Читать книгу Louisa of Prussia and Her Times (Historical Novel) - L. Muhlbach - Страница 10

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At length peace was to be concluded. For several weeks had the three Austrian plenipotentiaries been at Udine; the Austrian court having sent with Count Meerveldt and Count Louis Cobenzl the Marquis de Gallo, who, although Neapolitan ambassador at Vienna, and therefore, not in the imperial service, acted as their adviser.

General Bonaparte was at Passeriano: he alone had been authorized by the great French Republic to conclude peace with Austria, or to renew the war, just as he saw fit.

The eyes of France and Germany, nay of all Europe, were riveted upon this small point on the border of Germany and Italy, for there the immediate future of Europe was to be decided; there the dice were to fall which were to bring peace or war to the world.

Austria wanted peace; it was a necessity for her, because she did not feel strong enough for war, and was afraid of the dangers and losses of continued defeats. But she did not want peace, coute qui coute; she wanted to derive substantial advantages from it—she intended to aggrandize herself at the expense of Italy, at the expense of Prussia—and, if need be, at the expense of Germany.

But what did France want, or rather, what did General Bonaparte want? None but himself knew. None could read his thoughts in his marble countenance. None could decipher his future actions from his laconic utterances. None could tell what Bonaparte intended to do and what aim his ambition had in view.

The negotiations with Austria had been going on for months. For several weeks the Austrian plenipotentiaries and General Bonaparte had had daily interviews of many hours’ duration, which alternately took place at Udine and at Passeriano, but the work of pacification would not come to a satisfactory conclusion. Austria demanded too much, and France would not yield enough. These conferences had frequently assumed a very stormy character, and often, during the debates, Bonaparte’s voice had resounded in thundering tones, and flashes of anger had burst forth from his eyes. But the Austrian plenipotentiaries had not been struck by them. The flashes from the great chieftain’s eyes had recoiled powerlessly from their imperturbable smile. When his voice thundered at them, they had lowered their heads only to raise them slowly again as soon as the general was silent.

To-day, on the thirteenth of October, another interview was to take place, at the hotel of Count Cobenzl, and perhaps that was the reason why General Bonaparte had risen at an unusually early hour in the morning. He had just finished his toilet; the four valets who had assisted him had just concluded their task. As usual, Bonaparte had suffered them to dress and wash him like a child.9 With a silent gesture he now ordered the servants to withdraw, and called out, “Bourrienne!”

The door was opened at once, and a tall young man, in the citizen’s dress of that period, stepped in. Bonaparte, greeting his youthful secretary with a slight nod of his head, pointed with his hand at the desk.

Bourrienne walked noiselessly to the desk, sat down, took a pen and some blank paper, and waited for what the general would have to dictate.

But Bonaparte was silent. With his hands folded on his back, he commenced rapidly walking up and down. Bourrienne, holding the pen in his hand and momentarily ready to write, enjoyed this pause, this absorbed pondering of the general, with genuine delight; for it afforded him leisure to contemplate Bonaparte, to study his whole appearance, and to engrave every feature, every gesture of the conqueror of Italy upon his mind.

Bourrienne was an old friend of Bonaparte; they had been together at the military academy; they had met afterward at Paris—and poor young Lieutenant Bonaparte had often been glad enough to accept a dinner at the hands of his wealthier friend.

Only a few years had elapsed since that time, and now Lieutenant Bonaparte had become already an illustrious general; while Bourrienne, whom the Terrorists had proscribed, thankfully accepted the protection of his old comrade, and now filled the position of private secretary under him.

He had been with him in this capacity only two days—for two days he had seen Bonaparte every hour, and yet he contemplated with ever new surprise this wonderful countenance, in which he vainly tried to recognize the features of the friend of his youth. True, the same outlines and contours were still there, but the whole face was an entirely different one. No traces of the carelessness, of the harmless hilarity of former days, were left in these features. His complexion was pale almost to sickliness; his figure, which did not rise above the middle height, was slender and bony. Upon looking at him, you seemed at first to behold a young man entirely devoid of strength, and hopelessly doomed to an early death. But the longer you examined him, the more his features seemed to breathe vitality and spirit, and the firmer grew the conviction that this was an exceptional being—a rare and strange phenomenon. Once accustomed to his apparent pale and sickly homeliness, the beholder soon saw it transformed into a fascinating beauty such as we admire on the antique Roman cameos and old imperial coins. His classical and regular profile seemed to be modelled after these antique coins; his forehead, framed in on both sides with fine chestnut hair, was high and statuesque. His eyes were blue, but brimful of the most wonderful expression and sparkling with fire, a faithful mirror of his fiery soul, now exceedingly mild and gentle, and then again stern and even harsh. His mouth was classically beautiful—the finely-shaped lips, narrow and slightly compressed, especially when in anger; when he laughed, he displayed two rows of teeth, not faultlessly fine, but of pearly white. Every lineament, every single feature of his face was as regular as if modelled by a sculptor; nevertheless there was something ugly and repulsive in the whole, and in order to be able to admire it, it was necessary first to get accustomed to this most extraordinary being. Only the feet and the small white hands were so surpassingly beautiful that they enlisted at once the liveliest admiration, and this was perhaps the reason why General Bonaparte, who otherwise observed the greatest simplicity in his toilet, had adorned his hands with several splendid diamond rings.10

