‘Damn France!’ Napoleon slapped his hand on to his breast. ‘I am France. Me. And I will not surrender. Not while I yet draw breath.’
Ney returned his glare with a calm, almost pitying expression. ‘If Paris falls, then I will conduct my own negotiations with the Austrians.’
‘How dare you?’
‘Because I will do what is right, sire.’ Ney stiffened his back and bowed his head. ‘Is there anything else, sire?’
Napoleon’s lips pressed together in a thin line as he regarded his subordinate. Then, when his temper had subsided, he shook his head. ‘This is treason.’
‘No, sire. Treason is committed when a man betrays the interests of his nation. Any man.’
‘I see.’ Napoleon sneered. ‘Then I had better leave, and find myself a commander who still has the courage to fight.’
If Ney felt any anger at this slight to his bravery he showed no sign of it. Napoleon pointed towards the door. ‘Now get out of my sight.’
After Ney had left, Napoleon slumped down into his chair and gazed into the fireplace. He watched the languid flames slowly die down into a failing glow as the night drew on, and then, at midnight, called for his horse to be saddled and a cavalry escort to be made ready to ride within the hour.
Leaving Ney and his men behind, Napoleon and his escort rode south-west, to ensure that he did not run into any enemy cavalry columns scouting deep into the French countryside. They stopped briefly to rest the following night, and then crossed the Seine and turned west and north towards the capital. Villagers and townsfolk stopped in surprise to see their Emperor pass through, and even though some cheered Napoleon rode on heedlessly. He dared not stop now, not when a royalist, emboldened by the approach of the allies, might make an attempt on his life.
As evening drew in on the last night of the month, Napoleon reached Essonnes, twenty miles from Paris, and sent for the commander of the garrison to arrange for food and forage for his escort before they began the last leg of the journey. A portly officer with grey wispy hair came puffing up to Napoleon as he entered the garrison headquarters, and bowed low.
‘Sire, it is an honour to receive you.’
‘Later. My men and horses need feeding before we take the Paris road.’
‘Paris?’ The colonel frowned. ‘Then you have not heard?’
‘Heard? Heard what?’
The colonel licked his lips nervously. ‘Paris has fallen, sire.’
Napoleon stared at him, and then shook his head. ‘No. Not yet. Marmont said he could hold on for a few more days.’
‘Sire, Marshal Marmont surrendered the capital in the early hours. Paris is in the hands of the Prussians.’ The colonel saw the stricken expression of his Emperor and then glanced down, refusing to meet Napoleon’s eyes.‘I have a copy of the official proclamation, sire. Do you wish me to fetch it for you?’
‘No . . . no. That is not necessary. If it is as you say, then there is nothing left for me in Paris. There is only one place left for me now.’ Napoleon steeled himself. ‘One place where I can summon my men, and make a stand.’
Chapter 50
Fontainebleau, 4 April 1814
The grounds of the chateau, once the preserve of the imperial court, were covered with tents. Most were makeshift arrangements hastily sewn together by veterans who knew the value of any kind of shelter from the elements. The others belonged to officers and varied in size according to rank. Thankfully the winter had passed and the early days of spring brought clear skies and slight warmth to comfort the weary men of the French Army. Inside the chateau the splendours of the décor were largely lost on the staff officers and couriers, coming and going, trailing mud across the finely tiled floors and expensive rugs. The mood was sombre and a wary quiet embraced the men whenever the Emperor emerged from his study.
Looking at them, Napoleon could see that many had already accepted defeat and were performing their duties merely from force of habit, waiting for the order to finally stop. He could hardly blame them, even though they stood at the heart of an army of sixty thousand men. Every last available soldier and gun had been concentrated around the chateau and the engineers had thrown up earthworks to cover the approaches to the camp. Yet the allies had three times that number in Paris alone, and another army was cautiously advancing from the east. Marshal Marmont, having agreed the armistice, was still in camp a few miles south of Paris, but had refused to respond to Napoleon’s order to join him at Fontainebleau.
