When the Emperor reached Paris, he was in one of his worst moods. Many causes had combined to mar his serenity. His brother Joseph had violently found fault with him because he, Napoleon, had remodelled the government, making it better for the people, and not quite so good for the nobles and priests. Joseph resented this deeply. He, Joseph, was King of Spain. He, Joseph, was the proper person to remodel government, change laws, and manage the country. Napoleon was present merely as a military expert, a general whose service was temporarily needed to pull Joseph from beneath the enemy, and lead him by the hand back to the throne; but when this had been done, Napoleon should have gone away, leaving Joseph to do in Spain just as he thought best. This view was not only held by Joseph at the time, but as long as his worthless life lasted he never wearied of explaining to his friends how Napoleon had lost him the crown of Spain by “interfering in his affairs” in 1809.

Not less high than this was the estimate which Louis Bonaparte placed on his “rights” as King of Holland. No sooner had that morose, jealous, ill-conditioned dolt been placed on a throne by his elder brother than he arrogated to himself all the prerogatives of a dynastic king. The “divine right” virus got into his sluggish veins, and he began to shift on to God the responsibility for such a creature as himself being a king at all. He wished to rule Holland, not as a fief of the Empire, not as part of the Napoleonic system, but as a piece of independent property which had come to him, Louis, through a long line of ancestors. When Napoleon gave him the crown, the conditions were made plain. Holland was a part of France; must be governed with reference to France; the friends and enemies of the one must be those of the other. In other words, Holland was a planet in the French system, and Louis a subordinate king. If Louis was too proud to rule as a lesser light in the system of his great brother, he should have been as frank as Lucien: he should have refused the crown. But he accepted the splendid gift, and then violated the conditions. English goods poured into his markets. To all intents and purposes he became the ally of Great Britain, for it was her policy which he favored. It was her dearest object to break down the Continental system, and Louis was aiding her to the best of his slight ability. Could Napoleon be otherwise than furious? Had Holland been won merely that England should be enriched? Had he set his brother on a throne merely to weaken his own empire, and to set an example of disloyalty to other allies? At a time when Prussia, Austria, and even Russia were under contract to enforce the Continental system, was it tolerable that his own brother, in all-important Holland, should be throwing his ports open to the common foe?

This cause of trouble, also, was worrying Napoleon and making it hard to maintain good humor. And even this was far from being all. Murat, his brother-in-law, was acting almost as badly as his brother. Murat, who was grand duke, wanted to be king, had coveted the crown of Poland, had claimed the Spanish throne, and in his disappointment, in both instances, had fallen into a rebellious mood.

Napoleon had given him Joseph’s vacant throne in Naples; but it was rumored that he was still discontented, and had been holding communications with conspirators in Paris. And who were these conspirators? Talleyrand and FouchÉ, of course. These restless, overrated, and chronic traitors had been sagely conferring in Paris, as they had done previous to Marengo, for the purpose of agreeing upon a successor to Napoleon, in case he should be killed in battle or hopelessly defeated.

Nor was even this all: the funds had fallen, the treasury was drained, murmurs had begun to be heard in France against the expansion of the Empire; conscriptions, which had been called for in advance of the legal time, began to be unpopular, desertions were frequent, and “the refractory” grew ever more numerous. The Spanish war was not relished. Generals ordered to Spain went, but went reluctantly. They carried no zeal, none of that buoyant confidence which is half the battle. Troops ordered there marched, but without enthusiasm. Compared with Italy and Germany Spain was a barren land. Against armed peasant bands no glory was to be won; little booty could be expected. Even the Guard grumbled at such service. As Napoleon was holding a review at Valladolid just before quitting Spain, the murmurs in the ranks grew so loud that he lost control of himself, snatched the musket from one of the growlers, jerked the man out of the line, threatened to have him shot, and then pushed him back to his place while he sharply lectured the whole troop.

