  1812-1813 LETTERS FROM AN ESCAPED PRISONERAt length the prospects of the luckless prisoner brightened. John Stanhope obtained leave to change his place of detention for Paris, where existence promised to be far more agreeable than at Verdun or Ligny. Having journeyed thither with a light heart, and some of the hopefulness of youth restored, he was not disappointed. He found himself warmly welcomed by many of his fellow-countrymen; while the French savants, having learnt the original object of his journey and all the circumstances which had led to his imprisonment, received him unhesitatingly as one of their body and give him free access to the Institute. Forthwith life became once more full of interest, and as agreeable as it was practicable for that of an exile to be. He rapidly made friends amongst both the French and English residents in Paris, while one of his fellow-prisoners on parole in the capital at this date was the well-known banker, Mr Boyd [1] with whom his family had long been acquainted, and in whose vicinity he now took rooms. "Mr Boyd," relates Stanhope, "was in a singular position. He had originally been one of the first, if not the first banker in Paris. He stood, as I have heard, in a pre-eminent position, admitted, as an Englishman, to those highest circles which were closed to the monied men of France, and aspiring to that commanding influence in the commercial world which although often maintained in England is seldom countenanced in France, unless we may consider Lafitte as an exception. At the breaking out of the Revolution, the temptation offered by Mr Boyd's wealth was too great to be resisted. The French Government chose to consider him as an ÉmigrÉ, and seized upon the funds of the bank, which are said to have consisted of £600,000. At the Peace of Amiens he returned to Paris to reclaim his property, but upon the renewal of the war he was detained as a prisoner, being included in the class of dÉtenus. In vain he remonstrated with the Ministers, and said, 'If I am a Frenchman, give me my liberty; if I am an Englishman, restore me my money; you cannot be entitled to detain me prisoner as an Englishman and to keep my money as that of a Frenchman!' "All his remonstrances were in vain; but distressed as his circumstances were at this date, his heart was warm and his board as hospitable as ever. Many an evening have I passed with him talking over the events of former times and of his financial schemes. I have never met with a spirit more buoyant nor a disposition more sanguine. In that Paris where he had once stood at the head of the mercantile interest, and enjoyed, with a zest of which few men were capable, every luxury that the luxurious capital could supply, he was now the double bankrupt, the prisoner of war. But to the credit of the French financiers—then, indeed, the men of most distinction in the world of fashion—he was not neglected. He still lived in that society of which he had formerly been so distinguished a member, nor was he treated with contempt because his wife and daughters now went to parties in their fiacre. On one of these occasions he met Talleyrand, who could not help exclaiming, 'Ah! Monsieur Boyd, vous voir comme cela!' "An application was at one time made to Boyd for his opinion on the financial affairs of England. This, although not avowed, he was perfectly aware was made by the Emperor's desire and for his Majesty's private information. Mr Boyd was not a man, be the consequences what they might, to bend before the Imperial footstool or to disguise the truth. He was placed upon his hobby-horse—Pitt's financial system and the sinking fund. His statement proved anything but satisfactory to the high quarter for which it was desired; and never again was Mr Boyd applied to on the subject of English finance." With regard to his acquaintance amongst the French, John Stanhope speaks with the greatest interest of a man who became his great friend, Monsieur de Baure, a Member of the Institute and President of the Cour ImpÉriale. "I do not know," he writes, "that I ever remember to have seen a countenance expressive of brighter intelligence than his. His was indeed the eye of genius, and gave me a perfect conception of the meaning of an eagle eye. Yet I have seen it alight with a much greater disposition to fun than I expected to have found in one occupying so high a judicial situation. Indeed, in one instance, I was more amused than I can express by the extremely dry manner in which he completely took in an assembly of the wisest men in France!" On this occasion young Stanhope was seated amongst a number of distinguished men at the Institute, when M. de Baure rose to his feet, and a hush fell on the assembly of savants, who waited with profound attention for the words of wisdom about to flow from the lips of their learned colleague. As he rose, however, de Baure caught Stanhope's eye with a glance which the latter says "spoke as plainly as a glance could speak, 'Now I am about to have some fun with these wiseacres!'" Drawing himself up, the speaker announced with the most profound solemnity, "Gentlemen, I must preface my remarks by stating how I consider that a cook who discovers a new dish deserves a seat in the Institute more than a man who discovers a new star…." Loud were the interruptions of horror which burst from the Members of the Institute, who, to the unutterable amusement of Stanhope and certain of his friends, took the remark literally. "Que me fait une Étoile?" continued de Baure with impassioned eloquence. "Que me fait une Étoile whilst a chef who discovers a new dish which tempts me to begin again after I have satisfied my appetite confers upon me the greatest obligation which it lies in the power of one human being to confer upon another!" [2] Urged by his grave and astounded colleagues to elaborate his reasons for his extraordinary statement, de Baure declined on the following ground: "A king of France," he said, "was passing through a provincial town when a pompous mayor, addressing his Majesty, regretted that he had twenty very urgent reasons for not having fired the guns in honour of the Royal visit, the first of which was that he had not any powder. 'Stop there!' said the King, 'I will excuse you the other nineteen.'" Another Frenchman, of a very different type, who was a friend of John Stanhope at this date, was the young Comte de St. Morys, of whose tragic fate, so illustrative of the conditions then prevalent in France, Stanhope subsequently gave the following account:— "The Comte de St. Morys had been an ÉmigrÉ at the period of the Revolution. His mother, however, had not accompanied her husband during that exile, and, in consequence, had succeeded eventually in preventing the confiscation of some of his property. When, later, Napoleon adopted the course of gathering round his throne as many of the old noblesse as he could, he conveyed the hint to Madame de St. Morys that, unless her son returned, the remainder of her property should be confiscated. In consequence of this notification the young Comte deemed it his duty to return to his native land, and he established himself in the basse-cour of his former home, which was all of the chÂteau which now remained. "Unfortunately for him, the rest of the property had been sold to a man whose character may be best described by stating that he had been a branded fellow. A good understanding was not likely to exist between men of such opposite principles, and St. Morys, although he possessed the