After a hurried breakfast of which he ate little, Napoleon had requested his marshals to attend him at the chateau. From the window of the private dining room set for the meeting Napoleon watched as they arrived, noting their grim demeanour as they dismounted and climbed the steps, which were lined by the men of the Old Guard standing to attention. At least there was still plenty of fight amongst the rankers, Napoleon reflected. When he had toured the camp on the previous two evenings they had cheered him as heartily as ever, as if encouraged by the prospect of making a last stand against the invader. MacDonald was the last of the marshals to arrive, and as soon as he had passed within the entrance Napoleon sent a clerk to summon them to his presence.
They filed in, silently, and took their seats. Napoleon glanced from face to face, scrutinising their expressions and appearance. They looked as tired as their men. Some had found fresh uniforms to dress in for this meeting but most were stained with splatters of mud andVictor had one arm in a sling from a wound he had taken a few weeks earlier. Napoleon cleared his throat and stretched his hands out on the table.
‘There is no need for any preamble, my friends; you know our situation. The question is, what should we do now? The army is still in being, the men’s morale is high and the people of France will not endure the presence of an occupying army for long. There is still everything to fight for. I need to decide whether to risk a battle on the streets of Paris itself, or attempt a wider strategic manoeuvre round the enemy’s flank. So, gentlemen, I need your advice on which course of action would best profit us.’
No one responded. Some exchanged looks, while others looked down or stared fixedly at some feature of the room.
‘Come, gentlemen, speak freely.’
‘Very well then, sire,’ Ney responded, half turning in his seat so that he could face his Emperor directly. ‘I speak for most of the marshals here, including those who were . . .’ his lips curled into a brief look of contempt before he continued, ‘unprepared to face the truth and say what needs to be said.’
‘And what would that be?’ Napoleon asked.
‘That France has fallen. Its armies are defeated. Its treasury is empty. The people want peace. There is no hope of overcoming the allies. It is plain for all to see. Even you, sire, must recognise the hopelessness of the situation.’
‘It is not hopeless,’ Napoleon replied, forcing himself to keep his voice calm. ‘Does your memory fail you? Our position was far worse at Marengo, yet we snatched a victory from the enemy by the end of the day.’
‘Marengo was a long time ago, sire. We were different men, fighting on foreign soil. If we had lost the battle, we would still have had a chance to win the campaign. Now? Paris is lost. There is nothing left to save. There is no reason to continue the war.’
‘There is every reason! While the army exists, and you and I still live. While either of us can still hold a sword in our hand and spit defiance at our enemies, there is a reason to continue the fight!’
Napoleon stared at him, wide-eyed and enraged, but Ney refused to give way and steadily returned his glare. ‘That, sire, is the counsel of a man who no longer regards war as a means to an end, but embraces it purely for its own sake.’
Napoleon was stunned. Ney had defied him before, in private, where such words could be forgiven and in time forgotten. But this? In front of his peers, the highest-ranking officers of the empire? What he had dared to say could never be retracted.
‘Marshal Ney, I dismiss you. Your rank and titles are forfeit, and you a
re banished from our presence for ever. Leave us now, and never return.’
Ney could not help a faint smile. ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No. The war is over. I speak for all of us.’ He waved a hand round the other officers seated at the table. ‘Does any man deny it?’
There was no response. Napoleon leaned forward and pointed at MacDonald.‘You have sworn an oath to obey me. Would you betray me now, at the hour of my greatest need of you?’
MacDonald glanced at Ney and received a nod of encouragement before he replied.‘Sire, I also swore an oath to serve and protect France. I cannot honour both oaths. My duty to my country outweighs my duty to you, sire.’
‘Pah!’ Napoleon turned to Victor. ‘And you?’
‘I share the opinion of Marshal Ney, sire.’
Napoleon looked round at them.‘Is there no man with honour here? Well?’
His words hung in the ensuing silence, then Napoleon sneered. ‘Cowards all. If you will not obey me, then damn you. I shall summon Marmont to command the army under me.’
