The Dresden festivities were drawing to a close. Not only the Germans, even the French, were growing weary of them. "I pass over the ceremonies of etiquette," says the Baron de Bausset, who took part in these so-called rejoicings; "they are the same at every court. Great dinners, great balls, great illuminations, always standing, even at the eternal concerts, a few drives, long waitings in long drawing-rooms; always serious, always attentive, always busy in defending one's powers or one's pretensions, … that is to what these envied, longed-for pleasures amount." All this machinery of alleged distractions concealed serious anxieties and the keenest uneasiness.
Napoleon had desired that the Dresden interview should preserve a pacific appearance. Possibly he had for a moment hoped that the Czar, on seeing the force assembled about the Emperor of the French, King of Italy, and Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, the ally of Prussia and Austria, would accept whatever conditions so great a potentate might offer, and abandon the struggle before it was begun. The military element was kept in the background. Court dresses were more numerous in Dresden than uniforms. Napoleon assumed the appearance of a sovereign rather than of a general. Murat and King Jerome were despatched to their courts. But every one knew perfectly well that the storm was gathering. One would have said that the first cannon fired in that tremendous campaign—the Russian campaign—were going to disturb and then to extinguish the sound of trumpets and bands. The entertainments were on the surface; the war was in the depths.
It was a terrible, lamentable war towards which the hero of so many battles was plunging with a lowered head, as if drawn into the abyss by a deadly fascination. Sometimes, amid the fumes of power and pride, some mysterious voice warned him of his peril; but he would reassure himself by recalling his former victories and thinking of his star. As General de Ségur has said: "It seemed as if in his doubts of the future, he buried himself in the past, and that he felt it necessary to arm himself against a great peril with all his most glorious recollections. Then, as he has since done, he felt the need of forming illusions about the alleged weakness of his rival. As he made ready for this great invasion, he hesitated to regard the result as certain; for he no longer was conscious of his infallibility, nor had that military assurance which the force and fire of youth give, nor had he that conviction of success which makes it sure." There had been no lack of warnings. Those of his advisers who knew Russia well, such as the Count of Ségur and the Duke of Vicenza, ambassadors at Saint Petersburg, one under the King, the other under the Empire, had said to him: "Everything will be against you in this war. The Russians will have their patriotism and love of independence, all public and private interests, including the secret wishes of our allies. We shall have for us, against so many obstacles, nothing but glory alone, even without the cupidity which the terrible poverty of those regions cannot tempt." General Rapp, who was in command at Dantzic, had thought it his duty to inform Marshal Davoust of the alarming symptoms which he had discovered among the German populace: "If the French army suffers a single defeat, there will be one vast insurrection from the Rhine to the Niemen." Davoust forwarded this information to Napoleon with this single indorsement: "I remember, Sire, in fact, that in 1809, had it not been for Your Majesty's miracles at Regensburg, our situation in Germany would have been very difficult," The Emperor listened to no one. He did not suspect that the King of Prussia, seemingly his ally, had sent word secretly to the Czar: "Strike no blow at Napoleon. Draw the French into the heart of Russia; let fatigue and famine do the work." Meanwhile the sun was drying the roads; the grass was beginning to grow. Nature was preparing the earth for the common extermination of its people. And, oddly enough, at the moment when the slaughter was about to begin, Napoleon had no feeling of hate or wrath towards his adversary, the Russian monarch. He was of the opinion that a war between sovereigns, that is to say, between brothers by divine right, could in no way affect their friendship. He had written, April 25, 1812, to the Emperor Alexander: "Your Majesty will permit me to assure you, that if fate shall render this war between us inevitable, it cannot alter the feelings with which Your Majesty has inspired me; they are secure from all vicissitude and all change."
Napoleon rightly spoke of fate; for was it not that which lured him, by its irresistible power, towards the icy steppes where his power and glory sank beneath the snow? If at times a swift and sombre anticipation of evil crowned his mind, what was that presentiment by the side of the terrible reality? What would the conqueror have said if, in the misty future, he had seen anything of his own fate? Among the courtiers of every nationality who were gathering around the great Emperor at Dresden, there was an Austrian general, half a military man, half a diplomatist, but not a striking figure in any way. One evening the Empress Marie Louise, on her way to the theatrical performance, spoke a few empty words to him, merely because she happened to meet him. He was the Count of Neipperg. How astonished Napoleon would have been if any one had told him that one day this unknown officer would succeed him as the husband of Marie Louise. The young Empress would have been equally amazed if any one had prophesied so strange a thing. Of these two personages, then so brilliant, the all-powerful Emperor and the radiant Empress, one was in a few years to be a prisoner at Saint Helena; the other was to be the morganatic wife of an Austrian general.
