Mrs. Hugh Fraser

Beauty of Naples—Figures of Its History—St. Januarius—Murat, King of Naples—Achievements as King—The Carbonari—England’s Promises—Napoleonic Diplomacy—Rise of the Bourbons—Alliance with Austria—Murat’s Indecision—Distrust of the Allies—Murat’s Statesmanship—Talleyrand’s Diplomacy—Naples, the Gay—Conspiracy in the Palace—The Escape from Elba—Ideal Government—War Against Murat—Advance of the Austrians—Murat Driven to Naples—Interview with His Wife—Last Instructions to His Ministers—Escape.

The fairest and, in some respects, the wickedest spot on the face of the earth is that wonder city, that broods by the “tideless, dolorous, midland sea,” Vesuvius, smoking like some monstrous chimney of hell behind her, the deep blue, translucent glory of the sea like a drift of Our Blessed Lady’s mantle before.

Travelling round that bay and on around the point towards Calabria, hardly a dreamy mile goes by that some of the history of thousands of years ago does not present itself.

It has been the home of saints and of scholars; of soldiers a few, of statesmen a-many, of some of the most beautiful characters that ever walked the earth, and of some of the very worst that ever polluted the world with their presence. At the top of the list stands St. Januarius, Bishop of Benevento, who with six of his companions came to Naples during the ninth persecution to comfort and strengthen the Faithful, and who being seized with his companions was taken to Pozzuoli, and there flung to the wild beasts; who, when they refused to harm him, was plunged into a blazing furnace, out of which he came intact, and was thereafter beheaded; but who stands at the bottom, I should be afraid to say. At this point there is an “embarras de richesses!”

Of all the landmarks of history with which the Kingdom of Naples is dotted none, perhaps, is more rich in Romance or more imbued with the spirit of Tragedy than a certain straggling, half-ruined castle near the little village of Pizzo, upon the coast of Calabria.

A round tower, grey and sullen with age, faces the sea; in the wall of it is set a small, heavily barred window, through which one of the very few comparatively good Kings of Naples looked his last upon a world which had seen him rise from a peasant to a monarch.

There is neither space nor need to recapitulate here the life of Murat. Italy, Russia, Germany, Austria, Egypt had felt the tread of his all-shattering squadrons, whose onset no horse or foot of continental Europe had ever been able to withstand. The Dictator of Europe had given him his sister for a wife. Naples had been proud to own him for her King. Glory, wealth, splendour had been his, and he could have kept them—I think it is safe to say that he could have kept them—had he been able to stand firm. But he had not the strength, even when he joined the Coalition in 1814. While he was still fighting EugÈne, he could not resist the temptation to intrigue with the Viceroy, who of course instantly saw to it that the Allies were notified of the fact. In those stormy days nobody trusted his neighbour, nor did any one blame his neighbour particularly for trying to keep his political balance in any way that he could; so that Murat’s—inconsistency, let us call it—was not held against him afterwards. The Bourbons were not popular, either, and Ferdinand, that perfect product of the hapless, helpless race, was generally detested. It must be said for the Bourbons that their sins are, as a rule, of the negative sort, and cruelty is not one of them. Ferdinand, however, besides being a spineless king, was a brute and a coward, which again are not Bourbon traits.

Joachim Murat’s position was always a difficult one, to be sure. Although King of Naples, he was in Napoleon’s time only a king at his imperial brother-in-law’s pleasure, and regarded by the latter as little more than a proconsul, elevated to a throne in order to carry out his master’s wishes. At the same time he was conscientious enough to attempt the task of being a real king—and a good one. He loved the “flair” of kingship, but he did recognise some of his responsibilities towards his subjects and continued, while Napoleon’s back was turned, to govern fairly well. The Neapolitans loved show and noise and ceremony, and they liked the handsome, dashing, open-handed cavalryman. The country was rich, too. In those days, even if the peasants lived like cattle, at least they had plenty to eat and drink, and even now those times are spoken of as a bankrupt speaks of the fat years behind him.

“Era una schiuma d’oro” (It was a froth of gold), said one old man to me, some years ago, “before this government of robbers took possession of it!”

Of all Napoleon’s kinglings, Bernadotte alone contrived to keep his crown, and that may very well have been because Napoleon did not choose him, but only acceded to the popular demand when he let him reign.

Murat came to the throne of the Two Sicilies in 1808, when poor unlucky Joseph was compelled, much against his will, to go to Spain. Joachim was not always popular; indeed, that would have been impossible, in the condition of things which prevailed in 1810 and 1811. He could not always be on the spot, and in his absence he had to trust to his government. This being made up of Neapolitans—both Liberal and otherwise—and of the Frenchmen who had come in with him, did not trust itself, and the King’s authority came to be decentralised beyond all control from the throne. His life was conspired against several times. Once in particular a plot was hatched to assassinate him while he was hunting in the woods of Mondragone, but one of the conspirators turned king’s evidence and the plotters were caught. When they were brought to trial, and their guilt was proved, their advocate was making the best he could of a bad job, when the presiding judge stopped the proceedings to read aloud a paper which he had just received from the King.

“I had hoped,” it said, “that those accused of conspiring against my person might have been proved innocent; but I have heard with regret that the Solicitor-General has demanded a heavy punishment against them all. Their guilt may perhaps be real, but I am desirous of still preserving a ray of hope that they may be innocent, and I hasten to stop the decision of the Tribunal and to pardon the accused. I order that upon receipt of this paper the trial be closed and the unhappy men set at liberty. As the trial concerns a foolish attempt upon my life, and the sentence is not yet pronounced, I do not offend against the law of the State, if without having received a recommendation to mercy I thus use the highest and best prerogative of the Crown.”

Murat set many public works on foot, notably during 1812. Roads and bridges and theatres were built, marshes drained and aqueducts constructed, the most noteworthy of which achievements were the Strada di Posilippo, the Campo di Marte, the observatory on the height of Miradone, and a lunatic asylum. This latter caused a good deal of surprise as well, for lunatics were not generally coddled in that fashion in the Naples of 1812.

