Napoleon was woken at two o’clock on the morning of 6 April by Caulaincourt, Ney and Macdonald, who had just returned from their mission to Alexander. After listening to their report he announced that he would never abdicate unconditionally, and dismissed them. But nobody slept much; at six o’clock in the morning Caulaincourt was back with him, and the two of them talked at length. Napoleon had been taken aback by Marmont’s defection, and deeply hurt by such an act of treachery by one of his oldest friends. More than that, it had undermined his position by calling into question his hold on the army.
On that morning of 6 April, Napoleon wrote out the four and a half lines of his abdication in his own hand, making a large ink-stain in the process. He then dictated the formal instructions for Caulaincourt and the two marshals, empowering them to negotiate the details of the settlement. What he did not know as they took their leave that evening was that, persuaded by his ardently royalist wife, Ney had already written to Talleyrand pledging his submission to the new government. As Caulaincourt noted, ‘everyone was turning their eyes to the rising sun and seeking to approach it; the sun of Fontainebleau no longer warmed …’24
42
Rejection
Having signed his abdication, Napoleon lapsed into a state of listlessness punctuated by occasional bursts of anger, and a kind of bewilderment; for the first time in many years he had lost control not only of events, but also of people whom he had come to regard as elements of a well-oiled machine. For years he had triumphed by daring to dare, refusing to give up and eventually finding a way to surmount or circumvent obstacles, and by making failures disappear by writing a version of events in which they did not figure. He now faced a reality which was entirely impervious to his will.
‘The well-being of France appeared to be in the destiny of the Emperor,’ he wrote in his declaration to the army following the defection of Marmont. That was true for a long time. What he had lost sight of was that his destiny had been to save France from chaos and rebuild the state. Ironically, what was happening now was a testimony to the success of his endeavours; it was precisely because the state he had built was so well grounded in the institutions he had created that a change of regime was taking place without the political chaos, not to mention the bloodshed, that would have accompanied it fifteen years earlier. It was his own work that was standing up to him.1
For years he had exerted control over people around him through a simple formula of fear and favour, and in the rare cases in which these did not yield the desired results he would simply banish the person from his sight, thus avoiding the unwelcome reality that there could be limits to his power over others. Those he had brushed aside had, like Alexander, Talleyrand and the members of the Senate whose views he had ignored, now been able to stand up to him, again partly as a result of the administrative structures he had put in place and the social stability these had encouraged; he had created a new hierarchy of notables whose first duty was to the state. Even the army, which worshipped him, felt its first duty was to France, and as soon as it became clear that it was not just foreign allies he was up against, pronounced itself against civil war in his cause.
The narrative he had spun in his propaganda from the beginning of his first Italian campaign had given him faith in himself as well as projecting an image which spoke to the people of France and enabled him to carry them with him on his political enterprise. But with time it had deformed his sense of reality, leading him to believe that he really did have the power to make things happen simply because he willed it. This tendency to wishful thinking, combined with his unwillingness to formulate a long-term strategy, had led to disastrous results in Spain and Russia. For a long time, his ability to manipulate facts and people had allowed him to avoid facing the consequences. He continued to write inconvenient truths out of the narrative, and even now, when they had so rudely invaded it, he instinctively fought against them.2
Every morning one of the regiments of the Guard paraded before him, and their acclamations revived his fighting instinct; while even his most devoted generals had come to accept the inevitable, he kept revisiting various military options. On 7 April, the day after he sent off his act of abdication, the commander of the Old Guard, Marshal Lefèbvre, wrote his submission to the new government and left to take his seat in the Senate. He was followed by Oudinot, leaving only Berthier and Moncey at Fontainebleau. Yet on 10 April, having received a report based on gossip picked up from an Austrian officer to the effect that Francis was prepared to support the accession of his son, Napoleon sent to Caulaincourt revoking his credentials to negotiate the abdication, and began checking his troop numbers.3
Caulaincourt ignored Napoleon’s recall. Supported by Ney and Macdonald, he was fighting to secure the best possible terms for him. He was now having to deal not only with Alexander, but also Metternich and Castlereagh, both of whom had been appalled on reaching Paris at the promises made by the tsar, and, in the background, Talleyrand and Fouché, who had also turned up, both of them determined on the elimination of their former master. Talleyrand even engineered an intrigue aimed at provoking him to make a military move which could then be used by the allies as a justification for withdrawing from the engagements made by Alexander.4
Caulaincourt wrote explaining the situation, but on receiving the letter Napoleon fumed about betrayal, and at five in the morning wrote back ordering him not to sign anything. It was too late; agreement had been reached that night, and on 11 April the Treaty of Fontainebleau was signed by Castlereagh, Metternich and Nesselrode for the allies, and by Caulaincourt, Ney and Macdonald for Napoleon. The three of them arrived at Fontainebleau the following morning with the document for him to ratify. He listened gloomily to their report and the terms of the treaty, which were that he was to be given the island of Elba to rule in all sovereignty, be provided with an annual subsidy by the French government, allowed to take a small contingent of his Guard with him, and that his family would be provided for.
