CHAPTER III:  PARIS—­VALENCE—­LYONS—­CORSICA 1785-1793

The feeling among the larger boys at Brienne at Napoleon’s departure was much the same as that experienced by Joseph when his soon to-be-famous brother departed from Corsica.  The smaller boys regretted his departure, since it had been one of their greatest pleasures to watch Napoleon disciplining the upper classmen, but Bonaparte was as glad to go as the elders were to have him.

“Brienne is good enough in its way,” said he; “but what’s the use of fighting children?  It’s merely a waste of time cracking a youngster’s skull with a snowball when you can go out into the real world and let daylight into a man’s whole system with a few ounces of grape-shot.”

He had watched developments at Paris, too, with the keenest interest, and was sufficiently far-seeing to know that the troubles of the King and Queen and their aristocratic friends boded well for a man fond of a military life who had sense enough to be on the right side.  That it took an abnormal degree of intelligence to know which was the right side in those troublous days he also realized, and hence he cultivated that taciturnity and proneness to irritability which we have already mentioned.

“If it had not been for my taciturnity, Talleyrand,” he observed, when in the height of his power, “I should have got it in the neck.”

“Got what in the neck?” asked Talleyrand.

“The guillotine,” rejoined the Emperor.  “It was the freedom of speech which people of those sanguinary days allowed themselves that landed many a fine head in the basket.  As for me, I simply held my tongue with both hands, and when I wearied of that I called some one in to hold it for me.  If I had filled the newspapers with ‘Interviews with Napoleon Bonaparte,’ and articles on ’Where is France at?’ with monographs in the leading reviews every month on ‘Why I am what I am,’ and all such stuff as that, I’d have condensed my career into one or two years, and ended by having my head divorced from my shoulders in a most commonplace fashion.  Taciturnity is a big thing when you know how to work it, and so is proneness to irritability.  The latter keeps you from making friends, and I didn’t want any friends just then.  They were luxuries which I couldn’t afford.  You have to lend money to friends; you have to give them dinners and cigars, and send bonbons to their sisters.  A friend in those days would have meant bankruptcy of the worst sort.  Furthermore, friends embarrass you when you get into public office, and try to make you conspicuous when you’d infinitely prefer to saw wood and say nothing.  I took my loneliness straight, and that is one of the reasons why I am now the Emperor of France, and your master.”

Before entering the army a year at a Parisian military school kept Bonaparte busy.  There, as at Brienne, he made his influence felt.  He found his fellow-pupils at Paris living in a state of luxury that was not in accord with his ideas as to what a soldier should have.  Whether or not his new school-mates, after the time-honored custom, tossed him in a blanket on the first night of his arrival, history does not say, but Bonaparte had hardly been at the school a week when he complained to the authorities that there was too much luxury in their system for him.

“Cadets do not need feather-beds and eider-down quilts,” he said; “and as for the sumptuous viands we have served at mealtime, they are utterly inappropriate.  I’d rather have a plate of Boston baked beans or steaming buckwheat cakes to put my mind into that state which should characterize the thinking apparatus of a soldier than a dozen of the bouchees financieres and lobster Newburgs and other made-dishes which you have on your menu.  Made-dishes and delicate beverages make one mellow and genial of disposition.  What we need is the kind of food that will destroy our amiability and put us in a frame of mind calculated to make willing to kill our best friends—­ nay, our own brothers and sisters—­if occasion arises, with a smiling face.  Look at me.  I could kill my brother Joseph, dear as he is to me, and never shed a tear, and it’s buckwheat-cakes and waffles that have done it!”

Likewise he abhorred dancing.

“Away with dancing men!” he cried, impatiently, at one time when in the height of his power, to his Minister of War.  “Suppose when I was crossing the Alps my soldiers had been of your dancing sort.  How far would I have got if every time the band played a two-step my grenadiers had dropped their guns to pirouette over those snow-white wastes?  Let the diplomats do the dancing.  For soldiers give me men to whom the polka is a closed book and the waltz an abomination.”

