Napoleon

by Adam Zamoyski

  The tyrant still governed through institutions, and these were made up of people with ideas of their own. His inability to see things from the perspective of others meant that he could not discuss or persuade, only dismiss their views as ‘metaphysical nonsense’ and see criticism as opposition. In his view, expressed in a discussion of the plays of Corneille, the public good, which he described as ‘the reason of State’, was a higher aim which not only justified but demanded behaviour which in any other circumstance might be criminal. Corneille had understood this, and were he alive, Bonaparte declared, he would make him his first minister. Convinced of the rightness of the mission he had embarked on, and intolerant of those who could not see it, he was not inclined to waste time trying to persuade them.13

  This came as a shock to early supporters such as Germaine de Staël, who had expected her salon to become the ideological powerhouse of the new regime. She had encouraged Benjamin Constant to provide constructive opposition on the English model in the Tribunate, but his criticism of the legislation presented to it enraged Bonaparte, who pointed out that since none of those sitting in the various assemblies had been elected they had no legitimacy, while he, whose assumption of power had been endorsed by the plebiscite on the constitution, was the elect of the nation. When Joseph tried to patch things up between him and the inconvenient bluestocking, Bonaparte merely told him to ask her what her price was for submitting. ‘I do not know how to show benevolence to my enemies,’ he snapped at Talleyrand when he suggested a more emollient approach. ‘Weakness has never led anywhere. One can only govern with strength.’14

  To Lafayette, he said that the people were ‘fed up’ with liberty. He had a point – the ideologues chattering away in their assemblies and salons were out of touch with the majority of the population. This was glaringly obvious when it came to Bonaparte’s intention of reinstating the Catholic Church. The ideologues saw it as a betrayal of the Revolution, which had banished religious ‘prejudice’ and all the flummery that went with it. They tried to persuade him to abandon the idea, but he was adamant; when Volney tried to change his mind, their exchange flared into an argument in the course of which Bonaparte allegedly kicked the eminent philosophe.15

  Talleyrand’s negotiations with Spina were not going well. The principal stumbling blocks were the Pope’s insistence that Catholicism be declared the religion of state, the return of or compensation for confiscated Church property, and the resignation of all existing bishops. To these he added a demand for the return of the province of the Legations. Bonaparte’s response was to bully Spina, flying into one of his feigned rages, threatening to occupy the entirety of the Papal States, to found a national Church in France, and even to become a Protestant if he did not sign an agreement within five days.16

  The Pope replaced Spina with the more intelligent and skilful Cardinal Ercole Consalvi. Bonaparte welcomed him with great pomp at an audience for which he encouraged him to wear ‘the most cardinalesque costume possible’, but began bullying him too, setting an unreal ultimatum of five days. After much horse-trading, agreement was reached, and the Concordat (as it was named, after a twelfth-century precedent) was to be signed on 13 July 1801. At the last minute the Abbé Bernier warned Consalvi that Bonaparte had made some alterations, and the text he would be presented with was not the one agreed. When Consalvi declined to put his signature to it, a furious Bonaparte dictated yet another version, which Consalvi also rejected. Bonaparte threatened to act like Henry VIII of England, but he had met his match in Consalvi, who was not to be bullied. The Concordat was eventually signed at midnight on 15 July.17

  Catholicism was recognised as the religion of the majority of the French. A new network of dioceses was created. The first consul would choose the bishops, who would then be invested by the Pope. Church property would not be returned, but the French state would pay for the upkeep of churches and salaries to priests, who would swear an oath of loyalty, effectively becoming its functionaries.

  The Council of State voiced reservations about the agreement, and there was vociferous opposition in the Tribunate, the Legislative Body and the Senate, which demonstratively coopted the former Abbé Grégoire, a revolutionary firebrand who denounced it. Reactions in the army were even more violent. Ever the opportunist, Bonaparte exploited the uproar to pressure Rome into accepting a number of changes, couched in ‘organic articles’ which altered the nature of the agreement in his favour.

