Chapter I: Am Not Allowed to Remain in England.—removal to Ostend.—persecutions (3)

It has been insinuated to the officers of your nation that they are not to present themselves before him whom they guard; or they have been forbidden to do so. The English themselves, whatever may be the rank and the confidence which they enjoy, have been forbidden to approach us, and to enter into conversation with us, without formalities which are equivalent to an interdiction, lest we might represent to them the ill usage heaped upon us—a precaution useless with respect to security; but which proves the jealous care with which we are prevented from communicating the truth. Our efforts on this subject have been made a crime; as if to inform you of the truth, particularly where it interests your honour, your character, was not doing you a service.

You certainly never intended to allow such a tyranny over our thoughts and sentiments, as to insinuate to us, or inform us, that, if we continued to express ourselves freely in our letters to our relatives, to our friends, we should be torn from the presence of Napoleon, and banished from the Island. Yet it is precisely this circumstance which has brought about my deportation, by causing me to forward, clandestinely, the very letters which I had in the first instance, intended for the Governor, and which I would have sent to him, had it not been for his vexatious intimation—an intimation gratuitously tyrannical—since these letters were sent open to Ministers, accompanied, if necessary, by the notes of the local authority, that they might be detained by the Ministers, if they were improper; or even delivered up to the laws, if they were criminal: and since, at all events, they must have in their eyes the merit of being a further means of coming at the truth.

Certainly, you never intended that those who had obtained the favour of staying with Napoleon should find themselves within the penalties of the laws, but excluded from their benefit. This is, however, what has been positively signified to us. You did not intend that my most secret, and most sacred, papers should be seized; and, though I had allowed them to be read cursorily, in order to shew their nature, that they should be taken from me, and that I should not be allowed to put my seal upon them. You never intended that a barbarous sport should be made in my case, of whatever is most holy and most sacred among you; that, in contempt of my constant claims to be restored to liberty, or brought to trial; that, in despite of my reiterated offers to submit myself voluntarily, beforehand, to all the privations, even arbitrary, which might be imposed upon me in England, I should be kept prisoner at St. Helena; that I should be sent from that Island to the Cape of Good Hope, to be brought back in the course of time, from the Cape to St. Helena; that I should be carried a prisoner over the vast extent of sea, in a frail vessel, to the great injury of the health of my son, whose life was in danger, to the peril of my own life, which has been afflicted with infirmities that must accompany me to the grave,—if, indeed, they do not plunge me into it before my time.

It was not your intention that, on my arrival at the Cape, the Governor should detain me there arbitrarily, without examination, without inquiry, without inquest, and cause me to wither there in the pangs of sorrow, of delay, and of despair, upon the ridiculous pretence of sending to a distance of two thousand leagues to inquire of my natural judges, the ministers to whom I so earnestly solicited to be delivered up, if it would be right to send me to them; and executing beforehand upon me, by that single act, a sentence a thousand times more terrible than could have been that of my judges, viz. depriving me for several months of my liberty, detaining me the whole of that time a captive at the extremity of the earth, separated from my family, from my friends, from my interests, painfully wearing out in the desert the few days which remain to me. Surely, under the empire of positive laws, no one could thus tyrannically sport with the liberty, the life, the happiness of individuals.

O Englishmen! if such acts should remain unpunished, your excellent laws would be no more than an empty name. You would carry terror to the extremities of the earth and there would no longer be either liberty or justice among you.

Such are the grievances which I had to make known to you, and which are developed, with others, in a letter hereto annexed,[35] which, on leaving St. Helena, I sent to the Governor, in the hope that it might produce a reformation.

Footnote 35:

The Statement of the Grievances of Longwood, addressed to Sir Hudson
Lowe.

Many of these grievances would perhaps have deserved to pass unnoticed by us; nevertheless, I have done myself the violence of laying them before you. There are none of them so trivial as not to interest your honour. And what could be the causes of such measures? Whence can proceed these gradual attacks, these continued aggravations. How can they have been justified? We know not.

Not, however, that the ruling power at St. Helena denies the danger to the health of the captive, the imminent peril of his life, the probable and speedy issue of such a state of things. ‘It will have been his own wish,’ they content themselves with coldly observing; ‘It will be his own fault.’ But do they act discreetly in this? To confess that Napoleon seeks death, is it not confessing that they have rendered life intolerable to him? ‘Moreover,’ continue they, ‘why refuse to take the necessary exercise, because an officer must accompany him? What is there in this formality so hateful, so painful? Why does he insist upon making it a matter of such great importance?’ But who can arrogate to himself the right of judging of the feelings of the illustrious victim? Napoleon debars himself, and he is silent; what would they have more? Besides, it has been reported, a thousand times, it is neither the colour of the coat nor the difference of nation which creates repugnance; but the nature of the thing itself, and its inevitable effects. If, in such exercise, the benefit of the body were greatly below the sufferings of the mind, would this exercise be an advantage?

But it is further insinuated, (for there is not one identical scale for all minds and all sentiments) ‘Why such particular regard, why such extraordinary cares and attentions? After all he is a captive, of distinction perhaps, but what is he more? what are his claims?’