Holding these views, he naturally failed to win the sympathy of his fellows at the Paris school who, young nobles for the most part, could not understand his point of view.  So, having nothing else to do, he applied himself solely to his studies and to reflection, and it was the happiest moment of his life up to that time when, having passed his examinations for entrance to the regular army, he received his commission as a second lieutenant.

“Now we’re off!” he said to himself, as he surveyed himself in the mirror, after donning his uniform.

“It does not set very well in the back,” remarked one of the maids of the pension in which he lived, glancing in at the door.

“It does not matter,” returned Bonaparte, loftily.  “As long as it sets well in front I’m satisfied; for you should know, madame, that a true soldier never shows his back, and that is the kind of a military person I am.  A false front would do for me.  I am no tin soldier, which in after-years it will interest you to remember.  When you are writing your memoirs this will make an interesting anecdote.”

From this it is to be inferred that at this time he had no thought of Moscow.  Immediately after his appointment Bonaparte repaired to Valence, where his regiment was stationed and where he formed a strong attachment for the young daughter of Madame du Colombier, with whom, history records, he ate cherries before breakfast.  This was his sole dissipation at that time, but his felicity was soon to be interrupted.  His regiment was ordered to Lyons, and Bonaparte and his love were parted.

“Duty calls me, my dear,” he said, on leaving her.  “I would stay if I could, but I can’t, and, on the whole, it is just as well.  If I stayed I should marry you, and that would never do.  You cannot support me, nor I you.  We cannot live on cherries, and as yet my allowance is an ingrowing one—­which is to say that it goes from me to my parent, and not from my parent to me.  Therefore, my only love, farewell.  Marry some one else.  There are plenty of men who are fond of cherries before breakfast, and there is no reason why one so attractive as you should not find a lover.”

The unhappy girl was silent for a moment.  Then, with an ill-suppressed sob, she bade him go.

“You are right, Napoleon,” she said.  “Go.  Go where duty calls you, and if you get tired of Lyons—­”

“Yes?” he interrupted, eagerly.

“Try leopards!” she cried, rushing from his embrace into the house.

Bonaparte never forgave this exhibition of flippancy, though many years after, when he learned that his former love, who had married, as he had bade her do, and suffered, was face to face with starvation, it is said, on the authority of one of his ex-valet’s memoirs, that he sent her a box of candied cherries from one of the most expensive confectionery-shops of Paris.

After a brief sojourn at Lyons, Napoleon was summoned with his regiment to quell certain popular tumults at Auxonne.  There he distinguished himself as a handler of mobs, and learned a few things that were of inestimable advantage to him later.  Speaking of it in after-years, he observed:  “It is my opinion, my dear Emperor Joseph, that grape-shot is the only proper medicine for a mob.  Some people prefer to turn the hose on them, but none of that for me.  They fear water as they do death, but they get over water.  Death is more permanent.  I’ve seen many a rioter, made respectable by a good soaking, return to the fray after he had dried out, but in all my experience I have never known a man who was once punctured by a discharge of grape-shot who took any further interest in rioting.”

About this time he began to regulate his taciturnity.  On occasions he had opinions which he expressed most forcibly.  In 1790, having gone to an evening reception at Madame Neckar’s, he electrified his hostess and her guests by making a speech of some five hundred words in length, too long to be quoted here in full, but so full of import and delivered with such an air of authority that La Fayette, who was present, paled visibly, and Mirabeau, drawing Madame de Stael to one side, whispered, trembling with emotion, “Who is that young person?”

Whether this newly acquired tendency to break in upon the reserve which had hitherto been the salient feature of his speech had anything to do with it or not we are not aware, but shortly afterwards Napoleon deemed it wise to leave his regiment for a while, and to return to his Corsican home on furlough.  Of course an affecting scene was enacted by himself and his family when they were at last reunited.  Letitia, his fond mother, wept tears of joy, and Joseph, shaking him by the hand, rushed, overcome with emotion, from the house.  Napoleon shortly after found him weeping in the garden.

