And yet, if we look at things from a higher standpoint, the consequences of this act of his reached further than he thought for. He succeeded, doubtless, in moderating certain opinions, for there are numbers of people who give up feeling when there is nothing to hope; but, as M. de Rémusat said, the odium which the crime cast upon him obliged him to divert our thoughts from it by a succession of extraordinary feats, which would impose silence respecting the past. Moreover, he bound himself, as it were, to be always successful, for by success alone could he be justified. If we contemplate the tortuous and difficult path he was henceforth obliged to tread, we shall conclude that a noble and pure policy, based upon the prosperity of the human race and the free exercise of its rights, would have been then, as it is always, the best on which a sovereign can act.
By the death of the Duc d’Enghien, Bonaparte succeeded in compromising, first ourselves, then the French nobility, finally the whole nation and all Europe. Our fate was united with his, it is true—this was a great point for him; but, when he dishonored us, he lost the right to that devotion and adherence which he claimed in vain when the hour of his ill fortune came. How could he reckon on a link forged, it must be owned, at the cost of the noblest feelings of the soul? Alas! I judge by my own case. From that time forward I began to blush in secret at the chain I wore; and this hidden feeling, which I stifled at different times with more or less success, afterward became the general sentiment.
On his return to Paris, the First Consul was struck by the effect he had produced. He perceived that feelings go more slowly than opinions, and that men’s countenances wore a new expression in his presence. Weary of a remembrance that he would have liked to render a bygone from the very first, he thought the best plan was to let the people wear out their emotions as quickly as possible; and so he determined to appear in public, although certain persons advised him to defer doing so for a while. “But we must, at any cost,” he answered, “throw that event into the past; and it will remain new so long as anything fresh is to be felt about it. If we change nothing in our habits, the public will soon regard the occurrence as an old affair.” It was therefore arranged that he should go to the opera.
On that evening I was in attendance on Mme. Bonaparte; her carriage followed her husband’s. His usual custom was not to wait for her, but to pass rapidly up the staircase and show himself in his box; on this occasion, however, he waited in the little anteroom adjoining it until Mme. Bonaparte arrived. She was trembling very much, and he was excessively pale; he looked round at us all, as if mutely asking us how we thought he would be received; and then he went forward at last like a man marching up to a battery. He was greeted in the usual way, either because the sight of him produced its customary effect—for the multitude do not change their habits in a moment—or because the police had taken measures of precaution beforehand. I had greatly feared he would not be applauded, and yet, when I saw that he was, my heart sank within me.
He remained only a few days in Paris; thence he removed to Saint Cloud, and I believe from that time forth he began to carry his projects of sovereignty into execution. He felt the necessity of imposing an authority which could no longer be contested upon Europe, and, at the very moment when he had just broken with all parties by deeds which he himself regarded as merely acts of vigor, he thought it well to reveal the goal toward which he had been advancing with more or less precaution. He began by obtaining from the Corps Législatif, now assembled, a levy of sixty thousand men; not that he wanted them for the war with England, which could only be carried on by sea, but because he required to assume an imposing attitude when about to astonish Europe by an altogether novel incident. The Code of Civil Laws had just been completed; this was an important work, and was said to be worthy of general approval. The halls wherein the three great bodies of the State assembled rang on this occasion with the praises of Bonaparte. M. Marcorelle, a deputy of the Corps Législatif, moved, amid loud acclamations, on the 24th of March, three days after the death of the Duc d’Enghien, that a bust of the First Consul should be placed in the Chamber of Deputies. “Let us,” he said, “by a striking mark of our affection, proclaim to Europe that he who has been threatened by the daggers of vile assassins is the object of our attachment and admiration.”
A few days later, Fourcroy, a member of the Council of State, closed the session in the name of the Government. He alluded to the princes of the house of Bourbon as “members of that unnatural family which would have drowned France in her own blood, so that they might reign over her,” and added that they must be threatened with death if they ventured to pollute French territory by their presence.
Meanwhile, preparations for the great trial were going on; every day more Chouans were arrested, either in Brittany or in Paris, who were concerned in this conspiracy, and Georges Cadoudal, Pichegru, and Moreau had already been examined several times. The two first, it was said, answered with firmness; Moreau appeared to be much dejected. No clear information was obtained by these interrogatories.
One morning General Pichegru was found strangled in his prison. This event made a great sensation. It was unhesitatingly attributed to the need of getting rid of a formidable enemy. Pichegru’s determination of character would, it was said, have led him, when the proceeding became public, to utter strong language, which would have had an undesirable effect. He would, perhaps, have created a party in his favor; he would have cleared Moreau, whose guilt it was already so difficult to prove. On the other hand, the partisans of Bonaparte said: “Nobody can doubt that Pichegru came to Paris in order to get up an insurrection. He himself does not deny it. His own avowals would have convinced the most incredulous; his absence will prevent that full light, which is so desirable, from being thrown on the proceedings.”
Many years afterward I asked M. de Talleyrand one day what he thought of the death of Pichegru. “I think,” said he, “that it happened very suddenly and in the nick of time!” But just then M. de Talleyrand had fallen out with Bonaparte, and took every opportunity of bringing accusations against him; I therefore by no means commit myself to any statement respecting this event. The subject was not spoken of at Saint Cloud, and every one refrained from the slightest reflection on it.
About this time Lucien Bonaparte left France, having quarreled irrevocably with his brother. His marriage with Mme. Jouberthon, which Bonaparte had been unable to prevent, was the cause of the rupture. The Consul, full of his great projects, made a last attempt to induce him to renounce this marriage; but it was in vain that Lucien was apprised of the approaching grandeur of his family, in vain that a marriage with the Queen of Etruria was proposed to him. “Love was the strongest,” and he refused everything. A violent scene ensued, and Lucien was exiled from France.