Once more at Paris, Napoleon’s courtiers grouped themselves around him with the same blandishments as before. A few, a very few, might venture to speak frankly to him and to tell him the truth, but the many had fallen into the ways natural to all courts: they spoke, not to inform, but to please. And foremost among those who came to fawn and to flatter was “that cripple” whom Josephine said she dreaded, Talleyrand.

Only dangerous to the weak, gifted with no constructive talent whatever, incapable of sustained labor of any sort, strong only in sudden emergencies, in the crises of political changes, Talleyrand was known to Napoleon like an open book. Scorning him, rather than fearing him, Napoleon’s anger against him now was inflamed to the highest pitch, not so much because of anything he had done, as because of what his treachery implied. That so keen-eyed a time-server as Talleyrand should begin to plot, meant that confidence was shaken in the Napoleonic power. That the funds should fall, conscripts dodge the law, allies shirk their obligations, and domestic enemies conspire, were but various symptoms of the same malady.

When Talleyrand appeared at the levee, Napoleon boiled over. He began to rebuke the false courtier, began in a moderate tone, but the more he talked the less he could control himself. All the past perfidies of this most perfidious of men came to mind, and in bitter words were hurled at Talleyrand’s head. His venalities, his bribe-takings, his betrayal of state secrets—they all swelled the torrent of Napoleon’s excoriation. “You base wretch, you false-hearted minister. You pretend that you advised against the trial of the Duke d’Enghien when you urged it in writing; you pretend that you advised against the Spanish war when you urged me into it!”

And at each sentence Napoleon advanced, face distorted with passion, hand raised in menace, while the guilty courtier slunk back step by step as the Emperor advanced, until he reached the wall. There he stood, with Napoleon’s clenched hand in his face and Napoleon’s blazing eyes threatening death, warning him, as he loved life, to say nothing, and let the storm pass.

When Talleyrand reached home, “he fell into a kind of fit,” and the doctors had to be called in. Only a few days elapsed, however, before he was again at the levee, bending humbly before his master, and ready again with his fawnings and flatteries. Napoleon’s anger had passed: he listened to the courtier’s suave phrases with a smile of contemptuous indifference.

France had given Austria no cause for war. It was not even claimed that she had. Austria had causelessly provoked two wars already, had got whipped in both, had lost much territory, much money, much prestige. She now believed she was strong enough to win back all she had lost—hence she had mustered her forces and commenced the march into Bavaria. Her readiness to “begin again” had been accelerated by a bribe of $20,000,000 paid her by England.

Napoleon had massed troops at the point of danger, but had trusted to Berthier the direction of their movements. This officer had bungled matters so badly that the different divisions were widely scattered; and the troops, conscious that something was wrong, were becoming demoralized. Summoned by the signal telegraph, Napoleon made all haste to headquarters. He found the army so ill-posted that he said to Berthier, “If I did not know you to be true to me, I should suspect that you were a traitor.”

The Archduke Charles, commanding the Austrians, had seen his advantage clearly, and was hastening to throw himself between the separate divisions of the French, to beat them in detail. He commenced his campaign well, and it appeared certain that he would crush the corps of Davoust before it could be supported. But the Archduke was almost superstitiously afraid of Napoleon, and no sooner did he learn that the Emperor was now in command of the French than the Austrians seemed paralyzed. Time was given for MassÉna and Davoust to support each other, the one having been ordered to fall back while the other moved forward. Calculating to the hour when these two wings could support the centre, the great soldier fell upon his enemy. The risk was great; for should his two lieutenants fail to come up, all would be lost. But Davoust and MassÉna were not Grouchys: they came, and the campaign was saved. Never was Napoleon greater in plan and execution than in 1809; not even in the Italian campaign did he work harder. For a week he was almost constantly in the saddle, never having time to undress. But in that week he wrought utter confusion among his enemies, and saved his empire. At Abensberg, at Landshut, at EckmÜhl, at Ratisbonne, he struck the Austrians blow after blow, and shattered their army, killing and wounding thirty thousand men, capturing an equal number, and taking vast spoil in guns, ammunition, stores, war material of all sorts. The Archduke drew off his broken army on Bohemia; Napoleon marched upon Vienna, which fell May 12, 1809. The royal family fled to Hungary; the French Emperor, quartered at the palace of SchÖnbrunn, made preparations to cross the Danube. There were no bridges this time for Lannes and Murat to win by stratagem; the river rolled broad and deep between French and Austrians; bridges would have to be built, and the French put across in face of an army ready to dispute the passage.

