The hortensia, as it is called in France and Germany, is the magnificent Chinese flower known in England as the hydrangea. The French sea-captain who brought home the plant from China in 1790 named it hortensia as a compliment to his wife, whose name was Hortense. It quickly became very popular in Europe, and was the “Lieblings blume” or favourite flower of Queen Louisa of Prussia and also of the great Goethe. When Mr. Wolff paid his visit to Elba, Claude Holard was, as has been said, an old man of eighty, but his mental faculties were in no wise impaired by age or by the many vicissitudes which had fallen to his lot, and he gave his visitor many details of his life, which had been anything but an uneventful one. Born at Metz in 1773, he became a soldier in the Austrian army at the early age of fifteen, saw service, and was taken prisoner by the forces of Dumouriez near Brussels. Allowed to return to his native place, he afterwards joined the army of the Ardennes, and was wounded at the battle of Fleurus whilst fighting under Jourdan. This wound ended his military career, and he became Syndic of Marine at the port of Breskens, a small town on the Scheldt opposite Flushing, and married, for his prosperity seemed now assured. A trading vessel, however, in which he had sunk his little fortune, was captured by the enemy, and this loss, in addition to the difficulty of collecting certain debts, eventually caused him to leave Breskens and make his way to Fontainebleau, there to lay before the Emperor the story of his misfortunes, which were much aggravated by the poor state of health into which he had fallen. Certain persons of influence interested themselves on his behalf, and he was nominated gardener to the Emperor’s sister, Princess Elise of Piombino, afterwards Grand Duchess of Tuscany, in which capacity he served till 1814, when, being ordered to repair to Elba, he was made director of the imperial gardens, becoming, in due course, gardener of the palace of La Malmaison during the hundred days. After the Emperor’s final defeat and fall, the poor man, as has been said, made every effort to be allowed to accompany his imperial master to St. Helena; but this was not to be, and then followed a long period filled with undeserved misfortune. It was in 1851 that Prince Demidoff engaged him once more as head gardener in the gardens of San Martino at Elba, the same post which the old man had occupied many years before under the great Emperor; and, though this relieved him of all fear of actual penury, Mr. Wolff was informed that he was much hampered and worried by many vexatious restrictions and regulations not at all to the taste of an old soldier of the Napoleonic times.
Whilst at Elba, Mr. Wolff was told several anecdotes about the Emperor, of which the following shows very clearly that the idea of a return to France was ever present in the great captain’s mind.
A balustrade being in course of erection in some part of the so-called palace of San Martino, one of the Emperor’s suite declared the wood to be so bad and the bars so thin that the whole affair could not last for any time at all. “How long,” asked his imperial master, “do you give it then—a year?” “Yes, sire,” was the reply. “That will do,” rejoined the Emperor, with a smile.
During his stay at Porto Ferrajo, Mr. Wolff had an opportunity of inspecting the books left behind by the Emperor. Amongst them he particularly noticed two French handbooks to the study of the English language, a rough cypher “N” being pasted on the back of each. Most of the leaves were uncut, but another linguistic guide showed signs of having been a good deal perused. This work, in which the original English was placed side by side with a French translation, was entitled The Hundred Thoughts of a Young Lady—“Cent pensées d’une Jeune Anglaise”—written by Mistress Gillet. Queer reading this must have been for the conqueror of Austerlitz!
Napoleon’s flag at Elba, which is, I believe, still in existence—three golden bees on a red band running diagonally over a white ground—was a modification of an old Tuscan ensign, made by the ship’s tailors of the Undaunted, the vessel which brought him to Elba.
Another smaller flag of the same sort, which is said to have been the regimental banner of the Old Guard which accompanied the Emperor to the island, may be seen amidst other Napoleonic relics at the Invalides in Paris, where also is his cocked hat decorated with an Elban cockade.
MONSIEUR LARABIT
During his visit to the island in 1854, Mr. Wolff had many conversations with persons who had been in close contact with Napoleon. He chanced to travel in company with a certain Monsieur Larabit, who, as a young officer of engineers, had superintended the repair and reconstruction of most of the defences of the island some forty years before, and who would often speak of the great interest taken by the Emperor in the completion of his palace (in reality little more than a country house) at San Martino; and also of the remark which he used to make, “Ce sera la maison d’un bon bourgeois riche de quinze mille livres de rente.” With this old senator (as he had now become) Mr. Wolff witnessed the tunny fishing for which Elba is noted, at the same time hearing from the veteran’s lips an account of how he had seen the Emperor on the 27th of June 1814 attempt to land one of these fish, and fail owing to lack of sufficient strength. As an instance of an extraordinary link between the present and the past, it may be mentioned that during his visit to Elba, Mr. Drummond Wolff was on one occasion rowed in a boat by a man whose father had for years been a prisoner in the hands of Algerian corsairs.
A striking instance of the almost mesmeric power which the Emperor Napoleon undoubtedly possessed, is shown by the reconciliation which he effected with General Lecourbe, the story of which, I think, has never been told in English.
Holding command in the army of the Rhine under Moreau, General Lecourbe must certainly be mentioned in the foremost rank of those who contributed to the military glory of France; but, nevertheless, owing to his devotion to Moreau, whose cause, when brought to trial by the First Consul, he warmly espoused, his name was ruthlessly obliterated from the roll of the French army. He had offended Buonaparte, and for ten years remained in the obscurity of civil life.