To Mayence the Empress Maria Louisa came, to spend a few days pending the peace negotiations. If Napoleon cherished the belief that her presence would have any bearing upon her father’s policy, the illusion soon vanished. Austrian diplomats were already saying, “Politics made the marriage; politics can unmake it.”

So confident was Austria that the Congress at Prague would accomplish nothing, that she had drawn up her declaration of war and held it ready, as the last day of the truce wore on toward midnight. At the stroke of the clock, the paper was delivered for publication, and the war signals were lit along the Bohemian mountains. When Napoleon’s courier arrived, a few hours later, bringing to the French envoys authority to sign the terms demanded, the Allies declined to consider the matter at all. It was too late. Technically they were acting within their rights; but if we really wish to know the truth about the negotiations, the conduct of those diplomats, watching the midnight clock, sending out midnight declarations of war, and lighting midnight fires to proclaim the failure of the Congress, belongs to the class of actions which speaks louder than words. If their real purpose had been to stop the shedding of blood and to liberate Europe from Napoleon’s “cruel yoke,” they would never have made so great a difference between midnight of the 10th and early morning of the 11th. Nothing was to be gained by such extreme rigor, beyond the ending of the Congress; for, by the terms of the treaty, six days’ notice was necessary before the resumption of hostilities.

Says Metternich: “As the clock struck twelve on the night of August 10, I despatched the declaration of war. Then I had the beacons lighted which had been prepared from Prague to the Silesian frontier, as a sign of the breach of the negotiations.”

Pasquier relates an interesting story which he had from Daru.

One day toward the end of July, SÉbastiani, a Corsican, and a life-long friend of Napoleon, came to make a report, and was asked by the Emperor what was being said about the military situation. SÉbastiani replied that the current opinion was that Austria would join the Allies, in which event Dresden could no longer be made the central point of the French line of defence.

“You are all right,” said Napoleon, “and my mind is made up. I am going to return to the banks of the Saale; I will gather there some three hundred thousand men, and, with my rear resting on Mayence, my right flank covered by the extremity of the mountains of Bohemia, I will show the enemy the bull’s horns. He will seek to manoeuvre under my eyes; no sooner has he committed his first mistake than I will fall upon him, crush him, and the coalition will vanish more quickly than it appeared.”

Daru was sent for and told to go at once and prepare the necessary orders for this retrograde movement. As Daru was leaving the room, Bassano entered, and the Emperor put to him the usual question, “What is being said?” Bassano replied that certain persons who pretended to know everything were speaking of a backward movement, saying: “That your Majesty cannot remain here. They forget that the great Frederick, with forces vastly inferior to your own, held out all winter in the same position against the combined armies of Austria and Russia.”

This comparison made so deep an impression upon Napoleon that when Daru returned a few hours later with all the orders he had been told to prepare, he found the Emperor in a pensive mood, and was dismissed with these words, “The matter requires more thought.”

The result of this new meditation was that he persisted in his first system of operations: Dresden remained the central point of his line.

Napoleon’s position at the renewal of hostilities was well-nigh desperate. He had grossly deceived himself. Keenly aware of the demoralized condition of his own forces, he had not realized how much worse had been the condition of the Allies. Calculating upon the reËnforcements he could muster, he had not rightly estimated the strength which Russia and Austria could add to their resources. As to Austria, particularly, it seems that he miscalculated to the extent of one hundred thousand men.

In other important respects, the allied position became stronger. Marshal Ney’s chief of staff, Jomini, deserted, and carried over to the enemy the general knowledge he had gained in Napoleonic warfare, as well as the special information he had obtained in the present campaign. General Moreau, leaving Baltimore in the United States, had landed at Stralsund, where Bernadotte received him with the highest military honors; and he was now in position to direct the allied forces. Thus with Bernadotte, Jomini, and Moreau to guide their counsels, the Allies would be able to combat Napoleon with advantages they had never possessed before. They would be advised by men who understood his system, men who could anticipate his plans and defeat his combinations.

“We are teaching them how to beat us!” Napoleon himself had already said, speaking to Lannes of the improved Russian tactics. In this campaign his enemies had agreed upon the best of policies,—to avoid battle when he commanded in person, and to crush his lieutenants wherever found.

