only entailed misery on themselves by adhering to his fortunes."
It is indeed a fact worth remembering, that Napoleon's suite, in spite of the fact that to a great extent Napoleon obliged them to practise the rigid etiquette of a court, were all devoted to him. It is true that they had to stand in his presence and in certain ways keep up a ceremony that seemed absurd in an establishment as simple as that of Longwood; but there were many hours of relaxation. In these hours of relaxation Napoleon played cards with his friends, or chess, or—after he went to Longwood—billiards. He was fond of reading aloud, and not infrequently favored his friends with a long reading. Sometimes he indulged in declamation, for he was rather proud of the fact that he had learned something of this art from the great Talma. In his later years at Longwood he devised ways of getting his needed exercise indoors and worked almost too vigorously at gardening.
An old St. Helena newspaper has an account of his exertions in his garden, not long before his death, which has a pathos of its own: "A few weeks before his death the Emperor labored with a spade in his garden so long and so severely as to be faint with fatigue. Some one suggested the probable injury to his health. 'No,' said he, 'it cannot injure my health; that is lost beyond all hope. It will but shorten my days.'"
The disease from which Napoleon died was one that he had inherited from his father,—one, indeed, for which there is no cure. So it cannot be said with certainty that his life might have been prolonged if he had been more careful to get enough, and only enough, of the right kind of exercise. Yet though his life may have had to run in its natural course, his last years would have been much happier if there had been no friction between him and the Governor of St. Helena.
The last three years of Napoleon's life were undoubtedly the loneliest he had known. He missed Las Cases, Gorgaud, the Balcombes, and O'Meara, whom the Governor was at last able to get out of the way. Napoleon kept himself busy with his gardening and his books, and when, in 1819, the Government began to build a new house for him, he spent much time watching its progress, although with true forebodings he often said that he should never live to occupy it.
He still refused to take exercise, and once in a fit of depression stayed in the house for three months. Thus his health continued to suffer and he grew stout and clumsy. When he did go out he was apt to drive around the eight miles of his enclosure at breakneck speed, in a carriage drawn by six horses. In October, 1820, he sent word to Sir William Doveton that he would be glad to breakfast with him. Sir William was, of course, happy to receive his distinguished guest, and breakfast was served on the lawn to Napoleon and Generals Bertrand and Montholon. The breakfast in the society of Sir William Doveton and his family passed off pleasantly, and Napoleon started to walk home. Unluckily he had not the strength to carry out his good intentions, and on the way back to Longwood he had to stop at a cottage by the way to rest, while his carriage was sent for.
Betsy would have been glad, if the fact had ever come to her ears, to learn that in his last year or two Napoleon had another little friend who to a certain degree could fill the place in his affections always ready for children. This was the young daughter of a soldier of the garrison, little Julia, nine years old, who was intelligent and companionable.
When he knew that Julia was coming to see him, Napoleon always had fruits and sweetmeats ready for her. Not long before he died he hung a gold watch and chain around Julia's neck, saying, "Wear this for my sake." On the cover he had scratched an inscription with his penknife, "The Emperor to his little friend Julia." When she visited him they sat or walked in the garden, and Napoleon found some amusement in giving her drawing lessons from nature. One fine morning in April, when Julia appeared, Napoleon invited her inside the house where the breakfast table was laid. Standing by the table, he filled her little basket with fruit and sweet things, and at last put a bottle of wine in the basket, saying, "For your father to drink my health in."
Alas! it was too late for any one to wish Napoleon good health. Not long after he had suggested the toast for Julia's father, he had to go to bed. Whatever others thought, he was sure that he would never rise. He probably knew that the end was near. The very end came suddenly, and many on St. Helena, who had not known of the seriousness of his condition, were greatly surprised to hear of his death on the fifth of May.
Before the funeral Napoleon's body lay in state, and naval and military officers and many others were permitted to view it. When Sir Hudson Lowe looked at Napoleon immediately after his death, he was impressed by the nobility of the dead man's expression. "His face in death," he wrote to Lord Bathurst, "was the most beautiful I have ever seen." Yet even to the dead Napoleon the Governor maintained the same attitude as to the living, for when it came to the question of the inscription to be placed on the Emperor's coffin, he would not permit the simple "Napoleon" with dates and places of birth and death, but insisted that in addition it should bear the surname "Bonaparte."
