We have in the Memoirs of General de Ségur, an eye-witness, an interesting account of the eve of Austerlitz. Late in the afternoon Napoleon entered a hut, and took his place at table in the best of spirits, along with Murat, Caulaincourt, Junot, Ségur, Rapp, and a few other guests. They thought that he would talk about the next day's battle. Not at all: he discussed literature with Junot, who was familiar with all the new tragedies; he had a good deal to say about Raynouard's Templars, about Racine, Corneille, and the fate of the ancient drama. Then, by a singular transition, he began to talk about his Egyptian campaign. "If I had captured Acre," he said, "I should have put my army into long trousers, and have made it my sacred battalion, my Immortals, and have finished my war against the Turks with Arabians, Greeks, and Armenians. Instead of fighting here in Moravia, I should be winning a battle of Issus, and be making myself Emperor of the West, returning to Paris through Constantinople."
After dinner Napoleon wished to make a final reconnoissance of the enemy's position by their bivouac fires; he mounted his horse and rode out between the lines. One moment he came near paying dear for his imprudence; he went too far forward and suddenly fell on a post of Cossacks, and had it not been for the devotion of the chasseurs who escorted him, he would have been killed or captured, and he was scarcely able to escape at full gallop. After crossing the stream which covered the front of the French army, he dismounted and returned to his bivouac, from one watch-fire to another, on foot. On his way he stumbled over the stump of a tree and fell to the ground. Then a grenadier took some straw, rolled it up to something like a torch, and lit it; other soldiers did the same thing; the camp was illuminated, and the face of the great conqueror was plainly to be seen. The next day was December 2, the anniversary of his coronation. "Emperor," shouted an old soldier, "I promise you in the name of the grenadiers of the army that you will have to fight only with your eyes, and that to- morrow we shall bring you the flags and artillery of the Russian army to celebrate the anniversary of your coronation." Every one shouted applause. Napoleon in vain tried to stop them. "Silence," he commanded, "until to- morrow! think of nothing but sharpening your bayonets!" Shouts of "Long live the Emperor!" were repeated. Along a line of two leagues blazed thousands of fires and flames. The Russians wondered what was the cause of this unusual brilliancy, and thought the French were retreating. Napoleon was at first annoyed by this rapturous demonstration, but at last he was touched by it, and passing through a number of bivouacs, all brightly lit, he expressed his gratitude to his soldiers, saying it was the happiest evening of his life. Then he went to his tent, snatched a little sleep, and when he rose in the morning, said, "Now, gentlemen, we are beginning a great day."
A moment later, the commanders of the different army corps, Murat, Lannes, Bernadotte, Soult, Davout, came galloping up the little mound which the soldiers called the Emperor's hill, to receive his final orders. It was a solemn, impressive moment. "If I were to live," says General de Ségur, "as long as the world shall last, I shall never forget that scene…. Times have changed quickly since then. Heavens! how great everything was then, how brave the men, how glorious the time, how imposing the appearance of fate!" Never was there a more brilliant triumph. "I have fought thirty battles like that," said the conqueror, "but I have never seen so decisive a victory, or one where the chances were so unevenly balanced." And then full of admiration for his soldiers, he exclaimed; "I am satisfied with you; you have covered your eagles with undying glory."
From a military point of view Austerlitz was Napoleon's greatest triumph. War, which he loved with all its risks and emotions, then showed him its most tempting side. He was always tempting fate, and fate had always favored him. The hour had not yet struck when he was to ask more of fortune than it could give. As Sainte-Beuve truly says, it was not till in the icy plain of Eylau, from the cemetery covered with blood-stained snow, that receiving the first warning of Providence, he had a sort of terrible vision of what the future held in store for him. Then he had before his eyes a sort of rehearsal of the horrors awaiting him in Russia, and at the sight of so many corpses, and the awful scene, he said with deep melancholy, "This sight is one to fill kings with love of peace and horror of war." But at Austerlitz it was very different. The shrieks of the Russians sinking through the holes torn in the ice by cannon-balls were drowned in the shouts of the victors. The bright sunlight of that day of triumph dispelled, all traces of gloom in the conqueror's heart.
December 3. Napoleon wrote thus to Josephine about his victory: "I despatched Lebrun to you from the battle-field. I have beaten the Russian and Austrian armies commanded by the two Emperors. I am a little tired. I have bivouacked for a week in the open air, and the nights have been cool. To-night I am going to sleep in the castle of Prince Kaunitz, where I shall get two or three hours' rest. The Russian army is not merely defeated, but destroyed. Much love." December 3, he had an interview in his bivouac with the Emperor of Austria; and as if to apologize for the wretched quarters in which he received him, he said, "This is the palace which Your Majesty has compelled me to inhabit these three months." The Emperor of Austria replied, "You make such good use of it, that you certainly can't blame me on that account." And then the two Emperors embraced.