Bourrienne was still absorbed in contemplating the friend of his youth, when the latter suddenly stood still before him and looked at him with a pleasant smile.

“Why do you stare at me in this manner, Bourrienne?” he asked in his abrupt and hasty tone.

“General. I only contemplate the laurels which your glorious victories have woven around your brow, since I saw you the last time,” said Bourrienne.

“Ah, and you find me a little changed since you saw me the last time,” replied Bonaparte, quickly. “It is true, the years of our separation have produced a great many changes, and I was glad that you had the good taste to perceive this, and upon meeting me under the present circumstances, to observe a becoming and delicate reserve. I am under obligations to you for it, and from to-day you shall be chief of my cabinet, my first private secretary.”11

Bourrienne rose to thank the young general by bowing respectfully, but Bonaparte took no further notice of him, and walked again rapidly up and down. The smile had already vanished from his face, which had resumed its immovable and impenetrable expression.

Bourrienne quietly sat down again and waited; but now he dared no longer look at Bonaparte, the general having noticed it before.

After a lengthy pause, Bonaparte stood still close to the desk. “Have you read the dispatches which the Directory sent me yesterday through their spy, M. Botot?” asked the general, abruptly.

“I have, general!”

“They are unreasonable fools,” exclaimed Bonaparte, angrily, “they want to direct our war from their comfortable sofas in the Luxembourg, and believe their ink-stained hands could hold the general’s baton as well as the pen. They want to dictate to us a new war from Paris, without knowing whether we are able to bear it or not. They ask us to conclude peace with Austria without ceding Venice to her as compensation for Belgium. Yes, Talleyrand is senseless enough to ask me to revolutionize the whole of Italy once more, so that the Italians may expel their princes, and that liberty may prevail throughout the entire peninsula. In order to give them liberty, they want me to carry first war and revolution into their midst. These big-mouthed and ignorant Parisians do not know that Italy will not belong to us in reality until after the restoration of peace, and that the Directory, even at the first dawn of peace, will rule her from the mountains of Switzerland to the capes of Calabria. Then, and only then, the Directory will be able to alter the various governments of Italy, and for this very reason we have to attach Austria to our cause by a treaty of peace. As soon as she has signed it, she will no longer molest us: first, because she is our ally; and principally because she will apprehend that we might take back from her what we generously gave, in order to win her over to our side. The war party at Vienna, however, will not submit without hoping for some counter-revolution—a dream which the emigres and the diplomacy of Pillnitz still cherishes with the utmost tenacity.12 And these unreasonable gentlemen of the Directory want war and revolution, and they dare to accuse me of selfish motives. Ah, I am yearning for repose, for retirement—I feel exhausted and disgusted, and shall for the third time send in my resignation, which the Directory twice refused to accept.”

He had said all this in a subdued and rapid voice, apparently only talking to himself—the only man worthy of learning the most secret thoughts of his soul—and still with proud disdain toward him who could overhear every word he said. He felt as though he were alone, and he only spoke and consulted with himself, notwithstanding the secretary’s presence.

Another long pause ensued. Bonaparte pacing the room once more with rapid steps. Violent and impassioned feelings seemed to agitate his breast; for his eyes became more lustrous, his cheeks were suffused with an almost imperceptible blush, and he breathed heavily; as if oppressed by the closeness of the room, and in want of fresh air, for he stepped up to the window and opened it violently.

An expression of amazement escaped from his lips, for the landscape, which yesterday was clad in the gorgeous hues of autumn, now offered an entirely different aspect. Hoar-frost, dense and glittering, covered the trees and the verdure of the meadows; and the Noric Alps, which crowned the horizon with a majestic wreath, had adorned themselves during the night with sparkling robes of snow and brilliant diadems of ice.