kindest and the warmest heart, was rather of a hasty disposition, and had a little more brusquerie of manner than is generally found among Frenchmen of his rank. What may have been the first, or the principal cause of the dispute, I know not, but, from what I heard, it appeared to me most probable that the object of Colonel Barbier de Fay was to compel Monsieur de St. Morys to give him a high price for his land in order to get rid of so disagreeable a neighbour. "However that may be, Colonel Barbier's hatred to St. Morys at length carried him so far as to lead him to form a plan of vengeance which I can characterise by no other expression than diabolical. "At the restoration of the Bourbons, Monsieur de St. Morys, like many others, was raised to the rank he would have held according to the army list. He therefore became a general in the army and a lieutenant in the Garde de Corps, which, as the regiment was entirely composed of nobles, was a very high situation. Colonel Barbier, with a double motive—first that of tormenting Monsieur de St. Morys and next that of throwing discredit on a corps which he detested—introduced into the Garde room, and circulated wherever he could find access, printed papers blackening the Count's character. That gentleman accordingly challenged him. Colonel Barbier replied that he would only accept the challenge on one condition— that two pistols should be put into a bag, one loaded and another not, and that they should draw for the chance. "This St. Morys rejected, stating that he was prepared to fight, but not to commit murder. In order, however, that his character should be free from stain he referred the matter to the Marshals of France. They approved of his conduct, and there the matter ought to have ended. Unfortunately the Garde de Corps, aware of the jealousy with which the old army viewed their position, were very touchy on the point of honour. Wherefore the Duc de Luxembourg, his Colonel, considered that St. Morys was under a cloud, and refused to allow him to perform his military duties till his reputation was cleared. This was, in point of fact, the object which his adversary had in view. It placed St. Morys in a most awkward position, and threw an apple of discord among the Garde de Corps. "My poor friend unluckily consulted everybody, and followed everybody's advice. That which our joint friend, the Comte G. de la Rochefoucauld, gave him appeared to me the best; he advised him to make up his mind at once to the sacrifice of his commission; that having challenged his opponent he had done all that was incumbent upon him as a man of honour, a fact which was unquestionable after the decision of the marshals, and that he should express himself ready to meet any person who should arraign his conduct. But this would probably have involved him with the Duc de Luxembourg, and consequently compelled him to resign his commission in the Guards, which would have been peculiarly unfortunate as he was daily in expectation of being raised to the rank of captain, upon which he intended to have retired upon half pay. "Instead, therefore, of following this advice, he endeavoured by further irritation to compel his opponent to meet him; he went into a cafÉ and struck the Colonel on the face with his fist, believing that so public a disgrace would induce Barbier to meet him on his own terms; but the other was not to be diverted from his predetermined purpose; he continued to persist in his declaration that he would fight only on the terms he had originally proposed. "In this state the matter continued for some time, till Barbier thought he had sufficiently achieved his first object of bringing disgrace upon St. Morys, and therefore, at last, consented to meet his antagonist. They accordingly met, fired two brace of pistols, and then drew their swords. The seconds had previously decreed that the duel should terminate as soon as blood was drawn. Monsieur de St. Morys having, or thinking he had, slightly wounded his enemy, called out, 'Monsieur, vous Êtes blessÉ!' and laid himself open in full confidence that the fight was over. 'Non, monsieur,' replied Barbier, 'mais vous Êtes mort!' and not only plunged his sword into his victim's body, but is said actually to have given a turn with his wrist to secure the mortality of the wound. "Thus terminated the life of poor St. Morys!" The consummation of this tragedy, however, belonged to a date later than that of the residence of John Stanhope in Paris, and during his sojourn there St Morys was still, like many of his day, endeavouring to reconcile his royalist proclivities to the changed conditions of his surroundings and his own altered fortunes. Meanwhile, into the comparatively peaceful routine of Parisian life came, ever and anon, news of a series of victories achieved by the grande armÉe, which was received in France with the customary complacency and elation that such events had long been wont to evoke. By the bulk of Frenchmen the triumphant issue of the Russian campaign was looked upon as a foregone conclusion, and, therefore, when there suddenly broke upon Paris the knowledge of the supreme disaster of Moscow the effect was overwhelming. The 10th Bulletin disclosed the truth with a shattering finality: "Dans quatre jours cette belle armÉe n'existait plus." The effect was as though a thunderbolt had fallen upon the smiling, placid country. France was plunged into mourning for her sons, Ministers trembled for their posts, and everywhere reigned consternation, uncertainty and grief. Suddenly, into the middle of this general bouleversement, a rumour gained credence that the Emperor himself was at the Tuileries. Young Stanhope hastened to the palace to learn the accuracy of this report, and was soon convinced of its truth. Throughout the building were tokens of unwonted activity; lights were visible in all the windows, and a small crowd was stationed outside. From a French soldier standing near him he learnt that the carriage in which Napoleon had travelled had broken down at Meaux, "and the Emperor had then got into one of the little cabriolets vulgarly called a pot de chambre; they are little cars which ply between Paris and the neighbouring towns, and carry four inside, and one, generally called a lapin, on the same seat as the driver." Upon his arrival in Paris his Imperial Majesty got out of this vehicle and walked to the Tuileries, where he was stopped by the guard at the door, who, in the dusk, failed to recognise him. "Je suis de la maison!" explained Napoleon briefly, and he was permitted to enter. Thus Bonaparte returned to Paris, not as the triumphant victor, the indomitable conqueror of Europe, but as a defeated general, bent on retrieving some singularly grievous errors by tact and perseverance. Yet something never to be regained was lost to the Man of Destiny. The spell which had deified him was broken. Napoleon the Invincible, the Infallible, had blundered. "This supernatural man, this god—or devil—had sunk below the level of ordinary men. 