Napoleon had always wished to be buried in France, but toward the end of his life, when it seemed unlikely that his wish could be gratified, he gave directions as to the spot in St. Helena that he preferred. This was a romantic and picturesque enclosure in a ravine not very far from Longwood. Often, when out walking, the Emperor had stopped there to quench his thirst at a small spring. The little valley was shaded with Norfolk pines, firs, and other trees, and here, near the spring, under the shade of two great willow trees, Napoleon's body was laid to rest. As it was lowered into the grave three discharges from eleven pieces of musketry were fired.
As his sorrowing attendants turned away, how overwhelmingly sad must the reflections of the two of Napoleon's personal suite have been! Only Montholon and Bertrand were there at the last, though Marchand and other attendants still remained. Montholon, when a boy of ten, had known Napoleon in Corsica, and Bertrand had long been one of his officers,—"the best engineer officer I have ever known," said Napoleon.
Now their years of faithful devotion were at an end. With heavy hearts they turned their backs on the lonely grave under the willow trees and soon they sailed away to the great world, their hearts filled with memories of Napoleon.
Nineteen years after Napoleon's death a French frigate, La Belle Poule, commanded by the Prince of Joinville, arrived off Jamestown. The wheel had turned, and the friends and admirers of Napoleon were on top.
Even Great Britain was not unwilling that the dead Napoleon should have the honor that was his due. The frigate had come for the body of Napoleon to give it proper honors in France. On La Belle Poule were Count Bertrand, his son Arthur, born at St. Helena, General Gorgaud, the young Las Cases, and the faithful Marchand.
The body of Napoleon was taken from the tomb under the willow trees and borne back to France. Every one knows of the magnificent funeral given their dead hero by the impulsive French. Every one has heard how countless throngs filled the streets of Paris, how the military display has seldom been equalled, as the catafalque, preceded by a riderless horse, went slowly along the tree-lined boulevards. The wonderful tomb of Napoleon in the Hotel des Invalides is known to many, but there are few in comparison who have visited the little enclosure at the bottom of the deep ravine where the Emperor's body lay for a score of years. Yet, in the days of wooden ships, when St. Helena was the place where captains had to call to re-provision their vessels, many a passenger on going ashore hastened to Napoleon's grave, and while the world stands the secluded valley will continue to claim the interest of Napoleon's admirers. The vault itself is now covered with a broad, flat stone, without inscription, and its cemented surface is cracked in places. There is a hedge around the fence and a sentry box at the entrance of the enclosure. Here there is a notice to the effect that the grave is now the property of the French Republic, and in the sentry box an attendant keeps a book and registers the names of all who visit the spot where once lay the body of Napoleon.
CHAPTER XV
THE PANORAMA
Who can blame Betsy for Being Heavy-hearted on that day in early spring when she sailed away from St. Helena, toward the colder country that was her real home? Even though her parents and her brothers and sister were with her, she felt that she was leaving behind much that was dear. She loved the lonely, mountainous island where she had lived so long. She believed that no other flowers or fruits could equal those produced on its tropical soil. She felt that no new friends could compare with those from whom she had just parted.