In the middle of all this activity, Murat was recalled to Paris, and it was only after many months and many experiences that he set eyes upon his kingdom again. Had his advice, which was to halt the 1812 campaign at Smolensk and establish a settled government in Poland, been followed, it is possible and more than possible that the disastrous affair would have had a different termination, for Napoleon could have kept his communications open; but the Emperor, at that time, suspected Murat and Ney and Rapp, believing that a weariness of war and a desire to reap some of the fruits of their labour was at the bottom of the really excellent counsel that they offered him. And so he pushed on to Moscow, partly from impatience, partly to satisfy the gnawing appetite of the “folie de grandeurs” which had hold of him, partly because he did not trust his own men. “Ours is not an army of position,” he said. “It is an army of attack—not of defence.”

Murat’s conduct during the campaign was such as to extract an unwilling praise even from the Emperor, who was no believer in praise as an agent for anything but the rank and file. Only when Murat left the wreck of the army, the command of which Napoleon had entrusted to him, on the Oder, did the quarrel which the war had drugged into a false quiet break out again.

Napoleon, on hearing of Joachim’s return to his kingdom, wrote a frightful letter to Caroline, and this falling into her husband’s hands drew from him a reply which threatened to break up the relations between the two for all time, and it was only Caroline’s self-control and tact that healed the breach for the time being.

A common danger and the ties of their old comradeship drew them together again when Murat arrived in Bohemia, and then he fought stoutly and well. It is hardly credible and, were it not history, it would be absolutely inconceivable, that, while battling whole-heartedly for the French in Bohemia, Murat was engaged, through his government, in an attempt to unify Italy by the assistance of Great Britain, which was to supply twenty-five thousand men, who, with his own troops and the disaffected Italians in the ranks of the French garrisons, were to drive the Tricolour over the Alps. He contrived to persuade himself that he was honest in his intentions, too, by a process of reasoning peculiar to several of the Emperor’s lieutenants in those times. As Frenchmen they marched with the armies of France, and served her to the best of their splendid ability; as kings and grand dukes, they served their subjects, or thought they did, with equal enthusiasm. Bentinck, however, being an Englishman, failed to understand the presence of their separate political entities in one person, and withdrew, so that the unification of Italy, fortunately, one cannot but think, fell through, and Joachim returned to Naples in 1813.

It was then that the society, known as the Carbonari, who had appeared in the kingdom three years before, began to spread themselves in all classes of society, conspiring in the sweet Italian fashion, which conspires for the sake of the pure delight of intriguing. They had no definite aim. Their professed “raison d’Être” was a vague dream of a vague constitution, “À l’Anglaise.” In such hands, of course, this would have been about as fruitful of any real liberty as the Commune, and none knew this better than Lord William Bentinck; but any stone will do to throw at the Devil, and Lord William hastened to communicate with the liberty-loving thieves, murderers, and brigands who represented the society of Naples. There were, to be sure, some honest men among them, whose hearts were stronger than their heads. There always are a few in these affairs, enticed in by flattery and utterly uninformed as to the real object of their associates, who are pushed to the front for the public to see.

Among these was a certain young gentleman, a man of fortune and courage—a captain of militia in his own town, which stood upon the summit of a high and precipitous mountain. His name was Capobianco (white-head) and, at the time when he came to the notice of the authorities, they had discovered the trafficking of the society with Lord William, who had been sending across volumes containing the new Sicilian laws which had been enacted in that island, under the Bourbons, or, to speak more accurately, had been forced upon the Bourbons by Lord William, under pain of being left to look after themselves and being compelled to fight for their own possessions. The conspirators must have been a simple-minded people, if they really believed that Ferdinand had promulgated anything of the kind without compulsion.

Lord William promised the Neapolitans a similar code, if they would only restore Ferdinand—Lord William was always rather free with his promises—and the Government of Naples, finding the horrid thing in their midst, proscribed the society and threatened with most dreadful punishments any one who mentioned the word constitution. Whereupon the Carbonari dropped down into Calabria and proceeded to shout it aloud, among them young Capobianco.

As it has been said, his town was practically inaccessible, so that, despairing of his capture, General Janelli made a pretence of refusing to believe in his association with the Carbonari; after several ineffectual efforts to entrap him (for Capobianco had a native mistrust of authority under any guise save that of the Church), he one day invited him to dinner upon the occasion of a public festival in Cosenza. Capobianco hesitated, but finally made up his mind to attend, feeling that he would be safe if he took unfrequented byways and surrounded himself with a dependable escort.

He would feel safe, he told himself, in Cosenza, for he intended to arrive when the banquet should be already begun and leave before it was over, and, in the house of the General, he would be in the company of all of the authorities of the province, whose presence he seems to have conceived to be a safeguard, for some reason or another.

So he went and was royally entertained. Healths were drunk, compliments were exchanged, and Capobianco proposed to depart, followed by the salutations of the General. He got no further than the ante-room, though, where the gendarmes were waiting for him. They seized him and dragged him off to prison, where the next morning he was tried by a military commission, condemned, and publicly beheaded before mid-day in the Square.

When this was bruited abroad, some of the “patriots” fled to Sicily and the Bourbons, to breathe, as we are told, “the free atmosphere of Sicily under the Bourbons!” and Joachim’s unpopularity began to assume the proportions of a menace.

Still, however, the better elements were upon his side, perhaps from expediency,—for Murat’s servants would receive short shrift at Ferdinand’s hands should that monarch return,—but they gave Joachim some very good advice among them, even if some of it is rather too subtle. Napoleon’s hands were too full to allow of his interference, and he, in his dealings with the Allies, invariably quoted fifty thousand Neapolitan troops as part of his own force. The Allies knew better, though. Two fatal defects in a ruler are over-craftiness and inconsistency. Murat had both. At one time, as it has been seen, he hastened to pardon those who had conspired against his life; a year later he allowed his own resentment against the Carbonari to lead him into an attempt to crush them by a severity which merely drove them in on each other and made a solid body out of a straggling mob. Before this, with an ideal the meaning of which very few of them understood, the Carbonari—the leaders of the movement, that is to say—were fighting the clouds; but the harrying they received gave them a definite grievance and one that was shared, for purely personal reasons, by thousands who would otherwise never have joined the movement at all.

