Chapter VIII: Front Matter (8)

Equality of rights, that is to say, the power of aspiring and obtaining, enjoyed by all individuals, was one of the points to which Napoleon attached particular importance. This regard for equality was one of his peculiar traits, and seemed to belong innately to his character. “I have not reigned all my life,” he would say: “before I became a Sovereign, I recollect having been a subject; and I can never forget how powerfully the sentiment of equality influences the mind and animates the heart.”

When he was once giving a project to be drawn up by one of his Councillors of State, he said, “Let me charge you to respect liberty; and above all, equality. With regard to liberty, it might be possible to restrain it, in a case of extremity; circumstances might demand and justify such a step: but Heaven forbid that we should ever infringe upon equality! It is the passion of the age; and I wish to continue to be the man of the age!”

In Napoleon’s eyes, merit was single, by itself, and he recompensed it uniformly. Thus the same titles, and the same decorations, were awarded equally to the ecclesiastic, the soldier, the artist, the philosopher, and the man of letters. It may truly be said that in no other country or period was merit more highly honoured, or talent more magnificently rewarded. On these points, the Emperor’s views were unlimited. I have already mentioned that he one day said, “If Corneille had lived in my time, I would have made him a prince.”

The Emperor said one day at St. Helena, “Nature seems to have made me for great reverses; they have found me with a mind of marble. The thunderbolt cannot make an impression upon, but merely glides over, it.”

At another time, when some vexation arose at St. Helena, one of those about Napoleon exclaimed, “Ah, Sire, this must indeed increase your hatred of the English.” Upon which the Emperor, shrugging up his shoulders, said, in a mingled tone of pleasantry and contempt, “Prejudiced man! Say rather that at most it may increase my hatred of this or that particular Englishman.... But, since we are on this subject, let me tell you that a man, he who has the true feelings of a man, never cherishes hatred. His anger or ill-humour never goes beyond the irritation of the moment,—the electric shock. He who is formed to discharge high duties, and to exercise authority, never considers persons; his views are directed to things, their weight, and consequence.”

On a certain occasion, he remarked that he doubted not but his character would gain in proportion as it descended to posterity; and that future historians would conceive themselves bound to avenge the injustice of contemporaries. Excess is always succeeded by reaction. Besides, he was of opinion that, when viewed from a distance, his character would appear in a more favourable light, by being relieved from many useless encumbrances. He would hereafter be judged by general views, and not by petty details. Every thing would be in harmony, and all local irregularities would disappear. Above all, he would not be compared with himself; but with what might exist at a future period. He added that now, as hereafter, he could proudly submit every act of his private life to the most rigid scrutiny, confident that the severest judges would pronounce him to be free from crime.

The Emperor one day told me that he had conceived the idea of composing his _Diplomatic History_, or a complete account of his negotiations, from Campo Formio to his abdication. If he should have fulfilled his design, what an historical treasure will thus be presented to the world!

Speaking of military eloquence, the Emperor said, “When, in the heat of the battle, passing along the line, I used to exclaim, ‘Soldiers, unfurl your banners, the moment is come,’ our Frenchmen absolutely leapt for joy. I saw them multiply a hundred-fold. I then thought nothing impossible.”

Many of Napoleon’s military harangues are well known. The following has been communicated to me by one who heard it on the spot. When reviewing the 2d regiment of horse chasseurs at Lobenstein, two days before the battle of Jena, Napoleon, addressing the Colonel, said: “How many men are there here?”—“Five hundred,” replied the Colonel; “but there are many raw troops among them.”—“What signifies that,” said the Emperor, in a tone which denoted surprise at the observation, “are they not all Frenchmen?”—Then, turning to the regiment, “My lads,” said he, “you must not fear death. When soldiers defy death, they drive him into the enemy’s ranks.” He here made a motion with his arm expressive of the action to which he alluded. At these words a sudden movement among the troops, accompanied by a murmur of enthusiasm, seemed the precursor of the memorable victory which forty-eight hours afterwards overthrew the column of Rosbach.

At the battle of Lützen, the army was chiefly composed of conscripts, who had never been in any engagement. It is said that, in the heat of the action, Napoleon rode along the rear of the 3d rank of infantry, supporting and encouraging the young troops. “This is nothing, my lads,” said he, “stand firm. France has her eye on you. Show that you can die for your country.”

Napoleon entertained a high regard for the Germans. “I levied many millions of imposts on them, it is true,” said he, “that was necessary; but I should never have insulted them or treated them with contempt. I esteemed the Germans. They may hate me; that is natural enough. I was forced for ten years to fight upon the dead bodies of their countrymen. They could not know my real designs or give me credit for my ultimate intentions, which were calculated to render Germany a great nation.”

The Emperor, alluding to one of his decisions, remarked:—“I could do nothing in that case, I suffered myself to be moved, and I yielded. There I was wrong: a statesman’s heart should be in his head.”

