CHAPTER XI:  ELBA—­THE RETURN—­WATERLOO—­ST. HELENA 1814-1815

Bonaparte’s spirits rose as the party proceeded.  There were remarkable evidences all along the line of march that his greatness, while dimmed in one sense, had not diminished in others.  A series of attacks upon him had been arranged, much to the fallen Emperor’s delight.

“If you want to make a fellow popular, Bertrand,” he remarked after one of them, “kick him when he’s down.  I’ll wager I am having a better time now than Louis XVIII., and, after all, I regard this merely as a vacation.  I’ll have a good rest at Elba while Louis is pushing the button of government at Paris.  After a while I’ll come back and press the buttons and Louis will do the rest.  There’s some honey in the old Bees yet.”

At Valence, however, the Emperor had a bitter cup to drain.  Meeting Augereau there, with whom he had fallen out, he addressed him in his old-time imperial style, asking him what right he had to still live, and requesting him to stand out of his light.  Augereau, taking advantage of the Emperor’s fallen estate, replied in a spirited manner, calling Napoleon an ex-Emperor and a tin soldier, as well as applying several other epithets to his dethroned majesty which might be printed in a French book, but can have no place in this.

“We shall meet again,” retorted Bonaparte, with a threatening gesture.

“Not if I see you first,” replied Augereau.  “If we do, however, it will be under a new system of etiquette.”

“I’ll bet you a crown you’ll be singing a new tune inside of a year,” cried the exasperated Bonaparte.

“I’ll go you,” said Augereau, snapping his fingers.  “Put up your crown.”

Napoleon felt keenly the stinging satire of this retort.  Bowing his head with a groan, he had to acknowledge that he had no crown, but in an instant he recovered.

“But I have a Napoleon left in my clothes!” he cried, with a dry laugh at his own wit.  “I’ll bet it against your income for the next forty centuries, which is giving you large odds, that I shall return, and when I do, Monsieur Augereau, your name will be Denis.”

The appreciation of those about them of this sally so enraged Augereau that he was discomfited utterly, and he left Bonaparte’s presence muttering words which are fortunately forgotten.

Arrived at Cannes, Bonaparte had his choice of vessels upon which to make his voyage to Elba, one English and one French.  “I’ll take the English.  I shall not trust my life to a Bourbon ship if I know myself.  I’d rather go to sea in a bowl,” said he.

Hence it was that an English vessel, the Undaunted, had the honor of transporting the illustrious exile to his island dominion.  On the 4th of May he landed, and immediately made a survey of his new kingdom.

“It isn’t large,” he observed, as he made a memorandum of its dimensions, “but neither is a canvas-back duck.  I think we can make something of it, particularly as the people seem glad to see me.”

This was indeed the truth.  The Elbese were delighted to have Bonaparte in their midst.  They realized that excursion steamers which had hitherto passed them by would now come crowded from main-top to keel with persons desirous of seeing the illustrious captive.  Hotel rates rose 200 per cent., and on the first Sunday of his stay on the island the receipts of the Island Museum, as it was now called, were sufficient to pay its taxes to the French government, which had been in arrears for some time, ten times over.

“I feel like an ossified man or a turtle-boy,” said the Emperor to Bertrand, as the curious visitors gaped awe-stricken at the caged lion.  “If I only had a few pictures of myself to sell these people I could buy up the national debt, foreclose the mortgage, and go back to France as its absolute master.”

The popularity of Bonaparte as an attraction to outsiders so endeared him to the hearts of his new subjects that he practically had greater sway here than he ever had in the palmy days of the Empire.  The citizens made him master of everything, and Bonaparte filled the role to the full.  Provided with guards and servants, he surrounded himself with all the gaud and glitter of a military despotism, and, in default of continents to capture, he kept his hand in trim as a commander by the conquest of such small neighboring islands as nature had placed within reach, but it could hardly be expected that he could long remain tranquil.  His eyes soon wearied of the circumscribed limits of Elba.

“It’s all very well to be monarch of all you survey, Bertrand,” said he, mournfully, “but as for me, give me some of the things that can’t be seen.  I might as well be that old dried-up fig of a P. T. Olemy over there in Egypt as Emperor of a vest-pocket Empire like this.  Isn’t there any news from France?”

“Yes,” returned Bertrand, “Paris is murmuring again.  Louis hasn’t stopped eating yet, and the French think it’s time his dinner was over.”

