CHAPTER VII
HE accession of Bonaparte to the Imperial throne was very variously regarded in Europe, and even in France opinions were divided. It is, however, quite certain that it did not displease the great majority of the nation. The Jacobins were not astonished by it, for they themselves were in the habit of pushing success as far as it would go, whenever luck favored them. Among the Royalists it spread disheartenment, and that was just what Bonaparte wanted. The exchange of the Consulate for Imperial authority was, however, regarded with dislike by all true friends of liberty. These true friends were, unfortunately, divided into two classes, so that their influence was diminished—an evil which still exists. One class regarded the change of the reigning dynasty with indifference, and would have accepted Bonaparte as readily as another, provided that he had received his royal authority in right of a constitution which would have restrained as well as founded it. They regarded the seizure of power by an enterprising and warlike man with serious apprehension; for it was plain enough that the so-called “bodies of the State,” which were already reduced to insignificance, would be unable to check his encroachments. The Senate seemed to be given over to mere passive obedience; the Tribunate was shaken to its foundations; and what was to be expected from a silent Corps Législatif? The Ministers, deprived of all responsibility, were no more than head clerks, and it was evident beforehand that the Council of State would henceforth be merely a storehouse, whence such laws as circumstances might demand could be taken, as occasion for them arose.
If this section of the friends of liberty had been more numerous and better led, it might have set itself to demand the settled and legitimate exercise of its rights, which is never demanded in vain by a nation in the long run. There existed, however, a second party, which agreed with the first on fundamental principles only, and, abiding by theories of its own, which it had already attempted to practise in a dangerous and sanguinary manner, lost the opportunity of producing an effective opposition. To this section belonged the proselytes of the Anglo-American Government, who had disgusted the nation with the notion of liberty.
They had witnessed the creation of the Consulate without any protest, for it was a tolerably fair imitation of the Presidentship of the United States; they believed, or wished to believe, that Bonaparte would maintain that equality of rights to which they attached so much importance, and some among them were really deceived. I say “some,” because I think the greater number fell into a trap, baited with flattery and consultations on all sorts of matters, which Bonaparte dexterously set for them. If they had not had some private interest to serve by deceiving themselves, how could they have declared afterward that they had approved of Bonaparte only as Consul, but that as Emperor he was odious to them? In what respect was he, while Consul, different from his ordinary self? What was his Consular authority but dictatorship under another name? Did he not, as Consul, make peace and declare war without consulting the nation? Did not the right of levying the conscription devolve upon him? Did he permit freedom in the discussion of affairs? Could any journal publish a single article without his approval? Did he not make it perfectly clear that he held his power by the right of his victorious arms? How, then, could stern Republicans have allowed him to take them by surprise?
I can understand how it was that men, worn out by the turmoil of the Revolution, and afraid of that liberty which had been so long associated with death, looked for repose under the dominion of an able ruler, on whom fortune was seemingly resolved to smile. I can conceive that they regarded his elevation as a decree of destiny, and fondly believed that in the irrevocable they should find peace. I may confidently assert that those persons believed quite sincerely that Bonaparte, whether as Consul or as Emperor, would exert his authority to oppose the attempts of faction, and would save us from the perils of anarchy.
None dared to utter the word Republic, so deeply had the Terror stained that name, and the Directorial government had perished in the contempt with which its chiefs were regarded. The return of the Bourbons could only be brought about by the aid of a revolution; and the slightest disturbance terrified the French people, in whom enthusiasm of every kind seemed to be dead. Besides, the men in whom they had trusted had, one after the other, deceived them; and as, this time, they were yielding to force, they were at least certain that they were not deceiving themselves.
The belief, or rather the error, that only despotism could at that epoch maintain order in France, was very widespread. It became the mainstay of Bonaparte; and it is due to him to say that he also held it. The factions played into his hands by imprudent attempts which he turned to his own advantage; he had some grounds for his belief that he was necessary; France believed it too; and he even succeeded in persuading foreign sovereigns that he formed a barrier against Republican influences, which, but for him, might spread widely. At the moment when Bonaparte placed the Imperial crown upon his head, there was not a king in Europe who did not believe that he wore his own crown more securely because of that event. Had the new Emperor added to that decisive act the gift of a liberal constitution, the peace of nations and of kings might, in sober seriousness, have been for ever secured.