“Why so sad, Joseph?” he inquired.  “Are you sorry I have returned?”

“No, dear Napoleon,” said Joseph, turning away his head to hide his tears, “it is not that.  I was only weeping because—­because, in the nature of things, you will have to go away again, and—­the—­the idea of parting from you has for the moment upset my equilibrium.”

“Then we must proceed to restore it,” said Napoleon, and, taking Joseph by the right arm, he twisted it until Joseph said that he felt quite recovered.

Napoleon’s stay at Corsica was quite uneventful.  Fearing lest by giving way to love of family, and sitting and talking with them in the luxuriously appointed parlor below-stairs, he should imbibe too strong a love for comfort and ease, and thus weaken his soldierly instincts, as well as break in upon that taciturnity which, as we have seen, was the keynote of his character, he had set apart for himself a small room on the attic floor, where he spent most of his time undisturbed, and at the same time made Joseph somewhat easier in his mind.

“When he’s up-stairs I am comparatively safe,” said Joseph.  “If he stayed below with us I fear I should have a return of my nervous prostration.”

Meantime, Napoleon was promoted to a first lieutenancy, and shortly after, during the Reign of Terror in Paris, having once more for the moment yielded to an impulse to speak out in meeting, he denounced anarchy in unmeasured terms, and was arrested and taken to Paris.

“It was a fortunate arrest for me,” he said.  “There I was in Corsica with barely enough money to pay my way back to the capital.  Arrested, the State had to pay my fare, and I got back to active political scenes on a free pass.  As for the trial, it was a farce, and I was triumphantly acquitted.  The jury was out only fifteen minutes.  I had so little to say for myself that the judges began to doubt if I had any ideas on any subject—­or, as one of them said, having no head to mention, it would be useless to try and cut it off.  Hence my acquittal and my feeling that taciturnity is the mother of safety.”

Then came the terrible attack of the mob upon the Tuileries on the 20th of June, 1792.  Napoleon was walking in the street with Bourrienne when the attack began.

“There’s nothing like a lamp-post for an occasion like this, it broadens one’s views so,” he said, rapidly climbing up a convenient post, from which he could see all that went on.  “I didn’t know that this was the royal family’s reception-day.  Do you want to know what I think?”

“Mumm is the word,” whispered Bourrienne.  “This is no time to have opinions.”

“Mumm may be the word, but water is the beverage.  Mumm is too dry.  What this crowd needs is a good wetting down,” retorted Bonaparte.  “If I were Louis XVI.  I’d turn the hose on these tramps, and keep them at bay until I could get my little brass cannon loaded.  When I had that loaded, I’d let them have a few balls hot from the bat.  This is what comes of being a born king.  Louis doesn’t know how to talk to the people.  He’s all right for a state-dinner, but when it comes to a mass-meeting he is not in it.”

And then as the King, to gratify the mob, put the red cap of Jacobinism upon his head, the man who was destined before many years to occupy the throne of France let fall an ejaculation of wrath.

“The wretches!” he cried.  “How little they know!  They’ve only given him another hat to talk through!  They’ll have to do their work all over again, unless Louis takes my advice and travels abroad for his health.”

These words were prophetic, for barely two months later the second and most terrible and portentous attack upon the palace took place—­ an attack which Napoleon witnessed, as he had witnessed the first, from a convenient lamp-post, and which filled him with disgust and shame; and it was upon that night of riot and bloodshed that he gave utterance to one of his most famous sayings.

“Bourrienne,” said he, as with his faithful companions he laboriously climbed the five flights of stairs leading to his humble apartment, “I hate the aristocrats, as you know; and to-day has made me hate the populace as well.  What is there left to like?”

“Alas! lieutenant, I cannot say,” said Bourrienne, shaking his head sadly.

“What,” continued Napoleon, “is the good of anything?”

“I give it up,” returned Bourrienne, with a sigh.  “I never was good at riddles.  What is the good of anything?”

“Nothing!” said Napoleon, laconically, as he took off his uniform and went to bed.