“Ha!” cried Bonaparte in ecstasy.  “I thought so.  He’s too much of a revivalist to suit Paris.  Furthermore, I’m told he’s brought out his shop-worn aristocracy to dazzle France again.  They’re all wool and a yard wide, but you needn’t think my handmade nobility is going to efface itself just because the Montmorencies and the Rohans don’t ask it out to dine.  My dukes and duchesses will have something to say, I fancy, and if my old laundress, the Duchess of Dantzig, doesn’t take the starch out of the old regime I’ll be mightily mistaken.”

And this was the exact situation.  As Bonaparte said, the old regime by their hauteur so enraged the new regime that by the new year of 1815 it was seen by all except those in authority that the return of the exile, Corporal Violet, as he was now called, was inevitable.  So it came about that on the 20th of February, his pockets stuffed with impromptu addresses to the people and the army, Bonaparte, eluding those whose duty it was to watch him, set sail, and on the 1st of March he reached Cannes, whence he immediately marched, gaining recruits at every step, to Paris.

At Lyons he began to issue his impromptu addresses, and they were in his best style.

“People of France,” ran one, “I am refreshed, and have returned to resume business at the old stand.  March 21st will be bargain day, and I have on hand a select assortment of second-hand goods.  One king, one aristocracy, much worn and slightly dog-eared, and a monarchy will be disposed of at less than cost.  Come early and avoid the rush.  A dukedom will be given away with every purchase.  Do not forget the address—­The Tuileries, Paris.”

This was signed “Napoleon, Emperor.”  Its effect was instantaneous, and the appointment was faithfully kept, for on the evening of March 20th the Emperor, amid great enthusiasm, entered the Tuileries, where he was met by all his old friends, including Fouche.

“Fouche,” he said, as he entered the throne-room, “give my card to Louis the XVIII., and ask him if his luggage is ready.  Make out his bill, and when he has paid it, tell him that I have ordered the 6:10 train to start at 9:48.  He can easily catch it.”

“He has already departed, Sire,” returned Fouche.  “He had an imperative engagement in the Netherlands.  In his haste he left his crown hanging on the hat-rack in the hall.”

“Well, send it to him,” replied Bonaparte.  “I don’t want his crown.  I want my own.  It shall never be said that I robbed a poor fellow out of work of his hat.”

Settled once more upon his imperial throne, the main question which had previously agitated the Emperor and his advisers, and particularly his stage-manager, Fouche, whom he now restored to his old office, came up once more.  “What next?” and it was harder to answer than ever, for Bonaparte’s mind was no longer alert.  He was listless and given to delay, and, worst of all, invariably sleepy.  It was evident that Elba had not proved as restful as had been hoped.

“You should not have returned,” said Fouche, firmly.  “America was the field for you.  That’s where all great actors go sooner or later, and they make fortunes.  A season in New York would have made you a new man.  As it is you are an old man.  It seems to me that if an Irishman can leave Queenstown with nothing but his brogue and the clothes on his back and become an alderman of New York or Chicago inside of two years, you with all the advertising you’ve had ought to be able to get into Congress anyhow—­you’ve got money enough for the Senate.”

“But they are not my children, those Americans,” remonstrated Napoleon, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“Well, France isn’t the family affair it once was, either,” retorted Fouche, “and you’ll find it out before long.  However, we’ve got to do the best we can.  Swear off your old ways and come out as a man of Peace.  Flatter the English, and by all means don’t ask your mother-in-law Francis Joseph to send back the only woman you ever loved.  He’s got her in Vienna, and he’s going to keep her if he has to put her in a safe-deposit vault.”

It would have been well for Napoleon had he heeded this advice, but as he walked about the Tuileries alone, and listened in vain for the King of Rome’s demands for more candy, and failed to see that interesting infant sliding down the banisters and loading his toy cannons with his mother’s face-powder, he was oppressed by a sense of loneliness, and could not resist the temptation to send for them.

“This will be the last chip I’ll put on my shoulder, Fouche,” he pleaded.

“Very well,” returned Fouche.  “Put it there, but I warn you.  This last chip will break the Empire’s back.”

The demand was made upon Austria, and, as Fouche had said, the answer was a most decided refusal, and the result was war.  Again the other powers allied against Napoleon.  The forces of the enemy were placed under Wellington.  Bonaparte led his own in person, buying a new uniform for the purpose.  “We can handle them easily enough,” said he, “if I can only keep awake.  My situation at present reminds me so much of the old Bromide days that I fall asleep without knowing it by a mere association of ideas.  Still, we’ll whip ’em out of their boots.”

“What boots?” demanded Fouche.

“Their Wellingtons and their Bluchers,” retorted the Emperor, thereby showing that, sleepy as he was, he had not lost his old-time ability at repartee.