Napoleon observed that the physical faculties of men were strengthened by their dangers or their wants: “Thus,” said he, “the Bedouin of the desert has the piercing sight of the lynx; and the savage of the forest has the keen scent of beasts of prey.”

One day mention was made of a person who, though distinguished for his ideas and his acts, nevertheless betrayed gross faults in his manners and mode of expressing himself. The Emperor explained this discordance by saying: “You see the fault is in his first education; his swaddling clothes were neither fine nor clean.”

When speaking of the danger which he had incurred among the Five Hundred, on the 18th Brumaire, he attributed it militarily to local circumstances. He had been obliged to enter the Orangery at one of the extremities, and to pass along the whole length of it. “The misfortune was,” said he, “that, instead of facing my opponents, I was compelled to present my flank to them.”

When we were alluding to an individual who seemed to think that he could overawe us by speaking almost in a tone and language of menace, the Emperor said: “This is a very absurd idea. Nobody is afraid now. A child would not be afraid. Even little Emmanuel (pointing to my son) would exchange pistol shots with any one who might require him to do so.” These words of the Emperor’s will probably influence my son throughout the rest of his life.

Napoleon, on his return from the Russian campaign, was so struck by the courage and strength of mind displayed by Ney that he created him Prince of the Moskowa, and he was often heard to say: “I have two hundred millions in my coffers, and I would give them all for Ney.”

Remarking on the certainty of the ultimate triumph of modern principles, the Emperor said: “They cannot but triumph. Mark the train of events: even oppression now-a-days turns to the disadvantage of the oppressor.”

On a certain occasion, it was observed to the Emperor that he was not fond of putting forward his own merits; “That is,” replied he, “because with me morality and generosity are not in my mouth, but in my nerves. My iron hand was not at the extremity of my arm, it was immediately connected with my head. I did not receive it from nature; calculation alone has enabled me to employ it.”

Speaking of the ill humour and discontent frequently evinced by the inhabitants of Paris, the Emperor asked what he was expected to do after all he had accomplished. “Sire,” said some one present, “it was wished that your Majesty should stop your horse.” “Stop my horse!” resumed Napoleon, “that was easily said. My arm was strong enough, it is true, to stop, with a single check, all the horses of the continent. But I could not bridle the English fleets: and there lay all the mischief. Had not the people sense enough to see this?”

One day, when the Emperor was reproaching a person for not correcting the vices which he knew he possessed, “Sir,” said he, “when a man knows his moral infirmity, he may cure his mind, just as he would cure his arm or his leg.”

The Emperor, speaking of the nobility which he had created, regretted that he had been so ill understood. It was, he said, one of his grandest and happiest ideas. He had in view three objects of the highest importance, and all three would have been accomplished: 1st, to reconcile France with Europe, and to restore harmony, by seeming to adopt European customs: 2nd, by the same means to bring about a complete reconciliation and union between old and new France; and 3d, to banish feudal nobility, the only kind that is offensive, oppressive, and unnatural. “By my plan,” said the Emperor, “I should soon have succeeded in substituting positive and meritorious qualities for antiquated and odious prejudices. My national titles would have exactly restored that equality which feudal nobility proscribed. They were conferred as the reward of merit of every kind. For genealogical parchments I substituted noble actions, and for private interests, the interests of the country. Family pride would no longer have been founded on obscure and imaginary circumstances, but would have rested on the noblest pages of our history. Finally, I would have banished the odious pretension of blood; an absurd idea, a theory that has no real existence; for we all know very well that there is but one race of men, and that one is not born with boots on his legs, and another with a packsaddle on his back.

“All the nobility in Europe, those who really govern it, were pleased with my plan. They unanimously applauded an institution the novelty of which enhanced its pre-eminence; and yet this very novelty would have sapped its foundation and infallibly destroyed it. Why did that opinion, to which I had secured a triumph, precisely serve the purpose of its enemies? But I have suffered this misfortune oftener than once.”

ON THE DIFFICULTIES WHICH HISTORY PRESENTS.—GEORGES,
PICHEGRU, MOREAU, THE DUKE D’ENGHIEN.