'Le prestige est passÉ' was in everybody's mouth." Paris soon rang with stories of the disastrous campaign—tales, in the most trivial of which the Parisians recognised the complex personality of that god or devil of their mingled idolatry or detestation. A French officer told John Stanhope two anecdotes, which, although in themselves slight, are strikingly illustrative both of Napoleon's shrewdness and of his brutality. On one occasion the Emperor heard some men murmuring and declaring that rather than suffer the torments which they were then enduring, they had better give up the struggle and make up their minds to go to Siberia. Napoleon turned to them, and, fixing them with his glance, merely observed, "En SibÉrie ou en France!" Well did he understand the emotional temperament of the men with whom he had to deal! The tone in which he uttered en France recalled vividly to their thoughts their own, their beautiful France; and the men, who a moment before were abandoned to despair, roused themselves and advanced on their march with all the enthusiasm and the renewed vivacity of Frenchmen. The other story, as indicated, is of a less creditable nature. After the terrible crossing of the Beresina, when, through faulty generalship and inexcusable want of forethought, thousands upon thousands of lives were needlessly sacrificed, the Emperor, during the wretched bivouac west of the river, was, like the rest of his regiment, suffering intensely from the bitter weather. His officers, therefore, went round calling for dry wood for his fire, and soldiers, perishing with cold, came forward to offer precious sticks, with the words, uttered ungrudgingly, "Take this for the Emperor." Shortly afterwards, Napoleon was seated in a miserable barraque, with his surtout over his shoulders, enjoying the poor fire thus obtained. Folding his coat more closely about him, he remarked casually, "Il y aura diablement des fous gelÉs cette nuit!" Yet the man before whose colossal egoism imagination waxes impotent, could, on other occasions, exhibit an irresponsible bonhomie, which seemed totally at variance with the more sinister side of his character. This John Stanhope illustrates by another anecdote. "Amongst my fellow-prisoners at Verdun had been a gentleman who promoted to the rank of his mistress a woman who was previously his maid-servant. He obtained permission to reside in Paris, but was included in the general order of the Duc de Rovigo upon his appointment to the Ministry of Police, by which nearly all the English were returned to the dÉpÔts. "Madame Chambers, who found herself, under that fictitious title, occupying a very different position at Paris to that which she could fill at Verdun, where her real situation and origin were generally known, had no inclination to go back to that dÉpÔt, but determined to leave no stone unturned to obtain leave for Chambers to remain in Paris. She was not a person to be easily daunted or troubled with any unnecessary mauvaise honte. Accordingly, the first time that the Emperor went to the chasse, Madame Chambers made her appearance. It was after the shooting was over, when a great circle was formed, in which the Emperor paced backwards and forwards, generally with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed upon the ground, whilst the game which had been shot was laid out before him. Madame Chambers advanced and presented a petition to him. He inquired curtly who she was and what she wanted, and took no further notice of her. The next time the Emperor went to the chasse Madame Chambers again made her appearance, the same scene was re-enacted, with the same result. He went again a third time, and there also again appeared Madame Chambers with her petition. "'Comment!' exclaimed the Emperor furiously, 'toujours Madame Chambers!' "'Oui, Empereur, toujours Madame Chambers,' she replied imperturbably. "This was too much for Napoleon. The man who was accustomed to see the greatest of his generation tremble before his slightest frown gazed in no small astonishment at the plump, placid little soubrette who confronted him without a tremor. He burst into a merry laugh, and exclaimed. 'Eh bien, que votre mari reste À Paris. Berthier, je vous en charge!' turning to Marshal Berthier who was in his suite; and Mr Chambers was never sent back to the dÉpÔt." Few, however, shared the temerity of Madame Chambers. John Stanhope writes: "The awe that even the principal ministers felt in the presence of Napoleon would not be credited in England. His courtiers literally trembled before him. 'In what sort of a humour is the Emperor to-day?' was a frequent question in Paris…. How I have blushed for the adulation, the degrading, I may almost say the blasphemous flattery that has been offered before the throne of Napoleon by men of the highest rank. But perhaps I ought to make some allowance for those who had witnessed the horrors of the Revolution. Can, however, such men be expected to recover the high tone of feeling they once entertained? Can France ever be restored to a sound state?" Yet one man stood alone in heroic opposition to the Conqueror of Christendom. Frail, old, and deserted even by those upon whose support he had relied, the Pope, Pius VII., had courage to oppose the Conqueror of the world. While John Stanhope was in Paris the celebrated interview took place between the aged Pontiff and the autocrat to whom the Vicar of Christ was but as a temporal Sovereign to be crushed beneath the might of an all-but universal monarchy. Pius VII. had indeed had an ample warning in the fate of his predecessor, who, bereft of all power, had been consigned by Napoleon to an imprisonment in which he had expired. In 1801 Pius VII. had been forced to conclude a concordat with Napoleon, which the latter had afterwards subjected to arbitrary alterations; in 1804 the Pontiff had found himself compelled to repair to Paris to assist at the coronation of his enemy. Shortly after his return to Rome the French had entered the Eternal city, and in May 1809 the Papal States were annexed by France. Promptly the brave old Pontiff excommunicated the robbers of the Holy See, and the vengeance of Bonaparte upon this act was swift and sure. The Pope was removed as a prisoner to Grenoble, then to Fontainebleau; and it is curious to learn, by Stanhope's contemporary account, the light in which such a stupendous event in the history of the Roman Church was regarded at the date of its happening. "The Holy Father, the representative of St Peter, he who holds the Keys of Heaven and Hell, is actually a prisoner in the hands of Napoleon! Poor, excellent old man, gallantly and with the resignation of a martyr does he bear up against his sufferings and maintain the dignity of the Papal See. It is a singular thing that in a soi-disant Catholic country the imprisonment of the Father of their Church should make so little sensation. I hear, indeed, that many women gathered round the different places at which he stopped in the course of his journey through France, but even the interest they felt for him soon appears to have subsided. A partie de chasse the other day was announced to take place in the Forest of Fontainebleau. This afforded the Emperor an opportunity of having a conversation with the Pope without any sacrifice of his own dignity, without any troublesome arrangement of ceremony, and still more without drawing upon himself the public eye, as to go hunting near the Palace of Fontainebleau without even paying a visit to the Pope would have been a positive breach of politeness. "The interview took place. On the one side was the venerable churchman bending beneath the weight of affliction as well as of years, on the other Napoleon Bonaparte; yet if the reports circulated in Paris are to be believed, the old Pontiff held his own with unabated courage and dignity, and nobly maintained the cause of his religion, though the Emperor is said actually to have thrust his fist in his face and all but struck him. How the