For once he was over-confident.  He fought desperately and triumphantly for three or four days, but the fates held Waterloo in store.  Routing the enemy at Ligny and Quatre Bras, he pushed on to where Wellington stood in Belgium, where, on the 18th of June, was fought the greatest of his battles.

“Now for the transformation scene,” said Bonaparte on the eve of the battle.  “If the weather is good we’ll make these foreigners wish they had worn running-shoes instead of Wellingtons.”

But the weather was not clear.  It was excessively wet, and by nightfall Bonaparte realized that all was over.  His troops were in fine condition, but the rain seemed to have put out the fires of the Commander’s genius.  As the Imperial Guard marched before him in review the Emperor gazed upon them fondly.

“They’re like a picture!” he cried, enthusiastically.  “Just see that line.”

“Yes,” returned Ney.  “Very like a picture; they remind me in a way of a comic paper print, but that is more suitable for framing than for fighting.”

The Emperor making no response, Ney looked up and observed that his Majesty had fallen asleep.  “That settles it,” he sighed.  “To-day is the Waterloo of Napoleon Bonaparte.  When a man sleeps at a moment like this his friends would better prepare for a wake.”

And Ney was right.  Waterloo was the Waterloo of Napoleon Bonaparte.  The opposing armies met in conflict, and, as the world knows, the star of the great soldier was obscured forever, and France was conquered.  Ruined in his fortunes, Bonaparte at once returned to Paris.

“Is there a steamer for New York to-night, Fouche?” he asked, as, completely worn out, he threw himself upon his throne and let his chin hang dejectedly over his collar.

“No, Sire,” returned Fouche, with an ill-concealed chuckle.  “There is not.  You’ve missed your chance by two days.  Then isn’t another boat for ten days.”

“Then I am lost,” sobbed Napoleon.

“Yes, Sire, you are,” returned Fouche.  “Shall I offer a reward to anybody who will find you and return you in good order?”

“No,” replied the Emperor.  “I will give myself up.”

“Wise man!” said Fouche, unsympathetically.  “You’re such a confounded riddle that I wonder you didn’t do it long ago.”

“Ah, Fouche!” sighed the Emperor, taking his crown out of his wardrobe and crushing it in his hands until the diamonds fell out upon the floor, “this shows the futility of making war without preparing for it by study.  When I was a young man I was a student.  I knew the pages of history by heart, and I learned my lessons well.  While I was the student I was invincible.  In mimic as in real war I was the conqueror.  Everything I undertook came about as I had willed because I was the master of facts—­I dealt in facts, and I made no mistakes.  To-day I am a conquered man, and all because I have neglected to continue the study of the history of my people—­of my adopted native land.”

“Humph!” retorted Fouche.  “I don’t see how that would have helped matters any.  All the history in creation could not have won the battle of Waterloo for you.”

“Fool that you are!” cried Napoleon, desperately, rising.  “Can’t you see?  Anybody who knows anything about the history of France knows that the battle of Waterloo resulted fatally for me.  Had I known that, do you suppose I’d have gone there?  Not I!  I’d have gone fishing in the South of France instead, and this would not have happened.  Leave me!  I wish to be alone.”

Left to his own reflections Bonaparte paced his room for hours.  Then, tapping his bell, he summoned one of his faithful adherents.

“Monsieur le B-,” he said, as the attendant entered, “you have heard the news?”

“Yes, Sire,” sobbed Le B-.

“Do I not carry myself well in the hour of defeat?”

“You do, Your Majesty.”

“Am I pale, Le B-?”

“No—­no—­oh, no, not at all, Sire.”

“Tell me the truth, Le B-.  We must not let the enemy find us broken when they arrive.  How do I look?  Out with it.”

“Out of sight, Sire!” replied Le B-, bending backward as far as he could, and gazing directly at the ceiling.

“Then bring on your invader, and let us hear the worst,” ordered Napoleon, encouraged by Le B-’s assurances.

A few days later, Bonaparte, having nothing else to do, once more abdicated, and threw himself upon the generosity of the English people.

“I was only fooling, anyhow,” he said, with a sad smile.  “If you hadn’t sent me to Elba I wouldn’t have come back.  As for the fighting, you all said I was outside of the pale of civilization, and I had to fight.  I didn’t care much about getting back into the pail, but I really objected to having it said that I was in the tureen.”

This jest completely won the hearts of the English who were used to just such humor, who loved it, and who, many years later, showed that love by the establishment of a comic journal as an asylum for bon-mots similarly afflicted.  The result was, not death, but a new Empire, the Island of St. Helena.

“This,” said Wellington, “will serve to make his jokes more far-fetched than ever; so that by sending him there we shall not only be gracious to a fallen foe, but add to the gayety of our nation.”