20th.—“It must be admitted, my dear Las Cases,” said the Emperor to me to-day, “that it is most difficult to obtain absolute certainties for the purposes of history. Fortunately it is, in general, more a matter of mere curiosity than of real importance. There are so many kinds of truths! The truth which Fouché, or other intriguers of his stamp will tell, for instance; even that which many very honest people may tell, will, in some cases, differ essentially from the truth which I may relate. The historic truth, so much in request, to which every body eagerly appeals, is too often but a term. At the time of the events, during the heat of conflicting passions, it cannot exist; and if, at a later period, all parties are agreed respecting it, it is because those persons who were interested in the events, those who might be able to contradict what is asserted, are no more. What then is, generally speaking, the truth of history? A concerted fable, as it has been very ingeniously remarked. There are, in these matters, two essential points, very distinct from each other: the positive facts, and the moral intentions. With respect to the positive facts, it would seem that they ought to be incontrovertible; yet you will not find two accounts agreeing together in relating the same fact: some have remained contested points to this day, and will ever remain so. With regard to moral intentions, how shall we judge of them, even admitting the candour of those who relate events? And what will be the case if the narrators are not sincere, or if they should be actuated by interest or passion? I have given an order, but who was able to read my thoughts, my real intentions? Yet every one will take up that order, and measure it according to his own scale, or adapt it to his own plans or system. See the different colourings that will be given to it by the intriguer, whose plans it disturbs or favours: see how he will distort it. The man who assumes importance, to whom the ministers or the sovereign may have hinted something in confidence on the subject, will do the same thing; as will the numerous idlers of the palace, who, having nothing better to do than to listen at doors, and invent when they can not hear. And each person will be so certain of what he tells! and the inferior classes of people, who have received their information from these privileged mouths, will be so certain, in their turn, of its correctness! and then memoirs are digested, memorandums are written, witticisms and anecdotes are circulated; and of such materials is history composed!

“I have seen the plan of my own battle, the intention of my own orders, disputed with me, and opinion decide against me! Is not that the creature giving the lie to its creator? Nevertheless, my opponent, who contradicts me, will have his adherents. This it is which has prevented me from writing my own private memoirs, from disclosing my individual feelings, which would, naturally, have exhibited the shades of my private character. I could not condescend to write confessions, after the manner of Jean Jaques Rousseau, which every body might have attacked; and, therefore, I have thought proper to confine the subjects of my dictations here to public acts. I am aware that even these relations may be contested: for where is the man in this world, whatever be his right, and the strength and power of that right, who may not be attacked and contradicted by an adverse party? But, in the opinion of those men who are wise and impartial, of those who reflect and are reasonable, my voice, after all, will be as good as another’s; and I have little fear for the final decision. So much light has been diffused in our days that I rely upon the splendour which will remain after passions shall have subsided and clouds passed away. But, in the mean time, how many errors will arise! People will often give me credit for a great deal of depth and sagacity on occasions which were, perhaps, most simple in themselves; I shall be suspected of plans which I never formed.[18] It will be inquired whether I did or did not aspire, in reality, to universal dominion. The question will be argued, at length, whether my absolute sway and my arbitrary acts were the result of my character or of my calculations; whether they were determined by my own inclination or by the influence of circumstances; whether I was led into the wars in which I was constantly engaged, by my own inclination, or against my will; whether my insatiable ambition, which has been so much deprecated, was kindled by the thirst for dominion and glory, or by my love of order and my concern for the general welfare; for that ambition will deserve to be considered under all those different aspects. People will canvass the motives which guided me in the catastrophe of the Duke d’Enghien,[19] and so on with respect to many other events. Sometimes they will distort what was perfectly straight, and refine upon what was quite natural. It was not for me to treat of all those subjects here: it would have appeared as if I were pleading my cause—and that I disdain to do. If the rectitude and the sagacity of historians can enable them to form, from what I have dictated on general matters, a correct opinion and just notions respecting those things which I have not mentioned, so much the better. But, along with the faint ray thus afforded, how many false lights will appear to them—from the fables and falsehoods of the great intriguers (who all had their views, their plots, their private negotiations, which, being mixed up with the main objects, tend to render the whole an inextricable chaos), to the disclosures, _the portfolios_, and even the assertions of my ministers, who, with the best intentions, will have to state not so much what really existed as what they believe to have existed; for which of them ever possessed the entire general conception of my mind? Their share of it was, most frequently, one of the elements of a great whole, which they did not know. They will, therefore, only have seen that side of the prism which concerned them; and, even then, how will they have seen it? Did it reach them entire? Was it not already broken? And yet probably every one of them, judging from what he has seen, will give the fantastical result of his own combinations as my true system; and here again we have the admitted fable, which will be called history. Nor can it be otherwise. It is true that, as there are many, they will be far from agreeing together. However, in their positive assertions they would have the advantage over me: for I should very frequently have found it most difficult to affirm confidently what had been my whole and entire thoughts on any given subject. It is well known that I did not strive to subject circumstances to my ideas; but that I in general suffered myself on the contrary to be led by them; and who can calculate beforehand the chances of accidental circumstances or unexpected events? I have, therefore, often found it necessary to alter essentially my plan of proceeding, and have acted through life upon general principles, rather than according to fixed plans. The mass of the general interests of mankind, what I considered to be the advantage of the greater number, such were the anchors on which I relied, but around which I most frequently floated at the caprice of chance,” &c.