Bonaparte looked at the unexpected spectacle long and thoughtfully. “What a country!” He then whispered, “Snow and ice in the first part of October! Very well! we must make peace!”13

He closed the window and returned to the desk.

“Give me the army register,” he said to Bourrienne, and took a seat at his side.

Bourrienne laid the books and papers in succession before him, and Bonaparte read and examined them with close attention.

“Yes,” he then said, after a long pause, “it is true, I have an army of nearly eighty thousand men; I have to feed and pay them, but, on the battle-field, I could not count on more than sixty thousand men. I should win the battle, but lose again twenty thousand men in killed, wounded, and prisoners. How, then, should I be able to resist the united Austrian forces, which would hasten to the assistance of Vienna? It would take the armies on the Rhine more than a month to come up in supporting distance, and in the course of two weeks the snow will have blocked up all roads and mountain-passes. I am determined, therefore, to make peace. Venice must pay for the war, and the frontier of the Rhine. The Directory and the learned lawyers may say what they please.14 Write, Bourrienne, I will now dictate my reply.”

Bourrienne took his pen; Bonaparte arose from his seat, and folding his arms on his breast, he resumed his promenade across the room, dictating slowly and clearly, so that every word dropped from his lips like a pearl, until gradually the course of his speech grew more rapid and rolled along in an unbroken, fiery, and brilliant torrent.

“We shall sign the treaty of peace to-day,” he dictated, in his imperious tone, “or break off the negotiations altogether. Peace will be advantageous to us—war with Austria will injure us; but war with England opens an extensive, highly important and brilliant field of action to our arms.”

And now he explained to the Directory the advantages of a treaty of peace with Austria, and of a war with England, with logical acuteness and precision. His words were no less pointed and sharp than the edge of his sword, and as brief, stern, and cold as the utterances of a Cato.

He then paused for a moment, not in order to collect his thoughts, but only to give his secretary a few seconds’ rest, and to get a breathing-spell for himself.

“Let us go on now,” he said, after a short interval, and dictated in an enthusiastic voice, and with flaming eyes: “If I have been mistaken in my calculations, my heart is pure, and my intentions are well meaning. I have not listened to the promptings of glory, of vanity and ambition; I have only regarded the welfare of the country and government. If they should not approve of my actions and views, nothing is left to me but to step back into the crowd, put on the wooden shoes of Cincinnatus, and give an example of respect for the government, and of aversion to military rule, which has destroyed so many republics, and annihilated so many states.”15

“Are you through?” asked Bonaparte, drawing a long breath.

“Yes, general, I am.”

“Then take another sheet, my friend. We are going to write now to the sly fox who generally perceives every hole where he may slip in, and who has such an excellent nose that he scents every danger and every advantage from afar. But this time he has lost the trail and is entirely mistaken. I will, therefore, show him the way. ‘To Citizen Talleyrand, Minister of Foreign Affairs.’ Did you write the address?”

“Yes, general.”

“Well, go on.”

And without stopping a single time, and even without hesitating, Bonaparte dictated the following letter:

“In three or four hours, citizen minister, every thing will be decided—peace or war. I confess that I shall do every thing to make peace, in consequence of the advanced season and the slim prospect of achieving important successes.”

“You know very little about the nations of the peninsula; they do not deserve that forty thousand French soldiers should be killed for their sake. I see from your letter that you always argue from unfounded premises. You fancy that liberty would make a great impression upon a lazy, superstitious, cowardly, and degraded people.”

“You ask me to do miracles, and I cannot perform them. Ever since I came to Italy, the nation’s desire for liberty and equality was not my ally, or at best it was but a very feeble one. Whatever is merely good to be mentioned in proclamations and printed speeches is worth no more than a novel.”

“Hoping that the negotiations will have a favorable issue, I do not enter upon further details to enlighten you about many matters which apparently have been misunderstood. Only by prudence, sagacity, and determination we are able to realize great objects and surmount all obstacles; otherwise all our efforts will prove unavailing. Frequently there is but a single step from victory to ruin. In highly critical times, I have always noticed that a mere nothing decided the most important events.”

“It is characteristic of our nation to be too rash and fiery in prosperity. If we adopt a sagacious policy, which is nothing but the result of the calculation of combination and chances as a base for our operations, we shall long remain the greatest nation and most powerful state in Europe—nay, more, we shall hold the balance of power, we shall make it incline wherever we desire, and if it were the will of Providence, it would be no impossibility to achieve in the course of a few years those great results which a glowing and excited imagination perhaps foresees, but which only a man of extraordinary coolness, perseverance, and prudence is able to accomplish if—”16

Bonaparte paused suddenly as if he had been about to betray a profound secret, and stopped exactly when it was not yet too late to keep it buried within his own breast.