interview terminated I cannot learn, but I heard the fresh Concordat cried about the streets of Paris that same evening. "This dispute," he writes later, "has narrowly escaped producing the most important results in ecclesiastical history—the separation of the French Empire from the See of Rome. The Emperor had assumed the nomination to the French Bishoprics, but the Pope refused to give the investiture to the persons he appointed. The Church almost universally stood by their Chief; the consequence was that there was a considerable difficulty in filling up the vacant Sees. The Archbishopric of Paris was one of these. The Emperor offered it to his Uncle, Cardinal Fesch, but he, either from sincere attachment to his Church, or from the duty he owed to the Roman supremacy as a Cardinal, or from a conviction that he was safer in possession of the Archbishopric of Lyons, held under the Pope's authority, than he could be in one held in defiance of it, resolved to brave the Emperor's anger and refuse that offer. Napoleon, contenting himself with calling Fesch a fool, offered it to Cardinal Maury, who became titular Archbishop of Paris. There are few things in the history of the French Revolution that make one blush more for human nature than the falling off of that man whose opening career had been so brilliant…. "More and more the Emperor had felt that to be second to the Pope was inconsistent with his own dignity, and that if he could not bend the pontiff to his will, he must do without him. He had accordingly determined to assume the sole presentation of the Bishoprics; but how to get the Church to assent to such a proceeding was the question. He came at length to the decision of summoning the Gallican and Italian Churches…. When the Council met, I was allowed by a friend of mine to copy a letter from one of the members. It was a curious document and I preserved it for some time with great care, but I became at length alarmed at having such a compromising paper in my possession and reluctantly committed it to the flames. The tenor, however, of some parts of it I remember…. "The writer stated that the Emperor at first proposed to try the effects of corruption and to tamper with the Bishops individually, and that he had succeeded in that course, to some extent, more particularly with the Italian Bishops; but that when he abandoned that plan and summoned a Council, he committed a great error and entirely defeated his own intentions. Those men, who could be gained by corruption or intimidated by power, when they found themselves surrounded by their Brethren, were withheld, by shame, from giving way to such considerations. Numbers give power; individually each man might tremble at the thought of resisting Napoleon, but united, the esprit de corps which is, as it ought to be, the most powerful incentive among all Churchmen, taught them to offer an unyielding opposition to all demands inconsistent with the rights of their Church. But there was another circumstance which rendered the assembling of the Council fatal to the Emperor's project, and which, not to have known, was on his part inexcusable ignorance. At the opening of all Councils each member takes an oath that he will not alter anything that has been fixed by former Councils, so that everyone in this case was individually bound by an oath taken in the presence of his Colleagues to reject such conditions as were required by the Emperor from the Council! The consequence of this was that even those who had given their adhesion to his plans were now found united with the brethren in the cause of their Church. Napoleon found that he had overreached himself. "The letter further stated that the Bishop or Archbishop of Tours had conducted himself like an angel. Du sang nous en avons tous dans nos veines, was the opening of his speech, et que nous en devons rÉpandre puisque la derniÈre goutte, etc., etc. It stated further that when the Bishops took up the address to the throne they commenced in the following words—Sire, nous vous apportons nos tÊtes! Upon which the Emperor actually started, surprised at hearing himself addressed in words which were suited to a Nero or a Caligula." Meanwhile Napoleon, having failed to bend the Church of Rome to his will, was preparing for another campaign against terrestrial powers. He had started a conscription and was raising an army of 400,000 men, with which he hoped to regain something of his lost prestige in the eyes of the world. Apart from troops, he had to acquire horses for his cavalry and for this end some expedient had to be devised. The methods which he adopted were in accordance with the rest of his policy. "Bold, indeed, as well as singular, was his plan. A conscription of horses would have been too violent, certainly too straightforward a proceeding, but still it was only by some measure of that nature that his object could be attained. That which was determined upon was the voluntary presentation of horses to the Emperor, a plan which obviated the necessity of paying anything, whereas, in a case of conscription, some sum, however inadequate, must have been fixed upon as a sort of regulation price. "The example was set by the Senate, then followed by the city of Paris and all the authorities. The papers teemed with fulsome statements of the "presents" made to the Emperor. Monsieur A. had sent his son, fully equipped; Monsieur B. had sent two horses, which the Emperor had graciously accepted, etc., etc. If this fashion had been confined to those whose situation rendered it incumbent upon them to prove their zeal for the Emperor's service, there would have been no great harm; no one would have felt much pity for this slight sacrifice on the part of those who were basking in the sunshine of Court favour. Far, however, was the measure from being limited to courtiers; its operation was universal. The stables of every individual were visited, their horses examined and practically seized…. "A friend of mine was so indignant at having his stables inspected that he boldly refused to allow his horses to be taken out, declaring that if the Emperor insisted upon having them, he would give them poison. I heard of only one other case of resistance. A man whose horses were to be taken away, inquired, with unprecedented temerity, 'Is this compulsory?' "'No!—Ah, no!' was the emphatic reply. "'Then if it is voluntary, it rests with me?' "'Mais certainement! But we advise you to send them!' "'May I then demand payment?' he next inquired. "'Mais certainement!' was again the assurance which he received. He might have payment at a subsequent date—they could not say exactly when, but they advised him not to demand it. "It may be concluded that such indiscriminate spoliation, only rendered the more disgusting by the humbug with which it was accompanied, could not but tend to increase the unpopularity of the Emperor. So violent was the discontent, that nothing but the dread of the police and the state of apathy, into which the whole nation had sunk, prevented an open insurrection." In the midst of the general discontent, however, a ripple of merriment passed over Paris. Madame mÈre, who, of course, could not avoid following the new fashion, presented her horses as an offering to her son. They were at once, to the delight of the Parisians, returned to her as good for nothing! "Whether," says Stanhope, "she had selected her gift with a view to this verdict, or whether it represented the general state of her stud, I know not, but, from what I have