Footnote 18:

A man of great understanding and information, who had enjoyed much
of the Emperor’s confidence, and had had a great deal to do with the
Emperor directly, said to me, after the first abdication, with the
appearance of intimate conviction, that Napoleon’s plan had been to
abandon Paris, after he should have completed his conquests, and to
make Rome the capital of the Empire. I had, at that time, so little
knowledge of the Emperor that this intelligence staggered me; but
now I cannot help inquiring where my informant could have got this
idea?

Footnote 19:

It is well known to how many different versions, to how many various
conjectures, this sad event gave rise.

After these memorable expressions, the present is the best opportunity of returning to an historical point which in an early part of this work I promised to treat of, and which ought to have found a place long before this; I allude to the conspiracy of Georges and Pichegru, and the trial of the Duke d’Enghien. I shall presently state the true reasons of this transposition, and of the long delay that has occurred.

“War,” said the Emperor, “had some time since re-commenced with England, when suddenly our coasts, our high roads, and the capital, were inundated with agents from the Bourbons. A great number of them were arrested; but their plans could not yet be discovered. They were of all ranks and descriptions. All the passions were roused, the agitation of the public became extreme; a storm was gathering; the crisis assumed the most alarming aspect; the agents of the police had exhausted all their means, without being able to obtain any information. My own sagacity saved me,” observed Napoleon. “Having risen on one occasion in the night, to work, as I used frequently to do, _chance, which governs the world_, directed my eyes to one of the last reports of the police, containing the names of those persons who had already been arrested in consequence of this affair, to which no clue had yet been obtained. Amongst those names I observed that of a surgeon in the army; I immediately concluded that such a man must be an intriguer rather than a devoted fanatic, and I ordered every measure likely to extort a prompt confession to be instantly resorted to against him. The affair was immediately placed in the hands of a military commission; in the morning he was sentenced, and threatened with immediate execution if he did not speak. Half an hour afterwards he had disclosed every thing, even to the most minute details. The nature and the extent of the plot, which had been got up in London, was then known, and the intrigues of Moreau, and the presence of Pichegru in Paris, &c. were discovered soon after.”

I omit all the details of that affair; they may be seen in the Letters written from the Cape in refutation of those of Dr. Warden, and in the work of Mr. O’Meara. The particulars which I should relate would be precisely the same as those contained in the work last mentioned; they are derived from the same source. With respect to the accusation relative to the death of Pichegru, who was said to have been strangled by order of the First Consul, Napoleon said that it was too absurd, and that it would be degrading to attempt to repel it:—“What advantage,” he observed, “could accrue to me from his death? A man of my stamp does not act without some powerful motive. Have I ever been known to shed blood through caprice? Notwithstanding all the efforts that have been made to blacken my reputation and misrepresent my character, those who know me know that crime is foreign to my nature. There is not a private act that has occurred during the whole course of my administration, of which I might not speak openly before a tribunal, not only without any disadvantage, but even with some credit to myself. The fact is that Pichegru found himself placed in a hopeless situation; his high mind could not bear to contemplate the infamy of a public execution; he despaired of my clemency, or disdained to appeal to it, and put an end to his existence.

“Had I been disposed to crime,” continued the Emperor, “it is not against Pichegru, who could do no harm, that I should have levelled the blow, but at Moreau, who had at that moment placed me in a most perilous situation. If the latter had unfortunately also killed himself while in prison, my justification would have been rendered much more difficult, on account of the great advantage it would have been to me to get rid of him. You gentlemen who were abroad, and the ultra-royalists who were in France, have never known the true state of public opinion in France. Pichegru, having been once unmasked, and exposed as a traitor to the nation, no longer excited sympathy in any breast; and this feeling went so far that the circumstance of his being connected with Moreau was sufficient to effect the ruin of the latter, who saw himself abandoned by many of his adherents; for, in the struggle of parties, the majority of the people cared more about the commonwealth than about individuals. I judged so correctly in this business that, when Real came to propose to me to arrest Moreau, I rejected the proposal without hesitation. Moreau is a man of too much importance, said I to him; he is too directly opposed to me, I have too great an interest in getting rid of him, to expose myself thus to the conjectures of public opinion. But, replied Real, if Moreau conspires with Pichegru?—The case is then different; prove that to me, shew me that Pichegru is in Paris, and I will instantly sign the order for the apprehension of Moreau. Real had received indirect information of Pichegru’s arrival; but had not yet been able to trace his steps. Run to his brother’s, said I; if he has left his residence, it will be a strong indication that Pichegru is in Paris; if he is still in his lodgings, arrest him: his surprise will soon inform you of the truth. This brother had been a monk, and lived in a fourth floor in Paris. As soon as he found himself arrested, he asked, before any question was put to him, what fault he had committed, and whether it was imputed to him as a crime that he had received, against his will, a visit from his brother. He had been the first, he said, to represent to him the peril of his situation, and to advise him to go away again. This was quite enough. Moreau’s arrest was ordered and carried into effect. Moreau appeared at first to be under no apprehension; but, when he found, after he had been conducted to prison, that he was arrested for having conspired with Pichegru and Georges against the state, he was quite disconcerted and extremely agitated. As for the greater number of those who composed that party,” added Napoleon, “the name of Pichegru seemed to them a triumph; they exclaimed on all sides that Pichegru was in London, and that in a few days this would be proved; for they either did not know that he was in Paris, or believed that it would be easy for him to escape thence.”