The craftiness which Murat conceived to be policy delivered him into the hands of men far cleverer than himself, whose life’s business it was to overreach one another.

He was a brave man and a most excellent soldier, but those were not qualities that could help him in the thimble-rigging, knife-in-the-boot game of Napoleonic statecraft, played by men who had not an illusion remaining about each other, and who, with the possible exception of the Russians, had each and all betrayed their neighbours over and over again.

Murat, at Ollendorf upon the shores of Ulm, received several very polite and pressing invitations to an alliance from the Austrian Commissioner, Count von Mier, and he had listened to them, as one of his contemporaries says, without disdain. Wishing, though, to get an idea of what his own people might think of such a suggestion, he consulted two or three of his ministers and generals on the subject. The result did not help him much, for they all held different opinions. One held that France’s welfare was that of Naples, and that with the return of the Bourbons to Paris everything that the Revolution and the Empire had done for Italy would he wiped out; another, that Murat’s duty was to establish himself firmly and hold fast to his throne, whatever might happen to his own people and the Emperor. Upon one point they were all agreed and that was that Murat’s first and most imperative duty was to so order his relations with the Powers as to exclude any possible chance of Ferdinand’s return; it was as to the best way of attaining that desired condition of things that they differed.

“The old and the new era,” said one, advocating the continuance of the existing alliance with France, “are at war with one another, and the victory cannot for the present be assigned to any particular state or people. Should the new triumph, all the social institutions of Europe will, in twenty years’ time, be established upon the basis of the Civil polity introduced by the French; but, if the old, all progress will be arrested and the new States be thrown back towards the hated condition of the past.”

He goes on to remark upon the reliance to be placed upon the word of the Kings then struggling against Napoleon, “for, if kings promise to-day, they will break their words to-morrow.”

The other finishes his address, in which he advises Murat to let France bleed to death by herself, thus:

“Above all, I beseech you not to be caught by false glory, but to believe that there is only one way to preserve your reputation, which is to preserve your Throne!” The military element seems to have been of the same opinion as number two, but Joachim wavered—as well he might, for both parties to the discussion were right. Even if he joined himself to the Allies, it was quite likely that his throne would be taken from him at the first convenient moment. The Bourbons were everywhere, and Spain, Italy, Austria, and presently France, would be filled with them. Their clamour would rise in a hurricane, and what could those who professed to hold their own crowns as gifts from the Almighty say in answer to them? If the Emperor of Austria ruled by Divine Right, he must believe that Ferdinand did the same. If the Divine Right could be disregarded in one case, it could be disregarded in all, and there were plenty of evilly disposed persons who desired nothing better. It would be a weapon in their hands, and they had plenty of weapons already.

In spite of this, and in the face of it, Francis of Austria, by a treaty concluded on the 11th of January, 1814, acknowledged Joachim’s dominion and sovereignty over the States he ruled, and Joachim, as a matter of form, returned the compliment.

Thus Naples was definitely placed in the ranks of France’s enemies, Austria agreeing to furnish thirty thousand men for Italy and Naples thirty thousand, the allied forces to be under the command of the King of Naples, or, in his absence, of the officer highest in rank in the Austrian army.

This, together with a promise that Francis would use his good offices to bring about a reconciliation between Naples and England, as well as with Austria’s allies, was the published treaty, but there were several secret clauses, some of which seem to indicate a lack of humour in the high contracting parties.

Francis, having acknowledged Joachim’s sovereignty, pledged himself to obtain the renunciation of it from Ferdinand (as though the consent of that individual made any difference to anybody!), while Joachim promised, on his part, to indemnify Ferdinand, thereby acknowledging that his own claim was that of force majeure and nothing else; and yet the principle of Ferdinand’s Divine Right was never called into question! But at the same time Murat was in correspondence with General Miollis, commanding the French troops in Rome, and with Barbou and FouchÉ, assuring them of his devotion and attachment to France, and endeavouring to explain away his treaty with Francis on the ground of political necessity!

Miollis withdrew into Sant’ Angelo, and the Neapolitan troops forced the little body of French under Lascolette to shut themselves up in the citadel of Civita Vecchia. But now, after having inaugurated his campaign, Murat’s indecision prevented him from giving any definite orders, and his generals instantly began to suspect him of playing them false.

Proceeding into the States of Rome, he found anarchy prevailing in every direction, and, already torn with conflicting emotions, he found himself the target of generals, magistrates, and Austrian ministers, who maintained that he had not acted up to his part of the treaty.

That roused him, and he woke up from his lethargy long enough to start the Neapolitan troops forward and to settle the civil administration a little. A good many Frenchmen still remained in the Neapolitan army and, in order to retain them, and have some company in his matricidal course, he assured them that the treaty was a feint and that he was working heart and soul for his beloved country. But he so entangled himself with lies that he presently found it difficult to move in any direction without finding the net of them about his feet. The Neapolitans disliked and distrusted the French, because they saw in them a drag upon Joachim’s wheel. The French despised the Neapolitans and presently departed, seeing clearly whither they were being led. Since the only officers of any value in the Neapolitan army were these Frenchmen, Murat was now compelled to rely upon the Germans—that is to say, the very men he had fought against in the preceding year.

The French were not in sufficient numbers to offer any real resistance and it was not long before Civita Vecchia, Sant’ Angelo, Florence, Leghorn, Ferrara, and Ancona were in Murat’s hands.

Bentinck presently landed at Leghorn with fourteen thousand Anglo-Sicilians, and EugÈne, the Viceroy, found himself with fifty thousand men opposed to forty-five thousand Austrians, twenty thousand Neapolitans, eight thousand Germans under Murat and Bentinck’s Anglo-Sicilians.