What he is, and what are his claims, I will proceed to state.

Napoleon’s destiny has been the first, the most astonishing in history. He is the man of renown, of prodigies; the hero of ages. His name is in every mouth; his actions excite every imagination; his career remains without a parallel. When Cæsar meditated the seizure of the sovereign power in his country, Cæsar was already the first man in it, by his birth and his riches; when Alexander undertook to subjugate Asia, Alexander was a king, and the son of a king who had paved the way for his successes: but Napoleon, rushing from the crowd to govern the world, presents himself alone without any other auxiliary than his genius. His first steps in his career are so many miracles; he immediately covers himself with immortal laurels, and reigns from that instant over every mind: the idol of his soldiers, whose glory he has raised to the skies—the hope of his country, which, in her pangs already feels that he will be her liberator; and this expectation is not disappointed. At her expiring voice, Napoleon, interrupting his mysterious destinies, hastens from the banks of the Nile; traverses the seas, at the risk of his liberty and of his reputation; and lands alone upon the French shore. Every heart leaps at seeing him again. Acclamations, public rejoicing, and triumph attend him into the capital. At sight of him the different factions droop, parties blend themselves into one; he rules, and the revolution is chained.

The mere weight of opinion, the influence of one single man, effected every thing. He had no occasion to fight; not one drop of blood was shed. Nor was this the only time that such a prodigy distinguished his life.

At his voice, the principles of disorganization vanish; wounds are closed; stains are effaced. Creation seems once more to issue from chaos.

All the revolutionary follies disappear; grand and noble truths alone remain. Napoleon knows no party; no prejudice attaches to his administration. All opinions, all sects, all talents, form themselves in a group about him; a new order of things commences.

The nation recovers breath, and blesses him; the people of other states admire him; kings respect him; every one is happy,—every one fells himself once more honoured in being a Frenchman.

Shortly, he is raised to the throne; he becomes Emperor. Every one knows the rest. Every one knows with what lustre, with what power, he dignified his crown. A sovereign by the choice of the people, consecrated by the head of religion, sanctioned by the hand of victory, what chief of a dynasty ever united titles so powerful, so noble, so pure? Let them be examined.

All the Sovereigns were allied to him by blood or treaties. All nations acknowledged him. Englishmen, if you alone are an exception, that exception only belongs to your policy; it was only a matter of form. Moreover, you are precisely those who have seen in Napoleon the most sacred, the most indisputable titles. Other powers may perhaps have yielded to necessity. You, you have done nothing but submit to principles, to your conviction, to the truth; for such are your doctrines that Napoleon, four times elected by a great nation, must necessarily, in spite of your public denials, have found himself a sovereign in the bottom of your hearts. Look into your consciences!... Now, Napoleon has lost nothing but his throne; a reverse has snatched it from him; success would have fixed it with him for ever. He has seen eleven hundred thousand men march against him. Their generals, their sovereigns, have every where proclaimed that his person was their sole object. What a destiny! He fell; but he lost only power: all his august attributes remain and command the respect of mankind.

A thousand recollections of glory still crown him; misfortune renders him sacred, and, in this state of things, the man of real feeling does not hesitate to consider him more venerable upon his rock than at the head of six hundred thousand men, imposing laws.

Such are his claims.

In vain would narrow minds, or perfidious hearts, attempt to charge him, as is the custom, with being the offensive cause of all the evils, of all the troubles, of which we have been the witnesses or the victims. The time of libels is past, the truth must have its turn. Already the clouds of falsehood are clearing up before the sun of futurity. A time will come when the world will render him complete justice; for passions die with contemporaries; but actions live with posterity, which has no bounds. Then it will be said that the great actions, the great benefits, came from him; that the evils were those of time and fate.

Who does not now begin to see that, notwithstanding his vast power, he never had the choice of his destiny or of his means? that, constantly armed for defence, he retarded his destruction only by a constant succession of new prodigies; that in this terrible conflict he was placed under the necessity of subduing every thing, in order to survive and save the great national cause? Who among you, Englishmen, dreams of denying, above all, this last truth? Has not _war for life_ been often proclaimed among you; and did not your secret allies, in the bottom of their hearts, feel that which your position permitted you to declare aloud? Do you not still boast that you would have carried on the war as long as he maintained himself? Thus every time that he proposed peace to you, whether his offers were sincere, or whether they were not, it was of little importance to you: your decision was fixed. What course then remained for him, and what reproach could be uttered against him, which you yourselves did not already deserve? And who at this day would still pretend to bring forward the vulgar reproach of his ambition? What then has it had so new, so extraordinary, and above all, so exclusive in his person?

Did it stifle sentiment in him, when he said to the illustrious Fox, that in future Europe would be so united by laws, manners, and blood, that there could be no war in it, but civil war?

Was it irresistible, when, describing to us all his useless efforts to prevent the rupture of the treaty of Amiens, he concluded that England, notwithstanding all the advantages of to-day, would, however, have gained more by having adhered to it; that all Europe would have gained by it; that he alone, perhaps, his name and his glory, would have lost by it?

