Remembering the words of Rousseau to the effect that people do not like to be questioned, and least of all children, I stooped down and kissed him.
The son of Napoleon is no more; pitiless Death cut short at twenty-two a life begun on a throne; and at the moment when the brilliant qualities of the prince bade fair to make that life illustrious, and when his noble sentiments had begun to win all hearts. Everything connected with this offspring of so much glory, a victim from his cradle of a fatal and unprecedented destiny, only presents itself to the memory with a deep respect mingled with a tender pity.
His intellect was quick and precocious; all his words struck the listener by their justness. Both his memory and his faculty for acquiring knowledge were astounding; he learned German in a short time, and after that spoke it with the same ease as French. His character was firm, and his resolutions, only arrived at after serious reflection, were unshakable; his slightest movements were stamped with grace; his gestures, when he wished to emphasise his words, were already grave and solemn. His liking for the science of warfare showed itself both in his eyes and in his speech. ‘I want to be a soldier,’ he said, ‘I’ll lead the charge.’ They suggested that bayonets might oppose his progress. ‘But surely,’ was the answer, ‘I’ll have a sword to put aside the bayonets.’ His curiosity with regard to the history of his father was extreme; the Emperor, his grandfather, convinced that truth must constitute the basis of every education, and notably that of a prince, determined not to leave him in ignorance upon any subject.[46] The child listened eagerly to the story of a life which, in the space of twenty years, seemed to have exceeded the measure of both belief and of history. The exuberance of his joys, his impatience at being baulked of his wishes and of all opposition to his will, were those of a child, while his intense anxiety to learn, his habitual calm and reflection, attested a more advanced age. Everything in him led to the belief in the theory of hereditary genius.
His instinct, as is well known, showed itself under memorable circumstances. On the 29th March, 1814, when the Empress Marie-Louise abandoned the Tuileries for Rambouillet, and when they wished to take the child to his mother, who was waiting for him, he opposed a stout resistance to being removed; shouted that they were betraying his papa, and refused to stir. Mme. de Montesquiou’s moral influence over the lad was brought to bear in vain; she only succeeded by force, and even then she had to promise to bring him back soon. The poor lad guessed, as it were, that he would never more behold the Tuileries.
His quickness of intellect showed itself in everything connected with his illustrious and ill-fated sire. On the day before our visit, the English commodore, Sir Neil Campbell, who accompanied Napoleon to Elba, was presented to his son. ‘Are you not pleased, prince, to see this gentleman, who left your father only a few days ago?’ asked Mme, de Montesquiou, presenting the officer. ‘Yes,’ was the answer, ‘I am pleased.’ Then, putting his finger to his lips, he added, ‘But we must not say so.’
The commodore took the child into his arms. ‘Your papa has told me to kiss you for him,’ he said, suiting the action to the word, after which he gently put him down. The child had a German top in his hands. He flung it down with such force as to break it to pieces. ‘Poor papa!’ he gasped, bursting into tears.[47]
What were the thoughts that moved him, and how, at his tender age, could he grasp the whole extent of the ambiguous and false position of the son of Napoleon being a prisoner, as it were, in the Austrian palace of Schönbrunn!
With regard to the loss of the sovereignty bestowed upon him at his birth, he expressed himself with a melancholy and touching resignation. ‘I see very well that I am no longer a king,’ he repeated during his journey from Rambouillet to Vienna; ‘I have no longer any pages.’[48] The Prince de Ligne having shown him some medals struck on the occasion of his birth, he remarked, ‘I remember them; they were made when I was king.’
This plucky resignation, which was the most conspicuous trait of his character, abided with him up to his last moments. When, at the age of twenty-two, undermined by a most painful malady, he was dying at that same palace of Schönbrunn, and beheld Death advancing slowly but surely, he, handsome, young, talented, and the offspring of a great man, talked of his impending end with those surrounding him, taking, as it were, a cruel pleasure in dispelling all the illusions of hope.
We stepped up to Isabey, who had just put the finishing touches to the portrait of the young prince. It was a striking likeness, and, in common with all his works, pervaded by an exquisite grace. It was the identical picture he presented to Napoleon on the latter’s return from Elba in the following year. ‘What I like best in this portrait is its wonderful resemblance to that of Joseph II. when he was a child, which was given to me by Maria-Theresa. After all, this resemblance to a great man is a happy augury for the future.’