British soldiers carried Napoleon from the house to the car that was to bear him to the burial place; but the horses that drew the car were four that had belonged to the late Emperor. Orders had been issued to conduct his funeral as that of a general of the highest rank. In consequence the left side of the road from Longwood to the grave was lined with troops. It was a solemn and impressive procession that moved along as escort, paying the last earthly honors to Napoleon, on whose coffin lay his sword and the mantle of Marengo.
Napoleon had always wished to be buried in France, but toward the end of his life, when it seemed unlikely that his wish could be gratified, he gave directions as to the spot in St. Helena that he preferred. This was a romantic and picturesque enclosure in a ravine not very far from Longwood. Often, when out walking, the Emperor had stopped there to quench his thirst at a small spring. The little valley was shaded with Norfolk pines, firs, and other trees, and here, near the spring, under the shade of two great willow trees, Napoleon's body was laid to rest. As it was lowered into the grave three discharges from eleven pieces of musketry were fired.
As his sorrowing attendants turned away, how overwhelmingly sad must the reflections of the two of Napoleon's personal suite have been! Only Montholon and Bertrand were there at the last, though Marchand and other attendants still remained. Montholon, when a boy of ten, had known Napoleon in Corsica, and Bertrand had long been one of his officers,—"the best engineer officer I have ever known," said Napoleon.
Now their years of faithful devotion were at an end. With heavy hearts they turned their backs on the lonely grave under the willow trees and soon they sailed away to the great world, their hearts filled with memories of Napoleon.
Nineteen years after Napoleon's death a French frigate,La Belle Poule, commanded by the Prince of Joinville, arrived off Jamestown. The wheel had turned, and the friends and admirers of Napoleon were on top.
Even Great Britain was not unwilling that the dead Napoleon should have the honor that was his due. The frigate had come for the body of Napoleon to give it proper honors in France. OnLa Belle Poulewere Count Bertrand, his son Arthur, born at St. Helena, General Gorgaud, the young Las Cases, and the faithful Marchand.
The body of Napoleon was taken from the tomb under the willow trees and borne back to France. Every one knows of the magnificent funeral given their dead hero by the impulsive French. Every one has heard how countless throngs filled the streets of Paris, how the military display has seldom been equalled, as the catafalque, preceded by a riderless horse, went slowly along the tree-lined boulevards. The wonderful tomb of Napoleon in the Hotel des Invalides is known to many, but there are few in comparison who have visited the little enclosure at the bottom of the deep ravine where the Emperor's body lay for a score of years. Yet, in the days of wooden ships, when St. Helena was the place where captains had to call to re-provision their vessels, many a passenger on going ashore hastened to Napoleon's grave, and while the world stands the secluded valley will continue to claim the interest of Napoleon's admirers. The vault itself is now covered with a broad, flat stone, without inscription, and its cemented surface is cracked in places. There is a hedge around the fence and a sentry box at the entrance of the enclosure. Here there is a notice to the effect that the grave is now the property of the French Republic, and in the sentry box an attendant keeps a book and registers the names of all who visit the spot where once lay the body of Napoleon.
Who can blame Betsy for Being Heavy-hearted on that day in early spring when she sailed away from St. Helena, toward the colder country that was her real home? Even though her parents and her brothers and sister were with her, she felt that she was leaving behind much that was dear. She loved the lonely, mountainous island where she had lived so long. She believed that no other flowers or fruits could equal those produced on its tropical soil. She felt that no new friends could compare with those from whom she had just parted.
More than this, although she tried to persuade herself that in the future she might revisit St. Helena, she could hardly believe that when that day arrived, Napoleon would still be there to receive her with his accustomed cordiality.
Indeed, as a true friend of the Emperor's, Betsy could scarcely wish to find him there on that indefinite day of her return, since that would mean long-continued captivity for him. Rather, if she hoped to see him again, the young girl more probably imagined that after no very long time some change in the sentiments of those in power might result in freeing him from his galling bondage.
Though we to-day may not be certain just what form Betsy's thoughts took on that monotonous homeward voyage, we can be sure that Napoleon had no small part in them. Already she knew the chief facts in his meteoric career; and her vivid fancy must have brought before her many scenes in which he had had part.
Like Betsy, you and I may see the panorama of Napoleon's life unfold in a series of pictures melting into one another, some clearer than the others, yet all leaving an ineffaceable impression.