The day Napoleon wrote to Josephine: "I have made a truce. The Russians withdraw. The battle of Austerlitz is the greatest I have won: forty-five flags, more than one hundred and fifty cannon, the standards of the Russian guards, twenty generals, more than twenty thousand killed,—a horrid sight! The Emperor Alexander is in despair, and is leaving for Russia. Yesterday I saw the Emperor of Germany in my bivouac; we talked for two hours, and agreed on a speedy peace. The weather is not yet very bad. Now that the continent is at peace, we may hope for it everywhere; the English will be unable to face us. I shall see with pleasure the time that will restore me to you. For two days a little trouble with the eyes has been prevalent in the army. I have not yet been attacked. Good by, my dear. I am fairly well, and very anxious to see you." December 3, there was another letter, also from Austerlitz: "I have concluded an armistice, and peace will be made within a week. I am anxious to hear that you have reached Munich in good health. The Russians are going back after suffering immense losses: more than twenty thousand killed and thirty thousand captured; they have lost three-quarters of their army. Buxhövden, their commander-in-chief, is killed. I have three thousand wounded and seven or eight hundred killed. I have a little trouble with my eyes: an epidemic; it amounts to nothing. Good by; I am anxious to see you once more. To- night I sleep in Vienna."
Cambacérès said that the news of the victory of Austerlitz filled the populace with the wildest joy, which expressed itself in the most extravagant flattery. The Emperor was treated like a god, and naturally a sovereign so flattered did not control his love of war. It was only on his deathbed that Louis XIV. said, "I have been overfond of war!" He said nothing of the sort when the gates of Saint Martin and of Saint Denis were built in his honor, when his statue was put up in the Place des Victoires, when Lebrun painted the proud frescoes in the gallery at Versailles. Like Louis XIV., Napoleon reproached himself with excessive love of war; but it was not after Austerlitz, but after Waterloo. No man is worthy of adoration; it belongs to God alone. Woe to the princes who are fed on flattery! Extravagant laudation brings its punishment; even in this world pride has its fall.
The enthusiasm was universal; the victorious French could not contain themselves for joy, and wholly lost their heads. Thus even Madame de Rémusat, who, after the defeat, had shown herself so severe, one might almost say so cruel, towards Napoleon, wrote thus to her husband, December 18, 1805, after the news of Austerlitz: "You cannot imagine how excited every one is. Praise of the Emperor is on every one's lips; the most recalcitrant are obliged to lay down their arms, and to say with the Emperor of Russia, 'He is the man of destiny!' Day before yesterday I went to the theatre with Princess Louis to hear the different bulletins read. The crowd was enormous because the cannon in the morning had announced the arrival of news; every thing was listened to, and then applauded with cries such as I had never imagined. I wept copiously all the time. I was so moved that I believe if the Emperor had been present, I should have flung my arms about his neck, to beg for pardon afterwards at his feet. After this I supped out: every one plied me with questions. I knew the whole bulletin by heart, and kept repeating it; and was glad to be able to tell the news to so many people, to repeat those simple impressive words, with a feeling of owning them, which you can understand better than I can define. I missed you much in all my joy, which I should have gladly shared with you; but in your absence I tried to communicate my admiration to our son. Instead of making him finish the life of Alexander, which he has been reading for two days, it occurred to me to have him read aloud the Moniteur, and he was so much pleased that he said he thought it all much greater than Alexander."
Alas! thoughtful people should never forget how much greater is virtue than success. In this low world no one takes a lofty enough view of things. Not after defeat, but after victory, is the time to speak of war seriously and sadly. If Napoleon in the hour of triumph had not been flattered to excess, if at the proper moment the lessons of history, philosophy, and religion had been enforced upon him, he would not have rushed blindly into the gulf that finally swallowed him. Nothing is less humane, less Christian, than the extravagant praise lavished on the conquerors of the earth. Laymen and priests are equally to blame, for the flatterers of conquerors bear perhaps a heavier responsibility than the conquerors themselves. In the ancient triumphs, at least there was a slave charged with reminding the hero that he was but a man; in modern times, there is nothing of the sort; the hero can imagine himself more than mortal. Why does not the clergy, instead of intoning a Te Deum, take the part of that slave? Is it well to forget that those nations who are most modest in success are bravest and most resigned in misfortune? Those whose heads are turned by prosperity cannot endure reverses. For society, as for individuals, nothing is more baneful than outbursts of joy and pride. The vaster a monarch's power, the greater his need to meditate on the fickleness of fate; but the lessons of wisdom are never recalled till they are useless; they are whispered into his ears only when they can but add a sting to defeat.