Was it an over-greedy and common ambition, when at Chatillon he preferred the chance of losing a throne to the certainty of possessing it at the price of the glory and independence of the nation?

Was it incapable of alteration, when he has been heard to say, ‘I returned from the Isle of Elba quite another man. They did not think it possible, and they were wrong. I am not a man to do things with a bad grace, or by halves. I would have been at once the monarch of the constitution and of peace?’

Was it insatiable, when, after the victory of which he considered himself certain at Waterloo, his first word to the vanquished was to have been the offer of the treaty of Paris, and a sincere and solid union, which, blending the interests of the two nations, would have insured the empire of the seas to England, and forced the continent to repose?

Was it blind, and without motives, when, after his disaster, passing in review the political consequences which he had so often foreseen, and trembling at the probabilities of the future, he exclaimed, ‘There is no nation, not even the English, who may not one day have to lament their victory at Waterloo?’

And who can now think of reverting to this charge of ambition? It will not be the people, all astonished as they are, at the conduct of those who have overthrown him. Will it be the Sovereigns? They talked of nothing but justice before the battle, but what use have they made of the victory? Let them cease, then, to repeat these odious charges. They might be an excellent pretence; they would be pitiful justifications. Let them content themselves with having conquered!...

But I grow warm. Whither do the force of truth, the warmth of sentiment, the impulse of the heart, carry me? I return to my subject.

Representatives of Great Britain, take this state of things into fresh consideration. Justice, humanity, your honour, your glory, demand it from you. St. Helena is insupportable; Napoleon’s stay there is equivalent to certain and premeditated death; you could not wish to make yourselves responsible for this in the eyes of futurity. Napoleon was, during twenty years, your terrible enemy; he will remind you of _Hannibal_ and _of Roman infamy_.... You would not stain with such a spot the noble pages of your present history. Save your administration the odious, the horrible, censure of having trafficked with the blood of a prisoner. History furnishes several examples of it. They all excite our horror; and what an increase of dignity would be reserved for Napoleon’s character! For it is easy to predict, when Napoleon shall be no more, when the crime has been accomplished, he will become the man of the people; then he will be only the victim, the martyr, of Kings. The inevitable march of the force of things and of the sentiments of man so wills it. Save our modern annals from such a scandal and its dangerous consequences. Save royalty from its own blindness. Save the most sacred interests of the great Monarchs, in whose name the victim is under execution. Save royal Majesty in the first of its attributes, the most holy of its characters, its _inviolability_. If kings themselves lay their hands upon the representatives of God on earth, what restraint, what respect, can they intend to oppose to the attempts of the people? There is no prosperity here below, secure from time or from fortune. The circle of vicissitudes envelops all thrones. This cause is the cause of all kings, present and to come. An anointed of the Lord degraded, debased, tortured, immolated, cannot, must not, be other than an object of indignation, of horror for history, of terror for kings!

Recal Napoleon among you; let him come to find repose under the protection of your laws; that they may enjoy his distinguished homage. Do not deprive them of their noblest triumph. And who will prevent you?

Will it be your first decision? But, in recalling it, you would shew to every eye that you were only then guided by the force of circumstances, the law of necessity.

Will it be your domestic repose? But the thought of that would be foolish; the doubt an injury, an outrage, to your institutions, to your manners, to your whole population.

Will it be the safety of Europe? But truths of circumstance have their day, and it belongs only to the vulgar to perpetuate them, to bring them forward long after they cease to exist. Napoleon, in his omnipotence, might be the terror of Europe; reduced to his single person, he can no longer be any thing but an object of astonishment and meditation. And, in truth, what could he effect at this day, even with power, against the safety of Russia, that of Austria, of Prussia, or your own?

Finally, can there be any fear of his secret intentions? But Napoleon now has no wish but for repose. In his own eyes, in his own mouth, his wonderful career has already all the distance of ages. He no longer considers himself of this world; his destinies are accomplished. A soul of such elevated power is of no value but to lead to celebrity, to glory. And what mortal has accumulated more of these? Does not the measure seem above the imagination of man? Have not even his reverses been abundant sources of glory to him? Does there exist any thing to be compared with the return from the Isle of Elba? And, more lately, what an apotheosis is his; the regrets of a great nation. A great number among you have traversed our provinces, penetrated to our fire-sides; you know our secrets, our sentiments. If the country was less dear to him than glory, what has he to desire after what he has left behind? His advanced age, his lost health, his disgust at the vicissitudes of life, perhaps that which he feels for men, the satiety, above all, of the great objects pursued here below, leave him nothing new or desirable but a tranquil asylum, a happy and sweet repose. He demands them from you, Englishmen, and you owe them to the heroic magnanimity with which he gave you the preference over all his other enemies. Learn, dare, will to be just. Recal him, and you will have secured the only glory which seems to be wanting in your present condition. The admirers, the real friends, of your liberties and of your laws expect this of you; they demand it. You have baffled those who delight in boasting of all the benefits that flow from your noble constitution.