XXVIII.
PRAGUE.
May 29, 1812, at three o'clock in the morning, Napoleon left Dresden to put himself at the head of his armies. He kissed Marie Louise most warmly, and she seemed sorely distressed at parting from him. The 30th, at two in the morning, he reached Glogan, in Silesia, whence he started at five to enter Poland. The Emperor of Austria passed the whole of the 29th with his daughter, trying to console her for Napoleon's departure, and he left Dresden that evening. He was going to Prague, where she was to rejoin him in a few days, and he was meaning to put the last touches to the preparations of the reception he designed for her. Marie Louise looked forward with pleasure to passing a few weeks at Prague with her family; and the Austrian ruler, for his part, acted both as a kind father and an astute statesman in offering to his daughter attentions and tokens of deference by which his son-in-law could not fail to be flattered.
After the departure of her husband and her father, Marie Louise remained still five days in the capital of Saxony, profiting by them to visit the wonderful museum, the castle of Pilnitz, and the fortress of Königstein, on the banks of the Elbe, upon a steep rock. June 4, in the early morning, she left Dresden accompanied by her uncle, the Grand Duke of Würzburg. The royal family and the Saxon court escorted the young Empress to her carriage, and she set forth amid the roar of cannon and the pealing of all the bells. Her journey was one long ovation. The Saxon cuirassiers escorted her to the Austrian frontier; there she found waiting to receive her Count Kolowrat, Grand Burgrave of Bohemia, and Prince Clary, the Emperor Francis's Chamberlain. A detachment of light horse of the Klenau regiment took the place of the Saxon cuirassiers. At midday Marie Louise arrived at Töplitz; there she rested two hours; then they drove in the magnificent palace gardens of Prince Clary, into which the populace had been admitted. Then she visited the suburbs, the park of Turn, Schlossberg. Everywhere there were triumphal arches, bands of music, girls presenting flowers. In the evening the whole town of Töplitz was illuminated. The miners assembled before the palace in which the Empress was staying, to sing one of their songs, each verse of which ended with a cheer and a swinging of their lanterns.
While the Emperor Francis was at Prague, waiting for his daughter, he was joined by Count Otto, the French Ambassador at Vienna. This diplomatist sent to the Duke of Bassano this curious despatch: "Prague, June 5, 1812. My Lord,—I arrived here the night of the 3d. The Emperor of Austria had given orders that I and my suite should be conducted to a house prepared for me by the side of the palace. I was at once informed on arriving that I was at liberty to dispose of all the service of the court, including the carriages,—a very agreeable attention, because on the mountain on which the castle of Prague is built there are no provisions for strangers. The next day the Grand Chamberlain wrote to me to say that Their Majesties would be very glad to receive me at a private audience, after which I should have the honor of dining with them. I found the Emperor extremely satisfied with all he had seen and heard at Dresden. He congratulated himself on having made more thorough acquaintance with his August son-in-law, and spoke with real emotion of the happiness of his dear Louise. He was impatiently awaiting her arrival at Prague, and anticipating her surprise at the picturesque and magnificent view from the castle overhanging the broad river, full of islands, above the brilliantly illuminated city. The Empress of the French would enjoy a spectacle which could scarcely be equalled anywhere, and the more striking because she had never seen Prague. Knowing that the Emperor preferred to speak German, I addressed him in that language, and I was glad that I did. The monarch expressed himself at length in a way that touched me deeply. He told me that he wanted to keep his August daughter with him as long as she should care to stay at Prague, and that he would escort her to the frontier. 'To-morrow,' he added, 'I shall go to meet her with the Empress; I shall make the most of every moment she can give me, and I shall part with her with the sincerest regret.'
"Then talking about the state of affairs, the Emperor said that he could not understand the conduct of Russia; that they must be beside themselves at Saint Petersburg to wish to measure their strength with a power like France. 'Your army,' he went on, 'is stronger by at least a hundred thousand men; you have far abler officers; your Emperor alone is worth eighty thousand men.'"