Vienna, 1814: How the Conquerors of Napoleon Made Love, War, and Peace at the Congress of Vienna (40 page)

N
EWS OF THIS
kind could not be hushed up for long in a town buzzing with gossip. Once leaked, it spread rapidly, and, typically for the congress, this happened later that night at the theater.

It was during an amateur production of Kotzebue’s
Old Love Affairs
in the Redoutensaal. The tsar, the king of Prussia, and all the leading figures were in the audience, trying to act as if nothing had happened. They did not want to cause panic, nor spoil the performance. After all, Metternich’s daughter Marie, Talleyrand’s niece Dorothée, and the tsar’s “celestial beauty,” Gabrielle Auersperg, would all be appearing onstage that night.

Just before the heavy curtain rose, the delegates in their plush red velvet-and-gold-trimmed seats were seen whispering, and then, not long afterward, so were the audience and the actors backstage. It was there at the theater that Countess Bernstorff first learned of the news, and also Countess Lulu Thürheim, the diarist. She described how the dignitaries tried valiantly to keep their opera glasses fixed on the stage. The feigned nonchalance, however, was in vain. Fear could be “read on their faces,” as Countess Bernstorff noticed.

As everyone knew, Napoleon was a dangerous threat, and even if he did not yet have an army, that would probably not last long. He was still wildly popular with the soldiers, who remembered with pride how the warlord had triumphed over great odds, humbled kings, and led them to many victories. It was Napoleon who had given France honor and glory, only, in the end, to be unceremoniously betrayed by his marshals. What a miserable sight King Louis and his cronies made in comparison.

There were indeed many angry people in France—the question was how many soldiers and citizens were upset enough to abandon their king and join Napoleon. Also, as the Vienna Congress had alienated many factions the last several months, some feared that Napoleon might attract more international support than originally thought. For example, Joachim Murat, the former Bonaparte marshal, was still ruling as king in Naples, despite all Talleyrand’s opposition, and he could potentially rally to Napoleon’s side.

There were also many Poles disillusioned with the Russian project for their country. One spy reported that “the Poles overflow with delight” on the news of Napoleon’s departure, as many sensed a chance, finally, to realize dreams of a restored kingdom. Napoleon had promised them a kingdom long before, and many believed that unlike the tsar, he might actually fulfill his promise this time.

What if Tsar Alexander, for that matter, had another one of his “periodic evolutions of the mind” and decided to desert his allies at the Vienna Congress? This was a real concern for the Allies; he had already gotten everything that they were going to give him, but Napoleon might soon have a more tempting offer for him.

Indeed, once the shock of Napoleon’s voyage wore off, the gravity of the situation settled in, and the Allies began to blame one another. Many accused the English of sloppy work, bungling their vigilance. Where had those famous Royal Navy cruisers been when Napoleon was leaving Elba? Why did Britain’s governor, Neil Campbell, leave the island so mysteriously on the eve of Napoleon’s departure? Talleyrand articulated this position when he remarked that “the English, whose duty it was to watch his movements, were guilty of a negligence which they will find it difficult to excuse.”

“Are we Napoleon’s keepers?” Lord Stewart asked, defensively shrugging off Britain’s critics. “What right do we have to keep him under guard?”

Stewart had a point, to an extent. Napoleon was a sovereign ruler of an independent power, and there was, in fact, nothing in the treaty of abdication that prohibited him from leaving Elba. And Britain had never signed the treaty that placed him so close to the Continent. They had, in other words, never recognized Napoleon’s right to the island, much less his retention of the title
emperor.
Why exactly was it Britain’s responsibility that Napoleon chose to leave Elba?

The French might be quick to point fingers, but matters might have been different if the French government had only fulfilled its obligations. King Louis XVIII had never paid, as promised, the 2 million francs. Many had reminded France of this fact, only to be ignored. To Talleyrand’s endless frustration, the king’s government had made many blunders. As the Danish foreign minister put it in his journal, the French were acting “as if they had put a dangerous man in prison, refused him bread and then left the door open”—and now complained when he left.

Prussia’s Humboldt, for his part, wanted to know where Napoleon had received financing for his departure. Obviously, it was not from the French king, and Napoleon’s own funds were supposed to be running low. Rumors of an Austrian general, Franz Freiherr von Koller, making a secretive trip to Elba prior to Napoleon’s departure were circulating, and, indeed, it was true. But what exactly was he doing on Elba? The Austrians claimed it was to negotiate a divorce between Napoleon and Marie Louise, though some were skeptical. Would it not be in Austria’s interest to have an Austrian archduchess as empress of France, and her son as heir to the French throne? Did Austria have a hand in Napoleon’s extraordinary departure?

Then there was the tsar, whose “sentimental politics” had caused Napoleon to be sent to Elba in the first place, over the protests of his allies. Just like the British, Metternich had tried to warn about the close proximity, and during the congress, Talleyrand had attempted several times to have Napoleon moved off Elba. Islands from the Azores to St. Helena in the South Atlantic had all been proposed as a better place for his exile, but nothing had been done.

Of course, with Napoleon’s rash actions, everything had changed at the peace conference, and the planned departures that spring would have to be temporarily postponed. Urgent matters were, once again, thrust onto the agenda for the Vienna Congress.

Looking around at his harried colleagues, the British diplomat Lord Clancarty observed how everyone made heroic efforts “to conceal apprehension under the masque of unconcern.” Yet, he added, “It was not difficult to perceive that fear was predominant in all the Imperial and Royal personages.” Napoleon had to be stopped, it was clear, before he “could set the world on fire again.”