‘Where, then,’ say their adversaries, with a triumphant irony, ‘is that generosity, that elevation of sentiment, that inflexibility of principle, that public morality, that force of opinion, which you told us distinguished that free people, in some sort superior to the sovereignty itself? Where are the so much vaunted fruits of this classic ground of liberal institutions? All this pompous scaffolding, these imaginary pictures, have then disappeared before the dangers which a single man has created; or rather before the hatred and the vengeance which he has inspired. And what more could that absolute power which we defend, and you decry so much, have done? It would have done less, perhaps, but most assuredly it would not have been able to do more. It would have shewn itself sensible, no doubt, of the noble and magnanimous confidence of its enemy, or, if it had so decided, on the ground of utility, it would, at least have shewn more energy, candour, and elevation in its injustice. It would not have descended to palliate its wrong in the eyes of the people, by associating its neighbours gratuitously in it. It would have avoided above all the leaving itself entangled in this distressing dilemma: Either, when you concluded your iniquitous treaty of ostracism, the victim was not in your power, and you had the cowardice to hold out the hand to him that you might seize him; or, you had him already in your power, and you sacrificed your glory, the honour of your country, the sanctity, the majesty, of your laws to foreign solicitations.’

Englishmen, your friends are obliged to turn to you for an answer. They await it.

As for me, in spite of a fatal experience of two years, such is still my confidence in your principles, that I still reckon upon your justice; and I have dared to speak before you, consulting only my own heart, persuaded that it will be in the midst of you that I shall see the defence and the talents worthy of this great and noble cause arise. However you may decide in other respects, my own destinies are fixed. Wherever the victim dwells I wish to go, to devote at his feet the few days that still remain to me;[36] and in this tribute of sentiment I shall think I have done nothing but for myself. When I followed him at first, I rather obeyed honour, I followed glory:—but now I bewail, far from him, all the qualities of the heart that attach man to man. How many of your countrymen have approached him! they would all tell you the same thing. Let them be consulted. Englishmen! is this,

Footnote 36:

All solicitations in this respect with the English Ministry have
proved vain. This demand, frequently repeated, remains without an
answer, or has produced only a refusal; as may be particularly seen
in one of the letters in this collection.

then, the man who has been portrayed to you? Have you pronounced upon his fate in full possession of the case?

COUNT DE LAS CASES.

My solicitations were not confined to the letters which I addressed to the Allied Sovereigns; my efforts were ardently directed towards every point, and every object I could think of. As soon as I was restored to liberty, I found myself surrounded by the French exiles at Frankfort, who shared my sentiments, and manifested the tenderest sympathy for me. All, not even excepting those who had nothing to spare, save the widow’s mite, offered me all they possessed, not only to provide for the personal wants with which they supposed I had to struggle, but also to promote the sacred object which wholly occupied my mind. At Frankfort I had also the happiness to meet the Countess de Survilliers, whose extreme generosity is only one of the many virtues that adorn her. Finally, some eminent merchants of Frankfort, merely from hearing of my adventures, and from motives of pure sympathy, made me the most generous offers; and even diplomatic individuals, of whom there were many at that time in the town, indirectly conveyed to me proofs of their attention. These circumstances enabled me to learn where the different members of the Emperor’s family were to be found, and to enter immediately into communication with them, so as to adopt the speediest means of ameliorating the condition of him for whose sake I had resolved to exert every effort, and even to sacrifice my life.

On the other hand, I had laid down the rule of writing regularly, on a certain day every month, to the Grand Marshal, in order to obtain such information as would enable me to render myself as useful as possible; and I sent the letter open to the Under Secretary of State for the Colonies, with whom I had, by this means, commenced a correspondence, which I conceived to be best calculated to fulfil the object I had in view. I requested that he would send out regularly to Longwood the newspapers, pamphlets, new publications, and various articles of daily use which I specified, or which I begged he would himself select, to be paid for by me to his order; this he promised to do.

The Emperor’s mother, brothers, sisters, and all his relations, though I was not particularly acquainted with any of them, except Prince Lucien, immediately answered me in the warmest and most affecting manner. Mine were almost the first authentic tidings they had received from the illustrious victim; and they esteemed themselves happy in finding a channel, by means of which they could transmit to him testimonies of their respect, devotedness, and affection. They wished only to be informed what they had to do. An annual contribution of one hundred and fifty thousand francs was immediately determined on: this sum I conceived to be indispensably necessary for the establishment at Longwood. The amount was divided equally among all, and I already had in my hands the subscriptions of several of the parties, when I had the satisfaction of being enabled to return them, with the request that they might be reserved till a future time, as unforeseen circumstances would render it unnecessary to make use of the money for two or three years. The reason was that there had been found a deposit of several hundred thousand francs belonging to the Emperor, and I esteemed myself happy in being thus early enabled to present to the members of his family a proof of the regularity and reserve with which I acted. But unfortunately I was too precipitate; for the money which had been promised, and was to have been furnished by me, was, either through the mistake or embarrassments of the banker, or the negligence of agents, more than a year in being paid. I was very much vexed and disappointed by this circumstance, for the thirteen bills which I had left with the Grand Marshal on my departure from St. Helena, had been quickly paid away, and fresh drafts had been made on my banker, or on other individuals in London, who allowed the bills to be protested, because they had no funds belonging to me, or had received none from any other individual. This occasioned enormous expense, compromised Longwood, and afforded a subject of ridicule to the English ministerial journals.