seen, I conclude that the latter is not an unlikely case." This little incident and the fact that many of the untrained horses thus acquired, pirouetted in an undignified manner and turned their backs as the Emperor passed, momentarily restored the good humour of the Parisians. But John Stanhope, whose own steed escaped confiscation on account of its being blind of one eye, took far less interest in the Emperor's movements than in a chance of freedom which at last presented itself to him. "There was not a man in France at this date," he states, "certainly not a Minister, who would have dared individually to plead the cause of a prisoner. With the exception of Talleyrand, few among the French dignitaries were superior to that singular influence by which Napoleon was able to subdue the proudest spirits; and since the Ministers had positive orders not to submit to the Emperor any proposal of that nature, there was not one of them bold enough to defy such a mandate." But as with the ecclesiastics, so with the Savants of France; what a man dared not attempt singly, a body of men, in their collective strength, might venture. It was patent to the Savants that the young Englishman had been unjustly detained. The object of his journey had been so obviously not only a peaceable but a laudable one, that the Institute determined at length, if possible, in the interests of Science, to effect his liberation. And at last they succeeded. At last, after a period of alternate tormenting hope and despair, John Stanhope secured the longed-for passport which accorded him permission to quit Paris. Even then, when liberty was once more within his reach, it was all but snatched from him. Savary, Minister of the Interior, taking advantage of the Emperor's absence, harshly ordered all prisoners to return to their dÉpÔts. But Stanhope, with Napoleon's passport in his pocket, decided to disregard these orders, and since his parole no longer prohibited an attempt at flight, he determined to sell his newborn liberty dearly. After many hairbreadth escapes he succeeded in reaching the German frontier, and to his unbounded relief knew that he was at last free! [Illustration: PASSPORT GIVEN BY NAPOLEON I TO JOHN SPENCER STANHOPE, By the advice of his friends he decided to make his way back to England, instead of going direct to Greece as he had at first intended. Passing next through Vienna, therefore, he viewed with pardonable curiosity Francis I., the father of Marie Louise; and his description of the attitude of the Emperor of Austria towards his redoubtable son-in-law at this date, when the latter still retained the Imperial power, is of interest in the light of the complete change of front exhibited by Francis directly the ascendancy of Napoleon appeared to be on the wane. Stanhope relates:— We English view with such horror all despotic Governments that we cannot conceive the possibility of happiness existing under the sway of an absolute Sovereign. Yet such I found to be the case at Vienna. The Government of the Emperor is mild and paternal, the people seem to have as much freedom of speech as they could enjoy even in England, and at this particular moment the measures of the administration are anything but popular. The Emperor is supposed to be devoted to the cause of Napoleon, whilst his subjects are almost universally enthusiastic for the liberty of Germany. Upon some occurrence, I think it was upon the occasion of an insult offered to the Conte de Narbonne, the Emperor was reported to have said—"Monsieur l'Ambassadeur, you and I are the only two Frenchmen in the country!" The Empress was described to me as a woman of a proud and violent temper, whilst the Crown Prince was spoken of with great interest, but as a young man kept in the highest subjection. When the Emperor summoned him to accompany himself and the Empress on their way to meet Napoleon and Marie Louise, then on their road to Vilna previous to opening the Moscow Campaign, the Prince was said to have replied that he should have been most happy to have gone to meet his sister, but not that Man!—the consequence of this was that he was immediately put under arrest. I was much pleased with the simple and unaffected manner in which the Imperial family seemed to mix with the people. The Archduchesses frequently drove about the streets without Guards or more attendants than any lady of fashion would have had, though among the nobility there is occasionally a display of state that is not to be found in any other capital in Europe. I saw a man of rank going to Court who had with him at least twenty servants magnificently dressed; and although it was drawing towards the end of the season, Vienna still appeared to be extremely brilliant and luxurious…. The city, however, still bore marks of her recent misfortunes; the French cannon-balls were still visible, and ruined buildings still testified that she had been forced to yield to the proud will of a Conqueror. At length, on what John Stanhope subsequently described as the happiest day of his life, he reached Cannon Hall; and he used to relate that one of the first discoveries which he made on entering his old home convinced him how confident at one time his family must have been that he was numbered with the dead, for a very valuable collection of prints, which he had greatly prized, had, in view of his supposed decease, been employed by his brothers in papering one of the bachelors' bedrooms! Naturally, he was strongly urged by his relations not to risk leaving England again, and many of his friends added their persuasions to those of his family, pointing out the serious risk which he ran in again visiting the continent. To all such representations he turned a deaf ear, since he held that, as his liberty had been granted him with the ostensible object of enabling him to prosecute his proposed researches in Greece, he was in honour bound to fulfil that obligation. His brother Edward decided to accompany him, and to his brother William he wrote:— CANNON HALL, September 1813. Edward and I start for Greece next month, & my old friend Bonaparte is You seem to think that I am not obliged to go into Greece. The truth [Illustration: EDWARD COLLINGWOOD, SON OF WALTER SPENCER STANHOPE, ESQ., Thus it befell that John Stanhope nearly became, for the second time, a prisoner of Napoleon, and the tale of his adventures may be concluded here. He had promised that he would en route deliver some despatches to the Queen of Wurtemburg; he therefore journeyed to Stuttgart, where he had a lively interview with the former Princess Royal of England, who, although now forty-seven years of age, and exceedingly massive in figure, still retained her girlish sprightliness. On hearing that a young Englishman desired to see her, she at once concluded that someone had been sent with fresh news of her father, George III., the thought of whose mental affliction was a constant source of grief to her. John Stanhope writes:— STUTTGART, January 10th, 1814. As soon as I had breakfasted, I went to the Palace. I was shown into a sort of ante-room, the servant took in the letters, and returned for answer that the Queen would see me herself. In another moment she hastened into the room where I was, and without giving me time to make my proper salutations, she burst out with—"How is the King?" I was astounded at so disagreeable a question, and with difficulty answered—"Much the same?" "What, no better?" continued she in great disappointment. At first she supposed that