Had not victory declared for Napoleon, promptly and emphatically at the opening of the campaign, his ruin would have come in 1809 as it did in 1814. The national spirit was declaring against him in Germany, as it had done in Spain. Prussia was honeycombed with patriotic secret societies, pledged against him; and in anticipation of Austrian success, the young Duke of Brunswick and Colonel Schill had raised the standard of revolt. The decisive victory of the French at EckmÜhl alone prevented this abortive effort at a national uprising from being a success. In the Tyrol, also, the people, intensely Catholic and opposed to the reforms Bavaria had introduced, rose against the Napoleonic power, and failed only because the French had been so prompt in scattering the strength of Austria.

In the crisis, Napoleon’s ally, Russia, had shown little zeal. She sent a very small army where she had promised a large one; and a general of their army wrote to the Austrian commander that he hoped they would soon be acting in concert. Napoleon forwarded this letter to Alexander, who contented himself with the recall of the writer. But for the heroic conduct of Poniatowski and the Poles, it seems that the Austrian army would have succeeded in wresting the Grand Duchy of Warsaw from Saxony. But Napoleon’s triumphs at the opening of the campaign changed the aspect of affairs all around. Austrian armies had to be called in from Warsaw, from Italy, from Bohemia, to concentrate and oppose Napoleon on the Danube.

Choosing a position below Vienna, where the large island of Lobau divides the stream into two unequal channels, the French threw bridges across, and on May 20 commenced passing over, taking possession of the villages of Aspern and Essling, almost without opposition. Next day the Archduke Charles made a furious attack, first on Aspern, then on Essling also. The struggle was very bloody. Only a portion of the French had passed the river; the Austrians outnumbered them heavily; and, realizing this vast advantage, pushed it with splendid energy. Aspern was taken and retaken time after time; and when night put an end to the carnage, the French held only a portion of the smouldering ruins. Next day the battle was renewed, the French army still cut in two by the Danube. The corps of Davoust had not passed, and the Austrians were doing their utmost to break the bridges, which a sudden rise in the river already threatened to carry away.

So strong had been the efforts of the enemy to carry Aspern on their right, that Napoleon guessed they had weakened their centre too much. He therefore massed heavy columns against it, and began to drive it back. At this moment came the dreaded message,—“The bridges are gone!”

He might have pressed on and beaten his foe, but Napoleon thought the risk too great. His columns halted, their fire slackened, and the orders to retire were given. The wondering Austrians took fresh courage, and followed the retiring French with terrible effect. MassÉna must hold Aspern, Lannes Essling, until the Emperor could get the army back to the island of Lobau. Aspern was everything; it must be held at all hazards.

“Hold your position! It is a question of saving the army—the bridges are gone!” So ran the despatch, and the grim soldier who held Genoa while Napoleon planned Marengo, now held Aspern while his Emperor prepared for Wagram.

Poor Lannes! Brave, unselfish, plain-spoken, leonine Lannes! Here his long march was to end. The same year that Madame Letitia in Corsica had begun to rock the cradle of Napoleon, the wife of an humble dyer in Gascony had begun to nurse the babe who became the Roland of Bonaparte’s army. He had little education, no influential friends; but when the Revolution began to sound its tocsin and beat its drum, the Gascon lad went forth to the wars. From 1791, when he volunteered as grenadier, he had served without pause and with unsurpassed courage. Augereau made him colonel for bravery in the Pyrenees; and Napoleon made him general for brilliant service in Italy. He followed his chief to Egypt, and was shot through the neck at Acre. On the famous Sunday of Brumaire he aided in Napoleon’s seizure of supreme power, and at Montebello fought the prelude to Marengo. He had loved Caroline Bonaparte, whom Murat won; and had Lannes instead of Murat been the imperial brother-in-law, much disaster might have been averted. Raised in rank, made marshal of the Empire, and Duke of Montebello, he was the same intrepid, ever growing, ever loyal soldier. Great at Austerlitz, great at Jena, great at Friedland, he was greater yet at Saragossa where he overcame a resistance which challenged the wonder of the world.