In yet another respect events were telling heavily against the French. Marshal BessiÈres, commander of the cavalry of the Imperial Guard, had been killed in one of the first skirmishes; and, after Bautzen, a spent cannon ball had mortally wounded Duroc. Both these were officers of the highest merit, devotedly attached to the Emperor, and possessing his implicit confidence. He had singled them out at the beginning of his career, had lifted them from the ranks, and had raised them to imperial peerages. Their loss he felt to be irreparable, and his grief was almost overwhelming. For the first time in his career he was so prostrated, on the evening of Duroc’s death, that he was unable to give orders. Alone in his tent, his head bowed to his breast, he sat in a stupor of sorrow; and to his officers coming for instructions, he said, “Everything to-morrow.” Next morning, at breakfast, Constant noticed the big tears which rolled down his cheeks and fell upon his plate. The Allies, having tricked the great trickster in the matter of the armistice, broke it to effect the junction between the Russian and Austrian forces. This much more won by fraud, the war began again.

Napoleon made a dash at BlÜcher, who did not forget to fall back out of reach, as agreed among the Allies. The dreaded Emperor, being at a distance, vainly chasing BlÜcher, the main army of the Allies marched upon Dresden, where St. Cyr was in command of the defence.

On the 25th of August, 1813, some two hundred thousand of the allied troops invested the city, whose garrison was about twenty thousand. If the French should lose it, ruin to their campaign would follow. In vain Jomini urged the Austrian commander, Schwarzenberg, to attack at once, while Napoleon was away. No. The leisurely Prince, being fatigued, or something else, must await the morning of another day; for Napoleon was in Silesia, too far off to be a source of disquiet. On August 26 the assault began, St. Cyr meeting it with heroism, but steadily losing ground.

Three hundred pieces of artillery rained shot and shell upon the crowded city. The dying and the dead, men, women, and children strewed the streets. The inhabitants of the town implored the French to surrender. Two regiments of Westphalian hussars, from Jerome Bonaparte’s kingdom, went over to the enemy. But the Emperor had not lost sight of Dresden. When the news reached him that the allied army was crossing the Bohemian frontier, he guessed the point threatened, and hurried to its relief. As he marched, courier after courier from St. Cyr galloped up to hasten the coming of succor. Napoleon’s horses were spurred on to their highest speed, till he reached the outskirts of the city, from which, with his field-glass, he could survey the battle. The road over which he must enter Dresden was swept by such a fire from the Austrian guns that it is said Napoleon went down upon all fours to crawl past. As he entered the city, its defenders went wild with joy. “There he is! There he is!” was shouted by thousands, as the Old Guard rushed forward to meet him. “Nothing was heard,” says Caulaincourt, “but clapping of hands and shouts of enthusiasm. Men, women, and children mingled with the troops and escorted us to the palace. The consternation and alarm which had hitherto prevailed, were now succeeded by boundless joy and confidence.”

The Emperor had marched his army one hundred and twenty miles in four days over roads which heavy rains had turned into bogs. He had arrived in time; those who had strained their eyes to catch the first glimpse of the relief columns had not looked in vain. “There he is! There he is!” roused all drooping spirits, gave life to dead hope, so mysteriously irresistible is the influence of a great man. The date was August, 1813. Just a few months were to roll by before the good city of Paris would find itself beleagued by these same Allies. Napoleon would again be away, but would again be devouring distance, moving heaven and earth to get back in time. Again anxious eyes would look out over walls and battlements, scanning the horizon to catch a glimpse of the white horse and the stunted rider, flying to the relief. Ardent patriots, seeing what they long to see, will mistake some other figure for his, and will raise the cry. “There he is!” But traitors and cowards will be busy in the great captain’s chief city, his own brother will act the craven and fly, his best-beloved of the surviving marshals will fight the feeble fight of the dastard, his son will be torn screaming and struggling from the palace, and while the haggard eye of the war-worn Emperor, almost there, will strain to see the towers of Notre Dame, the white flag will fly over a surrendered town.

Too late! Just a few hours too late.

That night in Dresden, after having reconnoitred and made all his dispositions, Napoleon was walking up and down his room. Stopping suddenly, he turned to Caulaincourt and said:—

“Murat has arrived.”

This brilliant soldier had wavered until the battles of LÜtzen and Bautzen had been gained; but he had now come to lead a few more matchless charges of cavalry, meteoric in splendor, before he should lose heart again, forsake Napoleon utterly, and take his wilful course to utter and shameful ruin.