The First Consul had long since broken with Moreau, who was entirely governed by his wife. “This,” said the Emperor, “is always a great misfortune, because a man in that case is neither himself nor his wife, he is nothing.” Moreau shewed himself sometimes favourable to the First Consul, and sometimes against him; sometimes obsequious and sometimes sarcastic. The First Consul, who had wished to conciliate the affection of Moreau, found himself under the necessity of giving him up altogether. “Moreau,” he had said, “will in the end commit himself most seriously; he will some day break his head against the columns of the Palace.” And to this he was but too much instigated by the inconsiderate conduct and the ridiculous pretensions of his wife and his mother-in-law. The latter went so far as to contend for precedence with the wife of the First Consul. “The Minister for Foreign Affairs,” said Napoleon, “had been obliged once, on the occasion of an entertainment given by the ministers, to use violence to oblige her to desist.”

After Moreau had been arrested, the First Consul sent him word that it would be enough for him to confess that he had seen Pichegru, in order to put a stop to all proceedings against him. Moreau answered by a letter, in which he assumed a high tone; but afterwards, when Pichegru himself was arrested, and the affair began to assume a serious aspect, Moreau wrote to the First Consul a very submissive letter, but it was too late.

It was perfectly true that Moreau had conferred with Pichegru and Georges; and had given the following answer to their proposals:—“In the present state of affairs I could not do any thing for you, I could not even depend upon my own aides-de-camp; but _get rid_ of the First Consul, I have a party in the Senate, and shall be immediately appointed in his stead. You, Pichegru, will be examined upon the charge which is brought against you, of having betrayed the national cause; depend upon it, it is necessary that you should be put upon your trial, but I will be answerable for the result: from that moment you will be Second Consul; and we will afterwards choose a third according to our wish, and proceed all together in concert and without interruption.” Georges, who was present, and whom Moreau had never known before, very urgently claimed that third place for himself. “That cannot be,” said Moreau, “you have no knowledge of the state of public opinion in France; you have always been a white,[20] and you see that Pichegru will be obliged to wash off the stain of having had the intention to become one.” “I understand you,” said Georges, highly incensed. “What farce are we playing here, and whom do you take me for? You are then working for yourselves alone, and not at all for the King? If that is the case, and if there must be a blue[21] at the head of the government, I prefer the one who is there now.” Upon this they separated in dudgeon, and Moreau requested Pichegru not to bring that brute, that bull, destitute of sense and of all information, any more.

Footnote 20:

A Royalist.

Footnote 21:

A man of the revolutionary party.

“On the trial,” said Napoleon, “the firmness of the accomplices, the magnanimity by which they dignified their cause, and the line of absolute denial recommended by his advocate, saved Moreau. On being questioned whether the charges brought against him of having held conferences and had interviews were true, he answered, No. But the victor of Hohenlinden was unaccustomed to falsehood; a sudden blush suffused every feature of his countenance, and none of the bystanders were deceived. However, he was acquitted, and most of the accomplices were condemned to death. I pardoned several of them; all those whose wives succeeded in penetrating into my presence, or in whose favour strong intercessions were made, obtained their lives. The Polignacs, M. de Riviere and others, would indubitably have perished, but for the intervention of some fortunate circumstances. Others less known, such as a man named Borel, Ingand de St. Maur, Rochelle, &c. were equally fortunate. It is true,” added he, “that they did not afterwards shew themselves very grateful for such a favour, and that, if they were worthy to have their conduct investigated, it would be found that their actions have not been of a nature to encourage clemency. One of them, who had on the occasion above mentioned owed his life chiefly to the solicitations of Murat, was precisely the same man who set a price on Murat’s head in Provence, in the year 1815. If he thought that fidelity should outweigh gratitude, the sacrifice must at least have been most painful to him. Another is the man who has most contributed to circulate the imputation, as ridiculous as that concerning Pichegru was absurd, of the murder of the English Lieutenant Wright,[22] &c.