I was a messenger, but upon hearing my name, she took me herself into another room and remained conversing with me for full half an hour. She inquired if I was Captain Stanhope's son, and upon hearing that I was a Spencer-Stanhope, she made a sort of start of surprise, she said she knew my father and well remembered my mother's marriage. She added that she remembered it particularly from one circumstance, the King was desirious of buying for Princess Sophia a diamond pin which my father had previously ordered. There was much pour parler about the matter. My father refused to renounce his purchase to any other intending purchaser, and the King refused as obstinately to give up all hopes of persuading the unknown owner of the pin to relinquish his rightful claim. At last my father learnt who was his rival, and instantly gave up the pin to the King! I had for some time found it difficult to keep up the respectful manner necessary to be observed to Sovereigns, but here, at the thought of our respective parents obstinately haggling over the same bit of jewellery, with a jeweller who was in great terror of offending either, we both threw etiquette to the winds and laughed outright. She asked me after Lord Chesterfield, and inquired how he bore the death of his wife. She asked after the Arthur Stanhopes. I told her the story of my recent imprisonment. She inquired whether the Queen [Charlotte] appeared much older; and also asked the number of our family, when she laughed yet more heartily at my saying that I could not tell how many girls there were without counting. She said to me, "You see I know more about your family than you do!" She at length told me she was much obliged to me for the trouble of bringing her letters and curtsied me out. After this interview Stanhope saw the Palace which, he says, "is a splendid building, and on its summit appears a magnificent new crown that does not fail to remind the spectator of the recent acquisition of the Royal title." He was shown the apartments of the King, which he found handsome and well- furnished, "but amongst the decorations, parrots, plants and musical clocks made a conspicuous figure, as well as no little clamour for the attendant setting all the clocks in motion as he passed, a singular concert was produced, which was increased by the screaming of parrots, paroquets and macaws. "I afterwards went through the gardens of the mÉnagerie, where there is, amongst other creatures, a large collection of monkeys; then to the farms where there are some cattle, but a most singular assemblage of monsters, such as sheep with five legs, etc., etc.; rather an odd taste in farming, to which pursuit the King professes to be much attached! In some of the fields I saw Kangaroos, which were originally a present from our King, and have bred and become numerous." He then saw the King's carriages, "one built by Hatchard in England which cost a thousand pounds"; also, in contrast, the humble little garden chair in which her Majesty usually drove out, "And, I assure you," the attendant added confidentially, "she fills it well!" He finally visited Beau Sejour, where he says:— I was not a little surprised, on entering a salon in a building opposite to the Palace, to find myself in the midst of an assembly of Knights in robes of their respective orders. I involuntarily started back at being thus transported, as it were, into the days of chivalry, but as soon as my first surprise had passed away and allowed time for a little reflection, I observed that my Knights were made of wood and intended to show off the habiliments of the different orders. I afterwards went to a little island where there was a chapel built upon some rock-work. I was conducted by my guide into a cell which had been formed underneath it, and I saw the figure of a monk seated near a table on which was a skull and an hour-glass. Upon my entering, he turned his head round suddenly to look at me, but though the deception has been very well contrived. I was not long in discovering that this also was a fictitious monk. Another anecdote relating to Continental Royalties of that day did John "He was at one time on the Continent as a travelling tutor with two young Englishmen. He happened one day to be sauntering with his pupils near one of the Royal Palaces of Prussia, when they observed some young and very striking-looking girls walking at a little distance. This was enough to excite the romance of the young Englishmen, who were in no great awe of their tutor. They began to give chase, which excited an evident alarm among the ladies. In her embarrassment, one of them dropped her handkerchief, which was immediately picked up and presented to her by one of the young gentlemen. This, of course, tended to increase the agitation of the ladies, who retreated as fast as they could, and disappeared through a door in the wall before them. "Upon the return of the youths to Monsieur d'Ivernois, he addressed them with—'Well, gentlemen, unless I am mistaken, you have got into a pretty scrape. I suspect that those ladies were the Princesses of Prussia!' "'Pooh, pooh, nonsense!' answered his pupils, highly amused. "'Not so much nonsense as you suppose; by their dress and appearance they were evidently persons comme il faut; they were frightened and embarrassed by your conduct, and they retreated through a gate which opened into the Palace gardens!' "The young men laughed at their tutor's conjecture, but shortly after, they were at some ball or reunion at Berlin, when the Duchess of Brunswick went up to Monsieur d'Ivernois and addressed him with—'Monsieur d'Ivernois, come with me, I want to speak to you.' Conducting him into a more retired part of the room, she continued—'The other day the young Princesses were guilty of an indiscretion. Tired of always walking in the Palace Garden at Potsdam, they could not resist the inclination they felt to steal out and enjoy a walk in the open country—a pleasure enhanced perhaps by the feeling that it was forbidden. They were followed and addressed by two young English gentlemen who were in company with a man older than themselves, and of a grave and more sedate appearance, who was supposed to be their tutor. I have taken it into my head that you were this person of more sedate appearance, and that the two indiscreet young men were your two pupils. Now if I am right in my conjecture, I suppose that you have no great wish to pay a visit to Spandau, and therefore I need not impress upon you the absolute necessity of holding your tongue on the subject. The Governess, who is fully aware of the indiscretion she committed in permitting such an escapade, is in the greatest alarm and as anxious as you can be that the strictest secrecy should be observed, so that she, at all events, will not boast of the adventure.' "M. d'Ivernois had nothing to say in reply. He took the hint, for the name of Spandau effectually sealed both his lips and those of his pupils, whilst the Princesses, when their alarm had subsided, were most probably flattered to find that their beauty produced no less an effect when not enhanced by the splendour of Royalty." * * * * * Space forbids following in detail the adventures of John Stanhope en route to Greece or the outcome of his researches there; an account of which latter, moreover, he published personally. He accomplished his journey without misadventure and succeeded in closely investigating the historical remains of Olympia, the description of which, brought out in two separate