During the years of the peace (1801–1804), French influence upon the Continent kept marching on. Napoleon’s diplomacy was as effective as his cannon. Holland became a subject state, with a new constitution dictated by France, and a governing council which took guidance from France (1801).

Lombardy dropped its title of the Cisalpine, and became the Italian republic, with Napoleon for President. French troops entered Switzerland, put down civil strife, and the country for ten years enjoyed peace and prosperity under a constitution given it by Napoleon, he being virtually its ruler under the name of Mediator of the Helvetic League.

In Germany, a general shaking up and breaking up of political fossils and governmental dry bones occurred. The territory ceded to France by the treaty of LunÉville needed to be reorganized. The German princes, who were dispossessed, required compensation. Prussia had to be paid for her neutrality. Austria wished to recoup her losses. How was it possible for diplomacy to satisfy at the same time France, which had fought and won; Austria which had fought and lost; and Prussia, which had not fought at all?

Napoleon was ready with his answer. Let the strong help themselves to the territories of the weak. At Rastadt, Napoleon had remarked to Marten, “Does not public law nowadays consist simply in the right of the stronger?” Evidently it did, as it does yet, and ever has done. Upon this theory the German complication was worked out. There were fifty so-called Free Cities which, being weak and in debt, might be forcibly absorbed. There were a number of ecclesiastical princes, ruling wretchedly over wide and rich domains, whose tempting wealth might be confiscated. There were hundreds of knights of the German Empire, decayed relics of mediÆvalism, each holding as private property a snug territory, whose people the knight taxed, judged, and outraged at his own good pleasure. The Congress of Rastadt had been laboring upon this German problem at the time Austria murdered the French envoys (1798). The task was now resumed (1801) nominally by the Congress at Ratisbon, but really by French diplomats in Paris. Talleyrand, as Minister of Foreign Affairs, had a magnificent opportunity to feather his nest with bribes, and he made the most of it. German diplomatists posted to Paris, paid court to the corrupt minister, laughed at all his good sayings, fondled his poodle, petted his supposed bastard, and lavished their gold upon him to win his influence.

When the process of reorganization was completed, Germany had been revolutionized. Most of the Free Cities were no longer free, but were incorporated with the territory of the government in which they were located. The ecclesiastical princes were reduced to the condition of salaried priests, their domains confiscated to the governments. Bavaria, Baden, WÜrtemberg, were given large increase of territory; Prussia was not left unrewarded; France got all she was entitled to; and Austria, the defeated nation, lost almost nothing. The happy combination of France, Prussia, Austria, and Russia, to settle their differences at the expense of the Free Cities and the Princes of the German Catholic Church, had been blessed with brilliant success.

Following the redistribution of German lands came changes yet more vital. The wretched little feudal sovereignties disappeared. The imperial knights lost their out-of-date principalities. The leaven of the French Revolution penetrated far beyond the Rhine. Offices ceased to be bought, sold, and inherited. Regular systems of taxation, police, and legal procedure came into use. The trades and professions were thrown open to all: caste was breached, the peasant freed from some of his heaviest burdens. Education, in some parts of Germany, was taken out of the hands of the Church, and the clergy made amenable to the law.

In this manner Napoleon had, unconsciously perhaps, laid the foundation for the union of the German peoples into one great empire, by the suppression of so many of those small, jealous, and hide-bound principalities which had divided the land, and which nothing but overwhelming pressure from without could have reformed.

Thus, while still wearing the modest title of First Consul, the ruler of France had grown to proportions which were imperial. To the French, he was the necessary man without whom they might relapse into chaotic conditions. The wondrous structure he had reared seemed to rest upon his strength alone. His life was the sole guarantee of law and order. Should assassins strike him down, what would be the situation in France? To avoid such a danger, and to deprive royalist fanatics of such a temptation, would it not be better to make Napoleon monarch, and to settle the succession? In that event his death would not bring about endless confusion and violent convulsions. Reasoning of this kind seems to have moved the Senate to propose that the First Consul accept a new title, and on May 18, 1804, he proclaimed himself Emperor of the French.