“Murat has come. I have given him command of my guard. As long as I am successful, he will follow my fortune.”

The Allies were not aware that either Napoleon or Murat had arrived. It is said that the battle had not been long in progress before Schwarzenberg turned to the Czar and remarked, “The Emperor must certainly be in Dresden.”

Holding the allied centre in check by a concentrated fire of heavy artillery, Napoleon launched Ney at their right and Murat at their left. Both attacks were completely successful. The allied army broke at all points, and retreated toward Bohemia, leaving some twenty thousand prisoners in the hands of the French.

Torrents of rain had poured down during the whole day, and as Napoleon came riding back into the city that evening by the side of Murat, his clothes dripped water, and a stream poured from his soaked hat. As Constant undressed him he had a slight chill, followed by fever, and he took his bed.

Worn out as he was, the Emperor must have felt profoundly relieved. He had won a victory of the first magnitude, infinitely greater than those of LÜtzen and Bautzen, for he now had cavalry. His mistake in having granted the armistice had perhaps been redeemed. If his lieutenants now served him well, the coalition which had put him in such extreme peril would dissolve. He would emerge from the danger with glory undimmed, empire strengthened. “This is nothing!” he said, referring to his triumph at Dresden. “Wait till we hear from Vandamme. He is in their rear. It is there we must look for the great results.”

Alas for such calculations! His lieutenants were ruining the campaign faster than he could repair it. The Prussians, led by BÜlow (nominally under Bernadotte), had beaten Oudinot at Grossbeeren, on August 23, driving the French back upon the Elbe. BlÜcher had caught Macdonald in the act of crossing a swollen river in Silesia, had fallen upon him and destroyed him, in the battle of Katzbach, August 26; and, to crown the climax of disaster, Vandamme, from whom so much had been expected, was, partly through a false movement of his own, and partly through the failure of Napoleon to support him, crushed and captured at Kulm (August 29 and 30). Thus, Dresden proved a barren triumph. The Czar of Russia and the King of Prussia should have been taken prisoners; the allied army should have been annihilated; the war should have ended with a glorious peace for France. How did it happen that the wrecked army escaped, and made havoc with Vandamme at Kulm?

The story goes that the Emperor, pressing eagerly forward in pursuit of the vanquished foe, was suddenly stricken with severe sickness; and instead of being carried on to Pirna, was hurried back to Dresden. The army, left without leadership, slackened in the pursuit; the Allies were left undisturbed; and when they came upon Vandamme, that rash officer, taken front and rear, was overwhelmed by superior numbers.

As to the cause of Napoleon’s sudden illness, accounts differ widely. General Marbot states that it was “the result of the fatigue caused by five days in the saddle under incessant rain.”

According to the Emperor himself, as reported by Daru to Pasquier, the illness was “nothing but an attack of indigestion caused by a wretched stew seasoned with garlic, which I cannot endure.” But he had at the time believed himself to be poisoned. “And on such trifles,” said he to Daru, “the greatest events hang! The present one is perhaps irreparable.”

Virtually the same explanation of his sudden return to Dresden, and the abandonment of the pursuit, was given by Napoleon at St. Helena.

It is significant that Constant’s Memoirs represent the Emperor as vomiting and having a chill, accompanied by utter exhaustion, upon his return from the battle-field on the evening of the 27th. Overwork, exposure, mental anxiety, the continual strain of mind and body had evidently brought on a collapse. The illness which recalled him back from Pirna may have originated in the same natural causes. The “stew seasoned with garlic,” or the “leg of mutton stuffed with sage” (for each statement occurs), may have been merely the thing which precipitated the breakdown which was already inevitable.

Whatever the cause, the results were decisive. As at Borodino, he lost all control of events, let the campaign drift as it would, and recovered himself when it was too late to repair the mischief.

Dresden was to prove the last imperial victory. When Napoleon, drenched and dripping, his fine beaver aflop on his shoulder, was taken into the arms of the grateful King of Saxony, on the return from the battle-field of Dresden, he was receiving the last congratulation which he as Emperor would ever hear from subject monarch. To this limit had already shrunk the fortunes of the conqueror who, a few months back, had summoned Talma from Paris to play “to a parquet of kings.”

A stray dog wandering about the battle-field of Dresden, with a collar on its neck, attracted some curiosity, and it was soon known in the French army that the collar bore the inscription, “I belong to General Moreau.” It was soon known, likewise, that this misguided soldier had been mortally wounded early in the action, and had died amidst the enemies of his country.