Ney shook his head, and reached into his jacket to pull out a folded piece of paper. ‘I have been in contact with Marmont since I arrived at Fontainebleau. He shares my views, sire. Indeed, he goes further. I received this at dawn. Marmont has gone over to the allies with his men. Talleyrand has established a provisional government and issued a decree that your reign is over.’
‘Give it to me!’
Ney slid the message across the table and Napoleon snatched it up, unfolded it and scanned the contents. His lips pressed together as he read the details for himself. He tossed it back and glared at his marshals with contempt.
‘So, not one of my marshals is prepared to fight. Very well, then I shall do without you, and promote more worthy men from amongst those officers who still know the value of loyalty and patriotism. At least I have no doubt that the rank and file will still obey me.’
‘No, sire. They will obey their marshals. Did you think we should confront you without first having talked this through with our subordinates? Sire, if you force the issue, the army will turn on itself - the officers against the men. Is that how you wish this to end?’
Napoleon gritted his teeth. He felt trapped, and clenched his fists in his lap as he stared at his officers defiantly. At length he slumped back into his chair and cleared his throat. ‘What would you have me do, then?’
‘Abdicate,’ Ney replied at once. ‘Go into exile.’
‘What?’
‘Abdicate, on the condition that you do so in favour of your son. At least that way, we spare France from any return of the Bourbons.’
Napoleon considered the idea, even though it pierced him to the soul. Defeat was one thing, humiliation quite another. The prospect of being reduced to the status of a prisoner, exiled to some European backwater for the rest of his life, was unbearable. He would be mocked by his enemies and pitied by his former friends and subjects, condemned to a life of lingering insignificance. The thought made him sick. On the other hand, as long as a Bonaparte was on the throne, then there would be a means for Napoleon to exercise his influence, and one day resume his powers. He looked at Ney, wondering if the man understood that such an abdication would only curtail his power temporarily. He took on a resigned air and nodded slowly. ‘You are right, my dear Michel. I must sacrifice my throne for the good of my people. They would expect nothing less of me.’
The current of relief that rippled through his officers was palpable. Even Ney’s stern demeanour melted momentarily as he could not help smiling at the outcome of the confrontation between the marshals and their Emperor.
‘Sire, your people will be eternally grateful to you for this.’
‘And so they should,’ Napoleon replied. ‘We’d better draft a proposal for our enemies.’
‘It is already done, sire,’ Ney admitted.‘I had Caulaincourt draw it up as soon as I had the news from Marmont. It only requires your signature and then the Foreign Minister and Marshal MacDonald will depart for Paris.’
Napoleon smiled coldly. ‘It seems that you have planned this well.’
‘If I have, it is because I learned from a good master.’
The compliment was a poor palliative that fooled no man in the room. Napoleon rose from his chair. ‘Then it is done. Make your offer to the allies and let me know the outcome. I will remain in the chateau. You, gentlemen, are dismissed.’ He looked round at them. ‘I just hope that you have made the right decision. If not, then France will never forgive you. Think on that.’
He turned away and strode towards the door, leaving Ney and the other marhsals to arrange the details of the negotiations with the enemy.
Caulaincourt and MacDonald rode out towards the allied outposts later that morning. For two days they negotiated with the commanders of the armies that had conquered Paris and were now closing in on the remnants of the Grand Army. Then they reported back to Napoleon, informing him that the allies would only accept an unconditional abdication. The decision on who should succeed him would be theirs alone.
In the days that followed, as the details of his fate were discussed in Paris, Napoleon fell into deep despair. He could not eat, and sat in a chair by a small fire, brooding in silence as his servants silently came and went, serving and removing meals that lay cold and untouched on their trays.
At length, Napoleon’s hand slipped inside his shirt and felt for the small pouch of belladonna and hellebore that he had kept hanging from his neck since the retreat from Moscow when he had so nearly fallen into the hands of the Cossacks. His fingers gently cupped the pouch and he pressed the soft leather, feeling the deadly powder within. There was little deliberation over the decision. His death would cheat the allies of their prize, and there was comfort and satisfaction to be had from that small victory.
