The guiding hand of Austrian diplomacy at this time being Metternich’s, and that astute person having left behind him certain Memoirs which his family have arranged and published, it may be fairly presumed that any revelation of Metternich’s own perfidy made in these Memoirs can be credited.

According to his own story, Metternich sought an interview with the Czar (June 17, 1813) and urged him to trust implicitly to the Austrian mediation which had been tendered to the belligerents. Alexander had his misgivings, and inquired:—

“What will become of our cause if Napoleon accepts the mediation?”

Metternich replied:—

“If he declines, the truce will come to an end, and you will find us among the number of your allies; if he accepts, the negotiations will most certainly show that Napoleon is neither wise nor just, and then the result will be the same. In any case, we shall have gained time to bring up our armies for combined attack.”

What did Alexander mean by “our cause,” which might be ruined by Napoleon’s consent to allow Austria to mediate? If peace was all that the Allies wanted, why demur to Austria’s offer? And what did Metternich mean by assuring the Czar that it made no difference whether Napoleon declined or accepted, the results would be the same?

Evidently he meant to convince Alexander that “our cause” was as dear to Austria as to Russia; and that if Napoleon trusted to Austrian mediation, he would be deceived and despoiled. The Czar so understood it, and he “seemed exceedingly well pleased.”

The political meaning of “our cause” was this: English diplomats had been unusually busy, and had (June 14 and 15, 1813) negotiated new treaties with Russia and Prussia whereby Great Britain agreed to pay heavy subsidies to those powers to prosecute the war, which was not to be ended without England’s consent.

Inasmuch as England was no party to the negotiations then pending between Napoleon and the Allies, one of two things is obvious: the Allies were intent upon betraying England, or of duping France. As to which of the two it was meant to deceive, the language used by Metternich to Alexander, and by Alexander to Metternich, leaves no doubt.

What, on the other hand, were the thoughts of Napoleon? On June 2, 1813, he wrote to EugÈne, who had been sent back to Italy, “I shall grant a truce on account of the armaments of Austria, and in order to gain time to bring up the Italian army to Laybach to threaten Vienna.”

There are those who see in this a proof that Napoleon did not desire peace. Read in the light of the surrounding circumstances, it is just as easy to see in the letter an evidence that Napoleon merely wished to escape Austrian dictation.

He had already offered to treat for peace with Russia and Prussia; and they, controlled by English influence, had refused to treat, save through Austria.

Anxious, suspicious, harassed by all sorts of cares, Napoleon summoned Metternich to Dresden.

Napoleon understood Metternich thoroughly, and despised him. With this man, as with FouchÉ, Talleyrand, and Bernadotte, the proud Corsican had too lightly indulged in the perilous license of contempt.

“Sire, why do you not send Metternich away?” Duroc inquired one day at the Tuileries.

“Ah, well,” answered Napoleon, “if Austria sent me a new minister, I should have him to study; as to Metternich, he can no longer deceive me.”

Summoned to Dresden, the Austrian diplomat went, and on June 27, 1813, held his famous interview with Napoleon. It was not then known to any save the parties to the treaty that Lord Aberdeen, acting for England, had already made his bargain with Austria, whereby the latter power agreed to accept an enormous bribe to enter the coalition against France. On the very day of Metternich’s interview with Napoleon, Austria was actually signing the Reichenbach treaty which, affirmed by the Emperor Francis on August 1, 1813, placed Austria’s two hundred thousand men at the service of “our cause.”

Napoleon knew nothing of this; he suspected it, dreaded it, desperately sought to avert it. Hence his call to Metternich.

In his Memoirs, the Austrian statesman relates that he found the French Emperor at the Marcolini Garden, near the Elster meadows. “The French army sighed for peace. The generals had little confidence in the issue of the war.” “The appearance of the Austrian minister at Napoleon’s headquarters could only be regarded by the French generals as decisive in its results.” Bursting with self-importance was this Metternich, of whom Napoleon said that he was always believing that he controlled everything, whereas he was eternally being controlled by others. In this instance he walked toward Napoleon’s rooms with the majestic port of an arbiter of nations, whereas the whole thing had already been determined by Lord Aberdeen’s negotiations at Vienna, not to mention the masterful influence of Sir Charles Stewart and Lord Cathcart in the counsels of Russia and Prussia.

“It would be difficult to describe,” says Metternich, “the expression of painful anxiety shown on the faces of the crowd of men in uniform who were assembled in the waiting rooms of the Emperor. The Prince of NeufchÂtel (Berthier) said to me in a low voice, “Do not forget that Europe requires peace, and especially France, which will have nothing but peace.”

Of Berthier, Napoleon himself said that, in anything outside his specialty of writing despatches, “he was a mere goose.” If Berthier made at this juncture any such remark to Metternich as that important man records, it would be a charity to let Berthier escape with so light a reproach as that of being a mere goose. Such a remark to such a man, by such a man, and at such a time is rankly odorous of disaffection, disloyalty, and the incipient treason which broke out openly a few months later.

Metternich, referring to Berthier’s remark, complacently states, “Not seeing myself called upon to answer this, I at once entered the Emperor’s reception room.” Great was Metternich in this crisis, too great to bandy words with a mere mushroom, Prince de NeufchÂtel! “Napoleon waited for me, standing in the middle of the room with his sword at his side, and his hat under his arm. He came up in a studied manner and inquired after the health of the Emperor Francis. His countenance soon clouded over, and he spoke, standing in front of me, as follows:—

“‘So you too want war; well, you shall have it. Three times have I replaced the Emperor Francis on his throne. I have promised always to live in peace with him. I have married his daughter. To-day I repent of it.’”

Metternich says that at this crisis he felt himself the representative of all European society. He felt the strength of his position, felt that the mighty Napoleon lay in the hollow of his hand.

