Chapter XI: Part VII: Napoleon III

By Anna Erwin Woods

The year 1848 came bearing revolution on its wings. Again France cast aside the Bourbon dynasty, and declared for a republic. Once more began the exile of King Louis Philippe; driven from his native land in old age, as in youth.

The man of Boulogne and Strasbourg waited and watched his opportunity. A republican, a great minister, a member of the provisional government declared, “The renown of Napoleon remains as one of those immense souvenirs which extend over the history of a people, and cover it with an eternal splendor. All that is popular in this glory we accept with eagerness; the proscription of his family by the France of to-day would be a shame.” France gave heed to these words and the National Assembly declared: “Article 6 of the law of April 10, 1852, relative to the banishment of the Bonaparte family is abrogated.”

Another republican leader made the following assertion: “The Republic is like the sun. Allow the nephew of the Emperor to approach it, I am sure he will disappear in its beams.” Events proved that it was not the nephew of the emperor who was to disappear. But, in fact, the real antagonist of the republic was not the living nephew—it was the dead emperor himself, the ever-living name—Napoleon. Living or dead, France belonged to him.

After thirty-three years of proscription and exile, Louis Napoleon was elected by his native city of Paris to a seat in the National Assembly.

On December 20, 1848, Charles Louis Napoleon was declared President of the Republic of France. The question arose, “Will he take the oath of office wearing the costume of Napoleon as First Consul, or appear in military dress?” Upon taking his oath the Prince-President wore a black coat with the star of the Legion of Honor.

During the year 1852, the vote of the people of France was taken as to whether or not the imperial dignity should be re-established in the person of Prince Louis Napoleon. And “by the grace of God and the National Will” Charles Louis Napoleon became “Napoleon III, Emperor of the French.” On the night of December 1, 1852, the dignitaries of the new Empire went to the Palace of St. Cloud carrying the Imperial Crown, and the next day the proclamation of the empire was made in Paris with stately ceremony. The Emperor Napoleon III rode from the palace of St. Cloud to the Tuileries. The procession marched between lines of soldiers with arms presented; the cannon roared, the bells rang gaily, and the military bands played “_Partant pour la Syrie_,” the stirring air composed by Queen Hortense.

Mrs. Jessie Benton Fremont (whom it is scarcely necessary to mention as being the daughter of Thomas H. Benton and the wife of John C. Fremont) says in “Souvenirs of My Life”: “We saw the official entrance into Paris of the Emperor, our position on the Champs Elysées being about midway between the Arc de Triomphe and the Tuileries. On that 2nd day of December, 1852, the courage of Louis Napoleon was tested. The republicans who had put him in power, had warned him that he should die if he altered the republican form of government. Whether he had courage or not I do not know. What I do know is that I saw him ride, alone, no troops, not a single officer within forty feet of him to his front or rear, and open space on either side of him, along the broad avenue densely lined by crowds. Quite separated and alone, his head bare, holding in one hand the reins, in the other his hat. Only his horse was to share any harm that might come to him. To us the thrill of response to such evident courage came with sudden conviction and the applause from our balcony was strong and sincere.”

England hastened to recognize the new Emperor, and the other Great Powers promptly followed her example. Immense sums of money were voted by the National Assembly to be placed at the disposal of the Emperor in order to maintain the splendor of his position. The prisoner of Ham had become the absolute ruler of the foremost nation of continental Europe.

In the hour of triumph, in the midst of his state and magnificence the friends of his years of adversity were not forgotten. Charles Thelin, the devoted valet, became Treasurer of the Privy Purse—a purse much heavier than the one from which Thelin had paid for the workman’s costume at Ham! None of the adherents of the evil days of Louis Napoleon were forgotten; in his heart there seemed to rest a grateful memory of every kindness.

“Now, too, the joy most like divine,
Of all I ever dreamed or knew;
To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine—
Oh, Fate, and wilt thou give that, too?”

