While it is true that the return of the Emperor had not pleased the nobles, the ultramontane priests, the capitalists, and the intriguers who had been working for the Duke of Orleans, there appears to be no doubt that the army and the masses of the people were sincerely rejoiced. The only thing which had a tendency to cool the general enthusiasm was the apprehension of war. But Napoleon having taken great pains to make it known that he wished for peace, that he meant to respect the Treaty of Paris, and that he intended to rule as a constitutional king, the French could not fully realize the certainty of war. They had heard the allied kings declare that France had the right to choose her own ruler, and had been told that the Bourbons were restored simply because the Senate and other organs of public opinion had deposed Napoleon and selected Louis XVIII. If the allied kings were telling the truth in making such declarations, then the French, who had put Napoleon aside for the Bourbon, had as much right to put the Bourbon aside for Napoleon. Neither to the French people, nor to Louis XVIII., did it appear certain that the allied kings would march their armies back into France to drive out an emperor the nation had welcomed.

Consequently the beginning of the Hundred Days was marked with what General ThiÉbault calls a “boundless enthusiasm.” He was present on the night of Napoleon’s entry into Paris; he was one of the officers sent by the King to stop the Emperor’s advance; and ThiÉbault says that “at least twenty thousand persons were crowding about the Tuileries. Suddenly Napoleon reappeared. There was an instantaneous and irresistible outburst. At sight of him the transports rose to such a pitch that you would have thought the ceilings were coming down; then, as after a thunder-clap, every man came to himself, quivering with ecstasy, and stammering like a man intoxicated.”

This first night of his return had barely passed before Napoleon was hard at work reorganizing his government; and he continued to labor sixteen hours a day, almost without rest, to create an administration, an army, and a thorough system of national defence.

As Dumas tersely states, “At his voice, France was covered with manufactories, workshops, founderies; and the armorers of the capital alone furnished as many as three thousand guns in twenty-four hours; whilst the tailors made in the same time as many as fifteen and even eighteen hundred coats. At the same time the lists of the regiments of the line were increased from two battalions to five; those of the cavalry were reËnforced by two squadrons; two hundred battalions of the National Guard were organized; twenty marine regiments and forty regiments of the Young Guard were put in condition for service; the old disbanded soldiers were recalled to the standard; the conscriptions of 1814 and 1815 were raised; soldiers and officers in retirement were engaged to reËnter the line. Six armies were formed under the names of the Army of the North, of the Moselle, of the Rhine, of the Jura, of the Alps, and of the Pyrenees; whilst a seventh, the Army of the Reserve, collected under the walls of Paris and of Lyons, which cities were to be fortified.”

Politically, Napoleon’s position in France itself was full of trouble. Though they had cast out the Bourbons, the people had no intention of returning to imperial despotism. Liberal ideas prevailed everywhere, and Napoleon himself must not now hope to rule by personal sway. He must become the mouthpiece and the public agent of the nation, else he would become king of a minority faction, with the bulk of the nation against him.

As an evidence of his good faith in accepting limited power, Napoleon called to his counsels Benjamin Constant, leader of the French liberals, a friend of Madame de StaËl, and a very bitter enemy to the Emperor. Constant responded to the invitation, and prepared an amendment to the constitution of the Empire, which Madame de StaËl believed was precisely the thing needed to rally all France to Napoleon’s support, and to make certain the future of the cause of liberalism.

This famous document, known as “The Act Additional,” did not vindicate Madame de StaËl’s judgment. It angered all parties, more or less, for it was what modern politicians would call “a straddle.” It contained enough democracy to offend the imperialists; and enough imperialism to disgust the democrats.

Let it be remembered that the rallying cry of the people who had flocked to the returning Emperor had been: “Down with the nobles! Down with the priests!” So intense had been this feeling, this terrible antagonism to the abuses of the Old Order, that Napoleon himself, at Lyons, had whispered, “This is madness.” In Paris he had found the same spirit. Nobles and priests were furiously hated, not so much on personal grounds, as because they stood for an abominable system.