As soon as I was made acquainted with this unfortunate circumstance, I wrote to London, to offer my personal security for any drafts that might come from Longwood, stating that they should be payable to order at Frankfort. To this object I appropriated, in the most advantageous way I could, the sum which I received from Madame Mère, and which was the only one that had not been returned, together with some money which a few friends had lodged in my hands when my own was exhausted; for my four thousand louis had been repaid to me in a way so singular that I cannot refrain from mentioning it. A person who stood in a very delicate situation, and who held money belonging to the Emperor, suspecting, though he knew nothing of me, that I might be in some degree of embarrasment, transmitted to me a hundred thousand francs. I could lay no claim whatever to the sum: but this the person in question doubtless conceived to be his most prudent course, considering the peculiarity of his situation. Thus I found myself repaid without having made any claim or given any receipt, and I am not aware that there existed any trace of the debt due by the Emperor in any account whatever.

Six months had already elapsed; the fine weather was set in; and my health, which had been so greatly impaired by disappointment and vexation, required me to make trial of the waters of Baden. But was I free to depart? The times were so extraordinary, and such a total disregard seemed to be every where manifested for the privileges and the destiny of a Frenchman, that many persons about me very much doubted whether I should be at liberty; and I was myself not without apprehension, so accustomed was I to see all justice violated in my person. Be this as it may, I was so desirous to act with perfect openness, and to evince my gratitude for the kindness of Baron Wessemberg, that I determined to acquaint him with my intention of departing, and to ask him whether he considered me under his inspection. However, the Baron in a moment banished all my scruples and fears, by replying, with the frankness and courtesy which characterize him, that, in granting me hospitality, there had been no idea of making me a prisoner.

I accordingly repaired to Baden, where I had the honour of being received by the Grand Duke and Duchess, almost secretly it is true, but with those proofs of interest and attention which I might have expected from the adopted children of Napoleon.

On taking my leave of the worthy Grand Duke, I requested that he would permit me to remain in his States, and I determined on fixing my residence at Manheim. I made choice of this place because, like Frankfort, it afforded every desirable advantage for the continuance of my correspondence, while it presented none of the inconveniences of the latter city, which, from circumstances of a very delicate nature, I was anxious to avoid.

I seldom went out, and I did not abuse my liberty any more than I had done in the time of the Prussian Commissioner; but I thought it my duty to receive every one who came to me. I was perfectly aware that I should be likely to encounter enemies in the disguise of friends; but I also knew that there were many persons, of all classes, who frequently came from a distance for the purpose of seeing me, and who were guided by sincere sentiment. But could I, for the sake of avoiding one betrayer, run the risk of wounding many honest hearts, who, amidst their sorrow and regret, hoped to obtain from me a few words of satisfaction and consolation? During my stay at Manheim, it would be difficult to imagine the singular questions that were put to me, and the hints and insinuations of every kind that were thrown out to me. One proposed to execute my most secret, hazardous, and remote commissions; another offered to become my mediator with distinguished and hostile individuals; and a third assured me that he would go in disguise to Parma, and deliver all my packets to the Empress Maria Louisa in person. In short, I know not what plans were suggested to me. I several times received, from natives of different countries, proposals for effecting Napoleon’s escape. Some were excited by enthusiasm, some by speculation, and others were, no doubt, contriving snares; for the crime of instigation is now boldly and universally resorted to. Fortunately my guarantee was that I had nothing to conceal. I possessed no secret, therefore I could only express hopes and wishes in reply to all I heard; and certainly, in the avowed situation in which I stood, the reports that might have been made from my conversation could convey no new information. Accordingly, nothing of an unpleasant nature occurred. By making choice of Manheim, which is a retired place, and where I lived as privately as possible, I obviated most of the inconveniences I had met with at Frankfort, which was the resort of schemers and intriguers of every kind. I also proved to those who were interested in observing me that I was a stranger to all secret designs.

The period fixed for the meeting of the Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle was now approaching; and I formed the highest hopes from this august assemblage. These hopes were shared by every generous heart; for who could have imagined that the Sovereigns of Europe would have shewn themselves insensible to the misery of Napoleon, whom each, individually, had so long treated as a friend, a brother, or a son; particularly when they should receive a correct and faithful account of the situation in which he was placed? I had made every necessary preparation; being determined that they should be assailed by entreaties, and surrounded by information. I wrote to Maria Louisa; and I was charged to present to the Sovereigns a letter from Madame Mère; all the other relations of the Emperor having undertaken to act for themselves. I carefully collected for each of the Sovereigns all the authentic documents existing, and drew up a note on the subject, enclosed in a letter addressed to _themselves_. I did not even neglect Lord Castlereagh; to whom I thought it requisite to make the communication in his quality of representative of the King of England. I shall insert these documents, hoping that the reader will pardon the many repetitions that occur in them. They all relate to one and the same subject; this subject is reduced to its simplest expression; the circle is limited; and recurrence to the same topic is unavoidable.