Of course Murat mistrusted his allies, and the allies returned the compliment with interest. He had no very high opinion of them as soldiers, either, in which he was justified. Bellegarde carried his suspicion so far as to refuse to build a bridge or two over the Po, lest Murat might use them against him, and Murat became convinced that Bellegarde and Bentinck wanted to make him attack the Viceroy in order to injure his troops and his reputation, for what were thirty thousand Neapolitans in the scale against fifty thousand Frenchmen commanded by good officers and in the hands of such generals as EugÈne had on his staff? He discovered, too, that Bentinck, who had landed as his ally, was permitting his Sicilians to distribute pamphlet copies of an edict of Ferdinand’s, reminding the Neapolitans of his rights and exciting them to rise against Joachim. Bentinck was not a very clever man, and here he showed himself to be a fool. He had already given the Duke of Wellington a good deal of trouble by ruining the Duke’s market for specie in Spain, offering a higher price for it than the Duke could afford to give, and by various other ill-judged and ill-timed schemes; now, having Joachim on his side—the one man among them all who could lead an army—he deliberately attempted to ruin his influence in the moment of action, by turning his own men against him, and by siding with Bellegarde in every question of military policy, wherein neither of them were really worthy to be allowed to carry out his, Joachim’s, orders.

From the Austrian monarch, Murat might have expected that sort of thing, for Austria had at one time and another during the last twenty years broken her word to about everybody with whom she had had any dealings. Metternich boasted of it openly, and, had Murat been gifted with a little more political foresight, he might have felt even then the hands that were pulling him down.

It may be said that he hoped for Napoleon’s triumph in the latter’s Homeric fight, nor could he be blamed where all the circumstances are considered. “In every transaction,” says one of his staff, “whether emanating from the rulers of kingdoms or the commanders of the armies that were sitting about in Italy, some perfidy transpired or lay concealed.”

The only people who were really happy at this time were the Neapolitans, who, with the English markets opened, began to prosper after the long, lean years, and held their heads high now that their King and their armies had been, as they thought, distinguishing themselves. Poor Joachim now received a petition from his generals, published with the approval of the whole army, begging him to summon a council of war and hear their “opinions”! It is a wonder that the veteran of a hundred pitched battles did not hang somebody for the impertinence, for from any point of view it is difficult to understand what they expected of him in the way of action. But he let the incident pass.

Now the Pope, who had been released by Napoleon, approached the Papal Dominions and reached Tara before Joachim, who was in Bologna, was aware of the fact. Joachim, who had a good part of the Papal States in his possession and hoped for more—since Francis of Austria had promised him his assistance in the matter,—sought by every means to avert the Holy Father’s onward progress from Reggio; but he had a stronger man than himself to deal with, and one who had at his back the enthusiasm of a people. Murat’s own officers helped to draw the Papal carriage in one place, and his men broke their ranks, falling over one another for the privilege of being allowed to approach the returning exile.

In spite of all that Joachim’s envoy, General Carrascosa, could do, Pius’ determination to proceed was unaffected, and the general returned to his master, begging him for his own sake to give way before the popular enthusiasm, which every day was increasing. Murat, however, decided upon a middle course. He would render to the Pope all the honour in his power, but he would give him no assistance.

At Bologna, the Pope called upon Murat, and, though alone and helpless in the face of his opponent’s armed strength, extracted from him the return of the Patrimony of Peter to the Church. Pius did not relinquish his claim to the rest of the Papal Possessions, either, and continued on his way to Cesena, his native place, by the Strada Emilia, among his own subjects, although Murat, fearing the excited feeling among the latter, wished him to go through Tuscany.

Murat’s power was toppling over, for, do what he might, his interests were the interests of the France that he was fighting. But what could he do? It would take a clever man to find his way safely out of such an impasse as confronted Joachim. Could he have remained neutral, it is possible that he might have survived the hurricane, but that was almost impossible, cut off as he was from France and encircled by the Allies. Besides, the quarrel with England had brought such misery to his subjects that this condition alone was reason enough for attempting the impossible. Napoleon was battling with his back to the wall, and, even though he fought as man never fought before or since, the tide was engulfing him. His own ministers were carrying on secret correspondence with the enemy, and preparing their own salvation, careless either of their duty or of their country’s humiliation.

When on the 15th of April, 1814, Murat received the news of the capitulation of Paris and the abdication of the Emperor, he paled as he read the despatch and betrayed great agitation and nervousness, and for several days afterwards he was gloomy and unapproachable.

He repaired quietly to Bologna, and, while Italy went mad and raved in its madness, while the Milanese murdered Prina and EugÈne Beauharnais took refuge with the King of Bavaria, he returned to Naples, where he was received like a conqueror and was compelled to bow his appreciation and render his thanks for a display, not one word or one smile of which, as he well knew, was genuine. The people expected very naturally that a new order of things would bring them a new government, and Murat’s own suspicions were confirmed when the treaty of peace was signed at Paris and the Congress of Vienna was summoned without any mention of him at all. Legitimacy was now the rage, and Joachim, though without an invitation, despatched the Duke di Campochiaro and Prince de Cariati as his representatives to Vienna. That done, he turned to his kingdom and, taking time by the forelock, he summoned the most able men of the country to him and set them to work upon the land, the finances, and the army, only warning them not to follow too hard after the latest fashion or to “run backwards blindfold.”

At the same time, on his own account, he lightened the heaviest of the taxes, brought in measures for the encouragement of trade with England, and permitted the free export of grain. Then he decreed that the offices of State were to be given only to Neapolitans, and that foreigners holding them who refused to be naturalised must resign, after which he sat down to wait upon events.

By these measures he contrived to win over a large part of the people, and, by degrees, the old Murat began to emerge from his hiding-place in the personality of the new. His Council had agreed with him in almost every question of importance, and the counsels which he received, while suggesting a constitution, were really sincere in their hopes for the maintenance of his dynasty. His army, which he had had time to put into shape again, was with him; the newspapers were obsequious in their praises of his virtues; and all the corporate bodies in the State announced their readiness to pledge their lives and property in his support.