Sincere defenders of Bonaparte’s original system—and some of these still exist—advance, in justification of it, that we could not have exacted from him that which it belongs only to a legitimate sovereign to bestow; that freedom to discuss our interests might have been followed by the discussion of our rights; that England, jealous of our reviving prosperity, would have fomented fresh disturbances among us; that our princes had not abandoned their designs, and that the slow methods of constitutional government would not have availed to restrain the contending factions. Hume says, when speaking of Cromwell, that it is a great difficulty for a usurping government that its personal policy is generally opposed to the interest of its country. This gives a superiority to hereditary authority, of which it would be well that nations should be convinced. But, after all, Bonaparte was not an ordinary usurper; his elevation offered no point of comparison with that of Cromwell. “I found the crown of France lying on the ground,” said he, “and I took it up on the point of my sword.” He was the product of an inevitable revolution; but he had no share in its disasters, and I sincerely believe that, until the death of the Duc d’Enghien, it would have been possible for him to legitimatize his power by conferring upon France benefits of a kind which would have pledged the nation to him and his for ever.
His despotic ambition misled him; but, I say it again, he was not the only one who went astray. He was beguiled by appearances which he did not take the trouble to investigate. The word “liberty” did indeed resound in the air about him, but those who uttered it were not held in sufficient esteem by the nation to be made its representatives to him. Well-meaning, honest folk asked nothing of him but repose, and did not trouble themselves about the form under which it was to be granted. And then, he knew well that the secret weakness of the French nation was vanity, and he saw a means of gratifying it easily by the pomp and display that attend on monarchical power. He revived distinctions which were now, in reality, democratic, because they were placed within the reach of all and entailed no privileges. The eagerness displayed in the pursuit of these titles, and of crosses, which were objects of derision while they hung on the coats of one’s neighbors, was not likely to undeceive him, if indeed he was on the wrong road. Was it not natural, on the contrary, that he should applaud and congratulate himself, when he had succeeded in bringing feudal and republican pretensions to the same level by the assistance of a few bits of ribbons and some words added to men’s names? Had not we ourselves much to do with that notion which became so firmly fixed in his mind, that, for his own safety and for ours, he ought to use the power which he possessed to suspend the Revolution without destroying it? “My successor,” said he, “whoever he may be, will be forced to march with his own times, and to find his support in liberal opinions. I will bequeath them to him, but deprived of their primitive asperity.” France imprudently applauded this idea.
Nevertheless, a warning voice—that of conscience for him, that of our interests for us—spoke to him and to us alike. If he would silence that importunate whisper, he would have to dazzle us by a series of surprising feats. Hence those interminable wars, whose duration was so all-important to him that he always called the peace which he signed “a halt,” and hence the fact that into every one of his treaties he was forced by M. de Talleyrand’s skill in negotiation. When he returned to Paris, and resumed the administration of the affairs of France, in addition to the fact that he did not know what to do with an army whose demands grew with its victories, he had to encounter the dumb but steady and inevitable resistance which the spirit of the age, in spite of individual proclivities, opposes to despotism; so that despotism has happily become an impracticable mode of government. It died with the good fortune of Bonaparte, when, as Mme. de Staël said, “The terrible mace which he alone could wield fell at last upon his own head.” Happy, thrice happy, are the days in which we are now living, since we have exhausted every experiment, and only madmen can dispute the road which leads to safety.