Napoleon believed that he himself had directed the fatal shot; but one who was in Moreau’s party at the time contended that the ball came from a different battery.

Remaining in the vicinity of Dresden till the last days of September, Napoleon found himself gradually growing weaker. His army was crumbling away through hardships, disease, and battle. ReËnforcements as steadily added to the strength of the Allies. Operating in a country hostile to him as it had never been before, Napoleon had the utmost difficulty in keeping himself advised of the numbers and movements of the forces opposed to him. So intense was the patriotic spirit in Germany that the spy could do almost nothing for the French, while the Allies were kept informed of everything.

It was BlÜcher who took the offensive for the Allies, and boldly crossed the Elbe at Wartenburg. Napoleon rushed from Dresden to throw himself upon the Prussians; but as soon as BlÜcher learned that Napoleon was in his front he shunned battle and went to join Bernadotte (October 7, 1813). The huge iron girdle of the allied armies was slowly being formed around the French; it became evident that the line of the Elbe must be abandoned.

But before taking this decision it seems that Napoleon had contemplated a bold forward march upon Berlin, and had been thwarted by the opposition of his generals. Ever since the Russian disasters had broken the spell of his influence, the Emperor had encountered more or less surliness and independence among his higher officers. The marshals had taken a tone which was almost insubordinate, and the great captain was no longer able to ignore their opinions.

When it became known that he intended to make a dash at Berlin, regardless of the possibility that armies double the size of his own might throw themselves between him and France, there was almost universal dissatisfaction among the troops. Moscow was recalled. Nobody wanted a repetition of that hideous experience. “Have not enough of us been killed? Must we all be left here?”

To add to Napoleon’s embarrassment, news came that Bavaria had deserted and gone over to the Allies. Says Constant, “An unheard-of thing happened: his staff went in a body to the Emperor, entreating him to abandon his plans on Berlin and march on Leipsic.”

For two days the Emperor did nothing. Quartered in the dismal chÂteau of DÜben, he became as inert, as apathetic, as he had been at Borodino and at Moscow. “I saw him,” writes Constant, “during nearly an entire day, lying on a sofa, with a table in front of him covered with maps and papers which he did not look at, with no other occupation for hours together than that of slowly tracing large letters on sheets of white paper.”

The Emperor yielded to the pressure of his officers, and “the order to depart was given. There was an outburst of almost immoderate joy. Every face was radiant. Throughout the army could be heard the cry, ‘We are going to see France again, to embrace our children, our parents, our friends.’”

Falling back upon Leipsic, Napoleon found Murat already engaged with the Austrians. In the hope that he could crush Schwarzenberg before BlÜcher and Bernadotte came up, the Emperor prepared for battle. There were about one hundred and fifty thousand of the Austrians, while the French numbered about one hundred and seventy thousand; but it was necessary to place the divisions of Ney and Marmont on the north, where the Russians and Prussians and Swedes were expected. The great “Battle of the Nations” began on the morning of the 16th of October, 1813, and raged all day. The advantage was with the French, for they fought from positions more or less sheltered; but the Emperor appears to have made one serious mistake. BlÜcher not having yet arrived, Ney and Marmont were ordered to Napoleon’s aid in the effort to destroy the Austrians before the coming of reËnforcements. Ney moved, but Marmont was already engaged with BlÜcher when he received the Emperor’s order. Holding his ground and assaulted by overwhelming numbers, Marmont’s corps was almost destroyed; while Ney, divided between his old position and the new, rendered no effective service in either place. Just as d’Erlon’s corps, swinging like a pendulum between Quatre-Bras and Ligny did not strike at either point, so Ney lost his force on the fatal field of Leipsic.

General Marbot states, moreover, that Ney left his original position without orders from the Emperor. BlÜcher, getting up before Napoleon expected him, and worsting the French on the north, turned the scales in favor of the Allies.

Why it was that Napoleon had not called St. Cyr from Dresden, and thus added thirty thousand to his own forces, cannot now be known. He himself said at St. Helena that he sent despatches to this effect, but that they were intercepted. Taking into account the swarms of Cossacks and Bashkirs which were flying over the country, and also the intensely hostile spirit of the native populations, the capture of a French courier would seem to have been a natural event.