The Congress of Vienna began to pay some attention to these signs of popular approval and it was noised abroad that the Emperor of Russia had let fall the remark that “it was impossible to restore the ‘Butcher King’ now that the interests of the people had to be considered.” Then Caroline of Austria, Ferdinand’s wife, died suddenly, and so little was her decease lamented that Francis forbade the Court to go into mourning for her.

It may well be imagined that Joachim began to feel safe on his throne, and the fact that, by an agreement concluded at Charmont some little time before the fall of Napoleon, Austria, Russia, Prussia, and England had confirmed the principles of the alliance between Austria and Murat, helped him to hope that, after all and in spite of everything, he might be allowed to remain. He had not reckoned, though, with Talleyrand, whose desire it was, just then, to show himself as a reformed character who was ready to do anything to prove his detestation of the fiend whom he had been serving and of all the fiend’s family, which of course included Joachim.

Talleyrand had besides a private grudge against Joachim, for the latter had openly mistrusted him for years, and Napoleon’s parting remarks on the subject of his late Minister for Foreign Affairs must still have been tingling in that gentleman’s ears when he set out for Vienna.

“I should have hung him long ago,” said the Emperor. “I always knew that he would be the first to betray me when the occasion offered itself!”

Talleyrand, who had arrived at the Congress as an apologist both for France and himself, a man with no claims to consideration from anybody, outside the pale of Christian intercourse as an excommunicate bishop and an unfrocked priest, a creature at the sight of whom Francis and his Catholic princes must have shuddered; without a friend—or a case—bankrupt of power and credit, contrived by the sheer force of his own genius to dominate the whole Congress after the first half-dozen sittings.

He set Austria and Russia by the ears, and heated up the quarrel until there was every prospect of war; lined up their adherents and pushed them into the conflict, and manoeuvred so marvellously that, in a very short while, France and her friendship were the objects of the diplomacy of both contending parties. Metternich, Nesselrode, Hardenberg, Castlereagh, Stewart, and Stackelberg were little more than children in his hands. His confrÈres—Noailles, Dupin, and Dalberg—had no voice in the questions that arose. Talleyrand was the Congress, and when he began to use his power to pay off some of his grudges and enmities, it was on Murat that his hand first fell. More Legitimist than the Legitimists, he set out to earn the million francs promised him by Ferdinand for the throne of Naples.

The first inkling that Murat received of the turn that affairs had taken was a request, couched in the terms of a command, from Francis, that he would restore the Marches to the Pope. Now the Marches in question had been promised to Murat by Francis himself, not twelve months before, and Murat in answer proceeded to increase his garrison and commenced to strengthen the fortifications of Ancona. He, besides, started a quarrel with the Pope, and despatched a minister of his called Magella into the Marches to assist the Carbonari in their plots against the dominion of the Holy Father.

It was about this time that he began to receive overtures, couched in the most affectionate and brotherly language, from Napoleon at Elba. A succession of disguised conspirators from Paris and other places passed in and out of the Palace, in Naples, generally under cover of the spring night, while the city disported itself along the waterfront, and gay ladies and gay men sat over their cards in the great, cool rooms or wandered about in the sleeping gardens.

For Naples was gay in those days. People saw light ahead after the years of gloom. Hunger had vanished; real hunger, at any rate. The King’s public works gave employment. Uniforms glittered everywhere. To their minds, Naples was a Paris in miniature, so the lights shone and the world danced and played on, music lay over the place in a rainbow web of sound, and the blue sea smiled at the stars.

But up in the Palace, behind closed doors, Murat sat with his chin in his hand, and his eyes wandering out to the sea from time to time, as though he expected to see something there—something whose name was never mentioned except between him and his wife, and then only in whispers.

By ones and twos the mysterious figures arrived, coming in through side doors, and staying a while, talking with their hands to their mouths, some volubly and eagerly, some gently and hesitatingly, but one thing could be observed of all of them, and that was that, somewhere on their persons, casually as a trifle but plain enough to eyes that looked for it, was either a small bunch of violets or a strip of violet coloured ribbon or a bit of violet coloured silk.

“Are you fond of the violet?” they would ask when they met. “It will return in the spring,” was the answer—and it was spring already down there. Spring breaks in February in Naples. The King was, outwardly, as gay as any, and only Caroline and a very few devoted friends saw the other side of him. The ambassadors of the Allies were watching him, as he knew, and, as was bound to happen, word came to them that strange visitors were being entertained at the Palace, among them Princess Pauline, Napoleon’s sister, who shortly afterwards returned to Elba.

Ferdinand, free of his rather dreadful Austrian consort, proceeded to espouse a certain Lucia Migliano, a lady, it is said, of noble birth but of a vulgar and immoral character—which is probably true, for how could any clean and self-respecting woman have ever been induced to marry Ferdinand?

That monarch now swore to the constitution of 1812. He opened, dissolved, and reopened a Parliament, and generally walked in the popular path. Those happenings, naturally, reacted upon the Neapolitans and helped to undermine Joachim’s position badly. The Carbonari broke out again, soon afterwards, and Joachim began to be afraid lest these popular spasms should come to the ears of the Congress and affect his interests; so he attempted to arrange matters with the Carbonari, which only went to their heads and made them more offensive than ever.

Things could not remain so for long, and there is no saying what might have happened had not Napoleon discovered that the allied Powers had not the slightest idea of living up to their word with him, that the promised annuity—promised on the basis of the huge private fortune which they had looted from him—was never going to be paid, and that some one whom he had small difficulty in connecting with the Bourbon Government in Paris was attempting to poison him.

On the evening of the 4th of March, 1815, Murat, with some of his family, was amusing himself as best he could, attempting to divert his mind from the problems and questions which had harassed him all day, in his wife’s apartments, when there appeared in the doorway a bowing attendant, begging the King and Queen Caroline to give an audience to a messenger who was awaiting their pleasure in the next room. Murat assented carelessly and told the attendant to bring him in, but the former replied that the newcomer had particularly asked that the King and Queen would give themselves the trouble to hear what he had to say, alone.