Bonaparte was seconded for a long time by the military ardor of the youth of France. That insensate passion for conquest which has been implanted by an evil spirit in men collected into societies, to retard the progress of each generation in every kind of prosperity, urged us forward in the path of Bonaparte’s career of devastation. France can rarely resist glory, and it was especially tempting when it covered and disguised the humiliation to which we were then condemned. When Bonaparte was quiet, he let us perceive the reality of our servitude; when our sons marched away to plant our standards on the ramparts of all the great cities of Europe, that servitude disappeared. It was a long time before we recognized that each one of our conquests was a link in the chain that fettered our liberties; and, when we became fully aware of what our intoxication had led us into, it was too late for resistance. The army had become the accomplice of tyranny, had broken with France, and would treat a cry for deliverance as revolt.
The greatest of Bonaparte’s errors—one very characteristic of him—was that he never took anything but success into account in the calculations on which he acted. Perhaps he was more excusable than another would have been in doubting whether any reverse could come in him. His natural pride shrank from the idea of a defeat of any kind. There was the weak point in his strong mind, for such a man as he ought to have contemplated every contingency. But, as he lacked nobility of soul, and had not that instinctive elevation of mind which rises above evil fortune, he turned his thoughts away from this weakness in himself, and contemplated only his wonderful faculty of growing greater with success. “I shall succeed” was the basis of all his calculations, and his obstinate repetition of the phrase helped him to realize the prediction. At length his own good fortune grew into a superstition with him, and his worship of it made every sacrifice which was to be imposed upon us fair and lawful in his eyes.
And we ourselves—let us once more own it—did we not at first share this baleful superstition? At the time of which I write, it had great mastery over our wonder-loving imaginations. The trial of General Moreau and the death of the Duc d’Enghien had shocked every one’s feelings, but had not changed public opinion. Bonaparte scarcely tried to conceal that both events had furthered the project which for a long time past he had been maturing. It is to the credit of human nature that repugnance to crime is innate among us; that we willingly believe, when a guilty act is acknowledged by its perpetrator, that he has been absolutely forced to commit it; and, when he succeeded in raising himself by such deeds, we too readily accepted the bargain that he offered us—absolution on our part, as the guerdon of success on his.
Thenceforth he was no longer beloved; but the days in which monarchs reign through the love of nations are gone by, and, when Bonaparte let us see that he could punish even our thoughts, he was well pleased to exchange the affection we had striven to retain for him for the very real fear that he inspired. We admired, or at least we wondered at, the boldness of the game which he was openly playing; and when at last he sprang, with imposing audacity, from the blood-stained grave at Vincennes to the steps of the Imperial throne, exclaiming, “I have won!” France, in her amazement, could but reëcho his words. And that was all he wanted her to do.
A few days after Bonaparte had assumed the title of Emperor (by which I shall not scruple to designate him, for, after all, he bore it longer than that of Consul), on one of those occasions when, as I have said before, he was disposed to talk freely to us, he was discussing his new position with the Empress, my husband, and myself. I think I see him still, in the window-recess of a drawing-room at Saint Cloud, astride on a chair, resting his chin on the back of it. Mme. Bonaparte reclined on a sofa near him; I was sitting opposite him, and M. de Rémusat stood behind my chair. For a long time the Emperor had been silent; then he suddenly addressed me: “You have borne me a grudge for the death of the Duc d’Enghien?” “It is true, Sire,” I answered, “and I still bear it you. I believe you did yourself much harm by that act.” “But are you aware that he was waiting at the frontier for me to be assassinated?” “Possibly, Sire; but still he was not in France.” “Ah! there is no harm in showing other countries, now and then, that one is the master.” “There, Sire, do not let us speak of it, or you will make me cry.” “Ah! tears! Woman’s only weapon. That is like Josephine. She thinks she has carried her point when she begins to cry. Are not tears, M. de Rémusat, the strongest argument of women?” “Sire,” replied my husband, “there are tears which can not be censured.”
