After allowing his army a brief rest, Napoleon set out against the Russians. His troops entered Poland, and on November 28, 1806, Murat took possession of Warsaw. The Poles received the French as deliverers. They believed that the dismemberment of their country by Austria, Prussia, and Russia was to be at last avenged, and Poland once more to take its place among the nations. By thousands the bravest flocked to the French standards, as enthusiastic for Napoleon as were the French themselves.

It may be that in his treatment of Poland the Emperor made one of his huge mistakes. It may be that he here lost his one great opportunity of permanently curbing the three Continental powers, whose combined strength finally wore him out. Had Poland’s resurrection as a nation been promptly proclaimed, had her crown been given to some born soldier, like Murat, Lannes, Soult, or Poniatowski, he would have drawn to his physical support every man of Polish blood, and to his moral support the active approval of every liberal in the world.

Across the path of Russia he would have thrown the living rampart of a gallant nation, fired by love of country and a passion for revenge. With Turkey on one frontier, and united Poland on another, and the mighty power of Napoleon ready to aid both, Russia’s position would, apparently, have been desperate. In like manner, a united Poland, on the flanks of Austria and Prussia, would, apparently, have been the very best guarantee that those two nations would not invade France.

In brief, had Napoleon decreed the liberty of Poland, he would have secured an ally whose strength and position were of vast importance to him, and whose need of his support would have kept her loyal. On the other hand, he would have incurred the lasting hatred of the three robber powers, and they would have had a common cause of union against him. This is what he realized, and this is what held him back; but in the end his temporizing, inconsistent, I-will-and-I-won’t policy did exactly that—brought upon him the lasting hatred of the three robber powers, and lost him the united support of Poland. For in order that his ranks might be recruited with Polish volunteers, he constantly dangled before the eyes of the unfortunate nation the prospect of independence. “Show yourselves worthy and then—.” In other words, rush to my eagles, fight my battles, die in my service, lavish your blood and your treasures upon me, and I will then consider whether Poland shall once more become a nation! It is a sorry picture—this of the greatest man of history sporting with Polish hopes, rights, lives, destiny.

Gallant men of this heroic nation gave him their lives—for Poland. At least one beautiful Polish woman gave him her honor—for Poland. He won part of the country because of his vague promises. He failed to win united Poland because his promises were vague. But the mere fact that Poland looked to Napoleon as its liberator, the fact that Poles trooped by thousands to fight for him, the fact that he erected Prussian Poland into the Grand Duchy of Warsaw, bore just the bitter fruit which Napoleon was so anxious the tree should not bear—the union of the three powers which had despoiled Poland, and whose suspicion and hatred had been aroused past all remedy by his dalliance with the Poles.

But these final results were all in the future as yet. For the time, Napoleon’s plan worked well enough. He got all the help he needed from Poland without burning any bridges between him and the three powers. His attitude seemed to say to Russia, Austria, and Prussia, “See what I can do with these Poles if you provoke me too far!” Polish independence was artfully utilized in two ways; to the Poles it was an aspiration rousing them to rush to the French eagles; to the three powers it was a threat, warning them to come to terms with Napoleon.

In the game of national chess, Poland thus became a mere pawn on the board. From any moral point of view such a policy is infamous. And the indignation of the historian is deepened when he is forced to add that Napoleon’s conduct was but an imitation of the statecraft of former times, just as similar infamies of the present day are imitations of time-honored precedents of kings and cabinets. Cavour one day exclaimed, “What rascals we should be if we did for ourselves what we are doing for our country!” He was referring to some especially dirty work (dirt and blood being copiously mixed), which he had been doing in copartnership with Napoleon III. in bringing about Italian independence. The confession is worth remembering. Christian civilization has certainly reached a curious pass when its leading statesmen admit that in statecraft they are continually doing things which would disgrace them as private citizens.

In the Memoirs of the Princess Potocka there is a vivid picture of the Polish situation in the winter of 1807, the writer being in Warsaw at the time.

“The 21st of November, in the morning, the arrival of a French regiment was announced. How shall I describe the enthusiasm with which it was received? To understand such emotions properly one must have lost everything and believe in the possibility of hoping for everything—like ourselves. This handful of warriors, when they set feet on our soil, seemed to us a guarantee of the independence we were expecting at the hands of the great man whom nothing could resist.

“The popular intoxication was at its height: the whole town was lit up as if by magic. That day, forsooth, the town authorities had no need to allot quarters to the new arrivals. People fought for them, carried them off, vied with each other in treating them best. Those of the citizens who knew no French, not being able to make themselves understood, borrowed the dumb language which belongs to all countries, and by signs of delight, handshakings, and bursts of glee made their guests comprehend that they freely offered all their houses contained, cellars included.

