His operations Nap pursued,
And frequently the troops reviewed.
One day, the first of April too,
Boney attended the review.
He thought the soldiers still his own,
Tho’ well the contrary was known.
Some of the Generals, ’tis said,
The Paris newspapers had read,
And of the news, before the crowd,
They talk’d together very loud.
Our hero still retained his cheer,
For he pretended not to hear.
As soon as the review was done,
Brave Marshal Ney (to have some fun,
And let him know his fatal doom),
Followed poor Boney to his room.—
‘In Paris there’s a revolution—
You’ve heard of the new constitution.’
Nap, seeming not to understand,
Ney clapp’d the paper in his hand;
He read, with evident attention,
’Twas gaining time tho’ for invention.
Alas, poor Nap! ’tis as he feared—
And like fall’n Wolsey he appear’d.
Exactly the same scene indeed—
There is that paper for you—read:
Then with what appetite you can—
Go, eat your breakfast, my good man.
Nap, spite of all, was very cool,
Tho’ certainly an April fool:
But great indeed was his vexation,
When bade to sign his abdication;
He looked aghast, he sigh’d, and trembled
Before the Generals all assembled—
Twas hard on Boney, we must own,
Thus to renounce his crown and throne.
How could he help it? for—oh Lord!
There was a Cossack with a sword!
To add to brave Napoleon’s dread,
There was a pistol at his head!
So very furious look’d the men,
Poor Nap could scarcely hold the pen.
And when he did, so great his fright,
His name poor Nap could scarcely write;
At length, while he was sitting down,
He sign’d—‘I abdicate my Crown.’
NAPOLEON SIGNING HIS ABDICATION.
The scene, however, was not quite as the poet makes it out, but it was bad enough, if we may credit Madame Junot: ‘We have read of the revolutions of the seraglio: of those of the Lower Empire: of the assassinations of Russia; we have seen the blood-stained crowns of India given to vile eunuchs; but nothing in the pages of history presents any parallel to what passed at Fontainebleau during the days, and above all the nights, passed there by the hero, abandoned by fortune, and surrounded by those whom he supposed to be his friends. A thick veil was drawn over the event, for the principal actors in it carefully concealed their baseness from the eye of the world. Few persons are aware that Napoleon was doomed to death during the few days which preceded his abdication, by a band of conspirators composed of the most distinguished chiefs of the army.
‘“But,” said one of them in the council in which these demons discussed their atrocious project, “what are we to do with him? There are two or three among us, who, like Antony,[39] would exhibit their blood stained robes to the people, and make us play the part of Cassius and Brutus. I have no wish to see my house burned, and to be sent into exile.” “Well,” said another, “we must leave no trace of him. He must be sent to heaven like Romulus.” The others applauded, and then a most horrible discussion commenced. It is not in my power to relate the details. Suffice it to say that the Emperor’s death was proposed and discussed for the space of an hour, with a degree of coolness which might be expected among Indian savages armed with tomahawks. “But,” said he who had spoken first, “we must come to some determination. The Emperor of Russia is impatient. The month of April is advancing, and nothing has been done. Now, for the last time, we will speak to him of his abdication. He must sign it definitely—or——” A horrible gesture followed the last word.
‘Yes, the life of Napoleon was threatened by those very men whom he had loaded with wealth, honours, and favours; to whom he had given lustre from this reflection of his own glory. Napoleon was warned of the conspiracy, and it must have been the most agonising event of his whole life. The torments of St. Helena were nothing in comparison with what he must have suffered when a pen was presented to him by a man who presumed to say, “Sign—if you wish to live.” If these last words were not articulated, the look, the gesture, the inflection of the voice, expressed more than the tongue could have uttered.’
How these rats left the falling house!—Berthier, with a lie on his lips, promising to return, yet knowing full well he never meant to; Constant, his valet, running away with 100,000 francs, and burying them in the forest of Fontainebleau; and Rustan, the faithful Mameluke, running away to Paris. Is it not a sickening sight to see these pitiful rogues deserting their master?
On April 11 the treaty of abdication was signed by the allies, and by it Napoleon was to keep his title of Emperor, and have the sovereignty of the Island of Elba, where, however, he must permanently reside. He was guaranteed a revenue of 6,000,000 francs. Josephine and the other members of the Emperor’s family were to have 2,000,000 francs divided amongst them; and Maria Louisa and the King of Rome were to have the Duchies of Parma, Placentia, and Guastalla.
But, when all was finished, he felt his position too hard to bear. He would have recalled his abdication—but it was too late. Tom from his high estate, separated from his wife and child, deserted by the creatures of his bounty, life was not worth living for; existence was wretched, and he tried to put an end to it by poison on the night of April 12. Baron Fain, in ‘The Manuscript of 1814,’ gives a good account of this occurrence, but not nearly as graphic as does Madame Junot:—
‘Throughout the day his conversation turned on subjects of the most gloomy kind, and he dwelt much on suicide. He spoke so frequently on the subject, that Marchand,[40] his first valet de chambre, and Constant were struck with it. They consulted together, and both, with common consent, removed from the Emperor’s chamber an Arabian poniard, and the balls from his pistol-case. The Duke of Bassano had also remarked this continued allusion to suicide, notwithstanding his efforts to divert Napoleon’s thoughts from it. The Duke spoke to Marchand, after he had taken leave of the Emperor, previous to retiring to rest, and he expressed himself satisfied with the precautions which had been taken. The Duke had been in bed some time, when he was awoke by Constant, who came to him pale and trembling: “Monsieur le Duc,” he exclaimed, “come immediately to the Emperor. His Majesty has been taken very ill!” The Duke of Bassano immediately hurried to the bedside of the Emperor, whom he found pale and cold as a marble statue. He had taken poison!