He still attended the daily parades, but he had been spending his days in his own rooms, occasionally walking in the garden, sometimes taking out his frustration by swishing with his stick at the flowers. He was sickened by what he saw as the desertions of members of his staff and his maison, who went off on invented errands, never to return, or simply vanished. Constant and Roustam had gone, and of those who still hovered many could barely disguise their impatience for the end to come. He complained bitterly of the ingratitude of his marshals, saying he had underestimated the baseness of men in general. Yet a handful remained faithful, most notably Maret and the marshal of the palace General Bertrand, and since the first rumours of plots against the emperor’s life some of his aides slept on mattresses laid out in passages leading to his rooms to protect him. At the same time, his pistols and powder had been discreetly removed. That day he wrote to Josephine expressing his despair, and those around him could sense it.5
Late that night he asked his valet Hubert to revive the fire in his bedroom and to bring writing implements and paper. Having done so, Hubert kept the door between Napoleon’s bedroom and that in which he slept ajar. He heard him begin a letter several times, scrunching up the paper and throwing it into the fireplace. ‘Farewell, my kind Louise,’ ran the final version. ‘You are what I love the most in the world. My misfortunes affect me only by the harm they do to you. You will always love the most loving of husbands. Give a kiss to my son. Farewell, dear Louise. Your devoted.’ Hubert then heard him go over to the commode, on which there was always a carafe of water and a bowl of sugar, and was surprised to hear the sound of water being poured into a glass and something being mixed in with a spoon, as he had noticed that the valet in charge had failed to put any sugar in the bowl. After a moment’s silence Napoleon came to the door of his room and asked Hubert to call Caulaincourt, Maret, Bertrand and Fain.
Caulaincourt was the first to arrive. He found Napoleon looking sick and haggard, having evidently taken the poison he had been wearing in a sachet around
his neck since the retreat from Moscow. He began a self-justificatory ramble and asked Caulaincourt to do various things on his behalf, but Caulaincourt called for Dr Yvan. By then Napoleon was doubled up with stomach pains and complaining how difficult it was to die. When Yvan arrived he asked him to prepare a stronger poison, but the doctor instead administered a potion which made him vomit up the original dose. By morning he was out of danger.6
‘Since death doesn’t want to take me either in my bed or on the battlefield, I shall live,’ he said to Caulaincourt. ‘It will take some courage to bear life after such events. I shall write the story of the brave!’ He then told him to prepare everything for the signing of the treaty, which he did in the presence of Caulaincourt and Maret. At nine o’clock Macdonald, who was to take it to Paris, came into the room. He found Napoleon ‘sitting in front of the fire, wearing only a simple white cotton dressing gown, his naked legs in slippers, with nothing around his neck, his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees’. He did not stir at Macdonald’s entrance, and seemed lost in his thoughts. Caulaincourt roused him and he stood up, went over to Macdonald, took his hand and apologised for not having noticed him enter. ‘As soon as he had lifted his face, I was struck by the change in it; his complexion was yellow and olive-coloured,’ continues Macdonald. Napoleon told him he had had a bad night and sat down again, once more drifting off into a reverie, from which he had to be roused again. He then presented the marshal with the scimitar of Murad Bey, captured in Egypt, and embraced him, apologising for not having recognised before what a fine, loyal man he was.7
Macdonald set off for Paris bearing Napoleon’s ratification, while Napoleon set about dictating letters to some of those who had served him. He had transferred command of the army to the new minister of war, General Dupont, the ‘coward of Bailén’, and there were only 1,500 grenadiers of the Old Guard left in attendance. Berthier had gone to Paris to finalise the arrangements, and on his return he took up residence in his private residence in the park. Although he and Napoleon had worked closely for more than fifteen years they had never been friends, and following the Wagram campaign the marshal had begun to feel old and tired. He had disapproved of the war with Russia and continually urged Napoleon to make peace, which had soured relations between them.