“Ah! I perceive that you also take a serious view of the matter. But that is quite natural; you have seen other days, all of you, and you remember them. I only date from the day when I began to be somebody. What is a Duc d’Enghien to me? Only an émigré, more important than the others—nothing more. But that was enough to make me strike hard. Those crack-brained Royalists had actually spread a report that I was to replace the Bourbons on the throne. The Jacobins became alarmed, and they sent Fouché to me to inquire into my intentions. Power has for the last two years fallen so naturally into my hands, that people may well have doubted sometimes whether I had any serious intention of investing myself with it officially. I came to the conclusion that it was my duty to profit by this, in order to put a lawful end to the Revolution. The reason why I chose Empire rather than Dictatorship is because one becomes legitimate by taking up well-known ground. I began by trying to reconcile the two contending factions at the time of my accession to the Consulship. I thought that, in establishing order by means of permanent institutions, I should put an end to their enterprises; but factions are not to be put down so long as any fear of them is shown, and every attempt to conciliate them looks like fear. Besides, it may sometimes be possible to get the better of a sentiment; but of an opinion, never. I saw clearly that I could make no alliance between the two, but that I might make one with both of them on my own account. The Concordat and the permissions to return have conciliated the émigrés, and I shall soon be completely reconciled with them; for you will see how the attractions of a Court will allure them. The mere phrases that recall former habits will win over the nobility, but the Jacobins require deeds. They are not men to be won by fair words. They were satisfied with my necessary severity when, after the 3d Nivôse, at the very moment of a purely Royalist conspiracy, I transported a number of Jacobins. They might justly have complained if I had struck a weaker blow. You all thought I was becoming cruel and bloodthirsty, but you were wrong. I have no feelings of hatred—I am not capable of acting from revenge; I only sweep obstacles from my path, and, if it were expedient, you should see me pardon Georges Cadoudal to-morrow, although he came simply and solely to assassinate me.
“When people find that public tranquillity is the result of the event in question, they will no longer reproach me with it, and in a year’s time this execution will be regarded as a great act of policy. It is true, however, that it has driven me to shorten the crisis. What I have just done I did not intend to do for two years yet. I meant to retain the Consulate, although words and things clash with one another under this form of government, and the signature I affixed to all the acts of my authority was the sign manual of a continual lie. We should have got on nevertheless, France and I, because she has confidence in me, and what I will she wills.
“As, however, this particular conspiracy was meant to shake the whole of Europe, the Royalists and also Europe had to be undeceived. I had to choose between continuous persecution or one decisive blow; and my decision was not doubtful. I have for ever silenced both Royalists and Jacobins. Only the Republicans remain—mere dreamers, who think a republic can be made out of an old monarchy, and that Europe would stand by and let us quietly found a federative government of twenty million men. The Republicans I shall not win, but they are few in number and not important. The rest of you Frenchmen like a monarchy; it is the only government that pleases you. I will wager that you, M. de Rémusat, are a hundred times more at your ease, now that you call me Sire and that I address you as Monsieur?”
As there was some truth in this remark, my husband laughed, and answered that certainly the sovereign power became his Majesty very well.
“The fact is,” resumed the Emperor, good-humoredly, “I believe I should not know how to obey. I recollect, at the time of the Treaty of Campo Formio, M. de Cobentzel and I met, in order to conclude it, in a room where, according to an Austrian custom, a dais had been erected and the throne of the Emperor of Austria was represented. On entering the room, I asked what that meant; and afterward I said to the Austrian Minister, ‘Now, before we begin, have that arm-chair removed, for I can never see one seat higher than the others without instantly wanting to place myself in it.’ You see, I had an instinct of what was to happen to me some day.
“I have now acquired one great advantage for my government of France: neither she nor I will deceive ourselves any longer. Talleyrand wanted me to make myself King—that is the word of his dictionary; but I will have no grands seigneurs, except those I make myself. Besides which, the title of King is worn out. Certain preconceived ideas are attached to it; it would make me a kind of heir, and I will be the heir of no one. The title that I bear is a grander one; it is still somewhat vague, and leaves room for the imagination. Here is a revolution brought to an end, and, I flatter myself, not harshly. Would you know why? Because no interests have been displaced, and many have been revived. That vanity of yours must always have breathing room; you would have been wearied to death with the dull sternness of a republican government. What caused the Revolution? Vanity. What will end it? Vanity again. Liberty is a pretext; equality is your hobby, and here are the people quite pleased with a king taken from the ranks of the soldiery. Men like the Abbé Siéyès,” he added, laughing, “may inveigh against despotism, but my authority will always be popular. To-day I have the people and the army on my side; and with these a man would be a great fool who could not reign.”
