Italian Yesterdays, vol. 2

by Mrs. Hugh Fraser

No sooner was Caroline on board than the city broke out again and anarchy reigned, until the Austrians sent in some troops in answer to the frantic appeals of the magistrates, and these, with the British marines, set upon the mob, killing a hundred or more of the worst of them before order was restored.

The riot and the subsequent slaughter had apparently no effect upon the people’s feelings, for on the very next day they illuminated the city gorgeously and the sound of their merriment could be heard out at sea. All the ships in the harbour were dressed, even that one which sheltered Caroline and her followers, and on the 23d the Austrians entered with Crown Prince Leopold of Bourbon at their head, who graciously acknowledged the howls of the crowd. Everything that suggested Murat—flags, statues, pictures—was destroyed, and Caroline, from the deck of the British ship, watched the general jubilation over her husband’s fall.

Joachim, passing Gaeta, saw his standard still flying from that fortress, and, even then, would have landed and joined the garrison had he been permitted to do so, but the port was blocked up with vessels and he was forced to proceed on his way.

He reached Fréjus on the 28th of May, but, as the shore became clearer and the outline of the coast grew into the horizon, the hopes with which he had left Caroline began to weaken, and he became oppressed with a sense of helplessness, seeming to feel that he was struggling against hopeless odds. The sight of the country he had once served so well, and where his name had been a household word—he was known as “the Achilles of France”—struck chill upon his heart. He had loved his mistress, and had never counted the cost, but he had sided against her, too, and, as he well knew, a country, like a woman, forgets a thousand acts of devotion in the face of one affront. He had no friends there any more, save, perhaps, his brother-in-law; but Napoleon had a woman’s memory for past wrongs, too, and, though his letters had been full of affection while the issue of his own attempt was still problematical, now that he had succeeded, he could repay to the uttermost farthing.

He might need Murat to lead the cavalry—nay, as it seemed, he must need him, for he could not, surely, allow a personal spite to prevent him from using that weapon of weapons when the hilt of it was held out to him! Murat was not the only one, either. Ney had sworn to bring the Emperor back in a cage like a wild beast—and he had taken Ney to his heart as soon as they met. Marmont had deliberately gone over to the enemy—taking his corps with him. Indeed, of all Napoleon’s former adherents it might be said that only Soult had proved to be the true mettle, for he had not laid down his arms till after the Emperor had descended from the throne, and he had fought his last fight, with as high a courage and as steadfast a heart as his first.

Soult had never surrendered, nor had he ever allowed it to be said that force of arms had compelled him to submit to the Allies. He had obeyed the decision of his countrymen, and that was all.

The evil days upon which he had fallen had eaten into Murat’s self-confidence badly, and he dared not even proceed to Paris, but remained at Toulon. From there he wrote to Fouché, whom he still imagined to have kindly feelings towards him—Fouché—because in his prosperity he had befriended him.

“You know,” he wrote, “the motive and the result of the war in Italy. Arrived in France, I now offer my arm to the Emperor and trust that Heaven may allow me to atone for the disasters of the King by the success of the Captain.”

Fouché presented the letter to Napoleon without comment, and the latter read it. “What treaties of peace have I concluded with the King of Naples since the war of 1814?” he asked, handing it back, and Fouché bowed himself out.

Murat remained at Toulon, growing daily more hopeless, although the inhabitants treated him with great respect. But he had passed the point where the respect or otherwise of private citizens could affect him. Then came Waterloo, and the South of France took on the political aspect of the unhappy kingdom which he had just quitted. The Monarchists rose and smote out right and left, massacring their political opponents and looting everything that those unfortunates left behind them. Marshal Brune, who had previously been sent by the Emperor to maintain order in the South, was torn to pieces by a mob, and Joachim was forced to hide himself as best he could from the “White Terror,” which was overrunning the land.