TO THE EMPRESS MARIA LOUISA.

MADAM,—On my return from the place where your husband is perishing, what a tale of misery could I not unfold to you! But you are his wife, the mother of his son; what, then, can I say that will appeal to you more forcibly than the feelings that must naturally arise in your heart!

I think it my duty to inform your Majesty that I intend, at the approaching assemblage of the Allied Sovereigns, to lay at their feet my humble supplications for a mitigation of the misery and cruel sufferings which are inflicted in their name, and which cannot be adequately conceived, except by a servant so devoted as I am, or a relative so near as yourself.

But, Madam, what can be my claims, when compared with the sacred and all-powerful rights of your Majesty, which are held in veneration all over the world!

Deign then, Madam, to exercise those rights; and posterity, history, which consecrate crowns, will encircle your brow with a diadem as imperishable as your elevation of character, which subdues, and your gentle virtues, which delight the heart.[37]

I am, &c.,

COUNT LAS CASES.

Footnote 37:

This letter was put into the post at Vienna. I know not whether it
ever reached its destination; but most probably it did not.

MADAME MERE TO THE ALLIED SOVEREIGNS AT AIX-LA-CHAPELLE.

SIRES,—A mother, afflicted beyond all expression, has long cherished the hope that the meeting of your Imperial and Royal Majesties will afford some alleviation of her distress.

The prolonged captivity of the Emperor Napoleon gives occasion for appealing to you. It is impossible but that your magnanimity, your power, and the recollection of past events, should induce your Imperial and Royal Majesties to interest yourselves for the deliverance of a Prince, who has had so great a share in your regard and even in your friendship.

Would you suffer to perish, in miserable exile, a Sovereign, who, relying on the magnanimity of his enemy, threw himself into his power? My son might have demanded an asylum from the Emperor, his father-in-law; he might have consigned himself to the generosity of the Emperor Alexander, of whom he was once the friend; he might have taken refuge with his Prussian Majesty, who, in that case, would, no doubt, have recollected his old alliance. Should England punish him for the confidence which he reposed in her?

The Emperor Napoleon is no longer to be feared. He is infirm. And even if he were in the full enjoyment of health, and had the means which Providence once placed in his hands, he abhors civil war.

Sires, I am a mother, and my son’s life is dearer to me than my own. Pardon my grief, which prompts me to take the liberty of addressing this letter to your Imperial and Royal Majesties.

Do not render unavailing the entreaties of a mother, who thus appeals against the long series of cruelties that has been exercised towards her son.

In the name of Him, who is in essence goodness, and of whom your Imperial and Royal Majesties are the image, I entreat that you will interest yourselves to put a period to my son’s misery, and to restore him to liberty. For this I implore God, and I implore you who are his Lieutenants on earth.

Reasons of state have their limits; and posterity, which gives immortality, adores, above all things, the generosity of conquerors.

I am, &c.

MADAME MERE.

This letter remained unanswered. Other steps were taken in favour of Napoleon, by different members of his family; but they were not made known in a way sufficiently authentic to authorize my mentioning them here.

NOTE ADDRESSED TO THE ALLIED SOVEREIGNS, AT THE CONGRESS
OF AIX-LA-CHAPELLE, OCTOBER, 1818.

SIRES,—Royal Majesty has no judges on earth. But since sovereigns themselves, stripping it of its most sacred attribute, have subjected it to their tribunal, I come with respectful confidence to appeal to them in favour of a monarch, whom they long recognised, but who is now deposed by them, a captive in their name, and presenting to the world the grandest and most terrible vicissitude that was ever witnessed. Who shall deem himself secure, if even inviolability be violated?

Faithful to his dignity, superior to misfortune, he looks forward to death as the only termination of his misery. But I, who have been unexpectedly torn from the fatal rock where I rendered him every attention in my power, wish now to devote to him the remainder of a feeble life, and to endeavour to assuage the misery which I am no longer permitted to share.

I have taken upon myself the sacred mission in which I am now engaged. I have been prompted to do so by my tender devotedness to the person of the Emperor, by my private affection for him who was my Sovereign.

I am here a stranger to every political question. I have no other impulse, no other guide, than that sacred morality which is alike respected by kings and subjects. It constitutes my strength, my right, and my excuse.

Napoleon on his rock is a prey to torments and vexations of every kind; he is the victim of the ill treatment of men, and the insalubrity of climate. These facts are now notorious to all, and are sufficiently proved by authentic documents, transmitted from the place itself, several of which I now presume to submit to the eyes of your Majesties.

If the law of war, if the law of nations, have been transgressed for the peace of the world, as it is said, the law of humanity at least cannot be extinct.