“In the midst of the affairs of Georges, Pichegru, and Moreau,” said the Emperor; “that of the Duke d’Enghien happened, and rendered the whole a strange complication.” And he then related that affair in detail. This latter circumstance is the reason that induced me at the time to displace and postpone to this day the whole of the article which I now give, for I felt a very great repugnance to touch upon a subject so painful in itself, and so afflicting to several of my acquaintances, who had been in direct relation with the Prince, or personally attached to him. Above all, I dreaded to awaken the legitimate grief of a high personage, who has formerly honoured me with some marks of kindness, of which I have ever treasured the recollection. These are my motives; they will be understood and appreciated. But, however, I am now approaching to the end of my work, and my duty, as a faithful historian, imperatively commands me to take up this melancholy subject, lest my absolute silence should be misinterpreted. Nevertheless, I shall, for reasons before stated, omit all the details which are already known, and which may have been read in the works already quoted (Letters from the Cape, and Mr. O’Meara’s work): my account would be the same, for all of them were heard from Napoleon’s own mouth; I shall only relate a few particulars which have not found their way into the books above mentioned, and only such as appear to me too intimately connected with the characteristic shades of Napoleon’s disposition, not to impose upon me the obligation of mentioning them.

Footnote 22:

See Letters from the Cape.

This event had made, at the time, a deep impression on my mind, as well as on that of the inhabitants of Paris. I, perhaps, had felt it still more forcibly on account of the principles of my childhood, the habits and connexions of my younger days, and the line of my political opinions; and I was, at that time, far from having got the better of this feeling. That first impression had still remained in all its force, and my ideas on this point were such that I certainly should not have dared to pronounce the name of the Prince in the presence of the Emperor: it would have seemed to me to convey the idea of a reproach. I carried the feeling so far that, the first time I heard him pronounce the name himself, I turned red with embarrassment. Fortunately, I was walking behind him in a narrow path; otherwise, he would certainly have observed my confusion. Yet, notwithstanding all these previous dispositions on my part, the first time the Emperor developed this affair in all its general bearings, its details, and circumstances; when I heard him expose his various motives, with that conciseness, brilliancy, and power of persuasion which form the characteristics of his logic, I must confess that the affair seemed to wear a new aspect. When he had ceased to speak, I remained surprised, absorbed in thought; I silently called to mind my former objections; I was angry with myself for having little or nothing to answer at this moment, and I was obliged to confess, internally, that I found myself stronger in feelings than in arguments or solid objections.

The Emperor often resumed this subject, which gave me an opportunity of observing in him some very strongly marked characteristic shades. I have, on those occasions, most distinctly and frequently seen in him the private man struggling against the public character; and the natural feelings of his heart contending against those which were suggested by his pride and the dignity of his station. In the unreserved moments of familiar intercourse, he shewed himself not indifferent to the fate of the unfortunate Prince; but, if his conversation had reference to public concerns, it was altogether quite a different thing. One day, having spoken to me of the youth and the untimely end of this ill-fated Prince, he concluded by saying: “And I have since learnt, my dear Las Cases, that he was favourable to me. I have been assured that he used to speak of me with some degree of admiration; such is retributive justice in this world!” These last words were pronounced with such an expression, every feature of his face was so much in harmony with that expression, that I have no doubt, if the individual whom Napoleon pitied had been at that moment in his power, he would have been freely forgiven, whatever his acts or intentions might have been. This was no doubt a sentiment expressed in an unguarded moment, in which I had, as it were, taken him by surprise; and I do not suppose that many persons have found themselves similarly placed. This delicate subject was too sensibly connected with Napoleon’s pride, and the peculiar cast of his mind, to allow him to be lavish in his expression of such feelings; and he therefore varied his arguments and his words on the subject, as the circle of his hearers increased. We have just seen how he expressed himself in the confidence of a private conversation; his language was even different, when we were all assembled together: the affair, he would then say, might have occasioned him some regret, but had not given rise to any remorse, or even to any scruples. But when strangers were present, he would declare that the Prince had deserved his fate.

The Emperor used to consider this affair under two very distinct aspects: with reference to the common law, or the established rules of justice, and with reference to the law of nature, or acts of violence. With us he would willingly argue the matter, and generally on the principles of common law; and he seemed to condescend to do so on account of the familiarity that existed between us, or of his superiority over us. He generally concluded these conversations by observing that he might possibly be reproached with severity, but that he could not be accused of any violation of justice; because, notwithstanding all that calumny and falsehood had invented on the subject, all the forms required by law had been regularly observed and strictly attended to.