With these concluding words, Bonaparte rose. Hitherto he had been very agreeable; his tone of voice, his countenance, his gestures, all were familiar and encouraging. He had been smiling, he had seen our answering smiles, and had even been amused by the remarks we had made on his discourse; in fact, he had put us perfectly at our ease. But now, in a moment, his manner changed. He looked at us sternly, in a way that always seemed to increase his short stature, and gave M. de Rémusat some insignificant order in the curt tone of a despotic master, who takes care that every request shall be a command.
His tone of voice, so different from that to which I had been listening for the last hour, made me start; and, when we had withdrawn, my husband, who had noticed my involuntary movement, told me that he had felt the same sensation. “You perceive,” he said, “he was afraid that this momentary unbending and confidence might lessen the fear he is always anxious to inspire. He therefore thought proper to dismiss us with a reminder that he is the master.” I never forgot this just observation, and more than once I have seen that it was founded on a sound appreciation of Bonaparte’s character.
I have allowed myself to digress in relating this conversation and the reflections which preceded it, and must now return to the day on which Bonaparte was made Emperor, and continue to depict the curious scenes of which I was an eye-witness.
I have already enumerated the guests whom Bonaparte invited to dine with him on that day. Just before dinner was announced, Duroc, the Governor of the Palace, informed each of us, severally, that the title of Prince was to be given to Joseph and Louis Bonaparte, and that of Princess to their wives. Mmes. Bacciochi and Murat were enraged at the distinction thus made between themselves and their sisters-in-law; and Mme. Murat could hardly conceal her anger. At six o’clock the new Emperor made his appearance, and, with perfect ease and readiness, saluted each one present by his or her new title. The scene made a deep impression on me; I felt it like a presentiment. The early part of the day had been fine, but very hot; but, about the time of the arrival of the Senate at Saint Cloud, the weather suddenly changed, the sky became overcast, thunder was heard, and for several hours a storm seemed impending. The dark and heavy atmosphere which weighed on the palace of Saint Cloud struck me as an evil omen, and I could hardly conceal the depression I felt. The Emperor was in good spirits, and, I think secretly enjoyed the slight confusion which the new ceremonial created among us all. The Empress was, as usual, gracious, and unaffected, and easy; Joseph and Louis looked pleased; Mme. Joseph appeared resigned to anything that might be required of her; Mme. Louis was equally submissive; and Eugène Beauharnais, whom I can not praise too highly in comparison with the others, was simple and natural, evidently free from any secret ambition or repining. This was not the case with the new-made Marshal Murat; but his fear of his brother-in-law forced him to restrain himself, and he maintained a sullen silence. Mme. Murat was excessively angry, and during the dinner had so little control over herself that, on hearing the Emperor address Mme. Louis several times as “Princess,” she could not restrain her tears. She drank several glasses of water in order to recover herself, and to appear to be taking something at the table, but her tears were not to be checked. Every one was embarrassed, and her brother smiled maliciously. For my own part, I was surprised, and even shocked, to see that young and pretty face disfigured by emotions whose source was so mean a passion.
Mme. Murat was then between twenty-two and twenty-three years of age; her dazzlingly white skin, her beautiful fair hair, the flowery wreath which decked it, the rose-colored dress she wore, all contributed to give her a youthful and childlike appearance. The feelings which she now displayed contrasted harshly with those charms. No one could pity her tears, and I think they impressed every one else as disagreeably as they impressed me.
Mme. Bacciochi, who was older and had more command over herself, shed no tears; but her manner was abrupt and sarcastic, and she treated us all with marked haughtiness.
The Emperor became annoyed at last by his sisters’ behavior, and he aggravated their ill humor by indirect taunts, which wounded them very deeply. All that I witnessed during that eventful day gave me new notions of the effect which ambition produces on minds of a certain order; it was a spectacle of which I could have formed no previous conception.
