“Well, if you’ll permit me, I’ll have great pleasure in conducting you through the fortress, to-morrow and next day. You can’t see it all under two days, and even with that, you’ll have to omit the arsenals and the shot batteries.”
I expressed my most grateful acknowledgments, with an inward vow, that if I took refuge in the big mortar, I’d not be caught by my friend the next morning.
“Good night, then,” said he, with a polite bow. “Bis Morgen.”—
“Bis Morgen,” repeated I, and entered the Kaiser.
The “Romischer Kaiser” was a great place once; but now, alas! its “Diana is fallen!” Time was, when two Emperors slept beneath its roof, and the Ambassadors of Kings assembled within its walls. It was here Napoleon exercised that wonderful spell of enchantment he possessed above all other men, and so captivated the mind of the Emperor Alexander, that not even all the subsequent invasion of his empire, nor the disasters of Moscow, could eradicate the impression. The Czar alone, of his enemies, would have made terms with him in 1814; and when no other voice was raised in his favour, Alexander’s was heard, commemorating their ancient friendship, and recalling the time when they had been like brothers. Erfurt was the scene of their first friendship. Many now living, have seen Napoleon, with his arm linked within Alexander’s, as they walked along; and marked the spell-bound attention of the Czar, as he listened to the burning words, and rapid eloquence of Buonaparte, who, with a policy all his own, devoted himself completely to the young Emperor, and resolved on winning him over. They were never separate on horseback or on foot. They dined, and went to the theatre together each evening; and the flattery of this preference, so ostentatiously paraded by Napoleon, had its full effect on the ardent imagination, and chivalrous heart of the youthful Czar.
Fêtes, reviews, gala parties, and concerts, followed each other in quick succession. The corps of the “Français” was brought expressly from Paris; the ballet of the Opera also came, and nothing was omitted which could amuse the hours of Alexander, and testify the desire of his host—for such Napoleon was—to entertain him with honour. Little, then, did Napoleon dream, that the frank-hearted youth, who hung on every word he spoke, would one day prove the most obstinate of all his enemies; nor was it for many a day after, that he uttered, in the bitter venom of disappointment, when the rugged energy of the Muscovite showed an indomitable front to the strength of his armies, and was deaf to his attempted négociations, “Scrape the Russian, and you’ll come down on the Tartar.”
Alexander was indeed the worthy grandson of Catherine, and, however a feeling of personal regard for Napoleon existed through the vicissitudes of after-life, it is no less true that the dissimulation of the Russian had imposed on the Corsican; and that while Napoleon believed him all his own, the duplicity of the Muscovite had overreached him. It was in reference to that interview and its pledged good faith, Napoleon, in one of his cutting sarcasms, pronounced him, “Faux comme un Grec du Bas Empire.”
Nothing troubled the happiness of the meeting at Erfurt. It was a joyous and a splendid fête, where, amid all the blandishments of luxury and pleasure, two great kings divided the world at their will. It was Constantine and Charlemagne who partitioned the East and West between each other. The sad and sorrow-struck King of Prussia came not there as at Tilsit; nor the fair Queen of that unhappy kingdom, whose beauty and misfortunes might well have claimed the compassion of the conqueror.
Never was Napoleon’s character exhibited in a point of view less amiable than in his relations with the Queen of Prussia. If her position and her personal attractions had no influence over him, the devoted attachment of her whole nation towards her, should have had that effect. There was something unmanly in the cruelty that replied to her supplication in favour of her country, by trifling allusions to the last fashions of Paris, and the costumes of the Boulevard; and when she accepted the moss-rose from his hand, and tremblingly uttered the words—“Sire, avec Magdebourg?”—a more suitable rejection of her suit might have been found, than the abrupt “Non!” of Napoleon, as he turned his back and left her. There was something prophetic in her speech, when relating the anecdote herself to Hardenberg, she added—
“That man is too pitiless to misfortune, ever to support it himself, should it be his lot!”