In the evening the company of amateur comedians was to give a performance in the palace of the Barbier de Seville and of a vaudeville very popular at that time, entitled La Danse Interrompue. The Prince Koslowski had offered to accompany me to the imperial residence. Anxious to study the general physiognomy of the illustrious gathering, and also hoping to gather some fresh news in connection with the great event, I had accepted. The gathering was as brilliant and as numerous as usual. There was, however, no longer the careless calm of the morning. Slight clouds, but clouds for all that, darkened their brows. The company stood chatting in groups, and here and there the probable consequences of Napoleon’s departure were discussed with more than ordinary warmth. ‘He cannot elude the English cruisers,’ said one. ‘M. Pozzo di Borgo maintains,’ replied another, ‘that if he sets foot in France, he’ll be hanged on the nearest tree.’[102]
Everybody, it seemed, wished to shirk the reality of the awakening. ‘We ought to think ourselves very lucky,’ said some partisans of the Bourbons of Sicily. ‘Truly Bonaparte is playing our game admirably. He may set his helm for Naples; and if so, the Congress will be obliged to take measures for the expulsion of that usurper and intruder, Murat.’
Suddenly the conversations ceased. The Empress of Austria had entered the room and taken her seat, and at a signal from her the curtain rose. ‘We’ll just see,’ I said to Prince Koslowski, ‘if this event, apparently so unforeseen, has not bred confusion in the illustrious company of players.’
‘You may spare yourself such a mistake,’ was the answer. ‘It would need the enemy at the gates of Vienna and the thunder of the cannon to rouse them from their obstinate sleep. When the news came this morning to M. de Talleyrand, he was still in bed. Mme. Edmond de Périgord was seated by his pillow and brightly conversing with him when a letter was brought in from M. de Metternich. “This is to tell me the hour fixed for the Congress to-day,” said the prince, leaving the handsome comtesse to open the epistle, which, as a matter of course, she does mechanically. In a moment or so, though, she opens her eyes very wide and reads the big tidings. She also had to go during the day to M. de Metternich’s, but it was merely to rehearse a farce—Le Sourd, ou l’Auberge pleine. “Bonaparte has left Elba,” she exclaims. “Oh, uncle, and my rehearsal!” “Your rehearsal, madame,” is the quiet reply, “will take place all the same.” And the prince was right; the rehearsal took place just the same. Europe is, perhaps, on the verge of a general conflagration, but the confidence of our comedians will not be disturbed by so small a matter as that.’
Everybody was studying the faces of the political notabilities, as a rule so very impassive; people scanned their looks and tried to read their thoughts. They all affected a confidence probably far removed from the reality. The absence of M. de Talleyrand was noticed, and the preoccupation of Emperor Alexander.
What had caused this supreme resolution on the part of Napoleon, the consequences of which were so fatal to France? Did he expect, in spite of the enfeebled condition of France, to hold his own once more against coalesced Europe? Was he so blind as to entertain the possibility of henceforth living in peace with all those sovereigns to whom he had formerly dictated, and whom he had taught the road to Paris? Or was not his flight from Elba an act of despair in order to escape a captivity which, six years later, was to make an end of him on the rock of St. Helena?
Certain was it that the presence of the Emperor of the French in the midst of the Mediterranean, and the independence, nay, the shadow of power which was left to him, had aroused the alarm of the Congress. It was well known that there existed in Paris a centre of intrigues and correspondence having for its aim the restoration of the imperial régime. Queen Hortense was the soul of that conspiracy, which was known to everybody except the blind Bourbons. During the stay of Queen Hortense there, in August 1814, Madame de Krüdener, so celebrated subsequently in consequence of her mystic connection with Emperor Alexander, had foretold to her the return of Napoleon. Hence, from the beginning of the conferences, the question of choosing another place of exile, or rather of transportation, was broached, though the strictest secrecy was kept about the matter. Nevertheless, it was only towards the end of January that St. Helena was mentioned by M. Pozzo di Borgo, who professed to have received letters informing him of the arrest at Genoa, at Florence, and on the whole of the coast, of the emissaries of Napoleon. ‘Europe,’ Pozzo had said, ‘would not be at rest until she had put the ocean between herself and that man.’
It was asserted that Prince Eugène owed the revelation of that important secret to his intimacy with Emperor Alexander, and that he lost no time in informing Napoleon. The latter no longer hesitated, and made up his mind to return to France. From that moment, Alexander became most cool and distant towards Eugène.
Vienna remained without further news for nearly five days, during which the receptions and entertainments went on as if nothing had happened, the general concern apparently becoming less and less. Finally, though, there was no possibility of denying the truth; the thunderclap came: Napoleon was in France. The adventurer, as Pozzo di Borgo dared to call him, was welcomed everywhere by frantically enthusiastic populations. The soldiers rushed to meet their general; there was no obstacle to his triumphal march. The fall of the Colossus, which had appeared incomprehensible, was less surprising than the resurrection of his power.
The news of Napoleon’s landing at Cannes came while the ball at M. de Metternich’s was at its height. The tidings had the effect of the stroke of the wand or the whistle of the stage-carpenter, which transforms the gardens of Armida into a wilderness. In fact, the thousands of candles seemed to have gone out simultaneously. The news spread with the rapidity of an electric current. In vain did the orchestra continue the strains of a waltz just begun; the dancers stopped of their own accord, looking at and interrogating each other; the four words, ‘He is in France,’ were like the shield of Ubaldo which, presented to the gaze of Rinaldo, suddenly destroyed all the charms of Armida.