“It is enough,” he then said, “erase the last word and close the letter. What makes you look at me so strangely, Bourrienne?”

“I beg your pardon, general, I had a vision. It seemed to me as if an oriflamme were burning on your head, and I believe if all nations and all men could behold you as I saw you just now, they would believe once more in the fables of pagan mythology, and feel satisfied that Jove the Thunderer had deigned to descend once more into our human world.”

Bonaparte smiled, and this smile lighted up his face, previously so stern and rigid.

“You are a flatterer and a courtier,” he said, playfully pinching Bourrienne’s ear so violently that the latter was scarcely able to conceal a shriek of pain under a smile. “Yes, indeed, you are a regular courtier, and the republic has done well to banish you, for flattery is something very aristocratic, and injurious to our stiff republican dignity. And what an idea, to compare me to Jove appearing on earth! Don’t you know, then, you learned scholar and flatterer, that Jove, whenever he descended from Olympus, was in pursuit of a very worldly and entirely ungodly adventure? It would only remain for you to inform my Josephine that I was about to transform myself into an ox for the sake of some beautiful Europa, or drop down in the shape of a golden rain to gain the love of a Danae.”

“General, the sagacious and spirited Josephine would believe the former to be impossible, for even if you should succeed in performing all the miracles of the world, you could never transform yourself into an ox.”

“What! you compared me a minute ago with Jove, and now you doubt already whether I could accomplish what Jove has done!” exclaimed Bonaparte, laughing. “Ah, flatterer, you see I have caught you in your own meshes. But would my Josephine believe, then, that I could transform myself into a golden rain for the purpose of winning a Danae, you arrant rogue?”

“Yes, general, but she always would take good care to be that Danae herself.”

“Yes, indeed, you are right,” replied Bonaparte, laughing even louder than before. “Josephine likes golden rains, and should they be ever so violent, she would not complain; for if they should immerse her up to the neck, in the course of a few hours she would have got rid of the whole valuable flood.”

“Your wife is as liberal and generous as a princess, and that is the reason why she spends so much money. She scatters her charities with liberal hands.”

“Yes, Josephine has a noble and magnanimous heart,” exclaimed Napoleon, and his large blue eyes assumed a mild and tender expression. “She is a woman just as I like women—so gentle and good, so childlike and playful, so tender and affectionate, so passionate and odd! And at the same time so dignified and refined in her manners. Ah, you ought to have seen her at Milan receiving the princes and noblesse in her drawing-room. I assure you, my friend, the wife of little General Bonaparte looked and bore herself precisely like a queen holding a levee, and she was treated and honored as though she were one. Ah, you ought to have seen it!”

“I DID see it, general. I was at Milan before coming here.”

“Ah, yes, that is true. I had forgotten it. You lucky fellow, you saw my wife more recently than I did myself. Josephine is beautiful, is she not? No young girl can boast of more freshness, more grace, innocence, and loveliness. Whenever I am with her, I feel as contented, as happy and tranquil as a man who, on a very warm day, is reposing in the shade of a splendid myrtle-tree, and whenever I am far from her—”

Bonaparte paused, and a slight blush stole over his face. The young lover of twenty-eight had triumphed for a moment over the stern, calculating general, and the general was ashamed of it.

“This is no time to think of such things,” he said, almost indignantly. “Seal the letters now, and dispatch a messenger to Paris. Ah, Paris! Would to God I were again there in my little house in the Rue Chantereine, alone and happy with Josephine! But in order to get there, I must first make peace here—peace with Austria, with the Emperor of Germany. Ah, I am afraid Germany will not be much elated by this treaty of peace which her emperor is going to conclude, and by which she may lose some of her most splendid fortresses on the Rhine.”

“And the Republic of Venice, general?”

“The Republic of Venice is about to disappear,” exclaimed Bonaparte, frowning. “Venice has rendered herself unworthy of the name of a republic—she is about to disappear.”

“General, the delegates of the republic were all day yesterday in your anteroom, vainly waiting for an audience.”

“They will have to wait to-day likewise until I return from the conference which is to decide about war or peace. In either case, woe unto the Venetians! Tell them, Bourrienne, to wait until I return. And now, my carriage. I cannot let the Austrian plenipotentiaries wait any longer for my ultimatum.”