Partly by the force of circumstances, partly by sincere conviction, partly by the exertion of Napoleon’s wonderful gift for the management of men, France had been so well prepared for this change in her form of government that she indorsed it by a practically unanimous vote. Only such stalwart exponents of a principle as Carnot and Lafayette protested.

With the Empire came all things imperial: a change of constitution; a creation of high dignitaries; the ennobling of the Bonaparte family, Lucien excepted; the creation of marshals in the army; the establishment of court forms and etiquette in the palace.

Gorgeous and imposing were the ceremonies which ushered in the New Order. Paris, France, Europe, were dazzled by the lavish expenditures, the magnificent parade, with which the Consul became Emperor. He spared no expense, no pains, no personal discomfort, to make the pageant a success. Historians have sneered at the rehearsals by means of which he prepared each actor in the coronation for his part; but the ridicule would seem to be misplaced. His example has set the fashion; and not only are private marriages rehearsed in our day, but royal funerals and royal coronations perfect their functions by the same prudent process.

That nothing might be wanting to the solemnity and impressiveness of the occasion, Napoleon insisted that the Pope should come from Rome to Paris and officiate. So recent and so immense had been Napoleon’s services to the Church that the Pontiff could not refuse, more especially as he had other favors to ask.

Brilliant as a dream was the coronation in the great cathedral of Notre Dame. Paris never witnessed a civic and military display more splendid. The Church, the State, princes foreign and native, grandees old and new, blazed forth in the utmost that wealth and pride and vanity could display. In a coach heavy with gold Napoleon and Josephine rode, amid soldiers, to the church where the Pope had long awaited their coming; and when the great Corsican had been conducted through the proper forms, had prayed, had sworn, had been oiled and blessed, he proudly took the crown out of the Pope’s hands, crowned himself, and then crowned the kneeling Josephine (December, 1804). His mother was not there, she was in Rome with the revolted Lucien; but when the artist David painted the picture of the coronation, Napoleon, with his never failing eye for effect, had Madame Letitia put in. Just as he wished for his mother on this the great day of his life, he did not forget his father.

“Joseph, what would father have said!”

One who had lifted himself from a cottage to the White House in these United States drew all hearts to himself when, after having taken the oath of office, he turned to his old mother and kissed her. Not far distant from the same creditable feeling was Napoleon’s regret for his father.

Mother Letitia could not be persuaded to leave Rome and the insurgent Lucien; but the old nurse journeyed from Corsica to see her nursling crowned. Napoleon hugged and kissed the old woman, lavished every attention upon her, and kept her in Paris a couple of months. When she returned to Ajaccio, she was laden with gifts.

Nor could Brienne be overlooked in these sunny days of triumph and of happiness. The Emperor must return to the school grounds of his boyhood, view the old familiar scenes, talk of old times with such former acquaintances as might still be there. Behold him, then, soon after his coronation, arriving at the chÂteau of Brienne, at six in the evening, where Madame de Brienne and Madame LomÉnie await him at the foot of the steps. He spends the night at the chÂteau, whose kind mistress had so often made him welcome in the forlorn days of his youth. He walks about the place, pointing out every spot familiar to him when at school. He visits the field of La RothiÈre, a favorite strolling place of his youth. He is so affable, so animated, so interested, that his movements seem to say, See where I started from, and where I have arrived. “And what has become of Mother Marguerite, the peasant woman who used to sell milk, eggs, and bread to the boys?” Mother Marguerite is still living, still to be found at the thatched cottage in the woods. By all means, the Emperor must quit the fine circle at the chÂteau and visit the old peasant in the hut. A man so gifted with eye to effect could never miss a point like that. So the horse is saddled and brought; the Emperor mounts and rides; and at the cottage in the wood his Majesty alights and enters.

