Emperor, who had not been well the preceding evening, was still indisposed this morning, and sent word that it would be impossible for him to receive the officers of the 53rd, as he had appointed. He sent for me about the middle of the day, and we again perused some chapters of the Campaign of Italy. I compared that which treats of the battle of Arcole to a book of the Iliad.
Some time before the dinner-hour, he assembled us all around him in his chamber. A servant entered to announce that dinner was ready; he sent us away, but, as I was going out last, he called me back. “Stay here,” said he, “we will dine together. Let the young people go; we old folks will keep one another company.” He then determined to dress, intending, as he said, to go into the drawing-room after dinner.
While he was dressing, he put his hand on his left thigh, where there was a deep scar. He called my attention to it by laying his finger in it; and, finding that I did not understand what it was, he told me that it was the mark of a bayonet wound by which he had nearly lost his limb, at the siege of Toulon. Marchand, who was dressing him, here took the liberty of remarking that the circumstance was well known on board the Northumberland; that one of the crew had told him, on going on board, that it was an Englishman who first wounded our Emperor.
The Emperor, on this, observed that people had in general wondered and talked a great deal of the singular good fortune which had preserved him, as it were, invulnerable in so many battles. “They were mistaken,” added he; “the only reason was that I always made a secret of all my dangers.” He then related that he had had three horses killed under him at the siege of Toulon; several others killed and wounded in his campaigns of Italy; and three or four at the siege of St. Jean-d’Acre. He added that he had been wounded several times; that, at the battle of Ratisbon, a ball had struck his heel; and at the battle of Esling, or Wagram, I cannot say which, another had torn his boot and stocking, and grazed the skin of his left leg. In 1814, he lost a horse and his hat at Arcis-sur-Aube, or in its neighbourhood. After the battle of Brienne, as he was returning to head-quarters in the evening, in a melancholy and pensive mood, he was suddenly attacked by some Cossacks, who had passed over into the rear of the army. He thrust one of them off with his hand, and was obliged to draw his sword in his own defence; several of the Cossacks were killed at his side. “But what renders this circumstance very extraordinary,” said he, “is, that it took place near a tree which at that moment caught my eye, and which I recognized as the very one under which, when I was but twelve years old, I used to sit during play-hours and read Jerusalem Delivered.” ... Doubtless on that spot Napoleon had been first fired by the love of glory!
The Emperor repeated that he had been very frequently exposed to danger in his different battles, but it was carefully kept secret. He had enjoined once for all, the most absolute silence on all circumstances of that nature. He said that it would be impossible to calculate the confusion and disorder which might have resulted from the slightest report or the smallest doubt relative to his existence. On his life depended the fate of a great Empire, and the whole policy and destinies of Europe. He added that this habit of keeping circumstances of that kind secret had prevented him from relating them in his campaigns; and indeed he had now almost forgotten them. It was only, he said, by mere accident, and in the course of conversation, that they could recur to him.
MY CONVERSATION WITH AN ENGLISHMAN.
26th.—The Emperor continued indisposed.
One of the English gentlemen, whose wife had yesterday been refused admittance, in company with the Admiral, paid me a visit this morning, with the view of making another and a final attempt to get presented to Napoleon. This gentleman spoke French very well, having resided in France during the whole of the war. He was one of those individuals who were known at the time by the title of detenus: who, having visited France as travellers, were arrested there by the First Consul, on the rupture of the treaty of Amiens, by way of reprisal for the seizure of our merchant-ships by the English Government, according to its custom, before the declaration of war. This event gave rise to a long and animated discussion between the two Governments; and even prevented, during the whole of the war, a cartel for the exchange of prisoners. The English ministers persisted in refusing to consider their detained countrymen as prisoners, lest they should, in so doing, make an implicit renunciation of what may perhaps be called their right of piracy. However, their obstinacy cost their countrymen a long captivity. They were detained in France more than ten years; their absence was as long and as irksome, though not so glorious, as that of the besiegers of Troy.
This English gentleman was a brother-in-law of Admiral Burton, the Commander on the Indian station, who lately died. This circumstance might very possibly procure for him an immediate communication with Ministers on his arrival in England. He might perhaps have been appointed by the Admiral to be the bearer of intelligence respecting us. Instead, therefore, of declining conversation, I prolonged it. It lasted more than two hours, and was all calculated on my part with a view to what he might repeat to the Admiral, or communicate to the Government or private circles in England. I will not tire my readers by a recital of it. They would only find the same eternal recapitulation of our reproaches and grievances: a repetition of our complaints and vexations: a continued exposure of the violation of those laws that are esteemed most sacred; of the outrage on our good faith; of the arrogance, impudence, and petty insolence of power. I dwelt particularly on the ill-treatment to which we were here exposed; and on the caprices of the individual who was appointed our keeper. “His glory,” said I, “should consist, not in oppressing, but in relieving us. He should endeavour to make us forget, by his attentions, all the rigour and injustice of his country’s policy. Can he court the reprobation of mankind, when his good fortune enables him to connect his name gloriously with that of the man of the age, the hero of history? Can he object that he is bound by his instructions? But even then, in the spirit of our European manners, honour enables him to interpret them in a suitable manner.”
The Englishman listened to me with great attention. He seemed occasionally to take particular interest in what I said; and expressed his approbation of several of my remarks. But was he sincere, and will he not express very different sentiments in London?
Whenever a ship arrives in England from St. Helena, the public papers immediately give insertion to various stories relative to the captives at Longwood, of so false and absurd a nature, as must necessarily render them ridiculous to the great mass of the public. When we expressed our indignation at these idle reports in the presence of honourable and distinguished Englishmen here, they replied: “Do not deceive yourselves, these false accounts proceed not from our countrymen who visit you; but from our Ministers in London; for, to the excess and violence of power, the administration by which we are now ruled adds all the meanness of the lowest and vilest intrigues.”
ON THE FRENCH EMIGRANTS.—KINDNESS SHEWN BY
THE ENGLISH.—RESOURCES OF THE EMIGRANTS.
27th.—The Emperor felt himself better, and rode out on horseback about one o’clock. On his return he received the officers of the 53rd, and behaved to them in the most amiable and condescending manner.
After this visit, the Emperor, who had desired me to remain with him, walked in the garden. I there gave him an account of the conversation I had had the day before with the Englishman. He then asked me some questions relative to the French emigrants, London, and the English. I told him that though the emigrants in a body did not like the English, yet there were few who did not become attached to some Englishman or other: that though the English were not fond of the emigrants, yet there were few English families who did not shew themselves friendly to some of the French. This
