NAPOLEON

By Anna Erwin Woods

He wrote to the Minister of the Interior: “I come, M. Minister, to declare to you that if the French Government will permit me to go to Florence and perform a sacred duty, I promise, upon honor, to return and become a prisoner again whenever the Government expresses its desire that I shall do so.” He also addressed a letter to the king: “Sire, it is not without keen emotion that I come to ask Your Majesty, as a benefit, for permission to leave France, even momentarily; I, who have for the last five years found an ample recompense for the torments of captivity in the air of my fatherland. But, at present, my sick and infirm father demands my care. In order to obtain my freedom he has addressed himself to persons known for their devotion to Your Majesty; it is my duty, on my part, to do all that depends upon me to reach him. The Ministerial Council, not thinking it within its competence to grant the request I have made to go to Florence, promising to return and to become once more a prisoner when the Government shall manifest its desire for me to do so, I come, Sire, with confidence, to make an appeal to Your Majesty’s humane sentiments, and to renew my request by submitting it, Sire, to your high and generous intervention. Your Majesty, I am convinced, will appreciate as it deserves a step which pledges my gratitude in advance; and touched by the isolated position in a foreign land of a man who, on the throne, merited the esteem of Europe will hear the prayers of my father, and my own. I beg Your Majesty to receive the expression of my profound respect.”

The Council of Ministers thought this letter insufficient to permit the exercise of clemency by the king. The leader of the Opposition went, in a private capacity, to plead the situation of the aged, infirm, solitary father, comparing it with that of the king, who was surrounded by a numerous family. The government, however, would not allow the petition to be considered.

When Prince Louis Napoleon became convinced that all his efforts were unavailing, he took a resolution which he afterwards described in a letter as follows: “The desire to see my father once more in this world urged me to the most audacious enterprise I ever attempted; one that demanded more courage and determination than Strasbourg or Boulogne, since I was resolved not to endure the ridicule attaching to a man arrested under a disguise, and a failure would have been insupportable.” He confided his scheme to two persons only, Dr. Conneau and Charles Thelin. The doctor had carried his devotion to such lengths that, even during the previous year when it was proposed that he should leave the prison, he had declared: “I have elected my domicile in the prison of Ham and submit to all conditions which the authorities have seen fit to impose upon me.” Charles Thelin was fully determined never to quit his master and, as his captivity was entirely voluntary, he was treated in a special manner, and allowed to leave the fortress at times and go about the town. But for this fact, and one other, the escape of the Prince would have been impossible. Charles Thelinbought in Ham the clothes in which his master was disguised and arranged all the details of the flight.

General de Montholon was not told of the plan. The general had disapproved of the Boulogne expedition, of which he had been kept in ignorance until the very moment of landing. The prince well knew that he would oppose the plan of escape, considering it a fatal absurdity and folly. When the prince acquainted Dr. Conneau with his plans the latter made every effort to dissuade him. Failure seemed inevitable; indeed, so rash seemed the attempt that the most unheard-of audacity and coolness alone could have rendered possible the miracle of success. But the improbable is sometimes true, and history furnishes greater surprises than romance.

To glance at a plan of the fortress of Ham it would be hard to realize that any man had even been rash enough to make such an attempt, and without the connivance of a single jailor or soldier. The prison of the prince was on the side of the barracks near the dungeon, at the back of the court. To go out of the only door of the fortress it was necessary, in the first place, to pass in front of two jailors, cross the entire length of the court, go under the windows of the commandant who lodged near the drawbridge, then through the wicket where there was an orderly, a sergeant, a gate-keeper, a sentry, and last, a post of thirty men.

That the Prince should conceive the idea of going out alone, in broad daylight, in sight of everybody, was a contingency so strange, so incredible, that not even the most suspicious jailor would have admitted its possibility. That the prisoner himself should have thought of it was due, altogether, to a peculiar condition of circumstances. The commandant of the fortress had asked for and been granted a sum of money for the purpose of making some indispensable repairs in the apartment of the prince and the stairway leading to it. There was a continual coming and going of workmen in the court and the prince remarked that they were very carefully searched on coming in but much less so on going out. This was an illumination to him and he determined that, disguised as a workman, he would, in the presence of all, leave the fortress in open daylight.

That a man who had for five years, on this very spot, been subjected to the closest scrutiny; whose every look, movement, expression, had been closely studied, should undertake to challenge the alert watchfulness of this strict guard, certainly indicated a daring self-control which a writer of romance would scarcely expect thoughtful readers to accept as a characteristic of even a very daring knight of the middle ages, a hero of marvelous and incredible adventures. That this should have occurred within our own prosaic generation, that many of those still living should have looked upon this man of gentle, quiet dignity, brings to mind how immeasurably below the strong realities of truth fall the portrayals of romance upon the mimic stage.

The dress of a workman was secured by Charles Thelin and successfully brought into the fortress; a blue blouse soiled with plaster; a black wig with long hair, a peaked cap rubbed threadbare with pumice stone, a pair of wooden sabots to make the prince look taller.