  As the opening of the second session of the assemblies approached in the autumn of 1801, it became clear that malcontents of every hue were preparing to unite in opposition to Bonaparte’s increasingly autocratic rule. They were outraged that in a treaty with Russia the word ‘subject’ had featured with respect to French citizens, and were determined to reject the Concordat. More distressing for Bonaparte was the Tribunate’s critical reception of the projected Civil Code, which was close to his heart. To hear it picked apart piece by piece and criticised for being too old-fashioned and a betrayal of the Revolution was more than he could stand. He raged at the ‘dogs’ who had led the attack, likening them to lice infesting his clothes, and contemplated sending troops into the assembly. ‘Let nobody think I will let myself be treated like Louis XVI,’ he warned. ‘I am a soldier, a son of the Revolution, and I will not tolerate being insulted like a king.’18

  Cambacérès persuaded him to avoid confrontation and allow the Legislative Body to reject the Code; he had thought of a way round the problem, which Bonaparte adopted. On 2 January 1802 he declared that he was withdrawing all projects, which effectively closed the session of the assemblies, since they had nothing to do. On the same day he went to the Senate and berated its members, particularly Sieyès, whom he accused of trying to turn him into the ineffectual ‘Great Elector’ of his dreams. Bonaparte was a hard man to stand up to in a situation such as this, and they obediently coopted a number of his supporters, giving him a majority.

  The following day he attended the marriage of Louis to Hortense. They had both resisted the match vigorously, but had been forced into it by Bonaparte and Josephine, who had set their minds on it, each for reasons of their own: he because he saw Louis as his possible successor, or the one who would sire his successor, she because it should guarantee her position against the onslaughts of the Bonaparte clan. Neither realised how psychologically damaged Louis was, and that this would lead to problems in time. Bonaparte had little time for reflection, and at midnight on 8 January he left for Lyon, where he had serious business to attend to.

  After its resurrection following Marengo, the Cisalpine Republic, enlarged by the Treaty of Lunéville with the addition of the Legations and Parma, had been administered on the French model by a provisional government under Francesco Melzi d’Eril. He nurtured hopes of eventually extending it to embrace all of northern Italy and turning it into a strong buffer state between France and Austria, possibly ruled by either Bonaparte’s brother Joseph or a Spanish Bourbon. But in the first instance he had to go to Lyon, along with 491 deputies, in order to have the constitution he had drawn up endorsed by Bonaparte and, he hoped, the republic’s name changed from Cisalpine to Italian.

  The deputies, many of whom had brought their wives and families, had a terrible time getting to Lyon. They crossed the Alps in blizzards, were holed up for long periods in poky inns and cottages – princes, bishops and generals cheek-by-jowl with merchants and servants, all forced to eat the same meagre rations. One died along the way. They had finally reached Lyon on 11 December 1801, but their discomfort did not cease. Prince Serbelloni had brought his own cook, but most of them had to make do with local fare, which they found revolting, and nothing could lift the gloom of the winter mists as they waited for Bonaparte to arrive.

  He was preceded, on 28 December, by Talleyrand. The deputies assumed they would at last be able to take their seats in the former Jesuit college church which had been turned into an amphitheatre of green leather chairs. They were disappointed. The last thing Bonaparte wanted was an
assembly. He had instructed Talleyrand to divide the deputies up into five groups which were to discuss the proposed constitution separately. Talleyrand and Murat, who as commander of French forces in Italy was also present, circulated among the deputies, softening them up with a mixture of emollience and menace that made one of them think of the reign of Tiberius.19

  Bonaparte arrived on the evening of 11 January 1802. He was met outside the city by an honour guard of young Lyonnais gentlemen accoutred in splendid pale-blue uniforms and plumed headgear of their own invention. As he approached the city he was greeted by artillery salvoes and the cheers of troops lining the streets. Despite the intense cold (the river Saône was freezing over) and the falling snow, a dense crowd waited to catch a glimpse of him sitting beside Josephine in his carriage.