From that ruined city in Spain he had hastened to Germany, and had been again the right hand of the great captain who so well knew his worth. Better courtiers there were than Lannes, gallants who better graced a ballroom, flatterers who could better please the ear. But who of all the brave men of France could walk the battle-field with surer, steadier step than he?

Who at heart was more loyal to the chief—who so ready to forsake ease and comfort and go forth at the call of the chief into rain or snow, heat or cold, exhausting march or desperate battle? In all the long record of French heroism, who had done deeds more lionlike than Lannes?

Who was first over the bridge at Lodi, outstripping Napoleon and all, and slaying six Austrians with his own hand? Who led the vanguard across the frozen Alps and held the rout at Marengo till Desaix could come? Who, in this last campaign, had rallied the grenadiers beneath the blazing walls of Ratisbonne, seized a scaling ladder, when the bravest held back, and had rushed toward the battlements under a withering fire, shouting to his halting men, “I’ll show you that I’ve not forgotten I was once a grenadier!” Who but Lannes had electrified these troops by his fearless example, and had carried them over the walls?

At Essling he had been in the thick of the fight, holding his ground with old-time grip. The slaughter had been immense, and the sight of the mangled body of General Pouzet, shot down at his side, had affected him painfully. Sick of the hideous spectacle, he had gone a little to one side, and had seated himself on the embankment of a trench.

A quarter of an hour later, four soldiers, laboriously carrying in a cloak a dead officer whose face could not be seen, stopped in front of Lannes. The cloak fell open, and he recognized Pouzet. “Oh!” he cried, “is this terrible sight going to pursue me everywhere?” Getting up, he went and sat down at the edge of another ditch, his hand over his eyes, and his legs crossed. As he sat there a three-pounder shot struck him just where his legs crossed. The knee-pan of one was smashed, and the back sinews of the other torn. General Marbot ran to him; he tried to rise, but could not. He was borne back to the bridge, and one of his limbs amputated. Hardly was the operation over when Napoleon came up. “The interview,” says Marbot, from whose Memoirs this account is literally taken, “was most touching. The Emperor, kneeling beside the stretcher, wept as he embraced the marshal, whose blood soon stained the Emperor’s white kerseymere waistcoat.”

“You will live, my friend, you will live!” cried the Emperor, pressing the hand of Lannes. “I trust I may, if I can still be of service to France and to your Majesty.”

The weather was terribly hot, and fever set in with Lannes; on May 30th he died. In spite of the cares and dangers of his position, Napoleon had found time to visit the wounded man every day. A few moments after daybreak on the 30th, the Emperor came as usual, when Marbot met him and told him of the sad event. The amputated limb had mortified, and the stench was so strong that Marbot warned Napoleon against going in. Pushing Marbot aside, the Emperor advanced to the dead body, embraced it, wept over it, remained more than an hour, and only left when Berthier reminded him that officers were waiting for orders.

“What a loss for France and for me!” Well may Napoleon have grieved and wept: here was a gap in his line that could never be filled. Said the Emperor at St. Helena, “I found him a pygmy; I lost him a giant.”

The bridges connecting the island of Lobau with the bank of the Danube upon which the army had been fighting were not broken: hence the troops could be led back to the island. Once there, the position could be fortified and held, until the Vienna arm of the river could be rebridged.

This was done. Several weeks were spent in preparations, reËnforcements brought up, larger, better bridges built, and all made ready for another attempt to cross.