By tens of thousands the workmen of Paris had paraded before the Tuileries, making the air ring with the old war cries of the Revolution, and chanting fiercely the song whose burden is “With the guts of the last of the priests we will strangle the last of the kings!”

Now, of all men, Napoleon was the least likely to throw himself into the arms of men like these. He had no objection to nobles if they were his nobles; nor to priests if they were his priests; nor, indeed, to kings if they were his kings. Perfectly willing that the opportunities of life should be offered to all men alike, whether peasants or princes, and democrat enough to wish that all men should be equal in the eye of the law,—free to choose their vocations, their religion, and their political creed,—he had not the slightest idea of opening the flood-gates of that pent-up democracy, socialism, and communism which had horrified him in the days of his youth.

In the “Act Additional” provisions were made for a representative government and for the responsibility of ministers. Freedom of religion, freedom of the press, security for person and property, were also guaranteed.

The good effects of these concessions were nullified by the creation of a hereditary House of Lords, which, it is said, Napoleon opposed, but which was adopted in spite of him. General ThiÉbault thought that this unpopular feature of the new Constitution lost the Emperor two hundred thousand men, who, otherwise, would have joined his army. This “Act Additional” was submitted to the people, and adopted, but the vote was light.

By a decree which he had issued from Lyons, he had abolished the Senate and the legislative body. In their place was to be put the new House of Lords, and a legislative assembly. Urged by Lafayette, and other Liberals whose support he could not throw away, Napoleon ordered the elections much earlier than he had intended—and much earlier than was good for him, as it afterward appeared.

One by one grievous disappointments fell upon Napoleon and his people. It became evident that his return meant war. The Congress of Vienna declared that he had broken the Treaty of Fontainebleau, and declared him an outlaw. The armies of the kings were ordered to halt in their homeward march, and to set out for France again. Napoleon’s letters to the Allies could not even be delivered; his couriers were turned back at the frontier.

If Austria had made a secret agreement with him, it became apparent that nothing was to be hoped for in that quarter.

Murat had ruined everything by madly plunging into the papal states, proclaiming Italian unity and independence, and dashing himself to pieces in an attempt far beyond his means and his ability. Austria believed that Murat was acting at the instigation of Napoleon, and this unfounded suspicion led her to think, as Napoleon said, that he had played her false.

Murat’s army melted away in the face of Austrian and English opposition; the Italians did not rise as he had hoped; and the rash, unfortunate King of Naples fled to France, and hid himself near Toulon. From this place of concealment he sent to Napoleon the offer of his services; but the great man who had forgiven Ney, and reËmployed FouchÉ, drew the line at Murat. More’s the pity! In an army which had a general’s place for the infamous Bourmont, there surely might have been found room for the finest cavalry leader in the world—a man who had sinned, but had bitterly repented; a man whose splendid sword might have made Ligny another Jena, and Waterloo another Dresden.

As it was, Murat’s failure strengthened the Allies, and cast a gloom over France.

Two things Napoleon needed above all others,—time and money. He had only a few weeks in which to create means of defence against a world in arms; and the lack of money made it impossible for him to utilize to the best advantage even these few weeks. Supported only by silver and gold (arrant cowards in times of war), and the note currency of the Bank of France, he was combating nations which redoubled their resources by the issue of paper money. He received liberal voluntary contributions; Hobhouse relates that it was a frequent occurrence for rolls of bank notes to be handed the Emperor while he was reviewing the troops. But, after all, such a resource yields comparatively little; and the scarcity of money seriously crippled the great captain in preparing for his last fight.

Before he sets out to join the army we see Napoleon in two characters which will never fade from the memory: one as the successor of Charlemagne and Emperor of the French; the other as the private citizen with his personal griefs.