By this time Murat had an inkling of the news which awaited him and hurried out of the room, the Queen upon his arm. In the small apartment, leading out of the gallery, they found Count Colonna, who came forward out of the dark corner where he had been waiting and presented his despatches.

It is a picture that stands out vividly in the imagination: The Count studying Murat’s face as the latter reads the message, and glancing from time to time at the Queen, trying to read something of her husband’s mind in her face; Murat blinking in the half light over the words, rejoicing in the news as he thinks of the manner in which the Congress of Legitimacy has been treating him, but endeavouring to keep his features composed and his pleasure out of his voice.

“That will spoil Metternich’s sleep for a while,” one can almost hear him saying to himself. “And Talleyrand—how will he get out of this? On guard, Messieurs! You will have to exercise something besides your tongues now!”

Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and announced that he proposed to chase the Bourbons out of France, and suggested an alliance, begging Murat at the same time to place a battleship or a frigate at the disposition of his, the Emperor’s, mother and sister.

Hurrying back to his guests, Murat divulged the news, and his cheer and excitement were so obvious that some of them guessed then the course which he would pursue.

The next morning Murat despatched special messengers to Vienna and London, in which he assured the governments of Austria and Great Britain that, whatever might be the result of Napoleon’s raid, he himself would remain faithful to his treaty obligations.

Neither of his correspondents had the slightest belief in his protestations, and Francis, without waiting, took steps to crush him if he moved—or if he did not. But Murat’s health was high and the memories of the golden years were like wine. He felt a real remorse for the part which he had played, and the splendour of Napoleon’s lone-handed assault upon a world in arms appealed to every soldier-like instinct in him.

He did not forget his own ambition, though, and he desired to make himself so powerful that he could treat with either Austria or France upon terms of something like equality. It was Italy that he wanted. The great Powers would have their hands full now, and he hoped to be able to surprise the Germans while the armies of Europe were engaged with the Emperor.

Caroline, however, joined with his ministers and his Council in opposition to war. Naples and Italy had had enough, and even in the unlikely event of Murat’s correspondents in the North having been accurate in their figures, or right in their appreciation of the popular feeling, it was practically certain that, whether the victor in the coming contest were to be the Emperor or the Allies, neither would allow Murat to attack Italy and rule it undisturbed.

He assured his Council that Italy was ready to rise on either side of the Po. He explained his mistrust of the Congress. He agreed that, although it would be unsafe to diminish the army in the present condition of Europe, yet Naples could not support the troops unless fresh taxes were imposed; and that being out of the question, the only alternative was to quarter them upon somebody else. He went on to point out that political liberty was at the last gasp in Italy. But even that battle-cry failed to arouse the enthusiasm of his audience. Political liberty, as a theory upon which to speculate over a glass or two of wine in the cool of the evening, was well enough, but political liberty as a reason for draining the country of blood and money any longer was quite another affair. The common people cared very little, if anything at all, for it; what they wanted was food and drink, and a chance to save a little money, and marry, and be happy. The taste survives in Calabria to this day. They like an overlord, they like having somebody over them who will order their ways and provide them with work and see to their well-being, and knock their heads together when they misbehave and pat them upon the back before their fellows when they are good. It is, after all, the ideal form of Government. No other approaches in efficiency to a beneficent and intelligent autocracy. The main trouble is that very few autocracies have any intelligence. I am sure I do not know why. Logically a man who has been trained to rulership from the cradle should make a better ruler than the accident of a convention; and on the whole, one may say, he does. The Emperor of Germany, for instance, is a far better ruler than either Mr. Roosevelt, Mr. Taft, or Mr. Wilson, or any President of the French Republic that ever lived. So was King Edward VII, so was Queen Victoria; but then, from nowhere in particular and without any training at all, a Lincoln emerges and gets elected—that is the mystery which I have never been able to fathom—by a number of people whose individual opinions upon any subject of real importance are worth less than nothing!

Murat, as has been seen, made a habit of mistaking craft for statesmanship, and his Council, by now, were beginning to be aware of it. Frenchmen and Neapolitans, they saw that would be extremely dangerous for both countries—particularly Naples—and they resolved to wait to declare themselves until word came from London and Vienna. Murat, however, paid no heed to their resolution or their opinion, and broke up the Council, secretly determined to make the effort.

Some of the troops with which he proposed to undertake the conquest of Italy were more fit for sneak-thieving than actual fighting against drilled men. The artillery, sappers, and cavalry were even worse than the infantry, and when we are told that the regiments of the latter were taken from the prisons and from the galleys, and that half of the generals and colonels were French, and the dissensions between the natives and the foreigners are remembered, one cannot but think that Joachim must have been a little off his head with the strain he had been enduring for the past year, if he hoped to annex Italy with such a force as that.

In reply to Murat’s request for permission to pass through the Papal States, the Holy Father appointed a regency and betook himself to Genoa, accompanied by many of the Cardinals. As this occurred in the middle of Holy Week, the sacred offices were interrupted, many of the priests leaving the city to follow the Pope, and the indignation of the Romans knew no bounds. Murat wisely refrained from approaching the city and proceeded to Ancona, from whence he instructed the ambassadors at the Congress to renew his protestations of fidelity to his treaties.

This quite unnecessary insult roused Francis of Austria effectually and he despatched Frimont, Bianchi, Mohr, Neipperg, and Wied, with forty-eight thousand infantry, seven thousand cavalry, and sixty-four guns, to repay Joachim for it. Besides these, Nugent had a brigade in Tuscany, the Po was fortified at Piacenza, Borgoforte, Occhiobello, and Lagoscuro by the Germans, who occupied every possible crossing and had at their backs the fortresses of Pizzighettone, Mantua, and Legnano, with detachments in Commachio and at the bridge of Goro. It was a solid affair against which Joachim was ramming his head.

He, as soon as war had been declared on the 30th of March, annexed—on paper—the districts of Cerebino, Pesaro, and Gubbio, and issued edicts vilifying in the usual manner his opponents, whom he accused of every fault of which he himself had been guilty. Also, he addressed the inattentive and careless Italians, reminding them of such grievances as he could remember and, when the stock of those ran short, inventing several entirely new ones.

