The Ambassador, who had accompanied Napoleon and Marie Louise to their carriage, went back to the house, then a hideous scene of destruction. A storm had arisen, and a violent wind had spread the ravaging flames in every direction. The Queen of Westphalia had fainted and had been rescued by Count Metternich; the Queen of Naples, Prince Eugene, and his wife, who was in a delicate condition, had remained on the platform. The Queen tried to escape by the main door, by which the Emperor and the Empress had left; but this was speedily so blocked up by the crowd that she, who was behind every one, would certainly have been caught by the flames, like many others, had it not been for the assistance of the Grand Duke of Würzburg and of Marshal Marcey, who seized her and forced a way for her. Prince Eugene saw the chandelier fall, and the passage across the room wholly blocked; but, fortunately, he noticed the little door which led into the house, and through that he escaped with his wife. The Ambassador beheld the calamity with despair. His wife was brought out senseless, but untouched by the flames. He saw his brother, Prince Joseph de Schwarzenberg, running to and fro, wild with grief and disquiet; he was looking for his wife, Princess Pauline de Schwarzenberg, and could not find her. What had become of the unhappy mother? When the fire broke out, knowing her eldest daughter, Eleonore, to be safe, she had run to the assistance of her second daughter, Pauline, who was dancing the schottische, and led her speedily to the steps of the entrance, where the crowd was surging amid the flames. A moment more, and mother and daughter were safe: they had but a few steps to take to be on the staircase and then in the garden, but suddenly a falling beam separated mother and child, and the staircase broke down beneath the weight of the struggling crowd. Missing her daughter, the courageous princess plunged once more into the ballroom. No one knew what had become of her; in the cruel, heart-wringing uncertainty the stern face of the Ambassador was wet with tears.
Napoleon returned to the Embassy, and directing everything, supervising everything as on a battlefield, there he stayed more than two hours, exposed to a heavy rain which began after the fire, and to all the heat and smoke. Alone, unguarded, evidently anxious to dispel all misinterpretation which malevolence could draw from the unhappy event, he displayed great energy and perfect self-possession.
It was not till four in the morning that he returned to Saint Cloud, where he had been most anxiously awaited. "From the time that the Empress arrived," we read in Constant's Memoirs, "we had felt the keenest anxiety; every one in the palace had been most uneasy about the Emperor. At last he arrived, unharmed, but very tired; his dress in disorder, his face scorched, his clothes and stockings all blackened and singed by the fire. He went straight to the Empress's room, to console her for the fright she had had; then he went to his own room, flung his hat on the bed, dropped into an easy-chair, saying, 'Heavens! what a festivity!' I noticed that his hands were all blackened; he had lost his gloves at the fire. He was overwhelmed with sadness, and he spoke with an emotion such as I had seen in him only two or three times in his life, and never about his own misfortunes. I remember that he expressed a fear that the terrible event of that night betokened future calamities. Three years later, in the Russian campaign, he was told one day that Prince Schwarzenberg's army corps had been destroyed, and that the Prince himself had perished. It happened that the news was false; but when it was brought to the Emperor, he said, as if in accordance with a thought that had long haunted him, 'It was he then whom that evil omen threatened!'"
The morning of the next day Napoleon sent his pages to learn the news. The accounts they brought back were most gloomy: the Princess de la Leyen had died from her injuries; General Touzart was in a desperate condition, as well as his wife and daughter, who, in fact, died the same day. Prince Kourakine, the Russian Ambassador, was seriously injured; he had made a misstep on the staircase leading to the garden, and had fallen senseless into the flames, which, fortunately, had been unable to get through his coat of cloth of gold and the decorations which covered him like a cuirass; nevertheless, it was many months before he recovered. "Prince Joseph de Schwarzenberg," says the Moniteur of July 3, 1810, "spent the night in looking for his wife, whom he could not find at the Embassy or at Madame Metternich's. He was still ignorant of his loss when at daybreak there was found in the ball-room a corpse which Dr. Gall thought that he recognized as that of the Princess Pauline de Schwarzenberg. Further doubt was impossible when her jewels with her children's initials, which she wore about her neck, were recognized. Princess Pauline de Schwarzenberg was the daughter of the Senator von Avenberg, and the mother of eight children. She was as renowned for her personal charms as for the distinction of her mind and heart. The act of devotion which cost her her life shows how much her loss is to be regretted, for death was certain amid the fury of the flames. Only a mother would have dared to face the danger."