“Good day, Mother Marguerite!” The aged eyes are dim, and they gleam with no recognition. She knows that the Emperor is in the neighborhood; she expects to go to the chÂteau to see him; she will carry him a basket of eggs to remind him of old times. Suddenly his Majesty puts himself where the dim eyes can see him better, draws nearer to her, and mimicking in voice and manner his schoolboy tone, and rubbing his hands as he had used to do: “Come, Mother Marguerite! Some milk and fresh eggs; we are dying of hunger.”

A little more jogging of the memory, and the ancient dame, knowing now who it is, falls at the Emperor’s feet. He lifts her, and still insists on the eggs and milk. She serves, he eats, both of them happy, and both of them full of reminiscences of the years long ago. Though he left her a purse of gold, Mother Marguerite probably was prouder of the fact that he came to her house and ate.

One more visit the great Emperor will pay Brienne, the year of the last visit being 1814. Foreign invaders will be encamped all round about the playgrounds of his boyhood. Prussian BlÜcher will be taking his ease and his dinner in the chÂteau. Prussian BlÜcher will give him battle at Brienne, and will rout him at La RothiÈre. And to his companions, the falling Emperor will again point out places of interest in the old school-ground, but not in the happy vein of 1804.

What should be done with Italy? French arms had wrested her from Austria and defended her from Russia. She was too weak to stand alone. Take away the support of France, and she would again be cut up and devoured by the stronger powers. On all sides she was threatened. The English were at Malta, the Russians at Corfu, the Austrians in Venice, while in Naples and Rome were apparent allies, but actual foes. Reasons of state made it imperative that Napoleon’s imperial system should embrace Italy, and the Italians themselves favored the change.

Napoleon tendered the crown to his brother Joseph. To the amazement of the world that preposterous egotist refused upon two grounds: first, Italy was too near to France for its king to enjoy that complete independence which Joseph felt necessary to his self-respect; second, the crown of France belonged to him, in prospect, as heir of the childless Napoleon; and Joseph would not exchange this selfish, shadowy claim for the certainty offered him by his too partial brother! Surely there never lived a man more be-cursed with ingrates of his own blood than Napoleon!

“I am sometimes tempted to believe,” said he, “that Joseph thinks I have robbed my elder brother of his share of the inheritance of the late king, our father!”

It was only after Joseph had resisted all persuasions that Napoleon decided to make himself king of Italy “until the peace.”

In April, 1805, taking Josephine with him, he crossed the Alps. Everywhere he was greeted with enthusiasm. On the field of Marengo he and Josephine sat upon a throne and viewed the splendid rehearsal of the battle in which the young hero had crushed Austria and rescued Italy at a blow.

In May, 1805, he placed upon his head, amid pomps and ceremonies in the cathedral of Milan, the iron crown of the Lombards. Josephine looked on from the gallery; she was not crowned queen of Italy; but her son, the loyal and gallant EugÈne Beauharnais, was made Viceroy of the new kingdom. His Holiness, the Pope, was not present at the ceremony; his Holiness was chagrined and unfriendly; he had left Paris a disappointed man; he had asked many favors of Napoleon, “my son in Christ Jesus,” which had been denied, and already was to be seen the slender line of the rift between Napoleon and the Papacy which was to grow and grow, widening year by year, until the yawning chasm was to ingulf much of the strength of the Empire.

But, for the time being, the Pope went his way almost unnoticed, meekly implacable, humbly vindictive, waiting his chance to strike the ruler he had so recently oiled and blessed, while the vaulting Corsican, using an archbishop to manipulate the clerical machinery instead of a pope, inflated himself with pride as he felt upon his head the crown of Charlemagne.