To most men comes love’s young dream, and then ambition. To this, which is the common fate, this man of strange destiny, Louis Napoleon, was to offer a contradiction. His life was now passed under triumphal arches, listening to words of adulation. It was at Fontainebleau that the great Emperor had signed his abdication and taken leave of his guard as he departed for his first captivity upon the Island of Elba. And it was at Fontainebleau that Napoleon III sat unmoved and listened to these words: “Our single wish is that, having been the last to salute Napoleon I, we may be the first to salute Napoleon III.” But it is with emotion which he could not control that on the spot where he and his mother had stood together, sad pilgrims (1831), he heard these words in her honor: “Crowned artist, queen of grace and genius, mother of a glorious child, preserved by her through exile and danger to give repose to France.”

With his wildest dreams realized, he felt that to be admired is nothing; the thing is to be loved. His heart was filled with reveries and longings; he aspired after the greatest happiness in life—love in marriage. His words were: “Until now my position has prevented me from marrying; amidst the cares of government, I have, alas! at this hour, in my own country, from which I have so long been absent, neither intimate friends nor acquaintances of childhood, nor relatives who could give me the sweetness of family life!”

After the coup d’état the friends and ministers of Louis Napoleon greatly desired that he should form an alliance with some princess of royal or imperial blood. The daughter of his cousin, the Grand Duchess of Baden, had married Prince Gustavus Vasa of Sweden, son of King Gustavus IV. The daughter of this marriage, Princess Caroline Vasa (afterwards Queen of Saxony), was the person selected to become the wife of Napoleon III. It seems that the Emperor of Austria had to be consulted, and his refusal was positive, in consideration of the fate of the two Archduchesses, Marie Antoinette and Marie Louise, who had been placed by Austria upon the throne of France. Louis Napoleon seemed to feel no regret as to the failure of the negotiation, as his heart was by no means engaged in it.

There was at this time in Paris a young Spanish lady of noble birth and high position and of very extraordinary beauty, Mademoiselle de Montijo, Comtesse de Teba. Like all foreigners of distinction, she and her mother, the Comtesse of Montijo, were received at the Elysée Palace by the Prince-President with the attention due their rank. When first he met her, in 1849, he was very deeply impressed by her great beauty, elegance and grace, and this feeling seemed constantly to increase. Although he treated her with the most marked reserve and dignity, his happiness was in being at her side. He inaugurated a series of sojourns at his palaces at Compiègne and Fontainebleau, where she and her mother were among his guests.

Her manner was full of charm and grace, and her nature of enthusiasm and poetry. Her conversation was bright and glowing, and the Emperor could not conceal the joy he felt in listening to her, nor the admiration aroused by her graceful and intrepid horsemanship. He was himself a bold and elegant rider, and in the forests of his country palaces he ordered that hunts should be given with the most brilliant surroundings.

Although her radiant beauty attracted the attention of all, none dreamed that in Mademoiselle de Montijo they saw their future Empress. The Emperor never departed from the most correct reserve; accustomed, as he was, to master and conceal his emotions, although softened, subdued and fascinated, his attitude throughout towards his lovely guest was irreproachable. Possibly his projected marriage was already settled in his own mind. Although an Emperor, and a man who wore a mask of gentle calmness in most trying moments, he was, at this time, above all else, a lover.

One bright autumnal morning, as they walked in the park, the beautiful Spaniard, full of poetical fancy, admired the magical effect of the dewdrops upon the clover leaves. The Emperor quietly drew aside one of his courtiers, who left in a few moments for Paris. The next evening there was a lottery drawn, and it was managed that Mademoiselle de Montijo should draw a clover leaf sparkling with superb diamonds. Simply, the Emperor was desperately in love; to him, as to any other man of deep sentiment, above all things earthly, even crowns and sceptres, was a beautiful face, the most beautiful sight of all, and the sweetest harmony was the tone of voice of the woman he loved.