He had a few partial successes at first before Frimont arrived upon the scene. Carrascosa managed to drive some Austrians—it is all but impossible to arrive at the real figures and facts of these contests, but I should be inclined to say about fifteen hundred—from Cesena. Later they came upon some more at Anzola, and these retired before them probably, or I should say certainly, under orders. At Spilimberto he had a personal brush with them, which resulted in a haphazard sort of success which he seems to have made no attempt whatever to push. A few days later, after investing Ferrara—the operation could not have been a very serious one, for it was only conducted for two and a half days—he attempted to storm the bridge-head at Occhiobello, but, finding it to be out of the question, left the array encamped on the spot and returned to Bologna, where he learned what had become of two legions of his Guard which he had sent to Tuscany—for no military reason that I have been able to discover, save the very problematical one of “rousing” the Tuscans.

They were commanded by Generals Pignatelli, Strongoli, and Livron, who, being of equal rank, were to act in concert, but not to attempt to take precedence of each other—which, as one historian very truly says, was a “strange and unusual idea in the composition of the army.”

These contrived to get as far as Pistoia, where, hearing that the garrison had designs upon them, they retired in something of a hurry to Florence.

It was there that Joachim received a communication from Lord William Bentinck to the effect that, since he had broken his treaty with Francis, he could consider the treaty with England broken as well. He might well have expected this piece of information one would think, but it seems to have depressed him greatly.

The King’s edicts, too, had fallen flat. They had produced, we are told, “promises, applause, poetic effusions, and popular orations, but neither arms nor action; thus furnishing much future work for the police, and nothing for war.”

The forces he had counted upon did not materialise, and Joachim called his ministers together. These had discovered by now that he never called upon them for advice unless he was in trouble, and their ardour and loyalty were shaken. Still, when he laid the facts before them, they gave him the best they had, in the face of the rather desperate circumstances. The army was straggled out over a line between Reggio, Carpi, and Ravenna, without any supports or reserves, in the face of an enemy stronger, numerically and morally, and in their position one blow might be the end; so Joachim’s advisers recommended him to hold on to the places he had only so long as it would take to send back the sick and the baggage, and then look for some point of attack where the result would be a little less certain.

A few days later the Germans stormed Carpi and chased General Pepes almost as far as Modena, and only Murat’s appearance upon the scene halted the pursuit. On the 15th they seized Spilimberto, the defenders of which retired in considerable disorder to Sant’ Ambrogio. By now, however, the advice of the Council had been carried out and the remains of the army, unhampered, were able to move about and were directed upon the Reno, Ravenna, and ForlÌ. The troops upon the Reno were, however, attacked by the Germans and, after a three-hours’ fight, retreated upon Bologna.

Joachim, at Imola, now discovered that the Austrian army had been divided into two parts—one under Bianchi, the other under Neipperg.

The former was advancing by the Florentine Road, the latter by the Strada Emilia, the idea being to enclose Joachim and force him into a general engagement between them. They were divided by the chain of the Apennines, and Murat perceived that Neipperg, at least, was inferior to him. Fired by the memories of ‘96, he resolved to attack Bianchi and, if possible, cripple him before Neipperg could come to his assistance, after which he would still be able to fight Neipperg, unless things went very wrong indeed with superior numbers.

Macerata was Murat’s objective, but it was twenty days’ march for troops who reckoned a day’s work as lightly as did his. For all that, he contrived the retreat with creditable skill in spite of a scuffle with Neipperg near the Roneo.

But when the battle of Macerata was fought, Joachim’s fortune, which had been so shy and fickle of late, deserted him entirely. Though he fought a stubborn enough battle, and though his own dispositions were solid and well thought out, his instruments failed him. General Maio and General Lecchi made little or no attempt to shock their opponents, allowing their men to drift into action anyhow, and, as the day waned and the Neapolitans became too listless even to fire, word came to the King from General Montigny in the Abruzzi, telling him that the Germans had taken Antrodoco and Aquila, that the people were rising for the Bourbons, and that the magistrates had transferred their allegiance, while he and the few faithful men who had remained with him had been forced back to Popoli.

At the same time, came a despatch from the Minister of War, telling him of the enemy’s appearance upon the Liris, of the horrified feelings of the people, and of the helpful activities of the Carbonari in Calabria.

Joachim instantly decided to take his troops back into the Kingdom of Naples, and ordered a general retreat. Then it was that he became fully aware of the sort of staff he had been leaning upon. Some of the troops seem to have been prepared to behave themselves, had their commanders given them any opportunity of so doing, but the generals had had enough and more than enough, and, to use an Americanism, they “lay down upon him” completely.

When he called a council the next morning, they informed him that the larger part of their men had deserted and that the rest would not obey orders. When one comes to think about it, there does not seem to be any particular reason why they should have, since no one made the faintest show of imposing any kind of discipline upon them.

The enemy advanced on either side while this discussion was in progress, and one brigade, which had obeyed the order to march and which Joachim opposed to them, rested upon their arms, and proved to be utterly indifferent to the results. On his arrival in the Abruzzi, Joachim was astounded to discover that Montigny—he of the “faithful few”—had abandoned his post at Antrodoco without even waiting for the enemy to appear, and that his unedifying conduct alone was the cause of the magistrates’ defection. Also, it was Montigny and no one else who had deliberately abandoned Aquila, although the enemy, by reason of the condition of the roads, could not have brought up the guns necessary to reduce the place.

Joachim, still dazed with this infamy, now received word, through Prince Cariati, whom he had sent to the Congress of Vienna, that the Allies were going to exterminate him, that no hope of any sort of reconciliation remained; at the same time, a letter from Napoleon censured the recklessness of his campaign and went on to say that it might prove the ruin of his own effort.