In the presence of strangers, the Emperor adopted a line of argument founded almost exclusively on the law of nature and state politics. It was visible that it would have been too painful to him so far to lower himself with them as to insist much on the principles of common law: to have done so would have appeared like an attempt to justify himself. “If I had not had in my favour the laws of the country to punish the culprit,” he would say to them, “I should still have had the right of the law of nature, of legitimate self-defence. The Duke and his party had constantly but one object in view, that of taking away my life: I was assailed on all sides, and at every instant; air-guns, infernal machines, plots, ambuscades of every kind, were resorted to for that purpose. At last I was tired out, and took an opportunity of striking them with terror in their turn in London; I succeeded, and from that moment there was an end to all conspiracies. Who can blame me for having acted so? What! blows threatening my existence are aimed at me day after day, from a distance of one hundred and fifty leagues; no power on earth, no tribunal can afford me redress; and I shall not be allowed to use the right of nature and return war for war! What man, unbiassed by party feeling, possessing the smallest share of judgment and justice, can take upon himself to condemn me? on what side will he not throw blame, odium, and criminal accusations? Blood for blood; such is the natural, inevitable, and infallible law of retaliation: woe to him who provokes it! Those who foment civil dissensions or excite political commotions render themselves liable to become the victims of them. It would be a proof of imbecility or madness to imagine and pretend that a whole family should have the strange privilege to threaten my existence, day after day, without giving me the right of retaliation: they could not reasonably pretend to be above the law to destroy others, and claim the benefit of it for their own preservation: the chances must be equal. I had never personally offended any of them; a great nation had chosen me to govern them; almost all Europe had sanctioned their choice; my blood, after all, was not ditch-water; it was time to place it on a par with theirs. And what if I had carried retaliation further? I might have done it: the disposal of their destiny, the lives of every one of them, from the highest to the lowest, were more than once offered to me; but I rejected the offer with indignation. Not that I thought it would be unjust for me to consent to it, in the situation to which they had reduced me; but I felt so powerful, I thought myself so secure, that I should have considered it a base and gratuitous act of cowardice. My great maxim has always been that, in war as well as in politics, every evil action, even if legal, can only be excused in case of absolute necessity: whatever goes beyond that is criminal.

“It would have been ridiculous in those who violated so openly the law of nations to appeal to it themselves. The violation of the territory of Baden, of which so much has been said, is entirely foreign to the main point of the question. The law of the inviolability of territory has not been devised for the benefit of the guilty, but merely for the preservation of the independence of nations and of the dignity of the sovereign. It was therefore for the Duke of Baden, and for him alone, to complain, and he did not; he yielded, no doubt, to violence and to the feeling of his political inferiority: but, even then, what has that to do with the merits of the plots and outrages which I had to complain of, and of which I had every right to be revenged?” And he concluded that the real authors of the dreadful catastrophe, the persons who alone were responsible for it, were those who had favoured and excited from abroad the plots formed against the life of the First Consul. “For,” said he, “either they had implicated the unfortunate Prince in them, and had thus sealed his doom; or, by neglecting to give him intimation of what was going forward, they had suffered him to slumber imprudently on the brink of the precipice, and to be so near the frontiers at the moment when so great a blow was about to be struck in the name and on the behalf of his family.”

To us, in the intimacy of private conversation, the Emperor would say that the blame in France might be ascribed to an excess of zeal in those who surrounded him, or to dark intrigues or private views; that he had been precipitately urged on in this affair; that they had as it were taken his mind unawares; and that his measures had been hastened, and their results pre-determined. “I was one day alone,” said he, “I recollect it well; I was taking my coffee, half seated on the table at which I had just dined; when sudden information is brought to me that a new conspiracy has been discovered. I am warmly urged to put an end to these enormities; they represent to me that it is time at last to give a lesson to those who have been day after day conspiring against my life; that this end can only be attained by shedding the blood of one of them; and that the Duke d’Enghien, who might now be convicted of forming part of this new conspiracy, and taken in the very fact, should be that one. It was added that he had been seen at Strasburg; that it was even believed that he had been in Paris; and that the plan was that he should enter France by the east, at the moment of the explosion, whilst the Duke of Berry was disembarking in the west. I should tell you,” observed the Emperor, “that I did not even know precisely who the Duke d’Enghien was (the Revolution having taken place when I was yet a very young man, and I having never been at Court); and that I was quite in the dark as to where he was at that moment. Having been informed on those points, I exclaimed that, if such were the case, the Duke ought to be arrested, and orders should be given to that effect. Every thing had been foreseen and prepared; the different orders were already drawn up, nothing remained to be done but to sign them, and the fate of the young Prince was thus decided. He had been residing for some time past at a distance of about three leagues from the Rhine, in the states of Baden. Had I been sooner aware of this fact and of its importance, I should have taken umbrage at it, and should not have suffered the Prince to remain so near the frontiers of France; and that circumstance, as it turned out, would have saved his life. As for the assertions, that were advanced at the time, that I had been strenuously opposed in this affair, and that numerous solicitations had been made to me, they are utterly false, and were only invented to make me appear in a more odious light. The same thing may be said of the various motives that have been ascribed to me; these motives may have existed in the bosoms of those who acted an inferior part on this occasion, and may have guided them in their private views; but my conduct was influenced only by the nature of the fact itself and the energy of my disposition. Undoubtedly, if I had been informed in time of certain circumstances respecting the opinions of the Prince, and his disposition; if, above all, I had seen the letter which he wrote to me, and which, God knows for what reason, was not delivered to me till after his death, I should certainly have pardoned him.”