And had he no cause to be proud? Did the history of the world disclose a more dazzling record than his? Not born to the throne, a stranger to the purple and the gold of rank, the greatest Empire of modern times was his; and, as heir to the CÆsars, he had now caught upon his arms the grandeur and the glory of old Rome. Emperor of the West!—another Theodosius, another Charles the Great! And only a few years ago he had meekly stopped to scrape the mud of the streets off his coarse boots to avoid offence to the nose of Madame Permon: had pawned his watch for food; had moodily thought of drowning himself in the Seine because his mother had pleaded for help which he was too poor to give!

If ever mortal was justly proud, it was he,—Napoleon, the penniless son of the lawyer; Napoleon, tireless student, unwearied worker, unconquerable adventurer, resistless soldier of Fortune,—Napoleon, Emperor of France and King of Italy, whose crowns had come to him unstained of blood! He was the strongest, the wisest, the best in fight, in work, in council; and they had raised him aloft on their bucklers as the strongest had been lifted in the valiant days of old.

Nothing in Napoleon’s career was more brilliant than his triumphal progress through the Italian cities. Everything which a passionate, imaginative people could do to testify their admiration and affection, they did; and during these brief, sunny weeks when he moved amid ovations and splendors, amid rejoicings and blessings, amid music and flowers, with Josephine by his side, he probably came as near to happiness as his restless, craving nature could come. Everywhere he left indelible footprints,—roads, canals, public buildings of all sorts, mighty and useful works which made his tour memorable for all time.

Genoa, following the lead of Italy, and friendly suggestions from France, voted to unite her fortunes with those of the new Empire. The Doge and the Senate went in state to Milan, were received by Napoleon on his throne, and prayed that he would accept the ancient republic as a part of France. Graciously the modern CÆsar consented; the Doge became a French senator, and out of the territories of the republic were carved three French departments.

The little republic of Lucca caught the general infection, sent a deputation to Milan, begged at Napoleon’s hands a government and a constitution, was warmly welcomed by the Emperor, and was bestowed as an imperial fief upon his sister Elisa, wife of a Corsican fiddler named Bacciochi.

The horror and indignation with which European kings and cabinets looked upon these encroachments can easily be imagined. With one accord they began to cry out against Napoleon’s “insatiable ambition.” England did not consider how she had despoiled France in Canada, on the Ohio, in Hindustan. Russia and Austria made no account of provinces taken from Poland or Turkey. All the great nations were growing greater; the general balance of power had been disturbed: was France alone to be denied the right to extend her system over states which asked for it, and which were dependent upon her for protection?

In January, 1805, Napoleon had written directly to the King of England, as he had done once before, asking for peace. As before, his advances had been repelled. Great Britain had already begun to knit together the threads of another coalition. An understanding existed between England, Russia, Austria, and Sweden. Naples, through her Bourbon rulers, was fawning at Napoleon’s feet, flattering and servile, while secretly she was plotting his downfall. Well aware of the storm which was gathering on the Continent, Napoleon prepared for it, but did not for an instant relax his efforts at Boulogne.

His plan was to send his fleet to sea, decoy Nelson into pursuit, and then, while his own ships doubled and came back to the Channel, to cross his army over to England, under its protection, in his flat-bottomed boats. “Masters of the Channel for six hours, we are masters of the world.”

It was not to be. Wind and waves fought against him. The incapacity of his navy fought against him. Into soldiers on land he could infuse courage, confidence, sympathetic coÖperation. But the navy baffled him: all his efforts were vain. His admirals could not, or would not, have faith; could not, or would not, obey orders; could not, or would not, coÖperate. Utterly wasted were all his labors, all his expenditures. Austrian armies were marching against Bavaria, Napoleon’s ally; Russian hordes were moving down from the north; Prussia’s magnificent army of fifty thousand men was in the balance, wavering ominously, and threatening to unite with the coalition.