Many years afterwards when the splendors of the second empire, no longer a dream but a magnificent pageant, had dazzled mankind; after the fatal day of Sedan and the revolution of September which drove the lovely Eugenie from Paris, among the papers found at the Tuileries was a bill for the articles used in this disguise. It amounted to twenty-five francs. Upon so small a sum rested an empire. Through all those years of imperial magnificence, this man, with a heart full of sentimental longings, preserved in his palace this little paper memento of the hour which tried his soul.

On May 26th, the workmen wouldhave completed their task; it was settled that on the 25th the attempt should be made. On the 24th, in bidding General Montholon and his wife good night, the prince embraced them with an emotion which came near betraying him; but neither of them suspected what was going on.

The day dawned on the 25th of May. The curé of Ham was to say mass at the fortress, in the chapel on the ground floor. Very early in the morning the prince wrote this note to him: “M. Dean, I should be glad to have you put off until to-morrow or the next day the mass you were to celebrate to-day at the chateau; for, as I suffered great pains on rising, I am obliged to take a bath to alleviate them.” This curé of Ham under the reign of Napoleon III was made a bishop and almoner of the Tuileries. At half-past six o’clock in the morning the workmen were already at work renewing the paint on the staircase. The captive abandoned himself to his destiny and assumed his disguise. The future emperor darkened his complexion and shaved off his mustache. Superstitious, and a fatalist, he concealed, under his apparel, a portfolio containing two letters, one from his uncle, the great Emperor, and the other from the Empress Josephine, his grandmother. These letters he regarded as talismans. It was a grave imprudence to take them, for if the fugitive had been arrested on his way they would have betrayed him.

His disguise accomplished, Prince Louis Napoleon put a pipe between his teeth and a plank on his shoulder. This plank, inscribed with the letter “N,” was one of his library shelves; he believed it would bring him good luck—it was the plank of his salvation. “If the escape is a failure,” he says, “I will not survive; if it succeeds I shall become master of France.” Romantic and eager for emotion, this man of calm and gentle manner delighted in thus braving fortune.

Charles Thelin asked the workmen to take a drink; they accepted and followed him into a room on the ground floor. Two wardens, however, were on duty; the prince passed down the stairs putting the plank before his face as he met one of the wardens at the foot. He passed the whole length of the court, keeping the plank constantly between himself and the sentinels. In passing the first sentry he let his pipe fall, stooped to pick up the pieces and then walked on. He met the officer of the guard who happened to be reading a letter and did not notice him. He passed under the commandant’s window to the only door of the fortress; the soldiers at the guard-house looked carelessly at the workman as he came near them; the drums rolled several times; the orderlies opened the door; the fugitive was outside the fortress. Just then, two workmen looking at him attentively, he shifted his plank to the shoulder next to them and heard one of them say: “It is Bertrand.”

In the meantime, Thelin, unrestricted, to a certain degree, in his comings and goings, had been talking to the soldiers and remarked, as he passed out of the fortress, that he would not be back until quite late. As soon as he was out of their sight he sped to Ham for a cab which he had engaged the day before, and hurried to overtake the prince on the St. Quentin road. A few days after, Louis Napoleon wrote to a friend: “When about half a league from Ham, while awaiting Charles, I found myself opposite the Cemetery Cross and fell on my knees before it and thanked God—ah, do not laugh at it! There are instincts that are stronger than all philosophic arguments.”

The prince hid his plank in a ditch, and sitting down on the side of the road, counted the minutes while he waited for Thelin. At last he saw him coming, and in about an hour they reached St. Quentin. Outside the city the prince alighted, leaving Thelin to go on alone; he removed his workman’s dress, hiding that also in a ditch, and then walked on towhere he was to meet Thelin on the Valenciennes road.

Thelin had taken another carriage at St. Quentin, and overtaking the prince, they arrived at Valenciennes about 3 o’clock. Here they had to wait two interminable hours for the train to Brussels. While they were waiting, Thelin heard a loud voice calling him by name. Their hearts sank in despair. It proved, however, to be a formergendarmeof Ham, who was now employed on the railroad. He asked for news of the prince and had a long conversation with Thelin but did not observe his companion.

The railway train at last drew up, they entered, and soon passed the boundary. The government of King Louis Phillippe had lost its captive. Eight hours after putting the plank on his shoulder, Louis Napoleon was in Belgium; twelve hours later he was in England.

Just as he arrived in London he passed an English acquaintance (Lord Malmesbury) who was on horseback and merely bowed in passing, without having an opportunity to speak. That evening Lord Malmesbury met at dinner an attaché of the French Embassy. “Have you seen him?” said he. “Seen whom?” asked the attaché. “Louis Napoleon; he has just arrived in London.” The diplomat left the table at once and went to communicate the news to his chief.

All day long Dr. Conneau had experienced almost as much emotion as the fugitive himself. He well knew how essential it was that several hours should elapse before his flight should be suspected; the slightest suspicion would cause telegrams to be sent to St. Quentin and Valenciennes for his arrest. The great thing was to gain time and to prevent any one from entering the empty apartments. He made a report that, after a sleepless night, the captive had suffered so much pain that he (the doctor) had administered a medicine which caused him to sleep; and he requested that his patient should remain undisturbed.