Chapter 26

H
IS
M
AJESTY, THE
O
UTLAW

All that may be only an illusion, but what in our days is real?

—D
UCHESS OF SAGAN,
S
PRING OF
1815

B
ack in Paris, the French government pretended not to be overly concerned with the new threat. King Louis XVIII noted that he was sleeping better than ever, and complained more about his gout than the man of Elba. The official newspaper, the
Moniteur,
summed up Napoleon’s enterprise as an “act of madness” that would be squashed by “a few rural policemen.”

Yet the fact remained that the king’s army was deserting in droves, and so were government officials. Given the challenge that Napoleon posed, it was necessary for Vienna’s peacemakers to act quickly. But what exactly should they do? One of the French embassy officials, Alexis de Noailles, had no trouble reaching a conclusion about Napoleon: “Now he had escaped, we must hang him!”

“We can’t hang him until we’ve caught him,” the king of Prussia responded, “and that won’t be so very easy.”

In fact, the plenipotentiaries were limited in what they could do until they knew, for certain, where Napoleon was headed. In the meantime, they had to wrap up the remaining disputes of the peace congress. The first order of business was to finish the Saxony affair—that is, convince the king of Saxony to accept last month’s solution that he yield two-fifths of his territory and about one-third of his population.

Recently released from prison, the king of Saxony was staying in the old fortress in the nearby town of Pressburg, today’s Bratislava, Slovakia. He had no desire to enter Vienna in the presence of his spoliators, and many at the congress returned the sentiment. The congress would send a distinguished delegation to him: Talleyrand, Metternich, and Wellington.

When the leaders arrived at the court of the king on the eighth of March, they were greeted with a cool reception. After a preliminary dinner and general meeting, the king of Saxony received each one individually, and haughtily. The king’s men raised objection after objection to the congress’s plans for Saxony. “They seemed to nourish a hope,” Talleyrand said, “that the terms which have been agreed upon were still open to negotiation.”

But the king of Saxony did not change his tune, no more inclined to yield now than he had been earlier, when he had held out as one of the last loyal rulers to Napoleon. No doubt, the king figured that he had more to gain from the emperor than these polished gentlemen, and decided to gamble on better terms in the future. The congress’s delegation returned to Vienna without any success.

All over town, people were discussing—and speculating wildly—about Napoleon’s actions. In an anonymous police report submitted to Baron Hager, one agent reported that many people now believed that the English had played a role in Napoleon’s escape. They had allowed, if not also encouraged and supported, his enterprise. Napoleon had been lured out, it was surmised, so that the congress would have a “pretext to treat him with more severity.”

Napoleon’s departure from Elba was the topic of every conversation, the Russian soldier Alexander Ivanovich Mikhailovsky-Danilevsky remembered, “if not the only topic of conversation.” He had heard it everywhere, on “walks, at gatherings, and meetings in private houses and in cafés.” Baronne du Montet recalled, too, how the frightening news caused a great deal of distress. The king of Bavaria, for instance, “walked around for days as if he were deranged.” Others were more detached. As spies reported, several people were placing bets on what Napoleon would do next and how far he would go.

On March 10, a messenger arrived with the first real news about Napoleon’s destination. He had not, as many suspected, crossed over to Italy, either to seize Genoa or land farther south. He had instead opted for the far more difficult option of France. Moreover, against all odds, he had landed safely at Golfe-Juan, about one mile west of Cannes.

According to La Garde-Chambonas, the shocking news came at a ball over at the Metternichs’, and spread like wildfire among the happy waltzing couples. Metternich’s orchestra struggled, in vain, to maintain the dreamy graceful swirls, but the dancers had merely stopped and stared at each other in disbelief. Who could really believe that Napoleon was back in France? “Thousands of candles,” La Garde-Chambonas added, “seemed to have gone out simultaneously.”

The songwriter paints a vivid scene. The Russian tsar turned to Talleyrand and snapped, “I told you that it would not last.” The French minister did not say a word in reply, but only bowed politely. The king of Prussia and the Duke of Wellington hurried out of the ballroom together, followed by the Austrian emperor and the Russian tsar. “Napoleon, not wishing to finish by a tragedy, will finish by a farce,” Talleyrand predicted to Prince Metternich, who, not responding, “excused himself” and joined the congress dignitaries who had just left the floor. The French minister left that evening arm in arm with Dorothée. The crowded ballroom was very soon emptied.

This scene almost certainly never happened. For one thing, Vienna was still in Lent, and there were no balls then. Yet the scene, despite the lack of literal truthfulness, is true to the personalities and the tensions of the time. Talleyrand, for example, faced a whole new set of challenges now that France was at risk from Napoleon, civil war, and an invasion from the powers at the congress. The French foreign minister would no longer be welcome in the deliberations. Having worked his way into the inner circle, Talleyrand was finding himself at risk of being pushed outside again.

As for the grand balls, where “the quivering violins alternated with serious negotiations,” as Countess Thürheim remembered, they were occurring much less frequently now. The Carnival season had ended three weeks before, many sovereigns planned to return home, and the Austrian emperor had started looking for ways to curtail the expensive entertainment. In a letter dated March 21, Emperor Francis would specifically instruct his lord chamberlain to decrease expenses and reduce “the number of servants employed.” The court was also “to follow the general guidelines that extraordinary celebrations should no longer be arranged or given.” So despite the make-believe surrounding La Garde-Chambonas’s scene, Vienna’s ballrooms were soon to be emptied indeed.