Chapter VIII: The Alps--The Empire--The Coronation. 1800-1804

Mr. Bonaparte of Corsica

by John Kendrick Bangs

"Observe," said Bonaparte, now that he was seated on the consular
throne, "that one of my biographers states that, under a man of
ordinary vigor this new Constitution of Sieyes and another our
government would be free and popular, but that under myself it has
become an unlimited monarchy. That man is right. I am now a
potentate of the most potent kind. I got a letter from the Bourbons
last night requesting me to restore them to the throne. Two years
ago they wouldn't have given me their autographs for my collection,
but now they want me to get up from my seat in this car of state and
let them sit down."

"And you replied--?" asked Josephine.

"That I didn't care for Bourbon--rye suits me better," laughed
the Consul, "unless I can get Scotch, which I prefer at all times.
Feeling this way, I cannot permit Louis to come back yet awhile.
Meantime, in the hope of replenishing our cellars with a few bottles
of Glenlivet, I will write a letter of pacification to George III.,
one of the most gorgeous rex in Madame Tussaud's collection of living
potentates."

This Bonaparte did, asking the English king if he hadn't had
enough war for the present. George, through the eyes of his
ministers, perceived Bonaparte's point, and replied that he was very
desirous for peace himself, but that at present the market seemed to
be cornered, and that therefore the war must go on. This reply
amused Napoleon.

"It suits me to the ground," he said, addressing Talleyrand. "A
year of peace would interfere materially with my future. If Paris
were Philadelphia, it would be another thing. There one may
rest--there is no popular demand for excitement--Penn was mightier
than the sword--but here one has to be in a broil constantly; to be a
chef one must be eternally cooking, and the results must be of the
kind that requires extra editions of the evening papers. The day the
newsboys stop shouting my name, my sun will set for the last time.
Even now the populace are murmuring, for nothing startling has
occurred this week, which reminds me, I wish to see Fouche. Send him
here."

Talleyrand sent for the Minister of Police, who responded to the
summons.

"Fouche," said Bonaparte, sternly, "what are we here for, salary
or glory?"

"Glory, General."

"Precisely. Now, as head of the Police Department, are you
aware that no attempt to assassinate me has been made for two
weeks?"

"Yes, General, but--"

"Has the assassin appropriation run out? Have the assassins
struck for higher wages, or are you simply careless?" demanded the
First Consul. "I warn you, sir, that I wish no excuses, and I will
add that unless an attempt is made on my life before ten o'clock to-
night, you lose your place. The French people must be kept
interested in this performance, and how the deuce it is to be done
without advertising I don't know. Go, and remember that I shall be
at home to assassins on Thursdays of alternate weeks until further
notice."

"Your Consulship's wishes shall be respected," said Fouche, with
a low bow. "But I must say one word in my own behalf. You were to
have had a dynamite bomb thrown at you yesterday by one of my
employes, but the brave fellow who was to have stood between you and
death disappointed me. He failed to turn up at the appointed hour,
and so, of course, the assault didn't come off."

"Couldn't you find a substitute?" demanded Bonaparte.

"I could not," said Fouche. "There aren't many persons in Paris
who care for that kind of employment. They'd rather shovel snow."

"You are a gay stage-manager, you are!" snapped Bonaparte. "My
brother Joseph is in town, and yet you say you couldn't find a man to
be hit by a bomb. Leave me, Fouche. You give me the ennuis."

Fouche departed with Talleyrand, to whom he expressed his
indignation at the First Consul's reprimand.

"He insists upon an attempted assassination every week," he
said; "and I tell you, Talleyrand, it isn't easy to get these things
up. The market is long on real assassins, fellows who'd kill him for
the mere fun of hearing his last words, but when it comes to playing
to the galleries with a mock attempt with real consequences to the
would-be murderers, they fight shy of it."

Nevertheless, Fouche learned from the interview with Bonaparte
that the First Consul was not to be trifled with, and hardly a day
passed without some exciting episode in this line, in which, of
course, Napoleon always came out unscathed and much endeared to the
populace. This, however, could not go on forever. The fickle French
soon wearied of the series of unsuccessful attempts on the Consul's
life, and some began to suspect the true state of affairs.