  The Italian deputies waited patiently to be convoked. There were two banquets and two balls, graced by Josephine and rushed through by Bonaparte, and on 20 January they finally took their seats in plenary session. But their hopes of a hearing by the first consul were dashed. Talleyrand appeared, to announce that Bonaparte wished them to select thirty of their number whom they considered worthy of a place in the future government.

  When the thirty had been chosen by ballot, they were instructed to meet in two days’ time, on 22 January, to elect a president of the Cisalpine Republic. Bonaparte had originally wanted Joseph to fill the post, but Joseph thought it beneath his dignity and realised that he would only be a placeman, so he refused. Bonaparte would not countenance any possibility of the new state drifting beyond his control, so he would have to fill the post himself.

  When the votes of the thirty deputies were counted, three were blank, one was for Bonaparte, one for another Italian, and twenty-five for Melzi. Having been informed by Talleyrand that the first consul wanted the post for himself, Melzi declined it. A second vote produced another Italian, who also knew what was good for him, and the third an obscure Milanese deputy who was absent, and could therefore not refuse. As they filed off to announce their choice to Bonaparte, who had already been informed, Talleyrand warned them that he was in an evil mood, like a lion with a fever. There are three versions of what happened. According to one, he refused to receive them, another has it that he would not address a word to them, a third that he threw a stool at them.20

  Talleyrand explained that they must try harder, and after two days of agonising, they agreed. On 25 January they recommended to the assembly that it elect Bonaparte. There was predictable uproar and speeches by patriots demanding an Italian president. A vote was taken by asking the deputies to stand, and although some witnesses recorded that only a third did rise, according to the official record Napoleon Bonaparte was chosen by universal acclamation.21

  The following day at one o’clock he entered the church in which the deputies were assembled, followed by Talleyrand, Murat and the interior minister Chaptal. A podium had been erected for him, decorated with bronzes and bas-reliefs representing the Tiber and the Nile, surmounted by a canopy depicting a cloudless sky. He eschewed this for the humbler president’s chair, and addressed the assembly in his poor Italian. He told them that since the nascent state needed a strong hand and a wise head, and there was none among them with the requisite qualities, he graciously accepted their offer of the presidency. He was not put off by the barely polite applause, and proceeded to present the new constitution. ‘Let the constitution of the …’ he began, and paused. Various patriots shouted ‘Italian Republic!’ With a wink to Talleyrand, Bonaparte smiled at the assembly and said, ‘Very well, the Italian Republic!’ The applause was deafening. The constitution was then read out, and Bonaparte nominated Melzi vice-president.22

  The following day he reviewed the troops that had returned from Egypt, and then left Lyon. He was back in Paris on 31 January, and resumed his work on emasculating the legislative bodies.

  As the Tribunate and the Legislative replaced one-fifth of their members at the end of every session, twenty tribunes and sixty legislators now had to be appointed. Instead of allowing the assemblies to choose who went and who came in, as the constitution specified, Bonaparte contrived to make the Senate intervene and decide for them. As a result, in the spring of 1802 the most cantankerous members of both assemblies would be replaced by men prepared to do Bonaparte’s bidding. For good measure, Lucien, who despite his tendency to make trouble could be counted on to toe the line when necessary, was put back in the Tribunate to ensure its docility. In March, Bonaparte crowned his dominance with a triumph that silenced his critics.

  24

  The Liberator of Europe

  Peace with Britain was signed at Amiens on 25 March 1802. The next day Joseph raced to Paris with the document, which he brandished as he entered his brother’s box at the Opéra that evening. The performance was interrupted and Bonaparte presented his brother to the cheering audience as the able negotiator. He nevertheless took the credit when commissioning an allegorical painting depicting him leading Gaul and Britannia to cast their weapons into the flames. It was a triumph: when, exactly three months later, a new treaty was signed with the Porte, France was, for the first time in ten years, not at war with anyone. As a sign of the new era, Bonaparte appeared in civilian dress at the diplomatic reception on 27 March to formally announce the peace.