volumes, he dedicated to the Institute of France. [3] A severe attack of fever, however, unfortunately brought his operations to an untimely ending; and on becoming convalescent, he was forced to start upon his homeward journey. * * * * * Retracing their steps through Italy, he and his brother found the land terrorised by the gangs of robbers with which it was infested, but who, far from being common banditti, he explains, were to be looked upon as a body of men who were at variance with the Government of that day. "At one part of our journey," he writes, "the driver flatly refused to go the route we had chosen, declaring he must go a shorter way for safety; thereupon a priest, with whom we had been conversing, exclaimed—'Come with me, you will be quite safe; here is my pistol.' He drew back his coat and displayed the cross which was attached to his breast. He then told me that one day, as he was travelling, a robber with black moustachios and a very ferocious appearance came to attack him. He instantly drew back his gown, and with an air of authority showed the cross. The robber immediately sank upon his knees and implored a blessing. What a strange state of society in which men can unite to the greatest veneration for their religion, an open violation of its most sacred laws!" Another day Stanhope had to go through a lonely Pass which was known to be occupied by a very celebrated band of robbers. "We entered a dreary dismal country and at length came to a wild but extensive plain. We suddenly perceived, on our left, a small troop of nine men, well mounted and drawn up in a regular line, and evidently exercising themselves in a military manner. Our Gendarmes informed us that they belonged to the banditti. This was by no means acceptable intelligence, and we were not a little thankful to find that we passed quietly on without molestation. This was the spot in which they had captured an immense Government treasure a few months before. It was escorted by 250 men. These were so confident in their strength that, concluding that there was no danger of their being attacked, some were at least a mile in advance and others as much in the rear. Those who had remained near the treasure were so confounded by the unexpected attack that they were soon put to flight, and the contributions of all the Province beyond the Pass fell into the hands of the robbers. "Murat, indignant at so great a loss, disgraced the General, who commanded the Province, and sent down another with a thousand men and orders to exterminate the robbers. "I heard an anecdote of the Captain of the band that savours so much of the time of Robin Hood that I cannot help relating it. The Duchess of Avellino, who was on the point of passing from her chateau to Naples, happened in some public place to mention that she was much alarmed at the thoughts of going through the celebrated Pass. A gentleman present assured her that her fears were groundless, and that there was not the smallest danger. Shortly after, the Duchess pursued her journey, and when she arrived at the Pass she perceived a stranger riding at no great distance from her carriage. She felt considerably alarmed. However, he followed the carriage closely till it was out of the Pass. He then rode up to the window, pulled off his hat, and told the Duchess that he was the Captain of the Band; that he had escorted her out of the limits of his territories, and that she was then perfectly safe. She offered him money, but he refused it positively, though politely. He then took his leave, but not before she had recognised in him the man whom she had met at the dinner party, and who had assured her that there was no cause for alarm. "Not long ago one of the haunts of the banditti was discovered, and an enormous amount of booty was found in it." At Naples Stanhope and his brother arrived in time to be invited to a masquerade given by the Princess of Wales. Caroline, weary of her anomalous position in England, had in 1814 obtained leave to go to Brunswick, and subsequently to make a further tour. She lived for some time on the Lake of Como, an Italian, Bergami, who was now her favourite, being in her company. FÊted by Murat, King of Sicily, [4] she pursued unchecked her career of eccentricity and indiscretion. "Directly the Princess heard that we were at Naples she invited us to her masquerade. My friend Maxwell was going in a Turkish dress which he had brought with him from that country, therefore I thought I might as well adopt a costume of the same land, and chose that of a black slave. The ball began by fireworks which were let off in a little Island immediately in front of the Palace in which we were assembled. I had been assured that the Commandant had declared that as he had a considerable quantity of gunpowder in the Fortress, he could not allow anything of the sort without an express order from the King, as the danger would be considerable. None the less, out of deference to the wishes of the Princess, the order appears to have been given. The ball which followed was brilliant, the dances were magnificent, and the King and Queen took part in almost every dance. She is an extremely pretty woman. The King, to my amusement, changed his dress frequently in the course of the evening. In the middle of the proceedings a little cabinet was thrown open, in which was disclosed a bust of Murat with the Inscription Joachim 1er Roi de Naples. I met the Princess of Wales coming out of the cabinet, and was informed that when the door was first opened she was stationed near the bust, and in a theatrical manner placed a crown upon its head. "To all this magnificent entertainment there was no supper! "A few days afterwards, to my dismay, I received an intimation from the Duc di Gallo that the King wished me to be presented…. On New Year's Day, at the appointed time, I accordingly repaired to the Salon destined for the Corps Diplomatique. I there found many people assembled, and a table set out with a good breakfast, coffee, tea, all sorts of wine and liqueurs. We were at length ushered into the Presence Chamber and formed a circle round the King. "I had been far from pleased with Murat's manners at the Princess of Wales's ball, but he now certainly played the part of a Monarch like a consummate actor. The former Inn-keeper's son was dressed magnificently in a Spanish costume. He walked round the circle, and when he came to me he exclaimed, as if aside, 'Ah, un beau nom!' He asked me whence I came and whether I intended to remain long in Naples; upon my answering the latter question in the negative he said, 'J'en suis fÂchÉ!' "As soon as our audience was terminated we were ushered into the Chapel where all the nobility of the Court, both male and female, were assembled. Each seemed to vie with the other in splendour of dress. The music was immeasurably fine; but this theatrically magnificent assembly in a Chapel seemed much like a mockery of Religion. Murat, however, who was in a very conspicuous place, acted his part very well. His little boy stood near him and he found out the different parts of the service in the child's prayer- book. As soon as the mass was over the Duc di Gallo placed us in a room which opened into that in which the King received the ladies of the Court, so that, by standing near the door, we could see the whole of the ceremony. The Queen was absent as she had caught cold at the Princess of Wales's ball. The ladies, in consequence, only passed with a side step and solemn demeanour, making en