A few days before, a very different ceremony had revealed another embarrassing inconsistency in the revived Empire. While discussing with the Liberal aristocracy his new constitution, Napoleon endeavoured to win over and subdue, while he flattered, the revolutionary democrats. The population of the Faubourgs St. Antoine and St. Marceau became excited, and conceived the idea of forming themselves into a federation, as their fathers had done, and of demanding from the Emperor leaders and arms. They obtained their desire; but they were no longer Federates, as in 1792; they were now called Confederates, in the hope that, by a small alteration of name, earlier reminiscences might be effaced. A police regulation minutely settled the order of their progress through the streets, provided against confusion, and arranged the ceremonial of their introduction to the Emperor, in the courtyard of the Tuileries. They presented an address, which was long and heavy to extreme tediousness. He thanked them by the name of "federated soldiers" (soldats fédérés), carefully impressing upon them, himself, the character in which it suited him to regard them. The next morning, the 'Journal de l'Empire' contained the following paragraph:—"The most perfect order was maintained, from the departure of the Confederates until their return; but in several places we heard with pain the Emperor's name mingled with songs which recall a too memorable epoch." This was being rather severely scrupulous on such an occasion.
Some days later, I happened to pass through the garden of the Tuileries. A hundred of these Federates, shabby enough in appearance, had assembled under one of the balconies of the palace, shouting, "Long live the Emperor!" and trying to induce him to show himself. It was long before he complied; but at length a window opened, the Emperor came forward, and waved his hand to them; but almost instantly the window was re-closed, and I distinctly saw Napoleon retire, shrugging his shoulders; vexed, no doubt, at being obliged to lend himself to demonstrations so repugnant in their nature, and so unsatisfactory in their limited extent.
He was desirous of giving more than one pledge to the revolutionary party. Before reviewing their battalions in the court of his palace, he had taken into council the oldest and most celebrated of their leaders; but I scarcely think he expected from them any warm co-operation. Carnot, an able officer, a sincere republican, and as honest a man as an idle fanatic can possibly be, could not fail to make a bad Minister of the Interior; for he possessed neither of the two qualities essential to this important post,—knowledge of men, and the power of inspiring and directing them otherwise than by general maxims and routine.
Napoleon knew better than anybody else how Fouché regulated the police,—for himself first, and for his own personal power; next for the authority that employed him, and just as long as he found greater security or advantage in serving than in betraying that authority. I only met the Duke of Otranto twice, and had but two short conversations with him. No man ever so thoroughly gave me the idea of fearless, ironical, cynical indifference, of imperturbable self-possession combined with an inordinate love of action and prominence, and of a fixed resolution to stop at nothing that might promote success, not from any settled design, but according to the plan or chance of the moment. He had acquired from his long associations as a Jacobin proconsul, a kind of audacious independence; and remained a hardened pupil of the Revolution, while, at the same time, he became an unscrupulous implement of the Government and the Court. Napoleon assuredly placed no confidence in such a man, and knew well that, in selecting him as a minister, he would have to watch more than he could employ him. But it was necessary that the revolutionary flag should float clearly over the Empire under its proper name; and he therefore preferred to endure the presence of Carnot and Fouché in his cabinet, rather than to leave them without, to murmur or conspire with certain sections of his enemies. At the moment of his return, and during the first weeks of the resuscitated Empire, he probably reaped from this double selection the advantage that he anticipated; but when the dangers and difficulties of his situation manifested themselves, when he came to action with the distrustful Liberals within, and with Europe without,—Carnot and Fouché became additional dangers and difficulties in his path. Carnot, without absolute treachery, served him clumsily and coldly; for in nearly all emergencies and questions he inclined much more to the Opposition than to the Emperor; but Fouché betrayed him indefinitely, whispering and arguing in an under tone, of his approaching downfall, with all who might by any possible chance happen to be his successors; just as an indifferent physician discourses by the bedside of a patient who has been given over.