First, there is the thin, pale, serious-eyed boy running half wild over the hills of his native Corsica. He is an affectionate brother—this young Napoleon—to the six younger brothers and sisters, and a close companion of Joseph, only a year older. He is devoted to his high-spirited and energetic mother, once the beautiful Letitia Ramolino, whose life, since her marriage, has been so hard. He is dutiful to his father, the improvident, though ambitious Charles Marié de Buonaparte. Yet, although dutiful, he resents his father's lack of patriotism in seeking favors from the Frenchmen in authority in Corsica, for the boy, born only a year after Corsica had passed under French rule, had small love for those outsiders who had made it impossible for his native island to gain independence.
One of our pictures would show us Napoleon, a timid boy in the military school at Brienne, where his father had secured a place for him by showing he was of noble descent. The boy works hard at his tasks, his teachers commend his industry, while calling him reserved and obstinate.
The young Napoleon is not happy in the society of his one hundred and twenty fellow-pupils, who, like himself, are supported by the Government at Brienne. They are largely the sons of poor nobles—vain and indolent—and they love to tease the timid boy.
"I am tired of poverty and the jeers of insolent scholars. If fortune refuses to smile upon me, take me from Brienne, and make me if you will a mechanic." In spite of this letter, the father wisely keeps the little boy at Brienne, and gradually he makes friends, especially among the teachers.
"I have seen a spark here which cannot be too carefully cultivated," writes the aged Chevalier de Keralio, an inspector of the school, who is anxious to have Napoleon sent to the military school at Paris.
Our pictures are now painted in somewhat brighter colors.
For although at Paris the young Napoleon is not perfectly contented, he knows that he is on the way to a modest independence. He is surrounded by foolish young men with whose extravagance he cannot keep up. But only his sympathetic sister Elizabeth at St. Cyr hears him complain of the difficulties that beset him.
Napoleon is naturally happier when at the early age of sixteen he finds himself a second lieutenant in the army. He rejoices at the prospect of helping his family out of his meagre income of less than two hundred and fifty dollars a year. But his responsibility is suddenly increased when Charles Bonaparte, his father, dies. The family is worse off than before, and when Joseph cannot straighten out their tangled affairs, Napoleon decides to undertake the task.
After eight years of absence we see Napoleon on leave from his regiment, returning to Corsica. He has hard work before him. There are four little children under nine, Louis, Pauline, Caroline, and Jerome, at home with their widowed mother. There are two, Lucien and Elizabeth, away at school. Only Joseph and Napoleon are on their feet, and on Napoleon, the stronger character, falls the brunt of the burden.
When the young lieutenant goes back to the army he takes Louis with him. He tutors him in mathematics, he shares his all with him. He deprives himself of many things really necessary to his position in order to help his family.
"I breakfast on dry bread," he writes. He stints himself for his family, he stints himself still further to have a little money for the books that he needs.
The claims of the family are pressing. Again Napoleon has leave of absence. In Corsica he tries in vain to get something for his mother from what is left of their property,—from salt works, from a mulberry plantation belonging to the estate.
It is five or six years since the death of Charles Bonaparte. Napoleon has been away from his post too long. In 1792, after an absence from his regiment of fifteen months, he loses his place in the army.
The picture now before us is a dark one. The young man is discouraged. Hardly knowing where to turn, he drifts toward Paris.
For two or three years he has been uncertain which side to take in the Revolution on which France is entering. Many things incline him toward the King's party. He is in Paris on that memorable June 10 when the King is deposed. He sees the terrible events of the 10th of August. While he sympathizes with the King, he perceives that the great question is one of the nation rather than the individual.
Intelligent young men are greatly needed in the army. Napoleon's ability is known. He receives a captain's commission, signed by the King, though really given by the Revolutionary Government. Soon he is at Toulon, where, by acting on his advice, the French drive the English from the harbor in December, 1793.
The young man's prospects are brightening. There are only a few shadows on the picture. A revolution in Corsica drives his family to France, and while he feels his responsibility, Napoleon cannot yet do much for them.