The doctor had put a manikin in the bed, made of a cloak and a silk handkerchief. At seven o’clock in the evening the commandant said to Dr. Conneau: “If the prince is suffering make your report. He has not been seen all day. This is the third time I have come here and asked to see him. Now I wish to see him.” As he opened the door the drums commenced to roll and he remarked: “That will awaken the prince; I think I saw him turn in the bed.” He approached and leaned over. “It seems to me I do not hear him breathe.” Looking more closely, in a moment he perceived the manikin. He exclaimed angrily, “What does this mean? Are you playing a trick on me? Where is the prince?”

“Mon ami,” said Dr. Conneau, “it is useless to conceal it from you any longer. The prince is gone.”

“Gone!” cried the commandant, “How? When? Where?”

“Excuse me,” said Dr. Conneau, “but that is my secret. I have done my duty; do yours and search.”

“But, at least, tell me at what hour,” insisted the commandant.

“At seven o’clock this morning,” replied Dr. Conneau.

“Very well, sir,” sternly said the commandant, “re-enter your prison.”

When Count de Montholon, who, with his wife, had been the companion of the prince in his captivity for six years, found that he had left the fortress without bidding him adieu, he was not only surprised, but offended. The following letter from the prince, however, was placed in his hands:

My Dear General: You will be much astonished by the decision I have taken, and still more so that having taken it I did not inform you of it sooner. But I thought it was better to leave you in ignorance of my plans, which date only a few days back; and besides I was convinced that my escape could not be otherwise than advantageous to you and to other friends whom I leave in prison. The government only detains you on my account; and when it sees that I have no intention of using my liberty against it it will, I hope, open the doors of all the prisons. Believe, dear general, that I greatly regret having been unable to see you and press your hand before departure; but that would have been impossible;my emotion would have betrayed the secret I wished to keep. I will write you as soon as I have reached a place of safety. Adieu, my general; receive the assurance of my friendship.

The commandant and two jailors were charged with complicity in the escape of the prince. Judgment was rendered the next day and they were acquitted. Dr. Conneau was condemned to six months’ imprisonment and no one ever saw a more cheerful condemned man. Charles Thelin was condemned in default to six months’ imprisonment.

The prince wrote at once:

London, May 27th, 1846.—My Dear Father: The desire to see you again made me attempt what otherwise I should never have done. I have eluded the vigilance of four hundred men and arrived in London safe and sound. I have powerful friends here and I am going to put them in use in trying to reach you. I entreat you, my dear father, to do all in your power in order that I may speedily rejoin you. My address is Count d’Arenenberg, Brunswick Hotel, Jermyn Street, London.

Every effort was made by the prince to reach his dying father; but at every embassy he met refusal. King Louis, counting the days and hours, watched for the coming of his son. Alas! in vain. Without having been granted his prayer to see and bless his only child, he died sad and alone in Italy, July 25th, 1846. If to-day all men go freely everywhere it is due to the suffering caused Louis Napoleon at this time. He resolved that if ever he should come into power, he would at once suppress all such impediments as had caused him such torture. He kept his resolution; other governments were brought to act like his; and now travelers may go without passports.

Few destinies have been so melancholy as that of Louis Bonaparte, former King of Holland. Against his own inclinations he yielded to his brother’s will and contracted a marriage with Hortense Beauharnais, the stepdaughter of his brother; and yielding to the same powerful will he became most reluctantly, King of Holland. Upon the downfall of the great emperor, he began, at the age of thirty-one, a life of exile in foreign countries. He was absolutely unlike his great brother. His expression was kindly; his eyes were full of gentleness and in this his son resembled him, as well as in a propensity to melancholy, a blending of coldness and affability, and a taste for literature and humanitarian dreams. He was, however, far more ardent, more ambitious, more daring than his father. His personal charm was greater; he knew how to attract and win attachment; and he had a confidence in his star which was entirely wanting in King Louis. Indeed, in the year 1846, there seemed but one person in the world who believed in the star of Louis Napoleon; and that person was himself. Calmly and patiently he waited for the moment when it should rise above the horizon, as yet absolutely hazy. Who could have predicted that in less than two years he would be, by legal means, the head of the French Government? And what imagination could have pictured the triumphal entrance into London of the Emperor of the French, Napoleon III, the great ally of England in whose honor all the pomp and pageantry of the British Empire was displayed? Let writers of romance look always to the truths of history for the wonderful.

His cousin, the daughter of the Grand Duchess of Baden, said to him one evening in London: “Now that you are at liberty, will you resign yourself to repose? Will you give up these illusions which have cost you so dear and whose cruel deceptions have been so keenly felt by all who love you?”

“My cousin,” replied the prince, “I do not belong to myself but to my name and my country. Although fortune has twice betrayed me, my destiny will be accomplished all the more speedily.”

And, indeed, the hour expected by this man of destiny was about to strike.

[To be continued.]

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