However, there are those who say that St. Cyr was left at Dresden on purpose, because Napoleon was unwilling that the Saxon capital should fall into the hands of the enemy. In other words, he left his garrison caged at Dresden, just as he left cooped up within similar fortresses a sufficient number of veteran troops to have made his army as large as that of the Allies.

In the year 1797 the young Napoleon had driven the Austrian armies from Italy, had chased them through the mountains of the Tyrol, and had come almost in sight of Vienna. Austria sent Count Meerfeldt into the French lines to sue for peace, and her prayer was granted. In 1805 this same Napoleon had shattered the Russo-Austrian forces at Austerlitz, and was about to capture both Czar and Emperor. Again Count Meerfeldt was sent to Napoleon’s tent to beg for mercy, and again the plea was heard. Now it was 1813, the tide had turned, and it was Napoleon’s time to ask for peace. His messenger was a released captive, Count Meerfeldt, he of Leoben and Austerlitz; and to the message neither Czar nor Austrian emperor returned any answer whatever.

During the 17th there was no fighting, and the French made no movement. They could probably have retired unmolested, but Napoleon was awaiting a reply to his propositions.

During the night, rockets blazed in the sky on the north—the signal to Schwarzenberg and BlÜcher that Bernadotte and Bennigsen had come. The Swedes, the German bands, the Russian reserves, were all up, and the Allies would now outnumber the French two to one.

With the light of the 18th began “the greatest battle in all authentic history.” Nearly half a million men threw themselves upon each other with a fury like that of maniacs. Men from every quarter of Europe were there, from Spain to Turkey, from the northern seas to the Adriatic and Mediterranean, men from palaces and men from huts, men who flashed like Murat in the gaudiest uniforms of modern Europe, and men like the Bashkirs who wore the dress and carried the bow and arrow of ancient Scythia.

The French never fought better than on this day, nor did the Allies; but the French soldier was not what he had been, nor were French officers the same. Shortly before this the Emperor had said to Augereau, “You are no longer the Augereau of Castiglione;” and the answer was, “Nor have I the troops of Castiglione.” Ney had written, after his overthrow at Dennewitz: “I have been totally defeated, and do not know whether my army has reassembled. The spirit of the generals and officers is shattered. I had rather be a grenadier than to command under such conditions.” Napoleon had exclaimed in bitterness of spirit, “The deserters will be my ruin.”

Bavaria, threatened by the Allies and carried along by the torrent of German patriotism, was threatening Napoleon’s rear. The King of WÜrtemberg had honorably given notice that he also would be compelled to turn against the French. Saxony was moved by the same influences, and, in spite of the presence of her king in Leipsic, the Saxon troops felt the impulse of national passion. In the very hottest of the fight on the great day of the 18th, the Saxon infantry went over to Bernadotte, and turned their batteries upon the French. The WÜrtemberg cavalry followed. Then all was lost. The courage of the bravest, the skill of the ablest, sink before such odds as these. One account represents Napoleon as lifting a rage-swept face to heaven, with a cry of “Infamous!” and then rushing at the head of the Old Guard to restore the broken line. Another story is that he sank into a wooden chair which some one handed him, and fell into the deep sleep of utter exhaustion.

Bernadotte had commanded the Saxon troops for Napoleon in the campaign of 1809. He had issued a proclamation, on his own motion, claiming credit for the victory of Wagram for these Saxons, and the Emperor reproved him for the untruth and the impertinence. Operating now against Napoleon, and in Saxony, Bernadotte had broadcasted the country with a proclamation calling upon the Saxons to join him. It is quite possible that the coincidence of these circumstances influenced the wavering troops, who had used half their ammunition against the Allies, to spend the other half against the French.

This desertion of about twenty-five thousand men furnished one imperative reason for retreat; but there seems to have been a second, equally good. Constant says, “In the evening the Emperor was sitting on a red morocco camp-stool amidst the bivouac fires, dictating orders for the night to Berthier, when two artillery commanders presented themselves to his Majesty, and told him that they were nearly out of ammunition.” Some two hundred and twenty-five thousand cannon balls had been fired, the reserves were exhausted, and the nearest magazines were out of reach.

The retreat began that night; and troops continued to pour across the one bridge of the Elster as fast as they could go. Why was there but one bridge? No satisfactory answer can be made, unless we adopt the theory of sheer neglect. The stream was so small that any number of bridges might have been built during the idle day of the 17th; but no orders were issued, and the French army was left to fight awful odds, with a river at its back, over which lay the only line of retreat, and across which there was a single bridge. Did the Emperor forget the terrible experience of Aspern? Was he no longer the Napoleon of Rivoli, as Augereau was no longer the Augereau of Castiglione?