“Tables were even laid in the streets and squares. Toasts were drunk to Napoleon, to his Grand Army, to the Independence of Poland. There was hugging and kissing, and a little too much drinking.” Next day came dashing Murat and his brilliant staff, with braided uniforms, gold and silver lace, nodding plumes of red, white, and blue, and a good deal of rattle and bang, fuss and bustle, generally. A noisy cavalier was Murat, ostentatious, boastful, full of the reminiscences of his own meteoric career.

Lodged at the Hotel Raczynski, where there was a vile chimney which smoked, the Grand Duke of Berg left it, and quartered himself “in our house,”—the palace Potocki,—where he bored the inmates with his loud manners, his theatrical airs, and his too frequent reference to his most recent feat of arms,—the storming and taking of Lubeck at the head of his cavalry. Murat gave the Warsaw people to understand that the Emperor would soon arrive, and would enter the city with a certain degree of pomp. The authorities bestirred themselves; reared triumphal arches, composed inscriptions, ordered fireworks, plaited wreaths, and gave the usual warnings to poets and orators. The whole town was thrown into the private agony which is the prelude to a public and joyful reception.

And after all the toil and suffering of preparing for the Emperor’s triumphal entrance, what should he do but come riding into Warsaw on a shabby little post-horse, between midnight and day, with no one in attendance save Roustan, the Mameluke! The imperial carriage had mired on the road, and Napoleon had left it sticking in the mud. When he reached Warsaw, all were asleep, and “the Emperor went to the sentry box himself to wake up the sentinel.”

That same evening the authorities of the city were received by the Liberator, who talked to them graciously and volubly upon all topics excepting that of liberation. Upon this all-important subject he uttered nothing more than what are called “glittering generalities.” Poland, it appeared, had not yet done enough. Poland must rouse herself. “There must be devotion, sacrifices, blood.” Otherwise Poland would never come to anything. Running on in his nervous, rapid way, Napoleon alluded to the great exertions he would have to make to bring the campaign to a prosperous end. But he was sure that France would do all he demanded of her. Putting his hands in his pockets, he exclaimed: “I have the French there. By appealing to their imagination I can do what I like with them!”

The Polish magnates listened to this statement with considerable surprise, which pictured itself upon their faces. Observing this, Napoleon added, “Yes, yes, it is just as I tell you,” and took snuff.

Keenly disappointed as many of the Polish nobles were at Napoleon’s doubtful attitude, the country generally was enthusiastic in its faith that he would, at the proper time, do the proper thing. Every want of the French was supplied. Where voluntary offerings fell short, forced contributions made good the difference.

Warsaw had never been more brilliant. The heart of the doomed nation beat again. There were smiles, open hands, glad festivities. There were brilliant balls at Murat’s; brilliant balls at Talleyrand’s; brilliant balls at the palace of Prince Borghese; brilliant receptions held by the Emperor. It must have been a spectacle worth seeing,—a ballroom in reawakened Warsaw, where the loveliest ladies of Poland and the bravest warriors of France danced the happy hours away. It must have been a sight worth seeing,—Talleyrand entering a grand reception hall filled with the notables of Poland and gravely announcing, “The Emperor!”

Well worth seeing was the stout, stunted figure, crowned by the pale, set, marble-like face and large head, which came into view at Talleyrand’s announcement, and which stood within the doorway a moment to see and to be seen.

Did lovely Polish women crowd about the mighty Emperor, listening for the least word in favor of Poland’s independence? Did fair patriots appeal by look and word to him, yearning for the magic names, Liberty, Freedom? Vain the ardent, beseeching look; vain the tender, seductive voice. It would not do at all. He had suspected that—had steeled himself against it; and eager patriotism, voiced by women never so bewitching, could not break through that watchful guard. But as he leaves the room, he pauses again, and says to Talleyrand in a tone loud enough to be heard by all, “What pretty women!” Then the imperial hand salutes the company, and the Liberator is gone!

It must have been a sight worth seeing,—that ball at Talleyrand’s where Napoleon danced, and cultivated Madame Walewski, and where the imposing Talleyrand, with folded napkin under his arm, and gilt tray in his hand, humbly served his imperial master with a glass of lemonade.

Army affairs called Napoleon to the front; but after the bloody struggle at Pultusk, the weather stopped military movements. Continual rains had ruined the roads. Cannon stuck in the mire, soldiers perished in the bogs. Even Polanders had never seen anything equal to it.

Napoleon returned to Warsaw quite serene, remarking, “Well, your mud has saved the Russians; let us wait for the frost.”