It was easy for us to perceive that these expressions of the Emperor’s were dictated by his heart and by nature, and that they were only intended for us; for he would have felt himself much humbled had he supposed that any body could think for a moment that he endeavoured to shift the blame upon some other person; or that he condescended to justify himself. And this feeling was carried so far that, when he was speaking to strangers, or dictating on that subject for the public eye, he confined himself to saying that, if he had seen the Prince’s letter, he should perhaps have forgiven him, on account of the great political advantages that he might have derived from so doing; and in tracing with his own hand his last thoughts, which he concludes will be recorded in the present age, and reach posterity, he still pronounces on this subject, which he is aware will be considered the most delicate for his memory, that, if he were again placed in the same situation, he should again act in the same manner!! Such was the man, such the stamp of his mind, and the turn of his disposition.

Let those who delight in searching the human heart in its inmost recesses, to deduce consequences and draw conclusions, now exercise their ingenuity: I have supplied them with valuable materials, I have laid genuine documents before them. I will add another and a last, which will not be the least worthy of notice.

Napoleon one day said to me, with reference to the same subject, “If I occasioned a general consternation by that melancholy event, what a universal feeling of horror would have been produced by another spectacle, with which I might have surprised the world!...

“I have frequently been offered the lives of those whose places I filled on the throne, at the rate of one million a head. They were seen to be my competitors, and it was supposed that I thirsted after their blood; but, even if my disposition had been different from what it was, had I been formed to commit crimes, I should have repelled all thoughts of the crime thus proposed to me, as seeming altogether gratuitous. I was then so powerful, so firmly seated; and they seemed so little to be feared! Revert to the periods of Tilsit and Wagram; to my marriage with Maria Louisa; to the state and attitude of Europe! However, at the height of the crisis of Georges and Pichegru, when I was assailed by murderers, the moment was thought favourable to tempt me, and the offer was renewed, having for its object the individual, whom public opinion, in England as well as in France, pointed out as chief mover of all these horrible conspiracies. I was at Boulogne, where the bearer of these offers arrived; I took it into my head to ascertain personally the truth and the nature of the proposal. I ordered him to be brought before me.—‘Well, Sir!’ said I, when he appeared.—‘Yes, First Consul, we will give him up to you for one million.‘—‘Sir, I will give you two millions; but on condition that you will bring him alive.’—‘Ah! that I could not promise,’ said the man, hesitating, and much disconcerted by the tone of my voice and the expression of my looks at that moment.—‘Do you then take me for a mere assassin? Know Sir, that, though I may think it necessary to inflict a punishment or to make a great example, I am not disposed to encourage the perfidy of an ambuscade;’ and I drove him from my presence. Indeed his mere presence was already too great a contamination.”

THE SERVANT WHO HAD BEEN TAKEN AWAY FROM ME PAYS ME A SECRET
VISIT.—HIS OFFERS.—SECOND VISIT.—THIRD VISIT.—I INTRUST TO HIM MY
LETTER TO PRINCE LUCIEN, WHICH CAUSES MY REMOVAL FROM ST. HELENA.

From 21st to 24th.—I had remained with the Emperor the preceding day, as late as one or two o’clock in the morning; on returning to my own apartment, I found that I had had a visit paid to me, during my absence, by a person who had become tired of waiting for me.

That _visit_, which my son had received, and which prudence obliged me to insert in my journal, at the time, under the veil of mystery, may and shall now be fully explained.

That visit was neither more nor less than the mysterious re-appearance of the servant whom Sir Hudson Lowe had taken from me, and who, favoured by the darkness of the night, and his knowledge of the localities of the island, had surmounted every obstacle, avoided sentinels, and scaled precipices, to come and see me, in order to tell me that, having got a situation with a person who was going to set off for London in a very few days, he came to offer me his services without reserve. He had waited for me in my own apartment for a considerable time, and, seeing that I did not return from the Emperor’s, he had gone away, fearing lest he should be caught; but he promised to return, either under pretence of visiting his sister, who was employed in our household; or by having recourse to the same means to which he had just resorted.

The next day, I immediately communicated my good fortune to the Emperor, who appeared much pleased at the intelligence, and to attach some value to the circumstance. I was very warm on the subject; I strenuously urged that we had already been here above a year, without having taken one single step towards the prospect of better days; on the contrary, we were every day more and more restricted, ill used, and tormented. We were lost in the universe; Europe was ignorant of our real situation; it behoved us to make it known. Day after day, the newspapers shewed us the veil of imposture which had been thrown over us, and the impudent and disgusting falsehoods of which we were the objects; it was for us, I urged, to publish the truth; it would find its way to the ears of the Sovereigns, to whom it was perhaps unknown; it would become known to the people, whose sympathy would be our consolation, and whose indignation would, at least, revenge us upon our cruel persecutors, &c.