"They're on to our scheme, General," said Fouche, after a while.
"You've got to do something new."

"What would you suggest?" asked Napoleon, wearily.

"Can't you write a book of poems, or a three-volume novel?"
suggested Talleyrand.

"Or resign, and let Sieyes run things for a while?" said Fouche.
"If they had another Consul for a few months, they'd appreciate what
a vaudeville show they lost in you."

"I'd rather cross the Alps," said Bonaparte. "I don't like to
resign. Moving is such a nuisance, and I must say I find the
Tuileries a very pleasant place of abode. It's more fun than you can
imagine rummaging through the late king's old bureau-drawers. Suppose
I get up a new army and lead it over the Alps."

"Just the thing," said Talleyrand. "Only it will be a very
snowy trip."

"I'm used to snow-balls," said Napoleon, his mind reverting to
the episode which brought his career at Brienne to a close. "Just
order an army and a mule and I'll set out. Meanwhile, Fouche, see
that the Bourbons have a conspiracy to be unearthed in time for the
Sunday newspapers every week during my absence. I think it would be
well, too, to keep a war-correspondent at work in your office night
and day, writing despatches about my progress. Give him a good book
on Hannibal's trip to study, and let him fill in a column or two
every day with anecdotes about myself, and at convenient intervals
unsuccessful attempts to assassinate Josephine may come in handy. Let
it be rumored often that I have been overwhelmed by an avalanche- -in
short, keep the interest up."

So it was that Bonaparte set out upon his perilous expedition
over the Great St. Bernard. On the 15th day of May, 1800, the task
of starting the army in motion was begun, and on the 18th every
column was in full swing. Lannes, with an advance guard armed with
snow- shovels, took the lead, and Bonaparte, commanding the rear
guard of 35,000 men and the artillery, followed.

"Soldiers!" he cried, as they came near to the snow-bound
heights, "we cannot have our plum-cake without its frosting. Like
children, we will have the frosting first and the cake later. Lannes
and his followers have not cleaned the snow off as thoroughly as I
had hoped, but I fancy he has done the best he can, and it is not for
us to complain. Let us on. The up-trip will be cold and tedious,
but once on the summit of yonder icy ridge we can seat ourselves
comfortably on our guns and slide down into the lovely valleys on the
other side like a band of merry school-boys on toboggans. Above all,
do not forget the chief duty of a soldier in times of peril. In
spite of the snow and the ice, in spite of the blizzard and the
sleet, keep cool; and, furthermore, remember that in this climate, if
your ears don't hurt, it's a sign they are freezing. En avant! Nous
sommes le peuple."

The army readily responded to such hopeful words, and as
Bonaparte manifested quite as much willingness to walk as the meanest
soldier, disdaining to ride, except occasionally, and even then on
the back of a mule, he became their idol.

"He does not spare himself any more than he does us," said one
of his soldiers, "and he can pack a snow-ball with the best of
us."

The General catered, too, to the amusement of his troops, and
the brasses of the band broke the icy stillness of the great hills
continually.

"Music's the thing," he cried, many years later, "and when we
got to the top we had the most original roof-garden you ever saw. It
was most inspiring, and the only thing that worried me at all was as
to how Fouche was conducting our anecdote and assassination
enterprise at home. Once on top of the Alps, the descent was easy.
We simply lay down on our arms and slid. Down the mountain-side we
thundered, and the Austrians, when they observed our impetus, gave
way before us, and the first thing I knew I skated slam-bang into the
Empire. Our avalanchian descent subjugated Italy; frightened the
Englishmen to Alexandria, where, in the absence of a well-organized
force, they managed to triumph; scared the Pope so thoroughly that he
was willing to sign anything I wished; and, best of all, after a few
petty delays, convinced the French people that I was too big a man
for a mere consulship. It was my chamois-like agility in getting
down the Alps that really made me Emperor. As for the army, it
fought nobly. It was so thoroughly chilled by the Alpine venture that
it fought desperately to get warm. My grenadiers, congealed to their
very souls, went where the fire was hottest. They seized bomb-shells
while they were yet in the air, warmed their hands upon them, and
then threw them back into the enemy's camp, where they exploded with
great carnage. They did not even know when they were killed, so
benumbed by the cold had they become. In short, those days on the
Alps made us invincible. No wonder, then, that in 1804, when I got
permanently back to Paris, I found the people ready for an emperor!
They were bloody years, those from 1800 to 1804, but it was not
entirely my fault. I shed very little myself, but the English and
the Austrians and the royalist followers would have it so, and I had
to accommodate them. I did not wish to execute the Duc d'Enghien,
but he would interfere with Fouche by getting up conspiracies on his
own account, when I had given the conspiracy contract to one of my
own ministers. The poor fellow had to die. It was a case of no die,
no Empire, and I thought it best for the French people that they
should have an Empire."