Such was the situation on the Continent when the despatches reached Napoleon that all his great plans for the invasion of England had gone to wreck and ruin; that his admiral had misconceived or had disobeyed positive orders; that the French fleet would not only be unable to give him aid, but was so scattered and so placed that it must inevitably fall a prey to the English.

“It was about four o’clock in the morning of August 13, that the news was brought to the Emperor,” says SÉgur. “Daru was summoned, and on entering gazed on his chief in utter astonishment.” The Emperor “looked perfectly wild”; his hat jammed down over his eyes, “his whole aspect terrible.” As soon as he saw Daru, he rushed up, and poured out a torrent of pent-up wrath. He railed at his admiral, his imbecile admiral, “that damned fool of a Villeneuve!” He paced “up and down the room, with great strides for about an hour,” venting his rage, his disappointment, his reproaches. Then stopping suddenly and pointing to a desk, he exclaimed: “Sit down there, Daru, and write!” And with marvellous self-control, wresting his thoughts away from Villeneuve, the fleet, the blasted plans of invasion, he dictated to the secretary, hour after hour, as fast as pen could catch the rushing words, the whole campaign of Ulm in its largest outline, in its smallest detail, embracing, as it did, the movement of his own vast legions lying along the coast for two hundred leagues, the movement of MassÉna from Italy, of Marmont from Holland, and of Bernadotte from Hanover. Four hundred thousand soldiers were moving against the French; less than half that number of French rushed to repel the attack. The vast camps on the Boulogne coast vanished, the eagles set Rhineward, other legions marched as they had never marched before—thousands speeding along the roads in coaches. The Austrians had not waited for the Russians; Bavaria had been overrun; and Mack, the Austrian general, was now dawdling about Ulm. Before he suspected what was happening, Napoleon’s combination had been made, a circle of steel drawn about his adversary; and the French armies, closing in upon front, rear, and flanks, held the Austrians as in a mighty trap. With the exception of a few squadrons which broke through the gaps in the French lines as they advanced, the whole Austrian army laid down its arms (October 20, 1805). In the Memoirs of de SÉgur we are given a personal glimpse of the Emperor which is perhaps more interesting to the average reader than the dreary narrative of march, counter-march, manoeuvre, and battle.

During the combats around Elchingen, Napoleon, soaked with rain, went to a farmhouse at Hasslach to wait for Lannes and the Guard to come up. There was a stove which threw out its comfortable heat, and before it sat a drummer boy, wet, cold, and wounded. Napoleon’s staff officers told the boy to get out, and go somewhere else. The drummer would not hear of it. The room was big enough for both the Emperor and himself, he said, and he meant to stay. Napoleon laughed, and told them to let the boy alone, “since he made such a point of it.” In a few moments the Emperor was dozing on one side of the stove and the drummer lad on the other. Around the two sleepers were grouped the staff officers, standing, and awaiting orders.

Louder roared the cannon, and every few minutes Napoleon would rouse himself and send off messengers to hasten Lannes. While the Emperor was thus napping, Lannes came up, entered the room abruptly, and exclaimed: “Sire! What are you thinking about? You are sleeping while Ney, single-handed, is fighting against the whole Austrian army!”—“That’s just like Ney, I told him to wait,” said Napoleon, and springing on his horse, he galloped off so fast that Lannes, afraid now that the Emperor would rush into danger, roughly seized the bridle rein and forced him back in a less dangerous position. Ney was reËnforced, and the Austrians routed.

In the midst of his own successes, Napoleon received the tidings from Trafalgar. Nelson had fought the combined fleets of France and Spain, had lost his own life, but had won so complete a triumph that England’s supremacy at sea was not disputed again throughout the Napoleonic wars. The shock to Napoleon must have been stunning, but he only said, “I cannot be everywhere.”