On the following day, after a family dinner, a violent scene took place, at which I was not present; but we could hear something of it through the wall which divided the Empress’s boudoir from our salon. Mme. Murat burst into complaints, tears, and reproaches; she asked why she and her sisters were to be condemned to obscurity and contempt, while strangers were to be loaded with honors and dignity? Bonaparte answered her angrily, asserting several times that he was master, and would distribute honors as he pleased. It was on this occasion that he uttered the memorable remark, “Really, mesdames, to hear your pretension, one would think we hold the crown from our father, the late King.”
The Empress afterward retailed to me the whole of this angry dispute. With all her kindheartedness, she could not help enjoying the wrath of a person who so thoroughly disliked her. The discussion ended by Mme. Murat’s falling on the floor in a dead faint, overcome by her excessive anger and by the acrimony of her brother’s reproaches. At this, Bonaparte’s anger vanished, and when his sister recovered consciousness he gave her some little encouragement. A few days later, after a consultation with M. de Talleyrand, Cambacérès, and others, it was arranged that titles of courtesy should be given to the sisters of the Emperor, and we learned from the “Moniteur” that they were to be addressed as “Imperial Highness.”
Another vexation was, however, in store for Mme. Murat and her husband. The private regulations of the palace of Saint Cloud divided the Imperial apartment into several reception-rooms, which could only be entered according to the newly acquired rank of each person. The room nearest the Emperor’s cabinet became the throne-room, or Princes’ room, and Marshal Murat, although the husband of a princess, was excluded from it. M. de Rémusat had the unpleasant task of refusing him admittance when he was about to pass in. Although my husband was not responsible for the orders he had received, and executed them with scrupulous politeness, Murat was deeply offended by this public affront; and he and his wife, already prejudiced against us on account of our attachment to the Empress, henceforth honored us both, if I may use the word, with a secret enmity, of which we have more than once experienced the effects. Mme. Murat, however, who had discovered her influence over her brother, was far from considering the case hopeless on this occasion; and, in fact, she eventually succeeded in raising her husband to the position she so eagerly desired for him.
The new code of precedence caused some disturbance in a Court which had hitherto been tolerably quiet. The struggle of contending vanity that convulsed the Imperial family was parodied in Mme. Bonaparte’s circle.
In addition to her four ladies-in-waiting, Mme. Bonaparte was in the habit of receiving the wives of the various officers attached to the service of the First Consul. Besides these, Mme. Murat was frequently invited—she lived permanently at Saint Cloud on account of her husband’s position there; also Mme. de la Valette, the Marquis de Beauharnais’s daughter, whose misfortunes and conjugal tenderness afterward made her famous at the time of the sentence passed on her husband and his escape, in 1815. He was of very humble origin, but clever, and of amiable disposition. After having served some time in the army, he had abandoned a mode of life unsuited to his tastes. The First Consul had employed him on some diplomatic missions, and had just appointed him Counsellor of State. He evinced extreme devotion to all the Beauharnais, whose kinsman he had become. His wife was amiable and unpretending by nature, but it seemed as though vanity were to become the ruling passion in every one belonging to the Court, of both sexes and all ages.
An order from the Emperor which gave the ladies-in-waiting precedence over others became a signal for an outburst of feminine jealousy. Mme. Maret, a cold, proud personage, was annoyed that we should take precedence of her, and made common cause with Mme. Murat, who fully shared her feelings. Besides this, M. de Talleyrand, who was no friend to Maret, and mercilessly ridiculed his absurdities, and was also on bad terms with Murat, had become an object of dislike to both, and, consequently, a bond of union between the two. The Empress did not like anybody who was a friend of Mme. Murat, and treated Mme. Maret with some coldness; and, although I never shared any of these feelings, and, for my own part, disliked nobody, I was included in the animadversions of that party upon the Beauharnais.