For the last three years, war has every where been succeeded by peace; passions are calmed; nations and individuals are reconciled; the hostility of governments and parties is disarmed; the common law of nations has resumed its sway; one man alone is excluded from these benefits. He alone is still without the pale of human law. He is exiled to a barren rock, exposed to an unhealthy climate, doomed to the misery of a lingering death, and is the daily victim of hatred and insult. When will there be an end to this extraordinary persecution? If he be doomed to live, this extraordinary treatment is too cruel! And surely it is still more barbarous if he be doomed to die! What is his crime? By whom has he been tried? By what tribunal? Who are his judges? Where is their right to pronounce sentence on him? Will it be said that the only guarantee, the only security, against him, are imprisonment, chains, and death? Will it be said that his acts, his promises, and his oaths are not to be trusted? Will his return from the isle of Elba be mentioned as an instance of his bad faith? But at Elba he was a Sovereign: engagements had been entered into with him, and had not been kept! Now, by quitting the continent, he has resigned all sovereignty, and declared his political career to be at an end. The case is entirely altered. If the sacrifice of his life can alone appease hatred, and put a period to alarm, _why not inflict death openly_? (these are his own words;) _a speedy death, though not more just, would have been more humane, and less odious; it would be a favour_. This is what he has himself repeatedly said and written. Who can deny the justice of the remark?

What sufficient motives can still be maintained in justification of such intolerable treatment?

Is it wished to punish his past invasions? But the invaded countries have forgotten their resentment in the triumph of victory, and they are now silent. Is it wished to make reprisals? But Napoleon was a conqueror, and did he act thus? What was his conduct at Austerlitz, at the bivouac of Moravia, at Vienna, at Tilsit, at the conferences of Dresden? Let him be viewed even in that circumstance in which history will have most difficulty in defending him. Charles IV. when a captive in the hands of Napoleon, had his choice of residing either in Compiegne, Marseilles, or Rome, always maintaining the dignity of a king. Ferdinand, at Valency, was surrounded by all the attention and respect he could wish. A prince who disputed the throne with the Emperor fell into his hands. What use did Napoleon make of his victory? The immediate release of the prisoner attested his magnanimity; and history will compare this act with the indignities that are heaped upon the Emperor.

Is it intended to renew for Napoleon the ostracism of the ancients? But the ancients, if they banished from among them the talents which they had reason to fear, did not sacrifice the victim. They did not transport him to another hemisphere, to a desert rock, and a burning climate. They did not, at least, render Nature chargeable with a crime which, in the present case, it would seem, human hands dare not execute.

Finally, is it feared that even the Emperor’s name would have too powerful an influence in Europe? May not his enemies defeat their own ends? Persecution always excites interest, always moves the great mass of the people, who are invariably generous. If it be wished to create partizans, it is sufficient to make martyrs! Where, then, is the necessity for these extraordinary and singular measures? Why thus violate at once the code of nations, the code of sovereigns, and the code of private men?

Among civilized nations, fury is disarmed before a fallen enemy, who is respected even among savages, particularly when he trusts to good faith.

Why then persist in opposing the demands of humanity, justice, religion, morality, policy, and all the laws of civilization? Why not rather yield to the dictates of generosity, glory and true interest? The examples of kings doomed to misery and death have always been condemned by history: they are recollected with horror by subjects, and with dread by sovereigns.

Since my removal from St. Helena, I do not personally know what changes may have taken place in the treatment of the Emperor Napoleon; but before my departure it was intolerable, both as regarded his personal dignity and his moral and physical existence. Have those modifications at length been made which his servants so long and so vainly solicited? But the deadly influence of the climate and all the horrors of the place of banishment cannot be changed. These circumstances in themselves suffice to poison all the sources of life. There is no dungeon in Europe that would not be preferable to Longwood, and there is no human being, whatever might be his vigour of body and strength of mind, who could, under such circumstances, long resist the effects of so terrible a prison.

The victim is already seized with a disease that must infallibly, in a very short time, hurry him to his grave. The faculty have candidly pronounced this opinion, and, in the anguish of my heart, I presume to report it to your Majesties, trusting that your humanity and high wisdom will suggest a remedy.

Surely I cannot be accused of want of respect and devotedness to sovereignty. The testimonies which my life presents are my guarantee for now presuming to address your Majesties; as the consciousness of your interests, dignity, and glory, is the guarantee of my hopes and wishes.

COUNT LAS CASES.

LETTER TO HIS MAJESTY THE EMPEROR OF AUSTRIA, ENCLOSING
THE ABOVE NOTE. (ADDRESSED TO THE EMPEROR HIMSELF.)

SIRE,—On the 10th of February last, I presumed to lay at your Majesty’s feet the wishes and entreaties of a faithful servant in favour of his master.

I hope your Majesty will forgive my perseverance, which may, perhaps, have the appearance of importunity. I now venture to lay before you another note, in favour of him who was your brother, and whom you made your son. I take the liberty of accompanying this note with some authentic documents.

Sire, my hope and my apology rest on the many excellent virtues for which your Majesty is distinguished. Europe acknowledges and proclaims you to be the most sincere, moral, humane, and religious of men; and yet it is in your name that the tortures of a lingering death are inflicted on him, to whom you gave the hand of your beloved daughter; whom your own choice and religion have made your son.