On January 1st, 1853, he asked her in marriage, and on January 22nd, he summoned before him, in the throne-room of the Tuileries, the great constituent bodies of the empire to receive his announcement. In a clear and emphatic manner and voice he spoke:

“Gentlemen, I comply with the wish so often manifested by the country by coming to announce to you my marriage.... For the last seventy years foreign princesses have ascended the steps of the throne, only to see their offspring scattered by war or revolution. One woman alone has seemed to bring happiness and to live longer than others in the people’s memory; and this woman, the good and modest wife of General Bonaparte, was not the issue of royal blood.” This homage paid to his grandmother, the Empress Josephine, was greeted with applause and cries of “Long live the Emperor!” After speaking at length with regard to matters of state, with great emotion he expressed all his affection for his betrothed: “She who has become the object of my preference is of lofty birth.... Gifted with all the qualities of the soul, she will be the ornament of the throne, as in the hour of danger she would become one of its courageous supporters.... Catholic and pious, she will address to Heaven the same prayers that I do for the welfare of France; gracious and good, she will, in the same position, I firmly hope, renew the virtues of the Empress Josephine.”

He ended with these heartfelt words: “I come, then, gentlemen, to say to France, I have preferred a woman whom I love and respect to an unknown person, the advantages of an alliance with whom would be mingled with sacrifices. In placing independence, the qualities of the heart, family happiness above dynastic prejudices, I shall not be less strong, because I shall be more free. Very soon, in betaking myself to Nôtre Dame, I shall present the Empress to the people and the army; the confidence they have in me will assure their sympathy for her whom I have chosen, and you, gentlemen, in learning to know her, will be convinced that this time also I have been inspired by Providence.”

As soon as the announcement was made Mme. de Montijo and her daughter were installed in the Elysée Palace, where they were to reside until the marriage should take place, and where the Emperor went every day to pay court to his betrothed and to carry her bouquets. He laid not only his crown, but his heart, at her feet. This man, daring in deeds and gentle in feeling, had undergone deep pangs of suffering. Venerating his father, devotedly loving his brother and idolizing his mother, he had, one by one, been bereft of all near and dear to him. He seemed to long to take in his protecting arms and in his loving heart a woman whom he could love and honor and cherish as his wife, one worthy to be at his side upon a throne.

The Municipal Council of Paris had determined to offer to the Emperor’s betrothed a magnificent set of diamonds. The Prefect of the Seine received the following letter:

M. Prefect: I am much affected on learning the generous
decision of the Municipal Council of Paris, which thus
displays its sympathetic adhesion to the union the Emperor is
contracting. Nevertheless, I experience a painful sentiment
when I think that the first public act attaching to my name
at the moment of the marriage is to be a considerable expense
for the city of Paris. Permit me then not to accept your
gift, however flattering to me; you would make me happier
by employing in charity the sum you have fixed upon for the
purchase of the ornaments the Municipal Council wished to offer
me. I desire that my marriage shall not be the occasion of any
new expense to the country to which I belong henceforward; and
the sole thing I aspire to is to share with the Emperor the
love and esteem of the French people. I beg you, M. Prefect,
to express all my gratitude to the Council, and to receive for
yourself the assurance of my distinguished consideration.

EUGENIE, COMTESSE DE TEBA.

_Elysée Palace, January 26, 1855._

The money was employed in founding an establishment where poor young girls should receive a professional education, and which they would leave only when provided with suitable positions. This establishment was to bear the name of the Empress and be placed under her protection.

SENTIMENT AND STORY

Oh, what a wonderful magician and what a tyrant king is Love, the King of Kings!

Look at the care-worn faces in the offices and counting rooms and on the business marts of the world. Look out yonder at the millions in the factories and fields, with beaded brows, and knotted muscles, and calloused hands, coining thought into gold, and sweat into silver. There is a mighty power moving on those restless tides; they are sowing and reaping for the helpless and the innocent; Love hath written his name in every heart, and in every life there is a love story. Now look yonder in the purple glow of eventide, how the millions dissolve and vanish among the shadows. The law of the King has been obeyed, and labor finds its sweet reward in the palace of love, by the brawling brook of laughter, on the brink of the river of song.