Time being so short, it was decided that the electoral colleges of France should have a grand open-air meeting as in the days of Charles the Great—a Champ de Mai, to be held in the Field of Mars.

On the 1st of June, 1815, deputations from all the constituencies of the Empire, together with those from the army, and every public body, assembled in that historic amphitheatre where the first Festival of the Federation had been held twenty odd years before. Sixty thousand troops added to the pomp of the ceremony, and countless throngs of Parisians crowded the field. There was inspiring music, impressive religious forms, and a great taking of oaths to the new Constitution. Napoleon himself took the oath, distributed the eagles to his enthusiastic soldiers, and in a far-reaching, sharply pitched voice delivered one of his masterly addresses.

“Emperor, consul, soldier, I owe everything to the people. In prosperity, in adversity, on the field of battle, in the council room, on the throne, in exile, France has been the soul and constant object of my thought and my efforts.”

How could Frenchmen listen to words like these and not burst into cheers? Had he been dressed that day in simple uniform instead of absurd court costume; had he kept his baleful brothers—Joseph, Lucien, and Jerome—in the background instead of at the forefront; had he made his appeal and trusted his cause more unreservedly to the people, the Champ de Mai might have been a colossal repetition of his triumph at Grenoble and Lyons. As it was, Paris regarded it as a fine spectacle, an exhibition to be seen and applauded—nothing more. It touched the heart of the army; it did not touch the larger heart of the French people. When the chambers met, the Emperor delivered still a more successful speech. Hobhouse, who was present, says that when he had finished with the sentence, pronounced in a louder tone and with a flourish of the right hand, “The sacred cause of country will triumph!” he rose quickly from his throne, “bowed to the assembly, and retired amidst thunders of applause, which accompanied him from the throne to the door, and obliged him several times to turn round and salute the assembly as he was ascending the stairs of the area. He appeared highly delighted. Indeed, nothing could exceed the enthusiasm, which was the more gratifying as it proceeded from such an assembly.” When we remember that this assembly of notables was already hostile to Napoleon, was already cut up into factions, only one of which was devoted to him, and that it was an open secret that these notables would openly oppose him the moment the fortunes of war should go against him, his oratorical triumph becomes all the more remarkable.

So much for the Emperor, his labors, his speeches, his dangers, his mighty efforts to conquer an impossible situation; we can admire it all, marvel at his genius, courage, resources, and versatility; but it is only when we go with him to Malmaison that we draw near to the man, feel for him, feel with him, and realize how greatly he has been misunderstood. He had always been a good son; he had been but too affectionate, too generous, to his sisters and brothers; he had been to both his wives one of the most tenderly indulgent of husbands.

It seems that he had continued to hope, almost to the last, that Maria Louisa would come to him at Elba, and bring his boy. A lot of fireworks, we are told, had fallen into his possession, and he had kept them carefully, ready to be used when wife and child should come. He knew, at length, that neither would ever see him again. He had been told of Neipperg, and the true reason why Maria Louisa had ceased to write. “MÉva, tell papa I am still very fond of him!” and this message, sent almost by stealth, was all that MÉneval could bring to the father from the little son who was held at Vienna. No wonder that Napoleon should be found sitting before a portrait of his son, with tears coursing down his cheeks.

Josephine was dead. The fall of the Emperor, her hero, her Cid, had bewildered and unnerved her. Frightened at the din of war that shook the whole realm, she had lived in terror at Malmaison. The allied kings paid her every attention, and in showing the King of Prussia over her lovely grounds when she was ill, broken out with an eruption, she had, it is said, brought on a fatal relapse. Murmuring the words “Elba”—“Bonaparte”—she died, while her hero was yet in exile. It is a revelation of his true character that before setting out on his last campaign he should claim one day out of the few fate gave him, and devote it to memories, to regrets, to recollections of the frail, but tender-hearted woman who had warmed to him when all the world was growing cold. He went to Malmaison, almost alone, and, with Hortense, walked over the grounds, seeing the old familiar places, and thinking of the “old familiar faces.” He lingered in the garden he himself had made, and in which he used to love to work when he was First Consul, surrounded by trees and flowers, and inhaling the breath of nature. He used to say that he could work better there than anywhere else. He wandered through the park, looking out on the trees he had planted in those brilliant days long ago. Every spot had its silent reminder of glories that were gone, of friends he would see no more.