Even amongst his most trusted and most devoted adherents, Napoleon no longer found, as formerly, implicit faith and obedient temperaments, ready to act when and how he might please to direct. Independence of mind and a feeling of personal responsibility had resumed, even in his nearest circle, their scruples and their predominance. Fifteen days after his arrival in Paris, he summoned his Grand Marshal, General Bertrand, and presented to him, for his counter-signature, the decree dated from Lyons, in which he ordered the trials and sequestration of property of the Prince de Talleyrand, the Duke of Ragusa, the Abbé de Montesquiou, M. Bellard, and nine other persons, who in 1814, before the abdication, had contributed to his fall. General Bertrand refused. "I am astonished," said the Emperor, "at your making such objections; this severity is necessary for the good of the State." "I do not believe it, Sire." "But I do, and I alone have the right to judge. I have not asked your concurrence, but your signature, which is a mere matter of form, and cannot compromise you in the least." "Sire, a minister who countersigns the decree of his sovereign becomes morally responsible. Your Majesty has declared by proclamation that you granted a general amnesty. I countersigned that with all my heart; I will not countersign the decree which revokes it."
Napoleon urged and cajoled in vain; Bertrand remained inflexible, the decree appeared without his signature: and Napoleon might, even on the instant, have convinced himself that the Grand Marshal was not the only dissentient; for, as he crossed the apartment in which his aides-de-camp were assembled, M. de La Bédoyère said, loud enough to be overheard, "If the reign of proscriptions and sequestrations recommences, all will soon be at an end."
When liberty reaches this point in the interior of the palace, it may be presumed that it reigns predominantly without. After several weeks of stupor, it became, in fact, singularly bold and universal. Not only did civil war spring up in the western departments, not only were flagrant acts of resistance or hostility committed in several parts of the country, and in important towns, by men of consequence,—but everywhere, and particularly in Paris, people thought, and uttered their thoughts without reserve; in public places as well as in private drawing-rooms, they went to and fro, expressing hopes and engaging in hostile plots, as if they were lawful and certain of success; journals and pamphlets, increased daily in number and virulence, and were circulated almost without opposition or restraint. The warm friends and attached servants of the Emperor testified their surprise and indignation.
Fouché pointed out the mischief, in his official reports to Napoleon, and requested his concurrence in taking measures of repression. The 'Moniteur' published these reports; and the measures were decreed. Several arrests and prosecutions took place, but without vigour or efficacy. From high to low, the greater portion of the agents of government had neither zeal in their cause, nor confidence in their strength. Napoleon was aware of this, and submitted, as to a necessity of the moment, to the unlicensed freedom of his opponents, maintaining, without doubt, in his own heart, the opinion he had declared aloud on a previous occasion,—"I shall have them all with me if I prove the strongest."
I question whether he appreciated justly, and at its true value, one of the causes, a hidden but powerful one, of the feebleness that immediately succeeded his great success. Notwithstanding the widely-spread discontent, uneasiness, mistrust, and anger that the Government of the Restoration had excited, a universal feeling soon sprang up, that there was not enough to justify a revolution, the opposition of an armed force against authority legally established, or the involvement of the country in the dangers to which it was exposed. The army had been drawn towards its old chief by a strong sentiment of attachment and generous devotion, rather than from views of personal interest; the army, too, was national and popular; but nothing could change the nature of acts or the meaning of words. The violation of an oath, desertion with arms in their hands, the sudden passing over from one camp to another, have always been condemned by honour as well as duty, civil or military, and denominated treason. Individuals, nations, or armies, men under the influence of a controlling passion, may contemn, at the first moment, or perhaps do not feel the moral impression which naturally attaches itself to their deeds; but it never fails to present itself, and, when seconded by the warnings of prudence or the blows of misfortune, it soon regains its empire.
It was the evil destiny of the Government of the Hundred Days that the influence of moral opinion ranged itself on the side of its adversaries the Royalists; and that the conscience of the nation, clearly or obscurely, spontaneously or reluctantly, justified the severe judgments to which its origin had given rise.