The Moniteur adds to this pathetic account: "The Austrian Ambassador during the whole night displayed the zeal, the activity, the calmness, and the presence of mind to be expected of him. The members of the Embassy and the Austrians who were present were tireless in their courage and devotion. The public has been most grateful to the Ambassador for insisting on accompanying the Emperor and the Empress to their carriage, without regard to the dangers to which his family was exposed. The Emperor left the spot at about three in the morning. During the rest of the night he sent several times for information about the fate of the Princess Schwarzenberg. It was not until five o'clock that he received word of her death. His Majesty, who held this princess in the highest esteem, sincerely regrets her sad lot. The Empress exhibited the most perfect calmness throughout the evening. When she heard this morning of the death of Princess Pauline de Schwarzenberg, she burst into tears."
The young Princess Pauline, the daughter of the woman who had perished, was for a long time in a state that caused the utmost anxiety. Her mother's death was concealed from her, but she became uneasy at her absence, and read on her father's face the marks of the grief which he tried to conceal. At last she recovered; later she married Prince Schoenburg; but her wounds reopened, and she died a few years later, a victim, like her mother, of the fatal ball.
The day after these occurrences Marie Louise wrote a letter in German to her father, in which she said: "I did not lose my head. Prince Schwarzenberg led the Emperor and me out of the place, through the garden. I am the more grateful because he left his wife and son in the burning room. The panic and confusion were terrible. If the Grand Duke of Würzburg had not carried the Queen of Naples away, she would have been burned alive. My sister-in-law Catherine, who thought her husband was in the midst of the fire, swooned away. The Viceroy had to carry his wife off. Not a single one of my ladies or of my officers was by me. General Lauriston, who adores his wife, cried out in the most lamentable way, and impeded us in our flight. I was calmer then than when the Emperor left me again. We sat up with Caroline until four in the morning, when he came back, wet through with the rain. The Duchess of Rovigo, one of my ladies, is seriously burned. The Countesses Bucholz and Loewenstein, the Queen of Westphalia's ladies, are also injured…. Lauriston, in saving his wife, had his hair and forehead singed. Prince Kourakine was so severely injured that he lost consciousness; in the panic the crowd trampled upon him, and he was dragged out half dead. Prince Metternich is hardly hurt at all. Prince Charles Schwarzenberg, who insisted on staying until every one had got out, is badly burned. The poor Ambassador is beside himself, though he is in no way responsible for the calamity."
Marie Louise, who had been interrupted at this point, continued as follows: "I have just come from the Emperor, where I heard a terrible piece of news. Princess Pauline Schwarzenberg has been found, burned to a crisp…. Her diamonds were lying near her. She wore on her neck a heart in brilliants, on which were engraved the names of her two daughters, Eleonore and Pauline, and it was by this that she was recognized. She leaves eight children, and was expecting another. Her family is inconsolable. Kourakine is very low; so is Madame Durosnel, the general's wife. I am so distressed that I cannot stir."
The Emperor Francis wrote to his son-in-law about this distressing event: "July 15. My Brother and very dear Son-in-law,—It is with the greatest satisfaction that I have heard that Your Imperial Majesty, as well as the Empress, my beloved daughter, has escaped the melancholy accidents that occurred at the ball of my Ambassador, Prince Schwarzenberg. I cannot express to you, my brother, my gratitude for the tokens of your interest which you manifested on that occasion, and for your personal exertions, as noble as they were courageous, to arrest the progress of the disaster. Count Metternich and Prince Schwarzenberg cannot find words to express their profound gratitude for your kindness and anxiety, and I beg Your Majesty to receive this expression of all that I have experienced in reading their reports."
The calamity produced a most melancholy impression. It recalled to every one the disasters that attended the festivities given to Marie Antoinette forty years before. This ball, followed by a horrid catastrophe, this grand drawing-room, vanishing in flames, were they not omens of evil? Was not the great empire to perish in the same way? This fire, bursting forth in a night of revelry and triumph, was it not like a prophecy of a still more terrible fire, that which laid Moscow in ashes? But nations have short memories; gloomy presentiments soon vanish. The Empire was then so glorious that a passing incident could not seriously disturb it, and a few days after the catastrophe it was forgotten. Every one, even the enemies of France, felt the fascination of this most wonderful career which formed the strangest and most improbable of romances.