Ah, Sire! tremble lest his blood-stained coat should be presented to you!... And when the day of eternal judgment shall arrive, when the Supreme Judge of men and things, pronouncing his terrible decrees, shall ask, “What have you done with your son? Why did you separate the husband from the wife? How durst you disunite those who had been joined and blessed in my name? I might award victory to whom I pleased; but none could take advantage of that victory to abuse my holy laws, without incurring my anger—--”

But, Sire, I say no more: perhaps I have already gone too far. I crave your Majesty’s forgiveness. These are the sentiments by which I am powerfully excited;—these are the complaints that are wrung from me by the murder of my master, which has been perpetrating before my eyes. Sire, on my knees, I implore your interference, to prevent the crime of homicide. Be not deaf to my entreaties!

I am &c.[38]

COUNT LAS CASES.

Footnote 38:

A similar letter was addressed to the Emperor Alexander, and the
King of Prussia.

LETTER TO LORD CASTLEREAGH, WITH A COPY OF THE NOTE
ADDRESSED TO THE ALLIED SOVEREIGNS.

MY LORD,—I have the honour to present to your Lordship a copy of a note, which I took the liberty of addressing to the Allied Sovereigns.

I am induced to transmit this note to you, my Lord, on account of my profound respect for the august individual whom you represent, and the esteem I entertain for your Lordship’s personal talents.

Whatever may be your opinions, my Lord, respecting this note, perhaps even your objections to it, I am convinced your Lordship has too much generosity to condemn, wholly and without reserve, a servant, who is resolved, until the latest moment of his existence, to exert every effort for the relief and consolation of his Sovereign.

My Lord, how great has been your influence on the destiny of that Sovereign! How great may it yet be! Why cannot my voice reach your Lordship’s ear? In the anguish of my tedious solitude, I have frequently sought to discover the great motives which might have dictated your harsh and cruel determination. My mind dwells only on the interest of your country, the rigorous law of necessity, the conviction of the character and disposition of him at whom you aim the blow; and finally, the glory and responsibility of your ministerial situation. Has your Lordship been able to combine together the whole of the contradictory circumstances? Have you exhausted every source of information? How I regret that the impaired state of my health and faculties does not permit me adequately to express my feelings and thoughts! They would perhaps make an impression on you, my Lord: perhaps many facts, that I could relate, would excite your astonishment and serious consideration.

I have the honour to be, &c.

COUNT LAS CASES.

The period of the meeting of the Congress having arrived, I went to Frankfort, and happened to reach that place on the very day on which the Emperor Alexander made his entry. This was no doubt a very favourable opportunity to solicit the favour of being presented to that Sovereign; and his well known affability, the facility with which he grants admission into his presence, and perhaps also the peculiar circumstances relating to me, were so many encouragements to the hope of easily obtaining an audience, and I was consequently strongly advised by every body to attempt it. It was the surest way, they said, to accomplish the object I had in view, and I was much blamed for refusing to make the trial. But I had maturely weighed within my own breast the advantages and disadvantages of such a step, and I was far from sharing the general opinion as to the probability of its result. To what, had I said to myself, could such a high favour lead me? Could I expect to touch the heart of this Sovereign by my eloquence? And if my words had produced some effect upon him as a man, was not the final decision to proceed from the concurrence of many others? And was I certain, in an interview of so little duration, and of so much embarrassment, to speak with as much method and precision as I could write? Was it right for me to deliver to him, before the proper time had arrived, authentic documents, which I intended only for the Sovereigns assembled, as if it were an ordinary petition? And, if the Emperor Alexander had happened to express himself in my presence, respecting the Emperor Napoleon, in terms which I could not but have contradicted, as it was but too probable that he would express himself, might it not turn out that I had irritated and indisposed, instead of conciliating, him? This latter consideration had chiefly led to my determination not to seek for an audience, which presented so many objections and offered but a single advantage, and that one personal to me, viz., the signal favour of seeing the first of monarchs, and of conversing with him of whom Napoleon had said on his rock; “If I die here, he will be my heir in Europe.”

Besides, the Emperor Alexander knew that I was at Frankfort. I was told that he had mentioned it in one of his circles, and I was almost certain that he had been spoken to about me. The circumstance from which I obtained this information is singular enough to be mentioned here. My room at the hotel where I had alighted happened to be next to that of one of his generals, who possessed his intimate confidence, and who was admitted into his presence at all times. The second or third evening after my arrival, the master of the hotel came into my room to inform me that the General was ready to receive me, and that he would have much pleasure in granting me the interview which I had asked for. In the first moment of surprise, my immediate answer was to bid him go and say it was a mistake; but, suddenly reflecting that this was, perhaps, a fortunate circumstance, brought about by the intervention of Providence, I ran after the man who was already delivering his message, and explained myself from the door of the apartment, that there was probably some error, since I had not the honour of asking such a favour; upon which the General ran towards me, as if to detain me, and dismissing his Aide-de-camp, said to me, with an air of affability and politeness, that, whether it was through mistake or not, he should be happy to avail himself of this opportunity to become acquainted, and have some conversation with me. And we then had a very long conversation together, and, as it will be easily believed, wholly relating to St. Helena.