Napoleon's talents impress all who come in contact with him. The time approaches when he is to reap the reward for all his years of patient study. Young Robespierre calls attention to his transcendent merit. Though he is not a Terrorist, he has many friends in the party, and after the fall of Robespierre the young Corsican spends nearly a fortnight in prison. Once more he loses his place in the army, in which he has been commissioned General. Discouraged, with nothing to do in Paris, he thinks of accepting an office from the Sultan. But Fortune is soon to favor him again. Not so very long after his release from prison we gaze on a thrilling scene. It is the 13th Vendémiaire, year III, or October 15, 1795. The Directory under which the Government of France is now carried on has to face a revolt of the people and the National Guard. General Barras, who had observed Napoleon's great ability at Toulon, summons the young officer to help the Directory. Napoleon orders the artillery to sweep the Sections.
By this use of cannon, with fearful slaughter, the smaller force of the Government conquers the uprising. Next day Napoleon is mentioned by the Commander-in-Chief for his distinguished services, and shortly he becomes General-in-Chief of the Army of the Interior.
Picture after picture passes quickly before us, and always Napoleon is in the foreground. We see him now for the first time really enjoying society. The brusque and rather timid young officer is lionized in the drawing-room of Madame Tallien. There he meets the beautiful Josephine, widow of Alexandre de Beauharnais, and soon asks her to marry him.
It is said that Napoleon first became interested in Josephine through her sending her son Eugène to ask him to secure for him the sword of his father who had been put to death during the Reign of Terror. But whether the story is true or not, certainly Napoleon always has the greatest affection for Eugène and his sister Hortense. Napoleon's family are now in Paris. They share equally in the prosperity that has come to him. He lavishes on his mother all that she will accept. It pains him that neither she nor his brothers and sisters are pleased with his marriage.
Two days after the wedding, Napoleon leaves Josephine to cross the Apennines as Commander-in-Chief of the Army of Italy. We see the Italians running before those whom they had contemptuously called the "rag heroes." The French win victory after victory. Arcola, Lodi, Milan—eighteen pitched battles, forty-seven smaller engagements. Everywhere Napoleon is the idol, not only of his own soldiers, but of a large number of Italians, who hope through him to gain political liberty.
When, after the Treaty of Campo Formio, Napoleon returns to Paris in December, 1797, France is at his feet, rejoicing in the glory that comes to her through victories, rejoicing in the treasures of art that the young conqueror had brought back to adorn the Paris museums.
The scene changes—Napoleon is setting out for Egypt. He hopes to weaken England by attacking her power in the East. He hopes to strengthen himself in the eyes of the French by winning new victories. For idolized though he is by the French people, he realizes their fickleness, and he knows that the Directory is jealous of him. This expedition has not the brilliancy of the Italian campaign. He does not succeed in disabling the British, the French fleet meets fearful disaster. On land the French army suffers terribly from pestilence. But Napoleon has many scientific men with him on this expedition, and science gains greatly by this Egyptian campaign. Then by chance he learns that there is the utmost political discontent in France. Almost secretly he sails away from Egypt. We see him in Paris by the middle of October, 1799. His enemies are astonished. But Napoleon's hour has come. The famouscoup d'étatfollows, and in less than two months after his return from Egypt, Napoleon has become temporary Dictator of France. His title is First Consul, but many shake their heads and murmur that Napoleon, instead of serving the term prescribed by law, means to make himself Consul for life.
Yet whatever Napoleon's ambitions may be, it is clear that France needs a strong man at the head of the Government. Then as we observe the clear eye and firm bearing of the young Corsican, it is evident that no one abler than he can be found to direct the work of upbuilding the country.
Our picture of France shows no longer a scene of confusion, of chaos, although much must be done before the Republic can hold her own—except in war—with other great nations.
Napoleon is tired of war, but those Powers to whom he suggests peace are not ready to accept his overtures. They are more willing to listen to him after his Austrian campaign, when Marengo and Lunéville are added to the French victories.
The Peace of Amiens gives Europe a breathing spell—for no one believes that this peace will last forever.
Perhaps among all our pictures of Napoleon there is hardly one more pleasing than this of his First Consulate, when we see him walking among his gorgeously attired officers, noticeable for the simplicity of his attire. For in spite of the example of extravagant dress set by others, he is content with the plain uniform of a colonel of grenadiers or of the light infantry.
"His address is the finest I have ever seen," writes one who meets him at this time, "and said by those who have travelled to exceed not only every Prince and Potentate now in being, but even all those whose memory has come down to us.... While he speaks, his features are still more expressive than his words."
This is the Napoleon whom Betsy knew—this man whose simple, pleasing manners drew every one to him—every one at least whom he wished to attract. Had he cared to make the effort he might even have won Sir Hudson Lowe.