On Sunday morning the new Empress received commands to appear at mass, attended only by her four ladies-in-waiting. Mme. de la Valette, who had hitherto accompanied her aunt on all occasions, finding herself suddenly deprived of this privilege, burst into tears, and so we had to set about consoling this ambitious young lady. I observed these things with much amusement, preserving my serenity in these somewhat absurd dissensions, which were, nevertheless, natural enough. So much was it a matter of course for the inmates of the palace to live in a state of excitement, and to be either joyous or depressed according as their new-born projects of ambition were accomplished or disappointed, that one day, when I was in great spirits and laughing heartily at some jest or other, one of Bonaparte’s aides-de-camp came up to me and asked me in a low voice whether I had been promised some new dignity. I could not help asking him in return whether he fancied that at Saint Cloud one must always be in tears unless one was a princess.
Yet I had my own little ambition too, but it was moderate and easy to satisfy. The Emperor had made known to me through the Empress, and M. de Caulaincourt had repeated it to my husband, that, on the consolidation of his own fortunes, he would not forget those who had from the first devoted themselves to his service. Relying on this assurance, we felt easy with regard to our future, and took no steps to render it secure. We were wrong, for every one else was actively at work. M. de Rémusat had always kept aloof from any kind of scheming, a defect in a man who lived at a Court. Certain good qualities are absolutely a bar to advancement in the favor of sovereigns. They do not like to find generous feelings and philosophical opinions which are a mark of independence of mind in their surroundings; and they think it still less pardonable that those who serve them should have any means of escaping from their power. Bonaparte, who was exacting in the kind of service he required, quickly perceived that M. de Rémusat would serve him faithfully, and yet would not bend to all his caprices. This discovery, together with some additional circumstances which I shall relate in their proper places, induced him to discard his obligations to him. He retained my husband near him; he made use of him to suit his own convenience; but he did not confer the same honors upon him which he bestowed on many others, because he knew that no favors would procure the compliance of a man who was incapable of sacrificing self-respect to ambition. The arts of a courtier were, besides, incompatible with M. de Rémusat’s tastes. He liked solitude, serious occupations, family life; every feeling of his heart was tender and pure; the use, or rather the waste of his time, which was exclusively occupied in a continual and minute attention to the details of Court etiquette, was a source of constant regret to him. The Revolution, which removed him from the ranks of the magistracy, having deprived him of his chosen calling, he thought it his duty to his children to accept the position which had offered itself; but the constant attention to important trifles to which he was condemned was wearisome, and he was only punctual when he ought to have been assiduous. Afterward, when the veil fell from his eyes, and he saw Bonaparte as he really was, his generous spirit was roused to indignation, and close personal attendance on him became very painful to my husband. Nothing is so fatal to the promotion of a courtier as his being actuated by conscientious scruples which he does not conceal. But, at the period of which I am speaking, these feelings of ours were still only vague, and I must repeat what I have already said—that we believed that the Emperor was in some measure indebted to us, and we relied on him.
The time soon came, however, when we lost some of our importance. People of rank equal to our own, and soon afterward those who were our superiors both in rank and fortune, begged to be allowed to form part of the Imperial Court; and thenceforth the services of those who were the first to show the way thither decreased in value. Bonaparte was highly delighted at his gradual conquest of the French nobility, and even Mme. Bonaparte, who was more susceptible of affection than he, had her head turned for a time by finding real grandes dames among her ladies-in-waiting. Wiser and more far-sighted persons than ourselves would have been more than ever attentive and assiduous in order to keep their footing, which was disputed in every direction by a crowd full of their own importance; but, far from acting thus, we gave way to them. We saw in all this an opportunity of partially regaining our freedom, and imprudently availed ourselves of it; and when, from any cause whatever, one loses ground at Court, it is rarely to be recovered.
M. de Talleyrand, who was urging Bonaparte to surround himself with all the prestige of royalty, advised him to gratify the vanity and pretension of those whom he wished to allure; and in France the nobility can be satisfied only by being placed in the front. Those distinctions to which they thought themselves entitled had to be dangled before their eyes; the Montmorencys, the Montesquious, etc., were secured by the promise that, from the day they cast in their lot with Bonaparte, they should resume all their former importance. In fact, it could not be otherwise, when the Emperor had once resolved on forming a regular Court.