“If I may say so, Napoleon seemed to me small!”

“If I may say so”—why the modest doubt? Where is the limit of what one may say in one’s Memoirs? Do the writers of Memoirs ever by any possibility get worsted in discussion, or fail to say and do the very best thing that could have been said and done?

Metternich proceeds to relate how he read Napoleon a paternal lecture; how he explained to the French Emperor that France as well as Europe required peace; how he intimated that Austria would throw her aid to the coalition; how he predicted that the French army would be swept away, and how he asked the Emperor, “If this juvenile army that you levied but yesterday should be destroyed, what then?” “When Napoleon heard these words he was overcome with rage, he turned pale, and his features were distorted. ‘You are no soldier,’ said he, ‘and you do not know what goes on in the mind of a soldier. I was brought up in the field, and a man such as I am does not concern himself much about the lives of a million of men.’ With this exclamation he threw his hat into the corner of the room.”

Of course the Memoirs represent Metternich as promptly taking advantage of this imprudent outbreak, and as throwing Napoleon quite upon the defensive. It is noticeable that in the Memoirs of Napoleon’s enemies, the authors invariably got the better of him in trials of wit. Some very dull people gave him some very crushing conversational blows—in their Memoirs.

But this much is known of the Dresden interview,—it lasted half a day, and Metternich reports less than half an hour’s talk. The Austrian does not record how unerringly Napoleon guessed the riddle, and how directly he put the question,—“Metternich, how much has England paid you to act this part against me?” Nor does he record the fact that Napoleon, in his extremity, offered to buy Austria off by ceding the Illyrian provinces, and that the bargain could not be made because the Emperor Francis advanced his demands as often as Napoleon enlarged his concessions. Austria, sold to England, was perfectly willing to be bought by France; but the price demanded was so excessive, that Napoleon indignantly cried out, “I will die under the ruins of my throne before I will consent to strip France of all her possessions, and dishonor myself in the eyes of the world!”

Metternich records that he said to Napoleon: “You are lost. I thought it when I came here; now I know it.” The Emperor’s reply to this remarkable observation is not on the Metternich tablets. The writers of Memoirs have a habit of getting in the last word.

Not satisfied with having crushed Napoleon, Metternich dealt a parting blow to Berthier, the Emperor’s goose.

“In the anterooms I found the same generals whom I had seen on entering. They crowded round me to read in my face the impression of nearly nine hours’ conversation. I did not stop, and I do not think I satisfied their curiosity. Berthier accompanied me to my carriage. He seized a moment when no one was near to ask me whether I had been satisfied with the Emperor.” To this humblest of questions, “Were you satisfied with the Emperor?” the important Metternich replied, with a loftiness which must have painfully bruised the Emperor’s goose:—

“Yes, yes! It is all over with the man. He has lost his wits.”

It is all over with the man; he has lost his mind—great Metternich, small Napoleon, and poor Berthier, the Emperor’s assiduous goose!

One other important fact the Metternich Memoirs record: the Archduke Charles needed twenty additional days to bring up the Austrian reserves, and Metternich undertook to decoy Napoleon into an extension of the armistice. The Memoirs record how Napoleon vainly endeavored through the Duke of Bassano to come to terms of peace; how Metternich stubbornly stood his ground, refusing to budge an inch; how Napoleon kept up the contest until the Austrian ordered his carriage and was about to leave Dresden; how Napoleon then yielded, calling Metternich back, and signing an agreement to accept Austrian mediation, to prolong the armistice till August 10, and to submit the issues to a congress of the powers to be assembled at Prague on the 10th of July.

In Thiers’s History of the Consulate and Empire we read that Napoleon by his cleverness and diplomacy lured the Allies into granting him precious delays most necessary to his welfare. In Metternich’s Memoirs we read that the Austrian, by his adroitness and implied threats, led Napoleon to the exact time which the Archduke Charles said was needed to get his forces just where he wanted them. Which of these contradictory stories is the truth? which is history?

The Congress of Prague assembled, and it soon became apparent that peace would not be made. British influence dominated it from the first. By consenting, once for all, to surrender his empire and become King of France,—France with the old boundaries,—Napoleon could doubtless have rid himself of the Allies. But what then? Could he have held the throne in France after so complete a submission to foreign dictation? Could he thus have secured internal peace for France itself? Would not England have pressed home the advantage, restored the Bourbons, and destroyed the work of the Revolution?

When we recall what took place in 1814 and afterward,—the steady progress of reaction and counter-revolution until absolutism and aristocratic privilege had completely triumphed again throughout Europe,—we can but honor the sagacity and the unquailing courage of Napoleon in standing his ground, indomitably, against combinations without and disaffection within, rather than make craven surrender to a coalition which meant nothing less than death to democratic principles and institutions, as well as to his own supremacy.

In Spain the fortunes of war were going heavily against France. King Joseph was in everybody’s way, hampering military movements by his absurdities; the marshals were at odds with each other, and no coÖperation could be had. Wellington, whose progress in the peninsula had been slow and fluctuating, now advanced into Spain, and won a decisive battle. Just as the victory of Salamanca had influenced Russian councils in 1812, that of Vittoria bore heavily against Napoleon at the Congress of Prague.

Napoleon himself had no confidence in the negotiations, and was painfully aware of the manifold perils which beset him. He returned to Mayence, and bent all his energies to the improvement of his situation. One day he called upon Beugnot to write at his dictation, and Beugnot, flurried at the unexpected summons, twice took the Emperor’s chair. Napoleon said: “So you are determined to sit in my seat! You have chosen a bad time for it.”

Soult was sent off to Spain to hold Wellington in check, FouchÉ and Talleyrand were summoned to aid in fathoming the Austrian intrigue, and influences were set to work to bring Murat back to the army.