For in those earlier days, before his downfall, many an Englishman, with a deeply rooted prejudice against Napoleon, on visiting Paris, like the writer of the above, found his prejudices melt away like snow in summer.
Our pictures change little as they show the next stage of Napoleon's progress. For when in the summer of 1801 he is made Consul for life, he appears still to be the same ardent lover of liberty that he was when he became First Consul. He is still the idol of the French people—as well he may be—for what ruler has ever done so much for them? When once things are in his own hands he codifies the laws, gives security to all forms of religion, and organizes the educational system of France. He does everything possible for the rebuilding of the state. He regulates taxes, that the burden may fall equitably on all classes. He helps manufactures of every kind. He proves himself a masterly road-builder. He establishes museums, and orders the construction of great public buildings. In peace he seems to be greater even than he has shown himself in war. He encourages literature, art, and music, and makes Paris so beautiful that its citizens are justified in their pride.
He surrounds himself with capable men. In no way does he more clearly show his own superiority than by letting it be seen that he is free from jealousy. He is always ready to reward publicly those who help him in any of his undertakings. Not all Napoleon's plans are carried out during his Consulship, but they are begun with such vigor that no one doubts that they will be completed. The country is the better for his firm hand. Yet in some ways we admired him more in his earlier years. His ambition now casts a shadow that should warn him that the middle way is the best.
In one way at least Napoleon's ambitions do not get the better of him. As he advances in power he does not forget old friends. They share his prosperity, these schoolmates and associates of his earlier years. They are given honors that some of them find it hard to wear gracefully.
"Here we are at the Tuileries," he exclaims to an old friend, when made Consul for life. "We must remain here."
In the short breathing spell made possible by the Peace of Amiens, France accomplishes more in all directions than the other countries of Europe. Yet those whose sight is clearest may, perhaps, see a cloud likely to deepen and blur the picture. Does it come from England, now making great efforts to gather her strength for a long contest? Or does the growing ambition of Napoleon mean the overthrow of the very things he is working for?
Though the gorgeous spectacle of the Imperial Coronation in the great Cathedral has seldom been surpassed, we incline to turn away from it. It had been better for Napoleon to remain First Consul rather than to make himself Emperor. His plain gray suit became him better than this trailing cloak of purple velvet embroidered in gold and trimmed with ermine. We recognize the golden bees, and the insignia of the Legion of Honor, but the diamond collar and the great Pitt diamond blazing in the pommel of his sword seem unsuited to the young Corsican who once delighted in simplicity. The laurel wreath that he first wears suits him better than the Imperial crown that he takes from the hands of the Pope and places on his own head. But the Pope has anointed him, and Napoleon is now Emperor of that shadowy Holy Roman Empire, for which in the past rivers of blood have been shed.
Is Napoleon really happier now than when he roamed, a fearless boy, over the rough hills of Corsica? Is Josephine as contented wearing the crown of an Empress as she was wandering light-hearted in the forests of Martinique? Josephine is indeed fond of jewels and beautiful clothes, and nothing could be more splendid than her coronation robe of white satin and silver and gold, with its ornaments of pearls and diamonds. But Josephine has a long memory. She often recalls the poverty of her childhood, of her early married life. When Empress she tells one of the ladies in attendance on her that no present ever made her happier than a pair of shoes given her for Hortense, her little daughter, who otherwise would have had to go barefoot part of her voyage from Martinique to France.
Josephine is a sensible woman. She is not ashamed of her early poverty. Like Napoleon she had suffered during the Revolution and had even for a time been thrown into prison. Like Napoleon she, too, had sometimes not known when she should get her next meal. She had even had to borrow money to pay her rent. She had suffered everything, when the execution of her first husband, Alexandre de Beauharnais, during the Reign of Terror, had left her and her two children destitute.
All the circumstances of her past life may not have flashed before Josephine's mind at the moment of the Coronation. Yet it is not improbable that wearing the crown and realizing the responsibilities of her new position, she may have sighed for a day of freedom from care, such as she had known in Martinique.
On that December day in 1805 when Napoleon puts on the Imperial crown more than three years have passed since England signed the short-lived Peace of Amiens. The war that is now renewed between France and England is to continue until Waterloo. As Emperor, however, Napoleon seems to be master of Europe. All the European courts, except England, Russia, and Sweden, acknowledge his new title.
