I have read over your letter, my dear, perhaps for the tenth time, and I must confess that the astonishment it caused me has given way only to feelings of regret and alarm. You wish to raise up the throne of France, and that, not for the purpose of seating upon it those whom the Revolution overthrew, but to place yourself upon it. You say, how enterprising, how grand and, above all, useful is this design; but I should say, how many obstacles oppose its execution, what sacrifices will its accomplishment demand, and when realised, how incalculable will be its results? But let us suppose that your object were already attained, would you stop at the foundation of the new empire? That new creation, being opposed by neighbouring states, would stir up war with them and perhaps entail their ruin. Their neighbours, in their turn, will not behold it without alarm or without endeavouring to gratify their revenge by checking it. And at home, how much envy and dissatisfaction will arise; how many plots must be put down, how many conspiracies punished! Kings will despise you as an upstart, subjects will hate you as an usurper, and your equals will denounce you as a tyrant. None will understand the necessity of your elevation; all will attribute it to ambition or pride. You will not want for slaves to crouch beneath your authority until, seconded by some more formidable power, they rise up to oppose you; happy will it be if poison or the poignard!... But how can a wife, a friend dwell on these dreadful anticipations!
This brings my thoughts back to myself, about whom I should care but little were my personal interests alone concerned. But will not the throne inspire you with the wish to contract new alliances? Will you not seek to support your power by new family connections? Alas! whatever those connections may be, will they compensate for those which were first knit by corresponding fitness, and which affection promised to perpetuate? My thoughts linger on the picture which fear—may I say love, traces in the future. Your ambitious project has excited my alarm; console me by the assurance of your moderation.
No. 3.—December 1809.
To the Emperor.
My forebodings are realised! You have just pronounced the word which separates us for ever; the rest is nothing more than mere formality. Such, then, is the result, I shall not say of so many sacrifices (they were light to me, since they had you for their object), but of an unbounded friendship on my part and of the most solemn oaths on yours! It would be a consolation for me if the state which you allege as your motive were to repay my sacrifice by justifying your conduct! But that public consideration which you urge as the ground for deserting me is a mere pretence on your part. Your mistaken ambition has ever been, and will continue to be, the guide of all your actions, a guide which has led you to conquests and to the assumption of a crown, and is now driving you on to disasters and to the brink of a precipice.
You speak of the necessity of contracting an alliance, of giving an heir to your empire, of founding a dynasty! But with whom are you about to form an alliance? with the natural enemy of France, that artful house of Austria, whose detestation of our country has its rise in its innate feelings, in its system, in the laws of necessity. Do you believe that this hatred, of which she has given us such abundant proof, more particularly for the last fifty years, has not been transferred by her from the kingdom of France to the French empire? That the children of Maria Theresa, that skilful sovereign, who purchased from Madame de Pompadour the fatal treaty of 1756, which you never mention without shuddering; do you imagine, I repeat, that her posterity, when inheriting her power, has not also inherited her spirit? I am merely repeating what you have so often said to me; but at that time your ambition was satisfied with humbling a power which you now find it convenient to restore to its former rank. Believe me, as long as you shall exercise a sway over Europe, that power will be submissive to you; but beware of reverses of fortune.
As to the necessity of an heir, I must speak out, at the risk of appearing in the character of a mother prejudiced in favour of her son; ought I, in fact, to be silent when I consider the interests of one who is my only delight, and upon whom alone you had built all your hopes? That adoption of the 12th of January 1806 was then another political falsehood! Nevertheless the talents, the virtues of my Eugène are no illusion. How often have you not spoken in his praise? I may say more; you thought it right to reward him by the gift of a throne, and have repeatedly said that he was deserving of greater favours. Well, then! France has frequently re-echoed these praises; but you are now indifferent to the wishes of France.
I say nothing to you at present of the person who is destined to succeed me, and you do not expect that I should make any allusion to this subject. You might suspect the feelings which dictated my language; nevertheless, you can never doubt of the sincerity of my wishes for your happiness; may it at least afford me some consolation for my sufferings. Great indeed will be that happiness if it should ever bear any proportion to them!
No. 4.
Part of a Letter said to be dated Brienne, 1814.