But, Lord, how soon the palace crumbles! And how surely the vibrant streams run dry when labor leaves his task undone, or toil takes his gold to other shrines!

If you would keep the loom of love in motion, you must be a flying shuttle of industry by day and spend your evenings at home. The shuttle delivers the thread; you must deliver the bread and grease the bobbins with butter.

The shuttle is always in its place. Art thou, O King? When the light is smiling through the window out into the darkness, and thy home is ringing with the laughter and song of children within, art thou there to laugh and sing with them? And when the baby cries in the dead hours of the night, dost thou meekly wear thy yoke of love and walk the floor and sweetly sing to thy screaming progeny?

Alas! too often thou art found where sherry glows and champagne flows and the night is very, very merry, O King!

* * * * *

I saw a truant old gentleman vanish from his labors to a carousal one evening, and that night he went home as drunk as a lord, with unsteady steps and slow, dreading the storm within, and softly singing to himself as he went:

“I wish my wife was an angel, far, far away!”

The queen of the household, who had been nursing her rage, met him at the door with a face like a drawn tomahawk; and the clock struck one, and she struck, too, as he entered.

“How dare you come home to me at this hour of the night?” she shouted in her anger.

“Why, my dear, it was jis’ ten o’clock when I left prayer meetin’, an’ I come right straight home.”

“Yes, prayer meeting! You look like prayer meeting! Look at the hands on the dial of that clock; it has just struck one.”

“Well, now, madam,” he said, “if you propose to believe a durned little dollar-and-a-half clock before you’ll believe your husband, that’s all right; but I shall certainly think that I have not found the amiable spirit in this palace of love which I expected to find on my arrival.”

And the threads of love popped, and the loom stopped for several hours.

* * * * *

An uncrowned old King went to his little palace one night under the influence of King Alcohol, as usual. His unhappy wife let him in at the door and burst into tears and said:

“Husband, why do you come home every night in this drunken condition?”

“Why,” he said, “my dear, you are so pretty that I jist naturally love to look at you double!”

* * * * *

Did you ever see a tramp tramping by and pausing at your door to beg a benediction—not of love, but of bread? What cared this wandering boy for love? His heart was in the grave; he was the “somnambulist of a shattered dream;” he was a romance in rags, a seedy poem, a tattered song, crumpled by the hand of fate and thrown into the waste-basket of oblivion.

He halted at a farmhouse one rainy day and proposed to kill all the rats on the place for his dinner. “Very well,” said the farmer, “it’s a bargain.” He called his neighbors in to see the killing. The tramp ate for an hour, and when he had finished he called for a spade. Seating himself in the middle of the room, he raised the spade over his shoulder and shouted: “Now fetch on your rats!”

He stopped at an old fellow’s door and told him he was a dentist, and smilingly proposed to put a good set of teeth in a fresh apple pie for nothing.

* * * * *

I saw love enter the gubernatorial door to plead for love one day, and the old mother sat and wept in the presence of the Governor, while the aged father told the story of a love that was wrecked long ago, a life that was ruined, and a lover that wandered away with the death wound in his heart. Then I heard him tell the story of a tramp whose journey had ended at last within the prison walls; and I went out with them and stood at the gate of hell. I looked in and saw the ghastly stripes of shame and the pallid faces of crime moving to and fro, laboring under the lash of justice and shrinking from the scorn of their fellow man. I entered and looked again; there was not a smile nor a single peal of laughter, but melancholy’s ghost of song still lingered behind the iron bars to comfort languishing love.

I saw children of tender age in that vortex of living death, and I said, “Hell was not made for children;” and I dragged them out and delivered them to their mothers. I saw youths who had committed crime in the heat of passion, dying in disgrace, and I dragged them out and sent them home, some with a new hope and some to die. I saw repentant men who had suffered long enough, and I dragged them out and gave them to their wives and their children. I saw the erstwhile tramp, the romance in rags, the tattered song, now the striped doxology of a misspent life; two trembling hands pointed to him. I turned to the old folks and said: “His crime was not great, and you are old and feeble;” and I dragged him out and left them weeping upon his bosom.