The once-great maison had dwindled to no more than a dozen or so, and the vast Renaissance palace resounded only to the step of sentries. When Maria Walewska turned up on 14 April to show her sympathy, she found the palace deserted and walked through several rooms before encountering Caulaincourt, who went to inform Napoleon of her presence. He seemed not to hear, and remained lost in his thoughts. She waited for several hours before going back to Paris. He wrote to her the following day apologising for not having been able to receive her, and thanked her for her feelings, saying he would love to see her when he reached Elba. The probable reason he had not received her was that he was hoping to be reunited with his wife and son, and if it were known that he was seeing his mistress it might affect Marie-Louise’s and her father’s views on the subject.8
On 9 April he had written to Marie-Louise asking her to leave Blois and go to Orléans, whence he was hoping to bring her and his son to Fontainebleau. The reason he had not sent for her earlier was that while he believed there was a chance of his son succeeding him he felt he must keep his distance; the principal argument against allowing the King of Rome to succeed was that it would be tantamount to leaving Napoleon in power, so it was imperative he underline his detachment.9
Marie-Louise and her entourage at Blois were taken aback by news of Napoleon’s abdication, and her first instinct had been to join him, partly in order to get away from his brothers. Seeing in her person a form of insurance for themselves, Joseph and Jérôme planned to take her and seek refuge with Soult’s Army of Spain, encamped nearby. Understanding nothing of the politics being played out, she felt disoriented and defenceless. She had seen less of Napoleon from the time he had set off for Russia two years earlier, and had been subjected to a sustained campaign by his enemies in her entourage, who fed her stories of his supposed infidelities and tried to find her a lover. Her chief lady-in-waiting, Lannes’ widow the duchesse de Montebello, actually intercepted letters to her from Napoleon.10
The court at Blois melted away, the chamberlains, ladies-in-waiting, maids, valets and the 1,200-strong contingent of Guards going off to Paris or elsewhere, many of them heaving sighs of relief that it was all over. Commissioners arrived from the provisional government in Paris to claim the imperial treasure which had followed them to Blois, consisting of over twenty million francs in gold, a hoard of jewellery and plate. Marie-Louise’s desire to join her husband was mitigated by the prospect of accompanying him into exile, as she feared his family would congregate around him and make her life unbearable. She told Caulaincourt that she wanted to die with Napoleon, but not to live with him surrounded by them.11
The matter was resolved when on 9 April a Russian officer sent by Francis arrived at Blois and took her off to Orléans, where she was robbed first by roving cossacks and then by a government official who tried to tear from her throat the diamond necklace she was wearing. Dr Corvisart, who examined her, wrote a report that she was suffering from breathing difficulties, rashes on her face and fever, and prescribed the waters of Aix. On 12 April she was taken to Rambouillet, where on 14 April she met Metternich and a couple of days later her father. ‘It is impossible for me to be happy without you,’ she wrote to Napoleon, but she appeared to be little concerned at his fate, according to Anatole de Montesquiou, whom he had sent to her. Whatever her feelings, she was easily persuaded to follow her father’s wishes (which, unbeknown to her, were that she and her son should never see Napoleon again).12
By then, arrangements were being made for his departure. He was to be accompanied by marshal of the palace Bertrand, General Drouot, his physician Dr Foureau de Beauregard, his treasurer Peyrusse, his valets Marchand, who had replaced Constant, and the Swiss Noverraz, and the Mameluke ‘Ali’, alias Saint-Denis. He was allowed to take a small contingent of his Guard to supplement the Corsican battalion he would find on Elba. After fierce competition between volunteers, around 600 grenadiers of the Old Guard had been selected, commanded by General Cambronne, and eighty Polish chevau-légers lancers under Colonel Jerzmanowski.