He had asked to be told everything about Josephine,—her last days, her sickness, her dying hours; no details were too trivial to escape him. And as they told the story he would break in with exclamations of interest, of fondness, of sorrow. On this visit to the chÂteau he wanted to see everything that could remind him of her, and of their old life together—the death-chamber at the last. Here he would have no companion. “My daughter, let me go in here alone!” and he put Hortense back, entered, and closed the door. He remained a long while, and when he came out his eyes showed that he had been weeping.

His personal appearance at this time is thus described by Hobhouse, who saw him at a military review at the Tuileries: “His face was deadly pale; his jaws overhung, but not so much as I had heard; his lips thin, but partially curling, so as to give his mouth an inexpressible sweetness. He had the habit of retracting the lips and apparently chewing. His hair was dusky brown, scattered thinly over his temples; the crown of his head was bald. One of the names of affection given him of late by his soldiers is ‘Our little monk.’ He was not fat in the upper part of his body, but projected considerably in the abdomen, so much so, that his linen appeared beneath his waistcoat. He generally stood with his hands knit behind him, or folded before him, but sometimes unfolded them, played with his nose, took snuff three or four times, and looked at his watch. He seemed to have a laboring in his chest, sighing or swallowing. He very seldom spoke, but when he did, smiled, in some sort, agreeably. He looked about him, not knitting but joining his eyebrows, as if to see more minutely, and went through the whole tedious ceremony with an air of sedate impatience.”

Hobhouse speaks of Napoleon’s reception at the opera where Talma was to play Hector. “The house was choked with spectators, who crowded into the orchestra. The airs of La Victoire and the Marseillaise were called for, and performed amidst thunders of applause, the spectators joining in the burden of the song.... Napoleon entered at the third scene. The whole mass rose with a shout which still thunders in my ears. The vivats continued until the Emperor, bowing right and left, seated himself, and the play recommenced. The audience received every speech which had the least reference to their returned hero with unnumbered plaudits.”

General ThiÉbault in his Memoirs declares that Napoleon was no longer the same man he had once been; that his face wore a greenish tinge and had lost its expression; that his mouth had lost its witchery; “his very head no longer had the pose which used to characterize the conqueror of the world; and his gait was as perplexed as his demeanor and gestures were undecided. Everything about him seemed to have lost its nature and to be broken up.”

The lady who composed the Memoirs of the Court of Louis XVIII. saw Napoleon holding a review at the Tuileries, and had a conversation with him afterward.

“Bonaparte was dressed that day in a green uniform. I have been told that it was the same which he afterward wore at Waterloo, and which he wore, almost in tatters, at St. Helena. He had been reviewing some troops that morning at the Champ-de-Mars, and his coat, hat, and boots were still dusty.... I looked in vain for the fire which once beamed in his eyes. He stooped more than usual; his head almost hung upon his breast; his complexion was yellow, his countenance melancholy and thoughtful, and his little hat drawn almost over his eyes, gave him a gloomy expression. His movements were still abrupt, but this seemed merely the effect of habit.... He had altogether a wearied, harassed appearance, which seemed to indicate a great man extinct.”

To the same effect is the testimony of Chancellor Pasquier.

Carnot said: “I do not know him again. He talks instead of acting, he the man of rapid decisions; he asks opinions, he the imperious dictator, who seemed insulted by advice; his mind wanders, though he used to have the power of attending to everything, when and as he would; he is sleepy, and he used to sleep and wake at pleasure.”