Busy with French affairs, Polish and Russian affairs, busy also and above all at this time with army affairs, the Emperor relaxed himself socially to a greater extent than usual, and made himself exceedingly agreeable.

He entered into all the amusements, gossiped familiarly with all comers to his receptions, played whist, danced square dances, attended the concerts of his Italian orchestra, and led the applause with zest and good taste.

“How do you think I dance?” he smilingly inquired of the young Princess Potocka. “I suspect you have been laughing at me.”

“In truth, sire,” answered the adroit lady, “for a great man your dancing is perfect.”

Sitting down to whist, Napoleon turned to Princess Potocka at the moment the cards were dealt and asked:—

“What shall the stake be?”

“Oh, sire, some town, some province, some kingdom.”

He laughed, looking at her slyly.

“And supposing you should lose?”

“Your Majesty is in funds and will perhaps deign to pay for me.”

The answer pleased. He loved bold talk, prompt replies, definite answers. Halting, uncertain, indefinite people he could never endure.

Answer quick and answer positively, and your reply, though untrue, might please him better than if you hesitatingly told him the truth.

The same lively writer gives another lifelike picture of Napoleon in one of his fits of ill temper.

One day at Warsaw he received information that General Victor, bearing important despatches, had been captured by the Prussians. This piece of news enraged the Emperor. It chanced that upon the same day a Dutch delegation arrived to congratulate him upon the victory of Jena. They were admitted to audience just before the Emperor’s regular reception.

“It was near ten o’clock, and we (those in the reception room) had been awaiting a long time ... when, the door being noisily thrown open, we saw the fat Dutchmen, in their scarlet robes, roll rather than walk in. The Emperor was prodding them, exclaiming in rather loud tones, ‘Go on! go on!’ The poor envoys lost their heads, and tumbled all over each other.”

Princess Potocka says that she felt like laughing; but when she looked at the Emperor’s face, she did not dare.

“The music soothed him quickly; toward the end of the concert his gracious smile returned, and he addressed pleasant words to the ladies he liked best, before sitting down to his whist table.

“Excepting foreign ministers, and some of the high functionaries at play, all stood while Napoleon sat. This did not displease Prince Murat, who lost no opportunity to pose and to strike attitudes which he judged appropriate to show off the beauty of his figure. But little Prince Borghese was enraged and still had not the courage to sit down.”

But the Emperor’s amusements did not confine themselves to such things as whist and quadrilles alone. A certain Madame Walewski, “exquisitely pretty,” “her laugh fresh, her eyes soft, her face seductive,” caught the attention of the imperial visitor. “Married at sixteen to an octogenarian who never appeared in public, Madame Walewski’s position in society was that of a young widow.” She was “lovely and dull,” tempting and not unyielding. Talleyrand’s diplomacy is said to have done some very humble work as go-between, and the Madame was soon known to be the Emperor’s favorite.

Josephine, hearing vague rumors of high-doings at the Polish capital, generously offered to brave the rigors of travel and season to join her absent spouse. In the gentlest manner in the world he insisted that she stay where she was.

The gay time at Warsaw ended abruptly. Ney having made a dash at the Russians, without orders, Bennigsen roused himself to general action, and Napoleon went forth to one of the bloodiest battles in history—Eylau, February 8, 1807. Fought in a blinding snowstorm, the losses on both sides were frightful. So doubtfully hung the result that the Emperor himself escaped capture because he was concealed from view in the old churchyard. Augereau’s corps, caught in the snow-drift, blinded by wind-driven sleet, and exposed point blank to deadly Russian fire, was annihilated. Only a desperate cavalry charge, led in person by Murat, checked the Russian advance. When darkness fell, the French were about to retreat when Davoust, laying ear to ground, heard the retiring rumble of Russian guns. So the French held their position and claimed the victory. The Russians, in retreat, also claimed it.

On each side rose hymns and prayers of thanks and praise to God: Russians grateful that they had won; French rejoicing that they had prevailed. Bennigsen continued to retire; Napoleon went back into winter-quarters; and the only distinct and undisputed result of the battle was that some twenty-five thousand men lay dead under the snow.