  The terms of the treaty were that George III renounced his title of ‘King of France’, used by his predecessors since the Hundred Years’ War, and undertook to return all French colonies and those of her allies except for Ceylon (formerly Dutch) and Trinidad (formerly Spanish). France accepted the return of Egypt to the Porte and the Papal States to the Pope, and recognised the independence of the Ionian islands. Malta was to be returned to the Order of St John and placed under the protection of Naples. France was to evacuate the Neapolitan ports, opening them to British shipping once more. What were considered minor points were left for subsequent agreement, including compensation for the dispossessed rulers of Piedmont and the Netherlands, the question of which side should pay for the upkeep of prisoners of war, and the signature of a trade treaty.

  Once the preliminaries had been signed, mail coaches had carried the news ‘Peace with France’ chalked on their sides; they were greeted with rejoicing all over the country amid shouts of ‘Huzzah for Buonaparte!’ When General Lauriston arrived in London bearing the ratification, the horses were unharnessed from his carriage and it was pulled through the streets. The British press heaped praise on Bonaparte as the restorer of peace, and one Member of Parliament hailed him as ‘the Great Man of the People of France, the Liberator of Europe’. Prints and busts of him sold like hot cakes.1

  The euphoria could not last; the treaty had been a rushed job which would have required a remarkable degree of compromise and cooperation to implement properly, and both were in short supply. British mistrust of the French was embedded in the national psyche, while Bonaparte’s attitude to the British had been radically altered by their hand in the assassination of Paul I and the attempts on his own life, which he saw as evidence of a disgraceful disregard of conventions governing international relations and typical of perfide Albion. Peace, however fragile, was nevertheless welcome. He still had much to do to rebuild France.

  Ten days after the signature of the treaty, on 5 April 1802, the new session of the assemblies opened. Having lost its most vocal members, the Tribunate was further emasculated by a new measure proposed by Lucien: that instead of meeting in plenary sessions, it should henceforth divide into three sections which would deliberate separately. The measure was adopted, and Lucien took the chair in that designated to deal with the Concordat, which was passed on 8 April.

  Easter Sunday, which fell ten days later, was chosen to proclaim the Treaty of Amiens and the Concordat. The twin achievements were to be celebrated by a pontifical high mass in the cathedral of Notre Dame, an occasion rich in allusion, irony and farce. That morning the people of Paris could for the first time in ten years hear the tolling of the great bell of Notre Dame as well
as the artillery salutes they had grown used to. The sermon would be delivered by Monsignor de Boisgelin, Archbishop of Tours, who had officiated at the funeral of Louis XV and the coronation of his successor.

  The festivities opened with a parade at which Bonaparte presented newly-created units with their standards. Then, dressed in their scarlet uniform, the three consuls drove to the cathedral escorted by a squadron of the newly-formed ‘Mamelukes’, composed of exotically uniformed veterans of the Egyptian campaign. They were followed by the diplomatic corps, and then the senior functionaries, members of the assemblies, notables, court officials and their ladies. The cathedral was crammed with clergy. An orchestra and choir conducted by Cherubini and Méhul lent solemnity as Bonaparte took his place, with the two consuls flanking him and Fouché and Talleyrand behind. It had been agreed that while he would go through all the motions as a good Catholic should, he would not, as had been the royal custom, kiss the paten. ‘Don’t force me to make a fool of myself,’ he had snapped when the matter had been discussed.2

  The element of farce entered the proceedings soon after, as Josephine arrived only to find her seat occupied by Madame Moreau (her husband showed his independence and contempt by refusing to attend, spending the morning sauntering around the gardens of the Tuileries puffing on a cigar). Things degenerated further when a number of generals and senior officers made their entry. They were almost to a man fiercely irreligious and furious at having been ordered to come. They swaggered in, chatting among themselves, shoving aside any priest who obstructed their passage. Finding all the seats taken, Masséna ousted a prelate from his chair with a ‘Go fuck yourself!’ His comrades followed suit and began cracking jokes, and were only silenced by a glare from the first consul.3