Slipping the thin silk cord over his head, Napoleon withdrew the pouch and steadily untied the binding. He eased the leather open, and stared a moment at the powder, pallid as ground bones. Then he tipped it into a glass, taking care not to spill any of it, before pouring in some of the watered wine left on a meal tray. He stirred the mixture with his fork, then lifted the glass. He avoided smelling it, in case it caused him to hesitate, and provided the least excuse to reconsider his decision. He raised the glass to his lips and drank swiftly, setting the glass down with a sharp tap. Then he sat still, staring into space, shocked by the enormity of the deed. He smiled as he recalled his coronation, how he had taken the imperial wreath from the hands of the Pope and placed it on his own head, announcing to the world that none but Napoleon was worthy of crowning Napoleon. Now the same principle of greatness applied to his death. Only his hand was worthy of the act. That thought calmed his fear of the oblivion into which his mind would be cast, if not his fame. He coughed and then called for his servant.
‘Fetch Caulaincourt. Bring him to me at once.’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘He is to bring pen and paper with him.’
The servant bowed his head and hurried away, leaving Napoleon to mentally compose his final testament.
By the time Caulaincourt appeared, Napoleon could already feel the poisons working upon him. Despite the fire, he felt cold, and shivered. His skin began to feel clammy and sweat pricked out on his brow. Inside, his guts clenched painfully, and an aching nausea tightened his throat.
‘Sire, you’re ill,’ Caulaincourt said the moment he sat down opposite his Emperor. ‘Let me summon your surgeon.’
‘No. There is no need. It’s too late for that. I am dying.’
‘Sire! I will get help.’
‘No!’ The effort of raising his voice caused a spasm of pain and Napoleon’s features twisted for a moment, until the worst of it had passed. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. ‘I have taken poison. This is the end.’
The Foreign Minister looked horrified. Napoleon touched his hand. ‘I want you to take down my final statement. I don’t know how much time is left. So we must begin. Quickly, C
aulaincourt.’
‘Yes, sire.’ He nodded, and swiftly took out his notebook, rested it on his knees and poised the tip of his pencil on the paper.
‘I will give you the sense of it, then you will compose it for general consumption. Be faithful to my intent, but ensure that what is left is clearly expressed and well crafted.’
Caulaincourt nodded.
‘Very well. I wish it known that I was never the warmonger my enemies would depict me as. All I desired was peace and order amongst the peoples of Europe, even if that could only be achieved by subordinating their will to mine. I trust that my enemies will be as magnanimous in victory as I was when I triumphed over them. Therefore, all those who prospered under my reign should not be disgraced and punished under whatever rule is imposed hereafter. That includes my family, my heir and those gallant officers who have sacrificed so much for France. Their glory must not be denied, however much my fame is impugned and denigrated. They have rendered good service to France and France should honour them accordingly.’ He paused to make sure that Caulaincourt was keeping up, then, collecting his thoughts, he continued.‘If my son, the dearest being on this earth, is not to reign after me, then I wish that he is at least raised a Frenchman and given the opportunity to learn of his father’s achievements, without rancour. His mother, my beloved wife, Empress Marie-Louise, is free to return to her native Austria . . .’
A sudden surge of nausea swept through Napoleon and he leaned over the side of his chair and vomited. Caulaincourt started to rise, but Napoleon waved him back. He vomited again, and again. Each time it felt as if an iron fist was squeezing his insides like a vice. Then, when his stomach was empty, he continued retching, letting out tight groans as his head hung over the acrid stench rising from the glutinous puddle below. Finally the spasm passed and Napoleon lay back, shivering violently. His eyes flickered open and he looked at Caulaincourt.
‘I can say no more. I leave it to you to craft my testimony as elegantly as you can.’
The Fields of Death Page 58