Continuing his advance, he entered Vienna, November 13, 1805, and lost no time in throwing his army across the Danube, in hot pursuit of the retreating enemy. By a trick and a falsehood, Murat and Lannes secured the great bridge, and much precious time was saved. By a similar trick, the Russians deceived Murat a few days later, and escaped the net Napoleon had thrown around them, and thus “the fruits of a campaign were lost.” Murat gained the bridge by pretending that an armistice had been agreed on; the Russians made good their escape by duping Murat with the same falsehood. Napoleon’s anger was extreme, the more so as a blunder of Murat’s had come within a hair’s-breadth of spoiling the campaign of Ulm.

Failing to trap the Russians as he had trapped the Austrians, there was nothing for Napoleon to do but to press the pursuit. League after league the French penetrated a hostile country, new armies mustering on all sides to rush in upon them, until they were in the heart of Moravia. The Emperor Francis of Austria had joined the Czar Alexander, and the combined Russo-Austrian forces, outnumbering the French, confronted Napoleon at Austerlitz. The position of the French, far from home and surrounded by populations rushing to arms, was critical. Napoleon realized it, and so did his foe. There is no doubt that he would have welcomed an honorable peace, but the terms offered by the Czar were so insulting that he indignantly rejected them. Hastily concentrating his army, he made ready to fight. He artfully cultivated the self-confidence of the enemy, and put them under the impression that he was trying to escape. They had the hardihood to believe that they could turn his position, cut him off from his line of retreat, and do to him at Austerlitz as he had done to Mack at Ulm. Indeed, the position of the French army demanded all of Napoleon’s firmness, all of his genius. He had about eighty thousand men; the Emperors in his front had ninety thousand. His right was threatened by the Archduke Charles with an army of forty thousand; his rear by the Archduke Ferdinand with twenty thousand; on his left flank was unfriendly Prussia with a magnificent force of one hundred and fifty thousand. The combined armies in his front, taking the offensive, attacked the French advance guard at Wischau, and routed it. Napoleon was uneasy. He sent envoys to the Czar and sought a personal interview. Surrounded by young hotheads, Alexander repulsed the overture, sending Dolgorouki to meet the Emperor of the French. Full of the idea that the French were frightened and would pay handsomely for the privilege of getting back home, young Dolgorouki demanded of Napoleon the surrender of Italy, Belgium, and the Rhine provinces.

“What more could you ask if you were in France?” exclaimed the indignant Napoleon. The envoy’s manner was as offensive as his language, and Napoleon finally ordered him off. Violently irritated, Napoleon stood talking to Savary for some time, striking the ground with his riding-whip, as he dwelt upon the insolence of the Russians. “Please God, in forty-eight hours I will give them a lesson!”

An old grenadier stood near, filling his pipe for a smoke. Napoleon walked up to him and said, “Those fellows think they are going to swallow us up.”—“If they try it,” said the veteran, “we’ll stick in their craws.” Napoleon laughed, and his brow cleared.

Drawing his army back to a still better position, Napoleon studied the ground thoroughly, reconnoitred diligently, and waited. He soon guessed the plan of the enemy, to turn his right flank. But to do this they must expose their own flank to him, and he would strike them as they marched. So confident was Napoleon that he could destroy his enemy if the turning movement across his front were attempted, that he lured them still farther by withdrawing from the high-ground, the Pratzen plateau—“a grand position,” from which he could easily have inflicted upon the Russians an ordinary defeat. But an ordinary defeat was not what he wanted; he manoeuvred to lead his foes into a false movement where they could be annihilated.

On December 1, 1805, about four in the afternoon, Napoleon could see through his field-glass that the great turning movement of the Russians had commenced. He clapped his hands and exclaimed, “They are walking into a trap; before to-morrow night that army will be mine!”