“Ordener is worn out,” Napoleon remarked at Austerlitz. “One has but a short time for war. I am good for another six years, and then I shall have to stop.”

Austerlitz was fought at the close of 1805; Leipsic toward the end of 1813: the great captain had already gone two years beyond his limit.

The lean, wiry, tireless young general of the Italian campaign, who had fought Alvinczy five days without closing his eyes or taking off his boots, could never be identified in the dull-faced, slow-moving, corpulent, and soon-wearied Emperor of 1813.

Next morning, October 19, the Allies discovered that the French were in retreat, and this attack was renewed at all points with passionate energy. Napoleon left his bivouac, came into Leipsic, took up quarters in the hotel called The Prussian Arms. He went to the palace to take leave of the King and Queen of Saxony, who wished to follow his fortunes still. He advised them to stay and make the best terms possible with the Allies. He released his remaining Saxon troops. All day the retreat went on, the battle raging at the same time, the French rear-guard maintaining itself with superb courage.

The magistrates of the town, fearing its utter destruction, begged the Allies to suspend the cannonade till the French could get away. “Let Leipsic perish,” answered the “Saviors of Germany”; and the guns continued to roar. To protect his rear while the retreat was in progress, Napoleon was urged to fire the suburbs next to the allied lines. He nobly refused.

What a horrible day it must have been! The steady thunder of a thousand cannon; the crackle of four hundred thousand muskets; the shouts of onset; the shrieks of the wounded; the fierce crash of caissons and wagons; the stormlike hurly-burly of countless men and horses, all wild with passion, all excited to the highest pitch of action, all crowding desperately toward the maddened town, the gorged, blood-stained streets—to reach the all-important bridge!

The world seemed ablaze with hatred for the fleeing French. The very body-guard of the Saxon king whirled upon their stricken allies, and poured deadly volleys into the retreating ranks. Even the cowardly Baden troop, which had been left in Leipsic by the French, to chop wood for the bakehouses, now laid aside their axes, and from the shelter of the bakeries shot down the French soldiers as they passed.

The Emperor with difficulty had crossed the river, and given personal direction to the reunion of the various corps. The rear-guard was making heroic efforts to save the army; and all was going as well as defeats and retreats can be expected to go, when suddenly there came a deafening explosion which, for a moment, drowned the noise of battle. It roused Napoleon, who had fallen asleep; and when Murat and Augereau came running to tell him that the bridge had been blown up and the rear-guard cut off, he seized his head convulsively in his hands, stunned by the awful news.

The French officer, charged with the duty of destroying the bridge when the rear-guard should have passed, had touched off the mine too soon.

The twenty odd thousand heroes who had been protecting the retreat, found themselves hemmed in—a swollen river in front, and three hundred thousand of the enemy in flank and rear. Some few dashed into the water and swam across, among them Marshal Macdonald. Some in attempting to swim were drowned, among them the golden-hearted, hero-patriot of Poland, Poniatowski. But the bulk of the rear-guard laid down their arms to the enemy.

In the three days at Leipsic Napoleon lost 40,000 killed, 30,000 prisoners, and 260 guns. The Allies lost in killed and wounded 54,000.

The retreat from Leipsic was less horrible than that from Moscow, but it was dismal enough. Men died like flies from camp diseases; and those who kept the ranks were demoralized.

At Erfurth, Murat left the army. The brothers-in-law embraced each other in the fervid French fashion, which looks so much and means so little. In this case it meant considerably less than nothing, for Murat had already decided to join the Allies, and Napoleon had issued orders to his minister of police to clap Murat into prison if he should set foot in France. Murat avoided the danger by getting to Naples by way of the right bank of the Rhine, and through Switzerland.

Sadly shorn of his strength, Napoleon wended his way homeward, doing what he could to save the remnants of his army. So woe-begone was the condition of the French that Bavaria, upon which Napoleon had heaped immense favors, found itself unable to resist the temptation to give the ass’s kick to the expiring lion. At Hanau the kick was delivered, with sorry results for the ass. The mortally wounded lion swept the Bavarians out of his path and passed on, dragging himself across the Rhine at Mayence, November 2, 1813.