So we turn to a new picture. It is the eve of Austerlitz. Napoleon walks among the soldiers, who are resting in camp, awaiting the struggle. When his men recognize him, they surround him, they rush ahead of him, holding aloft long poles on which are fastened burning wisps of straw.
"It is the anniversary of the Coronation," they shout as they light his way. The next day when they measure their strength with Russia and Austria, the soldiers of the Empire are victorious. Another scene now stands out vividly. Alexander of Russia is coming to meet Napoleon. At Tilsit on a raft in the river Niemen the two Emperors greet each other with a kiss.
"I hate the English as much as you," cries the impulsive Alexander. "I will be your second in all that you do against them."
The next day we see the King of Prussia arriving half-heartedly at Tilsit. Friedland has done its work, and for the time Prussia is humbled.
Brilliant though the panorama of Napoleon's life is after Tilsit, we view with wonder rather than approval the striking pictures as they present themselves one by one. We observe the wild enthusiasm of the French people for their Emperor after Ulm and Austerlitz and Hohenlinden. Even the battle of Trafalgar—a victory for England—does not dampen their ardor. But Napoleon himself grows careful, and tries to keep from the army the news of his loss on the sea.
Prussia is humbled, Austria wishes to make terms, Napoleon has some successes in Spain, and he hopes to injure England. Though we may not discover this at first, his interference in the affairs of Spain hastens the Emperor's downfall. Although he succeeds in having his brother Joseph made King of Spain, he cannot keep him on the throne.
His ambition increases. His family try to persuade him to divorce Josephine, that he may strengthen himself by a second marriage with some royal princess.
We look at the family group of the Bonapartes. With Napoleon at the height of his power, we count the titles.
Joseph, at first King of Naples, is King of Spain; Louis, King of Holland; Jerome, King of Westphalia; Lucien, a Prince of the Empire, later repudiates the title; Eliza, Grand Duchess of Tuscany; Pauline, Princess Borghese; and Caroline is Queen of Naples; Josephine's daughter, Hortense, is Queen of Holland; and Eugène, her son, is a Prince. Old Madame Bonaparte, the devoted mother, is not sure that the glory of the family will last forever. Of the treasures lavished on her by Napoleon, she puts aside a portion that may be of service when the possible rainy day comes.
Josephine is the idol of the French people. But Bonaparte ambition extends even to them. In these uncertain days France might be stronger if its Emperor were free to marry into a Royal family.
We note Josephine's anxiety as she studies Napoleon. But she sees no change in his love for her children. Eugène is his adopted heir. Hortense is married to Napoleon's brother Louis. Josephine hopes that those who advise the Royal Alliance may not prevail. Her tears are useless, and when Napoleon decides she has to yield.
The first of April, 1810, less than five years from the date of the Coronation, Napoleon is the centre of another brilliant ceremony. This is the day of his marriage with Maria Louisa, daughter of the Emperor of Austria. A year later fickle Paris is in a state of feverish excitement over the birth of the King of Rome. Napoleon, rejoicing in his little son, seems at the height of his power.
Looking at Napoleon now, we must admit that he has become an autocrat. Yet he is not a despot in the ordinary sense. Though he may like power in itself, for what it brings to him, he cares still for the prosperity of France. The country needs his strong guidance. Outside of France he has enemies on all sides. While he does not admit it, things are against him in Spain; and then, as if losing his head, he decides to march into Russia. The Emperor of Russia is now his bitter enemy. The kiss of Tilsit was soon wiped away.
If we could, we would close our eyes to the next terrible scene. Before us marches the best of the young manhood of France—hundreds of thousands of men—to a certain death. Here is the greatest army of the time, and at Borodino we see "the bloodiest fight of the century." For the French the victory is almost worse than a defeat, since they are thus beguiled farther into Russia. No one can paint adequately the horrors of that bitter campaign. Of the hundreds of thousands who had crossed the Niemen a few months earlier, only twenty thousand frost-bitten spectres stagger again over the bridge in the middle of December.