In this state of affairs, Murat bethought himself of the possibilities of a constitution as a prop to his own tottering throne. It would be funny if it were not so melancholy! A constitution! With the Austrians at his gates, an English fleet in the Bay, the entire Kingdom torn to pieces, the Carbonari in every quarter, his army vanished, and his friends in flight!

Commodore Campbell had already threatened, unless the ships and the stores in the arsenal were delivered up to him, to fire a thousand rockets into the city. Poor Caroline collected some of the ministers and magistrates and asked for their advice, whereupon the Minister for Police informed her that the first assault of an enemy would ignite a conflagration in the city which nothing would be able to suppress. They were reminded, too, by a general officer, that there were still ten double ranges of batteries wherewith to defend themselves, and he suggested that Campbell was counting upon the moral effects of his threat among the people.

So Caroline, after the invariable accusations of treaty-breaking with which everybody opened verbal fire on an enemy, and the equally invariable appeal to history, stipulated for her own and her family’s safe return to France in an English vessel. Caroline was a Bonaparte, and she could keep her head, even in a crisis of this sort. She had ruled wisely and well in her husband’s absence, backing him up, in spite of her opposition to the war, stoutly. Now she proclaimed the terms of accommodation, and, having provided for a temporary peace, she turned to the immediate needs of the situation, and, having heartened the city militia with her own courage, she pacified and quieted the populace. With her in the palace were her sister Pauline and her uncle, Cardinal Fesch, besides her four young children, whom she decided to send to Gaeta.

Stout old Macdonald, the Minister for War, of whom Napoleon said during the Peninsular Campaign, “I would not dare to let Macdonald within sound of the pipes!” was sent to supersede Manhir, and he did presently succeed in driving the Austrians beyond the Melfa; but no further advantage was gained, because the troops with which Murat was hoping to effect a junction were stampeded at Mignano.

Murat’s reign was over. The Bourbons were upon the top of him, and all that he could do now was to escape before they closed every road. He believed that the Bourbons wished to capture him and wreak their vengeance upon him for the lean and restricted years.

Leaving the wreck of his army to Carrascosa, he made his way into Naples as the sun was dropping over the hills, and hurried by round-about ways towards the Palace. He was in civilian dress, having discarded his uniform when he left the army, but he was recognised and, to his surprise, treated by those whom he met with all the respect which had been his as a king. In the harbour he could see the British fleet, lying at anchor, and perhaps the sight was not altogether an unwelcome one, for he had learned of Caroline’s treaty with Campbell, and, little as the English might be to his taste, at least they had been worthy and steadfast enemies and infinitely better company for him than the Bourbons.

A little pleased, even through the fogs of his depression, at the manner in which he had been received by the people, he ran into the Palace, seeking for his wife. Her he found in her own apartment, in the same room where they had first heard of Napoleon’s departure from Elba, two short months before, and in which he had left her to depart upon this last disastrous campaign.

It must have been rather dark in there now that the twilight had come down, and the memories of the past must have crowded thickly about him as he entered. He found Caroline alone, save for a lady-in-waiting, and he went straight to her and caught her in his arms, his voice at first too choked for utterance.

At last, when he could master his voice, he spoke, calmly enough, and his tremendous self-restraint was worthy of the old Murat of Jena and Eylau.

“We are betrayed by fortune, my dear,” he said, “and all is lost!”

Caroline was even steadier than he, and she smiled into his eyes.

“Not all,” she answered quickly, “if we preserve our honour and our constancy!”

Sitting down together, they dismissed the lady-in-waiting with instructions to gather together the few proved friends who still remained to them, and then set themselves to the preparations for their departure. An hour or more they spent together, and then Murat emerged, his head high and his face alight from the contact with his splendid wife. His ministers had assembled, and with them he arranged such of the affairs of the kingdom as admitted of arrangement, and placed them in such a shape that the Bourbon could not help but keep them so, for his own sake, and every last one of his acts and thoughts was directed towards the future welfare of his people. Nothing else appeared to have any place in his mind at all. He was cool, quiet, cheerful, and collected, heartening those around him, and as free-handed to the French who were leaving him, and the servants whom he was leaving, as though he were taking the crown instead of laying it down.

He had regained the priceless possession of hope. Napoleon’s star was still shining. France had taken him to her arms. Without the shedding of a single drop of blood he had regained the throne and, though all the world might be in arms against him, he had faith in himself, the faith that moveth mountains. Murat had resolved to go and join him, and, when the world war was over, and Napoleon’s foot was again upon the neck of his enemies, to return to Naples and drive Ferdinand into the sea and under it.

Caroline knew of his intention, for she let him go alone, and his instructions to Carrascosa (before the latter departed to the little house, three miles out of Capua, where Lord Burghersh, Bianchi, and Neipperg waited to arrange the terms of the treaty of Casa Lanza) show her hand plainly, for Carrascosa was told to stipulate that the property sold or given away by Murat must be guaranteed to its possessors, in order, as Joachim said, to leave him the character of a good king and that the Neapolitans might cherish his memory. He knew, and so did Caroline, exactly how long it would take Ferdinand to make himself loathed and abominated by the people whose yoke Joachim had lifted.

That these did not trust Ferdinand’s eloquent vow to abstain from retaliation against those who had served Murat, was made plain in the very beginning of the negotiations, for they refused to take his personal word for the fulfilment of any part of the treaty, and demanded the guarantee of the Emperor of Austria. It was little security enough, in all conscience, for the guarantees of Francis had been the jest of Europe for years past, but they seemed to think that it might bind the hands of the “Butcher King” for a while.

On the same evening that the treaty was ratified, Joachim departed incognito for Pozzuoli. From there he went on to Ischia, where he was received with all the respect due to a monarch, and on the 22d he sailed for France with a few friends. Caroline, as regent, still remained in the Palace, and the Neapolitan populace, in the absence of the troops, went off their heads. They had been hard held lately, and now they made up for it. They broke open the prisons and committed atrocities that do not bear writing about. Even the presence of three hundred marines from the British fleet could do little to control the mob, but they produced a temporary calm, during which Caroline embarked on one of the British men-of-war with Macdonald and two others.