* * * * *

An overbearing lawyer once shouted to an old lady whom he was examining on the witness stand:

“Madam, please confine yourself to the facts!”

The old lady turned around to him and said:

“Well, sir, you are no gentleman; that’s a fact.”

* * * * *

An old doctor examined his patient one afternoon and coldly said to him:

“You are dying, sir; have you any wish to express before you pass over the river?”

“Yes,” said the patient, feebly, “I wish I had employed another doctor.”

* * * * *

The world loves us if we succeed; it despises us if we fail; it piles ice around its benefactors, and gives the meed of praise to genius only when genius is in the grave. But what do words of praise avail to lift the shadows from a path no longer pressed by weary feet? Why fill the hands of the dead with flowers which you have withheld from the living? Who would not rather have one smile, one tender word to-day, than to know that a million roses would be heaped upon his coffin? Who would not rather live and dream among the flowers of love than to sleep the dreamless sleep beneath a wilderness of flowers?

Then why not let the Gulf Stream of love flow on? For its warm current breathes upon the icy shores of mortal life and makes them blossom with laughter and song. Love is the soul of the beautiful, the true and the good; it is all there is of happiness.

* * * * *

But “the course of true love never did run smooth.” Listen to my tale of woe. An absent-minded old bachelor once fell in love with a beautiful girl and instantly prepared for battle with the flounced and powdered enemy. At first his plans worked well, and he was about to win a great victory over all the swells in town; but an accident happened which changed his destiny and wrecked his hopes of conquest and happiness. The church bell rang one bright Sabbath morning, and he knew that his idol would be there; and he diked himself in faultless style and curled his sorrel moustache till it looked like the tail of a pug. The excitement of the occasion made him more absent-minded than ever, and he waited until the worshipers had assembled, and then walked down the aisle in triumph, the observed of all observers, with his overcoat hanging on his arm; but the maiden looked at his overcoat and blushed; the preacher looked at it and smiled, and the congregation looked at it and broke into laughter; and the old bachelor looked down, and it was his every-day pantaloons. His hope exploded like a bubble in the air, and he dropped the garment and flew.

* * * * *

We have stepped over the threshold of the twentieth century. What greater wonders will it unfold to us? It may be that another magician, greater even than Edison, the “Wizard of Menlo Park,” will rise up and coax the very laws of nature into easy compliance with his unheard-of dreams. I think he will construct an electric railway in the form of a huge tube, and call it the “electro-scoot,” and passengers will enter it in New York and touch a button and arrive in San Francisco two hours before they started!

I think a new discovery will be made by which the young man of the future may stand at his “kiss-o-phone” in New York and kiss his sweetheart in Chicago with all the delightful sensations of the “aforesaid and the same.”

I think some Liebig will reduce foods to their last analyses, and, by an ultimate concentration of their elements, will enable the man of the future to carry a year’s provisions in his vest pocket. The dude will store his rations in the head of his cane, and the commissary department of a whole army will consist of a mule and a pair of saddlebags. A trainload of cabbage will be transported in a sardine box and a thousand fat Texas cattle in an oyster can.

Power will be condensed from a forty-horse engine to a quart cup. Wagons will roll by the power in their axles, and the cushions of our buggies will cover the force that propels them. The armies of the future will fight with chain lightning, and the battlefields will be in the air.

Some dreaming Icarus will perfect the flying machine, and upon the aluminum wings of the swift Pegasus of the air social, civic and military parades will be held.

The rainbow will be converted into a Ferris wheel; all men will be bald-headed; the women will run the government—and then I think the end of time will be near at hand!

* * * * *

A great many youths think that if a man has brain-power he can accomplish anything. So he can, but a study of the men who are failures, the men who fill our penitentiaries and our sanitariums, will show that unless ability is ballasted with character, its possessor is unstable and untrustworthy. There is a tremendous power in ability, boys, when added to character.

THE PARADISE OF FOOLS