Napoleon's thoughts are gloomy enough as he rides desperately back to France, leaving his fragment of an army in charge of Murat. No one envies him now, with the world against him. Soon he hears that Joseph has been driven from Spain. Already he feels the strength of the coalition formed to overthrow him. Does he realize that Austria is no longer his friend—that Prussia is ready to fall upon him? All Germany is waking to new life, and to a great extent its energy is the result of the teachings of Napoleon himself. We see him struggling to hold his own, unwilling to admit that he has lost anything. There is likely to be discontent in France. The flower of French youth has gone with the army, and there are hardly men enough to till the ground. We glance hastily at the passing pictures. The victory at Dresden is more than balanced by the disasters at Kulm and Leipzig. The campaign of 1813 is fatal to Napoleon, who still trusts to his star.
So we pass on to the last scenes of the panorama.
It is a Sunday in January, 1814. Napoleon is in Paris, intending in a few days to go to the front. He and the Empress are holding a reception at the Tuileries, and there is a brilliant throng in the great salon. All eyes are on the Emperor and Empress as they enter the apartment. Napoleon holds by the hand a fair-haired boy of three, the little King of Rome. The child wears the uniform of the National Guard of Paris. Courtiers, crowding around the group, bow and smile. But as he scans their faces with his keen eye, Napoleon reads who are his enemies, who his friends. There are many officers of the National Guard present, and it is to them perhaps that the Emperor especially addresses himself.
"Gentlemen," he cries, "I am about to set out for the army. I intrust to you what I hold dearest in the world—my wife and my son."
Although those present do not dream that the end of Napoleon's reign is so near, they show great emotion. Tears fall and sobs are heard on all sides as his appeal reaches their hearts. Many of those present at the Tuileries this afternoon—even those nearest him—will never see Napoleon again.
In less than two days the Emperor bids his last farewell to Maria Louisa and their little son. The Empress is to be Regent during his absence. Joseph is appointed Lieutenant of France.
Then we look on the sad picture of Napoleon's last campaign, when he meets his match in the dogged Blucher. Before the end of February, Napoleon has to admit that he is conquered. He accepts the terms made by the Allies. They give him the island of Elba for a time, with money enough to keep up a certain small grandeur. Pensions are provided for Maria Louisa and the King of Rome, and even for the other Bonapartes.
It is a curious spectacle—Napoleon amusing himself with Elba, as if it were a big toy. One day he increases his standing army, the next he annexes a neighboring island. His mother and some of his family are with him, but Maria Louisa has returned to her father with the little King of Rome.
But Napoleon and his friends have been making their plans, and we are dazzled, as the world was then, by his rapid march across France, by the demonstrations of his soldiers and the vigor of the short, sharp campaign and the greatness of Wellington's victory. Yet Quatre Bras and Waterloo are soon overshadowed by the rock of St. Helena.
Betsy Balcombe, Napoleon's young neighbor, well knew the story of Napoleon. She could see as plainly as we can to-day the pictures revealed in the panorama of his life. Perhaps she stood too near him, perhaps she was too young to draw the lesson that we of to-day draw from his meteoric career. Perhaps her sympathy for him in all that he had to bear at St. Helena blinded her to the fact that he was himself to a certain extent to blame for his own downfall. He reached too far, his ambition was too great. As First Consul, depending on the votes of the people, he might have been stronger than he was as Emperor. The good that he did France was fairly balanced by the fearful loss of life in his long wars.
Napoleon's one thought was to carry out his own plans without counting the cost in men. Yet putting aside the question of the vast loss of life in his wars and the sorrow that resulted, we may see that his career was not wholly bad for Europe.
Although ambition and selfishness may have prompted much that he did, he really wished to promote the welfare of France. To-day that country is farther ahead than would have been possible but for Napoleon. Many of the institutions that have most advanced her originated with the First Emperor. Other countries besides France benefited by Napoleon's energy. He showed several of them how to realize their ideals of independence.
It is true that the constitutions he gave to various states of Europe—as well as to France—after his downfall were for a time cancelled. Still, in the end, his ideas prevailed, and except for Napoleon not only a French Republic would have been slower in establishing itself, but also a free Italy, and even a United Germany might have arrived less quickly.
The sadness of Napoleon's last years modified the judgments of many who had been his bitter enemies. His personal charm made those who knew him forget the general selfishness of his whole career. Yet in weighing all that can be said for and against him, it would be unfair to have the balance against him. That Napoleon whom Betsy Balcombe knew at The Briars—fun-loving and considerate of those about him—was as truly Napoleon as the man before whom many had trembled—whom his enemies had so criticised—to look at him as his young neighbor looked at him is to understand a little the secret of his influence.