Some persons have thought that Bonaparte would have done more wisely had he retained some of the simplicity and austerity in externals which disappeared with the Consulate when he adopted the new title of Emperor. A constitutional government and a limited Court, displaying no luxury, and significant of the change which successive revolutions had wrought in people’s ideas, might perhaps have been less pleasing to the national vanity, but it would have commanded more real respect. At the time of which I am speaking, the dignities to be conferred on those persons surrounding the new sovereign were much discussed. Duroc requested M. de Rémusat to give his ideas on the subject in writing. He drew up a wise and moderate plan, but which was too simple for those secret projects which no one had then divined. “There is not sufficient display in it,” said Bonaparte, as he read it; “all that would not throw dust in people’s eyes.” His project was to decoy, in order to deceive more effectually.
As he refused to give a free constitution to the French, he had to conciliate and fascinate them by every possible means; and, there being always some littleness in pride, supreme power was not enough for him—he must have the appearance of it too; he must have etiquette, chamberlains, and so forth, which he believed would disguise the parvenu. He liked display; he leaned toward a feudal system quite alien to the age in which he lived, but which nevertheless he intended to establish. It would, however, in all probability, have only lasted for the duration of his own reign.
It would be impossible to record all his notions on this subject. The following were some of them: “The French Empire,” he would say, “will become the mother country of the other sovereignties of Europe. I intend that each of the kings shall be obliged to build a big palace for his own use in Paris; and that, on the coronation of the Emperor of the French, these kings shall come to Paris, and grace by their presence that imposing ceremony to which they will render homage.” What did this project mean, except that he hoped to revive the feudal system, and to resuscitate a Charlemagne who, for his own advantage only, and to strengthen his own power, should avail himself of the despotic notions of a former era and also of the experience of modern times?
Bonaparte frequently declared that he alone was the whole Revolution, and he at length persuaded himself that in his own person he preserved all of it which it would not be well to destroy.
A fever of etiquette seemed to have seized on all the inhabitants of the Imperial palace of Saint Cloud. The ponderous regulations of Louis XIV. were taken down from the shelves in the library, and extracts were commenced from them, in order that a code might be drawn up for the use of the new Court. Mme. Bonaparte sent for Mme. Campan, who had been First Bedchamber Woman to Marie Antoinette. She was a clever woman, and kept a school, where, as I have already mentioned, nearly all the young girls who appeared at Bonaparte’s Court had been educated. She was questioned in detail as to the manners and customs of the last Queen of France, and I was appointed to write everything that she related from her dictation. Bonaparte added the very voluminous memoranda which resulted from this to those which were brought to him from all sides. M. de Talleyrand was consulted about everything. There was a continual coming and going; people were living in a kind of uncertainty which had its pleasing side, because every one hoped to rise higher. I must candidly confess that we all felt ourselves more or less elevated. Vanity is ingenious in its expectations, and ours were unlimited.
Sometimes it was disenchanting, for a moment, to observe the almost ridiculous effect that this agitation produced upon certain classes of society. Those who had nothing to do with our brand-new dignities said with Montaigne, “Vengeons-nous par en médire.” Jests more or less witty, and calembours more or less ingenious, were lavished on these new-made princes, and somewhat disturbed our brilliant visions; but the number of those who dare to censure success is small, and flattery was much more common than criticism, at any rate in the circle under our observation.
Such was, then, the position of affairs at the close of the era which terminates here. The narrative of the second epoch will show what progress we all made (when I say “we all,” I mean France and Europe) in this course of brilliant errors, which was destined to lead to the loss of our liberties and the obscuration of our true greatness for a long period.
In the April of that year Bonaparte made his brother Louis a member of the Council of State, and Joseph colonel of the 4th Regiment of Infantry. “You must both belong to the civil and military service by turns,” he said. “You must not be strangers to anything that concerns the interests of the country.”