The Archduke Charles, believing that Napoleon would direct his march upon Aspern and Essling, as before, calmly waited, confident that he could beat the French as before. On the night of July 4, 1809, while a terrible thunderstorm was raging, Napoleon began his attack upon the Austrian position at Essling and Aspern. This was a feint to hide his purpose of crossing at another place, in front of Enzersdorf.

While the Archduke’s attention was fixed on the two villages first named, the French made a dash at Enzersdorf, and took it. Several bridges, ready-made, had been thrown across the river here, and Napoleon’s army had passed almost before the Austrian knew what he was about. Then the Archduke drew back into the vast plain of the Marchfeld, and three hundred thousand men lined up for the great battle of Wagram. From the roofs and ramparts of Vienna, excited thousands gazed upon that vast wheat field, yellow in the summer sun, where the harvester Death was to reap where humble peasants had sown.

For two days the tremendous struggle lasted. The Austrians never fought better. In sight of fathers and sons, of wives, daughters, sisters, sweethearts, who would not fight well for home and native land? What did the Austrian soldier know of the cause of the war? He knew as much as his masters chose to tell him; and in his heart he believed the French to be aggressors, tyrants, marauders, come to loot and ruin and enslave.

So they stood amid the burning wheat in the golden grain fields, beneath the torrid sun, and fought as Napoleon had never seen them fight—fought as men fight only when their souls are in it. And far off on the housetops, steeples, and battlements of old Vienna were straining eyes, beating hearts, hungry prayers, and the wild hope that these marauders from France would be scattered as the Turks had been scattered in that dread time long ago.

But in those olden days Christians could hear the cry of Christians, could fly to the relief of Christians. What bannered host was that which had burst like a storm upon the Moslem rear, scattering infidels like so much dust, bringing salvation to the beleaguered town? Who but the Polanders and John Sobieski had smitten the Turk and sent the crescent backward in flight before the cross? That was many and many a year ago. There would be no “Poland to the rescue!” this time. Poland had been devoured—by Moslems? No; by Christians. And at the feast Austria had sat, greedily eating her share.

The shells set fire to the wheat; the smoke and the flame from the burning grain mingled with the smoke and flame of batteries. Troops moving to the charge were halted or turned from their course; the wounded fell in the midst of the blazing stubble, and were burnt to death or suffocated.

Nothing could withstand the French. The Austrian leader outclassed by his antagonist, the long trial of strength yielded victory at length to the better soldier. The efforts made on the wings had weakened the Archduke’s centre. MassÉna, though terribly shaken, was able to hold the right, while Napoleon massed all his available force to hurl it upon the Austrian centre. But he must wait. Nothing could be done until Davoust on the enemy’s left had succeeded. Motionless as a rock, Napoleon kept his eyes riveted on Neusiedel, a village “which lies high and is surmounted by a tall tower visible from all parts of the field.” Davoust must fling the Austrians back behind this village before the attack on the centre could be made. “At last we suddenly saw the smoke of Davoust’s guns beyond the tower.” Now the enemy’s left was beaten. “Quick! quick!” cried the Emperor to Aide-de-camp Marbot, who had come from MassÉna to ask instructions. “Tell MassÉna to fall upon whatever is in front of him, and the battle is won!” All along the line flashed similar orders, while Macdonald, a hundred cannon blazing along his front, made the famous charge which broke the Austrian centre.

It was a great fight, a great victory, and great were its results. Austria sued for peace, and Napoleon, ready as he ever was to end a war, granted her terms as generous as she had any right to expect. She lost territory, and had to pay an indemnity; but out of wreck which she herself had made, her empire came forth practically intact.

As indemnity, she was asked to pay $20,000,000. This was the amount of the bribe she had taken from England to begin the war.

An indemnity of $20,000,000! How trivial this amount when compared to the one thousand millions which Bismarck levied upon France. How modest it looks beside the $330,000,000 which China had to pay to Christian missionaries and their supporting nations for the riots of the year 1900!