On 16 April Napoleon wrote to Josephine reassuring her that he was reconciled to his fate. ‘I will in my retirement substitute the pen for the sword. The story of my reign will be interesting; I have only been seen in profile, and I shall reveal myself entirely. How many things I have to tell. How many people of whom the public has a false opinion! … I have showered with favours thousands of wretches! What have they done for me at a moment like this? They have betrayed me, yes, all of them …’ He excepted Eugène, whom he believed to have remained loyal, and assured her that he would love her always and never forget her. His trust was misplaced. ‘It is all over,’ Josephine had written to Eugène on 8 April. ‘He is abdicating. As far as you are concerned, you are no longer bound by any oath of loyalty. Anything you might do on his behalf would be pointless. Look to your family.’ She and Hortense received Alexander to dinner at Malmaison, and Hortense even met Bernadotte.13
That evening, the four allied commissioners who were to escort him to Elba arrived at Fontainebleau, and he received them the following morning. Colonel Sir Neil Campbell represented Britain, Count Shuvalov Russia, General Franz Köller Austria and Count von Truchsess-Waldburg Prussia. Campbell, who had an informal meeting with him that evening, found him unshaven and dishevelled, and ‘in the most perturbed and distressed state of mind’. Tears poured down his face when he spoke of being separated from his wife and child, and he paced up and down the room ‘like a caged beast’.14
The next day, 20 April, he rose early and had a final conference with Maret, who was to stay behind and who would be his main correspondent in France. He then wrote to Caulaincourt, whom he had sent on a mission to Paris the previous
day, thanking him for his loyal service. He also wrote a letter to Marie-Louise, which he handed to Bausset, who was to accompany her to Vienna, expressing his hope that once she had recovered and he was installed on Elba she would join him there.
He then received the commissioners. He was cool with the Russian, expressing anger at Alexander’s fawning over Josephine at Malmaison, saying it was an insult to him, and appearing jealous of the tsar’s popularity with the Parisians. He also protested at having to go to Elba without his wife and child, and stated that he would insist on being taken to captivity in England instead. He ignored the Prussian but was consistently polite with Köller, meaning to maintain the best possible relations with his father-in-law, and cordial with Campbell, as he had never quite shed his admiration for the British. He had demanded to be taken to Elba on a British ship, as he did not wish to place himself in the hands of the provisional government, with some reason.15
Just before midday he came down into the grand courtyard of Fontainebleau, in which the first regiment of grenadiers of the Old Guard was drawn up. Beyond, a crowd was gathered at the railings to catch sight of him for the last time. He made a short speech, reminding his men of the glory they had shared and asking them never to forget him. Saying he could not embrace them all, he embraced their colours and kissed the eagle that topped the shaft. Everyone, including the allied commissioners, was in tears. ‘Farewell, my children,’ he concluded. Captain Coignet ‘shed tears of blood’, while Colonel Paulin admitted that he ‘cried like a child who has lost his mother’.16
Napoleon climbed into his carriage, followed by Bertrand. He was in tears himself. The convoy of fourteen carriages drawn by sixty horses set off for the south coast, escorted by mounted chasseurs, cuirassiers and grenadiers of the Guard. Another convoy, consisting of baggage wagons and simple carriages, bearing furniture, furnishings, china, table silver and 695 books, under the supervision of Peyrusse and a skeleton staff, had been despatched already. The 700 or so troops who had volunteered to accompany their emperor into exile took a different route.17
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