Those who criticise Bonaparte's acts in these years should
consider these words, and remember that the great warrior in no case
did any of the killing himself.

It was on the 18th of May, 1804, that the Empire was proclaimed
and Napoleon assumed his new title amid great rejoicing.

"Now for the coronation," he said. "This thing must go off in
style, Fouche. Whom shall I have to crown me?"

"Well," said Fouche, "if you are after a sensation, I'd send for
Louis de Bourbon; if you want it to go off easily, I'd send for your
old hatter in the Rue de Victoire; if you want to give it a
ceremonial touch, I'd send for the Pope, but, on the whole, I rather
think I'd do it myself. You picked it up yourself, why not put it on
your own head?"

"Good idea," returned Bonaparte. "And highly original. You may
increase your salary a hundred francs a week, Fouche. I'll crown
myself, but I think it ought to come as a surprise, don't you?"

"Yes," said Fouche. "That is, if you can surprise the French
people- -which I doubt. If you walked into Notre Dame to-morrow on
your hands, with the crown of France on one foot and the diadem of
Italy on the other, the people wouldn't be a bit surprised--you're
always doing such things."

"Nevertheless," said Napoleon, "we'll surprise them. Send word
to the Pope that I want to see him officially on December 2d at Notre
Dame. If he hesitates about coming, tell him I'll walk over and
bring him myself the first clear day we have."

This plan was followed out to the letter, and the Pope, leaving
Rome on the 5th of November, entered Paris to crown the Emperor and
Empress of the French on December 2, 1804, as requested. What
subsequently followed the world knows. Just as the Pope was about to
place the imperial diadem on the brow of Bonaparte, the Emperor
seized it and with his own hands placed it there.

"Excuse me, your Holiness," he said, as he did so, "but the joke
is on you. This is my crown, and I think I'm a big enough man to
hang it up where it belongs."

Pius VII. was much chagrined, but, like the good man that he
was, he did not show it, nor did he resent the Emperor's second
interference when it came to the crowning of Josephine. The
coronation over, Napoleon and Josephine turned to the splendid
audience, and marched down the centre aisle to the door, where they
entered a superb golden carriage in which, amid the plaudits of the
people, they drove to the Tuileries.

"Ah--at last!" said Bonaparte, as he entered the Palace. "I
have got there. The thing to do now is to stay there. Ah, me!" he
added, with a sigh. "These French--these French! they are as fickle
as the only woman I have ever loved. By-the-way, Josephine, what was
it you asked me on the way down the aisle? The people howled so I
couldn't hear you."

"I only asked you if"--here the Empress hesitated.

"Well? If what?" frowned the Emperor.

"If my crown was on straight," returned Josephine.

"Madame," said the Emperor, sternly, "when you are prompted to
ask that question again, remember who gave you that crown, and when
you remember that it was I, remember also that when I give anything
to anybody I give it to them straight."

Here the Emperor's frown relaxed, and he burst out into
laughter.

"But that was a bad break of the organist!" he said.

"Which was that?" asked Josephine.

"Why--didn't you notice when the Pope came in he played 'Tiara
Boom- de-ay'?" said Bonaparte, with a roar. "It was awful--I shall
have to send him a pourboire."