Murat had been negotiating with England and Austria, but had not definitely made terms. It is said that he was driven to a decision by a wound which Napoleon inflicted upon his vanity. Murat, having written the Emperor that he could bring thirty thousand men to the field to aid France, was told to send the troops to Pavia, where they would receive “the Emperor’s orders.” The King of Naples received this letter on a day when, with the Queen and others, he was making a visit to Pompeii. He was so much hurt by Napoleon’s tone that he tore the despatch in pieces, trampled on the fragments, and returned to Naples to close with the Austrian offers.
One must pity this brave, vain, fickle Murat, urged on to his shame and ruin by his innate levity of character, the sting of wounded vanity, the selfish promptings of an ambitious wife, and the temptings of professional diplomats.
England dug the grave for Murat as she did for Napoleon, her agent at Naples being Lord Bentinck. Murat having sent the Englishman a sword of honor, the latter wrote to his government:—
“It is a severe violence to my feelings to incur any degree of obligation to an individual whom I so deeply despise.”
On the same day he wrote to Murat: “The sword of a great captain is the most flattering compliment which a soldier can receive. It is with the highest gratitude that I accept, sire, the gift which you have done me the honor to send.”
Lord Bentinck belonged, we must presume, to what Lord Wolseley calls “the highest type of English gentleman”; hence his duplicity must not be spoken of in the terms we use in denouncing the vulgar.
Another piece of bad luck had happened to the Emperor since the Saxon campaign—his two brothers, Joseph and Jerome, were in France. Wellington had not left the former much to resign in Spain; but whatever there was, Joseph had surrendered it, and he had come away. He was now in Paris, confident as ever of his own great merits, and most unfortunately exercising his former evil influence. Napoleon made this imbecile Lieutenant-General of the kingdom, and having made the Empress regent, Joseph became President of the Council of Regency. The disastrous consequences of putting such power into Joseph’s hands will be seen presently.
At length everything which human effort and human genius could achieve for the national defence, in so short a time, was done; and it became imperative that the Emperor should join his army.
On Sunday of January 23, 1814, it being known that he would leave Paris in a few hours, the officers of the twelve legions of the National Guard assembled in the hall of the marshals, at the Tuileries, to be presented as the Emperor should return from Mass. Presently he came; and while the Empress stood at his side, he took his little son in his arms, and presented him to the brilliant throng. In a voice which revealed his deep feeling, he told them that he was about to leave Paris to put himself at the head of the army to drive the invaders from France, and he reckoned on the zeal of all good citizens. He appealed to them to be united, and to repel all insinuations which would tend to divisions. “Efforts will not be lacking to shake your fidelity to your duties; I rely on you to reject these perfidious attempts. Gentlemen, officers of the National Guard, I put under your protection what, next to France, is dearest to me in all the world,—my wife and my son!”
Even Pasquier records that these words were uttered in tones which went to the heart, and with an expression of face that was noble and touching. “I saw tears course down many a cheek. All swore by acclamation to be worthy of the confidence with which they were being honored, and every one of them took this oath in all sincerity.” Warming up a little, in spite of himself, the Chancellor adds, “This powerful sovereign in the toils of adversity, this glorious soldier bearing up against the buffets of fortune, could but deeply stir souls when, appealing to the most cherished affections of the human heart, he placed himself under their protection.” The learned Chancellor frostily adds that “the capital did not remain indifferent to this scene, and was more deeply moved by it than one might expect.”