Napoleon did not return to Warsaw, but made his headquarters at Osterode, where he shared all the discomforts of his soldiers while doing more work than any hundred men in the army. In spite of the dreadful weather and boggy roads, he was constantly on horseback, going at full speed from one outpost to another. Frequently he rode ninety miles during the day. With his own eyes he inspected the military situation down to the smallest details, untiring in his efforts to have his men well placed, well clothed, well fed. The sick and the wounded were indeed “his children.” He spared no efforts in their behalf, and this was one of the secrets of the cheerfulness with which his soldiers made such sacrifices for him. Sometimes in the march when the weary legions were weltering through the mud, drenched with rain or pelted by sleet, or blinded by snow, hungry and homesick, murmurs would be heard in the ranks, complaints would even be thrown at the Emperor as he passed. But when the enemy was in sight, murmurs ceased. “Live the Emperor!” was all the cry. They shouted it wherever they caught a glimpse of him on the field; they shouted it as they rushed to battle; and after the fight was over those who came forth unharmed, and those who were mangled, and those who were about to die—all shouted, “Live the Emperor!” Nothing like the devotion of the French soldier to Napoleon had ever been known before, and not till another Napoleon comes will be seen again.

The care of his army by no means filled all of the Emperor’s time: he ruled France from Poland, just as though he were at St. Cloud. Couriers brought and carried ministerial portfolios, brought and carried official reports and orders. Every detail of government passed under the eye of the master, all initiative rested with him.

Madame Walewski was brought secretly to headquarters, an indulgence Napoleon had never allowed himself before. While at Finckenstein, he received envoys from Persia and Turkey, and gravely discussed plans for an invasion of India.

In June the Russians again took the offensive. Their commander-in-chief, Bennigsen, one of the murderers of the Czar Paul, had shown great courage and ability. At Pultusk he had beaten Lannes and Davoust; at Eylau he had fought the Emperor to a standstill, and had carried away from that field twelve of the French eagles.

Bennigsen renewed the war by an attack on Ney, whom he hoped to cut off. A hasty retreat of the French saved them. Then Napoleon came up, and the Russians retired. At Heilsberg they stood and fought, both sides losing heavily. At length the superiority of the French leader made itself felt. He lured Bennigsen into a false position, closed on him, and well-nigh crushed him, at the battle of Friedland, June 14, 1807. This victory ended the campaign. The Russians asked for an armistice, which was promptly granted. The two emperors, Napoleon and Alexander, met on a raft, moored in the Niemen, near Tilsit, June 25, 1807, embraced each other cordially, and, amid the rapturous shouts of the two armies drawn up on opposite sides of the river, commenced those friendly, informal conferences which led to peace.

The town of Tilsit, having been made neutral ground, became the headquarters of the two emperors, who established their courts there, and lived together like devoted personal friends. The poor fugitive, Frederick William of Prussia, was invited to come, and he came. Later came also his queen.

On the 7th of July, 1807, the Treaty of Tilsit was signed.

Prussia lost her Polish provinces, which were erected into the grand duchy of Warsaw, and given to the Elector of Saxony. A slice of this Polish Prussia, however, was bestowed on Alexander. Dantzic, which the French had taken, was declared a free city, to be garrisoned with French troops till maritime peace should be ratified. The Prussian dominions in lower Saxony and on the Rhine, with Hanover, Hesse-Cassel, and other small states were formed into the kingdom of Westphalia for the profligate Jerome Bonaparte.

Ancient Prussia, as well as Silesia, was restored to Frederick William.

Much ado has been made over Napoleon’s alleged harshness to Queen Louisa at Tilsit; but a careful reading of the authorities proves that his only harshness consisted in declining to give to her that for which she asked. She went there to influence Napoleon by a beautiful woman’s persuasions; and she failed. In the nature of things, it could not have been otherwise. Having provoked the war, and having lost in the trial of arms, Prussia had to pay the penalty. The tears or cajoleries of Queen Louisa could not of course obliterate the hard political necessities of the case. Suppose the Empress EugÉnie, in 1871, had gone in tears to Bismarck or to the Emperor William, could she have saved for France the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine? Could she have reduced the war penalty from $1,000,000,000 to $1,000,000? Just such a task Queen Louisa undertook in 1807. Beyond his refusal to be influenced, Napoleon was not guilty of any discourtesy to the Queen. On the contrary, he honored her with the most studious politeness and deference.

By the Treaty of Tilsit, Russia bound herself to mediate between France and Great Britain. On his part, Napoleon agreed to mediate between Russia and Turkey.

In secret articles, Russia bound herself to adopt Napoleon’s Continental system in the event that Great Britain refused to make peace.

Furthermore, in that case, there was to be a northern confederation against England for the purpose of shutting her out of the Continent and of breaking her tyranny over the seas.

Russia, in return for this promise, was to be allowed to conquer Finland, a province of vast importance to her.

It is also stated by some authorities that Alexander agreed that Napoleon should do as he liked with Spain and Portugal; while Napoleon consented that Alexander should be allowed to strip Turkey of Moldavia and Wallachia, provided Turkey refused his mediation.