passant a low, deferential bow to the King. But I was extremely amused at their manner directly this was over. As soon as they arrived within a short distance of our door, their solemn and respectful countenances relaxed into a smile of mockery, their side swimming steps into a run, and they all appeared as changed as if they had been touched by a magician's wand. I could not refrain from laughing at them as I read in their altered demeanour the distastefulness of the ceremony through which they had just passed." Later, Stanhope received, through the Princess of Wales, invitations to various other balls; and finally he was the recipient of a letter from Lord Sligo inviting him to become a subscriber to a ball which it was proposed to give in honour, jointly, of the Princess and of the King and Queen. Stanhope, in common with several of the English, refused to take part in a measure which the latter considered their own Government would not approve, as England had not recognised the Sovereignty of Murat. At a dance, however, that same evening, the Princess, who had previously taken no notice of Lord Granville who was present, came up to him as he stood near Stanhope and informed him that she was exceedingly anxious there should not appear to be any division among the English on this occasion, and that therefore she wished him to subscribe. Lord Granville answered that if it was her wish he should certainly consent to do so. She thereupon proceeded to attack Stanhope's other friend, Maxwell, but the latter stood firm, flatly refusing to consent to a proceeding of which he disapproved. On this the Princess, greatly indignant, turned her back on him and walked off, exclaiming emphatically, "No more dinners at my house, Mr Maxwell!" Before the disputed ball took place, Stanhope and his brother had journeyed on to Rome. On the road thither they again ran great danger from robbers; indeed, at the first town in the Pope's dominions, where they were obliged to submit their baggage to the examination of the custom house officials, a soldier informed them that he had orders not to let an Englishman pass without an efficient guard, and he begged them, to their astonishment, to take an escort of fifty-two men. "We, however," Stanhope relates, "passed the next stage safely without seeing any robbers, but we were informed that our danger was not yet over, as we had to pass near a wood which was one of their regular haunts. We saw nothing to alarm us in this wood, but, shortly after, we were startled by seeing two men lying in the middle of the road, swimming in blood. We learnt that these were two robbers whom the gendarmes had been conveying to Turin, when a rescue was attempted. The gendarmes immediately shot these men and pursued the others. This had happened only a quarter of an hour before we passed." In Rome Stanhope wrote, "I frequently meet Lucien Bonaparte. We have also some excellent English society—the Duke of Bedford, Lords Holland and Cawdor, Sir H. Davy, Mrs Rawdon, etc., and most of them give parties, so that I could sometimes fancy myself in London, I see so many London faces." At Milan he was shown how the French soldiers had playfully made the fresco of "The Last Supper," by Leonardo da Vinci, the butt of their bullets; and at Turin he was struck by the strange sight in the Museum of a black man in puris naturalibus. He had been a favourite servant of the King of Sardinia, who had left nothing undone to cure him of the disorder from which he suffered; but having failed in this endeavour, he had the deceased nigger stuffed and affectionately preserved thus! The travellers next crossed the Mont Cenis by walking up the mountain and sledging down the other side. And now, at length, they again approached Paris. With strangely mingled feelings, not unmixed with a sense of premonition, did John Stanhope once more draw near the scene of his former captivity. A transformation had taken place in the surroundings which he knew so well; Napoleon was now himself a prisoner in the hands of his enemies, and Louis XVIII. was seated upon the throne of his ancestors. But Stanhope was not long in discovering that the metamorphosis was far more apparent than actual. The eleven months' Sovereignty of Louis had not served to render the monarchy secure, and the spirit of Napoleon brooded like an unseen presence over the land which it still dominated. "During the period of my rapid journey," writes Stanhope, "I lost no time in ascertaining the feelings of the people with respect to the Bourbons and to all the extraordinary changes which had taken place since I left. We had an officer in the coach who told us that if Bonaparte were to appear, almost all the privates would join him, and I found that disaffection prevailed universally through that part of France. Even boys, who were running along the side of the coach begging, and who cried Vive le Roi! after having begged in vain for some time, ran off crying Vive l'Empereur! This was a degree of licence very different to what I had been accustomed to see in France in the days of Napoleon's iron rule and tyrannical system of espionage. The impression produced in my mind by what I heard and saw was that, if I had formed a just estimate of Bonaparte's character, he would soon be in France and at Paris!" The latter was not a comforting conviction, and, ere long, Stanhope learnt that plots were undoubtedly on foot to bring such an event to pass, "A regiment of the old Guards marched into some town, and, addressing the young Guards quartered there, said, 'Our cry is Vive l'Empereur! What is yours?' 'Vive le Roi!' was the answer. 'Well, then, we must fight it out; but as we are of the Vieille Guarde we will give you choice of weapons.' 'No,' replied the others, 'we will neither cry Vive l'Empereur nor accept your challenge.' Such a reception was not what the conspirators expected; in consequence, the plot failed, the old Guards returned to their quarters, and the Generals concerned in the business attempted to escape. Some succeeded, but others were taken. Louis XVIII., however, did not dare to put them to death. "But that a conspiracy preceded and signalised Napoleon's return there can be little doubt, and the violet was the emblem of the conspirators. Frederick Douglas [5] told me that before Napoleon's return he was at the Duchesse de Bassano's when the subject of flowers became the topic of conversation. The Duchesse exclaimed, 'Pour moi, j'aime la violette!' A general smile appeared on the countenances of all present, and Douglas saw that there was some joke or secret that he did not understand. That secret became sufficiently clear afterwards." [6] Meanwhile, upon Stanhope's arrival in Paris, he called upon several of his former friends; but the following morning, to his dismay, he was seized with a return of the fever which had attacked him in Greece. His brother had left him to return home by another route, and he thus found himself alone, stricken with a severe illness which "was no longer ague, but a violent fever, scarcely, if at all, intermittent." He at once sent for the doctor, who provided him with a good nurse; but he explains, "My situation may be better imagined than described when I say that the first intelligence which greeted me in my helpless and suffering condition was that Bonaparte had landed in France. At the very time that we were passing through the south of France, he was but a short distance from us! |
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