Ordering Murat to make a sham attack and then retire so as to confirm the enemy in his delusion of a French retreat, Napoleon dictated a stirring address to his troops, pointing out to them the Russian mistake and the advantage the French could take of it. Everything done that could be done, the great captain called his staff about him, and sat down to dinner in the hut which served him for a bivouac. Seated around the table on wooden benches were Murat, Caulaincourt, Junot, Rapp, SÉgur, Mouton, Thiard, and others. As serenely as though he were in Paris, Napoleon led the conversation to literary topics, dramatic poetry especially, and commented at length on the merits of various authors and plays. From these subjects he passed on to Egypt, and again spoke of the wonderful things he would have done had he taken Acre. He would have gained a battle on the Issus, become Emperor of the East, and returned to Paris by way of Constantinople. Junot suggested that they might, even now, be on the road to Constantinople. But Napoleon said: “No. The French do not love long marches. They love France too well. The troops would prefer to return home.” Junot questioned this; but Mouton bluntly declared that the Emperor was right, that the army was tired out, it had had enough: it would fight, but would do so because it wished to win a battle which would end the war and allow the men to return home.

Throwing himself upon some straw in his hut, Napoleon slept till far into the night. Then he mounted his horse, and once more went the rounds to see that all was right. He went too near the Russian lines: roused some Cossacks, and escaped capture by the speed of his horse. Getting back into his own lines, he was stumbling along on foot in the darkness when he fell over a log. A grenadier, to light his way, made a torch of some straw. The blaze showed to other soldiers the Emperor. Upon a sudden impulse, more torches were made of straw, while the shout arose, “Live the Emperor!” It was the anniversary of the coronation, and the troops remembered. The one torch became a score, the score a hundred, then thousands, until a blaze of light ran along the line for miles, while the shout of “Live the Emperor!” roused even the Russian hordes. It was such an ovation as only a CÆsar could inspire. It was so unstudied, so heartfelt, so martial and dramatic, that Napoleon was profoundly moved. “It is the grandest evening of my life,” he exclaimed.

At dawn he called his staff to the hut, ate with them standing, and then, buckling on his sword, said, “Now, gentlemen, let us go and begin a great day!” A moment later he sat his horse on a hill that overlooked the field, his staff and his marshals around him. As the sun cleared itself of the mists, “the sun of Austerlitz,” the final orders were given, the marshals galloped to their posts, and the famous battle began. By four o’clock that evening the Russo-Austrian army was a wreck—outgeneralled, outfought, knocked to pieces. Napoleon had ended “this war by a clap of thunder.” The Czar fled with the remnant of his host, escaping capture at the hands of Davoust by the well-worn falsehood of an armistice. The Emperor Francis came in person to Napoleon to sue for peace, was kindly received, and was granted terms far more liberal than he had any right to expect.

On December 27, 1805, the Treaty of Presburg was signed. Austria ceded Venice, Friuli, Istria, and Dalmatia to Italy; Tyrol to Bavaria, which Napoleon erected into an independent kingdom; WÜrtemberg and Baden received cities and territory as rewards for adherence to France. Austria sanctioned all of Napoleon’s recent encroachments in Italy, and agreed to pay an indemnity of $8,000,000.

In the battle of Austerlitz the Allies lost about fifteen thousand men, killed and wounded, besides twenty thousand prisoners. The French loss was about twelve thousand.

Marbot relates an incident which illustrates the character of Napoleon.

One of the familiar episodes of the battle of Austerlitz was the retreat of the Russians over the frozen lakes. Napoleon himself ordered the cannoneers to cease shooting at the fugitives, and to elevate their pieces so that the balls would fall upon the ice. The balls fell, the ice cracked, and some two thousand Russians sank to watery graves.

Next day Napoleon, being near this spot, heard feeble cries for help. It was a Russian sergeant, wounded, adrift in the lake, supporting himself on an ice floe. Napoleon’s sympathies were at once aroused, and he called for volunteers to save the Russian. Many attempts were made, several Frenchmen came near being drowned, and finally Marbot and Roumestain stripped, swam to the man, and brought him to the shore. Napoleon had every attention shown to the poor fellow—the survivor of the host which sank the day before under his pitiless orders.